#this is my first time filling one of these<_<< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like he means it

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you.

Word Count: 13.6k

Warnings: Bucky is a fuckboy (but he’s still a sweetheart); lots of talk about unrequited love (but is it?); mentions of sex; crying; lots of desperation; longing; heavy confessions; feels; happy ending

Author’s Note: This is written for the lovely cinema themed writing challenge of @elixirfromthestars ♡ I had this kind of idea for a while but when I read those lyrics it somehow immediately came back to my mind and I needed to make something out of it. This is kind of inspired by your Boulevard Confessions because I loved it so much! And damn, I've already written so much about roommate!Bucky but I can’t help myself lol, I love him. Also, this got a little long, I'm sorry. Still, I hope you enjoy! ♡

Hold My Hand "Pull me close, wrap me in your aching arms. I see that you're hurtin', why'd you take so long to tell me you need me? I see that you're bleeding, you don't need to show me again. But if you decide to, I'll ride in this life with you. I won't let go 'til the end." — Lady Gaga

Masterlist

You hear the giggling before anything else.

It’s always the giggling.

And, as always, it grates on your nerves.

It carves through the air, seeps into the walls, into the floorboards, into you. It tears its way inside and scrapes its manicured nails along the rawest and most sensitive parts of you, only to bury itself deep, where you can’t simply dig it out.

Then comes the keys.

The light, metallic jingle, so careless in its melody, but so troubling in its meaning.

Then the lock turning, the click soft and yet so irrefutable.

Then the door opening.

More giggles.

His breathy chuckles.

Then the door closing.

Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.

You press the pillow harder against your ears, as if you could suffocate the sound before it reaches you, as if you could bury yourself deep enough under the covers to escape what you already know is coming. But you can’t. You never can.

Your brain usually does you the favors of drowning out the parts in the hallway, knowing it will probably make your heart stop in an instant. Today, it doesn’t do you any favors and you close your eyes, accepting the sting behind them.

And then, his bedroom door.

And if all that wasn’t torture enough, it was only the easy part.

Because now is when it really starts. It’s when your throat closes up, the breath in your lungs turns heavy, thick, impossible. Because no matter how many times this has happened, no matter how many times you laid here in your bed, still, so still, waiting for the agony to stop, pretending it doesn’t happen - it never stops hurting. It never stops breaking your heart - or whatever’s left of it.

At first, there is silence. The small period where you almost dare to believe, to hope.

But then comes the moaning.

High-pitched and breathy, hinting at a pleasure that strikes you with a hammer.

Someone else. Always someone else. Someone who is not you, someone who never had to try, someone who will never know what it means to ache for him like you do.

Then, quieter, but just as devastating, Bucky’s voice. The low sound of him unraveling. The sound of something slipping from him that you will never be able to take.

And that’s what breaks you most. That’s what turns the ache into utter misery. Madness even. It’s the inescapable proof that he has something to give - something deep, something intimate - and he is giving it away. Over and over again, but never to you.

You close your eyes, as always. It doesn’t help, as always. The sounds don’t stop anyway. The images come anyway - the touches you have imagined, the way his hands would feel against your skin, the way his mouth would shape your name if you were the one beneath him. The way he might look at you, if only he could see.

But right now, you are just the ghost in the next room, curled in on yourself, ears filled with the sound of someone else living the life you always wanted.

And in the morning, or right after, when the door will open again, when the giggling will turn to goodbyes, you will still be here, where you always are. Where you always will be. Waiting. Wanting. Breaking. Wishing you could turn it off, this feeling. This unendurable and never-ending heartbreak.

And that finally makes the tears flow.

They well up before they spill over, down the slope of your cheek, gathering in the hollow beneath your nose before falling onto the pillow and wetting it like a pool.

You squeeze your eyes shut, so tightly it should hurt, so tightly it should make them stop. But they come anyway. They come despite the barricade of your willpower, despite the way your body coils tighter in on itself. They come despite the desperate war you wage against them.

They come because you have lost. Because it’s too much.

The moaning doesn’t stop, and it’s too much. It’s the middle of the night, and it’s too much. It’s the third night in a row, and it’s too much.

Bucky’s hushed voice shatters something inside of you, you didn’t know was left intact a few seconds ago.

Your breath turns sticky, only half of it making its way up your throat. The other half stays attached to the walls of your throat like honey gone rancid. It refuses to leave completely, snagging and trapping you in the awful space between breathing and choking.

Maybe if it stopped altogether, it would be easier. Maybe suffocating would be gentler than this slow and unsparing death of heartbreak.

Your hands are shaking. You bury your face into the pillow, willing it to just take you as a whole and never let you leave again. The fabric muffles the shuddering sobs, but it cannot do anything for the way your body trembles. But you know that the sounds of pleasure in the other room will tune out the sounds of your cries. The pillow is being clutched so tightly, you might tear the fabric. But it’s your heart that’s being torn into so many pieces. So what is a pillow compared to the ruin of your heart? It’s nothing.

You are alone in your grief.

The moans stop for a second - abrupt, cut off mid-breath.

Bucky’s voice comes. He says something but you don’t catch his words.

However, you do catch the displeased groan of his girl for the night. Drawn-out and petulant. Annoyed.

Bucky speaks again. Firmer, this time. Again, it’s too quiet to catch it.

And then you hear your name. It’s muffled still, but you would hear your name coming from his lips always and forever. You know the exact cadence of it shaping his mouth.

Everything in you halts. Your breaths are suspended somewhere in your throat, caught between shock and devastation.

The girl scoffs. It’s a snappy sound. Almost whiny. You would have rolled your eyes if you weren’t so troubled.

The moaning resumes. But it is quieter this time. Controlled almost. A courtesy. A mercy. But not for you. Not in the way you wish.

And it makes you know.

He asked her to keep it down. For you. He must have told her he has a roommate - you - and that they need to be mindful, that you might be trying to sleep.

Somehow, in all the infinite ways he could have cared for you, this is the one he chose. Not to love you, not to want you, but to make sure his flings don’t disrupt your sleep. As if that’s the worst of it. As if the noise is what truly keeps you up at night, and not the agonizing truth of it all.

Harshly, your teeth sink into your lip, fighting to stifle the sob that trembles on the edge of you. But again, you are losing.

Because hearing your name in the middle of something so intimate, spoken in the same breath of his pleasure, is pure anguish.

Because your name should not exist there. Not like this. Not casually sneaking into a mind occupied with pleasuring someone else.

If he were to say your name in a moment like this, it should be a soft whisper against your skin, entangled in sheets, buried in kisses that steal the air from your lungs. It should be something private, something sacred.

Not an idle afterthought. A consideration. A passing thought before he loses himself in someone else’s body. You have never heard him say any girl’s name before when sleeping with them, but hell you also don’t try to listen too closely.

You won’t talk about this. You never talk about this. When the morning comes and you meet Bucky in the kitchen for breakfast, you will not mention it. Just like you never mention the other nights. Just like you never dwell on the soft apologies he offers when they got too loud. And just like always, you will brush it off, force a brittle smile, and tell him that it’s fine.

It’s not. It never has been. And you don’t think you ever manage to make it sound like you mean it. But you are gone before Bucky can push or apologize again. Or see how deep the knife has gone.

Because he might be careful to be quiet. But he will never be careful enough to stop breaking your heart.

So what is the point?

You don’t want to do another morning like this.

You can’t do another morning like this.

Not three times in a row.

Not when the night has already taken your soul and what was precious of it, barely sewn together by the time the sun fights its way through the window.

Not when you know how it will play out. Like it has the day before. And the day before that.

The door to his room will creak open, the girl already gone. You will hear the shuffle of his bare feet against the floor, the sigh as he stretches, and the yawn that usually makes it past his lips. He never tries to stifle it.

And then, him standing there and watching you.

Disheveled. Bed hair sticking up in a mess. You never let your mind wander to how her fingers might have something to do with that. His shirt would loosely hang over his frame, probably thrown on in a hurry, collar askew, revealing a sliver of skin you shouldn’t be looking at.

That lazy and slightly flustered smile. Sleep still in the corners of his eyes, his lips, his voice, when he greets you with a scratchy morning.

Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t shatter you into a thousand unfixable pieces last night. And the night before that. And now this night.

You will do your best to greet him back without sounding pained. Focusing on making coffee. The way the steam normally curls into the air, the warmth of the mug in your hands. You will have to focus on it as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And despite knowing you shouldn’t - despite hating yourself for it - you will slide a cup toward him. As you always do.

His smile would shift. Settling into something fond, something warm, something that digs its claws into your ribs and refuses to let go.

Because that’s usually the worst part. He’s always so sweet with you. Thoughtful, affectionate in ways that don’t count. In the ways that make you feel like maybe if you just hold on a little longer, if you wait just a little more, he might start feeling what you do.

But you are certain, he won’t.

Because for him, everything seems fine. For him, this will be just another morning. Another easy, comfortable start to the day. With his eyes on you and sipping his coffee, exhaling like he is finally at peace, and leaning against the counter with a lightness that always has your stomach all up in shambles.

He always makes it seem so normal. Starting conversation with you, talking to you as if nothing has changed. Like you didn’t spend the night curled in on yourself, swallowing down sobs so thick they feel like razor blades. Like you didn’t spend the night choking on the sound of him with her.

He never mentions them. Never says any of the girl’s names, not that you even know what they are. He never makes plans to see them again. Just another faceless but very loud girl. One to be forgotten.

But tomorrow night, there will be another.

Tomorrow night will be the same.

And in the morning nothing will have happened.

Only him standing there with his sleep-mussed hair and that sweet, easy smile, drinking the coffee you should have stopped making for him a long, long time ago.

You rise out of bed, not even aware of it. The cold air nips at your tear-streaked cheeks, your sheets thrown back in a mass of tangled fabric still warm from the ball your body was curled in, breaking in silence. The pillow is still wet.

Your hands move on their own, tugging on slacks, yanking a hoodie over your head as though the fabric could hide you, save you from the devastation caving a hole into your chest.

You fumble for your phone before throwing open your bedroom door.

The moans are louder again. Yanking at your resolve and laughing at the way your tears keep coming.

Your feet move faster. You don’t actually run, but it feels like running. Like fleeing. Escaping a burning building before it collapses. The living room comes into view and it’s like a cruel trick, like the universe is taunting you, because all you see are phantoms.

The coffee machine on the counter. How many times have you two stood there, still tousled with sleep, you making coffee for the both of you because Bucky burns everything. How many times did he lean on the counter, watching you with that stupid little half-smirk, pretending to judge your process but always humming in satisfaction when he took the first sip.

The bookshelf in the corner - the one you swore you could build on your own. And you tried, you really did, but the second the screwdriver slipped and you gasped out loud, Bucky was there immediately. Hands on yours, worry furrowing his brows, grumbling about your stubbornness and continuing to grumble when he passive-aggressively built it himself.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, watching him, pretending to be annoyed but secretly savoring the way he kept glancing at you, again and again, to make sure you were okay and giving you instructions as to how it’s done but throwing you a glare when you insisted on trying again.

The carpet. The same one you both collapsed onto after a night out with your friends, too tipsy to move, giggling like teenagers as you pointed at the ceiling, pretending to find constellations in the uneven paint. He named one after you. You named one after him. You fell asleep there, side by side, and when you woke up he was so close. So close.

The couch. The one he practically melted into last week when he had a fever, whining dramatically until you caved and brought him soup. He kept pulling you back when you tried to leave, pouting like a child, demanding your attention because I’m sick, doll. Can’t ignore me when I’m sick. Until you sighed and sat down, letting his head rest in your lap. He fell asleep like that. Snoring. And you didn’t have the heart to move.

And now he is in his room, tangled in her, moaning into her skin, kissing her - like it doesn’t mean anything. Like none of it ever meant anything.

Your breath is uneven, your hands shaking as you grab your shoes. The laces blur, your vision fogs, but you can’t stop.

You throw open the door to your shared apartment, barely thinking, barely breathing, only moving. It swings back into the frame with a sharp sound echoing through the hallway, louder than you had intended. But it doesn’t matter now. Because you are sure that Bucky doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t notice. He is otherwise occupied and you are utterly drained of thinking about with what.

The air outside the apartment feels different. Lighter and cooler, but it doesn’t bring relief. It’s thin and hard to pull into your lungs properly.

Natasha’s place isn’t far. Fifteen minutes on foot. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like something to grasp on.

No more moans. Lost to silence, left in a place that feels little like home right now. Still, they resonate in your skull, haunting reminders of that pain you can’t dismiss, that hurt that hangs off you like a heavy burden.

You slow your steps on the staircase and inhale deeply. It trembles on its way out.

You hate how fragile you feel. How breakable. Hate how much this affects you. How much he affects you.

But you keep walking.

Just yesterday, you talked to Natasha and she offered you to stay with her for the night, looking at you all sharp and knowing, but in her own way sympathetic. You declined. Because you thought you’d be fine. Well, you were wrong.

It’s past midnight now, completely dark, but you don’t care.

You know, Natasha will let you in. And that will have to be enough for tonight.

The city is alive even at this hour. Neon lights glow in the distance, their reflection shimmering in rain-slicked puddles that dot the cracked pavement. Somewhere across the street, there is a group of people laughing, and disappearing around a corner. A car flies past, with headlights unlocking long shadows lengthening down the sidewalk.

You focus on those things. On the shoes thumping against the pavement. The way the crisp air is somehow refreshing as it weaves through the fabric of your hoodie and stings slightly at the tear-streaked skin of your cheeks, keeping you awake and propelling you forward. Not that you need any more motivation to leave.

You wind your arms around yourself like a shield, like a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from falling apart completely.

You don’t look back.

Somewhere above you, there is a creak of a window opening.

It makes you freeze for a small second, before tightening your arms around yourself and picking up your pace.

Your stomach spins violently because fuck, you know that sound. You know the groan of that window when it moves, just a little off its hinges, just enough to make a noise you’ve heard a hundred times before. Because it’s the window of your apartment. And it makes a noise that has never felt so much like a punch to the gut.

“Y/n?”

You close your eyes.

“Y/n!”

Your name spills from his lips, laced with confusion, infused with something that makes your fingers clench around your arms.

You could ignore him. You should ignore him. Just keep walking, keep moving, pretend you didn’t hear.

But you can’t. You never can.

With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.

Bucky is leaning over the frame, his torso reaching out the window, bare from the shoulders down. He is bathed in the hazy yellow glow of the streetlights.

His hair is messed up, brown tendrils all sticking in different directions. His brows are knitted in confusion. His lips in a frown so full of worry. And it’s just too much.

Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.

Your chest stutters, lurches, and swirls itself into a dozen moving shapes that hurt more than they should. Because he stands there shirtless. Shirtless. And you know why.

You swallow back your hurt, but it stays stuck in your throat and crawls right up again to make you taste it on your tongue.

You force your gaze away from staring at the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his throat, the soft lines of his skin, the hard lines of his muscles that she had her hands on just minutes ago.

“Where are you going?”

The tone highlights his concern, thick with the kind of worry that would have meant everything if it weren’t coming from him like this, not now. His voice is rough, remnants of the time already spent with that girl, but all you can hear is that damn worry in it.

As if you owe him an answer. As if he isn’t the reason your chest feels like it’s been hollowed out and left to rot.

You draw in half a breath and look away - down the street, down at your shoes, the bricks of your building. Anywhere that isn’t him.

“To Nat’s.”

It’s clipped and short. You don’t want to explain, don’t want to talk, don’t want to stand here in the night air beneath the window of the apartment you share with him like some pathetic wreck while he worries about you.

“Nat’s?” You can hear the bewilderment in his voice, the way he is trying to piece it together, the way his brain is already working overtime, scrambling to make sense of this - and you can practically feel the moment he decides he won’t let it go.

“Somethin’ happen?” His voice just won’t stop to be so perplexed, so concerned. It is softer now, but you only glance up at him briefly before averting your eyes again.

Because damn Bucky, yes, something happened. Everything happened. Every night that he brings someone home, every touch that belongs to someone else, every soft moan that isn’t meant for you.

All these moments, all these memories, every feeling left unsaid that swivels and stings and grows into what it is now - a storm inside your rib cage, a hurricane of almosts and never wills and why does it have to be like this?

But of course, you can’t say that. You won’t say that.

So you just shake your head, tighten your arms around yourself, and take a step back.

“Go back to bed, Bucky.”

Because you can’t do this right now. You won’t do this right now.

Not when you are already about to break.

“I- What?”

His voice is a little raspy, puzzled, and under any other circumstance, it might have been endearing. On a normal day, if this were some cozy Sunday morning and not the breaking stretch of midnight, you might have smiled at the sight of him like this - hair in a wild mess, eyes a little heavy from the day, bare shoulders shifting in the glow of the streets.

But this is not a Sunday morning. And nothing about this feels good or cozy or right.

You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.

“You-” he starts again, brow furrowing deeper, but before he can get another word out, hands appear - slim fingers wrapping around the thick of his bicep, tugging, pulling, trying to drag him back inside.

Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.

She’s alone with him up there, in the space that you have spent so much time making into something warm, something filled with comfort. A space where you feel home. With him. And yet, it’s that random girl in there, laying in his bed, under his covers, in his scent, in him.

“Bucky, come on.” Her voice is thin and peevish, thick with impatience. And exhaustion you believe she has no right to feel when you are the one who has spent the time suffocating under her presence.

But Bucky doesn’t move.

His hand only grips onto the windowsill tighter, muscles in his arm locking.

And his eyes stay fixed on you.

Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.

And it makes your hands clammy.

The way he looks at you like he is reaching for something just beyond his grasp, something that eludes him no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it.

He huffs out a breath that just borders on frustration when her fingers won’t stop pulling at him.

“Hold on, doll-” he calls out to you and unwinds her hands from his arm, barely sparing her a glance as he leans out the window again. There is a little something in his tone when he speaks to you again. Something like exasperation. But it’s not meant for you. “What’re you doin’ at Nat’s? Tell her it’s the middle of the goddamn night. Why would she let you walk over to her? She knows it’s not safe.”

You shake your head, already half turning away again. You just cannot do this right now.

“It’s fine. Just go back to bed, Bucky.”

“Y/n - hey. What’s wrong? What’s this about?” There it is. That softness in his voice. That concern. And it hurts. Because he doesn’t get it.

“Go. Back. To bed,” you repeat, sharper now, gritting it out between clenched teeth.

But Bucky has always been stubborn. And so infuriating. It’s like he doesn’t hear you at all.

“C’mon doll, did something happen? Talk to me,” he urges, voice gentle but he doesn’t seem to like the way you look as if you would bolt around the corner any second. His tone is coaxing in a way that makes you ache because this is what he does. This is what he has always done - pulling you in, making you feel safe, making you feel cared for, making you feel like you matter. Like he means it.

And it’s cruel. So cruel.

Because you are in love with him.

And he is standing in that window, bare-chested and rumpled from a night with another woman, while you are in slacks and a simple hoodie beneath him with your heart cracked wide open, bleeding into the pavement.

“I don’t wanna do this right now, Bucky,” you snip, voice losing patience. But you are so tired.

Bucky sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frustration growing, seeping into his voice. “You’re killin’ me here, sweetheart. Just tell me what’s goin’ on. It’s cold out, doll. You’re not even wearin’ a jacket.”

You swallow down a choked breath.

Because this is making things so much worse.

That he cares. That he is looking at you like this, like you matter, like you are his.

Like you are something he wants to figure out. And he wants to take his time with. Like he wants to fix you.

But you are not broken. You are just in love.

“Bucky,” that girl calls out again, dragging his name out, voice honey-thick and pettish. “Come on babe, let it go. Just-” She tugs at his arm again, nails skimming along his forearm. “Come back to bed.”

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even glance at her.

His mouth twitches, jaw ticking as he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking her off with a firm roll of his shoulder. “Would you quit it for a sec?” His voice is edged now, tinged with a kind of terse impatience he seldom ever lets out. “Jesus, m’tryin to talk here.”

The girl huffs, clearly displeased, but Bucky doesn’t spare her another second.

But the one second he threw his head around at her was your chance. Your feet move before you can think, before you can talk yourself into staying, because if you do, if you let him pull you in, let yourself hope-

“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”

His voice is frantic, stammering over its own syllables and filled with too many things your mind is too jumbled to focus on.

But it makes you stop your body in the midst of a step. And you grind down on your teeth against the frustration burning inside you.

You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.

But Bucky is leaning even further out now, his knuckles bracing against the sill, the night air tousling his hair, eyes wide and concerned, searching. One of his arms is reaching out, down to you as if he could touch you like this.

“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”

You whip halfway back to him, brows snapping together, heart slamming against your ribs.

“No, you-”

He’s already pulling himself back inside, shaking his head as if it should be obvious. “I’m coming down,” he repeats, more insistent, more sure. Leaving no room for argument.

Your fists squeeze the fabric of your hoodie. Your stomach churns. “Bucky-” you try again. But he has already made up his mind.

“Wait there, alright?” His voice dips lower, steadier but still urgent. Resolute, as if he would run after you if you bolted down the street. “Doll. Promise me you’ll wait.”

Something in his tone, the look he is giving you, like he’s begging, almost a sweet-talking declaration. It’s catching your breath somewhere in your throat.

You could run.

You should.

You should turn right back around, disappear into the night, and leave him standing there, shirtless and confused and worried.

But you hold his gaze for just one long and heavy beat, then exhale shakily, shoulders dropping slightly.

“Okay,” you say weakly.

Bucky nods determined and taps his fingers against the windowsill, before rushing away, leaving the window wide open.

And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping.

Technically, you could just leave.

Take a different route to Nat’s apartment, slip into the dark veins of the city where his voice wouldn’t reach, and let him walk out onto an empty sidewalk with his hair still tousled from another woman’s fingers and the taste of someone else’s lips still lingering on his own.

You could make him feel just a fraction of what you feel, with something hollow pressing up against his ribs when he finds nothing but cold pavement where you used to stand.

But you don’t.

You know you won’t.

Because it wouldn’t just frustrate him. It would hurt him.

And that’s the one thing you could never bring yourself to do.

Not Bucky.

Never Bucky.

You know him. The way he chews at the inside of his cheek when he’s trying not to say something reckless. The way his brows pull just a little too tight when he’s agitated but trying to play it off like he is fine. The way he folds his arms over his chest, not because he’s closed off, but because he needs something to hold onto.

You know exactly how he would react if he stepped out here and you weren’t there.

How the slight crease between his brows would deepen. How his fingers would twitch, opening and closing, like he’d missed his chance to catch you. How his lips would open and he would stare helplessly around and call your name.

And god, as much as this pain is devouring you from the inside out, pushing its way into the light but leaving you sitting in the dark, as much as your heart feels like being torn apart with unsaid words and unmet confessions - you cannot stand the thought of hurting him.

So you stay.

With feet planted on the concrete, fists clenched so hard, that your fingers start to cramp. You lift your trembling hands to your aching cheeks to hastily scrub away the fresh wave of tears surging forth downwards, willing your body to erase any evidence of your devastation.

But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.

You believe your cheeks are red from the effort of wiping so much, eyes swollen and puffy, your body trying to rebel against all of your commands.

Inhaling shakily, you force the breath down, down, down where you can pretend it doesn’t hurt so much. You angle your face slightly away from the building, hoping the dim spill of moonlight won’t betray your inner struggles.

Because the moment Bucky steps out that door, it will be the same as always.

He’ll look at you like you are his best friend. Like you are his safe place. Like you are the person he can always count on.

And you will look at him like you aren’t falling apart.

Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.

Like you aren’t drowning in a love that will never be returned.

The door swings open with a force that startles you, the sound of it hitting the frame a little too sharp against the night.

Bucky storms out onto the sidewalk like he’s got something urgent to say, like the world might stop spinning if he doesn’t get to you fast enough. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause. Just moves straight to you, his steps quick, closing the space before you can change your mind about standing here. He has a crumpled shirt thrown on and it hangs a little off. But it makes you want to run so hard.

His fingers wrap around your arms, not hard, not forceful but firm.

Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.

His breath is coming fast, chest rising and falling, like he ran down the staircase to get here as fast as possible.

His eyes are so deep, deep and blue, roaming your face with so much intensity, searching and scanning and pausing.

Shadows cast over his sharp cheekbones at the way his brows are furrowed, his lips slightly parted.

“What’s going on, doll? You been cryin’?” His voice comes out rough and he talks fast. Urgent, breaths spilling over themselves as he rushed through the words, almost tripping on them in his desperation to get them out. “Why’ve you been crying? What happened?”

His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.

You open your mouth, close it again. Your throat is dry from the sobs you tried to silence earlier. You shake your head, a knee-jerk reaction.

“I was just going to Nat’s, Bucky. Nothing happened.”

It’s a weak excuse, said in a weak voice.

And you hate how it makes Bucky’s expression shift. That tiny wounded something that crosses his features, something that shouldn’t be there, because you did wait for him, you didn’t leave, but it’s still not enough. You lied to him. And he knows it. And he’s hurt. And you hate yourself.

He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.

“No,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving you, voice so low. “That ain’t nothin’, doll. C’mon. You’re runnin’ off in the middle of the night, how could this be nothing?”

You look away. Because if you keep looking at him, him with his concern and confusion and hurt all interflowing in the pool of those blue eyes, you won’t be able to hold yourself together much longer.

You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.

The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.

Bucky leans in, just a little. His grip on your arms tightens, but it’s not harsh. Only insistent. Desperate for you to give him something here.

“Somethin’ up with Natasha?” His voice is gentle, like he knows this has nothing to do with her, but he has to ask anyway to go through all the possible options of what might be going on.

“No,” you croak, barely managing the word.

He softens at the sound of it, but that frown doesn’t ease.

“What’re you doing then, huh? Why’re you running off like that? S’ not safe, you know that.” His voice is soft. Almost like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. But the concern is wrapping around every word. “What’s got you so upset, sweetheart? Talk to me, yeah? Please?”

His voice takes on a desperate intensity. Like he’s begging you to just let him in. To make him understand.

You bite down hard on your bottom lip, willing it not to tremble, willing your face not to crumble right in front of him, but the air is too thick for your airway, making it harder and harder to breathe.

And Bucky is looking at you, like you are breaking his goddamn heart. Like you took a shot straight for it.

He is so full of worry, it looks painful, the crease of his brow always there when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s feeling too hard. His lips are still parted, like he wants to beg for an explanation, for some string of words that will make this all click into place and turn this into something fixable.

Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.

But this might be the only thing he can’t fix.

His hands on you are a contrast to the way you feel as if you’re falling apart. You hate how much you just want to collapse into it, to let yourself lean into him, let him hold you up. Because he would. You know he would. He would pull you in without hesitation, wrap his arms around you like he has done so many times before.

But you don’t want him to hold you. Don’t want him to hold you like a friend.

You want him to hold you like he means it. Like you mean something more than the sum of all the nights you spent choking on your own silence, swallowing words you could never say.

So all you can do is stay frozen, bones locked, eyes burning, heart splitting itself open in the middle of the street where he doesn’t even know he’s killing you.

“I-”

You try. You really try.

But then the door swings open again. And the sound of it alone is enough to send a bolt of ice down your spine.

Because this time it’s her walking out.

She steps out onto the sidewalk like she has every right to be a part of this moment.

Like she hasn’t spent the first part of the night in Bucky’s bed. Like she hasn’t been touched by him, kissed by him, fucked by him, wanted by him in a way that you have only ever ached for.

Like she hasn’t taken something that was never hers to have.

But it’s not yours either.

She looks so composed, too. More put together than you would have imagined. Her hair smoothed, clothes adjusted, skin glowing in a way that tells you she wasn’t just sleeping up there - she was living in something you’ve been dying for. She probably took a moment in your bathroom to check herself, to fix her lipstick, maybe even to admire herself in the mirror while you were downstairs, breaking apart.

She had the time for that.

Meanwhile, you can barely stand.

Your body is alive with magnitudes of unspoken things, suffocating. You feel like you’ve been sanded down, like a piece of wood, leaving nothing but the ache and longing and all the words you can’t say. This destruction is slow and ruthless, it doesn’t come with an explosion, but rather a slow erasure.

Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.

Like you were never meant to be here in the first place.

And Bucky is still looking at you.

Not at her.

You.

And maybe that should be enough. Maybe it should mean something.

But it just puts more pressure on the knife that is already turning around in your flesh.

The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.

