#the ghosts think there’s more ghosts too

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty-four —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4.5k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. harm to a child. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

The rattle of vials cuts through the quiet sobbing as you raid the cabinet, stuffing a backpack with painkillers and sedatives. No antibiotics.  

"Is there any alcohol?" 

From the corner of the room, the response breaks apart. "There's... some... under there."

You move to the sink, uncorking a half-filled bottle that reeks of absinthe. It fits snugly into the backpack. A nod to Nereida. She lowers the gun from the young woman’s temple. Straps over your shoulders, you step into the smoke-tinged air, leaving the woman behind, when her accented voice chokes out: "You have taken... everything from us."

You stand in the doorway, watching a piece of ash fall on the scuffed leather of your shoe, then glance over your shoulder. "There is still some medicine left in there. Take what you can, get the other women, and leave. This place could be teeming with Greys soon with all the blood spilt. Travel north. We're going south." Her glossy eyes drift up from her hands. Your gaze hardens. "We will kill you if we see you. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she whispers.

You look away. "Salome is in the cell. Alive."

The flames lick at the chapel’s frame as you return to the others. The stone walls have blackened, the door swallowed in fire, windows shattered. The acrid stench of scorched wood and charred flesh burns your nose. The last survivors—the few men left after Price and Kyle cleared the barn—had been shoved inside with the Grey. 

You need to get out of here—away from the stench of blood. Clean water is urgent. A safe place to treat everyone's wounds, even more so. The adrenaline is wearing off, so you move quickly, pausing only to hastily dress Blue's feet and Ghost's back with medical cloth from the cabinet before continuing down the main road. While everyone yields a backpack and gun, Ghost carries Blue to his chest. He hasn't once let her go. 

The flames still flicker behind you when his grip falters. He stops to adjust her weight, and you touch his elbow, speaking low. "Let Price or Kyle carry her."

"I've got it."

You don’t press, though the gnawing concern remains. How much blood has he lost? You can only hope it's clotted enough to hold a bit longer. 

The only words Price manages are instructions—what to watch for to indicate freshwater. Downward slopes, converging animal tracks. You’re nowhere near as injured as the others, yet your thighs shake, your vision blurs, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut to regain focus. You still flinch at every sound, ready for blood.

An hour out, the sun hangs heavy. Dense vegetation and a small cliffside offer promise. Carefully, you help each other down. Ghost finally relents, letting Blue cling onto Price’s shoulders so he can manage rappelling down the rocks. You stay close without thinking, your hand ghosting over his bicep when he wavers.

Then you smell it. Water.

Relief nearly buckles your knees.

A narrow creek winds between boulders, tucked beneath towering cypresses.

Everyone washes off the blood, dulling the stench. A fire will be needed to clean it for the wounds. As you rake water through your hair, your gaze drifts upstream—where cypresses give way to ripened plum trees, bordering what seems like a property. Price sees it too. He’s already shouldering his backpack, moving to check it out.

The gown pools at your ankles, dipping into the shallow water as you cross. The property is silent, save for the rhythmic tapping of a woodpecker. You tighten your grip on the gun, scanning the unkempt garden and overgrown path leading to the estate—a summer home fit for a family or, as you soon realize, two wealthy old fucks. Their skeletons are all that remain inside, draped in dust like the furniture around them.

Price lowers the rifle to his side and nods in approval. "This will do."

If you could, you’d strip off the stained gown and shut your eyes. Instead, you follow Ghost as he kicks open doors—nothing but a bathroom and parlor. On the second floor, the first door to meet his boot reveals a bedroom. You shake the dust from the quilt, and he carefully lays Blue down. You're already sifting through the backpack.

Ghost kneels to take her feet. He fumbles with the cloth, exhaustion stealing motor function. You help, unveiling the jagged cuts edged with dirt. Ghost grits, "They did this?"

"I did," she whispers. "I hoped you'd find me... and the Greys... they got distracted by my shoes."

Her words linger as you dab alcohol onto a strip of cloth. "This will hurt," you whisper, biting your cheek.

Ghost grips her ankle to keep it still and takes her hand, offering something to squeeze. At first touch, her nails claw at his wrist. Her lips press tightly together to muffle a small sound that dies in her throat, and then she falls silent. Her eyes flutter shut, reopening only to release a lone tear when you finish with both, then wrap them again.

"Your arms," you say, reaching for them. One is already bandaged—must've been done by them. The other is freshly cut. When you try to look at it, she recoils, inhaling sharply.

"They did this one, didn't they?" he asks.

A slight nod of her chin.

Anger leeches from Ghost's skin.

He exhales sharply through flared nostrils, then gently takes her wrist, pressing a kiss to the skin just before the cut begins.

"Let Twix clean it, baby."

Her fist clenches before she offers you her arm. More tears cut a trail down to her lips. 

"There. Let's get you something else to wear," you breathe out, stuffing the cork back in once it's over. 

What you find in the closet is at least better than the bloodied dress she was supposed to die in—a large flannel shirt that smells like old man. Blue accepts it, but stares at the shirt in her hands for a long moment before asking Ghost to look away. He does, and you help her, keeping your eyes on hers while undressing her.

You turn to Ghost. "Your turn," you whisper.

Lowering to the bed is a great effort, one you have to steady with a hand under his armpit. As gently as possible, you peel the cloth from his back. Seeing his wounds before did nothing to prepare you for this—up close, in the unforgiving sunlight. Deep, inflamed gashes ooze fresh blood at the disruption. The stench of festering flesh makes it hard to focus as you murmur for Blue to touch his hair, distract him for the first dab of alcohol.

Where Blue was able to silence herself, he cannot. Not when it’s this bad. The terrible, wrecked groan and the violent jerk of his body make you want to disappear—to run and let someone else do this to him. But you know you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t trust anyone else to. So you steady the tremble in your fingers and continue, the room heavy with his pain. It finds its way to your back, as though someone behind you is holding a whip. The phantom pain sinks into your skin with each of his groans, forcing you to push it away to steady your hand as you work.

Blue twists her fingers in his hair, whispering in his ear. "It's almost over, dad."

By the time the wounds are cleaned, redness remains, offering little reassurance. Over a day's worth of sweat and bacteria isn't something you can simply undo. You'll need to keep an eye on them. You sift through the vials and push two painkillers to his lips, helping him sit up to swallow them. As you’re about to help him back down, he grabs onto your wrist, a pulse of pain pulling your gaze to where you slit your own vein. The linen strip is soaked through. Ghost silently unties it and reaches for the alcohol at the bedside table.

"They did that?" Blue questions from behind him.

"I did."

The pain sears as he cleans it, though it’s nothing compared to his.

When he lays back on his stomach, there’s no fighting the heaviness of his eyelids. Blue curls up beside him, wincing. You get her two painkillers as well.

"Is he going to be alright?" she asks quietly.

You pull the light quilt over her body. "His body just needs to rest. So does yours."

"That's not an answer, Twix."

The way she calls you out makes your face fall. "I'm sorry. I just... I don't know."

There is a pause of silence before she sighs audibly, arms falling flat at her sides and her gaze finding the ceiling. "I don't think I can sleep."

Your chest tightens at the thought of what she must be thinking of, what she must have seen when you weren't with her. The wounds you can't wrap up. You dig for one of the sedatives: lorazepam. "Here." 

It takes a while for it to take effect.

"You're safe," you whisper to her, over and over, tucking her hair behind her ear until you feel the subtle shift in her muscles as they slowly loosen from their panicked tension. When sleep finally comforts her, a shift in the air causes you to leap up.

"It's me," Nereida whispers, poking in her head. "The others are sleeping, too."

Right. The others. "They're alright?"

"Just a few fractured ribs."

"Someone needs to keep watch."

"I'll do it." Seeing the protest twist on your face, she adds, "You haven't slept in days."

She's right. It was impossible to sleep in that cell outside of being drugged.

You give in. "Patrol the whole property if you can. And keep track of the air. The flowers here should help mask our scent, but—"

"I've got it, Twix."

The fatigue truly hits when she leaves. You barely have enough fight in you left to peel off the stupid dress and raise another flannel shirt from the closet over your head, the hem resting above your knees. There is a chair in the room—that's where you sink down, knees tucked to your chest. At first when you close your eyes, the world is loud and red. Then, it quiets to black.

A dove call announces morning, and you jolt awake to fresh light from the window.

You fell asleep.

They've already killed her.

You didn't get there in time—

Your gaze lands on the small body lying in the bed beside a much larger one, and the panic escapes through a shaky breath. You inhale and exhale to calm your heart rate before uncurling from the chair to touch Blue's soft cheek. The skin is cool. You move to her father next. Palm to his forehead. Hot, dry skin snaps your touch away as if burning you. 

"Fucking shit," chokes out of you, along with a fresh wave of urgency. Blue stirs in her sleep. You clamp a hand over your mouth to quiet yourself and whirl out of the room. A fever: you need water. If you hadn't slept so long, you could've boiled some sooner. With the recovered energy, you race outside in the chilled morning air.

Nereida sits up from the porch.

"Good morning. You're the first one up. I haven't seen—"

"He is burning up," you seethe. "You should've waken me. I slept all through the night!"

Her eyes widen. "I didn't—"

You push past her. "I'm getting water."

She lightly touches your elbow. "I already got some from the creek. I boiled it over the fireplace." She rushes to show you the full metal pot in the kitchen. 

You don't pause to say thank you, hoisting the water upstairs to urgently wet a cloth and place it over his forehead. His lashes flutter, once, then twice, before fully opening.

"You have a fever," you exhale, swallowing hard. "I need you to drink a little."

He sits up to swallow a handful of the water from your palm, faint bobs of his throat, and you feel just how dry his lips are. His voice emerges low. "Did they have anything for it?"

"No antibiotics," you admit, swiping a thumb over the faint freckle on his temple, as if maybe, the sip of water has already changed the temperature. It hasn't. A growl pushes under your breath. "A goddamn cult who had shit to knock us out with but hardly anything to treat infections. We'll need to experiment a bit."

"Sounds promising," he manages through his teeth. He glances down at his daughter. "She's alright?"

"She's okay, not warm." You inhale sharply. "Lay down. Let me look at it again."

When he does, you gently remove the bandages and are met with yellow-green pus. The sound that fills your throat, caught between helplessness and disgust, has him popping an eye open to look back at you over his shoulder. "Sorry, it's just..." Another explicative leaves your lips, and you have to bite your cheek hard to keep from vomiting at the sight and smell. Blue is awake now, sitting up against the pillow; she need only glance over once for her face to twist in concern. 

"It's bad, isn't it?" She covers her mouth.

"I need to drain it," is what you say. Luckily, it's already oozing, saving the need to puncture the wounds open. You wet another cloth and carefully press at the swollen ridge of the first laceration, making him groan through his teeth as pus begins to run down his sides. Blue has one hand back in his hair, and uses another wet cloth to collect the pus. You keep pressing, draining each irregular wound, having to remind yourself the rotten smell being released is for the better. 

After what feels like hours, it's mostly cleared. Only a bit of swelling remains, revealing just how deeply the skin was shredded, as if slashed through repeatedly in the same spots. 

"How come you were hurt more than the others?" Blue asks him the question you've been mulling over since the moment you found him. 

"I was their favorite," he mumbles lowly. "The most handsome."

Your brows lower.

"It's not funny," she presses, nails twisting in his hair, teeth grinding. "It's infected. You could fucking die."

"I won't," he says to her, but the silent, heavy glance you exchange with him acknowledges the understanding that he very well could, deepening the harsh pit in your stomach. "We have a nurse here."

"An unlicensed one." You finish securing a new layer of cloth and lean back. "And one without real medicine." Realizing you are supposed to be reassuring her, you hide the way your nails pick each other and add, "But draining all that pus will help. Eating will help even more," you look at Blue, "For you, too."

Blue and you share a meal of wild cucumbers, strawberries, and two small field mice you catch by the creek, swiftly snapping their necks before skinning them. For Ghost, you boil the bones with garden carrots to make a broth. You have to coax him into finishing it, no matter how it tastes, promising that once it's done, he can sleep longer.

By the time the others are awake, you and Blue have failed to leave his side, simply watching the continued rise and fall of his chest as if it might halt if you look away. "Please get better," you catch her murmuring. The only time you go is to speak with Price, informing him that Ghost is in no condition to travel again. 

"Twix," he interrupts you, the knowing tick in his brow, and worn smile, making you realize you'd been rambling, your tone coming off a bit accusatory. "I have no intention for us to continue yet. No one is ready for it. We need food, and rest."

You release a filtered sigh, nodding. "I can help hunt, I just need to—"

A firm hand finds your shoulder. His seafoam eyes glance past you at the door to the bedroom, then back into your gaze, low voice barely above a murmur. "You've done more than enough. Let us take care of the food. Just make sure we don't lose him, alright?"

You nod, and when he turns to leave, you mutter to yourself, "I'm trying."

You spend the evening refreshing his bandages, and draining the new wave of pus. You have the idea to look for onions in the garden, remembering they have antimicrobial properties, but there aren't any. So you clean the wounds again with a flush of water, and also scrub his dirty hair a bit. Your brain must be tricking you, because once when you touch him it feels like his fever has at least dropped a degree or two, but then a minute later it feels like it went up more. There is practically no color to his skin except the angry red of his wounds, and the rosy sheen on his cheeks. Other than that he is a pale ghost. It's as if your efforts haven't done a thing.

Frustration strangles your lungs, and you palm at your forehead. His body, deprived of sleep and nutritions for days, is struggling to bounce back, to fight off the encroaching bacteria. His unyielding strength is yielding; succumbing. He needs more food and water. You try to sit him up again, retrieving a small bit of leftover broth, but he is unable to help pull his weight.

"Come on, Simon. Please."

He's too heavy for you, even with Blue pulling at his other arm.

You hurry out of the room and call for Price. He and Nereida are there quickly, his rifle ready. "No, I just need—I need you to lift him."

Price drops the gun to steady Simon up despite the heavy hiss of protest. "Gotta eat, Simon."

He holds him as you spoon broth to his mouth, having to rub at his jaw to release enough tension for him to open it and swallow. 

The room is quiet once it's all done, and Nereida stands in the doorway with her head hung low. Price carefully lays him back down so as not disturb the work you've done to his back. He glances at the empty bowl in your hands. "Kyle cut up some squirrels he killed earlier. I'll tell him to make more broth with them in the morning."

All you can do is nod and pass the bowl to him.

When they leave, the heaviness in the room has Blue picking at her wrist. You take her hand, placing another painkiller and sedative in them, and urge her to lay down for more rest.

"I'll stay up with him, alright?"

Her chin drops, and she stares blankly at the quilt. "What happens to me if he dies?"

The hollowness in her voice cuts through you. "We can't think like that," you murmur, refusing to acknowledge how terrified the answer makes you.

"Why not?" Her eyes blaze in the dark. "It's a possibility. I've never seen him like this before."

You shake your head, touching two fingers under her jaw to tilt it up so yours eyes meet. "He's stubborn, like you. And he has too much to live for. He loves you."

She looks away. "I'm not like him. I wouldn't be able to keep going on my own."

"You’ll never be on your own. He and I... we will always come for you," you swear, your voice firmer than you intend. You soften it to a whisper, breathing out, "But even if you were, you’re smarter and stronger than anyone here. There’s nothing you can’t handle, Blue. It was you who kept yourself alive this time."

"It was just luck," she murmurs, curling a fist into the sheet below her. She peers back at you. "If you guys hadn’t found me, I would’ve been bitten to death."

"No," you insist. "It wasn’t luck. You survived because you saw the opportunities, and you took them. You made time for us to find you. You are just like him."

Emotion floods through you, thick and reeling. Without thinking, you pull her into a solid hug, pressing your nose to her scalp. "You’re just like him," you whisper again, screwing your eyes shut. White-hot tears escape, burning a quiet trail down your cheeks, and you feel her begin to tremble in your arms, silently soaking your shirt with her own tears.

Through them, she manages to whisper, twisting your shirt in her fists, "I-I don't want him to leave me again. H-he said he wouldn't."

"He won't," you promise, struggling to catch your breath through a choke, the words rushing out of you. "Never again. I won't let it happen."

After minutes, hours, like this, she grows limp with exhaustion, and you lay her back down, tucking her under the quilt and wiping your cheeks. 

You resume position in the chair by Ghost. 

This time, you refuse to close your eyes, locking them onto him—the way his cheek is squished against the pillow, the bare stretch of his arm, the curve of his ribs where an old scar splits into the new ones. You keep pulling the blanket over him, thinking maybe the extra heat will break his fever, only to rip it back off moments later, convinced the cool night air would be better. Frustration burns behind your eyes as you rub them hard, then press your forehead against the uninjured part of his shoulder.

“Goddamn it, Simon,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to trace your thumb over the freckles there, connecting them with soft, absentminded sweeps of your finger.

It must be well into the night when sleep threatens with a pull at your lids, and again, you see red. Blood-red. Like the burst of an open throat. You reopen them and jolt up to your feet, panting hard. The need for a distraction to keep yourself awake pulls you out of the room for a stretch of your legs, pupils straining against the dark hall as you stumble through it, crossing your arms over yourself. You've barely looked through this place besides what was necessary, so it's a surprise when you happen upon a spiral staircase going up, not down. 

A cool metal rail bites your fingertips as you heave upward, revealing a small attic library. Dark oak shelves reach the low ceiling, all of the leather spines neatly alined as if never having been touched even once: a capsule of time. A large window at the far end offers enough moonlight for your eyes to scan the embellished spines as you brush a finger over them, various French titles staring back at you. You work your way to the window, where the thin curtain is parted just enough to allow you a view of the creek, cliffside, and dark horizon where stars disappear into distant earth. 

"I should've killed them." The words barely leave your lips before the stench of burning flesh fills your senses. Your hands shake violently. With a sudden, forceful yank, you tear the curtain from the rod. Your voice cracks, rising. "I should have killed them. All of them. I shouldn't have let a single one walk away."

You spin around and begin pulling books off the shelves, ripping at pages, thrashing them at the floor with a cacophony of thuds, until only half are left untouched. The years-old dust caking the covers explodes into your eyes, stinging them, and tears begin to fall, the painful kind. They come hard, ragged, anything but quiet. You sink to the oriental rug, burying your face into your knees and hugging them close as you sob through your teeth, scraping your nails into your shins.

You imagine all their faces: the blonde man who tortured them, the old woman you only saw once when they took Blue, all the pretty eyes beneath the stupid veils. In your head, you slash all of them to pieces. Shreds. Torn nerves and burst eyes. Until you are swimming in their entrails. 

There is a voice. In your head maybe. But no, it's real—someone touches your shoulder, and you flinch. You lift your gaze, and through it, make out the shape of warm, almond eyes, one of them half-opened beneath a swollen bruise.

Kyle kneels beside you. He doesn't say anything, just sits there, his knee touching yours the only point of connection. When your crying subsides, you feel a tinge of embarrassment at the state he's found you in, and wipe at your cheeks. "Sorry. I woke you up."

"I was already awake."

Silence hums between you, and he thoughtlessly picks up one of the books, thumbing through the pages, then quietly closes it.

"We all owe you our lives, you know. Nereida told us about all you did."

You dig your chin into the tops of your knees and stare off at the wall. "I still didn't do enough."

"You're doing all you can." His gaze pierces into the side of your face, making you feel translucent. "He'll be alright. Always is."

You don't know what to say to that, sighing through flared nostrils and looking down at your feet before over at him. "How is Ari?"

"He's alright. Just shaken, I think. Thank you for asking." A tinge of guilt finds you that you haven't checked on them enough. Ari, just a boy, and he's hardly crossed your mind through any of this.

"You know," Kyle continues quietly, his knuckles whitening around the book. "When we were in there, I didn’t know what to say to get him through it—because I couldn't see much hope myself. I had to watch, do nothing, while they made him memorize that goddamn book just to earn a meal. And he wasn’t allowed to share any with me." He lets out a short, bitter snort. "I've never felt so fucking weak. So powerless. Watching someone you love suffer, not knowing how to help them..." His gaze locks onto yours. "That has to be a pain worse than any torture."

His words catch you off guard, stirring something deep and unformed. All you can do is reach for him, gripping his shoulders in a firm hug, evening your heart rate. He murmurs a promise about the broth, his hand brushing your shoulder before he excuses himself. Returning to the bedroom, you check their pulses—her pinky curled around his in sleep. You press a kiss to Blue’s hair, then, without thinking, let your lips brush her father's fevered temple.

[luvvictoria]

I've been thinking abt a poly!tf141 with a fem!reader who like is from the country side AND I'M CRACKING, OH LAWD!!!

Task Force 141 had seen you kill a man from 700 meters away. They had seen you tear through enemy lines with the precision of a seasoned warrior, your movements deadly and efficient. But what they hadn't seen—what they couldn’t wrap their heads around—was the life you returned to after every mission.

Because while Ghost, Soap, Price, and Gaz spent their leave in safe houses, military bases, or the occasional urban apartment, you?

You went home.

To the countryside.

To your massive, luxurious farmhouse nestled in the hills of a quiet village, where the air smelled of fresh hay, wildflowers, and the occasional whiff of cow.

And when TF141 finally visited, they were not prepared.

The First Time They Saw the Farm : "What the fuck—" Ghost had been the first to say it when you pulled up to your estate in an old pickup truck, the gravel crunching beneath the tires as you parked in front of a sprawling wooden house with a red-tiled roof.

There were animals everywhere.

A massive black and white cow lazily chewed its cud near the wooden fence. Chickens and roosters strutted about like they owned the place. A gray donkey stared at them with judgmental eyes. Two ducks waddled past as if they were on a mission. Dogs barked excitedly at the sight of you, tails wagging. A cat lounged on the porch, stretching in the warm sun.

And then—a fucking horse trotted up to you, nuzzling into your palm like a puppy.

"Price," Gaz whispered. "She has a fucking farm."

"A fancy one at that," Soap muttered, still stunned.

"You lot gonna stand there all day?" You grinned, tossing your duffel bag over your shoulder. "Come on in. Dinner’s almost ready."

They were bewildered. They had spent years with you, fighting side by side, seeing you covered in blood, sweat, and gunpowder—and now you were leading them up the front porch of your cozy countryside mansion like a perfect little housewife.

And the worst part? They liked it.

You, The Deadly Soldier and The Perfect Housewife

Soap had expected you to relax on your leave. Maybe sleep in, drink some tea, read a book.

But no.

You were up at the crack of dawn, slipping out of bed before any of them could pull you back in, dressed in overalls and a white tank top, heading out to feed the animals like it was just another mission.

"Morning, sweetheart," Price murmured, leaning against the doorway as he watched you toss hay to the horses.

"Morning, Captain," you teased, kissing his scruffy cheek before moving on to collect eggs from the hens.

Ghost watched in silence, arms crossed, as you scolded a particularly feisty rooster. "You peck me one more time, and I swear to God, I’m making soup outta you."

Gaz almost choked on his coffee when you turned around and gave them the sweetest, most innocent smile.

"You boys want breakfast?"

Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting at a massive wooden table in your warm, sunlit kitchen, eating fresh farm eggs, homemade bread, and smoked bacon.

And Soap was ready to propose.

Domesticity With a Side of Chaos

Price: Loves sitting on the porch with a cigar, watching you work. He helps with repairs, fixes fences, and absolutely adores the peacefulness of your home.

Ghost: The animals are terrified of him at first (except the donkey—the donkey hates him). But the barn cats adopt him, curling up in his lap whenever he sits down.

Soap: Thinks farm life is the best thing ever. He learns how to milk a cow, names every single chicken, and gets way too attached to a piglet.

Gaz: "Babe, I love you, but this rooster is evil." (He got chased one too many times.)

And at night?

After a long day of farm work, you slip into something soft and lacy, curl up in their arms, and remind them that you’re not just a soldier, not just a farmer—you’re theirs.

They Never Want to Leave

By the end of their stay, not a single one of them wants to go back.

"You sure we have to leave?" Soap pouts, feeding the ducks.

"Darlin’," Price murmurs against your neck one night, arms wrapped around you in bed, "Ever thought about retirin’ here? With us?"

Ghost doesn’t say it out loud, but when he watches you laugh, your hands covered in flour as you bake bread, he knows he never wants to be anywhere else.

And Gaz?

He just sighs, watching the sunset over the hills. "I never thought I’d say this, but…I think I’m in love with farm life."

They were all in love. With you. With this. With the life they could have, if only they stayed.

Maybe one day.

For now, they’d enjoy every stolen moment in their countsyde paradise. But what if we make thing spicy ? A little bit, at least.

Ghost Was The First To Break

Ghost had held strong. Longer than the others.

While Soap got weak-kneed watching you bend over to pick up hay, and while Gaz couldn’t stop staring at your thighs in those tiny denim shorts, Ghost had kept his cool.

Until that damn sundress.

White. Light. Flowy. Just enough fabric to tempt, but never satisfy—clinging to your curves, slipping off your shoulders as you carried a bucket of water to the horses.

He had been cleaning his rifle on the porch, but his grip tightened the moment he saw the fabric sway with your every step.

And then?

You had the audacity to look over your shoulder and wink at him.

He dropped the rifle.

Soap Lost It In The Barn

Soap had always been shameless about his attraction to you.

But you?

You were even worse.

It was an accident—(was it?)—when you walked into the barn one night, looking for something. The others were inside, drinking whiskey in the house, but Soap had been alone, brushing down one of your horses.

And then he saw you.

Wet.

Covered in rain.

Your thin white blouse clung to you, completely see-through, nipples pebbled against the fabric.

"Lass," he had rasped, watching as you closed the barn door behind you, stepping forward, voice all honeyed and sweet.

"Johnny," you had purred, voice dripping with something that wasn’t innocence, "I’m cold."

He snapped.

The horse had seen things that night.

Price Was The Most Dangerous

Price was a man of control.

A man of restraint.

A man who knew how to bide his time.

But you?

You tested him.

You liked to push. You liked to see how far you could go before he gave in.

And God help you—you found his limit.

It was late. The others were asleep. You were making tea in the kitchen, standing on your tiptoes to reach a mug from the top shelf.

Price had walked in just as your nightgown slipped up your thighs.

It wasn’t fair.

