#this is the best thing I have been told for a while

[foldingfittedsheets]

Today at work a little crow fledgling was just having the worst damn day. The little goober kept trying to shove its way into the door and screaming at its reflection while I was helping a lady look at a bed.

I pointed it out to her and together we regarded the infant screaming.

After she left my coworker came up and informed me there was a bird on her car. I went out to look and lo, the fledgling had scrambled up onto her windshield and was pecking forlornly at its reflection.

It stayed perched there in the hot sun, trying to move higher up the car with no success but too scared to fly down. She was agitated that it was on her car since she didn’t know if it would leave on its own.

“It’s a baby,” I told her, “It’s still learning how to fly.”

“That’s a baby?! It’s so big!”

“Yeah, it’s just a little guy.”

I went out to investigate. The parents began screaming and swooping. I placated them with crackers which they accepted without relenting their screaming. My coworker said she could now see that the creature on her car was indeed a baby with the sleek black parents swooshing angrily around in the air.

We regarded the baby together. After a while I started noticing it was showing signs of fatigue and distress. Mouth gaping but not begging for food, wings drooping. I went back out to check on it.

I was debating moving the baby; the day kept getting hotter and it didn’t have the energy or skill to relocate itself. My coworker also wanted the bird to stop pooping on her car. So eventually I announced, “I’m gonna move the bird.”

“Your gonna grab it? Aren’t you scared?”

I looked at her in bafflement. I grew up around every imaginable kind of fowl. The only bird I’d be scared of would be some of the big flightless ones. Even geese/swans are manageable if you just grab their necks before they really get flapping. The parents were not gonna go for my eyes like magpies and in general crows tend to recognize when you’re trying to help. “It’s just a little baby guy. It’s fine.”

I approached the baby amidst its parents shrieking crow obscenities down upon me. I scooped it gently like the burger.

I cannot begin to convey how soft that baby crow felt. It was the downiest most pleasant tactile thing that I’ve maybe ever held and the experience was only slightly marred by the goober trying ineffectually to bite me. It was stymied by the fact that it ain’t my first rodeo.

I brought it ten feet away to a nice shady tree. I held the baby gently so it could get its feet under it on the branch. It seemed a bit confused at this point but eventually gripped the branch and I stepped back and threw peanuts in self defense while the angry parents swooped showily around at me.

It stayed there pretty much the rest of the day. Its parents both checked in to make sure I hadn’t murdered it then flew back to where we could see a nest. So best theory is that this dingus was the first to start fledging and couldn’t actually return to the nest after launching.

I told my wife afterward and they went, “You. You touched the bird?!” My coworkers husband was also flabbergasted that I’d been brave enough to grab it. My coworker said she was just gonna shove it off her car with a broom.

As if they didn’t know who they married. As if I am not someone who would confidently help a stray cat or wrangle a chicken.

I informed them that barring gloves I had thoroughly washed my hands twice and it was worth it to get the silly infant off a slippery car and into the shade.

[wbbfannnnnn13]

Motion Sick // Chapter 13

A/N: So this was crazy, didn't realize i wrote this much, but here we are... so enjoy!! i did a quick read through and didn't see any errors, but i did write this over like 3 days, some of which was written very deliriously so idk let me know if you see anything. appreciate you reading and reacting 💕

WC: 12K+

Warnings: explicit sexy things, Minors DNI

**** Chapter 13 ****

The second week of waiting didn’t feel easier. Just… managed.

Lexi was still in Hawaii, posting golden hour sunsets and snapchats of poolside smoothies like it was the best week of her life. Smiles in every photo. Inside jokes in every caption. The kind of trip where everyone comes back with matching anklets and a stronger group chat.

Azzi double-tapped a few out of instinct, but even that was starting to feel performative. She wasn’t waiting on texts anymore. Didn’t really notice the gaps between them until they were pointed out by the timestamp. And when Lexi did send something—some blurry selfie or beach emoji—Azzi would stare at it for a few seconds too long before swiping it away without answering.

It wasn’t just distance. She was pulling back. Slowly. Quietly. Letting the space stretch a little further every day. And Lexi didn’t seem to notice—or maybe she just wasn’t reaching to close it.

Different time zone. Different team. Different rhythm.

A different life.

Maybe that was unfair. Maybe not.

They hadn’t really defined anything. Not officially. Not out loud. It was still new. Still loose. But Azzi couldn’t help noticing the way she’d started hesitating before answering Lexi’s texts. How her stomach didn’t flip anymore when her name lit up the screen. How easy it was to let hours—sometimes days—go by before she responded to a simple “miss u.”

And the truth was—she didn’t miss her. Not even a little. Not in the way she knew she should. Not in the way that counted.

She felt a little guilty about that. Like she was failing some unspoken test of what it meant to be good at relationships. Lexi had been kind. Supportive. Safe. She deserved more than silence on the other end of a text thread. More than someone who felt herself slipping away and didn’t try all that hard to stop it.

But Azzi couldn’t fake missing someone she didn’t think about when they weren’t right in front of her.

Azzi could go hours without thinking about Lexi. Maybe even days—if Lexi didn’t keep snap-streaking her smoothies like it was a contractual obligation.

She couldn’t make it through a single minute without Paige slipping into the corners of her mind, soft and stubborn, like a song she never meant to memorize.

So she stayed busy instead. Tried to keep her head down and her hands full. Morning lifts. Rehab. Practice. Film. Sleep.

Repeat.

She told herself if she could just keep moving, she wouldn’t have time to unravel.

Azzi was cleared for full practice, which helped. She had a schedule again. A rhythm. Early lifts, afternoon film, full-contact reps. Enough to sweat out some of the chaos still simmering beneath her skin. Enough to keep her from crawling out of hers every time Paige looked at her like that.

The season hadn’t exactly been smooth. Her injury had come at the worst time—just as conference play was heating up. They’d managed a couple solid wins without her, sure. Pulled it together when it counted. But the rhythm was off. The energy. Everyone felt it.

The other girls had stepped up in ways that made Azzi’s chest ache. But the truth was, they needed more than that. They needed Azzi.

And Azzi—God—she needed to be needed. To get back on the court and do something other than watch. Other than feel.

The structure gave her something to grip—like handrails on a staircase that still felt too steep. Something to hold onto while everything underneath stayed unstable. But the second she wasn’t actively busy, the second her body stilled and her mind had room to wander, it always drifted back to the same place.

To Paige. Because Paige was everywhere.

In the locker room, Paige kept stealing her Biofreeze like it was a bit they were both in on. Like she didn’t already have her own. Like using Azzi’s somehow made it hotter.

It started innocently enough. Paige would uncap the tube and squeeze some into her palm, rolling up the leg of her shorts to rub it into her knee, slow and deliberate. Head tilted. Eyes locked on Azzi like she was waiting to be caught.

She never rushed it. Always the same rhythm—long, slow circles, thumbs pressing into the muscle like she was trying to prove something. Like she knew Azzi was watching and wanted to make it worse. Paige would sit on the bench across from her, legs spread, smirking, smug, and infuriatingly pretty. Hair half-damp. Skin flushed from practice. Biting her lip like it was a reflex.

And then—of course—she’d turn the attention to Azzi.

"You want some?" she’d ask, already walking over.

Already behind her.

No room to say no.

Azzi would feel the cool weight of Paige’s hands on her shoulders before she could brace for it. Paige would rub the Biofreeze in like it was foreplay—palms broad, strokes slow. Her knuckles would graze just below Azzi’s collarbone, dangerously close to everything off-limits. Fingers drifting, pressing, dragging like she was sculpting tension out of skin.

Azzi would stiffen. Every time. Breathe through her nose and focus on a scuff mark on the floor like it might anchor her to reality.

This was a training room. With people. Coaches. Consequences. And yet.

She’d feel Paige’s breath at her ear—warm, barely there—and she’d want to lean back into it. Just for a second. Just to see what would happen.

Paige would always finish it the same way: a quick squeeze at the base of her neck and a murmured, “You good?”

And Azzi—still recovering, still furious, still not breathing right—would mutter something like “Fine,” when what she meant was I hate you or please do that again.

She never said it out loud. But Paige always walked away smiling like she’d heard it anyway.

In the gym, she was even worse.

Injured and bored was apparently Paige’s personal brand of menace, because instead of focusing on her own rehab, she hovered. Circled Azzi like it was a game. A routine. A ritual they weren’t allowed to talk about.

Spotting her during lifts even when she didn’t need one. Pretending to check her form, fingers slipping just under the hem of Azzi’s shorts to “adjust” the resistance bands on her hips. Dropping to her knees like it was normal—like it didn’t make Azzi forget how to stand upright.

The mirrors made it worse. Unforgiving. Honest.

Paige, kneeling behind her. Hands on her thighs. Looking up like she was about to pray.

Azzi had to fake a quad cramp once just to walk it off.

And Paige would just hand her a water bottle after like none of it had happened. All casual. All composed.

“Here you go, princess,” she’d say with a smirk that should’ve been illegal. “Don’t say I never take care of you.”

Azzi would shove her, weakly. Or blush. Usually both. And Paige would walk away with her towel slung over one shoulder, already biting back a laugh.

She was so annoying.

So smug. So obvious. So goddamn hot.

And the worst part?

Azzi liked it.

She liked the attention. The teasing. The way Paige was flirting without ever technically crossing a line. Like she was daring Azzi to be the one who broke first.

And every time, Azzi got a little closer to doing it. To crossing that line. To turning around mid-lift and grabbing Paige by the collar just to see what would happen.

She didn’t, of course.

But she thought about it. More than she wanted to admit. Enough that ignoring it started to feel like lying.

And Azzi—fully aware that she was spiraling—started pushing back.

She wore shorter shorts. Took her time stretching, especially when Paige was around—slow, deliberate movements that made eye contact feel dangerous. Sat next to her at team dinners and let her leg rest against Paige’s under the table, warm and unmoving. Started sending her texts that didn’t even try to play innocent anymore.

Sometimes it was just a photo.

A mirror selfie from the locker room, chest gleaming, eyes half-lidded. A snap of her legs stretched out on the recovery table, skin flushed and glistening. Once, a post-shower shot—towel tucked just high enough to stay legal, water dripping from her hair, lips parted like she didn’t mean to look that good.

No context. No warning.

Just vibes.

Paige would open it. Leave her on read for five whole minutes. Then send back the same emoji every time: 😇

And Azzi would stare at her phone like, you are so full of shit.

Eventually, the photos turned into texts. Hotter. Filthier. The kind of things that made her want to throw her phone across the room the second she hit send.

Once, late at night, Azzi texted: if you’re gonna eye fuck me all practice, the least you could do is help me finish.

No selfie. No punctuation. Just chaos.

Paige left her on read again.

And then—two nights later—got her revenge.

Azzi was laying in bed when it happened. Barely paying attention to her screen, hoodie pulled over her face like she was trying to hide from her own decisions.

Her phone buzzed.

It was a selfie.

Just Paige—head tilted, lips parted, eyes low and dangerous. A full smirk pulled across her mouth like she was daring Azzi to react. No makeup. No shirt in frame. Just collarbone. Jawline. Sin.

A text followed: you miss your seat or should I bring it to you?

Azzi audibly choked. Dropped her phone. Had to lie there for a full minute and just breathe.

Because she knew what it meant. There was no room for misinterpretation. Paige had sent that smirking selfie like she wasn’t about to ruin Azzi’s whole life from several floors away. Like she hadn’t just planted the mental image of Azzi on her face and dared her to react.

Azzi stared at the ceiling like it might offer her divine intervention. Or at least temporary amnesia.

She didn’t sleep that night. Didn’t even try.

How could she, when her brain was now running a 24/7 highlight reel titled Things Paige Bueckers Has Done To Emotionally Terrorize Me (And That I Would Absolutely Let Her Do Again)?

Paige 

Paige had been enjoying the game. More than she should’ve. More than she admitted to herself most days. It had started out harmless—teasing, pushing buttons, seeing how close she could get without touching flame.

But her mind played dirtier than she meant it to. Filthier by the minute.

What Azzi saw as flirting, Paige was already rewriting in her head into scenes that shouldn’t be happening in a public gym. Or ever, really. And it was getting harder—literally, sometimes—to keep that energy locked behind her teeth and not act on any of it.

She was hanging on by, like, two threads of physical restraint and one very overworked sense of self-control.

So she tested it.

The next day, she “accidentally” brushed her fingers against Azzi’s hip while adjusting her warm-up band, and Azzi jolted like Paige had whispered something filthy instead of just touched her.

Which—fair. Paige probably had that look in her eyes again. The one Azzi pretended not to see. The one Paige didn’t even bother hiding anymore.

They flirted in gym mirrors and whispered in hallways like they weren’t two seconds from getting caught. Stole food off each other’s plates like it was foreplay. Azzi started handing her the Gatorade bottle without a word, just a slow pass, fingers brushing, gaze locked. Paige always drank from it a little too slow. A little too smug. Because she knew.

They both did.

Outside of basketball, it was somehow worse. There were fewer rules. Less structure. Just impulse.

They’d been dumb enough to try spending the night together once. Just to sleep. That was the rule.

It had been a long day—Paige was sore from treatment, mentally fried from sitting through two hours of film with the freshmen who still didn’t know how to defend a stagger screen, and Azzi hadn’t wanted to walk back to her dorm after sticking around late from a movie. They were both tired. Delirious. 

So when Paige said, “You can just crash here if you want,” it felt harmless. Practical, even. They were adults.

They could handle a twin XL and one shared blanket.

Obviously.

They set rules. Boundaries. Two feet apart. No funny business. No breathing weird. No “accidental” touching. And absolutely no mid-sleep spooning.

For a while, it worked.

Sort of.

Azzi lay on her side, back to Paige, motionless but not asleep. Paige mirrored her—flat on her back, eyes wide open, tracking every sound in the room like it might save her from herself. The hum of the mini fridge. The rustle of sheets. The shallow rise and fall of Azzi’s breath.

They weren’t touching. But they were close. Too close.

Every inch of Paige’s body felt aware of her. Like Azzi had become a gravitational field Paige couldn’t fully step out of. And the worst part? She didn’t want to.

Azzi shifted slightly. Paige felt the blanket tug. One of Azzi’s knees brushed her calf—barely—but Paige’s brain short-circuited anyway. Everything went very still. Very quiet. The kind of quiet that buzzed in your chest.

And then—breathing. Not loud. Not sharp. Just... different.

Slower. Thicker. Like Azzi felt it too.

Paige’s hand twitched in the dark. She thought about reaching out. Just once. Just to see.

Not to start anything. Not really. But maybe a little.

She wanted to touch her. Wanted to trace the curve of Azzi’s spine just to feel it, to prove she still could. She wanted to press her fingers into the soft place behind her knee, the one she used to kiss for no reason at all. She wanted to hear the sound Azzi made when she lost her breath—not just because of her body, but because of her.

It wasn’t just about wanting her. It was about missing her. It was about still knowing her in ways that made her hands ache with the need to remember.

She didn’t move. She didn’t reach.

Because as much as she wanted to—God, she wanted to—this wasn’t the moment. Not yet. Not when there was still mess hanging in the air that didn’t belong to them. Not when Azzi still had someone else’s name on her texts. 

They’d waited this long. They could wait a little longer.

Because when it happened—when they let it happen—she wanted it clean. Honest. Theirs.

And right now, it wasn’t.

Not yet.

And then—just a little—Azzi shifted her hips.

Nothing major. Just a small shift—enough to get comfortable. But Paige’s brain short-circuited anyway. She let out the softest, stupidest breath against the back of Azzi’s neck. A dead giveaway.

Azzi didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But then—so quiet it barely counted as sound:

“I miss you.”

Paige went still. Every breath caught halfway. Every muscle braced like she'd been hit in the chest. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was everything.

Then, barely a whisper, like it hurt to say it:

“I miss you too.”

The space between them felt full. Like maybe they could stay there forever if they didn’t say anything else. If they just let the wanting settle and stayed very, very still.

But Paige knew better.

Instead, she sat up too fast. Her heart was pounding. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes like that would make it stop. Like it would undo what was already happening.

Azzi didn’t speak at first. Didn’t move. Just watched her with that unreadable expression Paige could barely look at.

Paige shifted awkwardly. “I’m gonna—” Her voice caught, too rough. “I’ll be back.”

Azzi’s brows pulled together, just slightly. “You don’t have to.”

Paige hesitated. “I know.”

Azzi nodded, like that answer was enough. Like she already knew why Paige needed to leave.

So Paige grabbed her hoodie off the chair and left before she could change her mind.

The hallway was cold. The stairwell was worse. She took them two at a time.

Because the truth was? Azzi had been in her room. But Paige needed the distance. Needed to breathe.

So she went to Azzi’s instead.

Same building. Just one floor down. Completely empty. Still smelled like her lotion and her shampoo and everything that made Paige feel unsteady.

She curled up on Azzi’s bed, pulled the extra blanket over her head, and stared at the ceiling in the dark.

She didn’t sleep.

Not even close.

****

She woke up to someone poking her in the forehead.

“Paige.”

Poke.

“Paige.”

Poke.

“Why are you in Azzi’s bed without Azzi?”

Paige groaned and rolled onto her side, face half-smushed into the pillow. “Go away.”

Caroline did not go away.

She stood at the foot of the bed, staring like Paige was a science experiment gone mildly wrong. “No, seriously. You’re in Azzi’s bed. And Azzi is... not. So unless she sleep-parachuted out the window, I’m gonna need answers.”

Paige blinked. Sat up slowly. Her hair was a disaster. Her hoodie was on backwards. One of her socks had somehow migrated to the floor.

“She’s not here,” Paige said, voice flat and hoarse. “Because she’s in my bed.”

Caroline raised both eyebrows. “Well, that raises exactly a million more questions.”

Paige sighed and held up a hand. “We were watching a movie. It got late. She didn’t want to walk back to her room, so I said she could crash.”

“Okay, sure. Still not explaining why you’re the one playing Goldilocks in her bed.”

Paige groaned. “We tried to sleep. Like, actually sleep. But then it got all quiet and weird and... tense. Like the kind of tense where breathing starts to feel like a crime? And I just— I didn’t trust myself not to do something reckless, so I bailed. Came here to cool off.”

Caroline blinked. “So your grand solution was to flee your own bed and emotionally pace in hers.”

“I didn’t pace.”

“You are mentally pacing, Bueckers.”

Paige flopped back dramatically onto the mattress. “When the hell does Lexi get back?”

“Not soon enough. I’m getting sick watching you two eye-fuck each other in public like it’s a team bonding activity.”

“I’m hanging on by a thread,” Paige mumbled into the pillow.

“A fraying thread. On fire. Wrapped around a bomb.”

****

The hallway was still quiet when Paige made it back upstairs, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands, her heart pacing at the dumbest speed for someone who technically hadn’t done anything last night.

She pushed open the door to her room—their room, for the night—and felt the breath knock out of her.

Azzi was still there.

Curled up on Paige’s bed like she’d been planted there on purpose. Hair sprawled across the pillow, one arm tucked under her cheek, the other resting on her stomach like she’d drifted off mid-thought. Her hoodie had slipped slightly off one shoulder. The same shoulder Paige had kissed once in the dark when things were simpler. Or maybe just more confusing.

Paige stood in the doorway for too long.

She wasn’t even trying to be subtle anymore.

Because this? It wasn’t fair. But God, it was beautiful. It was Azzi. Soft in a way that didn’t show up on game tape. Quiet in a way that made Paige ache.

She crossed the room slowly, like one wrong move might wake her or ruin the moment.

God, she looked peaceful.

And Paige wanted to be that peace. For her. She wanted to be the thing Azzi reached for when everything else felt too loud. Not the complication. Not the mess.

Just… hers.

She crouched down next to the bed and reached out—gentle, like she didn’t want to disturb whatever dream Azzi was lost in. She brushed a strand of hair from her forehead, let her thumb ghost along the side of her face, down to the sharp line of her jaw, lingering just a second longer than she probably should have.

Azzi stirred. Eyes blinking open, soft and unfocused at first.

Then—Paige.

And that smile.

Sleepy. Real. Like she was happy Paige was the first thing she saw.

“You came back,” Azzi whispered.

Paige smiled too, something tight and fluttery pressing against her ribs. “Of course I came back.”

Azzi shifted a little, making space for her. Paige sat on the edge of the bed, their knees brushing. Azzi’s blanket slipped slightly, and Paige didn’t know if it was the morning light or her own brain short-circuiting, but she swore she could feel the warmth radiating off her skin like gravity.

“I’m sorry I left,” Paige said, voice lower now, softer. “I just… I didn’t trust myself.”

Azzi gave a tiny shake of her head. “Thank you for leaving.” Her voice was still thick from sleep, but her eyes were clear. Honest. “Because if you hadn’t... I wouldn’t have stopped you. There’s no way.”

Paige let that sit between them for a second. Let herself believe it. Because she’d known—felt—how close they were to the edge. One shift. One sigh. One hand in the wrong place.

And it would’ve been over.

Or worse—it wouldn’t have been enough.

Azzi reached under the blanket and laced their fingers together, casual like it was muscle memory. Paige let her.

God, she wanted to be reckless. She wanted to lie down next to her and press her mouth to that dimple on Azzi’s left cheek—the one that only showed up when she was really smiling, the one Paige could never look at without wanting more. 

But she also wanted to do right. For once. For both of them.

Azzi’s thumb moved over Paige’s knuckles under the blanket, slow and thoughtful. Neither of them said anything for a moment, like speaking might shatter the delicate calm they'd built between them.

Then Azzi exhaled. “This week is going to suck.”

Paige let out a soft, dry laugh. “Understatement of the century.”

Azzi looked up at her, a tired half-smile tugging at her lips. “We made it this far, though.”

“Barely.”

“Your fault,” Azzi said, nudging her knee against Paige’s. “With your smug little water bottle stunt and your gym mirror thirst traps.”

Paige gasped—dramatically. “My fault? You were the one sending post-shower selfies and stretching like a menace in spandex.”

Azzi grinned. “Allegedly.”

They both laughed—quiet, breathless, the kind of laugh that felt like relief.

Then silence again. But this time, not heavy.

Paige’s eyes drifted toward her desk.

And there it was.

The bracelet.

Still sitting where she left it. Unworn. Untouched.

Pink and purple beads. The word purpose spelled out in white block letters. Azzi had made it herself. Not a replacement for the one Paige had given her last year—but something new. Something that came out of the silence. Something chosen.

Paige nodded toward it. “That bracelet… I think I need to start wearing it.”

Azzi followed her gaze, then back at Paige, her voice soft but slightly teasing. “Why now? I was starting to think you didn’t even like it.”

Paige let out a quiet laugh, almost sheepish. “I liked it too much, maybe. I wasn’t ready to wear something that actually meant something.”

She looked down, then back at Azzi, her voice quieter now. “But I think I am. I think I need it. Just to remind me to hold on a little longer.”

Azzi didn’t say anything right away. But the shift in her face was instant—gentler, steadier. Like something in her had finally unclenched.

“I want this,” Paige said, voice barely above a whisper. “Like—really want this. But if we’re gonna do it… I want to do it right. No guilt. No mess. No baggage hanging on us like a shadow.”

Azzi nodded, eyes shining just a little. “I want that too.”

“Then we wait,” Paige said, her fingers tightening slightly around Azzi’s. “Even if it’s hell.”

Azzi smiled—small and sweet and real. “Purpose,” she repeated, like the word itself could steady her heartbeat.

Paige reached forward and picked up the bracelet. She slid it over her wrist slowly—it caught slightly on her knuckles, the elastic tugging before settling snug against her skin. Pink and purple beads pressed gently into her pulse, warm from the light and the moment. Like armor. Like hope.

