#there were a few things i did not care for

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

the divorce was far messier than you would have ever expected it to be.

sae had been traveling for a match when you filed for a divorce, signing the papers with messy black ink and sleepless nights. sae didn't know about the divorce; not yet, at least. you could only hope that he responds as calmly to the situation as he usually does with any other scenario that he's ever gone through.

it was almost a shame. almost. you truly did love the itoshi last name, and you would miss having the short-tempered yet kind rin as your younger brother-in-law. but sae was not only almost never home, but when he was, he rarely ever spoke to you unless asking for a favor or question, though they were usually sentiments such as "is dinner ready?" or "i have a match in a few days."

those were the two sides of sae. completely uncaring or only caring about himself or his career. you knew that he had to love you to an extent if he was willing to stay with you for nearly six years and not divorce you or cheat on you a single time, though that was the bare minimum that one could do. you grew up with sae, and he wasn't the type to cheat on someone.

your darkly inked pen soon ran out of ink, and you sighed, staring down at the straining amount of documents you had signed. you wondered how the media would respond to this, respond to the famous itoshi sae's partner having divorced him, especially one that he's known since five years old. you were twenty-nine now. there would probably were even worse rumors about him, about how he treats others. you wanted to feel bad. you wanted to recycle each and every one of the papers you just signed.

fuck it. it's his problem for neglecting you.

it's not like you didn't even try confronting him about it. it's just that when you did, it's always the same plain excuse. "i'm busy." scribbling your name and sae's onto some more papers, you finally reached the final piece of white material. you had felt nothing this entire time, and yet suddenly, before you could even realize why or how, tears began to pool at your eyes.

disappointment is a funny thing. it's like a mix of anger, sadness, and even hints of grief. really just the recipe for disaster. and at that moment, you could feel nothing but the emptiness of disappointment and warm tears streaming down your now burning cheeks. people always used to joke that sae was both your first and last love, and you had always laughed along and eventually began to believe it when you got married. you don't think you'd ever be able to love anyone else after loving sae. you always believed this notion, this joke, to be true, but not in the bitter way that it turned out.

you had sent the documents to court the next day, and already the damage was done. you didn't want a particularly loud case; you despised media attention. but only a few hours after having sent the documents, a dreaded phone call had arrived. it was sae.

"if you think you're being funny, you're not."

you cringed at sae's voice. he was in an entirely different country, and they you could feel the shards of his icy voice slicing your heart open. "i'm not trying to be. i'm serious. we're getting a divorce, and that's final."

for a few moments, the other line was silent. before finally, sae's voice returned once more. "...why?"

and for a moment, you regretted divorcing sae. his voice itself didn't show too much emotion, but the pause from earlier and the slight crack of his voice in the beginning told you everything you needed to know. he didn't want this. he didn't want to divorce you.

"sae, you spend most of your time in another country. sometimes even in another continent. you don't even talk to me at home except for the smallest things that someone can talk to another person about. you earn hundreds of millions of yen every year for the both of us, and yet i don't feel rich."

you could practically hear sae tightening his grip on the phone. "fine. do what you want." he finally stammered, and he hung up.

it was almost as if a marble slid from your throat to your stomach, and it now lay there uncomfortably. the phone slid from your hands, and you felt tears at the brim of your lashes. no "i'm sorry"? no "i can change"? you knew that sae wasn't the type to say those sorts of things directly, but he would usually say a harsher variation of the words.

and suddenly, you remembered. you remembered that sae was the one that began to say "i'll be both your first and last love" to you. he only ever said it once, and that was from when you were kids.

he had kept that promise, but he had broken a million more.

i had "back to friends" by sombr playing on repeat while writing this lmao

[randompiecesofwriting]

Coffee Snob (pt 3)

Summary: Robby removes readers stitches, she brings food to the Pitt as a thank you much to his coworkers glee

Pairing: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: Nothing really just another super fluffy one as things start to get more serious!

Author’s Note: I had absolutely no idea this would grow to be this many parts when I wrote the first one but I am so over the moon with the reception I’ve gotten from the first two parts so I wrote this one too! I’m having so much fun with these two and I’m planning already one more part I think so look out for that! As always please please please let me know what you think! I incessantly reread every comment and reblog with cute tags or extra words they’re my favorite things seriously you all are the best!

Part 1 Part 2

Phone, wallet, keys, phone, wallet, keys.

This was the mantra that resonated through your head as you paced back and forth through your apartment, grabbing anything you could think of to throw into your bag.

Chapstick, hair tie, charger, it all got thrown in.

A book even for while you were waiting, though this had to be a new one since you discovered Robby was keeping the one you were currently reading hostage in his apartment prompting you to now possess a “Robby’s apartment” book and a “your apartment” book. A needlessly complicated system that somehow still worked.

You patted down your pockets making sure that at the very least the essentials were still on you.

Phone, wallet, keys.

With one last look you slipped on your shoes.

Phone, wallet, keys.

Grabbing the door handle you gave the room one last look before turning it.

Phone, wallet, keys

Phone- Robby?

Swinging open your apartment door you came face to face with the familiar physician, warm brown eyes blown open in surprise, fist slightly raised as if to knock on your door.

For a brief moment all the two of you could do was simply stare at one another, the shock starting to ware off as he slowly dropped his arm and the corner of your lips quirked up in a small smile “hey neighbor”

“Hey” he answered softly, another silent beat passing before his eyes snapped to the bag on your shoulder, and the shoes on your feet “headed out?”

“Yeah” you nodded, waving your arm in the air in front of you “finally time to get these out”

He smiled back at that, nodding his head softly “we’re on the same page then, I was just coming to get you”

You furrowed your brow slightly at that, tilting your head to one side in a silent question, had he planned to come walk with you to the clinic?

Seeming to misunderstand your question he shoved his hands into his pockets as he spoke and gestured vaguely down the hall with his head “Yeah I grabbed a removal kit before I left today, come on I’ll get it set up”

Only then did his meaning hit you. He thought you were coming to get him to remove them. “Oh no that’s okay I’m on my way to urgent care”

His smile dropped instantly, eyes scanning over you briefly “why are you going to urgent care? Is everything okay?”

You chuckled softly at his concern, waving him off as you stepped into the hallway and shut your door behind you “yeah I’m fine, just need to get them removed, no biggie”

He seemed almost taken aback by your answer, a frown growing on his face as he brought his arms up to cross over his chest “I can take them out for you”

“Aren’t you supposed to be back on shift in a few hours” You asked with a laugh, the statement being a little hyperbolic but the sentiment behind it all the same “go rest I’ll be fine at urgent care”

His frown only deepened at that, arms tightening in front of him “so you’re just going to let anyone go at you with a blade?”

“Go at me with a blade” you couldn’t help but laugh at his phrasing, smile only dimming slightly as his serious façade still didn’t crack “that’s a bit dramatic don’t you think? Besides I’m fairly certain they all have medical degrees”

“And you know who else does?” He countered quickly “me. They guy right down the hall. Who doesn’t have a wait time and will not charge you”

“Who’s off the clock” You could feel yourself start to get defensive under his disapproving gaze, not realizing how serious he would take this, desperate to make him understand where you were coming from “this stuff is trivial I just didn’t want to bother you with it but if you don’t mind-“

“Of course I don’t mind” he cut you off, his tone almost disbelieving as if the statement itself were absurd “I told you to bother me with things like this”

“You told me to bother you next time I was at the Pitt” Again you were on the defensive “then it was about bothering you with work things while you were at work. You’re off the clock now I don’t want to make you do more work stuff when you don’t have to”

An almost scoff escaped him but the tension held in his stance seemed to fade slightly, brows no longer furrowed quite so severely in frustration “I meant bother me when you’re hurt. Unless it warrants a 911 call come to me” he paused briefly, almost seeming to contemplate his next words before he spoke “I want you to come to me”

You eyed him almost skeptically, watching his face intently, looking for any hint of mistruth “I just feel bad making you work in your free time”

With a dramatic groan he ran a hand through his hair at your words, giving the short strands a quick ruffle before speaking again “you don’t let me take out those stitches and from now on I won’t eat anything you make”

A surprised laugh escaped you at that, your own arms coming to cross over your chest as you mirrored Robby’s posture “what?”

He grinned maliciously at that, nodding slightly as he spoke “I just feel bad making you work in your free time”

You rolled your eyes as your words were thrown back at you “now you’re just being ridiculous”

“Correct” he answered immediately starting to grow smug “this line of logic is ridiculous”

“It’s different” you shot back “I like cooking for you”

He only raised a brow in response, shooting you a pointed look, practically daring you to connect the dots yourself “you’re telling me you enjoy removing stitches in your free time”

He rolled his eyes at that, debating something in his head for a second before speaking, his voice slightly gruffer than before “I like making sure you’re okay in my free time”

You froze on the spot at his words, chest aching slightly as you felt your face start to flush, something Robby seemed to notice as his tone grew smug once more.

“something you did for me just a few days ago when I was sick”

You narrowed your eyes back at him in response, Robby’s expression telling you he knew he had backed you into a corner with that one “I’m making you dinner to make up for it”

He only grinned at that, taking a small step back to allow you room to continue down the hall towards his apartment “you promise?”

Mostly feigning a look of frustration you slipped past him towards his door with a small huff “smug doesn’t suit you Robinavitch”

Robby only laughed in response.

-

This was ridiculous you weren’t nervous to meet Robby’s friends.

That was something people who were dating would do. Something people who were invested would do. Certainly not something a simple neighbor would do.

Maybe if you just thought of them as coworkers that would help.

For better or for worse you couldn’t really dwell on your feelings about the situation, the bags your arms were weighed down with kept you from being able to debate actually going into the hospital for too long.

So fueled more by a desire to rest your aching muscles than anything else you forced your way to the ER of PTMH for the second time in about a week, already regretting the move as a familiar wave of bodies greeted you upon entry.

Before you could talk yourself out of it you made your way to the front desk, bypassing the line of waiting people and flagging one of the nurses who was off to the side doing paperwork.

“You’re going to have to wait in line” she barely spared you a glance as her pen flew across the page.

“No I’m here to see Dr. Michael Robinavitch” You tried to put as much confidence into your voice as you had when you had practiced this interaction earlier.

The move, however, did not have the desired effect as still the nurse’s gaze only came up to quickly sweep you for injuries before returning to her paperwork “As I said you’re going to have to wait your turn in line, a doctor will be by to see you shortly”

“No I-“ you tried to wrack your brain for a way to properly convey that you weren’t a patient, coming up mostly blank leaving you with only one option, one that left you with a too-high-to-be-comfortable chance of completely embarrassing yourself in the process “I’m blue tumbler girl?”

The woman behind the desk froze on the spot, pen hovering just over the surface of the paper as her wide eyes shot up to connect with yours. Your words even had the woman currently dealing with the line snapping to attention, the two woman sharing a silent glance at one another before gaping openly at you.

You tried hard not to squirm under their attention, knowing you were failing miserably in the process and instead deciding to steam-roll ahead “I just wanted to-“ you started to lift the bags in your arm to show them when you were cut off by a loud buzz from the door behind you.

“You can go ahead through that door we’ll let him know you’re here” one of them directed you with a polite smile.

“No that’s okay you don’t have to-“ you tried to protest but the two were already huddled together from behind their desk, rapid fire whispers bouncing back and forth between the two women, both of whom sported expressions you knew would spell trouble for Robby later.

Relieved to at least have their attention off of you, you pushed your way through the door and walked through the hallways back to where you remembered the nurses station to be, coming face to face with the exact person you had been hoping to see.

Dana’s face lit up with a warm smile the minute her eyes connected with yours, dismissing the woman she was talking to quickly and making her way across the room to you, not hesitating to grab one of the heavy bags you were clearly struggling with as she engulfed you in a one-armed hug “hey kid what brings you to the Pitt?”

“Dana” you sighed in relief as you hugged her back “I just wanted to thank you guys for taking care of me last week. I brought food if that’s okay?”

“Of course that’s okay” she waved off your concern without a thought, a steady hand placed on your back to lead you to one of the side rooms as she did so “come on I’ll show you to the break room”

“good I just wasn’t sure if I would just be in the way or if no one would end up wanting it” you gladly followed her lead into the small room, placing the bag you held onto the table.

“please with these animals it’ll be gone in twenty minutes” she shook you off again, working to start removing trays from the bags and set them out for easy access “plus Jianna’s? Better be careful or you’ll spoil them, this couldn’t have been cheap”

“ahhh I-“ you trailed off a bit, suddenly bashful beneath the older woman’s gaze as you helped her “I head chef there so you could say they sort of owe me”

She whistled loudly at that making you chuckle and squirm slightly as she gave you an appraising once over. Eager to turn the attention elsewhere you reached into the bag and plucked one of the drinks from the carrier within.

“Speaking of I came straight from work so no pour over coffee for you today but we do have a kick-ass espresso machine there so…latte?”

Her eyes gleamed as she eagerly took the to-go cup from you and popped the top off, sticking her nose close to the surface and humming softly as she took a deep sniff of its contents. A quick sip later and she was putting the lid back on and bringing up a hand to your cheek, cradling your face in it as she appraised you with a lopsided smirk “I think I’ll keep you”

You laughed through the breath you hadn’t realized you had been holding as you swatted her hand away “there’s one in there for Javadi too if she wants it. Tell her I said thank you again when you see her”

“You got it kid” she winked at you as she took a deep sip of her drink, heading back out towards the door “I’ll go find Robby and let him know you’re here”

“Oh no you don’t have to” again you were stuck trying to persuade people not to bother Robby during his shift.

And again you were being completely ignored for it “nah kid you’re not slipping away from this one”

“Please I don’t want to be a bother I really just came by to drop off some food”

“Think of it as helping me out then” she countered, resting one hip on the door as she spoke “I don’t want to have to deal with a grumpy Dr.Robby if he knew you’d been here and I hadn’t told him”

You deflated slightly at the argument, knowing you weren’t going to win this one, desperately trying not to put too much weight into her words “Yeah okay I’ll be here”

“That’s the spirit” she chuckled back at you as she pushed the door open and disappeared through it.

You were alone for barely two minutes before the door to the room was harshly pushed open and a familiar looking doctor was storming in.

“Hey what’s wrong are you okay?” Robby flew into the room in a rush, barely giving you time to breathe before he was reaching for your arm and bringing the injury up to his eyes to examine it “was it the cut? Did something happen?”

You were laughing before you could think to form proper words, pulling your arm from the man’s grasp without a second thought “Robby you literally took the stitches out for me last night what could’ve possibly happened in the hours it’s been since then”

“A lot for the record” he glared at you, despite everything the corners of his mouth perking up slightly in amusement “but you know it’s not usually healthy people who come into the Pitt”

“I just wanted to bring you guys some food” you forced some extra exasperation into your tone in hopes of hearing him chuckle as you gestured to the half un-packed bags on the table “It was just supposed to be a quick thank you I didn’t mean to bother-“

You cut yourself off at his look, could see the way he was gearing himself up to tell you once again that you weren’t a bother for coming to see him in the ER, something you felt you could push back on since the circumstances surrounding this trip to the Pitt were drastically different than the ones before.

But hoping to spare yourself the lecture you’ve already received you simply corrected yourself “-interrupt. I didn’t mean to interrupt your busy schedule”

The smirk on his face at your correction was much too smug for your liking but you let him have it anyways, a part of you always happy to let him revel in anything that had him smiling.

Reaching into the bag closest to you, you dug amongst the boxes for a brief moment before finding the one you were looking for, pulling it out and pushing it into his hands with a soft “here”

He looked down at the meal appreciatively, raising a single eyebrow at you in silent question.

“Remember that recipe I told you the other day I was working on? I think I’ve got it nailed down so I wanted to have you try it” you desperately tried to downplay the importance of it, the intimacy of Robby being the first person other than yourself to try a new recipe of yours, silently praying he wouldn’t pick up on how much his opinion of it meant to you.

“Ahhh so you needed guinea pigs”

You snorted at his response, relief surging through you at the joke “Guinea pig singular. Rest of the crew gets regular menu items. I wasn’t going to subject them to untested material”

He grinned at you in response as a soft huff escaped him “just me then that gets the risk of inedible food”

“Perks of being my favorite doctor” the words slipped out of you before you could think twice, a brief panic at being too forward surging through you before you leaned into a joke to deflect the sincerity “don’t tell Dana I said that though”

He chuckled at that with a soft shake of his head, the pink tint coloring his cheeks telling you the deflection didn’t land completely “she’s a nurse so you can argue the semantics of the epithet if need be”

“Good I’m not sure if I’m terrified of her or in love with her”

“Yeah she has that effect on people”

A silence fell over the two of you at that that for the first time with him it felt tense, but thankfully not uncomfortable, neither of you doing anything more than staring at one another before you acknowledged that one of you needed to break it. You nodded to the door behind him “I should head out, gotta start my prep here soon, but you’ll let me know what you think of that yeah?”

“Yeah” he nodded in the affirmative, a soft and dare you say found smile on his lips as he moved out of your way from the door “I take me duty as guinea pig very seriously”

“good it’s always such a hassle to find a new one” you found yourself lingering in the doorway, hesitant to leave just yet “oh and there’s a mocha in the bag for Javadi if she wants it as a thank you for stitching me up”

“You’re going to spoil my staff with all this specialty coffee” despite the comment you could see the appreciation in his eye, the complete lack of heat behind the jab.

You shrugged nonchalantly “gotta win them over, maybe one day I’ll graduate from blue tumbler girl to just coffee girl”

He laughed back at that, his head ducking slightly as he did so, crossing his arms over his chest in the process.

You took a brief second to relish the sound, giving him one last look before nodding and pushing the door open with your hip, resigning yourself with going back to work when your name being called halted you in your tracks, your gaze snapping back into the break room to meet his “Thank you. For the food I mean”

You couldn’t have bit back the grin on your face if you had tried “Anytime Michael”

-

“Whoa what’s all this? You order us food Robby?” Langdon asked, never once questioning if the food was even meant for him, hands already digging into the bag to pull out a box, handing it to Perlah on his left without a thought.

“No I didn’t Y/N my uh-“ he faltered suddenly, the words dying on his lips as he struggled for what to classify you as “Y/N brought it in for us, a thank you for stitching her up”

His tone had the two freezing before him, devious smirks passed wordless between them already making Robby roll his eyes before any words could be said, Perlah piping in eagerly with news “Front desk said blue tumbler brought in bags from Jianna’s”

“So blue tumbler’s name is Y/N” Langdon smirked at Robby who was doing his best to tamp down his exasperation, knowing it would only spur them on further.

“I still don’t understand why the blue tumbler was that big of a deal” still the annoyance dripped from his words as he muttered them

“Robby you came into work smiling”

“Humming even” Perlah pipped in, eyes already back on the bag of food as she dug through it.

“Humming” Langdon repeated with wide eyes and a wicked grin.

“Thought Abbot was going to have a stroke trying to process what he was seeing”

“And holding a coffee tumbler that was definitely not your own in a death grip” Langdon was looking much too smug for his liking at the observation.

With a deep sigh Robby rubbed tired hands deep into his eyes “I spend way too much time with you people”

“Dana said the coffee you had in there was good shit too. Way better than the stuff you normally drink” Perlah steamrolled ahead as if he had never spoken, finally choosing one of the take-out boxes and extracting it from the bag.

“Dana’s been drinking from a new green tumbler here lately” Langdon pointed out “plus she walked out of here with a cup that looked an awful lot like this one” he said as he extracted a to-go cup from the bag he had been looking in.

Robby almost regretted having to speak up about it now, knowing it was exactly what they were fishing for, running an anxious hand through the hair at the back of his neck as he did so “don’t, that’s a mocha for Javadi”

“How come Dana and Javadi get coffee from blue tumbler lady” Langdon pitched his voice to sound almost petulant, completely ignoring the glare Robby sent his way.

“She’s not supplying the whole floor with coffee”

“Would you look at that he’s already possessive over her” Langdon was downright giddy at Robby’s reaction, eyes cutting down to meet Perlah’s “think Abbot’s heard about that yet”

Robby groaned dramatically and swiped his box off the table as he made his way out the door before the other two could say anything further, muttering under his breath as he left the breakroom “why is he everyone’s go to”

[kekewrites]

Tw. insecure/introvert reader, angst(?), dark content, noncon kissing, implied noncon/dubcon at the end, jealousy, tension, mutual pinning, misunderstanding, hidden feelings, slow burn(?), stalking, toxic, sabotage, possessiveness, red flag, manipulation, dependency, no actual smut

***

Imagine being the childhood friend of the popular playboy in school.

He wasn’t just a typical playboy—he was popular for a good amount of reasons. He was, of course, hot, tall, with a pretty face, but he also had that effortless charisma. Easy-going, charming, funny when he wanted to be, and somehow still managed to keep decent grades. A good reputation wrapped in the kind of smile that made girls melt.

The only problem? His ongoing roster of girls. You honestly couldn’t pinpoint when or how he turned into such a flirt, it sort of just... happened. Maybe when high school hit, and puberty did him more favors than most. Whatever the case, he became that guy. The one you’d usually only see in dramas.

But it’s not like you had any business with that part of him. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

You two had always been close. Childhood friends. Neighbors. Playmates since you were practically in diapers. Your parents knew each other well, your families comfortable enough to arrange sleepovers that turned into routine. You grew up in each other’s houses, like siblings. Always “the duo.”

But while he bloomed into the guy everyone wanted to be around, you... didn’t exactly shine the same way. You were a little plain. A bit on the bland side compared to others, especially compared to him. While he stood tall, you were shorter than average, often overlooked in group photos. You didn’t have much of a figure either, which made changing in the locker room a quiet kind of dread. Flat and forgettable. You’d never say it out loud, but you noticed the difference.

He lit up every room he walked into. You were just... there. Next to him. Always next to him. Just not quite enough.

But it was fine.

You never made a big deal about any of it. It’s not like you wanted the spotlight anyway. You were comfortable being in the background, comfortable not having all eyes on you. Sure, sometimes you got a few questionable looks when you were with Mr. Charming, but you learned not to care. Let them wonder. You were used to being the quiet one beside the star of the show.

Though, truth be told, you sometimes wondered too. Why did he always stick around? Even when the popular kids were constantly egging him on to ditch you and join them, he never really did. He’d flirt and play around, sure, but he always came back to you. As if none of the sparkle out there was worth trading for late-night game sessions and instant noodles in your room.

"Geez, why’re you in my bedroom...? I thought you were about to go to the concert with them," you asked one evening, raising a brow as he sprawled across your bed like it was his.

“Nuh-uh. Don’t wanna,” he replied, eyes already glued to the game controller in his hand. “Plus, I wanna spend time playing games with you.”

You rolled your eyes at the time, but deep down, your chest tightened just a little. Warm and confused all at once.

It was things like that, small, innocent moments that led to the never-ending question you kept hearing from people.

“Are you guys dating?”

You always shut it down quickly, automatically, almost on instinct now.

“No. Definitely not. I’m not his type, we’re just friends.”

Because that was the truth, right?

Right?

***

He heard you say it all the time.

“We’re just friends.”

You said it so naturally, like breathing. Like it was a fact. Like it didn’t chip away at something in him every time those words slipped from your lips.

