#they said they’d call her to ask (they didn’t)

[dollerin]

VOICE OF AN 𝓐𝑵𝑮𝑬𝑳 stack moore.

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝑳𝐔𝐃𝐄 ─── you’ve got one hell of a talent, everyone knows that except for the notorious, stack. but he may be the one to get you your very first gig when he finds out. he says you shouldn’t let your gift go to waste, you’ve got the voice of an angel.

elias ‘stack’ moore x f. reader romance strangers to lovers physical touch 𝑝𝑒𝑡𝑛𝑎𝑚𝑒�� 𝗐𝖼. 𝟣.𝟩𝗄 ─── 𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑒

The old restaurant smelled of tobacco smoke and the pork chops that were being made in the kitchen, the aged wood scent lingering with it. It was crowded, per usual, but you didn’t mind—it meant you and your mother were getting business.

Fridays were usually the busiest anyway, people getting off of work, needing a good meal and a drink to wash down their rough week. Some work all day in the field and want to run away from the trouble of the other folks out to get them. And then there were others who just wanted to dance.

No matter where they were from, you served them anyway, a smile always on your face. Though working and serving for your mama wasn’t ideal, it was a start—a start to your dreams. And you were okay with that.

You weaved through the tables and small crowds of dancing elders, placing plates in front of people and collecting the empty ones. This was nothing new to you, so it came like second nature.

The music in your mama’s joint wasn’t slow, but it wasn’t fast, either. It was the perfect tempo for people to groove along and for you to begin humming to yourself as you cleaned off empty tables. The band that played were a few good family friends that agreed to play there every night, no pay required. Every once in a while, you join them. Sometimes they played popular blues songs, other times they played the songs that you wrote yourself, and knew all the lyrics to. Now, of course, the audience didn’t know the songs but they didn’t have to. Your voice was what captivated them.

By now, it was a regular thing for someone to come up to you and request a song—or just ask you to go on stage so they could hear you. All you could ever do was nod your head and bashfully agree as you walked up.

But tonight, it didn't happen. Not yet, anyway.

Maybe it was because your mama needed some extra help, with the amount of folks that piled into her restaurant. Your cousin—the only chef that she had at the moment, was sick so she was forced to do all the cooking by herself, instead of helping you serve.

As you continued to hum to yourself, the music still echoing throughout the restaurant, the bell on the door jingled. Your back was turned, but you heard footsteps as another customer came in. They didn’t ask to be seated, though.

You glanced behind you to see that they’d taken a seat at the bar, but then you did a double take once you saw who it was.

Some people whispered to each other, but they didn’t dare make eye contact with the person.

Stack.

One of the famous Delta twins. Dressed in that red hat that sat low, hiding his eyes a bit.

You turned back to the task at hand, not wanting your staring to be too obvious—though it probably already was. You could hear him shuffling in his seat at the bar, the sound of his lighter flicking and him inhaling a bit.

You continued working as if he weren’t there, humming along to the music. But you couldn’t shake the feeling of his eyes boring into the back of your head.

Soon, the music ended on the stage, leading everyone to applaud before the band started their next song. Some of them walked off the stage, taking a bathroom break or a sip of water. You continued humming to yourself, even as the music was gone.

“Y/N! Hey!” Someone called out to you.

Your head popped up, seeing one of the band members headed right toward you.

“Hey,” you smiled.

“You wanna c’mon for our next number? It’s your favorite,” he said.

“What? ‘Down Hearted Blues’?” You asked, quirking your eyebrow.

The man chuckled, “You know it.”

You thought about it for a moment, his constant ‘c’mon’ had made you want to go up there and grab that microphone. But you weren’t so sure if you’d do that tonight.

“Oh, I don’t know, sir—“

“Go on up there! You know everybody love yo’ voice!”

You shook your head, hiding the bashfulness on your face.

He turned around to the rest of the restaurant, raising his voice for everyone to hear, “Aye, y’all, don’t y’all love lil’ Y/N’s voice? Don’t ya’ love when she sing for us?”

They all paused what they were doing to agree, the area erupting with applause and cheers. That didn’t make your case any better, if you were one of them white folks, you would’ve looked like a tomato by now.

Your smile grew as the people’s focus was now on you, encouraging you to head up on that stage.

“C’mon, Y/N, sing for us!”

“I wanna hear some good ol’ blues tonight!”

“Girl, if you don’t get up there—!”

After a moment of them all trying to persuade you at once, you drop the cleaning towel on the table you were standing at. You walked through the crowd again, walking toward the stage with loud cheers behind you.

The smile on your face never dropped, even as you got to the center of the wooden platform.

Stack was tucked into the back of the restaurant still, remaining in his seat at the bar. He took another drag of his cigarette, waiting to see what all the ruckus was about—what the big deal was about one voice.

People took their places at their tables and some stood around as the instrumental of your favorite song began to play. You took in a deep breath, closing your eyes as the lyrics began to flow out of you.

Were there folks watching you all around the restaurant? Yes.

But you could feel a certain pair glued to you. Like they couldn’t move. Like they didn’t want to move.

You sang out, your voice drifting throughout the restaurant like a harp played in the moonlight. You clutched your chest, reciting the lyrics as if you had lived by them.

Stack looked up at the platform from beneath his hat, the cigarette sitting between his plump lips. They curled up at the corners, a smirk playing on his face as he listened to you. He could’ve sworn he died and came back when he heard, nodding his head slowly in approval and enjoyment.

You twirled to the side of the stage, your long work dress flowing with you as you fell in love with the music all over again. People not only loved you for your voice, but for your performance. How you let the chords flow through your veins. The music was you.

As the band began to reach the end of the song, you smiled out to your little crowd, seeing all them send cheers your way.

You made your way off of the stage, hugging some of them, others kissing you on the cheek.

“Alright, y’all, I gotta get back to work now,” you laughed, cheeks burning from your wide grin.

They all let you get back to your duties, still cheering you on from afar, but not wanting to hear any fuss from your Mama.

You walked back to the table you were at before, grabbing the dirty towel to place in the basket full of other used cloth.

“‘Scuse me, miss,” a voice said from behind you.

You turned to see Stack grinning at you, sly look plastered on his face, per usual.

“Um, hi?”

“Hi,” he repeated. “I don’t mean to bother, but… that was you singing up there?”

You nodded.

“Mhm.”

He smiled, gold pieces on display. His eyes scanned you for a moment before speaking again.

“Just wanted to let you know I enjoyed it. Sounded like an angel sent from heaven.”

You raised your brow, slightly, “Thanks.”

He moved a hair closer to you, eyes never moving from yours.

“I’m offerin’ you a spot down at this here Juke Joint.. You know the SmokeStack twins?” He asked, eyes shimmering in the restaurant’s dim lighting.

“Yeah, I heard of em’. What that gotta do with a Juke Joint?”

“We openin’ one. Right here in the Delta.” He said proudly.

You folded your arms, not responding.

“So? What you say, huh?” His voice lowered, his words only heard between you both.

You narrowed your eyes up at him, “I don’t know.. I don’t understand what I would be gettin’ outta this.”

“Well,” he ran his tongue over his lip. “Thirty cents an hour. And a front-row seat to this here pretty face. Can’t beat that.”

Something about his little comment made your stomach tumble, but you straightened your stance.

“Still not hearin’ what this’ll do for me.”

He sighed, looking around for a moment before turning back to you.

“I meant it when I said you got a voice on ya, pea. Voice like that don’t come ‘round often. Why don’t you come on out? Show folks what the blues s’posed to feel like?”

You kept your eyes on him, thinking for a moment. You didn’t know if this was just a way for him to keep persuading you to come so he could try and take you home—or what. But he had a point. How would you ever get to where you wanna be in life, with your gift, if you don’t show it to folks outside the restaurant?

You tapped your foot, trying to make a decision.

“I…” you started, looking down at your scuffed shoes.

He hummed, waiting for your response, leaning down to follow your gaze.

“You in or what?”

“Lemme talk to my Mama. See what she says, she might—“

“You a grown-ass woman, what you talkin’ bout’, askin’ your mama?” His eyes scanned you again, lips twitching like he was holding back a grin.

“She might need my help,” you finish your sentence, cutting your eyes at him. “It ain’t easy runnin’ a restaurant all by yourself, now.”

Stack gave a short nod, hand coming to his pocket, shifting around it. He pulled out some cash—real dollars, not just coins. He grabbed your hand from your side, placing the paper right in your palm.

“That gon’ cover one night for y’all?” He asked, already knowing the answer as you stared down at the money, mouth agape.

“I— You—“

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow night, then? Bring some of your mama’s platters, hear?”

And with that, he tipped his hat, showing off the gold in his mouth before turning to the door.

꒰ ≧ ̫ ≦ ꒱ྀི : decided to split this in two parts !! :) first sinners fic.. kinda nervy tho.

[bulgik]

🫧 Manon Bannerman 𓄹⠀𓈒 ㅤׄ fri(end)s

𓈒 ゛⠀⎯⎯⠀Now i’m overpretending, so let’s put the end in friends.

Yn put the ‘end’ to their friendship, and Manon never understood why. That is, until tonight at the party, when they find themselves trapped in a bathroom together and have no choice but to lay bare the reasons behind their fallout.

Or: five times Yn gave Manon a reason to walk away, and one time she stayed anyway.

�𝗣𝗔𝗜𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚 𓈒𓈒𓈒 Manon Bannerman ⋆ 𝑓𝑒𝑚 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 ・ 𝑤𝑐. 5.k ・ 𝑔. fluff. hurt/comfort —Friends to Enemies to lovers.

“Stop staring at me like that, your eyeballs are about to pop out.”

Manon snarled at the words.

“This is all your fault.” Her eyes bore into the girl sitting across from her, unfazed, as if she couldn’t care less about being trapped here.

Yn. The school’s volleyball team’s ace. School’s favorite girl. Manon’s least.

You might ask why, and Manon already had a list of five very solid reasons that had been burned into her mind over the years.

It started when they were younger, when they were friends. Yes, they were friends, as much as Manon hated to admit. Yn wasn’t always the asshole she was now.

“You have holes in your cheeks.”

Those were the first ever words Manon had said to Yn. The little girl puzzledly stared at her, looking half-scared, like Manon was some candy thief.

“Sorry?”

“When you smile.”

“Oh…” The ‘cheek holes’ resurfaced. “They’re called dimples. And they’re not holes…”

“Whatever. My mom told me I should ask you to play.”

“Okay…”

“What’s your name?”

“Yn.”

“Manon Bannerman.” She gestured at herself. “How old are you?”

“Five.”

“Nice, I won. I’m six. Now you call me Manz.”

They were next-door neighbors, and Manon was Yn’s first ever friend, since she was a newcomer at the time. Manon would describe young Yn as a snotty, chubby, yet adorable kid (she was lucky for having those dimples). Looking back, Yn should be grateful—Manon had helped her shape her social skills, dragging her around the neighborhood and introducing her to other kids.

Manon was the only one she had. Every day, they’d go to school together and walk home side by side. Yn refused to be separated from her even for Tuesday afternoons during her dance class.

“Manz, can I come to the studio with you?” Yn had asked her one time, eyes glistening with tears, just a snot away from crying.

Manon sighed. “No, you can’t.”

“But, why…?”

“Because you can’t dance too when I already do,” Manon huffed. “We can’t keep matching all the time. You’re gonna make their teasing worse.”

Their parents and friends would occasionally tease them as if they were items that came in pairs. A couple. It made Manon uncomfortable—or at least she was worried Yn was feeling uncomfortable. Yn was just her friend. People shouldn’t twist it into something else.

Yn pouted, adorably, almost like a puppy. “Then what do I do?”

“I don’t know… but stop whining like a baby.”

Simply put, they used to be inseparable.

Until one afternoon, when Manon came home from her dance lesson, hoping to find Yn waiting to play.

Only to see her playing volleyball—maybe the first time she ever played that sport—with the older girls in their neighborhood.

Yn, of all people, should’ve known that Manon hated to be left out. Sure, she could’ve joined in and played that stupid ball. Manon saw Haikyu!! once—she knew a bit about volleyball, like decoys, Hinata, and that being tall didn’t necessarily give an advantage in this sport.

She really knew nothing about it at all.

She had no option but to stare cluelessly as Yn played with the others. It wasn’t that she was bored. But when Yn was immersed in an activity, she wouldn’t notice anything else around her. And by anything, she meant Manon, herself.

At least Yn looked like she was having fun. But Manon couldn’t ignore the building anxiety gnawing in her gut at the sight—like she’d been replaced.

First reason Yn had ignored Manon all afternoon, replacing her with a group of Haikyu-wannabe girls.

“But, Manz, you said it yourself—I can’t join your dance class,” Yn explained as they walked to class the next day. “And those girls were so nice… They even taught me how to play.”

“I don’t care, Yn, you still ditched me,” Manon scowled.

The other girl grimaced. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Manz. It was just really fun. I can’t stop. You should join us next time.”

“No, thanks. I’d rather—”

Her words trailed off as her eyes caught on someone waiting outside their classroom. A man, young-looking, dressed in a long black sweater that made him look almost ethereal.

“Who’s that?” she asked, half-wowed.

Later, they found out he was Mr. Cho—their temporary art teacher. And possibly, Manon’s first ever crush.

Mr. Cho was warm and full of life. He always threw jokes that made every lesson feel alive, and to top it off, he was a dancer—just like Manon. With his long, silky hair and gentle demeanor, he looked like a prince straight out of the storybooks she used to read.

Naturally, Manon confided in Yn about her silly crush, making her sit through endless rambling about what went down with Mr. Cho each day.

“…and then he showed me his dance. It looked so pretty, Yn. He looked so pretty.”

Yn, barely glancing away from the volleyball match playing on the TV, huffed. “I’m still prettier than him.”

Manon sighed. “You’re a girl, Yn. You can’t be prettier.”

There was silence after that. She figured Yn was done entertaining her jabs. But then, she heard a quiet mumble—barely audible.

“You are.”

Manon froze. Unsure what to say—or whether she should say anything at all.

So she just brushed it off.

She never gave too much thought to the moment and eventually let it slip from her mind. But as time went on, she began to notice something strange. Every time she brought up Mr. Cho, Yn acted… off. Uninterested. Irritated, even.

It left Manon wondering—was Yn also crushing on Mr. Cho?

The suspicion only grew stronger when Mr. Cho asked her to perform a routine with him. She’d been thrilled—it would be her first time performing publicly, and she wanted everyone to see.

Yn was, of course, invited automatically.

“You have to come,” Manon had told her. “I won’t forgive you if you miss it.”

Yn promised she would.

But when the night came, she never showed up.

Second reason Yn, Manon’s best friend at the time, broke her promise and missed one of the most important nights of her life.

Yn had apologized, of course. And Manon eventually relented and forgave her after finding out she had a volleyball team trial that same evening. But Yn never really clarified whether she forgot to tell Manon about it—or chose not to mention it at all.

And judging by the way she’d been acting strange lately, it felt more like it had been on purpose.

“Do you think it’s weird when a girl kisses another girl?” Yn had asked one day.

Manon didn’t answer immediately, caught off guard by how sudden the question was. What a weird thing to bring up.

“Why do you ask?”

Her friend reacted like she’d been caught doing something illegal. “Uh… I don’t know—I just overheard some girls talking about it.”

Truthfully, Manon never really thought about it. For starters, she’d never seen one. She’d only ever seen her parents kiss. Or the people on TV. So she settled on the closest comparison her brain could come up with.

“Imagine us kissing, Yn. Would it be weird to you?”

Manon hadn’t meant anything serious by the question. She wasn’t even sure of her own opinion.

There was silence. Like Yn was really thinking about it. It got suspicious, and Manon turned her head just in time to catch her expression before she quickly responded.

“Yeah… yeah I guess it’d be weird.”

They never talked about it again. The young and shortsighted Manon—who easily forgot strange little things—never questioned how odd the conversation had actually been.

That is, until the accident happened.

They were in Manon’s bedroom, hanging out like usual.

“You won’t believe what happened today, Yn.” Manon flopped down onto her bed next to her, a huge grin on her face. “Mr. Cho kissed my head after I fell down the stairs and hit it.” She pointed to the crown of her head. “Right here!”

“It’s not that special, Manz.” Yn gave her usual flat response. Unimpressed. “I could do better.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Manon rolled to her side, facing her. “You think you can do better? What, like kiss me on the lips?”

Yn instantly sat up, ears turning red. “That’s not what I—”

“What’s stopping you then, huh? Do it. Kiss me on the lips.”

“Manz, stop it!” Yn shook Manon’s shoulder relentlessly.

But Manon only laughed and quickly looped her arms around Yn’s neck, locking her close. Their faces now barely an inch apart.

“Are you gonna kiss me now?” Manon teased. “What’s wrong? Afraid? Come on, Ynie. You said you could do better. Prove it—”

And before Manon could finish, Yn leaned in and kissed her.

She froze, stayed still. Yn’s lips were soft and fleeting. By the time Manon could process what had happened, Yn had already pulled back, face pale and horrified.

“Oh my god, Manz, I’m so sorry, Manz. I didn’t mean to—I just—”

Manon blinked at her, mind spinning and heart pounding. What just happened?

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” she finally said, though she wasn’t sure if she meant it.

It was as if her mind or maybe her heart was deciding whether they liked it or not.

“it’s not okay! I wasn’t thinking—I don’t know what I did—”

“It’s fine, Ynie, I—”

“It was a mistake!” Yn cut her off. “I’m sorry, Manon. It was an accident.”

That word—mistake—tugged at something inside of her. A tiny little pull in her chest. But she ignored it, assuming it was just some glitch in her heart.

“Okay.” Manon whispered, brain numb. “Let’s just not talk about this ever again then.”

Yn had agreed.

But nothing was ever the same after that.

Third reason. Yn stole her first kiss and said it was a mistake.

Time passed by and now they were in high school. Yn had grown fond of the sport, she joined the school’s volleyball team. “Volleyball gives me the distraction that I need, Manz.” Yn had said to Manon, though she never knew—or asked what distraction. She just knew Yn was living her best life.

Unfortunately for Manon, it was the opposite. She spent less and less time with the younger.

Yn’s little hobby sacrificed their little routines. Going home from school together was no longer an option since volleyball practice took over Yn’s afternoon. And then, when she was home, Manon waited on her home, the younger said she was too tired to play or even just for a little chat.

Manon could only say a pathetic, “I see… rest well then, Ynie.”

Only Mr. Choi noticed how she’d to hold back her tears that night.

Manon missed her best friend.

They barely even greet each other in the hallway anymore. Let alone, lunch. Yn would spend it with her teammates and new friends Manon didn’t even know about. Manon couldn’t help but feel Yn slowly pulling away from her.

Were they even still friends?

But thankfully, summer break came and Manon hoped it would make up for the time they missed. She'd been looking forward to their annual sleepover marathon. Maybe, Yn would tell her recent volleyball progress for Manon to catch up.

But then Yn dropped the bomb.

“I have a volleyball camp out of town, manz,” she had said, voice tinged with guilt. “I’m sorry.”

Manon had tried to play it cool. “Oh. When are you leaving?”

“…Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?!”

“I thought I mentioned it before…”

“You didn’t!” Manon wanted to be mad, but she settled for an eye roll instead. “Fine. But you better text me. And call. No excuses.”

Yn gave her dimpled smile. “Of course, I will.”

And for the first two days, she did. Yn texted about how intimidating other kids’ skills were, how strict the coach was, they even had a late-night call once.

On the third day, Yn replied later than usual. And it gradually happened until she stopped replying to Manon’s text, let alone calling.

She told herself that Yn was just busy. Training must be tough. Maybe she was too tired to text. Maybe her phone died. Maybe—

But then Yn posted on her social media.

It contradicted all of her speculations about what might have happened. That was the moment when Manon realized.

Yn wasn’t busy. She'd simply ignored her.

Ghosted her.

And that was the fourth reason.

If Manon wasn’t an overthinker, she could just comment or DM Yn, like "hey, are you mad at me? do you purposely ignore my texts?"

But the more she mulled it over, she didn’t want to look pathetic, it was starting to feel one sided—like she was desperately trying to reach Yn. Manon just wanted to stop… reaching, and see if Yn would come back on her own.

A day before school started, Manon noticed Yn’s room glowing with vibrant lights from her window.

Weird. She didn’t even know Yn was back from camp.

Wasting no time, she went straight to the next door, knocking on the door out of habit.

Mrs. Laforteza’s face appeared from behind. “Ah, Manon, to what do I owe the pleasure today?”

“Hi, Mrs. Laforteza. Is Yn home yet?”

“Yes, since yesterday, sweetie. Didn’t she tell you?”

Manon weakly shook her head. A dull ache settled in her chest—disappointment, maybe. Or something else. A strange, creeping anxiety at the distance Yn had put between them.

“Oh… she must have just forgotten or was too tired,” Mrs. Laforteza tried to reassure. “Go on up, you know the way.”

An uneasy feeling settled in Manon’s stomach as she climbed the familiar stairs, making her anxious.

Then, just as she reached Yn’s door, she heard it—laughter. Not just Yn’s. There was someone else.

She swung the door open.

Yn was with another girl, not older than them. The vibrant lights turned out to be the TV glow. They were watching a volleyball match together.

“Manz!” Yn greeted, she couldn’t even mask her surprise on her face. “What are you doing here?”

“I didn’t know you got back yesterday, Yn.” Manon didn’t bother to subtle her irritation.

“Yeah… forgot to tell you.” Yn rubbed the back of her neck before motioning to the new girl . “Anyway, meet Megan. We were at camp together, and guess what? Turns out she lives just a few blocks away!”

Yn’s gaze flickered to Megan, who gave a polite nod. “Nice to meet you, Megan.” her voice was flat, distant. Then, turning to Yn. “Can I talk to you? Outside.”

Yn hesitated for a split second before excusing herself and following her out into the hallway.

As soon as the door closed behind them, she frowned, “Why are you acting weird, manz? You were kinda rude with Megan.”

The words went straight to her head. Did I really act weird?

Manon tried to reflect on why she was feeling this way. So annoyed. So betrayed.

Was I being rude to Yn’s friend because of it?

But the longer ahe thought, the clues were all pointed at Yn. She wouldn’t act like this if Yn didn’t make her guess why she’d been avoiding Manon but not other people. She wouldn’t act like this if Yn just… talked to her about what was going on with them.

“No!” she snapped, frustrated. “You’re the one who’s being weird! Why did you stop texting me during your camp?”

Yn blinked, clearly taken aback. “I mean… It was just for two weeks,” She brushed it off without showing any sign of regret. “Why are you being so clingy, manz?”

Manon felt something inside her crack.

“Clingy?” She scoffed, a mix of amused and disbelief. “Don’t try to gaslight me, Yn. You’re the one who ditched me out of nowhere.”

“What are you talking about?” Yn asked, her tone as sharp as the crease forming between her eyebrows.

“Ever since you've been focusing on volleyball, you’ve completely ignored me!” Dejection flitted in Manon’s voice, she whispered as she continued, “it feels like you're avoiding me.”