Azzi

The trip to Omaha was cursed. That was the only logical explanation.

Creighton was no joke. Easily one of their hardest conference games. They were tough. Disciplined. Sharp from the perimeter. And the gym always had that weird haunted-church energy—like even the bleachers wanted them to lose.

Azzi wasn’t dreading the game, though. She liked games like this. High stakes. Real strategy. A good excuse to hit the reset button and drown her feelings in defense. And more than anything, she was playing. Not fully cleared, not a full workload—but she was back in the rotation. Back in the warmups, back in the pregame huddles, back on the scout report. Even if it was just restricted minutes, it meant something. Her name would be called again. She could feel the itch in her chest—that wired, buzzing anticipation that only came from knowing she’d get to make an impact, even if it was only a handful of possessions.

No, what she was dreading was the rest of it.

The travel. The hotel. The Paige of it all.

They’d cleared the air—well, as much as two people could while still pretending they weren’t seconds away from combusting. Set some rules. Drew the line in something thicker than sand.

She’d meant it.

She wanted to mean it.

Because the truth was, she liked what they were building. The slow, careful stitching of something real. Not just heat and habit, but trust. She’d seen the bracelet on Paige’s wrist that morning—Purpose, snug against her pulse like a promise—and something had settled in her chest. Like maybe they could actually hold on long enough to make it count.

But that didn’t mean this trip wasn’t going to suck.

Because wanting the right thing didn’t make the wrong thing stop pulsing under her skin every time Paige so much as looked at her.

And Nebraska.

God, Nebraska.

Omaha at least had a few redeeming qualities—like that steakhouse the team always went to. The one with the cowboy-themed menus and the baked potatoes the size of her face. She still remembered her first trip freshman year, sitting across from Nika and Caroline, trying not to moan over a bone-in ribeye. Seriously. Some of the best steak she’d ever had. Nebraska knew how to do cows. That was probably it, though.

This time, nothing had gone right.

Flight delay. Broken kiosk. Paige’s carry-on got pulled for extra screening because of an “unidentified cylindrical object” that turned out to be her foam roller.

Caroline nearly had a meltdown when she realized that she forgot her neck pillow back in her room.

“I need to lean on something or I’ll spiral,” she declared, completely straight-faced.

“You could lean on Jesus,” Aubrey deadpanned.

Caroline just flipped her off and stole Aubrey’s Sour Patch Kids as punishment.

By the time they landed, everyone was cranky. And then Coach handed out the rooming list.

Azzi glanced down at the paper in her hand.

Room 314: Paige Bueckers & Azzi Fudd

Her stomach dropped.

“Oh my God,” Caroline said instantly, too loudly.

Aubrey peered over her shoulder and broke into a grin. “Coach really said slow burn roommates trope.”

“What?” Ines asked, looking up from her phone.

“Nothing,” Caroline chirped, way too quickly. “Inside joke. Super boring. You wouldn’t get it.”

Paige didn’t say a word. Just stared at the list like it might self-destruct. Azzi could feel her vibrating next to her—tight shoulders, clenched jaw, the barest flicker of panic behind her eyes.

Azzi didn’t trust herself to speak. Her pulse was spiking, and the air felt thinner than it should.

Caroline leaned in just close enough, lowering her voice: “Try not to moan her name so loud this time, okay?”

Azzi didn’t flinch. Just grabbed the handle of her suitcase, muttering under her breath, “Oh, fuck off.”

Caroline grinned like she’d won something.

They all shuffled toward the elevator. Paige was quiet, walking just behind her, wheeling her bag like it weighed more than it should.

Azzi didn’t look back. She couldn’t. Because this was already a disaster. And they hadn’t even opened the door yet.

The hotel room door creaked open like something out of a horror movie.

And honestly? It felt that way.

One bed.

One.

Paige’s mouth fell open. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Azzi stepped in behind her, paused, and stared like she could manifest a second bed just by glaring hard enough.

“Who in the actual…” Paige didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to. The sexual tension was already unpacking its suitcase in the corner.

It wasn’t even a queen. It was barely a full.

This was a cosmic joke.

The room felt like a trap. Like the second the door clicked shut, the oxygen changed.

They didn’t say anything.

Paige tossed her phone on the nightstand, but didn’t move otherwise. Azzi stood near the dresser, arms folded tightly across her chest, like she could hold herself back with just the pressure of her own grip.

She didn’t know how it happened. Honestly. One second, they were a room’s length apart. The next, she was on top of Paige, knees straddling her thighs, their foreheads pressed together, the kind of silence between them that wasn’t quiet at all.

They weren’t kissing. Not yet. But their breath was shared, erratic. Azzi could feel Paige’s hands already under her shirt, fingertips grazing skin like they’d never stopped touching. Paige’s eyes were dark, lips parted, her voice gone—completely swallowed by the moment.

Then—

“Shit,” Paige whispered.

Her fingers had caught on something—Azzi’s hair twisted into the pink-and-purple bracelet she had finally put on. 

Azzi stilled.

The soft elastic of the bracelet tugged just enough to snap her back into her body.

That stupid little piece of string, sitting between them like a truth they couldn’t pretend didn’t exist.

Purpose.

They had made a promise. To wait. To mean it.

Azzi closed her eyes. Rested her forehead against Paige’s for one more beat.

Then pulled back.

“I’ll shower first,” she said, quiet, not looking at her.

She climbed off the bed before she changed her mind and didn’t let herself check Paige’s face on the way to the bathroom. Didn’t want to see the regret. Or the ache. Or worse—agreement.

The door shut behind her. Loud. Final.

But nothing felt finished.

She stripped fast—almost frantically—trying not to see herself in the mirror, not like this. Not flushed and flustered and shaking like someone had lit a fire in her bloodstream and dared her not to burn.

The water turned on with a screech, too hot on her skin, scalding on purpose. She needed to feel something else. Anything else. The bathroom filled with steam so quickly she couldn’t see the tiles in front of her.

But she wasn’t thinking about the water.

She was thinking about Paige. On the other side of that paper-thin wall. Sitting on that bed they weren’t going to talk about. Shirt probably tugged up just a little. Head tilted back, mouth parted, brows drawn like they always did when she was close.

The image came uninvited and landed hard—heavy and visceral and real.

Azzi’s hand moved lower before she even realized it, like muscle memory. Like instinct.

Slow. Careful. Testing the edge of her own restraint.

She squeezed her eyes shut, let her head fall back against the wall. The tile was slick against her spine. Her other hand found the edge of the shower, bracing. Her fingers moved, slow and steady, but her breathing wasn’t.

She wasn’t just imagining it. She felt Paige. The tension. The pull. The heat that had built between them since the moment that damn door closed.

Then— God. Then she heard it.

Barely at first—a breath. Maybe nothing.

But then again. Louder. A stifled moan. A caught inhale. The kind that rattled in your chest and broke apart as it left you.

Azzi’s hand stilled, her eyes flying open.

No way.

She leaned into the sound. Listened.

And there it was—Paige’s voice, soft and low, her name ghosting through the wall like a secret.

Azzi’s knees nearly buckled.

Because Paige was doing it too.

Paige was touching herself, alone in that bed, just feet away. No shame. No hesitation. Like the promise they made had already unraveled between her fingers. Like Azzi’s hands were still on her, even when they weren’t.

Something inside her cracked clean open.

She exhaled hard and let go—fingers picking up rhythm, her body jerking forward into the heat of the spray. She didn’t hold back. Couldn’t. Not when she knew Paige could hear her too. Not when this—this—was the only thing that could quiet the ache lodged in her chest.

She pressed her forehead to the tile, her breath coming faster now, hips grinding into her hand like she was chasing something she couldn’t name. Her other hand slammed against the wall for leverage, water cascading down her spine, everything in her tight and trembling and dangerously close.

And then—

“Azzi—”

Her name. Again. Clearer this time. Desperate.

Azzi whimpered. Loud. Messy.

The sound bounced off the tile.

She moved faster, chasing the high she hadn’t let herself feel in weeks. Her thighs shook. Her jaw clenched. Her body clenched tighter. The sound of Paige’s voice—ragged, hoarse, broken—pushed her right over the edge.

“Fuck, Paige—”

It tore out of her as she came—body arching, lips parted, a sob catching in her throat. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was too much. It felt like grief and fire and hunger and home, all at once.

When it finally passed, she sagged against the wall, breathless. The water had gone lukewarm. Her legs barely held her upright.

Silence followed.

But it wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t closure.

It was the kind of silence that screamed.

She stepped out ten minutes later, wrapped in a towel, hair wet and curling at the ends. She didn’t look directly at the bed.

“Shower’s free,” she said, voice hoarse, barely there.

Paige didn’t answer. Didn’t look at her either. She was curled under the blanket, screen glowing too bright against her face.

But Azzi could feel her watching.

And even in the dark, she knew—Paige had heard her.

Knew it. Felt it.

Azzi got into bed and rolled over, facing the wall. Her heart wouldn’t slow down. She could still feel Paige’s name on her tongue.

And worse—she could still feel the pulse in her core, low and stubborn, the phantom ache of release still echoing through her body. Her skin was too warm. Her limbs too heavy. The adrenaline hadn’t worn off, not fully. It left her breathless in a way that wasn’t just physical.

She wasn’t sure what kind of silence this was—if it meant too much, or not enough.

But that had happened.

And it meant something.

Even with a wall of steam and restraint and distance between them—it still felt like the most intimate thing they’d shared in months. Maybe longer.

It wasn’t just about getting off. It was about being known. Felt. Heard.

Azzi closed her eyes and let the burn settle in her chest.

No one had ever made her feel like this. And the worst part?

Paige didn’t even touch her.

Not really. And still—Azzi didn’t want to take it back.

She stared into the dark, muscles tense beneath the scratchy hotel blanket, every nerve wired like she was waiting for something else to happen.

But nothing did.

No movement. No words.

Just the quiet.

The room felt thick with it—whatever that had just been. Not just lust. Not just crossing a line. Something deeper. Mutual. Volcanic. Like they’d shared a secret without saying a word.

The mattress shifted.

A quiet rustle of sheets.

Paige got up, wordless. The soft pad of bare feet on carpet. Then the bathroom door opened with a soft click and closed behind her.

Azzi didn’t move.

But she listened to the sound of the fan whirring to life behind the door.

And she knew—Paige was just as wrecked as she was.

Paige 

The second she closed the bathroom door behind her, Paige leaned against it like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

Her pulse was still slamming.

She could hear the fan buzzing overhead, the fluorescent light buzzing harder. Everything was too bright, too loud, too real.

She hadn’t meant for it to happen like that.

No—scratch that. She hadn’t meant for it to happen at all.

Paige braced her palms on the sink, eyes fixed on the mirror. She looked flushed, hair a mess, lips bitten raw. Like someone who’d lost a fight.

Her reflection didn’t lie.

Because the truth was, the second Azzi shut that bathroom door and turned the lock, Paige knew.

She felt it. In her chest. In her stomach. Between her legs.

She tried not to listen. Tried not to picture Azzi under the spray of that shitty hotel shower, forehead pressed to the tile, breath going ragged. But the walls were too thin, and Paige’s imagination was too fast.

And once she heard her—really heard her—it was over.

Azzi’s voice, breathless and broken. Saying her name like it still meant something.

Paige had never undressed faster in her life.

And it was pathetic, honestly—how fast she’d come, how badly she wanted it, how her fingers didn’t feel like her own. Like her whole body had been holding it in for weeks.

Paige exhaled and splashed cold water on her face, as if that would help. It didn’t. It just made her flinch.

She looked down at her wrist. The bracelet was still there—pink and purple, snug against her skin, a reminder of everything they were trying to build.

Or protect. Or maybe just survive.

She ran a hand through her hair and stared at her reflection one more time.

There was nothing left to say. Not tonight.

She shut the light off before slipping back into the dark.

****

The Creighton game had gone about as well as it could’ve.

UConn won—tight but controlled, the kind of game that looked better in the box score than it felt in the moment. Azzi hit a step-back three in the second quarter that lit up the bench. It was business. Professional. Locked-in.

The rest of the trip passed in a blur of team meals, ice baths, film sessions, and forced small talk. The hotel room had remained Switzerland—neutral territory, boundaries intact.

They didn’t touch. Not really.

But that didn’t stop the long glances. The slow exhales. The moments when Paige’s hand would brush Azzi’s back while sliding past her in the hallway. Or when Azzi would sit on the edge of the bed to lace her shoes and Paige’s gaze would flick down, just once, and linger too long.

It was a silent understanding.

They were waiting.

And it was torture.

Now they were back on campus.

The cold hit like a slap—sharp and sudden, the kind that made your eyes water even if you weren’t crying. Everyone peeled off the bus in a blur of headphones, oversized hoodies, and half-zipped duffels, rushing toward dorms and off-campus apartments like they’d been gone for years instead of three days.

Paige was halfway across the quad, head down, earbuds in, when she nearly collided with someone rounding the path.

Lexi.

“Oh—hey,” she said, blinking like she hadn’t expected to see anyone. “Didn’t think you guys were back yet.”

Paige yanked one earbud out, her breath catching. “Yeah. Early flight.”

Lexi smiled, easy. Familiar. Like she hadn’t been the shadow at the edge of every thought Paige had tried to ignore for the past two weeks. Her hair was still damp—fresh from a shower or the gym—and her sweatshirt was slipping off one shoulder in that effortless, unbothered way that made Paige’s stomach twist.

“I haven’t seen Azzi,” Lexi said, adjusting the strap of her bag. “I texted her when I saw the flight info online, but she hasn’t answered. She’s been kinda... distant lately? I don’t know. Have you noticed that?”

Paige’s mouth went dry. Her heart did something weird in her chest—like it skipped and then panicked to catch up.

“Oh.” She tried to keep her voice light, casual. “Maybe? We’ve all been kind of swamped.”

Lexi nodded slowly. “Yeah. Totally. I just thought—I don’t know. I figured she’d say something if something was wrong.”

Paige nodded too. Too fast. Too much.

“Yeah,” she said again. “I’m sure she will.”

But the guilt was already there, thick and low in her stomach. Hot under her skin.

Because Azzi hadn’t told her yet.

And now Paige had walked straight into it—into her—like the universe was daring her to lie again.

She stood there, blinking against the wind, while Lexi gave a little wave and started walking the opposite direction.

Paige stayed rooted in place. Cold. Quiet. Drowning a little in the knowing.

Paige waited until Lexi was out of sight before pulling out her phone, her heart still beating in that uneven, guilty rhythm.

She didn’t overthink it.

Paige: just saw lex she asked about you

The reply came almost instantly.

Azzi: planning to talk to her this afternoon

Paige stared at the screen, thumb frozen above the keyboard. She didn’t know why she suddenly felt like she could breathe again. Maybe because Azzi had a plan. Maybe because they were so close now—just one conversation away from finally stepping into whatever this was between them.

It made her chest ache in the best and worst way.

She typed slowly.

Paige: okay just wanted you to know

She watched the three dots appear.

Azzi: i know thanks for telling me

Another pause.

Then:

Azzi: we’re almost there

Paige’s breath caught.

Paige: yeah

She hesitated, then added:

Paige: i can’t stop thinking about you

Azzi: same

Paige smiled—quiet, a little wrecked. Her thumb hovered over the screen.

She didn’t say I love you. But God, it lived in the space between the words.

Paige: see you later?

Azzi: of course

And just like that, Paige tucked her phone back in her pocket and started walking again, the cold biting less than it had before.

Azzi 

Azzi got there first.

She picked a small table near the window—tucked far enough away from foot traffic, but close enough to the exit in case she needed to make a fast escape. The student center café was its usual hum of espresso machines, laptop keys, and group projects being half-heartedly argued over at the next table. It was busy, but not loud. Perfect for pretending to be relaxed. Perfect for quietly breaking someone’s heart.

Her coffee sat untouched in front of her, steam curling upward in ghost-thin ribbons. She’d wrapped her hands around the cup for warmth, but her palms were already sweating.

Lexi showed up two minutes later, all sunshine and post-vacation glow. Hair up in a loose bun, tank top tucked into joggers, a hibiscus scrunchie on her wrist like a final souvenir. Her cheeks were pink, like she’d just walked from the gym—or maybe from being somewhere happy.

“Hey!” she said, sliding into the chair across from her. “Sorry if I smell like sunscreen. I swear it’s permanent now.”

Azzi smiled—small, tight. “Hey, it’s good to see you.”

“Yeah you too,” Lexi said, setting her iced drink down and pulling her chair closer. “You look tired.”

Azzi huffed a soft laugh. “That’s because I am.”

“I don’t miss road games,” Lexi said, sipping her drink through a bright green straw. “Hawaii ruined me. I forgot what alarms felt like.”

Azzi nodded, eyes flicking to the condensation dripping down the side of Lexi’s cup. “Trip was good?”

“Honestly? Yeah.” Lexi leaned back, smile still easy. “We went on this insane sunrise hike—like, full 4 a.m. wakeup call, pitch black trail, almost died twice, but the view was worth it. And the food? Unreal. I ate poke like four times a day. Might turn into raw tuna.”

Azzi smiled again, this one more real. “That sounds amazing.”

“It was.” Lexi shrugged, glanced down into her drink. “I kept thinking how much you would’ve loved it.”

Azzi looked down.

“I even brought you something,” Lexi added, reaching into her bag.

Azzi’s stomach turned. Her fingers curled tighter around her coffee cup, already knowing.

Lexi pulled out a small white box with a gold ribbon, holding it out across the table. “Saw it in this little shop on the North Shore. It felt like you.”

Azzi stared at it for a second too long before reaching for it—carefully, like it might explode.

She opened it.

Inside was a delicate gold chain. A tiny wave charm in brushed silver, barely bigger than her fingernail. It shimmered under the overhead lights.

“It’s beautiful,” Azzi said softly. “But I can’t accept it.”

Lexi blinked. “What?”

Azzi looked up, eyes searching. “I mean it. I shouldn’t.”

Lexi froze, her face flickering—confused first, then quiet.

“Why not?” she asked, even though Azzi could tell she already knew.

Azzi exhaled. “Because I didn’t come here to catch up.”

Azzi looked down at her hands, then back up.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to say this. I didn’t want to do it over text. You deserve more than that.”

Lexi didn’t move. Her face stayed soft, but her shoulders tensed just slightly.

Azzi kept going.

“I care about you. I really do. But I can’t keep pretending like I’m fully in this. It’s not fair to you. Or me.”

Lexi was quiet. Waiting.

Azzi forced the words out, even though they tasted like guilt.

“I have feelings for someone else.”

There. It was out.

The words hung between them like smoke—visible, choking, impossible to pull back.

Lexi didn’t react at first. She just stared, lips slightly parted, like she was still waiting for the punchline.

Then she exhaled. Slow. Her jaw flexed, and her mouth pulled into a tight, practiced line. She nodded once, mechanical. Like she’d rehearsed this exact scenario a dozen times in her head and now that it was happening, she had to stick to the script.

“Okay,” she said, voice even but clipped. “Thanks for being honest.”

Azzi felt her throat close. Her hands were clenched in her lap now, gripping the edge of her sweatshirt like it might keep her from unraveling.

“I never meant to hurt you,” she said, quiet.

Lexi gave a small, breathy laugh. Not kind. Not cruel. Just… exhausted.

“Right,” she said. One word, razor-thin.

Azzi flinched.

But something about the way she said it made her freeze.

Lexi reached for her cup. Her fingers wrapped around it slowly, deliberately. She didn’t sip it. Just held it. Staring down at the lid like she was waiting for permission.

“You know,” she said finally, “I was really hoping I was wrong.”

Azzi blinked. “What do you mean?”

Lexi stood up. Smooth. Graceful. The kind of calm that only meant one thing: something had cracked and she was holding it together with sheer will.

“That it wasn’t her,” she said. Her eyes flicked down, then back up to Azzi’s face. “But it is, isn’t it?”

Azzi opened her mouth. Closed it.

“Lex—”

Too late.

Lexi tossed the drink.

Not violently. Not in a flurry of rage. Just a single, fluid motion, like she was handing off a baton in a relay.

The cup arced forward and the lid popped off mid-air. Iced caramel cold brew splashed across Azzi’s chest and down her front—sharp and sticky, soaking into the gray cotton of her sweatshirt before she could even react.

The cold hit first. Then the sound.

The ice slid down her stomach. She gasped.

A beat of silence dropped over the café like a curtain. Conversations halted. Chairs scraped. Someone sucked in a sharp breath.

But Lexi didn’t flinch...

 She didn’t apologize. Didn’t rush out in embarrassment or try to play it off.

She just stepped back and leaned in, voice low, razor-sharp.

“Tell her congratulations.”

Then she turned on her heel and walked out—shoulders back, head high, not looking back even once.

Azzi sat frozen, dripping coffee and disbelief. Her breath caught in her throat. Her hands trembled, still half-raised like she could catch the moment before it shattered.

She stared at the door long after Lexi was gone.

And then—quietly, bitterly—she laughed. Just once. Because of course this was how it ended.

Sticky, cold, and completely unforgettable.

Paige

She was lying sideways on her bed, half-scrolling, half-dozing, still in her hoodie from the flight, when the door creaked open.

“P?” came the voice. Soft. Familiar. Weirdly casual.

Paige looked up and immediately bolted upright.

Azzi was standing in the doorway. Soaked. Fully drenched. Coffee-streaked across her sweatshirt, jeans clinging to her legs, one sneaker making a gross squelch sound with every step. There was literally an ice cube stuck to her shoelace.

And she was smiling.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Paige said, staring like she'd just seen someone crawl out of a flood.

Azzi shut the door behind her and shrugged, somehow both smug and exhausted. “Lexi happened.”

“She did this to you?”

“Technically, yeah.”

Paige launched off the bed, her voice already rising. “Are you serious right now?! I will beat her ass. I’m not even kidding. I’ll walk to the student center right now—”

Azzi reached out, grabbing her wrist before she could make it past the desk. “Paige.”

“No, because what kind of psycho throws a drink on someone during a breakup—”

“Paige.” Azzi said again, this time firmer. Still smiling. “It’s fine.”

Paige blinked at her. “You’re smiling.”

“Because it’s over. Like, actually over.”

Paige opened her mouth. Closed it again. Her pulse hadn’t slowed down yet.

“She brought me a gift,” Azzi continued, like they were debriefing after a particularly chaotic group project. “A necklace. Very sweet. Very ironic. I told her I couldn’t accept it. Told her I had feelings for someone else.”

Paige’s stomach flipped.

Azzi didn’t let go of her wrist.

“She figured out it was you,” she said gently. “Threw her cold brew on me. Called it a day.”

Paige stared at her for a second longer—taking in the damp clothes, the little flecks of caramel syrup on her collarbone, the proud look in her eyes that made her chest ache in a way that wasn’t scary anymore.

Azzi leaned forward slightly, voice softer now.

“So yeah. I think I need a shower.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Azzi smirked. “Wanna supervise?”

Paige pretended to think about it for half a second. “Only to make sure you don’t slip and die.”

“Wow. So chivalrous.”

They didn’t break eye contact.

Paige let her lips twitch into a grin, finally. “You’re really sure about this?”

Azzi’s thumb brushed over the inside of her wrist. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

And that was all it took.

Paige followed her into the bathroom without another word.

The second the door closed behind them, Paige leaned back against it, watching as Azzi peeled off her soaked sweatshirt with one slow, squelching motion. Coffee had soaked clean through the front—staining the fabric, her sports bra, the waistband of her jeans.