But damn, you didn’t make it easy to believe.

Not when you smiled at him like that. Not when you laughed at his dumb jokes, even the ones no one else caught. Not when you looked at him like he was just him, not the guy with a line of girls and a reputation he didn’t even care for anymore.

He told himself he was just being a good friend. That walking you home—even when it meant doubling back—was normal. That flicking some guy’s forehead for looking at you too long was harmless. Just a joke. Even if something in his chest burned every time.

And maybe he leaned in too close sometimes. Maybe he hovered near your space a little more than necessary. But he didn’t do it on purpose. Not at first.

It’s just... you never pulled away.

You made it feel like he belonged there.

And then there were the little things.

The way you always insisted you weren’t picky, but he still remembered how you liked your noodles with less broth. The way he always brought an extra hoodie because yeah, you always forgot yours, and he didn’t want you getting cold. The way he chose the seat next to you, even if the room was empty. Always you. Always your side.

You never questioned it.

Except that one time.

"Why’re you always hanging out with me? I'm not exactly a party."

He remembered how you asked it with a smile, trying to play it off.

But it hit him harder than he expected. So he gave you the truth. Or at least… part of it.

"Yeah, but you’re my favorite kind of quiet."

You laughed, of course. Brushed it off like it was nothing.

But he saw the way you looked down after. The way your cheeks went warm. And he carried that moment with him, filed it away with all the other things he never said out loud.

And when people asked if you two were dating and you laughed and said “No, I’m definitely not his type”—he never corrected you.

He should’ve. God, he wanted to.

But instead, he just smiled. That same tight, hollow smile.

Because you were wrong.

You were so wrong.

You weren’t loud, or bold, or flashy like the girls who chased him, sure. But none of them ever made him feel the way you did.

And you never saw it.

You looked at yourself and only saw “plain.” But he looked at you and saw home.

And he stayed.

He always stayed.

That part? You never really understood.

But maybe… he was just too much of a coward to make you.

***

It happened one weekend night.

Your parents were out of town for a wedding (you didn't want to go along), leaving you with the house to yourself. You’d planned to spend the evening curled up with snacks and a cheesy drama, nothing unusual. The house was quiet, comfortably so.

Until a knock came at the front door. Loud. Repetitive.

You opened it, and there he was, him. Tall, flushed, and very, very drunk.

“Heeeyyy,” he drawled, grinning lopsidedly as he leaned against the doorframe. “Youuuuuu. I missed you.”

You blinked, completely stunned. “Wait—what the hell? Are you drunk? Where were you?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stumbled forward, and your reflexes kicked in just in time to stop him from falling face-first into your entryway.

“Oh my God,” you muttered, arms flailing as you tried to support him. “Jeez, you’re heavy, what did you drink?”

He giggled. Actually giggled.

“Dunno,” he mumbled, dropping most of his weight onto you like a sleepy sloth. “They gave me... stuff. Tasted like cough syrup. Missed your face though…”

You groaned, knees nearly buckling under him as you fumbled to drag his dead weight toward the living room. “You missed my face? Seriously?”

He made a noise that was suspiciously close to a whine. “Yeah… You didn’t come to the party. I waited. Got bored. Left.”

“You should’ve just stayed and sobered up instead of dragging your drunk ass here.”

But he didn’t respond. Instead, he slurred something completely incoherent and nuzzled into your shoulder.

You finally managed to guide him to the couch, huffing and trying to keep your balance. But as you bent to lower him onto the cushions, he suddenly shifted his weight and with zero warning, pulled you down with him.

“W-Wait—!”

You fell right on top of him with a muffled oof, and before you could scramble away, his arms lazily wrapped around you, holding you there like a living body pillow.

“Comfy,” he mumbled against your hair. “You smell nice.”

Your brain short-circuited. “Wha— I— Get off!”

But he didn’t budge. In fact, he snuggled closer, warmth radiating off him as he held you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Y’know,” he whispered, voice thick with sleep and alcohol, “I don’t like it when you say you’re not my type.”

You froze.

“I hate it,” he added, softer now. “So dumb. You don’t even see how much I like being around you…”

Then silence. Deep, slow breaths. He was already half-asleep, completely unaware of the way your heart was trying to beat out of your chest.

You didn’t know what to say.

So you said nothing.

And stayed there, quietly listening to the sound of his breathing, with your face burning and your thoughts racing, wondering if he’d remember any of it in the morning.

Your heart was pounding like it wanted to escape your chest.

You could feel the heat of his breath against your collarbone, his arms still wrapped around you in a lazy hold. Everything about the moment was too much—the closeness, the weight of his words, the way he mumbled "I don’t like it when you say you’re not my type.”

It should’ve meant something. Should’ve stirred something deeper. And for a moment, it did.

But then, reality hit.

This was him—the same guy who’d flirted with three girls just last week, the same guy whose phone buzzed with messages from different names at ungodly hours. The guy who could have anyone he wanted with just a glance and a half-hearted smile.

Your brows furrowed, the haze of warmth in your chest beginning to cool.

Of course he was saying stuff like that. He was drunk. Sloppy. Blurry-eyed. Probably mistaking you for someone else, or worse, just saying the first sweet thing that came to mind because it was easy. Because that's what he does.

The warmth in your cheeks faded. Your eyes narrowed slightly as you stared.

You sighed.

“Stupid drunk,” you muttered, voice flat and unimpressed.

He didn’t react, already halfway to sleep, breathing soft and slow like a knocked-out puppy.

You stayed like that for a moment longer, caught between the ghost of his words and the bitter edge of your thoughts. Part of you wanted to believe what he said. But the other part? The part that had watched girl after girl fall for him and get tossed aside like it was nothing?

That part just wanted to roll its eyes.

Still, you didn’t move.

Because even if you didn’t believe him…

His arms around you still felt kind of nice.

***

You two acted normal after the morning of that. He probably didn't remember what he said, which was a good thing for you. Moved on, like nothing happened.

It's been a few days after that and you were talking about someone new—a guy from your class, apparently. You had that little spark in your voice, the one he usually only heard when you were talking about food or finding a cute dog online.

He didn’t like it. Not one bit.

“So yeah,” you said casually, biting into a snack as you scrolled on your phone, “he offered to walk me home the other day. I didn’t let him, obviously. But he was really nice about it. Kinda surprising.”

He sat beside you on your bed, leaning back on one hand, pretending not to care. “Oh? He did?”

“Yeah. I think he’s cool,” you said, voice light, unaware of how that single word stabbed into him harder than he wanted to admit.

He tilted his head, a smile pulling at his lips, one of those closed-eyed smiles he wore when he was being “harmless.”

“You do?”

You nodded, totally unfazed. “Mhm. He’s funny, smart. Kinda cute.”

There it was.

The trigger.

He sat up a little straighter, the smile never quite reaching his eyes now. “Funny, smart, cute?” he repeated, still with that casual tone. “Wow. Sounds like a real catch.”

You blinked at him. “Yeah, I guess. He’s easy to talk to.”

He snorted. “Right, right. Tall guy? Bit of a clean-cut look?”

You nodded again, chewing absently on your snack.

“Must be nice,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “Bet he’s the type to open doors and call you ma’am too.”

You laughed. “I mean, manners aren’t exactly a red flag.”

“Oh yeah, totally,” he said, voice picking up heat now, even as he smiled. “So polite. Bet he irons his shirts and rehearses compliments in the mirror.”

You gave him a look, amused. “What is with you?”

“Nothing. Just sayin’—guy’s probably all talk. Bet he folds under pressure. Can’t even kill a spider without screaming.”

You raised a brow, “That’s a bold assumption.”

He scoffed, throwing his hands up, still smiling but not meaning it. “I’m taller, better looking, and I don’t have to try so hard to impress people.”

Your jaw dropped a little. “What?”

“I’m just saying,” he said, raising his bottle in mock-toast. “If you’re gonna go for someone ‘cool,’ maybe aim higher. You know. Someone who’s taller, funnier, better-looking, less try-hard. Maybe someone who’s known you since you were five. Just throwing that out there.”

“Huh?”

“And I bet my dick’s bigger than his."

You choked on your drink, “What?!”

He blinked. “What?”

You stared at him, stunned, and he just gave a tiny shrug like oops, did I say that out loud?

You laughed, shaking your head, brushing it all off like it was just another one of his weird ego trips. “Okay, weirdo.”

He didn’t respond right away.

He just watched you, jaw tightening slightly as you turned your attention back to your phone, entirely missing the storm he was trying to hide behind casual smirks and crude jokes.

You didn’t get it, because you didn’t think he looked at you that way.

***

After that conversation, things didn’t exactly change—but they didn’t quite go back to normal either.

He still walked you home. Still flopped onto your bed like it was his own. Still stole your snacks and your charger and your last bit of patience on most days.

But sometimes, you’d catch him watching you a little too long.

Not in the obvious way. Not like the way other guys did, staring with boldness and intentions written all over their faces.

No—he did it quietly. Like he was trying to memorize the way you smiled when you thought no one was looking. Like he was trying to figure something out about you… or maybe about himself.

Then there were the little shifts.

He started texting back slower when you told him you were talking to that guy again. Didn’t say anything harsh, but his replies were short. Blunt.

And when that same guy approached you one afternoon in the hallway, he just so happened to slide in between you two, throwing an arm around your shoulder.

“Didn’t know you liked hanging out with traffic cones,” he muttered with a lopsided grin, nodding at the guy’s neon hoodie.

You laughed nervously, brushing it off. “You’re so dumb.”

But the guy left after that. Didn’t even try to keep the conversation going.

And when you asked him what that was about, he just shrugged.

“Didn’t like his face.”

You rolled your eyes. “You don’t like anyone’s face lately.”

He smiled. “Yours is okay, I guess.”

And then there were those times when you were on your phone, texting, and he’d lean over your shoulder too quickly.

“Who’s that?”

“No one.”

“Hmm. No one has a name?”

You sighed, brushing him away. “Why are you so nosy lately?”

But he’d never answer. He’d just flop backward onto the couch or your bed and throw an arm over his eyes like he was bored. Or tired. Or both.

But you felt it.

Something had shifted.

He was getting quieter about the things he didn’t say. Quieter about how he stayed so close but kept himself just far enough that you wouldn’t really notice.

***

You didn’t say anything about it to him.

Not when you got the number. Not when you exchanged a few late-night texts with the guy from class. And definitely not when he asked who kept lighting up your phone and you lied—said it was your cousin, or some stupid group chat.

Because… if he wanted to keep treating you like you were just his best friend, then fine. Maybe you’d stop waiting. You were plain ol Jane anyway, at this rate you'd end up alone. Not like anyone would like you if you don't even try or put any effort to yourself. Maybe it was time to try something different.

Someone different.

So you said yes to a date.

It wasn’t a big deal. Just a small place near the station, casual, low-pressure. You wore a little lip tint. Changed your shirt twice. Checked your phone four times on the way there.

You even left the house without telling him.

Which was rare.

Because somehow, despite how frustrated you were, you still felt a little guilty doing something like this without him knowing. Scrap that! You shouldn't feel guilty at all, it's not like you're his girlfriend or something. Plus, this was your first date, you shouldn't even think of him.

You got there early. Sat at the little table. Smoothed your skirt out. Sipped water slowly.

And waited.

Then waited some more.

Minutes passed. Then a half-hour. Then an hour.

No messages. No call. Just… silence.

At some point, you stopped pretending to check your phone like there was something new. You just sat there, hands folded, eyes distant. Trying not to let it sink in too hard, but it did anyway.

He didn’t show.

No explanation.

No reason.

Just a reminder that maybe you really weren’t the type to be chosen after all.

By the time you got home, it was dark. You kicked your shoes off a little harder than usual, holding back the pressure behind your eyes. The house was quiet. Your parents weren’t home. Just you. And the lingering ache of rejection sitting heavy in your chest.

Maybe you shouldn't gotten your hopes up.

And then you heard the knock on your door. You already knew who it was.

He walked in like he always did, with a lazy grin and a snack in hand. You stared at him like you hadn’t just spent an hour trying to convince yourself you were worth showing up for.

“Yo. You were gone,” he said, tossing a drink on your desk like usual. “Didn’t text me back. Something happened?”

You looked up from where you sat on your bed, your voice dull. “No. I just… needed some air.”

He paused. The grin faltered, but only for a split second.

“…Did you go somewhere?”

You forced a laugh, shaking your head. “Just errands. Nothing interesting.”

He didn’t question it. He trusted you too easily. Or maybe he didn’t want to push. Instead, he stretched out beside you, letting out a sigh. “People are exhausting. I don’t get how you deal with them.”

You shrugged, keeping your voice light. “Guess I just have more patience.”

He turned his head to look at you then—really looked. Eyes soft, searching.

“You okay?”

You smiled, quick and small. “Yeah. Just tired.”

And that was the thing with him. He’d always pull back just when he was about to see something too real. Like he was afraid of what he might find if he looked too closely.

So, he let it go.

He reached for the controller on your desk, tossing it in your lap. “Wanna game ‘til we pass out?”

You nodded.

Because what else could you do?

You couldn’t tell him your date never showed up. You couldn’t tell him that for a brief moment, you thought maybe—just maybe—you could be wanted by someone else. That someone else could make you forget the way he made you feel without ever touching you.

***

Of course, he knew.

He always knew.

He noticed the shift before you even realized it yourself—how you started texting a little less when he was around, how you smiled down at your phone and quickly locked it when he leaned over. How you’d hum that soft little tune you always did when you were nervous or excited.

It didn’t take much.

One glance at your screen while you left it unattended. One name. One stupid string of texts about Friday and coffee and maybe I’ll see you there? :)

And it pissed him off more than he wanted to admit.

Not because he thought you weren’t allowed to date. Not even because he thought the guy was anything special.

No.

It was because you thought someone else could understand you better than he did. That someone else could earn what he’d spent years protecting.

You didn’t know it, but he was the reason most guys never got near you in the first place.

He wasn’t exactly subtle—especially in high school. Any guy who so much as looked at you too long got “the talk.” A casual hand around your shoulders. A stare that went a little too cold. A whispered “She’s not interested” even if you hadn’t said it yourself.

He made it hard for anyone to approach. On purpose.

Because you were his.

Not in the possessive, boyfriend kind of way. At least, that’s what he told himself. But in the I know every part of you, and no one else ever will kind of way.

So when this new guy started sniffing around, he didn’t wait.

He caught the guy behind the gym after class, right where the hallway cameras didn’t reach.

The guy flinched when he turned the corner and saw him standing there—arms crossed, calm smile on his face like this was just another casual run-in. But his eyes… his eyes were cold.

“Hey,” he said smoothly, stepping into his path.

The guy hesitated, confused. “Uh. Hey?”

“You’ve been texting her.”

The guy blinked, caught off guard. “I—what?”

He took another step closer. “Don’t play dumb. You’ve been trying to take her out. Planning something for Friday, right? Café date?”

The guy laughed nervously, confused. “Yeah? I mean… she said yes.”

That smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Yeah. She’s nice like that.”

Then the smile dropped.

“But let’s get one thing straight.”

The guy’s brows pulled together. “What are you—?”

He grabbed the front of his collar, shoving him hard against the wall, voice dropping low and sharp.

“You’re not gonna show up.”

The guy froze. “What the hell is your problem?!”

“I don’t like repeating myself.” He leaned in close, breath calm and voice terrifyingly even. “You’re going to leave her alone. You’re going to block her. And you’re never going to speak to her again.”

“You’re insane—!”

He smiled again, twisting the guy’s shirt tighter. “No. You’re stupid. See, here’s the thing. I’m the popular guy. Good grades. Everyone loves me.” He tilted his head, voice dropping even further. “You? You’re a background character. No one’s gonna believe some awkward little shit over me. You tell anyone I threatened you, and all I have to do is smile and say, ‘Who, me?’ And everyone will laugh and move on.”

He let go with a shove, stepping back as the guy gasped, fixing his shirt.

“You can call it jealousy. Obsession. Whatever makes you feel better,” he said, brushing invisible dust off his sleeve. “But here’s what it really is, I’m not letting someone like you anywhere near her.”

The guy stared at him, chest heaving.

He walked away with a casual wave. “Don’t forget. Friday? You’re busy~”

The guy didn’t show up.

And that night, when he dropped by your room and found you curled up and quiet, wearing his hoodie like a safety blanket, something in his chest twisted.

You didn’t say a word about it.

But he knew.

He could see the flicker of hurt behind your eyes. The soft smile you gave him—fake, practiced. The way you brushed him off like it didn’t matter. He wanted to feel satisfied. Victorious.

But it just made him feel worse.

Because no matter how much he tried to control things… he couldn’t stop that sadness in your eyes.

You didn’t even know it was him. Didn’t even know that all this time, the reason you felt so overlooked, so invisible was because he’d made sure of it.

Not because he wanted to hurt you. But because he couldn’t stand the idea of someone else seeing what he saw.

You were his quiet. His warmth. His constant.

And if someone else took that away from him?

He didn’t know who he’d be.

***

It started small.

You noticed it when you caught him glaring at someone you’d only spoken to once. When your texts started mysteriously going unanswered. When people who used to be friendly now looked at you like they didn’t want to get involved.

At first, you thought you were just overthinking it. Paranoia, maybe. You were introverted, bad at reading people. You kept to yourself more often than not, maybe that just meant people naturally faded away.

But then there were moments.

Moments where you caught the sharpness behind his smile when someone mentioned another guy’s name. Moments where his “jokes” about being possessive didn’t feel so funny anymore. Moments where he looked at you too long, too quietly, like he was thinking something he couldn’t say out loud.

And then that night—everything shifted.

He was in your room again. Like always. Sprawled out on your bed, head resting against your pillow like it belonged to him. You were on your floor, flipping through old game cases, trying to ignore the heavy beat of your heart.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he said, tone light but eyes tracking every move you made.

You shrugged. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

You didn’t answer right away. You didn’t really know how to. Your mind had been a mess lately, spinning with everything you didn’t understand. Everything you were starting to understand.

“Do you…” you hesitated, eyes on the case in your hand. “Do you ever think people avoid me because of you?”

He sat up. Slowly.

“Where’s that coming from?”

“I don’t know,” you muttered. “It just feels like… people don’t even try anymore.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then he stood. Walked over. Sat beside you on the floor, shoulder brushing yours. You didn’t look at him. You felt like you couldn’t.

You looked up at him, finally and your breath caught.

He was quiet for a second. Then he said, voice low, “Maybe I like it that way.”

And then he kissed you.

Because his eyes weren’t teasing. They were serious. Dark. Familiar in a way that suddenly felt foreign.

Just like that.

No warning. No permission.

His lips were on yours—soft, warm, dangerous. It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t gentle either. It was sure. Like he’d been waiting. Like he’d done it a thousand times in his head already.

You froze.

For a second, your brain short-circuited. Everything blanked. Your body didn’t know whether to lean in or pull away. Because you’d thought about this before. God, had you thought about it. Wondered, dreamed, ached over it. But now that it was real…

You remembered the girls. The rumors. The way he never looked twice at them after he got bored.

You pulled back, breath catching. “Don’t.”

He blinked at you, surprised, maybe even a little hurt.

You stood, fast. Hands shaking. “You should go.”

He didn’t move.

Instead, he gave you a small, crooked smile. The kind you used to find charming. The kind that now made your stomach twist.

“Why?” he said softly. “I wanna stay the night.”

You stared at him.

He tilted his head, like this was all just a game, “We can play boyfriend and girlfriend again,” he said, voice low, teasing. “Like we used to when we were kids. Remember that?”

You took a step back. “That was pretend.”

“So~?” He stood too now, closing the space between you. “Let’s pretend again. This time I won’t leave.”

Your chest tightened.

You want to push him away, your mind reeling with the memories of him being a playboy.

“I said you should go,” you repeated, trying to keep your voice firm.

And you hated that your heart skipped. That your body remembered the kiss more than your mind could process it. But your gut? Your gut screamed something was wrong. You took another step back, putting space between you.

He didn’t move. His eyes tracked you like prey, something unreadable flickering beneath the surface.

"You used to let me sleep over all the time," he said softly, like he was reminding you of a rule you were suddenly breaking. “What changed?”

Everything, you wanted to say.

But instead, your voice came out smaller than you intended. “That was when we were kids.”

A slow grin tugged at his lips—but it wasn’t his usual smile. It was something darker. Almost sad.

“You’re acting like I’m a stranger.”

You clenched your fists, unsure why your throat felt tight. “You are. Lately... I don’t know what you are.”

Something in his jaw twitched. The grin dropped.

And then, suddenly he stepped forward.

You barely had time to flinch before you felt his hands on your shoulders, gently but firmly guiding you backward. Your knees hit the edge of your bed. You stumbled. Sat down.

His body was close. Too close.

Your breath hitched.

“I don’t want you to be scared of me,” he murmured, crouching slightly so he could look you in the eyes. “I’d never hurt you. You know that, right?”

You nodded slowly, heart hammering. But the unease wouldn’t leave.

He placed a hand beside your thigh on the bed, leaning in.

“Then why are you shaking?”

You didn't answer.

Because part of you didn’t know if it was fear… or something else. Something even more dangerous—doubt.

You tried to stand again, but he didn’t move back. He was watching you too closely. Like he was trying to read your mind. Like he already knew what was in it.

"I know you're confused," he said. "But deep down, you've always felt something too. I just had the guts to do something about it."

You opened your mouth, to argue, to tell him to leave again but nothing came out. Instead, you whispered, "I don't know what you're doing anymore."

His expression cracked for a moment—something bitter bleeding through.

“I’m doing what I should’ve done a long time ago.”

And for the first time, he didn’t try to mask it.

[layaispunk]

needs a good fix

jackson!joel miller x fem!virgin!reader

a/n: this idea is by @yxtkiwiyxt !!! i couldn't stop thinking about it.

summary: you can't stop fantasizing about joel taking your virginity.

warnings: UNPROTECTED P IN V SMUT 18+. competency kink. joel is jackson's handyman, reader has no physical description, dry humping, female masturbation, male masturbation, age gap (reader is over 21), reader is a virgin, praise kink, fingering, grinding, aftercare, soft!joel, lmk if i missed anything!!

wc: 4.7k words

Joel was always fixing things around town. 

Ever since Joel Miller showed up in Jackson, folks started calling him the town’s handyman. The way his hands moved, steady and skilled, fixing what needed fixing… he was good. he was good at what he did.

The creak of his boots echoed from the side of the barn as he repaired the gate hinges. A few days ago, it was the broken heater in the art room. Before that, the fencing near the stables. He was the kind of man who did not like to sit still, and Jackson had plenty of things to keep him going. He liked helping around, and it made him feel needed. 

You didn’t mean to notice him every single time. Your eyes just naturally averted to him, every time. At first it was small things.. how he always showed up early in the morning. How he talked to people with that low, Texas drawl, with kindness, and sometimes a little grumpy. It was clear he cared deeply about doing things right. 

His rolled up sleeves, the grunts he made when he was moving, the way his brow furrowed when he was concentrating �� it was all too much. He did everything so well, no neighbor ever complained. Every time you saw him with a tool in his hand, or a smudge of grease on his forearm, something inside you twisted. It started as a quite ache, one you could ignore if you distracted yourself enough. But the more you saw him, the worse it got. 