“Bucky,” she drawls, almost lazy, like she’s bored with this already. “Are you coming back up, or…?”

Your stomach lurches.

You feel exposed, scraped raw, like you’ve been trampled over, flattened by something massive, left behind for everyone else to step around.

Bucky lets out a slow breath through his nose. His jaw works under pressure. And then, he huffs. Annoyed. Like she’s interrupting something important.

“Go home,” he flatly tells her, his attention still on you. Not even addressing her with a name. Perhaps he doesn’t even know it.

“Seriously?” she scoffs, crossing her arms. Her eyes flick between the two of you.

Bucky exhales another breath and drops one of his arms from you to scrub it over his face, pushing through his hair. He turns toward her just a little, stance rigid.

“Yeah, seriously,” he mutters, already turning back to you. “I’ll call you a cab if you need-”

“God, you’re such a dick,” she snaps, cutting him off, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. “Unbelievable.”

And then she’s gone.

But so are you.

You don’t even think about it. You just move.

Your arm slips from Bucky’s loosened grip, your body already shifting, already turning, already pulling you down the sidewalk, away from him, away from this.

It’s pathetic. You know this. But you have to get away.

Your vision is a blur, the streetlights smearing into a soft, hazy glow against the wetness welling in your eyes, and no matter how much you try to breathe through it, it’s too much. Simply too much.

You’re hurting. And you need to go. Now.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Woah, whoah, hey!” His voice is quick, rushed, and then he is moving, closing the space between you. And this time, he cuts you off completely, stepping right into your path, right in front of you, blocking the way like a wall. He’s so broad in front of you, and so fucking present, making it impossible to escape.

You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.

His eyes flick over you so quickly, so intensely, scanning for something he doesn’t understand but is so desperate to find.

“Alright,” he exhales, low and careful, holding his arms out as if ready to stop you again if you make a run for it.

“You want me to put you in chains to keep you still?”It’s a weak and failed attempt at humor.

And it’s not funny. Not even close.

His voice is too thin, too strained, and there is something in his eyes, something tight and aching, that makes it clear he is not even trying all that hard to make his joke work.

You don’t smile. Don’t look at him. Arms still around yourself.

Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows, as he shifts his weight, as he lets out another slow and deliberate breath. He moves so slow. As if any tiny movement of him would make you walk away from him.

“What’s going on with you, mhm?” His voice is so soft. So concerned. Brooklyn warmth and worry combined with something gentler than you can handle right now.

“What’s this - this fight-or-flight thing you got goin’ on?” he continues, tilting his head just slightly, watching you too closely, reading too much. “You’re rushing off like the damn place is on fire. The hell is that about, doll?” Still so soft. So cautious.

His eyes are on you like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s trying to solve you, like if he just looks long enough, he’ll figure it out.

But if he really understood, if he really found out, everything between you would change.

And you can’t handle that. You can’t handle anything at the moment.

“Just drop it, Bucky, alright?” It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. Harsher. A little spit of venom that you hate yourself for the second it hits the air. He doesn’t deserve your attitude. But you can’t hold it back.

You see the way it lands. The way his brows pull in tighter, the way his lips press together, the way his chest rises and falls so measured. But it’s all not out of irritation. He just tries to figure out where that came from. What is happening. What has you react the way you do.

His voice is even and calm. But oh so careful. “I don’t think I will, doll.”

You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.

Your throat tightens so fast, you have to swallow hard against it, teeth digging into the inside of your cheek as you blink up at the sky like maybe that keeps the tears from spilling over.

And Bucky watches all of that.

His expression stays soft, but his eyes are burning with something deep, something real, something that makes you feel like you might actually drown if you keep looking at them for too long.

“Y/n,” he almost whispers, and it sounds so pained. “Why are you crying, sweetheart.” He’s so gentle, so tender, so fucking careful like he’s afraid that if he pushes too hard, you’ll just break.

You shake your head, arms around yourself tightening. “I’m fine.”

Bucky makes a quiet noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, something deep and disbelieving.

“See, that’s bullshit.”

You’re about to turn again, but he anticipates and gets hold of your arms.

“Look,” he sighs, heedfully taking off a hand of you to rub it down his face. “You don’t wanna talk? Fine. You wanna bite my head off cause I’m askin’? Fine. But don’t stand here and tell me you’re okay. Because I’ve got eyes, doll, and I can see that you’re not.”

You want him to stop.

You want him to turn around.

You want him to leave you here to fall apart in peace.

But he won’t.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

And you break.

No matter how hard you bite your lip, it doesn’t matter.

The tears slip and streak down your face before there is anything you can do. A sob follows. You can’t choke it down. Your shoulders shake, your breath stutters, and your face tilts towards the ground as you bring trembling hands up to wipe at your cheeks, in a futile and desperate attempt to regain composure. It’s useless.

You feel so pathetic.

Embarrassed. Ashamed that you ran off like this. That you’re standing here, crying in the middle of the night, on a sidewalk with no explanation, making a fool of yourself in front of him.

And the second your face crumbles, his does, too.

The second your breath hitches, he is moving.

Strong arms envelope you, winding tight, pulling you straight into his chest like he doesn’t even need to think about it. Not for a single second.

You let him.

Because it’s either this, or you’ll collapse down onto the asphalt.

His grip is firm, grounding, warm in a way that makes you ache even more. His hand cradles the back of your head, tucking you against him, and you feel the press of his lips there, gentle, but somehow rough.

Like your pain is his own.

“It’s okay. Shh… it’s okay,” he breathes, pained and low, the words pressed into your hair, into your skin. Making space between your ribs. “Oh, doll.” He presses you tighter to him. His hand brushes over your hair. “It’s okay.”

There is something so deep and aching in the way he talks to you, like the sound of his own voice hurts him. Like you hurt him.

His other hand moves over your back, soothingly, trying to give you some strength.

“I gotcha,” he breathes. “M’here, doll. Okay? Just breathe. Gotta breathe for me, baby. Please.”

It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.

And it makes you cry harder.

Because it’s so soft. Gentle. Because it falls from his lips like something that’s always been there, something that’s always belonged to you.

Except it hasn’t.

It doesn’t.

Not in the way you want.

You don’t know what he calls those girls he takes home. If they get to hear him say it. Girls who have felt his hands in places you never will. Girls who have heard his voice rasp against their skin in the dark.

But you are not one of those girls.

You never will be.

And you know you will never be able to untangle that damaging wrench in your stomach.

So hearing him call you that. Baby. Like it means something. Like it’s yours. Like it hasn’t been whispered in the dim glow of your apartment, murmured against someone else’s lips, someone else’s skin, just someone else just hours ago.

It’s too hard. too cruel.

You wish it didn’t matter. You wish it didn’t rip through you the way it does, splitting you down the center, carving you open.

But it does.

Because even if it doesn’t belong to you, you still want it.

So you cry harder.

Sobs wrack through you, your chest hitching with the force of them, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, clumping it in your fists.

Bucky feels it and he hears it and he grips you tighter, pulls you closer.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, voice just above a whisper, more desperate now. Like he’s drowning in your hurt right along with you.

“Sweetheart,” he tries again, voice strained, thick. His lips are in your hair. “Please talk to me. Make me understand, baby, please! Tell me what’s wrong.”

But you can’t.

Because what the hell would you even say?

That you’re in love with him?

That you’ve been in love with him?

That seeing him with her - hearing the sounds that bleed through the walls, the ones you’ll never be able to unhear - feels like being skinned alive?

That you want him in a way you shouldn’t?

That you want him in a way he will never want you back?

You won’t.

So instead, you just press yourself harder into his chest and squeeze your eyes shut, letting him hold you like you are something precious. Like you are his. Even if you are not.

“Help me understand here, baby. Please,” he repeats with a voice so soft, that makes him seem afraid you might break apart completely if he speaks any louder.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you’re already in pieces at his feet, shattered beyond repair, and he just hasn’t realized it yet.

He lets you cry when you don’t answer, hand stroking up and down your back, the other soothing over your head. He whispers into your hair, words you can’t even process, just the deep cadence of him, the low rasp of his voice against your temple.

His lips move to your forehead, brushing over it. His breath is warm against your skin. You don’t have it in you to pull away, but you wish you would.

Because none of this makes it any easier.

Because his hands feel too good, too steady, too right - and it’s a lie.

Because it’s him.

And that means it hurts.

You wish he would just go and let you have your pathetic heartbreak alone.

But Bucky Barnes has never been the kind of a guy to leave things unsolved.

He pulls back just slightly after a while, just enough to get a better look at you, and when you try to duck your head, to keep him from seeing too much, he doesn’t let you.

Strong, warm fingers cradle your face, thumbs brushing over the damp skin of your cheeks, tilting your head up and forcing your gaze to his.

He looks wrecked.

His brows are drawn, lips parted, chest rising and falling unevenly. His hands tremble just a little against your skin, but his grip stays firm. Solid.

“Don’t look away, doll. Eyes on me, yeah?”

You swallow hard, jaw tight. “You just ruined your good night,” you say, the words falling out bitter, self-deprecating, stiff with something that tastes like resentment but feels like heartbreak.

Bucky’s frown deepens, his lips pressing together, eyes scanning over your face like he’s searching for something, anything that’ll make this make sense.

“The hell I did,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Confused you even brought this up. “I don’t give a shit about her. Don’t even know her name, if I’m bein’ honest.” He lets out a huffed laugh.

But you don’t.

Because somehow this makes it worse.

And you hate it.

You hate that some part of you wanted her to mean something.

Because if she meant something, if she was special, then at least this ache in your chest would have a name. A reason. A shape you could hold in trembling hands and squeeze so hard that it stops hurting at one point.

Then, at least, you could maybe finally accept that there is no hope. No reason to hold on to those feelings.

But Bucky just shrugs.

It meant nothing. It never meant anything. Not with them.

Not with the girls that come and go, the ones who pass through his nights in the same easy way the hours do - fleeting, ephemeral, touched, and forgotten.

Not with anyone. Not even with you.

You have spent so long feeling this, holding onto it, trying to keep it hidden beneath layers of friendship and longing and careful restraint. You have spent so long pretending that it is fine, that it doesn’t matter, that you can live like this - on the sidelines, just the girl in the other room, in the shadows, in the spaces between what you want and what you’re allowed to have.

And he stands here and looks you in the eyes, telling you that it is nothing. That she is nothing. That they - all of them before her, and all of them after her - are nothing.

You can barely breathe past it.

You don’t say anything.

And Bucky freezes.

His hands, where they cup your face, stop their soft, absentminded strokes. His thumbs, which had been tracing reassuring circles along your cheekbones halt. His breath catches and his eyes shift.

There is something uncertain in there.

And then, his lips part. His brows go up ever so slightly. His pupils flare.

Something settles over his expression that you don’t recognize.

Like a switch has been flipped.

Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.

Like suddenly he is seeing something in your eyes, something like an answer, something that has been there all along.

His fingers tighten, anchoring himself. Making it seem that if he lets go, if he moves even a fraction, something will break. In him, or you, you’re not sure.

He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. But he needs to see you better. Just enough to search your face for something he needs to know. His gaze locks onto yours and holds you there, testing something, making sure.

His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.

“Is that what this is about?”

It’s quiet, the way he says it. Like he’s afraid of it. Like he’s careful with it. There is disbelief on his face. Astonishment.

You shake your head too fast, too sharp, like if you deny it hard enough, it’ll erase the way he’s looking at you right now. That it’ll undo the meaning of his words and the way they sit between you. Something fragile on the verge of breaking.

“No,” you say, but it barely comes out, barely sounds convincing. Your voice is hoarse, scraped raw form holding back everything you don’t want to say. Your lungs refuse to work in sync with the rest of you. You swallow, eyes darting away, grasping for something to latch onto.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Doll…” It comes like a sigh. Weightless and soft. His hands don’t drop from your face, don’t loosen, don’t give you the space you’re so desperately trying to carve out between you. If anything, his grip grows more robust. Just enough to keep you there.

“Hey. Look at me.” His tone is low, carrying the kind of warmth you’d usually like to lean into, but now all you want is to get away from it. You don’t want to meet those stormy blues.

Bucky’s thumbs are sweeping, so feather-light, over the curve of your jaw, smoothing along the damp trail of your tears, and his voice dips even lower. Softer. He is so close.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Give me somethin’ here.”

It’s not fair that he gets to call you all those sweet names like he means them. Like you mean something. Like it’s not the same word he probably called her and all those others who got to have him, even if only for a night.

“I don’t-” you try, but your voice is trembling and thick with tears, and Bucky’s gaze shadows.

“Don’t what?” he coaxes, leaning in just a little, close enough that his breath skims your skin, warm and stable in a way you aren’t. His fingers slightly move against your cheeks, as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.

You shake your head again, your hands wrapping around his wrists - not to push him away exactly, but to have something to hold onto. You have no idea what to say.

“It’s- It’s not-” Your words trip over themselves, stuck somewhere between your throat and your ribs, tangled up in everything you’ve never let yourself say.

But Bucky just watches you, unreadable things swirling in those impossibly blue eyes. Wary things. Still so damn careful.

He exhales and his hands slide down, skimming the column of your throat, settling against the curve of your neck like he’s grounding you. Holding you both together.

“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.

It’s not teasing. It’s not playful. It’s not easy. Not the charming lilt he likes to throw in his tone.

It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.

“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”

And that’s what has another tear slip over your lashes.

Because you’re breaking his heart?

What does that even mean?

You were the one trying to escape the heartache he caused and now he tells you it’s his heart that hurts?

“Please,” he whispers, and his voice is wrecked, gravel thick in his throat. “Just tell me, doll. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can fix it.”

His lips stay parted, trying to find air, trying to find some kind of solid ground. There is a sheen over his eyes.

“I can’t-” Your voice cracks, but you don’t look away this time. His hands won’t let you. He won’t let you.

His eyes are pleading.

“Can’t what, sweetheart?” he urges, dipping closer, voice just a rasp of sound between you. His thumbs wipe away the new tears and he winces while doing it as if it actually causes him pain that they fell.

The streetlight flickers above. It casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tight pull of his mouth. His fingers flex against your face.

“Is it-” he starts, then stops, then starts again, throat bobbing and voice rough and hesitant. “Is it those girls?”

A shallow gasp slips from your lips. Fractured and tripping over something unseen. Your shoulders grow stiff.

You can’t answer. You only shake your head, not in denial, not in confirmation, but in something else, something tired and so fucking done with feeling like this.

You try to pull back, try to slip free from the heat of his palms, try to turn away. Another tear drops onto the back of his hand.

Your reaction must be answer enough.

Bucky’s head, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s whole body - everything is moving so much, keeping you from slipping away, reaching for you, not letting you go.

A breath. A pause. Like his brain needs an extra moment to process what this all could mean. His breath catches in his throat and you can feel the exact moment he gets it.

The exact moment he realizes.

“Shit,” he breathes, so quiet you almost miss it. His grip tightens. It grows distressed. Despairing. Keeping you from leaving his hold, although you don’t stop trying.

You sob and his hands press into your cheeks, thumbs smoothing away tears like he can erase this, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, he can go back five minutes, five months, five years, to a time before he made you feel like this.

“Shit, doll, I-” His voice breaks, gravel and regret and anguish - and something so painful - landing with every syllable.

You don’t stop trying to pull back, trying to push him away. You can’t talk. You can’t stop crying. You can’t look at him.

But Bucky is devastated. And he is desperate. And he won’t let you go.

“No, no, don’t - please, Y/n, don’t.” He runs through his words, frantically getting them out, frantically trying to make you look at him.

He reaches your face again and holds on like it’s important. Your tears won’t stop falling. A whimper falls from your lips when you realize he won’t let you leave.

Bucky panics.

His swallow seems to hurt him. Everything he does seems to hurt him.

“Oh, sweetheart - fuck, fuck, I didn’t-” He lets out a rough breath, one of his hands letting go of you to scrub over his face, pushing through his hair in frustration.

Not at you.

At himself.

“Doll, I didn’t - Jesus Christ, I didn’t know.”

It comes out hoarse, scraped down to nothing but feeling. Each word drags from his throat like sandpaper against silence. Coarse and raspy.

And then he’s shaking his head, hands sliding to your shoulders, his hold firm, his eyes darting over your face like he is trying to memorize it, searching for the right words in the curve of your lips, the glisten of your tears, the way your breathing is a single shuddering mess.

“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”

He seems to hold back a scream.

Sucking in another sharp breath, he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain, angry at himself, wanting to go back and rewrite everything, tear out every page where he made you feel like you were anything but his.

You wish you could believe it.

“Bucky-” you croak out.

“No, don’t-” His head doesn’t stop shaking. His jaw is clenched tight. Hands shaking against you. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?” Your voice is whisper-thin.

His breath shudders out, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are so earnest. Glossy with a sheen of tears.

“Like it’s over.”

Your throat closes around your next breath, never making it reach your lungs.

Because what is he saying? Nothing ever had the chance to be anything.

“I didn’t know, doll,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I swear to God, I didn’t know. You gotta believe me, I - fuck, I never wanted to hurt you. Never wanted you to feel like- I didn’t think you’d-”

He cuts himself off, voice choking.

His hands drop suddenly, like he doesn’t even deserve to hold you anymore. Like the guilt is weighing them down.

And then, unsure and hesitantly, he lifts one of them again and pauses before cupping your face, waiting for something - permission, maybe, or just a sign that you won’t pull away this time.

When you don’t, when you just keep standing there, frozen and broken and bewildered, he lets his palm settle warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing so lightly it sends a shiver down your back.

“Tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can,” he pleads, like he means it. Like he would do anything. “Tell me what to do, baby. Anything. I’d do anything. Just gotta tell me. Please,” he chokes out.

Cars roll past you. There are voices in the distance. A neon sign flickers. But none of it touches this.

This thing between you.

Bucky’s hand shakes against your cheek. His breath stirs against your skin so ragged and he leans in. His forehead presses to yours, his body curling toward you like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, just needing to be close.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Never have you seen Bucky like this. He keeps things easy, keeps things light, and shrugs off pain like it never quite reaches him. But it does now.

It consumes him.

His fingers curl at the back of your neck, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself against you. And when you continue standing there, breath shaky, tears still trembling in your lashes, his whole body sags.

His chest heaves with a breath so deep it sounds like it’s costing him something.

“I never meant for this to happen. Please, believe me.”

His forehead presses harder to yours, seemingly trying to press his words straight into you, that maybe if he gets close enough you’ll feel how much he means them.

And you do. You just don’t know what the hell is going on.

He lets out a sound that resembles a sob. And then you feel the damp heat of a tear where his face brushes against yours.

Bucky is crying.

It breaks you. You don’t know what to do with all this pain. His and yours. Don’t know how to ever let it go.

You pull back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe, to think, to process.

But Bucky’s whole body tenses, and his eyes squeeze shut as if he knew it was coming but it still pains him. Bracing himself for something he already knows is going to hurt. His hands drop to his sides.

And maybe that should give you some kind of satisfaction, a tiny sense of justice for the nights you spent lying awake, wondering if you meant anything to him while he had his hands on someone else.

But it doesn’t.

Because the way he is looking at you, when he cracks his eyes open again, when he meets your gaze with so much open ache, makes your chest hurt. It makes something inside of you quake.

“Bucky,” you start, but your own voice is so small, so lost. You shake your head, scanning his face, trying to piece it together, to make sense of something that refuses to fit. How the tables have turned. You just can’t seem to find the irony in it. “What are you even - I don’t - I don’t I understand.”

His throat bobs, thick and tight, and he pulls in a breath like it’s the last one he’s going to get.

“I love you.”

Your mind blanks. You flatline. Your knees go weak.

He says it like it’s the simplest thing to say. As if it is the most obvious thing in the world. But it isn’t.

Because if it was then why has he spent all those nights with those seemingly meaningless girls. Why has he let you ache for him while he touched someone else.

“I love you,” he says again, softer, trying to make sure you believe it.

But you don’t know how to.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You feel the words, heavy and warm and terrifying, but your body doesn’t know what to do with them. Your mind is screaming at you to run, to protect yourself, to build the walls back up before it’s too late, but your heart doesn’t listen.

Bucky’s hand trembles when it reaches for you, fingertips ghosting over your jaw, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t and he steps closer again.

His whole body thrums as if he is scared to touch you but more scared not to. He looks at you with those red-rimmed and puffy eyes, so tremendously bare, holding onto your own eyes like he is drowning and you are the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Say something, doll,” he pleads, his voice so unsteady, that it guts you.

But what could you say?

Because love is not supposed to feel like this, to hurt like this. It isn’t supposed to feel like your heart has been split open and stitched back together all in the same breath.

But looking at him and at the way his eyes are just as pleading as his words, at the way he is breaking right in front of you - it makes you wonder if maybe it was hurting him all along, too.

“You-” you begin, voice barely more than a whisper. You have to stop, have to pull in a breath that doesn’t seem to want to settle, have to force your hands to stay at your sides instead of reaching for something - for him - that you don’t know if you can take. “But that-” Another inhale, sharp and broken. Your chest hurts. Your whole body hurts. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Bucky exhales, long and slow and then he drops his head. Shoulders slumping, spine curling, like something inside of him, has just given out.

Guilt.

It sits heavy in his frame, in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands jerk like he wants to touch you but knows he shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” he mutters, a humorless little laugh escaping, barely more than a breath. He drags a hand down his face, through his hair, before letting it fall uselessly at his side. His voice is lower when he speaks again, raspier, weighed down by something that feels an awful lot like regret. “I know.”

You watch him, waiting. Because he owes you this. Because he cracked open something you weren’t ready for, something you tried to bury, and now you need to understand.

And Bucky must feel that. Because after a beat, after a deep, shuddering breath, he looks at you again.

“I didn’t think I could have you,” he admits, voice quiet. Cautious. The words fragile in his mouth. “Didn’t think I was allowed to even want you. To this extent, anyway.”

Air enters you unevenly, shaking on the way in like a shiver made of sound. “Bucky-”

“You’re my best friend,” he pushes on, stepping in just a fraction, like he can’t help himself. His voice is getting rougher, rawer, like something in him is unwinding too fast for him to stop it. “I didn’t wanna mess that up, y’know? Didn’t wanna lose you over somethin’ I couldn’t control.”

Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.

“So you-” you swallow, shaking your head, trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it. “So you just went around to go get yourself other girls you can fuck?”

Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.

Gaze dropping in shame, his features form a grimace. “I tried,” he croaks out, gesturing at his chest with one hand. “Tried to stop feeling like this. Tried to move on, tried to-” He exhales sharply, tilting his head side to side, something torn playing out with the movement. “It didn’t work. Nothin’ worked. Didn’t even make it easier. But I was afraid to face it. Really face it. So I just kept going.”

It hurts.

It hurts in a way you don’t know how to hold. Don’t know how to carry.

You thought, for so long, that the way you love him, ache for him, is a one-sided agony.

But he is confessing to you, eyes red and weary, voice splintering, telling you that he’s been afraid to speak it aloud too.

That he loves you, that he tried to kill it, that he thought losing himself in someone else would somehow erase you from his mind.

Bucky’s words are a fist curling around your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs.

It should matter. It should mean something that he’s standing in front of you, breaking apart, pleading for you to understand. Shouldn’t it be enough that he’s telling you it was always you? That no one else ever came close?

But he still touched them.

Still chose them, even if only for a meaningless night.

While you sat in your room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you were going insane. While you clenched your fists so tight beneath your sheets at night, biting your tongue, swallowing it down, because Bucky is your friend and friends don’t ache like this.

And yet, he is telling you, showing you, he aches too.

But instead of sitting with it, instead of letting it consume him the way it consumed you, he tried to make it disappear.

He tried to fuck it away.

And now he looks at you like you are the only thing that has ever mattered, like the ground beneath his feet, is unsteady, like he is afraid you are going to bolt at any second.

You feel like the ground beneath your feet shits a fraction of an inch, not enough to send you falling, but enough to make you question if you were ever standing solid in the first place.

“But, doll, it-” he rushes forward, watching your pain, stepping into your space until there is barely anything between you. “It never meant anything. Swear to god, none of ‘em ever meant something to me.” His hands wrap around yours, squeezing, grounding, begging. “They weren’t you. Couldn’t be you. Didn’t matter how hard I tried, how many times I told myself to stop thinking about you because you’re supposed to be my best friend, but I wanted so much more than that - it didn’t matter. Nothin’ worked.”

He is struggling to force the words out, but he does. And they leave him with a catch in his voice. Faltering.

“I thought about you, sweetheart. Every fuckin’ time.” His voice turns frantic and he leans in to make it convince you. He watches your lips tremble and shakes his head quickly. “Thought about how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”

Your breath stalls.

Bucky swallows, taking a quick pause but continuing, voice growing softer. Lower. Reverent. “Tried to picture you instead. How you’d look under me, wrapped around me. So goddamn beautiful.” His voice cracks. “But it wasn’t you. And I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it.”

He stumbles over his words, afraid of saying too much, of pushing too far, or admitting too much - but it doesn’t stop hurting.

Even if you know it might not be fair.

But the thought of him with them, the thought of his hands gripping someone else’s skin, his lips murmuring something soft against someone else’s throat - it makes you sick.

And he sees it.

You try to blink back another wave of tears.

His hands are on your face again, thumbs swiping furiously at your damp cheeks like he can rub the hurt away.

“Please tell me I didn’t ruin this.” His voice cracks through the words, the panic breaking through. Your silence seems to suffocate him, squeezing his ribs until there is no space left for air.

“I’m so sorry, baby! I wish I could take it all back. I would.” His bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it before continuing. “Tell me I can fix this. There’s gotta be somethin’ I can do. Anything.”

You blink rapidly, vision swimming, breath hiccuping in your throat. You don’t know if there is anything to fix, if there was ever anything there, to begin with, but he is looking at you like there was. Like there is. Like it is still hanging in the air between you, waiting to be caught, waiting to be named.

And you want to catch it. To press it to your heart and cherish it.

But the wounds are fresh. Still bleeding. Still open.

The images you conjured up in your mind, him with all those girls. The sounds of him bringing one after the other home - the routine.

The giggling. The keys. The apartment door. More giggling. His chuckles. The hallway. His bedroom door. The goodbyes. The mornings.

But worst of all is that you can’t even blame him.

Because what was he supposed to do? Wait for something that was never promised? Hold out hope for something that was never offered?

You had no claim on him.

But still, you hate how he tried to fuck you out of his system. Hate that he couldn’t, that he’s standing here now, telling you it was all for nothing, that you were always in his head, in his bones, and that that somehow is supposed to make it better.

You don’t know if it does now. But you hope - you hope so dearly - that it will get better. If he’ll stick with you.

“No more girls.” The words choke out of you, weak and broken, barely a breath. But he jolts like you have screamed them.

“Never,” he breathes immediately, shaking his head as if to get rid of his own images, gripping you tighter, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks, his eyes burning through yours. “No more, baby. No one else. Not ever.”

Your breath catches, body sways.

There is a burn behind your ribs, not quite pain, but not far from it. It is something that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Too quick. Too uneven.

“Only you,” he adds, his forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, his breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling where they hold you. “It’s only ever been you.”

Heat rises up your throat, something between nausea and electricity, a burst of too much all at once.

“I got a lot to make up for.” His tone is unraveling at the seams. But it sounds firmer now. Convicted. “I know that. I know I- fuck, I screwed this up before I even knew I had a chance. And that’s on me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, because it’s too much - his voice, his touch, the way he is looking at you like you hung the damn moon when you’ve spent years feeling invisible to him in the way that mattered.

“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”

You blink up at him. Your chest feels stretched too tight, as if the ribs themselves are holding onto something they shouldn’t, something too large, something too consuming.

“I don’t wanna mess this up more than I already have. I don’t wanna push or expect anythin’ from you - I just wanna do this right. For you.” His voice wavers on the last word, still scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of losing something he only just realized he had. “You understand me?”

You nod wordlessly. Almost feeling hypnotized by him. His eyes are so intense. So full.

“I’ve been waitin’ for this, hopin’ for this - Christ, I don’t even know how long.”

Your stomach flips, something curling in your stomach at the heaviness of his confession, at the realization that you weren’t alone in this. Maybe never have been.

“And now that it’s happenin’ - now that I have you, even if I don’t deserve it - I wanna take my time. I wanna make this good for you. Have to. I have to make this right,” he says, voice filled with something gravelly, rough like something barely holding together.