“I didn’t ignore you!” Manon flinched at Yn’s sudden high pitch, and she looked just as startled. “I just need space…”

“Right,” Manon ’s eyes were blank as she stared at the girl in front of her—the girl she used to be so close to. “The thing you gave to your Megan inside.”

Yn didn’t respond immediately, as if she knew she was caught with her own excuse. Her voice was softer when she spoke again, “Maybe I needed space from you, Manon.”

No Manz. Just Manon. Yn didn’t even shout, but her words shattered a part of her heart. What did I even do to Yn? The question floated in her head out of her anger and sadness.

Her body moved before she could think, stepping back as she felt the tears threatening to drop just a second away. Yn couldn’t see her crying like this.

“You know what, don't ever talk to me again.” Her voice was cold as ice. “Have fun with your new friend.”

Yn didn’t say a word.

Manon didn’t wait for her to. She turned and walked away.

It became the fifth reason. Yn just let Manon walk away from their friendship, no effort to make her stay.

And so it goes. The days when Manon was close to Yn felt like a lifetime ago.

After their friendship fell apart, Yn didn’t even seem to notice Manon’s absence. Too busy with her new friends—and her one and only volleyball. It was as if their friendship had never existed in the first place.

Manon could only be thankful that their parents never questioned the sudden distance between them.

That was fine. Manon had other things to focus on now.

Dance.

It consumed most of her time, filling the gaps Yn had left behind. She joined the school’s extracurricular club, trained hard, and for once, everything went well for her.

Until Megan showed up.

“Aren’t you Yn’s friend?”

“No.”

Megan tilted her head. “Pretty sure you are. You went to her house that day, right? Wait—Manon, isn’t it?”

Did I tell her my name that day?

“…Yeah.”

“Knew it.” Megan smiled excitedly. “You remember me? Megan.”

Of course I remember my replacement.

“Right.” Manon’s tone was flat, contrasting the latter’s. “Didn’t know you danced too.”

“I do a lot of stuff. Dancing, Singing, volleyball.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

Megan laughed smugly, couldn’t seem to sense Manon’s disinterest. “Anyway. I’m glad we paired up for the duet.”

Can’t say the same.

And just like that, Manon (begrudgingly) found herself acquainted with Megan.

To her reluctant surprise, the more time she spent with Megan, the more Manon realized she wasn’t as bad as she’d thought. At the very least, Megan made her grateful for their partnership—especially after seeing how some of her classmates struggled with their duet partners. Megan was incredibly talented at dancing.

But she was also ridiculously careless.

“Megan, here.” Manon handed her a flash drive containing their final dance choreo. “Our recording. Give it to Mr.Avanzini tomorrow morning.”

“Why can’t you do it?”

“Because I’m not coming to school tomorrow. I told you this.”

“Right. Dentist appointment.” After a while Megan groaned.

“What now?”

“I have a party tonight.”

“So?”

“I can’t promise that I won’t get wasted and miss school tomorrow…?”

Manon exhaled sharply. “Megan, I swear to God, I will drag you out of that party myself.”

“Please do.”

Manon rolled her eyes at the older’s lack of accountability. “Where is this party anyway?”

“Lara’s? I thought you knew… We celebrate Yn’s achievemet. She made it to the national youth team.”

The news sank in, making a strange hollowness in her chest.

So, I guess we’re already on that stage now. The stage where I hear about her life from other people.

“I told you—we’re not friends anymore,” Manon muttered, her voice quieter this time.

Megan shrugged. “Yeah? Doesn’t look like it.”

“Whatever. Let’s just start practice.”

They ran through the practice. Manon struggled to focus, she couldn’t stop thinking about the new information about Yn.

She was happy for her. But it felt sad Manon couldn’t tell it directly.

Though, in reality, she’d probably slap Yn first before Manon could congratulate her.

The moment they wrapped up, Megan quickly grabbed her phone, checking for the time. “Shit. I’m gonna be late.” She hastily stuffed up Her bags before standing up to leave. “Gotta go now, Manon. See you tomorrow!”

“Wait—the flash drive!”

But Megan had already closed the door.

Manon groaned, running a hand down her face. The deadline was first thing in the morning, and Megan was the only one who could submit it.

She had no choice.

She was going to that party.

Lara’s house was packed with drunk high schoolers from nearly every grade.

Which was no surprise. As the captain of the volleyball team—their school’s most popular sport—Lara often hosted parties, and students were always eager to join.

But it seemed like Yn had expanded her social circle too.

A massive banner hung across the living room.

‘Congratulations, Yn Laforteza! Our newest national player!’

Manon stared at it, the same strange, uneasy feeling settling in her chest.

The name—the person—once so familiar, now felt like nothing more than a stranger.

Shaking it off, she refocused on her mission.

Manon asked nearly a dozen people for Megan’s whereabouts before finally getting a lead.

“Upstairs bathroom,” a boy said.

So, she went.

Upstairs hallway was dim and the music faded in the background. The bathroom was weirdly unoccupied for a packed party like this.

But Manon, having zero sense of self-preservation, stepped inside anyway.

A second later, she realized why the bathroom had been empty.

It was a trap. A prank. And the victim stepped right after her…

Was Yn.

The bathroom’s door closed with a bang. She heard laughter outside

And that was how Manon ended up here.

Locked in Lara’s bathroom.

With her ex-best friend.

The person on top of Manon’s hate list.

“This is all your fault.”

“How the hell is this my fault, Manon?”

“If your friends weren’t completely idiots, they’d be more careful with their pranks—like, I don’t know, not locking random people inside.”

Bitterness lodged in Manon’s throat, it had been a while since she talked with Yn. She had mixed feelings. Built-up irritations and something like… longing.

“Oh, so now you blame my friends?” Yn scoffed, shaking her head. “This was supposed to be my trap.” She leaned closer like she was inspecting Manon. “This is on you. Why did you come to this bathroom? Matter of fact, what are you even doing here? At my party.”

Manon’s jaw tightened. She hated how Yn said it. My party. Like it was some exclusive thing Manon had no business being at.

“I came here to give this to Megan.” She lifted the flash drive between her fingers.

“Oh?” Yn said half-amused, half-bitter. “So you guys are friends now, huh?”

Manon narrowed her eyes, annoyed. “We’re dance partners. So what?”

“Funny,” Yn muttered. “You were being dramatic when I started hanging out with her.”

Manon exhaled. She needed to stay calm. “It’s different.”

Yn let out a humorless laugh. “Different how?”

Manon could answer, oh, because you were in position of ignoring me at that time, said you need some space but surprise, Megan was there. Manon could say, because you were acting like a jerk.

But she chose to reply, “Just… the situation. You wouldn’t get it.”

“You’re so complicated, Manon,” Yn whispered, as if she was disappointed. “I can never understand you.”

“You’re one to talk. Remember when we’re still friends, Ynie?”

Yn visibly gulped as she braced for Manon to continue.

“Should’ve stopped being friends when you ditched me for your stupid volleyball.”

“It was a long time ago, Manon! And I did that because you wouldn’t let me join your dance lesson!”

“Oh, that was just the beginning,” Manon spat, filled with hurt more than anger now. “Then you missed my first-ever public dance performance because of that stupid volleyball trial you didn’t even bother telling me after it was over!”

Yn’s mouth parted slightly, caught off guard. “I didn’t know it was important to you—”

“It was! You were my best friend, Yn!” Manon’s voice cracked, the words tasted sour on her tongue. “But you let me walk away from our friendship… You didn’t even try to make me stay. Why?”

A heavy silence filled the space between them, years of suppressed confusion and anger finally out. For the first time since the argument started, Yn didn’t try to shoot back another defensive remark. She just sat there, Her gaze blank as she stared at the floor, as if she was reliving in Manon’s pain, or maybe in her own.

“I…” Yn finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “I thought it was for the best for us…”

Manon let out a bitter laugh, but it came out choked. “Fuck you!” her tears were falling now. “You don’t get to decide that! You even ghosted me weeks before it all fell apart!”

Yn’s eyes flickered with something unreadable—regret, maybe. “I didn’t ghost you, Manon.” her voice wavered, hesitant. “I was… I was trying to figure out my feelings.”

Manon froze. “What?” She wiped the tears from her cheeks. “What… what do you mean, Soobin?”

Tears now glistened Yn’s eyes. “I like you, Manon.”

Manon blinked. The words barely registered. “Wait—” her heart pounded, confusion clouding his thoughts. “What did you just say?”

“I like you,” Yn repeated, steady this time

Manon’s breath hitched. It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t make sense. her mind spiraled, searching for cracks in Yn’s words, for proof that this wasn’t real. Flashback flooded in—every time Yn pushed her away, every moment she chose something, someone, else over her.

“No.” Manon shook her head. “No, you don’t.” her voice trembled, not with anger or pain, but with fear. “You pushed me away. You left me. You don’t like me.”

Yn slowly moved closer to reach for Manon, but she pulled away.

“Manon, I did it because I didn’t know what to do with my feelings.” She took a shaky breath, now sitting cluelessly right before she could reach Manon. “Every time I tried to accept it, you’d say or do something that—That scared me.”

Manon’s pulse roared in her ears. She didn’t know what was worse—the years of hurt resurfacing, or the new discovery behind it, might have been nothing like she thought.

“Like what?” Manon asked.

“I… I always thought you didn’t like it when people ship us together. You always acted uncomfortable and it hurted.”

“What?” Manon’s eyebrows furrowed. “No, no, that’s not what happened… I thought you were the one who uncomfortable—”

“And the kiss.”

“What kiss—” Manon’s eyes widened in realization. My first kiss. “You’re the one who said it was a mistake!”

“It was never a mistake!” Yn stuttered. “I—I was waiting for your reaction but… but then I suddenly remembered the time when I asked you about two girls kissing and you said it’s weird—”

Manon felt like a constant wave of realization hit her mercilessly.

“But I had already done it. I kissed you. And I freaked out—”

“Yn.” Manon moved closer, closing the gap between them. “Hey, look at me.” She gently grasped Yn’s face, forcing her to focus.

Yn’s frantic eyes finally meet hers.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you felt like that.” Manon’s voice was soft, hoping to calm Yn down. “It was my first kiss, Yn. I was just as shocked as you are.”

Yn’s breathing evened out as her panic faded. Manon couldn’t help but flash a fond smile. All these years and it was just a series of miscommunication.

“So, your kiss wasn’t a mistake?” Manon asked again, just to make sure.

Yn shook her head. “No… never.”

“I’m sorry…” Yn whispered. “For everything. For pushing you away. For ended things and didn’t stop you. I ruined our friendship because of my feelings. I’m selfish—”

“Hey. Stop.” Manon went for a hug, her voice was calm as she spoke softly in Yn’s ear. “It’s not just you, okay? I should’ve asked before it was too late. We should’ve talked instead of assuming things.”

Manon exhaled, her mind reeling from everything they had just admitted. She finally realized that the pain of Yn leaving wasn’t just about betrayal—it was about fear. Fear of losing her.

“It’s too late isn’t it?” yn asked, making manon let go of her embrace and stare at Yn confusedly. “Our friendship… it ended.”

Manon let out a small chuckle. “We can start over.” her heart pounded as she looked into Yn’s eyes. “Or, we can turn it into something new.”

“Something new?”

Without wasting more time, Manon leaned in, her lips brushing against Yn’s. It was hesitant at first, almost as if asking for permission, but when Yn didn’t pull away, the kiss deepened. It was soft, full of everything they built up over the years—apologies, confessions, and yearnings all at once.

When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads rested against each other, breaths mingling, lips tingling. A small smile played on Manon’s lips, mirrored by Yn’s.

“I missed your cheeks holes,” Manon murmured, poking in Yn’s dimple.

Yn laughed wholeheartedly, as if she just had her best moment of the day. “I miss you too, Manz.”

“So, you’re back to calling me Manz again, huh?” Manon teased, too happy to not to. Yn laughed harder.

And then as if on cue, the door cracked open. A familiar face popped behind the door.

“mei��”

The girl stared at them knowingly, amused. Manon was suddenly aware of the position they were in. “I knew it.”

They hurriedly scrambled to get up.

“Is Yn still your friend now, Manon?”

“Shut up Megan.”

[spaceshipkat]

“How would you feel about Buck moving back in?”

The question’s out of Eddie’s mouth before he even knows it exists. It’s just—Maddie sent a picture of Buck passed out on her couch, wrapped up in his pillowy duvet, sprained ankle elevated on the armrest, broken wrist in its cast draped over his eyes. And Eddie feels his chest squeeze just looking at it, at the tousle of Buck’s curls over the pillow and the red scrapes on his cheek from when the building dropped on him, and he can’t really breathe through the ache of it all.

He wanted Buck to stay here after he got out of the hospital, but Buck had just mumbled something about Maddie and hadn’t even asked Eddie to pick him up when he was discharged. He’s frankly not even sure how Buck got home. An Uber, probably. Never mind that Eddie is still an Uber, at least until he’s rehired by the LAFD.

But Buck isn’t here, under this roof, and it just feels … wrong. Empty, despite the fact he and Chris are still surrounded by moving boxes and furniture.

“Fine,” Chris says, and Eddie yanks himself back into the living room, to looking at Chris where he sits on a dining chair, playing with his phone.

“Fine?” Eddie repeats, just to be sure he heard right.

“I mean, yeah.” Chris shrugs one shoulder, not even bothering to look up. “It’s his house, too, isn’t it? I heard you muttering in your sleep about his name being on the lease.”

Eddie blinks. They’d slept in sleeping bags on the floor since they moved back, too tired to set up their beds after the chaos of the past few days of hospital visits. Besides, the mattresses are still wrapped in plastic. It’s hardly the best nights of sleep he’s ever gotten, but he’d chalked that up to the fact it had been spent on the floor.

He doesn’t remember dreaming about Buck.

“Still don’t get why you kicked him out,” Chris mutters, quietly enough Eddie’s not entirely sure he’s supposed to hear him.

But he does.

“I didn’t kick him out. He asked Maddie to take him home.” Probably. Eddie didn’t actually witness that, but why else would Buck have chosen to crash on her couch? It’s been days now, Buck’s furniture moved into a storage unit until he can find a new place. Eddie certainly wasn’t the one who organized those movers. He’d just answered the door one morning in his pajama shorts and tank top to a bunch of sweaty men with a moving van.

Chris’s eyes flick up. “I was right there in the hospital room, Dad.”

“I—” Eddie stops. Did he kick Buck out? The last few days have been such a blur—between rescuing Buck from the collapsed building, telling Captain Morales he wouldn’t be taking the job, organizing the movers in El Paso so he wouldn’t have to return there himself (he was done with that town, done with his parents calling the shots—and he knew they’d have tried to stop him), visiting Buck in the hospital with every spare second he had.

When would he have had time to kick Buck out?

Chris heaves a sigh. “You’d fallen asleep on Buck’s hospital bed. Like, your head was on it while he was in it. And Maddie came in and you woke up when Jee told Buck good morning, and you mumbled something about packing Buck’s bags for Maddie, and then you fell back asleep. Buck was right there. He heard the whole thing. It’s the only reason I let him win Uno, ’cause he looked so sad.”

Eddie’s heart sinks into his stomach. He doesn’t remember any of that, but if Chris says it happened, it obviously did.

It’s just—Eddie’s hands haven’t stopped shaking since he watched the building collapse on the TV screen in Buck’s living room, the newscaster’s yammering a dull drone. Since he broke every law that exists to drive there in time. Since he found his turnouts, left in the rig like someone knew he’d need them, and rushed in to help. Since he found Buck—“like a bloodhound to a perp,” Athena had said—and hauled him up out of the concrete and dust, their bodies crashing together from the force of it, the kiss that wasn’t a kiss smeared across their mouths, Eddie’s lips eventually finding themselves pressed to his birthmark. Since Eddie gasped out, “Don’t ever do that to me again,” and Buck had muttered something about tenements and building codes.

Eddie hadn’t thought Buck remembered much of that. Eddie had asked—or at least tried to ask—but Buck had just blinked his big blue eyes at him from the hospital bed, not quite pleading the fifth but also not quite not pleading it.

So Eddie had tucked that kiss that wasn’t a kiss away. It was a fluke, however much he didn’t want it to be.

“Why did I kick him out?” he says now, and Chris scoffs.

“That’s what I asked. Buck just said something about you being a ‘nester,’ or whatever.”

Eddie looks back down at his phone, tapping the screen so it doesn’t go dark. Buck is still there, still asleep, still thinking Eddie doesn’t want him here, still believing he doesn’t have a space in Eddie’s house—in their house—while Eddie’s in it.

Still under the impression that Eddie doesn’t dread setting up his bed in his room because it’ll be too damn empty without him.

Clearing his throat, Eddie tucks his phone into his pocket and says, “What kinda cookie should we get Jee?” while crossing the room for the sleeping bags where he left his keys. “From Starbucks on the way, I mean.”

“That Bullseye one,” Chris says, already reaching for his crutches. “Also, Buck isn’t sleeping on the couch. He snores.”

“Yeah.” Eddie smiles, that ache replaced with heat. “He does.”

look idk i haven't stopped thinking about the bts vid of eddie and chris back in their house but with all buck's furniture out of it. so behold! have a ficlet. 🫶

[theonlyonesora]

The Third Rule

Lily x Oscar Piastri x You (Reader)

Chapter 13 - What He Doesn’t Say Out Loud

It started subtly.

A reaction to one of (Y/N)’s Instagram stories — the one of her at dinner with Matteo and some friends. Oscar just sent the 👀 emoji. Nothing else. No context. No follow-up.

Then it happened again.

“New haircut?”“Didn’t know you liked jazz bars.”“That guy in your post, he your boyfriend?”

He always phrased it casually. As if he was just making conversation. But the timing was too perfect — always after she posted something where she looked too happy, too far removed from the version of her that had once let him lift her skirt in a quiet kitchen.

(Y/N) answered when she felt polite. Brief. Dry.

“Just a date.”“Yeah, I needed a change.”“It’s not that serious.”

But Oscar’s messages kept coming — a bit more frequent, a little later at night, always when Lily wasn’t around. He’d ask how school was going, if she was still planning on applying for the summer internship abroad, if she’d watched the latest race.

Sometimes, he’d get quiet. And then, out of nowhere:

“I saw that photo of you smiling. The real kind. Haven’t seen that in a while.”

(Y/N) didn’t respond to that one. She didn’t know how to.

Because it wasn’t fair. He was still with Lily. Still living the life they’d chosen, the relationship they’d promised to keep simple. And yet, there he was — prying the door open again. A door (Y/N) was trying very hard to keep closed.

She muted his messages for a few days. Not blocked — just muted.

Matteo noticed her mood shift one evening while walking her home.

“You okay?” “Yeah. Just tired. Finals.” “Is it that race guy again?” he asked gently, not judging — just... seeing her.

(Y/N) blinked up at him, surprised. “How do you know?”

He smiled, pulling her hand into his. “You go quiet when he’s in your head.”

That night, she decided not to check her DMs.

And for the first time in weeks, she slept soundly.

.

The message came on a Tuesday morning while you were halfway through rewriting your resume.

“Hi (Y/N), we received your name through a trusted internal reference. We'd love to schedule an interview with you for a potential internship position at McLaren. Would you be available this week?”

You stared at the screen for a long moment. Your pulse quickened — this couldn’t be real. But you knew who it was.

You called Oscar.

He picked up after two rings. “Hey,” he said, voice soft. Like he’d been waiting.

You didn’t waste time. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

He chuckled faintly. “Don’t be mad.”

“Oscar—”

“I just passed your name along. That’s it. No strings, no expectations. I just... I guess I felt bad. About everything. And this felt like the right thing to do.”

You leaned against the wall of your room, your voice gentler now. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know. But Lily thought it would be a good idea too. She said you’d never forgive me if I didn’t at least try to make something right.”

There was a pause. You didn’t know what to say.

Oscar filled the silence, his voice low but sincere. “It’s just an interview. If you get it, it’s because you’re qualified. I didn’t do anything but open a door.”

“Thank you,” you said, after a long beat.

Later that day, you went to find Lily.

She was reading on the couch when you sat beside her. “Thank you,” you said simply.

She looked over, raising an eyebrow.

“Oscar told me everything. The internship. You... backing it.”

Lily smiled. “He felt guilty. I think he didn’t know how else to fix things.”

“I think I might’ve pushed him away too hard.”

“You had every right to,” Lily said, not missing a beat. “But Oscar’s not angry. He just wants you to be okay.”

You looked down at your hands. “I never wanted to get in your way. Between you and him.”

Lily gave you a small, tired smile. “(Y/N). We’ve been best friends for years, but it’s not just romantic.”

 “I love him,” she continued. “And he’ll probably always be part of my life. But we’re... end game. Don’t worry.”

Silence. Then, she nudged your knee gently with hers. “So take the internship, (Y/N). You deserve it. And if that chapter comes with a fresh start, let it.”

You smiled. And for the first time in a while, it felt like the ground beneath you had stopped shifting.

Tag List:

@freyathehuntress, @mimisweetz, @aleatorio1234, @totallynotluluu, @rorabelle15, @prongslena, @linnygirl09, @mangotaitai, @forensicheart, @devilacot, @lilorose25, @landofotographyy, @paolexsstuff, @sanctify-mp3, @emma-manuhpe, @virtualperfectioncat

[psformybss]

You’re Losing Me

based on this ask

warnings: heartbreak, emotional distance, long-distance tension, unresolved feelings, lost of angst

It didn’t begin with a blowout.

It began with little things.

A few unread texts.

A handful of missed calls.

An “I miss you” that started to feel like habit, not heartbeat.

Drew was in Serbia filming Hellraiser. She was in LA. Trying not to notice how each sunset left her a little colder. A little quieter.

Like her heart was fading from red to gray.

At first, she blamed time zones. Schedules. Life.

They’d done long distance before. They knew this game.

But this time, love felt like a song slowly fading out—

⸻

He missed two FaceTimes. The first came with a late text: Sorry babe. Long day. Love you.

The second? Nothing.

She sat in bed, screen lighting up with missed calls, his hoodie wrapped around her like false comfort. The soft lamplight—the one he said made her look like gold—cast shadows on her quiet tears.

She told herself not to spiral.

People get busy. People forget.

Drew loved her. He had to.

Still, she kept refreshing Instagram.

He hadn’t posted. But fan pages had.

Photos of him and Odessa between takes. Her hand grazing his chest. His head tilted, like he hung on her every word.

It wasn’t evidence. It wasn’t proof.

But it felt like watching someone else dance to a song she used to call theirs.

⸻

The articles came fast.

“Drew Starkey and Odessa A’zion: Off-Screen Chemistry?”

“New Flame on Set?”

She bit her tongue. Didn’t want to seem jealous.

Didn’t want to be the problem.

But doubt is sneaky. And once it plants itself, it grows through every crack.

She brought it up gently, testing the waters.

“People are bored,” Drew muttered through spotty FaceTime. “They want a story.”