And you… you were a virgin. Growing up in the apocalypse and all, you never really had the chance to get to know someone that intimately, besides, you were very comfortable with your own sexuality, taking care of yourself, and you were quite satisfied. Boys had thrown themselves at you before, but you weren’t into guys your age, immature and inexperienced. You always liked them a bit older, more experienced. You had a thing for competency, and men like him who were good at what they did. blue collar, broad-shouldered, good with their hands. Men who smelled like whiskey, sweat, and knew how to fix shit other people couldn’t. Joel, with that salt and pepper hair and his worn button-ups, the way he moved, was turning you on. You couldn’t look at him without your breath catching and sweat clinging to your forehead, without heat crawling low in your belly. You couldn’t stop thinking about your first time being with him, how protective he’d be, and how good he’d take care of you.

You didn’t live super close to him, but the universe clearly had other plans, because somehow your errands aligned with where he happened to be. And always, he’d greet you. 

Just a “hey”. Simple, and casual. Too casual for the way heat pooled between your legs every single time. You try to keep it cool, offer a quick smile, or a nod, but your words never come out the way you want them. If he had any idea how tightly you had to clench your jaw every time he walked by, he sure as hell didn’t show it. 

He had no idea what he was doing to you. As far as Joel was concerned, you were just another friendly face in town. You were kind to him, sweet even, traded coffee for paint supplies, but you never stayed long enough to hold a conversation. Joel figured maybe he made you didn’t like him, that you, maybe you just weren’t the talkative type. 

He usually worn button-ups, long sleeves rolled up. But with the seasons shifting and the sun hanging higher, he was showing up in tight t-shirts that left little to the imagination. The fabric hugged his arms just right, tracing every muscle and vein, and it was impossible to imagine what those hands could do if they weren’t busy fixing shit. One time, he reached to grab something from a top cabinet, and with his arms stretched high, you caught a perfect glimpse of his waist. The way his shirt rode up just enough to reveal his happy trail leading down, and the waistband of his boxers. It made you feral.

Every night, you thought about him. What his huge hands might feel like. What his calloused fingers would feel like on your body. How his grunts might sound like if he was on top of you, whispering something low and filthy in your ear. Late at night, you let your thoughts slip where they shouldn’t. Under the covers, imagining what it would feel like to have someone there- Joel, instead of your own fingers, moaning and whimpering his name, hoping one day he would just magically show up and fuck you senseless. 

One afternoon, you told yourself you weren’t going to do anything stupid. But it was a hot spring evening, you had two glasses of wine, maybe three, and it was just enough to make you feel courageous. Or reckless. Tipsy, that made your skin feel too hot, your clothes too tight, and your underwear soaked. You didn’t let yourself think it through. You just walked down the street, heart pounding and thighs pressed tight, wearing a top that accentuated your breasts & an old fashioned lie. and knocked on Joel’s door. You told yourself it was innocent. A neighborly thing.  

He answered the door in a t-shirt. Collar a little stretched, fabric clinging to his biceps. You had to force your eyes to stay on his face.

“Hey,” you said, a little breathier than what you meant. “S-Sorry to bug you. I just-uh… my sink’s acting real funny. The one in the kitchen.”

The kitchen sink was fine.

Joel wiped his hands on the towel slung over his shoulder. “What’s it doin’?”

You shrugged, toying with the straps of your shirt. “Leaking. Making a sound. I dunno.” you said nervously. 

“I can swing by tomorrow,” he said, nodding.

You licked your lips. “I’ll uh…. I’ll leave the door unlocked. In case I’m out. So you just let yourself in.”

Joel’s brow ticked. “You leavin’ your door open for just anyone, darlin’?”

Your heart stuttered. Was he flirting with you? “Uh… no, no.”

He smiled, “I’m just jokin’.” He clapped his hands. “Alright then, I’ll uh.. see ya tomorrow.”

Before you could respond, you turned around and walked back home, your heart about to rip open your chest.  

The next day crept up slowly. You woke up flushed, replaying yesterday’s interaction in your mind like a dream. 

You told yourself not to get too worked up. Not to overthink it. But by mid-afternoon, you were restless. The house felt too warm, your skin even warmer. You kept checking the clock, hoping his knock might come any second. 

And when it didn’t, you grabbed the wine bottle. To cool you down, ofcourse. To calm your nerves. You’d left the door unlocked like you promised him. Just a crack, enough for him to step inside. The kitchen sink was fine. Didn’t need any fixing. But your body…? That was another matter.

You wandered upstairs to your room, still leaving the door cracked, restless and a little tipsy from the wine. The fan hummed softly overhead, but it did nothing to cool the heat spreading low in your belly. Your clothes clung to you, damp from the warmth… and your wetness. You ran your hands down the front of your thighs, exhaling a shaky breath as your fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts. They felt suffocating. You slid them down your legs slowly, the cotton catching slightly on your hips before pooling around your ankles. The air kissed your skin, and you bit the inside of your cheek, goosebumps rising on your legs. 

You sat at the edge of the bed at first, on your back. Your head tilted back, eyes fluttering shit. You couldn’t stop thinking about him. The way his biceps flexed. His Texas drawl dipped in honey. The way he said your name. 

Your hand drifted over your stomach, skimming lightly, like even your own touch was too much. You didn’t rush — just let your fingertips trace lazy, aimless patterns, dipping lower each time until they reached the waistband of your underwear. There was a steady warmth pulsing at your core, a heat that had been building all day. You let your fingers press down, through the thin fabric, catching your breath at the feeling. You were already so sensitive, so wound up from hours of wanting, of imagining him. You were pretending your hands were his, touching you like this for the first time. You shifted against the sheets, chasing friction, letting your hips tilt just enough to press into your own hand. It was slow at first, knowing your body too damn well, until you started to rub your clit in small circles and gasping softly, your mouth falling open. 

-

Joel told himself he’d swing by later in the afternoon, but something about the way you looked at him yesterday.. the wine flush on your cheeks, the way your fingers played with your shirt straps… He was confused. He was old. Surely, he didn’t think you were flirting with him. Why would someone so pretty, want someone like him? 

The door was exactly as you left it. Unlocked, cracked open a little bit. He still knocked softly at first.

“Hey,” he called, voice low. “it’s Joel, you home?”

No answer.

So he stepped inside, slow and polite, calling your name softly. And suddenly, he heard it. Faint and breathless.

“Joel.. Oh..”

His heart jumped. You sounded like you were in pain, or crying. The sound of your voice had him moving before he could think. He dropped his tools, boots thudding against the stairs, every protective instinct in him lighting up. Another soft moan. “Oh God...”

He didn’t wait. “Darlin,? You alright?” He pushed the door open with his shoulder, chest tight, eyes scanning …. Until he saw you. laying back against the sheets, legs spread, hand between your thighs. Your shorts discarded on the floor. 

You froze. 

Joel froze too.

He wasn't dumb. He caught on what was happening immediately.

His mouth parted like he wanted to speak, but no words came out. His eyes were wide, locked on yours. Neither of you spoke for a moment, the silence was thick. 

You sat up in panic, putting your shorts back on. “I-I thought you weren’t coming,” you whispered. 

He looked dazed. He swallowed hard. Took one step closer.

“You left the door open,” he said quietly. “Said I could come in.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think—” You whispered, embarrassment creeping up your cheeks. “Joel, I didn’t think you’d—”

He nodded once, firm, eyes still on you. “You say my name like that all the time when you’re alone?”

You couldn’t speak.

He took another step. “I came to fix the sink, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice thick with something rough and warm, “but I think we’ve got somethin’ else that needs my attention.” You swallowed hard, heart hammering like it might break through your ribs. 

Your fingers were still trembling from earlier. From the way you’d whispered his name like a fucking prayer. And now he was here. Real. Solid. Broad shoulders taking up half the space in the room.

You felt small. Exposed. And yet… your body ached for him.

Joel’s eyes dragged down your frame, slow and deliberate. His jaw ticked.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” he said, voice low. “I just… didn’t know you… felt that way about me.” He swallowed. “I wasn’t supposed to see that.” 

Your back straightened, chest still heaving. “Well, I do.” You blinked. “Joel, you should probably just go,” you stammered, voice shaky. You started rambling under your breath, words tumbling over each other like a flood. “I’m so dumb. I’m sorry, Joel. The sink doesn’t even need fixing. I mean, what was I thinking? I just wanted to see you, like some fuckass teenager with a crush. You don’t even like me like that.” You stared at the floor, too embarrassed to meet his eyes, heart pounding loud in your ears.

Joel shifted awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “Darlin’, calm down. I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he said, eyes soft. “I… like you, I’m just surprised,’s all,”

You opened your mouth, words caught in your throat. “I had too much wine. I just need a minute, okay? I’m overwhelmed” 

He nodded, stepping back. “Alright, I’ll head home, okay?” His voice was low, unsure, like he wasn’t quite sure on how to act after that, and neither did you. He slipped quietly without another word. Did you just fuck everything up?

The next day, there was a knock on your door. 

Joel stood there, hand on the back of his head. “Hey,” he said quietly. “Can I…come in for a sec?”

You smiled and stepped aside, still mortified from yesterday. 

He glanced around like he was gathering his thoughts, then finally looked at you. “I been thinkin’ about what happened yesterday.”

You blinked at him, cheeks heating up. Talk about the elephant in the room.  “What do you mean?”

Joel let out a slow breath. “I wanted to apologize. You were embarrassed. Thought I didn’t… want you like that.”

You looked away, heat crawling up your neck.

He continued, gently, “I didn’t mean to walk in on somethin’ so personal. I swear, I only came in ’cause I thought you were hurt. You sounded like you were in pain, and the door was open, and.. I’m sorry.”

You chewed your lip. “Joel, you don���t need to apologize. It’s not your fault, I should have closed the door.” You sighed. “I didn’t mean to make things weird”

“Nothing’s weird,” he said. “I just.. Jesus, I had no idea you felt that way about me. And I’m still tryin’ to wrap my head around it, ‘cause you’re…” he trailed off, eyes on yours, voice soft. “You’re beautiful, and young. I don’t know how in the world you would want someone like me.”

You stared at him. Your heart was thudding in your chest, heat creeping up your neck, wanting to tell him that you’re a virgin and just blurting it out. “I’ve never… had sex.” Your voice barely carried, but it felt like the loudest thing in the room. “I just wanted you to know.” You paused, cheeks burning, then forced the next part out. “I guess... I’ve been thinking about it a lot. I just want to get it over with, with someone more experienced, you know. To know what it feels like. So, um. That’s what I was thinking about. It’s okay if you don’t want to.”

Joel blinked, his gaze holding yours, unreadable for a second. His eyes dropped for a second, then came back to yours, voice rough, blurting out a confession himself too. “I thought about you too, last night.”

You blinked, confused. “what?”

His breath hitched. A humorless little laugh left him as he shook his head. “Couldn’t get the image outta my head. We’re even now. Ain’t gotta be embarrassed.”

You tilted your head, searching his face. “are you just saying that to make me feel better?”

His voice was low, thick with something darker, more vulnerable. “No.”

Your breath caught.

He didn’t move. So you kissed him. 

When Joel kissed you back, it was desperate. His hands gripped your waist, rough palms dragging over your back like he was trying to memorize the feel of you. Your fingers tangled in his soft curls at the back of his head, tugging him closer, swallowing the low groan he let out when you parted your lips for him. You whimpered softly into his mouth, pressing your chest to his, needing him even closer. He smelled so good. Like whiskey, and soap, and musk. It invaded your senses, and your brain turned into mush. 

His tongue swept over yours before he broke away to kiss along your jaw, then your neck, open mouthed and breathless. 

“Joel…” you moaned, “Fuck,”

Your knees hit the back of the couch, and the two of you stumbled, breathless and tangled in each other until you fell on top of his lap. His arms wrapped around your waist, and he sank back onto the couch, pulling you down with him. Your legs were straddling him, your hands braced around his neck. Kissing you deeper, his hands roamed your back, your waist, your thighs, like he was trying to touch every part of you all at once. 

You rocked against him as he groaned into your mouth, hips bucking up just slightly. His mouth found your neck once again as you kept moving against him achingly, feeling the thick press of his erection beneath you, hard and growing. You were so turned on it hurt. 

“Shit,” Joel rasped, gripping your hips, trying to hold you still. “Baby…”

You didn’t stop. Couldn’t. You needed him. But his hands stilled you.

He leaned his forehead against yours, kissing your head, chest rising and falling under your palms. “Sweetheart,” he said, voice low and steady now, “we gotta slow down.”

You blinked at him with doe eyes, lips still parted. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no,” he said quickly, cupping your cheek. “God, no.” He swallowed, eyes on yours. “It’s just… it’s been a long time. And I want this to be good for you.”

He smiled, brushing your hair behind your ear. “You really want this?” he asked, voice quiet.

You leaned in, lips brushing his, barely above a whisper, “Yeah. I do.”

His chest rose and fell against yours, his eyes flickering down to your lips before dragging back up again like he was trying to memorize you.

He leaned in and kissed you softly, slow and unhurried, letting it linger, letting your fingers drift up the back of his neck and into his hair. He exhaled into your mouth, and you felt the way his hands gripped you just a little tighter.

Then, without a word, you reached down and tugged gently at the hem of his shirt.

Joel paused, eyes searching yours. But he didn’t stop you.

You lifted the fabric slowly, revealing the scarred, strong lines of his chest. Your fingers brushed over his skin as you pulled the shirt over his head and let it fall somewhere behind the couch.

His breath hitched when you leaned down and pressed a kiss to his chest, soft and reverent. Another to his collarbone. Another just above his heart. He wasn’t used to this.

Joel’s eyes fluttered closed for a second, a hand coming up to hold the back of your head like he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve this.

You sat up, heart pounding, and slowly reached for your own shirt. You watched his face as you peeled it over your head. his eyes widened slightly, lips parting, awe written all over him like you were a dream came true.

You took his hands and placed them on your waist, his palms warm and steady. Then you leaned in again, and he kissed you hard, lips sliding to your jaw, down your neck. When his mouth finally reached your chest, your breath caught. he was kissing you there, slow and gentle, like he was learning the shape of your breasts with his mouth.

A soft moan escaped you, hips shifting instinctively in his lap. You felt the heat building again, sharp and overwhelming. Every place he touched felt like it burned.

“Joel,” you whispered, voice breathless, “need you to touch me…”

One of his hands slid down slowly, carefully, finding the edge of your waistband. His fingers brushed your skin, teasing, and you gasped softly. You could feel the heat between your thighs, a growing ache that had only sharpened since the moment he walked through your door.

“I’ve never-” you whispered, barely audible.

“I know,” he murmured. “I’ll take care of you. We don’t gotta rush a damn thing, sweetheart.”

You nodded, heart pounding, eyes locked with his.

“Jesus,” he rasped, resting his forehead against your chest for a second. “You tell me if anything don’t feel right. Any second. You hear me?”

You nodded again, lips brushing against his temple. “Yeah.”

He leaned back just enough to kiss you again, slower this time like you were something delicate, hands trailing up your spine. You arched slightly as you were dry humping on the couch, gasping at the friction between your core and his erection. You stood up, and discarded your shorts on the floor, just your soaked panties covering you.   When you lowered down on his lap again, your fingers found his, guiding his hand between your thighs.

“You can touch me,” you said quietly. “I want you to.”

Joel let out a quiet groan. “You tell me if it feels too much, alright?” he groaned, voice low and full of heat.

His fingers dipped down between your thighs, finding you through the soft fabric of your underwear. He rubbed slow, careful circles against you, patient and steady,  coaxing every sound out of your lips. 

You gasped softly, hips tilting toward his hand without meaning to. “Joel…”

“That feel good?” he rasped, lips brushing your jaw, his voice rough but gentle, making sure you were okay.

You nodded, too breathless to speak. Your fingers curled into his hair, holding on as he kept rubbing you through the thin cotton, your arousal soaking through. He could feel how wet you were, even like this.

“Jesus, baby…” he breathed, his voice thick. “You’re already so worked up for me.”

You whimpered as your hips began moving on their own, grinding against the heel of his hand. Joel’s breath caught, he was getting worked up too, chest rising fast, jaw clenched. His free hand slid up your back, gripping your waist like he needed something to hold onto.

He groaned again, almost like it hurt. “You keep movin’ like that, sweetheart, and I’m gonna cum in my pants.”

Carefully, he slid his hand beneath your waistband, fingers finally touching you bare. You gasped, the heat of his skin against yours sending a shiver up your spine. Then, ever so gently, he slid one thick finger inside you, slow and deliberate.

“Shhh,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple as you clenched around him. “You’re alright. Atta girl. Just like that,”

You whimpered again, his finger moving in slow strokes, your hips rocking toward his hand instinctively. He added a second finger, easing you open while his thumb stroked soft circles against your clit.

It was overwhelming, in the best way possible. The stretch, the warmth of him, the way he watched your every reaction like he couldn’t look away. This was so different compared to your own fingers. You knew it would feel good, but not like this. Definitely not like this. 

You whimpered, getting closer, reaching the climax as your hips stuttered against his hand. Joel was whispering quiet praises into your skin, fingers moving slow and steady inside you, coaxing you open like he had all the time in the world. Your thighs trembled, your body arching into his touch, and the pressure inside you built with every breathless second.

“Joel,” you whimpered, voice breaking, eyes squeezing shut. “Oh, my god…”

“Right there?” he murmured, lips brushing your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re doin’ so good, baby. Just let go for me.”

Your body tightened, back arching, and then the wave came over you. your climax washing over you all at once, sharp and warm, overwhelming and dizzying. You gasped, clinging to him, your hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt as you cried out his name.

Joel groaned, holding you through it, kissing your temple and whispering sweet nothings as your body shook against him.

“That’s it,” he whispered, slowing his fingers as you came down. “You’re alright. I got you.”

You were breathless, body still burning for him, for something more. “Joel… I want to feel you.”

He stilled, lifting his head to meet your eyes. “Are you sure?”

You nodded, fingers curled around his wrist. “I want you inside me.”

His gaze searched yours for any flicker of doubt. There wasn’t any. Just need.

He gently guided you off his lap, helping you lie back along the couch. The cushions dipped under you, the living room warm and quiet except for the sound of your shared breathing.

Joel stood for a moment, just looking at you. Then his hands went to his belt, undoing it slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

You watched as he slid his jeans down, then his boxers, breath catching when you caught sight of him, thick, hard, and flushed at the tip. He knelt between your legs, bracing a hand on the couch beside your head, the other guiding himself gently as he settled over you.

You reached for him, touching his chest, then his face, grounding yourself in the heat of his body.

Joel hovered over you, breathing heavy, gaze locked on yours like he didn’t want to miss a single second. He lined himself up slowly, hand cupping the back of your head against the couch cushion like you were something precious.

When he pushed in slow, careful, giving you time to adjust, you both gasped. Your fingers clutched at his back, nails digging in, and Joel groaned low in his throat, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

Oh my god.

Your thoughts spiraled.

This feels so good.

It was everything you hadn’t let yourself imagine. full, warm, overwhelming in the best way. You couldn’t believe how right it felt, how gentle he was, how every slow thrust was lined with care and need.

This. This is why you waited for someone like him. For Joel.

His body pressed flush against yours, one hand bracing by your head, the other still gently cradling it like he couldn’t bear the thought of hurting you. He rocked into you with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips, his breath ragged against your cheek, whispering your name like a prayer.

“Goddamn,” he groaned. “Such a good girl.”

You whimpered, already fluttering around him, your body starting to tremble again. “I-I think I’m close again,” you whispered, voice breaking.

“Me too, baby,” he murmured, voice cracking as he started to move faster, hips snapping a little deeper now, rougher but still so tender it made your chest ache.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, lips brushing his jaw as your body built toward the edge again. He kept whispering to you, grounding you, worshiping you through every second until everything tightened, and then you broke for the second time.

You came with a cry against his skin, body shaking around him as he groaned loudly, hips stuttering.

“Shit-darlin’, I’m gonna,” Joel gasped, and then you felt him follow, his body trembling with the force of it, buried deep and breathless. It was intense. 

Joel was still above you, calming down his breathing, foreheads pressed together, your bodies tangled and slick with heat. His hand was still cradling your head. 

You could still feel the aftershocks in your thighs, your chest, the gentle tremble in your fingers. Your heart was hammering. You’ve had orgasms before. You touched yourself often. But this was something else. You’ve never had this kind of orgasm before. Every careful touch, every word, every look… he'd made you feel safe. Worshipped. Taken care of.

You blinked up at him through the haze, and he looked down at you like he was in awe.

“You alright?” he murmured.

You nodded, dazed. “Mmmm.”

He exhaled softly, lips brushing your temple, and kissed it. Then your cheek. Then your mouth…slow, like he had all the time in the world now.

“Let’s get you upstairs,” he said against your lips.

You didn’t protest when he gently pulled out, made quick work of cleaning you up as best he could with trembling hands and soft apologies, finding a blanket from your couch to wrap you in.

Then, like it was nothing,he lifted you into his arms. You curled against him instinctively, head tucked beneath his chin, listening to the steady beat of his heart as he carried you upstairs like you weighed nothing.

Your bedroom was dim, bed undone, but it didn’t matter. Joel set you down carefully, then climbed in beside you without a word. One of his arms slid beneath your head, pulling you close, his other hand resting lightly on your stomach beneath the blanket.

You sighed, melting into him.

For a while, neither of you said a thing. Just breathing. Just feeling. His thumb traced lazy little circles against your skin, and you let your eyes drift shut.

thanku for reading!

[faiszt]

cockwarming w bob. that's it, thats the tweet

COCKWARMING ╱ with BOB REYNOLDS ⠀◟ ୨ blurb !♥︎ minors do not interact⠀⠀⠀ ────⠀⠀⠀ headcanon based

diary notes⠀✴⠀·⠀i love your brain for thinking of this, i guess this is bob’s blurb that i enjoyed writing the most. touch-starved bob reynolds save me right now, pls ‹/3

he loved having physical contact with you, whether it was just hugging you, intertwining your fingers with his, or leaving loving kisses on your shoulder. bob liked everything that involved the idea of being able to touch you, of feeling your soft skin and being able to appreciate it the way he liked. he’s touch-starved, he needs it.

he took it literally when it came to deeply touching you whenever he could. not only because it was pleasurable, but because you could talk about anything while his cock was buried inside you, being warmed by your tight, comforting heat that he craved daily. you couldn’t deny him when he asked so politely, caressing your waist and giving you little kisses until you were straddling him.

telling him about your day was part of the process as he pulled his hardened length out of his boxers, moving your panties to the side just enough so he could rub himself against your soft folds. “i’m glad you had a good day, princess.” he’d murmur softly, smiling innocently as if he wasn’t trying to slip the tip of his cock inside you little by little. “i missed you, you know?”

cockwarming almost seemed so much more sentimental to him than sex itself, he liked knowing that you felt like he was a part of you, that he had the freedom to be inside you for more than just carnal pleasures. there was pleasure, for sure, but there was also a deeper connection than just what appeared to be on the surface. it made him truly happier, calmer... perhaps, it could even be said that you were, well... helping to take care of his mental health in a way.