It should’ve looked gross.

But somehow it didn’t.

Somehow it made Paige’s throat go dry.

“Jesus,” Paige murmured, stepping closer. “You really took a whole venti to the chest, huh?”

Azzi laughed, eyes soft. “Battle scars.”

Paige reached out slowly, her fingertip dragging along the edge of a sticky trail just beneath Azzi’s collarbone. The caramel had dried slightly—tacky against her skin, warm from body heat. It shimmered under the overhead light, catching in the hollow just above her chest like something sacred.

Paige followed the line with her eyes, then leaned in without thinking.

Her tongue met skin—hot, sweet, a little salty from the residue of sweat and coffee. She flattened it against the spot and licked a slow, deliberate stripe, pausing to press her lips there like punctuation.

Azzi inhaled sharply, breath catching as Paige’s tongue dragged slowly across her collarbone.

Paige smiled against her skin. “Yup. Definitely a little oat milk in there.”

Azzi laughed—short, breathy, slightly dazed. “You’re disgusting.”

But her fingers slid into Paige’s hair anyway, anchoring her there like maybe she didn’t actually want her to stop.

Paige tilted her head up, lips brushing just under Azzi’s jaw. “Tell that to your pulse.”

And she felt it—wild and reckless beneath her mouth.

Azzi’s breath hitched again.

Paige pulled back just enough to look up at her, smirking. “Caramel. Notes of regret. Bold finish.”

Azzi grinned, eyes dark with want. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Mm,” Paige hummed, licking another line, just below her neck. “Guess I’m lucky you’re into assholes.”

Azzi’s hands were already on her hips, tugging at her jeans. “Help me out of the rest?”

Paige didn’t need to be asked twice.

The clothes came off in slow, deliberate layers—like neither of them wanted to rush, like the undressing itself was its own kind of worship.

Azzi’s long sleeve t-shirt peeled off first, sticky and stubborn, catching at her wrists before Paige tugged it free and tossed it somewhere near the sink. Her sports bra followed, damp from both coffee and heat, and Paige paused—just for a moment—to breathe her in.

Then she started kissing.

The curve of Azzi’s shoulder. The dip just beneath her collarbone. The swell of her breast, soft and warm and rising unevenly with every breath. Paige kissed her there, then lower, dragging her lips down the center of her chest, her stomach, leaving a slow trail of heat in her wake.

Azzi didn’t say anything, just watched with parted lips, her fingers grazing the hem of her own jeans like she wasn’t sure if she should help or wait.

Paige knelt and unbuttoned them herself. Slid the denim down Azzi’s hips, slow and smooth, until they pooled around her ankles. Her socks were peeled off next—gentle, almost laughably tender—until Azzi stood fully bare in front of her, flushed and shining under the bathroom lights.

Paige looked up at her like she’d just been handed something sacred.

The steam from the shower started to fog the mirror, and still, Paige hadn’t looked away.

“You’re really gonna stand there fully dressed while I get in?” Azzi asked, stepping into the tub.

“I’m savoring the view,” Paige said. “And also considering how mad I’d be if you slipped and cracked your head open before I get to kiss you properly.”

Azzi reached back, tugged at her hand. “Then come do something about it.”

Paige was out of her clothes in seconds, tossing them somewhere behind her without looking. The moment she stepped into the shower, steam curled around her like breath, the hot water hitting her spine in sharp, rhythmic bursts—and Azzi was already there. Wet and flushed and waiting.

They didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Their bodies collided like tension finally snapping—urgent, electric, mouths crashing together as hands grabbed, pulled, clutched. Azzi’s fingers slid down Paige’s back, digging in, pulling her impossibly close. Paige groaned into the kiss, opening her mouth to let Azzi in—tongues tangling, breaths coming fast.

Azzi’s thigh pressed up between Paige’s legs, deliberate this time, and Paige gasped, her body arching forward like it had been waiting for that exact pressure. She ground down instinctively, chasing it, hands roaming Azzi’s slick skin—shoulders, spine, hips. Her grip landed on Azzi’s ass, squeezing hard enough to draw a hiss from her throat.

Water beat down around them, but it didn’t matter. Paige kissed along Azzi’s jaw, then lower, teeth scraping over the pulse in her neck, and Azzi whimpered—soft and helpless.

“I’ve wanted this,” Paige rasped, dragging her mouth back up to kiss her, slow and filthy, “so fucking bad.”

Azzi leaned in until their foreheads touched, voice barely audible over the water. “Then take me.”

She wrapped a leg around Paige’s waist, guiding her, breath hot and shaky. Paige pinned her gently against the tile, one hand gripping Azzi’s thigh, the other sliding between them, slipping lower until Azzi’s breath hitched and her whole body jolted.

“You’re already mine,” Paige breathed, fingers finding her heat but skimming just shy of where Azzi needed her most—drawing out the want until it was unbearable. 

Azzi nodded, trembling. “Then don’t stop.”

And Paige didn’t stop.

The water poured down around them in steady sheets, soaking their hair, cascading over skin already flushed and trembling. Steam curled around their tangled limbs like silk, cloaking them in heat and want. Paige didn’t rush—she took her time, kissing along Azzi’s jaw with slow intent, letting her lips linger against each pulse point, feeling the way Azzi’s breath stuttered against her cheek.

She trailed lower, tongue sweeping down the graceful line of Azzi’s throat, tasting sweat and water and something sweeter—something undeniably hers. Azzi tilted her head back, offering more, a breathy moan escaping as Paige kissed down the curve of her neck, her collarbone, each dip and hollow mapped out like a secret trail she was hellbent on memorizing.

Paige’s hands skimmed along Azzi’s waist, gripping her just above the hips to anchor her in place as her mouth moved to her chest. She kissed the swell of her breast first—soft and slow—then opened her mouth wider, tongue circling a nipple already peaked from the heat and anticipation.

When her teeth grazed over it—just a little scrape, just enough—Azzi gasped, her knees threatening to buckle. Paige sucked her in, mouth hot and open, letting her lips drag, tongue flicking and teasing in gentle, maddening patterns until Azzi was panting, her fingers curled tight in Paige’s hair.

Then Paige latched on harder, sucking until she felt Azzi shudder, her breath hitching with every pull. She wanted to leave a mark—something tender and bruised and unmistakably hers. A soft bruise blooming under her mouth, proof of this moment. Of how much she wanted her.

She switched sides with a low groan, worshipful in the way she kissed the other breast—twin trails of fire left in her wake, tongue and teeth working until another deep, purpling mark surfaced beneath her lips. Azzi trembled, head falling back against the tile with a thud, thighs tightening around Paige’s hips as the warmth from her mouth melted straight through her.

Every nerve in her body felt raw and awake, like she’d been lit from the inside out—claimed, adored, marked.

Paige looked up, smirking through the wreckage. “You’re so desperate for me, huh?” she murmured, lips brushing warm against her skin. “All that just from taking my time?”

Azzi nodded, dazed, eyes heavy-lidded. “I—yeah. God, yes.”

Paige smirked, lowering her mouth again. “Then hold on, baby. I’m not even close to done.”

She kissed her way down again, slower this time, savoring the way Azzi’s breath hitched with every inch she moved. Her tongue traced along the curve of Azzi’s waist, then lower, teeth grazing the soft skin of her inner thigh until Azzi whimpered and shifted, trying to get her where she needed her most.

Paige didn’t budge.

Instead, she pressed a kiss just beside her center—close enough to tease, not enough to satisfy. Then another. And another. Lazy, open-mouthed kisses that made Azzi writhe, her hands threading tighter in Paige’s hair.

“Paige,” she whispered, voice cracking, “please.”

“Please what?” Paige asked, her tone maddeningly calm, eyes flicking up to meet hers. “You gotta tell me.”

Azzi looked wrecked—flushed, panting, her thighs trembling where they bracketed Paige’s shoulders. “Touch me. Please, I—need you.”

That earned her a groan, low and wrecked, like Paige had been waiting to hear it.

“Good girl,” she whispered, and finally gave in.

She dragged her tongue up once—slow, flat, indulgent—then eased two fingers inside, deep and unhurried. The stretch was instant, perfect, Azzi’s head falling back against the tile with a gasp as Paige filled her.

Her hand moved with confident rhythm, curling just enough to brush that spot that made Azzi jolt, hips twitching involuntarily. Paige kept the pressure steady, her palm grinding against Azzi’s clit in tight, deliberate circles, coaxing out every stuttered gasp and choked moan like it was her favorite song.

Azzi’s back hit the tile again with a hard thud this time, the coolness of it a shocking contrast to the heat building low and fast inside her. But she didn’t flinch. Didn’t care. She was too far gone—too caught in the thick, pulsing wave of sensation to register anything except the way Paige’s fingers filled her, moved inside her, fucked her with a rhythm that felt like possession.

Her breath hitched, hands flying down to tangle in Paige’s hair, gripping tight, like she needed her closer—like she couldn’t take how close she already was. “Fuck,” she gasped, voice cracking. “Paige—”

Paige didn’t stop. She had one hand wrapped firmly around Azzi’s thigh, keeping her steady, while the other slid up to press against her lower stomach, holding her in place as her mouth worked her open—slick, steady, relentless. Azzi clung to her through it, fingers threading deeper into Paige’s soaked hair, her thighs trembling on either side of her head as she tried to ground herself, to survive the slow undoing of her body coming apart, one stroke at a time.

“You gonna come for me just like this?” she murmured, breath brushing sensitive skin. “On my mouth, like you were made for it?”

Azzi whimpered, hips jerking forward. Paige licked her again, slower this time, deliberately messy, before adding, “You taste so fucking good, baby. I could stay down here all night.”

She kissed her clit gently, then sucked—just hard enough to make Azzi cry out again. “Come on,” Paige whispered, voice low and rough. “Give it to me. Let me hear how good I make you feel.”

And then her tongue was back—deeper, firmer, devastating—all wicked precision and praise.

Azzi’s head dropped back against the wall with a soft thud, a strangled moan escaping her lips. “Don’t stop,” she begged, the words breaking apart on her tongue.

Paige didn’t answer with words. She just hummed low against her—deep, satisfied, possessive—and the vibration shot straight through Azzi’s core like a lightning strike.

That was it.

Azzi cried out—sharp and breathless—and her whole body arched, legs tightening around Paige’s hips. She was so close, the pressure building too fast, her thighs shaking. Every thrust of Paige’s fingers sent another wave crashing through her, her body rocking between the hard tile and the relentless pleasure of Paige’s touch. Her stomach clenched, breath coming in short, desperate gasps, and her nails raked down Paige’s back, needing something to hold onto—anything to tether her to the moment.

Her vision blurred at the edges, heat coiling tighter with every stroke. “I can’t—Paige, I—” she tried, but the words fell apart as her hips jerked forward again, chasing the inevitable.

Paige gave one last slow lick, then pulled back, her breath hot against Azzi’s inner thigh. She kissed her way upward—soft, lingering trails of heat along her stomach, her ribs, her chest—until they were face to face again, both of them flushed, breathing hard.

She pressed their foreheads together, breath ragged, fingers still deep—but no longer slow. Her pace quickened, thrusts sharper now, more insistent. Each movement hit harder, deeper, sending jolts through Azzi’s entire body. Paige shifted her weight, grounding herself, grinding her palm against Azzi’s clit in tight, deliberate circles that made Azzi gasp and jolt forward.

Her other hand slid around Azzi’s waist, anchoring her against the wall as her fingers curled just right—over and over—relentless now, chasing the tremble in Azzi’s thighs.

“I’ve got you, baby,” Paige whispered, voice low and gutted, her mouth brushing the edge of Azzi’s lips. “Feel how close you are? Don’t fight it.”

Azzi whimpered, breath catching, hips rolling forward into Paige’s hand like she couldn’t help it—like her body had already decided. Paige moved faster, grinding harder, her rhythm precise and punishing in the best way. Their foreheads stayed pressed together, both of them panting, bodies slick and shaking under the spray.

“Just let go for me,” Paige breathed, her thumb flicking against Azzi’s clit with a little more pressure, a little less mercy. “I want to feel you fall apart.”

And Azzi did—hips bucking, mouth falling open as a loud moan tore from her throat, her orgasm crashing through her so hard she nearly slipped. Paige caught her, arm around her waist, holding her upright as she rode it out, crying her name against her mouth. Her entire body shook, legs trembling, nails digging into Paige’s shoulders as wave after wave pulsed through her, blinding and hot and overwhelming. She clung to her like a lifeline, forehead pressed to Paige’s, breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts between broken whimpers.

Paige murmured softly against her skin—nonsense words, tender praise, her voice rough with awe—until Azzi finally went limp in her arms, spent and shivering, completely undone.

Azzi was still shaking when she finally looked up, dazed and flushed, lips swollen from kissing. Her cheeks were flushed with heat, her breath still unsteady, but there was a flicker behind her eyes—something hungry, something certain.

“What about you?” she asked, voice low, fingers drifting down the slick lines of Paige’s stomach, tracing her abs with reverence. She paused just above where Paige was already aching, already soaked for her, her touch featherlight—teasing.

Paige’s breath stuttered. “Azzi—”

“Let me,” Azzi said, voice hoarse, raw, and full of want. “I want to taste you.”

There was no resistance.

Paige let herself be guided gently against the tile, the water cascading over her shoulders and down her back. Azzi dropped to her knees in front of her without hesitation, hands sliding along Paige’s thighs, urging them apart as she leaned in. The sight alone stole Paige’s breath—Azzi, bare and dripping, eyes dark with focus, mouth parted like she was starving.

Azzi kissed up the inside of one thigh, slow and open-mouthed, then the other, letting her tongue drag lightly against damp skin. Paige’s head fell back against the wall, a soft moan escaping her as her legs shifted wider, heart pounding with anticipation.

When Azzi finally licked up the center of her—long and slow—Paige gasped, one hand flying to her hair, gripping tight as her hips jolted forward. Azzi groaned low against her, the vibration sending sparks through her core, and then she was fully there—mouth open, tongue working in slow, devastating circles, savoring every sound Paige made.

“Jesus—Azzi,” Paige choked out, her voice dissolving into a moan as Azzi’s tongue slipped lower, deeper, licking into her with intention.

Azzi didn’t rush. She took her time, alternating between slow, languid strokes and sharper flicks that made Paige tremble. She sucked gently at her clit, then flattened her tongue against it, licking steady and sure until Paige’s thighs began to shake and her grip in Azzi’s hair tightened.

“You taste so good,” Azzi murmured between strokes, her voice thick with need, lips brushing sensitive skin as she spoke. The heat of her breath, the rasp in her voice—it sent a fresh shiver straight through Paige’s core.

Then Azzi dove back in, relentless now—mouth open, tongue dragging firm and slow, savoring her like she couldn’t get enough. She moved with purpose, focused and hungry, alternating between deep strokes and sharp, devastating flicks that made Paige’s knees buckle.

Paige was falling apart.

Her legs trembled violently, muscles locking and unlocking as she fought to stay upright. She tried to brace herself, one hand scrambling against the tile behind her, the other buried in Azzi’s soaked curls, anchoring her there like she was afraid she’d float away. Her hips rolled forward helplessly, chasing the rhythm of Azzi’s mouth, unable to stop herself.

Her moans grew louder, raw and unfiltered, each one tumbling from her lips like it had nowhere else to go. The wet sounds of Azzi’s mouth working between her thighs—slick, greedy, obscene—only pushed her closer to the edge, made her pulse pound harder in her throat.

“Fuck—Azzi—” she gasped, voice breaking, high and breathless. Her whole body was coiled so tight it almost hurt. “I’m gonna—Jesus, I’m—”

Azzi didn’t let up. Her hands slid beneath Paige’s thighs, lifting one leg over her shoulder, opening her even more, giving her tongue better access as she pushed in deeper, licked harder. The pressure was unbearable—in the best way. Paige could barely breathe. Her head fell back against the wall with a dull thud as her vision blurred, stars blooming behind her eyelids.

The sound she made when she finally came wasn’t a word—it was a cry, wrecked and involuntary, ripped from somewhere deep. Her body jolted forward, hips grinding into Azzi’s mouth as the orgasm tore through her like fire—hot, pulsing, wave after wave until she was shaking so hard she had to be held up.

And Azzi did. One arm locked around Paige’s thigh, the other steadying her lower back, keeping her from sliding down the wall. Her mouth softened but didn’t pull away, coaxing her through it with slow, tender strokes until Paige finally gasped, “Too much—fuck, baby—too much.”

Azzi let her go with one last kiss, lips slick and swollen, chin shining. She rose slowly, eyes locked on Paige’s, and that look—God. It nearly unraveled her all over again.

Dark, intense, reverent.

Paige was still panting, chest heaving, hand braced against the wall, the other falling to Azzi’s waist to pull her in. Their foreheads touched first, then noses, breath shared between them.

Neither spoke at first.

Then Paige tipped her chin up, eyes searching Azzi’s face. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” she whispered, voice low, ruined.

Azzi smiled, slow and wicked. “That’s the idea.”

She dragged her fingers lightly down Paige’s spine, stopping just above the curve of her ass, and leaned in again, lips brushing Paige’s ear. “You should’ve heard yourself,” she murmured, voice like smoke. “So fucking pretty when you fall apart for me.”

Paige’s breath hitched. Her eyes fluttered closed for a second, trying to catch herself. “Yeah?” she rasped, teeth sinking into her bottom lip as her body pulsed in aftershock.

Azzi nodded, voice darkening. “The way you begged? The way you rode my mouth like you were made for it?” She kissed just under Paige’s jaw. “You were dripping for me before I even touched you.”

Paige barely managed to open her eyes. “You’re unreal,” she whispered, wrapping shaky arms around her and pulling her close.

Azzi kissed her—slow and deep, like she hadn’t just brought her to her knees. Like she’d do it again.

“I missed you,” Azzi whispered into her mouth.

Paige nodded, breath still catching. “Me too.”

They stood there for a while, wrapped in each other, letting the water cool and the silence settle. Paige pressed a kiss to Azzi’s temple, slow and reverent, then looked down at her wrist.

The bracelet was still there. Pink and purple. A little loose from the water.

“Purpose,” she murmured. Azzi smiled, eyes still closed. “Guess we found it.” Paige nodded, her lips brushing Azzi’s jaw. “And I’m not letting go.”

[andrealol7]

somewhere in the crowd theres you <3

James Potter x fem!reader

based on the song Super Trouper by ABBA

summary: When James Potter injures his arm just before a big Quidditch match, he convinces his secretly talented (but anxious) girlfriend to take his place.

tw: panic attack

a/n: not proofread

---

The problem starts with James being an idiot.

Or, well. Technically, it starts with a dive during practice — “for dramatic effect,” he claimed — and the next, he was on the ground clutching his arm and wincing with a dramatic flair that Sirius called “very on-brand.”

But you maintain it was his fault for trying to pull that ridiculous stunt he kept bragging about during breakfast.

“Madam Pomfrey says he’ll live,” Remus says gently beside you as you hover in the Hospital Wing, arms crossed tightly.

“Pity,” you mutter.

Sirius snorts. “She doesn’t mean that.”

You scowl. “No, I do.”

James is lounging dramatically on the infirmary bed, with a cast on his arm and an arm sling, acting like it’s he's on the verge of death.

“Don’t look so mournful, love,” he croaks at you. “Your hero lives on.”

“I don’t look mournful,” you snap. “I look furious. Because you decided to pull that ridiculous stunt earlier and now you’ve got the grace of a knocked-over bookshelf. And may I need to remind you, a day before the biggest Quidditch match of the season."

"And now how are you gonna find someone who's gonna fill out your spot just in time for tomorrow.” you continue with your eyebrows furrowed.

Its ironic how you're the one who's stressed out about this whole thing while the Quidditch captain doesn't seem to have a care in the world.

“Bookshelves are noble,” he says. “And stacked with knowledge.”

“Stacked with idiocy, apparently.”

Remus hides a smile.

James just blinks up at you like you’re the sun and he’s been staring too long. “You know what would make me feel better?”

“Let me guess,” you say dryly. “Snogging.”

“Well, that too.” He smirks. “But also — you flying for me.”

You blink. “What.”

“You. Tomorrow. Gryffindor vs. Slytherin. You fill in.”

You laugh. Like, actually laugh out loud.

James just keeps smiling. “C’mon, you’re brilliant.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No!”

“Y/N.” He sits up straighter, and his voice softens. “You’re the best flier I know. You just don’t like the pressure of people watching you.”

You look down. Your throat tightens.

Remus, ever the peacemaker “You’re the best flier we’ve got besides James.”

“You’ve never even seen me play,” you scoffed, heart rate already spiking.

“Please,” James groaned, “you made me eat dirt third year when we were messing around on the pitch. You flew circles around me.”

You crossed your arms. “That was a one-time thing and I was showing off because you wouldn’t shut up about your record.”

“Exactly,” James said, beaming despite the sling on his arm. “And now you get to show off again. Officially.”

A quiet moment goes by

“I…I can’t,” you murmur. “You know what happens. I freeze. My chest locks up. I feel like I’m going to faint or fall or—or die or worse, vomit in public.”

James reaches out, his fingers curling lightly around your wrist.

“Then don’t look at the crowd,” he says gently. “Just look for me.”

Your heart aches a little.

Because he says it like it’s easy.

Because part of you wants to believe he’s right.

“Look, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t believe you could do it. We’re playing Slytherin. We need you.”

You swallow. Your heart is already trying to break out of your chest, and it’s only the day before.

“But what if I mess it up?” you whisper.

James leans forward. “You won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do” with that signature grin of his.

“Really reassuring”

⸻

If someone had told you two weeks ago that you’d be starting as Seeker in the biggest Quidditch match of the year, you would’ve laughed, choked, cried, and then passed out.

In that order.

But here you are. Dressed in James’s oversized scarlet and gold jersey, broom clutched in white-knuckled hands, standing just outside the changing tent with your heart in your throat and what feels like a war inside your lungs.

Eight minutes to go.

The pitch roars outside. A blur of cheers and chants and stomping boots.

Your brain is short-circuiting.

You can’t breathe.

You’re too hot in your jersey. Your hands are shaking. There’s a stone lodged behind your ribs.

“I’m gonna die,” you mutter, sitting down hard on the bench by the tent flap.

“Bit dramatic, even for you.”

You flinch.

Sirius stands in the doorway, arms crossed, still in full gear and a crooked concern in his expression.

You try to smile.

He doesn’t smile back.

“Talk to me, Y/N.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re about to throw up and cry.”

“That’s just my face. You’ve seen it before.”

“You’re not funny.”

“No, you’re right. I’m hilarious.”

He strides over and crouches in front of you. His voice is quieter now.

“You don’t have to do this. I’ll talk to McGonagall. I’ll bloody fly two positions if I have to.”

You shake your head quickly. “No. I want to.”

Sirius studies you. His eyes soften.

“You’re terrified.”

You nod. “Yeah. Just—just give me a minute, okay? I need a second.”

A long pause.

Then, quietly “Okay.”

He squeezes your hand once. Then leaves.

Your body slumps with the effort of just existing.

You bury your face in your hands. Try to breathe like Madam Pomfrey taught you — in for four, hold for four, out for four — but your lungs still feel too small.

You’re going to mess it up.

You’re going to fall.

Everyone’s going to laugh.

“You alright?”

You jump so hard you nearly kick your broom.

James Potter.

Leaning against the post of the tent like he owns the world, hair wind-tousled, grinning at you like you’re the one who’s handsome and ridiculous.

He’s still in a sling from yesterday. Which is his fault, by the way.

You groan. “Don’t look at me.”