“Yeah,” she said, “but they’re writing ours.”

He looked tired. Distant. Like her voice was a sound he didn’t recognize anymore.

“Are we really doing this now?”

Her throat tightened.

“I just want to know why you haven’t called in three days.”

“I told you—I’ve been slammed.”

“I know. I’m not accusing you, I just… I feel like I’m yelling across a canyon.”

He rubbed his eyes. “Well, you are far away.”

And that? That line stayed with her like a bruise under skin.

⸻

He said “I love you” like a reflex.

Not a promise. Not a plea.

The long, late-night calls turned into dry texts.

No voice notes. No interest in her work.

No “tell me everything.”

Not anymore.

When she said “I miss you,” all she got was “I know.”

Still, she tried. God, she tried.

Sent photos from set. Left sleepy voicemails.

Mailed him a hoodie scented with her perfume—like a lifeline.

He replied: You’re the sweetest. Miss you too.

That night, she curled on the bathroom floor, sobbing into a towel.

Not because he stopped loving her…

But because he didn’t seem to notice she was slipping through the cracks.

⸻

A new video surfaced. Odessa, laughing in the passenger seat of Drew’s car.

Her head tilted. His eyes locked on her like gravity.

He wasn’t touching her. But he didn’t have to.

She recognized that look.

It was the same one he used to give her.

She didn’t mention it for three days. But the silence blistered.

“I saw that video,” she finally said. “Of you and Odessa.”

“Jesus—”

“I’m not accusing you. I just… I need to know if something changed.”

“There’s nothing going on.”

“Then why does it feel like I’m the one holding this relationship up by myself?”

“Because you’re letting a bunch of online strangers mess with your head.”

She went quiet.

And he let the silence linger like a dare.

⸻

The lie she fed herself was that things would get better. That this version of him wasn’t permanent.

But the truth was sharper:

She was begging.

Begging for attention.

Begging for scraps of affection.

Begging for the boy who once crossed oceans to make her laugh.

Now all she got were fragments.

A half-hearted “good morning.”

A “Can’t talk, sorry.”

Another tagged photo of him and Odessa, shoulder to shoulder. Always so damn close.

She tried not to ask, “Why her and not me?”

Tried not to wonder if Odessa was now the song stuck in his head while she’d faded to static.

She used to glow in his spotlight.

Now she sat in the wings, waiting for her cue. Waiting for him to look back.

⸻

She asked to talk. Really talk.

He agreed. “Give me five.”

When he called, she was already crying.

“I’m tired,” she said, voice cracked.

“I know. Me too.”

“No,” she whispered. “I’m tired of holding onto something that already let go of me.”

He blinked. “I’m not gone.”

“You don’t ask about my life. You don’t tell me about yours. You say ‘I love you’ like it’s punctuation—not a vow.”

He looked away. “Is that what you think?”

“I don’t know what to think,” she choked out. “Because every time I tell you I’m hurting, you make me feel like I’m making it up.”

His eyes closed.

“I’ve been losing you,” she said, “but what breaks me is how you didn’t even try to stop it.”

⸻

Two weeks later, he showed up at her door.

She opened it because hope is stubborn.

Because a part of her still wished he’d fight.

He brought red tulips. Her favorite.

He cried. Said he’d been lost. That he never meant to make her feel alone. That he thought he was doing the right thing by holding everything in.

“I just didn’t want to lose you,” he said.

“But you did,” she replied. “Not all at once. Just… little by little.”

She looked at him—his face, his eyes, the home she once found in them.

And for the first time, she felt nothing but exhaustion.

“I think I’ve been grieving you for months,” she whispered. “I just didn’t know it.”

He reached for her hand.

She stepped back.

“I love you,” he said.

“I loved you,” she corrected gently. And meant it.

She closed the door.

[emeraldsturns]

the good stuff

kenny chesney

↺ |◁ II ▷|

your tears are already etched into chris’s mind.

it had happened, your first big fight.

chris was driving around, no destination in mind, just needed to clear his head and give you some space.

in the distance, he saw the neon lights, at the corner of the downtown square. it felt right.

he parked, took a deep breath, brushed himself off and pushed open the heavy, glass door.

the bar was empty, no one but the old bar keep, half asleep, propped on his elbows.

“hey bud, what can i get ya?”

“the good stuff, please.”

“well, unfortunately, you can’t find that here.”

chris looked into the old man’s already misty eyes, clearly confused.

he didn’t reach for whiskey. he didn’t pop open a beer. he didn’t pour a tequila shot.

the bar keep sighed.

“the good stuff, that’s the first long kiss that you share on your second date. your mama’s worried, staring at the clock, because you got home a little too late. s’when you drop that engagement ring in your spaghetti ‘cause you can’t stop shakin’.”

chris just meet his gaze as he continues.

“it’s eat’n her burnt supper that entire first year of marriage, but you ask for seconds to keep her from gettin’ upset. man, that’s the good stuff.”

“i guess i’ve never thought about it that way.”

“no one does, until that’s all they have left.”

the man grabs a carton of milk from the little cooler, poured himself a tall glass.

chris flashed his pretty white grin, “i’ll have a glass of that, too.”

they sat and exchanged stories as hours passed, like they’d known each other forever.

there was a old black and white framed photo hanging above the liquor shelves. a beautiful woman.

he must’ve felt chris looking, because then he said, “that’s my bonnie. my wife. i spent 5 years in these liquor bottles when cancer took her from me. i keep it up there to remind me to stay sober for her. i’ve been sober 3 years now. and you know, one thing that’s stronger than the whiskey…”

he looked off, eyes glazing over again, “was seeing her finally holding our baby girl after 9 long months of waitin’. think’n about how much she adored her pearl necklace that i gave her on our youngest son’s wedding day. it’s finally gettin’ that t-shirt that you wait lifetimes for, the one that says “i’m a grandpa”.

it’s bein’ there when her time came to an end. hold’n her hand when the Lord called her home.”

chris unlocked the front door, walking into the smell of your favorite candle, lavender and vanilla.

you shuffled up to him, donning one of his hoodies that fell to your thighs. you immediately flung your arms around his neck, tears already falling.

“i’m sorry.”

“so am i.”

he looked into your eyes, he could see the love you had for him. he drank it up.

“i love you.”

“i love you the most.”

“that’s the good stuff,” he thought to himself.

lmk what you think. 🤍

🏷️: @sturnsblogs @seaouidbabyx

dividers by @bernardsbendystraws

[insomniac4000]

Making It Right ChrisMD

Chris has been a little absent lately but makes up for it

Y/N stared at the clock on the oven.

00:43

She tightened the dressing gown around her waist and padded barefoot into the living room. The soft lamp light glowed against the paper bag on the counter—Thai takeaway, untouched, cold by now. She’d waited. She’d really waited.

The last time she checked her phone, it was 11:30 p.m., and there was still no message from Chris. Not a call, not a “Sorry, running late.” Nothing. She had scrolled through her feed aimlessly, trying not to obsess. Then Arthur had posted that story: Chris at the pub, pint in hand, laughing.

That hurt. More than she expected it to.

Tonight had been their night. No collabs, no emails, no edits—just dinner, wine, and that film she kept telling him about. She’d lit candles. She even did her hair, for God’s sake, she had enough and went to bed.

Chris stumbled through the front door just after 1:00 a.m., the click of the lock sounding louder than usual in the quiet of the house. He kicked off his trainers, the buzz of laughter and lager from earlier still fading in his head. The shoot had wrapped at eight, but a few of the lads suggested grabbing a pint. One drink turned into three, and the idea of texting Y/N to let her know evaporated under the pub lights and pool table banter.

“Y/N?” he called softly, even though he knew she’d be asleep—or pretending to be.

No reply.

The living room lamp had been left on, casting a warm glow over the now-cold takeaway he’d promised they’d share hours ago. Her favourite Thai—green curry, no bamboo shoots, extra rice—still in its paper bag, untouched. Guilt stabbed him in the chest.

He padded into the bedroom and found her lying on her side, back to the door, clearly awake.

“Hey,” he said gently, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Sorry I’m late. We went for a couple after the shoot, and—”

“I know,” she said, her voice brittle. “I saw Arthur’s Instagram story. Looked like fun.”

Chris winced. Of course someone posted. “I didn’t mean to stay that long. I lost track of time.”

She finally rolled over to face him, and her eyes were red, lashes clumped together. “You didn’t text. You didn’t call. And you knew we had plans tonight. This was supposed to be our night.”

Chris opened his mouth, but nothing useful came out. She sat up, pulling the duvet around her, like she needed it for protection.

“This isn’t the first time, Chris,” she said, more tired than angry. “You’ve been cancelling on me for weeks. Always work, or drinks, or something else. I feel like I’m not even on your list anymore.”

“I know,” he admitted, rubbing his face. “I’ve been a dick. I’ve just been caught up with shoots, and brand stuff, and—”

“I don’t care about the brand deals,” she interrupted. “I care that my boyfriend doesn’t even ask how my day was anymore.”

Chris felt like the worst kind of idiot. She wasn’t wrong. He had been so wrapped up in filming and edits and the YouTube treadmill that he’d forgotten the one thing that mattered more than all of it. Her.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that. I just—I’ve been selfish. You deserve better.”

“I feel like I’m just… waiting around for you to remember I exist.”

That’s what it felt like. Like he loved her—but only when it was convenient.

He opened his mouth to speak but then closed it again. She turned away, tears pricking at her eyes. She didn’t want him to see her like this. Not like some neglected girlfriend begging for attention.

But God, it hurt.

She didn’t say anything, just lay back down and turned away again.

Chris sat there in silence, staring at the floor, wishing he could undo the last month of neglect. He’d taken her love for granted, and now, seeing the tears she tried to blink away, he realised just how close he might be to losing her.

The next morning, Chris was up before sunrise. His phone buzzed with group chats and brand messages, but he ignored them. He had something far more important to focus on.

He scribbled a quick note and left it on her bedside table before quietly slipping out of the room.

“Out running errands. Be back soon. Dress comfy. Today’s all about you. – C x”

She was still in her dressing gown, reading the note again with a skeptical expression. “What’s all this?”

“Morning,” Chris said as he peeked in, holding a tray with two coffees in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other. “Flat white with oat milk and cinnamon. And… an almond croissant.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “From Rosemont Café?”

He grinned. “I queued for 20 minutes with a group of cyclists talking about carb-loading. I earned this.”

She let out a breath—something like a laugh. A cautious one.

He handed her the cup. “This is a peace offering. A proper apology is coming.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but took a sip. “You said ‘dress comfy.’ That sounds ominous

“Trust me,”

She raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “The coffee and croissant is starting to be a good reason to….”

Chris smiled sheepishly. “Fair. I deserve that.”

She sipped the coffee and sighed. “Okay. What’s next?”

He drove her to a flower market near the river that only opened on Sundays. The kind of place bursting with colour, scent, and elderly vendors shouting about their peonies. Y/N’s eyes lit up as soon as she stepped out of the car.

“I forgot this was today!”

“I didn’t,” Chris said.

They wandered through stalls hand-in-hand, and he insisted she pick whatever she liked. She chose a bundle of soft pink peonies and a cluster of lavender, and Chris carried them like they were treasure.

“You remembered I love lavender,” she said softly, clearly surprised.

Chris shrugged, though his chest ached with regret. “I remember everything about you, Y/N. I’ve just been too much of a knob lately to show it.”

She smiled faintly. “That’s the most British apology I’ve ever heard.”

Next, they drove to a quiet nature reserve just outside the city. A hidden spot Chris knew she loved, especially in spring when the wildflowers bloomed along the trails. He packed a backpack with snacks, blankets, and yes; bug spray knowing Y/N was a magnet for the little creatures.

The walk was peaceful. Birds chirped, sun filtered through the trees, and for the first time in weeks, they talked. Not surface-level updates or reminders, real talking.

She told him about her latest project at work, about a friend’s engagement, about a book she’d read. And he listened—really listened.

When they reached a secluded clearing, he laid out a blanket and opened the bag.

She gasped. “You packed strawberries and Nutella?”

“With toothpicks, so we don’t get sticky fingers. I’ve grown.”

She laughed—a real one—and they sat close, shoulders brushing, feeding each other strawberries and watching bees buzz lazily around the grass.

After a while, she leaned her head on his shoulder. “This is perfect.”

Chris exhaled, as if he’d been holding his breath since last night. “I’m really sorry, Y/N. I’ve let you down. I don’t want to be the kind of guy who forgets how lucky he is.”

She looked up at him. “Then don’t be.”

They drove back toward the city, and Chris made one last stop. It was a little overlook on a hill behind a park—a place they’d stumbled upon on their third date. Back then, it was cold and muddy, but they’d watched the sun set and laughed about how neither of them had dressed for hiking.

“I can’t believe you remembered this spot,” she said, looking out over the rooftops.

Chris pulled a hoodie from the car and handed it to her. “Still unprepared, but at least warmer this time.”

They sat on the bench and watched the sun dip behind the skyline.

“I’ve been scared,” he admitted quietly. “Things with the channel have been going well, and I just kept telling myself I had to keep up, say yes to everything. But somewhere along the way, I forgot what matters.”

She turned to face him. “You didn’t forget. You just needed a reminder.”

He nodded. “That reminder nearly left me last night.”

Y/N was silent for a moment, then reached out to intertwine their fingers. “I was really hurt, Chris. But I’m still here.”

And just like that, he felt the knot in his chest loosen.

Back home, she arranged her flowers in a vase while Chris reheated dinner—actual dinner this time, not forgotten takeaway. He lit candles, played her favourite playlist in the background, and poured her a glass of wine.

When they sat down to eat, Chris raised his glass. “To being present. And not being a knob.”

She laughed. “I’ll drink to that.”

They ate, talked, and when she eventually curled up next to him on the sofa, head resting on his chest, Chris pressed a kiss to her hair.

“I love you, Y/N,” he murmured.

She looked up at him with tired but happy eyes. “I love you too. Just… don’t make me cry like that again.”

“Never,” he promised. “Next time I forget what I have, punch me.”

“Oh, I will.”

The next morning Chris posted a photo on Instagram the next morning—just the view from the park bench, captioned “Sometimes you need a reminder of what really matters.”

It wasn’t a brand deal or a challenge video. Just a quiet moment. But in the comments, people noticed.

“This is so wholesome omg.”

“Chris turning into a softie.”

“Did you finally realise your girlfriend’s amazing? Took ya long enough.”

He laughed, handing the phone to Y/N, who rolled her eyes playfully. “Even your fans know.”

Chris pulled her close. “Yeah. But now I really know.”

And he meant it.

[rosy-crow]

Miniroth in Dragon Quest (Rough Recap)

Alright, I’m off work and I gathered as many of my translations as possible. A lot of these were just put through screenshot/google translate, so they aren’t perfect, but to avoid blatant misinformation, I double-checked with some of my Japanese mutuals on Twitter to see if my guesses were right and they helped out 🙏

Young Sephiroth arrives in the world of Orchestrra, which is full of monsters. Here was the basic summary translated.

Long story short, the other humans the second group of monsters and the human player (Master) eventually meet are Cloud and Co, who have their own quest to escape.

But Miniroth becomes the center of the story and I recapped the highlights of his bond with Monan, the cute pink monster, in these posts specifically.

As they gathered info, Monan told Sephiroth about her world and he listened eagerly, but he had some points where he was too mission-focused and poor with his communication. He apologized for this immensely after an incident where a monster caught him off guard and Monan rushed to protect him the attack and she got hurt.

It was after this point (shown above), that Sephiroth started to actually befriend Monan. Then he opened up and they had this cute moment where Monan called him a friend and Sephiroth just about melted.

This bonding subplot apparently developed more today and we got this scene where Monan calls Sephiroth kind/compassionate and he is moved by it 🥲

And Monan was just starting to want to ask Sephiroth more about his life after he told her about Team Glenn too!

So yeah, they became buddies over the course of a few days, but then the drama that I was last freaking out about came down to ruin it all.

Shown above, Sephiroth briefly teamed up with Cloud and co, which went well. But then Seph started getting weird premonitions and psychological attacks, which led to an extreme breakdown in the middle of a big battle. The screen turned purple and Miniroth started yelling in pain before vanishing into a portal that zapped him away.

Aaaaaand out came Dragon Quest’s adult Sephiroth!

Now we know where the purple came from :(

I loved the design though! It’s very OG/old Crisis Core!

But yeah, he burnt down the monster village. Can he stop doing this sjfjdjd 💀

Monan essentially just refused to believe it was the same Sephiroth and immediately helped Cloud and the others beat him.

That was the main event, and there were some other battles/conclusions that I couldn’t get all the translations for, but in a nutshell, everyone worked together to save the day. Cloud and co were fine and went home, but this is where the ending really upset me because. MINIROTH. DID. NOT. COME. BACK.

The last time we saw him, he got pulled away in the middle of his agony (which was caused by his older self…which is so fucked up because he basically ruined his own happiness 💀) and Monan worried about him!!!

THEY CLOSED THE WHOLE DAMN EVENT WITH MONAN BEING SAD AND MISSING SMOL SEPH AND THE LAST TIME SHE SAW HIM, HE WAS LITERALLY SCREAMING IN AGONY??? WHICH IS SO UNFAIR?? THEY ALSO DIDN’T GET TO SAY GOODBYE!!

And the screen faded to black with this FUCKING GUT PUNCH AJDHSJSJD

This lovely Japanese player translated it in detail for me. Monan and the others promised to explore more so that they could share interesting stories with Sephiroth if they ever saw him again — the stories that he seemed so delighted to hear. They hoped it would help him forget “painful moments.”

And they also said they’d never forget his awkward but joyful smile when Monan called him a friend, which was this scene 💔

WHY. WHY THE FUCK.

[crazydestinymilkshake]

Caitlin Clark x Paige Bueckers Ch3

Summer USA Basketball, August, Argentina

I obviously don't own any of the rights to these characters etc.

TW: internalized homophobia,

NSFW: m!ast!urbat!on! (18+), paige is dominant as ever but restrained, power dynamics def at play, but radical consent <3 xx !

The flight to Argentina was long and freezing.

Caitlin didn’t sleep. Most of the girls did: curling into hoodies, headphones on, bodies slumped awkwardly against the window or each other. The aisle buzzed faintly with flight attendants and the occasional rustle of snacks, but otherwise, it was quiet.

Paige took the seat next to her.

She hadn’t asked. Just dumped her bag in the overhead, offered a crooked half-smile, and slid in without waiting. “Hope you don’t need the armrest,” she’d said. Then popped in one earbud and leaned back like her body was already in Buenos Aires.

They didn’t talk much. Paige closed her eyes halfway through takeoff. Caitlin watched her hands.

Her knee brushed Caitlin’s once, then again. Not hard. Not enough to draw attention. Just saying: I’m here.

Paige smelled clean—mint gum and detergent—and she moved loose but contained, unaware of the weight she carried.

Or maybe too aware. 

And somewhere over the equator, Paige fell asleep on her shoulder.

Caitlin didn’t notice at first. Her focus was on the clouds beyond the window, then the seatback in front of her, then nowhere at all. But eventually, she realized Paige’s shoulder was against hers. Light. Warm. Unmoving. Then a breath—slow, even—brushed Caitlin’s upper arm, and she went completely still.

Paige had fallen asleep on her.

She didn’t mean to. She didn’t apologize. She just stayed there, lips parted, face soft, hair loose and falling forward. One hand tucked between her thigh and the armrest, the other slack in her lap. Completely unguarded.

Caitlin’s stomach did something stupid.

She could’ve shifted. Could’ve moved an inch, coughed, adjusted her tray table, anything. But she didn’t. She just sat there, heart doing double-time, breath shallow, skin lit up with a nervous heat she couldn’t place. Every part of her that touched Paige felt sharper, more visible, like someone had drawn lines around their bodies and dared her to move.

She didn’t.

The cabin dimmed. Coaches whispered up front. Everyone else drifted off, one by one.

But Caitlin stayed upright. Stayed awake. Let Paige sleep against her until the plane dipped low into Argentinian airspace.

She didn’t understand what was happening.

She just knew: she didn’t want it to stop.

—----------------------

They’d barely made it through customs when the coaches started barking orders again. Clipboards, luggage tags, half-translated directions.

Formosa was hot in a way Caitlin didn’t know how to name. Not like Iowa heat. Not like Minnesota summers.

This was thick, wet, clinging—heat with hands. It stuck to your neck, soaked through your socks, turned your sports bra into glue by breakfast.

“Rooms are by position,” one assistant coach called over the din. “Keep your key cards. Keep your roommates alive.”

Caitlin blinked. “By position?”

Sure enough, the centers and forwards were already getting herded toward the far hallway. She felt a nudge on her backpack strap and turned.

Paige. No smile. Just a look, like this had already been decided. “They said it’s us,” Paige said, not quite grinning. “Guess we’re predictable.”

Room 214. Two twin beds. One shoved against the wall, the other barely two feet away. No room for distance.

Caitlin stood there, suitcase still zipped, while Paige flipped her hair up with a pencil and dropped onto the closer bed like it was hers by right. “Dibs,” she said, not looking up. Then: “Unless you want it.”

Caitlin blinked. “All you.”

They didn’t unpack. No time. Just lived out of duffels. Practice twice a day, ice baths in the hallway, recovery boots passed around like trophies. Film sessions on a flickering projector screen in the lobby while someone fought with their boyfriend over the shitty WiFi.

The other girls moved like she was trying to prove something.

But Caitlin moved like she was trying to outrun something.

By the second night, her body ached in places she couldn’t name—behind her knees, between her shoulders, deep in her jaw from clenching too hard. She lay flat on the bed, earbuds in, nothing playing, staring at the ceiling fan like it might offer answers. Across the room, Paige scrolled through something on her phone, one knee drawn up, the other stretched casually toward Caitlin’s bed like she might slide right off hers without noticing.

“You ever get homesick?” Caitlin asked, before she could stop herself.

Paige didn’t look over. Just tilted her head back against the wall. “Sometimes.”

“Not now?”

A pause. Then a small, almost smile. “Nah. You?”

Caitlin shrugged. “A little.”

And that was that. No follow-up. No pressure. Just a nod, like Paige had heard her and tucked it somewhere safe.

That’s how most nights went. No confessionals. No big talks. Just a slow accumulation of something: shared Gatorade from the cooler (not the same bottle, but still). Knees brushing under the breakfast table. Paige rubbing out a knot in Caitlin’s lower leg after practice—not because Caitlin asked, but because she’d seen the way Caitlin winced getting out of the ice tub. Paige pretending to complain, then staying there longer than she needed to, fingers working slow, eyes somewhere else.

They didn’t name any of it.

But on court, it showed.

Opposite pull. Perfect force. Paige led the break and Caitlin was already cutting. Caitlin hit the elbow and Paige ghosted to the wing, hand already up. No celebration. No eye contact. Just chemistry so obvious the gym could feel it.

And Caitlin couldn’t stop watching her.

She kept waiting to feel normal. But she couldn’t stop noticing Paige.