“i missed you too.” you whispered, giving him a sweet smile as your fingers gently brushed some of his dark hair away from his face, he looked at you like you were the most precious thing he had ever seen. “and your day? how was it?”

by this point, he was already completely buried inside you—which made you let out a low moan for a moment, leaving him somewhat agitated beneath you. “the drums you gave me are cool,” bob answered. he snuggled deeper into the pillow behind his head, his large hands gripping your hips, just to make sure you stayed still and comfortable in his lap while warming him the way you both loved. “but, the neighbors will complain about the noise i made all afternoon... i’m not really good at this yet.”

his little giggled warmed your chest, you leaned over him and laid your head in the crook of his neck, leaving a few soft kisses there that sent shivers down his spine. “don’t do that, i get shivers...” he complained, but it was a meaningless complaint. if you never did that again, he’d probably complain that you didn’t love him anymore and that’s why you stopped giving him little kisses on the neck.

“if the neighbors complain, i can just tell them to fuck off.” your kisses rose to the corner of his lips, your eyes staring into his ocean blue ones. “besides, they never complained about the other noises at night... why would they complain about you playing drums in the afternoon?”

his eyebrows raised at your sentence, nodding and processing the words you had said. “other noises at night?” the question was more to himself than to you, so you could almost see the light bulb go off over his head as he really understood what you meant. “oh, yeah... the other noises. you’re probably right, i guess.”

“i’m always right.” you said smugly, pressing your lips against his soft ones for a quick peck—one he didn’t want to stop so quickly. bob’s hand, which was previously caressing your hip, rose to the back of your neck, keeping your lips against his without you being able to move away completely, he didn’t want just a few pecks, not today. he was usually a little more restrained than that, but come on, he was a good boy for you all day like you told him to be when he was home alone, he deserved it.

a low growl tore from his throat, deepening the kiss as his tongue slid across your bottom lip and almost begged for entry. in an intimate dance, your tongues touched and sucked each other while his other hand pressing your hip harder to the point where it slightly hurt as he kept you pressed against him. bob wanted to feel every inch of your body, every point of heat, being buried balls deep inside you still seemed like nothing compared to how much he craved you, not just your body, but everything that means you.

there was no safer place for him than inside you, feeling your body against his, your breathing heavy and your hands against his neck, just how he wanted, the fuel he needed.

when your lips parted, he continued to pepper kisses across your cheek, simply unable to keep his lips away from your soft skin. “you get prettier when you’re flustered by something i did.” he whispered against your ear before placing one last kiss against her earlobe, snuggling into the pillows again. “i like how you widen your eyes...”

these compliments were almost typical of him, always paying attention to every little detail of your expressions, studying your reactions to what he did. bob wanted to please you, in every way, ’cause you also deserved what only he could give you and there was no doubt about that.

“princess,” he called to you when you were silent, enjoying the feeling of being filled by him. “can i sleep inside you tonight, please? your pussy is so warm and it feels good... i don’t wanna pull out. can i?” his eyes almost looked like a puppy’s, staring at you while tenderly stroked your strands of hair. he loved your hair—the color, texture and the smell of your shampoo, every little thing about it—and he knew you liked it when he petted you like that.

“you wanna sleep inside me?” it wasn’t strange, it was just a new request, you had already thought of the idea back then, but it was something new when he was the one asking you for it. “okay, baby, we can do it.” there probably wouldn’t be a day when you’d deny him something, especially when you also wanted to do it.

his smile widened as if you had given him something he had been longing for—well, in a way, that was the case—and he pressed his lips against yours once more. “thank you, sweet pea.” his hand that had remained on your hip the entire time moved, going to your ass and squeezing it, massaging the skin his fingers touched. “i’ll give you your reward in the morning, yeah? pinky promise, love. you deserve all that.”

REQUESTS ARE OPEN.⠀⠀feel free to send me asks and suggestions in my inbox, you’ll be welcome. ꒰ ˶> ˕ <˶ ꒱ ♡

©⠀𝐅𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐙𝐓, 2025.⠀don’t use my work without my consent.

[inbabylontheywept]

Hi there, I love your writing and saw one of your recent answered asks. If you feel like it, could you tell or point us to a story about how you were taught kindness? I worry I have not learned enough kindness.

I actually got out of bed to write this. I saw the ask, and I knew the story, and I knew what I wanted it to be. It's a little fire and brimstone, compared to my other stories, but I think that's an important part. 

My mom was a young woman's leader for our ward and she cared a lot about her charges. One of the girls in her group had parents that were in the middle of a messy divorce, and with the mom reentering the workforce after 15 years, schedules were hectic. So my mom picked up their daughter from school for a while. The daughter only lived a block away from us, so it was a small thing to do for a family going through a very painful change.

Said daughter was fat. She'd been fat since we were all kids and she was deeply ashamed of it. Always trying to fix it. Always reading about and talking about diets. And one day, I was sitting in the back seat, and she was talking with my mom about some documentary she'd seen about the corn industry, and how corn syrup was in everything, and I remember her saying "It's literally poison."

And I just didn't leave it be.  

I said something about if she was sure it was literal, and she said yeah, totally, and I asked her if she knew what literal went, and my mom shot daggers at me through the rear view mirror before changing the topic. They chatted, and my mom told her some stuff about worrying less about food, and I don't remember the details but I know my mom was trying to steer her away from disordered eating. Then we arrived at her house, and she got out, and after that it was just me and my mom in the car. 

And it was awkward. We drove for maybe a half block before my mom said, Babs, what the hell was that, and I said something about how that's not what literally means, and she took me to task for it. 

Who cares what literally means, she said. Her parents are getting divorced. She feels terrible about her body. She feels terrible about everything. And instead of listening to her, you felt the need to point out that you're smarter than her. That you know a word she doesn't. You feel big, putting her down like that? 

I didn't have an answer. We sat there a few moments, silent, before she spoke again. I will never forget how tired she sounded. 

I know she isn't as smart as you, she said. But she's doing the best she can. And you could be doing so much more than this.

There was nothing I could say to that. I saw her face in the rearview a few times on the short ride home, and she wasn't sobbing but there were tears going down her face. I think she sat in the car twenty minutes after pulling in, just trying to get her composure back. I checked on her from the living room window like ten times. I can't remember the last time I felt like that huge of a piece of shit.

My mom is a gentle woman. She cried over worms with me. She hardly ever yelled, and she apologized after she did. That conversation caved my skull in like a cinder block dropped from a skyscraper. And I deserved it. 

I know it's probably not the tumblr way to encourage shame. But I have found it useful anyway. I think it is useful for me, to have a specific moment of knowing what failure looks like and feels like.  Missing the person to pick out the part that would make me look good, missing the big view of their life, missing the idea that what they need is not necessarily to be right. Too may misses.

There are a lot of stupid things that have crawled to the tip of my tongue, only to get stopped by the memory of my mom saying you could be doing so much more than this. 

I will not make her say that a second time.

[silksandcravats]

No Sleeping Alone - Dean x Reader HC

headcanon on boyfriend!dean who does NOT condone sleeping apart from you.

After years of lonely trips and no true closeness, Dean finally has you. And he refuses to spend any more nights alone, at least, not when you’re under the same roof.

No matter what.

Lovers quarrels are inevitable. Dean had always been a hothead, his anger boiled fast, and his sharp words shot out even faster.

Going into the whole thing, you knew your relationship would require strong patience on your end.

But you’re only human, so sometimes you’d snap, and call him out on his shit.

The fight grew to a peak, and to his credit, Dean was the one who stepped away first. Biting his tongue and exiting the room before he said something he really couldn’t take back.

You both keep your distance the rest of the day, opting to cool off in private.

The bunker was vast enough for you to comfortably avoid each other. Even through dinner, you both had found your own quiet moment to sneak in and out of the kitchen in record time.

You don’t know where to go as the day winds down, so you end up back in your old room. It was only a few doors further down the hallway, and you’d occupied it for quite a while.

Only it felt unfamiliar now. The very same room that was once your personal sanctuary now seemed cold and empty.

And damn it have queen mattresses always been this big?

It was just too much empty space for one person.

Still, it felt like the right thing to do, you both needed space to cool off. And the bedroom you now shared had been Dean’s first, so of course you should be the one to go.

This was the most logical place to spend the night.

It all made perfect sense, but you were still feeling sad and lonely as you curled up under the covers.

You pressed your eyes shut, trying to force sleep to come to you. Surely if you just held them shut long enough you’d drift off.

But you didn’t.

You wiggled around the ample empty space of the mattress, unsure what to do with yourself. So uncomfortable with the lack of a second, larger, warmer body, with grabby hands and little regard for how much space he took up.

You tapped out first most nights, you had no problem keeping late hours, but you needed your eight hours. Dean, on the other hand could go on four, even less sometimes. (No matter how many times you tried to convince him he needed more.)

So it took a while for Dean to realize what you’d done. But realize he did.

Eventually the door to your old room creaked open, and you didn’t flinch, you didn’t even have to turn to know who was there.

“There you are,” he sighed with relief.

Realistically, you’d always been somewhere in the bunker, where would you ever go? But in his panic, that logic hadn’t held.

“Why the hell are you in here?”

He’s irritated, but not like before. He’s not irritated at you, he’s irritated at the absense of you.

“I think we both need some space,” you sighed, back still to him. You heard his heavy steps as he moved deeper into the room, towards you.

“No.” He dismissed firmly.

“No?” You questioned back.

“We’re not fucking doing this,” he announced, decidedly gripping you and tossing you over his shoulder in one swift move.

You yelped, wriggling in his grasp until a firm swat to your backside stilled your squirming.

“Damn it, Dean! Did you forget we’re fighting?” you grunted, his shoulder digging harshly into your stomach.

“Well then we’ll work it out now, or tomorrow, I don’t really care but you’re sleeping with me.”

He deposited you on the side of the bed further from the door, your side.

You shuffled under the covers, propping your pillow so it was just so. You were trying to busy yourself with anything other than watching him strip down to his boxers and crawl in beside you.

Even in the early days, before anything was official, sharing a bed with Dean had always meant cuddles. Back to his front, chest to chest, you laying atop him.

You’d even managed to spoon him a few times when he was very very tired. The position was awkward, and your arms would ache the next morning, but for all that he did you felt he deserved to be held sometimes.

Now, for the first time, you were trying to keep space between you. It felt appropriate. It wasn’t as if you could erase the events of the day just because it was bedtime.

(Dean disagreed.)

“I’m too tired for this. C’mere,” He grunted.

He moved your unwilling limbs like a ragdoll, forcing you where he wanted you.

First, the hand around your waist tugged you, middle first against his body. His other arm around your back brought your chest completely flush to his, while a thick, muscled leg around yours brought the rest of you in. He had effectively trapped you against him.

“You go right here,” he hummed decidedly, tucking you in beneath the blanket.

“Dean-“ you protested weakly, not even convincing yourself.

“Where you belong,” his voice was low, content, and final.

As you laid in his arms your mood shifted, time had a way of making old anger feel pointless. You sank into his hold without even meaning to.

However mad you’d felt earlier couldn’t compare to the peace you felt now. The utter relief of being him his arms superseded any other feeling.

“Thank you for coming to get me,” you whispered after some time had passed.

You didn’t know if he was still awake, if he’d heard you until he answered.

“M’always gonna come get ya.” His tired voice croaked, chest rumbling against you. “You’re not going anyway.”

“Don’t want to go anywhere,” you agreed sleepily, wiggling closer against him.

“Good.”

[lilith-vodkaaunt-of-demons]

This reminds me of my grandpa. As an animal lover, I bit my tongue for years as I listened to my grandpa say things like "The only good cat is a dead cat." And "The only use a cat has is keepin' mice out of a Barn."

Then we moved in for a few months because the guy living in the apartment we were supposed to be renting wouldn't move out and the landlords wouldn't spend the money to evict him. And that meant our cats moved in with us.

That was when my grandparents met our cat Mercedes. It started out cold at first, she was only allowed to live in the basement, but over the course of a week she managed to melt both my grandma and (more impressively) my grandpa's heart.

By the end of the first month, Mercedes had more freedom in that house than I did. Mr. "Only good cat is a dead cat" let Mercedes nap in his '55 Ford Mercury Montclair, something even my mom and I had to be careful around. Wouldn't move her if she was napping under the lamp on his desk, and would sit in his chair moving as little as possible for however long she slept there (although methinks it was not as begrudging as he made it seem.)

My elderly Scottish mother has discovered that she can send me Amazon (and other) gift cards in the mail/via email and has become unstoppable. I keep telling her not to, but she's enjoying herself, so whatever.

Anyway. She just sent Holly Mop a get-well gift card for our local pet store, lmao.

Guess I'm taking the dog shopping.

[lordtardigrade]

I love the idea of John hearing that you want a divorce and just deciding you're clearly not in your right mind and can't be trusted to make decisions for yourself anymore.

When you try to leave him, it’s during a big argument…. A big argument. Things were getting heated, the argument reaching its peak and turning into a screaming match that ended up with the police being called.

He’d seen a chance, and he’d taken it.

He could almost convince himself that what he’d done had been out of genuine concern for you… He knew better, but he couldn’t admit it, not when he’d then proceeded to do far worse with even less justification.

Oh, how you’d glared when he told the officer that he was worried about you- that your behavior was “irrational”.

And it was… at least in his mind. He just didn’t mention specifics, lest the good officers definition of irrationality differ from his own.

Just like how when he’d told the officer about your self harm and suicidal thoughts, he didn’t mention how long ago that had been, nor did he mention the treatment you’d received since then.

And that’s really all it took. From the moment the officer gave John that sympathetic glance, he’d known he’d won. When the man takes John to the side, quietly asking him if he thought you needed to be brought to a facility, John turned, giving you an apologetic look as you glared at him, fists clenched in anger as you silently fumed.

“Yes… I think that would be for the best.” He says softly, faking guilt and internal conflict over the decision.

Seeing the betrayal and confusion in your eyes had almost made him regret it.

Almost.

But he knew this was for the best. You weren’t in your right mind- how else could you say you wanted to leave him?

And the more he repeated those words, the more he came to believe them.

Of course, the involuntary hold would only last 72 hours, and John knew you’d be livid once you got out. He had to make sure he was ready for you to come home. All it had really given him was time.

The emergency conservatorship is surprisingly easy to acquire. Your admittance to the mental hospital combined with you not being able to appear in court and defend yourself made it a relatively easy win.

Getting a proper conservatorship set up would be a bit more difficult of a process, but John had already contacted Nikolai and asked him for assistance with finding a doctor willing to… fudge the truth a bit for the papers. The man’s contacts would also come in hand when it came to getting his hands on some of the medications he’d be keeping on hand until you settled down a bit… just for when you got yourself a bit too worked up.

It’s a rough couple months, because christ- you’re beyond livid with him. Once you finally wear yourself out with all your crying and screaming, John’s left with a sobbing wife who looks up at him with her eyes heart broken from betrayal.

It breaks his heart when you look at him like that, but he has to remind himself, this is all for your sake. You’ll understand that one day.

John takes to his new task of caring for his wife with a steady but firm hand, allowing you to pout and mope for a few weeks as you adjust to what is- admittedly- a big change. It’s only when you turn that anger towards him or bring up wanting to leave that he has to correct you.

When he hands you a cup of water and a little blue pill, you know he’s not asking.

The Midazolam usually does the trick, but occasionally John has to be a bit harsher in his corrections.

He has faith you’ll come around. He doesn’t even hold your behavior against you, his poor wife is dealing with a lot, and if stepping up to take care of you is what he needs to do to keep you with him safe, then that’s what he’ll do.

And when you do finally accept your new life? He couldn’t be happier. He’s so glad you were finally able to move past what he’d done- what had to be done to protect you.

[dior-luxury]

How'd They Handle Your Relationship Going Public

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff/romance - f!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] isagi . yukimiya . oliver . sae . michael

- [𝐩:𝐬] Possessiveness (Subtle) . Emotional Pressure . Media Intrusion . Public Scrutiny & Online Harassment . Emotional Intensity . Mentions Of Toxic Fandom

Note: So- these kinda got reallyy long LOL

Isagi Yoichi

Dating Isagi Yoichi wasn’t about fireworks or public spectacles.

It was subtle. Sacred.

You fell for him back when the world was just starting to know his name — before the viral goals, before the press conferences, before “Egoist” became a brand instead of just an insult people threw at him on the field.

He was still Yoichi back then. The guy who walked you home under quiet skies after long study days. Who left you hand-written notes in your bag, or called you at midnight to vent about training and self-doubt. The boy who looked at you like you were the one thing in his life not measured by rankings or goals.

“You make me feel real,” he said once.

“Even when the rest of the world treats me like a story.”

And you smiled, brushing a hand through his hair, saying the words he never quite believed:

“You’re more than enough.”

It started with a photo.

You’d waited for him outside a post-match event — nothing dramatic, just a quiet corner away from cameras, a hoodie pulled low, arms crossed as you bounced on your heels. He spotted you and smiled that exhausted, radiant smile — the one that only ever seemed to show when he saw you.

He jogged over, grabbed your hand, and tugged you into a hug so tight you didn’t even notice the flash from a phone across the street.

A fan had caught it. By morning, it was trending:

“ISAGI’S MYSTERY GIRLFRIEND??” “Who is the girl Isagi Yoichi hugged after the match?” “#YoichiLove — Bluelock Star Seen With Partner!”

You didn’t even realize the story had broken until your phone buzzed with thirty notifications and your social media was flooded.

And Isagi? He called you five minutes later.

“I’m so sorry,” he said before you could even speak. His voice was hoarse. Anxious.

“I didn’t think — I wasn’t careful —”

You stopped him gently.

“Yoichi. Breathe.”

But he was spiraling.

“They’re going to twist it. They’re going to make you into some villain, or a fangirl, or say you’re a distraction— I didn’t protect you well enough.”

That hurt more than anything — not the media, not the attention. Just hearing how he blamed himself for being loved.

Yoichi wasn’t flashy. He didn’t make bold declarations online. But he believed in honesty — in earning everything, not just on the pitch, but in life.

So instead of hiding you, he did something few players would:

He acknowledged you.

Not with a viral post or a dramatic reveal — just a few sentences in a quiet press interview, when a reporter inevitably asked, “Is the person in the photos your girlfriend?”

He smiled — that awkward, slightly crooked smile he wore when he was nervous but firm.

“Yeah. She is. I don’t want to hide the people who believe in me. Especially not the one who’s been there since the start.”

The internet exploded again — this time with less speculation and more stunned admiration.

“ISAGI CONFIRMS RELATIONSHIP!” “Simp king behavior?!?!” “Yoichi out here being respectful, loyal AND talented—”

Surprisingly, most of the feedback was positive. Even fans who’d worshiped him as their fictional boyfriend begrudgingly respected how he handled it. It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t arrogant.

It was just real.

Still, the adjustment wasn’t easy.

Suddenly, your name trended with his. You were tagged in edits. Rumors circulated. Fans analyzed your outfits, your expressions in the background of blurry photos. Some idolized you. Some resented you.

You once told Yoichi how overwhelming it was — how suffocating it felt to be seen by so many strangers.

He listened, eyes dark with quiet intensity, then pulled you close.

“We can disappear whenever you want,” he murmured. “I’ll take us anywhere. Just say the word.”

You shook your head against his chest.

“I don’t want to run. I just want to feel safe with you.”

And he looked at you like you’d just scored the winning goal.

“Then that’s what I’ll protect. Not the image. You.”

You never quite got used to the cameras. But you got used to him — to how he’d squeeze your hand before stepping onto the pitch, to how he’d always find your eyes in the crowd, to how he never let the world take away the quiet between you.

He still wrote you notes. Still called you before matches, even if it was just to say,

“I’ll play better knowing you’re watching.”

And every time a headline surfaced, or a new photo went viral, he handled it the same way — with grace, respect, and unwavering devotion.

“They can watch,” he told you once, fingers laced with yours as the city lights blinked outside the hotel balcony.

“Let them. Just means more people get to see what I already know — that loving you was the best decision I ever made.”

Yukimiya Kenyu

Yukimiya wasn’t like the other players.

While many flaunted confidence in interviews and thrived on spectacle, Yukimiya moved with a different kind of grace. He was precise. Sharp. Fashionable, yes — maybe even elegant — but always calculating. He had a past he didn’t often talk about, a future he fought for like every breath was borrowed time.

And somehow, despite his walls, you were the one who slipped through.

You weren’t loud about it. Neither was he. Dates were quiet. Rooftops. Galleries. Libraries. His hand always found yours under tables, behind curtains, in the quiet corners of his schedule where the world forgot to look.

He liked it that way — liked the sense that this was his, untouched by cameras, untouched by expectations. You weren’t someone he had to perform for. You saw him beyond the rising football star, beyond the reconstructed corneas and interviews about perseverance.

“You see me,” he said once, “even when I can’t.”

You hadn’t known what to say, so you just kissed him softly and squeezed his hand.

You weren’t even doing anything scandalous — just sitting across from each other in a Kyoto café, a book open between you, sharing matcha and chocolate pastries. A fan had taken a blurry picture. The internet took care of the rest.

At first, it was subtle:

“Is that Yukimiya Kenyu in the background?” “Who’s that girl? Is he dating her?”

Then came the full unraveling: tagged posts, speculative gossip blogs, news articles prying into your identity. Someone even found your university and posted photos of your class schedule. It was invasive. Fast. Brutal.

And Yukimiya?

He froze.

He didn’t answer your messages for the first 24 hours.

You weren’t mad — just... worried. Yukimiya lived in constant pursuit of control. His style, his image, his brand — they were all sculpted with care. Even his recovery from his eye condition had been framed as a “reawakening” in interviews.

Now that frame was splintering.

When he finally showed up at your door, he looked exhausted. Hoodie pulled over his eyes, glasses on, jaw tight with unspoken tension. You let him in without a word.

He sat on your couch like the weight of the world had just pressed him flat.

“I didn’t want it to happen like this,” he said after a while, voice low. “Not this messy. Not... uncontrolled.”

You sat beside him. “You mean us being known?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“I was afraid it would make you a target. That people would judge you for choosing someone like me.”

That sentence struck you like a slap of cold air. Someone like me.

“Yuki,” you said gently, “you’re not damaged. You’re not broken. And I’m not ashamed to be with you.”

He exhaled shakily. “But they’ll never understand.”

You rested your head on his shoulder. “Then let them misunderstand.”

Yukimiya didn’t rush to post about you. He didn’t tweet a declaration. No Instagram story reveal. That wasn’t his style.

Instead, he granted a one-on-one interview with a respected journalist he trusted. In it, he talked about life after his eye surgery, his evolution as a player, and finally — near the end — he said:

“There’s someone important in my life. She’s not a public figure, and she didn’t ask for this attention. But she’s been a part of my journey. Quietly. Steadily. And I’m thankful for her.”

No names. No theatrics. Just truth — calm, composed, and deliberate.

The response was... surprisingly warm.

Fans praised his maturity. Commentators highlighted how he’d handled it with class. Most importantly, no more pictures were leaked. The frenzy faded. The boundary held.

One night, weeks later, he brought you to the top floor of an art museum after hours. A private event. Just the two of you. Paintings surrounded you like silent witnesses.