His fingers slide over your jaw, tracing along the column of your throat, memorizing the feel of you beneath his hands.

“And I hate-” his voice falters, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he forces himself to look at you again. “I hate that it’s happening like this. That I hurt you first. That I didn’t see this sooner.”

“Bucky-”

He cuts you off with his eyes and a shake of his head.

“Please I- I gotta do this. Gotta say this, baby.”

You nod.

He closes his eyes again for a moment like he wants to go back and shake his past self by the shoulders, tell him to wake the hell up and stop hurting the one girl he ever cared about.

He continues, voice hoarse. “I would do anything to make this different. Better. The way you deserve.”

Your breath is shallow, not quite catching, but hovering just short of where it should be, as if your body can’t decide whether to brace itself for collapse.

You’ve spent so long breaking for him, wanting him in ways he never seemed to want you back. But now he is pouring his heart out and asking for something he already has but isn’t sure he is worthy of.

“You don’t gotta say anythin’ right now, doll,” Bucky whispers. Afraid of scaring you off. “I know I shoulda told you sooner.” He grimaces, disgusted with himself. “I shoulda known sooner. I was so fuckin’ stupid. So fuckin’ blind.”

You don’t even notice you started leaning further into him.

Bucky stares at you for a moment. You look back.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly. Whispers really. He exhales shakily and you feel the breath fan along your cheeks. “But I swear to God, I will.”

You don’t weigh the hurt against the want, don’t let the war in your head talk you out of your next move.

Your hands reach up, curling into the fabric of his shirt and before he can say anything else - before he can tear himself apart further - you kiss him.

And for a split second, Bucky freezes.

Not believing this is happening, not expecting it even after everything he just told you.

But then, he exhales this soft and quivering breath against your lips, relief knocking the air out of his lungs.

One hand flies to your waist, pulling you in, the other threading into your hair. He kisses you back like he is starving, like he has been dying for this, like he can’t believe you are real and this moment is something he’s imagined a thousand times but never thought he’d get to have.

And he is so warm. So solid. His lips move against yours, soft and slow at first - savoring you, afraid to go too fast, to push too much. But when you let out a little sigh and your fingers tighten, Bucky melts, pressing in closer, enveloping you in his arms in a way that has you feeling he tries to make sure you never go anywhere else again.

He breathes you in like you are something holy, tilting your head and deepening the kiss. He is not forceful. He takes what he can get and he cherishes it. Like he said, he wants to take his time with you. It makes you fall in love with him even more.

It’s like he can’t believe you are even letting him have this. But he kisses you with a hope and a determination that this will not be the only time he gets to have this.

And when you pull back again, he rests his forehead against yours once more. You feel the way his chest rises and falls against your own, the way his breath shakes, the way his grip does not loosen at all.

“Jesus, doll,” he rasps, panting. “You tryna kill me?”

And the way he says it, the way he looks at you, so full of longing and desire and relief makes you realize that maybe he’s been suffering just as much as you have.

“I want you. It’s as simple as that. I’ve spent a great deal too much of my life already trying to convince myself that I can make do with less but I can’t. You hear me? I’m done. I’m not giving up. A life without you is not enough.”

- Beau Taplin

[reignpage]

piggybacking on the banana question, if they all got to run the train what order would they go in?? 🙏🙏🙏

(i just wanna know where you’d put nanami tbh)

I LOVE THIS QUESTION

Choso: cause he'd be the virgin of the group. they'd think of it as initiation and would want him to experience the very best on his first time. I imagine nanami would likely have to guide his dick in because he keeps missing the whole, would mutter encouragements and instructions. everyone would even shout out tips like 'hey cho, slap her pussy she likes that' or 'choso ma boi, grind your hips, oh yeah just like that, hear her moans? she fucking loves that shit'. he'd be passed out on the side from the overwhelmingness of it all, probably drooling babbling about how great pussies are

Nanami: would go next, his case being that he's got things to do so let's just get it over with. truthfully he couldn't wait any longer. he talks you through it, describes all the things he's feeling, how you're so tight, the pleats and folds of your pussy, how beautiful you look. he fucks you like there's no one else in the room. they'd all start complaining about long he's taking and he'd roll his eyes but would make sure you cum first before he does. and then he never actually leaves, he just stays, brushing tears from your eyes and cooing for you to let him know if it gets too much

Sukuna: the fact that he's sharing at all is already making him on edge, so to be going third would piss him off. RIP your pussy bro. he's really getting all up in there, bruising you so badly you're gripping Nanami's arm whilst he smiles down at you for being so good. sukuna would slap your face (not too hard, just to get your attention) he'd tch! and start degrading the shit out of you. look at you making obscene noises from both lips like a whore. you love the attention don't you? bet you want all of your holes filled up, you dirty girl. would probably demand someone plugs up your loud mouth. and after he cums inside, he'd force you to clean him up whilst the next one steps up

Geto: if I had it my way he wouldn't even be in the room but whatever, dick is dick so who can complain. he's very sweet seeming, he wets his dick with your cum, doing a pussyjob, really getting you worked up so you beg for him and then he fucks into you slow. too slow. you start crying, complaining, screaming for him to fuck you hard. he laughs until everyone else gets mad at him for being too mean, like come on man, there are limits. so then he picks up the pace and he even pats your pussy and thanks it for doing a good job.

Gojo: insisted he goes after geto. says he wants his bestie to go first but really he just wanted to fuck you with his dick drowning in geto's cum. that really gets him going. really mean too, would mock the faces and sounds you make until you're pouting through the tears that he's just like geto. and that man cums. he keeps cumming too cause geto comes up behind him and guides his hips and keeps him fucking into you, whispering how poor little you didn't even get to cum yet

Toji: that man is a dirty dirty whore. he doesn't care that other men's cum is dripping out of you. he's filthy. in fact, he'd eat you out before he slips it in. and he's bending you in all sorts of different positions. he even lifts you up so everyone can see your tits bounce, your eyes roll back, and your pussy take his cock again and again. man also walks over to choso and does it right in front of his face, asks him to lick your clit, and of course he does. pounds into you so hard you're dazed and delirious and when he asks who's fucking you best you're just screaming his name and everyone rolls their eyes

It just means they go for round 2 to prove who really is the best

[bewaryofpity]

fluff 19 withe luke hughes pls✨✨

thank you for requesting ! 🩶

19. “I think my family/friends really liked you. Maybe more than they like me.”

.

Luke didn’t necessarily hide you from his friends and family, he just wasn’t the type of guy to flaunt his relationship in front of everyone. He was reserved and private, so when he was met with his parents and brothers at the front door he felt like panicking.

He stood still, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights, and it took you bumping into his back completely unaware of what was going on for him to get himself together. And when you finally followed his gaze, you mirrored his pose. You wanted to hide behind him, but the way his mom’s eyes immediately flickered between the two of you made it clear you had been caught. 

“Why are you all here?” Luke asked.

“Dude, we play the Canucks tomorrow night. And I told you I was gonna pick up mom, dad and Quinn from the airport.” Jack grumbled, his brows raising before a slow smirk spread across his face. “Wait, who are you?”

Luke sighed, shifting awkwardly. “Y/N, my… girlfriend.” He whispered.

Quinn looked amused, his arms crossed as he studied the two of you. “And you just weren’t gonna tell us?”

“I mean, I was gonna tell you eventually.” Luke groaned. 

Ellen though ignored her sons' teasing, stepping in front of you with a warm smile. “It’s so nice to meet you, sweetheart.” She gave Luke a playful teasing look, “I wish we’d known sooner.”

You laughed, feeling a little more at ease already. “I think Luke just likes keeping me all to himself.”

“Sounds about right,” Jack muttered. “I live with you dude, why the fuck— ow!”

Ellen rolled her eyes at him, gently snaking the back of his head. Jim gave you a firm handshake and a friendly nod before they ushered inside to get comfortable.

The first few minutes were filled with little moments of teasing, mostly from Jack, but it didn’t take long for the conversation to settle and turn into something more natural. You found it easy talking with his parents, they instantly brushed off that Luke kept you a secret for months. Ellen was the first to tell you that she had a feeling that something, or rather someone, was making her son more at ease, more comfortable with himself now.

It wasn't long before dinner started and the conversation shifted away from you with Ellen talking about the kids growing up, sharing wholesome and fun memories, and you could tell how close Luke was to his family just by the way he listened, a small, content smile on his face, not complaining much about the embarrassing stories his mom was telling you.

He was quiet for the most part, just taking in how you fit so well with his family, yet he couldn’t help but still send you small glances, making sure you were okay. You laughed at their jokes, told your own stories about your childhood, answered any question that came your way about you and Luke. 

“So, he asked for your number after he spilled his drink all over you, didn’t even ask for your name first?” Jack asked, leaning forward with interest, a boyish grin on his lips.

Luke shot him a glare. “We’re not doing this.”

“Oh, we’re definitely doing this.” Quinn said, smirking.

“Yes, but that wasn’t so bad. I’ll tell you, on our first date…” You grinned while Luke groaned, dropping his head into his hands as the rest of the family eagerly listened.

By the time the night wound down, everyone was exhausted from the long day. As you and Luke retreated to his room, he closed the door and leaned against it with a dramatic sigh.

“That was exhausting,” he mumbled.

You chuckled, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Oh, come on, it wasn’t that bad.”

He lifted his head, opening one of his eyes to give you a pointed look. “You know, I think my family really liked you. Maybe more than they like me.”

You smirked, motioning for him to join you on the bed. “Can you blame them?”

He groaned, letting his full body weight rest on top of you. “You’re supposed to be my girlfriend.”

You wrapped your arms around him, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Don’t worry, Lu. You’re still my favorite Hughes.”

He huffed, but you felt him relax against you, nuzzling his nose in the crook of your neck. And after a while, between getting ready and finally settling underneath the covers,  Luke pulled you to him, holding you close, the warmth of the day still lingering between you.

[heliosunny]

okay.. one.. YOU'RE GENUINELY THE BEST WRITER ON THIS PLATFORM I THINK I'VE READ EVERYTHING YOU'VE EVER WRITTEN.. two, a yandere phainon with a SO that keeps pushing him away due to thinking he's way too good for them, like moving countries typa pushing him away, just telling him like.. "You deserve someone way better, you're just misguided!".. etc

No Escape

Yandere!Phainon x Reader

The first time you saw Phainon, he was standing at the top of the academy’s marble steps, a faint breeze teasing at his silver hair as he spoke to someone important-looking. Even in a place filled with prodigies and elites, he stood out. Meanwhile, you were just another nameless student in the sea of faces, struggling to keep up in a world that never seemed to slow down.

You never expected to cross paths with him. But fate had a cruel sense of humor.

A few shared classes. A single partnered project. Then, somehow, Phainon kept appearing—offering to help you with assignments, walking with you between lessons, seeking you out in the crowded dining hall when he had a thousand better people to sit with. His attention was overwhelming.

You tried to brush it off as politeness. He had no reason to be interested in you. Maybe he pitied you. Maybe he was just nice to everyone. But no matter how much you convinced yourself of that, Phainon never looked at anyone else the way he looked at you.

It was supposed to be a simple experiment. A foundational potion—one that even first-years could brew without issue. Yet, somehow, you had still managed to mess it up.

The classroom was thick with the scent of crushed herbs and simmering liquids, cauldrons bubbling softly as students carefully followed the professor’s instructions. You and Phainon had been paired together, much to your dismay. Not because he was unpleasant—far from it. But because standing beside someone like him only highlighted how out of place you were.

“Careful” Phainon murmured as you reached for the powdered moonroot. “That’s starshade. If you mix that in, the potion will—”

A single spoonful of the wrong ingredient hit the potion’s surface before he could finish his warning. The liquid instantly turned a sickly green before erupting into a thick, foul-smelling smoke.

Coughing, you stumbled backward, barely able to make out Phainon’s silhouette through the haze. Around the room, other students were staring, some laughing, some groaning from second-hand embarrassment.

You wanted the ground to swallow you whole.

When the smoke cleared, the professor pinched the bridge of her nose before marking something down on her clipboard. “Another failure” she sighed, shaking her head. “Mr. Phainon, I expected better.”

You glanced at him, feeling guilt twist in your gut. It wasn’t his fault—you were the one who had messed up. But Phainon merely smiled, completely unfazed. “Mistakes are part of learning”

If failing potions class was humiliating, then physical training was an absolute nightmare.

Magic broom exercises were a staple at the academy—a mix of aerial maneuvering and endurance meant to build both magical and physical control. For most students, it was exhilarating. For you, it was just another opportunity to fall flat on your face. Literally.

“Just kick off the ground lightly” Phainon instructed, hovering effortlessly beside you as if it was the easiest thing in the world. “Let the magic flow through you.”

That was easy for him to say.

Still, you grit your teeth and tried. The broom wobbled violently the moment your feet left the ground, and before you could steady yourself, it twisted sideways. You yelped as gravity took over, sending you crashing back onto the training field.

The instructor let out a long-suffering sigh. The other students snickered.

Phainon, of course, landed smoothly beside you, offering his hand. “Are you hurt?”

You groaned, rolling onto your back to stare at the sky instead of meeting his gaze. “Just my pride.”

There was a soft chuckle, and then—before you could stop him—Phainon crouched down and plucked a stray leaf from your hair.

“You’re improving” he said, completely sincere.

You gave him a skeptical look. “I literally just fell on my face.”

“You lasted two seconds longer this time.” His smile was slight but warm. “That’s progress.”

Something in your chest tightened. It was the way he looked at you—like you weren’t a failure, like he actually believed in you.

----

“You’re avoiding me”

You forced a smile, pretending not to feel the weight of his presence. “I’m just busy.”

“No, you’re not.”

You exhaled, shoulders tensing. “Phainon, you don’t understand. You shouldn’t be wasting your time with me.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Because you deserve better,” you blurted out, frustration bleeding into your tone. “You deserve someone extraordinary, someone who belongs in your world—not me.”

A slow silence stretched between you.

“You think I don’t know what I want?”

“You’ll realize it one day.”

“I already have.” He stepped closer, “You’re the only thing I’ve ever been certain of.”

That was the problem.

Because one day, he would see the truth.

And that’s why you had to leave.

The village was quiet. Tucked away in a valley where the mountains shielded it from the outside world, where magic was nothing more than a story told to children before bed.

Here, you weren’t a failure. You weren’t a disappointment. You weren’t anything but yourself.

The people welcomed you easily enough. A newcomer with no past, no baggage—just willing hands and a desire to work. You took on whatever jobs you could. Fetching water, helping at the bakery, tending to the fields when the farmers needed an extra hand. It was hard work, but it was yours.

And best of all, Phainon wasn’t here.

Time moved differently in the village. The days stretched long beneath golden sunlight, the nights cool and filled with the sounds of crickets and rustling leaves. Slowly, the tension in your chest unraveled.

For the first time in years, you could breathe.

You stopped thinking about magic. Stopped thinking about what you left behind.

The village had become home. Years had passed since you arrived, and with time, you molded yourself into the life here, into the rhythm of simplicity. No one here knew of magic—no one needed to. You had left that world behind.

Until the day you were forced to use it again.

It was supposed to be a normal afternoon. You stood knee-deep in the river, feeling the gentle current brush against your legs as you worked to catch fish for dinner. The sun was warm, the air filled with the laughter of children playing nearby.

Then, a scream.

You turned just in time to see a boy, no older than six, trip over the edge of the riverbank. His friends gasped as he tumbled forward, the steep drop giving him no chance to stop himself before he plunged straight into the deeper part of the river.

The current was too strong. The boy’s small body disappeared beneath the surface, water swallowing his cries.

No one here could swim well enough to save him in time.

No one, except you.

But swimming alone wasn’t enough. By the time you got to him, it would be too late.

The promise you made to yourself—to never use magic again—shattered.

Without thinking, you raised your hand.

A whisper of energy, long buried, surged through your veins. The river stilled in an instant, the currents bending to your will. The water lifted, forming a controlled wave that carried the boy gently back to the shore, setting him down safely on the grass.

The children hadn’t spoken a word.

You had made sure of that.

After pulling them aside, you crouched down, “You can’t tell anyone what you saw. Not your parents, not your friends—no one. This is our little secret, alright?”

They had nodded, still wide-eyed from the miracle they had just witnessed. Thankfully, kids loved secrets. They thought of it as a game, something special just between you and them. For now, your peace was intact.

Or so you thought.

The next morning, you made your way back to the river, hoping to clear your mind. Maybe even push down the unease still twisting in your stomach. But as you approached, you froze.

Someone else was there.

And not just anyone. Him

Phainon sat comfortably on a fallen log, watching the children with a small, amused smile as they chattered excitedly around him. He looked out of place among them- too refined, like a painting come to life. And yet, he somehow blended in so effortlessly, laughing at their stories, ruffling their hair like an older brother would.

As if sensing your presence, he looked up. The moment his gaze met yours, time itself seemed to halt.

His expression softened, “Oh?” He rose to his feet, brushing off nonexistent dust from his coat. “I was beginning to think you’d never show up.”

You took a step back instinctively, but he was already approaching.

“You look well” he murmured, eyes scanning you as if memorizing every detail. “This place suits you.”

“Phainon…”

“How…?” The question barely made it past your lips.

“How did I find you?” he finished for you, his smile deepening. “Come now, you know the answer to that.”

Of course, you did. He had never been the type to let go of something he wanted.

“Why are you here?” you asked, though you already knew.

“To take you back.”

The children, blissfully unaware of the weight in the air, tugged at his sleeve, asking if he would play another round of their game. He chuckled, indulging them for just a moment longer before returning his attention to you.

“I’ve been very patient” he said, “But you’ve had your fun, haven’t you? A few years of pretending to be someone else, living a quiet life in hiding.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough that only you could hear.

“But you belong with me.”

You swallowed hard, willing yourself to stay calm. The river murmured beside you, its steady rhythm grounding you against the storm that had just arrived in your life.

“I’m not going back” you said, keeping your voice even. “I built a life here. A normal, happy life.”

Phainon hummed as if considering your words, but the knowing glint in his eyes never faded. “A happy life, is it?” He glanced around at the quiet village in the distance, at the carefree children still playing near the water. “I see. It’s charming. Simple. Safe.” His gaze flickered back to you, sharper now. “But is it really yours?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’ve been pretending.”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Haven’t you?” He stepped closer, and you resisted the urge to back away. “You came here running, hiding, trying to erase the parts of yourself that didn’t fit into this little picture-perfect village. But you can’t change who you are.”

“Even if I wanted to return—which I don’t—you’re not just expecting me to go back to that world, to the academy, to the annoying people?” You studied him, searching for an answer you already knew. “You want me to stay by your side.”

You exhaled, “I deserve to be where I choose.”

“Then prove it.”

“…What?”

Phainon gestured around, as if presenting the village itself. “You say you belong here. That this life is what you truly want. So, I’ll stay.” He smiled, voice light but unmistakably firm. “I’ll see it for myself.”

“If you’re right,” he continued smoothly, “then I’ll leave. I’ll never bring this up again.”

A lump formed in your throat. You knew him too well—Phainon never agreed to something without confidence in the outcome.

“But if I’m right…Then you’re coming home with me.”

“Fine.”

“Then it’s a deal.”

----

Phainon blended in effortlessly.

He smiled at the villagers, greeted them politely, and answered their curious questions with practiced ease. They saw a charming, well-mannered traveler—someone elegant yet approachable, someone who belonged in the outside world but was humble enough to appreciate their quiet life.

But you knew better. Every kind word, every gentle laugh, every playful interaction with the children—it was all a mask. A carefully crafted act.

Because beneath that smile, Phainon hated them.

He hated the way they spoke to you like you were one of them. Hated the way they relied on you, trusted you, called you their own. Hated that you had given them years of your life—years that should have been his.

And worst of all, he hated that you thought they were your home.

You kept a close eye on him as he spent his first day in the village.

He helped an elderly woman carry a basket of vegetables from the market. Listened to the local blacksmith talk about his craft with genuine-seeming interest. Even played with the children again, letting them tug at his sleeves and drag him into their games.

And yet, you could see it.

The slight hesitation before he let them touch him. The way his fingers twitched, as if suppressing the urge to recoil. The empty warmth in his voice when he praised them.

To anyone else, he was nothing but kind.

His patience was razor-thin.

This was a test—for you, for them.

He was waiting. Waiting for the moment you would finally realize what he already knew. That these people weren’t your home. That this place wasn’t enough for you.

Later that evening, as the sun dipped into the horizon, you found Phainon sitting outside the small cottage you called home. He looked up at you with a smile, a book resting on his lap.

“How was your day?” he asked, as if this was normal, as if he hadn’t just invaded the life you built.

“I should be asking you that.”

He chuckled. “The village is… charming.”

“They’re good people” you said carefully.

“Are they?”... I’ll admit, it’s impressive how long you lasted here”

You clenched your jaw. “I’m still here.”

“For now.”

----

The scent of fresh flowers filled the small shop, delicate petals brushing against your fingers as you arranged the newest bouquet. It was peaceful here—one of the few places in the village where you could find solace. A quiet, colorful haven where no one expected too much from you.

But today, peace was a fleeting thing.

Because Phainon was here.

Seated gracefully near the counter, he idly turned a flower between his fingers, the picture of effortless charm. The sunlight filtering through the window caught the silver strands of his hair, highlighting the striking contrast of his sharp, elegant features.

And, of course, the ladies noticed.

They had been stopping by all morning, some of them customers, others just looking for an excuse to linger. They giggled, twirled strands of their hair, asked far too many questions about him.

Phainon, as always, indulged them.

He smiled, listened with amused interest, even complimented them in that smooth, easy tone of his. It was effortless—just like back in the academy days, when people gravitated toward him like moths to a flame.

You exhaled sharply, setting down the bouquet you had been working on.

“I must say” one of the women giggled, resting a hand on the counter as she looked at Phainon through her lashes, “you don’t seem like a traveler at all. You carry yourself like someone of noble blood.”

Phainon chuckled, twirling the flower in his hand. “Do I?”

You didn’t miss the amusement in his tone.

If only they knew.

Another woman leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Are you staying long? It would be a shame if someone like you just disappeared.”

“I suppose that depends.”

His gaze flickered toward you for just a second—so brief no one else would’ve caught it. But you did.

Your fingers tightened around the bouquet’s stems.

He wanted to see how you would react. If you would push him away. If you would feel something. So you said nothing. You grabbed a pair of scissors, focused on trimming the leaves, and ignored him entirely.

The women kept fawning over him, unaware of the silent tension beneath the surface. And through it all, Phainon smiled.

But you knew him too well.

Beneath that easy charm, there was something sharper. A quiet, unspoken warning.

By the third day, the village had fully embraced Phainon as a welcome guest. His charm and helpful demeanor had won over the villagers, and they spoke of him with admiration. But beneath his courteous exterior, a storm was brewing.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the village, Phainon approached you with a serene smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"It's time to end this charade"

"What are you talking about?"

"You know exactly what I mean. Return with me, or face the consequences."

Swallowing your fear, you shook your head. "I won't go back. This is my home now."

Phainon's smile faded entirely, replaced by a cold, calculating expression. "Very well."

Without another word, he raised his hand, and a surge of energy crackled through the air. Flames erupted from the thatched roof of a nearby cottage, quickly spreading as villagers screamed and scrambled to extinguish the fire.

"Stop!" you cried, reaching out instinctively.

Phainon turned to you, his eyes devoid of mercy. "This is just the beginning. For every day you refuse to come with me, more of this village will burn."

Tears blurred your vision as you watched the chaos unfold. The people who had taken you in, who had become your family, were now suffering because of you.

"Please," you whispered, voice trembling. "Don't hurt them."

He stepped closer, gently cupping your face with a hand that had just wrought destruction. "Then make the right choice. Come with me, and they will be spared."

Defeated and broken, you nodded, tears streaming down your cheeks. "I'll go with you."

"Good. We leave at dawn."

As he walked away, you fell to your knees, the weight of your decision crushing your spirit. The village would survive, but at the cost of your freedom.

The journey back was quiet.

You sat beside Phainon in the carriage, staring out the window as the village faded into the distance. A hollow ache settled in your chest, your hands clenched into fists against your lap.

You had fought so hard to stay. To build something for yourself.

And yet, here you were.

Dragged back to the place you ran from.

The silence was suffocating, but Phainon seemed completely at ease. He sat comfortably across from you.

Finally, you exhaled sharply, unable to hold it in any longer. “Why?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Why what?”

“Why me? You’re—you’re Phainon. Talented. Admired.” You forced yourself to look at him. “You could have anyone. People worship the ground you walk on. So why are you wasting your time with someone like me?”

For a brief moment, Phainon simply studied you, as if the question itself was absurd.

“You truly don’t understand, do you?”

“Understand what?”

“You are mine. You were meant to be by my side.”

“That’s not—”

“You say I could have anyone.” His smile widened, amusement glinting in his eyes. “You’re right. But I don’t want anyone else.”

His grip on your wrist tightened ever so slightly, enough to make your pulse spike.

“I want you.”

Phainon exhaled through his nose, his usual composed demeanor slipping just a little.

“You always do this” he murmured, shaking his head as if disappointed. “You keep pushing me away like I’m some foolish child chasing after something fleeting.”

His fingers slid away from your wrist.

“I thought you understood me better than that.”

“I don’t understand you at all.”

Phainon’s lips pressed into a thin line. He leaned back against the seat, regarding you with something unreadable.

“Do you remember,” he started, “that day in the alchemy class? When you nearly blew us both up?”

“What…?”

“You misread the measurements, mixed the wrong ingredients.” His gaze darkened, but there was no malice in it. Just something strangely… fond. “And instead of panicking, instead of trying to shift the blame like most people would, you just—” He let out a quiet, breathy chuckle. “You just looked at me with guilt and then laughed to brush it off.”

You had laughed. Not because it was funny, but because you were so used to failing.

“That was the first time in years someone had laughed with me. Not to impress me. Not to get my attention.”

You glanced away, unsure what to say.

But Phainon wasn’t finished.

“And then there was that time during flight practice.” He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “You were terrible.”

Your lips parted, indignant. “I wasn’t that bad—”

“You crashed into a tree.”

You winced. Okay, maybe you were that bad.

Phainon exhaled, rubbing his temple. “I should have been annoyed. It was a waste of time, and you dragged me down with you.” He lowered his hand, his eyes locking onto yours again. “But instead, I found myself fascinated.”

“Wait- Why?”

His lips parted, then closed again, as if choosing his words carefully. And then, finally—

“Because you weren’t afraid to be imperfect.”

“You struggled. You failed. You made mistakes.” His voice was quieter now, but no less intense. “But you never let that stop you. You never pretended to be something you weren’t.”

“I grew up surrounded by people who only showed me what they thought I wanted to see. People who wore their own masks, desperate to be flawless, desperate to be noticed.” His jaw clenched. “But you… you never tried to be anything but yourself.”

His fingers curled slightly, as if resisting the urge to reach for you.

“And I—” He exhaled, almost shakily. “I couldn’t look away.”

The carriage fell into silence.

The weight of Phainon’s confession hung between you, suffocating in its intensity. His words should have meant something—should have been enough to prove he wasn’t just chasing an illusion.

And yet, your hands still trembled in your lap.

Because no matter how much he thought he loved you—

It was still wrong.

“So what?” you whispered, voice hoarse. “Just because you like those things about me, you think that justifies everything?”

Phainon’s brows furrowed slightly.

“You burned my home, Phainon.” You clenched your jaw, trying to keep the anger from breaking into something weaker. “You threatened innocent people just to get me back. That isn’t love. That’s—”

His hand lashed out, gripping your wrist before you could recoil. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough that you felt the unspoken don’t you dare finish that sentence.

His usual composed mask cracked—just slightly, just enough to reveal something darker beneath the surface.

“I did what I had to do.” His voice was quiet, almost calm, but there was a tremor beneath it. A barely-contained storm. “You left me. You threw yourself away like you were nothing. Like we were nothing.” His fingers tightened, just a fraction. “And I wasn’t going to stand by and let that happen.”

“That wasn’t your decision to make.”

“Wasn’t it?”

His other hand came up, brushing against your cheek—“You think I could just let you go? Just sit back and watch while you buried yourself in a life that was never meant for you?”

His fingers curled, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to look into his eyes.

“You think I could ever be okay with that?”