“Too late. Already doing it.”

“James.”

“Y/N.”

You glare. He sits beside you anyway.

“I’m fine,” you say preemptively.

“Brilliant,” he replies. “Then I won’t offer you this emergency chocolate I just so happen to have in my pocket.”

You pause.

“…What kind of chocolate?”

James grins, pulls a small Honeydukes bar from his robes, and holds it out like it’s a peace offering.

You snatch it. “Thanks.”

“So,” he says, swinging his legs under the bench. “You’re panicking, huh?”

You freeze mid-bite.

“I—no—I just—”

He raises an eyebrow.

You sigh. “Okay. Yes. Like, a lot.”

James nods. “Good. That’s normal.”

“Is it?”

“Sure.” He gestures grandly. “I panic all the time. Yesterday I forgot how to spell ‘February.’”

You snort. “That’s just because you’re stupid.”

“And you’re gorgeous and terrified. We all have our things.”

You blink at him.

He leans in, nudges your knee with his.

“Listen to me,” he says, quieter now. “You don’t have to be perfect. Just get out there. Do your thing. You don’t have to be me.”

You scoff. “Good, because I have more brain cells.”

“Debatable. But we’ll circle back.”

You laugh. It breaks the fog around your ribs a little.

James smiles.

“I’ll be in the stands. Front row. First person you’ll see when you look up.”

“What if I can’t look up?”

“Then I’ll scream so loud you’ll have to look up.”

You shake your head chuckling. “Why are you like this?”

He shrugs. “Born this way. Curse and a gift.”

You hesitate, then quietly: “Thanks. For… being here.”

He meets your eyes.

“Always,” he says simply. “Now go kick Slytherin’s arse.”

You stand, wobble slightly, then straighten your shoulders.

You’re still scared.

But he’s watching.

And somehow, that makes it easier to breathe.

-

Your vision swims.

The stands are packed — students crammed shoulder to shoulder, flags waving, chants rising like thunder.

“Breathe,” you whisper to yourself. In for four. Hold. Out for four. You repeat it. Again. Again.

“Y/N,” Sirius says behind you, voice low and protective as he tightens his gloves. “If you freeze up midair, you land. Got it? I don’t care if we’re down 200 points. You land.”

“I’ll be fine,” you mutter.

“You’re pale.”

“I’m always pale.”

He glares at you, jaw tight. He doesn’t say I’m worried out loud, but he doesn’t have to. You can see it in the twitch of his eye and the way he keeps glancing between you and the sky like he’s weighing the wind himself.

You offer a weak smile. “Try not to punch a Slytherin in midair again.”

“No promises,” he mutters.

⸻

The whistle shrieks.

You mount your broom and push off. Your stomach lurches.

The world spins around you for a second — air whipping past, people screaming, wind pressing at your ears — but you manage to stay steady.

You start flying slow circles above the match. Not diving, not chasing. Just… existing.

Barely.

The Slytherin Seeker zooms past you with a sneer. “Gryffindor couldn’t afford a real one, huh?”

You want to scream. Or vanish. Or both.

You pull your broom a little higher. Hide.

Then you hear it.

“Y/N! Y/N!“ “YOU CAN DO IT! GO! THAT’S MY GIRL!”

You blink.

The voice is obnoxiously loud — familiar and grinning.

You glance down instinctively and spot him immediately.

James Potter, front row of the Gryffindor stands, somehow out of his sling, hands cupped around his mouth as he screams.

Next to him, Remus is trying to calm him. And Peter who has somehow acquired a red-and-gold megaphone screaming encouragements.

James waves both arms in the air like a man possessed.

“SHE’S GORGEOUS AND SHE’S GOT A SNITCH TO CATCH! MOVE OUT THE WAY, SLYTHERIN!”

You laugh.

Actually laugh.

A short, stunned laugh that escapes you without permission. It rattles your chest and leaves your lungs a little lighter.

You look up.

The wind hits your face. The sun glints off something to your left, fast, bright, fluttering.

The Snitch.

You dive.

Nothing exists but the gold flicker ahead of you and the rush of air behind you.

The Slytherin Seeker spots it too and follows, but you’re faster. Lighter. Sharper.

Your heart pounds. Your eyes sting from the wind.

The cheers around you turn into a dull roar and somewhere in it, you hear him.

“YOU’VE GOT IT, LOVE! GO, GO, GO!”

And suddenly, you’re not scared.

Suddenly, you believe it.

You flew like you were born to do it.

Sharp turns. Clean dives. You didn’t even notice the eyes on you after the second lap — you were too busy focused on the wind in your hair, the sound of the air parting around your broom, the way your muscles remembered how to move.

It was like a song you’d known all along.

You chased the Snitch, heart in your throat, eyes locked, adrenaline buzzing.

Faster. Closer.

And with one final lunge—your fingers curled around it.

The whistle blows and the crowd explodes.

You can’t believe it. You actually did it.

You land shakily back on the ground, your teammates crushed you in a hug, screaming and laughing. People were chanting your name. Marlene gave you a headlock no one asked for. Even McGonagall looked impressed.

Sirius rips his helmet off midair, looking like he might cry and punch someone simultaneously. He swoops down, grabs you in a crushing hug mid-laugh.

“You absolute maniac,” he breathes. “That was insane. That was—Merlin. You did it.”

You can’t stop smiling. You’re breathless and shaking but so happy.

The team is lifting you up. Students are pouring down the stands.

But your eyes are searching for only one thing.

You’re still riding the high — the Snitch clutched in your hand, your chest tight with laughter and disbelief. Gryffindor is screaming. Red and gold confetti is falling from somewhere (you suspect Remus had a charm ready).

And then — from the crowd — comes the voice again “THAT’S MY GIRL! SHE’S A LEGEND! SHE’S—” James Potter.

Charging down from the stands like a golden retriever on fire.

You catch his eyes just as you’re lowering to the ground. He’s pushing through people like a man possessed — beaming, breathless, sprinting.

And—wait.

That’s when you finally realised.

He’s using both arms.

No sling. No careful cradle. Just full arm-swinging enthusiasm, waving at you like he’s landing a plane.

You freeze mid-step.

You glance at his shoulder. Then at your hand — still holding the Snitch. Then back at him.

He doesn’t notice. He’s too busy literally jumping up and down.

“Y/N! Did you SEE that catch? You were like—woosh! and then—bam! You’re a star, I mean—I’m amazing for choosing you, obviously, but you—”

You stare at him.

“James.”

“—and the way you dropped into the dive, Merlin, I was ready to pass out—”

“James.”

He blinks. “What?”

You just… point.

To his arm.

Now very much not broken.

The whole team starts going quiet around you. Sirius raises one eyebrow so high it practically vanishes into his hairline.

You fold your arms. “You’re not even hurt?”

James immediately backpedals. “I—I was! I mean, technically, there was a mild—”

“Mild?!”

“Okay, so I may have exaggerated the severity of the fracture—”

“It wasn’t even fractured, was it?”

“…No.”

The team loses it.

Sirius lets out an actual cackle. Remus just pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s questioning every life choice that led him here. Peter’s laughing so hard he nearly drops his wand.

“You lied,” you say, half-stunned, half-laughing. “You faked an injury.”

James holds up his hands. “I didn’t fake—okay, yes, but I had to! I wanted you to play!”

You gape at him.

“Y/N, you’re so good, and you’d never try out on your own, and I knew if I didn’t give you a reason—”

“You could’ve asked me!”

“I did! That one time in third year!”

“That doesn’t count, you offered me the Beater position as a joke!”

James grins sheepishly. “Okay, yeah, that was mostly for the flirting. But this time I was serious.”

Sirius chimes in, “You’re never serious. I’M Sirius.”

You and James both groan.

“You are—” you jab a finger into his chest, “—an absolute menace.”

“And yet…” he leans in, eyes twinkling, “…you still look good in my jersey.”

You shove him. “You’re the worst.”

He laughs. “Maybe. But you did it, didn’t you?”

You sigh, finally letting a grin creep in.

“…Yeah,” you admit. “I did.”

He beams.

“I knew you could do it,” he said, soft and proud.

And when he wraps both arms around you in a warm, full-bodied hug — with no sling, no excuse, no apology — you let him.

Because somewhere in the crowd, it was him.

Even if he was being a complete idiot.

[ethe-realfantasy]

"I don't need time, I need you."

(Angst, established relationship, Simon is going through it, but he is still so gentle and vulnerable with you???, I sobbed writing this… should this be a new series? Idk guys you tell me)

•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•⑅♡⑅•

It starts in small ways.

You notice the change first, not with anger, but with worry. Simon comes home quieter than usual. The shadows in his eyes sit heavier. He doesn’t sleep through the night anymore, sometimes you wake to find him sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands covering his face like the weight of the world has finally settled in his palms.

You try to talk to him. Gently, you're always gentle.

“Did something happen?”

He shrugs. “Just work.”

“Is there something you want to talk about?”

He leans in and kisses your forehead. “I’m fine.”

But he’s clearly not.

And after a while, you stop asking, because being met with silence feels worse than hearing the weight of his truth.

He starts pulling away in other ways, too. Fewer touches. Less eye contact. The warmth in your shared spaces fades like breath on glass. He still shows you love, quietly, in his own ways, but you can feel the wall going up and it hurts.

One day, after a particularly long stretch of silence between the two of you, you finally break.

“You can’t keep shutting me out, Simon. I’m not your enemy.”

He looks at you like you just told him the sky isn’t blue anymore. And then he looks down and avoids you completely.

“I’m trying to protect you", he simply says.

“From what?” Your voice is thin, breaking despite your best effort. “From you?”

He doesn’t answer.

So you step closer. “I don’t need you to be okay all the time, Simon. I just need you to let me in.”

“I can’t,” he says after a long pause. It’s not angry or cruel. It's just tired. “You wouldn’t want what’s in here."

There’s nothing left to say after that. Just silence. A long one.

“I can’t be in a relationship with someone who won’t let me love all of him", you whisper.

He stiffens like he’s just been shot in a place he didn’t expect.

You turn toward the door, already halfway out. Your coat’s in your hand and your voice is shaking from the effort it took to say what you just did.

“Wait,” he says, voice rough. He doesn’t reach for you or grab you. He just... stands there.

You pause for a second.

“You think I want to be like this?” he asks, and there’s frustration there now. Not aimed at you, it's never really aimed at you, but it's thick in the air like smoke. “You think I like being the man who can’t talk about what’s going on inside his bloody head?”

Your grip tightens around the coat.

“I don’t know what you want anymore", you say, not turning to face him.

“I want to come home and not see the things I’ve seen stuck behind my eyes.” His voice drops. “I want to lie beside you and feel like I deserve to. I want to protect you from the ugliness I carry every damn day.”

You finally turn, slowly, with glossy eyes “But I’m not asking you to protect me.”

“I know,” he says, almost to himself.

You step forward, just one small pace, like you're still waiting for something he can’t quite say.

“I wasn’t made for this kind of talking,” he adds, a little helpless. “Wasn’t raised for it. Wasn’t trained for it. But I’m trying.”

You watch him quietly and your heart cracks under the weight of what’s not being said, of how hard it clearly is for him, even now, to let you in.

“You don’t have to say everything,” you say, voice softer now. “Just… don’t push me out. Don’t treat me like I’m a door you can close whenever it gets heavy.”

His gaze lifts to yours. And you see that he’s tired and also scared. Scared of being known too much, maybe. Of loving you too hard and not knowing how to keep it.

And still, he doesn’t ask you to stay.

He wants to. It’s there, all over his face. But it’s like something inside him just won’t let the words form.

So instead, as you open the door, he says it, almost under his breath.

“I love you.”

You close your eyes as soon as you hear the words and your shoulders tense. It’s not the first time he’s said it, he says it often. Sometimes too quietly. Sometimes when he’s angry. But this time it lands like an anchor.

And still you do not turn to face him. Instead you keep your hand resting on the doorknob. You're waiting.

You love him too. God, you do. But love wasn’t supposed to feel like you're standing in a room, begging through a closed door.

A breath leaves your lips slowly and only then, you turn. Just enough to meet his eyes across the small space between you.

“Then say it. Say it like you don’t want me to walk out,” you say, barely above a whisper.

God, why won't he say it?

Simon doesn’t move right away. He looks like someone still caught between instinct and truth. That part of him that retreats when things get real… and the other part that won’t let you go.

He takes a step forward. Not close enough to crowd you, but enough to reach your eyes fully. Enough that his voice drops to something raw, and low, and unmistakably real.

“I don’t want you to walk out", is all he says.

No excuses. No promises he’s not sure how to make. Just that truth, stripped bare.

Your lips part like you're going to respond, but no sound comes out. Your throat works around the feeling pressing there and you exhale shakily through your nose instead. Your fingers finally release the doorknob.

It's not a step forward, but you're not leaving, either.

And Simon… he watches that tiny gesture like it’s the biggest thing in the world. Still, he doesn’t rush to close the distance.

“I’m not good at this,” he admits. “But I’m better when you’re here.”

The air between you feels electric. Not the kind that thrills, but the kind that trembles. Your pulse is still racing, your chest rising and falling like you just stepped out of a fight... or into one.

You watch him and see the flicker of guilt in his eyes, the softness trying to push through his guarded stance. He’s not easy, he never was, but this? This took something out of you.

Still, your fingers twitch slightly at your sides.

Simon doesn’t move yet. He stands like someone trying not to spook a wounded animal, only this time, he knows he’s the one who caused the wound. And he’s terrified he might make it worse.

Your voice comes quiet and tight in your throat.

“I don’t need perfect,” you murmur, “but I can’t… I can’t keep being shut out like that.”

Simon’s eyes don’t leave yours. “I know.”

You step forward again, closer this time, although still cautious, like you're bracing for another sting.

But Simon finally moves.

He lifts his hand slowly, his palm rests open in the space between you. He's only offering.

You glance at it. After a long pause, you place your hand over his, tentative and trembling. It’s like the moment finally exhales.

Simon’s fingers curl gently around yours. There is no pull or force. Just that grounding warmth in his touch, steady and solid.

"If I want anyone inside this mess of a head… it’s you.”

A shiver rolls through you and your heart flutters.

“I hate that you say things like that when I’m trying to be mad at you.”

“I know,” he says, and for the first time all night you see a flicker of relief in his eyes.

Then you take the final step, just close enough that your forehead nearly touches his chest. You haven’t leaned into him, not yet. But you're right there.

And that’s when Simon rests his chin just over the crown of your head. And you, exhausted and full of everything that still aches in you, finally let your head fall against him and close your eyes.

You're ready to try again.

-------

Until a few weeks later, it starts again with nothing.

A short comment from you, something about how he seems off. How he barely touched his dinner or how he hasn't looked you in the eyes since coming through the door.

Simon brushes it off. “Just tired,” he said, flat.

You try again gently. “You can talk to me, you know. You don’t have to carry it all by yourself.”

And that's it.

His jaw clenches. He doesn't snap or raise his voice, instead he just goes quiet. A different kind of silence. Not soft or thoughtful. Not the kind that gives space. This one is cold, rigid. A wall going up brick by careful brick.

You watch it happen, because you know it by heart now. That slow closing of the drawbridge and the subtle retreat behind armor.

But this time you don't knock on the gate and plead for him to open up. You don't follow him with worried eyes or curl your hands in your lap like you did a million times before. You just… go still.

Quiet.

You push your chair back, slowly and clear the plates without a word. Your movements are precise and gentle. No slamming cupboards or angry sighs, just that unbearable calm that says this is how it breaks.

Simon sits at the table, staring at the space where you just sat.

It takes him a minute to realise what he has done.

He hears the faint sound of the sink and the clink of dishes. So he stands up, unsure. His voice doesn't come easily, it never did with this.

“y/n.”

You don't move when you hear your name. You don't flinch or turn to look at him. You stand there at the sink, back straight, shoulders set like you're trying not to feel anything at all.

He approaches slowly, his boots soft against the floor. He doesn't want to startle you, hell, he doesn't even know what he wants to say. But something in him needs to be close.

Then he hears it.

It's neither a gasp nor a sob, not really. It's just a little break in your breath, the kind of sound that only comes when someone’s trying too hard not to make a sound at all.

You reach for another dish, knuckles white, and your head dips a little.

He stops in the doorway, like it physically hurts to take another step.

"Are you crying?”, he asks softly, softer than he spoke all night.

The question hangs between you, a little helpless. And God, he didn’t mean it to sound like that, like it broke him a little to ask.

You don't answer or turn around. But he sees you pause, hands faltering, the plate still under the running water.

And that's enough for him to know.

He exhales through his nose and a hand comes to rest at his side, curling into a fist like he doesn't trust himself to reach for you yet.

He has faced gunfire and blood, stared down the darkest parts of the world, but this quiet ache in your silence, this is what cracked him open.

“y/n” he tries again, voice low, with a thread of apology woven right through it. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just..” He runs a hand through his hair.

“I don’t always know how to bring you into the mess in my head.”

Still, no answer. But your shoulders shake, barely, and that sound comes again, it's stifled, quiet and full of all the things you never wanted to say like this.

Simon takes a cautious step forward.

“If I made you feel like you were alone in this…” He pauses and wallows hard, unsure of which words to use. “I really didn't want to make you feel like this.”

You set the plate down gently, still not looking at him. But he sees your hand press to your chest, like something inside there just hurt too much to keep in.

He steps beside you, not touching yet. Just enough for you to feel him there without him needing to say anything else.

“I hate that I made you cry”, he says with his voice cracking.

There is a tiny hitch in your breath, like his nearness itself is too much right now.

He notices and freezes immediately.

“I really didn’t mean to..” he starts, but you shake your head, still not facing him.

“I can’t right now, Simon,” you say, barely above a whisper. “I can't talk to you right now.”

Your voice breaks on the last word, and it guts him, because he sees every trembling inch of you. The strong, steady woman now holding herself together by a thread. And knowing he’s the one who pulled it taut… it hollows something in his chest.

“I’m just” you try again, sucking in a sharp breath as your hands press into the edge of the counter. “I’m so tired, Simon. Tired of trying to pull things out of you. Tired of always being the one asking. Guessing. Waiting.”

“You shouldn’t have to guess,” he finally says, voice low and full of regret. “That’s on me.”

You still won’t turn to face him, but your shoulders are trembling harder now, small, shaking sobs you can’t hold back anymore. His chest aches with the sound of it.

He reaches out and lets his hand brush lightly along your upper arm. A touch you can refuse, if you want to.

You don't flinch away, but you don't lean in, either. It’s all too much and not enough, all at once.

“I’m trying,” he says, and it comes out raw, broken. “I’m trying to do better.”

You turn your head slightly, not fully toward him, but just enough to show him the wet shimmer of tears on your cheek.

“Then tell me that, before you shut me out,” you whisper. “Tell me when you’re struggling instead of making me feel like I’m not allowed in.”

Simon breathes in hard through his nose and nods, once. “Come here", he says, and pulls you in a tight embrace, more tender than he has ever been.

It isn’t a command. It’s a request. Something he needs, but only if you need it too.

At first you hesitate, but then you turn, just enough to lean your forehead against his chest. It's just a small surrender. He wraps his arms around you without saying another word, holding you like you are fragile and unbreakable all at once.

“I’m sorry. God, 'm sorry", he murmurs.

Your forehead rests against his chest, but you don't stop crying. It‘s the kind of crying that’s silent at first, just trembling shoulders and breath caught in your throat. Then it hits in waves: Sharp little sobs that break free one after the other, muffled against his shirt. The sound rips through him.

Simon holds you tighter. One hand cradles the back of your head, his fingers threading gently through your hair. The other hand is anchored at your back, steady and protective.

“y/n”, he says gently, barely more than a whisper, his lips near your temple.

You don't respond or lift your head, you simply sob harder and it shatters him.

He presses his face into your hair and closes his eyes, holding you like he could somehow shield you from himself. Like if he were strong enough, careful enough, you wouldn’t have to feel this pain at all.

But you do. And it’s because of him.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs again, softer this time, “I hate that I did this. That I made you feel like this.”

You shudder in his arms and your hands are clutching his shirt now, wrinkling the fabric.

He rocks you slightly, almost unconsciously. Not to calm you, but rather just to do something. Anything. His own throat tightens and it burns him alive, knowing you're crying this hard in his arms, because of him. Because he was too afraid to show you the ugliest parts of himself. Too closed off.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, over and over now, the words catching in his throat, raw and fraying at the edges. “I’m sorry."

You sob into his chest until your legs give slightly, and he feels it, the collapse under everything you've been holding together.

Without a word, Simon gently steadies you and guides you back into the bedroom. His hand never leaves your back as he sits you down on the edge of the bed, crouching in front of you like you might slip away if he turns his back for even a second.

“I’ll be right back,” he says quietly. His voice is low, warm and rough with emotion, but it's steady. Just steady enough not to make you feel more fragile than you already do.

You nod numbly, eyes glassy and cheeks blotched, and fold your hands in your lap while he disappears down the hall. He returns with a glass of water and a few tissues, kneeling beside you again, like you are sacred.

“Here,” he murmurs, pressing the cool glass gently into your hand, his other hand brushing your hair out of your face, soft and careful. You take a sip, but your fingers are trembling too much to hold it long, so he takes it from you and sets it aside.

Then he stays there, kneeling before you, eyes searching yours with something raw behind them.

He smooths your hair back again, letting his thumb graze your cheek. Your lashes are wet and your lower lip trembles.

“I know,” he finally says, voice hushed. “I know I keep shutting you out.”

You don’t respond and that silence alone breaks him more than shouting ever could. His hand lingers against your knee. “You didn’t do anything wrong, you hear me?” He searches for your eyes.

“I know I’m hard to love sometimes,” he adds, eyes dropping to the floor for just a moment. “I don’t talk when I should. I shut down when I shouldn’t.”

He looks up again, his voice tightening. “I think I broke this.”

Your eyes well up again, more quiet tears slipping down. He reaches up and brushes them away gently with the edge of the tissue, not trusting himself to speak.

“You’re the last person I want to lose", he whispers.

You lean slightly into his hand and that tiny gesture nearly undoes him. He feels it behind his ribs, a weight that presses hard. Still kneeling, he presses his forehead to your thigh, his arms loosely circling your waist. It's a wordless please. "I love you."

And he just stays like that, kneeling at your feet, arms around you, like maybe, there’s still time to put the pieces back together.

You stay still, with his forehead resting gently against your leg and his arms wound around you like he’s trying to hold onto something that’s already slipping.

You swallow hard with your throat tight and aching, the aftershocks of your sobs still quivering in your chest. When you speak, it's barely above a whisper.

“Simon.”

His name comes out broken, like it costs you something to say it. He lifts his head slowly and your heart stutters at the look in his eyes, red-rimmed, heavy, wrecked with guilt.

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

It lands between you with the weight of truth. Your voice cracks on the last word and you have to look away as fresh tears gather.

“I’m so tired,” you say, brushing angrily at your cheeks, your tone raw and vulnerable. “I feel like I’m trying to love you with both hands tied behind my back. Like you’re only giving me the parts of you that are easiest to carry.”

His breath catches like he wants to interrupt, to explain, to apologize again, but something in your expression holds him still.

“I know it’s hard for you,” you say, softer now, gentler. “I know you’re not used to talking. I’ve seen you hold the weight of everything without saying a word. And I’ve tried, God, I’ve tried, to be patient." Your lips start trembling again. “But it hurts me too, Simon.” You finally look at him again and your eyes are full. Not just with pain, but with love too. Still. Even now. “Can’t you see that?”