The soft, white cotton. The little lace trim. The way your bare legs looked so smooth, so inviting—and the sleepy way you turned, so unaware of what you were doing to him.

You looked up at him, mug in hand, and smiled. "You want some tea, Cap?"

And then—his hands were on your hips.

Voice rough.

"You know damn well what I want, sweetheart."

Gaz Had It The Worst

Gaz?

Gaz was a goner the first time he saw you in nothing but boots and his shirt.

You had come in from the field soaked in sweat, hair messy, thighs speckled with dirt. You had tossed your muddy clothes into the laundry room, grabbed his green tactical shirt, and walked around the house like it wasn’t driving him insane.

"Babe," he groaned, rubbing a hand down his face, watching you stretch, the hem of his shirt riding up to dangerous levels.

You blinked. All innocent. "What’s wrong?"

Gaz was a patient man. A respectful man. A man who was about to lose his goddamn mind.

"Come here."

You smirked, walking over slowly, pressing your hands to his chest.

"You’re so easy to rile up," you giggled.

His hand wrapped around your throat.

"And you’re about to learn what happens when you push too far."

[barnacles34]

My Greatest Joy

IVE Yujin x Male Reader

16k words

'A single person is missing for you, and the whole world is empty.' — The Year of Magical Thinking

18+ smut

The Birth Crisis. The Great Vanishing. The Specter of Demographic Collapse. The media couldn’t decide on a name, only that it was happening. Some said Korea would be empty in a century. Others, ten years. Twenty-five, if they were feeling generous. A hysterical pendulum swing between denial and terror, between think-tank white papers and government campaigns urging citizens to bureaucratize what was once spontaneous: love, sex, reproduction.

But in Dunsan-dong, no one talked about it. Not really. Not in any meaningful way. The village shrank in slow motion. Affairs stopped happening—nobody had the energy, or the audience. The local divorce lawyer quietly removed ‘Infidelity’ from his services, then shut down altogether. Playgrounds grew ghostly. The corner food stands, once territorial battlegrounds for unruly teenagers, went bankrupt one by one. ‘Kids these days grow up too fast,’ one ajumma said, as if that were the whole explanation.

And yet, in all this entropy, two were born. A statistical error. A miracle.

Miracle is not hyperbole. In two decades, the birth count had been three. The bureaucratic failure of Love—yes, Love, capital L, the thing that was supposed to be instinctual, inevitable, the thing people built whole religions and K-dramas around—had finally completed its slow bureaucratic death. Love was no longer a force. Love was paperwork.

Except for two people.

For them, Love was everything.

—

'One move and you'll split open like a badly wrapped present.' ‘Is that your professional opinion?' 'That's my twenty years of keeping-you-alive opinion.' She's biting her lower lip, the way she always does when she's trying not to smile at your stupidity. 'And I really don't want to explain to some emergency room doctor why I have a boy bleeding out in my room at 2 AM.'

The gash should hurt more. Six inches of red spite across your forearm, but all you can focus on is how Yujin's looking at it—like she's found something breakable in a world made of steel.

'I really fucked up.' 'Did you?' Her touch finds your good arm, barely there. 'Or did you do exactly what you meant to?'

The lamp makes everything soft. She's wearing your t-shirt—the one you left here that summer when the AC broke. Cotton worn thin enough to catch shadowy curves underneath. Silk pajama bottoms that whisper secrets when she moves. You try not to notice. You notice everything.

'This might need stitches.' 'Are you volunteering?' 'Shut up and hold still.' But there's laughter in her voice, the kind that makes your chest tight. 'Some of us are trying to work miracles here.'

The first-aid kit looks wrong in her small hands. Those hands that used to patch up your scraped knees, that still know exactly where you're breakable.

'Remember that time in third grade?' Her fingers ghost over your skin. 'When you tried to convince me you could fly?' 'I could've.' 'You broke your arm.' 'Minor setback.' She laughs, soft and close. 'Nothing's changed, has it?'

Everything's changed. The way moonlight catches in her hair now, how her perfume makes your head swim, the careful distance she keeps even when she's touching you. But you say, 'Not the important things.'

Her breath hits your arm in warm little puffs as she works. Clean movements. No hesitation. Like she's mapping something she never forgot.

'Almost done.' Her thumb traces the edge of the bandage. 'Next time try not to bleed on my carpet?' 'Yujin-ah.' 'Mm?' 'Thank you.'

She looks up. Those eyes crack something in your chest. Then she smiles and whatever was cracked turns to stardust.

'So how'd it happen? And don't say you just slipped, because I know all your clumsy excuses by heart.' 'Just slipped.' 'Onto what? Did some wandering samurai leave their sword in Dunsan-dong?' 'You never know what you'll find these days.' 'Hey.' Her voice goes quiet, the way it used to when she'd tell you secrets at midnight. 'Tell me? I promise to not scold you…much.'

Face to face now. The universe narrows to this: her eyes on yours, her hands still on your skin.

'Okay.' You gesture with your good arm. 'Window.' 'What did you—' Her voice catches. 'If you've done something wild—'

Then you smile.

You watch her shoulders drop. It's a small thing, being able to do this—turn her static to quiet. Not exactly Superman stuff, but it's the only superpower you'd keep if they were dealing them out.

She knows. You can see it in how she moves—little half-dance steps to the window, taking your words as is—hopefully, something good. The curtain whispers. You don't watch. Can't. Your skin's electric with her lingering smell—something you'd bottle if you could, except that'd ruin it, the particular way her skin holds the perfume.

The silence stretches until you think you might snap. Then—

'What am I supposed to be looking at? Because all I see is Mrs. Kim's cat trying to fight a streetlight again, and—' She stops. 'What's it say?'

'Let me make sure I'm reading this right.' She's still facing the window, but you can hear the smile breaking through, eyes transforming into pure joy. 'Because either someone's confessing to me via Christmas lights at 2 AM, or the neighborhood's having a very very specific power outage.'

'These past years—' 'Wait.' She spins around, eyes catching lamplight. 'Did you seriously string up every Christmas light in Dunsan-dong just to—' She takes three quick steps toward you, stops. 'The lights outside the convenience store. The ones from the coffee shop. Even the ones from—' Her eyes go wide. 'You didn't.'

'Old Mr. Park drives a hard bargain.' 'His birthday lights? The ones he's kept since forever?' 'To be fair, they were already purple. Worked with the aesthetic.' 'And what exactly did you promise him?' 'Just my eternal servitude. And maybe repainting his fence.' 'The whole fence?'

'Both sides.'

She shakes her head, but her smile could light up the whole neighborhood. 'You're insane. Completely insane. Do you know how many people I had to convince about your mental well-being?'

'Had to?'

'Have to. Present tense.' She's between your knees now, playing with your shirt hem like it's suddenly the most interesting thing in the world. 'Though I guess now I'll have to change my story to "dating a lunatic who steals Christmas lights and nearly loses an arm trying to spell out love confessions."'

Your heart stumbles. 'Dating?'

'Well,' her borrowed shirt slips further, showing more shoulder. 'I mean, you did just write my name in stars.'

'They're Christmas lights.'

'Same difference.' Her fingers trail up your arm, careful of the bandage. 'Very romantic Christmas lights.'

'Does that mean—'

'It means anyone crazy enough to risk tetanus and Mr. Park's wrath deserves at least dinner.' A pause, then softer: 'Maybe breakfast too, if they play their cards right.'

'Just breakfast?'

'Don't push your luck.' But she's smiling that smile—the one that's always been just for you.

'Yujin-ah.'

'Mm?'

'All these years, did you ever—'

'Every day.' She doesn't let you finish. Doesn't need to. 'Every single day.'

'Can I—'

Her mouth finds yours: the way her lips part like flower petals at dawn, soft and inevitable. Her breath mingles with yours. There's the perfect arch of her spine, the way her breasts press warm against your chest through thin cotton, how her hips seek yours with an instinct older than thought. The taste of her, sweet milk tea and something darker, something that makes your blood sing. Her hands flutter at your neck, startled, before finding home in your hair, and there's that smell of her—woody, floral, fruity—that makes you dizzy, makes you forget where you end and she begins. Delicate sounds escape her, primal and pure, vibrating through both your bodies like a struck chord. Then she's pulling back, but her body stays honest—trembling, burning: alive with new knowledge.

'Sorry,' she whispers. 'Got carried away. We should probably wait until your wound is healed.' Her smile is so reassuring, masking the softest disappointment that her eyes couldn't hide. 

But she was in luck.

Your fingers circle her wrist mid-fret, right as she's about to check your bandage for the seventh time. Her skin is cool against yours, pulse like a hummingbird.

'Stop fretting.'

'I'm not fretting.' But she's barely holding back a smile, eyes bright with something more than just lamplight. 'I'm calculating how many years Mr. Park's going to make you repaint his fence.'

'Already negotiated.' You tug her closer, feeling the way she pretends to resist. 'Two coats, both sides, and my firstborn child.'

'Bold of you to negotiate with children that don't exist.' She settles between your knees anyway, like she's found her way home.

'Yet.'

Her borrowed shirt—your shirt—slips further off one shoulder. 'You're impossible.'

'Impossible enough to steal every Christmas light in Dunsan-dong.'

'Borrow,' she corrects, fingers playing with your collar. 'We're calling it borrowing. Sounds less felonious.'

'Look who's being responsible.'

'Someone has to be.' But she's leaning closer, breath warm against your mouth. 'Since you've apparently lost your mind.'

'Lost it years ago.' Your thumb traces her lower lip. 'Right around the time you started wearing my clothes.'

She makes this sound—half laugh, half something else entirely. 'Smooth talker.'

'Only for you.'

Her hands find your chest, but there's no real resistance in it. 'If you tear those stitches—'

The kiss swallows her warning. This one's different—deeper, like you're trying to taste every year you've waited. She makes a sound that turns your blood to starlight, fingers curling into your shirt like she's afraid you'll disappear.

'That's cheating,' she whispers when you break apart.

'Is it working?'

The lamp catches gold in her eyes. 'Always will.'

Your hand finds skin at the small of her back. She arches like a cat stretching into sunlight.

'You're staring.'

'Can't help it.'

'Try.'

'Make me.'

She kisses you this time—soft, sweet, dangerous. When she pulls back, her smile could outshine every stolen light in the neighborhood.

'We should probably—' she starts.

'Probably.'

Her fingers find the hem of her shirt. Your shirt. Details.

What follows is an exercise in creative problem-solving. One functional arm between you, too much cotton, not enough coordination. Her hair gets caught. You both laugh. The shirt wins the first round.

'Left,' she instructs.

'My left or your left?'

'Wait—here… I got it.'

The second attempt goes better. The shirt surrenders its hold, and suddenly there's just Yujin—all golden skin and starlight. Her bra's simple beige cotton, but the way it holds her could make Michaelangelo weep.

'You're staring again.'

'Still can't help it.'

She kisses you quiet, hands on your shoulders, pulling you closer. Everything soft and warm and perfect.

'Can I—' your fingers find her back, trace lace.

'Yes.' Another kiss. 'Please.'

The bra falls away like a secret finally told. You forget how words work.

The air hums with the weight of revelation—her body an altar, every contour a psalm. Your breath tangles as you drink her in: the bronze aureoles, the arch of her ribs like a vaulted sanctuary, the pulse fluttering at her throat like a caged sparrow. She shivers beneath your gaze: the raw vulnerability of a soul laid bare.

Your palms ascend her sides, mapping the smoothness, the glory of it all—each sigh, each hitch of muscle, a dialect you ache to memorize. She tips her head back as your thumbs brush the underswell of her breasts, a whimper dissolving. ‘More,’ she murmurs, not a demand but a prayer, a beg; her fingers knotting in your hair as if you might slip away like smoke.

You oblige, slow as honey, mouth tracing the salt-sweet hollow of her collarbone. Her skin blooms beneath your lips—petal-soft, fever-warm—as you chart a path lower, lower, until her nipple grazes your tongue. She gasps, back arching. Her hands clutch at you, anchor and plea, as you worship her with unhurried devotion, savoring each tremor, each stuttered breath.

When her legs part—a silent invitation—it’s your turn to shudder. The heat of her radiates through the last fragile barrier, a molten promise. You press closer, the rigid heat of your unclothed shaft straining against her thigh, a visceral counterpoint to her softness. She rolls her hips, deliberate, and you groan as her warmth grinds against you, friction sparking like flint.

You linger there, foreheads pressed, breaths mingling, the world narrowed to the space between heartbeats. Her eyes lock with yours, galaxies swirling in their depths. ‘I want to feel you,’ she whispers, voice trembling. ‘All of you.’

You move as tides do: inevitable, reverent. Her thighs cradle your hips as you guide yourself to her entrance, the head of your shaft slick with Her. The first breach is a shared gasp—a threshold crossed in tandem. She tightens around you, velvet heat clenching like a fist around your length, and you still, trembling, sweat-slicked and spellbound. Her nails score your shoulders, anchoring you to the agony of slowness.

‘Slowly,’ she breathes, and you obey, each fractional advance a pilgrimage. Her fingers trace your jaw, your lips, as if memorizing the shape of this moment. When you’re sheathed fully, time suspends. Her lashes flutter closed, a tear escaping as she whispers, 'Yes.'

You move in thrusts. Her sighs crest into whimpers, into chants of your name, each syllable a spark in the gathering storm. Her breasts sway with the rhythm, nipples brushing your chest, while your hands grip the flare of her hips, guiding her into the tide. Around you, the room dissolves: there is only her skin, her scent, the liquid pull of her around your shaft—a mosaic of need and nectar, each fragment a revelation.

You kiss her deeply, tasting the salt of her surrender, as the world fractures, reforms, and fractures again.

—

Sheets tangled like an afterthought. A leg hooked over yours, pinning you in place with the quiet authority of someone who has long since decided where they belong. The desk fan ticks through its slow, mechanical arc, stirring the air, stirring her hair, making it brush your chin in the softest, smallest way possible.

She shifts, just enough for her ribs to press against yours. You feel her breathing. Deep. Slow. Listening.

‘I have an audition next week,’ she says, voice barely above a whisper.

‘For what?’

‘Community theater. Spring show.’ A pause. Then, quietly, ‘It’s dumb.’

‘You don’t do dumb things.’

She laughs. A real one. The kind that scrunches her nose a little, that makes her shoulders shake just enough to jostle you.

‘Except this,’ she murmurs. Her fingers trace slow circles on your chest.

‘This was a strategic decision.’

‘Oh?’

‘Carefully calculated.’

She laughs again, softer this time. Her breath is warm where it spills against your collarbone. You could live here. Right here, in the space between her voice and her warmth and the way her hair tickles your skin.

She props herself up on one elbow, looking down at you. The Christmas lights outside flicker purples and blues across her face, her skin, making her look like something caught between a dream and waking. Her smile is quiet. Not big, not blinding. Just there. Something she’s forgotten to hide.

‘Hey,’ she says.

‘Hey.’

Her fingers tap lightly against your chest. ‘Remember when you proposed to me behind the school?’

‘Which time.’

She grins. ‘The time I lost the play to Wonyoung and cried so hard I got a nosebleed.’

‘Ah. I told you it didn’t matter because you’d always be the lead in my story.’

She groans, dropping her forehead to your shoulder. ‘You were so corny.’

‘Still am.’

‘Yeah,’ she murmurs. ‘You are.’

You feel her smile against your skin.

The fan clicks on again, stirring the night, the space between you. The crickets outside hum in harmony with the distant sound of a train—faint, but there. The whole world is slowing down. Breathing with you.

She shifts again, nestles closer. Her lips brush your skin—your collarbone, then just above your heart.

‘I can hear you thinking,’ you say.

She sighs, slow and steady. ‘Just… happy.’

You don’t say anything. Just hold her tighter. Like keeping her close might keep the moment from slipping away.

She pulls back, just far enough to see you, really see you. Her hair is a mess. Her lips are still swollen. The Christmas lights turn her eyes into something impossible, something endless.

‘I love you, you know,’ she says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like she’s never known anything else.

You smile. ‘I know.’

She kisses you. Slow, deep, soft. Like a secret. Like an answer.

The fan ticks. The lights flicker. The night stretches on.

—

It was supposed to be small. A local theater gig, a footnote in her life story. Something that kept her busy while she figured out the rest. That was the plan.

Then a casting director walked into the wrong show on the right night. A single scene, a single line delivered with the kind of weight that makes people stop chewing their popcorn. Two weeks later, she’s everywhere.

At first, it’s just murmurs. Articles in the culture section. Buzzwords like promising, raw talent, the next big thing. Then the billboards go up. Magazines with her face—half-laughing, half-serious, eyes catching the camera like they know something you don’t. The first time you see one, it’s plastered on the side of a bus stop you used to share, back when the only lines she rehearsed were whispered promises and badly sung pop songs.

Now she’s too big for Dunsan-dong.

Not just big. Seismic.

Korea’s sweetheart, the industry's new obsession. Agencies circle like sharks with briefcases, smiling through teeth polished for negotiation. They offer her everything—money, sponsorships, a life where she doesn’t have to wait for the subway or count change at convenience stores. And she takes it, not because she’s greedy, but because this is what she was always meant to be.

You watch it happen the way people watch slow-motion car crashes. Helpless. Horrified. A little bit in awe.

Because here’s the thing they never warn you about when you love someone who's destined for greatness: fame isn’t a door. It’s a chasm. You can’t walk through it holding hands.

At first, you convince yourself nothing’s changed. You still talk, still text. But her replies come slower, her voice more rehearsed. The calls happen between set breaks, her voice filtered through exhaustion and bad reception.

Then the interviews start. The talk shows. The press tours.

She gets good at the answers, the little smiles, the artful dodges. The first time someone asks if she’s dating anyone, she hesitates. Just for a second. Just long enough for the internet to notice.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. That she’s protecting you. That this is just part of the machine.

But a few weeks later, you see a headline:

‘The Nation’s New Star: Who is Yujin’s Mystery First Love?’

And for the first time, it hits you—really hits you—how easy it is to be rewritten.

The tabloids build their own history, constructing boyfriends from old classmates, exes from co-stars. They don’t name you. They don’t have to. Because in the world they’ve built, you don’t exist.

And maybe, you start to think, maybe you never did.

Maybe love isn’t enough when it’s up against the weight of the world. Maybe you were naive to think you could be something more than a footnote in her legend.

Maybe you were never really two. Maybe it was always just her.

Moving forward. Rising higher.

And you—

You’re just the idiot standing still, watching her disappear into the stars.

—

Yujin called you up.

The night was cutting: cold, unrelenting Snow blew sideways, a thousand tiny knives catching on your exposed skin, but you sat there anyway—legs crossed, hands in your lap, all polite.

The bench was old, paint curling at the edges, the kind of place people only sat when they had no better options. You smiled at the irony.

You’d met Yujin in worse places. Loved her in worse places.

And maybe, just maybe, lost her in worse places too.

Then she emerged from the fog, a silhouette first, then a shape, then a person.

Five benches away. Maybe six. Distance had become an abstract concept, like time, like certainty, like the idea that love—real love—was enough to hold the weight of the whole goddamn world.

She didn’t sit. Didn’t hesitate.

‘Let’s break up.’

The words didn’t belong to the girl who used to steal fries from your plate, who used to call you at 2 AM because she saw a cat in the street and thought you needed to know. They belonged to someone else. Someone who had spent hours, maybe days, rehearsing.

Her voice was final. Her eyes were final. Everything about her, from the way she stood to the way the wind refused to touch her, was final.

You should’ve said something.

Anything.

But the air left your lungs in one sharp exhale, stolen by the weight of three syllables arranged in an execution sentence.

The snow caught in her hair, in her lashes, in the hollow curve of her collarbone, and she looked—god, she looked—like something from a dream you had once, the kind you woke from gasping, reaching for someone who wasn’t there.

And then she wasn’t.

She turned. Walked away. Snow swallowed her whole.

You could’ve chased her. Could’ve fallen to your knees, begged, pleaded, made a scene, made a fool of yourself. Could’ve grabbed her wrist, reminded her that you were not just some chapter to be closed. Could’ve thrown every memory, every quiet moment, every touch, every whispered I love you in her face like proof of something sacred.

But you didn’t.

Because Yujin never spoke like this. Not unless she meant it.

And that’s what gutted you most.

You sat there long after she was gone, staring at the place she used to be, like if you looked hard enough, you could rewind time, unbreak whatever fragile thing had finally snapped between you.

The sky stretched empty above you, stars sharp against the ink. You tried counting them. Tried counting anything to stop counting the ways you’d just lost her.

One star. Two. One mistake. Two. Three years. Four. Five benches away.

Maybe six. The wind howled, and you let it.

—

The beer’s flat, but that’s not why it tastes bad.

You lean against the bar, watching foam dissolve into something thin and lifeless, the way good things always do. Three years distilled into neon lights and a tab you don’t remember opening.

She’s 24 now. You keep count because she was impossible to avoid—billboards, subway ads, every damn screen flashing her face like she owns the world. And maybe she does. The brightest star, the nation’s darling, the girl who left and became.

You should be proud. You tell yourself you are.

But pride doesn’t feel like this. Doesn’t sit heavy in your ribs like grief. Doesn’t twist like a blade when you flip through channels and land on her.

The latest drama. Friends-to-lovers, some rom-com fluff. A special kind of hell, watching her fall for someone else, even if it’s scripted.

And the kiss—god, the kiss.

Over and over. Different angles, different takes. The guy has trepid shoulders and a weaker mouth. You want to reach through the screen, grab him by his stupid collar, shake him until he understands: You don’t get to kiss Yujin like that unless you mean it.

The beer in your hand swirls, a storm in a pint glass. You watch it spin, thinking about how everything these days seems determined to drown you.

Then Roach walks in.

Roach—half philosopher, half walking disaster. A man with too many past lives and a prosthetic eye that glows faintly under bar light, making him look part machine, part ghost.

‘That recovery group, they’re solid,’ he says, by way of hello. His voice is like chewing on gravel. ‘Might’ve been able to quit if I stuck around.’ ‘4.8 stars on Google, right?’ ‘Right. Wait. How’d you know that?’ His synthetic eye sits there while the real one narrows. ‘Been there.’ ‘What?’ ‘Been there. You recommended it.’ Roach laughs, short and sharp. ‘That was the review forum.’ ‘Memory’s fuzzy.’ ‘Fuzzy? You’re getting soft.’ ‘All those reviews read like discount novels, Roach.’ ‘Why the hell would I write reviews?’ ‘Same reason you do anything—to feel something.’ He smacks your chest, hard enough to make you look up. ‘Yujin broke you. Plain as day.’ Your throat tightens. The name alone feels like a switchblade. ‘It’s not like that… anymore.’ ‘Sure looks like it.’ ‘How’s that?’ ‘You’re on the leaderboard in this bar. They’re bleeding you dry, and you’re letting them.’ You don’t argue. Just take another sip. ‘Don’t deserve this money anyway.’ ‘Then give it elsewhere. There’s an orphanage across the street.’ ‘Don’t play saint with me.’ ‘It’s just a block away.’ ‘Fuck off.’ ‘Just a block—’ ‘Fine.’ You press your glass against the table, like the condensation might hold you steady. ‘I’ll think about it.’ Roach grins like he’s won something. ‘Ever watch her show?’ he asks, tilting his flask toward you. You hesitate. ‘Not really.’ ‘Bullshit. Saw you yesterday. That rain scene.’ Your grip tightens around the glass. The rain scene. You were there. Back when “we” still meant something. Holding her coat between takes, watching her shiver between scripted heartbreaks. ‘She always cried pretty,’ you murmur. ‘Even back then.’ Roach nods, takes a sip. ‘Tell me about it.’ You do. You don’t mean to, but you do. ‘Nothing to tell,’ you start. ‘I was nobody. She was becoming somebody. Simple math.’ ‘That’s not what I heard.’ ‘Yeah? What’d you hear?’ ‘That you proposed. Night before Seoul.’ The beer sours in your mouth. ‘Who told you that?’ ‘Does it matter? True though, isn’t it?’ You let out something that’s supposed to be a laugh. ‘Got the ring from my grandmother. Vintage Tiffany, art deco. Yujin loved vintage.’ ‘And?’ ‘And she cried. Not the pretty kind.’ You see it now, clear as the night it happened—her shaking hands, the way she pressed the box back into yours like it burned. ‘Said she couldn’t. Said she wasn't ready. I guess that was the foreshadowing: she broke up with me just a week later.’ ‘A choice between you and fame?’ ‘Between real life and the life she’d dreamed of since she was six. No contest, really.’ Roach doesn’t speak for a while. Just stares at the bar like it’s holding the right words. ‘Where’s the ring now?’ You smirk, but it tastes like blood. ‘Pawned it. Bought a week of blackout drunk and a ticket anywhere else.’ Roach exhales, long and low. His eyes flick to your watch, but nothing gold can compare to what you lost. ‘And here you are.’ ‘Here I am.’ Bass pulses through the walls, someone screams about love on the dance floor, and the bartender slides another drink toward you like it might fix anything. Roach downs the rest of his flask, claps a hand on your shoulder. ‘Well. Good luck with that. Got a missus waiting. Let me know when you find one.’ You don’t look at him. ‘We might never speak again.’ ‘Doubt that.’ A pat on the back, one final grin. Then he’s gone. You scoff. If ever. And you leave.

—

Seoul in summer is a thing that sticks. To your skin, to your thoughts, to the spaces between breath. Heat rises off the pavement, thick and wet, settling in your lungs like something permanent.

The city is wide awake, but softer at this hour. Convenience store fluorescents hover in the humidity, blurring edges. Subway vents exhale something metallic, ghostly. The crickets don’t know they live in a city. They just keep singing.

You walk. Not home, not anywhere. Just walking, because it’s better than stopping.

Stopping means remembering.

Every street corner holds a version of her. The Yujin who stole fries off your plate, who could sleep through a fireworks show, who once convinced you that every ice cream cone tasted better if it was half-melted. She’s there, tucked into flickering billboards, frozen mid-laugh on subway ads, threaded between the chords of songs you don’t mean to hear.

You take the long way. Five, six corners. Maybe more.

Then the bus stop appears.

Half-forgotten. Almost overgrown. A bench with its paint peeling like old skin, weeds curling around the edges like they might swallow it whole.