Your throat went dry. Because this was it. The moment he stopped pretending.

“You belong with me.” His voice dropped lower, “You always have. And I don’t care how long it takes—how much you fight, how many times you try to run.”

He leaned in, his breath ghosting against your skin.

“I will always bring you back.”

You knew you couldn’t fight him head-on—not now, not when he was stronger, more prepared. But you had to try.

So you made your move.

With a sharp twist of your wrist, magic surged through your veins. The carriage around you blurred, the air crackling as you poured everything into a single desperate spell— Escape.

The moment your body flickered out of existence, you reappeared outside, stumbling onto the forest road. You didn’t wait. You ran.

Twigs snapped beneath your feet as you pushed forward, lungs burning. The wind howled past your ears, the distant hoot of an owl the only sound in the otherwise eerie silence.

A presence loomed behind you.

A hand seized your wrist.

Your entire body jerked backward as a grip yanked you off your feet. A sharp gasp tore from your throat as you collided with something solid.

The scent of embers and something faintly sweet filled your senses.

“Really now,” Phainon’s voice drawled “Did you honestly think you could get away?”

You thrashed, kicking, clawing—anything to loosen his hold—

But his grip only tightened, effortlessly caging you against him.

“You already knew how this would end.”

“No—! Put me down—!”

“Now, now,” Phainon mused, carrying you effortlessly through the forest as if you weren’t fighting him with every ounce of your strength. “If you didn’t resist this much…”

His fingers trailed up your back, sending a sharp chill through you.

“I’d go easy on you.”

The moment Phainon’s home came into view, dread twisted in your stomach. The towering walls loomed over you, the polished stone gleaming beneath the moonlight. Once, this place had simply been part of the academy grounds. Now, it felt more like a prison.

And you were being dragged back inside.

The heavy doors shut behind you with a thud that might as well have been the slamming of a cage. Phainon finally set you down, but his grip never left your wrist. You yanked at it instinctively, but he only pulled you closer, forcing you to face him.

“You’ve tired yourself out,” he murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face as if you weren’t staring at him in outright defiance. “You should rest.”

“I don’t want to rest. I want to leave.”

“And where would you go? Back to that village?” A quiet scoff. “Do you think they’d still want you after what happened?”

He was wrong. They wouldn’t blame you. They couldn’t. But his words still wormed their way into your thoughts, planting doubt where there shouldn’t have been any.

“You see? There’s nowhere else for you, love. The world out there doesn’t deserve you. It never did.”

Your hands trembled. “That doesn’t mean you do.”

“You can fight me” he murmured. “You can scream, run, struggle. But it won’t change anything. Because in the end, I will always find you.”

“I will always bring you back.”

And as he leaned in, his lips barely a breath away from your ear, he whispered—

“So stop making this harder than it needs to be.”

[enwoso]

lovie as a newborn and just cute moments with alessia

MOMENTS WITH YOU | alessia x child!reader

nine cute little moments with lovie as a newborn/baby

grumpy masterlist

1. middle of the night talks.

— it was the middle of the night, 3:42am to be precise and alessia was busy pacing her bedroom as she rocked you gently in her arms, hoping it would lull you into sleep.

the soft glow of the nightlight casted a warm hue over the room, the only sound in the room was alessia's quiet shushing noises as she swayed from side to side.

"listen little one," alessia whispered, resting her cheek against your tiny head. "i love you more than anything but i need you to sleep."

your little lips smacked together, your body still fidgeting in your mummy's arms.

"i know, i know, it's a big scary world," alessia sighed rubbing soothing patterns on your back, "but lovie, i haven't had a solid four hours of sleep since your arrived. help me out?"

you responded with a soft whimper, burying your face deeper in your mummy's chest. alessia let out a tried chuckle, "you're lucky you're the cutest thing ever."

finally your tiny breaths evened out and alessia sat back down in the bed and your arms still wrapped protectively around you.

even in the exhaustion that was definitely piling up since you'd arrive just a little less than three weeks ago, there was something so peaceful about it. just the two of you in the little word, awake while everyone slept.

"you and me, baby," she whispered. "always."

—

2. facetime chaos.

you were curled up on your mummy's chest, your tiny body wrapped in a fluffy pink blanket as alessia propped her phone up against a pillow. her screen lighting up with a facetime call and soon, a chorus of excited voices filled the room.

"can we see her? let us see her!" ella shouted practically shoving millie out of her way just to get closer to the screen.

"chill guys!" alessia laughed, picking her phone up and turning the camera so the girls could see you, as you slept through the chaos.

"oh my days," katie breathed out as her hand went over her mouth, "she's so small"

"she's perfect less," maya beamed in awe, her eyes wide and filled with joy.

you stirred slightly, making a small noise as you cozied back into your mummy's arms. the noise making the whole group melting.

"less, you have to bring her to a match," millie said all the girls cheering in agreement as alessia smiled before adding that they'll have to wait till you were a little bit older.

"she needs her own tiny united kit too!" one of the girls piped up as a smirk appeared on alessia's face as they began to bicker about what name that you should have on the back of your tiny shirt.

"oh i already have one," alessia grinned, "she's gonna be the cutest mascot in history with the number twenty three!"

ella leaned closer to the screen, "little one, open your eyes if you wanna come live with auntie tooney."

you moved slightly but other than that you remained completely unfazed still fast asleep as small snores come from you.

"i think that's a no.." alessia grinned as the girls burst into laughter and for the first time in weeks since you had arrived, alessia felt like herself again.

sure, she was exhausted and her life had completely and utterly changed but for the best possible reason - but some things like her team and the love they shared for one another stayed exactly the same.

and now, she had you to share it with.

—

3. bath disaster.

alessia had seen plenty of videos on how to bathe a newborn, had advice from her midwife and her mum but none of them prepared her for how slippery a tiny wriggly newborn could be.

"alright lovie, this is supposed to be relaxing," alessia murmured as she gently lowered you into the warm water in your small baby tub.

your little arms flailed around as your face scrunched up as if you were considering whether to cry or not.

"it's okay," alessia soothed, cupping water over your belly and for a second it seemed like you were getting used to it, that you actually liked it but then suddenly you let out an ear piercing wail.

"oh no, no" alessia panicked slightly as she adjusted her grip, "lovie i swear i'm not trying to drown you!"

your tiny hands grasped at the air as your face turned bright red as you screamed.

"okay, bath times over," alessia announced as she lifted you out of the bath and quickly into a fluffy towel. "think that was a little traumatic for both of us, eh?"

you sniffled, still fussing as alessia sat on the floor of the bathroom, the same old hoodie which had baby milk and other days old stains on it as she brought you close into her chest rocking you gently.

"see? all good now," she whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your damp forehead as your body still shook slightly from your sniffles as your cries got quiter.

not even two seconds late, just as alessia was finally calming herself down, you seemingly over the whole bath thing as you peed all over the clean towel.

"yeah, okay," alessia groaned slightly, the joys of motherhood, as she shook her head slightly. "next time, nonna is doing this-"

—

4. watching football together

it had been weeks since alessia had even thought about football properly. of course it had been there but for once it wasn't the forefront of her mind.

she missed it, missed the pitch, the team, the rush of playing but for right now her world revolved around you and soaking up as many firsts with her first born as she could. knowing these moments would form core memories.

but still she figured it was never too early to introduce you to the game.

getting herself comfy on the sofa as she settled you on her chest, facing the tv. the women's super league match on the big screen and the match was no other than — united vs arsenal.

"okay, lovie this is important," alessia whispered as she ran her fingers lightly over your back. "you gotta know the game if your gonna be the next best thing!"

you let out a tiny sigh, your small warm body relaxed against your mummy. no doubt as you were moments away from falling asleep.

"see, that's auntie mary in goal — best in the world and there's auntie tooney but don't ever listen to her when she tells you she's better than me!"

your hand twitched slightly and alessia chuckled, "you agree, don't you?"

for a little while, alessia just lay with you content in her arms as she stroked a thumb over the back of your hair, smoothing down the small baby hairs sticking up on the back of your head.

the quiet sounds of the game playing in the background as you eventually dozed off, completely content.

alessia smiled down at you, pressing her lips to the top of your head. "one day you'll be watching me out there again," she whispered, "and i hope i make you proud."

—

5. sleepy cuddles

it had been another long night. you'd been up every two hours, fussing and crying and alessia was running on fumes.

she lay on the back of the sofa, her body aching and mind foggy. you were finally asleep resting on your mummy's chest as your tiny fingers curled onto alessia's shirt.

alessia knew she could put you down in your crib and use this time to rest herself, have some time to herself but she couldn't bring herself to move.

instead she just tightened her arms around you and closed her eyes, as she listened to the soft rhythm of your breathing.

"one day you won't need to hold you like this," she whispered as she pressed a sleepy kiss to your forehead. "so i'm gonna hold you as much as i can now."

and with that, she left herself drift off, wrapped up in the safest place she knew — right there with her little girl.

—

6. family time with a side of chaos

it was the first proper family dinner since you'd arrived into the big world and as much as alessia loved her family she was starting to regret it.

her dad, mario was in the kitchen debating with her brother, giorgio about which way was the best way to cook pasta while luca was arguing with their younger cousins over who would be your favourite uncle.

meanwhile you, who was completely oblivious to everything going on as you were curled up in your car seat in a deep sleep.

alessia leaned back taking a sip of her water bottle, shaking her head slightly. "she can sleep through all this but wakes up the moment i put her in her crib at home?"

alessia's dad appeared beside her, placing a plate in front of her. "she's got italian in her less, she's already used to the noise." alessia just laughed as she picked up her fork.

as dinner was well under way, you'd woken up as you sat in your mummy's lap. brightly curious eyes looked around the dinner table as luca began to speak.

"right little one, time for your initiation!" luca smiled as alessia's head turned her brows raised in curiosity, wondering what it was.

"which is?"

her brothers as well as her parents all grinned the same smirk all on there lips as you sat curious and oblivious to everything going on around you.

gio help up a tiny baby spoon, "her first taste of pasta sauce!"

alessia's eyes went wide as she looked at the spoon which had a small amount of sauce on the spoon, a loud gasp leaving alessia's lips, "absolutely not!"

luca pouted, "oh cmon less, just a little-"

alessia stood firm, she hadn't realised they were just joking. "i will fight you." she warned, sending her brothers a warning glare.

luca sighed dramatically but leaned down to kiss the top of your forehead as your curious eyes watched everyone movements. "okay, but when she's older, i'm teaching her how to make proper pasta!"

alessia's mum, carol smirked, "not if i teach her first!"

alessia shook her head, but the smile that was presence on her lips won't go away. you may not of understood anything but you'd been born into a family that loved fiercely, argued loudly but would always, always have your back.

and really, what more could she ask for?

—

7. a typical sunday

sunday morning had always been slow and cozy in the russo househould. music would be playing in the kitchen as the smell of fresh coffee and toast filled the air.

everyone lazing around in their pyjamas long past breakfast and now with you in the mix, it was even better.

alessia sleepily shuffled into the kitchen, you tucked into her arms. her mum was already at the coffee machine placing alessia's cup near it as her dad sat at the table reading yet another sports magazine.

"morning" alessia yawned, using one hand to rub her eyes while the other kept a tight grip on you.

mario looked up from his reading and grinned, "morning, you two" he reached over rubbing a gentle hand over the top of your head, "did you let mummy sleep?"

alessia let out a tired laugh, "not even a little bit."

luca and gio walked in next, still both half asleep, but the second there eyes saw you, they perked up sighing a second.

"alright, give her here," luca smiled holding out his hands.

alessia hesitated as she looked down at your comfy position in her arms, "i literally just got her to settle."

giorgio just smirked, his quick mind thinking of a smart retort, "she just likes us better, just admit it!"

but before alessia could protest, luca carefully took you from the comfort of your mummy's arms and into his as he cradled you from side to side. you barely stirred as your tiny fingers grasped into his hoodie.

"your joking," alessia's groaned, "why does she always sleep for you lot?"

you mum chuckled, placing a hot cup of much needed coffee on the table for alessia, "cause she knows she had all of us wrapped around her little finger!"

alessia shook her head, she couldn't fight the warmth which spread through her chest. she looked around at her family.

her brother bickering over who would get to hold you next as her dad still stared at his granddaughter like she was the most fascinating thing he'd ever laid eyes on. as her mum watched over them all with a knowing smile.

—

8. first time at the theatre of dreams

alessia hadn't made her return to the pitch just yet, but she was close. close enough that she was itching to be able to lace her boots up again.

for now though, she was in the stands with you watching as united took on chelsea under the bright lights of old trafford.

you were bundled in a warm red jacket, and matching red hat covering your soft hair and your own little pair of ear defenders to keep out the loud noises. your own little united kit on underneath your full body jacket which kept you warm under the chilled air of manchester.

alessia held you close, whispering the commentary into your ear. "there's mary, in goal - she'll make sure you never see a bad keeper in your life" alessia whispered as mary made a diving save.

"and there tooney - she's basically mummy's right hand but she can be a little silly but we love her anyway!"

you just yawned, unimpressed. alessia laughed, as she tucked another blanket around the two of you. "you're gonna love it here, baby i promise."

as the final whistle blew and the score ended level. alessia feeling a rush of emotions. emotions she'd missed while being out. but soon she'd be back out there again and this time she'd have someone extra special watching from the stands.

—

9. first time watching mummy play

alessia knew you would never remember it but she would, she would never forget it. her first game for united back playing football.

the roar of the crowd as the adrenaline filled her body as she was back on the pitch. and then after the final whistle she spotted her family in the stands.

you were bundled up in a tiny red united beanie one that had been specially made just for you as you were fast asleep in your nonna's arms.

alessia's heart clenched. she jogged over her body tired and breathless as she leaned over the barrier a big smile back on her face. "she seriously slept through my whole comeback?"

carol just laughed, "less she's just a baby. she doesn't understand what's going on!"

alessia shook her head but she was still smiling, nothing could stop her from doing that. "unbelievable."

she reached out and over the barrier as she brushed a gentle hand over your little cheek. one day, alessia would tell you all about it. but for now it was more than enough to know her little girl had been there.

[eerna]

These past weeks I've been interested in figuring out how to make difficult sweets, repeating the same thing until I get it right, and decided to tackle macarons, which I've tried to make a couple times over the past few years and failed every time. And man. How satisfying is it to get closer and closer to the perfect version every time. This batch has too much filling and the feet are tiny, but BRUH the TEXTURE the MERGING OF FLAVORS... I'm so happy

[deramin2]

It's honestly pretty wild that my beloved Art Nouveau toilet paper holder has been in service since at least 1906 (and functions better than anything made in my lifetime as well as being stunningly beautiful), and my stove has been in service since at least 1954 (with more features and beauty Truman modern stoves), and the first CD I bought in 1995 still plays, but there are so many games from my childhood which profoundly shaped me and I will never be able to play them again. I can't even find screenshots for many of them.

I have less than a year to decide between:

"Upgrading" to Windows 11 (which I loathe, and won't run all my software).

Trying to switch back to Linux again (which won't run all my software, and has eventually frustrated me back to using Windows 4 times over 20 years).

Permanently take my desktop offline (which won't run all my software, and be basically useless).

Keep Windows 10 and just rawdog using the malware-ad filled modern internet with no security patches ever again (worked IT helpdesk with an interest in infosec for too many years for this to not give me heart palpitations).

In the 1970s-1980s my dad worked as a backend systems programmer for a major bank on IBM mainframes. They wrote everything themselves in Assembly Language. In the 1980s he wrote a utility program with a date function that got widely used, and had the foresight to think "This could still be in use far into the future, so I better use a 4-digit date." It was still in use in 2000, and as a result the bank has to do very few Y2K upgrades to its backend systems.

In 2012, an old friend who still worked there for so frustrated at contractors saying they couldn't speed up some network login library feature because their preferred modern programming language didn't support it. It was taking over an hour to run. They didn't seem to believe something more efficient had ever been possible.

Finally out of frustration, that guy broke out Dad's old utility (that also processed partitioned data sets) had a and wrote a working demo. It maxed out the entire modern mainframe CPU, but accomplished the task in 1 min 15 seconds. It wasn't put back into production, of course, but it did effectively make the point that the specs were not unreasonable and if the fancy new programming language couldn't do it, then use another damn language that does work.

I did IT in a biolab a decade ago that still had Windows XP computers because it was the only operating system that could run the proprietary software to control the $20k microscopes. Which worked perfectly fine and we didn't have the budget to replace. They had to be on the network because the sneakernet violates biohazard lab safety rules, and there weren't enough modern computers in the lab to sneakernet the files through those without waiting for someone else to finish using it, and no one's work could afford the delays. I left before we fully solved that one, but a lot of firewall rules were involved (if we ever lost the install CDs we were fully fucked because the microscope company went out of business at least a decade earlier).

So yeah, the old magic persists because it worked perfectly fine and it's stupid capitalist planned obsolescence that convinces people the old magic is obsolete. We could actually just keep patching perfectly serviceable orbs forever if we valued ongoing maintenance.

“The old magic persists thanks to it’s unfathomable power.”

No, the old magic persists because the new magic can’t run the legacy spells I need to do my job, and keeps trying to install spirits I don’t want or need onto my orb.

[this-resident-is-evil]

Mountain Laurel

Note: I’ve been seeing some people wishing there was more lore accurate Leon, you know the guy who is awkward with women. So… I thought which role is the best fit for him other than the hades the Greek god of the underworld himself. Hope you enjoy.

Pairing: Hades Leon S. Kennedy x Persephone fem reader

Synopsis: You are Persephone one of Zeus’s many daughters and one of the younger goddesses. Your power to grow flowers and them appearing in your hair usually matches your emotional state. Life seems bleak and difficult, until you become the new queen of the underworld.

Contains: Incestual relationships (You know how the Greek gods are), Hinting at nonconsensual intercourse (not from Leon), passionate sex, hand job (m and f receiving), vaginal penetration, praise kink, body worship, unprotected sex, breeding kink (kind of?)

Warning: Minors do not interact.

Leon made his way through the marble building. The ancient Greek gods have accumulated amongst the humans for a long time now and seemed to be respected by the mortals. He stood in front the chambers where he would usually find his brother cheating on his wife with mortal sex workers.

He always felt awkward walking in on him and desperately tried to convince his brother to meet him dressed for once. But he was no king of Olympus and had no place ordering his brother around. Zeus was a stubborn fellow after all.

He knocks on the door hoping that the naked bodies of women wouldn’t greet him the moment he opened the door or was allowed the entrance.

“Come in.” A deep rumbling voice was heard from the other side of the large door and he opened it.

Of course, Zeus was sprawled in the middle of a large bed, his back against the headboard. Four women were tucked into his large frame luckily covered but considering the importance of the meeting he assumed Zeus would kick them out.

“Hades. We were meeting today?” Zeus chuckles.

“It’s Leon, brother.” He speaks up.

“You are not insisting on still keeping your alias?” Zeus mocked with a belly rumbling laugh. “Fine, fine, Leon…” He sighs. “What do you need?”

Leon swallowed a lump forming in his throat. He felt odd talking about this very topic in front of women he has never seen, who were also most defiantly naked beneath the silk sheets.

“I need a wife. The underworld is getting tedious to rule on my own.” He spoke up and Zeus’s expression shifts to a more serious one.

“You are free to go.” He spoke to the women.

While three of them tried to coax him into letting them stay a bit longer or praising his performance there was one that caught Leon’s eye. A woman who was quick to leave the bed and attempted to appear small and insignificant.

It was you. Bare as the day you were born rushing to find clothing to cover your bare body with and you were gone. He noticed your hair filled with Mountain Laurel’s a poisonous flower one even dropped at Leon’s feet as you were making record time in leaving the room.

He bent down to pick it up and take a better look at the flower. The mostly white petals with hints of pink felt soft to the touch. He wasn’t big on flowers but this one caught his attention when Demiter was yapping away about her daughter’s capabilities.

Luckily the said flower distracted him from accidentally making eye contact with the naked women leaving Zeus’s bed.

“So, a wife.” Zeus spoke up the moment the door closed behind the women. He stood up in all his naked glory pulling a silk robe over his shoulders. “You have anyone in mind?”

Leon pocketed the flower as he turned his attention towards his brother. “What about the young lady who left first?”

Zeus’s thick brows furrow at the mention. “Persephone?” He questions and Leon nods. “Brother, you can’t be serious.” He mocked.

“I’m serious.” Leon spoke firmly.

“She is used goods. I will find you a virgin goddess.” He waved it off.

“I’d prefer not to wed a virgin goddess.” Leon spoke up firmly.

Zeus chuckled. “What does it matter? It is not as if you can bear a child.”

This struck a nerve with the king of the underworld. He straightened his posture stating that he was firm in his request. Zeus’s look softened at the sight of his brother.

“Very well then.” He spoke in the end. “You can take her right now.”

It was disgusting. Treating her like a cow someone could just take away and not caring in the slightest. Persephone was his daughter… but this was Zeus. A man with too many children to count both gods and goddesses as well as half mortals. He had a different women warm his bed while his lovely wife was busy organizing banquets and family gatherings.

Zeus gave Leon a general direction where to go to speak to Persephone and he was quick on his feet to formally and officially meet his new wife. It felt wrong to him to just come up to her bedroom and say ‘hi there pack your stuff you are marrying me’. But how else could he put it? He struggled with many different approaches until he finally made it to her door.

A soft knock and a short wait later there you stood. Leon was smitten. All his speeches and offerings evaporating from his mind the moment his eyes landed on you. You looked tired and even broken most likely from all the hardships Zeus put you through.

“Can I help you?” You spoke up breaking Leon’s trance making him blink rapidly.

“I um… How do I put it…” He stumbles through his words your kind eyes making his mind run blank. “Are you alright?” Is the first thing that leaves his mouth after a longer pause.

This question caught you off guard. Before you, stood the Hades, the god of the dead and the king of the underworld and he was checking in if you were, okay?

“Yeah…” You lie through your teeth as you tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear and another Mountain Laurel drops from your locks onto the ground.

“Please don’t lie.” He speaks and your eyes widen. Was he really the scary god you have heard rumors about?

You bite down on your lower lip and sigh. “No. I’m not.” You speak your voice breaking in the moment.

“Do you want to get out of here?” He almost stammers through the question but manages to keep his voice and tone even.

“I’m sorry, what?” You question.

“Do you want to get away from him? He won’t touch you again, you will stay in a safe place, far, far away from here.” He began explaining.

Your expression is taken over by shock and you were wary of his offer. He could just replace your current abuser and be even worse. However, there was just something about him. He was nervous, cautious and awkward as if he didn’t know how to best offer his aid to a person in clear need of some help.

“Yes.” Escapes your mouth before you think too clearly about it. Was it desperation or something else? You couldn’t tell. He was offering a lamp in the never-ending darkness, a hand to raise you from the despair and lift you to the grassy plains you always saw in paintings.

And so, it was… Leon took you to his penthouse in the mortal realm, offered you shelter from the horrible storm Zeus created and treated you with nothing but kindness and care. He was still very much odd in comparison to the other gods you have met but this was a welcomed difference.

The two weeks you rested and took time to process the horrors you went through and those two weeks were refreshing. Leon always stayed in a room of his own while allowing you to give the guest room your own touch. What else could it be but flowers you grew yourself?

Leon was curious and peaked at now your bedroom while you were in the shower. The flowers were vibrant, beautiful and very poisonous. Lantanas on the windowsill were bright red and orange making the window look as if it was painted in the sunset’s colors. Along one of the walls proudly stood the Lily of the Valley as well as several Foxgloves. They didn’t pose much harm unless consumed but what worried him was the Wisteria flowers hanging from the ceiling.

If he remembers correctly those are not harmful for humans but for animals like cats or dogs. If Cerberus the three headed hound was to eat some it would be harmful for him.

“Mr. Leon.” You squeak the moment you saw him in your bedroom.

“Just Leon is fine…” He speaks up now feeling the anxiety forming in the pit of his stomach. “I just wanted to see the flowers…” He adds.

“Okay…” You speak awkwardly. “I’m not letting Cerberus in there. Wisteria could be harmful if he was to eat some.” You add and a hint of a smile appears in the corner of his lips.

“Thank you.”

You nod holding onto a damp towel you usually placed on a radiator in your bedroom. Just then the pitter patter of claws against the hardwood floors turns your attention to the three headed dog that stared into your soul.

He was quick to tuck one of his heads into your side practically demanding that you pet all three of his heads. “He took a liking to you.” Leon speaks up.

“Yes, I suppose he did.” You say as you lower your free hand to pet Cerberus on one of his heads.

“You two will protect the house then.” He spoke. “I have a meeting I must attend tonight… hopefully it won’t take too long.”

You took a better look at him noticing he wore a perfectly tailored suit with a Mountain Laurel tucked into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. It looked as if it was on the verge of wilting away.

You picked one of the smaller lilies now growing among your locks and replace the sad flower with a fresher one. His blue eyes stare into your own at the gesture and he gives you a nod of approval before leaving the pent house.

Left to your own devices you made your way to a bookshelf standing in the living room. Among the old classics and newer works, you run your fingers along the spines. Recently you finished reading The Count of Monte Cristo and now it was time to occupy your time with something else.

Your finger lands on the spine that read The Frankenstein... intrigued you pick it up and open it. What you found inside were newspapers neatly bent and placed between the pages. You take the paper and unfold it to find the flowers that grew in your hair from the moment the two of you met. The Lilly, the Water Hemlock, The Oleander and of course the Mountain Laurel. The very same he picked from the ground as you rushed out of Zeus’s chambers.

He pressed to preserve the flowers growing in your hair. Commemorating the stages of healing you passed in the last two weeks. Your heart warms as you put everything back in place. From that day onwards every time Leon had to leave the pent house you tucked a fresh flower into his breast pocket. Calendulas, Dahlias, Cornflowers, Pansies and lastly Roses.

He was kind and patient with you giving you support and care you couldn’t even dream of receiving while you still lived in the Olympus villa. He even insisted for you to pick a name of your own, one that he would call you and one that you felt comfortable having.

“(Y/N)…” He spoke up one evening tucking your attention away from a book you were reading. “I didn’t want to bring this up while you were still vulnerable and getting better but I think I should now…” He seemed nervous, hands seemed to clamp up as he rubbed them against his pants. “When we met… I came to Zeus to discuss me finding a wife.”

“Is that why you were going on meetings so often?” You question your heart feeling as if a dangerous string was tightening against the beating organ.

“Well yes… um… I asked Zeus for your hand in marriage.” He admits and your eyes widen. “I should have said something sooner and I’m deeply sorry for keeping this…”

“Why me?” The question escapes you.

He is taken aback by the question. “I’ll be frank… I have never seen a woman run for their life from Zeus and I just had to meet you. And when I did, I was…”

You await his continuation and he just can’t seem to find the right words to explain the hurricane of emotions that over took him the moment he saw you. He was enchanted with your beauty, charmed by your honesty when he kindly asked for it, knowing that I would make you vulnerable if you did speak the truth, he was angered by the pain a sweet doe such as yourself carried on her shoulders.

“I was smitten, enchanted, charmed, enamored, as if the fates have decided to bless me with such treasure. I went to those meetings to convince your mother to allow me to take you to the underworld with me. If you of course so wished. And she was a tough nut to crack.” He sighs.

Your brows furrow in confusion. How was your mother in charge of your own choices. Leon was giving you the choice to reject him and to walk away from the marriage he proposed but alas why would you? He treated you like a queen, his queen.

“She demanded that you spend spring and summer with her in the overworld. And you can stay with me in the underworld during winter and autumn.” He clarified noticing your confusion.

“How about a whole year?” You spoke up with determination laced in your tone.

Leon’s mouth opens slightly and he closes it. “You-“

“I don’t want to be controlled. I’m not a puppet. So yes, I will marry you and become your queen of the underworld.”

That was all he needed. The marriage ceremony as a whole didn’t take long and you were adorned in bridal wear as you stepped onto the Charon’s boat with Leon by your side. Demiter of course threw a fit over it all and demanded that you hold up the deal she made with Leon. Which was the whole catch. She made that deal with your now husband, not with yourself.

The boat ride was far from romantic the screaming souls of the dead pierced your ears but you didn’t mind it. This was going to be your life now and you willingly stepped onto the path that will lead you into the deepest parts of the underworld.