He does. The sight of you sitting there, holding yourself together with fraying edges, still beautiful, still his... it guts him.

He reaches for your hand, slowly and carefully, like you might pull away.

“I see it,” he says. His voice is low and unsteady.

For a moment all you can concentrate on is trying not to cry again.

“I just don’t know if loving you should feel this lonely,” you admit and the way you say it nearly knocks the wind out of him.

Simon presses your hand to his lips and doesn’t say anything for a beat.

“I don’t want to lose you“, he manages.

You close your eyes when you hear him say it. Like your body doesn’t quite know how to hold the weight of those words. Like they mean too much. Like they’ve come too late.

Simon watches you with something hollow and tight in his chest. Your fingers are still in his hand, but limp. Your shoulders curve forward as if you're trying to keep from collapsing in on yourself.

He’s kneeling beside the bed still, one arm draped across your leg, the other hand still cradling yours gently, like it might break if he grips it too tightly. Like you might break.

“I just”, your voice comes soft, but cracked at the edges, “I think I need some time.”

Simon’s breath catches.

His eyes search your face not with judgment, not even resistance. Just with that sharp, wounded stillness, like someone took the floor out from under him. His hand stiffens where it rests on your thigh, but he doesn’t pull away.

“I’m not saying I want this to end,” you add quickly, your voice thick with the tears still lingering in your throat. “God, Simon, you know I don’t want that.”

He swallows hard, like he doesn’t trust himself to speak.

“I love you,” you whisper, eyes still closed. “You know that, right?”

He nods stiffly, like anything more than that would shatter him.

“But I’m drowning,” you continue. “And I keep waiting for you to reach for me and you don’t. You shut down. And I know you don’t mean to. But it leaves me alone with all this… And I just.. I think we need some time.”

Simon’s jaw flexes, something deep in his chest twisting.

He wants to say something. He wants to throw himself at your feet and promise you he’ll do better, that he’ll rip himself open if that’s what it takes for you to see inside him, to believe him. But the words sit in his throat like stone.

So instead, he leans forward and kisses your hand. “I don’t need time,” he murmurs. “I need you.”

You shake your head and bite your lip hard, your breath hitching. The pain on his face, that quiet ache in his voice, it all hits you too hard.

“I know,” you whisper. “But I… I have to figure out if I can live like this.”

He drops his forehead against your knee and rests there. When he speaks again, it’s barely audible. “But I love you.”

The words break against you like a wave, but you don't move. You just sit on the edge of the bed with you hands in your lap... the same hands he’d held, kissed, clung to. Now they’re locked together like a barrier. Simon stays kneeling beside you, not quite breathing. He searches your eyes and they are glossy, tender, raw in a way that strips everything bare. There’s no heat or anger in them, only truth.

And he knows:

You mean it. You really mean it.

´You need space... from him.

Simon swallows and it tastes like metal in his throat.

He stands slowly, but doesn’t move far. He just paces. It's not fast or frantic. More like he’s trying to walk the ache out of his chest. Like if he keeps his body busy enough, he won’t fall apart. His fingers twitch restlessly as he crosses the room and he even pretends to tidy something on the counter. Then he picks up a book and sets it down again. He glances toward you again and you're still there, still quiet. And it's all because of him.

He runs a hand down his face, with his jaw clenched and his breath uneven. For a moment it looks like he might say something, but it dies before it reaches his lips. Instead, he drifts toward the door and picks up his keys from the small dish by the entrance.

He stands there for a moment, hesitating.

“I’ll give you the space you asked for,” he says quietly, voice low and heavy, like it costs him everything. “But I’m not lettin’ go.”

You don't reply. You don't feel the need to.

Then he opens the door and steps outside, leaving behind a silence thick with all the words you didn’t say.

[cxvii666]

my man's a dirty talker

more burnout college student bf! hanta sero x reader

mdni 😴

“did you want me to leave these in the fridge? or d’you wanna eat ’em now?”

hanta’s already in the kitchen, arms elbow-deep in a tote bag crammed with leftovers from that bbq. someone denki knew, or maybe someone’s friend’s housemate’s cousin. didn’t matter. denki had screamed free booze through hanta’s phone until he caved, dragging you along while you were still trying to fix your eyeliner.

you’d had fun. more than you expected, honestly. one of those long, stupid chill nights where the speakers are duct-taped to a lawn chair, the firepit’s too hot, the beer’s warm, and it somehow still feels like the best night of the semester. the kind of vibe where everyone’s skin smells like smoke and coconut sunscreen, and hanta had his hand on your back the whole time, always. even when you weren’t standing close.

the crowd was decent. familiar faces from lecture halls and group chats, people whose names you knew in context only. hanta had talked to most of them, the way he always does, easy and effortless and a little too charming for his own good. and still, every time you caught his eye from across the backyard, he smiled like he only cared if you were having a good time.

you dropped denki off an hour ago, the car still stinking of watermelon vape and the awful soundcloud mix he insists on playing when he’s high. hanta didn’t even argue tonight. he just gave you the aux and told denki to shut up and crawl in the back.

he always does small shit like that.

quiet, subtle things that make your chest ache a little. stuff like making his boys jump in the backseat if you're also in the car, always walking street side, always passing you your drink first, giving you a hoodie before you can even say you're cold. a lighter before you’ve even touched your pocket.

he surprised you in the car. pulled out the tupperware with the leftover lamb skewers—the ones you liked. two cans of that weird canned mojito that everyone hated except you. it was dumb. it made your throat feel tight.

now you’re just standing in the doorway, watching him move around your half-clean kitchen, all slow and loose. he’s got one hand in the fridge, the other holding two drinks, and his shirt’s all wrinkled and tugged up at the back. bare feet on tile. hair flopping over his eyes, still smelling like firewood and cheap weed.

“baby?”

his voice drags you out of your staring, low and soft and a little hoarse. you blink. your eyes had been fixed on his hands—how they held the bottle, the easy grip, the carefulness.

his hands. those fucking hands.

hands that have held your face while you cried. hands that rubbed your back through the worst hangover of your life. hands that carried your tote bag all day like it was nothing.

his knuckles tap against the counter, sharp, and you flinch.

“you feeling okay, sweets?”

he turns to look at you, eyes heavy-lidded, bloodshot and lazy from the tail end of a blunt you’d both shared in someone’s weird-ass hammock earlier. his hair’s a mess. his mouth is pink and soft, a little chapped. he looks tired—in that warm, sunburnt, overstimulated way—but still so stupidly pretty it hurts.

you take the water when he offers it. your fingers brush. he watches you closely.

then he smirks. not big. not loud. just enough to twist something inside your ribs.

you don’t answer.

and he knows.

“oh… i see,” he hums, and it’s so smug, so unbearably cocky, like he just caught your hand in your pants.

your back hits the wall as he steps in. still not touching. his arms hang low, sleeves bunched at his elbows, the shape of his body all angles and slouch and sleepy menace. head tilted. that knowing look in his eyes like he already knows what you’re about to say, and he’s just waiting for you to beg it out.

he doesn’t move.

you’re about to combust.

“are we gonna stand here all night?” he murmurs, voice just above a whisper. “thought you wanted to watch that new episode of—”

you cut him off with your mouth. drag him down by the front of his shirt and kiss him like you’ve got something to prove.

he laughs into it, all low and breathless, one of his hands dragging lazy up your spine. the other finds your waist, then your thighs. he palms the soft curve of them like he’s holding something precious. like it’s not the hundredth time. like it’s still a thrill.

you bite his neck and he makes this sound, this soft, breathy groan that makes your stomach drop.

“what, no words, sweet thing?” he teases into your ear. “that party wore you out that bad?”

you shake your head, breath hitching as his thumb grazes under your shirt, warm and calloused and maddeningly slow.

“y’know,” he mumbles, lips brushing your jaw, “i’m not really into the choking thing.”

“s'fine,” you gasp, pressing your hips up into his. “just want your—your—”

he raises a brow, his grin going sharp.

“my hands?” he says, like he’s mocking you. his other hand’s trailing slow, pointless circles above your collarbone. “that what you want, baby?”

you nod fast, swallow thick. he pouts, faux-sweet, teasing.

“you gonna ask nicely?”

“hanta,” you whimper.

“hanta,” he repeats in a high-pitched voice that doesn’t even sound like yours, laughing as you twist his ear between your teeth.

and then—

his finger brushes your bottom lip.

you freeze.

his eyes narrow. you part your mouth. he slides two fingers in—pointer and middle—without saying anything else, and you take them. immediately. like instinct.

his breath catches. his pupils blow wide.

“fuck,” he mutters. “my girl’s so nasty. look at you. fuckin’—fuck.”

his fingers play with your tongue. your lips wrap around them, slow, messy. he watches like he’s trying to memorize it. you grind your hips against him, desperate now, soaked through your underwear and buzzing from the way he’s just looking at you like this.

his other hand finally slips beneath your waistband, slow and smooth and deliberate.

you whine when his knuckles brush against your heat, when he swears under his breath like he’s not expecting you to be this wet.

“jesus,” he mutters. “you been like this all night?”

you nod around his fingers.

“for me?” he breathes.

you nod harder.

“goddamn,” he grins, curling those thick fingers inside you, slow at first, then meaner when you shudder against the wall. “so fuckin’ perfect. my girl’s so pretty when she’s needy like this.”

you try to talk, try to do something, but he hushes you with his fingers still in your mouth.

“nah. don’t speak. just feel me, yeah?”

and he’s knuckle-deep now, his thumb working soft circles over your clit, his fingers dragging against that spot that makes your knees shake.

your back arches. your jaw goes slack. spit leaks past the corners of your mouth and he moans like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen.

“so good for me, always,” he mutters, thumb pressing down harder. “can’t even wait ‘til the bed, huh? gotta fuck you right here. in the kitchen. s’that what you wanted?”

you let out a broken noise, a half-nod, half-plea.

his fingers leave your mouth with a wet pop. you barely get a breath in before he’s lifting you onto the counter, dragging your shorts off like they offended him.

he kneels.

and then he says, all sweet and cocky, looking up at you with that smug grin:

“be a good girl and hold on, yeah? lemme show you how much i missed you tonight.”

you barely register the sound of your shorts hitting the floor before he’s kissing the inside of your thigh, all slow and unhurried, his palms keeping your legs spread like it’s nothing. like he owns this. like you’ve always been his to touch like this.

his nose brushes the soft skin right next to where you want him most, and you twitch. his breath is hot. steady.

he grins into your thigh.

“sweet girl’s already shaking,” he murmurs, lazy and fond, his voice way too soft for what he’s doing. “can’t even wait, can you?”

you whine, your fingers already in his hair, tugging like you’re begging without saying a word.

“shhh,” he coos, kissing up, up, almost—and then not. “i got you, baby. i got you. just lemme take care of you.”

and fuck, when his tongue finally hits you, you actually whimper. legs instinctively try to close, but his grip gets firmer, thumbs digging into your skin in that perfect way that says he’s not going anywhere. not until he’s had his fill. not until you’re twitching around his mouth, begging him to stop even though you don’t mean it.

he eats you like he’s missed it. like it’s the best thing he’s tasted all day. licking long, slow, teasing stripes at first, then flattening his tongue and dragging it through you like he’s savoring it.

and the sounds—god, the fucking sounds he makes.

soft, greedy little moans against your pussy. gasping against you when you tug his hair. groaning when you grind your hips against his mouth like you’re losing your mind a little.

he pulls back just long enough to look up at you, his mouth shiny, lips wet, eyes dark and hooded.

“fuckin’ love this pussy,” he breathes, like he’s overwhelmed. “so soft. so sweet. fuck, you taste so sweet, baby. always do.”

your breath stutters. you’re trying to respond, trying to say something, but all that comes out is a gasp when he spits on your cunt and licks it back up with a groan like it’s divine.

“so pretty like this,” he mumbles, right against your clit now, tongue moving faster. “my pretty girl. always so fuckin’ good for me.”

you’re getting close. already. embarrassingly fast. you try to tell him, but your voice breaks and your fingers just tug harder on his hair.

he knows. of course he knows.

“mm, yeah? that close already, baby?” he purrs, tongue flicking faster. “go on, then. come for me. wanna taste you. wanna feel you fall apart just for me.”

and you do.

it crashes over you, sharp and warm and dizzying, your whole body trembling as he moans into your cunt, licking you through it like he’s starved. you try to pull away, too sensitive, but he keeps going until you’re gasping, thighs twitching, mumbling his name like a prayer.

“hanta, hanta, please—fuck, please—”

he finally pulls back, face flushed, lips wet and curved into the filthiest grin.

he kisses your thigh once more, then stands—towering over you again, hair a mess, mouth swollen, breath uneven.

“you okay, baby?” he asks, voice gentler now, his hand brushing your cheek like you didn’t just come all over his face two seconds ago.

you nod, a little dazed.

he kisses you soft, open-mouthed and slow. you taste yourself on his tongue and groan into it.

“still want more?” he whispers, pulling back just enough to search your eyes.

you nod again, this time quicker. more desperate.

“words, baby.”

“want you,” you gasp. “need you inside. right now.”

his eyes go dark again.

he cups your jaw with one hand, the other already sliding his sweats down enough to free himself, and god—he’s hard and flushed, already leaking, already twitching against your thigh. he grinds against you, slow and teasing, dragging the tip through your slick folds until you shudder and nearly sob.

“fuck, you’re so wet for me,” he mutters. “s’like you’re made for me, baby. every time. every single fuckin’ time.”

you try to roll your hips, but his hands pin you down.

“ah, ah—lemme in first,” he teases, voice wrecked. “i’ll give it to you, don’t worry. just gotta feel you clench around me first.”

and when he pushes in—

fuck.

it’s slow, deliberate, filling. you stretch around him in that perfect, aching way that makes your eyes roll back. he curses under his breath, head falling forward to press into your shoulder.

“shit, baby,” he gasps. “so fuckin’ tight. always so tight for me. how do you do that?”

you can’t answer. not with the way he’s fucking you now—deep and slow and so goddamn good it knocks the air out of your lungs.

“love this,” he mutters into your skin. “love this pussy. love this body. love you.”

his words are spilling now, soft and filthy and so real it makes your heart clench.

“my girl. my sweet, dirty girl. always so good to me. always let me have you like this.”

you’re shaking again. you’re close again.

“you gonna give me another one?” he whispers, biting at your neck. “hmm? can you do that for me, pretty?”

“yes—fuck, yes, hanta—”

his hips snap harder, fingers digging into your waist.

“yeah, that’s it,” he groans. “c’mon, baby. give it to me. wanna feel you fall apart again. wanna feel you cum around my cock, yeah?”

you do.

you break apart on him, mouth open in a silent cry, and he fucks you through it, gasping your name like it’s sacred.

and when he comes—it’s messy. drawn out. his hips stuttering, his voice rough, his body curling around yours as he spills into you.

you both just sit there, clinging. panting. wrecked.

and then he leans in and kisses your forehead like he’s trying to reset your heartbeat.

“jesus,” he whispers. “you’re gonna kill me one day, baby.”

you laugh, breathless and dazed.

he kisses your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder.

“worth it,” he adds, smiling like a man absolutely down bad.

[dog-bimbo]

explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, threesome (shiu x you x toji), objectification, degradation, overstimulation, submissive reader. eighteen and above only. minors do not interact.

toji's done a good job this time as usual. a bit hard to work with? sure, but no one rakes in as much money as him. shiu didn't have a dinner in mind, it's pricy and the guy eats a lot, doesn't pick up the check nor does he have good dinner talk.

shiu's got something even better than a measly dinner—you. he’s already got you dressed pretty, soft little thing in lingerie that barely covers you.

toji kicks off his shoes like he owns the place, cracks his neck and eyes you like he’s hungry.

shiu’s sitting on the couch already, flicking ash into a tray, nodding toward you with a lazy smirk. “dinner’s served.” toji snorts as he settles down next to shiu. “thought you were jokin’. fuck- she’s real cute.”

you look up at them, already on your knees like you were told, hands folded in your lap. “she’s obedient too,” shiu adds, stroking your cheek with the back of his fingers, “go on, baby. show him how you say hello.”

you crawl forward, pulling toji’s pants down with shaky fingers, and he lets out a low chuckle, hand heavy on your head.“she trained or just desperate?” “bit of both,” shiu says, voice ringing with pride.

your mouth opens, lips stretching slow around toji’s cock as he exhales sharp, gripping your hair like it’s instinct.

“fuckin’ hell,” he groans, “she’s got a good throat.” shiu watches with lidded eyes, palming himself through his slacks, unbothered. he takes his time, undoing his zip, letting the heat build slow.

"don’t be greedy,” he mutters to toji, “save room. i didn’t skip dinner for you to hog everything."

they trade you off like a blunt—wet, wrecked, pliant.

you're on your back on the couch now. shiu positions his cock while tilting your head back with both of his hands on your cheeks. toji lines his cock up your cunt, thumbs bruising into your hips as he adjusts you.

“no condom?” toji grunts. “nah. she’s clean. on the pill.” “you don’t mind if i finish in her then?” shiu just laughs, smoke curling from his lips. “fill her up. she likes that.”

toji grins, sharp and wolfish. “what a fuckin’ gift, man.” shiu nods, gripping your jaw, making you look up at him through tears.

“yeah,” he says, voice low, possessive. “she’s the best thing i own.”

you're tearing up but neither of them seems to care. shiu’s still got a hand on your cheek, not guiding—but thrusting into your hot wet mouth. his other hand goes down to your throat to squeeze it.

toji starts by pushing it slow but once his dick's snug between your velvet walls, he doesn't seem to stop the pounding.

“tight little thing,” he mutters, holding your legs up by your thighs like you're some inflatable sex doll he's been fucking. “she always like this?”

“better when she’s scared,” shiu says while fucking deep into your throat with a lazy pace. “but don’t worry. she breaks in fast.”

your eyes roll up your skull, too far gone to be shy as the first orgasm hits you. everything’s warm and dizzy, your limbs heavy, your body pulled between them like you're just fuckmeat. toji sets a faster pace—rough and greedy as he's about to cum. your cervix can't take it no more, you're already on your second orgasm. you moan around shiu's cock.

"you makin' those sounds for him?" shiu asks, amused, almost sweet as he pants a bit. he's loving the vibration "or just that dumb and full already?"

toji laughs under his breath, voice gravelly as he finally breaks in. hot cum paints your walls white. just seconds later, shiu cums too, sticky and salty. the kind that drives you insane.

and you are. nothing pretty about it—your lashes wet, lips swollen, body trembling as they let you go at the same time. “you done?” toji asks, not even looking at you—he’s watching shiu, waiting for the nod.

shiu leans down, presses a kiss to your cheek, mock-gentle as you drool out cum. “nah,” he murmurs. “not yet.”

he straightens his tie, lights another cigarette.

“i'll get her cleaned up. then we go again.”toji grins, low and mean. “you spoil me, man.”

shiu smiles back, smoke curling from his lips. “nah. she does.”

[hey-itsdollie]

Hey dollie howd u been r u excited for summer :33

I have a reeeeq im gonna make this quick( ͡❛ ₃ ͡❛) i have in mind u and ur bf going on vacantion and he has his hands full of baggage (suitcases, backpacks etc) and reader just asks "why arent u holding my hand" and trying ur best to hold in ur laughter or smth like that :P

Id ask this for Isagi, Barou, Gagamaru, Raichi, Chigiri and Ness ^^

Why aren't you holding my hand?

Haiii I'm good, very excited for summer thank you for asking! Hru I hope you're excited for summer as well<3

‧₊˚ ┊ In which you decide to joke with your boyfriend who is doing the heavy lifting!

୭˚. ᵎᵎ featuring » isagi. barou. gagamaru. raichi. chigiri. ness.

⋮ ⌗ ┆cw ⪼ fluff, crackfic, female reader, established relationship, use of pet names, aged up!

── .✦ Yoichi Isagi

You and Isagi got to the hotel, claiming he has been working out more lately due to football. He offered to take the luggage.

All of the luggage.

You turned to him, noticing his somewhat struggling to carry everything as you walked beside him. One small backpack hanging from your shoulders, as one hand held your phone.

You decided to play around and looked at him stopping in your tracks. Forcing Isagi to also stop his movements–despite his inner rejection of the ideal. “What is it? Did you forget something in the car?” he questioned tilting his head to the side, looking worried.

“No, but it seems you forgot to hold my hand.” You frowned huffing softly making the male freeze. Did you actually want him to hold your hand that badly?

He wasn’t sure if he could hold your hand, after all his hands were full holding the luggage. And he refused to make you hold anything heavy.

What kind of boyfriend would he be?

He stared at you with a blank look. Trying to figure out how to exactly tell you no…

“Baby… listen…”

Isagi frowned trying to get the courage. But his face faltered as you laughed leaning forward slightly. “I’m kidding Yoichi, man you should’ve seen your face.” Isagi stared frozen but sighed in relief. “Damn, you got me… You know I would hold your hand any chance I can get.”

You swooned at his sweet words as you nodded. “Yeah, I know. Let’s go check in, all that weight must be starting to hurt.”

── .✦ Shoei Barou

“Alright do we have everything?” 

Your boyfriend’s gruff question made you look through the car once more. Grinning from ear to ear at the fact the two of you rented a beach house for the next two weeks.

“Yup! Everything is out of the car! Do you need help with carrying anything?” You hummed lastly going to his side as he was holding three bags on his back (somehow) and multiple bags in his hands that were full of food from the store, and of course the suitcases.

“I’ve got it. Just try not to trip while walking.” Barou scoffed as he began walking up the driveway to the house.

You followed along, looking around at your surroundings. The area was quiet, even for a known vacationing area. You noticed your boyfriend walking easily while carrying the heavy luggage.

“Sho, why aren’t you holding my hand?” You ask softly, deciding to play around a bit. Barou turned his head slightly to glance at you, “Huh?”

“I mean you normally hold my hand you know…” You mumbled looking to the side acting as if you were saddened. Barou tensed at the sight. “How am I supposed to hold your hand with my own hands filled like this?”

You shrugged walking past him. “I don’t know… I just figured you’d ya know still want to–but if not that is completely fine.

With a groan Barou fixed the things in his hands, making one hand free. “Come here.” He ordered as you looked at him shocked. “Wait Shoei…”

“Come. Here.”

You did as told and went to his side, taking his hand in your own as you blushed. Barou stared at you with his eyebrows furrowed. “You whine so much yet not you’re silent? Damn… is hand holding that important to you?”

He muttered looking straight ahead as you two shortly made it to the front door.

── .✦ Gin Gagamaru

“Are you sure you don’t need any help Gin?”

You looked up at him concerned, watching him carry all your camping supplies in his hands. This happened every single time you two went camping. He never asked for your help ever.

He stared ahead at the trail blankly, not uttering a single response.

You frowned, deciding to try and get him to say something or let you help him. “Heyyy Gin, did you forget to hold my hand?” You frown tugging his arm slightly.

Gagamaru froze stiffly, looking down at you with his wide eyes. “Forget?” He murmured confusedly, “No my hands are full.” He replied simply, his expression not changing. “Come on, I want to hold your hand!” You whined. “No.”

You frowned at him at his rejection.

“I’ll hold your hand once we get to the site, just hold on till then.” You sighed as your joke wasn’t working. “Okay fine…”

Silence took over you two, you stared at the ground kicking rocks as you walked. Gagamaru glanced down at you letting out a soft breath before setting the things down and kneeling before you.

“What are you doing?” You asked as he stared at you. “I can’t hold your hand but I can carry you.”

You sighed gently, “Gin I was just playing around. You don’t need more weight on you.” “You weigh nothing to me, I’ll carry you come on.”