You sit. Elbows on knees. Hands folded. Thinking. Not thinking.

The streetlight buzzes. The air is thick with waiting.

Then—

A shadow falls across your feet.

A shift in pressure. Not wind, just something. The moment before a storm, before impact, before memory collides with the present and makes a mess of everything.

‘What are you doing here?’ Soft. Not a blade, not a wound. Just a question that lands like an old habit.

You don’t need to look. But you do. Because some habits don’t break.

Yujin stands there, framed by sodium light, hands tucked into the pockets of a hoodie that looks too soft to exist. No cameras. No entourage. Just her.

And god—just her is enough to knock the breath out of your chest.

‘Hiding?’ Soft. Like the question isn’t a question, just something to fill the space between heartbeats.

You don’t look up right away. You know the shape of her. You’ve spent years knowing it. The way she stands, weight slightly to one side. The way her voice lands, gentle, edged with something only you ever got to hear.

But you look anyway. Because it’s her. And some rules of the universe don’t change.

Yujin.

Not the Yujin on billboards, the Yujin on magazine covers, the Yujin who belongs to a nation that adores her.

Just Yujin.

Hair a little messy. Hoodie swallowing her frame. Hands tucked into the sleeves like she’s bracing against a cold that doesn’t exist.

And—god. Her eyes. Still warm. Still familiar. Still Dunsan-dong in their quiet, endless way.

She tilts her head. Smiles. The kind of smile that makes you feel seventeen again, like you just said something stupid and brilliant in the same breath.

‘Hiding?’ she repeats, softer this time.

‘Hiding implies I have something to hide from.’

‘And do you?’

A pause. Then—

‘Maybe.’

A hum. A small shift in weight. Then she sits. Just like that. No asking, no hesitation. Just sits, close enough that her knee brushes yours, like muscle memory, like the past hasn’t completely given up on you yet.

The air smells like street food, like summer. Somewhere, a neon sign hums its last flickers before shutting off for the night.

She bumps her shoulder against yours.

‘Missed you, you know.’

You turn your head. Blink. She’s watching you, like the sentence wasn’t a trap, wasn’t something heavy. Just… true.

You swallow.

‘Yeah?’

She nods, pulling her sleeves over her hands. ‘Yeah.’

The night stretches. Not awkward. Not tight with something unspoken. Just easy. Just… there.

‘How’s life?’ she asks.

‘Oh, you know. Full of bad choices.’

‘Any good ones?’

‘Still deciding.’

She breathes out a laugh, soft.

You glance at her, at the curve of her nose, the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear like she’s done since she was a kid.

‘You look…’ she starts, then tilts her head.

‘What?’

‘The same.’

You huff a laugh. ‘That’s a lie.’

‘No.’ She nudges your knee again. ‘You’re just… still you.’

And it’s so simple, the way she says it. So casual, like she hasn’t just pulled the breath from your lungs.

You don’t answer. Not yet.

She leans in slightly.

‘Still drink too much coffee?’

‘Still sleep through earthquakes?’

Her grin widens. ‘Still remember that?’

‘Some things don’t change.’

‘Some do.’

A small shift. A glance. A fraction closer.

And the city moves around you, oblivious.

But you?

You stay still.

You stay here.

Yujin sighs, long and soft, tilting her head back, watching the streetlight cast flickering halos through the humidity.

‘Seoul’s different at night,’ she murmurs. ‘Seoul’s different all the time.’

She hums, half in agreement, half just because she likes the sound. You forgot about that—the way she used to make tiny noises when she was thinking, little musical notes that filled in the gaps between words.

‘Feels slower now,’ she says. ‘That’s just you.’ She turns to you, eyes warm. ‘Yeah?’ You nod. ‘Everything moves too fast for you these days. You forgot what slow feels like.’ A small smile. ‘Remind me?’ Something tightens in your chest. She doesn’t mean it like that. Doesn’t mean it like anything more than what it is—a quiet moment, a quiet ask. But still. You shift, leaning back against the bench, stretching your arms across the top like you own the night. Like it doesn’t own you. ‘Alright,’ you say. ‘Lesson one: sitting still.’ She huffs a laugh but follows your lead, sinking deeper into the wood, legs stretching out. Her foot knocks against yours. ‘Like this?’ ‘Yeah.’ A beat. ‘And then what?’ ‘Nothing.’ She raises a brow. ‘That’s it?’ ‘That’s it.’ She exhales, slow and thoughtful. ‘You always made things feel easy,’ she says, voice quiet, like she’s afraid of disrupting the moment. You glance at her, and she’s not looking at you—just at the night, at the city, at something only she can see. ‘Not sure that’s true,’ you admit. ‘No, it is.’ She pulls her sleeves over her hands again, eyes flicking toward you. ‘You made me feel easy. Like… breathing.’ Something inside you curls at the edges. ‘Yujin—’ ‘It’s okay.’ She shakes her head, soft, smiling like she’s telling you not to carry it too heavily. ‘I’m just remembering.’ The city hums around you both. A distant motorbike rumbles past. Somewhere, an old radio plays a song you half recognize. You look at her again. Hair slightly mussed. Eyes bright, soft, familiar. Like she was never gone at all. She shifts, tucking one leg under the other, hands still hidden in her sleeves.

‘You ever think about calling?’ Her voice is light. Not demanding. Not accusing. Just... wondering. You let out a slow breath. ‘You ever think about picking up?’ A small laugh, exhale-soft. ‘Yeah.’ You glance at her, and she’s already looking at you, chin propped against her knee, smile barely-there but real. ‘But I figured you needed time,’ she says. You swallow. ‘Did I?’ Her fingers twitch against the fabric of her hoodie. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I just told myself that so I wouldn’t call.’ The honesty knocks something loose in your chest. You don’t say anything for a moment. The city moves around you both, neon humming against the wet pavement, the smell of night air thick with too many things. Then, quietly— ‘Three years is a long time, Yujin.’ ‘I know.’

She shifts, slow, careful, like she’s turning over a fragile thought in her hands. ‘But I never wanted it to be forever.’ Your throat tightens. You want to ask her then why did you leave like it was? But you don’t. Because you already know the answer. Because she was always meant for something bigger. Because she was scared, because you were scared, because maybe—just maybe—back then, love wasn’t enough to hold everything steady.

Instead, you say, ‘You look good, you know.’ Her lips curve, soft. ‘You do too.’ You scoff, tipping your head back against the bench. ‘Liar.’ ‘I never lied to you.’ That shuts you up. For a moment, you let it sink in. The weight of her voice, the way she says it like it’s a fact, like it’s something you should’ve never doubted. Then, softer— ‘You really never called?’ she asks. ‘I really never called.’ She doesn’t look away. ‘Why?’ You inhale. Let the air sit heavy in your lungs. ‘Because I thought you’d be better off without me.’ The words land, quiet and unpolished. Yujin blinks. Then— ‘You idiot.’ And then she’s moving, shifting closer, her fingers finding your sleeve, gripping just slightly, just enough for you to feel her there, to feel her warmth against the fabric. ‘Do you know how many times I almost showed up at your door?’ she says, voice soft but steady. ‘How many times I wanted to tell you that I was still here? That I—’ She stops. Exhales. Looks away, looks back. ‘That I missed you?’ You swallow. She’s close now. Not quite touching, but nearly. The air between you charged, something slow, something waiting. Your heart does something complicated in your chest. ‘You missed me?’ you murmur. Yujin smiles, small, fond. ‘Of course, you idiot.’ The city hums. The night exhales. And you— You don’t move away. Yujin stays close. Close enough for you to count her breaths, to feel the warmth of her body radiating through the space between you. You should say something. You should do something. Instead, you just sit there. And Yujin—Yujin lets you.

Her fingers stay curled into your sleeve, loose but certain. Like she’s testing gravity, checking to see if you’ll stay, if you’ll shift, if you’ll remind her that you’re real. She tilts her head, watching you the way she used to—like she’s memorizing you, like she’s trying to fit you back into the version of her life where you were always supposed to be. And maybe she is. Maybe she’s wondering how you look the same but feel different. Maybe she’s cataloging the way your shoulders have set a little heavier, the way your mouth curves in thought before you speak. Or maybe she’s just looking. Like she never stopped. ‘So,’ she says, voice light, careful. ‘What now?’ A question too big for this moment. A question you can’t answer, not yet. So you do what you always do. You deflect. You lean back, arms stretching across the top of the bench, looking at her out of the corner of your eye. ‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that?’ She lifts a brow. ‘You were always the planner.’ She snorts. ‘Hardly.’ ‘Oh? I seem to remember someone who had color-coded schedules for summer break.’ ‘That was one summer.’

‘Still counts.’ She exhales a laugh, tipping her head back against the bench, looking up at the sky. ‘Okay, fine. Maybe I was a little obsessed with plans.’ ‘A little?’

She shoots you a look, but it’s all warmth. All familiarity. ‘You liked it,’ she says. ‘It was efficient. It was cute.’

You hesitate. Just slightly. But she catches it. Of course she does. Her smile softens.

‘You can say it, you know.’ You tilt your head, pretending to be confused. ‘Say what?’ ‘That you missed me too.’

Something about the way she says it makes your stomach pull tight. Not teasing. Not fishing. Just true. You turn back to the street, watching the way the neon catches in the puddles, turning them into something like galaxies.

‘You already know.’ Yujin hums. ‘I want to hear it anyway.’ You exhale.

Three years of distance. Three years of silence. Three years of trying to unwrite the part of your life where she belonged.

‘Yeah,’ you say, voice quiet. ‘I missed you.’

Yujin doesn’t say anything right away. Then—

Her hand slides fully into your sleeve, warm against your wrist. A small thing. A quiet thing. But it’s enough.

‘Good,’ she murmurs.

You sit there like that for a while. Neither of you moving. Neither of you pulling away. And for the first time in years—

The silence between you doesn’t feel like an ending. It feels like a beginning.

Her hand stays there. Not gripping. Not holding. Just resting, warm against your wrist, like it belongs there. Like it never left.

You let out a slow breath. Three years. Three whole years. And somehow, this—her, the quiet press of her skin against yours, the way she’s just here—feels so natural it makes your ribs ache.

‘What are we doing, Yujin?’

Soft. Not accusing. Just—just needing to know if she feels it too, if this night is supposed to mean what you think it does.

She tilts her head, slow. Her hair slips over her shoulder, catching the streetlight in its strands. ‘Talking?’

A small, careful smile.

You huff. ‘Is that what this is?’

She hums, shifts a little closer, foot knocking against yours. ‘I don’t know. Feels nice, though.’

Nice. Nice, like it isn’t everything. Nice, like you aren’t suddenly breathing her in again, like your body hasn’t been on high alert since the moment she walked into your orbit tonight.

You roll your wrist slightly, just enough so that your fingers brush hers. She doesn’t pull away.

The city hums. The night exhales. And then—

‘Do you want to go for a walk?’ she asks.

It’s an easy question. A simple one. But something about it knots itself into your chest, makes your throat tight. Because that’s always how it was with her. Yujin never asked for big things. Just small ones, one after another, adding up to something impossible to resist.

Do you want to get ice cream? Do you want to climb onto the roof? Do you want to watch the rain with me? Do you want to stay?

And you had always said yes.

You glance at her now, at the way she’s watching you, hopeful but not pushing, patient in the way only she could ever be. A walk. A moment. A step toward something you don’t quite know how to name.

You exhale, slow. Then you stand.

‘Lead the way.’

Her smile—god. Her smile.

She slips her hand fully into yours, easy, thoughtless, like muscle memory. Like no time has passed at all.

And you— You let her.

The street hums around you, the last traces of night shifting toward something softer. The vendors have mostly packed up, but the scent of grilled meat and frying oil still lingers, floating warm through the thick summer air.

Yujin’s hand stays in yours. Not tight. Not hesitant. Just there. Like it was always meant to be.

You walk without direction. Just moving, side by side, the way you used to. Her footsteps match yours easily, a quiet sync neither of you planned.

‘Where are we going?’ you ask, voice low.

‘Nowhere,’ she says.

It makes you smile.

A few years ago, that answer would have annoyed her. Yujin, the girl with color-coded schedules, with plans so detailed they might as well have been carved into stone. But now she just says it like it’s enough. Like it’s the whole point.

She swings your hands slightly, absentminded. ‘You always walked like this,’ she murmurs.

‘Like what?’

She shrugs. ‘Like the city doesn’t own you.’

You breathe in, slow. The neon of old convenience stores, the occasional flickering of a streetlamp. ‘I guess I never let it.’

She hums. ‘I did.’

You glance at her. ‘Yujin—’

‘It’s okay,’ she cuts in, smiling. ‘I wanted to. I just—’ She exhales, presses her lips together for a moment, then shakes her head. ‘I forgot how good it feels to walk like this. Without thinking.’

You squeeze her hand just slightly.

She notices. Her thumb brushes the edge of your palm. Not an accident. Not a mistake.

The city stretches ahead of you, quiet. ‘You ever think about coming back?’ you ask.

She doesn’t answer right away. Her fingers tighten around yours, just a little.

‘I used to dream about it,’ she says, voice softer now. ‘I’d wake up thinking I was still in Dunsan-dong. That I’d step outside and find you waiting, like always.’

Your throat goes tight. She turns her head, studies your face in the flickering light.

‘But I was scared,’ she says, gentle. ‘What if you were different? What if I was?’

You don’t look away. ‘And now?’

A breath. A small, small smile. ‘I think I was scared of the wrong thing.’

Your heart stumbles.

She slows, pulling you toward the edge of the sidewalk, toward a tiny park that barely qualifies as a park—a patch of grass, a few trees. The kind of place nobody notices. She stops. Turns to face you.

You should say something. You should say everything.

But she beats you to it.

‘You were always the best part of my life,’ she says, voice steady, firm, like she’s decided something for herself.

Your pulse jumps. ‘Yujin—’

‘I just needed you to know that.’

She’s looking at you like she’s bracing for impact. Like she’s not sure what you’ll do with this thing she’s handing you.

So you take it. Carefully, quietly, the way she deserves.

You lift your hand—the one she’s not holding—and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Her breath catches.

‘Yeah?’ you murmur.

She nods.

And then, softer—

‘I think you were always mine.’

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Because the next thing you know, her hands are on your face, and your mouth is against hers, and the whole city dissolves around you.

She tastes like everything you remember. Like fine tea and something sweeter, something that was always just hers. She presses closer, hands slipping down to your collar, holding you there like you might disappear.

You won’t. Not this time.

When you pull back, she’s breathing fast, forehead resting against yours. You smile.

‘Still walk like the city doesn’t own me?’ you murmur.

She laughs, breathless, and pulls you back in.

Yujin kisses like a memory you never let go of. Like muscle memory, like breathing. Like the space between your ribs was always meant to make room for her.

She pulls back, just enough for her nose to brush yours. Her breath is warm, uneven. Her hands are still curled into the collar of your shirt, holding, gripping, keeping.

You open your eyes. She’s already looking at you.

Not like the girl on the billboards, not like the actress on screen. Just Yujin. Soft, real, right here.

Her lips are pink and kiss-bitten. She blinks slowly, dazed, like she’s trying to piece together what just happened. And then—

Then she laughs.

Not a big laugh. Not loud. Just this tiny, incredulous little sound. Like she can’t believe it. Like she can’t believe you.

‘What?’ you murmur.

She shakes her head, smiling, fingers still resting against your collar. ‘I don’t know.’

‘That’s a first.’

She huffs. ‘Shut up.’

‘Make me.’

A flicker of something in her eyes. Amusement. Mischief. Something else.

She tilts her head, considering. Then, in one slow movement, she leans in—

Not kissing you, not quite. Just close enough that her lips barely graze yours. Close enough that you can feel her smile.

‘Tempting,’ she murmurs.

Your heart stumbles.

But then she pulls away, slipping her fingers from your shirt, stepping back onto the sidewalk, like she’s giving you space to breathe.

You don’t need it. But you let her.

The city hums around you, the distant rumble of a car engine, the occasional flicker of neon against damp pavement.

You watch as Yujin tilts her head toward the sky, stretching her arms out, exhaling like she’s just remembered how.

‘I forgot what this feels like,’ she admits.

‘What?’

‘Not thinking.’ She lets her hands drop to her sides, flexing her fingers. ‘Not planning every second of my life in advance. Just… being.’

You shift, watching her.

‘I don’t think I’ve done that in years,’ she says.

A pause. Then, softly—

‘Stay with me.’

Your heart does something complicated in your chest.

She looks over, a little hesitant now, like she’s not sure how the words sound out loud.

‘I mean—’ she starts, but you shake your head.

‘Okay.’

Her lips part slightly.

Like she expected you to hesitate. Like she thought she’d have to convince you.

You step closer. Just enough that the space between you disappears again.

‘Okay?’ she echoes.

You nod.

Then, quieter—‘Anywhere.’

Yujin’s face softens.

And god, it’s so easy, the way she looks at you. Like you are something known. Like she is something understood.

She lets out a small, breathy laugh, reaching up to brush her thumb against the corner of your mouth.

‘You’re so stupid,’ she murmurs.

‘You love it.’

‘Yeah,’ she says, shaking her head. ‘Yeah, I do.’

She slips her hand back into yours, fingers threading together like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like she never left. Like you never let her.

And the city stretches ahead, wide open, waiting.

You should take a taxi. That would be the smart thing. A quiet, unremarkable way to disappear from the city before someone notices Korea’s brightest star walking hand-in-hand with someone who isn’t famous, isn’t scripted, isn’t anything but hers.

But Yujin shakes her head.

‘Not yet,’ she says.

So you walk.

She keeps close, hood pulled low, fingers curled into yours. The streets are thinning out, the city exhaling into its quieter hours. The air smells like fried oil and pavement, the ghosts of dinner service still hanging in the air.

She bumps into you once, then twice.

‘Are you always this bad at walking?’ you ask.

She grins, breathless. ‘I think I forgot how to do it with company.’

Company. Company.

You’re not sure if you’re relieved of that; that she was too busy to even meander through lazy lovers.

You squeeze her hand. She squeezes back.

Your place isn’t far, but when you reach it—when Yujin stops at the entrance, tilting her head back to take it all in—something shifts.

‘Huh.’

That’s all she says.

You fight a smirk. ‘Huh?’

She makes a small noise, arms crossed, like she’s trying not to look impressed.

‘You kept acting like you lived in a shoebox.’

You raise a brow. ‘Did I?’

‘Yeah.’ She gestures vaguely to the high-rise, the massive glass windows catching the city lights. ‘I was expecting something small. Modest. Maybe a bachelor pad with an ugly couch and a tragic little coffee table.’

You scoff. ‘What do you take me for?’

‘A very humble man, apparently.’

You shake your head, leading her inside.

The elevator is empty. Too bright. Too quiet.

She rocks on her heels. ‘So, do I get the grand tour?’

‘I don’t know,’ you say, pretending to think. ‘You might not be able to handle it. Very overwhelming.’

She elbows you in the side, laughing. ‘Shut up.’

The doors slide open.

She steps out first, into the hallway, waiting while you fish your keys from your pocket.

She glances over. ‘I still can’t believe you live here.’

‘Why?’

She shrugs. ‘It’s just weird.’

‘Weird how?’

She scrunches her nose, like she doesn’t quite know how to explain it. ‘I don’t know. You just never cared about stuff like this.’

You unlock the door.

She steps inside.

And immediately—

‘Oh my god.’

You roll your eyes, shutting the door behind you. ‘What now?’

She turns in a slow circle, taking everything in. The high ceilings, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the soft lighting that spills across the polished wood.

‘Are you kidding?’ she says, spinning toward you, mouth open in faux outrage. ‘This is beautiful.’

You snort. ‘What, you thought I was sleeping in a broom closet?’

‘Yes.’

‘Wow. Faith in me is strong, I see.’

She grins, moving toward the living room. ‘No, it’s just—’ She shakes her head, fingers brushing over the back of the sleek, perfectly chosen couch. ‘You were always so… comfortable with less. I figured, even if you had money, you’d still live like some struggling artist in a shoebox.’

You scoff, kicking off your shoes. ‘What does that even mean?’

‘Like, I don’t know, sleeping on a mattress on the floor. A single sad chair. Stacks of books everywhere.’

You raise a brow. ‘So your image of me is basically a broke philosophy major?’

She shrugs. ‘It suited you.’

You exhale a laugh.

‘But this,’ she gestures around again, ‘this is… grown-up.’

‘Was I not grown-up before?’

She grins. ‘No.’

‘Wow.’

‘But,’ she continues, stepping toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, where the city spills out in front of her like a living, breathing thing, ‘I like it. It feels like you.’

You pause.

Not expensive. Not fancy. Not over-the-top.

It feels like you.

You scratch the back of your neck, looking away.

‘Yeah?’

She nods. ‘Yeah.’

She turns back to the glass, resting her fingers lightly against the frame. ‘You can see the river from here.’

You step up beside her.

It’s a view you see every day, but somehow, with Yujin here, it looks different.

She breathes in. ‘It’s nice.’

You breathe her in.

‘Yeah,’ you murmur. ‘It is.’

She turns.

And then she kisses you.

Not careful. Not planned.

Just Yujin.

She tilts her head, presses up slightly on her toes, and meets your mouth with something warm, something easy.

It’s not perfect.

She misses, just slightly. Laughs into the kiss. Her hands fumble for your collar but find your wrist instead.

But god—

It’s real.

You breathe her in. Hold her waist. Feel her fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt like she’s trying to pull you closer, closer.

She hums against your lips, smiling.

You grin. ‘You missed.’

She exhales a laugh. ‘Shut up.’

‘Make me.’

She does.

The kisses are clumsy, messy, soft. The kind that happens when two people are trying to remember, trying to relearn each other in real-time.

She tugs at your shirt.

You trip over the edge of the couch.

She gasps.

You land in a heap, tangled together, breathless.

Silence.

Then—

She laughs.

Bright, full, head tipped back against your chest.

You groan, letting your head fall back against the cushions. ‘Unbelievable.’

She grins, shifting so she’s straddling your lap. ‘I don’t know, I think it’s fitting.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah.’ She leans in, pressing her forehead against yours. ‘Clumsy love suits us.’

Your breath catches.

Then, softer—

‘Yeah,’ you murmur. ‘It does.’

She cups your face, fingers warm against your jaw.

The city hums outside, unaware.

And you—

You stay here.

With her.

You don’t know who says it first.

Maybe her. Maybe you. Maybe neither of you—maybe it’s just implied, wrapped up in the way she’s still sitting in your lap, fingers absently tracing patterns over your collarbone, skin warm against yours.

But at some point, between the teasing and the breathless little ohs that slip between kisses, it just becomes a fact.

You’re both too warm.

Too sticky from the night air, from walking too long through humid Seoul streets, from the thick summer heat pressing against the glass of your windows.

‘Shower,’ she murmurs.

You’re not sure if it’s a request or a declaration, but either way—

‘Yeah,’ you say.

And then you’re moving.

Yujin laughs when you lift her off the couch, stumbling slightly as you navigate through the apartment. She doesn’t let go, arms slung loosely around your neck, breath warm against your ear.

‘Are you always this dramatic?’ she asks.

‘You love it.’

She hums, not denying it.

The bathroom is bright, too bright, the kind of brightness that makes everything feel a little more real than you’re prepared for. But Yujin doesn’t hesitate—just pulls her hoodie over her head, shakes her hair out, steps closer like she’s done this a thousand times.

Like she’s never left.

You watch as she turns toward the mirror, tilting her head slightly.

‘Haven’t been in a place like this in a while,’ she muses.

‘A bathroom?’

She snorts, shoving you lightly. ‘No, this kind of bathroom.’ She waves a hand vaguely, indicating the open shower, the marble walls, the soft lighting. ‘It’s fancy.’

You roll your eyes, reaching for the faucet. ‘You act like you don’t stay in five-star hotels every week.’

‘That’s different.’

‘How?’

She steps behind you, pressing her chin against your shoulder. ‘This feels like you.’

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t say anything at all.

The water warms between your fingers, steam rising slowly.

Yujin hums, stepping forward, slipping her fingers under the hem of your shirt. ‘Come on.’

You don’t move.

She looks up, amused. ‘What, suddenly shy?’

You scoff, shaking your head, but your pulse jumps when her fingers skate lightly against your stomach.

She grins. ‘Cute.’

‘What is?’

‘Three years apart, and you’re still so you.’

You exhale a laugh, finally pulling your shirt over your head. She does the same, tossing her clothes into a messy pile, and then—

Then it’s just you and her, standing too close, bare skin meeting for the first time in what feels like forever.

Her breath catches.

You hear it. Feel it.

And god—

She’s so beautiful.

All golden skin and soft curves and the kind of warmth that could make the whole city feel like home.

She watches you, expectant, waiting.

You don’t make her wait long.

You reach for her—

And she lets you.

Lets you pull her in, lets you kiss her slow, deep, careful, like you’re memorizing her all over again.

She sighs into your mouth, hands trailing up your arms, curling into your hair.

‘Come on,’ she whispers.

And this time—

You listen.

The water is hot, almost too hot, but neither of you care.

Yujin steps under first, exhaling as the warmth rolls over her skin, tilting her head back so that her hair darkens, slick against her shoulders.

You’re distracted.

Too distracted.

Because—

Because she’s standing there, all bare skin and soft curves and Yujin, looking at you like she already knows exactly what you’re thinking.

‘Are you going to keep staring?’ she teases.

You swallow. ‘Maybe.’

She laughs, stepping forward, reaching for the shampoo.

You should move. Should help. Should do something.

But instead, you just—

Just watch.

The way she hums under her breath, the way she lathers the shampoo into her hair, fingers massaging small circles against her scalp.

You’re so lost in it, in her, that you don’t even realize she’s finished—

Until she suddenly turns, tilts her head, and smiles.

‘Come here.’

You don’t hesitate.

She tugs you forward, fingers threading through your hair, working shampoo into your scalp like it’s something sacred, something worth taking her time with.

And god—

God, you forgot how good this feels.

Forgot what it was like to just be, to just exist under someone’s hands, to let yourself be cared for in a way that doesn’t feel heavy, doesn’t feel like a transaction.

Her fingers move slowly, carefully, her nails scraping lightly against your skin.

You close your eyes.

Breathe.

Let yourself lean into it.