The house of Hades was adorned in reds, oranges and yellows it looked beautiful from old statues all the way to a deserted part in the west wing of the main hall where damned souls waited patiently in line awaiting their judgement.

Leon was quick to lift you off your feet carrying you, bridal style towards his chambers. He was practically attacked by workers under his care to get back to work but the fact that he now held and former Olympian goddess in his arms made them grow silent instantly.

“This will be our bedroom.” He spoke the moment he set you on your own two feet taking the room in.

It was spacious and adorned in memorabilia that just screamed it was his. “It looks lovely…”

“You… you can change it…” He was quick to offer. “However, nothing grows in the underworld, nothing really lives… but you could have gathered as much.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” You smile at him and he has that look in his eyes.

He tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, now the flowers adorning your locks were the ones of a pomegranate. “You are…. Stunning.” He stumbles over the last word. “I just… want you to feel comfortable… and I know there are expectations… to… consummate the marriage but… there is really no need for it. I… do not expect you to…”

“I want to.” You interrupt his speech and you swore you could see a hint of a blush paint his cheeks.

All of your experiences thus far were unpleasant to say the least. You just needed something much nicer to replace the horrors that made Mountain Laurels begin growing among your locks.

“Okay…” He clears his throat. “Um… if you wish to stop at any moment just say so I will stop.” He clarifies as he steps forward his wedding robes perfectly framing his well-built body making you swallow a lump forming in your throat.

He was careful slowly moving his hand to hold your chin and guiding your head to look up at him. Already you had a feeling this will go differently than when you were violated by your own father.

Leon leaned in closer pressing a gentle kiss against your lips. Zeus would never, he would grab you by the throat and basically suck all of the air out of your body with his lips. Leon was so calm, so slow… his other hand moving to gently trace his fingers up your arms and down.

He took hold of your forearm guiding your hand to press it against his chest. He craved your touch. You took his movement as a sign to lift up your other hand placing it on the side of his neck.

The slow and gentle movement of lips began turning a bit more passionate and before you knew it you were pressed against his chest kissing him to the best of your ability. Your arms wrapping around his neck.

Leon lifted you off your feet carrying you to the lavish bed. His lips not moving once from yours as he laid you down on top of it. “You are beautiful.” He speaks his voice turning huskier.

The warmth you felt in your cheeks seemed to intensify as he spoke those sweet words. Your hair was spread against the pillow the petals falling all over the sheets and the floor. It made you feel vulnerable and somewhat uncomfortable.

“What’s wrong?” He questions the moment he noticed the shift in your expression.

“I- I don’t know…” You stutter.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“N-no… I…” You sigh your brows furrowing.

Leon stills as he looks at you from above… there was a worried look pooling in his eyes. You could see the cogs turn in his head as he was thinking of a way to make you more comfortable. His blue irises were unfocused and until he looked straight into your eyes with determination.

“How about this…” He speaks as he picks you off the bed and switches places with you. He was now sat on the bed against the headboard and he sat you so you would straddle his lap. “You are the one in control…” He offers and your brows furrow in confusion. “Use my body to make yourself feel good.”

“I can’t do that.” You counter.

“I… want you to. I want you to feel pleasure… and if I can make it more comfortable for your I will…” Your heart warms at his reassurance. “So… use me…” He speaks; his tone was slightly unsure but his eyes were filled with determination.

You were sure you can do this. This man was your husband, kind, thoughtful and desperate to make you comfortable as well as make you feel as safe as he possibly could. So, you reach for his hands and place them on your hips.

You then move your hands to his robes pushing them off his body. His chest was full of battle scars. Some of them mere scratches but some deep and gnarly looking gashes. Your hand traces the scarred flesh and he shivers under your touch.

“They must have hurt…” You speak; your mind enveloped in a trance like state.

“Yours too…” He pulls on your clothing revealing some of the marks you had.

“They are not nearly as bad as yours.” You counter him and he chuckles.

His hand moves a strand of your hair behind your ear and cups your face. “Every scar has a story… we don’t need to compare them to acknowledge the fact that we felt pain.”

You lean in closer to him to place another kiss on his lips. This one was far shorter than when he kissed you and you think of what you wanted him to do. “Undress me.” You order.

His hands move up to push your wedding garments off your shoulders and you notice a slight tremor in his hands. He was nervous, nervous to be intimate with someone, nervous that he will hurt you, even if it was unintentional he would never forgive himself for harming you.

“I… don’t…” You sigh… you couldn’t pick where to start, what to do… how are you supposed to know what you wanted when you were never asked… or were never allowed to express.

“I want to kiss every inch of your skin…” He announces… his cheeks turning a shade darker. “Can… can I?”

A nod of your head and he leans in closer pressing a gentle kiss on your lips then moving lower. The feeling of his lips against your neck made you shiver. You held onto his bare shoulders for support as his lips began moving over your collarbone then over your shoulders.

“Can I go lower?” He asks and you hum in approval. He pushed more of the fabric to the side exposing your bare breasts to the slight chill in the air.

He pressed his lips over your breasts and took one of your nipples into his mouth. Your thighs clench against his from the sensation and your grip on his shoulders grows stronger. Before you knew it his mouth was on the other breast making small whimpers of pleasure escape your lips.

“Me… too…” You sigh… “I want to kiss you too...”

Leon leans back against the headboard giving you access to his chest. You leaned closer placing feather light kiss against his neck. He noticeably shivers and you feel a bulge forming beneath you. You look down and you know what is hiding beneath the fabric of his wedding garments.

“It’s…” He stumbles in his attempt to ease your mind but the moment you placed your hand over it his flinches almost choking on his saliva. Wide blue eyes make contact with yours. Your hand moves up and down along the length.

He was half Zeus’s size in length, about half a foot if you had to be specific, but what he was lacking in length or better yet not lacking considering the monstrosity Zeus carried beneath the thin fabrics Leon made up in grith. It was intimidating, the sheer thickness of it all.

“You don’t… have to…” Leon sighs at your movement, his shoulders were turning blush red as well as his cheeks.

“I want to.” You spoke.

“I want to make you feel good too.” Leon sighs as one of his hands moves up your thigh closer to your center.

“You can…”

His hand moves between your legs, his middle finger running along your slit. “You actually want this…” He spoke… it was as if it surprised him that he could feel your arousal.

You nod confirming… of course you wanted it. You were just scared. That it will be the same as it was before. But no matter what you trusted Leon. Your now husband. Your now king…

His fingers moved more entering your most sensitive place. You moaned as he pumped them inside you. First one, then two… then three… it didn’t hurt unlike when you felt this before and you pant against him. Your forehead leaned against his for support as your breaths mix in between.

Your hand began moving more confidently every stroke deliberate as the two of you pleasure each other. Leon swore under his breath several times and sooner rather than later the movements of your hands were in sync.

“I want to feel you… around me…” Leon spoke up an embarrassed tone hiding beneath the husky desire.

“Me too…” You pant.

“You are in charge.” He reminds you as he removes the fabric covering his length. The angry red tip stood proudly somehow; he looked even thicker than when you could barely wrap your hands around him earlier. Every vein that snaked around his length looked to be deliberate as if his whole purpose as a god was to give pleasure.

But alas he was the god of the dead and not love or sex. Not that it mattered. He helped you line up your hips with his length and was there to help you keep your balance. “Easy… at your own pace.” He reminds you.

You slowly lower your hips and feel the tip entering you. “That… is a lot…” You point out and he holds back a chuckle.

You move lower and get to about half way before you have to pause. The stretch was a different sensation that you didn’t expect to feel tonight. It wasn’t bad just… different. Leon patiently waits for you to adjust and the moment you took him in completely he bottoms out with a throaty moan.

“Fuck…” He groans. “(Y/N)….”

You let out a noise that was a mix between a hum and a whine as you attempted to get used to the thick length inside you.

“You… feel… so… fucking… good.” He pants between each word.

His praises and cloudy eyes make you want to see more of it. What expression he will make if you began moving? What if you moved faster? What if you were in a different position? The possibilities seemed to be endless, and you just had to see all of it…

You move your hips up and down and he forces his hands to grip the sheets, he wanted to touch you oh so desperately but there was that fear. You seemed to be so frail, what if he put too much pressure on your body?

“Leon…” You moan his name desperation hidden beneath the surface of your tone. “Touch me, please.” You plead.

And how is he supposed to say no? His hands move to your hips aiding you in your movements and leaning forward to silence his moans as much as he possibly could by kissing your breasts.

The sound of skin slapping against skin feels the room together with needy moans and pants, you swore the room got so much warmer than when you entered it earlier. It didn’t take long for a strange feeling develop in your stomach.

“Leon… I… feel weird…” You stumble to finish the sentence.

“It’s okay… let it go…” Taking his advice you relax and a sensation of pure ecstasy takes over your whole body. “That’s it… come on your throne…” Leon smiles against your skin. The pure huskiness in his voice makes you shiver. “You, okay?”

Your eyes were clouded with lust and desire. The pleasure was all too much for you to speak in the moment so you nod to answer his question.

Leon flips the two of you so you were laying on your back his length barely moving inside you as he held most of his weight on his arms. “Let me do all the work.” The blush on his cheeks was far darker than when you began consummating your marriage.

His hips begin moving in a slow and steady rhythm making you unravel under his touch. Panting and moaning his name you grab a hold of his shoulders to ground yourself. When his hips begin to move in a more rapid pace your nails dig into his skin and he groans. Each time he moves it feels as if he is reaching deeper into your core.

“L-Leon…” You stutter through the moans.

“You are doing so well… my queen…” He moans into your ear making you shiver yet again. Not even the gods know how many times goosebumps formed on your skin from his voice alone.

You can feel each vein and the moment he is about to reach his peak somehow you could tell he was about to feel the same overwhelming pleasure you felt while you were nested in his lap.

“I wish…” Thrust… “I could…” Thrust… “Give…” Thrust… “You…” Thrust… “A child…” He speaks absentmindedly. “Please come with me…” He begs.

Leon uses one of his arms to rub your clit and it takes seconds to get you to the same state he was in. You mumble under your breath and the both of you reach the climax. You spasming around his length and he deep inside you.

He pants as he leans his forehead against yours. He stayed like that for several minutes before his mind cleared and he picked you up taking you to a bath to clean you up. His bare feet walking over the lose petals that escaped your hair.

 The warm water relaxed your tense muscles as he joined you in the bath seating himself behind you and rubbing a wash cloth over your skin…

“Can I ask you something?” You turn your head to the side so your profile is facing him and you can catch a glimpse of his stunning blue eyes from your peripheral vision.

“Anything…” He speaks as he kisses your shoulder.

“You said you wished you could give me a child… does that mean you can’t?”

He tenses at your question. “No, I cannot.”

“Why?” You lean back against his chest.

He clears his throat. “Nothing grows in the underworld… and since I’m the king I cannot bear children by any means… now unfortunately… the only thing that seem to grow down here is the flowers in your hair…” He explains with a sigh as he reaches for the pomegranate flower that fell from your hair and was now floating in the soapy water…

The revelation saddened you but it still wouldn’t make you change your mind on the decision you have made when you married him. You were now his queen and you wouldn’t dare to break his heart by leaving him especially after all that he had done for you.

It turns out that the abandoned and ghostly west part of the house of Hades was a garden with tainted soil. You spent your alone time in there and on one particular day you buried some flowers into the soil.

Many days later you revisited the garden and there it was a single sprout peaking from the soil. Your hand automatically reaches for your stomach… perhaps… it was not so impossible to grow in the land of the dead.  

[harmless-variety-of-garden-snake]

It's the last day of Fluffebruary. My heart. Today's fill is: Marriage Proposals. I do reference the fills for days one, thirteen, nineteen (sort of), twenty-three, and twenty-six in this one. MCU has nothing on me. There's also switching POV, which I note by doing two lines of dashes. Time jumps within the POV are marked by one line of dashes. You can also read this on AO3 here. Tagging @bucktommyfluffebruary

Buck ambushes Bobby when he gets out of the bathroom, because he’s been trying to get Bobby alone all day.

“I need your advice,” he begs, and Bobby turns toward him with an expectant look on his face. “Is it ethical for me to get my boyfriend really drunk so he doesn’t wake up when I try to measure his ring size?”

Bobby blinks at him and shifts his weight to put his hands on his hips, his body language radiating exasperation and paternal disappointment. “Kid, what the hell do you think my answer’s going to be?”

He winces. “That I should’ve asked Chimney if I wanted a ‘yes’?”

“Probably.” He smiles and reaches out to squeeze Buck’s shoulder, jostling him a bit. “I’m happy for you two.”

“Thanks,” Buck says, smiling and finally not feeling like he’s going to shake out of his skin for the first time since he woke up that morning. “Any ideas?”

“You guys don’t have the same size hands?”

Buck flushes. “No, ah—his are a little bigger. Broader. His fingers are—I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed how big they are.”

Bobby raises an eyebrow, his hand retreating from Buck’s shoulder. “Can’t say I have.”

“Really? It’s, like, the second thing I noticed about him,” Buck says incredulously, and Bobby’s other eyebrow goes up. “Right. Okay, yeah. Straight guys don’t usually notice other guys’ hands.”

“Not unless I need to,” Bobby confirms. “Notice anyone else’s hands that might be the same size?”

Buck thinks about it for a moment and then it hits him. “Actually, yeah. I think I have. Thanks, Bobby.”

“Anytime, kid. Good luck. Let me know if you need anything,” he says, turning and wisely exiting the situation. Buck probably shouldn’t have gotten all gooey about how big Tommy’s hands are. To be fair, they're big and his fingers are thick.

“Fuck,” he breathes, pulling out his phone.

Well, he might as well get a reference photo while he’s at it.

–

Sal slides into the booth across from him. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Buck drops the beer mat he’s been playing with and looks around to make sure no one’s listening before leaning in. “What’s your ring size?”

He smirks and lifts his beer to his lips. “Why, Buckley, you know I’m a married man. You willing to fight it out with Gina or is this a side-piece situation?”

“Shut up,” Buck groans, sitting back as Sal cackles. “Also, Gina would gut me.”

“And dump you in a river,” Sal confirms. “You trying to make an honest man of our Tommy?”

Buck flushes and shrugs, picking up the beer mat again and running his finger along the edge. “Hoping to.”

“Good for you, kid. Thirteen and a half.” Buck’s head snaps up, and Sal’s got a real, genuine smile on his face. “But you can get ‘em resized pretty easy. What's yours?”

“E-eleven, I think?” he guesses, trying to remember the last time he'd looked. “Maybe a ten and a half. I don't really wear rings.”

Sal grins and holds out his beer. “Better get used to it.”

Buck feels a smile creep across his face and sighs, lifting his own beer to tap against Sal’s. “Hopefully.”

“I think you'll be okay.”

–

–

“Ten and a half,” Sal says, dropping onto Tommy's couch.

“What?” Tommy asks from where he's trying to get a pebble out of the tread of his boots.

“His ring size. Ten and a half, maybe eleven.” He puts his socked feet up on the coffee table and shrugs. “I'd go with eleven, it's easier to size down.”

The knife he's using slips and almost slices across Tommy's hand. “What? How—how?”

Sal smirks. “I have my ways.”

Tommy drops the boot and sits back on his heels with a heavy sigh. “Okay. So—I’m doing this. Am I really doing this? It feels soon, right?”

“Couldn't tell you. But from where I'm sitting,” he says, sweeping his hand across to gesture at the living room or maybe the house or just Tommy's entire life, “you two built something together. Just keep building. We don't usually get to live too long—if it's not a fire, it's a building falling on you or a bolt of lightning or cancer. And you're already middle-aged, Maso. You got your boy, he's not going anywhere. Just put it on paper.”

“You're right.” Tommy stands and shakes out the tingling that’s settling into his hands. “Thanks.”

“‘S why I’m here,” Sal says, crossing his arms over his chest. “And the free booze.”

Tommy snorts. “You thought it was free? Buddy, your tab’s been running for years. I’ll finally be able to pay off the mortgage when you settle up.”

Sal looks offended at that. “Hey, just for that, find a new best man.”

“I didn’t ask,” Tommy points out.

“Who the hell else you gonna ask?” Sal shoots back, getting to his feet. “Your other best friend?”

Sal comes around the table and engulfs him in a tight, back-slapping hug, which just turns into a hug.

“Thanks again,” Tommy says as they pull apart.

“Love you, brother,” he says, holding his face and pressing a smacking kiss to his cheek. He reminds Tommy of his Prozio Aldo so much sometimes, especially when he does shit like that. “Let’s go cut down a tree.”

“We’re just trimming it,” Tommy reminds him.

“Uh-huh.” Sal steps around him to grab his boots and starts walking toward the back of the house. “You say that now, but wait ‘til I get a few more in me. You’ll be lucky to have a yard by the time I’m done.”

–

He’s pacing outside the station until he hears Maddie call his name, and he whirls around to see her approaching with a tray of something. They’re doing a late holiday potluck, having passed Christmas and New Year’s, and Tommy had made sure she would be coming.

“Hey!” he says, folding her into a side-hug before taking the tray from her. “Can we, uh, hang out here for a second? Just waiting for Bobby and Athena.”

Maddie’s brows pinch together for a moment. “Sure. Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, realizing he probably looks like he’s going to pass out. “Yeah, I promise.”

Bobby steps around the corner, glancing over his shoulder, Athena close behind. “Hey. Sorry, kid’s trying to get my damn dry rub recipe again and keeps cornering me. What’s going on?”

Tommy looks between their expectant faces and wants to dive head-first into whatever Maddie’s brought, which smells like it could be something with apples and brown sugar. “I wanted to ask you guys something. I kind of thought maybe Howie should be here, but he can’t keep a secret at all.”

“He can’t,” the three agree in unison.

He exhales slowly, realizing he’s been barely breathing for the last few minutes. “I wanted to ask you guys something—”

“You already said that,” Bobby points out, and Athena elbows him.

“I know it’s old-fashioned,” he admits. “And kind of backwards, because it’s really his decision, not yours, but you guys are his family. But I am kind of old-fashioned, I guess.”

“Tommy,” Athena says firmly, catching his eye. “Ask us.”

He swallows and looks at the tray and then back at them. “Can I maybe have your blessing to—to ask Evan to marry me?”

Maddie’s hands go to her mouth as she lets out a gasp, and Bobby’s looking at him with a wide, knowing smile. Athena looks proud, probably having sussed him out the second he walked into the station earlier.

“Yes!” Maddie squeals, hugging him around his middle and almost upending the tray. “Yes, absolutely a yes.”

“Yeah,” Bobby agrees, and Athena nods.

“What’d you think we were gonna say?” she asks, and Tommy shrugs helplessly. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Do you think he’ll say yes?” he asks, letting Maddie take the tray back from him.

“Oh, absolutely,” Bobby says, pulling him into a hug. “I think you’ll be fine.”

–

–

It’s been almost a year since they got back together. Buck doesn’t want to do anything too big, because then too many things can go wrong and there’s all the added pressure. He’s heard horror stories from people who got proposed to in big, public settings who felt obligated to say yes. He won’t do that to Tommy. Tommy melts under romantic gestures, but actually important moments tend to be smaller and quieter. They’d gotten back together in the privacy of a cockpit, they’d agreed to move in together while they were wrapped up in each other on a picnic blanket, they’d talked about marriage and kids in the privacy of their own house and cars and in corners at parties. He’s got no problem screaming how much he loves Tommy from the rooftops, but some stuff is theirs.

He asks Tommy if he wants anything particular for dinner, and Tommy surprises him by saying Miceli’s.

“You really want to risk it?” Buck teases.

“Hey, I like their food,” Tommy protests.

Buck nods. “It’s good. Good enough to risk us breaking up a third time, though?”

Tommy crowds him up against the bathroom counter and wraps an arm around his waist. “You really think I’d let you go again?”

The casual possessiveness does things to Buck, and he shakes his head, swallowing hard as his eyes flick down to Tommy’s lips. “Seven?”

“Six,” Tommy says, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his throat. “I want to get home early.”

Buck shivers, and then he’s leaning against the bathroom counter alone.

“See you tonight, sweetheart.”

He licks his lips and nods. “See you. Love you.”

“Love you, too,” Tommy replies, swooping back in for a quick kiss that turns into a long kiss until Tommy pulls his head back with a gasp. “Eddie’s gonna kill me if I flake on him.”

Buck finally releases his boyfriend and waits for him to leave their room and then listens for the sound of the garage door opening. When he’s sure he’s alone in the house, he goes to his duffel bag and digs down until he comes up with a drawstring bag containing a ring box.

“Alright, don’t Buck this up,” he mutters, kissing the box and shoving it in his pocket.

–

–

Tommy is going to have a fucking heart attack. He feels like he needs Valium on an IV drip. He and Eddie are skipping basketball so he can pick up the ring, because Tommy had been too nervous to keep it anywhere Evan could find it.

When he finally has the small bag in his hands, he climbs into Eddie’s truck and has to do box breathing so he won’t pass out.

“Dude, you flew into a hurricane,” Eddie reminds him.

“Uh-huh.”

“People used to shoot at you.”

“Yep.”

Eddie looks at the bag and then at Tommy’s face. “I mean, I get it, but maybe you should chill for a bit before we go to the next stop.”

They’re getting Tommy a new suit, because he has two, and one of them was worn to a cowboy’s funeral and the other one was worn to Maddie and Howie’s reception/anniversary party. Evan’s seen him in both of them, he needs a new one. He’s picked that out also and had to get it altered, because he always has to get suits altered or they hang on him weird.

“No, we gotta go,” Tommy says, trying to relax. “Let’s go.”

–

–

Tommy looks good. Tommy always looks good, but Buck loves seeing him in a suit. He’d loved getting him out of the last one he saw him in, he’s definitely going to love getting him out of this one. It’s simple—black jacket, trousers, and tie with a white shirt—but it’s form-fitting and makes him look like James Bond. He’s glad they’d joked about dressing like they were going to a Michelin-star restaurant, because this is a good look for Tommy.

Buck’s skipped the tie, going for a burgundy suit with a white shirt that Hen had helped him pick out. The shirt has a high collar with no lapels that he’s never worn before and doesn’t use a tie, but it’s also a little tight. Buck hopes he doesn’t somehow stop breathing. Wouldn’t be the first time on a date, and it would suck if it happened on this particular one.

“Look at you,” Tommy murmurs, slipping his arm around Buck’s waist under his suit jacket. “Wanna stay in and fool around instead?”

“Not a chance,” Buck teases, drawing Tommy into a toe-curling kiss. “I wanna show you off.”

–

They Uber to the restaurant, since Buck is too nervous to drive and Tommy says he didn’t get enough sleep. They also want to drink a bit, though Buck’s going to take it slow until he has something to celebrate or needs to soften a rejection.

Their table is a little toward the back, and it’s quiet near them with no one immediately nearby. It’s perfect.

They make it through most of a pitcher of beer and their entrees, and Buck starts to feel like it all might come back up. He taps rhythmically against his knee to ground himself and keep himself from just bursting out everything he’s thinking.

“Hey,” he says, and Tommy looks up from the dessert menu, as though he doesn’t already have it memorized, “so I’ve been thinking about some stuff. Nothing bad, I promise. It’s, uh, good, actually? I think. I hope.”

Tommy sets the menu down and looks pleasantly confused. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s great,” he says, grinning and leaning in a bit, drawn to Tommy always. “I’ve just—there’s so much stuff in our lives that’s unpredictable, you know? Especially with what we do. We talked about this a while ago, I don’t know if you remember? The whole ‘safe haven’ thing.”

“Of course I remember,” Tommy says, smiling and reaching across to take Buck’s hand.

“Good,” Buck says, turning his hand over and wrapping his fingers around Tommy’s. “I’ve thought about it a lot. You’re this steadying force in my life, this thing I’ve been looking for since I can remember. Most of my days are unpredictable, some of them are terrible, and I have an eye in that storm and it’s you. You give me peace and love and comfort. You’re the calm and the safety that I’ve been looking for every single day of my life.”

Tommy’s face softens. “Evan, you’re that for me, too. You’re more than I ever knew to look for. God, I couldn’t have dreamed I’d ever meet someone like you, let alone be lucky enough to love you and be loved by you.”

Buck’s heart starts racing in his chest, because it’s time, and he pushes his chair back so he can get up and come around to Tommy, who looks thrown.

–

–

Evan is standing next to him and Tommy wants to grab him and put him back on his chair, but when he starts to rise, Evan’s hand presses on his shoulder.

“Just—I don’t know what else to say here,” Evan says, reaching into his pocket and lowering himself onto one knee. “I just want to know if you’ll marry me, Tommy.”

That—that’s his line.

Tommy feels like the air’s been vacuumed out of his lungs, and he doesn’t think he has hands anymore. Or feet. The top half of his head might be gone, too.

“Oh–I—oh,” he gasps when Evan opens the ring box he’s holding. His hands are shaking when he does it. “I—Evan.”

He pushes his chair back and reaches into the pocket of his own trousers before kneeling in the cramped space between this side of the table and the wall. Evan’s eyes are teary and a little confused, and then Tommy holds up his own box, opening it to reveal the ring.

“Will you marry me?” he asks, and Evan’s face crumples before he claps his free hand over his mouth to hold back a noise Tommy’s never heard him make. It’s like a laugh, a cry, and a sob all at once. Tommy's own eyes start to flood with tears even though he's also laughing, because this is ridiculous.

They grasp each other’s faces and laugh and kiss, and then they’re hugging. There’s noise near them—clapping?—and Tommy presses his nose to Evan’s jaw.

“That was a ‘yes,’ by the way,” he whispers, and Evan laughs against his shoulder.

–

–

He didn’t know. He’d been so focused on his own anxiety that he hadn’t noticed Tommy’s. But there’s a ring on Buck’s finger, and he can’t stop staring at it or the one on Tommy’s.

“How’d you get my ring size?” Tommy asks.

“Sal,” Buck replies, and Tommy laughs. “What?”

“That’s how I got yours.”

Buck remembers Sal asking him, hadn’t thought much of it because it was relevant to the conversation, and laughs. “God, he’s going to be—”

“Insufferable.”

“—the worst,” Buck agrees.

Tommy brushes his thumb over Buck’s ring and smiles. “I hope you don’t mind, but I asked your sister, Bobby, and Athena for their blessing. I asked Howie earlier this week.”

Buck bites his lip and leans in to prop his chin on his free hand. “I asked Bobby if it was unethical to get you drunk so I could measure your finger.”

“It is,” Tommy says, rolling his eyes when Buck shrugs. “But���so everyone knew?”

“Yep.”

“And they still let us—”

“Yep.”

Tommy huffs out a laugh. “Bastards.”

Buck tugs his hand close so he can kiss his knuckles. “Let’s go home.”

Their server appears a few moments later when Tommy flags her down, and she places a bag on the table with a smile.

“Your desserts—packaged to go and on the house. There’s some extras in there, too,” she says, stepping back. “And your dinner was paid for by another patron. Have a great night, guys, and congratulations.”

Someone had already sent them a video and someone else sent photos via AirDrop, and Buck twists around to see if he can figure out who paid. The people who had sent the pictures and video were gone. No one else is paying them any particular attention.

It’s outside, they’re standing in the same spots they had almost two years before, but Buck has his arms around Tommy’s waist this time. This time, they have rings on their fingers, and they’re getting into the same car and going to their home. Where he imagines they’ll have intense celebratory sex followed by celebratory desserts eaten out of take-out containers while they drape themselves over their couch in their underwear.

“C’mere,” Tommy says, holding up his phone.

Buck smiles for the photo, holding up his left hand alongside Tommy’s.

–

–

In the Uber, Tommy sends the photo to the ‘Fire Family’ group chat with the message: We said yes!

There’s a flurry of emojis and congratulatory messages and questions about when the wedding is. He turns the screen off on his phone and links his hand with his fiancé’s on the middle seat.

“Think we can plan a wedding in under a year?” he asks.

Evan scoffs. “Give me a clipboard and a budget, we’ll be married in six months.”

Tommy smiles and leans over to kiss his cheek. “The sooner the better.”

“In a rush?” Evan teases, smiling at him in the dim light.

“To spend the rest of my life as your husband? A little. Kind of wish I could’ve done it a long time ago. Like, years ago, even though I didn’t know you then,” he admits, and Evan smiles, making a soft noise. “Hm?”

“Something Hen said,” Evan says, shaking his head. “‘You’ll go to bed and wake up every day wishing you’d found each other sooner. ‘Cause life is so damn good that everything before him felt like wasted time.’”