Noticing the way Paige tucked her jersey into her waistband. How she leaned back in team meetings like nothing touched her. How she spun her Gatorade cap between her fingers like she didn’t even realize she was doing it.

Because it was hot. And she was tired. And Paige had this… ease. This way of moving like the world would shape itself around her if she didn’t try too hard.

And Caitlin hated her for it. Except she didn’t.

Because somewhere between layup lines and stretch circles, something shifted.

Every time Caitlin said something too dry, Paige smirked. When Paige spun her water bottle, Caitlin wanted to reach over and stop it. And once—just once—Paige laughed at something in film and leaned over, her hand on Caitlin’s thigh like it belonged there.

She probably didn’t think anything of it.

But Caitlin did.

They weren’t swapping secrets. They weren’t whispering at night. But the space between their beds? It felt smaller every day.

And Caitlin couldn’t tell if she wanted it to stop.

—-------------------

They were supposed to be resting.

That’s what the coaches had said after shootaround—Hydrate, nap, nothing strenuous. Instead, someone (definitely Diamond) had talked the front desk into opening the rooftop pool early. By mid-afternoon, the team had taken it over, trailing wet towels and sunscreen, music leaking from a bluetooth speaker that barely worked.

Caitlin had planned to stay dry. She’d stretched out on a lounge chair in cutoff shorts and a hoodie she hadn’t taken off, oversized sunglasses hiding her eyes. She wasn’t avoiding anyone, not technically. She just didn’t feel like playing the version of herself that knew how to be casual. 

Then Paige climbed out of the pool.

Navy swim trunks, black sports bra — racerback, damp and clinging — like she didn’t even think about it. She rubbed water from her face with the hem of a hotel towel, hair dripping down her neck, and started laughing at something Sonia yelled across the deck.

And Caitlin forgot how to breathe.

It hit her like an elbow to the chest. Not just oh, she’s objectively pretty, but oh, she’s this kind of hot — lean and loose and self-assured. Paige didn’t have to flirt. She just was hot.

The dip in her hips, the clean lines of her shoulders, the way her legs looked endless under the wet cling of the trunks. Caitlin’s whole body flushed with heat that had nothing to do with the sun. She crossed her arms over her chest, sat up straighter, then immediately regretted it.

Paige caught her eye across the pool. Grinned.

“Come in, Iowa,” she said, tipping her head back like she had all the time in the world. “Or are you scared I’ll outscore you in underwater handstands too?”

Caitlin flipped her off. Paige only laughed. “Come on,” she said. “You can’t possibly still be this shy. I’ve seen how you scream at refs.”

“That’s different,” Caitlin muttered. Then she jumped anyway. Water enveloped her. Cold, bright, shocking. She surfaced with a gasp and barely registered the splash before Paige shoved her under again.

And then the game started. No rules, just chaos—splashing, dunking, shouting. Paige chased her through the shallows with a plastic cup full of pool water and launched a full-on sneak attack when Caitlin tried to climb out. They wrestled like kids, breathless and slippery, limbs tangled, both of them laughing like they’d forgotten anything else existed.

At one point, Paige caught her from behind—arms strong around her waist, chest flush to Caitlin’s back, breath hot on the curve of her neck—and dunked her again.

It only lasted a second.

Skin on skin. Muscle, grip, heat. But Caitlin felt all of it. Felt Paige’s fingers lock around her ribs like they belonged there. Felt her own heart jolt against her sternum. Felt something spark low in her stomach—sharp, unnameable, real.

When she came up, sputtering, blinking against the sun, she couldn’t remember what direction she’d been facing. Paige backed off, “You good?”

“Yeah,” Caitlin gasped. “Fine.”

But it wasn’t fine.

Because Paige was standing there — soaked trunks slung low on her hips, black sports bra clinging to her chest, sun slick on her shoulders — and Caitlin couldn’t stop looking. Couldn’t stop feeling it. The way her stomach knotted. The way her breath stuttered. The way want sank into her like a heatstroke.

She turned fast, too fast. “I’m gonna go dry off.”

“Already?” Paige called after her.

But Caitlin didn’t turn around. Didn’t trust herself to.

And Paige noticed. Not just the way she left, but the panic in it. The desperation. The too-fast towel grab. The quick, clipped steps that said don’t chase me, even though something in Paige’s chest howled that she should.

Diamond was already shouting about cannonballs. Someone turned the music up. But Paige didn't hear any of it. Her eyes were still on the door.

It wasn’t the first time someone had looked at her like that — like they were drowning. She’d seen it before—girls at parties, in the locker room, at camp—quick, hungry glances followed by silence. Paige had learned how to read the space between want and denial.

But Caitlin wasn’t just looking — she was breaking.

And that—fuck, that got to Paige more than anything else.

Because Caitlin Clark didn’t break. Not in front of people. Not even in private. Not on the court, not in the gym, not even when she was pissed off enough to chew through a ref. She played like she was made of steel, like nothing could get under her skin.

But just now? Paige had gotten under it.

Fraying. That was the word Paige landed on.

Caitlin Clark was fraying at the seams. 

And that nearly destroyed her. 

Not because Paige wanted to ruin her.

She didn’t.

She wanted to touch that part of her. The raw part. The truth under all the perfection. She wanted to kiss that look off her face. She wanted to see what Caitlin looked like when she stopped pretending she didn’t want it too.

She swore she hadn’t meant to fuck with her. But when Caitlin looked at her like that — eyes wide, mouth a little open, like she didn’t know what was happening to her — something hot and reckless unspooled in Paige’s chest.

Because she wanted her.

Not in some soft, maybe-this-is-a-crush kind of way.

She wanted Caitlin in her lap or pressed up against her in a hotel bed.

Hoodie shoved up. Thighs straddling hers. 

That sharp, stubborn voice gone breathy in her ear.

She wanted to feel her fall apart — because of her. Because she touched her the right way, looked at her the wrong way, said her name like it meant something.

Yeah, she’d thought about it before. Watching film. Sitting shoulder to shoulder on the bus. Caitlin half-asleep in her hoodie, skin still warm from the shower, legs curled underneath her like she had no idea she was driving Paige insane.

But today? It wasn’t just a thought.

It was in her bones now. The heat. The ache. The fucking possibility of it. Paige’s whole body was humming. Like Caitlin had already touched her and left the imprint behind.

And that look — the one Caitlin gave her right before she turned away, like Paige was dangerous, like she could ruin her if she wanted to — it did something to her. It made her stupid. Wild. Hungry.

She hadn’t worn anything special. The trunks were just comfortable. The sports bra was clean. She hadn’t planned on being seen like that. But Caitlin looked at her like she’d peeled something back. Like she’d revealed something she couldn’t un-reveal.

And Paige had loved it.

Too much.

She let herself drift backward in the water, hair floating, face tipped to the sky.

She wanted to follow her.

Wanted to knock on Caitlin’s door, press her back against the wall, ask what the hell that look meant and what she was so scared of. But she didn’t. Not yet.

Because Paige was Paige. And Caitlin was still figuring her shit out.

But God, she wanted her.

Bad.

And she was starting to lose the part of herself that knew how to wait.

—----------------------------

By the time Paige made it back to the room, her suit was damp in all the wrong places and her skin felt too tight. Caitlin was already inside—hair wet, hoodie on, legs curled beneath her on the bed. She was scrolling her phone like nothing had happened.

Paige kept her eyes low.

“Hey,” Caitlin said, casual. Like Paige’s whole body wasn’t still humming.

“Hey.” Paige grabbed a clean shirt from her duffel, half-wrapped her towel around her neck, and sat down on the edge of her bed like it was fine. Like she could sit there with Caitlin twenty feet away, pretending her thighs weren’t still burning from that moment in the pool.

God, it wasn’t even a real touch. Just a dunk. A grab. Hands around her waist and water and sunlight and laughter—but it cracked something open. And now Caitlin was sitting there. Across the room. Hoodie sticking to her arms. One bare leg draped over the other like it was nothing. Like she didn’t know.

Paige squeezed her eyes shut.

She could do this. She could sit here. Breathe. Let it go.

She’d gone longer—without touching herself, without relief, without even letting her body finish a thought. Weeks in shared rooms. Twin beds. No privacy. No time. No one to slip away with. Just her and Caitlin, shoulder to shoulder, night after night. And Paige had been fine.

Until now.

Now her mouth was dry.

Now Caitlin was across the room, on her bed, hoodie still damp around the collar, bare legs stretched out, scrolling her phone.

Paige shifted on the mattress. Her thighs pressed tight. Her pulse wouldn’t settle.

She closed her eyes. Tried thinking about anything else: practice, the playbook, all the numbers of pi.

But her brain kept snapping back to Caitlin—surfacing from the water, breathless, stunned, her eyes locked on Paige like she’d never seen her before. Like she felt it. Like Paige’s hands on her hips had left a mark.

It wouldn’t stop. The pull. The ache low in her stomach. The restless throb between her legs. The kind that didn’t fade with distraction. The kind that didn’t go away on its own. The kind you just had to take care of.

“I’m gonna shower,” she said, too fast. She wasn’t trying to be subtle. She was trying to survive.

Caitlin didn’t even look up. “Cool.”

Paige stepped into the bathroom and locked the door. Steam already rising. She dropped her towel on the counter and peeled her suit off, skin still sticky with chlorine and something that tastes sweeter. 

Stepping into the shower, she cranked the heat as high as it would go. Steam rose fast, curling around her thighs, her chest, her neck. The tile under her feet was slick. Her skin was already too hot. She didn’t care.

She braced one hand against the wall, letting her head drop forward and closing her eyes. She dragged her free hand down her stomach — slow, firm, experienced, no hesitation. Her fingertips slipped between her legs and found herself soaked. 

(And not from the water).

Paige cupped herself hard. Pressed her palm flat and rolled her hips into it once. The pressure hit instantly — sharp, hot, electric — and her knees almost gave. She widened her stance. Ground down again.

Fuck, finally.

She needed this.

She didn’t tease. Didn’t build. She just pushed her middle finger up between her folds and slid it up and down inside her. Slick.

Found her clit with the pad of her thumb and circled once, hard. A jolt ripped through her.

Jesus.

It made her knees buckle. Not all the way. Just enough to shift her balance, just enough to let her feel it.

She did it again. Faster. She bit her lip. Her hips bucked forward.

More circles with her one finger, deep inside her. Again. And Again.  Pressure exactly where she had been begging for all afternoon. Her hips rolled forward — instinctive, helpless — chasing the next stroke before she could even think.

All Paige could see behind her fluttering eyes was Caitlin.

Caitlin’s flushed chest above the edge of her hoodie. Her thighs shining in the sun. Her mouth falling open when Paige had dunked her. That look — startled, breathless, like Paige had reached somewhere deeper than her skin.

Paige worked tighter circles over her clit now. Fast. Focused. Her hand slapped softly against her own body with every motion, hips rolling harder with each pass.

God, yes.

She picked up the rhythm, sliding her other hand between her thighs to help, pressing her index finger in lower, and pushing it inside. She moaned under her breath — quiet, breathy, desperate. She clenched around her own fingers, her muscles pulling tight like they were trying to hold onto something.

She pumped once. Twice. Just enough to fill the ache. Then she went back to rubbing her clit, faster now, her hips rocking between both hands. Her forehead hit the tile.

The pressure swelled fast — hot, unbearable, so fucking close.

She thought about Caitlin’s voice, the rasp of it when she whispered to herself after a missed shot. She imagined Caitlin moaning. Her breath against Paige's neck. Imagined Caitlin’s hand between her legs instead of her own.

Her breath stuttered.

Almost.

She curled her fingers deep, angled up, and pressed hard against the spot that made her legs twitch. Every part of her clenched — belly tight, jaw locked, thighs shaking — the pressure climbing so fast she could barely breathe.

And when it hit, it slammed into her full-body. A sharp, shattering orgasm that snapped her hips forward and dragged a sound out of her throat she couldn’t stop. It broke like a gasp — a half-moan, half-breath, stifled too late.

She bit down on the inside of her wrist so she wouldn’t scream. She couldn’t. Not with Caitlin right there, just a wall away, not deaf. Paige shook once, her orgasm rolling through her slower, deeper. 

Her hand slipped out of her. Her legs shook. Water pounded her back, but her whole body burned. She stayed like that — hunched over, breath ragged, throbbing, her fingers slick and trembling. Her head rested against the tile.

She was empty and still turned on, her clit aching under the air.

She blinked. Swallowed.

It helped. A little.

But it didn’t undo the way Caitlin made her feel. It didn’t undo the fact that Caitlin was twenty feet away.

Or that Paige had come thinking about her mouth.

And that, no matter how hard she tried to stop it, she wanted more.

—-----

Caitlin didn’t mean to listen. She didn’t even think she was listening—until she realized she was.

The water had been running for a while. Paige had gone in maybe ten, fifteen minutes ago. The room was quiet except for the lazy whirl of the ceiling fan and the faint thump of someone’s playlist echoing up from the pool deck.

Caitlin lay back on the bed, earbuds in—but only one. The other sat loose on her collarbone. Nothing was playing loud enough to block anything out. Her screen lit her face in pale blue: the same message thread, the same email from her mom. She wasn’t really reading it. Just trying not to think.

Her legs stretched long across the bed. She pulled her hoodie down over her hips, then pushed the sleeves up again. Her body felt warm. Too warm. Maybe from the pool. Maybe not.

She definitely wasn’t thinking about Paige.

Not the water on her shoulders. Not the way she laughed when she tackled her. Not the way her sports bra had clung when she climbed out of the pool, skin slick, trunks hanging low on her hips.

Caitlin shifted. Crossed her ankles. Uncrossed them. Her whole body felt tight. Like it was waiting for something she hadn’t agreed to.

And then she heard it.

Not the water. Not the pipes. Not the playlist from downstairs.

A sound. Small. Raw.

A breath—sharp and sudden, swallowed too fast, like someone was trying not to make a sound but failed. Not pain. Not surprise.

Something else.

Caitlin’s eyes flew open.

She didn’t move, but her whole body lit up. Stomach flipping. Chest going hot. That sound—that kind of sound—wasn’t a stretch. Wasn’t imagined.

She knew what it was.

And she knew exactly what it meant.

Her breath quickened, shallow and sharp. Her skin prickled under her hoodie, especially where it stuck to her sides. Heat bloomed down her spine. She shifted. Pressed her thighs together.

Regretted it instantly.

No. She hadn’t heard anything. Not really. It was the pipes. The fan. Paige had slipped. Paige had—

She couldn’t finish the lie.

She stayed frozen for another second, maybe longer, then rolled over slowly. Hood up. Face buried in the pillow. Like stillness might rewind the moment. Like hiding could unhear it.

She wasn’t turned on.

She wasn’t thinking about Paige.

She wasn’t.

The water kept running.

She turned toward the bathroom door anyway.

She didn’t hear it again. But it didn’t matter.

Something inside her had already heard enough.

Her eyes slipped shut. Her pulse thudded against her ribs, steady and insistent. She didn’t breathe too hard. Didn’t move. Just lay there, pretending this didn’t feel like something.

But the air between them had changed.

Thicker now. Heavier.

And Caitlin didn’t know what scared her more—that she might’ve imagined it…

Or that she didn’t want to.

—-----------------

They posted the starting lineup on the wall outside the dining hall. No announcement. No fanfare. Just a clipboard. Pinned up with a thumbtack like it wasn’t going to wreck anybody.

Caitlin didn’t even need to read past the first name: Bueckers.

That was enough.

Caitlin felt it hit—low and sudden, like her stomach had dropped out of her body. Her chest tightened, air catching somewhere high in her throat. A pulse kicked behind her eyes and she didn’t wait to see who else made the list.

She just turned. Fast. Too fast. Like she could outrun the heat building in her chest.

The lights buzzed overhead, soft and weirdly blue. The tile was cold through the soles of her sneakers, each step echoing louder than the last. She kept walking, arms locked at her sides, fingers curled tight into fists.

She didn’t know where she was going. Just away.

“Clark,” Paige’s voice behind her. Caitlin didn’t stop. Didn’t turn.

“Caitlin,” again—closer this time. “Hey—can we talk?”

She stopped. Spun. So fast Paige almost walked straight into her.

Caitlin’s heart was pounding. Her breath came short. Her hands itched like they didn’t know whether they wanted to shove Paige or pull her closer.

Paige stepped back just enough. She left five feet of space between them, maybe less. A little out of breath, face flushed, braid half-unraveled from the heat and the morning’s chaos. A loose strand of blonde stuck to her cheek.

And somehow, she looked calm. Like this was nothing.

Caitlin stepped in. Two feet.

She didn’t mean to. Her body just moved—like it had been waiting for an excuse.

“You knew,” she said, voice low and tight.

Paige blinked. “Knew what?”

“That you were starting. That they’d pick you over me.” The words burned coming out..

“I found out just when you did,” Paige said.

“No you didn’t.” Caitlin’s voice spiked, thinner than she meant it to. Her chest rose fast. Her shoulders wouldn’t stay still.

“You’ve been all over me in practice,” she snapped. “You never back off.” Her pulse was climbing and her skin prickled under her sleeves. The hallway was too hot, everything was fucking hot in this country.

“You watch me when I’m trying to focus. You act like we’re fine—like you didn’t—” She caught herself. Jaw clenched. Throat thick. “Like you don't do anything.”

The silence that followed stretched and wound up.

Paige didn’t flinch. Her face didn’t move. Just the barest shift in her eyes. “That’s not what happened,” she said.

Caitlin stared at her. Every nerve in her body lit up, tight and buzzing and hot under her skin. She hated how steady Paige looked. How calm. How unbothered.

Like she didn’t feel any of this. Like she hadn’t just burned Caitlin from the inside out and left her walking around scorched.

“You were distracting me,” she snapped. “You are distracting me.” The words came out like spit—fast, defensive, too hot to hold.

And the second they hit in the air, she wanted them back.

Because Paige’s voice dropped low. Calm. Too calm. Almost lazy. “That’s not on me.”

Her jaw tightened, but her tone didn’t rise. “You know how to focus, right, Clark? Or is it just harder when I make you feel things you don’t want to name?”

She stepped forward—one slow step, like she had all day to watch Caitlin squirm.

“You wanna say I crossed a line?” she added, eyes locked on her. “Because I made you want something you can't deal with.”

Caitlin flinched. Paige kept going.

"Don’t stand here and tell me I’m the problem,” Paige said, quieter now. Still sharp. “You’re not mad at me, Caitlin. You’re mad that I see it.”

Caitlin’s whole body bristled. “Fuck you,” she said.

And she shoved her.

Open palm, center of Paige’s chest. Not violent. Not soft. Just full of heat. Full of shame. Full of want she hadn’t figured out how to carry.

Paige didn’t move.

Didn’t even blink.

She just stood there. Solid. Still. Like she was made for this moment.

Her voice came quiet. Steady. “You don’t get to put that on me." Her voice came even. Measured. “You don’t get to dump that on me,” she said. “You were already feeling it. I'm just not gonna let you pretend you aren't.”

Caitlin shoved her again. Harder this time. Flat-palmed, frustration sharp in her wrists. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Paige didn’t even blink. “Like what?”

“Like you know.”

“I do.”

It landed like a punch—low and direct. Caitlin’s breath stopped. Just for a second. Just long enough for Paige to take a step forward. Then another.

The hallway shrank. The air felt heavier. The lights buzzed louder. Caitlin’s back hit the wall before she even realized she’d been backing up.

“You—” Her voice cracked. Her throat tightened. “You did something,” she said, barely more than a whisper. “At the pool. And ever since then I haven’t been able to think straight.”

“I know,” Paige said again. Soft. Certain. Like it was simple.

Caitlin’s chest ached. She hated the way the heat bloomed there. “Don’t,” she said. “Don’t say that like—”

“Like what?” Paige’s voice stayed low. Steady. No edge to it now. Just… real. “Like I mean it?”

She didn’t look smug. Didn’t look sorry either. She just looked at her. Really looked. And Caitlin couldn’t look away.

“I wasn’t trying to distract you,” Paige said. “But I’m not sorry if I did.”

Her shoulder pressed to the wall. Her legs felt shaky. Paige stepped closer. One inch.

And then Paige was there.

Close. 

Closer than she’d ever been. Her body heat pressed into the space between them. Her breath. Her presence.

And Caitlin didn’t move. Not forward. Not back. 

There was nowhere left to go. 

She could feel Paige’s breath. Part of her wanted it gone—wanted to stop noticing it—but it soaked into the air between them anyway.

Every inhale drew her tighter. Every exhale brushed against her mouth.

“You were in the fucking shower,” Caitlin said—sharp, like the words exploded out of her before she could catch them.

Paige stepped forward. Just one inch. Slow. Measured. Her voice dropped low. “You heard me?”

Caitlin’s breath paused. Her mouth opened—then shut. Her tongue felt thick. Her hands were shaking now and she didn’t know what to do with them. “Never mind—I—I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Yes,” Paige said, steady as before. “You do.”

“No, I—” Her voice cracked. “I wasn’t trying to listen,” Caitlin blurted. Too fast. “I wasn’t—I swear, I had an earbud in, I thought I was imagining it, I didn’t mean to—God—”

She stopped. Bit the inside of her cheek. Hard. Paige didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched her unravel.

“It was your breath,” she whispered, embarrassed, almost ashamed. Her lips were dry. Her throat burned.

“That little—” her voice broke, and she almost didn’t finish. Her whole face burned. “That little hitch you make… when you’re…” Her eyes darted to the floor. “When you’re about to—”

She couldn’t say it. Not at first. She swallowed, hard. Tried again.

“When you’re about to come.” Her ears rang. Her breath caught. She felt hot all over—neck, chest, between her legs—like saying it had stripped something away. Like she’d laid herself bare without meaning to.

She didn’t look up. Couldn’t. But her voice came again, quiet and ruined. “I know what that sounds like now.”

She exhaled through her nose, shaky. Tried to hold still.

“It’s in my head,” she whispered. “I hear it.”

She'd crossed a line she didn’t know how to uncross.

And Paige was still standing there.

Silent.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t reach for her. Didn’t move.

Just looked at her.

Like she’d been waiting for this. Like she’d known it was coming and was enjoying watching Caitlin catch up.

Her gaze didn’t waver. Didn’t soften. Just pinned her there—cool, steady, devastating.

And Caitlin hated her for it.

She hated how Paige could stand so calm while she burned. How she could strip Caitlin bare with nothing but a look. How her silence made everything worse—like Paige was already inside her head and liked it there.

She hated the way her stomach clenched. The way her chest felt tight and her throat too dry to swallow. The way her thighs pressed together like that might help.

She hated that Paige hadn’t even touched her.

She hated that she wanted her to.

Caitlin’s chest rose too fast. Her throat tightened. Her fists clenched.

Fuck her, Caitlin thought. Fuck her for just standing there. For holding all that power.

So she shoved her again.

Hard.

Hard enough to make Paige feel it.

But this time, Paige caught her wrists.

Fast. Like she’d been waiting. 