Let yourself lean into her.

And she—

She lets you.

She’s still rinsing when you reach for her.

‘What—’

You shush her, hands skimming up her sides, guiding her under the water’s warmth.

She lets you.

Lets you tilt her chin slightly, lets you press a kiss just below her ear, lets you work your fingers into her hair like she’s something holy.

Her breath catches.

You hear it, feel it, let it sink into your bones.

‘Close your eyes,’ you murmur.

She hesitates—just a fraction of a second—then obeys.

The water slides down her face, over her lips, down the elegant curve of her throat.

You watch, transfixed.

Then you move.

You reach for the shampoo, work it between your hands, and Yujin’s confused—’Again?’—but when your fingers find her scalp—

She melts.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen her this undone.

Head tilted slightly, mouth parted, body soft beneath your touch.

She hums, a small, quiet sound, like she’s just remembered something she’d long forgotten.

You barely breathe.

Just keep going, keep moving, keep tracing slow, deliberate circles, letting your fingers tangle through her hair like it’s something sacred.

Because it is.

Because she is.

Yujin, the girl who never stopped moving, who never let herself stop thinking, who planned every step of her life down to the last decimal—

She’s still now.

Still, and warm, and yours.

You rinse the shampoo carefully, letting the water do the work. Your fingers trail down, down, past her neck, past her shoulders, past the delicate slip of her collarbone.

She sighs.

Leans into you.

Lets herself fall.

And god—

You’ll catch her.

Every time.

You reach for the soap next, work it slowly over her back, over her arms, over every inch of her that you can touch.

She exhales, barely above a whisper.

‘Feels nice.’

You smile.

‘Good.’

You don’t rush.

Not when she’s like this. Not when she’s letting you do this, letting you love her with something as simple as this.

Your hands trail lower, down her spine, over the dip of her waist. She shifts slightly, breath hitching just a little.

You pause.

Press a kiss to her shoulder.

She shivers, but not from the cold.

‘This okay?’ you murmur.

Her fingers curl around your wrist, stopping you.

For a moment, you think she’s going to pull away—

But instead—

She guides your hand lower.

Presses it against the soft warmth of her stomach.

Holds it there.

She exhales, slow and deep. ‘Don’t stop.’ You don’t. God, you don’t. You let your hands move slowly, carefully, exploring her the way you’ve always wanted to—like she’s something to learn, something to understand. And Yujin— Yujin lets you.

She lets you wash away the last three years, lets you trace something new into her skin, lets you relearn every inch of her with soap and steam and careful, careful hands.

She turns in your arms, pressing her forehead against yours. The water slips between you, catching at the spaces where you don’t quite meet. She’s smiling. Soft. Sweet. Yours. You cup her face. She leans into it, eyes fluttering closed. For a long, long moment, neither of you move. You just stay. Right here. Right now. Like this. Like always. Then— She opens her eyes. And she kisses you.

The water trails down her spine in slow, careful rivers, catching in the dips of her back, rolling down the curve of her waist. You follow its path with your fingers, mapping her skin like something sacred, something known.

She doesn’t move. Just lets you touch. Lets you care.

You start with her back, palms gliding down the slope of her shoulders, the delicate stretch of muscle beneath warm, damp skin. Your thumbs press gently into the knots there, kneading, coaxing, working out tension she probably doesn’t even realize she’s holding.

She exhales, long and slow, tipping her head forward. ‘Mmm,’ she murmurs, voice thick with something close to sleep. ‘That feels good.’ You smile. Press your thumbs in a little deeper. Let your hands drift lower, following the curve of her spine, tracing each ridge, each shadow, each memory pressed into muscle. You smooth circles over her lower back, fingers pressing into the dimples there, trailing down— She shivers. Your hands pause. ‘Ticklish?’ you murmur.

She huffs a quiet laugh, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. ‘A little.’ You grin, but you don’t tease. Not now. Not when she’s letting you do this, letting you love her in the simplest, softest way. You reach for the soap, work it between your hands until it foams, and then— Then you really start. You start with her arms, sliding your palms over smooth, damp skin, tracing the delicate lines of muscle beneath. You lift her wrist, turning it over, running your fingers along the pulse point there. Her breath catches. You watch, mesmerized, as water beads along the inside of her forearm, trailing down to the soft bend of her elbow. ‘You’re so careful,’ she murmurs. You hum. ‘You deserve careful.’ Something flickers across her face. Something soft. She lets her fingers curl around yours. You smile. Run your hands over her stomach next, tracing the subtle rise and fall of each breath, the warmth of her, the realness of her. She shifts slightly, the movement pressing her closer, pressing skin to skin, pressing warmth to warmth. You exhale. Let your hands drift lower, over the curve of her waist, the dip of her hip, the length of her thigh. You take your time. Because she lets you. Because she wants you to. You kneel then, water rolling down your shoulders, down your back, pooling against your skin. You press your lips to her hip. She exhales, shaky, fingers threading into your hair. ‘You don’t have to—’ ‘I want to.’ You slide your hands over her legs, smoothing your palms down her thighs, over her calves, down to her ankles. She watches, breathing slow. You work the soap into her skin, rubbing warmth into her, sliding your thumbs up the backs of her knees, over the gentle curve of her calves. She sighs. Soft. Deep. Content. You let your fingers skim up again, over the dip of her waist, the gentle swell of her stomach, up— Up— To her chest. Her breath stutters. You pause. Look up. She’s already looking at you. Eyes dark, lips parted, cheeks flushed from the heat of the water. She lifts her hand, pressing it against yours. Guiding you. ‘Go on,’ she whispers. And you do. God, you do.

You cup her, trace the delicate slope of her, run your thumbs over warm, wet skin, over the soft peaks of her breasts, watching the way she reacts, the way she shivers under your touch.

Her lips part.

Her fingers tighten in your hair.

‘You’re—’ she starts, voice barely a breath, barely a sound. ‘You’re so—’

You stand.

Tilt her chin up.

Kiss her.

Not hungry. Not desperate.

Just deep.

Just certain.

Just her.

And when you pull back, pressing your forehead against hers, she exhales a laugh.

‘This is dangerous,’ she murmurs.

You smile. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

She lifts her arms, looping them around your neck, pulling you in, pressing against you, warm and wet and perfect.

And you—

You let her.

The steam rises. The water beads against her skin, gliding down slow, tracing paths over the soft slopes of her body, catching at the delicate points where warmth meets shadow, where light bends just so, where she is golden and bronze and endless.

You follow it.

With your eyes first, then with your hands.

Fingertips grazing along the soft valley of her stomach, skimming over her ribs, pressing gently into the places where she is most tender, most real. You watch the way the droplets gather at her collarbone, suspended for just a moment before slipping down, down, disappearing into the delicate dip between her breasts.

It feels unfair, almost, that something as simple as water gets to touch her like this before you do.

So you take its place.

Your lips find her collarbone first, brushing against the damp skin, warm and reverent. She exhales, tilting her head slightly, letting you have her like this, letting you take your time.

You do.

You always do.

Your mouth trails lower, following the path of the water, tracing its descent. You press a kiss against the gentle swell of her chest, right where her heart beats beneath, steady, certain, alive. You linger there, letting the moment stretch, letting yourself feel it, letting yourself remember what it’s like to love someone in a way that has nothing to do with time or distance or the years lost in between.

She breathes in, slow and deep, her fingers threading through your hair, nails scraping lightly against your scalp. Not pulling. Just holding.

And then you go lower.

The water clings to her, catching at the nipples, glistening like liquid gold against the dark-bronze warmth of her nipples. It drips, slow and deliberate, down the soft curve of her, over the places where she is most tender, most beautiful.

You chase it.

Your lips press to her sternum, then lower, following the water as it rolls over the swell of her breast, catching it before it can disappear.

She makes a sound then, a soft, breathy thing, like something breaking open inside her, like something unfolding, something giving way.

And god—

You love her like this.

Love the way she lets you worship her, the way she lets you press your mouth to her skin like it’s something sacred, like it’s something worth kneeling for.

You take your time.

You kiss along the curve of her, letting your tongue flick against her skin, letting yourself taste the warmth of her, the salt, the sweetness, the Yujin of her.

She trembles. Not much. Just a little. Just enough. You kiss the the peak of her breast—nipple, lips closing around the dark, glistening bronze of her, taking her between your lips like something meant to be savored. And she— She gasps. Soft. Sharp. Her fingers tighten in your hair, her back arching just slightly, just enough to press herself further into your mouth, to offer herself up like this, to let you take her in a way that feels like praise. The water slips between you, forgotten, but you don’t need it anymore. She is all the warmth you will ever need. And you— You are drowning. But you don’t mind. Not one bit.

You don’t know how long you stay like this—your mouth on her, your hands tracing slow worship into her skin, your tongue moving against the dark-bronze pebble of her like you’re tasting something sacred, something forbidden, something you never stopped craving.

She doesn’t rush you.

Just feels.

Just lets herself be felt.

Her fingers tremble against your scalp, gripping just enough to keep you grounded, to keep herself from falling apart entirely. The water sings against the tiles, drowning the rest of the world out, leaving just the sound of her soft gasps, her breath catching, the delicate whimper when your teeth graze over where she is most sensitive.

‘You’re—’ she tries, but the sentence breaks, dissolving into something else entirely.

You hum against her, half-smirking, half-dazed.

‘Say that again?’

She exhales sharply. Then, in a voice softer than the steam curling between you—

‘You’re ruining me.’

You smile against her skin.

‘Good.’

But then she’s moving.

Slow, steady, deliberate—sliding her hands down to your jaw, guiding you up, forcing your mouth away from her skin so she can see you again.

You lift your head, meeting her gaze, and god—

She looks like something devotional.

Like she’s burning and melting and breaking and remaking herself in the same moment.

And then she cups your face.

Runs her fingers down the sharp edge of your jaw, down your throat, down the planes of your chest like she’s trying to learn you all over again.

‘My turn,’ she whispers.

You exhale. ‘Yujin—’

But she’s already pressing her lips to your palm.

A slow, wet kiss against the skin there, warm and reverent.

You tense, watching the way she does it—how her mouth lingers, how her breath spills against your hand like she’s praying into it.

Then another.

And another.

Each kiss deliberate. Each one softer than the last.

Your fingers twitch.

Your heart stutters.

And Yujin—

Yujin just smiles.

Like she knows what she’s doing to you.

Like she knows the effect of her lips, her mouth, the heat of her pressing into you like this.

Then she goes lower.

Tracing fire against your wrist. Down to your forearm.

She’s taking her time.

Like she knows what’s coming. Like she wants you to feel every second of it before she even starts.

Softly, she lowers herself to the shower floor, folding her legs beneath her like someone praying—like someone preparing for something sacred. Water cascades over her, tracing the delicate angles of her face, slipping down her shoulders, clinging to her lashes. She doesn’t blink it away.

She looks up at you instead.

‘Just so you know,’ she murmurs, fingers curling around your thigh, pressing just hard enough to make you feel it, ‘I haven’t had this for three years.’

Your breath catches.

‘You poor thing.’

She hums, tilting her head slightly, eyes flickering with something playful, something edged with heat. ‘If only you called.’

Her grip tightens on your shaft—subtle, knowing, cruel.

Your pulse slams into your ribs.

‘Regretting everything as we speak,’ you manage, voice rough, because god—three years of waking up alone, three years of knowing what her body felt like against yours and still having to live without it, three years of not having this—

Yujin presses her lips to your hip, slow, warm, reverent.

‘Don’t,’ she whispers, breath ghosting over your skin. ‘From now on, let’s not waste a single breath.’

And that was that.

No more lost time. No more distance.

She presses another kiss, right below your navel. Cheating.

Your entire body tenses, twitches, a sharp current running through you.

She notices.

She smiles.

‘This is punishment,’ she murmurs.

Your fingers twitch against the tile. ‘For what?’

She looks up at you, lashes wet and mussed and dripping, lips parted just slightly—ruinous.

‘For almost forgetting me.’

Your jaw tightens. ‘That’s blasphemy.’

‘Is it?’

‘Every waking moment, every—’

Her hand slides along your wet shaft. Tight. Destitution incarnate.

You stumble against the back wall.

She grins, a little smug, a little knowing, a little dangerous.

‘I don’t want excuses,’ she says softly.

And then—

Then she presses another kiss, open-mouthed, slow, dangerous, right where on the tip of your cock—collecting whatever desperation you had bottled up.

You let out a slow, shaky breath.

She hums against you. Then, another kiss.

‘This,’ she says, hands curling against your hips, ‘is mine.’

And god, you believe her.

You always have.

Her mouth forms a tight ring right on your tip. She’s sucking everything out of you. Caring not for a single second how much this ruins you, how your knees intend to buckle.  

The cool wall slides against your back, and her mouth gentles now—less tight, slower, deliberate. Her lips part, wet and swollen, spit-strung as they glide over the flushed head of you. A slick sound escapes her, obscene and tender. You feel every ridge of her tongue, every warm drag, the way her saliva pools and drips down the length of you. She moans softly, and the vibration travels straight to your gut.

‘Easy,’ you rasp, fingers threading into her hair—not to push, but to feel. To guide her rhythm, your thumb brushing the shell of her ear. ‘Just like that…’

She obeys, but not meekly. Her eyes flick up, dark and gleaming through her lashes, her lips a glistening ring around you. The head glistens under the shower’s spray, spit-slick and ruddy, and when she pulls back just to breathe, a thin strand of saliva stretches between her bottom lip and your tip. She watches you watch it snap.

‘Yujin—’

‘Shhh.’ Her breath ghosts over the wetness she’s made, cooling the heat. ‘Let me.’

Her tongue swipes the slit, slow, too slow, and your hips jerk. She laughs—a soft, husky thing—and catches the bead of precum with her thumb. Holds your gaze as she sucks it clean.

‘All those years,’ she murmurs, nuzzling the inside of your thigh. Her voice is a frayed ribbon. ‘You let this ache. Let it go untouched. Why?’

You tighten your grip in her hair, not harsh, but present. ‘You know why.’

She hums, lips pressing to the vein throbbing beneath the skin. ‘Tell me anyway.’

‘Because it was yours.’ The admission tears free, raw. ‘Even when you weren’t.’

Her breath hitches. For a heartbeat, her composure cracks—lips parting, eyes glassy. Then she surges forward, taking you deep, deep, until your tip brushes the back of her throat. Her nose presses into your pelvis, her cheeks hollowed, and the wetness is overwhelming. Spit spills down her chin, drips onto the shower floor. You watch, wrecked, as she works you with a reverence that borders on worship.

‘God—Yujin—’

She pulls off with a gasp, lips swollen and slick. ‘Look at me.’

You do. Her face is flushed, water clinging to her lashes, hair plastered to her neck. Ruin has never looked so soft.

‘Never again,’ she whispers, palm cradling your jaw. ‘You don’t starve yourself. Not of this. Not of me.’

You nod, breathless, and she smiles—a fragile, aching thing—before bending again. Her mouth is softer now, languid, savoring. Every suck, every lick, pours honey into your veins. You let her take you apart, let her rebuild you, until the world narrows to her lips, her hands, the spit-slick sounds of her devotion.

The climax coils, inevitable—a wildfire in your spine, a tremor in your thighs. You feel it there, the precipice, and your hands fly to her shoulders, gripping hard. ‘Yujin—wait—’

She resists at first, brows furrowed, lips sealed tight around you. But you tug her back gently, your cock slipping from her mouth with a wet pop, her lips swollen, glistening. Her confusion flickers only for a heartbeat before you fist your cock, rough and hurried, and the first hot stripe of release paints her cheek.

She gasps, eyes fluttering shut as the next pulse hits her chin, her throat, the tip catching her collarbone. Thick, pearly streaks splatter across her skin—her eyelids, the bridge of her nose, the bow of her top lip. A ragged moan tears from you as you empty yourself onto her, the mess pooling in the hollow of her throat, dripping down her sternum.

For a moment, she’s perfectly still, breath held, face tilted up as if in prayer. Then her tongue darts out, just once, catching the spill on her lip—not to taste, but to feel, to savor the proof. Her eyes open slowly, lashes sticky, gaze molten.

For a second, she just blinks.

One eye.

The other one is… well.

You watch her process it in real time.

Her lips part slightly, her breath still uneven, chest rising and falling as she takes in exactly what’s happened. Your release is everywhere—everywhere—glossing her cheekbones, slipping down the slope of her throat, pooling in the dip of her collarbone like some kind of offering.

She tilts her head. Blinks again.

‘Oh.’

Then she laughs.

A breathy, disbelieving sound, half-amused, half-are-you-kidding-me?

You’re still pressed against the shower wall, still trying to function, your brain short-circuiting between the mess you’ve made of her and the fact that she’s actually—laughing.

‘You—’ she starts, touching her cheek, then stopping, fingers hesitating before they smear through the mess, ‘—you got it in my hair.’

She looks up at you then, eyes bright, glistening—partly from you, partly from water, partly from the sheer absurdity of this situation.

You swallow, still breathless. ‘Uh.’

She blinks. A slow, lazy flutter of lashes.

Then her mouth quirks.

‘You should’ve warned me, you beast.’

You can’t help it—you laugh, too, scrubbing a hand down your face. ‘I tried. You didn’t stop—’

‘I was busy,’ she huffs, wiping at her cheek again. ‘And now I’m busy. Because look at me.’

You are.

You really, really are.

‘I mean—’ you gesture vaguely to her face, her throat, the trail of evidence marking everywhere she’s been—‘I think it’s a good look.’

She glares.

‘No, seriously. We could brand this. “Dewy Glow” or something. Sell it in high-end skincare stores. “Celebrity Secret.”’

She snorts, shoving at your thigh. ‘You absolute menace.’

And then—

‘Oh, wait.’

She freezes.

Her smile vanishes.

Her expression shifts into something far more serious.

‘Oh no.’

You blink. ‘What?’

She doesn’t say anything.

Just slowly, slowly, slowly raises a hand to her right eye.

You know what’s coming before she even speaks.

‘Oh my god, I can’t see.’

You wheeze. Actually wheeze.

She jabs a finger into your thigh. ‘Don’t—don’t laugh. This is serious. This is—I might never recover—’

‘Yujin.’ You’re still dying, but you reach for her anyway, cupping her face with both hands, thumbs swiping over her cheeks, carefully wiping away what you can. ‘Baby, blink—’

‘I am blinking.’ She’s being so dramatic about it, blinking furiously, tilting her face up to the water like it might cleanse her soul. ‘Oh my god. Oh my god.’

‘Okay, okay, come here—’

You guide her fully under the stream, hands in her hair, rubbing circles at her temples as she half-laughs, half-groans against your chest.

‘Three years, and this is how it goes?’

‘I mean,’ you murmur, fingers tracing down her jaw, ‘technically, this is a good thing. This means I really missed you.’

She gasps, smacking your chest. ‘That is not how this works.’

‘No, no, it is. You should be flattered.’

‘I am blinded.’

‘Listen, some people pay a lot of money for facials like this.’

‘Oh my god, shut up—’

She’s laughing now, still rubbing at her eye, still squinting slightly, but you tilt her face up, press your lips to her forehead, her nose, the water-warm curve of her cheek.

‘Here,’ you murmur, ‘let me see.’

She lets you, tilting her chin up, letting you wipe at her lashes, the bridge of her nose, the soft hollow under her eye. Your fingers are gentle, your touch slow, careful, as you rinse the last of it away.

Her hands find your ribs, gripping lightly, grounding herself.

‘I’m keeping score, you know,’ she murmurs, voice softer now.

You kiss her temple. ‘Yeah?’

She hums. ‘You owe me for this.’

You grin, pressing a kiss to her cheek. ‘I owe you?’

‘Mhm.’ Another soft blink, this one slower, more considering. ‘Big time.’

You exhale, pressing your forehead to hers. ‘I’ll make it up to you.’

She pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes warm, searching.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

A beat.

Then she grins, pressing a quick, mischievous kiss to your lips.

‘Good.’

And then—

‘Now help me get this out of my hair, you absolute monster.’

You laugh, tilting her back under the water, already reaching for the shampoo.

You barely make it out of the shower before Yujin is already reaching for a towel, scrubbing at her hair like she’s trying to erase all evidence of your existence.

You watch her, arms crossed, towel slung lazily over your shoulder. ‘You know, I could help with that.’

She gives you a look. A very specific you-are-the-reason-I’m-in-this-mess look.

‘You’ve helped enough,’ she mutters, aggressively drying her face.

You grin. ‘Want me to dry your back?’

‘No.’

‘Sure?’

‘I don’t trust you.’

You press a hand to your chest, mock-wounded. ‘I am offended by this blatant accusation.’

‘You are plotting something. I know that face.’

‘I literally only have one face, Yujin.’

‘Yeah. And I know it.’

She sighs, shoving her towel at you. ‘Fine. You want to be useful? Dry my hair. But no funny business.’

‘Define funny business.’

She glares.

You chuckle, grabbing another towel, stepping behind her. She exhales as you gently towel-dry her hair, rubbing slow, deliberate circles into her scalp.

Her head tilts slightly, unconsciously leaning into your touch.

You knew she’d enjoy this.

She hums, closing her eyes. ‘Okay. Maybe you can be trusted.’

‘Told you.’ You press a kiss to the crown of her head. ‘I am a professional.’

‘A professional nuisance.’

‘A professional lover.’

She snorts. ‘Oh my god, shut up.’

You grin, setting the towel aside, reaching for the hairdryer.

She shifts slightly in her seat. ‘Wait—’

‘Hm?’

She peeks up at you, tilting her head back, cheeks warm. ‘...I like it when you do it slow. With your hands.’

You pause.

Look down at her.

Oh.

Oh.

You set the hairdryer aside. ‘You should’ve said so earlier, baby.’

She exhales, smiling, closing her eyes again as your fingers slip into her hair, raking through the damp strands, slow and careful.

This is— This is intimacy in its simplest form. You, standing behind her, fingers combing through her hair, working through knots with gentle patience. Her, sitting still, trusting you, letting herself be taken care of. ‘You’re soft,’ you murmur, pressing another kiss to her temple. ‘Mm.’ Her shoulders relax completely. ‘Just don’t mess up my parting.’ You chuckle. ‘I’ll do my best.’ It takes a while—because you like taking your time with her—but eventually, her hair is dry, loose waves tumbling down her back. She stretches, arms overhead, and that’s when you realize— She’s still wearing your shirt. The one she stole post-shower, hanging off her like it was made for this moment.

You stare. Your thoughts are not wholesome. She catches you looking. Her lips curve. ‘You’re plotting something again,’ she says, amused. ‘Maybe.’ ‘You need to control yourself—’ ‘Nope.’ She laughs, batting you away when you attempt to grab her. ‘No. No, sir,’ she warns, scooting to the bed. ‘You said you’d be good.’ ‘Did I?’ ‘Yes. You did. You explicitly said you’d behave.’ ‘And you believed me?’ She pauses. Then groans, rubbing her face. ‘God, I’m an idiot.’ You grin. And then you pounce.

She yelps, barely managing to roll away before you trap her under you, laughing as she dodges your grabby hands.

‘No,’ she gasps between laughs, ‘we are doing the normal nighttime routine first!’ ‘This is the routine.’ ‘No it is not!’ You chase her across the bed. She giggles, swats at you, then suddenly—miraculously—manages to flip you over, straddling you with a triumphant grin. ‘HAH.’ She plants her hands on your chest. ‘Got you.’ You blink up at her. Pause. Then smirk. ‘Yujin,’ you murmur, voice low. ‘Baby.’ Her smile falters. ‘…What.’

You cup her waist, slowly sliding your hands up, over the fabric of your shirt, over the nothing she’s wearing underneath.

She realizes. Her eyes widen. ‘Wait—’ And then you flip her back over. She gasps. ‘Noooooo—’ You laugh, pinning her down, watching as she squirms, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with warmth and amusement. This. This is the routine. Laughter. Teasing. The way you move around each other like gravity has always existed between you. She exhales, chest rising and falling beneath you, fingers curling around your wrists. Her voice, when she speaks, is softer. ‘You win,’ she murmurs. You press your forehead to hers. ‘I always do.’ She sighs dramatically. ‘Ugh. Fine. Manhandle me, then.’ She’s still beneath you, chest rising and falling, fingers curled loosely around your wrists where you’ve pinned them. Her breath is quick, her pulse erratic, and you know it’s not just because of the weight of you pressing her into the mattress—it’s everything. The warmth between you, the years leading to this, the understanding that what’s about to happen isn’t just want, isn’t just release—it’s reclamation.

She swallows, lips parting slightly, pupils wide and dark in the low light. The dark strands of her hair are fanned across the pillow, tangled from your hands, a mess you’d memorize blindfolded. There’s a flush blooming across her chest, creeping up the column of her throat, a heat that you feel mirrored in yourself.

You watch her, watch the way she shifts slightly beneath you, pressing up just enough to remind you she’s waiting, waiting, waiting. You could draw this out forever. But that’s cruelty. Or maybe, maybe, that’s worship.

You press your lips to the tip of her nose, then her cheek, then down, trailing a path over her jaw, her throat, the faint dip between her collarbones. You can feel the hum of her laughter before she even releases it, a small breath of amusement, her fingers twitching against your hold'

‘You’re teasing,’ she murmurs, voice wrecked already. ‘No,’ you answer, dragging your mouth lower, tasting the salt of her skin. ‘I’m remembering.’

Because you are. You’re remembering the way her body curls into yours when she’s overwhelmed. You’re remembering the tiny, trembling exhales she makes when your hands slide over the slopes of her ribs. You’re remembering that she loves when you take your time, that she loves to be adored, that she wants to feel every inch of you.

And she is so easy to adore.

You shift lower, your hands tracing slow, lazy patterns down her sides, feeling the way her muscles twitch beneath your touch. The shape of her—long lines, soft curves, skin warm and impossibly smooth beneath your lips.

Your name escapes her in a breath, a barely-there sound that settles somewhere behind your ribs, inside your chest, like it belongs there.

You kiss lower. Down, down. Your fingers slip between her thighs, ghosting over her bare glistening pussy, and her breath stutters, a sharp intake that punches straight through your gut. ‘Look at you,’ you murmur, dragging your knuckles up the inside of her goosebump-ridden thigh. ‘Fidgeting.’ She doesn’t answer. Just glares, lashes damp, lips parted, so achingly beautiful you feel winded.