Tommy’s heart slams against his sternum. “Yeah.”

Evan lifts their hands to kiss the back of Tommy’s, tucking it against his cheek. “She said that, and I knew I was going to marry you. I didn’t hope I’d do it or think I’d do it. I knew.”

“I was sitting in a park and had just asked you to move in with me, and I knew I’d have eloped with you that day if you asked.”

“So about three weeks after I talked to Hen.” Evan chuckles and turns his head to kiss his hand again before lowering their hands back onto the seat. “You ever think we’re meant to be sometimes?”

“Sometimes,” Tommy agrees lightly, and it’s his turn to kiss Evan’s hand, his lips landing right next to his ring.

[pbaz7]

ONE SHOT: UNSPOKEN

paige x azzi

word count: 10.8k

A/N: Alright this one is a little different from what I usually do. I was struggling with ideas so I decided to try to mix it up 🫣. I also know everyone thinks Paige fell first so I wanted to switch it up a little bit in this. Let me know what you guys think please 🫶🏼

—————————————————————————

“Unspoken” is a story about the quiet tension between two people who’ve spent years running from the truth—because sometimes, love isn’t about grand declarations or perfect timing. Sometimes, it’s about the fights, the moments when words fail, and the painful silence that surrounds all the things we’re too afraid to say.

Paige and Azzi had been best friends for as long as they can remember, but somewhere along the way, things started to change. The friendship they shared slowly morphed into something more complicated, something neither of them was ready to admit. The arguments, the jealousy, the misunderstandings, all became the backdrop for the truth they weren’t brave enough to confront.

This is the story of the moments that broke them down and built them up again—of the words that should have been said and those that should’ve never been spoken, the love that was hidden beneath the surface, and the way they both had to learn to fight for each other. Through every argument, every misstep, and every tear, they would come to realize one simple thing: they were in love with each other, and no amount of fear or uncertainty could change that.

These are the fights, the messy situations, that led them to the one thing they never expected to find—each other:

3rd Person POV - 2018 (DMV)

Azzi was sitting cross-legged on her bed, leaning back against the headboard while Paige lay sprawled on the floor, tossing a basketball in the air and catching it with lazy precision. Soft music was playing from Azzi’s speaker, filling the comfortable silence between them.

“You know,” Azzi said as she absentmindedly scrolled through her phone, “I still don’t get how you eat so much junk and don’t feel like absolute trash afterward.” She was referencing how Paige didn’t seem to follow any diet, didn’t eat any vegetables, and just consumed whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted.

Paige snorted, keeping her eyes on the ball as she flicked it up again. “I’m built different.”

Azzi rolled her eyes. “That’s not a real answer.”

“It is if you accept it.”

Azzi grabbed a pillow and chucked it at her, but it landed nowhere near Paige causing the blonde to laugh while still focused on the ball. “You’re annoying,” Azzi muttered.

“Whatever bro. Why you beg me to come visit you then?”

Azzi sighed dramatically. “Clearly I gotta start setting higher standards for my friends.”

“Best friend,” Paige corrected.

Azzi grinned but didn’t argue. They’d been calling each other best friends since they met on Team USA, but sometimes—more recently than before–there was something underneath it that neither of them acknowledged. A weight in the way they talked to one another on FaceTime every night, the way they never went a day without talking, a different kind of warmth in the way they looked at each other.

In the midst of their conversation Paige’s phone buzzed. Then again. And again. She didn’t even glance at it, but Azzi heard it. “Damn,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “Who's blowing you up?”

Paige kept her focus on the ball. “Dunno.”

Azzi smirked. “What, you too famous to check your phone now?”

Paige caught the ball and held it against her stomach, hesitating just long enough for Azzi to pick up on it.

Azzi sat up a little. “Wait. Who is it?”

Paige took a long exhale, staring at the ceiling for a second before mumbling, “It’s probably this girl.”

Azzi blinked. “This girl?”

Paige pushed herself up onto her elbows. “Yeah, prolly. She got my number from somebody and she just been texting me lately.”

Azzi’s lips twitched, her smirk faltering for just a second before she masked it with a laugh. “Ohhh, so Paige Bueckers has a girl on her line.” She nudged Paige’s leg with her foot. “Who is she?”

Paige shrugged. “Just someone I met at a tournament.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“And what?”

Azzi rolled her eyes. “Do you like her or something?”

Paige shrugged, then sighed. “I don’t know. No?”

Azzi’s expression shifted slightly. The teasing edge in her voice was still there, but it didn’t quite match what was reflected in her eyes. “Wait, you actually want to talk to her?”

Paige frowned a little confused now. “I mean… I don’t not want to.”

Azzi scoffed quietly, shaking her head. “Wow. Okay.”

Paige blinked. “What?”

“Nothing,” Azzi said quickly, a little too quickly. She flopped back against her pillows, suddenly very interested in the ceiling.

Paige wasn’t buying it. “No, what was that?”

“Paige, nothing,” Azzi repeated.

Paige narrowed her eyes. “Azzi come on bro.”

Azzi sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. “I just—why are you even telling me this?”

Paige frowned. “Because you’re my best friend? I tell you everything.”

Azzi let out a dry laugh. “Right. Best friend. Got it.”

Something about the way she said it made Paige’s stomach twist. She wasn’t sure why, but suddenly, the room felt… different. Tense. Like they had stepped too close to a line neither of them had ever acknowledged before.

“Why are you acting weird?” Paige asked, her voice a little quieter now.

Azzi shook her head. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

Azzi let out a breath. “Maybe because I just don’t want to hear about some girl trying to get with you.”

Silence. It felt like the silence between them stretched for an eternity.

The air between them was thick with a weight that neither of them had ever experienced when talking to one another. Azzi looked like she had just said something she wasn’t supposed to, and Paige—Paige couldn’t breathe.

“Why do you care?” Paige finally spoke, her voice much quieter than it usually is.

Azzi sighed, shaking her head. “I don’t. It’s just—you always say you don’t like distractions, but now some random girl is blowing up your phone, and you don’t mind?”

Paige frowned. “That’s not what I said Az.”

“It kinda is.”

Paige sat up now, her eyes slightly narrowed because of Azzi’s coldness. “Bro why you acting like I did something wrong? I was just tryna talk to you about it.”

Azzi let out a dry laugh. “Right. Like I want to hear about how some girl who's in the same state as you is into you and has been blowing your phone up.”

Paige’s stomach twisted. She didn’t know why, but the way Azzi was speaking made her chest feel tight. “So, what? I’m just not supposed to talk to you about stuff like this?”

Azzi’s jaw tensed. “No, maybe not.”

Paige blinked. “Azzi that’s ridiculous. We tell each other everything.”

Azzi exhaled through her nose, avoiding her gaze. “Yeah, well, maybe not everything.”

That hit Paige harder than she expected. She stared at Azzi, frustration bubbling under her skin. Azzi was her best friend. The one person in the world she felt like she could share anything with—who understood the pressure she felt everyday, was sitting here telling her that maybe they should stop telling each other everything. “Why are you being so weird about this? I didn’t do anything.”

Azzi’s head moved toward her direction. “I’m not being weird, Paige. I just—” She cut herself off, exhaling before pushing her hair out of her face in frustration. “You don’t get it.”

Paige threw her hands up. “No, I clearly don’t, so explain it to me! Because I feel like I’m missing something here.”

Azzi hesitated, her fingers picking at the blanket. Her expression was unreadable—like she was fighting with herself, torn between saying something and holding it back.

Paige pushed. “Azzi please.”

Azzi’s eyes met hers, and for the first time that night, she looked vulnerable. Exposed.

“You don’t get it,” Azzi said, softer this time, “because you don’t see the way anyone looks at you.” Azzi wasn’t just talking about other people. Paige had always had this pull, this undeniable presence that filled every room she stepped into. The way she carried herself, how naturally charismatic and genuine she was, made it impossible not to look. And people did look.

Azzi was no different. But Paige never seemed to notice.

Paige’s brows furrowed. “What?”

Azzi sighs, shaking her head. “Everyone wants a piece of you, Paige. In whatever way they can get you. Girls, guys, everyone.

Paige swallowed, her confusion giving way to an excitement at the possibility of what Azzi was insinuating. “Azzi…”

Azzi eyes flickering with something Paige couldn’t place. “I don’t want to hear about some girl trying to talk to you because I hate the idea of you talking to someone else.”

Paige’s heart pounded. She felt like the ground had just been ripped out from under her, like something she had been ignoring for months had just been shoved in her face.

She barely had time to process it, to respond properly before Azzi let out a shaky breath and muttered, “Forget it. Just—just ignore me.”

But Paige didn’t want to forget it, she couldn’t. Because suddenly, everything made sense—suddenly she didn’t feel like she was making things up in her head.

The lingering looks. The teasing that always felt a little too real.

Without thinking about the possible repercussions, Paige moved. One second, she was sitting on the floor staring at Azzi, heart racing, and the next, she was in front of her leaning in, closing the space between them.

Azzi inhaled sharply, her lips parting just slightly. For a split second, Azzi looked like she was going to pull away.

But then Paige kissed her.

It was hesitant, completely unsure, but the second their lips touched, something clicked. Like a spark igniting, like the answer to a question neither of them had been willing to ask.

Azzi sucked in a breath, and just for a second she kissed Paige back. But just as quickly as it happened, Azzi pulled away, eyes wide.

When she saw Azzi’s reaction Paige’s heart pounded, immediately throwing out, “I—I don’t know why I did that.”

Azzi swallowed, looking just as lost. “Yeah. Me neither.”

They stared at each other.

Finally, Paige let out a weak laugh. “Let’s just forget it.”

Azzi hesitated before nodding. “Yeah…Forget it.”

3rd Person POV - May 2020 (DMV)

It was the middle of quarantine, and time felt like it barely existed. Days blurred into nights, and the weeks passed without much distinction. Paige had been staying with Azzi and her family for a while now.

They had fallen into an easy rhythm. Workouts in the driveway, endless hours of TV, late-night talks in Azzi’s bed. There were also the moments in between now—those fleeting, stolen seconds where a look lingered too long, where an innocent touch didn’t quite feel so innocent. It had started slowly, almost accidental. A brush of hands, an arm around a shoulder that didn’t move away. Then one night, Paige kissed her again. And Azzi kissed her back.

Since then, it has been happening more often. Just making out here and there, like something they could pick up and drop whenever they wanted. But they never talked about it.

Now, they were lying in Azzi’s bed, bodies tangled in the way that came with knowing each other too well. Azzi’s head rested on Paige’s stomach, her fingers idly tracing the blanket while Paige was trying to spin the ball on her finger, though she was being extra careful considering Azzi was laying on her.

“You suck at that, by the way,” Azzi mumbled, watching the ball wobble slightly in Paige’s grip.

Paige scoffed. “You literally couldn’t do this for more than two seconds without launching it across the room.”

Azzi laughed. “That’s because I actually put some power into it. You’re just throwing it up like you’re scared it’s gonna fight back.”

Paige rolled her eyes. “You’re annoying sometimes, you know that?”

Azzi hummed, tilting her head slightly so she was looking up at Paige. “Yeah, but you love me anyway so I don’t really care.”

Paige froze for half a second before shaking her head, trying to play it off. “Debatable.”

Azzi laughed softly, but Paige didn’t miss the way her fingers stopped moving against the blanket when Paige froze. The pause lasted a little too long, and Paige suddenly felt like she should say something else—something light, something easy—but before she could, her phone buzzed in quick succession from somewhere on the floor.

Azzi turned her head toward the sound. “Damn. Someone’s popular.”

Paige didn’t even glance at it, still looking at Azzi. “It’s nothing.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “You don’t even know who it is.”

Paige shrugged. “If it was important, they’d call.”

Azzi watched her for a second, then turned her attention back to the ceiling. “Right. Or maybe it’s one of the many people who have been blowing up your comments lately.”

All of a sudden this conversation felt like deja vu and it made Paige’s stomach churn.

Paige sighed, rubbing her temple. “Azzi—”

Azzi kept going, her tone meant to be teasing, but there was something more serious beneath it that Paige picked up on. “I mean, I get it. UConn’s gonna be a whole new world for you. New team, new people, new girls—”

Paige groaned. “Bro oh my God.”

Azzi tilted her head again, keeping her voice light but her eyes too focused. “What? You’re telling me you’re not looking forward to all the attention you’re about to get?”

Paige sighed, gripping the basketball a little tighter. “I don’t care about allat.”

Azzi scoffed, shaking her head. “Bullshit.”

Paige frowned. “I don’t.”

Azzi changed her position slightly, resting her weight on her elbow as she looked at Paige. “So you’re telling me you don’t like all the attention? The DMs, the comments, the girls who’ve never met you throwing themselves at you?”

Paige let out a short laugh, not out of amusement but frustration. “Azzi, come on—”

“No, seriously.” Azzi’s voice was steady, but there was something underneath it—something Paige couldn’t quite place. “You’re not gonna sit here and act like you don’t eat that shit up.”

Paige gave her a confused look. “You act like I’m out here entertaining them. I’ve never responded to any of them.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “You’re not shutting them down either, so you clearly want it.”

Paige let out a long breath, shaking her head. “Come on Azzi, you’re my best friend, you know me better than that.”

Azzi scoffed, sitting up fully now, her back against the headboard. “Right.”

Paige’s jaw tightened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Azzi looked at her. “It means I don’t know what the hell we’re doing anymore.”

Paige sat up fully too, the ball rolling off the bed as she turned to face Azzi. “What you mean?”

“You really don’t get it, do you?”

Paige’s chest tightened, frustration building. “Get what? That you’re mad at me for something I didn’t even do? Something you think I might do?”

Azzi shook her head, running a hand through her hair. “I’m not mad at you, Paige. I just—” She exhaled. “Forget it.”

“No.” Paige’s voice was more firm now, her heartbeat picking up. “You don’t get to start something and then back out.”

Azzi’s eyes flickered with anger. “Oh, I’m the one starting something and backing out?” She let out a bitter laugh. “That’s ironic.”

Paige groaned, throwing her head back. “Azzi, just talk to me instead of throwing around all this cryptic shit.”

Azzi held her gaze for a moment, her lips pressing into a thin line. Then, before she could stop herself, she said it. “We keep kissing, Paige. We kiss a lot actually.”

Silence. Paige felt her stomach drop, her mouth suddenly dry.

Azzi shook her head, looking away—she couldn’t look at Paige while she said this. “And we never talk about it. We act like it doesn’t mean anything, and maybe to you, it doesn’t, but I—” She stopped herself, exhaling through her nose. “I just don’t get how you can sit here and act like none of it matters.”

Paige swallowed hard. “Azzi that’s not—”

Azzi turned back to her, her voice quieter now. “You’re leaving soon. And once you go, this—whatever this is, whatever we’re doing—it’s over, right?”

Paige’s throat felt tight, but she forced the words out anyway. “It doesn’t have to be.”

Azzi let out a long breath, shaking her head. “What does that mean, Paige?”

Paige’s jaw clenched. “It means we don’t have to stop just because I’m going to UConn.”

Azzi scoffed. “Right. So what? You want to keep doing what exactly? Keep flirting with me, kissing me but then pretending it doesn’t mean anything?”

Paige’s frustration spiked. “I never said it didn’t mean anything.”

“You sure as hell act like it.”

Paige ran a hand over her face, exhaling. “Az, I really don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want you to say something for once instead of just kissing me and pretending it never happened.” Azzi’s voice was rising now, her usual calmness slipping. “Because I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep pretending like it’s normal to make out with my best friend one second and then act like nothing happened the next.”

Paige shook her head. “You think this is easy for me?”

Azzi let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, yeah. It must be so hard for you, Paige. Having somebody, with no labels, to makeout with whenever you want is so fucking hard. Meanwhile, I’m the one sitting here wondering if I’m just another one of your little distractions before you leave.”

Paige’s chest tightened. “That’s not fair. It’s not like that.”

Azzi stared at her. “Isn’t it?”

Paige didn’t answer right away. The air between them was tense, heavy with something unsaid, something neither of them had been brave enough to confront.

Finally, Paige exhaled, her voice quieter now. “Azzi, you’re not just—” She swallowed. “You’re not just some distraction.”

Azzi searched her face, eyes flickering between Paige’s. “Then what am I?”

Paige opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Because she didn’t have an answer—at least, not one that wouldn’t change everything.

Azzi sighed, shaking her head. “That’s what I thought.”

Paige let out a sharp breath, running a hand through her hair. “Azzi please, come on.”

Azzi’s jaw tightened. “No. I’m done guessing, Paige.”

Paige’s frustration boiled over. “I don’t know how to say it, okay?”

“Say what, Paige?”

Paige clenched her jaw, her voice rising. “That I don’t want to leave! That I don’t want things to change! That I—” She cut herself off, exhaling hard.

Azzi’s gaze stayed locked on her, daring her to finish. “That you what?”

Paige shook her head, her pulse hammering. “I don’t know.”

Azzi threw her hands up. “See? This is exactly what I’m talking about. You do know, Paige, you just don’t want to say it.”

Paige’s face burned with frustration. “Because once I do, it means something, Azzi. And I don’t—I don’t know how to deal with that. You barely know how to deal with it so you’re putting it on me.”

Azzi scoffed. “So instead, you’d rather just ignore it? Pretend like nothing’s happening between us?”

Paige ran a hand over her face, exasperated. “It’s not like that.”

Azzi crossed her arms. “Then what’s it like?”

Paige opened her mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. She could feel it—all of it—boiling just under the surface, but every time she tried to pull it out, to say what she knew Azzi needed to hear, something inside her locked up.

Azzi shook her head. “You’re being a coward Paige.”

Paige’s head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

Azzi didn’t back down. “You heard me.”

“That’s not fair.”

“No? Then prove me wrong.”

Paige’s frustration snapped like a rubber band stretched too tight. Before she could stop herself, she was closing the distance between them, her hand gripping the back of Azzi’s neck as she pushed their lips together.

Azzi kissed back for a moment—just a moment—before she abruptly pushed Paige away, her breath coming fast. “No. You don’t get to do that.”

Paige looked stunned, her lips still tingling, her chest tight. “Azzi—”

“No,” Azzi snapped. “You don’t get to kiss me just to shut me up Paige. That’s not how this shit works.”

Paige ran a hand through her hair, exhaling hard. “That’s not what I was doing, Azzi.”

“Really? Because that’s what it feels like. Every time we get remotely close to actually talking about this, you do something like that.”

Paige sighed. “I don’t know how to talk about this, baby.”

Azzi’s gaze softened for a split second before she shook her head. “Then figure it out, Paige. Because I can’t keep being the only one who actually wants to face it.”

Paige’s frustration cracked, desperation creeping into her voice. “I do want to face it—I just don’t want to lose you.”

“Then say something, Paige. Say anything that actually means something instead of trying to shove your tongue down my throat.”

Paige swallowed hard, her heart pounding. “I don’t want this to be over. I don’t want to leave and pretend none of this ever happened. I don’t want you to think you’re just some—some phase or some mistake—some distraction.” She inhaled, her voice softer now. “I don’t want to lose you, Azzi.”

Azzi’s expression faltered for just a second before she let out a slow breath. “Paige…”

Paige shook her head, her chest tightening. “I just—I know I’m scared, Az. And shit’s about to be so different. I’m about to be in a different state, away from my family…away from you. There’s all these expectations and I haven’t even gotten on campus yet and I just—I need you Az. I need you more than anything and I’m scared that shit’s going to change between us, get weird and I can’t…I won’t be able to handle this without my best friend so I’ve just been—”

A sudden knock on the door cut her off.

Azzi’s mom’s voice came from the other side. “Everything okay in there?”

Azzi didn’t take her eyes off Paige. “Yes we’re fine.”

A brief pause. Then, “You sure? I heard yelling.”

Azzi sighed. “Mom, please.”

Silence. Then fading footsteps.

Azzi barely waited before she kissed Paige softly, melting into her.

3rd Person POV - October 2020 (Connecticut)

Azzi hadn’t planned on coming to Connecticut. At least, not until a few days ago when the idea of not being with Paige on her birthday started gnawing at her. The two of them talked every day, missed each other like crazy. Yes things were still… undefined. A mess of feelings that they had only began to sort through.

But none of that mattered right now. Because she was here.

Azzi pushed open the door to Ted’s, the warmth and noise of the packed bar hitting her immediately. She hadn’t even told Paige she was coming—she wanted to surprise her, wanted to see the look on her face when she realized Azzi had shown up for her birthday.

But the moment she stepped inside, her stomach twisted.

Paige was by the bar, a drink in her hand, laughter carrying over the music. She looked good—too good—her head tilted back slightly as she smiled at something one of her teammates said, Evina, if Azzi remembers correctly. But it wasn’t her teammates that caught Azzi’s attention. It was the other girls around her.

They were close. Too close.

One of them leaned into Paige clearly trying to get any form of contact she could from the blonde. Another one saying something to Paige, making her chuckle and shake her head no.

Azzi felt something burn in her chest.

She had spent the last few weeks missing Paige so much it physically hurt—she thought Paige was in the same boat. They called whenever they could, they texted, they danced around what they were, never putting a real label on it but still knowing, deep down, that whatever this was—it was real.

Yet, here was Paige, letting random girls touch her like it was nothing. Like they were nothing. In her anger Azzi didn’t even see the way Paige completely lit up when she noticed Azzi standing by the door. She didn’t notice that Paige immediately started walking towards her without even a whisper of an excuse to anyone around her.

Without thinking, Azzi turned on her heel and pushed back out the door.

“Azzi!”

Her heart clenched at the sound of her name, but she kept walking.

“Azzi, wait!”

Footsteps echoed against the pavement, and before she could get too far, a hand wrapped around her wrist, forcing her to stop.

Azzi exhaled harshly, staring straight ahead. “Go back inside, Paige.”

Paige stepped in front of her, her brows furrowed in confusion. “Why did you leave?”

Azzi let out a bitter laugh. “Are you serious?”

Paige’s expression flickered. “Azzi, it’s not what you think.”

Azzi raised her eyebrows. “Oh, really? Because from where I was standing, it looked like you were having a pretty grand time.”

Paige groaned, running a hand through her hair. “They were just talkin to me.”

“Right.” Azzi shook her head, stepping back. “Just talking.”

Paige sighed, frustrated. “Yes Azzi, just talking. Why you acting like this? I'm happy to see you and you mad at me.”

Azzi shook her head as she started walking again.

Paige groaned again, stumbling slightly as she tried to step closer. "Azzi, come on." She reached for her, but Azzi sidestepped her touch.

"Don't."

Paige frowned, her drunk mind struggling to keep up. "Come on baby, why you so mad?"

Azzi scoffed. "Are you serious right now? You’re in there letting random girls be all over you, and I’m just supposed to be fine with it?"

Paige let out an exasperated laugh. "I wasn't letting them be all over me!"

Azzi crossed her arms. "Ohhh right, so they just tripped and landed on you?"

Paige rolled her eyes. "You’re blowing this out of proportion."

Azzi’s expression darkened. "No, I’m not."

Paige tried to reach for her again, but Azzi stepped back, hands pushing her away softly. "Azzi, stop pushing me."

"Then stop trying,".

Paige swayed slightly, blinking at her. "I’m just tryna get close to you. I miss you."

Azzi scoffed. "No, you want to charm your way out of this like you always do."

Paige let out a huff. "God, why are you making this such a big deal?"

Azzi’s eyes flashed before she took a breath to calm herself down. "Because you don’t take any of this seriously, Paige! You never do! You’re drunk and now you’re out here stumbling around to who knows where—"

Paige threw her hands up. "I’ve done a drunk walk around the block enough times to know where I’m going, Azzi."

"That’s not the flex you think it is, P."

Paige narrowed her eyes at her. "Why are you even here if you're just gonna yell at me?"

Azzi turned away again, but this time, Paige grabbed her arm.

"Azzi, please," Paige murmured, her grip tightening slightly.

Azzi clenched her jaw, as she looked at Paige not saying anything.

Paige let out a frustrated breath. “I don’t care about any of those girls, Az! I keep telling you that.”

“Really? Because it sure as hell didn’t look like that from where I was standing.”

Paige groaned, stepping closer again, ignoring the way Azzi kept putting space between them. “I wasn’t flirting with them! I was just talking. You’re acting like I was all over them.”

Azzi shot her a look. “It doesn’t matter if you weren’t all over them. They were all over you, and you just let it happen.”

Paige threw her hands up. “What did you want me to do? Shove them off me?”

Azzi exhaled, shaking her head. “You’re playing dumb.”

Paige shot back, “You’re the one who wanted to keep things open, remember? You said we should just see what happens—”

“And you agreed.”

Paige laughed. “Yeah, because that’s clearly what you wanted Azzi! But you’re standing here acting like I betrayed you or something.”

Azzi’s eyes flashed. “Because it feels like you did Paige!”

Paige’s chest rose and fell, her mind spinning, the alcohol making her words looser, her emotions heavier. “Azzi, I love you.”

Azzi froze for a long time. The silence stretched between them.

Finally she exhaled, shaking her head again. “You don’t mean that,” she said, voice quiet now. “You’re drunk. You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

Paige stepped closer to Azzi, pulling her closer, thankful when she didn’t push her away. “Az, I swear to god, I love you.”

Azzi looked at her, really looked at her, searching her face for something, but whatever she was looking for, she didn’t seem to find it.

She glanced away, running a hand through her hair, her voice carefully even. “Let’s just go back to your party P.”

Paige blinked, her chest tightening. “Azzi—”

Azzi turned back toward the bar without another word, and Paige stood there, her heart still racing, wondering if she just said too much or not enough.

Once they stepped back inside, although Paige was hurt she didn’t let it show, she refused to let Azzi leave her side.

She kept an arm draped around Azzi’s shoulders, pulling her close as they navigated through the crowd. Any time someone so much as looked at her for too long, Paige would shift closer, pressing against Azzi in a way that made it clear who she wanted to be with.

Azzi didn’t pull away, but she didn’t fully lean into it either. She let Paige guide them through the bar, let her wrap an arm around her waist when they stopped at the table with the team, let her fingers linger on Azzi’s wrist when she reached for her drink. She let it all happen, but she didn’t say much throughout the night.

Paige didn’t care. She was determined to prove to her that she meant what she said.

She made sure Azzi was the only one she talked to, the only one she looked at, the only one she danced with when someone dragged them toward the music. When another girl tried to get her attention, Paige didn’t even glance her way—she just tightened her hold on Azzi, whispering something against her ear that made Azzi huff out a breath, something between exasperation and amusement.

Still, Azzi didn’t fully acknowledge any of it. Either she didn’t want to believe it, or she truly didn’t, but she didn’t ruin Paige’s night. She let Paige stay curled up against her in the booth, let her play with the hem of her sleeve absentmindedly, let her rest her chin on her shoulder. And when Paige officially got too drunk—when her words started slurring and her steps became unsteady—Azzi laughed softly, shook her head, and silently helped her out of the bar.

As they walked back to Paige’s dorm, Paige clung to Azzi like she was her lifeline. One arm was slung around Azzi’s shoulders, the other gripping her hand, fingers laced like she was afraid to let go. And she wouldn’t stop talking.

“I love your laugh so much,” Paige mumbled, her words slightly slurred. “Like, really love it. It’s stupid how much I love it.”

Azzi sighed, adjusting her grip on Paige’s waist as they walked forward. “Paige—”

“And your eyes.” Paige ignored her, tightening her hold. “God, your eyes, Az. You ever look in the mirror? Like, really look? They’re so pretty. Sometimes I get distracted when you’re talking ‘cause I just—” She made an exaggerated hand motion as she hiccuped. “I get lost in ‘em.”

Azzi closed her eyes for a moment, exhaling through her nose. “Paige, please stop talking.”

“No.” Paige pouted, shaking her head. “You don’t get it. You—you act like I don’t care, like I don’t see you, but I do. I see everything, Az.”

Azzi’s jaw clenched. She kept walking, gripping Paige a little tighter, but Paige kept going.

“You always smell good,” Paige mused, like it was a secret. “Like, stupidly good. It’s unfair.” She buried her face into Azzi’s shoulder dramatically, inhaling deeply. “Like right now? It’s ridiculous. What even is that? Do you live in vanilla or some shit?”

Azzi huffed out a breath, looking up at the sky like she was begging for patience. “Paige.”