He stood beside a piece he liked — a minimalist skyline fading into a misted sunrise — and turned to you.

“I used to think love was something I had to earn. That I had to be impressive enough. Neat enough. Strong enough to deserve it.”

You reached for his hand.

“And now?”

“Now I think love is what makes me brave enough to be seen.”

He turned to you fully, pulling you into his arms, forehead resting against yours.

“Even when it’s messy.”

The world knew about the two of you — but only what you allowed.

You attended matches, sometimes. He’d glance at you in the stands before kickoff, and you’d give him that quiet nod — his anchor. The one that steadied him before the storm.

Fans respected the space you created. Maybe it was how Yukimiya carried himself — with a quiet pride and gentle resolve. Maybe it was because you never needed to prove your love was real. You just lived it.

And when someone asked him years down the line how he balanced fame and relationships, he just smiled, ever the minimalist.

“When you find someone who helps you see clearly... you don’t let them go.”

Oliver Aiku

You never quite saw it coming. One day he was just that guy on the U-20 team, cocky and golden-eyed with a smirk that could stop traffic. The next, he was the one calling you at midnight because he couldn’t sleep before a match, or because he “missed the way your voice sounds when you’re sleepy.”

For months, it was yours alone — private, unsharable. He liked it that way. You both did. The rest of the world could have his smirks, his post-match charm, his “loverboy” persona in interviews. But you had something different.

You had Oliver soft.

When the two of you were alone, he dropped the pretense. He let you see him insecure, exhausted, kind. He’d curl an arm around your waist and talk about the pressure of being team captain, of always being expected to lead. You’d press your forehead to his and promise he didn’t have to perform for you.

And he’d just whisper, “Good. Because I’m tired of being everyone’s image.”

It was a video. Not even anything scandalous.

Just a short clip someone recorded at a rooftop bar in Shibuya — you and Oliver dancing under dim lights, laughing, your fingers looped through the necklace he always wore. He pulled you in by the waist like no one was watching. Unfortunately, someone was.

The internet did what it always did: erupted.

“Who is she??” “Oliver Aiku has a girlfriend?? No way he’s settling down.” “This better be a joke, he flirts with literally everyone on Earth—”

Your DMs filled with messages, some supportive, others venomous. Pictures were dug up. Threads were made. Fan edits. Fancams. Hate. Fanfiction.

And at the center of it all?

You — frozen in place on your couch, scrolling through the chaos, heart in your throat.

Oliver didn’t respond right away.

He was in training when it went viral, and by the time he called you that night, the storm had fully formed.

“You okay, babe?”

His voice was soft, low. Not his usual flirt. You could tell he'd seen the worst of it.

You hesitated. “I don’t know.”

There was a pause. Then:

“Pack a bag. I’m coming to get you.”

You spent the weekend holed up in a villa he rented — outside the city, quiet, private. No paparazzi. No noise.

Oliver barely touched his phone. He spent most of the time just being there — cooking, teasing you into eating, pulling you into his lap like he needed to feel you near. And when you finally broke down — not loud, just quiet tears that slipped down your cheek — he held your face like it was fragile.

“They don’t get to decide what this is,” he said. “We do.”

“But they’re already tearing it apart,” you whispered.

His jaw clenched, and for once, the flirty glint in his eyes vanished.

“Then let me show them exactly who I’m with. And what happens when they f*ck with my girl.”

Oliver Aiku was known for his charm. The press loved him — the hair, the grin, the way he played both the field and the media. So when he asked to make a personal statement during a press conference the following week, people assumed it was a stunt.

But it wasn’t.

He walked in wearing a navy-blue suit, calm as a sea before a tidal wave. Cameras flashed. Reporters murmured.

Then he took the mic.

“Yeah. That was me in the video. That’s my girlfriend. And if you’ve got a problem with it — if any of you think this changes how I play, how I lead, or who I am — I don’t care. She’s not a weakness. She’s the reason I breathe easier before games. The reason I sleep better. And if supporting me means hating her? Don’t support me.”

It was blunt. Direct. No theatrics. No filters.

And it worked. The internet bent.

Suddenly, fans started changing tune. You weren't just “the girl in the video” — you were his. And not in a possessive way. In a part of his story way.

Fan art showed up. Support posts. People admired the rawness of how he defended you. And slowly, the tide turned.

You were still nervous in public sometimes. Oliver noticed.

So he'd make a game of it — kissing your hand in the middle of a crowd, tossing an arm around your shoulder while the press followed, flashing them a cocky grin like: “Yeah, I’m hers. Get over it.”

But when you were alone, the confidence faded, replaced with something real.

Years later, he joked about it.

“They thought I couldn’t commit to a single girl. Joke’s on them, huh?”

You were lying in bed, your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear.

“You’re the only thing I’ve ever wanted to keep forever,” he added quietly, brushing your hair away from your eyes.

He had no defense against you.

And the world? It could watch all it wanted — because Oliver Aiku had nothing left to hide.

Sae Itoshi

At first, he didn’t say anything.

When the photo leaked — a candid one of you exiting a quiet Tokyo café with his hand casually resting on the small of your back — the media’s reaction was instant, and loud. Commentators speculated. Fans dissected every pixel. Your name, previously unknown to the public, was now splashed across headlines next to his.

“Sae Itoshi Spotted With Mystery Lover — New Flame or Just a Friend?”

You were neither shocked nor surprised. Dating Sae came with that unspoken risk. You’d been careful, both of you had. Sae hated the spotlight outside of football. And yet, even with all your precautions, the world found a way.

You waited for him to react — to say something, anything. But Sae, being Sae, remained unreadable.

That night, you sat together on the balcony of his apartment in Madrid. The city lights twinkled below like scattered stars. He was sipping tea, calm as ever, eyes distant, not touching his phone — which was blowing up with notifications.

You finally broke the silence. “So… what now?”

He glanced at you, just for a second, then looked back out into the night.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded, though the knot in your stomach said otherwise. He could see it — of course he could. You weren’t sure if the worst part was the people combing through your personal photos or the vicious fans commenting that you weren’t “good enough” for him.

“They’re being brutal,” you said softly.

He set his tea down and turned to you fully.

“Ignore them.”

You huffed. “That’s easy for you to say. You’ve trained your whole life to not care what people think.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Exactly. So let me teach you.”

The next morning, you woke up to him sitting at the edge of the bed, phone in hand, fingers scrolling through comments you couldn’t bring yourself to read.

“I told them to back off,” he said, like it was the weather.

You blinked groggily. “Who?”

“My PR team. My manager. I told them we’re not hiding anything. No cover-ups. No fake denials.”

You stared. This wasn’t the reaction you expected from someone as reserved and private as Sae Itoshi.

He stood and walked over to you, leaning down slightly so his forehead almost touched yours.

“I’m not going to pretend you don’t matter to me. If they can’t handle that, they’re not my fans.”

Your breath caught.

He wasn’t dramatic about it. He wasn’t loud. But that was Sae’s way. His loyalty was quiet, unwavering — like the tide.

The football world spun on its axis.

While some fans were in denial, many respected Sae’s stoicism and honesty. His response wasn’t explosive like Kaiser’s or cheeky like Bachira’s — it was definitive. His social media post, short and clinical, read:

“I’m in a relationship. It’s not your business. Respect it, or leave.”

The caption was paired with a single photo: you and him sitting on a park bench, your hand resting on his knee as he stared straight into the camera. Not smiling — but not hiding either.

At matches, the cameras started to pan to you in the stands. You kept your expression neutral, remembering Sae’s advice: don’t let them see what they want to see — just be yourself.

The other players respected you. Rin, surprisingly, didn’t say much — but he acknowledged you now, and that was enough. Sae never made a show of affection in public, but after each match, when the press swarmed him and he seemed miles away from it all, his eyes would search for yours in the crowd — and soften.

And later, in the quiet of your shared apartment, after the chaos had faded, he’d rest his head in your lap, fingers loosely intertwined with yours, voice low and honest. You traced a finger through his hair, and he leaned into the touch.

“You make everything quieter,” he whispered.

The world moved on. Scandals came and went. Fandoms shifted.

But your relationship stayed solid — not because it was flashy or idolized, but because it was built on knowing. Knowing when to speak, and when to just be. Knowing that love doesn’t need to shout to be real.

Michael Kaiser

When news broke that Michael Kaiser — the prodigy, the self-proclaimed emperor of the field — was in a relationship, the world didn't just react. It combusted.

Twitter trended. Sports tabloids foamed. Fans raged and swooned. And at the center of it all was a picture. Not some grainy paparazzi shot — no. It was him. Kaiser. Post-match, sweat clinging to his temple, jersey slung over his shoulder — and his arm around you. His head bowed to whisper something in your ear, and you, flushed with affection, smiled in a way the world hadn’t seen him smile before.

You and Kaiser had been together for just under a year. A secret year, full of subtle gestures, hidden rendezvous, and text threads that could melt steel with their heat and tenderness. Michael had always kept the world at arm’s length, cloaked in arrogance and splendor — a star with sharp edges. But you? You’d seen beyond the diamond-cut smirks and cocky winks. You’d seen the person behind the persona.

And that person, for all his bravado, was intensely private.

So when the photo leaked — probably snapped by someone in the VIP box who couldn’t resist the scoop — your stomach dropped. You knew the storm that was coming.

And yet, when you confronted him about it later that night, sitting in the plush silence of his Berlin apartment, he just leaned back on the couch, one leg draped over the other, and grinned.

“So what? Let them know,” he said with a shrug, sipping his espresso like this was just another day. “They’re obsessed with me already. Might as well give them another reason.”

You blinked. “You’re not... upset?”

He looked over at you — really looked. That sharp, imperial gaze softened just a little.

“Why would I be upset about them knowing I have the most precious thing in the world?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. He reached over and gently ran his thumb along your cheekbone, then tapped the tip of your nose.

“Let them scream. Let them cry. I don’t care. I’m Kaiser. And you? You’re mine.”

The reaction was volcanic.

Fan forums exploded. Some cried betrayal, their delusions of ever being with him shattered. Others became obsessed with learning everything about you. Pictures were dug up. Speculation ran rampant. Were you a model? A secret heiress? A spy?

Some of the headlines were vile. Others were absurd. One read: "Michael Kaiser’s Secret Weapon — Is Love His New Training Regimen?"

At first, it was overwhelming. You’d never been in the public eye, and now your face was plastered on international sports gossip sites. Your phone buzzed nonstop. Comments flooded your socials. Threats. Questions. Weird fan art.

You tried to hide it, but Kaiser noticed. Of course he did.

One morning, you woke up to find your name trending again — but this time because of him.

In a post-match interview, after effortlessly sinking three goals, Kaiser stood before a horde of reporters, sweat still glistening on his brow.

“Michael, there’s been a lot of talk about your relationship lately. Do you think it’s affecting your game?” one reporter asked, voice laced with implication.

Kaiser smiled — a slow, razor-sharp smirk.

“Yes,” he said, to the surprise of everyone. “It’s making me better. I was already the best in the world. Now, I’ve got someone who believes in me even when I’m not on the field. That’s power none of you could understand.”

The reporters laughed nervously. He wasn’t done.

“Also, if anyone thinks they can talk about my partner — or threaten them — and not answer to me? Try it. See what happens.”

The clip went viral in seconds. Fan culture shifted overnight. His most loyal supporters, seeing the genuine affection in his eyes, began to support you. Protect you. Others backed off entirely, afraid of drawing the emperor’s wrath.

And you... you cried that night, not from fear or stress — but from feeling seen. Defended.

Kaiser held you close in bed, your head on his chest, his fingers lazily tracing circles on your arm.

“You don’t belong to them,” he murmured into your hair. “You belong to me. And I protect what’s mine.”

Life settled into a strange new rhythm.

You became more comfortable with the spotlight, especially because Kaiser never let you face it alone. If he was photographed, he always made sure your hand was in his. If someone tried to bait him with gossip, he shut it down mercilessly. He made it clear to the world: this relationship is not a weakness. It’s part of my kingdom.

And over time, fans began to admire the two of you — not just as a power couple, but as something real. You attended games together. Sometimes sat beside Noel Noa. You were seen smiling at Rin Itoshi during tense matches. You even met Isagi once. Kaiser had scowled the whole time.

“He’s lucky I didn’t steal you, too,” Kaiser muttered afterward.

You laughed and shoved his shoulder. “You’re insufferable.”

He turned to you, smiling like the world was his — because to him, it was.

“No. I’m just in love.”

[whambamsami]

private show

summary: your shitty boyfriend wants to go to a strip club for his birthday. one of the dancers is desperate to give you the attention you deserve. stripper!bucky pt.1

pt.2

warnings: 18+, adult themes, eventual smut, language, alcohol, let me know if i miss anything!

note: not proofread, so sorry if there's any errors/plot holes! let me know if there's anything i should fix <3

You didn’t want to be here.

Not in the dimly lit, velvet-drenched VIP lounge of a high-end strip club your boyfriend had insisted on for his birthday. Not in the too-tight dress he told you to wear. Not beside him while he ogled other women like you weren’t even there.

“Loosen up,” Nick said, draping his arm around you, with that smile that had won you over months ago, but now just rubbed you the wrong way. “It’s my birthday party.” 

You’d smiled too. Barely. Enough to keep the peace.

He’d begged for this, told you only an insecure woman wouldn’t let him go on his birthday. Hell, he’d even wanted you to tag along.

You thought he wanted you to come with him and his belligerent friends to see that it wasn’t all that bad, to make you more comfortable.

But you were starting to think he got off on making you watch. 

He was generous enough to at least take you to a club that let both genders dance alike, and it was almost overwhelming, seeing men and women’s bodies, some fully exposed, some adorning tiny leather getups, gyrating on stage.

Your boyfriend, the perfect gentleman. 

And he wonders why you won’t take him home to meet your parents.

His friends are all practically howling at a woman onstage, pushing your boyfriend up to get closer to her. She’s wearing nipple pasties, crotchless panties, a pair of stilettos that have you fearing for her ankles, and a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. 

Not that Nick would notice. He never noticed that kind of thing when it came to women. That, or he didn’t care.

“You won’t mind if I get a private dance, will you, babe?”

You wanted to feel angry at him. For him to see just how fucked this entire situation was. You should be feeling more.

But you just felt disgust. He made your skin crawl. You couldn’t give a shit about what he did here. He’d lost you the second he suggested this. 

So you nod tightly. An apology flashes in the woman’s eyes as she slinks off the stage next to him. 

You can’t be mad at her. It’s just business. 

And honestly, the fact that someone else would be filling in for you tonight, pretending to derive any pleasure from whatever Nick planned on doing, was a relief. You weren’t sure you would have it in you.

Not wanting to hear what his pitiful friends had to say about the situation you now found yourself in, you made a break for the bar, flagging down a topless bartender and politely asking for one of the craft cocktails. 

Hey, at least you could get something out of tonight. 

The bartender returned with your cocktail in hand. On the house, he’d said. You wished he was just being friendly, but the look in his eyes told you what this really was.

Pity. 

Whatever. The drink was good. Strong. Exactly what you needed to dull your senses a little, to get your mind off how you even ended up in this club in the first place. 

As you sipped, admittedly a bit faster than you should, the music shifted- bass-heavy and seductive.

The next performer was about to take the stage. 

You turned to face the velvet curtains that hid whoever was up next. Maybe you could pick up a few things, some tips that you could bring to your next relationship.

Your next boyfriend would be more appreciative, you promised yourself.

Better in bed, too. 

The second you saw him, though, everything else blurred.

Huh. A male performer.

All’s fair, right?

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark stubble shadowing a wicked mouth. Ice-blue eyes that swept the room with slow, calculated confidence. His body was lethal, dressed in nothing but black dress pants and a white button-down-half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, like sin in motion.

Your breath caught.

The performer didn’t smile. Not at first. 

But you swear he made eye contact with you.

And when he did, he flashed his canines. Just for a second. Like he knew every dirty thought that was flashing in your head. Like he knew something you didn’t.

The lights dim. The music gets louder. Or maybe everything else gets quieter, you’re not sure.

And suddenly, he’s all you could see.

He walks onto the stage like he’s stalking prey-calm, confident, dangerous. Not a trace of performance in his stride. He doesn’t play it for laughs or gimmicks. He doesn’t wink. He hunts.

The music pulses dark and slow. He unbuttons his shirt one button at a time, each flick of fabric revealing warm, taut muscle, tattoos, scars, shadows that make your mouth dry.

He glances down-just once-and finds your eyes again in the dark.

You squeeze your thighs together, shift again, try to look anywhere else-but it’s no use. He knows what he’s doing. He knows he’s got you.

He unzips his pants. Just an inch. Just enough to make your exhale stutter.

And the second you breathe out, his tongue drags across his bottom lip.

You’re going to combust.

“There you are!” 

You’re snapped out of whatever spell he had you under.

Your boyfriend returned from his little dance, wearing a smile that was a little too wide. Nick and his friends surrounded you at the bar, cutting off what you could see of the performance, much to your disappointment. You didn’t even care when you saw him whispering excitedly to his buddies, when you watched them pat him on the back like he’d won some kind of game, when their eyes would dart over to you like you didn’t know any better. 

Like you were stupid.

You steal a glance at the stage to try and catch the end of the man’s performance, but all you see is the swish of curtains closing as he disappears backstage.

Could this night get any worse?

As if the bartender could read your mind, he appeared again, placing what appeared to be a very expensive bottle of chilled champagne in front of you. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir, I didn’t order-”

“On the house.” he stated simply, as if you should have known. The little gold name tag that rested low on his waistband told you his name was Sam. 

God, at least the service here was great. 

Nick and his friends hooted and hollered, reaching for the bottle, excited to grab a glass, but Sam stopped them, pulling the bottle just far enough out of reach. 

“Sorry, boys, but I’m under strict instructions that this is for the lady only. No sharing.”

Your boyfriend’s lips pursed. 

“What, did somebody roofie that or something? Babe, you’re not drinking that. I don’t trust it.” and to solidify his point, he wrapped his arm around you. His sweaty, gross arm. 

You hated that he still felt like he could touch you like this. 

“Actually, sir, that bottle is for her to take to one of the private rooms. This doesn’t happen often, but she’s been asked to join one of our dancers.”

Your stomach dipped.

The champagne sparkled in the light, a little ribbon of condensation sliding down the glass like it knew how flustered you felt.

“She’s been… what?” Nick scoffed, voice rising with laughter he clearly didn’t feel. “Asked to join a dancer?”

Sam nodded, unbothered. You could have sworn you saw a glimpse of a smile on his face, like he was secretly enjoying this. 

“That’s right. Bucky requested her personally.” You could have sworn you saw a glimpse of a smile on his face, like he was secretly enjoying this. “Very rare, especially for him. I’d take it as a compliment.”

Nick scoffed again, turning to you like it was some kind of joke. 

“You’re not seriously considering that, are you?”

You blinked. Slowly. 

Then you looked down at his arm around your waist-the one that had gotten too heavy, too tight, too possessive over time-and peeled it off like it burned.

“You got a dance too, right?” you said evenly, reaching for the neck of the bottle, “At least mine is free.”

Nick’s friends laughed awkwardly. He didn’t.

“He’s probably just trying to upsell you some bullshit champagne fantasy. It’s a trick.”

Sam snorted as he grabbed two champagne flutes.

“Yeah, well. If it is, it’s working.”

Nick reached for your waist, and for once, you were thankful that he was so fucking sweaty all the time, because it let you slip out of his grip. 

“You don’t know what kind of guy he is.”

That made you laugh. It sounded more bitter than you’d ever heard it.

“He’s a stripper, Nick. Not exactly looking for Prince Charming right now. But whatever kind of guy he is, it looks like he’s interested in treating me a bit better than you are.”

Then you turned, grabbed the bottle, and followed Sam toward the back—heart hammering, adrenaline singing through your veins.

You didn’t know what was waiting for you behind the curtain.

But whatever it was?

It had to be better than this.

[alchemistc]

everything you want is on the other side

Buck slides a beer Tommy's way and fights the urge to duck his head. "So, I just thought, maybe, if you wanted to, we could -."

"I'm seeing someone," Tommy says, and blinks, and stares at the label of his bottle.

"Oh," Buck says, and shoves the hurt down deep where it won't inconvenience anyone. That's - it's been - been longer than they were ever together, hasn't it? And, yeah, after that comment in the helicopter maybe Buck had had this expectation that Tommy would wait for him, but that wasn't fair to assume, was it? It's - they're - "I... I'm happy for you."

Tommy gives him a strange look.

"We - is friends an option on the table though? Like, is your ex being around going to screw that up for you?"

Tommy snorts, derisively, and Buck thinks - okay then.

He'd avoided Buck plenty well before, so Buck doesn't really know why he'd have agreed to come out for drinks with him if that wasn't in the table. Maybe this is just - a clean break. They never really got there, until now.

There'd been a sunny afternoon, a few months in, where Tommy had taken him out to a stretch of beach and tossed a football back and forth with him for an hour, the both of them getting progressively sweatier and progressively more horny every time they caught the other checking them out, and Buck had thought to himself - I don't do this with any of my friends. Just - out and about enjoying the day and fucking around for the hell of it, and he'd been so caught up in the idea that Tommy could be a friend as well as a lover that he'd - he'd started picturing it.

A life. Shared, in all the ways that mattered. Holding hands on the beach and smiling at each other in the surf. Teasing one another about the silliest things, too many inside jokes to count, making Tommy laugh and laugh and laugh.

He'd never let it go farther than that. Hazy edges of a home filled with filmy curtains and Tommy's insane DVD collection got shoved away, like pulling back the curtain was just asking for disaster.

Being taken care of, when things weren't easy, when one of them was pissed, when everything was perfect other than a flare up in his leg.

He'd always thought they were on the same page and never bothered to ask if they were reading the same book.

Tommy's was a tragedy, in three parts.

Buck's was a fluffy short story, all purple prose and gratuitous overindulgence, with a kick-your-teeth-in surprise unhappy ending.

So. So now someone else gets the Tommy experience.

He's irrationally annoyed they won't appreciate it. He's insanely jealous by the idea of them appreciating it better than he ever did.

"He - do you want to tell me about him?"

Tommy's brows knit. "Well, he has me doing homework, which I don't love."

Buck lets the words work through him, over him. Younger, again? Like Tommy has a type, and that, for some reason, grinds Buck's gears. Or is that some sort of euphemism for -

"And part of the syllabus was talking to the people who scare me about the things that scare me."

And that sounds like -

"Shilling out all this money out of pocket so the Chief doesn't know I'm a basket case and the first thing he has me do is confront fear like that's not the damn foundation keeping me standing."

Buck picks at his coaster.

Tommy clocks the move and stills, glancing up at him, startled. "You thought I meant -."

"Yeah."

Tommy's hand shifts away from his beer, towards Buck's, before he aborts, spreading fingers against the sticky two-top they'd snagged from a couple who barely glanced at them as they threw on their coats, too starry-eyed in lust to notice the two burly men who'd been lingering by the bar waiting for a table to open up. He couldn't blame them. They'd been right there, obsessed with the way it felt to be naked together in all the ways except the ones that mattered, to get lost in the slide of skin and the feel of tongues sliding together, bodies shifting into one another.