‘Is that frustration?’ you tease, dragging your mouth back up, scraping your teeth over her hip bone. ‘It’s—’ She exhales, trying for control. Fails. ‘It’s you taking too long.’ You hum. ‘I thought you liked it slow.’ ‘I do,’ she grits out. ‘But I also like it when you—’

Her voice catches as your fingers press a little harder into her. A single stroke, just enough to make her body jolt, enough to make her curse under her breath, enough to feel the sticky wetness of her—inside.

Then you do it again. And again. Until her hips are moving against your touch, until her nails bite into your shoulders, until her breath is a series of broken, unsteady exhalations, ‘Yes, yes, oh fuck~’

You kiss her then. Hard. Deep. Drinking in every shiver, every sound, every breathless plea she won’t voice but you understand anyway.

And then— Then, finally— Her thighs part wider, welcoming you; knees hooking around your hips, heels digging into the small of your back. You press your shaft along her golden-soft navel, hard enough to get her whimpering under the heat of your shaft. You drag slowly along her soft—yet firm—navel, coursing the map lower and lower—until the nub responsible for her heat—all swollen and beautiful and pink—meets your tip. She lets out a sudden whimper; She glares, and you press a kiss on her temple once again—sorry baby, sorry. At the end of the map, you feel the slick heat of her cunt against the head of your cock, her entrance fluttering, pulsing, as you grind around the clit in slow, torturous circles. Precum smears her folds, mingling with her arousal, the glide obscenely wet. ‘Fuck,’ she hisses, nails raking down your spine. ‘Stop—stop toying—’ You catch her wrist, pinning it above her head again. ‘No.’ Your other hand grips the base of your cock, guiding it through her slit, the swollen head catching on her clit with every pass. She jerks, a broken moan tearing free, her hips bucking—but you hold firm, denying her friction. ‘You wanted slow. This is slow.’ Her cunt weeps, glistening, her inner lips swollen and flushed. You watch, transfixed, as your cockhead nudges her entrance, spreading her open incrementally. A single inch sinks in, the velvety grip of her walls clenching reflexively, and you groan through gritted teeth. ‘Christ’ She whimpers, her clit throbbing against your shaft as you retreat, dragging your tip through her folds again. ‘Please—’ Her voice cracks, tears spilling down her temples. ‘Just—fuck me—’ You lean down, lips grazing hers. ‘Where?’ She glares, chest heaving. ‘You know—’ ‘Say it.’ ‘Inside—’ ‘Inside what?’ You press forward, another inch sheathed, the stretch burning sweet. ‘Use your words, Yujin.’ Her thighs tremble. ‘My—my cunt.’ ‘Good girl.’ You sink deeper, the thick ridge of your cockhead massaging her front wall, that spongy patch of nerves that makes her sob. Her cervix yields, soft and pliant, as you bottom out, hips flush against hers. Her cunt clenches, a vice of slick muscle, and you swear, forehead dropping to her shoulder. ‘You’re gonna milk me dry—’ ‘Move,’ she demands, her ankles locking behind your back. ‘Move or I’ll—’ ‘You’ll what?’ You pull out almost completely, leaving just the tip seated, her clit rubbing against your shaft. ‘Beg?’ She keens, back arching, breasts pressed to your chest. ‘Yes—yes, god, please—’ You snap your hips forward, sheathing yourself in one brutal thrust. Her scream is muffled by your palm as you clamp it over her mouth, your other hand sliding between you to circle her clit. ‘Quiet,’ you growl, grinding deep. ‘You’ll take it. All of it.’ Her cunt ripples around you, fluttering in erratic pulses, her clit swollen and pebbled beneath your thumb. You fuck her with shallow, punishing rolls of your hips, each stroke dragging your cockhead over that sweet spot, her thighs shaking, her breath coming in ragged, choked gasps. ‘Look at me,’ you snarl, removing your hand from her mouth. She obeys, eyes glassy, lips bitten raw. ‘Whose cunt is this?’ ‘Yours—’ ‘And whose cock?’ ‘Mine—’ You slam into her, hilt-deep, your balls slapping her ass. ‘Louder—’ ‘MINE—’

The word cracks through the room, ragged and raw, and you reward it by slamming into her hilt-deep, your pelvis grinding against her clit as you still inside her. Her cunt clenches, a vice of slick heat, and you hiss through your teeth, your grip bruising on her hips. ‘Again,’ you demand, pulling out until only the swollen head of your cock remains lodged in her entrance. Her inner lips cling to you, reluctant to let go. She whines, back arching off the bed. ‘Yours—your cunt, your everything—’ You thrust back in, slow, savoring the way her walls ripple to accommodate you. ‘And what do you want?’ 'You,’ she gasps, nails carving half-moons into your shoulders. ‘Inside me—claiming me—’ 'How?' You drag your cockhead over that spongy patch of nerves again, deliberate, watching her thighs quake. 'Cum,' she begs, tears streaking her temples. 'Fill me—mark me—' You still, your hand sliding up to grip her throat—not restricting air, just owning. 'Ask nicely.' Her breath hitches. 'Please—please, I need it—need you to paint my insides white, need to feel it—' A dark thrill curls in your gut. You lean down, lips brushing hers. 'Since you asked so sweetly.' You start a brutal, precise rhythm—deep, grinding thrusts that punch the air from her lungs. Each snap of your hips drags her clit against the base of your cock, each retreat leaves her clenching around nothing. Her cunt weeps, arousal slicking your shaft, the obscene slap of skin on skin echoing off the walls. 'Look at me,' you snarl, tightening your grip on her throat. Her eyes fly open, hazy but obedient. 'You take me so well,' you murmur, your free hand sliding between you to circle her throbbing clit. 'This greedy cunt—my greedy cunt—sucking me in like you were made for it.'

She sobs, her walls fluttering. 'Yours—always yours—'

'Prove it.' You pin her wrists above her head with one hand, your other still working her clit. 'Come. Now.'

Her orgasm rips through her violently—back arched, cunt spasming, a scream tearing from her throat as she soaks your cock. You ride it out, fucking her through the pulses, your thrusts turning jagged, erratic.

'Mine,' you growl, feeling your balls tighten. 'Say it—say it—'

'Yours—god, yours—'

You slam into her one last time, hilt-deep, and hold. Your release surges—thick, hot ropes of cum flooding her cervix, painting her walls in stripes of white. She whimpers, oversensitive but greedy, her cunt milking every drop as you grind your hips in slow, possessive circles.

'Take it,' you grit out, watching her stomach quiver with the force of your spend. 'All of it.'

She nods, dazed, her thighs trembling around your waist. You collapse atop her, still buried inside, your lips finding the sweat-damp hollow of her throat.

—

Yujin’s lashes flutter against your chest, and there’s a moment where she seems to wrestle with something—embarrassment, vulnerability—but it dissolves when she feels your fingers tracing gentle circles against her back. She shifts, propping herself up just enough to look at you, her eyes dark and soft and entirely too honest.

‘You know,’ she whispers, voice almost shy, ‘I used to dream about this. You and me, like this. Just… here.’

‘Here?’ You brush a damp strand of hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. ‘In bed, sweaty and gross?’

A soft laugh escapes her, warm and tender. ‘Yeah. Exactly this.’ Her fingertips graze your jaw, light as the touch of a memory. ‘I’d think about waking up to you, about how it’d feel to fall asleep in your arms. It’s stupid, I know—’

‘Not stupid,’ you murmur, cutting her off with a kiss—soft, lingering, like you’re trying to pour every unspoken word into it. ‘Never stupid.’

Her gaze softens even further, and she buries her face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent like it’s something she needs to breathe. You feel her lips press against your pulse, a delicate kiss that sends warmth flooding through you.

‘I don’t want to let you go,’ she confesses, voice muffled. ‘Not tonight. Not ever.’

‘Then don’t.’ You trail your fingers up and down her spine, feeling the subtle curve of her back beneath your touch. ‘Hold on to me. I’m not going anywhere.’

She shifts, looping her arms around your neck, pressing her body flush against yours. The contact is warm, grounding, and you let yourself sink into it, let yourself feel the weight of her, the steady thrum of her heartbeat against your chest.

‘You’re too good at this,’ she mumbles, the faintest hint of a pout in her voice. ‘Making me feel safe. Like I belong here.’

You tighten your hold on her, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. ‘You do belong here. With me. Always.’

Her breath shudders, and you feel her fingers clutch at your shoulders, like she’s afraid you might slip away. You press another kiss to her forehead, then her temple, then her cheek, each touch softer than the last.

‘Yujin,’ you whisper, and she looks up at you, eyes wide and glistening. ‘There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.’

She smiles—a real, unguarded smile—and you feel the weight of it settle in your chest. She lifts herself up just enough to press a kiss to your lips, lingering, tender, unhurried. It’s a kiss that feels like a promise, like something that doesn’t need words to be understood.

When she pulls back, her face is flushed, her expression open and raw. ‘I love you,’ she says softly, the words so simple, so devastatingly sincere.

You cup her face, thumb brushing over her cheek. ‘I love you too. More than you’ll ever know.’

She settles against you, fitting herself into the curve of your body, her head resting against your chest. You stroke her hair, feeling the tension melt from her frame as she presses one last kiss to your heart.

The room is warm and heavy with the scent of you both, with the quiet weight of something real and unbreakable. You feel her breathing slow, her body growing heavy with sleep, and you let your own eyes drift shut, content to let the world narrow to the steady rise and fall of her breath.

And then—nothing. Just the two of you tangled together, warmth and closeness and the certainty that this, right here, is home.

—

a/n: Experimenting yet again. Hopefully the last sex scene wasn't too mortifying. But I really enjoyed writing this—Yujin's personality meshes really well with with the dialogue I was aiming to do (hopefully I succeeded). This was a half-finished draft that I managed to finish (through merging other drafts, other idols, et cetera et cetera), and now I don't have a single draft remaining; sooo... I don't know how this fares for the next fic (hopefully not too long..... haha..heh..he).

a/n 2: Much love for all the support: they never go unnoticed!!! <3333333

[sunsburns]

kissing luke castellan is your favourite thing in the world. you could never get sick of it. ᢉ𐭩

there’s something so intoxicating about him, something magnetic that pulls you in every time.

when he kisses you, it makes you want to become a part of him, to sink into his body, his mind, his soul. to know him the way no one else ever has.

his lips press against yours firmly, deliberate in the way he takes his time with you.

his breath is warm, spilling from his nose in soft sighs that ghost over your cupid's bow, sending a shiver through you.

his nose brushes against yours, the faintest touch, and you can feel the way he tilts his head—how he adjusts, how he lingers.

his hands are steady but searching, fingers first tracing the shape of your jaw before sliding to the nape of your neck. he cups it, cradles it, tilts your head just so, guiding your mouth to his with an ease that makes you feel weightless. held. loved. wanted. yearned for.

his other arm wraps around you, pulling you closer, chest to chest, hips slotting together, legs tangling. you stumble a little, but he only pulls you tighter, pressing his back against the rough wooden wall of the cabin to ground himself—to ground you.

maybe that’s why he does it. you like to think it is.

his mouth moves with yours, slow and deep, lips fitting together like they were meant to. he kisses you until you’re breathless, until your head spins and your lungs burn, until you have no choice but to pull away.

when you do, he looks at you—really looks at you—with something unreadable in his eyes. something softer than you’re used to.

it makes you smile. wide and a little flustered.

he smiles too, slow and crooked like he's just as breathless, just as giddy.

your fingers twitch against his chest, tracing the fabric of his shirt before sliding up, finding the warmth of his skin beneath your fingertips. he’s so warm, so solid beneath your touch. your finger trails against his neck, and you feel the way he swallows thickly, as if you make him nervous.

when your lips meet again, they’re already parted, already waiting. his tongue slides against your lower lip, teasing before slipping inside, running along the edge of your teeth, finally meeting yours.

he tastes like something sweet and familiar—honey, maybe, or the remnants of stolen strawberries from the camp kitchens. the heat of him lingers, mixing with the salt of his skin, and it makes you want more.

his breath is steady, and controlled, but you can feel the moment he starts to lose himself. the way his grip tightens at your waist, fingers pressing into your skin, how his chest rises and falls faster now.

your fingers slide up further, along his jaw, before they find the scar running across his face. the one he never talks about, the one you know he sometimes forgets is even there (sometimes).

you trace it gently, letting the pad of your thumb run over the uneven skin, memorizing the way it dips and curves. he stills beneath your touch.

his breath catches—just for a second.

when you pull back, his eyes are different now. darker.

but not in a way that scares you.

it’s something else. something raw and open and real.

he leans into your touch, nuzzling against your palm for just a moment before turning his head, pressing a kiss there, soft and lingering.

“you always do that,” he murmurs against your skin.

you hum in response, fingers still gently tracing the scar. “do you want me to stop?”

his lips curve against your palm. “no.”

he kisses you again before you can say anything else, and this time, it’s slower, deeper.

he’s not just kissing you anymore—he’s letting you in.

[pbaz7]

FLIGHT 2136: PART FIVE

paige x azzi

word count: 6.9k

A/N: This was a little bit of a struggle I’m not going to lie 😭. Please let me know what you’d like to see more of in this story or what questions you’d like answered I’m trying to stay consistent with it. This is kind of just a filler chapter between transitions. Let me know what you think!!

—————————————————————————

3rd Person POV - Minnesota

The sun filtered through the blinds of Paige’s childhood bedroom, casting streaks across the half-packed suitcases and scattered piles of clothes. A duffel bag lay open on the floor, half-filled with way too many sneakers, while a few hoodies sat neatly folded on the bed—evidence that they had, at some point, attempted to pack.

But now, Azzi was perched on Paige’s desk, her legs draped loosely around Paige’s waist, and neither of them seemed remotely interested in finishing the task.

Paige stood between Azzi’s legs, her hands resting on Azzi’s thighs, fingers pressing into the soft skin. Her own shirt had been discarded somewhere in the room, leaving her in just a sports bra, her scar fully visible in the dim light. If anyone else was in here she would have been hesitant—self-conscious, even—but not with Azzi. Never with Azzi.

Their lips moved together in a perfect rhythm—slow and slightly messy. Just the way they both loved.

“This doesn’t feel like packing,” Azzi mumbled against Paige’s mouth, though the slight hitch in her breath when Paige squeezed her thighs betrayed just how little she cared.

Paige smirked, letting her lips ghost over Azzi’s jaw before returning to her mouth. “I don’t hear you complaining.”

Azzi let out a soft laugh but didn’t argue, instead tightening her legs around Paige’s waist and dragging her closer. Paige’s fingers flexed at the feeling, gripping a little firmer, her thumbs stroking absentmindedly over the skin exposed where Azzi’s shirt had ridden up. The warmth of her skin, the way Azzi leaned into her touch whenever they saw each other—it was always intoxicating.

The kiss deepened, Azzi tilting her head to grant Paige more access, her fingers threading through Paige’s blonde strands and tugging just enough to earn a quiet hum in response. Paige’s lips parted, her tongue tracing the seam of Azzi’s mouth before she pulled back just enough to catch her breath, her blue eyes dark and heavy-lidded.

“Paige,” Azzi whispered, the name slipping out somewhere between a sigh and a plea as she pulled her with her legs.

Paige swallowed hard, heat pooling low in her stomach at the way Azzi said her name—like she needed her, like nothing else in the world mattered. Her grip tightened on Azzi’s waist as she pulled her closer and dipped her head lower, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses down the column of her neck. She lingered at the pulse point just below Azzi’s jaw, nipping lightly before soothing the spot with her tongue.

Azzi’s breath hitched, her fingers curling in Paige’s hair. Paige couldn’t help the grin that flickered across her lips before she continued her descent—her mouth grazing lower, past Azzi’s collarbone, pressing heated kisses along the exposed skin above the neckline of her shirt.

Azzi let out a quiet, shaky breath. “Paige, please—”

The sound of a door creaking open barely registered at first. Paige was too caught up in the way Azzi was unraveling beneath her, pulling her closer, the warmth of her skin against her lips.

She hummed against Azzi’s neck, the vibration making Azzi shudder. Paige pressed another open-mouthed kiss just below her jaw, sucking lightly at the spot she knew would leave another mark.

“I know,” she mumbled against her skin. “I got you, gimme a second beautiful.”

“Looks like I’m interrupting something.”

Paige froze. Her body tensed immediately, her hands still gripping Azzi’s waist, her lips still hovering over the mark she had just left. Slowly, she lifted her head, her breath still uneven as her gaze snapped toward the doorway.

And there she was.

Paige’s expression hardened instantly, her stomach twisting with a familiar, bitter anger.

“Get the fuck out of my house.”

“Shit,” Drew came skidding into the doorway behind her, breathless. “Paige, I’m sorry, I tried to stop her. I don’t think you heard me calling you.”

Paige’s expression softened just slightly as she glanced at her younger brother. She exhaled, steadying her voice. “It’s fine, Drew. Just go to your room.”

Drew hesitated, eyes flickering between the three of them, before nodding and walking away.

Paige turned back to the girl in the doorway, her jaw tightening.

The girl smirked as she glanced around, taking in the half-packed bags, the way Paige was still standing between Azzi’s legs, her lips slightly swollen, hair messy. “So it’s true, then.”

Paige didn’t respond, her expression unreadable as she just looked at her.

“I heard through the grapevine that you were leaving for UConn tomorrow,” the girl continued. “Didn’t believe it, so I had to come see for myself.”

Paige exhaled, shaking her head. “You saw,” she said flatly, stepping forward. “Now you can get the hell out.”

She moved toward the door, fully intending to escort her out of the house.

But just as Paige got close enough, the girl’s hand moved forward, fingers grazing Paige’s forearm as she smirked up at her.

Paige immediately yanked her arm back, her expression hardening. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

Azzi finally moved then, no longer frozen, sliding off the desk easily. She stepped forward, just enough for her presence to be felt, and let her gaze settle on the girl. She placed a hand on Paige’s lower back, fingers warm as she looked at her.

“You good?” Azzi asked.

Paige let out a shallow breath, her shoulders easing just slightly at Azzi’s touch. She turned her head just enough to meet Azzi’s eyes, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

“I’m good ma,” she murmured.

A scoff cut through the moment.

“You gonna introduce me to your friend?”

Paige’s jaw tightened, her entire demeanor shifting again as she turned back to face her ex. The softness Azzi had pulled from her was gone, replaced by something Azzi had never seen from Paige.

“You’re really not my problem anymore,” Paige said coldly. “You don’t get to ask questions. Much less speak.”

Azzi didn’t move her hand from Paige’s back, but her expression shifted ever so slightly as she connected the dots of who this was as she glanced between Paige and the girl in front of them.

The girl smirked, clearly unfazed. “Relax, P. I’m just curious.” Her gaze flicked to Azzi, giving her a slow once-over before tilting her head side to side as if to say “hm, not bad at all.” She glanced back at Paige. “She your new girl?”

Paige’s fingers twitched at her sides.

Azzi tilted her head slightly, as she stayed quiet. Letting Paige decide how she wanted to handle this, even though words were threatening to slip off her tongue

Paige took a small step forward. “You’re still standing here like I didn’t tell you to get the hell out.”

The girl smirked, tilting her head as she shamelessly looked Paige up and down, licking her lips in the process. "You're a little feisty now. I like it," she mused. "Where was this when we were together? I miss you."

Paige exhaled sharply through her nose as she clenched her jaw, forcing herself to stay still, to not give her the reaction she was so obviously fishing for. She knew this game. She had played it too many times before. Knew exactly what her ex wanted.

Azzi’s hand was still on her back, warm and steady—supportive. Paige focused on that instead, on the sharp contrast between the past and the present.

Eventually, Paige let out a low chuckle, the sound echoing in the room with something that sounded close to amusement. She took a slow step back, pulling Azzi with her, as if she was making it clear that she wasn’t engaging in whatever this was.

“You’re a narcissist,” she said lightly, shaking her head as if the whole thing was just funny now.

The girl’s smirk faltered just slightly at Paige’s complete dismissal, but she recovered, arms crossing over her chest.

Paige didn’t care anymore.

Paige turned her back on her ex completely, looking at Azzi instead, her entire energy shifting as she smiled softly at her, whispering, “C’mon, let’s go get some food.”

Azzi nodded, watching Paige grab a shirt off her desk before reaching for her hand. Paige laced their fingers together without hesitation, already focused on leaving, already done with the entire interaction.

But as they moved toward the door, they had to pass her ex, who stood unmoving, blocking the way just enough to force an interaction.

Paige tried to slide by without another word, without acknowledging her at all.

But just as she was about to pass, a hand landed on her torso, fingers pressing against the bare skin just below her sports bra.

“I’m really glad you’re not insecure about this anymore P,” the girl murmured, gaze flicking down to the scar that stretched across Paige’s stomach as she traced it with her finger.

Paige froze. Her breath caught, her grip on Azzi’s hand tightening as a dozen different emotions flickered across her face.

Azzi gently nudged Paige forward, coaxing her away from the touch. As they moved past, Azzi subtly bumped her shoulder into the other girl’s. The impact was a little harsh because of Azzi’s athletic frame.

When they got downstairs, Paige was quiet. Silent actually.

Her fingers were still curled loosely around the shirt she had grabbed, but she hadn’t put it on, her movements were slower, more distant. She was clearly lost in thought, her mind replaying something Azzi couldn’t quite gather.

Without a word, Azzi reached over and gently grabbed Paige’s car keys from her hand, giving a gentle tug on her wrist to steer her toward the car. Paige didn’t resist, just followed, her expression distant.

Azzi opened the passenger door and nudged Paige inside. Instead of closing it immediately, she lingered in the open space, standing just inside the doorframe, one hand resting on the roof as she leaned over Paige.

She studied Paige for a moment, then glanced toward the house.

“Are we just leaving her in there?” Azzi asked.

Paige, still staring blankly ahead, just lifted a hand and pointed toward the front door.

Right on cue, it swung open, and her ex stepped out her jaw tight.

Azzi huffed out a quiet, almost amused breath, shaking her head as she turned her attention back to Paige.

“Put on your shirt,” she said, her voice gentle.

Paige blinked like she had only just realized she was still holding it. She exhaled, then finally pulled it over her head, shaking off whatever was lingering in her chest.

Azzi waited a second longer, then leaned in just a fraction, her voice lower when she added, “You okay?”

Paige looked at her finally, and for the first time since they’d walked downstairs, something in her eyes steadied.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

Azzi held her gaze for a second more, making sure she was telling the truth before giving a small smile back and kissing her lips softly. Then she shut the door and walked around to the driver’s side.

As soon as Azzi slid into the driver’s seat, Paige let out a long exhale leaning back against the seat.

“I told you she was crazy,” she mumbled, running a hand through her hair.

Azzi hummed, starting the car. “So that was Leah.”

“Yup.”

Azzi let the moment settle before glancing at Paige again. “You never fully explained what happened. Just mentioned it randomly in passing in Paige fashion”

Paige chuckled, her jaw tightening slightly. She stared out the windshield for a moment, fingers drumming against her thigh.

“She cheated on me. Twice” Paige said simply, her voice steady but laced with something heavier as she thought about it. “Almost right after the accident.”

Azzi didn’t say anything, just let her talk.

“She was all in when things were good. All about me when I was the number one recruit, when everything looked like it was only going up from there. When I was on the SLAM magazine, had a million followers, had all the attention.” Paige paused for a second as she thought about it. “But after the accident? When no one knew if I’d ever get back to where I was. If I could even play basketball again?” She let out a short laugh. “She didn’t even pretend to stick around.”

Azzi’s hands tightened on the steering wheel as she listened.

Paige shook her head, still staring ahead. “I wasn’t even out of the hospital when I found out she cheated.”

Azzi inhaled as she thought about having to deal with that. She reached over, resting a hand over Paige’s. She doesn't say any words, no need for them—just the steady, grounding presence of her touch.

Paige finally looked over at her, her eyes softer now. She gave Azzi’s hand a small squeeze, then exhaled, leaning back against the seat.

“Anyway,” she muttered, trying to shake it off. “That’s Leah. She never fails to pop up every few months.”

Azzi frowned, glancing at her. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” Paige let out a dry chuckle, but there was no real humor behind it. “She used to get to me, get exactly what she wanted.”

There was a small silence as Azzi processed the information. Paige had already told her about how she fell into bed with her ex a few times. How she regrets it because she feels like every time it happened she lost progress.

“Let’s just get food,” Paige mumbled, letting her eyes flutter shut for a second. “I’m over it.”

Azzi gave her one last look before nodding and shifting the car into drive.

Azzi tapped her fingers against the steering wheel, glancing at Paige after about ten minutes of silence. “Why don’t you ever ask me about my exes?”

Paige, still leaning back against the seat, cracked an eye open. “Hm?”

Azzi glanced at her before looking back at the road. “I mean, you’ve told me about Leah and that other one—Bella, I think? The one you were just messing around with for a while.”

Paige let out a small chuckle, shaking her head. “Yeah, Bella.”

Azzi nodded. “But you’ve never asked me about anyone I’ve been with.”

Paige shrugged, adjusting the way she was sitting. “It’s in the past. It doesn’t matter.”

Azzi hummed, letting a few seconds of silence stretch between them before she said, “So when we run into them at UConn, then what?”

That got Paige’s attention. Her head turned fully now, eyebrows raising slightly. “Run into them?”

Azzi laughed, not even needing to look at her to know she had her full focus now. “That’s what I thought.”

Paige grumbled, shifting in her seat. “Alright, tell me about ‘em.”

“What do you wanna know?”

Paige exhaled, staring ahead. “How many?”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Gonna need you to be a little more specific, babe.”

Paige sighed, tilting her head toward her. “How many people have you slept with Azzi?”

“Ten. Including you.”

Paige nodded at this, not saying much else. She kept her gaze ahead.

Azzi studied her before breaking the silence. “That’s it?”

Paige glanced at her briefly before looking away again. “I’d really rather not think about the other people who’ve had you Az.”

Azzi hummed. “Hm.”

Paige frowned. “What?”

Azzi smirked. “I didn’t take you for the possessive type.”

Paige scoffed. “I’m not.”