You blushed before going and climbing on his back holding on as he picked the supplies back up and began walking again with ease. You laid your head against his as he walked, smiling gently.

── .✦ Jingo Raichi

You huffed watching Raichi carry the luggage to the cabin. His hands were full of the bags and suitcases the two of you had brought.

You gazed at him as he bared his teeth as he carried all the weight. “You sure you don’t need any help?” You questioned raising your eyebrow. “Huh? No way! I’m strong enough to carry twice as much!”

You dead panned “I didn’t say you weren’t strong enough…” you thought. You looked around when an idea came to mind making you grin.

“Hey Jingo, can I hold your hand?” Raichi turned to you, watching you tilt your head with an innocent smile. He glared at you. “Do you really expect me to hold your hand with all this luggage as well? Seriously?”

You nodded with a grin making him groan. Already trying to figure out how he can hold the luggage and your limb.

“Okay hold on- wait–are you trying to hold the luggage! No way in hell!”

Your smile dropped at his idiotic statement. “No I wasn’t-” “Too fucking bad! Let’s go, I’ll hold your hand later. So quit your whining.”

You groaned at his stubbornness shaking your head. “Whatever, let's go…”

You walked ahead of him, making the blonde look up quickly, taking your quick pace as a challenge.

“Hey! Get back here!”

You laughed and began to run taunting him as he tried to speed walk without dropping anything. “Quit your laughing!” He growled out, making you laugh more in response. Which only angered him more.

── .✦ Hyoma Chigiri

After a game of rock, paper, scissors–in the end you won–your boyfriend had to carry the luggage out of the car.

The red head stayed quiet as he held the suitcases in each hand. Glad that the two of you were reasonable with your packing.

You walked next to him, now feeling bad about him having to carry your bag. “Hey come on Hyo let me carry my bag.” Chigiri shook his head, “No, I lost the game so I have to carry the bags.”

You sighed at his sportsmanship; “Come on Hyoma. It was a children’s game, so let me carry my bag. I want to hold your hand.” You frown adding in the last part to really sweeten the deal. Chigiri glanced at you and groaned. “Do you really want to hold my hand?” he questioned, willing to rearrange things to do that for you.

“Yes!” You smiled brightly. With a groan the male stopped walking and right as you thought he was going to give your bag to you, he just moved it all to one hand simply and took yours.

“What Chigiri!” You groaned at the sight. “That can’t be comfortable!”

He ignored you smoothly changing the topic as if it was nothing. You glared at him, ignoring you. But it quickly softened as you felt him squeeze your hand.

“So what’s the plan for once we get to the hotel room? Staying at the pool or walking around the town?” He questioned.

You smiled brightly, swinging your arms slightly. “Let’s go to the pool!”

── .✦ Alexis Ness

You walked next to your boyfriend who held a smile of pure ecstasy on his features. You sighed at the sight, his happiness only due to the fact he was holding all your luggage. Letting you not lift a finger.

He just gave the reason that it was their vacation, you deserved to rest and not lift anything.

“Hey hey can we hold hands? Or did you not feel like it?” You asked him innocently knowing his hands were full.

Ness turned to you, his happy face gone and was replaced by a blank look. Not expecting you to want to hold hands right now of all times. “Uhh… I don’t think we can hold hands right now…” He muttered internally, cursing at the situation.

You frowned, “Oh okay…”

Ness’s heart dropped at the sight of your frown as he quickly moved the bags differently in his arms, freeing his hand. He quickly took yours in his now free hand, surprising you.

“Alexis!” You gasp in shock.

“Come on, you're going to hurt your arm if you hold too many things at once.” You sighed worried for your boyfriend.

“Nonsense, it’s not too heavy. Let’s get up to the room now. I want to hold you so badly, sweetness.”

Sighing, you shook your head at his words. He often never lets you see him upset. Unless it was jealousy–which was often.

“Yeah, let’s go then.”

©hey-itsdollie please don't copy, change, or steal my work. Thank you!

[croquettish]

A Hans Capon Character Analysis

Part 1: Hans' Disillusionment with the Nobility

I went into this wanting to write one thing and then instead ended up writing something different entirely which, after watching it get stupidly long, I decided to split in two. So you can consider this an analysis triptych (they other two are already drafted and ready to go). It's still stupidly long, so I apologize for that.

We know that Hans learned what the platonic ideal of a noble looked like and from that point on did his very best to live up to that ideal. He saw what he was supposed to be even while realizing that he could never live up to that ideal. Hans spends all his time trying to reach for perfection only to find his best only ever being at best shy of where he wants to be. More often, his best is far removed from where he thinks he's meant to be / supposed to be.

This is a theme that comes up several times throughout the game. First, when they're at the inn in Troskowitz where Hans pulls the "excuse" about why he can't do work:

I say "excuse" in quotes because the more time you spend talking to Hans the more it becomes obvious that he actually believes what he's saying. All that stuff about the three states of man is 100% something that he was either taught directly or overheard. It's entirely possible that he once tried to help out the castle staff and was told he wasn't allowed to do that because it went against the will of God. Like I fucking love AUs where Hans and Henry met as kids, but there's a non-zero chance that any attempt to do so, if not simply preempted, would have been shut down by Hanush and the others around him. This is what it means to be a noble, Hans. You're not allowed to do any of these fun things. You have a job to do. You're going to rule Rattay someday and that comes with certain responsibilities.

Here are some choice excerpts from that conversation:

I want to draw special attention here to the role that Hans places himself in, the role of the Bellator, a protector of others. This is what he's allowed to do. Remember that for later.

The other thing I want to draw attention to is this bit:

This isn't just about losing face. This is about the fact that he grew up hearing how wrong it would be for him to do peasant work. This is about the fact that he was told that if he did this, he'd be going against God, and everyone would think less of him for not acting as he's supposed to / required to. Not just in the eyes of God, but in the eyes of society.

Remember how I said that Hans has an idealized notion of nobility? That applies here as well. As the codex entry on the Three States of Man tells us, this is the ideal medieval society, one that is meant to be conducive to peace. That lack of social mobility and freedom that Hans has been chained by his whole life has a purpose: to ensure harmony.

But the script he's so used to, that he clings to so desperately, fails him. Harmony could not be further from his reality. Case in point, at the beginning he tells Henry that he can protect him with his name and therefore his own noble status:

But then, that doesn't turn out to be true. He does everything in his power to declare his noble status, to invoke his name, even places his arm behind his back and attempts to bow in order to properly present himself as nobility to the guards at the Trosky Castle gates—all for naught. No one cares. Hans tries so fucking hard to stick to the script he's been taught his whole life, and no one gives a shit. Svatya makes fun of him, refuses to apologize, and then physically assaults him. Instead of seeing Svatya getting clapped in the pillory, he is.

During the divorce era, he once again tries to grasp for any amount of familiarity from his old life by turning to hunting. It's a noble sport and something he's good at. Camping and going out to hunt, being out in nature over an extended period of time, these are all things he's done before. Things he can comfortably fall back on. If he forgets about the fact that he's alone—no Henry, no horse, no hunting dogs—he can almost pretend he's back in his old life.

Even his attempt at romancing Enneleyn at the wedding fits into this desperate attempt to cleave to his understanding of his noble title. (This is a point that also crops up in this fantastic analysis of Hans' character by @codeword-art, that Hans knows what people think nobles should be like, this including a love for women. This post and the one that preceded it are analyzed in greater depth in part two of this analysis.)

And then even that is torn from him when he's told he'll hang for poaching. Nobility was the one thing that was supposed to act as a get-out-of-jail-free card for him, his guaranteed fallback. Nobility was meant to remove the noose from around his neck... and then failed to do so. What's the point of being a noble if no one believes that you are one? What's the point of being a noble if it only comes with a lack of social skills, a lack of relationships, and a lack of freedom? What's the point of sticking to a script if everyone refuses to play their parts? Growing up, nobility always acted as a panopticon for him, surrounded by people's judgments of him. His character, his aptitude, was always everybody's business. But that pain, that judgment, always came with benefits before.

This illustrates for Hans, quite clearly, how quickly those benefits can be stripped for him and made meaningless. Nobility can't save him. Nobility has only ever taken from him, and then, when he needed it most, it wasn't there for him as a parachute.

At the end of Next to Godliness we can talk to Hans about what he's going to do with Arse-n-balls. And if Henry advises Hans to punish him, first Hans tries to defend him.

At which point Henry invokes his noble status and suggests that letting this transgression go unpunished would lead to people questioning him in his position:

At which point Hans folds quite quickly:

How much do you reckon Hans' worldview was shaken in hindsight, upon realizing the reality of the punishments he might have subjected people to. A day in the stocks or pillory? Being hanged for poaching? Suddenly he's seeing these things from the perspective of a peasant and what that might feel like.

Nobles are meant to protect people and dole out punishments only when necessary. But this whole system is so easily upended the second corruption gets involved.

He's next confronted with this issue in a big way if you decide to sell out Olda and go to Semine with Hashek. Despite von Bergow's wishes, Hashek wants to burn the place down to the ground along with all the people in it. Everyone is to die. This isn't what von Bergow wanted (and if you do agree to Hashek's plan, he is appropriately outraged after) and while Hans questions if the two of you did the right thing if you decide to go against Hashek's wishes, he's quite distressed if you don't go against his wishes and kill everyone. It puts him into a funk for quite a while after and leaves him viewing himself as inherently tainted by the experience.

Horrified as he is that Olda, as a nobleman, would side with Zizka and co (and expresses this right after the possible torturing if the truth is discovered), he's just as horrified that Hashek, a nobleman, would order the slaughter of innocents. He objects on several occasions but mostly goes along with what Henry says, only questioning what the right decision was after.

Nobles are supposed to be better than this. If he was expected to do better, to be better, to live up to all these unachievable ideals, why does no one else give a shit?

The next time this crops up in a big way is after the Maleshov rescue when Hans become quite upset at the sight of a destroyed village. A conversation with Brabant follows that showcase a number of Hans' feelings on the matter:

This is unjust, he says. Because in his eyes, the nobility should be above such dirty, underhanded tricks to get what they want. Brabant insists that the village will be resettled before long ("people die, it's what they do" etc etc) and that this is just how war is.

Hans, however, is unsatisfied:

Here too we see his idea of the Bellator and what that means for him as a noble. In Hans' eyes, their job is to protect the common people. To do everything in his power to make sure that these atrocities don't happen.

If Henry then agrees with him, Hans says something else telling (regardless of what happens with Semine):

These things happen because of his failure. He's a Bellator, a noble who should be capable of protecting people. Instead they failed at Nebakov and he was captured. The death of these people, to Hans, is on his own head.

We know that our boy Luke lost rizz points with pretty much everyone because he decided to burn down the village near Maleshov during the siege, but this too is a moment that's worth remarking on. In the moment, Hans defers to Henry and insists that well, they're in a war, aren't they? But after von Bergow's interrogation, he has quite a few things to say to Henry:

On the flipside, if Henry goes against Dry Devil, Hans praises his actions while simultaneously acknowledging that he wouldn't have been strong enough to do the same:

It's interesting that at this point in the story he trusts Henry (not a noble) with ethical judgments far more than either himself or other noblemen. Deferring to Henry isn't entirely new for him, but that's another post entirely. What matters here is that we're witnessing the wool being pulled from Hans' eyes in real time here: the inherent superiority of nobles is rapidly evaporating.

In addition to that, the fact that he's constantly put into the position of damsel in distress means that he's frequently saved or protected by Henry. He's not the Bellator of his own life. Henry is. Henry is more noble in Hans' eyes than any noble he's ever met. This even comes up at one point early in the game, following their first romance option:

I'm sure I don't need to point out how this means that Henry effectively dismantles Hans' sense of self only to build it up again. All his self-esteem was rooted in the fact that he's a capable Bellator, a defender of the people and worthy of his position as a noble. Then Henry comes in, does it all better despite his peasant upbringing, and then shows Hans that he has value in spite of what he perceived all his faults to be.

Even before the siege on Maleshov, Hans is slowly starting to build up an increasingly robust view of himself as a Laborator. I talked about this in more detail here, where we see Hans volunteer himself for manual labor that we see no one else in the game do other than Henry. In fact, it's something that is often (and jokingly at that) offloaded onto Henry. But here, Hans presents the far more noble position (in this case, dealing with the hunted game) to Henry while taking the manual labor task for himself.

With what noblesse oblige is Hans left with then? Stripped of all the artifice, what remains?

Just his word. The word of a nobleman.

Hans and Henry both get into an argument with Hanush at the end of KCD1 when he gives Toth his word that his safety will be ensured if he lets Radzig and Lady Stephanie go. Henry is (understandably) upset that Hanush will just let Toth go, but Hanush insists that his word as a nobleman is his bond. At which point Hans steps in to argue that they may as well not honor that bond:

Henry also argues, but Hanush ultimately comes back with this:

It's a point that sticks with Hans, and we see it invoked fairly early on in the game:

It's also challenged right toward the beginning as well. Henry responds to what Hans says with something that makes no sense, invoking the idea of one's word but here in the name of him being a blacksmith:

@antivanwine14 recently made a spectacular post about precisely this. There's no such thing as the word of a blacksmith. It doesn't carry the same weight whatsoever. But Hans decides to take it that way regardless:

No pretension, no posturing about the importance of a noble's words over those of a peasant. Either Henry has been elevated in Hans' mind (no doubt) or nobility is losing the special, unique lustre that it might have once held for him (almost certainly true as well).

We fast-forward a bit. His next encounter with the word of a nobleman is at Raborsch, where his word is given... for him, when he's engaged against his will. If you ask me, this changes things. In a big way. Hans has very little, but the one thing that he thought he had was his word to give. Every thing he swears by from that point forward serves as a reclamation.

And the first thing he does with that reclamation is swear that he'll be there for Henry just as Henry was there for him:

(and then he did, etc etc)

I do find it curious here that he doesn't invoke the word of a nobleman here in this promise to Henry. Instead, he swears by God, their mutual belief system. Giving Henry his word isn't enough anymore. As if Henry has outranked it in his eyes. I wonder if he thought back to the moment when Henry responded to Hans' word as a noble with the word of a blacksmith here. Unlike social stratification, this is a place where they are on equal footing.

The next time that Hans does give his word is at Maleshov during the siege: von Bergow's safety in exchange for both Rosa's safety and von Bergow's agreement to switch sides.

This makes sense. He's speaking to another nobleman here, someone who would understand what it means if the word of a noble is given.

And it is, of course, then immediately put in danger by Sam:

If Sam kills von Bergow here, he takes the last remaining vestiges of any sort of sense of self or identity from Hans. Nobility is losing its lustre, he's not a worthy Bellator and instead always has to have Henry saving his ass, and this is all that remains. What is a noble without his word? As Hanush told him very clearly at the end of the first game, his word is his honor. And without honor, he's nothing.

What's left if the artifice is stripped away? If all he has left to him is his word, if that too is rendered meaningless, Hans, in his mind, will be left as nothing.

It should also be noted here that Sam is not held back by the rules of this society that Hans is so solidly part of. Much like queerness, he exists well outside of it, as both Jews and sodomites were considered heretics. Sam has that freedom that Hans so badly longs for, but it comes at a considerable cost, that of oppression. It's risky to exist at the fringes of society.

As @hallowedlore perfectly put it (in private conversation), when Sam attacks von Bergow, a statement throwing into question why he should care about the rules of their fancy nobility, the only thing that stop him is the threat of violence from Zizka. Death, not social decorum.

Hans is clinging on to this bit of identity with all his might here as though it's a life-raft. And Godwin immediately backs him up, reminding him that what he did there mattered.

But it doesn't get him very far. And certainly not with Sam, who couldn't care less about pleasing a Christian god. It strikes me as curious (and topical) here that he comes away from the big roundtable discussion with von Bergow and the other nobles feeling like insignificant shit while their talk at the Devil's Den did not leave him feeling that way.

Being a nobleman was meaningless here too. His nobility didn't matter one bit, all that mattered was being the strongest personality in the room. And Hans is anything but that. That boy is made of insecurities, his outward facing personality all a mask behind which is only hot air.

Only his jealousy regarding Sam's inbuilt relationship with Henry makes him turn back to old patterns:

See, Henry? He's different from us. But the argument doesn't work on Henry and barely even works on himself.

Increasingly, Hans realizes that the nobility isn't where he feels like he belongs the most. This worldview of his is fucked and all wrong. Who went and decided that he should be a Bellator while someone like Henry isn't?

Because he does associate Henry with nobility in a big way. When Henry goes to ask Hans what he should do about Erik's offer of a duel, Hans thinks it over and then comes back with this:

These are different times. Are they? Or is it just Hans' heart that has changed here? Because right after this, he asks Henry to stay. To forgo honor and nobility and not put himself in unnecessary danger.

The aftermath of the silver heist likewise serves as a painful reminder of what is waiting for him on the other side of all this: a marriage that he doesn't want to a woman he doesn't know. What benefits remain of nobility? All he'd see by this point is obligations. No one listens to him, no one cares what he has to say except for Henry. All the bluster is ultimately meaningless. He doesn't belong with the other nobles, and all his best attempts at fitting into the mold fail him. All his life he's spent his time trying to be like those around him, trying to be someone he isn't, and it's never good enough.

The people he feels most comfortable around, Henry and Godwin, are both people with ties to nobility while wanting as little to do with titles and related obligations as possible. They both have social mobility to a certain extent. The opposite of nobility, to Hans, is freedom.

Shorty after the attack by the Praguers, Hans goes to wait for Henry in front of his room. When Henry asks him how he's doing, because he's clearly got experience leading troops, Hans laughs it off:

If there was any doubt left that he views himself as an incapable Bellator, this is excellent proof, backed up even more later on following the suicide mission:

This is what being a noble has gotten him. People's judgments and expectations, obligation to marry and carry on a family line, and the ability to play God and decide who gets to live and who dies. All he wanted was to protect people. Instead he gets to send them to their deaths.

This will come up again in part two, but it bears mentioning here as well. After getting laid, Hans vents to Godwin about how much he hates that no one ever treats him like an adult. He's a noble and an adult, and none of it ever seems to matter:

Who's "they"? Because the rest of what he says mentions that he thought the Trosky delivery would make "them" take him seriously. This isn't just about Hanush. This is about all nobles. That he'd finally fit in.

But he doesn't, and he won't.

When Hanush arrives at Suchdol, he highlights that everyone there is a hero for their deeds there, but it doesn't matter. Hans once more has his noble obligations shoved down his throat, which effectively feels like the last straw in this disillusionment. Nobility has granted him nothing but pain and any child of his would suffer the same fate. There's even some easily missed idle dialogue you can walk in on where they're arguing about precisely that. It doesn't matter what he does, how heroic he is, how many good deeds he performs, at the end of the day none of it ever mattered (read left to right):

It always strikes me in that conversation how unbelievably bitchy Hans sounds here. The "I'm glad you noticed" could not be cuntier. He is not happy. And even then, Hanush barely offers him any guarantees.

Effectively, this leaves Hans open to questioning the harmony of society as it was taught to him and, in questioning it, realizing that that harmony never existed to begin with. He spends the whole game realizing that the social order he's been subjected to and thought he fit into perfectly is not only illogical but also something he has despised his whole life. This is discovered not only because he was shown an alternative in his own shift into more of a Laborator beside Henry (who to him embodies the qualities of a Bellator far better than he), but also in his own queerness.

It doesn't escape me that there's something to be said about Suchdol here. During the siege, Henry and Hans effectively live outside of the bounds of nobility or social stratification. Everyone is equal in the face of Hunger and Despair. And it's only in this space, this place outside of what is and isn't deemed acceptable by society, that Hans finds it in himself to kiss Henry. To breach every code of conduct he's ever known. Because they're already in the space outside of social acceptability. Hell, the entire Devil's Band is situated in precisely this space just by going against Sigismund. You couldn't ask for a more perfect environment for Hans to step outside of the bounds that have held him since birth.

This is even shown even more starkly with this anon's point in mind about how it goes if you don't romance Hans:

This is unjust. Henry is only in danger because he's not a noble. There's something to be said about agency here, but that discussion has to wait for part three of this analysis triptych. Nothing about this social stratification serves him any longer, all the more so when he romances Henry. It's also why he seems so uncertain about the two of them when Henry returns, and they are meant to return to reality and the expected social order.

This social order that was meant to bring with it harmony for all is the same social order that would demand that he marry and beget an heir. Why should he try to fit himself into this cookie cutter mold if he never fit to begin with? As we see with Barnaby especially, being discovered as queer spells an existence at the fringes of society if not outside of it entirely. Queerness is inherently and by definition at odds with social order, thus returning us to the nobility vs. freedom dialectic. And regardless of which of the two Hans ultimately chooses, obligation or what his heart wants, that disillusionment can never be undone.

Part 2

[the-oblivious-writer]

Let the Light In |10|

Tara Carpenter x Female Reader

Chapter Ten: Static Frequencies

summary: three weeks of radio silence have passed since valentine's day. tara's been making herself scarce through a rotation of hookups and parties, while you've been doing what you do best—avoiding everything that reminds you of her. when Anika finally drags you to a party, you meet someone new, but some frequencies are harder to tune out than others.

warning(s): swearing, underage drinking, party atmosphere/socializing, pining, and two stubborn idiots.

notes: prraaaying that this summer'll let me post more consistently, i'm officially off after the 26th.

taglist: @t-wylia @lesbianpepsi @jennasfav @alyciaddict @justafoolinlove @steffido1993 @niqmandu @severelyuniquereview @darklron @ravenousinferno @smut-religiously777 @beautifulmongerbanditsalad @vanatalye

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

The bass from whatever generic EDM track was playing downstairs vibrated through the floorboards of your apartment, courtesy of the neighbors who apparently thought Thursday night was the perfect time for a rager. You'd been staring at the same page of your chemistry textbook for the past twenty minutes, the molecular structures blurring together like some kind of scientific abstract art.

Your phone buzzed against the desk surface.

Nika: party at jake's tonight. you're coming.

You: Hard pass

Nika: wasn't a question. be ready in an hour

You: I have studying to do

Nik: you've been "studying" for three weeks straight. even hermit crabs leave their shells sometimes

You groaned, letting your head fall forward onto the open textbook. The thing about Anika was that she had this annoying habit of being right about everything, especially when it came to your self-imposed isolation. Ever since Valentine's Day—or more specifically, ever since that moment on Tara's couch when everything shifted and then promptly crashed back to earth—you'd been keeping your head down and your schedule packed.

It wasn't avoidance. It was strategic distance.

Your phone buzzed again.

Anika: also tara won't be there. she's at some other thing across town

The fact that Anika felt the need to mention Tara's whereabouts told you everything you needed to know about how transparent your "strategic distance" actually was. You'd been doing a stellar job of pretending the past three weeks of radio silence didn't bother you, but apparently your poker face needed work.

You: How do you even know where she is?

Nik: instagram stories. girl's been documenting her party tour like she's a social media influencer

You definitely hadn't been checking Tara's Instagram. And you definitely hadn't noticed the steady stream of party photos featuring different faces, different locations, different people pressed close to her in dimly lit rooms. The fact that she looked happy in every single one was just an observation, not something that kept you up at night.

You: fine. one hour. but i'm not dressing up

Nik: wouldn't expect anything less from you

An hour later, you were pulling on the same blue jeans and flannel combo you'd been rotating through for the better part of the semester. Anika had texted that she was on her way up, which meant you had about thirty seconds before she started her usual commentary about your "commitment to consistent mediocrity" in the fashion department.

She didn't disappoint.