Buck does the scariest thing he can think of. He looks up, and rolls a hand away from his own bottle. Palm up, fingers loose, crawling two inches forward.

His heart is somewhere in his throat and he doesn't look away when Tommy blinks at the extended hand. "I scare you?" Buck asks, and Tommy leans forward to knit their fingers together.

"You scare the everliving shit out of me, Evan."

They didn't really talk, the way they should have.

If Buck has to think back on that day at the beach, with the wind turning Tommy's loose curls into a vortex atop his head, with the tide licking at their ankles, with the ridges of the football grooving into Buck's palm - they'd flirted, and had a surface level conversation over the sounds of a pair of five-year-olds screaming their lungs out as they tried to fill a hole they'd dug in the sand with buckets and buckets and buckets of water that was gone each time they made it back from the surf with a new pail-ful of ocean.

The kids hadn't even cared that their hole never held any of that water in. They'd just been thrilled to pour another bucket full of water in, the sand drinking it all up.

"You never scared me," Buck admits, and hates the way something sad flickers behind Tommy's eyes, because he's spent enough time doing postmortem on their relationship to have an idea about why that would hurt Tommy. "That - it meant a lot, to me, that I always felt so solid with you. That I never had to question..."

Tommy's smile pulls at something deep in his gut. It's not a happy smile, it's the kind with broken glass hiding beneath the surface, ready to slice and bleed in an irreparable way.

"And then I ripped the rug out," Tommy says. It's his judgy tone, the one Buck always hated to hear him use on himself. The one he'd used a lot more than Buck had wanted to notice, at the time.

"I didn't exactly make a good case for myself," Buck tells him, and Tommy squeezes his hand.

"Larry says I let the fear take the cyclic nine times out of ten."

Larry's a weird fucking name for a therapist, Buck doesn't say. "That is not the way he said that," Buck actually says, and Tommy glances up from behind his lashes, the skin on one side of his mouth dimpling.

On early mornings in a bunk when he couldn't sleep after a shitty call, he'd sometimes imagined what those devastating smile lines would look like as the skin around the muscle got thinner, less buoyant. What the specks of grey in his high and tight fade would look like as they became more prominent.

"We workshopped a way to paraphrase it without tearing my own hair out."

"Why are you going to therapy, Tommy?"

The hand squeezing his tightens like a vice.

"Because you scare the everliving shit out of me," Tommy says, amusement in his tone even though his eyes are swimming with unshed tears. "And I'm tired of either of us thinking that doesn't mean something."

"You can't use me as an excuse instead of admitting you're a little messed up in the head."

Tommy's laugh sticks in his throat somewhere, Adams apple bobbing. "That's what Larry said, too."

He tries to picture Tommy in a room with soft lighting, vaguely comfortable seating, a stress ball he could flick between his enormous hands because he has to be fiddling with something at all times or he goes a little crazy - toe tapping or knee jumping while he flexes his palms against his thighs. Larry probably has a field day taking notes of all the ways Tommy stims to make himself feel like a person.

"So...what does that mean?"

He looks like he wants to bolt. It's such a stark contrast - the way he always made sure Buck was the most comfortable he could possibly be and the way he always had his muscles braced for flight.

"It means I can't shake you. Means every time I had a foot out the door the other one was digging in on the other side of the frame. Means I..." Tommy shifts, again, pushes the beer off to the side to reach out and wrap his other hand around their clasped hands. "Means I still don't know what the fuck is wrong with me but I'm hoping you have the patience to be there while I figure it out."

"As...as what, exactly?"

He's scared of the answer, he realizes. Scared that Tommy thinks he's too messed up to - to be with someone. Scared that what Tommy needs is something he's screwed up so many times he's barely spoken to his best friend without a fight in months.

He's scared.

Oh.

Oh, he's scared.

Scared of trying to fill a hole in the sand with briney water.

"I'm a terrible friend," Tommy intones, voice soft, lower lip tucked beneath his teeth. "Think I could have been a better boyfriend."

"You were the best boyfriend," Buck says, a little offended on his behalf, but he's not - he's not wrong. They were so caught up in the being together part that they never figured out what they were trying to do with it.

"I was very good at pretending I didn't want more from you than you were giving me."

It looks like it hurts him at least half as much to say as it does for Buck to hear it. He swallows around a suddenly tight throat. "Will you - can you tell me what you wanted?"

Tommy's face goes through a series of expressions. Lands somewhere between terrified and determined. "Fair warning, I still want them."

Something warm and careful curls up and purrs beneath his ribcage. He's scared. They both are.

That means something.

"Don't try to reassure me if it gets scary," Buck says, and Tommy chokes out a phlegmy laugh, takes a stuttering breath, and lets loose.

---

"Evan."

Buck blinks awake, and rolls his eyes blearily until he catches sight of Tommy, kneeling over him on the bed.

The look on his face has Buck scrambling to wakefulness, and Tommy looks guilty, for a moment, before he tamps it down. "Its okay. I'm okay."

It's -Buck darts a look at the trusty alarm clock he's had at his bedside since the first time he slept through five alarms on his phone - three in the morning and when they spoke on the phone earlier tonight Tommy made it clear he had too much going on tomorrow to make the drive to Buck's. So. Not okay.

"Fine, I'm not - I'm in one piece," Tommy admits. He looks wrung out, exhausted. Something must have happened in the six hours Buck's been sleeping, because he was having a killer shift when they left off for the night. He'd been excited about having to execute some slick maneuver during that high rise fire downtown.

Buck goes to work unbuttoning Tommy's jeans. He leaves his shoes by the door, every time he uses the key Buck gave him three months ago (his heart in his throat, nerves making the words more difficult than they should have been) so the pants come off without a struggle, and then Tommy's whisking his shirt over his head, and he's bare and antsy as he stares at Buck, shifting on his heels. "Big spoon or little spoon?" Buck asks, and something in Tommy stills, the frantic energy bleeding out of him like that question debrided the layer of skin over the blister that is his mental state at this moment in time.

Tommy climbs over him to get to his side of the bed. "Little," he murmurs, already turning to show Buck his back, and around the quiet maneuvering of the duvet Buck gathers him up, gathers him in, an arm under the pillow and his hand spread wide across Tommy's chest.

He'll talk about it when he's ready.

Or Buck will have to do the work and force it out of him, later. Larry says Buck needs to push more than he does and fuck anyone who tells him he's making it about himself.

Larry's kind of an asshole. He doesn't join Tommy very often, but when he does he gets why Tommy keeps going back. It's not the right style for Buck, one-on-one. But he sure does know how to get his point across.

Tommy's got more freckles on his shoulders from helping Buck put together a new garden bed out in the yard three days ago, a kink in his neck from taking a dive playing volleyball on the beach last week.

("We won, didn't we?"

"And now Mr. Side Sleeper won't be able to find a comfortable position for a month."

"Next time I'll let Ravi and Lucy crow about beating us for the rest of our lives.").

"I want kids," Tommy says, out of nowhere, swinging his ass back into the cradle of Buck's pelvis, like he doesn't feel quite close enough to Buck, yet. Buck tightens his hold. "I know we haven't talked about it. Figured it was pretty obvious what your opinion on the matter was."

A barbeque, three months into them trying again, Chris trying to get his attention while he had Robert spitting up on his shoulder and Jee throwing a tantrum about not being the center of attention - when Tommy had swooped in with the assist, yanking Jee up onto his knee to distract her and smiling at a grateful looking Christopher. Buck had stared at him for the entirety of Chris's breakdown of the latest exhibit at the MOMA while the want threatened to swallow him whole.

He hadn't bothered to ask how Tommy had managed to turn that tantrum around so quickly.

There's still so much they don't know about each other.

They're getting the hang of asking now. Telling. Listening. Pushing through the terror of an assumption.

"There was a couple, my last flight. Broken ankle and some scrapes and bruises up in Runyon. Pregnant woman married to an idiot of a man."

Buck hums.

"Guy decided three hundred yards up the trail to let his wife know he never wanted kids."

"Sounds like a nightmare."

"Garret had to strap him down and they still managed to argue themselves hoarse before we made it to the hospital. And I just got to thinking - if I don't tell you shit, you can't read my damn mind and ferret it out. I don't want to be a decrepit old man when our kids graduate high school."

Our kids kind of kicks him in the solar plexus, but he lets it bruise over, for the time being. "You're gonna be built like a brick shithouse when you're eighty, shut up."

Tommy chuckles. Sighs, and tips his head back. "I had a panic attack in the truck because I don't want them without you and I never asked."

Buck presses a kiss to his temple. Another to a new spray of freckles on his neck.

"I get to be the bad cop dad."

Tommy snorts, and snuggles in a little bit more. "Like that was ever a question, I'm gonna be the biggest pushover this side of the Mississippi." He's quiet, for a long, long moment. A hand settles over top of Buck's. "Not now. But I want to - talk about it. Figure out the options."

Kam's been bugging him about the viability of her womb in the most graphic way possible since she met Tommy once, six months ago. So that - that's an option. Maybe.

If they decide on something soon.

They don't even live together. Technically.

"Larry's gonna have a field day with this one," Tommy says, and Buck tucks his nose into the hair at the back of Tommy's head.

"You want me to go?"

"No. I'll tell you, after, but. No, this is a Tommy Special."

"Your dad?"

"My father. My mom. Three uncles and twenty shitty captains and - and Bobby."

The sting is the same as always. He just found a place to store the pain.

"Is this a tarp in the hole situation, or do you think you can put the bucket away?"

Tommy groans. "You know I hate it when you and Larry come up with convoluted metaphor."

His breathing is evening out. The hand over Buck's isn't shaking, anymore.

"You're gonna be a stupid good dad," Buck tells him, and doesn't mind so much when Tommy's lifts up his hand to press a kiss to his knuckles and they come back wet with tears.

[bucketsorbueckers]

No Hard Feelings - Chapter 8

Paige X Azzi

Warning: language.

A/N: didn't plan to post this early get this chapter away from me before i edit to the point of disservice. if it doesn't make sense, its not my business. xoxo

Azzi’s POV

A few months ago.  

Hard fracture.

That’s the only way Azzi knew how to describe it.

There had been small fissures forming between them for a while. Cracks in the foundation. Somehow, putting a name on what they were made it feel heavier. More difficult to carry.

It had been a steady eleven months, mostly. Private. Careful. A thing she held close to her chest.

Caroline knew. Nika too. Though she never said it out loud. Just offered knowing looks and quiet exits when things got too soft around the edges.

But beyond that, it was just the two of them. Her and Paige. 

They said it was better this way. Safer. Cleaner. No headlines. No rumors. No room for people to ruin it before it ever got the chance to breathe.

And in the beginning, that quiet felt like protection. Like something theirs in a world that wanted to take everything.

But the world doesn’t stay quiet for long. Not when Paige was in it.

Because there were nights when Paige would light up an arena and the whole world would look at her like she belonged to them. And Azzi would be in the background, clapping quietly, pretending her heart wasn’t in the front row.

There were moments where she’d catch Paige smiling at someone else and think, I’m not sure she even remembers I’m here.

She didn’t blame her for it.  Not really.

Paige wasn’t really hiding her. She offered soft touches. Lingering glances. Quiet, firm reminders that she belonged to Azzi—at least in the ways that counted. But the longer they stayed hidden, the harder it became to believe there was a difference between protecting something and burying it.

And that quiet, gnawing feeling…the one Azzi couldn’t shake, kept whispering the same truth: Paige belonged to the world. And Azzi belonged to no one.

Som she started pulling back. Just a little. Just enough to see if she still had a pulse outside of Paige Bueckers. And maybe, if she was being honest, it wasn’t just about herself. Maybe it was also to see if Paige would notice. If she’d feel the shift. If she’d say something.

Because sometimes, truthfully, Azzi felt less like a person Paige loved and more like a weight strapped to her ankle—quiet, heavy, and always just barely out of step.

Paige did notice. Azzi could see it in the way she reached for her. In the way her eyes searched the room before her body followed. In the way she kept trying to press her hands to the bleeding wound of who they were. Like if she held it hard enough, long enough, maybe it would stop.

But she didn’t say anything. And Azzi didn’t know how to ask for what she needed without sounding like she was asking Paige to be smaller. To shine a little less bright. To come back down to a place Azzi wasn’t sure she belonged anymore.

So the silence grew teeth. Not sudden. Not sharp. Just slow. Choking. The kind you don’t notice until you realize you haven’t taken a full breath in weeks.

Paige was still Paige. All in. Loyal. Constant. But she didn’t ask.

And Azzi didn’t know how to say it. Didn’t know how to explain that being loved by someone like Paige Bueckers meant being seen by everyone but still somehow forgotten by yourself.

The realization struck her on a Thursday night. There was no grand trigger. No dramatic fight. Just the quiet, aching feeling that had made a home of her chest stretching a little too wide like her ribs were forgetting how to hold it in.

She sat with it. Let it settle. Didn’t cry. And then, two nights later, she showed up on Paige’s doorstep.

The conversation wasn’t angry. They didn’t raise their voices. Didn’t say things they’d regret.

Azzi just stood there in Paige’s apartment—small and familiar and somehow already too far gone—and said the thing she hadn’t known how to say until it became the only thing she could.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

Paige looked at her like she’d dropped something. Like any second now, Azzi would laugh. Take it back. Say just kidding, I’m tired, ignore me.

But Azzi didn’t. She couldn’t. Because she wanted to leave while there was still something left of her to carry.

Paige didn’t beg. Didn’t cry. Didn’t chase. She just nodded. And that hurt more than if she’d screamed.

Azzi stood there for a beat, her heart clawing against the inside of her ribs like it might rip its way out. She wanted to apologize. To explain. To say I love you, I just don’t know how to survive it. But the words stuck to the back of her throat like they were trying to save themselves.

So instead, she turned. And let the door close behind her. In that moment, it felt like the right thing.  But God, it still split her clean through.

Paige’s POV

Azzi stirred, and Paige stayed perfectly still. Eyes closed. Breathing slow. Like if she moved, even a little, the moment might vanish.

Azzi fit against her like something Paige had been missing long before she even knew it. And then—soft, gentle—fingers began to walk their way up her arm. Curious. Familiar. Like they remembered this path even after all that time.

Paige couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips.

“I know you’re awake, Bueckers,” Azzi whispered, fingers still tracing lazy lines up her arm.

Paige shook her head, voice low and muffled against the pillow. “Five more minutes.”

“No such luck,” Azzi murmured. “We’ve gotta be downstairs for breakfast in ten.”

Her tone was gentle, but Paige could hear the smile in it too.

“Then five more minutes isn’t an indecent request,” Paige mumbled.

Azzi hummed in mock disapproval, already shifting, starting to slip from her arms with the kind of quiet ease that made it feel like she’d never been there at all. And for some reason, it hit Paige like a wave.

Panic, fast and silent. Like her body remembered every morning she’d woken up without this. Like it didn’t trust that Azzi wouldn’t disappear again if she let go now.

Her hand tightened instinctively around Azzi’s wrist.

“Wait,” she said, too quickly.

Azzi froze. And Paige couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t breathe around the sudden fear clawing at her throat.

“I just… one more minute,” she whispered. “Just stay a minute longer.”

Azzi didn’t answer right away.

Then Paige felt it. The soft press of Azzi’s body folding back into hers. No questions. No teasing. Just quiet understanding. Like Azzi could feel how badly Paige needed her without either of them having to say it out loud.

They stayed like that longer than they probably should’ve. Long enough for the sun to climb a little higher, for the real world to start creeping back in around the edges.

“Paige,” Azzi whispered, voice low against her neck. “We need to go to breakfast. Geno will have both our asses.”

Paige groaned, half into the pillow. “Let him.”

But she knew Azzi was right.

Reluctantly, she began to untangle their bodies—slow and careful, like letting go might break something. Her fingers hesitated for a beat too long at Azzi’s waist before pulling back. And then, summoning whatever courage she had left, she turned. Looked at her. Really looked.

And it was stupid, probably, but in that moment, Azzi looked like the beginning of something. Or maybe the middle of something Paige had never stopped wanting.

“Did you sleep okay?” Azzi asked, pulling on her sweatpants, her voice still scratchy with morning.

Paige nodded. “You?”

“Great,” Azzi said, and it came out like a sigh. Light. Content. Like she meant it.

They held each other’s gaze a second too long. Not uncomfortable, just weighted. Words hovering just below the surface, so many unsaid. So many that didn’t know how to come out yet.

Paige swallowed. Looked away first and grabbed her hoodie from the end of the bed, tugging it over her head.

“You ready?” she asked, her voice steadier than she felt.

Azzi nodded. “Yeah. All good.”

They took the elevator in silence. Walked in silence. But as they neared the breakfast room, the quiet broke. Voices spilling into the lobby.

A few heads turned when they walked in.

“Nice of you to join us!” Jana called, far too loud for the hour.

Paige rolled her eyes, peeling off from Azzi to head toward Nika and Aaliyah. Not out of the ordinary. They always split up at team things, even when things were good. Careful to not draw too much attention. 

She absentmindedly filled her plate with eggs and whatever else was closest, before doubling back for the only thing she actually wanted.

Cereal.

“Will you ever grow up?” Azzi’s voice came from just behind her, amused and familiar and so, so easy.

Paige smirked without turning around. “Wouldn’t hold your breath.”

And even though their shoulders didn’t touch, it felt like something had clicked back into place. Quietly. Carefully. Like maybe they weren’t pretending anymore. Not completely.

Paige dropped into the seat beside Nika and Aaliyah, pushing the full plate to the side without a second glance. She focused on the only thing that mattered, her bowl of Froot Loops.

“Well, good morning,” Nika sang, her grin entirely too knowing. “How are you, Paige Bueckers?”

Paige paused mid-chew, eyes narrowing. “I’m fine.”

“I can see that,” Aaliyah muttered, not even looking up from the book in her hand.

Paige turned to her, brow arched. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Aaliyah shrugged. “Just saying. You look like someone who actually slept last night.”

Paige blinked. “Don’t know if I should be offended or flattered.”

“Up to you,” Aaliyah said, flipping a page.

Paige watched Aaliyah for a second longer, then finally dropped her gaze and started eating again.

“Huh.”

The sound came from across the table—low, amused, and laced with something dangerous. Paige gritted her teeth and turned toward Nika, who was watching her like she knew something Paige didn’t. 

“Can I help you?”

Nika licked her lips, clearly trying not to smile. “I wasn’t aware you added a three to your number.”

“What?”

Nika nodded toward Paige’s sleeve. Paige looked down. And there it was, embroidered in soft white thread on the shoulder of her hoodie.

Not just her number. Not just 5.

35. Azzi’s number. Which meant she was wearing Azzi’s sweatshirt. 

Her eyes went wide for only a second before she reeled it back in, smoothing her expression like it hadn’t cracked at all.

“Must’ve gotten them switched up in the room.”

Nika nodded slowly, a smirk slipping through. “Totally. Happens to us all the time, right Liyah?”

Aaliyah didn’t even glance up. “Constantly.”

“Last week she accidentally wore my socks,” Nika added, deadpan. “So intimate.”

Paige shot her a look. “You’re hilarious.”

“I know,” Nika said, grinning now. “And observant.”

Paige swallowed, the cereal suddenly harder to get down. She turned slowly, gaze drifting over her shoulder, like she already knew what she’d find.

Azzi sat at her table, cheeks flushed unmistakably pink. Her eyes darted between Jana and Caroline, who were whispering with the subtlety of a car alarm. Then, like she could feel it, her gaze snapped to Paige.

Their eyes locked. Azzi froze. Then her gaze dropped, first to the 35 stitched on Paige’s sleeve. Then to the 5 on her own.

Her expression flickered, a full-body oh no.

Across the table, Caroline and Jana followed the trail of her stare. Their eyes narrowed in sync before they leaned their heads together, whispering like they knew something the world didn’t. Maybe they did. But Paige didn’t really care. She just kept looking at Azzi.

They locked eyes again, stunned into silence by their own stupidity. Or softness. Or something dangerously close to both.

Paige raised a single eyebrow, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.

Azzi’s mouth parted like she might say something. An excuse. A threat. A please stop looking at me like that. But all that came out was a tiny shake of her head.

Paige just shrugged. Too late now.

And maybe it was petty, but she tugged the sleeve up a little higher, just so the 35 was nice and visible.

The rest of breakfast passed without much fanfare. A few lingering looks. A few too-pointed whispers. But no one said anything outright.

Geno dismissed them with two hours to kill before departure, his only instruction being, “Use it accordingly,” in the tone that meant I don’t care what you do as long as you win.

So they filed out. 

Azzi didn’t take the same elevator, and Paige beat her back to the room.

She collapsed onto the bed without thinking, face first into the pillow Azzi had used. It still smelled like her—faint shampoo, maybe lotion. Something specific and warm and unmistakably Azzi.

Real, Paige told herself. Last night was real. She let herself believe it. Clung to it like proof.

But time passed. The room stayed quiet, and Azzi was still nowhere to be found.

Paige rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling like it might give her answers. Her stomach buzzed with nerves and she tried not to read too much into the silence.

She also tried very hard not to listen to the buzz of a phone coming from across the room. Persistent. Again. And again. They didn’t bring phones to breakfast anymore. Geno had made that habit a short-lived one. So, she knew it was Azzi’s. 

Paige tried to ignore it. She really did. But it was steady. Rhythmic. A little desperate.

Azzi still wasn’t back, and the silence had begun to feel like a warning.

And so, Paige stood, slow. Crossed to the other bed, where Azzi’s phone was lit up like it had something urgent to say.

She picked it up before she could think better of it.

Cam — 9 Messages

No nickname. No emojis. Just his name. Three little letters that felt too big. She didn’t mean to read them. Not really. But the previews were right there.

10:42 p.m. let me know when you're back.

10:57 p.m. you said you’d call.

11:10 p.m. guess you got distracted.

11:26 p.m. how close is too close? just wondering.

11:31 p.m. Cam FaceTime missed call

11:32 p.m. Cam FaceTime missed call

11:34 p.m. seriously azzi.

7:12 a.m. Still nothing?

7:16 a.m. it’s wild how she always manages to be the exception.

7:18 a.m. you act different when she’s around.

7:21 a.m. you think she’s not doing this on purpose?

Paige exhaled through her nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite not. He hadn’t said her name. But he didn’t have to. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t supposed to be.

There was something in the messages—some mix of insecurity and entitlement—that made her skin crawl a little. Not loud, not dangerous. Just... controlling. Dressed up as concern.

Like Paige was a problem Azzi should’ve outgrown by now. Like Azzi owed him reassurance just for being near her. Paige set the phone back down, screen still glowing, refusing to let it consume her like she wanted to let it. And at that exact moment, the door swung open.

Azzi walked in, a little out of breath, like she’d been pacing or thinking too hard or both. Paige dove back onto her bed like she’d been caught stealing something. Azzi didn’t seem to notice or maybe she did and just didn’t care. She dropped onto her own bed with a sigh, the kind that sounded heavier than it should’ve.

“Hey.”

“Your phone’s been going off like crazy,” Paige said before she could stop herself. The words landed somewhere between casual and sharp.