Azzi’s smirk widened. “Mhm. Sure.” She paused for a second before adding. “I kinda like it, though. You know, you have your whole mysterious vibe with everybody else. Add the possessiveness to the mix and we’ve got ourselves…”

Paige turned her head to look at Azzi. “We’ve got ourselves what?”

Azzi’s eyes flickered with amusement. “A very attractive situation.”

Paige narrowed her eyes. “How?”

Azzi smirked, shifting her hand on the wheel. “Well, for starters, you don’t let just anybody in. Everyone thinks you’re this quiet, mysterious entity that doesn’t get caught up in emotions. But with me?” She shrugged. “You’re a little territorial.”

Paige exhaled through her nose as she chuckled. “I wouldn’t call it territorial.”

Azzi tilted her head. “No? Then what would you call it?”

“Just… I don’t like the thought of someone else touching you like that.”

Azzi grinned. “Yeah, that’s literally possessiveness, Paige.”

Paige sighed, shaking her head. “You’re annoying.”

Azzi laughed. “And you’re sexy when you’re annoyed.” She reached over, fingers grazing Paige’s shorts. “Admit it. You like when people think I’m yours.”

Paige finally looked back at her, a small smirk playing on her lips. “Oh yeah? And what about you?”

Azzi raised a brow. “What about me?”

“You talk a lot, but I don’t see you handling the thought of my ex too well either.”

Azzi scoffed. “I handled it just fine, thank you very much.”

Paige gave her a pointed look. “You literally shoulder checked her when you walked past.”

Azzi shrugged. “A little encouragement to move.”

Paige chuckled, shaking her head. “Right.”

As they pulled into the lot filled with different food options, Azzi parked the car, shifting into park. Just as she reached for the keys, Paige spoke up—casual, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

“Be my girlfriend.”

Azzi’s hand froze mid-motion. She blinked, turning to Paige, who was staring straight ahead like she hadn’t just completely caught her off guard.

“What?” Azzi asked.

Paige finally looked at her. “Be my girlfriend.”

There was a slight pause before Azzi murmurs, “You do that a lot.”

Curiosity flickering across Paige’s face. “Do what?”

Azzi turns her head fully now, studying Paige as she unbuckles her seatbelt. “You say or ask really important things like it’s the most casual thing in the world.”

Paige just shrugs.

Azzi let out a small breath, a smile tugging at her lips as she shakes her head.

“Alright I guess we’re doing this right now,” she started, reaching over to rest her hand over Paige’s. “We should probably talk about some things before we just jump into that.”

Paige turned fully toward her, eyebrows pulling together. “Like what?”

“Well, for one, starting tomorrow, we’re going to be teammates.”

Paige shrugs, barely reacting.

Azzi raises her eyebrows at the reaction. “Words, please.”

Paige exhales through her nose. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I just don’t see that being a problem for us.”

Azzi gives her a look, waiting for more of an explanation.

Paige holds her gaze, as she thinks. “We’re adults Azzi,” she continued, her voice steady. “And you know how to get me to talk if we ever have a problem.”

Azzi hummed, tilting her head slightly as she studied Paige. “But what if it does become a problem?”

Paige leaned back against the headrest, exhaling through her nose. “Then we handle it.” She turned her head to look at Azzi. “I’m really not worried about that. Are you?”

Azzi’s lips pressed together for a moment before she shook her head. “No. I just want to make sure we’re thinking everything through.”

Paige shifts slightly in her seat, her fingers idly drumming against her leg. “You know I think everything through.”

Azzi nods, a small smile on her face. “I know.”

Azzi ran her finger over the hem of Paige’s shorts. “Okay, one more thing.”

Paige looked at her, head tilting slightly. “Wassup?”

Azzi hesitated for a second before meeting Paige’s eyes. “What are we telling people? If anything.”

Paige licked her lips, leaning back against the seat as she shrugged again. “Whatever you want.”

Azzi narrowed her eyes slightly. “It’s going to affect you too.”

Paige shrugged. “You know I barely talk.”

Azzi exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “You’re going to talk to them eventually.”

Paige sighed, running a hand down her face. “Az, it’s really up to you. I don’t care about all of that. I just know I lo—” She caught herself, clearing her throat before continuing, “I like you, and I wanna be with you. We’ve been talking since like November and it’s June.”

Azzi watched her for a moment, a slow smile tugging at her lips. “Yeah, we have.”

Paige tilted her head, a small smirk playing on her lips. “Okay, so?”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but there was nothing but fondness behind it. “Alright I’m your girlfriend.”

Paige smiled at her from where she was leaning against the seat, letting the words settle between them.

Azzi glanced away briefly before adding, “And just so you know, I only said yes because you’re you. If somebody else asked me to be their girlfriend like that, I’d look at them like they’re stupid.”

Paige chuckled, shaking her head. “Noted.”

As they got out of the car, Azzi shut her door and glanced over at Paige. “What made you ask now?”

Paige exhaled through her nose, rubbing the back of her neck before meeting Azzi’s gaze. “I didn’t like how I couldn’t say yes when she asked if you were my girl.”

Azzi paused for a second, her expression softening before a slow grin spread across her lips. “Awwww, that’s sooo cute.”

Paige rolled her eyes before swiftly pulling Azzi into a playful headlock, making her hunch over near Paige’s side as they started walking.

Azzi groaned, half-laughing, half-protesting. “You’re so annoying.”

Paige smirked, tightening her grip for a second

Azzi pinched Paige’s side in protest, squirming. “Let go.”

“Apologize first,” Paige said, completely unfazed.

Azzi let out an exasperated sigh. “For calling you sweet?”

They kept walking, Paige still keeping Azzi in the headlock as Azzi struggled lightly against her hold.

“You were being condescending,” Paige shot back.

Azzi huffed. “That’s a big word for Elmo.”

Paige immediately tightened her hold, making Azzi groan. “Paigeee, stop,” she whined, laughing through her struggle.

Paige finally loosened her grip but not before messing with Azzi’s hair. “That’s what you get.”

Azzi smoothed her hair down with a glare. “You messed up my hair.”

Paige, not even looking at her, shrugged. “Your hair’s perfect.”

Azzi mumbled something under her breath.

Paige glanced at her. “What was that?”

Azzi huffed. “I said… you’re lucky you’re cute.”

Paige smirked back. “What happens if I wasn’t?”

Azzi pretended to think for a second. “I’d be filing a restraining order.”

Paige chuckled. “That’s crazy, ‘cause last I checked, you’re the one always all over me.”

Azzi scoffed. “All over you? Please, let’s not rewrite history here Madison.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “Who was just playing with the string of my shorts two minutes ago?”

Azzi’s smirk faltered for half a second before she rolled her eyes. “That’s called affection, Paige. Look it up.”

Paige grinned. “Mhm. And the way you always gotta be touching me when we’re together?”

Azzi nudged her side. “Again. Affection.”

Paige shook her head, amused as she held the door open for Azzi. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

…

3rd Person POV - Connecticut

Paige and Azzi had only slept together twice before Paige officially got to UConn’s campus. Those nights had been intense—fleeting moments that always left them wanting more, but distance and timing never allowed them to fully explore what they had. And yeah sure, Paige had helped Azzi out over the phone a few times, teasing her, talking her through it, letting her fall apart to the sound of her voice, but that was the extent of it. Until now.

They had only been at UConn together for a week, but they had spent every single day together, sneaking around, stealing moments when they could. It wasn’t like they were ashamed—only Caroline really knew the full extent of them, and Ice had suspicions after that one morning when Azzi walked in with Paige’s clothes on—but it was easier without everyone else knowing, for now.

But it was getting harder to act like they weren’t completely wrapped up in one other. Harder to pretend like they weren’t always gravitating toward one another, drawn in by something that neither of them had any intention of resisting.

It was currently Friday night and Azzi’s room had a soft glow from her bedside lamp. The air was thick with warmth, a mixture of Azzi’s familiar scent and the lingering heat between them. The sheets were slightly rumpled beneath them, evidence of the time they had already spent tangled together the day prior.

Paige was hovering over Azzi, her weight propped up on her elbows, their legs intertwined on top of the covers. The steady rhythm of their breathing filled the space, filled only by the soft sounds of their lips meeting.

Azzi let out a small, frustrated sigh against Paige’s mouth, her fingers tightening around Paige’s shirt as she tried to pull her closer. But Paige held firm, moving at her own pace, as she started pressing slow, teasing kisses along Azzi’s jaw before returning to her lips.

“Paige,” Azzi murmured, her tone filled with impatience. “Stop teasing.”

Paige pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. “I’m not teasing.”

Azzi scoffed, her nails grazing the skin underneath Paige’s shirt. “Yes, you are.”

Paige tilted her head slightly, a smirk tugging at her lips. “I don’t think so.”

Azzi let out a frustrated groan, her head pressing back into the pillow as she narrowed her eyes at Paige. “Then what would you call it?”

Paige trailed a slow hand down Azzi’s side. “Pacing myself,” she said smoothly.

Azzi exhaled sharply, her grip tightening. “You’re so—”

Paige cut her off with another slow kiss, swallowing whatever complaint Azzi was about to make, fully enjoying the way Azzi melted beneath her.

Azzi hummed into the kiss, her hands gripping at Paige’s waist as she deepened it, slipping her tongue past Paige’s lips. Their breaths mixed, the warmth between them intensifying as Azzi shifted beneath her, trying to pull Paige even closer.

But just as she began tugging at the hem of Paige’s shirt, ready to take it off of her completely, a sudden knock on the door made her freeze.

Azzi pulled away quickly, her heart pounding slightly in her chest as she glanced toward the door, her breath uneven. Paige, on the other hand, barely reacted. Instead, she smirked and rolled off Azzi, landing on her back with ease. She threw one arm behind her head, grabbing her phone with the other, looking as casual as ever.

Azzi cleared her throat, smoothing down her shirt as she propped herself up on her elbows. "Come in," she called, her voice just steady enough to mask the frustration of being interrupted.

The door cracked open, and Ice poked her head in, immediately clocking Paige sprawled out on Azzi’s bed, her arm lazily thrown behind her head, phone in hand.

"Man, I was looking for you," Ice said, stepping further into the room.

Paige didn’t even glance up from her phone. "Well, you found me."

Ice huffed. "Yeah, in Azzi’s bed." Her eyes flicked between them before adding, "You weren’t answering your phone."

Still not looking up, Paige turned her screen toward Ice, showing her notifications—or lack thereof. "Do Not Disturb."

Azzi, who had been trying to compose herself from moments earlier, fought the smile tugging at her lips. Paige and Ice had gotten closer over the past week, mostly because they shared a suite, but Azzi was just happy Paige was starting to feel comfortable with a few of them. She still had a long way to go, but this was progress.

Ice eyed Paige, then Azzi, suspicion all over her face. "Uh-huh… and what exactly were y’all doing?"

Paige finally looked at her, a smirk playing at her lips. "Talking."

Ice let out a dry laugh. "Talking?"

"Yeah, talking," Paige repeated, completely unfazed.

Azzi, still smiling, decided to step in before Ice started interrogating Paige for real. “Did you need something Ice?” she asked, shifting slightly on the bed.

Ice tilted her head, eyeing them both before responding, “I was trying to see if Ms. Nonchalant over there was coming out with us tonight. She’s the only one that didn’t respond.”

Paige shook her head no.

Ice groaned saying, “Bro come on, it's your first weekend on campus.”

Azzi didn’t hesitate, her smile widening. “Don’t worry she’s coming.”

Paige shot her a look, as if to silently say, What the hell?

Azzi didn’t break her gaze, doubling down with a nod. “She’s coming.”

Paige, clearly resigned, let out a sigh. “Guess I’m coming,” she mumbled.

Ice grinned. “Oh, so that’s how it is? Azzi just speaks for you now?”

Paige gave her a deadpan look, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Apparently.”

Azzi nudged her knee against Paige’s side, “You weren’t gonna come unless I said so anyway.”

Paige huffed, but didn’t argue, just went back to scrolling on her phone. Ice chuckled at the exchange, stepping toward the door. “Be ready in two hours,” she said, glancing over her shoulder before disappearing into the hallway.

Once the door clicked shut behind her, Paige turned to Azzi with a playful smirk. “You just signing me up for stuff now?”

Azzi grinned back. “You need to get out more.”

Paige rolled her eyes but leaned back on the bed, a smile curling on her lips. “You just want me to go because you don’t wanna be drunk without me.”

Azzi didn’t disagree, she just pushed herself to her feet. “Yeah, yeah. Now get up. We’re going.”

…

A few hours later, Paige and Azzi found themselves at Ted’s, the buzz of the bar wrapping around them. The night had passed with the two of them mostly enjoying their drinks in each other’s presence, as they casually talked. Paige easily slipped into her usual calm demeanor while talking to Ice and Aubrey whenever Azzi drifted off to talk to someone else on the team.

As the night wore on, the rest of the team began to get rowdier. Ice was animatedly teasing KK and Morgan, while Aubrey was loudly defending her ability to outdrink anybody, much to the amusement of everyone else. Azzi, though, had become a little more than tipsy, her usual sharpness softened by the alcohol. Paige had also moved past tipsy a while ago, but she was much better at holding herself together.

Azzi was now slightly draped over Paige, her head resting on Paige's shoulder, eyes half-lidded as she giggled and swayed a little. Paige stood near the bar, her arm hanging casually by her side, completely amused by Azzi.

Azzi mumbled something, but it was mostly incoherent, her voice just a soft buzz against Paige’s ear. Paige couldn’t help but smile, brushing a stray lock of Azzi’s hair from her face. “You’re cute when you’re drunk,” she teased.

Azzi’s head tilted up slightly, as she smiled goofily at Paige. “I’m always cute.”

Paige snorted softly. “You are,” she admitted, her fingers running gently through Azzi’s curly hair.

Azzi leaned into the touch, her smile widening as she watched Paige’s face. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she mumbled.

Paige chuckled, her gaze flicking briefly toward the rest of the team, still caught up in their antics. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for this kind of chaos,” she said, gesturing subtly with her head.

Azzi laughed as she pressed closer into Paige’s side. “You just need a little more alcohol in your system and you’ll be just like them,” she teased, her hand slipping into Paige’s as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Paige looked down at their intertwined hands, a small smile forming on her lips. She tilted her head slightly, voice low enough for only Azzi to hear. “I thought we were, quote on quote, hiding it for a little.”

Azzi scrunched her nose in an exaggeratedly cute expression. “Right,” she mumbled, pulling her hand back but not moving far, instead resting her head back on Paige’s shoulder.

There was a brief pause before Azzi mumbled, “You smell good.”

Paige glanced down at her, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Thank you, baby.”

Azzi hummed in response, leaning her face further into Paige’s chest, clearly settling in. Paige chuckled at the way Azzi was all but draped over her now, completely unconcerned with anyone else in the bar or what it looked like to their team.

Azzi’s voice was muffled against Paige’s shirt as she mumbled, “Can you get me another drink please?”

Paige exhaled a soft laugh. “I got you.” Tilting her head toward the table where the team was, she nodded toward it. “Go back over there and sit down for a little bit.”

Azzi peeked up at her with a lazy smile before pushing off of her without another word and making her way back to the table, plopping down beside Caroline. Paige watched her for a moment, shaking her head fondly before turning back to the bar to get the requested drink.

Azzi was comfortably leaning on Caroline, her head resting against her shoulder as she absentmindedly twirled the straw in her current drink.

Azzi barely registered Caroline’s voice at first, too caught up in watching Paige. Dressed in black cargos and a fitted black t-shirt, Paige stood at the bar with her back to her, casually waiting for Azzi’s drink. Azzi knew she had a chain on, hidden beneath her shirt, and she found herself wishing she could see it—maybe even tug on it, just to watch Paige smirk at her.

Azzi groaned internally. She knew Paige was attractive—anyone with eyes could see that. But seeing her all the time now, being around her constantly, made it impossible to think straight.

It was different now. Before, there had been space, the separation allowed Azzi to push away the thoughts creeping into her mind. But now? Now, Paige was everywhere. In the gym, in the locker room, sitting across from her at meals, lounging in her car like she belonged there.

And worst of all, Paige had to know. The way she would meet Azzi’s eyes with that damn smirk—like she was waiting for Azzi to say something, like she enjoyed watching Azzi struggle.

Caroline’s voice finally cut through her haze. “You aren’t doing a very good job at the whole discreet thing.”

Azzi blinked, turning her head slightly but not fully looking away from Paige. “Huh?”

Caroline chuckled, nudging Azzi’s shoulder. “You’ve been staring at her since you got over here. You’re not exactly keeping things low key.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, a grin tugging at her lips. “I can’t help that she looks good,” she mumbled, before tilting her head, her gaze drifting right back to Paige.

Caroline smirked. “Yeah, clearly.”

Azzi huffed a small laugh, finally pulling her gaze away from Paige long enough to meet Caroline’s eyes. “She kinda just got here, you know? I’m still adjusting.”

Caroline raised an eyebrow. “Adjusting? Azzi, you’re practically glued to her.”

Azzi grinned, shrugging as she finished her drink. “Maybe. But can you blame me?” She tilted her head toward Paige again, watching the way she leaned against the bar, her stance effortlessly cool. “She’s literally standing there, minding her business, and I can’t help but be drawn to her. I just..I don’t know. It’s hard.”

Caroline snorted. “You’re down bad.”

Azzi sighed dramatically. “I really am.”

“You know, it’s kinda wild seeing you like this. I’m so used to you being more casual.”

Azzi barely responded as she bit her lip, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth as she continued watching Paige. Just as she did, Paige turned around, locking eyes with her instantly—like she knew Azzi had been looking all along.

Azzi didn’t look away, didn’t stop biting her lip. Paige smirked at the attention as she made her way back to their table.

When she reached them, Paige handed Azzi her drink, her smirk still lingering.

“Thank you,” Azzi said softly, taking the glass from her.

Paige simply hummed in response, her eyes flickering over Azzi briefly before she leaned casually against the table beside her. She sipped from her own drink, gaze sweeping over the crowd, completely at ease.

Azzi, however, couldn’t stop watching her.

Azzi tilted her head up slightly, eyes locked onto Paige as she pursed her lips. “Why are you so far?” she mumbled, her voice just loud enough for Paige to hear over the music and chatter around them.

Paige smirked. “I’m right here.”

Azzi wasn’t satisfied with that answer. Looking up at her, she reached out, fingers hooking around the belt loop of Paige’s cargos, giving a small tug to pull her closer.

Paige chuckled at the gesture, shaking her head as she grabbed a chair and sat down right next to Azzi. “Better?” she asked, resting her arm on the back of Azzi’s chair as she took another sip of her drink.

Azzi just smiled, leaning into her slightly, satisfied now that Paige was exactly where she wanted her. “You always do what you're told?”

Paige raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching as she set her drink down. “Depends on who’s telling me.”

Azzi hummed, tilting her head. “And if it’s me?”

Paige exhaled a small laugh, shifting in her seat to face Azzi more. “Then I guess I listen… most of the time.”

Azzi playfully narrowed her eyes. “Most?”

Paige licked her lips. “Most.”

Azzi tilted her head slightly, studying Paige’s expression. “So we’re lying now?”

Paige let out a low chuckle, her fingers casually twisting the ring on her finger, like it was second nature. “I’m not lying.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow, leaning in just a bit. “If I tell you to jump, you will.”

Paige met her gaze, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. For a second, she didn’t respond, just let the air between them settle. Then, she exhaled through her nose. “That depends. Are you jumping with me?”

Azzi smirked, tilting her head in mock consideration. “That wasn’t the question Paige.”

Paige let her gaze flicker over Azzi’s face, pausing at her lips, before settling on her eyes again. “I don’t just jump for anybody, Az.”

“But for me?”

Paige held her gaze, letting the moment stretch before she leaned back slightly, a small smirk playing on her lips. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”

Azzi leaned in just a little, her eyes filled with a slight challenge. “Hm…I’m sure there’s somebody in here that wouldn’t hesitate.”

Hearing this Paige took a slow sip of her drink, her jaw tightening slightly as she swallowed it. She exhaled through her nose, before looking back at Azzi. “That so?”

Azzi hummed, pretending to scan the room. “Mhm. Probably a few actually.”

Paige rolled her tongue over the inside of her cheek, setting her drink down with a soft thud. “You trying to test me, Az?”

Azzi turned her gaze back to Paige, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Just saying… some people wouldn’t hesitate for me.”

Paige leaned in closer, her voice soft enough only for Azzi to hear. “I know you’re new to this girlfriend thing,” Paige said, her tone completely composed, “but I don’t share.”

Azzi smirked. “Trust me, I know,” she said, though the hint of a challenge still lingered in her eyes. “But I just want you to tell me something.”

Paige raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the sudden shift in tone. “What’s that?”

Azzi leaned in a little closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Tell me you’ll do anything for me.”

Paige’s heart skipped a beat at the words, the weight of them sinking in. She leaned in just slightly, meeting Azzi’s gaze. “Anything, huh?” a smirk tugging at her lips.

Azzi nodded, her fingers lightly brushing against Paige’s. “Anything.”

Paige leaned in closer and Azzi's breath hitched slightly as her lips brushed against her ear. "I’ll do anything for you baby."

The warmth of Paige’s breath sent a shiver down Azzi’s back, and she couldn’t help but let a satisfied grin spread across her face. She met Paige’s eyes, saw how they were slightly dilated, how Paige looked at her like she was undressing her with her eyes.

Azzi leaned in just enough to make the space between them feel even smaller, her lips curving into that familiar, irresistible smile that made Paige’s heart jump. “You wanna leave?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m only here for you,” Paige replied simply, as if everything and everyone else in the room never mattered.

Azzi raised an eyebrow, a breath of satisfaction escaping her lips. She didn’t need to hear more. With a subtle nod, she pulled back, her hand moving to slide against Paige’s arm as she stood up. “Let’s go then.”

The two of them stood up, attempting to pass their teammates without bringing much attention to themselves and they were nearly in the clear—until Ice’s voice rang out across the bar.

“Paige!”

Paige stopped, turning her head with a raised eyebrow, silently asking what? Ice, still seated with the rest of the team, grinned. “Can I have a hug before you go?”

Paige scoffed, barely missing a beat. “No.”

The immediate chorus of laughter and dramatic boos from their table filled the space, Ice clutching her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. “I’ll get one eventually,” she called after them.

Azzi grabbed Paige’s wrist, tugging her toward the door. “C’mon, party animal” she teased, amusement laced in her voice. “Before they start trying to make you do another hopeless round of 21 questions.”

Paige let herself be pulled along, smirking as they stepped out into the night air, leaving behind the playful chaos of Ted’s—and everyone still inside who had no idea just how much she was willing to do when it came to Azzi.

[garbean]

Happy Valentine's, here's some stobotnik valentines cards through the movies, tried to edit some dialogue to make it more valentines-y but honestly I barely had to edit some of them

Some small details under the cut

The to and from parts change over time along with their relationship:

For robotniks cards:

Stone goes from Barnacle → Agent stone (as Robotnik starts to appreciate him more) → Stone (as he becomes robotniks equal)

Robotnik goes from You know (doesn't want to tie his name into anything and it's also just his usual sarcastic remark) → God (for obvious reasons) → Robotnik (They're equals but saying Ivo seems too personal for him, or at least too soon. Ties his name into the card also)

I tried to make the handwriting for his second card more unstable/insane though I don't think I did it very well. His last card he uses the same pen as stone.

Stones cards:

Robotnik goes from Dr. Robotnik (Formal, normal) → Doctor Ivo Robotnik (Stone didn't know if he'd ever get to write his name again. The handwriting is somewhat shakier.) → Ivo (Yes yes we get it they're equals)

Stone's stays at agent stone for the first two mostly because he doesn't really develop anything in terms of how close they are. It's stone in the last one just because he starts to know that they don't quite have the same superior-henchman relationship.

Honestly the quotes don't have much behind them, I went for dialogue instead of pick up lines just cause why not and so it would be more stobotnik-y. The last quote Robotnik has though is fairly aromantic coded just for my own indulgence. I did struggle with stones quotes as most of them are "sir you're magnificent" "you're basic" "are you afraid of g-ghosts?" "sir you're back!" Which are very difficult to edit. That's more or less why his first card is more of a response than a quote

Stone ends up developing the same smile as Robotnik over time, and he's a lot more expressive compared to the second card because he becomes more comfortable. (The first card is an outlier for obvious reasons)

[dreaminguponlilypads]

PUNISHMENT.

Simon “Ghost” Riley x reader

pt. 2

happy birthday to me lol, you guys have starved for a fic long enough so i shall feed you. tell me if you want pt.2

You had never thought someone like Ghost would ever look twice at you.

You were quiet. A recruit who blended into the background, more comfortable observing than being in the spotlight. You had your own demons—self-doubt, anxiety, the constant nagging thought that you weren’t enough. That you’d never be enough.

But then he came along.

He had seen you when no one else did. Not just as a soldier, but as a person. His patience, his quiet reassurances, the way his hand would linger at the small of your back or how he’d pull you into his warmth after a rough day—it had all been real. Or so you thought.

Until you saw the messages.

Soap: Congrats, ya big muppet. Can’t believe yer actually gonna do it.

Gaz: Who would’ve thought a lost bet would end up here?

Price: Never seen you so whipped, mate. From bet to buying a ring—hell of a journey.

Soap: Aye, remember when he was grumbling about even asking em out? Now look at him.

Your stomach twisted as you read and reread the words.

A bet.

It had all started as a joke.

The relationship that had saved you, that had made you feel wanted, seen, loved—had started as nothing more than a game to him.

You wanted to be angry. Wanted to storm up to him, demand an explanation, throw the damn phone at his chest. But you couldn’t.

Because how could you be mad at something you had already feared deep down?

Of course, it had been too good to be true.

You had spent so long convincing yourself that Simon really wanted you, that he really saw something in you. But now? The gnawing insecurity that he had helped you fight off came roaring back with a vengeance.

Your hands were shaking when you set his phone back on the table.

You needed to get out of here.

-

Simon knew something was wrong the second he walked into your shared quarters.

He found you standing there, arms wrapped around yourself, eyes red-rimmed like you had been holding back tears. His stomach dropped.

“Love?” His voice was low, cautious. “What’s wrong?”