"You know they make other colors of flannel, right?" she said, not even bothering with a hello as she pushed past you into the apartment.

"This one's clean," you replied, grabbing your keys and wallet. "That's all that matters."

"God, you're like a cartoon character. Same outfit, same energy, same emotional availability of a brick wall." She was scrolling through her phone as she talked, probably checking to make sure her party intel was still accurate. "Jake's place is like a fifteen-minute walk. You ready?"

The walk to Jake's gave you time to mentally prepare for the social interaction you'd been avoiding. Anika filled the silence with updates about her latest dating app adventures, which was both entertaining and a welcome distraction from the knot of anxiety forming in your stomach.

"I'm just saying, if someone's idea of a perfect date is 'Netflix and chill' spelled out in actual words, they're probably not bringing much creativity to other areas of life," she was saying as you approached a house with music spilling out onto the street.

"Revolutionary insight," you replied, but you were smiling despite yourself.

Jake's place was packed in that specific way college parties always were—too many people in too small a space, everyone talking slightly too loud to compensate for music that was slightly too loud to begin with. You followed Anika through the crowd, dodging couples who were definitely violating several public decency laws and groups of people who were definitely violating several fire codes.

"Drinks first," Anika announced, steering you toward the kitchen. "You need to relax."

The kitchen was marginally less chaotic, though someone had apparently thought it was a good idea to turn the island into a makeshift beer pong table. You grabbed a beer from the cooler, mostly for something to do with your hands, and leaned against the counter while Anika worked her social butterfly magic with a group of people you recognized from various classes.

"You look like you're at a funeral," a voice said from beside you.

You turned to find a girl with shoulder-length auburn hair and an amused expression. She was holding a red solo cup and wearing the kind of effortless smile that suggested she was actually enjoying herself.

"Just thinking," you replied.

"Dangerous habit at parties like this," she said, extending her hand. "I'm Maya."

"Y/N."

"So, Y/N, what's got you looking so existentially conflicted at what is objectively a very mediocre college party?"

There was something disarming about her directness, the way she'd managed to read your mood without the usual small talk preamble. It reminded you of someone else, which was both comforting and problematic.

"Just not really a party person," you said.

"And yet here you are."

"Roommate intervention," you admitted, nodding toward Anika, who was now engaged in what appeared to be a very animated conversation about something involving a lot of hand gestures.

Maya laughed, and the sound was warm and genuine. "Ah, the old 'you need to get out more' approach. Been there."

"Let me guess—worked on you too?"

"Hook, line, and sinker. Though I have to say, meeting someone who looks as thrilled to be here as I feel is kind of refreshing."

You found yourself relaxing slightly. Maya had this way of making conversation feel natural, like you'd been friends for years instead of strangers who'd met five minutes ago. She was funny without trying too hard, and when she laughed at your sarcastic observations about the party dynamics around you, it didn't feel forced.

"So what's your major?" she asked as you both watched someone attempt to do a keg stand with questionable success.

"History," you replied. "You?"

"Psychology. Which means I'm professionally obligated to ask what's really bothering you."

You nearly choked on your beer. "Excuse me?"

"Kidding," she said quickly, though her eyes were still studying your face. "Mostly. But you do have this look like you're trying very hard not to think about something."

The accuracy of her observation was unsettling. You'd spent three weeks perfecting the art of not thinking about Tara—not thinking about the way she'd looked at you on Valentine's Day, not thinking about the comfortable silence while you watched movies, not thinking about how she'd somehow become the person you most wanted to talk to and the person you most wanted to avoid.

"It's complicated," you said finally.

"The best things usually are."

There was something about the way she said it that made you look at her more carefully. She had these light brown eyes that seemed to catch everything, and when she smiled, it was like she was letting you in on some private joke.

"Want to get some air?" she asked. "It's getting pretty stuffy in here."

You followed her out to the backyard, where the music was muffled enough to allow for actual conversation. The night air was cool against your skin, and you realized you'd been holding tension in your shoulders that you hadn't even noticed.

"Better?" Maya asked, settling onto a bench near the back fence.

"Much." You sat down beside her, leaving a respectable amount of space between you. "Thanks."

"So," she said, turning to face you. "Complicated situation. Want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"Want to talk about something else?"

"That would be great."

Maya launched into a story about her psychology professor who apparently had strong opinions about the correlation between coffee consumption and academic performance, and you found yourself genuinely engaged for the first time in weeks. She was smart and funny, and she had this way of making even mundane observations sound interesting.

"I'm convinced he's conducting some kind of long-term study on us," she was saying. "Like, tracking our caffeine intake versus our participation in class discussions."

"That's either really dedicated or really creepy."

"Why not both?"

You were laughing when your phone buzzed. Without thinking, you glanced at the screen.

Nika: how's it going with mystery girl?

You looked up to find Anika watching you from the kitchen window, giving you an exaggerated thumbs up. Maya followed your gaze and waved at her.

"Your roommate's got good timing," Maya said.

"She's got strong opinions about my social life."

"Can't imagine why," Maya replied, but she was smiling. "You seem like the life of the party."

"I have hidden depths."

"I'm sure you do."

There was something in her tone that made you look at her again. She was still smiling, but there was a different quality to it now, something that made your pulse quicken in a way that was both familiar and entirely new.

"Hey, uh," you started, not sure what you were going to say.

"Yeah?"

Your phone buzzed again, and this time you ignored it. But Maya had noticed the notification, and something in her expression shifted.

"Someone important?" she asked.

"No," you said quickly. "Just my roommate."

But even as you said it, you knew it wasn't entirely true. The buzzing phone was a reminder of the world beyond this backyard, the world where Tara existed and where you'd spent the last three weeks pretending she didn't matter.

Maya seemed to sense your internal conflict. "You know, for someone who says it's not important, you look pretty conflicted."

"It's not—" You stopped, frustrated with yourself. "It's complicated."

"You said that already."

"Because it is."

She was quiet for a moment, studying your face in the dim light from the house. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"The person you're not thinking about—are you in love with them?"

The question hit you like a physical blow. You'd been so careful not to examine your feelings too closely, to keep everything filed under "complicated" and "better left alone." But hearing it said out loud, so matter-of-factly, stripped away all your careful defenses.

"I—" You stopped, realizing you'd never actually said it out loud. Not to anyone, not even to yourself. "Yeah. I think I am."

"Think?"

"Know," you corrected quietly. "I know I am."

Maya nodded slowly. "How long?"

"Since high school." The admission felt like a confession, like something you should have kept locked away. "Feels like longer."

"And they don't know?"

You let out a bitter laugh. "They hate me. Or they did. I don't know what we are now."

"What happened in high school?"

This was the part you'd never told anyone, the part that made you look like either a complete idiot or a hopeless romantic, depending on who was doing the judging.

"I was an ass," you said finally. "I pulled pranks, got into arguments, did basically everything I could to get their attention. But not good attention. I was like a kid pulling pigtails on the playground."

"Because you didn't know how to ask for the attention you actually wanted."

"Because I was fifteen and stupid and didn't know how to handle having feelings for someone who was completely out of my league."

Maya was quiet for so long that you started to worry you'd said too much. When you finally looked at her, she was smiling, but it was different now—softer, more understanding.

"You know what's funny?" she said.

"What?"

"I came over here because I thought you were cute and brooding and might be up for some harmless flirting. But now I'm sitting here giving relationship advice, and I kind of like it better."

You felt heat rise in your cheeks. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Don't apologize," she said quickly. "I'm not complaining. But can I suggest something?"

"Shoot."

"If you've been in love with someone since high school, and you're still thinking about them at a party where you're talking to someone new, maybe it's time to do something about it."

"It's not that simple."

"It never is. But sometimes the complicated things are worth fighting for."

Your phone buzzed again, and this time Maya gestured for you to check it.

Nika: tara's here

Your blood ran cold. You looked up toward the house, scanning the crowd visible through the windows, but you couldn't see her from where you were sitting.

"The complicated person?" Maya asked, reading your expression.

"Yeah."

"You want to go find them?"

"I want to go home."

Maya laughed, but not unkindly. "You know that's not going to solve anything, right?"

"It'll solve the immediate problem of me potentially making a fool of myself."

"Or you could stay and see what happens. Take a chance."

"I don't take chances."

"Maybe that's the problem."

Before you could respond, the back door opened and Anika stepped out, looking around until she spotted you.

"There you are," she said, walking over. "We might have a situation."

"What kind of situation?" you asked, though you had a feeling you already knew.

"The kind where Tara just walked in looking like she's ready to set something on fire, and when she saw me, she asked where you were."

Maya looked between you and Anika with growing understanding. "Tara," she said. "That's the complicated person."

"That's the complicated person," you confirmed.

"And she's looking for you."

"Apparently."

Maya stood up, brushing off her jeans. "Well, this has been fun, but I think I'm going to go find another drink and let you two handle whatever's about to happen."

"You don't have to leave," you said quickly.

"Yeah, I do." She smiled, and there was no hurt in it, just understanding. "But hey, Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"Good luck. And if it doesn't work out, I'll be by the kitchen wondering what could have been."

She squeezed your shoulder as she passed, and you watched her disappear back into the house.

"I like her," Anika said.

"Yeah, me too."

"But?"

"But nothing. Let's just go home."

"Absolutely not." Anika grabbed your arm as you started to stand. "You've been moping around for three weeks. Whatever happened on Valentine's Day, you need to deal with it."

"I don't need to deal with anything."

"You're in love with her."

It was the second time in ten minutes someone had said it out loud, and it didn't get easier to hear.

"It doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters. It's the only thing that matters."

"Anika—"

"No, listen to me. I've been watching you two dance around each other for months. The arguing, the glancing, the way you both go out of your way to avoid each other while somehow always ending up in the same place. It's exhausting."

"We're not dancing around anything. We can barely stand each other."

"Right. That's why you spent Valentine's Day with her watching movies and looking at her like she hung the moon."

"What—"

"She told me. Well, she told me some of it. The rest I figured out from the way she's been acting like a feral cat ever since."

Your heart was doing something complicated in your chest. "What do you mean, acting like a feral cat?"

"I mean she's been going out every night, bringing home different people, and generally acting like someone who's trying very hard to prove something to herself. Sound familiar?"

It did sound familiar, because it was exactly what you'd been doing in your own way—burying yourself in schoolwork and isolation instead of dealing with whatever was happening between you and Tara.

"It doesn't matter," you said again, but it sounded weak even to you.

"It's the only thing that matters," Anika repeated. "And right now, she's inside looking for you, which means maybe she's finally ready to stop running."

"What if I'm not?"

"Then you're an idiot."

"Thanks for the pep talk."

"I'm serious, Y/N. You've been in love with her since high school. She's been in love with you since at least the beginning of this semester. You're both miserable without each other. What exactly are you waiting for?"

"She's not in love with me."

"Oh my God, you're both so stupid it's painful."

Before you could argue, the back door opened again, and this time it wasn't Anika who emerged.

Tara stepped into the backyard, and even in the dim light, you could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she was holding herself like she was ready for a fight. She looked around until her eyes found yours, and the impact of that gaze was like a physical blow.

"Anika said you were out here," she said, her voice carefully neutral.

"I was just leaving," Anika announced, backing toward the house.

And then she was gone, leaving you and Tara alone in the backyard with three weeks of silence hanging between you like a wall.

"Hi," you said finally, because someone had to say something.

"Hi."

Tara was still standing by the door, like she was ready to bolt at any moment. She was wearing a black dress that you tried not to notice, and her hair was down in loose waves that caught the light from the house.

"Anika said you were looking for me."

"I was." She took a step closer, then stopped. "We need to talk."

"About?"

"About Valentine's Day. About the last three weeks. About whatever the hell is happening between us."

Your pulse quickened. "I thought we were back to pretending we couldn't stand each other."

"Yeah, well, that's not working out so well for me."

"Join the club."

She took another step closer, and you could see the conflict in her expression, the way she was fighting with herself about whatever she'd come here to say.

"I've been thinking," she said.

"Dangerous habit."

"Don't." The sharpness in her voice surprised you both. "Don't do that. Don't deflect with jokes. Not right now."

You nodded, chastened. "Sorry. What have you been thinking about?"

"About why I've been avoiding you. About why I've been going out every night and bringing home people whose names I don't remember. About why I can't stop thinking about you even when I'm with someone else."

The honesty in her voice made your chest tight. "Tara—"

"I'm not done." She was closer now, close enough that you could see the way her hands were trembling slightly. "I've been thinking about high school, about all those stupid pranks you used to pull, all those arguments we had that never seemed to be about anything important."

"Those were—"

"Let me finish." She took a deep breath. "I've been thinking about how I used to look forward to those arguments. How I used to get disappointed on days when you didn't try to annoy me. How I used to wonder what it would be like if you put all that energy into something else."

Your heart was beating so hard you were sure she could hear it.

"And I've been thinking about Valentine's Day," she continued. "About how easy it was, sitting there with you, watching movies and talking about nothing. About how it felt like we were finally being honest with each other."

"We were."

"No, we weren't. Because I didn't tell you the most important thing."

"Which was?"

She looked at you for a long moment, and you could see her gathering courage.

"That I've been in love with you since sophomore year of high school. That every time you pulled one of those pranks, I thought maybe it meant you saw me as more than just another person to annoy. That when you stopped doing it, I thought maybe I'd been wrong about everything."

The world tilted on its axis. Everything you thought you knew about high school, about the way she'd reacted to your attempts to get her attention, about the way she'd looked at you sometimes when she thought you weren't watching—all of it shifted into focus like a camera lens finally finding the right setting.

"You what?"

"I'm in love with you," she said again, like she needed to practice saying it. "I have been for years. And I know you probably don't—"

"I do."

She stopped mid-sentence. "What?"

"I do. Feel the same way. Have felt the same way. Since I first laid eyes on you."

"You—what?"

"All those pranks, all those stupid arguments—I was fifteen and didn't know how to tell you I thought you were the most incredible person I'd ever met. So I settled for any attention I could get, even if it was you being annoyed with me."

Tara stared at you like you'd just spoken in a foreign language. "Are you serious?"

"Dead serious."

"But you—we've been—"

"Idiots," you supplied. "We've been idiots."

"For years."

"Epic levels of idiocy."

She started laughing, and the sound was bright and disbelieving and so purely Tara that it made your chest ache with how much you'd missed it.

"Oh my God," she said, pressing her hands to her face. "We're absolute morons."

"One-hundred percent."

"I can't believe—" She stopped, looking at you with sudden seriousness. "Wait. If you've felt this way for years, why didn't you ever say anything?"

"Because you hated me."

"I never hated you."

"You had a funny way of showing it."

"I was trying to protect myself," she said quietly. "I thought if I let myself like you, really like you, you'd just use it against me somehow."

"I would never—"

"I know that now. But then? I was just a kid who didn't know how to handle having feelings for someone who seemed to enjoy making my life difficult."

"I never wanted to make your life difficult. I just wanted you to notice me."

"I always noticed you," she said. "I noticed everything."

The space between you felt charged, like the air before a thunderstorm. You could feel the weight of all the years of miscommunication, all the missed opportunities, all the times you'd both been too scared or too proud to say what you really meant.

"So what now?" you asked.

"I don't know," she admitted. "This is kind of uncharted territory for me."

"The being honest thing?"

"The being honest with you thing."

You took a step closer, and she didn't back away. "We could try it. See how it goes."

"It might be weird at first."

"Probably. But weird might be good for us."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. We've been doing the same dance for years. Maybe it's time to try a different song."

She smiled, and it was soft and real and directed at you in a way that made your heart do complicated things in your chest.

"I'd like that," she said.

"Good. Because I've been wanting to ask you something for about years now."

"What?"

"Would you like to go out with me? Like, on an actual date. Where we both know it's a date and we're not pretending it's something else."

Her smile widened. "I thought you'd never ask."

"Is that a yes?"

"That's a yes."

You felt like you could float away, like the ground beneath your feet had become optional. Years of wondering, of wanting, of thinking it was impossible—and it turned out to be as simple as finally being honest.

"Can I ask you something now?" Tara said.

"Anything."

"On Valentine's Day, when we were watching the movie—were you going to kiss me?"

Heat flooded your cheeks. "Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"Okay, definitely. But then you got that look like you were about to bolt, and I didn't want to push."

"I got that look because I was thinking about kissing you and it scared me."

"It scared you?"

"Terrified me. Because I wanted it so badly, and I thought if I let myself have it, I'd have to admit how I felt. And I wasn't ready for that yet."

"And now?"

She took another step closer, close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in her dark eyes.

"Now I'm tired of being scared."

"Good," you said. "Because I'm tired of pretending I don't want to kiss you."

"So why aren't you?"

"Because we're at a party in someone's backyard, and when I finally get to kiss you, I want it to be somewhere that means something."

"Somewhere that means something?"

"Somewhere that's ours. Not borrowed, not temporary. Ours."

She looked at you for a long moment, and you could see something shift in her expression, something that looked like understanding.

"My apartment," she said. "Tomorrow night. I'll make dinner."

"You cook?"

"I order takeout very efficiently."

"Even better."

She laughed, and the sound was warm and familiar and full of promise.

"It's a date," she said.

"It's a date."

From inside the house, you could hear the music getting louder, voices getting more animated as the party hit its stride. But out here in the backyard, it felt like you and Tara existed in your own bubble, separate from everything else.

"I should probably go," she said eventually, though she didn't move.

"Probably."

"I came with friends, and they're going to wonder where I disappeared to."

"Right."

"And you should probably go back to that girl you were talking to. She seemed nice."

"Maya's great," you said. "But she's not you."

"No," Tara said, and there was something satisfied in her voice. "She's not."

"Are you jealous, Carpenter?"

"Maybe a little," she admitted. "Is that weird?"

"No weirder than me spending three weeks stalking your Instagram stories to see who you were with."

"You were stalking my Instagram?"

"Observing. Casually."

"Uh-huh."

"Okay, fine. Stalking. But in my defense, you were posting a lot."

"I was trying to make you jealous."

"Mission accomplished."

She smiled, looking pleased with herself. "Good to know."

"So tomorrow night," you said.

"Tomorrow night."

"What time?"

"Seven?"

"I'll be there."

"Good." She started to turn toward the house, then stopped. "Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For being honest."

"Thank you for not running away when I did."

"I almost did. I've been sitting in my car for twenty minutes trying to work up the courage to come in here."

"I'm glad you did."

"Me too."

She headed for the door, and you watched her go, still not quite believing that the conversation had actually happened. Just before she reached the house, she turned back.

"Hey, Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"Wear something nice tomorrow. I want our first real date to be special."

"Define nice."

"Something that's not flannel."

"You're really going to limit my options like that?"

"I'm sure you'll figure it out."

And then she was gone, disappearing into the house and leaving you alone in the backyard with the biggest smile you'd had in weeks.

You pulled out your phone to text Anika, but she'd already beaten you to it.

Nika: saw tara leave. she looked happy. please tell me you two finally got your shit together

You: We have a date tomorrow

Nika: FINALLY. i was starting to think i was going to have to lock you in a room together

You: don't get any ideas

Nik: too late. already planning the wedding

You were still smiling when Maya appeared beside you.

"So," she said, settling back onto the bench. "How'd it go?"

"Really well, actually."

"I can tell. You look like someone just told you you won the lottery."

"I did."

"I'm happy for you," she said, and she sounded like she meant it. "Even though it means I'm going back to the drawing board for my evening plans."

"Sorry about that."

"Don't be. Like I said, the complicated things are usually worth fighting for."

"Yeah," you said, thinking about Tara's smile, about the way she'd looked at you when she finally said the words you'd been waiting years to hear. "They really are."

The rest of the party passed in a blur. You found Anika and told her you were ready to go home, and she was so pleased with herself for orchestrating the evening that she didn't even give you grief about leaving early.

As you walked back to your apartment, you couldn't stop thinking about tomorrow night. After years of wondering, of wanting, of thinking it was impossible—you finally had a real chance with Tara. And this time, you weren't going to let fear or pride or miscommunication get in the way.

This time, you were going to get it right.

[pankesitopank]

AHHHH I SAW YOU DID MY REQUEST THANK YOUUU I LOVED IT IT WAS SO CUTE I couldn’t message you when I saw bc I was in the middle of finals (sorryy 😖) but I really loved it thank uu 😍. Anyway I have another request unfortunately #desperate. I was thinking of like bff Jisung who’s like in love w reader and is babysitting their dog and finds a special toy while looking for clothes to wear and becomes all whiney and stuttery n stuff while using it 😛. thank you for listening 🙂‍↕️

Caught!

wc: 3k

bff!han jisung x fem!reader

cw: bff to lovers - use of vibrator - reader catches him on the act - perv jisung - overstimulation - whiny and desperate han - creampie - crying (han) - softdom!reader

note: i love you chezzeballs300

You hadn’t meant to leave him alone. Not really. But your dog had taken to Jisung like he was a goddamn chew toy with a pulse, and your last-minute appointment couldn’t be rescheduled. You’d barely shoved your shoes on when Jisung waved you out the door with that lazy grin of his, already on the floor being licked to death.

“I got him, don’t worry!” he called through the laughter, voice slightly muffled under the weight of sixty pounds of overexcited canine. “Go! Save the world or whatever!”

You’d thanked him, blown him a kiss out of habit. He’d caught it and pressed it to his cheek with a dopey smile you didn’t see.

So now here he was—alone in your apartment. Hair fluffed from your couch pillows. Hoodie slightly damp from dog drool. Slippers too small and squishing his toes.

And he was comfortable. Really. You were his best friend. This was fine.

He flopped onto your bed after taking the dog for a quick walk, scrolling through his phone and letting the soft afternoon light warm his face. The windows were cracked open just enough to let in the summer breeze. Somewhere down the hall, your laundry machine hummed a rhythm he didn’t recognize.

Your scent was everywhere.

That shampoo you always used, the hint of vanilla you swore wasn’t perfume. The gentle, feminine quiet of your space that wrapped around him like a blanket. Jisung buried his face in your pillow before he could stop himself.

And then—

Drool.

“Aw, come on,” he groaned, scrubbing at the wet patch on his hoodie. “Dude, you’re worse than me.”

The dog blinked innocently from the floor, tail wagging in slow thumps.

Jisung sighed, tugging the hoodie off over his head and padding toward your dresser. You’d told him he could borrow anything while he was here—something about the drawer on the left and not the right—

He opened the right.

And that’s when it hit him.

A drawer he’d never seen you touch in front of him. One that definitely didn’t contain any normal clothes.

And nestled between a rolled-up sleep mask and a bottle of lube so old the cap was crusted—

Was a vibrator.

Not some cheap little bullet either. This thing was sleek. Curved. Used.

His mouth went dry.

For a moment he just stared, heartbeat drumming in his ears, vision tunneling until the only thing in focus was that.

It looked too pretty to be real.

Then his brain kicked in—and immediately short-circuited.

That’s hers. That’s been inside her. She’s used that—she’s used that and—fuck—she’s moaned—

He slammed the drawer shut so fast the dog startled.

“Shit,” he hissed, running a hand through his hair. “Shitshitshit.”

What the fuck was he doing snooping?

You trusted him. He was supposed to be watching your dog, not—

Not imagining how you’d look riding that thing with your thighs shaking and your pretty mouth falling open.

Jisung squeezed his eyes shut and sat down hard on the edge of your bed. He could feel it already: the way his dick was pressing uncomfortably against the inside of his sweats, half-hard and pulsing with a guilt-soaked need he knew he shouldn’t indulge.

You were his best friend.

He loved you.