Azzi blinked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Paige said, blunt this time.

Azzi tilted her head, brow barely furrowed, then crossed the room. She picked up the phone and studied the screen, chewing her bottom lip like she didn’t realize she was doing it.

Paige watched her, watched the way her thumb hovered before she finally tapped out a response. Something quick, definitive and set the phone back down, face-first.

“Everything okay?” Paige asked, trying to sound light. She wasn’t sure she pulled it off.

“Oh yeah,” Azzi said, and it was so clearly a lie that it almost made Paige laugh.

They lay in the silence for a while, but it wasn’t the kind that soothed.

It was heavy. It pressed against Paige’s chest like a weight she hadn’t agreed to carry, and the longer it stretched, the more she felt like she might crawl out of her own skin just to get away from it.

“Cam?” she said, too softly to sound casual.

She saw Azzi’s throat bob at the name. A beat passed. Then another.

“Yeah,” Azzi said finally.

Paige nodded, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“He doesn’t like me, does he?”

Azzi rolled over then, slow and quiet, like she already knew there wasn’t a good answer.

“No,” she said finally. “He doesn’t.”

Paige blinked, not really surprised by the answer but Azzi’s honesty. 

Azzi let out a slow breath. “He’s jealous of you.”

Paige huffed a laugh. 

“He thinks I turn into someone else when you're around,” Azzi added. “Someone who might not come back to him.”

That one landed harder.

Paige nodded again, slow this time. “I don’t want you to ever have to be someone else. Not for me. Not for him.”

“I know,” Azzi said.

“But he acts like I do.”

Azzi didn’t argue. Just nodded, barely, and turned her face toward the ceiling like she couldn’t look at Paige anymore.

“I didn’t tell him,” she said after a beat. “About last night.”

The silence that followed felt colder than the room had any right to be.

Paige stared at the ceiling now too. “Because it didn’t mean anything?”

Azzi’s eyes fluttered shut. Like maybe if she closed them, the question would disappear.

“Paige,” she whispered. The name barely audible. “You know that’s not possible.”

Paige turned her head, watching her in the half-light like she might be able to peel her open—layer by layer—until the truth finally spilled out. And then, before she could stop herself:

“Do you think you could love him, Az?”

Not accusing. Not angry. Just a quiet kind of devastation. The kind that doesn’t ask to be answered gently.

Azzi’s breath caught. “That’s not a fair question, P.”

Paige stared at the ceiling for one more second, then turned her head.

“I don’t care,” she said, and she didn’t. Not right now. Not here, with the room pressed full of all the things they’d refused to say for two months. She didn’t want calm. She wanted the wave. Wanted to drown in it. In Azzi. In whatever this was, finally spoken out loud. “I’ve never said I was fair.”

Azzi was chewing on the inside of her cheek again. Paige watched it for a second too long, the familiar twitch of avoidance, and felt something flare in her chest. Anger maybe, or fear disguised as it.

She stood. Crossed the room before she could talk herself out of it. Lowered herself onto the bed and reached out, slow but certain. Her hands found Azzi’s face like they’d done it before. Like they still knew how.

Azzi’s skin was warm. Her eyes unreadable. Paige tilted her chin until their foreheads nearly touched.

“Do you think you could love him?” she asked again quietly.

And then, just a beat later, her voice cracked, the sentence coming out like something pulled from the trenches of her breaking heart. 

“Because if you could… if that’s where this is headed, then just…tell me. And I’ll step back. I’ll get out of the way.”

Azzi didn’t move. Paige smiled. Not kindly.

“I won’t pretend I’ll be fine. I won’t do the whole mature, understanding thing. I’ll be pissed and probably a little unbearable for a while.”

She paused. Her thumbs brushed against Azzi’s cheeks, like she was memorizing the shape of her before she had to let go.

“But if there’s a version of you that’s happy without me...I’ll try not to make that harder.”

The words hung there, trembling between them. Paige didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. She just stayed there, waiting—already preparing for the worst kind of kindness.

Azzi’s POV

Three years ago

Azzi wanted to kill Paige.

She pictured it now—grabbing a pillow, shoving it over her face, maybe just hard enough to shut her up. Paige would probably still talk through it. Still try to win the argument with her last breath.

They were three hours into a game of Monopoly with her family. Her brother had already quit. Her mom was trying to referee from the kitchen. And Paige?

Paige was drunk on power.

She had Boardwalk, Park Place, and a terrifying collection of oranges. She was chewing on the corner of a Chance card and grinning.

“I’m just saying,” she said, leaning across the board like a lawyer mid-cross-examination, “if you invested earlier, this wouldn’t be happening to you.”

“You’re insufferable,” Azzi muttered, watching her dad mortgage yet another property to cover rent.

“I’m winning,” Paige corrected, and tossed the dice with one hand like she was born to do it.

Azzi rolled her eyes.

God, she’s so annoying.

And then Paige laughed—loud and shameless and totally unselfconscious—and looked at her like she’d been waiting the whole game just for Azzi to catch up.

And it hit her.

God, I’m in trouble.

The thought landed fast and quiet. No big reveal. No warning. Just Paige Bueckers, in the middle of her family’s kitchen, being a complete idiot and somehow making every person in the room fall in love with her without even trying.

Including Azzi.

Especially Azzi.

“You’re staring, Fudd. Plotting my downfall?” Paige whispered, leaning in.

Azzi jumped, like she'd been caught thinking something she shouldn't. Which, yeah. She had.

She tried to shake it off, the realization still crawling under her skin. She wanted to say no. Just realizing you’re mine. But instead, she laughed. Shoved her shoulder.

“It’s a wonder you still have friends,” she muttered, eyes fixed firmly on the board.

And Azzi, sitting across the table with her arms crossed and her pulse loud in her ears, realized her whole life had tilted slightly off its axis.

That was it. That was the shift.

No thunder. No music.

Just Paige Bueckers in a hoodie that wasn’t hers, trash-talking her little brother, laughing like the world was hers to break open and Azzi watching her like she was already broken.

She hadn’t meant for it to happen. She hadn’t even seen it coming. One second, Paige was just Paige.

The next:

She was everything.

And Azzi loved her.

She loved her in a way she didn’t have the language for. In a way that made her chest feel too crowded and too hollow, all at once. Like something blooming and breaking inside her at the same time.

In a way that made everyone else feel…quieter. Smaller. Like the volume had been turned down on the rest of the world and Paige was the only thing still in color.

Azzi blinked the memory back into her chest, where it lived. Where it always lived. And when she looked at Paige again, almost nothing had changed.The world was still dimmer. Softer. A little out of focus.

Except for her.

Paige in screaming color. Heart-stopping, breath-stealing, goddamn technicolor. Inches away, close enough to touch, and somehow still not close enough.

And Azzi, despite everything, still wanted to reach for her. She always had.

Azzi exhaled, slow and shaky, and Paige winced—like she was bracing for impact. Like she expected to be shattered. Like she had no idea. No idea that Azzi had never loved anyone else. That she couldn’t.

No matter how hard she tried. No matter who she kissed, or how far she ran, she couldn’t outrun Paige Bueckers. And if she was being honest? She never really wanted to.

Still, she’d spent the last few months trying to keep a safe distance. Not because she didn’t want Paige. But because she did. Too much.

In the kind of way that made her want to wrap herself around her and never let go. In the kind of way that made her believe, just for a second, that maybe love could be enough to protect someone like Paige from everything else.

But love didn’t work like that. No matter how badly she wished it did. 

Azzi had seen it. Watched the world wear people down until all the soft parts were scraped raw. And Paige…she was made almost entirely of soft parts. Of second chances and wide-open faith and that stupid, stubborn light that made people want to be near her, even when they didn’t deserve to be.

Azzi wanted to protect her. Wasn’t that the root of it all? The world was loud, and terrifying, and unforgiving—and that scared Azzi. But the real rot, the thing she never said out loud, was simpler than fear. It was doubt.

The quiet, aching belief that she couldn’t do right by Paige. That she couldn’t give her what she needed. Not fully. Not in the ways that mattered.

Azzi had always wanted to be the person who could take on the world so Paige didn’t have to. But the truth was... she couldn’t. She couldn’t shield her from the pressure. From the attention. From the thousand tiny ways the world tried to hollow her out. 

And over time, loving Paige started to feel like standing at the edge of a storm, arms stretched wide, trying to hold it back with nothing but good intentions. And it drained Azzi wholly until there was nothing left to give that didn’t ache.

She thought leaving was the kindest thing. For Paige. For herself. The most loving choice she could make. Because staying felt like dragging them both through something she couldn’t name without bleeding.

She told herself it was mercy. That walking away would hurt less than slowly coming undone. And since then, she has tried. Tried to move on. To force Paige too as well. 

But now, looking at her, color-bright and too close and still holding out her heart like it wasn’t the most dangerous thing in the world to give…

Azzi felt that familiar weight settle in her chest again. That impossible, unshakable truth: I love Paige Bueckers. Even if it’s the most impossible thing in the world.

And just like that, all the shuttered windows of her heart—ones she’d nailed closed out of fear and exhaustion and the ache of almosts—swung open again. Not easily. Not cleanly. But with the creaking kind of honesty that only comes when you finally stop pretending you’re not still standing at the door, waiting.

She hadn’t meant to want this again. Hadn’t meant to let it back in. But Paige had always been the thing she couldn’t unwant. The one thing she’d never outgrow.

So maybe, finally, it was time to stop trying to outgrow impossible things. Maybe it was time to live with them. To choose them. To choose her.

She sighed, leaning her head into Paige’s palm like it steadied her. Life with Paige would never be simple. It wouldn’t be quiet. Or easy. Or something you could fold neatly into a plan.

Azzi would probably stumble. She’d fall short. Say the wrong thing when it mattered, shut down when she should speak up, lash out when all Paige wanted was softness. But she was starting to understand. Paige didn’t need perfect. Didn’t need a protector. She just needed honest.

She needed someone who would stand beside her when the lights were too bright and the world asked too much. Someone who wouldn’t flinch when the noise got loud or the pressure cracked something open.

And Azzi, God help her, wanted to be that person. Not just when it was beautiful. Not just when it was easy. But when it was messy and loud and real.

Because loving Paige Bueckers meant standing still while the world shifted. Meant holding on through the storm, not waiting for the calm. And Azzi was done running from it.

Azzi was quiet for a long time. Too long. And Paige just waited—like she always did—still and patient and probably bracing for an answer that might undo them both.

“I think I wanted to,” She finally said. “I really, really wanted to.”

Paige didn’t move. Not a blink. Not a breath.

“Because he made sense. And I was so tired of wanting things that didn’t make sense.” She laughed, barely. “But the whole time I was with him, I kept thinking about how it didn’t feel like it did with you.”

Her voice cracked. She didn’t bother to fix it.

“It didn’t make me nervous. It didn’t make me ache. It didn’t make me feel anything, not really.” She blinked, looked away. “I thought maybe that meant it was good. Safe. But it just felt quiet in all the wrong places.”A breath. “And I missed you. In every version of him.”

She forced her eyes back to Paige. 

“So no,” she said. “I don’t think I could ever love him.” She paused. Let it sit there for a second. “I don’t think I could love anyone else.”

Her voice didn’t break. It didn’t have to. Then, after a beat, quieter:

“How could I Paige? I know you.” She looked up. Met Paige’s watery eyes. “Not the version people cheer for. Not the one they write about or put on billboards.”

A breath.

“I know the you who shuts down when things get too loud. The you who tries to make everything okay for everyone else even when you're barely holding it together.” Another breath, tighter this time. “And the thing is… people love the idea of you.” Her voice dropped, barely above a whisper now. “But I know you. And it’s… impossible. It’s impossible not to love you.”

Paige didn’t speak. Not right away. She just looked at her like Azzi had cracked something open in the room, in the air, in her chest. Like the words had knocked the breath out of her but left her standing.

Her hands stayed on Azzi’s cheeks, unmoving, like she was afraid that if she let go, this would all disappear. That Azzi would take it back. That the moment would fold up and vanish the way it had so many times before.

And then, quietly, so soft Azzi almost didn’t catch it:

“I’ve loved you so long it started to feel like grief.” Azzi’s breath caught. Paige blinked like she was still trying to hold herself together. “I tried to bury it. To grow around it. To pretend it wasn’t still there every time you walked into a room.”

She let out a breath, sharp and shaky.

“But it never left. You never left.”

Her thumbs brushed gently across Azzi’s skin—almost like apology, almost like worship.

“I think I’ve been waiting years for you to say that. And I think some part of me would’ve waited forever.” Paige sighed. “I know we said it—that we were together. Girlfriends. But we never really talked about what that meant. Not when it got hard.”

Azzi didn’t move. Just listened.

“We never talked about how to stay when it stopped being easy,” Paige said. “Or what it would mean if one of us started pulling away. Or how to ask for more without sounding like we were asking the other person to be less.”

Her voice cracked, just a little.

“I think I kept waiting for us to just...figure it out. Like we always did. But this wasn’t something we could outrun or joke through. She looked at Azzi then. “And I should’ve said something. Sooner. I just didn’t know how. And when you showed up at my apartment that night, I thought the kindest thing I could do…the thing that would prove I loved you most, was to let you go.”

She looked away, jaw tight, eyes watery.

“I shouldn’t have let you leave. I should’ve fought for you. For us.”

Azzi exhaled slowly. Not in frustration. Just heartbreak. Or relief. She wasn’t sure. 

“It’s on me too, P,” she said gently. “You can’t always be the one doing the holding. I could’ve said something. I could’ve stayed.”

Paige blinked at her, like hearing it was somehow worse.

Azzi smiled, small and sad. “We both broke it. We both thought the other one would stop us.”

“We didn’t break it.” She looked up, eyes steady. “Not fully. I don’t think we could.”

Azzi stared at her. Breath caught. And Paige just nodded once, like that was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Things bend,” she said, “but they don’t break. Not really. They bruise. They splinter. But they hold.” Paige exhaled. “We hold. Because we’ve always been each other’s. Terribly. Damningly. Even when we were too afraid to say it out loud. Even when we pretended we weren’t.”

The words settled between them. Confessions bleeding out slowly. Shortcomings they both named. Faults they both owned. No one flinched. No one looked away.

“I know there’s still more to talk about,” she said. “Things we have to figure out. “But I’m yours. If you’ll have me. Always been yours”

Azzi bit back tears, reached out, and traced Paige’s face the way she always had, like she was memorizing her all over again.

“You were never mine to lose,” she whispered. “You’ve always been the thing I came back to. Even when I didn’t know how.”

She let her thumb rest against Paige’s cheek, breath catching.

“So yeah. I’ll have you.” A pause. “I think I always have.”

Paige leaned forward, carefully, as if touching something holy. 

She rested her forehead against Azzi’s, and for a moment, they just breathed. Like that was enough. Like it had always been enough.

Then, with a smile so small it almost hurt:

“I don’t want easy.” Her voice cracked, just a little. “I want this. I want you.”

And then, finally—finally—she kissed her.

Not like a beginning. Not like an apology. But like the middle of something they’d been writing for years. Something neither of them had words for yet, but both of them had always known.

Paige’s POV

The game came and went without much stress. They did what they were supposed to do. Won. Controlled the pace. Made it look easy. No one made too much of it. That was the expectation.

There wasn’t time to celebrate doing what was expected. There never was.

The press conference was routine. Predictable questions. Predictable answers. Nika sat between them like a human buffer, mic in front of her, legs crossed  It was halfway over when someone asked it. Not a stat question. Not a headline grab.

Just: “There seems to be a real shift in the team’s chemistry this season. What do you think’s changed, culture-wise?”

All eyes shift don Paige and she cleared her throat. 

“I think we’ve just committed to each other more this year. Everyone knows their role, and no one’s trying to be the hero. It’s not about who scores—it’s about who shows up. We hold each other accountable, but we’ve also learned how to have each other’s backs. That kind of trust doesn’t happen overnight.”

She leaned back, stretched her arms a little like it was nothing. Just another answer. Just another press cycle. But Azzi turned her head. Looked right at her.

“That was a really good answer,” she said.

Not to the room. Not to the mic.

To Paige. Direct. Steady. Soft in the way that made Paige’s entire ribcage feel too small. Paige’s eyes flicked sideways. Her cheeks flushed, color blooming fast.

She stretched her arms again, suddenly a little restless, blinking like the lighting had changed.

“What?” she asked, not quite casual.

Azzi shrugged, still looking at her. “I said it was a good answer.”

They both snapped their attention back to the room, as if remembering they weren’t alone in it. But beside her, Nika shifted. Not much. Just a slight stiffening of posture, the kind of movement that meant she was holding back a smile so smug it could power a city.

Nika stared straight ahead, face neutral, but the smug was radiating.

Paige narrowed her eyes. “What?”

Nika tilted her head. “Nothing,” she said, far too quickly. “Just listening. Press conference, remember?”

Paige’s eyes darted to Azzi again but she was pretending to read her stat sheet like it held national secrets.

The next question rolled in, something about defensive matchups, but Paige could feel it. The heat still rising in her cheeks, the ghost of Azzi’s compliment still pressed into her skin.

When the conference finally wrapped and they stepped off the dais, Paige didn’t get more than three steps down the hallway before Nika spoke.

“You’re not subtle.”

Paige froze. “Excuse me?”

Nika didn’t even look at her. Just kept walking.

“You know you were making heart-eyes at her for half the press conference, right?”

“I was not,” Paige muttered, cheeks already warming.

Nika glanced sideways, all innocence. “Sure. And I���m not sitting directly between you like the world’s most underpaid chaperone.”

Paige groaned. “You’re making things up.”

“You blushed when she said your answer was good.”

“That’s not—”

“You stretched, Paige.” Paige clamped her mouth shut. Nika just laughed. “God, I can’t wait to get paid.”

Paige blinked. “Paid?”

“I’ve been in the betting pool since day one.”

Paige narrowed her eyes. “A betting pool?”

Nika gave her a look. “Paige. I told you this last year. Well, I told you I wasn’t involved. But truth is, I practically started it.”

Paige groaned, already regretting this conversation. “You’re unbelievable.”

“No,” Nika said, grinning now. “You two are. I’ve been emotionally and financially invested in this mess since sophomore year. I deserve a bonus for emotional damages alone.”

Paige muttered something under her breath. Azzi was already waiting near the locker room door, trying very hard not to laugh. Nika leaned in as she passed, voice just low enough to sting a little:

“Took you long enough.”

Then she winked. And Paige—red-faced and heart full—didn’t even argue.

As they walked into the locker room, Nika threw her arms open and bowed like a queen returning from war.

“Pay up,” she announced, gaze sweeping the room. “Every single one of you.”

The chatter stopped. Every eye in the locker room flicked to Paige and Azzi. Not subtly. Not quickly.

Just…assessed. The space between them. The not-so-casual brush of Azzi’s shoulder against Paige’s. The way Paige didn’t even flinch when it happened, like it had already become a habit.  The room practically buzzed with the sound of realization.

Jana immediately groaned. “No. Absolutely not. I won.”

Nika snorted. “You said before the season, which—spoiler alert—is not what happened.”

“We’re still in preseason,” Jana countered, already standing, arms crossed like a lawyer preparing her closing argument. “So technically, I win.”

“Technically,” Caroline chimed in, “you tampered with the outcome by getting them to room together. That’s rigging the bracket.”

“I was accelerating fate,” Jana said.

“You were cheating,” Nika corrected. “You played God with the rooming chart. You’re disqualified.”

Jana lifted her chin. “Caroline did help me with my psych project!”

Caroline sighed. “I did. But still, rules are rules.”

“There were no rules,” Jana argued. “And if there were rules against…gently pushing them together, I would’ve been disqualified forever ago.”

Nika laughed. Loud, delighted. “Yeah, we know. Between ‘accidentally’ texting Paige from Azzi’s phone and rearranging the movie night seating chart so they’d end up next to each other—”

“That was a coincidence,” Jana cut in.

“You literally made us watch The Notebook,” Caroline said flatly.

“I was creating emotional vulnerability!”

Nika grinned. “You’ve been toeing the line for weeks. But rooming them together? You cleared it. That was a full-on sabotage play.”

Jana rolled her eyes. “I should at least get half.”

“You should get a moral penalty,” Caroline muttered.

In the middle of it all, Azzi paused, towel slung around her neck, brow furrowed.

“Wait,” she said slowly. “What?”

Silence.

She turned to Nika. “Paid for what?”

Nika blinked. “Oh.”

Jana looked at her. “She doesn’t know?”

“Guess not,” Nika said, not even a little apologetic. She smiled. “There’s been a...small betting pool.”

Azzi blinked. “A what.”

“On when you and Paige would finally get your shit together,” Caroline said, like it was obvious.

“Been going since sophomore year,” Nika added cheerfully. “Technically it closed when we all knew you were together last year. But then you broke up—or, like, emotionally imploded without telling anyone—so we reopened the pool. Odds were terrible a month ago but I held the damn line.”

Azzi looked around the room like she’d been dropped into an alternate universe. “You were betting on us?”

“I prefer to think of it as investing in emotional inevitability,” Nika said.

Azzi’s jaw dropped. “We were in turmoil.”

“And we appreciate your suffering,” Jana said, clapping her on the back. “Deeply.”

Azzi turned to Paige, scandalized. “Did you know about this?”

“Don’t look at me. I just found out in the hallway.”

Azzi opened her mouth, then shut it. And then, she laughed.

“You’re all insane.” 

“And you’re in love,” Nika said, already opening her phone. “Which means I’m rich.”

The room went quiet for a second, but then it hit Paige.

“Wait,” she said, eyes narrowing. “You all knew we were together last year?”

The entire locker room groaned in unison.

“Not like you’re subtle, P,” someone muttered.

“You used to wait for her after film,” Aaliyah said. “Like a golden retriever in basketball shorts.”

“You guys shared entire closets,” Caroline added. “You’d wear something one day and then Azzi would show up in it a few days later.”

“That’s just being proactive with fashion,” Paige argued.

Snorts followed. “Yeah, because you’re so known for sharing your NIL-funded closet with the rest of us.”

“I’m generous,” Paige muttered.

“Name one other person on this team who’s worn your coach jacket,” Nika said, raising a brow.

Paige opened her mouth. Closed it. Pointed at Azzi. “Technically, she wore it without asking.”

“Exactly,” Caroline said, triumphantly. “You didn’t even blink.”

“Because she’s Azzi,” Paige said, like that explained everything.

The room, once again, groaned. But this time, it sounded different. There was laughter, yes, but behind it, Paige could see it. The love in their eyes. The knowing. The relief.

She looked around and saw it clearly: They’d never been hiding. Not really. And keeping it a secret had been a waste of time. Because the people who mattered had always known. And worse…they’d been rooting for them.

Paige let out a quiet breath. Then glanced sideways, where Azzi was watching her with something soft behind her smile.

Nika shoved her before clearing her throat, “With that said, Venmo me or bring cash to the next practice. Thanks for playing.”

“Split pot,” Jana grumbled.

“No chance,” Nika replied, already texting. “Love and capitalism, baby.”

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡⌦ .｡.:*♡❁۪۪ ཻུ♡˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡

They didn’t say much on the way back. Not because there was nothing left to say, just because the silence finally felt like something they didn’t need to fill.