“And you’re so good, Az,” Paige continued, voice softer now. “You take care of me, even when I don’t deserve it. Even when I’m stupid or drunk or messing everything up. I don’t know why you do it, but you do.”

Azzi’s throat tightened. Paige doesn’t know how much Azzi wanted to hear this, how long she had been waiting to hear this. Azzi just wishes that Paige had the guts to say it when she wasn’t drunk. When Azzi could believe that she truly meant what she was saying. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Yes, I do,” Paige argued, stopping in her tracks and pulling Azzi with her. “I know exactly what I’m saying. I just—I never say it.” She frowned, blinking blearily up at Azzi as she swayed a little and swallowed another hiccup. “And that’s my fault. But I do love you, Az. You have to know that.”

Azzi swallowed hard, her fingers twitching against Paige’s waist. She wanted to believe her. Wanted to let herself feel everything Paige was saying. But she couldn’t. Not like this.

She sighed, shaking her head. “Come on,” she mumbled, tugging Paige forward again. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Paige stumbled a little as they kept walking, but her grip on Azzi never wavered as she continued rambling.

“All I want is you,” Paige murmured. “I don’t care about anyone else…anything else Az. Just you.”

Azzi kept her gaze ahead, “Paige—”

“No, listen.” Paige stopped walking again, forcing Azzi to stop with her. “You know how I know?”

Azzi sighed, rubbing a hand down her face. “I’d rather you not tell me right now but I’m sure you’re going to anyway.”

Paige’s lips parted, and her eyes, though glassy, were full of something real. “Because every time I think about somebody else having you, getting to see the sides of you I see, I feel sick. Physically sick. And I know that’s selfish as shit, but I don’t care. I don’t want anyone else to have you, Az. I want you.”

Azzi inhaled sharply, her stomach twisting. “Paige, you’re drunk.”

“So what?” Paige challenged, stepping closer. “Doesn’t mean I don’t mean it.”

Azzi exhaled, looking away. “Please just drop it, okay? Let me get you inside.”

“No.” Paige’s fingers curled into Azzi’s hoodie, tugging her closer. “Do you love me?”

Azzi completely froze. Her grip on Paige faltered just slightly before she realized how much of her weight she was holding and she adjusted her grip again.

Paige searched her face desperately, her voice quieter now, more fragile. “Az. Do you?”

Azzi swallowed, forcing herself to pull away slightly. “Paige, drop it.”

Paige shook her head stubbornly making herself slightly dizzy. “No. I need to know.”

Azzi clenched her jaw, looking anywhere but at Paige as she closed her eyes, forcing the tears not to fall. “Not like this please baby.”

Paige’s breath hitched. “Azzi—”

“Not like this, Paige,” Azzi repeated, her voice strained. “You’re drunk. You won’t even remember half of this tomorrow.”

Paige’s face crumpled like the words physically hurt her. “That’s not fair.”

Azzi exhaled through her nose, her heart hammering. “Come on,” she whispered, reaching for Paige’s hand again and squeezing it when they laced their fingers together. “Let’s go.”

The next morning, sunlight slipped through the blinds, casting a glow over the tangled sheets and the two bodies nestled together beneath them. Paige groaned, blinking against the light, the ache in her head reminding her just how much she had to drink the night before. But that wasn’t what made her chest feel tight. All the memories came rushing in—every drunken confession, every plea for Azzi to just say it back. And she remembered that Azzi never did. But she remembered how Azzi basically carried her home last night. How as soon as she laid down the room started spinning so Azzi helped her to the bathroom and held her hair. She remembers how Azzi basically brushed her teeth for her. How Azzi kissed her goodnight before pulling the cover over both of them.

And now Azzi is still here. Still wrapped around her, holding her like she didn’t want to let go.

Paige swallowed hard, keeping her eyes closed as she breathed in Azzi’s familiar scent, letting herself pretend—for just a little longer—that everything was okay. That last night hadn’t hurt. LIke it didn’t hurt all over again to remember it as soon as she woke up.

Azzi shifted slightly, her fingers instinctively curling against Paige’s side. A quiet hum left her lips before she finally blinked awake, her gaze finding Paige’s.

“Morning,” she whispered, her voice still thick with sleep.

Paige forced a small smile. “Morning.”

They stayed like that for a moment, neither making a move to pull away. If anything, they only inched closer, their noses nearly brushing.

Azzi exhaled softly, eyes flickering down to Paige’s lips. “I missed you so much P.”

Paige’s breath caught, the words sinking deep. She knew Azzi meant more than just the past few hours.

“Yeah?” Paige whispered.

Azzi nodded, her fingers tightening against Paige’s waist. “Yes.”

Paige didn’t answer with words. Instead, she closed the distance, pressing her lips to Azzi’s like she’d been craving it for months. Azzi melted instantly, sighing into the kiss, her arms pulling Paige in until there was no space left between them.

“I missed you too,” Paige mumbled against her lips, kissing her again. “So much.”

Azzi didn’t say anything about the night before—maybe because she still thought Paige didn’t remember, or maybe because she just didn’t have the words. But in the way she held Paige, in the way she kissed her back like she wanted to make up for every second they’d spent apart, she didn’t have to, at least not yet.

3rd Person POV - August 2021 (Connecticut)

They’re at Ted’s, music humming through the bar, the air humid with warmth and alcohol. Paige is sitting by the bar, talking to a girl she barely knows, just answering her questions out of politeness.

Paige didn’t even notice the girl at first. She was too caught up in the warmth of the bar, the buzz of alcohol in her system, and the presence of Azzi right next to her. They had been standing close, shoulders brushing, Azzi’s arm loosely draped over the back of Paige’s stool as Paige whispered something to her that made her laugh and glance in the direction Paige was referring to.

It wasn’t anything unusual. They always hovered near each other like this, caught in that undefined space between everything and something.

The girl came up while Paige was mid-laugh, leaning into Azzi’s side, but when the girl spoke, Paige straightened slightly, offering a polite smile.

“Hi, I’m sorry to bother you—I just wanted to say I’m a huge fan.”

Paige smiled. “Oh, thanks, I appreciate that.”

Azzi didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge the girl, just sipped from her drink while watching the interaction unfold.

“I actually had a couple questions—if that’s okay?” the girl asked, shifting slightly closer.

Paige shrugged, always happy to talk about basketball and never wanting to be rude to fans. “Yeah, of course.”

It was harmless at first. Just the usual questions about the team, how she felt about the upcoming season. Paige answered them easily, glancing at Azzi every so often as if expecting her to chime in. But Azzi stayed silent, Paige just assumed she was lost in her own thoughts.

“So, are you single?”

Paige barely hesitated before answering, because technically, she was.

“Yeah.”

Azzi scoffed. It was quiet, but Paige heard it.

Paige blinked at Azzi. “What?”

Azzi stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. “Nothing.”

But Paige knew her too well. She could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she clenched her jaw.

“Azzi.” Paige’s voice was slightly louder now, calling her back, but Azzi was already moving, shaking her head.

Paige stood too, stepping closer. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem?”

The girl who had asked the question awkwardly shifted away, sensing the sudden shift in mood, but Paige barely noticed.

Azzi tilted her head, lips curling into something almost amused but not quite. “You didn’t even think about it. You just answered.”

Paige scoffed. “Because it’s not a fucking trick question, Azzi.”

Azzi’s jaw tensed. “Right. Because you’re so single.”

Paige exhaled sharply, suddenly feeling hot—from the alcohol, from frustration, from Azzi.

“I mean, yeah, I am.” She crossed her arms, brows furrowing. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Azzi’s expression flickered, something flashing through her eyes too quickly for Paige to catch. “Forget it.”

She turned on her heel, heading toward the door.

Paige followed without thinking, voice rising. “No, you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to act like I did something wrong when you’re the one who—”

Azzi spun around so fast Paige nearly ran into her.

“Not here.”

Her voice was lower now, but Paige could still hear the edge to it.

For a second, they just stood there, eyes locked.

Then, without another word, Azzi reached out, grabbed Paige’s wrist, and pulled her toward the exit.

The cold air hit Paige’s skin, a sharp contrast to the heat burning in her chest. Azzi dropped her wrist the second they were outside, pacing a few steps away before turning back, her eyes dark.

Paige exhaled hard, running a hand through her hair. “Alright, tell me what the hell that was.”

“Are you serious right now?”

Paige threw her arms out. “Yes, Azzi! I don’t get why you’re so upset over a question I didn’t even lie about.”

Azzi’s jaw clenched. “You answered it so easily.”

“Because it was easy!” Paige shot back, voice rising. “I am single! That’s what you wanted, right? You were the one who wanted to keep things open during your first few months here, so what the hell do you want from me?”

Azzi’s jaw tightened, her lips pressing into a thin line. “You could’ve at least hesitated. Said you weren’t available.”

“Are you kidding me? That’s what you’re mad about? You wanted me to sit there and stutter for you? For what?” She stepped closer. “I didn’t even want the fucking girl, Azzi. I don’t want any of them. But you—you don’t want to commit, so I go along with it. I always go along with whatever you want.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” Paige shot back. “You don’t get to be mad at me when you’re the one holding all the cards. You always have.”

Azzi let out a breath, her expression faltering for a second. “Paige, you’re drunk.”

“No shit. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong, Azzi.”

Azzi turned away, shaking her head like she was trying to shut this all out. But Paige wasn’t done.

“You don’t want me to say I’m single? Fine, I won’t.” Paige took another step forward. “You want me to ignore every girl who looks at me? Fine, I’ll do that too.” She threw her hands up. “Hell, Azzi, just tell me what you want, and I’ll fucking do it! Because that’s what I always fucking do.”

Azzi’s nostrils flared as she turned back. “That’s not true, Paige. I don’t control you.”

Paige let out a dry laugh, shaking her head. “You don’t even realize it, do you?”

Azzi stayed silent, her eyes darting over Paige’s face like she wanted to argue but couldn’t find the words.

Paige exhaled shakily before lowering her voice. “You wanna know what really pisses me off about this whole thing Azzi?”

Azzi swallowed. “What?”

“I told you I loved you.” Paige’s voice cracked, just slightly.

Azzi stiffened.

“Ten months ago, Az.” Paige let out a humorless breath, shaking her head. “I told you, and you didn’t say it back.”

Azzi’s face fell, her lips parting like she wanted to speak, but nothing came out.

Paige scoffed, blinking harshly. “You’re pissed over some girl asking me if I’m single, but you—” Her voice wavered, her chest tightening. “You couldn’t even fucking answer me that night.”

Azzi swallowed again, her throat bobbing. “Paige, I—”

“No.” Paige cut her off. “You don’t get to be mad at me for answering a question honestly when you—when you couldn’t even fucking answer me.”

Silence.

Azzi’s fingers twitched at her sides like she wanted to reach for Paige, like she wanted to say something, but she didn’t.

Azzi exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down her face. “You only say this shit when you’re drunk.”

Paige’s head snapped up, her frustration boiling over. “God, Azzi, you always use that as fucking excuse! Like I’m blackout or something, like I don’t know what the hell I’m saying.” She took a step closer. “But I do. I always do. I always remember”

Azzi’s jaw clenched, her eyes flickering with something unreadable. “Paige you can’t just—”

“No, Azzi.” Paige cut in, her breath unsteady. “I meant it then, and I mean it now. But you—you act like none of it counts. Like my feelings don’t count unless I say them exactly when you want me to.”

Azzi let out a slow breath, looking away for a second before finally meeting Paige’s eyes again. The fight in her expression dulled, replaced by something softer, something tired.

“Can we just—” Azzi sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “Can we just talk at home please?”

Paige hesitated, her chest still tight, her hands still curled at her sides. She wanted to keep pushing, to make Azzi see how much this hurt. But instead, she exhaled hard and gave a slow nod. “Okay.”

Azzi didn’t say anything else, just reached for Paige’s wrist again, this time with less force, guiding her away from the bar and toward the dorms.

And even though the argument had paused, the tension between them hadn’t gone anywhere.

…

The door shuts behind them, but neither of them speaks at first. Paige walks to the bed, sitting down, her head still spinning from alcohol and frustration. Azzi lingers near the door, back against the wall, arms crossed over her chest like she’s bracing herself.

She doesn’t look at Paige when she finally breaks the silence. “Why do you never say any of this when you’re sober?”

Paige lets out a long breath, tilting her head back to stare at the ceiling. “I don’t know, Az.” She drops her gaze back down, meeting Azzi’s eyes. “But does it even matter?”

“Yes. It does.”

Paige scoffs, shaking her head. “No, it doesn’t. Because whether I say it drunk or sober, it’s still the truth.”

Azzi shifts against the wall before saying, “You think that’s the same thing?”

Paige leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Yes! I always know what I’m saying, Az. I’m not just making shit up.”

Azzi looks away, jaw tight. Paige watches her carefully, then sighs, voice dropping. “Do you even care?”

Azzi’s head snaps toward her. “Of course I care.”

Paige pushes, her frustration mounting. “Then say something more than that. Say something more than just telling me that what I’m saying doesn’t matter because I’m drunk.”

Paige sees it—the hesitation, the walls going up. It makes her stomach twist. It’s almost ironic how much of a 180 they’ve done. It used to be Azzi begging Paige to say something, to give her a hint of how she felt.

Paige lets out a hollow laugh, shaking her head. “See? This is what you do. You never say anything. You never let me know where I stand with you, but the second someone asks me if I’m single, suddenly it’s a problem? Suddenly all hell breaks loose.”

Azzi’s brow furrows. “That’s not—”

“No, that’s exactly what this is!” Paige cuts her off, her voice rising. She leans forward, frustration spilling out. “You get upset, but you won’t tell me why. You won’t tell me what you want. Just—tell me how you feel, Azzi. Please.”

The silence between them stretches, heavy and suffocating. Paige waits, her heart hammering, but Azzi stays frozen, her throat bobbing as she struggles for words.

Paige lets out a quiet sigh, shaking her head. “That’s what I thought.”

She pushes herself up from the bed, ready to walk away. “Forget it. I need to cool off.”

Azzi’s eyes snap to her, panic flashing across her face. “Paige, this is your room.”

Paige shrugs, not turning back. “I’ll be back, I just—I need a minute.”

But before she can reach the door, Azzi moves.

Her hand wraps around Paige’s wrist—not forcefully, just enough to stop her. Azzi swallows hard, her grip tightening slightly. She could speak now. She could say what Paige wants to hear. But the words don’t come.

Instead, she pulls Paige toward her and kisses her.

It’s hesitant at first, uncertain, but when Paige doesn’t pull away, Azzi deepens it, her hands moving to Paige’s waist, fingers pressing into her like she’s afraid she’ll let go.

Paige exhales into the kiss, her frustration melting away into something softer like it always did with Azzi. After a second she starts to pull back, trying to say something, but Azzi doesn’t let her.

Azzi chases her lips, pressing closer, her breath shaky. As if she’s scared for the moment to end as if she’s terrified to lose Paige.

She can’t find the words, but she can show her. She wants Paige to feel what she’s been too scared to say. So she kisses her harder and this time, Paige doesn’t try to stop her.

Azzi walks them backward, guiding Paige toward the bed. Paige barely has time to register it before the backs of her knees hit the edge, and she’s falling onto the mattress, leaning up on her elbows, breath uneven.

Her pupils are blown wide as she stares up at Azzi, her chest rising and falling with each shallow breath.

Azzi reaches for the hem of her shirt, pulling it over her head.

Paige freezes.

Her mouth parts slightly, and for a second, she just stares—completely awe-struck. The way the lighting casts soft shadows along the curves of Azzi’s body, the way her hair falls slightly over her shoulder—it makes Paige dizzy.

Azzi holds her gaze, searching for hesitation, but Paige’s hands are already moving before she can think—gripping Azzi’s waist, pulling her forward.

Azzi exhales softly before climbing onto Paige’s lap, settling over her with ease.

Then she kisses her again.

Paige’s hands travel up Azzi’s back, fingertips pressing softly into her skin as Azzi deepens the kiss, pouring every unspoken word into it.

She doesn’t need to say it. Not now. Not when she can show Paige exactly what she means.

And Paige?

She lets her.

She lets herself fall.

She always has.

Azzi pulls away just enough for their lips to part, her breath warm against Paige’s skin. Her fingers tremble slightly where they rest against Paige’s ribs.

“P, I’ve never—”

Paige nods up at her before she can finish, already knowing. Understanding.

“We can stop,” Paige murmurs.

But Azzi shakes her head. “No. Not this time.”

Paige’s eyes search hers for any uncertainty, but there isn’t any.

So she nods, allowing Azzi to pull her shirt over her head, letting it fall somewhere to the side.

Azzi’s hands roam over Paige’s skin, like she’s memorizing every inch, like she’s seeing it in a new light.

Then, with gentle certainty, Paige flips them over, caging Azzi beneath her.

“Let me know if you want to stop,” she whispers, hovering above her, eyes locked onto Azzi’s.

Azzi doesn’t respond with words. She just reaches up, pulling Paige down into another kiss, hands tangling into her hair.

3rd Person POV - 2021 (Connecticut)

Paige had always been the one who struggled with communication. She was the one who avoided hard conversations, who buried her feelings beneath layers of sarcasm and easy distractions. Azzi was the opposite—she talked things through, making sure nothing was left unsaid. That’s just how they worked.

But now? Now everything was upside down.

After that night, Paige had expected something—anything—from Azzi. A conversation. A reassurance. Even an acknowledgment. Instead, she got silence.

Azzi didn’t disappear, not physically. They still saw each other every day. They still sat together at meals, still warmed up side by side at practice, still lingered in each other’s spaces. But something had shifted. Azzi wasn’t looking at her the same way. She wasn’t teasing her, wasn’t touching her the way she used to. She was there, but not really.

At first, Paige tried to talk about it. She gave Azzi easy openings, little moments where she could have said something.

"You good?" she’d asked one morning after practice, nudging Azzi’s knee under the table at breakfast.

"Yeah, just tired," Azzi replied, keeping her eyes down on her plate.

Another time, they were laying together on the bed and Paige mentioned, "We should talk, don’t you think?"

"About what?" Azzi asked, and Paige had felt something inside her crack.

After a few days of trying, Paige stopped. She told herself that maybe Azzi needed space. That maybe she was overthinking it. But deep down, she knew she wasn’t.

Azzi was retreating. And for the first time, Paige was the one left reaching.

The worst part? It hurt like hell.

Because no matter how much she wanted to believe otherwise, she couldn’t shake the sinking feeling that the reason Azzi wouldn’t talk about it was because she regretted it.

That maybe she didn’t love Paige back. That maybe she had gotten everything wrong.

So Paige gave her space. She stopped trying, stopped pushing. If Azzi wanted to pretend nothing had changed, then fine.

Still, the distance between them was suffocating. And with each passing day, resentment started to fester.

Like always it came to a head at Ted’s.

The bar was packed, the music loud, but Paige barely noticed any of it. She was a few drinks in, lingering at the bar with some girl from who knows where—she didn’t even remember her name. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t interested. She was just there, going through the motions, trying not to think about the way Azzi had been avoiding her for days. Paige knew she shouldn’t have let this girl get this close, knew she shouldn’t even be talking to her. But she wanted to get a reaction out of Azzi and she knew this was a sure way to do it.

She knew it worked when she felt that familiar gaze burning into her skin.

Azzi was a few steps away, sitting with their teammates, her jaw tight, fingers gripping her drink a little too hard. Paige wasn’t sure how long Azzi had been watching, but she could see it—the tension in her shoulders.

Just as Paige let out a small laugh at something the girl beside her said Azzi was next to her.

"Didn’t take you long to move on."

Paige turned slowly, her brows drawing together. "What?"

“Nothing. Just didn’t think you’d be so... quick about it."

"Are you serious right now?" she asked, her voice carrying over the music.

Azzi shrugged, bringing her drink to her lips. "I mean, you’re single, right? Just living it up finally."

"You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to act like you care when you’re the one who's spent the last few weeks acting like nothing happened."

Azzi’s lips parted slightly, but she didn’t speak, clenching her jaw to stop herself.

Paige shook her head. "No, say it. Say what you’ve been thinking. Because I know you, Azzi.

“Maybe I don’t care anymore. Maybe I just don’t have anything to say."

"Bullshit." Paige took a step closer, her voice rising. "You always have something to say. Except now."

Azzi exhaled sharply, her jaw tightening.

Paige shook her head, “You’re such a fucking coward sometimes Az.”

Azzi flinched.

Paige knew it was a low blow, but she didn’t care.

Azzi’s eyes darkened and hurt flashed across her face before she said something she knew would hurt Paige. "Maybe letting you fuck me was a mistake."

Silence. Paige felt the words settle. The bar blurring around her.

Azzi’s expression immediately shifted when she realized how far she went, like she hadn’t meant to say it, like she wished she could take it back.

Paige swallowed hard, forcing a laugh even as her chest ached. "At least now I finally know where I stand."

Azzi opened her mouth, but Paige didn’t wait for whatever excuse was coming. She turned on her heel and walked out, pushing past bodies, her vision hazy.

The cold air outside was a stark contrast to the suffocating heat inside the bar, but Paige barely noticed. She was too focused on getting away, her feet moving fast down the sidewalk.

But before she could get too far, a hand wrapped around her wrist.

"Paige, wait. I’m sorry."

Paige whipped around, yanking her arm free. "For what, Azzi? What the hell do you want from me?"

Azzi stood there, breathing hard, her eyes wild under the streetlights. "I’m so sorry, I—just—can we talk?"

"Talk? Now you wanna talk? After you stood in there and called what we had a fucking mistake?"

Azzi flinched. "I didn’t mean that."

"But you said it…And you know what? Maybe you’re right. Maybe it was a mistake. Not because of what we did, but because I was stupid enough to think you actually wanted this. Wanted me."

Azzi ran a hand down her face, frustration rolling off her in waves as tears pooled in her eyes. "God, Paige, you act like this is so easy for me."

Paige’s nostrils flared. "It is! It’s the easiest thing in the fucking world! I love you, Azzi! And I don’t understand why that’s so damn hard for you to accept, to believe me. But you don’t give a fuck so it really doesn’t matter.”

Azzi’s face twisted with something Paige couldn’t figure out—guilt, fear, longing. Maybe all of it.

"I never said I didn’t care."

Paige let out a sharp breath. "You didn’t have to. You shut down. You ran. You left me with nothing, Azzi. I’ve spent the last few weeks trying to give you space, hoping you’d come to me when you were ready. But all I got was silence."

Azzi shook her head, stepping closer. "I didn’t know what to do."

"You didn’t know what to do?!" Paige’s voice cracked, her hands trembling. "How about telling me the fucking truth? How about choosing me?"

Azzi exhaled heavily "I was fucking terrified, okay?"

"Of what?" Paige threw her arms out. "Loving me? Because, newsflash, Azzi, if you really loved me, you wouldn’t have pushed me away the second things got real."

Azzi’s eyes flashed with something desperate and before she could stop herself, the words spilled out of her mouth.

"I do love you Paige."

It came out like a confession, like a plea. Like something she had been trying so damn hard to bury but couldn’t hold back any longer.

Paige stilled. Her breath hitched. Tears welled in her eyes, but she blinked them back, shaking her head. "No, you don’t."

Azzi stepped forward, looking at her like she was everything, like she was terrified to lose her. "Paige—"

Paige turned on her heel, ready to leave, to put as much distance as possible between herself and Azzi before she shattered completely. But Azzi wasn’t letting her go this time.

She grabbed Paige’s wrist again, but this time, she didn’t just hold her back—she pulled her in. Pulled her close, so close that Paige could feel the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the sheer panic radiating off her.

"Paige, please." Azzi’s voice cracked, and something about it—about the way she said her name like it was her last lifeline—made Paige freeze.

Azzi’s hands were trembling as she clutched at Paige’s arms. She wasn’t running now. She wasn’t shutting down. She was unraveling.

"I don’t know how to do this," Azzi admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don’t know how to love you without losing myself."

Paige swallowed hard, her anger slowly being replaced with concern. "Azzi—"

"No, let me say this." Azzi took a deep breath, blinking rapidly, a few tears rolling down her cheek. "I’m always so calculated. So in control. And then you come along, and suddenly I can’t even think straight half the time. You—" she exhaled shakily "—you scare the shit out of me, P."

Paige’s brows pulled together, her heart aching at the vulnerability in Azzi’s voice. "Azzi, I would never hurt you."

Azzi let out a small, breathless laugh, shaking her head. "That’s the problem. You could. You did for a little bit. When I was completely in love with you and I had to be your best friend and listen to you telling me about how you slept with someone else for the first time. That’s when I realized you could break me, Paige. How you could ruin my entire world and that terrifies me more than anything."

Paige’s breath caught.

"I didn’t pull away because I don’t love you," Azzi admitted, her voice trembling. "I pulled away because I love you too much. Because the moment I let myself have you, I knew I’d never want to let you go. I knew I wouldn’t be able to live without you and I didn’t know what to do with that."

Paige felt the last of her anger drain away, leaving only understanding in its place because she had gone through that exact same thing.

Azzi wasn’t scared because she didn’t love her. She was scared because she did.

Deeply. Completely.

Paige reached up, cupping Azzi’s face, her thumb brushing over her cheek. "You don’t have to know what to do. You just gotta trust me Az. Trust that maybe we can figure it out together."

Azzi’s lips parted, her breath shaky, and then she kissed her.

Not out of desperation. Not out of fear. Paige hesitated at first, a split second of uncertainty passing through her, but then she melted into it, her hands sliding around Azzi, squeezing her like she’d never let go. Her entire body was trembling, but not from the usual anger or frustration. This was something else. Something deeper, more vulnerable.

The kiss wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t about passion alone. It was about everything—everything they had been through, everything they wanted to be together. It was everything they’d both been afraid to admit.

When they finally pulled away, both of them breathless, Azzi rested her forehead against Paige’s, closing her eyes for a moment.

"I love you." Azzi whispered it so softly, as if the words had been buried for years, locked away in a place she’d never dared to go. "I’ve always loved you. I’ve loved you since I was 15. I just didn’t know how to say it."

Paige’s breath hitched. She felt a lump in her throat, a quiet sob wanting to escape, but she swallowed it down. She leaned into Azzi, her forehead still against hers, closing her eyes and letting out a shaky exhale. "Then please don’t run this time. Just let me love you, Azzi—because I—I love you so much baby. And I’m sorry I didn’t realize as fast as you did. That I—"

Azzi’s eyes fluttered open, meeting Paige’s she shook her head no slowly, her hands tightening around Paige’s waist. "It doesn’t matter. I promise I’m not going anywhere anymore."

…

It wasn’t the quiet moments that made them realize they were in love.

Not the nights tangled together in bed, whispering into the darkness, even when they weren’t officially anything.

Not the stolen glances or the lingering touches, the warmth of Azzi’s childhood bedroom where they figured themselves out.

Not the laughter, the tenderness, or the countless times they looked at each other like they held the entire world in their hands. When Paige dropped everything to be at Azzi’s side. When they’d wake up early and just smile at one another.

No—those were the moments they fell.

But this—this was when they knew.

It was in the arguments, in the breaking points. In the way their love made them reckless, made them desperate, made them vulnerable in ways they had never been before. It was in the fear, in the unbearable weight of knowing that the other had the power to destroy them completely.

Loving each other was never the risk. Letting themselves be loved back—that was.

But in the end, it was these moments—the raw, painful, necessary ones—that led them home to each other. That made it possible for them to be steady and completely content in one another when the attention started flying their way as they grew up.

[stelly38]

YES! Yes, yes, yes, a hundred times yes. I have to add that I think EFT is both created and exacerbated by automation—the use of computers and internet in these functions. (I’m referring mostly to the first example in her essay, paying an insurance company, and similar things—making appointments, contacting doctors, etc.). Remember how computerization was supposed to make everything easier, seamless, better? Remember? I certainly do, because I’m old enough to have participated in society as an adult before mass computerization and automation. Meaning, I used things like cash and I wrote checks and I put bills in the mail. With a stamp. My point is, when tasks like the ones described in the essay are foisted off onto automated systems, everyone assumes that the thing has been taken care of, or addressed, either by another person, or by “the system,” when it most likely has NOT. So then the responsibility falls to the patient or customer, and, in the case of patients, who are sometimes physically or mentally ill, it is utterly exhausting and soul crushing to have to prove your case again and again; to have to repeat tasks in the hope that this time it will be right!