You forced out a shaky breath. “Was it all a bet?”

Silence.

Your heart clenched as you watched his expression flicker—confusion, realization, then something that almost looked like fear.

“Where’d you hear that?” His voice had taken on that measured tone he used in the field. Like he was calculating his next move.

You let out a hollow laugh. “Does it matter?” You lifted his phone slightly before setting it back down. “Your team’s got quite the sense of humor.”

He cursed under his breath. “It’s not what you think.”

You swallowed hard. “Then tell me what it is, Simon. Tell me why the man who made me believe I was worth something only asked me out because he lost.”

His eyes darkened. “It was a stupid bet. A joke between the lads. I didn’t think—I didn’t know—” He exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. “I never expected to fall for you.”

You flinched at the choice of words. “But you still lied.”

“I didn’t lie—”

“You didn’t tell me,” you shot back. “That’s the same thing.”

His lips pressed into a tight line. “I was ashamed.” His voice was quieter now. “Didn’t want you to think—” He cut himself off, jaw clenching before he forced himself to look at you. “Didn’t want you to think this wasn’t real.”

Your breath hitched. “But it wasn’t real. Not at first.”

His silence was all the confirmation you needed.

You had spent so long fighting off the belief that you weren’t good enough. That you weren’t worthy of someone like him. And now, every whispered fear, every creeping doubt, had been proven right.

You felt yourself withdrawing, curling inward, that familiar weight of insecurity pressing down on your chest. The walls you had let him tear down were rebuilding themselves brick by brick.

“I need to go,” you choked out, turning towards the door.

His hand caught your wrist, firm but careful. “Baby, please,” he murmured. “Don’t shut me out.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, breathing ragged. You wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that everything he had done for you, every loving caress, every whispered reassurance, hadn’t just been out of guilt or obligation.

But how could you?

You pulled your wrist free, ignoring the way his fingers lingered, like he couldn’t bear to let go.

“I can’t do this right now,” you whispered.

And then you walked away, leaving Simon standing there with his hands clenched at his sides, the weight of a ring box in his pocket feeling heavier than ever.

[livewiregoth]

I dunno why I find it funny that Constantine manages to get Danny to be like "Ok so I'm a bogus exorcist but I'm not bogus at doing my job"

Be kind of funny if after all this time eventually working with Danny, trying to get him to do shit properly, Danny helping as a repairman, Constantine thinking this guy is a normal guy with suspiciously strong abilities is the King of the Infinity Realm/the Ghost King. Like this guy that he maybe sees as a friend at times despite being annoyed of him that he has been convinced is a normal guy that's parents led to him learning to be a repairman & some how can be an exorcist even when half assing shit(well I guess fully messing it up) is the fucking king of the ghosts. Probably makes sense in some way due to the times they had to deal with some really bad demons like the time that made him finally confront Danny but still it's something he wouldn't have expected.

Even funnier(to me) is how he possibly finds out. Maybe there's a time were he just decides to ask the ghosts why Danny's power makes them leave despite not doing the exorcist shit right. Some are likely scared of his energy/aura(a part of me imagines this for ghosts that don't know yet/are newer), some say cryptic shit & some eventually finally admit who Danny is. Or maybe another way Constantine could find out would be on occasion the ghosts comment on Danny that make the blond realize there's more to his now coworker than he thought, probably brushes it off since he knows Danny can be a bit weird & as far as he knows oblivious even if strong but then someone eventually spills what's going on or says enough to figure it out.

Or some other thing leads to learning Danny is the ghost king, who knows.

I dunno I just think it'd be funny if Constantine thanks to something going on eventually learns the guy that went from some stupid bogus exorcist he hired as a joke that was good at his job to someone he sees as a coworker is actually the ghost king trying to make a living in the world of the living

Probably has some feelings about this(this guy he kind of grew close to lied(why are you surprised you knew he lied about the bogus shit), why is he going around as a human, why is trying to make a living when he's a king with duties in the Infinity Realm) but it's going to be interesting when he finally thinks things over, puts his thoughts together & what he does with this info afterwords.

Does he confront Danny or for once just lets things be? Maybe he lets whatever take its course & Danny eventually has a moment were he has to confess for some reason. There's a lot of scenarios that could happen, the options are infinite.

I'm likely thinking too much again

Another dpxdc prompt (sorry it’s been so long)

So Danny, now grown up and the ghost king, is looking for a job. However bc of his responsibilities as king a normal job won’t do. He would need to be able to make his own hours and such. He tried to be a freelance repair/electrical guy (thx mum and dad for those skills) but it never made that much money.

Then one day, prompted by a joke comment from Tucker about going back to ghost fights, he has a great idea!!

That’s how ‘Spook exterminator’ is born!! (He wanted to call it ghost busters but that was trademarked)

He essentially becomes an exorcist for higher and is very good at it. See what he didn’t know before this is that the ghost his use to, realm ghost, are actually the strongest type of ghost and as the king of them he is the strongest of them. This essentially means he has a ‘top predator’ vibe that sends most non realm ghost running before he even steps into the building. All he has to do then is call upon his inter theatre kid and put on a good show before leaving with a full wallet.

It’s not like he’s scamming them or anything. He is getting rid of the ghost! He just likes putting a little flare to it! Plus it gives him better tips.

Anyway cutting over to Constantine who, drunk out of his mind, thinks it would be hilarious to higher some bogus exorcist he saw a flier for and take them to the most haunted house he knowns just to see what happens.

He was definitely not expecting every ghost to hightail it out of there before the guy even step foot in the door. For a second he thought that maybe he was wrong about the guy being bogus and that maybe he was actually an very skilled exorcist but then he proceeded to do the most fake ritual he had ever fucking seen. The guy couldn’t even speak Latin!!

Needless to say John was very confused

[un-fwuit-un-fwog]

0v0 Leona brainrot may I request a thing on Leona x reader where reader is mute from family trauma 0v0 (note love your stuff you feed my brain rot everyday also if you) also can you make it that in the story we have Reader think Grim is now our Son/or we see little brother and we talk to only him but then as per Leona x reader we talk to Leona at some point

Arm still hurts, but I put on a brace, so LET'S GO (don't follow my example)

Thank you for the Request! Leona has consumed my thoughts as well.

Synopsis: Reader with selective mutism slowly grows fond of the cold lion.

TW: mentions of reader having a bad family life; reader has selective mutism; reader is initially scared of Leona

Selective mutism can be caused by a variety of factors such as an anxiety disorder, self-esteem issues, speech problems, and etc.. Yours stemmed from. . . poor family relationships, to put it delicately.

Coming to Twisted Wonderland was like both a blessing and a curse.

A blessing because you made it out

A curse because, well, YOU WERE TOSSED INTO ANOTHER WORLD WITH NO TIME TO PROCESS. So, of course, your anxiety levels spiked.

It took you a bit to figure out how to explain to Crowley that you struggled with selective mutism, and even when you did, he took it as you trying to say you were entirely mute. You supposed you could live with that. It would definitely help quell the intrusive questions and ignorant statement if not just by a bit.

It took a while, but you managed to get comfortable enough around Grim and the Ramshackle ghosts to talk. You had grown to see them as the family you never had. A family you chose.

You weren't sure whether to classify Grim as a younger brother or a son, but you figured that wasn't all that important of a distinction for you to make. He's your family and that's what counts.

When you did finally talk for the first time around this little group they were certainly shocked, Grim more so than the ghosts. However, they were patient and allowed you the time and space to explain (even if that was because the ghosts held Grim's mouth shut).

In the end, you all decided it was probably best that you keep the reality of your muteness a secret as people knowing could cause problems (and just be annoying for those too ignorant to understand or too curious to understand personal space).

When you first met Leona, it was when you stepped on his tail in the botanical garden. You bowed profusely as a way of saying sorry, but he either didn't get it or didn't care.

"D*mn Herbivore." He growled. "You think you can just step on my tail and get away with it? Not even gonna properly apologize for waking me with your foot digging into my tail?"

Clearly, he had not been paying attention at orientation. You were never too great with confrontation, quite frankly, it scared you, so you ran. You could hear his angry shouts from behind you as you booked it out of there, but you paid no mind to his words (not that you could even hear them with the blood pumping so violently in your ears from the adrenaline).

The next time you met him, like truly met and talked to him, was after the spelldrive game when you got nailed in the head with the disk.

When the unusual group of Ace, Deuce, Jack, Ruggie, Leona, and Grim came into the infirmary you were understandably wary. Afterall, Leona hadn't exactly made a stellar first impression.

However, your opinion shifted a bit when a little ball of energy and pure joy came bursting into the room to meet Leona. You had felt some sympathy for him after seeing his dream, you didn't have the best family life either, but you also weren't a massive jerk. A hint of worry grew in your stomach when you saw the small lion jump on Leona's bed and bounce on his stomach, but you froze when you saw the man's reaction.

He may have seemed harsh to most with the way he treated and talked to the child, but you could tell he was anything but. The way his eyes softened ever so slightly and his muscles relaxed. And, if you didn't know any better, you would've sworn you saw the corners of his lips twitch upwards just a bit.

The way someone treats their family can tell you a lot. The way Leona treated Cheka told you a lot.

You turned your attention away from Leona to sign something to Deuce (he learned a bit of sign language from his mom).

Leona would have cursed had Cheka not been right there. Great. Now he felt like an *ss.

Perhaps that guilt is what led him to so easily letting you stay in Savanaclaw during book 3.

He led you up to his room and told you how to fold out the couch (it was a futon). However, other than that, he didn't say much.

The only word you heard him speak the first night was a brief "sorry". He didn't elaborate on it, but you were fairly sure you knew what he was apologizing for.

At some point, you had made a habit of lightly tugging on your friends' sleeve when you needed their attention. Out of habit, you accidentally did this to Leona once. You didn't even notice until you saw the other Savanaclaw students' horrified faces. You whipped around to apologize to Leona, but he looked entirely unbothered.

"What'd ya need?"

On the last night when you needed to get Leona's help, you didn't exactly have the option of yelling, and banging pots and pans didn't exactly cross your mind. At that moment, you were just so tired and so stressed that all you did was silently tear up.

When he noticed your crying he momentarily froze. His eyes widened to the size of saucers and he just stared at you.

You really had a knack for making Leona feel scummy.

Before he knew it, he was getting up and trudging across the room.

You flinched.

Leona mentally bashed his head into a wall repeatedly.

"I'll help. . .just. . .cut it out with the water works." He handed you a tissue box and that was that.

You grew steadily closer over time, but he didn't hear your voice until around the end of book 6.

You had gotten back from STYX and your dorm was still in shambles, so you were left to stay at Savanaclaw. Other dorms were going to offer, but before they could even open their mouths, Leona sighed dramatically loud and announced that he guessed you'd have to stay at Savanaclaw sing you had absolutely no other options.

You trudged into his room together and watched as Grim immediately conked out on a plush chair next to the couch.

Leona was about to collapse on the bed (he was too tired to shower or even change clothes) when he felt a pair of arms wrap around his torso and a wet spot forming on his chest as your tears soaked through his shirt.

He was not cut out for these kinds of situations.

Despite this thought, he soon sighed and wrapped his arms around your back as well. The two of you stood there like that for what felt like an eternity before the silence was finally broken.

And not by him.

"I-I'm so glad you're safe." Your voice was hoarse from lack of use, and your words were hard to decipher as they came out as more of choked sobs.

A million questions ran through Leona's mind at that moment, but none of them left his lips. Instead, he simply replied: "Yeah. . .'m glad you are too."

His questions could wait until tomorrow.

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[mariasont]

One Clean Shot - A.H

summary: it’s a standard training session, until hotch steps behind you to adjust your stance and suddenly your biggest problem isn’t your aim pairings: aaron hotchner x sweetheart!reader warning tags: suggestive content, hotch accidentally touches your tits, r shooting a gun, hotch shooting a gun, r kinda objectifying hotch (i showed my friends then we high fived), dbf!hotch, age gap wc 1.6k

"Oh, for the love of—"

You bite down on the words, trapping them before they can tumble out as something truly impolite. You fire. Left. Again. Another shot. Too high. Again. Too wide.

The gun jerks in your hand, unforgiving and indifferent. Gunpowder starts to scratch at your throat, your lungs, your patience even. You were starting to believe that it was a possibility that you were just inherently biologically incapable of aiming correctly. Bad aim genes, perhaps.

You try to picture your father holding a gun, arms stiff, stance awkward, probably muttering something about how in his day, disputes were settled with a well-worded legal argument.

Yeah, okay, that might explain a lot.

Except no, you passed all your quals. You aced them.

It was just an off day.

A specific, very tall off day named Hotch, who was currently standing behind you, radiating silent judgement at a level so intense it should be considered a supernatural ability. He was probably analyzing every micro-movement, taking note of every error, mentally drafting a performance review that would start with you're doing fine and end with a perfectly professional but somehow soul-crushing but you can do better.

You try to steady your hands and you fail and you think maybe you should just hand him the gun and let him execute your dignity at point-blank range.

It's fine, you tell yourself. It's not like your entire self-worth is balancing on the edge of his nonexistent expression. There's a chance he's not even thinking about you. He could be mentally going over his grocery list or calculating how much paperwork he had left to do today.

Or there's the more terrifying chance that he is watching you and wondering why you aren't better, why you aren't like him—like your father, wondering why you aren't meeting expectations.

And it's humiliating, really. How much you want to impress him. How much you want to make him proud and maybe even—

"You're anticipating the recoil."

You turn too fast, the world tilting for just a second, your vision narrowing to the sharp angles of Hotch's face.

"Here."

The word is barely out of his mouth before his hands are everywhere—no, not everywhere, everywhere, just your vest. But they might as well be, because your nerve endings aren't capable of knowing the difference.

He grips your vest at the shoulders, jerks the straps tight, a firm pull that rocks you just slightly forward, just slightly into him. Then his fingers skate down, adjusting the collar, smoothing over the bare skin where fabric meets flesh, his knuckles barely grazing the dip between your collarbones.

And then lower. Over your chest. Between. The back of his hand ghosts along the swell of your breasts, then right where your ribs curve inward, where his palm would fit if he just—just—slid an inch lower.

It's fast. Nothing. Over in a second. But your stomach is tight, your breath is tight, you are tight. And you swear if he lingers a moment longer, you might melt into a indecipherable puddle on the floor.

Your pulse is all over the place, skipping, tripping, betraying. Heat rushes to your cheeks, slow at first, then all at once, like a delayed newsflash that your body apparently has opinions about this.

Because this is stupid. Stupid. It's not like he meant to touch you there. It's not like he noticed. Did he notice?

No, absolutely not because that would imply things, and there are not things.

This is just your problem. Your rogue nervous system. Your tragic inability to be normal about anything. You are making this a thing when it is very much not a thing.

But you felt the way your stomach knots around something you don't even have the vocabulary to name, the way your nipples pebbled like they had some vested interest in ruining your life.

It's—what? Hormones? Static electricity? Some kind of spontaneous full-body malfunction? Because you didn't want to think about it being him, a side effect to prolonged exposure to Aaron Hotchner. (Should you warn the others?)

And still, he keeps going, cinching straps, flattening fabric, all broad (very broad) hands and no-nonsense efficiency. Like you're just a piece of gear to fix. You, on the other hand, are actively considering the logistics of just dropping dead on the spot. It seemed feasible.

"Shoulders back."

The instruction comes at the same time as he moves in behind you, a hand landing between your shoulder blades, and pushes, forces your spine straighter, like you're something to be molded, adjusted, put into place.

Then his hands moves to your waist, shifting your stance just a hair, just enough to make you brutally of the size of his hands. How they fit against you.

Then—oh. His foot nudges between yours, then hooks your ankle, kicking your stance wider.

His palm finds the space between your shoulder blades again, pressing down just enough to remind you where you are, who you are, what you're supposed to be doing instead of, well, whatever this is.

"Breathe."

Oh. Right. Breathing. That's a thing.

You suck in a sharp breath, only now realizing you'd been holding it captive in your chest.

"A lot of people hold their breath when they shoot," he explains, his other hand pressing into your ribs as if to make sure you were following his instructions, as if you'd do anything else. "It feels instinctual, like bracing will make you more controlled. But if you hold your breath, you lock up. Tension works against you. Breathing through the shot keeps everything loose. It makes the release smoother."

You weren't sure when everything became so hot, pressing in from all sides. But you felt like you might be sweating because no one should be allowed to say things like that, in a voice like his, with hands like his, and with zero self-awareness of what words like release can do to a person in your position.

You try to focus, to take another breath, but even that feels like a trap, because you are suddenly mortifying aware of the way your chest rises, of the heat dissipating between you, of how close he is.

His arms come to frame yours, surrounding in a way that makes everything else feel smaller. His hands go over yours, his chest is against your shoulder, his forearm skimming yours, and his breath is now tickling your ear.

"Your thumbs need to be higher," he says, adjusting them with his own, the rough pad of his finger dragging along the side of your hand. "You're gripping too far down, which throws off your alignment. Keep them forward, parallel with the slide. It'll help keep the recoil controlled, make your follow up shot faster."

His fingers tighten over yours, making sure you feel it. "And support your hand, it's doing too much. The pressure should be between both hands. If you squeeze harder with one than the other, you'll pull your shot without realizing it."

You nod, because you always nod when he speaks. Because you listen. Because learning from him is something you like, something that makes you feel good, something that makes you feel seen. And maybe that's why your hands are shaking.

He steps back and it's immediate, the rush of air, the space, the clarity that surely wasn't there before. Your chest expands, lungs finally taking what they were denied.

"Try again."

You exhale, reposition, adjust your stance the way he taught you. His instructions replay in your head, and you obey, thumbs high, pressure even, breathing.

You fire. And it's improved, smoother, more controlled, exactly like he said.

"That's it. Better."

You smoother the feeling those two words give you, shove in into the pit of your stomach where it can't cause problems. Where it can't mean anything. You're pathetic.

"Watch."

He steps in, you step back, and—oh.

You try to focus on the technical aspects, really, you do. On how he grips the gun, on how his fingers rest perfectly in place, on how his stance is exactly what he just told you to correct. But your brain is completely uncooperative.

Your brain apparently has priorities, and right now, those priorities are his arms, the way his muscles shift beneath tight sleeves, the flex of his shoulders as he raises said gun.

And then lower, corruptfully lower, to the curve of his waist, where the fabric of his shirt strains, the way his belt rests just above the curve of his—

Absolutely not.

You blink hard, inhaling sharp, mentally shoving that thought into a vault labeled inappropriate. Do not open. The worst part, however, is that you can't tell if you're more mortified by the fact that your brain went there, or by the fact that, now that is has, you're not sure how to get it to stop.

"Focus."

Your mouth opens, then closes. "I—I am."

He doesn't look at you. Not once. But the way he reloads, it's like he's giving you time to wallow in the moment. And there's something, something, in the slight pull of his mouth, in the tiniest shift of his expression that's almost, but not quite, a smirk.

"Not on the right things."

His fires. One clean shot. Straight to the heart.

The paper doesn't resist, it just takes it, the force ripping clean through the center, leaning nothing but a perfect, gaping wound. It was precise in a way that shouldn't be surprising but still is.

It's a clean shot through something inside of you, too.

And you have no idea how to patch it up.

taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[novelistwriter]

The Misunderstanding

DP x DC Prompt

Parents who have a child in the Infinite Realms are dangerous beings. They will do anything to protect their children, even fighting ones stronger than themselves to do so.

Danny, the Ghost King, is in a meeting with JLD. The members of JLD are informing him of what he's to expect to encounter in this Realm and prepare him for the other meeting he has with the JL.

Dani, the Crown Princess, tagged along and didn't let Danny keep her from coming. But her obsession is preventing her from staying in one place for too long (She's already bored, and it's been 2 and a half hours since arriving in this new dimension). Danny did let her explore and told her to stay out of trouble (But with Fenton Luck, that won't happen).

Dani had been exploring a big city, just enjoying the new things to do. And then she is caught up in some magic related things, which causes her form to be monstrous looking while retaining the basic humanoid qualities except for proper communication, and to top it off, her powers aren't working properly, which then causes the people around her to think she's a new hostile alien planning to destroy the world.

The JL was called in to deal with her, not knowing that she's harmless and is trying to get back to Danny, her dad.

In the middle of the "fight" the JL are in with a creature that was reported to be causing trouble to a city, another more human looking being had appeared between the JL and the creature after the creature managed to make a strange whining sound. When the human looking being turned to face them after it checked up on the creature, the Justice League could only feel an intense pressure on them, the human looking being had eyes full of hate towards them before they morphed into something truly monstrous and began to attack them.

Some time later, the JLD make it to the area, where they see the JL being thrown around like nothing by the Ghost King in his Eldritch form. Wonder Woman tied up with her own Lasso of Truth, Superman lying unconscious with multiple wounds, Flash in ice with his head being the only unfrozen part of his body, Captain Marvel, or rather Billy Batson, hiding because the Ghost King sealed his transformation, Martian Manhunter in the middle of a ring of green flames, Aquaman fighting Ghostly Sea Animals of various species and losing, Green Lantern unable to use his ring, and Batman about to be sent to the Nightmare Realm through the giant maw of the Ghost King.

[00valentina-writes00]

Loving and gentle dominant Ellie and Abby x reader double penetrating her

♡♥︎Bound Between Them♥︎♡

Warnings: Double penetration, strap on sex, I didn’t know how much I needed this, strap being called “cock”

The dim glow of a lantern flickered against the cabin walls, casting soft shadows over the tangled sheets beneath you. Between Ellie and Abby, you felt their warmth pressing into you from either side, their contrasting touches leaving you breathless. Abby’s calloused hands traced slow, deliberate patterns along your thigh, while Ellie’s fingertips ghosted over your stomach, teasing, never lingering too long in one place.

“You doin’ okay, baby?” Ellie’s voice was a low rasp against your ear, her lips brushing your temple as she leaned in. You nodded, but Abby wasn’t satisfied with that.

“Use your words,” she murmured, her tone firm yet filled with patience.

“I’m okay,” you whispered, though your voice trembled with anticipation.

Ellie smirked, exchanging a glance with Abby before she hooked her fingers under your chin, turning your face toward her. “You sure? ‘Cause we haven’t even started.”

Abby’s palm smoothed up your stomach before pressing flat between your shoulder blades, urging you forward. The shift brought your hips up, and you whimpered as Ellie’s strap nudged against your entrance. The soft silicone was warm from her body heat, slick from the wetness dripping down your thighs. Abby settled behind you, the thickness of her own strap rubbing against the cleft of your ass, her breath heavy as she took in the sight of you stretched between them.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful like this,” Abby muttered, running a hand down the curve of your spine.

Ellie, impatient as ever, rolled her hips forward just enough to sink the head of her cock inside you. Your breath hitched, body tensing, but Abby pressed a reassuring kiss to your shoulder, her strong arms steadying you.

“That’s it,” she whispered. “Let us take care of you.”

Ellie slid in deeper, groaning as she bottomed out. She stayed still, letting you adjust, while Abby pressed closer, rubbing slow circles against your lower back. When you gave a small nod, Ellie drew back just enough to thrust shallowly, her pace teasing, controlled.

“Fuck, you’re squeezin’ me so good,” Ellie breathed, watching the way your body took her in.

Abby hummed in approval, her hands gripping your hips as she positioned herself. “Think you can handle more, sweetheart?”

You whined in response, arching your back, wordlessly begging for her. Abby chuckled, the sound rich and knowing, before she aligned herself and pushed in alongside Ellie. The stretch had you gasping, body trembling between them as they both stilled, letting you adjust

“Breathe,” Ellie murmured, kissing the corner of your lips. “Relax, baby.”

Abby’s fingers rubbed soothing circles over your clit, coaxing you to unclench, to give in to them. It took a moment, but then the tension melted from your body, and when you rocked your hips experimentally, a guttural sound rumbled from Abby’s chest.

“That’s our girl,” she praised.

Their movements started slow—Ellie pulling out as Abby pushed in, an intoxicating rhythm that had your legs shaking. They worked in tandem, touching, kissing, whispering sweet nothings against your skin. Ellie pressed her forehead against yours, her pupils blown wide with adoration, while Abby buried her face in the crook of your neck, her breath ragged.

The pleasure built steadily, coiling tight in your stomach with each deep thrust. Abby’s hands were firm as they gripped your waist, guiding your movements, while Ellie’s fingers curled into your thighs, holding you steady as she fucked into you.

“You’re takin’ us so well,” Ellie groaned, her voice thick with admiration. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

Your moans turned desperate, each thrust sending you spiraling closer to the edge. Abby’s teeth grazed your shoulder before she whispered, “cum for us, sweetheart.”

The coil snapped, pleasure crashing over you in waves. Your body clenched around them, your nails digging into Ellie’s back as you sobbed their names. They didn’t stop, working you through the aftershocks, drawing every last drop of pleasure from you until you were shaking in their arms.

Ellie pressed lazy kisses along your jaw as she slowly pulled out, murmuring praises against your sweat-damp skin. Abby followed suit, holding you close as your body went boneless between them.

“You okay?” Ellie asked, brushing damp strands of hair from your face.

You managed a weak nod, your lips curling into a blissful smile. “More than okay.”

Abby smirked, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Good. ‘Cause we’re not done with you yet.”

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

On the subject of the period tracker meme in TWST…how do you think the guys would react, Miss Raven? Like what do you think their login lines would be or how would they react to you being on your period? Sorry if this is overstepping, in that case then please ignore. Don’t want to make you uncomfortable if this isn’t something you want to talk about.

[Referencing this post!]

I’m going to include Grim, the Ramshackle Ghosts, NRC staff, RSA boys, and Halloweenies here too because why not 😂 And these are going to be my general thoughts, since I think login lines are too short to capture the nuances of what I’m trying to explain! This is unironically some of my best work yet—

***Note: This is going off the assumption that Yuu has a platonic relationship with the characters (ie no romantic implications), similar to what is established in the actual login lines. I will also be assuming gender neutral pronouns for the reader, but there may be references to other menstruators that are women (such as characters' family members).***

Curiouser and Curiouser...