Azzi’s pinky brushed against Paige’s once, then stayed there. And Paige held on like it was permission.

It was late when they got to campus, the sky a kind of navy that made the world feel folded in. Paige lingered outside the door of Azzi’s dorm, keys in Azzi’s hand, like maybe it wasn’t real until they were inside.

“I can go back to mine,” Paige offered, not really meaning it.

Azzi turned to her. No hesitation.

“Or you could stay.”

The words landed soft.

Paige nodded, like her heart had already decided. “Yeah. Okay.”

They didn’t do anything important but being together was important enough. 

Azzi tossed her an old worn shirt. Paige’s favorite, secretly. And they grinned at each other as she tugged it on. They sat on the couch, sharing one blanket, and half watched a movie neither of them cared much about. 

Around 1:30 a.m., Azzi’s head dropped against Paige’s shoulder and stayed there.

Paige didn’t move. Didn’t breathe, maybe.

The credits were halfway through when Azzi finally stirred, blinking up at her with sleep in her eyes.

“You could’ve woke me up,” she murmured.

Paige shrugged, eyes still on the screen. “Was kind of enjoying it.”

Azzi laughed and stood, tugging Paige up by the hand without a word.

Later, tangled in sheets that smelled like laundry detergent and something distinctly Azzi, Paige lay there for a while, eyes on the ceiling, heart doing something that felt both too fast and too careful. And then, without looking at her, she asked:

“Do you think we missed it?”

Azzi didn’t move. Just listened.

“The timing,” Paige added, like she couldn’t bear to say it twice.

There was a beat. Then Azzi’s sighed.

“Maybe.” She shifted just enough for their arms to brush under the blanket. “But I think we found the version of us that lasts,” she said. “And I’d take that over the one that didn’t.”

Paige closed her eyes. Let that sit in the dark with them. Then she whispered, barely audible

“Don’t let me ruin it.”

Azzi didn’t laugh. Didn’t say you won’t.

She just reached under the covers, found Paige’s hand, and held it like that was the answer.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡⌦ .｡.:*♡❁۪۪ ཻུ♡˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡

The knock came in the morning.

Not hesitant. Not aggressive. Just…certain. Like whoever it was already knew what they’d find on the other side.

Paige stirred first. Azzi’s shirt hung off her shoulder, boxers hanging from her hips, hair a tangle from sleep. She rubbed a hand over her face, still floating in that warm, soft quiet The kind that made her feel like the world had stopped just long enough for them to exist.

She opened the door without thinking.

Cam.

He laughed. Not loudly. Just once. Low. Bitter.

“Bueckers,” he said, like it tasted wrong in his mouth. “Of course.”

Paige tucked her hair behind her ears. “Good morning to you too.”

He didn’t smile. Just shook his head, eyes flicking down to the shirt she wore. Clearly Azzi’s. Then past her—to the two mugs on the table. One blanket on the couch. The faint sound of movement from the bedroom.

“I think I always knew,” he said, voice low but clean. Like he’d practiced it. “I just kept hoping she’d grow out of you.”

Paige’s jaw twitched, but she didn’t bite.

“I’m not a phase,” she said, finally.

Cam let out a dry laugh. “No. You’re a habit. A bad one she keeps calling back.”

Paige swallowed. “You should go.”

“You know what the worst part is?” Cam went on, like he’d been waiting to say this. “I watched her. Watched her watch you. Squirm when you were around. I could tell you hurt her. One way or another.”

He stepped forward a little. Not close enough to touch. Just enough to make her brace.

“And then she goes back to you.”

Paige's voice was flat. “She made a choice.”

He smiled without smiling. “She made a mess.”

There was a beat—long enough for the air between them to curdle. And this time, she saw it. The hurt. The fury. The part of him that wanted to say something worse, and the part that knew it wouldn’t change a thing.

Cam’s eyes narrowed.

“She used to flinch when your name came up.”

Paige hated that. Hated that he knew it.  Hated that she knew it was true. It hit somewhere specific…somewhere ugly. The part of her that burned too hot, too fast. The part that never liked Azzi’s name in anyone else’s mouth. Especially his. But she didn’t let it show. Didn’t blink.

She just raised an eyebrow. Deadpan.

“And now she wears my shirt to bed,” Paige said. “We all evolve.”

Cam’s jaw twitched.

“She’s going to regret this,” he said.

Paige just nodded. She knew he was pissed. Hurt. People say all kinds of things when their back’s against the wall. But for all her media training and carefully crafted answers, she didn’t really care.

She hated Cam. Unfairly, maybe. But fully. So she shrugged, casual.

“It kind of sounds like you’re just trying to convince yourself, Cam.”

She didn’t give him time to respond. Just shut the door gently in hopes to not wake Azzi. Exhaling, she leaned her head against the door, trying to slow her heart. 

“Baby?” Azzi’s voice floated down the hall, groggy and warm.

Paige smiled and any tension still clinging to her spine unraveling with that one word.

“Coming, Az,” she called back, her voice gentler now.

She turned away from the door. From Cam. From all of it. And walked toward the only thing that felt like peace.

[teaboot]

just saw your new photo where most of your face is blurred but let it be known i have been under the impression you were Black this whole time. i swear to god i saw a post of you mentioning you were Black and it stuck with me cause your old pfp was a white girl or something and i didnt really get it but i obviously wasnt gonna question it. sorry if this is obnoxiously weird im working through this minor whiplash atm. have a good night whiteboy

😭😭😭

Oh my god. No I think I know what post you may have misread-

One time one of my ex-fathers made a racist comment and I called him out for it, to which he responded “Wow, I didn’t know you were Black”, which pissed me off, and I told HIM “I’m not Black, but I have Black friends, and I’d be a pretty shit friend if I let people get away with that crap behind their backs”.

This turned into a big argument where he accused me of “inventing things to be offended by” and saying that the problem with Liberals was that we were all looking to be offended by things that had nothing to do with us.

THAT pissed me off too, because in my opinion, it’s not about being offended, it’s about putting your money where your mouth is- if you care about someone, you don’t sit there and laugh along when someone is talking shit behind their back. And as a white person, we run into a LOT of other white people who talk shit about other races because they think you’re on their side and won’t call ‘em out.

Agdtggtyfgg sorry that was a tangent, I pissed myself off again

ANYWAYS I made a post talking about that, so I wouldn’t be surprise if you skimmed it at some point and misunderstood, because a few others apparently did the same and sent me hate mail calling me the N word.

But yeah I’m white. One quarter native if we’re being pedantic but I don’t know that side of the family or any of the culture so idk I’m kinda just white out here

[ofstarsandvibranium]

Start A New

Fandom: The Pitt

Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x F!Reader

Summary: In a tragic car accident, Jack loses his wife, who was your best friend, and you lose your husband, the father of your child. Now both of you navigate life together and co-parenting your daughter, Evelyn, while also trying to figure out your feelings for each other.

A/N: Thank you to everyone who loved the first part! Now here's that happy ending you all wanted...

Undeserving (aka Part 1) | The Pitt Masterlist

Jack tried to get some rest. He really tried, but he kept going over his argument with you. Did you really not see how much he loves you and Evie? Do you really not know how heartbroken he'd be if you left?

He sighs and checks the time on his bedside. It's almost noon and Evie usually takes a nap around this time. It might be a good time for him to talk to you again so Evie doesn't see if things get heated.

He kicks off his blankets and drags himself out of bed. He exits his room and heads to the kitchen. You're there again, looking at your laptop. He hopes you're not looking at apartments again, but it's likely.

"Can we talk?"

"You should be sleeping."

"I can't. My mind is going all over the place," he takes up the empty chair beside you. He glances at your screen and, sure enough, you were looking at apartments.

He rests his arms on the dining table, "Please, don't leave," he says in a broken, pleading tone.

You fully face him, "Jack, I love you. I really do, but...I feel bad. You were my Anna's husband. She was my best friend. The one she was supposed to grow old with. I feel guilty that she's not here, that you and her never got to have kids and grow old together. I feel bad for practically replacing her."

"You're not-"

You hold your hand out, "Let me get everything out...please."

He nods, "Okay."

You take a deep breath, "I feel guilty for being here when she couldn't be. I also feel guilty for loving you when it should be Andrew here helping me raise Evie. I feel guilty for taking up your space, your time. I-I feel like I don't deserve you. You're such a good, loving, caring man and I shouldn't be taking over your life the way that I've been these past few years.

"That's why I want to move out. But also, my therapist think it'd be good for us to live separately. We've become too dependent on each other because we lost our partners in the same accident. We need space in order for us to have a healthy relationship. And I really hope you understand that."

He gulps and nods, "I get it...but fuck, sweetheart. You and Evie are the first and last thing I think about when I wake up and go to sleep. I'm gonna be honest, it's gonna fucking suck not having you two around all the time."

You reach out and place your hand on top of his, "Again, this isn't happening any time soon. I still have to find a place."

"Have you looked at places nearby?"

You nod, "Yeah. I don't wanna be too far from you."

That brings a small smile to Jack's face, "That's something at least," he murmurs. He leans in and presses his lips to your head, "I love you so much, sweetheart." He turns his hand up and laces his fingers with you.

"I love you too," you whisper. You lean back to look at him, "We'll get through it." you cup his face with your free hand, your thumb grazing over his five o'clock shadow, "We've gotten through worse."

He chuckles and shakes his head, "Yeah...we have."

_____________________________

In the upcoming months, you continued to apartment hunt. Jack would accompany you to provide input. You looked at various apartment complexes within two to five miles away from Jack's home.

You eventually found a place just three blocks away from him and much closer to the park the three of you frequented.

Leaving Jack was hard, but you knew it would be good for you two. Evie took it hard, obviously. She didn't want to leave her Uncle Jack Jack and her cries brought tears to your own eyes.

Jack held Evelyn close as he explained everything, "You'll still see me, honey. I'm not going anywhere. We'll still go to the park together and have family time. I'm not leaving you, baby. I promise," he holds her tighter and you see tears welling up in his eyes as Evelyn sobs, "I promise, Evie. I'll always be here for you and mommy."

When move in day came, Jack helped you as much as he could. When he was at work, some of the day shift nurses and doctors came to help you.

Robby grunted as he set a box down, "So...I heard you two confessed your love."

You rolled your eyes, "Yes. We did."

"You know, usually when people love each other like you do, they move in together. Not move out."

"We need the space and more independence. We did everything backwards, Robby." You explained as you begin to unbox the box he brought in.

"I know. But don't tell Abbot I told you this, but he's been really anxious about this. He doesn't know what he's going to do without you girls."

"We'll figure it out eventually. We've spent a majority of these past few years always at each other's sides and we weren't even officially together. It's going to be a big change, but we can get through it. After everything we've gone through, especially Jack, I think we'll make it out okay."

The doctor nodded, "I hope so 'cause now his bitchin' is even more sad and depressing."

You giggled and shoved his shoulder, "Get back to work, doc."

He salutes you, "Yes, ma'am!"

_________________________

Three months living in the apartment with just you and Evelyn was a rough start. Evie was constantly asking for her Uncle Jack Jack and you had to explain that you couldn't go to his house every single day.

Eventually, she got used to it being just you and her. Some nights did feel lonelier than ever. You had to fight yourself on not inviting Jack all the time. But so far, he'd been coming over once a week and you've been going to his the same as well.

It was an adjustment for sure, but you three of you eventually used to it.

Any downtime he had during his shifts, Jack would call you, wanting to hear your voice or see Evie via video chat. You thought things would be tense for a long time between you and he. But, thankfully, it was only tense for the first month and you two fell back into how things were before. You'd joke around, share about your days, but now it's coupled with some flirtatious banter.

It was weird in the beginning, hearing him flirt with you and you flirt back. But now it's second nature with you two. Your flirtatious banter would be silly or cute or downright sinful, but only when Evie wasn't around.

Jack: what're you wearing?

You snort when you read his text. You text him back:

You: aren't you supposed to be working?

Jack: was thinking about you and I'm on my lunch....so what're you wearing?

You take a selfie of you wearing one of his old Army shirts and reply to him with that.

Your phone suddenly starts ringing and you laugh, answering it, "There's no way I'm having phone sex with you while you're at work."

"Well can I come over after my shift and we can have real sex?"

You clasp your hand over your mouth to muffle your laugh. You look beside you to see Evie still passed out after you two started watching a movie.

"Won't you be exhausted?"

"I'm wound up today and sex is a great relaxer." You can hear the smirk in his tone.

"Yeah? Says who?"

"Me, I'm a doctor, remember?"

"Last time I checked, you're a doctor in medicine. Not sexology."

He hums, "Fine. You caught me...I just miss you."

You soften your voice, "I miss you too. I miss you a lot but...this time apart has been good for me."

"I know, but don't get too comfortable. Once your lease is up, you're moving back here. Got that?"

You chuckle, "Are you sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure. I want us to be whole again. It's so fucking quiet in the house now. Fuck, the other day, I had Bluey playing in the background just so it feels like you two are around still."

That tugs on your heartstrings, "Jack-"

"Shit. I gotta go. They need extra help and we're already down a doctor. I gotta go sweetheart and I'll talk to you later, okay? I love you."

"I love you too, Jack. Bye." He ends the call and you lay back in bed. You bury your face into his shirt, wishing it smelled like him again.

_____________________________

It felt like deja vu. You're at the park, sitting on the picnic blanket with Dana like you had all those months ago. Jack and Evie are playing on the playground like they always are.

Dana, feeling the same sense as you goes, "Funny to be here with you guys again but now you and Jack are together. Separate, but also together."

You nod, "I know. Weird, right?"

"That was a rough patch you guys went through, but look at you now. You two have gone through a lot and keep overcoming it. Shows how strong the two of you are," Dana lifts her bottle of water as if giving you a cheers and sips from it.

You smile at the older woman, "Thanks. None of what the both of us have gone through was easy, but we did it together. Loving him is easy. I still feel sad and guilty sometimes. For Anna. For Andrew."

"They would've wanted you two to be happy," Dana says with confidence.

"I know, still doesn't mean I don't feel bad about it sometimes." You sigh, "Therapy has helped a lot though."

"That's good, honey. Really good."

"Sweetheart!" you look up and see Jack looking your way, "You want ice cream?"

"Rainbow pop please!" You glance at Dana, "You wany anything?"

"I'm good."

"Just one for me, baby!"

"Got it!" he gives you a thumbs up and guides Evie to the ice cream truck.

Dana wistfully sighs, "You guys are so fucking cute. I really am happy you two are together."

"Thanks, Dana. I am too."

______________________________

Three Years Later

Evie was at a sleepover at her friend's apartment in the same complex. So that meant you and Jack had the place to yourselves since Jack was off that day.

After a few rounds of sex, you two were just cuddling in your bed. Your head is resting on his chest, his arm wrapped around you and tracing lines along your back.

You two were laying in a blissful silence when Jack slid out of bed, "Where you going?"

"I wanna grab something from my pants," he grabs his jeans from the floor and found what he was looking for in his pocket.

He sits back in bed and presents you with a tiny box. You immediately sit up and look at him with wide eyes, "Jack..."

"Sweetheart, you already know how much I love you. There aren't really words that I can say that you haven't heard before. I love you and Evie so much. We've gone through hell and back. Our lives have been intertwined since that night. I didn't expect to fall in love with you, but I did. I didn't expect to love Evie as much as I do.

"I love the life we've built together, even though the start of it was unconventional and, frankly, extremely traumatizing-"

You snort, "What a way to propose, baby."

"Well I didn't necessarily say the words yet, did I?"

He opens the box to reveal a gorgeous ring. The cut was perfect and it was a ring you definitely see yourself wearing forever, "Y/N, will you marry me?"

"Of fucking course I will," you press your lips to his and you feel him smiling into the kiss, "I love you," you mumble against his lips.

He breaks the kiss, grinning, "I love you too," he takes the ring out of the box and slips it onto your finger.

You look at how it sits on your finger. You didn't think you'd be wearing another wedding ring again, yet here you are.

You giggle and Jack looks at you, "What's so funny?"

"I can't believe you proposed with your dick out and made a comment about our shared trauma."

He shrugs, "Well isn't our entire relationship built on unconventional and traumatic events?"

You roll your eyes and climb onto Jack's lap, "Shut up and make love to your fiancee."

He smiles wide, "No need to tell me twice."

_____________________

"DID HE DO IT?! DID HE ASK YOU TO MARRY HIM?!" Evie asks as into the apartment after her sleepover. Jack follows her inside, chuckling.

You hold up your left hand, "He did, baby!"

"YAY!" Evie wraps her arms around you and then gasps. She turns to Jack, "Can I call you dad now?!"

Jack looks at you. You two have talked about it before. You're okay with Evie calling Jack her dad. He practically is.

He softly smiles at the six year old, "Yeah, honey. You can call me dad." Evie launches herself at Jack and he catches her. He hugs her tight.

It's funny. You and Jack thought you were undeserving of each other, but turns out, you were just what the other needed this whole time.

[allfearstofallto]

yandere diluc is pathetic as hell omg😭😭 imagine his darling goes on hunger strike and he force feeds her and he’s just like “i knowwwww☹️☹️☹️just one more bite pls😔😔” whole time she’s screaming and crying

Y'all wanna hunger strike Diluc so fucking bad 😭 😭 this is my third ask about this same thing?? I'mma do it cause you whores are desperate though.

Yandere! Diluc x Fem! Reader

Forced Marriage AU

TW: 18+ MDNI(!!!!),Yandere, Starvation (!!!), Forced Feeding (!!!), Suffocation (!!!)

The sight of a full plate was one Diluc has grown scarily accustomed to in the passing weeks. Maybe a bite or two of food taken, just to sate him, and you'd sit in silence for the rest of the meal. The already quiet hour was even more deafeningly silent when it lacked the clatter of your cutlery, the sounds of your chewing. It was so quiet that even across the long, mahogany table, Diluc could hear the way the liquid slid down your throat with each big sip of the wine you took.

With your glass empty, you'd wipe your upper lip with a napkin, then remain stationary for the rest of the meal.

You, who seldom even spoke to the man, already made him walk in eggshells around you. Your temper was like a furnace, crackling and fuming, just waiting for the chance to burn him. So like a lot of flames, he kept his distance, and didn't speak when he noticed this new and terrifying habit blossoming.

Maybe you didn't like the food? He'd question himself. His muse, his desire, his flame, you were, you filled his thoughts even out of his line of sight. That fiery gaze of yours is why he loved you so damn much, the hatred in your eyes fueling a masochistic part of his brain. So that's why he was thinking of you now. Even though work was supposed to be the only thing keeping his attention, you still found a way to cloud his mind. The food wasn't up to your standards. That's why you weren't eating it. That had to be.

The next meal you were served was your favorite. Diluc watched with desperate eyes as yours stayed on your plate. He himself didn't even touch his own food, waiting for you to take the first bite. And you did. A sense of triumph and relief washed over him, he felt his shoulders finally relax as a weight lifted off of them, and even though you cared so little for his emotions, he felt a smile growing on his face.

But, soon enough your little mouse-like bites stopped. Your fork is placed back onto the table. You sipped down the wine in your glass until it ran empty. Your plate is still full.

From the looks of it, you'd only picked and eaten your favorite parts. A good start, but not nearly enough for you. Not nearly enough nourishment. Were you torturing him? You had to be. You didn't look smug at his sorrow, not happy, you didn't even look like you noticed his presence.

“Please…eat some more,” he hummed with a weak, pleading smile forcing its way onto his face. This was the first time he'd heard his voice bellowing through the dining room in…well, he couldn't remember.

It was clear that the unfamiliar sound startled you too. You met his gaze, something you hadn't truly done in months, and he felt his cheeks flush hot, like a schoolboy in front of his first crush. Just the sight of you was enough to make him almost forget what he's ordered you to do, until you spoke with that sweet, but venomous voice.

“I'm not hungry,”

Three words sending a stab of pain through his chest. Diluc felt his lips quiver at your statement. A lie if he'd ever heard one. You had to have been aware that Diluc constantly kept track of your meals. Even the ones you didn't share with him. How much you are, what you had for a snack, the amount of water you consumed. Diluc knew it all. As your husband, it was his job to know it all, and he knew that you should be starving.

“Just a few more bites,” he hummed, “It was made special for you,”

A shake of your head had him reeling, but he held his composure, though he could feel the metal fork squeezed tight in his fist growing noticeably warmer, almost burning hot.

“It's been days, you must be starving,” he sighed, exasperated.

“I'm not,”

Diluc loves you. He truly does. His heart, his soul, his eternal flame. And he knows that his love is there to keep you completely safe. You, how naive you are, to think that Diluc would ever let any harm come to you, even at the hands of yourself. His most precious person. The one he loves more than anything riches, more than himself.

It shouldn't be a surprise when he stands from the table and walks to your side. You know better than to run away, instead you sit stiffly in your chair, suddenly aware of how firm the wood of it is, like your mind is trying to focus on anything except the way you can feel his body heat as he kneels next to you. The way he smells like burnt cinnamon and you can hear his breathing, slightly heavier than normal.

When you finally do meet his gaze again, you watch his cheeks flush that red color once more, an affect you have on him that even you aren't aware of. Instead you notice the how his eyes are glossed over, like one blink will bring tears, and how his hand is gripping a fork ever so tightly. If you weren't acutely aware of how demented his obsession was with you, you'd think that he was planning to impale that fork right into your chest.

Diluc's shaking had used his utensils to pick up a scoop of your dinner, then holds it up to your lips. You can smell the savory scent hitting your nostrils, instinctively making your stomach rumble ferociously, practically proving his point, but you keep your lips sealed tight.

Diluc knows what's best for you, even if you yourself don't. He knows that he has to protect you, even if that means hurting you himself. The pain he brings you, is also to keep you safe. That's what he tells himself as he reaches upwards and squeezed your cheeks, his large hand nearly engulfing your face and still noticeably hot from the recent usage of his vision.

Your words are a muffled mess as you try to pull away and resist his touch, but you're nothing compared to his enormous strength. To the way the fingers sinking into the plump fat of your cheeks being pressed together so firmly forces your lips open despite your protest. He does his best to force the food past the entrance of your lips.

You want to spit, but it seems Diluc has already accounted for such actions. That same hand is now pressed over your mouth, sealing your lips shut…and the other closes your nose. Your eyes widen as you realize that you're unable to breath, thrashing in his hold that seems unwavering. You expect to see malice in his eyes, sadistic excitement watching you struggle and thrash. But all you see are tears. Cascading down his cheeks like a waterfall, salty wet tears drip down onto you. You'd be angry at the pitiful sight, if not for the lack of oxygen.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” he whines over and over like a mantra. His meek apologies are a foil to the aggressive nature of his hands that you're clawing at with all your waning strength.

So you do as he wants. You chew. Then swallow. Noisily, so he can hear. Then he releases you, pulling his hands back like you're the one who's burned him. Sputtering and coughing, you glare at him, still apologizing to the point where the expression has lost its meaning. Not that you ever took what he said seriously.

“Please, just finish your food,” he mutters. Using the back of his hand to wipe away a stray tear. But there's a look in his eyes, regret of course, but also the determination that shows that if you don't do as he says, he'll repeat the same actions again.