Another example I can think of is this: even when you go to the doctor that you’ve been seeing for years for something non-routine, you have to fill out a bunch of paperwork while in the waiting room, one page of which is your entire medical history (which they already have because you’ve been a patient for YEARS), as well as the reason for your current visit. Then you go in the exam room and a nurse asks why you’re in today. Didn’t they read the medical autobiography you just wrote? No? Oh, right, because it’s ALREADY IN YOUR INTERNET PORTAL, which the nurse also didn’t bother to read. So you tell them the reason. Ok, great. Doc will be in shortly. Doctor comes in. “What brings you in today?” they ask. And you do the dance all over again for the third fucking time in thirty minutes. But nobody fucking looks at your chart in the portal or on paper. Back when paper charts were the only medical records, people USED them, because there weren’t multiple options.

Long kvetch shortened: internet/computerized automation has NOT made our lives easier. If anything, it’s just another, more expensive level of complexity to navigate. And it has led to, and creates, Executive Function Theft. It’s self perpetuating.

End rant.

I think this is just a trend everywhere but I've been very frustrated this week by how much admin work is being outsourced to me as the patient/customer.

My orthodontist tells me I can make an appointment with the surgeon. I call the surgeon. They tell me I need a new referral. I call the orthodontist. They do a referral. I call the surgeon. Referral didn't come through. They tell me about their special unique system we have to use. I call the ortho again and walk them through the referral. I call the surgeon. They say the referral was missing some details so they have to do it again. I call the ortho.

The insurance company calls me about repair shops. I give them the name of the repair shop which I already gave them yesterday. They say they're not in their system but I can use them, but I have to call the repair shop to ask them to contact the insurance company. I call the repair shop and they say the insurance company is supposed to email them.

I feel like at a certain point these constant fetch quests become unreasonable?? Is it too much to expect these groups to communicate with each other instead of making me run back and forth between them???

[ari-ana-bel-la]

OMG you're writing is actually so good, you're fics are the absolute. cutest

Could I please request more protective dad charles, maybe with teen daughter reader who is growing more independent and Charles is both proud and sad that his little girl is growing up and wants to spend even more time with her. I feel like clingy and protective dad charles would be cute but funny as the same time

His strong, independent girl

The first time Charles held Yn in his arms, he knew—without question—that nothing in the world would ever matter more to him than his daughter. Not his career, not the roar of the engines, not even the red car he had once thought was the love of his life. Yn was his heart walking outside his body, and from the moment she came into the world, she held that heart in the palm of her tiny hand.

It hadn’t changed over the years. Not when she took her first steps, not when she lost her first tooth, and certainly not now that she was eighteen and full of bright-eyed independence. If anything, Charles only loved her more fiercely. But with that love came a deep, gnawing ache—an ache he felt every time she left the apartment with her friends, laughing as she tossed a quick “Bye, Papa!” over her shoulder. She was growing up, slipping through his fingers faster than he could hold on. And while he was so proud of her, the thought of his little girl no longer needing him twisted something tight in his chest.

So when Yn asked him to teach her how to drive, Charles didn’t hesitate. If this was how he could hold onto her a little longer—by guiding her hands on the wheel, by being the one she turned to when she wanted to learn—then he would gladly give her everything he knew.

And if he happened to use his favorite car for the lesson? Well, she deserved nothing but the best.

---

"Are you serious?" Yn’s voice was filled with disbelief as she stood in front of the sleek Ferrari Pista Spider, its back paint gleaming under the warm afternoon sun. "You're letting me drive this?"

Charles leaned casually against the hood, arms crossed as he grinned at her. "What? You didn’t think I was going to teach you in some boring car, did you?"

Her green eyes widened as she shook her head. "I thought you’d make me learn in the Volvo or something!"

He laughed softly, pushing off the car to open the driver’s side door. "Please, ma chérie, you’re my daughter. You should learn how to drive properly. And that means driving the best."

Yn rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed how excited she was. "I’m not going to crash it, I promise."

"I know you won’t." He said it with such quiet confidence that it warmed her heart. No matter how much of a perfectionist he could be with himself, when it came to her, he always believed she could do anything. "Come on, get in."

She slid into the driver’s seat, her hands gripping the leather steering wheel as Charles moved around to the passenger side. When he sat down, the familiar scent of his cologne and the faint aroma of the car’s interior wrapped around her.

"Alright," he said, his tone soft and patient, "first things first—adjust your seat. You need to be close enough to the pedals but not too close that you feel cramped."

Yn wriggled forward slightly, testing the pedals under her sneakers. "Like this?"

"Perfect," he praised, reaching over to tap the steering wheel. "And your hands—ten and two. Seatbelt. Always. This isn’t a video game."

She laughed under her breath but did as he instructed. "Okay. What next?"

Charles leaned back in his seat, watching her with a mixture of pride and something softer—something that made his heart ache. "Put your foot on the brake. Then press the ignition."

Yn followed his instructions, but as soon as she pressed the button, the engine let out a sharp, sputtering noise before falling silent. She froze, a flash of panic crossing her face.

"I broke it," she blurted.

Charles chuckled, the sound warm and reassuring. "You didn’t break anything, ma chérie. It’s fine." He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Take a breath. Try again."

She did, exhaling slowly before pressing the button once more. This time, the engine purred to life beneath them, smooth and powerful. Yn’s face lit up with excitement.

"There you go," Charles murmured, his voice filled with quiet pride. "See? You’ve got this."

And from there, he guided her through the basics with endless patience. Steering, braking, accelerating—every movement was accompanied by his calm instructions, his voice as steady as if they were simply sitting at the kitchen table rather than in a car worth more than most people’s houses.

When she pressed the accelerator too gently and the car barely rolled forward, he bit back a smile. When she jerked a little too hard while turning, he only said, "You’re doing great—just ease into it."

And when Yn got a little too confident and sped up along the empty road, Charles didn’t scold her. No—he laughed softly to himself, thinking that it wasn’t her fault everyone else drove too slowly.

---

After an hour, Yn had the hang of it. Her hands moved smoothly on the wheel, and her confidence grew with every turn. Charles couldn’t stop watching her, pride swelling in his chest at how quickly she was picking everything up. But beneath that pride was a pang of something bittersweet—because every mile she drove was another step toward a world where she didn’t need him to guide her anymore.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, Charles finally directed her back toward their apartment. When she eased the car perfectly into a parking spot, he let out a long breath and smiled.

"You did it," he said, his voice soft with wonder. "You’re a natural, Yn."

She turned to him, her smile radiant. "I had the best teacher."

He laughed, but when he looked at her—really looked at her—he felt a lump form in his throat. When had she grown up like this? When had his little girl become this smart, capable young woman who didn’t need her father to hold her hand at every step?

Before he could sink too deeply into those thoughts, Yn threw open her door and rushed around to his side. Without warning, she flung her arms around him, holding him tight.

"Thank you," she whispered against his chest. "For everything, Papa."

Charles’ breath caught, and he held her just as tightly, his arms wrapping around her as if he could shield her from the entire world. His hand cradled the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair as he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"Je t’aime, ma chérie," he murmured. "More than anything."

---

Later that night, when they returned to the apartment, Alexandra was sitting on the couch, flipping through a magazine. She glanced up as they walked in, raising an eyebrow at the wide smile on Charles’ face.

"So," she drawled, "how did it go? Is our car still in one piece?"

Charles scoffed, dropping onto the couch beside her. "Our car? Please. That car is practically Yn’s now. And she’s a genius. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone learn that fast."

Yn, who was grabbing a bottle of water from the kitchen, laughed softly. "You’re exaggerating, Papa."

"I’m not!" Charles insisted, turning to Alexandra with an earnest expression. "She’s incredible. So smooth on the wheel, completely calm—"

"You’re ridiculous," Alexandra teased, though her smile softened as she watched the way Charles practically glowed with pride.

"I’m right," he shot back. Then, his expression softened as he glanced toward the kitchen where Yn stood. "She’s amazing," he repeated quietly. "And I’m so proud of her."

And in that moment, Charles knew—no matter how fast time moved, no matter how independent Yn became—he would always be her biggest supporter. Because she wasn’t just his daughter.

She was his heart.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed this story. My requests are always open for you.

-💙🦋

[delilahsturniolo]

— ୨୧ better than me, huh? . . . c.s

in which . . . chris makes you admit and shows you that he’s the only one who can make you feel good.

warnings . . . smutttt, fwb!chris, use of pet names, fingering, oral, (fem!recieving) kissing, degradation, teasing, dom!chris.

written by @delilahsturniolo. do not copy, steal, or modify my works. if you are taking any inspiration from this, please ask me first before posting and credit me in your description. happy reading! :)

★ chris’s lips crashed against yours abruptly, with desperation, with need. he hovered over you as you laid on your back, the two of you passionately making out on his own bed. chris’s lips muffled your soft whines and moans. “tell me bout’ them other guys, mama.” chris murmured against your lips, his tongue swiping across your bottom lip. his grip on your waist tightened, almost painfully. the kiss was anything but gentle, it was as if he was trying to claim you again.

“tell me, what did they do to you? what did they do that i can’t, hm?” chris teased, his hands roaming your body as his lips began trailing down your body. you just wanted to piss him off for fun. “they were better than you.” you spoke, your voice defiant but also a tiny bit shaky. you saw a flash of jealousy, and even anger in chris’s blue eyes. “oh yeah? better than me, huh? what was so good about hookin’ up with other guys? what’d they do?” chris’s hand palmed your drenched panties, making you squirm with need.

you and chris didn’t have an established relationship, you were just friends who…fucked on the side, and kept everything on the low. you went out to parties, getting with other guys to help you try and forget about chris, to help you get over him and move on. but nothing fucking worked, of course. no one made you feel the way chris did. he knew all your sensitive parts, where and how to touch you, what really turned you on. no one else could do that but chris. and right now, he needed to prove that to you.

“they—mmmh—“ you couldn’t even answer because of how much he was absolutely teasing you, it was tearing you apart. but fuck, he felt so good. you needed him so badly, you just refused to admit that to him. “mm..you ain’t answerin’ me mama.” chris whispered darkly, slowly peeling your laced panties off of you. chris’s thumb pressed against your aroused clit, rubbing tight circles. you moaned in response, a gasp escaping your parted lips. “did they touch you like this, hm?” chris teased, sliding a finger between your folds, his finger playing with your wetness.

“look at you.” chris scoffed. “already so worked up? it’s embarrassing, really.” chris rolled his eyes, sliding another finger into you and beginning to pump both of them in and out of you, his hand immediately went over to your mouth as your moans became louder, more desperate. “y’gonna stop lyin’ to me yet? or am i gonna have to shut you up myself, hm?” chris pulled his fingers out of you, sucking them clean with a loud pop in his mouth. he parted your legs again as you attempted to close them. “fuck…i’m not lying!” you said as chris removed his hand from your mouth.

“yeah? bet you were thinkin’ bout me when those other stupid guys fucked ya, bet you almost moaned my name, didn’t you mama?” chris’s eyes were filled with desire, and his voice was soft with mockery. you couldn’t even admit it, because you knew he was right, you were thinking about him the entire time, it was hard to forget about him. “p—please..” you moaned in desperation. suddenly, chris leaned down, his head in between your legs as his tongue flicked on your clit. you gasped, hearing chris’s muffled voice in between your thighs.

“please what ma? you gonna admit this pussy is mine? that i’m the only one that can make you feel this good? I ain’t givin’ you what you want until you admit it. i got ways to make you talk.” chris kissed your inner thighs, still teasing you. he really wasn’t gonna let you behavior slide. “tell me, cmon…who’s pussy is this?” chris taunted, kissing your swollen clit, making your breath hitch. “y—yours..all yours..” you spoke shakily, chris smirking with satisfaction as you confessed this.

chris flipped you over in one effortless motion, your ass was facing toward him, your head burying in the pillow as he fiddled with his belt, removing his boxers to expose his hard length. his hand went onto your lower back, causing you to arch as he lined his cock up with your entrance. with absolutely no warning, chris slammed into you mercilessly, his hand coming up to the back of your head, pushing it down into the pillos, but not too hard, just to muffle your screams of pleasure.

“mmm, you like that huh? naughty fuckin’ girl…thinkin’ you can go around…messin’ with other guys to try and forget about me? it’s jus’ not possible.” chris thrusted into you, each time going deeper and deeper. “shit—oh my god… chris..” you moaned, turning your head to the side so your face wasn’t directly in the pillow. “yeah? close?” chris asked, knowing damn well you were falling apart. “mhmm..” you whined in response. chris groaned, your pussy felt so fucking good around him, he could do this forever.

“chris…gonna cum…” your mouth remained slightly ajar, chris continued pounding into you, feeling himself getting close as well. “cum f’me love.” chris whispered, leaning down to kiss your lower back. you immediately released upon those words, triggering chris’s release as well. chris pulled out of you, grabbing your waist and turning you over on your back again, looking down at your fucked out expression as he kneeled in between your legs.

“s’pretty like this..” chris mumbled, his hands going on either sides of your head on the sheets trapping you in as his lips delicately pressed against yours once more, silencing your soft whines. his tongue slid into your mouth as your hand tangled up into his hair, trying to taste every bit of him, chris’s hips slightly grinded against you as the both of you made out. chris had to make sure you knew that he was all yours, and you were all his

and chris was absolutely right, no one could make you fall apart the way he did.

© delilahsturniolo do not copy, re use, or modify any of my works.

taglist

[hrtwayne]

Take my Breath Away || Alexia Putellas [Part One]

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x Physiotherapist!Reader

Summary: Where the girl Alexia kissed at a bar ends up being hired as the new physiotherapist for the Barcelona team.

Note: English is not my first language.

Warning: None, except for the two being completely oblivious!

Next Chapter | Women's Football Masterlist

The night before, Y/n had gone out to celebrate her new job with some friends at one of London's trendiest bars. Amid laughter and conversation, the light and relaxed atmosphere allowed her to let loose, at least for a few hours, from the pressure she felt after securing a contract with a Spanish team after years of working in English football. The night took an unexpected turn, and under soft lights and loud music, Y/n found herself sharing a kiss with a woman with blonde hair and a captivating smile.

The next morning, the headache from the celebration's excesses throbbed intensely, and Y/n struggled to recall the details of the previous night. She blinked, still feeling dazed, until the image of the woman she had met the night before, with her blonde locks and mesmerizing gaze, returned to her mind.

"Damn," she muttered to herself as she sat up in bed, the fragments of memory starting to piece together. "Did I get her number?"

She wasn't sure, but she wasn't the type to let herself be distracted by such things, at least not for long.With her mind scattered, at 8:15 a.m., Y/n entered the Barcelona Training Center. Although she was familiar with the environment, having worked in similar centers before, there was something different this time, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. Perhaps it was the weight of being back in Barcelona or the new challenge that awaited her.

As she crossed the main entrance, her eyes narrowed, taking in every detail of the place with the familiarity of someone who knew it well but the seriousness of someone who wanted to do everything perfectly. With her hands in her jacket pockets, she remained focused until she was approached by a man with a firm posture and a warm smile.

"Pleasure to meet you, Doctor. I'm Pere Romeu, the coach of the women's team," he said, extending his hand in greeting.

"Pleasure," Y/n smiled back, shaking his hand confidently.

Let's go, I'll introduce you to the players," the coach guided her through the center's corridors to a gym where the players were training intensely. "Ladies, take a break, please."

The athletes paused their activities and turned to Y/n and the coach. The physiotherapist, maintaining her professional demeanor, began to analyze them one by one, recognizing movements, observing postures, and identifying potential points of concern. However, what she didn't expect was to see, among them, the same blonde woman from the previous night. The shock was instant.

The woman, Alexia, stood still, her eyes wide in surprise as she recognized Y/n. A brief moment of tension filled the air, but it was quickly masked when Y/n bit her lip, hiding her nervousness before formally introducing herself.

"It's a pleasure, ladies. My name is Y/n, and I'll be your new physiotherapist," she said, approaching and shaking each of their hands firmly.

Alexia, who had been quiet until then, flashed a shy and charming smile at Y/n, still trying to process the coincidence. The two, visibly uncomfortable, tried to hide the tension, but it didn't go unnoticed by their teammates.

Ona, with her typical humor, shot a teasing look at Alexia as soon as Y/n and Romeu walked away to talk.

"Now I understand why you wanted to get her number last night," Ona commented with a mischievous smile.

Alexia, awkwardly, muttered something inaudible as she felt her face flush. She knew it would be hard to keep that secret with her friends around, especially with Ona and the other girls always paying attention.

"Don't you dare say anything!" Alexia grumbled, trying to avoid further teasing, but it was obvious the situation was far from going unnoticed.

Y/n, on the other hand, tried to stay focused on her conversation with the coach, though the image of Alexia and what had happened the night before was becoming clearer in her mind. She would have to figure out how to handle this coincidence and, more importantly, how to work alongside the woman who, without realizing it, was already stirring her emotions.

At the end of the day, when most of the players were already leaving training, Alexia told her friends she needed to stay a bit longer for a medical evaluation. The discomfort in her left knee, the same one that had suffered previous injuries and surgeries, was bothering her, and Coach Pere Romeu had recommended that Y/n take a careful look.

Alexia walked through the quiet corridors of the training center to the medical wing. The place was almost empty, the sound of the captain's footsteps echoing softly. When she reached the office door, she knocked lightly and waited for a response. A muffled sound of approval came from inside, and Alexia entered.

"Are you about to leave?" Alexia asked, her hands in her jacket pockets, as she saw Y/n sitting at the desk, focused on some papers.

Y/n, distracted by the paperwork, looked up at the familiar voice. Her eyes met Alexia's, and she took a deep breath, struggling to maintain her professional composure.

"Did something happen?" she inquired, trying to hide the concern she felt. The tension between them was still palpable, but Y/n knew she needed to focus on her work.

"I felt some discomfort in my left knee during training, and the coach asked you to take a look," Alexia replied, trying to mask her growing anxiety. She couldn't believe she was in the same room, alone, with the woman she had kissed the night before.

The previous night had been a whirlwind of emotions, and now, face-to-face with the physiotherapist responsible for her physical well-being, Alexia felt the thin line between personal and professional life being tested.

"Alright. Sit on that examination table, please," Y/n instructed, standing up from her chair. "I want to make sure it's nothing serious. The coach told me about your ACL injury, so I'll check to see if there's any connection."

Alexia did as she was told, sitting on the table as Y/n approached. The physiotherapist began to examine her left knee with skilled and gentle hands, pressing lightly on critical areas. Alexia let out a soft curse as the pain intensified in one specific spot.

"I want to make sure you're in condition to play the next game. If you feel any major discomfort, let me know immediately, okay?" Y/n said, massaging the captain's knee lightly. Her touch eased the pain, and Alexia took a deep breath, closing her eyes momentarily.

The warmth of Y/n's touch was comforting, but it also stirred something in Alexia. She hated to admit that this closeness was affecting her. The memory of the previous night was still fresh, and now, with the physiotherapist so close, Alexia's emotions were in turmoil.

"Is there something you want to say, Captain?" Y/n asked, sensing the tension in the air as she pressed gently on another area of the knee.

Alexia hesitated, her heart racing. She knew exactly what she wanted to say, but this wasn't the time or place.

"I don't think it's something I should mix with work, Doctor," Alexia replied, trying to keep her tone professional, even though she was conflicted inside.

Y/n, however, didn't seem willing to completely ignore what had happened between them. Without losing her composure, she replied with a subtle tease:

"That's exactly why you should have left me your number, Putellas."

Alexia felt her face flush, averting her gaze to avoid direct eye contact. Y/n's comment, delivered in a low and calm tone, hit her hard. The physiotherapist's sweet perfume filled the space between them, bringing back memories of the previous night.

Without prolonging the tension, Y/n stepped back, grabbing a pen from her lab coat pocket. With quick movements, she turned to the desk and wrote something on a small post-it note. Then, she handed the note to Alexia, who looked at it curiously.

"You have my number now. You know you can call me if you need to," Y/n said with a small smile, placing the note in Alexia's hand.

Alexia, unsure how to react, tucked the post-it into her jacket pocket and nodded without saying a word. Her heart still racing and her mind in overdrive, she knew this interaction was just the beginning of something much more complicated.

[deepdreamnights]

Time to offer an actual breakdown of what's going on here for those who are are anti or disinterested in AI, and aren't familiar with how they work, because the replies are filled with discussions on how this is somehow a down-step in the engine or that this is a sign of model collapse.

And the situation is, as always, not so simple.

Different versions of the same generator always prompt differently. This has nothing to do with their specific capabilities, and everything to do with the way the technology works. New dataset means new weights, and as the text parser AI improves (and with it prompt understanding) you will get wildly different results from the same prompt.

The screencap was in .webp (ew) so I had to download it for my old man eyes to zoom in close enough to see the prompt, which is:

An expressive oil painting of a chocolate chip cookie being dipped in a glass of milk, represented as an explosion of flavors.

Now, the first thing we do when people make a claim about prompting, is we try it ourselves, so here's what I got with the most basic version of dall-e 3, the one I can access free thru bing:

Huh, that's weird. Minus a problem with the rim of the glass melting a bit, this certainly seems to be much more painterly than the example for #3 shown, and seems to be a wildly different style.

The other three generated with that prompt are closer to what the initial post shows, only with much more stability about the glass. See, most AI generators generate results in sets, usually four, and, as always:

Everything you see AI-wise online is curated, both positive and negative.*

You have no idea how many times the OP ran each prompt before getting the samples they used.

Earlier I had mentioned that the text parser improvements are an influence here, and here's why-

The original prompt reads:

An expressive oil painting of a chocolate chip cookie being dipped in a glass of milk, represented as an explosion of flavors.

V2 (at least in the sample) seems to have emphasized the bolded section, and seems to have interpreted "expressive" as "expressionist"

On the left, Dall-E2's cookie, on the right, Emil Nolde, Autumn Sea XII (Blue Water, Orange Clouds), 1910. Oil on canvas.

Expressionism being a specific school of art most people know from artists like Evard Munch. But "expressive" does not mean "expressionist" in art, there's lots of art that's very expressive but is not expressionist.

V3 still makes this error, but less so, because it's understanding of English is better.

V3 seems to have focused more on the section of the prompt I underlined, attempting to represent an explosion of flavors, and that language is going to point it toward advertising aesthetics because that's where the term 'explosion of flavor' is going to come up the most.

And because sex and food use the same advertising techniques, and are used as visual metaphors for one another, there's bound to be crossover.

But when we update the prompt to ask specifically for something more like the v2 image, things change fast:

An oil painting in the expressionist style of a chocolate chip cookie being dipped in a glass of milk, represented as an explosion of flavors, impasto, impressionism, detail from a larger work, amateur

We've moved the most important part (oil painting) to the front, put that it is in an expressionist style, added 'impasto' to tell it we want visible brush strokes, I added impressionism because the original gen had some picassoish touches and there's a lot of blurring between impressionism and expressionism, and then added "detail from a larger work" so it would be of a similar zoom-in quality, and 'amateur' because the original had a sort of rough learners' vibe.

Shown here with all four gens for full disclosure.

Boy howdy, that's a lot closer to the original image. Still higher detail, stronger light/dark balance, better textbook composition, and a much stronger attempt to look like an oil painting.

TL:DR The robot got smarter and stopped mistaking adjectives for art styles.

Also, this is just Dall-E 3, and Dall-E is not a measure for what AI image generators are capable of.

I've made this point before in this thread about actual AI workflows, and in many, many other places, but OpenAI makes tech demos, not products. They have powerful datasets because they have a lot of investor money and can train by raw brute force, but they don't really make any efforts to turn those demos into useful programs.

Midjourney and other services staying afloat on actual user subscriptions, on the other hand, may not have as powerful of a core dataset, but you can do a lot more with it because they have tools and workflows for those applications.

The "AI look" is really just the "basic settings" look.

It exists because of user image rating feedback that's used to refine the model. It tends to emphasize a strong light/dark contrast, shininess, and gloss, because those are appealing to a wide swath of users who just want to play with the fancy etch-a-sketch and make some pretty pictures.

Thing is, it's a numerical setting, one you can adjust on any generator worth its salt. And you can get out of it with prompting and with a half dozen style reference and personalization options the other generators have come up with.

As a demonstration, I set midjourney's --s (style) setting to 25 (which is my favored "what I ask for but not too unstable" preferred level when I'm not using moodboards or my personalization profile) and ran the original prompt:

3/4 are believably paintings at first glance, albeit a highly detailed one on #4, and any one could be iterated or inpainted to get even more painterly, something MJ's upscaler can also add in its 'creative' setting.

And with the revised prompt:

Couple of double cookies, but nothing remotely similar to what the original screencap showed for DE3.

*Unless you're looking at both the prompt and raw output.

original character designs vs sakimichan fanart

[00valentina-writes00]

Mmmh, I’m still sick but I needed to get this idea out into the world :> (plus I feel kinda bad for being dead)

♡♥︎ Warm Mornings ♥︎♡

Warnings: soft domestic fluff, reader speaks in broken English, lots of touching and affection, implied nudity but nothing explicit, Abby being the big spoon and a gentle softie.

The first thing you feel is warmth.

Heavy, steady, all-encompassing warmth, wrapping you up and holding you close. The room is cold, the early morning chill creeping through the cracks of the base, but Abby is a furnace against you, her bare skin pressed to yours beneath the tangle of thin blankets. Her breath is slow and even, brushing against the top of your head with each exhale, her strong arms locked around your middle, keeping you pinned to her chest.

You don’t move yet. You like this. You like the way she’s curled around you, how her hand is splayed over your stomach, fingers twitching slightly in her sleep. You like the weight of her, the heat of her, the way she smells—like pine, sweat, and something unmistakably Abby. Safe.

A deep sigh rumbles from her chest as she stirs, her grip tightening for a second before loosening again. You shift a little, tilting your head up to look at her, your cheek pressing into the swell of her chest.

She’s beautiful like this, in the soft, gray morning light. Her dirty blonde hair is loose, messy from sleep, strands sticking to her forehead. Her lips are parted slightly, her breathing deep and relaxed, and her freckles—oh, you love her freckles—are scattered across her cheeks and nose, standing out against her sun-kissed skin.

You reach up, tracing a fingertip over her shoulder, feeling the raised lines of old scars and muscle beneath your touch. She makes a small noise, something between a grunt and a hum, her brows furrowing slightly.

Then, her voice, rough and thick with sleep—

“Mm… you awake?”

You smile a little, curling closer. “Mmh.”

Her arms flex around you, pulling you in until your face is fully buried in her chest, and you laugh softly against her skin.

“Too warm,” you murmur, though you make no effort to move away.

“Yeah?” She shifts, rolling onto her back and taking you with her so you’re draped half on top of her, her hands smoothing up and down your back. “Better?”

You shake your head. “No.”

Her chuckle is deep, vibrating beneath you. One of her hands moves up, fingers threading into your hair, scratching lightly at your scalp. It feels nice, makes your eyes flutter shut.

“Stay like this,” you mumble against her collarbone, pressing a soft kiss there. “Good here.”

She lets out a soft breath, her other hand trailing down to rest on your hip. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “Good here.”

For a while, neither of you speak. The quiet is comfortable, filled only with the distant sounds of the base waking up—muffled voices, footsteps, the clang of metal. But it feels far away, separate from this little pocket of warmth and safety.

You shift slightly, pressing another kiss to her chest, right over her heart. “Dream?”

“Hm?”

“You dream?”

She hums, fingers still moving lazily through your hair. “Not really. Just… this. You.”

You blink up at her, tilting your head. “Me?”

“Yeah.” Her lips twitch into a small smile. “You’re in my dreams all the time.”

Your face warms, and you huff softly, tucking your face back against her skin. “Flirt.”

She chuckles again, her arms wrapping around you fully, squeezing you just a little. “Just saying the truth.”

You lay there like that, tangled together in the quiet of the morning, her hands moving slowly over your back, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on her skin.

After a while, she shifts, turning slightly so she can press a kiss to your forehead. “You hungry?”

You make a noise of protest, clinging to her. “No move.”

She laughs, deep and warm. “Babe, we gotta eat.”

You shake your head. “Later.”

She sighs, but she doesn’t argue. Just pulls you in tighter, lips brushing against your temple.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “Later.”