Her hands snapped up—strong, sure, no hesitation—and closed around Caitlin’s forearms. Tight. Claiming. Before Caitlin could even blink, she was moving—no, being moved—backward, shoved clean into the wall like Paige had done it a hundred times in her head.

Her shoulders hit first. Then her spine. Then her wrists—pinned high above her head, flattened to the cinderblock like they belonged there. Paige’s grip didn’t waver. Her fingers locked tight around Caitlin’s wrists, possessive, grounding, inarguable.

Caitlin gasped. Her whole body reacted at once. Knees buckled. Breath knocked clean out of her chest. For a second, everything went white.

And then Paige stepped in.

All the way in.

Her thigh forced its way between Caitlin’s legs—slow, steady, unrelenting. The pressure parted her. Opened her. Held her. Just enough to tilt her hips forward. Just enough to make her gasp, push her breathing off-balance, off-script, like her body forgot whose it was.

Caitlin’s head hit the wall softly. Her breath caught. Her hips shifted without permission.

“You want to hit me?” Paige asked, voice low and steady—like she already knew. “Fine,” she whispered, barely audible. “Do it.”

“I don’t—” Caitlin’s throat seized. The word snagged halfway up. Her wrists strained against Paige’s grip.

“You want to scream?” Paige’s voice dropped lower—half-threat, half-invitation. Her thigh shifted—higher, firmer—dragging pressure where Caitlin was already pulsing, already soaked. The friction was deliberate. Calculated. Cruel.

“Go ahead,” Paige said again, a whisper laced with heat. “I won’t stop you.”

“Stop,” Caitlin rasped. It came out too soft, too cracked to hold weight. “Just stop.”

Paige didn’t move.

Didn’t even blink.

Instead, she leaned in. Closer. Until Caitlin’s wrists trembled in her grasp. Until their foreheads almost touched. Until Caitlin had nowhere left to look but her.

Their mouths hovered. Too close. Breath sharing space. Paige’s body pressed hard against hers—thigh between her legs, chest flush to Caitlin’s like she could feel her heart trying to tear free.

“You want me to stop?” Paige murmured.

She leaned in—closer, closer, until Caitlin’s wrists strained against her grip, until her arms shook with the effort not to fall apart.

And Caitlin didn’t have a single lie left.

She shook her head.

Tiny. Helpless.

Wanting.

Paige didn’t let her go. Didn’t ease off. Didn’t move an inch.

She just leaned in—slow, deliberate—until Caitlin could feel her breath trace the shell of her ear. Hot. Damp. Too close.

A shiver rolled straight down her spine.

And Paige stayed there. Not moving. Not easing off. Just breathing—ragged and steady—like she was holding Caitlin in place with nothing but her mouth and the pressure between her legs.

Her breath hit again, right behind Caitlin’s ear. Warm enough to burn. Was that—was that her tongue, just barely brushing the edge?

Caitlin’s knees buckled. She caught herself on Paige’s thigh, fingers twitching uselessly in her grip.

The hallway was silent, except for the rough edge of Paige’s inhale and the frantic, uneven stutter of Caitlin’s own.

“What did you think I was thinking about,” Paige whispered, her lips so close Caitlin swore she could feel the shape of each letter on her skin, “in the shower?”

“I don’t know,” she breathed. It came out too fast, too faint, too obvious a lie.

“Yes, you do.” And Caitlin—furious, humiliated, sweating through her goddamn hoodie—tried to shove again.

It was useless. Her wrists were still pinned. Paige didn’t budge. Didn’t even flinch.

She just breathed against her mouth now. Rough. Controlled. Lethal.

“Say it.”

Caitlin blinked, chest heaving. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t look at her. But she couldn’t look away either.

“You were thinking about me,” she said.

The words trembled out of her. Paige didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Caitlin thrashed in her grip. Not to get away. Just to do something. Just to remind herself she still could.

But Paige held steady. Her hips pressed firm. Her fingers locked Caitlin’s wrists in place like she could feel every beat of her pulse—wild, pounding, visible.

“I know what it looks like when someone wants to kiss me,” she said, her voice cruel with accuracy.

Caitlin’s breath caught in her throat. Her legs clenched tighter. Her wrists twitched in Paige’s grip.

Paige saw it. Every twitch, every tremble. Felt Caitlin’s thighs tighten, her chest rise too fast. She let her eyes drag—slowly—down the line of Caitlin’s throat, tracking the bead of sweat that slid from her collarbone to the dip between her breasts, then back up. Steady. Unshaken. Right into Caitlin’s eyes.

Reading her like it was easy.

“I’m sorry you lost today, Clark,” she murmured, voice almost gentle. Almost.

“But I’m not just gonna let you win.”

Caitlin’s head snapped up. Her eyes blazed. “Fuck you.”

Paige smiled—just the edge of one. Like it thrilled her. Then her thigh shifted—higher. Firmer. Pressed right between Caitlin’s legs.

Caitlin jolted. Her spine bowed off the wall. A noise caught in her throat—half gasp, half something she didn’t have a name for.

Paige leaned in until the air between them felt like it was burning. “What is it, Clark?” she breathed over Caitlin's mouth. “You wanna fuck me?”

Caitlin didn’t answer, she frankly couldn’t. Her thighs clenched tight around Paige’s leg—instinct, desperation, reflex. Her whole body lit up.

Paige felt it. Smirked. “Or do you want me to keep touching you?”

Her voice dipped low. Mean and honest. “Because I will. Right here. I’ll do it.”

Caitlin shook her head, but it wasn’t a no. “You can’t say shit like that,” she whispered.

“Why not?”

“Because I���ll let you.” 

Paige’s mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something heavier. Hungrier.

Caitlin’s whole body buzzed. She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Her wrists still pinned, Paige still on her. Thigh still there, anchoring her in place.

But then Paige pulled back—slow, deliberate—until Caitlin could feel her cheek graze against hers.

Not cocky.

Not smug.

“I want to,” Paige whispered. “God, I want to.” Her voice shook—barely—but it shook. And she didn’t cover it. Didn’t blink. “But only if you do too.”

Caitlin blinked. Her throat caught. Her whole body felt strung between panic and physics. Paige didn’t look away. “I’m not playing with you,” she said, quieter now. “This isn’t a game.”

She shifted her grip—fingers easing, not restraining anymore, just holding—like she was giving Caitlin the weight of her own wrists back. If she wanted them. Enough so that Caitlin could pull away.

“I see you, Caitlin.” Her voice cracked, and this time she didn’t try to fix it. “And I’d never touch you if you didn’t want me to. I’d never take that from you.”

That word.

Take.

It landed like a bruise. Dark. Deep. Old. She felt it pulse across her ribs, behind her knees, inside the locked places she’d spent years guarding. The parts of her that didn’t trust want. That didn’t believe in safe hands.

She looked at Paige, barely breathing.

And Paige just looked back.

With those damn blue eyes—steady, earnest, impossibly soft. Like Caitlin was breakable. Like she mattered. Like she didn't have to hide.

“I mean it,” Paige said, softer now. "I’d never touch you without your yes. I’d never take anything—not your choice, not your clarity, not this.”

Her voice didn’t wobble—but something under it shifted. A fracture held in check. She blinked, but didn’t look away. Her hands still held Caitlin’s wrists—but not like they had before.

And then Paige went on. Slower now. More careful. Like she was pulling something out of herself. “I know what this looks like. Me holding you here. Pushing you. Not letting go.”

Caitlin swallowed, hard.

Paige kept going. “I’ve been the one people blamed before. I’ve lived inside someone else’s regret. I’ve heard my name said like a mistake.”

That hit Caitlin in the chest. Sharp. Shameful. True.

Paige’s voice tightened. “So believe me. If you told me to stop, I’d stop. If you need me to back off, I will. I don’t need to win this.”

Then, even lower: “I just don’t want you waking up tomorrow thinking I took something you weren’t ready to give.”

And that—that—is what made Caitlin shudder.

Because no one had ever said it like that. Not in all the ways she’d imagined this going—if it ever happened, if she ever let it happen—no one had ever promised her this much choice.

“I won’t ever be that person for you. I swear.”

And something in Caitlin cracked—quiet and irreversible.

Paige didn’t fill the silence.

She didn’t beg.

She just stayed—close, honest, waiting.

“I mean it,” Paige said again, barely audible. “One word.”

But Caitlin didn’t say it.

Instead, she surged up —heart pounding, breath full—and gave Paige her answer with her mouth.

No warning. No sweetness. Just contact. Just fire. Just years of everything exploding in a single kiss.

Teeth. Tongue. Friction.

Paige groaned low in her throat. Caitlin pressed up on her toes, wrists still pinned, body grinding forward like she couldn’t stop it. Her breath stuttered against Paige’s mouth, and Paige kissed her harder—hungry, angry, starving.

Caitlin’s mouth opened, tongue finding Paige’s, knees bending just enough to pull her tighter. Her whole body tilted forward, weight pressed into Paige’s thigh, and God—God, she was so fucking wet already, and this wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

Their bodies moved like they’d been waiting. Not for permission—just for a moment they could no longer deny.

Paige let go of one wrist. Slid her hand down, gripped Caitlin’s hip—fingers firm, possessive, like she meant to keep her there.

Caitlin clung to her shirt. Then her shoulder. Then anything she could reach. She didn’t know what to hold onto—only that she needed to hold.

“Say it,” Paige murmured, voice low and steady, barely moving her mouth against Caitlin’s jaw. “Tell me what you want.”

“I don’t know,” Caitlin whispered. The words spilled out too fast, too soft, too scared.

“Yes, you do.”

Caitlin swallowed. “I wanted to touch you,” she said, voice breaking. “In the pool. On the plane. I didn’t know how.”

“You don’t have to know how,” Paige said, gentler now. And then she kissed her neck—just under the hinge of her jaw—and Caitlin moaned before she could stop it. Sharp. Embarrassed. Real.

She didn’t pull away.

She let Paige keep her pinned. Let herself arch into the pressure—hips shifting, chest rising, wrists caught above her head. Her breath came in gasps now—raw, punched out of her with every move Paige made.

The hallway was too bright. Too quiet. The fluorescent lights flickered above them, buzzing faintly like a warning—but she couldn’t hear it over the throb in her chest, the ache between her legs, the slick heat building at the seam of her shorts, soaking into Paige’s thigh.

She wasn’t thinking anymore. Wasn’t strategizing, calculating, deciding. She was feeling. Finally. Fully.

Dizzy. High. Fucked up in the best way.

Paige kissed her like she’d been waiting her whole life to do it and had finally stopped pretending otherwise. Open-mouthed. Demanding. A little messy. A little mean.

Caitlin whimpered into it. Her lips were swollen. Her breath short. Her body sparking with every brush of Paige’s hand, every shift of her weight. She bucked forward once—instinctive, helpless—a desperate grind of her hips against Paige’s thigh.

Paige groaned, low and broken. Let go of her wrists. Slid one hand down—cradling Caitlin’s jaw, the other gripping her waist.

“You feel that?” Paige whispered, wrecked. Caitlin nodded, small and stunned. “I do too.”

And then Paige kissed her again—slower this time, but deeper. Like she was learning her. Like she was claiming her.

One hand on Caitlin’s waist. The other slid lower—fast, instinctive—gripping her ass. Pulling. Grounding. Which, intentionally or not, pressed Caitlin down harder onto Paige’s thigh.

And Caitlin’s legs parted without permission. Her back arched. Her hips surged forward, grinding with a need so sharp it didn’t feel like a choice. It felt like survival.

She made a sound—something between a gasp and a moan—and Paige pulled back just an inch, panting now. Her lips were red. Her eyes wild.

“We can’t—” Caitlin rasped, voice splintered. “We shouldn’t.”

“I know,” Paige said. “Say stop.”

But Caitlin didn’t.

So Paige leaned in again—forehead pressed to hers, thumb brushing her cheek, their breath tangled in the half-inch of space between their mouths.

Like she meant it. Like she needed it. Like the whole fucking world had been holding its breath for this—and she was finally letting it out.

They didn’t stop.

Not for a long time.

Not until Caitlin’s back ached from the wall. Not until Paige’s hands trembled. Not until their mouths were slick and swollen and open with everything they hadn’t said.

And even then, when they finally broke apart—barely breathing, foreheads pressed, the hallway tilting around them—Caitlin didn’t step away.

She stayed.

Still pressed to Paige’s chest. Still pulsing with it. Heartbeat pounding loud in her mouth.

She exhaled the only word she could find.

“Fuck.”

And Paige, eyes dark, lips kiss-bruised, smiled.

“I know.”

[hbyrde36]

Steddie | R: Explicit | WC:5877 | Ch 4/8 | AO3

Ch 1 Ch 2 Ch 3 <-

Chapter 4: The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak

For the next few days, Robin’s words continued to echo through Eddie’s mind. 

“I don’t know what is or isn’t going on between you two, but be careful with Steve, I don’t want to see him get hurt again.”

That wasn’t all she’d said, but it was the part that struck him most.

While he was stuck combining forces with her to make Steve stay in bed resting and healing, as best they could without direct communication anyway, Eddie tried to be angry that she had essentially given the shovel talk to a dead guy, which felt a little insensitive, and more than a little fucked up. But, the longer he thought about it, he had to admit she kinda had a point. 

He was a ghost.

Probably. 

There was no version of his story that included a happy ending, and he didn’t want to trap Steve in a horror flick when he deserved nothing less than a fairytale romance and a happily ever after.

In death was a hell of a time to find out that the ‘straight’ guy he’d been crushing on and flirting with the entire time they'd been preparing for battle with Vecna was not as straight as previous estimation. And, sure, Eddie’d had his suspicions before. It’d been hard not to wonder when Steve couldn’t seem to stop staring at his mouth when they were talking in those creepy woods, or think twice about the way Steve had started to reach for him in moments of pain or joy, almost as much as Eddie had done the same, relying on one another like they’d known each other better, and for far longer, than they really had. 

If only he’d known then that he actually had a chance, before those fucking devil bats had gone to town on his flesh and ruined everything. He would have risked it all for one kiss from Steve to bring with him to the afterlife. 

Taking Robin’s words to heart, for his own sake and sanity as well as Steve’s, Eddie tried to keep a little distance. It wasn’t all that hard at first, with Steve sleeping so many hours of the day and night. He still spent more time than was probably healthy lying in bed next to Steve’s sleeping form, but from shovel talk on, Eddie made himself scarce whenever Steve began to stir.

Naturally though, there came a point where he and Robin could no longer keep Steve contained. Steve was feeling better, stronger, and even Robin couldn’t argue that his wounds were finally on their way to mending.

Eddie stuck close that first day when Steve was up and about, though he kept quiet—by Munson standards—feeling a bit unsure of how to act around the other boy now. Nothing had changed exactly, but also, everything had changed. He was happy enough to stay a shadow for now, letting Robin and her motormouth take the lead on convincing Steve to take it slow and let the ghost research go for one more day. 

Unfortunately for Eddie and his plan to suffer in silence, a frantic phone call from Robin’s parents was about to leave him alone with Steve for the first time since Robin had all but confirmed that Steve was into him.

Shit.

As soon as she hung up the phone, she whirled on Steve with narrowed eyes. “I swear on Dustin’s mother, if you so much as look at that attic door before I come back here tomorrow morning, you’ll be sorry.”

“Are you really threatening me with bodily harm when I just got out of the hospital?” Steve asked, looking unimpressed as he leaned against the kitchen door frame.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, pursing her lips, tapping them as if she were deep in thought. “I was thinking more like telling Munson something embarrassing. Your middle name maybe? Or—ooh! How when you found out your precious Farrah Fawcett hairspray had been discontinued you cried like a ba—”

Steve lunged forward to slap a hand over her mouth, the tips of his ears burning pink as he began to walk her forcefully towards the front door. “Oookay, you better hurry home before your mom sends Powell and Callahan after me.”

Eddie stifled a giggle, following along at a safe distance behind them.

“Where is Casper anyway?” Robin asked.

Steve hitched a thumb in Eddie’s direction, turning to catch his eye. 

It was the first time all day that Eddie didn’t avoid Steve’s direct gaze, stomach fluttering traitorously at the sight of those gorgeous hazel eyes.

Robin turned too, facing the general area Steve had pointed and glaring at a spot roughly a foot to Eddie’s left. “I’m counting on you to keep him from doing anything stupid.”

“And how exactly do you expect me to do that?!” Eddie quipped, for whatever good it would do, and glared right back at her.

A heavy pause and a sideways glance later, Steve relayed what he’d said to Robin.

“Use your words, Mr. Dungeon Master!” She shot back with an attitude and air quotes.

“First of all,” Eddie sucked in a loud, sharp, affronted breath. “Watch your tone when you’re talking about my life’s work, Buckley. Second of all, what makes you think he’ll listen to me?”

“Can you both stop talking about me like I'm a child?!” Steve snapped. “It’s extra insulting when you figure I have to translate for one of you.”

In an impressive act of synchronicity considering the circumstances, Eddie and Robin swung their gazes around as one to look at Steve, wearing matching raised eyebrows.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve muttered quietly, pressing two fingers hard against the bridge of his nose. “Look, my only plans for the night are to finally take a shower, and go to bed. Scouts honor.”

“Fiiine,” Robin ground out.

Meanwhile Eddie could only grimace at the implications. “Please tell me you weren’t really a boy scout.”

Seriously, the polos were one thing, but to have a crush on a former badge collecting goody-two-shoes?

Steve rolled his eyes. “Of course not. I used to be cool, remember?”

Robin looked between Steve’s face, the air Eddie’s form occupied, and back again, before bursting out in the most obnoxious laughter imaginable.

“Thanks, Rob.” Steve deadpanned.

“You’re welcome!” she chirped cheerfully, finally pulling the front open and stepping out. “I’ll see you both in the morning. Well, I’ll see Steve in the morning, and I’ll just assume the ghost of Christmas past is floating around somewhere too.”

“I don’t float,” Eddie grumbled in reflex, only realizing what she’d actually said after she was gone. He quickly rounded on Steve, mouth agape. “Wait, can I float? Have I been out here walking around like an idiot and missing out on all the fun parts of being a ghost?!”

Steve grinned wide enough to make his eyes sparkle, and suddenly it dawned on Eddie that his buffer had just left for the night. He looked away abruptly, an awkward tension, completely of his own making, pulling taut now that they were unsupervised. 

“N-nevermind,” Eddie mumbled, before Steve even had a chance to reply, keeping his head down as he stepped wide around him, “I-I just remembered I don’t like heights anyway, so—”

“Eddie, wait—” Steve called out.

Though every instinct in Eddie’s body shouted at him to run, his traitorous, unbeating heart could hear the sad and timid quality of Steve’s voice peeking out from behind those two words, giving him no choice but to stop and face his friend.

“I’m sorry if I-I said or did something to make you uncomfortable. I thought…” Steve paused, giving a little shake of his head. “It doesn’t matter what I thought, but iIt feels like you’ve been avoiding me and considering the fact that I’m the only person who can see and talk to you, I figure that means I must have fucked up pretty badly.” 

And, god, that wasn’t what Eddie wanted at all. 

He knew he was doing the right thing here. For both of them. For himself, who didn’t need to go into whatever eternity he faced with a dinged-up heart, and for Steve, who had his whole life ahead of him. But he couldn’t bring himself to let Steve go on thinking he’d done something wrong when that was the furthest thing from the truth.

Eddie’s shoulders sagged, and he started and stopped half a dozen times before the words finally came out. “You’re… amazing.”

Steve raised a perfectly arched brow.

Okay, not what Eddie’d meant to say, even if it was the truth. He cleared his throat, and tried again. “I mean, you didn’t fuck anything up, Steve. And I don’t know exactly what you thought, but if it’s what I think you thought, you weren’t wrong.”

Jesus Christ… did that even make sense?

“Um, what?” Steve asked.

Right.

“I like you,” Eddie pushed on, figuring the direct approach was his best course of action here. “I’ll admit, I wasn’t sure for a while if you even realized I was flirting with you while all this shit has been happening. If I was the only one feeling like there was something between us. I mean, after shoving a broken bottle up to your neck, it would have been fair if you hated me.”

Steve tilted his head thoughtfully. “For the record, hate is definitely not what I was feeling at the time.”

Fuck. 

He should have known Steve wasn’t going to make this easy.

Eddie pulled at his shirt collar. Was it getting warm in here? Could ghosts even feel room temperature? “Noted,” he choked out.

“So—that moment we had the other day, when we almost…” Steve took a few careful steps closer as he trailed off. 

“Kissed?” Eddie breathed, finishing Steve’s sentence, fighting both the instinct to back up and meet him halfway.

Steve nodded. “Yeah.”

It’d been such an almost… normal—for lack of a better word—moment, between two people who were growing closer, getting comfortable with each other and opening up. There’d been heartbeat there, the briefest of seconds when Eddie realized they were both leaning in, where he forgot he was dead. He was just a guy and his crush, about to share their first kiss.

Until they weren’t.

Though Eddie technically managed to stand his ground, with Robin’s warning stuck in his ear, running still won out. Just, not with his feet. “I’m dead, Steve. You, more than anyone, should understand what that means.” 

Steve’s gaze dropped, so many different warring emotions dancing across his pretty face before he finally looked back up. Eddie desperately wanted to know every single one, but he stayed quiet.

“I think that’s the first time you’ve said it like you believe it,” Steve said eventually, a small, sad smile curving his lips.

Eddie shrugged, trying so hard to smile back but he couldn’t seem to make it reach his eyes. “Well, I guess I'm starting to.”

For someone who’d been trying to convince him of the reality of his existence from the moment he’d appeared, Steve sure didn’t look happy about his sudden willingness to accept it. Eddie wasn’t thrilled with it either, particularly given his recent realizations, but there was no use in fighting the truth.

It wouldn’t change anything.

“Look, I wish things were different but they’re not and we just—we can’t go there, okay?” Eddie sighed, backing his way towards the hall, desperately needing to be anywhere but here, at least for a while. 

Standing there, looking into Steve’s wide puppy-dog eyes begging him to stay, was torture of the worst kind. It was also a foolproof recipe for surrender to this thing between them, and he couldn’t risk giving in no matter how much he wanted to. What could he even offer Steve like this?  Yes they could talk, and he would always be there for Steve in that way, or for however long he was allowed to haunt the guy, but there were some needs, and wants, that required more… right? 

Steve had to realize that.

“Besides, Big Boy,” Eddie said as he turned, unable to stop the frown that was tugging at his lips. “What would be the point?”

This time when he walked away, Steve let him go.

Steve took his time in the shower, letting the warm water run over his body long after he was clean, as if the spray alone could ease the disappointment that had settled into his bones. 

He couldn’t stop thinking about the sad, resigned look on Eddie’s face when he’d said it.

‘What would be the point?’

Steve had wanted to scream.

Everything?

Nothing?

What was the point of any of this bullshit if they were just going to roll over and give up when something good actually presented itself, without even trying to take it!

Inevitably, the hot water ran out and Steve had no choice but to leave the comfort and safety of his shower, carefully drying himself off and taping new clean bandages to his healing wounds.