NRC Students

Riddle has the technical knowledge, but struggles to apply that knowledge when the situation demands it. H-He has never had to do this before! Riddle has his anatomy and physiology textbook out and reads directly from it as he tries to figure out how to best help you, double and triple checking the directions before handing you any medication or even a heating pad. Stiffly offers you tea and pours it for you himself. Offers to bring you any classwork you miss, plus homework. Being on your period is no excuse to not keep up with your lessons!

Trey goes into big brother/dad mode. Dotes on you. Bakes you cookies, pies, tarts, cakes, etc. to feed the munchies while you’re bleeding out. His food is also warm and comforting, like a hug. What are your favorites? Tell him, he’ll prepare them. Asks every other hour how you’re feeling or if you need anything. Gives an awkward laugh if you get into the particulars of periods. He’d rather not, he’s just here to make sure you’re okay.

Cater has tons of experience dealing with this kind of thing. When his older sisters were on their periods, they’d whine for him to go out and buy stuff for them—pads, snacks, OTC pain relief meds, you name it, Cay-kun bought it! He knows exactly what you need, so just leave it to him, okay~? Besides, he can’t just leave you hanging like this… even if you do look kinda cute and pathetic writhing like that!

Ace, UGH 💀 Quintessential teenage boy. No clue what a period is, doesn’t understand why you’re in pain—but claims that he, in fact, does know because (ah-HEM!) he actually has mad game and plenty of experience with women!! (He doesn’t.) Calls you while he’s at the Mystery Shop to ask for what pussy size you wear.

Deuce is in a similar boat as Ace. He kind of sort of knows what a period is but didn’t ever think about the particulars. Not the sharpest tool in the shed, can you blame him? Deuce hits the books to learn more about the subject (it’s what an honors student would do, right?) but is horrified to learn you’re “ovulating”. “D-Does that mean you’re going to lay an egg?! Are you secretly a chicken, Prefect?!” Tries to be polite and understanding about it, but comes off as awkward instead.

Leona has the tact to not openly remark on a woman’s time of month. He just kind of makes an unreadable expression and quickly looks away before you get any strange ideas. When he catches you alone, he makes some haughty remark that insinuates that he knows—and as you’re blanching with embarrassment, he (to your shock) casually tosses a bag of period supplies at your feet. There’s everything you could possible need in there!! You glance up, about to thank him, but Leona’s already sauntering away and waving a hand dismissively. “Don’t say I never do anything for ya, herbivore.” Now he’s off to nap peacefully—and, hopefully, you can too.

Ruggie just shrugs. It’s not really any of his business, now is it? The more time he spends loitering around here and lookin’ after you, the less time he’s spending making money at his part/time jobs! “Sheesh, looks like you’ve got it rough~ Glad I’m not you. I’d still have to work my tail off, bleedin’ or not!” Maybe if he’s feeling generous, he’ll save you some free food from whatever he can salvage from work. Want him to grab you something on the way over? Pay him for his time and effort!

Jack smells the blood at first and worries that you’re injured (n-not that he cares or anything). Once he realizes what that smell is, he’ll apologize and will make things right by dedicating himself to supporting you! Dutifully trails after you like a duckling that imprinted on the first thing he saw when he hatched. Quick to rush in and do things even when not asked to. Is okay with even carrying you around if need be—it’s a good workout for him, so it’s a win-win!

Azul shows up “randomly” with a care package he “just so happens” to have on him. Dramatically offers you the care package and thanks you for “taking it off of his hands”. Not-so-subtly also implies he can whip up elixirs that are effective at numbing period pain, or perhaps you'd prefer a massage from his strong octopus arms?—for a price, of course. He studied up on human physiology and had Jade snoop around for details on your cycle; this was all orchestrated well in advance and Azul intends on collecting on this favor at a later point in time. Does a smug little evil chuckle to himself as he walks away.

Oh, Jade knows. (See Azul’s section above.) He acts as though he doesn’t though. For example, he’ll hold something you need out of reach just to watch you squirm and struggle in discomfort to obtain it. Once you cast aside your pride and confess what’s going on, Jade will feign surprise and apologize. Brews you a relaxing mushroom tea to help with the cramps. Kindly offers his services, acts like the perfect, sweetest, most attentive butler you could ever ask for. (… Though you have unfortunately made the mistake of letting Jade into your quarters. He’s just waiting for you to doze off so he can rifle through your things and collect dirt.)

Floyd thinks it’s hilarious. Human bodies are so weird! You bleed every month? Hah, sure must suck. He’s so glad he doesn’t have to deal with that. Pesters you with a bunch of questions about how periods work. Asks if a band-aid is enough to deal with it. Laughs when you double over and coos about the poor Shrimpy. If he’s in the mood, he’ll give ya a lift—but it’s a bumpy ride, and he’ll attempt to parkour with you on him. Might cook you up some good grub too. It’s a gamble—are you willing to try your luck?

Kalim hears you’re bleeding and has a mild freakout about it. Hires the best medical team money can buy to examine you and to make sure you’re okay. Relieved to learn it’s just a period. “Hey, so… I’m glad you’re alright and all, but what’s a period?” he asks. Listens to you talk about it, but concludes he still doesn’t understand the intricacies. Gets the gist that you’re in pain once a month and resolves to totally pamper you for that week or so. Provides Oasis Maker water too--it's so refreshing! Whatever you want, just say the word and it’s yours! You’ll have nothing to worry about :)) Kalim’s sure Jamil won’t say no to lending you a helping hand too he’s being voluntold to.

Jamil is used to this drama/j from Najma. Very calm about the whole ordeal. Hovers and tuts like a mother hen, but more quietly judgy. Prepares delicious home cooked meals and pain relief remedies, fetches items + runs errands for you. Makes sure you’re comfortable. Even offers to plump your pillows. Basically feels obligated to do this on behalf of Kalim; wishes he were doing something else, but hey… this is preferable to having to deal with frantic last minute party preparations.

Vil is very mature and no-nonsense about it. Please, only a child would behave crudely over a woman’s natural bodily processes. He recommends vitamins and yoga stretches for alleviating cramps and to reduce bloating. Blends you nutritious smoothies and plans balanced meals to keep your energy up. Vil also prepares essential oils to help you relax. Here’s a diffuser for your room, and he has these bottles of fragrance you can dab on your temples and wrists.

You don’t even need to say anything. Rook gives you That Look (TM) that tells you immediately that he knows what’s up. Probably knows your period is coming like a week in advance of it actually arriving. Unexplained period supplies show up on your doorstep. There’s a note and a rose with them. Someone has written you a lengthy poem about how the “crimson petals” are “peeling away from thine flower”, so please accept these items and take care of yourself! The supplies replenish themselves whenever you’re just about to run out, too. Rook knows you’d probably prefer your privacy for these matters—he wouldn’t want to make you feel self-conscious! … So he makes sure to make himself discreet when he hides in your walls to watch over you and ensures you’re comfortable.

Whoa, you bleed every month? That’s METAL!! Epel has heard about periods from the elderly ladies in Harveston. The way they talk about it, it’s like they survived a war!! That must make your gut super tough…! It earns you his respect. He looks at you like you’re some kind of VIP. Epel gifts you a bright red apple every day, saying that it will keep the doctor away. Offers to rush by on a (borrowed from Ignihyde) magiwheel/blastcycle to drop off anything you may need.

Idia blue screens and keyboard smashes in a panic. It’s already hard enough for him to interact with people face-to-face but now you have to go and drop this bombshell on him?! How’s an otaku to cope?! Sends you memes and funny videos via a messaging app. Can’t be bothered with going in-person. Might send candies or ramen cups via a drone. You can’t see how alarmed he is whenever he sends you a new text. Not because he’s worried, but because the idea of a period grosses him out. Why are organic beings so unhygienic?? Machines are so much cleaner and more efficient!!

Ortho rattles off facts about your cycle based on the data he has collected. Basically a living period tracker. (It’s scary how much he knows about your health.) Has a list of light exercises, relaxation techniques, and OTC medications loaded to fire off at you. Also advises you eat each iron, fiber, and protein-rich foods to restock on the nutrients you lost from shedding your uterine lining. Remember to hydrate too! Ortho’s just trying to be helpful!

Malleus is familiar with Briar Valley politics, not bodily functions. Ever curious, he listens to your explanation of periods, staring and nodding slightly all the while. Comes to the conclusion that the child of man is suffering immensely and that it is his noble duty as a Draconia to look after the less fortunate. Proceeds to breathe a line of fire to “gently warm you up”. Then attempts electrical stimulation, which brings about a massive lightning storm that has you dodging, rolling, and sprinting to avoid being hit. Malleus dials it back when he realizes his attempts aren’t that helpful. Sulks about it until you tell him you really appreciate the attempt, but just good food and good company is enough for you. He’s able to provide, using magic to make the cutlery dance and to float over some delicious-looking dishes. Sits across from you and says he will keep you company for as long as you may need.

Lilia is oddly very knowledgeable about periods (you figure 700 years of living and a few hundred years of travel must count for something). Unfortunately, he refers to periods as “the peak of one’s fertility” just to mess with you. Keeps you company while you’re in pain and grabs whatever you need, no questions asked. Tells you about how women "back then" managed their periods with cloth rags, cotton, and even animal fur or dried toads. Peasant women had to go without, as they couldn't afford cloth. Endless stories and songs, sometimes exposited to you while Lilia hangs upside down from the ceiling. Do not, however, eat anything he tries to feed you, even if he claims they are "time-tested herbal remedies"! One time he suggested acupuncture or acupressure--techniques he learned of from the east--for period pain cramps. You turned down that idea, which he said was "a shame", as he had been meaning to try it out.

Silver notices you’ve been looking tired and a little out of it lately. Asks if he can touch you, then proceeds to pat you down in various spots…?! He nods and announces you he feels you have a lot of tension in your body, so you should exercise to relieve yourself of it. (You think about letting him know what’s up, but you’d feel bad for “tarnishing” his pure mind.) Invites you to join him for his daily training. Is kind enough to stop and wait for you to catch up or to adjust the exercise to make it more doable for you. Plenty of breaks to drink water and to catch your breath. His animal buddies sometimes bring nuts and berries as snacks or flowers, which you press to your nose to recharge. You and Silver rest in the shade of a tree and end up napping the day away.

Despite coming from a household with two women and even reading some books on growing up, Sebek is still quite bashful and skittish on the subject of periods. He thinks of it as something weirdly intimate but will never confess that to you. Sebek instead shouts very loudly that “mere menstruation” is “no excuse” to not get up and work hard!! Why, he’s had to endure much more hellish training under Lilia-sama’s tutelage!! … You have him to thank for everyone in the school knowing when it’s that time of month for you. (He gets bonked on the head by Lilia and Silver and is told to apologize, which he does so very quietly.) Hands you a book about menstruation and tells you to study up.

Grim has no concept for what a period is. Acts all cool about it though and promises he’ll take the best care of his minion!! He proceeds to struggle using a can opener to crack open a tuna can (it’s your lunch). Spends the rest of the day acting as a heating pad and weighted blanket over your stomach region. Surprisingly very effective.

NRC Staff + Ramshackle

Crowley smiles and wishes you well—but he keeps taking progressive steps back as he talks, almost like he’s hoping to wander off without you noticing. The man is on a tangent about the weather and changes the subject every time you try to bring it back to your period. What? You say he’s dodging his responsibility to look after his students? N-Nonsense! This is a matter for the school nurse, not the headmaster! You want a magic lift to the infirmary? Oh, would you look at the time! Crowley has a very important meeting to go to. You’d better be on your way to the infirmary then, hmm? Toodles, and best of luck!

Crewel is similar to Vil, aware and mature about how to deal with it periods in his own way. Has a spare pair of pants and a sweater on standby for you change into or to wear over stained bottoms. Gives tips on how to wash period blood out of various fabrics so they don't stain. Cold water, hand wash, air dry! Commands Grim to be a good boy and take responsibility for his partner. "Tend to their every need until they are at full health again. Am I understood?!" Tells you to take it easy, you won't perform at your best in your current condition--but he still expects your homework to be in tomorrow! Willing to grant an extension if needed.

Trein thankfully already went through this crisis when his daughters had theirs for the first time, so he knows just what to do now. Refrains from assigning detention for lateness and lack of attentiveness; lets you off with a very sternly worded warning. (Lucius makes himself comfortable in your lap during the lecture.) Trein discreetly passes along some pads after the other students have filtered out of class. Offers tea and light sandwiches in the teacher’s lounge. Lets you know you can come to him if the boys are being mean to you. He’ll give them a good scolding! After all, upstanding gentlemen shouldn’t engage in such behaviors.

Vargas recommends that you join him for exercising. Physical activity can help reduce period cramps, so up and at’m, champ!! Have you tried having a few dozen eggs? Protein can do wonders for the body! Here, he’ll prepare them for you in a raw egg smoothie!

With big ol’ grin, Sam cheerily advertises his wares. He’s got all the feminine hygiene products you could ask for, any snack you could want, OTC medications of choice, IN STOCK NOW!! The Mystery Shock also offers delivery for an extra little fee if you’d like to save yourself some time (and your body some effort).

The Ramshackle Ghosts are old and dead, so they're... let's just say not that well acquainted with bodily functions. They understand that you're in a tough spot though, so they'll step up unlike Crowley to ensure you're okay! They'll do your shopping, float over to the main building to fetch any work you miss, and grab grub for you from the ghost chefs in the cafeteria. Anything Crowley asks you to do, the Ramshackle Ghosts will do in your place. They even sew together some old curtains and couch stuffing to make a pillow for you to rest on. Randomly poke their heads through the walls to check on you.

RSA Students

Chenya’s eyes keep wandering, and he’s humming some tune or saying something cryptic about the color red. It doesn’t sound like he’s really listening to you, but no—he’s actually been listening well this entire time. Here, chew on this unidentified plant he picked up! It’ll help mellow you out and reduce the pain. Trust him, he learned this from his grandpa! And once you’re nice ‘n cozy…! Nyah! You won’t mind if he settles in for a little catnap beside ya, would you?

Neige frets for your health (it’s no good to lose blood) and, with a kind smile, tells you to please relax! He’ll take care of all your chores for the time being. Neige gracefully tackles the cleaning, cooking, and other housework. He somehow manages to get it done despite also balancing school and his celeb gigs, and never seems to be bothered by it. Sings you lullabies to help soothe you.

The Seven Dwarves do a a group huddle (Dominic leading) and debate about what they should do to help you. They try making music, preparing porridge, and offering you shiny rocks they found on the ground. Once they also picked flowers and swarmed your bed with them, as if they’re mourners at a funeral procession. They’re small gestures, but you figure it’s the thought that counts… right? 💦

Halloweenies (Halloween Event Characters)

Rollo frowns. Deeply. He does not understand why you’re telling him about this. “You ought to be keeping such sensitive health information to yourself”, he chastises you. Keeps his handkerchief pressed over his nose and looks the most disgusted and repulsed you've ever seen this man (save for when he's doomposting about Malleus Draconia). Might give you a croissant or some meds out of pity, but hands it over with his full arm extended to maximize the distance he has to stand away from you, or just leaves the items on a table and tells you to come fetch them. Says he will "pray for you."

Fellow never got a formal education, so what he knows about periods is limited to what he hears through the grapevine (ie various women he has conned). He’s aware it involves bleeding from… down there—he can smell it—but has no clue how to handle it. Has too much pride to confess to the truth. Acts like he knows what he’s talking about by playing up being a doctor. Has Gidel scribble in a notepad as if it is your patient chart while Fellow reads off your symptoms and gives you a random diagnosis he made up on the spot. Hands you an apple he finished eating (there’s only the core left) and pats you on the head, telling you you’ll be juuust fine~!

Gidel is too young to know what a period is. All he understands is that you seem to be in great pain, and he feels bad seeing you like this 💦 He sees you clutching your stomach or lying in bed; is it maybe a tummyache? Gidel offers you half of his loaf of bread. He gets tummy grumblies on an empty stomach too, so he knows what that’s like! Tries to do silly things like making funny faces and dancing to cheer you up.

Skully does not know what a period is. (I’M SORRY, bro lived like hundreds of years ago; am I supposed to believe they had pads back then, let alone menstrual cycle education for men???) He’ll listen to you explain, but his face gets paler and paler as you continue. Makes a shocked, wide-eyed expression, hands on his cheeks. A “why would God do this to women” look. Looks slightly faint after the fact, but offers to assist you with whatever you need; simply call for him, and this gentleman will come running!

[batboysanonymous]

Bird in a Cage

Azriel x Reader

Summary: Grief turned Y/N into a ghost of herself, drowning in the unbearable silence of a bond that should have shattered—unaware that her mate still breathed, just beyond her reach.

Based on the song: BLUE by Billie Eilish

───────────────────────────────

Mm, mm, mm I try to live in black and white, but I'm so blue I'd like to mean it when I say I'm over you But that's still not true (blue) And I'm still so blue, oh

The City of Starlight was quieter without him.

The kind of silence that did not soothe but suffocated. Velaris had always been a place of light, a sanctuary carved from the darkness, but now, it was a tomb.

Y/N barely recognized herself in the mirror anymore. Where her eyes had once shimmered with life, they were dull now, hollowed by grief. Her skin had paled, lips always cracked from the cold air she no longer cared to shield herself from. Even the bond—her soul’s tether to Azriel—was silent.

It should have broken the moment he died. Should have shattered inside her like glass.

But it hadn’t.

And she hated that it hadn’t.

A cruel, empty thing.

She thought maybe she had imagined it sometimes—the way her chest ached like something tethered her still. But that was just grief, wasn’t it? The way her mind refused to let him go, the way her soul still searched for him, as if refusing to accept the truth.

Her mate. Her husband. Her best friend. Gone.

She curled further into the window seat, a blanket draped over her shoulders, though it did nothing to warm her. Beyond the glass, Velaris glittered under the night sky, so full of life, of movement.

It was unbearable.

“Y/N.”

Rhysand’s voice was gentle, but she did not turn to look at him.

She knew how he saw her. Knew what he was thinking.

That she was slipping away. That she had already slipped too far.

“I brought you dinner.”

She swallowed, staring at the plate that appeared on the small table beside her.

It was her favorite meal. And she had no appetite.

She hadn’t for weeks.

“Eat,” Rhys pressed, lowering himself onto the armchair across from her.

She didn’t.

He sighed.

I thought we were the same (I thought we were the same) Birds of a feather (birds of a feather), now I'm ashamed

“Feyre is worried about you,” he said carefully. “We all are.”

She clenched her jaw.

“Y/N…”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

A beat of silence.

Then, quietly—“The bond hasn’t broken.”

She stiffened.

Her hands curled into the fabric of the blanket, her nails biting into her palm.

“I don’t know why,” she admitted after a long moment, voice hoarse. “I should have—felt it. When he—”

She couldn’t say it.

Rhys was silent.

She turned, meeting his violet eyes for the first time in days. There was something there—something off.

Something withholding.

“… What?” she rasped.

Rhysand shook his head. “Nothing.”

In the back of my mind, I'm still overseas A bird in a cage, thought you were made for me

She wasn’t sure why, but her stomach twisted.

But she let it go.

She had no more energy to fight.

The dream came again that night.

Azriel, standing just beyond the shadows, his hazel eyes locked onto hers.

He never spoke.

Never moved.

Just watched.

And she—she always ran toward him. Always reached for him.

But the moment her fingers brushed his, he would disappear.

Vanishing into smoke.

She woke with a start, chest heaving. The bond—it was there. She could feel it, feel him, but it was distant, muted—like something was blocking it.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

No.

No, she was imagining it.

This was what grief did.

It twisted things, made you believe in impossibilities.

Azriel was dead.

The bond hadn’t broken, and she would never know why.

You were born bluer than a butterfly Beautiful and so deprived of oxygen Colder than your father's eyes He never learned to sympathize with anyone

Rhys was tense when she found him the next morning.

Cassian and Feyre had just left, leaving the two of them alone in the townhouse.

“You’re hiding something.”

It wasn’t a question.

Rhys froze. “Y/N—”

“You’re hiding something.” Her voice wavered, her hands trembling as she stepped toward him. “I—why do I still feel the bond?”

His throat bobbed. “Y/N, I—”

Tell me he’s dead, she wanted to beg.

Tell me I’m wrong.

Tell me I’m losing my mind.

But her brother only stared at her, guilt heavy in his gaze.

Something in her splintered.

Her breath came shallow, sharp.

“… No.”

Rhys’ lips parted, his expression softening. “It’s not what you think—”

“He’s alive?” Her voice broke on the last word.

The walls closed in.

Azriel—her mate, her heart—was alive.

And Rhys had kept it from her.

“I had to,” he said, desperation creeping into his voice. “Y/N, I had to—”

But she was already moving, already running, because she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

Couldn’t understand.

Why?

Why had he lied?

Why had he let her suffer, let her mourn?

Why had he let her break?

Her body was shaking, but she barely registered it.

Azriel was alive.

She had spent weeks drowning in grief, but he was alive.

And Rhys—her brother, the one person she had always trusted—had let her believe otherwise.

I don't blame you But I can't change you Don't hate you But we can't save you

A sob tore from her throat, her knees hitting the floor of the garden.

She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the pull of the bond—really feeling it for the first time.

It was there. It had always been there.

Distant. Shielded.

Hidden from her.

Her mate.

Her mate was alive.

And she had been drowning in the lie that he wasn’t.

She gasped, head tipping back toward the sky, her entire body trembling with rage, with grief, with hope.

Because she had thought she would never feel him again.

But he was alive.

And she would bring him home.

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

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[ghouljams]

I’ll never be able to stop thinking about ghost smacking clits😞😞

He’s the type to make you hold yourself open as he does it too

I'm putting him in a shirt that says "don't leave me alone with your clit"

He's just big and mean and you don't know why you let him keep getting away with it. Maybe it's how he kisses your clit and tells you it's good for you before he ever lays a hand on you. He doesn't play at any of that "this hurts me more than it hurts you" crap, he hopes it hurts and you can see it in his eyes that he enjoys the way you squirm and struggle to get away from the sting, only to be pulled right back onto his lap. If you can't hold yourself open he'll get a spreader bar, then there won't be any more of those silly little breaks where you snap your legs closed and whine. He won't have to pry your knees apart with a growl or tell you to quick whimpering when you're taking your medicine.

The worst part is how sensitive the treatment is making you. You can feel every brush of cloth against your poor throbbing clit. The seam of your pants may as well be cutting a straight path to your clit with how it seems to catch against it. Simon doesn't have to do more than brush his thumb against it to send electric shocks rocketing through you, your clit so starved for gentle touch that it'll take anything as pleasure. You see the way your jerking hips make him smile, feel the tight clench of your cunt strangling is cock at the simple touch, and you know he's getting exactly what he wanted.

Maybe you'll be more willing to hold you legs open next time.

[prettygirl-gabi]

Title: Better Than Me

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Rating: M (Mature)

Fandom: UConn's Women's basketball

Warnings: Heavy angst, toxic dynamics, cheating, sneaky link behavior, explicit language, jealousy

Summary: nobody's better than paige in more ways than one

I knew I was playing with fire.

Being with Paige was a bad idea.

Being with Paige while I had a girlfriend? A worse idea.

And yet, here I was—pressed against the cold backseat of her car, her hands gripping my thighs like she owned me, her lips tracing slow, taunting kisses up my neck.

“Tell me again why you still with her,” Paige murmured, voice low, teasing.

I sighed, tilting my head back against the seat. “Paige—”

“Nah,” she cut me off, leaning back just enough to look me in the eyes, her thumb brushing over my bottom lip. “For real. What she do for you that I don’t?”

I knew this game. Paige loved pushing me, loved reminding me that no one could touch me the way she could. That no one got me like she did.

“She treats me good,” I muttered, but even I didn’t sound convinced.

Paige scoffed, shaking her head. “Yeah? Then why you in my car right now, letting me touch you like this?”

I had no answer. And Paige knew it.

A slow smirk stretched across her lips. “She ain’t better than me.”

I exhaled sharply, gripping her hoodie as she leaned in again, her breath warm against my lips. “You think you got me like that?”

She grinned, her hand slipping under the hem of my hoodie. “I know I do.”

Paige had been my problem for a while now.

It started as something reckless—stolen moments, secret glances, late-night texts that turned into even later nights in her bed. It was supposed to be nothing.

But Paige Bueckers didn’t do ‘nothing.’

She wanted everything. She wanted me.

And she hated the fact that I was still with someone else.

It got worse when she saw us together.

I was at a party with my girl, keeping things lowkey, trying not to give Paige too much attention. But it was impossible to ignore the way she was watching me from across the room, dark-tinted windows of her expression giving nothing away—but I knew her too well.

She was pissed.

And Paige pissed off was Paige dangerous.

I felt her before I saw her. A warm presence at my back, breath ghosting over my shoulder as she leaned in, voice just loud enough for me to hear over the music.

“Tell her you gotta take a call.”

I stiffened. “Paige—”

Her fingers brushed over the small of my back, featherlight, enough to make me shiver. “C’mon, baby. Five minutes. I won’t even touch you.”

Liar.

And I was a liar too—for following her out onto the balcony, for letting her back me against the railing, for letting her pull my hoodie strings like she was reeling me in.

“She’s looking for me” I whispered, trying to ignore the way my body reacted to her closeness.

Paige tilted her head. “Then why you still out here with me?”

I closed my eyes, exhaling through my nose. “You don’t fight fair.”

She smirked. “Never said I did.”

The thing about Paige was—she didn’t lose.

Not on the court, not in life, and definitely not when it came to me.

She made sure of that a few nights later, when she showed up outside my dorm after a game, still in her UConn hoodie, a cocky glint in her eyes.

“You break up with her yet?”

I sighed, arms crossed. “Paige—”

She tsked, shaking her head. “I’m done sharing.”

“Paige, it’s not that simple—”

“Yes, it is,” she cut me off, stepping closer. “You either with me, or you not.”

I swallowed hard.

Because we both knew the answer.

Paige smirked, tilting my chin up with her fingers. “So what’s it gon’ be, ma?”

My heart pounded.

And for the first time in a long time, I made the right choice.

A week later, I was sitting courtside at UConn’s game, wearing Paige’s hoodie.

And when she walked off the court, sweaty, smug, victorious—she didn’t even hesitate before pulling me into her arms and kissing me like she had been waiting her whole life for this moment.

Because she had won.

Like she always did.