He slipped on a pair of clean boxers and nothing else before falling into bed, more tired than he felt like he should be when all he’d done that day was walk around the house and argue with Robin, but he supposed that was what he got for not taking care of himself. He was leaning over to switch the bedside lamp off when Eddie appeared in his open doorway, left so out of habit and maybe a small spark of hope that Eddie might have a change of heart and seek him out.

“Hey,” Steve said, sinking back down into his bed and pulling the covers up higher on his chest. If by chance they were about to rehash the conversation from downstairs again, he didn’t really feel like being so exposed when Eddie doubled down on his rejection. 

“Can I come in?” Eddie said, the first time he’d actually asked permission to do anything since his arrival.

It didn’t feel like a good sign, but Steve grit his teeth and nodded.

“I, um…” Eddie stepped over the threshold and into the room, but hovered an awkward distance away from Steve and the bed, eyeing it cautiously. “I don’t—uh—I didn’t really like the way we left things earlier.”

Steve snorted, giving him half an eye roll. “I wasn’t a big fan either.”

“I’m sorry, okay?” Eddie pleaded, taking a few slow steps closer. “But you know I'm right. I mean, this whole thing is ridiculous anyway. Don’t we have bigger, much more important things to worry about than having stupid crushes on each other?!”

By the end of his brief speech Eddie was practically shouting, and Steve tried and failed to stifle a grin. It was so obviously taking all of Eddie’s self control not to stamp his feet.

“I don't recall actually admitting—”Steve began, but was quickly cut off.

“Harrington—” Eddie growled, glaring with all the fierceness of an especially adorable house cat as he crossed his arms over his chest. 

Steve couldn't resist copying him, sitting up to cross his own arms and pitch his voice as low as possible. “Munson—”

Eddie let out an exasperated sigh, raking a hand roughly over his face before stumbling closer, falling to his knees next to the bed. 

“Look, Eddie,” Steve said gently, something tight in his chest releasing as he scooched himself towards the edge. “If there's one thing I've learned in the last three years, it’s that there’s always going to be something else to worry about. But I’m done waiting to live my life when I know full well It could end with a snap of Vecna’s disgusting fingers. None of us knows how much time we’ve got left, and if all I have are these stolen moments between world ending disasters, then so be it. We’ll deal with Vecna when the time comes, but until then…” 

Steve trailed off, trying to find the words to explain to Eddie that he wanted this, that he’d already fought through his own worry and doubt, weighing the pros and cons as he rotted away in sleep for the last few days, but Eddie was already shaking his head.

“But I’m—”

“A ghost, yeah, I know,” Steve spat, cutting him off with a wave of his hand, and went on to say the single last sentence he ever thought he’d utter aloud and truly mean it. “It’s a good thing I was born a Harrington then, isn’t it.” 

Eddie said nothing, his jaw tightening, and his gaze remaining set on the comforter below.

“Unless…” Steve mumbled, worried now that maybe he’d misjudged. Maybe Eddie was trying to let him down easy, when really he just wasn’t all that interested. “Unless you don’t want—”

“Oh, I want,” Eddie blurted out, raising his head, his eyes burning with enough open, naked desire that it lit Steve’s skin on fire and burned away the last of his uncertainty. “More than what I ever thought was realistic to hope for. But you deserve better than what I could give you like this. I'd be happy enough to just be your platonic invisible friend for the rest of your life. What if we try this and you regret it, and then you're stuck with the ghost of your ex hanging around?”

Steve sucked his bottom lip into his mouth. It was a fair thought, and this was uncharted territory, but even if it was just a crush, as Eddie had called it, even if they got together and one day it fizzled out, Steve couldn’t imagine regretting any time spent with Eddie. 

“The only thing I regret is not getting to know you better when you were alive. Not being able to touch you now? Yeah, it kills me. And I know we could never have a normal relationship, that it’ll never be real, but I want this, you, in whatever way I can.”

Eddie squeezed his eyes shut, scrunching them tight, the faintest hint of a whine escaping him as he let his chin fall to his chest.

Steve worried at his bottom lip, letting the silence stretch on in hopes that Eddie would say something, anything.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Eddie finally whispered as he raised his head again, a new resolve  reaching out to hover his hand just above Steve’s cheek, warming it, and making the rest of his body shudder, suddenly aching with need. “Just because we can't touch the usual way, why would that ever mean it wasn’t real?”

The impulse to surge forward and capture Eddie’s lips was intense, but Steve managed to hold back. This would be a delicate dance to learn, but he was sure they could figure it out together.

“Tell me,” Steve purred, letting all the longing he felt leak into his tone, just as he would have made Eddie feel it through his kiss if he could have. Gathering his old confidence, he tossed the covers aside, revealing his mostly naked body, save for the thin white briefs he wore and the fresh gauze at his sides. “Talk me through it, Eddie. What would you do to me right now, if you could?”

Eddie’s eyes raked up and down his body hungrily, a low groan emanating from deep in his throat like a warning, “Steve.”

“Tell me,” Steve said again, quiet as a whisper, as he let his fingers play along the hair on his lower stomach. He felt so exposed, but so safe at the same time under Eddie’s reverent, watchful gaze. “Please?”

“Fuuuck,” Eddie cursed softly, raising himself up to sit on the edge of the bed. “Okay, yes, I…”

A thrill ran up Steve’s spine, anticipation already making him reach for the waistband of his underwear until Eddie’s voice, deeper than he’d ever heard it, made him freeze.

“Wait.”

For one frightening moment he thought Eddie was changing his mind, calling it off, and he almost reached for the covers in embarrassment, but then Eddie spoke again, leaning over his body with shining, eager eyes. 

“I wouldn’t rush it if I had my way with you, Steve,” Eddie said softly, running his tongue along his bottom lip. “I’d start with that lovely mouth of yours. I’d spend hours memorizing the feel of your lips against mine, and the taste of them, if you’d let me.”

Steve slowly raised his hand to his face, running the tips of his fingers softly over his lips as he met Eddie’s eyes, wishing it was the real thing.

“Close your eyes,” Eddie whispered.

Without hesitation Steve complied, pursing his lips again to kiss the pads of his fingers and found it really was easier this way. Easy to pretend he could taste Eddie’s mouth. Lips dry, but soft. Sweet with a hint of cigarette. He imagined the scents that would fill his nose as they made out in the backseat of his car, hairspray and smoke, the warm earthy smell of leather as he grabbed Eddie by the collar of his jacket and pulled him in impossibly closer.

“Only when we’re both panting and desperate for air would I stop, giving your swollen lips a rest while I kiss down your neck.”

Steve pressed his lips to his fingers one last time before running his tongue over them, trailing the wet touch down his chin and over his throat.

“Would you let me mark you there, sweetheart? Suck a bruise into your skin where everyone could see it?”

The possessive bite to Eddie’s otherwise softly spoken question was enough to have Steve already whimpering pathetically. “Yes,” he gasped, hardly able to recognize the wanton, breathy sound as his own voice. “Please, Eddie.”

“So pretty when you beg for it.” 

This time Eddie’s words were spoken right next to his ear, so close to where his own fingers were pressed. Close enough for him to feel a bit of the warm aura that surrounded Eddie’s form, like it was Eddie’s real hot breath washing over his skin. His cock twitched for it, filling out and straining against the tight fabric of his briefs, a sensation so similar to that of a hand palming him that his hips bucked, searching out a deeper friction.

“Needy boy,” Eddie murmured. “I’d make my way to your chest next.”

Steve sucked in a breath, forcing his hips to still as he ran both of his hands down to his chest without needing to be told.

“So good for me.” Eddie’s voice trembled, a strained quality to it that told Steve without a doubt that this was all affecting Eddie just as much as it was him. 

“Do you have any idea how long I've wanted this?” Eddie went on at a whisper, the sound moving lower just as Steve’s hands had. “To rest my hands against that chest of yours, rake my fingers through all the thick hair. I almost lost my mind when you took your shirt off on that little boat, and not out of fear.”

Steve remembered the moment well. The terror of knowing what he was likely to find at the bottom of the lake, the fear that nothing they did would make a difference in the end anyway. A fear that had partially come to pass, but he wasn’t thinking about that now. Instead he recalled the way he’d looked back to see Eddie staring at him openly, those big brown doe eyes catching the moonlight almost as well as they’d caught Steve’s attention. It was far from the first time he’d noticed Eddie in that way, but it was the first time he realized the attraction might be mutual. So, he’d smirked, and he’d thrown his sweater into Eddie’s stunned arms for safekeeping, a subtle attempt at flirting, but an attempt nonetheless.

“I would have let you,” Steve said with a grin. He kept his eyes shut tight but it was easy to hear the answering smile in Eddie’s voice when he huffed a laugh.

“I can see that now.”

Picturing ringed hands in place of his own, Steve could almost feel the cool metal gliding over his skin when he ran his fingers through the thatch of hair on his chest. He paused, taking a handful and gripping it tight, giving it a light tug. He hissed at the sharp feel of it, pulling harder and arching his back as he moaned. 

“That’s it,” Eddie cooed softly. “I had a feeling you’d like a little pain with your pleasure.”

Eddie wasn’t wrong. Steve had often longed for a rougher hand, and maybe some other things, in the bedroom, but hadn’t quite known how to ask any of the girls he’d been with for what he wanted, even if they’d have been willing to give it to him. With Eddie though, he was starting to get the most wonderful feeling that he wouldn’t have to ask at all.

“Mustn’t neglect the most sensitive part of your chest, hmm?” Eddie hummed. “I’d keep playing with your chest hair, teasing little pulls that are never quite enough to reach that sting you’re craving, until I take one of your nipples into my mouth, rolling my tongue around the edge until it pebbles up, and finally biting down.”

Though his dick was screaming for attention, Steve obeyed, performing the torturous touch to himself with one hand just as Eddie had described, using his other, and the light touch of a fingertip, to circle his already pert nipple before pinching it as hard as he dared.

Lightning shot down his spine, while a high-pitched whine was forced from his lips. It wasn’t until he let go, fighting to catch his breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, that he felt the small wet spot in his underwear, the almost cold feel of the cotton pressing back against him. 

He was dripping. 

Eddie was taking him apart piece by piece with nothing but his voice and his words. He was harder than he’d ever been in his life, leaking precome, and his briefs hadn’t even come off yet.

“You’re so fucking hot like this, all laid out for me like a banquet, letting me do whatever I want with you.”

“Anything… everything. Just, please… don’t stop.”

“Anything, huh?” Eddie mused. “So if I kissed a line down the center of your chest and ran my tongue along the length of your delectable happy trail, only to stop cold at the waistband of your underwear, you’d just lay there and take it?”

Steve’s hands moved to comply of their own volition, even as he pleaded for more.

“Please, Eddie. I need… I need…”

Eddie shushed him quietly. “I know, baby, I’ve got you. I’m gonna make you feel so good, I promise. I just prefer to open my gifts carefully, that’s all. I would take that bit of fabric between my teeth and slowly pull them down your hips, your thighs, and all the way to your ankles and off so I could spread your legs as wide as I like.”

With shaking fingers, Steve finally took hold of his briefs, tugging them down bit by bit until his cock was freed, slapping against his lower stomach with a light smack. He had to tuck his legs up to finish stripping them off, but he didn’t let that take him out of the fantasy, and when he was finally laid bare he placed a hand on each of his knees, pushing them apart wide until he heard Eddie choke on air.

“Fuck, you’re so perfect.” 

As much as the compliments and praise were doing for him, and they really were doing it for him, Steve felt like he was on the verge of losing his sanity. 

Thankfully, Eddie seemed to be of the same mind.

“Lovely as it is to torture both of us, I wouldn’t be able to resist wrapping my lips around you immediately, letting your cock fill my mouth until my spit pooled at the base of it, taking it all the way to the back of my throat until I choked.”

Just being surrounded by the husky sound of Eddie's voice, hearing him explain in detail how he’d work him over with that clever mouth had Steve ready to blow, and it almost had him hesitating to take himself in hand.

Almost.

His need for relief, for release, won out over his worry of ending their fun too soon. Besides, if this experience they were sharing now meant what he desperately hoped it meant, then there would be other opportunities to expand their play in the future.

Still, he started slow, taking only the head of his cock in his palm at first, smearing around the precome that had been steadily leaking from his slit this entire time, and envisioning Eddie’s tongue circling before his lips closed tightly around his shaft. He groaned at the sight in his mind’s eye, gripping himself tighter and letting more of his cock slide through his fist as he thought of the way Eddie’s eyes might begin to water when he took the full length to the back of his throat.

“Has anyone ever explored this tight little hole of yours?”

There was no mistaking it, Eddie’s voice came from directly between Steve’s legs. He really was laying there, probably spread out on his stomach, his face inches from Steve’s most intimate parts.

Steve’s breath hitched, speeding up the pace of his hand as he jerked himself off. “No, but I–I want you to. Want you to be the first,” he choked out.

In truth he had attempted to finger himself once or twice, but no one else had ever touched him there. He never managed to get the right angle to find his prostate, but the feeling of being entered, that fullness, had still helped him come in record time.

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie cursed, sounding as wrecked as Steve felt. “You’re a dream, sweetheart, I can’t believe I get to have you like this. I’m gonna need you to wet my fingers for me, since my mouth is a little busy elsewhere. Do you think you can do that?”

Steve nodded, too lost in the heady cocktail of lust and desire running through him to form any more words, the lines between fantasy and reality blurring as two fingers were shoved into his mouth. He moaned around the intrusion, nearly gagging himself as he took the digits deeper, wanting to make sure he did the job thoroughly for Eddie.

“Good fucking boy,” Eddie crooned, a deep rumbling bass. “I think you’re ready for me now.”

While one hand still bobbed up and down his length, Steve reached under his raised leg with the other until he found his rim, circling, spreading the spit around the edge of his hole. He tried to push the tip of one finger inside, gently at first but the resistance was too much and he was too keyed up to wait or relax. He pressed in hard, a loud, piteous whine forcing its way out of his throat when it finally popped inside. The burning stretch was small, fading too quickly for Steve to really enjoy and he was quickly begging for more. 

“Another,” Steve gasped, working the finger in and out of his hole until it slid easily, down to the knuckle. “Please, Eddie, I need more.”

“Okay, baby. If you're sure.”

God, Eddie was going to ruin him with all these pet names just as sure as he was ruining him with the rest of it. Every baby, every sweetheart, had his heart filling dangerously close to the brim.

“I’m sure… need you.”

Steve’s mouth dropped open as he worked his middle finger in next to the first, and quickly got what he’d been wanting, that intense pressure bordering on pain, the incredible feeling of being stuffed full. As he fucked himself in earnest, caught between bucking his hips up to drive his cock into his fist, and wriggling down to meet the thrusting of his hand, he lost control of himself completely, loud cries of pleasure falling from his lips near constantly.

“You close, baby?” Eddie asked, voice gone taut, strained as though he were the one balancing on the edge of the most intense orgasm of his life.

“So close. I’m—” was all Steve could manage in reply as he felt his length suddenly being engulfed by Eddie’s unique effervescent warmth. It was such a surprise that he couldn’t help finally snapping his eyes open, seeing Eddie’s translucent fist hovering around his own as he rabbited up into the clutch of them together. The sight alone was more than enough to send him hurtling over that last breathtaking cliff.

He came with Eddie's name on his lips, looking deep into Eddie’s eyes and it made all the pretending, all the imagining feel so fucking real. His orgasm seemed to go on forever, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over him as his dick pulsed in his grip, coating his hand and dripping down his inner thigh.

“Kiss me!” Steve cried, forgetting for a split second that they couldn’t. 

But he didnt take it back. It didn’t matter that it wouldn’t feel the same, the phantom brush of Eddie’s mouth on his would be better than a normal kiss from anyone else. He was absolutely sure of it.

Eddie crawled up higher on the bed, and as if he too had forgotten his limitations brought his mouth crashing down onto Steve’s without hesitation.

The first touch was indeed warm, as all Eddie’s touches were, but it was also firm and real. Eddie’s lips were plush, as soft as they looked, a perfect compliment to the light scratch of stubble as they both leaned in, deepening the kiss. For a solid minute Eddie licked into his mouth, and it tasted exactly as Steve had imagined, but better. 

Because it was really him.

All too soon the feeling was gone, whatever connection they had that allowed for such things failing in an instant.

“Sorry,” Eddie mumbled, pulling back, as if it were his fault.

Steve wasn’t so sure it was, but hopefully their research tomorrow would help shed some light on it all. “Don’t be sorry, it was perfect,” he said with a small shake of his head. “You were perfect.”

Reluctantly Steve slid off the bed, knowing he had to clean up before the sticky mess he’d made spread any more and got on his clean bandages. He plucked his still damp towel from the hamper and gave himself a quick wipe down before climbing back into bed, next to a now pensive looking Eddie. 

“Lay with me?” Steve asked through a yawn.

Without a word Eddie laid down facing him, and after only a second’s hesitation slid his arms around and sort-of through Steve’s body. 

It made for an unusual sight but it was everything Steve wanted, and needed, in that moment, caring, comfortable, warm. He let out a contented sigh, feeling his body go boneless as he relaxed into the sheets, and was asleep before he even registered that his eyes had closed.

Thanks as always to @penny00dreadful for being the best beta and an absolutely amazing cheerleader!

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[theshiniestgemstone]

Hi, I love your Gideon fics.

Could you write a fic where reader is comforting Gideon after the shooting?

hey babes, thank you for the request!! no joke, i had to ask myself which one before I assumed s4

warnings: s4 spoilers!!! brief descriptions of blood and grief, in universe level violence

He hadn’t stopped shaking since you first saw him.

You stood beside Gideon, running a hand soothingly over his back, your palm tracing slow, steady circles between his shoulder blades. His skin was clammy beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, muscles twitching under your touch like he was trying to hold himself together. He sat stiffly on the edge of a plastic hospital chair, elbows braced on his knees, fingers knotted so tightly in his hair they’d gone pale.

The waiting room reeked of antiseptic and burnt coffee. Abraham was sprawled across two chairs to your left, his knees tucked in and a jacket draped over his face, though it barely muffled the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. You weren’t sure if he was asleep or just trying to disappear for a little while.

Across from you, Pontius sat on a larger bench with Amber cradled in his arms. Her head rested against his chest, face blotchy and exhausted, while Pontius rocked her gently, his long arms wrapped protectively around her like she was the one needing reassurance now. Her makeup was rubbed off, streaked over her hands and the small mountain of tissues in her lap. One of his hands trembled against her back, fingers curling into the fabric of her sweater as if he was afraid to let go.

You’d picked up the boys a few hours ago, stepping carefully around the chaos at the lake house. You walked over shattered glass, overturned furniture, streaks of blood drying like rust along the floor. Police lights bathed the scene in red and blue, officers weaving in and out with quiet urgency. Gideon had been sitting on the porch steps, dried blood flaking at his temple, his hands trembling in his lap. He didn’t speak when he saw you, just wrapped his arms around you. His tears soaked the shoulder of your t-shirt. You gave Abraham and Pontius each a hug, tightly holding them before they climbed into the back of your car.

You looked over at him now, chest tight with the helpless ache of watching someone you love suffer in silence. His jaw clenched, and you caught the way his leg bounced.

“I’m here,” you whispered, leaning down so he could hear you over the hum of the ice machine and the distant call of a nurse’s name. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And even though he didn’t respond, didn’t lift his head or say a word, he shifted slightly, leaning just a little closer to your side, enough to let you know he’d heard you.

It was the quietest you’d ever witnessed the family, and rightfully so. Judy, Jesse, and Kelvin are nothing if not resilient. At least that’s what you told yourself and whispered into Gideon’s ear as he sat slumped in a hospital hallway. Because no matter how loud or flashy or godly they made themselves out to be, none of them were immune to the devastation of a friend with a gun.

Eli sat in a corner of the room, humming prayers and pleas to himself. Every once in a while, he’d disappear to the chapel, returning with red rimmed eyed and swollen cheeks. BJ’s hands were clenched. Occasionally he’d let out an angry grunt or whimper, tears rolling down his cheek as he stared at his phone, at a photo of Judy he’d taken one morning. Keefe hadn’t stopped crying, wringing his hands around the strap of a Fanny pack.

When the doctor finally stepped into the waiting room, clipboard in hand, the world seemed to still. Every breath caught. Every head turned.

“They’re stable,” he said, voice level and measured, like he’d done this a thousand times.

That was all it took. “Judy’s awake. The other two are resting, but you can all see them if you’d like.”

A rush of breath passed through the room like wind through a forest. Eli’s head dropped into his hands. Amber sobbed, loud and broken, while Pontius squeezed her shoulder with a shaky hand.

You stayed back as the family moved to follow the doctor, shuffling out of the waiting room like people emerging from a long, dark tunnel. They didn’t say much. They didn’t have to. You patted Gideon’s hand, trying to anchor him just long enough for him to steady himself.

“You comin’?” he asked, his voice rough and low. He squeezed your hand like a lifeline, like he needed you beside him just to take another step forward. His eyes finally met yours, silent pleas swimming in his pupils.

You gave a gentle shake of your head and glanced over at Abraham’s sleeping figure stretched out on the chairs. “I’m going to keep an eye on him,” you said, even though part of you wanted to go with them, wanted to see for yourself that the siblings were really okay. That this wasn’t all a cruel waiting-room dream. But someone had to stay behind. Someone had to hold the stillness.

Gideon hesitated, jaw tightening. Then he gave you the faintest nod and followed the rest of the family out of the room, disappearing through the double doors with his shoulders hunched like the weight of the night had finally settled in his bones.

For a while, you sat in the silence, unsure how long they were gone. Time folded in on itself. Minutes dragged, stretching thin and frayed at the edges. The lights never dimmed, the air never warmed. The vending machine clunked to life at one point, startling you with its mechanical hum. Abraham stirred, blinking at the empty room.

“Your dad’s in 482. Second door,” you said, nodding towards where the others disappeared to. “Judy’s awake. Kelvin’s still asleep.”

Abraham pulled the door open, leaving you alone in the family room. You were alone now.

A few of your own tears slipped out in the quiet. You wiped them away quickly, rough and unsentimental, like if you didn’t acknowledge them, they didn’t count. There’d be time to cry later. For now, there were things to do. You rose from your seat, brushing off your legs, and moved around the room, gathering what had been left behind in the scramble. Amber’s purse was tucked beside her chair, forgotten in the blur of bad news and better news. A stray jacket, Keefe’s, probably, lay bunched over the back of another seat. You folded it as neatly as your shaking hands would allow.

When the family returned, the energy in the room was different. Tired, but less tense. Amber walked in first, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Her eyes found yours immediately. She crossed the space between you without a word and wrapped her arms around you in a firm, silent hug. It was the kind of embrace that didn’t require explanation, just understanding. You returned it without hesitation, your hand rubbing lightly over her back.

“Thank you,” she murmured into your shoulder. “For coming. For… everything.”

You nodded. Words felt clumsy, too heavy for the moment. “I’ll bring you some clothes in the morning,” you said gently. “Something comfortable.”

She gave you a soft, grateful look before moving to join BJ and Keefe. One by one, the others followed, murmuring tired goodbyes or small thank-yous. You didn’t linger. It was late, technically early. The sky outside had begun to pale with the slow onset of dawn, the first hints of sunlight brushing against the horizon.

You found the boys huddled by the hospital entrance, quiet and dazed. You opened the car without a word, letting them pile in like sleepwalking soldiers after a long battle.

The drive back to the compound was still and soft, the kind of silence that didn’t beg to be filled. Trees blurred by, the road lit by the gold of an emerging morning. Pontius stared out the window, his cheek resting against the glass, Abraham dozing lightly in the back. Gideon sat beside you in the passenger seat, arms folded, jaw set, but calmer than before.

When you pulled into the long driveway, the compound stood ahead silent and looming, bathed in the pink-gold light of a brand new day. The boys got out slowly, dragging their feet across the gravel, and you followed them up the steps and into the warmth of home.

Inside, Gideon collapsed onto the couch, curling onto his side with one arm tucked under his head. You stood there for a moment, keys still in hand, watching his chest rise and fall, watching the dawn finally catch up with the nightmare.

“Goodnight, guys,” you said, waving to Abraham and Pontius as they made their way to the stairs.

“‘Night.” “G’night.”

You gently sat down beside Gideon, running a hand over his hair. He began to cry again.

“I should have stayed.”

You shook your head. “Don’t do that, Gideon. You had no reason to think you couldn’t go on the boat.”

He sniffed. “I could have stopped it.” His breaths stuttered. “If I would have just said I didn’t want to, or if-“

“Or you could be in a hospital bed too,” you said, cutting him off, not unkindly. “Or worse. You don’t get to carry the blame for something you couldn’t have known.”

He turned his face toward you then, eyes rimmed red, jaw clenched like he was trying not to sob again. “I can’t stop seeing it. I keep picturing them all there like…”

It was horrible, how he’d been the first one to find them slumped in the den. That’s the kind of image you can’t shake after a few tears of a couple of hours. “I’m so sorry, Gideon.” You moved closer, pressing your forehead to his, grounding him. “They’re okay. They’re alive. That has to be enough for tonight.”

Gideon nodded against you, barely perceptible. His shoulders hitched as he drew in a shaky breath, his body slowly relaxing under your touch. You pulled the blanket down over his legs, tucking it around him like you would a child, and stayed right there beside him, your fingers moving slowly through his hair.

You didn’t need to tell him it was going to be okay. At least not yet. That kind of hope would take time. But he wasn’t alone. And for now, that would have to be enough.

[dulcecherub]

Lose My Cool

Synopsis: Sofia is friends with the Pogues Rafe hates. She’s friends with his sister. Someone he considers to be a traitor. These are the things Sofia knows. Things she’s grown to hate about him. He’s hurt the people she loves… it doesn’t help that they have feelings for each other. Her feelings for him… are complicated.

Author’s note: this is kind of an alternative take for ‘Would That I’, Would that I is centered around season 4 sort of. It’s not accurate to the show. It’s like if there was no gold. But the Pogues still had a rocky relationship with Rafe. Well this follows the plot of the show, and what it would look like if Sofia was friends with them during all the things that happened in season 1-2.

I don't know what you've done to me/But suddenly I'm feelin' things I just can't control/I don't know what you want from me/But every time I try to leave, you just won't let go

She couldn’t do it, she couldn’t keep lying to them. It became something that started to make her feel dirty. Like slime that wouldn’t rid off of her body. She hated him, that was true. That was a part of her she made very obvious. But she— she also loved him. And she knew he felt the same about her. Their “relationship” was complicated to say the least.

She’s tried; of course to leave him, multiple times. The last time had been her last straw. Should have been her last straw, when he’d tried to drown Sarah. She remembered when she heard about it. She was lying in bed, her hands preoccupied with a book. When she got a call from unknown number.

When she picked it up, she was surprised to hear it was Sarah. She’d told her everything. She tried getting in touch with everyone else. But they seemed busy and weren’t picking up their phones. Sofia had offered her to come over to her house. But to her surprise, Sarah said she was already with Topper. The phone Sarah was using was his.—And she didn’t want to be rude by leaving him. He’d been the one to have saved her. She felt like she had owned him this.

Sofia had found Rafe, she had screamed. Yelled into his face. Told him she never wanted to see him again. That she would never forgive him for what he’d done. He’d sobbed, begging her to not leave him. She had left him there like that. Begging, on his knees, tears staining his cheeks.

It was when they all presumed Ward was dead. That she broke no contact. She’d laid in bed with him, held him. She had let him undress her, kiss her. Make love to her. She felt the ickiness spread through her body like a disease. She laid there next to him, his arms wrapping around her body. Eyes closed, holding her like a vice. And all she could feel was disgust that she’d laid with him again.

'Cause in the night/I'm sleepless without you/Yeah, you're the calm throughout the storm/I need you here to keep me warm/And I won't pretend that things are okay/Whenever I'm without you, babe/It don't feel right, it don't feel safe

“What’s wrong?” Kiara asked, eyeing her suspiciously. Kie was always so good at that. Managing to dissect something wrong with any of her friends. Sofia sat with her on the hammock at the Chateau. The other’s talking amongst themselves. Sofia felt a wedge in her throat, preventing her from speaking.

“Uhhh—nothing. It’s nothing. I’m just a little tired.” Sofia answered, her mind still on the night she had with Rafe. The way they’d made love to each other over and over again. The bruises he’d left behind, still littering her body. Reminders of what they’ve done together. Thankfully tucked in places only she and he could see. She touched her inner thigh absentmindedly.

“You sure? You seem awfully quiet. Quieter than usual.” Kie sounded concerned. Sofia knew that concern would turn into an ugly thing if she told her the truth. Where she’d been. Who’d she’d been with. The feeling of feeling dirty was back. Worse now.

“Sorry, I came in late and I couldn’t really sleep.” That part was true, she had sat in the dark. Until well into morning. Feeling disgusted with herself. A part of… wasn’t. And that made her even more disgusted with herself.

“Guys!” JJ yells, calling them over. Kiara, like it was second nature, removed herself from the hammock. Heading over to see what the others were talking about. Sofia didn’t move yet. Her phone began to ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Sofia looked down in horror. It was Rafe. She stared at the screen for what felt like hours. But were merely seconds. She didn’t answer, letting it go to voice mail. Then she got texts instead.

Sofia sighed deeply to herself, before turning her phone off. She got up from the hammock. Her hands shook as she stuffed her phone in her back pocket. Pretending like she didn’t see his messages. She felt it continue to vibrate. —She walked towards her friends like there wasn’t another world of herself; waiting.

“You okay, Sof?” John B asks, worried like a father. Sofia only gave him a smile she hoped didn’t let her lie seep through.

“All good, so what about the cross?”

Sofia could feel eyes on her as she entered the farmers market. A tug finally came at her arm, she twirled around to see him. His eyes were rimmed with red, his face ashen. His hand shook where he held her.

“You’ve been ignoring me.” He said hoarsely, his blue piercing eyes staring into her hazel ones. Trying to figure her out.

“I’ve—I’ve been busy.”

“Yeah I know. Trying to get the cross. Wheez told me.”

“How does—”

“That’s the least of your worries. And not what I want us to talk about.” His grasp on her arm becoming more tighter, like he was afraid if he let go. She’ll disappear.

“It is, if it’s none of your business.”

Rafe let out a dry laugh, shaking his head. His eyes closing and opening like a cat. “Why have you’ve been ignoring my texts? My calls?” He leans towards her, his eyes nearly next to hers. Their noses almost touching. Sofia attempts to shake off his hand from her arm. But he’s much stronger than her.

“I can’t. I can’t do this anymore. Not to Sarah. Or my friends.” Sofia shook her head, her eyes blinking rapidly. The guilt finally settled in her stomach. The idea that she’d been fraternizing with the enemy, it left her feeling nauseous. The way she’d let him have her. After everything he’s done.

“You didn’t seem to mind every time we had sex. When—when you told me you loved me.” He said, his grasp becoming even more rougher. His eyes looked crazed, as if he hadn’t slept. Sofia eyes squinted into worry. “You love me, don’t you Sofia?Please just, just tell me you still love me. That this is all bullshit. That you’re not… you’re not leaving me. R-right.”

When she didn’t answer, another dry laugh leaves his lips. He looks away from her briefly. Before his eyes are trained on her again. “This is fucked up, you know. My dad died and then you decide to leave me too.”

“Sarah is hurting too, Rafe.”

“Fuck Sarah, mm okay! Fuck her, fuck John B, fuck that lowlife JJ. Fuck all of them! I don’t care about them! I only want you! And and all you seem to care about are those dumbass Pogues. What have they done for you, hm? Besides get you into trouble and almost risking your life. I-I never ever did that!” He pauses, rubbing his nose. “What about me huh? Do I not matter?”

She didn’t realize she’d done it before she watched his head turn violently. She’d slapped him; hard. “You don’t know shit about my friendship with them! Nothing! So stop talking about them like that!” Rafe eyes widen, he held his cheek. He turned to look at her. Shocked riddled on his face, almost to say, ‘You too?’

Sofia blinked away guilt, his grasp on her arm gone. She could still feel it on her, like a branding. He stepped away from her, slowly. A tear slid down his face as he stared at her.

“I-I love you Sofia. This isn’t fair. I care about you more than they do.” He said tearfully, his lips turning into a pout. “I can’t do this without you. Please—”

“Stop. Just stop it.” Sofia ran her hands in her hair, she felt her heart clench. She had put her hands on him. Something she never had done before. To anyone. She was never one to strike people in that way.

“Sofia?” Sofia body ran cold, she couldn’t move even if she tried. She would be able to recognize that voice anywhere. She’d heard it thousands of times, of course.

Sarah.

“What are you doing with him?” Kiara voice cut through the tension. Sofia felt her stomach drop, her heart in her throat. She couldn’t move and she couldn’t speak.

“Sofia and I are in love. And you stupid Pogues try to get in that way of tha—”

“Woah. Woah. What?” Pope says, Sofia finally looks up. She felt her heart almost give out. All her friends were here. She suddenly felt like she wasn’t in her body. Someone else had taken over. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not like this.

“She loves me. And I love her. I’m surprised you idiots haven’t figured it out yet.”

Sofia eyes landed on Sarah, in that moment. That’s all that mattered. “Sarah, I’m-I’m so sorry.” She cried. She ignored the words Rafe was saying. If she pretended he hadn’t said them. Maybe they would too. Sofia attempted to take Sarah’s arm. But Kiara intercepted her.

“No, what the fuck.” Kiara said angrily. “You’ve been lying to us! All of us! Do you not remember what he did! To Peterkin! To John B! To me and Pope! To Sarah!”

“Kie—” Jj says, trying to calm her down.

Kiara put her hand up, “No! He hurt Sarah! He fucking tried to drown her Sofia! And you just decided to what? Have a relationship with him?! Are you crazy?!”

Sarah began to cry, Sofia couldn’t make herself look away. Her own eyes welling up with tears. She’d messed up. Big time and she didn’t know how she was going to fix it. She heard sniffing behind her, she turned to look. Rafe was sobbing now, shaking his head.

“Shut the fuck up, Kie!” Rafe yelled. “You are all against me! And then once I find the one person who isn’t, you try and ruin that for me!”

Kiara let out a bitter laugh. “You don’t deserve her! You never will!” Sarah continued to sob, John B wrapped her into his arms. His eyes scrunched in concern. Pope wouldn’t even look at Sofia. His eyes were staring at the complete opposite direction of her and everyone else.

“I—I know I messed up, okay. I messed up—”

“Messed up?!” Rafe and Kiara said in unison. Kiara flinched but continued to speak.

“You did more than just messed up. You betrayed us! For him!” Kiara pointed at Rafe, but move her hand away as if it burned to even try to acknowledge him. Rafe narrowed his eyes and Kiara. But as he opened his mouth to say something to retort. Sofia began to run.

“Sofia! Sofia wait!” John B yelled.

“Sofia!” Rafe voice sounding the ever heartbroken boy. But Sofia continued to run.

“Sofia!”

She couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear the thought of what she’d done. The pain she caused. She continued to run until she collapsed against the front door of her house. Sobs breaking out of her like a dam. She couldn’t breathe, she rubbed her tears away. And of course, of course she ran away like a coward. She tucked her knees towards her chest, letting herself cry. This was all her fault. She didn’t know how she was going to fix things. She didn’t even know where to start.

I don't know what you've done to me/But suddenly I'm feelin' things I just can't control/I don't know what you want from me/But every time I try to leave, you just won't let go

[zmxchs]

First Sight

➤ Summary: When you arrive in New Orleans to settle your late grandmother’s affairs, you never expected to be swept into the supernatural politics of the French Quarter—or to meet a man like Elijah Mikaelson. ➤ Warning: Mild supernatural elements, suggestive romantic tension, mentions of blood (typical for The Originals setting). Fluff-heavy. ➤ Word Count: 1,030

The city smelled like sweet decay—jasmine, old brick, and something darker woven through the air like shadowed thread. You stepped out of the cab with your suitcase in one hand and your grandmother’s worn leather journal in the other. She’d left you a key to her apartment above Royal Street and a list of “important names to avoid.”

You hadn't believed in her stories. Not really. But now, standing in the heart of the French Quarter with the sun slipping below the rooftops, you felt watched.

The iron-gated courtyard was still when you entered. Ivy curled like tendrils over stone and lanterns glowed softly, despite no visible source of power. You found her door, unlocked it, and stepped into her world. The scent of cloves and old paper greeted you.

You didn’t expect a knock at the door within the hour.

You opened it cautiously—and froze.

The man before you was impossibly composed. A charcoal gray suit hugged his tall form like it had been tailored for his very bones. His dark eyes scanned you with the kind of quiet intensity that made your lungs forget how to work.

“Elijah Mikaelson,” he said smoothly, as if that explained everything.

You blinked. “I’m sorry…?”

He offered a subtle smile. “I was acquainted with your grandmother. She was a friend to our family… in her own way.”

“Our?”

“Elijah,” came a voice from behind him—careless and clipped. Another man stepped into view, blond, scruffy, dangerously charming in that storm-before-the-fight way. “You’re scaring the poor girl.”

Elijah didn’t so much as flinch. “I believe she’s more curious than afraid.”

You should have shut the door. You should’ve called the police or told them to leave. But your body betrayed you, rooted to the ground by the sheer force of him—Elijah. His presence was gravity.

“What do you want?” you asked.

“I only wished to welcome you to New Orleans.” His eyes softened, something respectful yet terribly ancient hiding in their depths. “And to offer you protection, should you find yourself… overwhelmed.”

You scoffed. “Overwhelmed by what?”

The blond one smirked. “Oh, she’s going to be fun.”

“Elijah,” you repeated, testing the name on your tongue. “Why would I need protection?”

His gaze flickered—just enough to know he was choosing what not to say. “Because your grandmother kept company with monsters. And some of them remember her.”

You thought about the stories she told you as a child—witches, wolves, vampires with endless lives and deeper hungers. They’d been fairy tales.

Until tonight.

“Let me guess,” you said, voice steadier than your racing pulse. “You’re one of them?”

He inclined his head, almost reverent. “I am.”

And you believed him.

Elijah didn’t push inside. He didn’t offer a warning or a threat. Just a business card, thick and elegant, with his name embossed in gold. You took it with trembling fingers.

“If you ever need assistance,” he said, “call me.”

“Why?” you asked before you could stop yourself. “Why help me?”

Something flickered across his expression. “Because kindness runs in your bloodline. And… because I felt I should.”

A beat. Then two.

His gaze locked with yours, and the rest of the world dimmed.

You knew then—soul-deep and silent—that this wasn’t the last time you’d see him.

✦ ✦ ✦

The second time was at midnight, when a spell gone wrong lit up your grandmother’s grimoire and nearly set your curtains on fire. You called him in a panic. He arrived before the smoke cleared, cradling you out of the chaos like you weighed nothing.

You saw the blood on his sleeve and didn’t flinch.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he murmured later, as you sat wrapped in a blanket, sipping wine he’d conjured from somewhere below.

“I think I should be,” you whispered.

He smiled—something sad, something breaking. “And yet… you’re not.”

You shook your head.

He leaned in close. “Then perhaps, for the first time in centuries, I’ve met someone extraordinary.”

You felt it again—that gravity. That pull.

Love at first sight was supposed to be impossible. Foolish. Fleeting.

But with Elijah, it felt like a memory waking up.

A promise whispered across lifetimes.

And it had only just begun.

[earthtoharlow]

Hit The Lights

3rd installment of the Flashing Lights series, must read Flashing Lights & Don’t Like The Lights first to understand

series masterlist

6. If We Were Made of Water

Maryse sat on the couch, laptop open beside her, the soft hum of the baby monitor filling the quiet room. The twins were finally asleep, and the house was still. But her mind wasn’t.

She was scrolling through social media half-heartedly, then checking streaming numbers—again. Not for her music. For Jack’s.

She hadn’t brought it up yet, but it had been sitting heavy on her chest. The last few songs Jack had released hadn’t taken off the way they used to. The one with Doja especially—she’d been sure that was going to be a summer anthem. It had everything: the beat, the feature, the visuals. And still, it came and went without the impact they’d expected.

He’d shrugged it off, saying the numbers didn’t matter—but she wasn’t so sure. What bothered her even more was how little he promoted it. No interviews, no late-night performances. Just a quiet drop… and back to the studio the next day.

Before the kids, he was everywhere—on stage, on TV, red carpets. Now? It was like he only existed in the booth or in their living room. And while part of her admired how present he was as a father and partner, another part of her worried. Did he still care about his career? Or was he slowly stepping away from it?

She leaned back on the couch, biting her thumbnail, trying not to overthink. Maybe it was just a season. Maybe he was tired.

A few minutes later, she heard the front door open. She looked up as he walked in, hoodie on, headphones around his neck.

“Hey,” she said softly, closing her laptop.

“Hey, baby,” he replied, giving her a quick kiss before collapsing next to her.

She watched him for a moment, debating.

“You good?” he asked, sensing her silence.

“Yeah,” she nodded, then paused. “I just… I’ve been thinking.”

He raised a brow. “Uh oh.”

“Not bad thinking,” she promised. “Just… honest thinking.”

He sat up a bit straighter. “Talk to me.”

She hesitated, then said, “Do you still want this? The music, the career—the spotlight?”

His expression didn’t change, but his eyes searched hers.

“Of course I do,” he said slowly. “Why?”

“You just haven’t really been promoting your stuff. The last few songs didn’t hit like they used to. And that Doja track? I thought it was going to be huge. I know we have the kids now, and life’s different, but…” she trailed off gently. “I just want to make sure you’re not giving up on yourself.”

He let out a long breath, rubbing his jaw. “It’s not that I don’t care. I just… I don’t know. Lately I’ve been thinking about what matters most. And honestly, coming home to you and the twins feels bigger than a hit song.”

She nodded, her heart tugging at his honesty. “And I love that. I really do. But you can have both, you know? You’ve worked too hard to just fade out like this.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Maybe I’ve just been scared. Scared that I’m not that guy anymore. That if the music doesn’t hit now, maybe it means I’ve peaked.”

She reached for his hand. “You haven’t. You’re still that guy—you’ve just grown. The world still needs to hear you.”

Jack let out a slow breath, still holding her hand. She gave him a soft nudge with her shoulder and smirked.

“You know,” she teased, “I can’t be the only one in the house bringing home the bacon.”

He blinked, then laughed, his eyes lighting up as he reached over to pinch her side, making her squirm and giggle.

“Oh, word? That’s what we’re doing now? You calling me a stay-at-home dad?”

“I mean…” she shrugged, barely suppressing a grin. “You are home a lot.”

He shook his head, still smiling as he leaned back. “Alright, alright. I hear you. I’ll do better. I’ve been in my head about it, but you’re right. I gotta start acting like I believe in my stuff again.”

“You really should,” she said seriously, scooting closer and resting her chin on his shoulder. “Your music is good—so good. You should be bragging about it. Showing it off every chance you get. People should hear it and know it’s yours.”

He let her words settle, comforted and challenged at once. Then he wrapped his arm around her.

“You really believe in me like that?”

She tilted her head, giving him a look. “Always have. Always will.”

He kissed the side of her head and held her close, already thinking of ways to push again—just like she always pushed him to.

“Guess it’s time to remind the world who I am.”

“You’re damn right it is,” she said with a smile. “Now go make some bacon.”

He laughed again—but the smile didn’t fully reach his eyes. After a pause, he spoke, voice lower now.

“…There’ve been rumors,” he said quietly. “That the label might scrap the album.”

Maryse’s head snapped toward him. “Wait, what?”

He nodded slowly. “I haven’t gotten confirmation, but I’ve heard things. And honestly? I’ve been scared to ask. I’ve been working on this album since before the twins were born. That song with Doja? I wrote it back in September.”

She rested a hand on his chest. “Babe…”

“I thought that one would hit,” he said, voice tighter now. “I really did. And when it didn’t, I started feeling like maybe they don’t believe in the project anymore. And if they don’t… what was all that time for?”

She let out a soft breath and shifted even closer, her thumb brushing gently over his shirt.

“First of all, I believe in it. Second, just because something doesn’t hit right away doesn’t mean it won’t catch. People are slow sometimes. Especially with real music.”

“I know,” he murmured. “It’s just hard not to feel like… I’m falling behind.”

“You’re not falling behind. You’re moving different. You’re a dad now—and that changes things. But if you still care about this, and I know you do, then you gotta push. Remind them why they signed you in the first place.”

He looked at her for a long moment, then let out a small laugh and pulled her in tighter.

“You really know exactly what to say, huh?”

She smiled into his shirt. “Every time.”

“You think they’ll still back the album?”

“If they don’t, they’re idiots,” she said without hesitation. “And if they do… then let’s make sure they’re ready for it.”

Jack ran a hand over his face, sighing as he leaned back against the couch. “I’m not even sure if I wanna do the festival this year. Last time, day two got rained out. Whole second half of the lineup didn’t even get to perform. I mean, the city still made a ton of money from it, but it just put a damper on everything.”

Maryse tilted her head, watching him. “Yeah, but people loved it. Rain and all. You saw how much fun everyone had.”

He gave her a half-hearted shrug. “Still felt like a loss.”

She leaned into him with a soft smile. “Are you gonna let me perform this year?”

He looked over at her, eyebrows raised. “You tryna get on the lineup?”

“I’m saying last year I was only three months postpartum,” she said with a playful glare. “I was still figuring out how to wear shoes again, let alone heels on stage.”

That made him chuckle. “Fair enough. I owe you a set.”

“You do,” she teased, nudging him with her knee. “But seriously, I think you should still do the festival. Even if you push it back a little. Don’t let one rainy day make you forget how much people loved it—and how proud they were of you.”

He exhaled slowly, nodding. “Yeah… maybe you’re right.”

She grinned. “Of course I’m right. And this time, put me on the stage, not just in the crowd.”

He smirked, the first real one she’d seen from him all week. “Deal. But only if you promise not to outshine me.”

“No promises,” she said, giving him a wink that made him laugh for real.

Jack leaned back again, arm draped across the couch behind her, eyes soft but curious. “Alright,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “Enough about me. How’s the music going for you?”

Maryse let out a breath, tilting her head as she stared down at her hands. She didn’t answer right away.

“You scrapped that breakup album,” he added, a trace of something sharper in his voice—hurt, maybe. “Which, by the way, I still refuse to call a breakup. It was a… pause. A dumb, painful pause.”

She let out a quiet laugh, just a breath. “It was more than a pause.”

He didn’t argue, but the look he gave her made it clear he still didn’t agree.

“You haven’t dropped anything since.”

“I know,” she said, nodding slowly. “But I’ve been writing. I’m always writing—you know that. There’s not a day I’m not in the studio. Even if it’s just humming into the mic or scribbling lyrics I might never use.”

“I know,” he murmured, eyes locked on hers. “I hear you in there. Even when you think I don’t.”

She looked up at him, surprised.

He smiled, small and sincere. “The house feels different when you’re recording. Like it’s breathing with you. Even the kids get quiet—like they know you’re doing something that matters.”

That made her eyes sting.

She let out a quiet sigh, pulling her knees up onto the couch as she leaned into him a little. “Honestly,” she said, “I feel like I have too many things to sing about. And it sounds like a good problem, but it’s stressing me out.”

Jack looked down at her, his hand resting gently on her thigh. “Talk to me.”

“Since my last album, we…” she paused, eyes flicking up to his, “broke up, got back together, I had a stalker, moved to Kentucky, had twins… like, what even is my life now?”

He gave her a soft smile, waiting patiently.

“I’m a completely different person than I was when I dropped my last project,” she said quietly. “Everything’s changed—in the best and scariest ways. I want to write about all of it, but how do I fit that into one cohesive album? How do I make it make sense without it sounding like emotional whiplash?”

He rubbed her leg gently. “You don’t have to make it make sense to anyone but you. Start there. Just write it like you lived it. Raw. Messy. Beautiful. You’ve always been good at finding the thread in the chaos.”

She looked at him, overwhelmed but grateful. “What if the thread’s buried under diapers and dishes and studio dust?”

He grinned. “Then we’ll dig it out together.”

She leaned her head on his shoulder, murmuring, “I just want it to be honest.”

“It will be,” he said softly. “Because you are.”

***

Jack took what Maryse said that night to heart. Really took it in.

She probably didn’t even realize it, but her words lit something in him—reminded him why he started in the first place. Because he loved it. 

So he went back to the studio with a fire he hadn’t felt in months. He started finishing songs he’d been stuck on, writing new verses like the words were pouring out of him faster than he could catch them. He booked more sessions. Took more meetings. Flew back and forth between Kentucky and New York until eventually… he stopped coming back as much.

At first, Maryse didn’t say anything. She knew what it meant to get lost in the work—that when it came, you had to ride the wave. She’d been there herself. She was waking up alone more than she wanted to admit, and FaceTime calls started coming with background noise and half-distracted replies.

She was proud of him. God, she was so proud. But it hurt more than she expected—watching him chase the very thing she’d encouraged, only to feel like he was drifting further away from her in the process.

And the worst part? She didn’t even know how to bring it up without sounding like she was asking him to slow down—when she’d been the one to light the match.

Now, every time Jack left for New York, Maryse felt that little knot of annoyance settle in her chest. She knew he was working—really working—but it was getting harder to remind herself of that when her days were spent chasing around two one-year-olds with oatmeal all over her clothes and toys under every step.

The worst part wasn’t even the distance. It was the videos.

TikToks of him would pop up on her feed—fans recording him walking through SoHo, ducking into studios, laughing with people she didn’t recognize. Most of the time, she scrolled past with a quiet sigh. But one video stopped her cold.

He was walking down the sidewalk, sunglasses on, hood up—but not enough to hide who he was. Next to him was a girl Maryse had never seen before. Pretty. Confident. Close.

She squinted at the screen, leaning in like that would explain it. She knew Jack wasn’t cheating. Not after everything. And it was probably nothing—maybe one of Kat’s friends, maybe someone from his team. But the comments below the video?

“That’s gotta be his side piece.” “Maryse home with the kids while he’s out in NY wildin.” “He moves like a single man.”

It made her stomach twist. Not because she believed any of it, but because the internet didn’t care about the truth. They just liked the story. And meanwhile, she was wiping spit-up off her shirt while strangers speculated about her relationship.

She set her phone down, jaw tight. She didn’t want to be that partner—jealous, insecure, bitter. But being left behind while the world commented on him acting single? That was starting to get real old, real fast.

Maryse had just gotten both twins down for their nap when the call came through.

“Hey,” Jack said, his voice low but upbeat. “I was calling to let you know… I’m gonna stay a few extra days. Couple things got pushed back with the label.”

She paused, hand tightening around the phone. “Of course they did.”

There was a beat of silence. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’m not surprised,” she said, trying to keep her voice even, but the edge still bled through. “Every time you go to New York, it turns into longer than you said.”

Jack sighed on the other end. “It’s work, Maryse. You know that.”

“I do,” she said sharply. “But knowing doesn’t make it any less frustrating. I’m here wiping noses and cleaning crushed crackers out of couch cushions, and I open my phone just to see you walking around SoHo like you don’t have two kids and a girlfriend waiting on you.”

“Come on—”

“And then there’s the video,” she added, pushing now, not because she wanted a fight but because she was tired of swallowing it. “The one where you’re walking with some girl I’ve never even seen.”

Jack groaned. “Seriously?”

“I’m serious. Who is she?”

He sounded more annoyed than anything. “That’s just Sophia. She works with Kat. You’ve literally seen her before.”

Maryse let out a short, cold laugh. “Oh, just Sophia.”

Jack’s voice dropped into a warning tone. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?” she asked, mockingly sweet. “Say the name like I’m supposed to feel better because it has a first name now?”

He was quiet for a moment. “You’re twisting this. There’s nothing going on. You know that.”

She didn’t respond right away. When she did, her voice had softened just enough to hurt. “I feel like the only time I see you smile is when you’re with the kids. The rest of the time? You act like being home is some kind of burden.”

“That’s not true,” he said quickly.

“Then why does it feel like it?” she shot back. “Why do I feel like I’m the only one missing us?”

He sighed again, but this time it wasn’t annoyed—it was heavy. “You’re not.”

“Then come home,” she said quietly. “Be here. Not just for them. For me.”

He didn’t answer right away.

“Jack,” she said again, her voice cracking a little.

“I’ll move some things around,” he said finally. “I’ll be back soon.”

But even as he said it, she could feel the distance between them like a wall neither of them had the words to knock down.

***

***

Two days later, Jack walked through the front door without calling first.

The house was quiet—too quiet—except for the low hum of a cartoon playing from the living room. That alone made him pause. He and Maryse had tried hard to limit the kids’ screen time, agreeing on no more than thirty minutes a day, and usually not until late afternoon.

He dropped his bag by the door and stepped into the living room, expecting chaos. But what he found was Maryse curled up on the couch, half-asleep with Noah pressed to her side and London sprawled across her lap. All three of them had their eyes on the screen, soft light from the TV flickering across their faces.

London spotted him first, gasping dramatically in the way only a one-year-old could. “Dada!”

Maryse’s eyes opened at the sound, and she blinked like she wasn’t sure if he was real. Before she could say anything, the twins had already scrambled off the couch, wobbling toward him on unsteady feet, arms out like little rockets.

Jack dropped to his knees just in time to catch them, one in each arm.

“Whoa,” he whispered, hugging them close. “Hey, guys. Missed you so much.”

Noah giggled and grabbed a fistful of his hoodie. London patted his face like she was trying to make sure he was really there.

And Jack… he nearly lost it. They looked bigger. Older. And every day, they were looking more and more like Maryse.

He looked up at her over the top of their heads. She hadn’t moved, but her expression had shifted—relief, maybe. Or maybe just exhaustion.

“I didn’t want them staring at the screen all day,” she said before he could speak. “But it was either that or me breaking down in the laundry room.”

He stood, still holding both kids. “I’m sorry.”

She didn’t say anything. Just looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time in what felt like forever.

“You came home,” she finally murmured.

He nodded. “I had to.”

She nodded back, quiet. “Yeah. You did.”

Dinner was quiet, quieter than usual. The twins were in their highchairs, happily smushing sweet potatoes and avocado onto their trays while Jack and Maryse sat across from each other, picking at their plates.

Jack cleared his throat, glancing over at the kids, then back at her. “I’ve been thinking about something… for a while now.”

Maryse’s fork paused mid-air.

“I wanted to say sorry. For the other day. For staying longer. For not talking to you about it right.” He let out a breath. “But I think it’s time we really talk. I’ve been going back and forth to New York almost every week since January, and… I think maybe we should move.”

Maryse blinked slowly, her expression unreadable. She glanced at the twins, then back at him. “You think we should move?”

He nodded, like it made perfect sense. “Yeah. I mean, I’m already there more than I’m here. Everything’s moving fast with the music and the studio team. I feel like I’m splitting myself in two trying to be everywhere at once.”

She set her fork down gently. “Jack… I moved here for you. I left New York to start a family with you. We just got settled here.”

“I know, I know,” he said quickly. “But this—this feels like the right move. I’m not saying tomorrow, but—”

“The kids are one,” she cut in softly, keeping her voice low for the sake of the twins. “They just got used to their home, their routine, their space. You want to uproot all of that? Again?”

Jack looked torn, caught between ambition and guilt. “It’s not just about me. I swear it’s not. I just… I feel like I’m doing everything halfway. And maybe being in New York full-time could help fix that.”

Maryse took a slow sip of water, biting the inside of her cheek. “I understand why you feel that way,” she said finally. “But they need stability, Jack. We need it. Not more bouncing back and forth. Not another cross-country reset.”

Jack glanced at Noah, who was humming to himself while mashing food with his hands and then to London, who had fallen asleep mid-chew.

He didn’t have a rebuttal. Not yet.

And Maryse didn’t push it—because the kids were still watching, and because her heart was already full of more emotions than she knew what to do with.

***

The bedroom was quiet, the soft hum of the baby monitor the only sound between them. Jack lay on one side, staring at the wall. Maryse faced the opposite, her arms tucked around her chest like she was trying to keep herself together.

They never went to bed like this.

Not even during their worst fights.

A long beat passed before Maryse spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I love you.”

Jack’s eyes closed at the sound of her voice, but he didn’t turn over.

“If it were just us—if we didn’t have the twins—I’d move back to New York in a heartbeat. I miss it. It still feels like home to me.”

She paused, her throat tightening.

“But I’m not just thinking about what I want anymore. That’s what happens when you become a parent. Your life stops being about what’s best for you.” She swallowed hard. “It becomes about what’s best for them.”

Jack shifted slightly, like he wanted to turn but couldn’t bring himself to yet.

“And when you said you wanted to move,” she continued, her voice sad now, not angry, “it didn’t feel like you were thinking about them. About how much they’ve already had to adjust. About what pulling them away from the only home they’ve ever known would mean.”

Jack finally turned then, slow and careful, his heart in his throat.

Maryse didn’t cry. She just stared straight ahead, eyes damp but steady.

“It felt like you were only thinking about you.”

And those words—soft and honest—cut deeper than any fight ever could.

Jack reached out, his hand resting gently on her waist. “I’m always thinking about them,” he said quietly. “Everything I do is for you and them.”

Maryse didn’t say anything, but her silence didn’t feel cold—it felt full of everything she didn’t know how to explain.

He went on, voice rougher now. “I’ve just been out there… meeting people, working with people I’ve admired for years. It’s like this whole world is opening up and I want you to be a part of it. I want us to be in it.”

She finally rolled over to face him, her expression soft but serious. “But that’s not the life we talked about. When we built this house—” her voice cracked a little, “you called it our forever home. We said our kids would grow up here. That we’d give them roots. A foundation.”

“I know,” he murmured.

“And we have so much support here,” she continued gently. “Your parents. Your brother. The twins have cousins, godparents, people who love them and who help us. If we move back to New York, it’s just us. And my parents, sure, but… they’re not right down the street.”

Jack nodded slowly, guilt tightening his chest. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like I forgot all of that.”

She touched his hand. “I know. But you have to remember, Jack… they’re little. Their whole world is here. And mine is too.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, then kissed her knuckles. “I just want to figure out how to give you the world and still not lose what we’ve built.”

She looked at him for a long second before whispering, “Then let’s figure it out. Together. But we don’t tear up the roots every time the wind changes.”

Jack brushed his thumb over the back of her hand. “Okay… then what if we didn’t move for good? What if we got a place out there instead? Just something small. So whenever we’re in town, we’re not living out of hotels or packing up the kids every time.”

Maryse was quiet for a moment, then gave a slow nod. “That… that would be okay. If I wasn’t scared that you’d spend all your free time there. That you’d disappear into that place and we’d just become the pit stop in between.”

Jack’s chest tightened. “Is that really how it feels to you?”

She looked at him, eyes tired but honest. “Lately? Yeah. I see you light up when you’re out there. When you talk about New York, it’s like you breathe different. And I want you to have that, Jack, I really do. But sometimes it feels like you can’t wait to leave.”

He sat up slightly, resting his back against the headboard and running a hand down his face. “I hate that you think that. That you think I hate being home.”

“You don’t say it,” she said softly, “but you act like it.”

He turned to her, voice thick. “I want nothing more than to be here—with you. With our kids. That house in New York, it’s not about escaping you. It’s about creating space for us to grow without losing what we already have.”

She shifted closer, pressing her head against his chest. “Then show me. Not with promises. With presence. Because I miss you, Jack. Not the rapper. Not the entrepreneur. Just… you.”

He wrapped his arms around her tightly. “I miss me too. I’m coming back. I swear to you—I’m coming back. I’m always going to come back.”

***

AN: THIS IS SO LONG IM SORRY BUT NOT REALLY! Every sentence is important here and I didn't wanna break it up. tell me your thoughts

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[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

Everything about the battle at yokohama was Amazing, I love all of your thoughts and world building in pez dispenser. If you have time (and feel like it), could you explain ‘this entire sub-analysis on Idaten’s internal culture and how it intersects with broader heroics standards’. (i was ENRAPTURED by your hero economic analysis)

ps. when i saw in the tags about how the class just. broke down. and asked for their parents, it was like sucker punch to the face, i couldn’t imagine how the actual heroes felt when they saw them. if the public saw that side of class 2a, would they lay off? probably not, but damn. your world building and ideas are just. so good

So my decision about Idaten and its subculture actually hinges on one question about canon: Why did Stain go after Tensei?

Stain was all about attacking people who had committed some kind of perceived failing of heroics. But Tensei seems to be legitimately above the board. He didn’t seem to engage too heavily in the consumerist culture around heroics. He did good work. He was a good hero. So what about him made Stain decide to go after him?

I didn’t want it to be an “IDK he thinks all heroes but all might is fake” thing because 1) that cheapens the character and 2) it doesn’t match what canon shows. Don’t get me wrong, he was a lunatic who thought he needed to kill a fucking kid over his extremist ideals, but he let Izuku go the second Izuku established he conformed to his moral system.

Stain kills when he perceives a reason to. That doesn’t mean he’s always right. But he needs an excuse first.

I decided that there was one detail about Idaten that would be his most likely motive: the number of sidekicks he had.

Tensei is canonically taking up his parents’ mantle. This is a family business he’s heavily suited to and excels at. He has working beneath him a much higher than average number of sidekicks. And we know from canon that he’s not the type to take advantage of his team. Fuck, he seems to emphasize taking care of his team and working together above all else.

But we know that from canon. Stain doesn’t. What he sees, from the outside, is a young hero who took over his parents’ agency and is bolstering his own career on the backs of his sidekicks, which is what so many heroes were doing at that time.

Because stain is an extremist. He doesn’t once consider that maybe Tensei is the exception to the rule. He didn’t think to ask the sidekicks who he was, in a way, taking action on behalf of what they thought of Tensei.

Which is consistent with his character. It took him less than five minutes to decide “yeah I need to put down this grief stricken fifteen year old boy” do you????

Iida becomes the kind of hero that meets his ideals. Stain would have killed him the first time Iida gave him a reason. He’s shown to not always be right or do due diligence to determine if someone is even consistent with his crazy fucking moral system. He was just wrong when he went after Tensei.

And a big reason why he was wrong is because Idaten, as a culture, is far from the typical agency experience. It’s just that no one knows this, because Idaten is shown to be all about maintain a strong and confident facade. It’s not releasing its fucking employment contracts. The public only gets the calm, in control demeanor of the team. It doesn’t see how the sausage is made.

Do you know that millionaire ceo who realized his employees lives sucked and voluntarily took a huge pay cut so that way he could raise all of their salaries to a huge degree and the company as a whole got much, much better because the workers cared about it now and they made more profits and his salary eventually increased too as the company improved and all of his employees loved him? And he published the results thinking maybe other ceos would follow them after it was proven to make their companies more successful? And literally not one single one of them did?

Yeah that’s Idaten.

We talked in the earlier post about how heroics culture, for the most part, is abusive and built on the backs of sidekicks who are being widely taken advantage of. Idaten just… isn’t. Their compensation is incredibly fair and above board. People get credited for busts based on who was in charge of that particular bust or went above and beyond. They genuinely take care of their team, which is consistent with how Tensei seems to treat his team in canon.

For the most part, the sidekicks don’t want to even leave Idaten and become big name heroes themselves. They are all so genuinely happy and fulfilled that most of them happily spend their whole career as a sidekick.

But that’s the exception, and not the rule. And from the outside, Stain saw another sidekick farm propping up a pretend hero.

Which is one of the reasons why all of the Idaten sidekicks got together to hunt him down like a sick dog when he escaped. Tensei was babygirl to them and Stain hurt babygirl. He besmirched babygirl’s name over something he didn’t even do. Tensei didn’t even coordinate that mission the sidekicks made a group chat without him and went out to kick that fucking guy’s ass.

Idaten is a model of what heroics could be if it wasn’t focused on self profit and promotion. It made sacrifices to be this way. But it resulted in a team of excellent heroes who are all able to focus on protecting society without going home and feeling like they got fucked.

Stain has this mental image of heroes who should be helpful and good and save everyone without any personal incentive. But when you’re breaking your fucking back and going home to a shit apartment while your boss does 3 hours of work per day and has five houses, you start to ask yourself why you have to fucked for society to be safe. The sidekicks’ “greed” took the blame for the meltdown with Tartarus, but really, people should have been pointing fingers at every single agency head who refused to treat them fairly.

Idaten is this sparkling model of a business that is incredibly successful because the company heads are actually fair and good. They are the exception. And they are operating within a system where many of the other agencies are treating their talent like disposable cogs in a machine. The system needs to be regulated to force everyone else to act like Idaten—Idaten’s independent success is not a sign that the system works on its own.

As to your second question—no. The world saw little snapshots of Class 2A melting down in the aftermath and it got traded around like every other moment. Someone took a picture of the moment I talked about with Iida just sitting on the curb and crying when his brother’s men came to relieve him of command, and it was just another famous picture of many on the internet do that incident.

It was just—a horrifically public event. All of the kids had to be hospitalized in the aftermath. The world knew that. Izuku took a hit during his big fight with Mirio against the major villain team. He got stabbed, and it was poisoned. He knew from the villain’s history that the poison they produced was slow acting, though, so he quietly took Todoroki aside, had him cauterize the wound, and kept fighting until more heroes came. There’s a fuck ton of photos of him lying down on the sidewalk with his head in Todoroki’s lap in terrible shape waiting for the ambulance to come get him. And the world took that as a “Look At How Strong He Is, All Might Reborn, He Fought All Night With That Terrible Wound And He Still Prevailed” not “wow, that actual child had to fight for hours through the night not knowing if he’d live long enough to make it to a hospital.” Which is like. What happened. Izuku didn’t tell anyone but Todoroki that he took the hit. They both knew that if he didn’t get the antidote in time, he was dead. And they also both knew that there was no way he was going to be able to have even a shot at a hospital until morning, so they just had to keep going.

The world also took that as fuel for the ongoing ship war around Izuku and Todoroki, that they are only marginally aware of. Which like. Would not be comforting, that that’s what they took from a picture where both of them were legitimately afraid that Izuku was going to die.

The world knew they were young. They knew they were a bunch of amazing kids who had done something spectacular. To a lesser extent, they knew that those kids struggled in the aftermath. But that was never going to save them from the media machine. The fact that this fell to kids who visibly struggled in the aftermath was picked apart and used as a bat to hit opponents with in the debates that followed.

The picture of Iida crying on the curb with his brother’s sidekicks around him is considered one of the seminal photos documenting modern Japan’s heroics. It is the kind of thing that is probably going to end up in a textbook down the line.

Iida hates that photo. He hates that he had one moment of vulnerability in the aftermath when he managed to keep it together the entire rest of the event, and people still pass it around like a trading card. He had worked so, so hard not to lose it, and right when he thought it was safe to, it got posted on the internet.

When Iida sat on the curb and started crying, he was barely standing. He was injured himself. Momo had a tremendous fight that left her in terrible shape, and everyone was afraid that she was not going to make it. Izuku had just revealed, by the way, guys, This Happened, and now everyone was afraid he wasn’t going to make it. Bakugou was like two days out of the medically induced coma Uraraka put him in when this happened and apparently the doctor’s warnings that he could only be on light work was a hard requirement because he was completely non responsive for the since the fighting stopped and now everyone was afraid he wasn’t going to make it. The entire class was concussed, exhausted, and wanted their parents.

And he just really, really wanted his brother. He wanted his big brother to come in as the hero he had always admired, sit down with him, and tell him it was over. That he did good, and he could rest now. His brother’s sidekicks were the closest second available to him.

That picture made Iida feel like he had failed. He hadn’t held it together, and he hadn’t had the same strong facade as his brother always did. His anguish became another thing for the world to chew on. And that was true for all of those kids at that fight.

[fluent-in-lesbianism]

Management asked me to work a 12 hr shift instead of my regular 10 bc a specific situation’s going on and they need help, but they told me it would only be for the next 2 days MAX and they only needed me this one time. I agree to do it bc I’m nice and my 2 week vacation starts Friday so I don’t give a fuck about anything work related right now lmao

But when I show up for the new shift my supervisor tells me they’re actually trying to change my shift permanently to 12s but only for when these specific situations happen again. When those situations don’t happen, my shift goes back to 10s. And they can’t tell me when a 12 hr shift’s needed until the day of so I need to wake up like I’m working my regular shift to check with my supervisor to see which one I’m doing for that day. It could change daily from 12 one day to 10 the next back to 12 to whatever the fuck

Why is this quintessential “let’s fuck her up right before the long vacation we approved months ago” type shit management always pulls???? I’m so fucking over it