Like loved you. Not just the kind of love you joked about in texts or danced around during movie nights. Real love. The kind that made his stomach flip when you curled up next to him. The kind that made him remember everything you ever said about your turn-ons, your exes, your toys.

The kind that made him ache when you looked at him like he was just your friend.

And now he was sitting in your room, with the image of your vibrator burned into his brain and your scent all over him.

He licked his lips. Swallowed.

Then stood up.

Slowly, quietly, he opened the drawer again.

His hands shook.

The toy was heavier than he expected. Warm, almost. Like you’d just used it. Like it still held some phantom trace of you—your heat, your slick, your sounds.

His breath hitched.

“Just look,” he muttered to himself, like a mantra. “Just… look.”

But his other hand was already drifting south. Already palming himself through his pants. Already trembling with the beginnings of need.

He should put it back.

He should leave.

But instead, Jisung lay back on your bed, clutching your pillow like a lifeline, your vibrator held to his chest like a stolen secret.

And with his other hand, he pushed his sweats down just enough to free his cock

It sprang up flushed and leaking, angry and desperate, twitching at the thought of you. The idea of you using this—of you putting it inside yourself, moaning, writhing, calling out his name—

Wait.

No. Not his name.

Not unless you thought of him when you used it.

The idea nearly made him choke.

“F-fuck,” he whispered, pressing the tip of the toy to his lips. “I’m so fucked.”

And he was.

Because the second the base buzzed to life in his hand, Jisung knew there was no going back.

The first time the vibrator touched his cock, Jisung gasped—sharp and choked, like his lungs couldn’t decide if he should breathe or beg.

The buzz was low, steady. Gentle at first. But the moment it kissed his flushed, aching tip, he jerked so hard his knees buckled. His back arched off your bed and he let out the softest, most pathetic little whine, one hand immediately flying to his mouth to muffle the sound.

It still slipped out around his fingers.

“F-fuck… oh—god…”

He was already too sensitive.

Already leaking—already so fucking hard from just thinking about you, about the drawer, about what it must’ve looked like when you used this on yourself.

Did you lay back?

Did you ride it?

Did you touch your tits at the same time?

Did you moan his name, even once?

The thought of you squirming under your own fingers, lips parted and brows furrowed in concentration, made his hips twitch up against the toy, chasing the sensation greedily. He was already losing it. Already dizzy.

And then his traitor mouth slipped—

“Yn…”

His voice was so needy, so soft—like a prayer he didn’t realize he was saying out loud.

And worse: your dog was still asleep in the corner of the room, completely unaware that his babysitter was currently rutting against your vibrator like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

He should stop.

He needed to stop.

But the moment he teased the base of the toy under his shaft—pressed it there, just right, right along that strip of oversensitive nerve—his hips jerked again. His cock throbbed hard enough to make his stomach clench, and then—wetness.

Spit.

He’d drooled onto your pillow.

“Oh my god,” he whimpered, biting his knuckle hard, cheeks burning. “What the fuck is wrong with me—”

But the buzzing didn’t stop.

The vibrations crawled up the length of him, buzzing along the ridge of his cock, teasing the base, the tip, circling back down again like a cruel whisper of the real thing.

He kept fucking into it. Barely-there thrusts. His thighs trembled, abs flexing with every clench, every desperate grind, every little shiver.

He squeezed his eyes shut tight. He had to. If he opened them, he’d see your room. Your bed. Your pillow soaked in his spit. The vibrator you’d actually used between his legs. And maybe—maybe the worst part—

He liked it.

No—he loved it. The guilt. The heat. The pathetic need in his gut. The idea that you could come home right now and find him like this—half-naked and panting, so far gone he couldn’t even stop grinding against something that still smelled like you.

He let out a broken, high-pitched sound, somewhere between a sob and a gasp, chest heaving as he humped the toy again and again and again. It wasn’t even in him. Just pressed to his cock. Just buzzing there while he fucked into it like a dog in heat.

“Please—” he whispered, not even sure what he was begging for. “Please—pleaseplease—oh fuck, I-I need—”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t.

Because the thought was you.

He needed you.

You, in that tiny crop top you wore when you cleaned the kitchen. You, in the gym shorts that always hugged your thighs. You, teasing him when you bent over to pick up your keys, laughing when he turned red and looked away.

You, right now—coming home, walking in, catching him like this—

Your voice: “Jisung?”

Your eyes: wide. Confused. Hot.

Your mouth: “What are you doing with that?”

Fuck.

His cock pulsed.

“Ah—!” he gasped, pressing the toy harder against himself. “I’m sorry, I—I didn’t— I just— I wanted to feel— I-I didn’t mean to—!”

He was panting now, full-body shaking, one hand still holding the toy, the other clutching your pillow like it might keep him anchored.

His hips moved faster.

He was getting close.

Too close.

And the guilt felt so good—the idea of being caught, of being used, of you looking down at him and punishing him for being so filthy, so desperate, so in love—

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck I’m gonna—!”

He came with a shudder, a soft, helpless cry muffled against your sheets.

Hot, sticky ropes spurted over his belly, thighs, the toy. His toes curled. His breath caught.

But the vibrator didn’t stop.

The buzz kept going. Unrelenting.

And so did he.

His hips bucked again.

His thighs trembled.

A second orgasm started building before he could even recover.

“No—fuck—can’t—! I c-can’t again, I just—hngh—”

His stomach muscles spasmed, his eyes screwed shut, his whole body thrumming with overstimulation.

But it felt so good.

So filthy.

So right.

And the worst part?

He still imagined you walking in.

Because if you saw him like this—sweaty, flushed, cock twitching helplessly against the vibrator—

Maybe you’d finally understand just how badly he wanted you.

You opened the door with your keys already between your fingers and your tote bag half-falling off your shoulder.

You were only supposed to be gone for a couple of hours—just a quick run to your sister’s place to drop off some things. But now it was past 7, the sun was setting warm and low through your living room windows, and your dog hadn’t come running to greet you.

Odd.

You slipped off your shoes. The leash was still hanging where you left it. Food untouched. Water bowl full.

And the bedroom door… cracked.

Soft, breathy noise filtered through the silence.

Whimpering?

You frowned.

“Jisung?” you called. “Everything okay?”

No answer.

So you stepped forward—quietly, slowly, like you were afraid of what you might find—and when you pushed the door open just an inch more, the scene made your brain stop working.

Because there he was.

In your bed.

Sweaty. Blushing. Panting.

Naked except for the hem of one of your oversized shirts pushed up to his chest. His thighs were trembling, knees half-bent, his whole body twitching and shuddering with aftershocks. And between his legs…

Your vibrator.

Still buzzing.

Still wet.

Still smeared with his cum.

“Jisung?” you breathed, mouth falling open.

His head whipped around so fast it looked like it hurt. Wide brown eyes locked on yours—pure terror for a second, followed by guilt, embarrassment, and something else you couldn’t quite name.

“W-wait, I—I can explain—!” he choked, scrambling to toss the toy aside and cover himself, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate. His hips bucked helplessly, his thighs shook, and he made this desperate little whine like the shame was eating him alive.

“I—fuck, I didn’t mean to—I was just—! I just wanted to wear something comfy, and I saw it in the drawer, and I—I didn’t know I was gonna—fuck, please don’t hate me—”

He looked like he was about to cry.

You just stood there, heart thudding in your chest, mouth dry.

You should’ve yelled.

Should’ve kicked him out.

Should’ve said anything.

But instead, the only thing that came out of your mouth was—

“…Did you come thinking about me?”

Silence.

Thick. Stretched. Breathless.

His eyes went even wider—doe-like and shocked, his mouth open but speechless.

And then—softly, brokenly, like admitting it would shatter him—

“…yes.”

You stepped closer.

He blinked up at you.

You reached for the vibrator—sticky, still buzzing, abandoned on the sheets—and clicked it off.

Then you tossed it onto the floor.

And climbed on top of him.

“W-wait—! What are you—? You’re not mad?” he asked, voice cracking, hands hovering like he didn’t know where to touch. His dick was still twitching, still hard, shiny with cum, flushed to the tip.

And you—your thighs were already straddling his hips.

“No,” you said, voice low. “I’m not mad.”

His breath hitched.

“…Are you gonna punish me?”

You smirked.

“No,” you said again. Then, softer—“I’m gonna ride you.”

Jisung whimpered.

The second your fingers wrapped around his cock, he twitched like he’d been electrocuted.

He was still sensitive—overstimulated and leaking, head thrown back, thighs shaking under your touch—but he wanted it. Every inch of him screamed for it.

“You’re such a mess,” you whispered, dragging your folds along his length. “Were you humping my toy like a little pervert?”

“I—nngh—yes,” he gasped. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t stop—”

“You came on my sheets,” you said, rubbing the tip against your entrance. “Came all over yourself. Thinking about me.”

He nodded frantically, lips parted, cheeks flushed red.

“I’m disgusting,” he choked, voice wrecked. “I-I didn’t mean to, I just— I love you, and—”

You froze.

Your eyes snapped to his.

“…You love me?”

His breath caught.

Shit.

But it was too late to lie.

“I—I do,” he whispered. “I’ve been in love with you forever. I didn’t know what to do anymore, and when I saw that thing in your drawer I just— I lost it. I’m sorry—please don’t make me leave—”

You leaned down and kissed him.

Messy. Hot. Tongue first. Your teeth scraped his bottom lip, and he moaned into your mouth like he’d been waiting years for this.

“I’m not gonna make you leave,” you said. “I’m gonna fuck you until you forget your name.”

And then you sank down on him.

His reaction was instant.

High-pitched, breathless whimpers. Eyes rolling back. Hands flying to your hips but not gripping—just resting, like he was too afraid to move, too afraid to mess this up.

You took him slowly, inch by inch, feeling the way he stretched you open, how wet you already were just from watching him. His cock filled you completely, bottomed out with a soft slap, and he sobbed.

“P-please,” he begged. “Please move, I—I need—oh god—”

You rolled your hips.

Once.

Then again.

And Jisung lost it.

His nails dug into the blankets, his head buried into your shoulder, breath coming in sharp, uneven pants.

“Y-you’re so warm,” he gasped. “Feels so good—feels better than anything, oh fuck, I’m—”

You bounced on him slowly, lazily—grinding down in circles, making him feel it. He was already whining again, that sweet pitch in his voice like he couldn’t decide if he was going to cry or come.

You tugged his hair. Tilted his head back.

“Look at me.”

He did.

And you kissed him again—slow and open-mouthed this time, swallowing his sounds, letting him moan into you like he needed it to survive.

“I’m not mad,” you whispered. “I’ve wanted this too.”

His eyes filled with tears.

“I—I love you—”

“I know.”

You bounced faster.

His hips tried to chase yours, but he was too fucked out. He couldn’t keep up. He just whimpered, head back, cock twitching deep inside you.

And when your walls squeezed around him, when your nails raked down his chest, when you leaned in and moaned his name right against his ear—

He came.

Hard.

Hot.

Sticky.

With a shout and a tremble, his whole body went rigid under you, cum spilling deep, so much of it, and he was still babbling—

“I love you—thank you—fuck, I love you—I love you”

You stayed there.

Grinding through it, fucking him through the high, kissing the corners of his wet, pretty eyes.

And when you came next, clenched tight around his sensitive cock with a soft cry of his name, he nearly passed out from how good it felt.

You didn’t get off him for a long time.

He wouldn’t let you.

Not because he needed to go again (though he definitely did), but because he didn’t want to let go. His arms curled around your waist, his face pressed into your chest, his voice soft and hazy.

“…so I guess I’m not just the dog babysitter anymore, huh?”

You laughed.

“No, Ji,” you whispered. “You’re mine.”

And he smiled into your skin.

“Finally

[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Sleepless in NYC

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Reynolds/Sentry x f!reader

Summary: Having insomnia can be isolating, but lucky for you there's someone else at Avenger's Tower who can keep you company. Reader is a superhero named "Mystic". This is the first fic in my "Something to Lose" series!

Word Count: 8.5K

Tropes: Grumpy (reader) vs. Sunshine (Bob) (a little bit?), Black Cat (reader) and Golden Retriever (Bob) (a little bit?), Slow Burn, Mutual Pining.

Warnings: Cursing, Torture mentioned (briefly), Death/Murder mentioned, Blood mentioned? Hints at reader having a dark past, Reader has somewhat created backstory that is talked about, Self-deprecating thought (reader), Mentions of mental health, Mentions of therapy, Mentions of depression, Elder Abuse (aka reader makes fun of Bucky for being old), Mentions of medication, Mentions of violence, Walker is a bit (alot) of a jerk, Protective! Reader. Bob might be a little OOC.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is no use of y/n! I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite! I'm just starting to write for Bob, so please be gentle.

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

A/N: Okay, again... the hyperfixation has begun and all I can do is ask y'all to strap in for the ride. 😅

Masterlist for Series

In hindsight, eating that cinnamon bun before training this morning was a bad idea.

You think to yourself as your back hits the ground with a heavy thud, the impact knocking the wind out of you as you get more acquainted with the black thick plastic mat on the floor of the gym and try not to let the cinnamon bun in question make an encore appearance.

Bucky stands over you, arms crossed over his chest, mouth tilted down in a frown. His formidable figure outlined by the large fluorescent lights that lined the roof of the gym at Avengers Tower.  "You're still leaving your left flank unprotected. Come on we've been through this before-"

"Maybe I was just taking it easy on you, old man." You cough out a laugh while you try to catch your breath.

Honestly, you were off your game and you knew it.

It was hard to focus when the only thing your body was craving at the moment was sleep. Last night was the fourth night in a row that you couldn't quite drift off and you didn't have high hopes for tonight. You also couldn't decide if no sleep was better than the nightmares that flocked like a murder of crows in your head, the sharp talons pulling at your hair, while the wings beat hard and heavy in your ears whenever you did finally find yourself lucky enough to rest.

Because on the list of things that were unfair in your life, the fact that other people finally found peace in the sweet abyss of sleep while you found only death and destruction was at the tip top.

The sun has to break sometime… right? My luck isn't that bad, is it?

It was. On a scale from one to a million, you were sitting pretty at a negative 7.

You look up at Bucky.

His metal arm glints in the light, muscles tensing slightly under the black tank top, his stance wide and open as he stares down at you. There wasn’t anything in his posture to suggest that the two of you were sparing as you always did each morning, he looks far too relaxed for that. Which meant that this wasn't challenging him at all.

And it was getting embarrassing, especially given the fact that you were created by Hydra for the sole purpose of killing the man standing over you if he ever went rogue.

Pieced together from his genetic material, an enhanced clone of the Winter Solider, the thirteenth in a long line of experiments that went wrong. An unlucky number by all standards, but the only survivor of the trials that all the other clones failed, the same trials that left your hands streaked with their blood while their bodies fell one by one.

Lethal. Deadly. Unstoppable. Created to be better than him in every way.

Just not right now.

When Bucky and Sam had found you in the Hydra bunker hidden at the bottom of the Atlantic and brought you back up to the light over a year ago there had been a long period of adjustment. Mostly because Sam wasn't convinced that you wouldn't kill them in their sleep.

He hadn't been too far off, you had thought about it, thumbed the well worn handle of your favorite knife and thought about how easy it would be, but you hadn't and that was the main thing.

It's the little victories really.

But despite the new life that Bucky had introduced to you, there was little you could do to drive away the nightmares.  The ones filled with memories you so desperately wanted to forget. The same memories that used to fill you with pride and now only made you feel shame. The shadowy tendrils of the past seeping into the present to ensnare your mind and pull you back into the darkness.

Everyone on the New Avengers had a dark past.

Each person had something that they'd like to forget, but yours haunted you. And despite the conversations that Bucky had with you about trying to accept the past and move forward- and the discussions with the therapist he recommended, you still felt… alone.

You feared that there was still a part of you that longed for that- a unquenchable thirst for blood that screamed out in the darkness of the night when all was quiet.

It made it harder to believe Bucky when he told you that you deserved better and that you weren't your past.

Truth was, you knew why you didn't believe him, because the Winter Soldier did things while under hypnosis and you did them of your own free will. Did them because you were bred for it, created in a test tube, and trained to kill. It was the only life you knew, the only world that you thought existed. The constant struggle for survival while you clung on with bloody fingernails and teeth fighting to stay alive.

No friends, no family, just targets.

You didn't know that there was anything else out there until Bucky took you in, didn’t know what a life could really look like.

It had taken you a while to realize exactly why Bucky did it, why he didn't just put you out of your misery the moment he broke into the base and realized what Hydra had done, who or rather what they had created from his DNA.

Honestly, after everything it was nice to have someone around who understood how you felt, nice to actually have a friend.

That was about a year before you'd joined the Thunderbolts, which in all honesty was a complete fluke. A happy (chaotic and bullet holed) accident. Bucky had been so stressed about Valentina's trial and all you'd wanted to do was help him out, try to give him some peace, so you'd done some digging to see if you could uncover something to use against her.

Which may or may not have included you breaking into a government facility and maybe calling up one of your old contacts to help you find the hidden vault in the desert. One of the same contacts that Bucky would probably kill you if he found out you were talking to again.

Getting into the vault had been easy, but you hadn't meant to stumble into the Thunderdome situation that was happening between Yelena, Walker, Ava, and Taskmaster. If anything you'd thought that the vault would be filled with dusty old files, not four paid assassins who were each trying to off each other.

And because you'd promised Bucky that you'd be better, stop killing people, and turn over a new leaf, you hadn't killed them. You hated breaking promises to Bucky. He was the closest thing you had to family.

I wonder if he feels that way about me or if he thinks I’m an annoyance?

Bucky rolls his eyes at your taunt, but you see a flicker of something in his gaze that might be humor. “Sure.”

I'll take that as a yes.

You roll back upwards to a standing position, shaking out the exhaustion from your body, bouncing lightly on the balls of your feet.

I got this. I’m awake. I'm awake. I'm- in desperate need of coffee.

But other than the cloying exhaustion, it was a normal Tuesday morning at the tower.

There was the subtle clink of weights from where Walker was doing his morning reps in the corner, the smell of mac and cheese from the kitchen you were sure Yelena was making, and the sound of the TV five rooms away blasting yet another war documentary, which meant that Alexei was couch camping again and you would have to avoid the living room to escape the usual twenty minute long conversation in which he described the good old days and then asked you about your past missions. The air in the gym reeked of stale sweat and something that might have been Alexei's socks, which he kept saying "needed to airdry." Why he hung them in the gym to do so, you'd never know.

The gym itself was outfitted with everything the team would need to train: weights, treadmill, large plastic sparing mat, giant wall lined with deadly weapons to kill each other, punching bag-

Right now you felt like a punching bag, given how much time you were spending on the mat, and the bruise that was forming on your butt from hitting it so many times.

But you were thankful that today Bucky and you weren't practicing with weapons. As much as you hated to admit it, Bucky probably would have turned you into coleslaw by now if you had.

You narrowly dodge the arch of Bucky's metal fist and take a confident step back, hands raised in front of you protectively.

"You're distracted today." Bucky says, but he doesn't lower his guard. "What's wrong?"

Your eyes trace over the taunt form of his body, noting the subtle shift to the right, the thick plastic pad beneath him dipping with the movement of his right foot. The anticipation of the punch that was going to follow from that direction, buzzing through your body. Every subtle tick of his body sending off alarm bells in your head, warning you to prepare.

The punch comes just as you thought it would and you dodge again, twisting away before throw a kick into his unprotected side as Bucky fully extends his body with the momentum of the punch.

He stumbles back, off balance, but you don't move to finish, instead you wait for him to straighten up, rolling your own shoulders to stretch out and ignoring the twinge from the previous time you'd spent on the mat.

"I'm not distracted."

"You are. By now you've usually knocked me down at least once."

"Thought I'd give you a chance today. Can't always be beating up a senior citizen. Someone might call the AARP." You flash a smirk.

Bucky doesn't look convinced. He knows that you're trying to cover how you feel, he was used to your deflection techniques. "How'd you sleep last night?"

You hesitate to answer, because you couldn't lie to him. Bucky knew you and he'd seen the two dozen cinnamon buns you'd made last night on the kitchen counter this morning when he was rooting around for his usual morning banana, black coffee, and cereal.

And before you ask, yes it's bran cereal.

The baking had been an interesting development in the months following your freedom from Hydra. You blamed late night food network TV and also blamed Sam's subscription to Netflix (the one you were using without his knowledge) which exposed you to the Great British Bake-off. But you never thought that you'd actually be good at it.

Dismembering? Sure. Long-range sniping? You got it! Hot wiring a car? Sign you up! But baking? Really? In what universe?

But there was something about it that never failed to calm you down.

The methodical measuring, the sharp crack of the eggs, the high-pitched whirr of the mixer, the folding of the dough- it all helped. It helped drive the images of what you’d done from your mind and helped you focus on something else for a few moments, giving you the same reprieve you imagined a good nights sleep would.

Plus, after there was something good to eat.

Everyone in the tower was benefiting from your newfound hobby. Alexei most of all, who had taken to giving you requests of Russian treats you'd never heard of and were difficult to find in the city.

Unfortunately, he would ask for them at the most inopportune times.

Like a month ago when the two of you had been crouched behind a car taking fire from a group of men robbing a bank downtown and Alexei began to describe a sweet treat that his mother used to make him when he was a boy that he couldn't remember the name of instead of focusing on the ricochet of gunfire above your heads.

Or last week when you'd been locked in hand to hand combat with an enhanced agent and Alexei kept shouting out ingredients the two of you could pick up at the grocery store after the fight.

However, you still thought that it was comical. Hydra's best asset, the one that people all over the world were afraid to whisper the of name for fear of summoning you like a shadow from a bad dream, spent each night baking, icing, and kneading with the same hands that were once used to maim, gut, and kill so many others.

Still waiting to see the flying pigs.

"I slept fine." You answer begin to circle him, sweeping your eyes over his body to analyze his next move.

"You hesitated."

"I did n-"

Bucky lunges forward moving fast across the mat in a tackle, but you sidestep, dropping low to sweep his legs out from under him. He lands with a solid thud, the huff of his breath into the gym air filling you with a sense of triumph.

He rolls onto his back in a huff, dark hair falling forward into his face. "Yes you did. And you're pulling your punches!"

"Buck, you're on the ground right now. I don't think you get to say that I'm pulling my punches."

"I-"

The rest of his sentence is lost in a loud crash. Your body tenses with the clang of weights against the concrete floors, years of having to constantly stay alert taking control, the self-preservation instincts pulling your body taunt as you turn in the direction of the sound prepared for a surprise attack.

Bob is standing on the other side of the room clutching a small five pound dumbbell to his chest like a teddy bear, his blue eyes wide in shock and fear. The shelf that usually holds all the other dumbbells and weights is on the ground in front of him, scattered all over the concrete floor like oreos out of a plastic sleeve.

He must have knocked it over.

Your eyes trace over the way he's shrunken into his oversized blue sweatshirt, how he scrunches up his body beneath, his face downcast and flushed in embarrassment.

Seeing him look so small, stirred something in the pit of your stomach.

Bob was different than anyone you'd ever met before. Soft and vulnerable, the complete opposite of you. All the ways that you’d had to harden yourself to keep people out clashed with the soft smiles, stutters, and flushes that you’d seen and heard from Bob whenever he talked to you. Bob was the kind of person that someone like you swallowed whole.

And yet, there was something that drew you to him, something inside that felt different whenever he was around, and something that you still hadn't quite figured out.

When everything happened with Sentry and Void a few months ago, you’d thought that Bob pretended to be shy and awkward. That he used it as a manipulation tactic to try and get people to come to his aid. That was, until you'd seen him with Valentina.

You saw how she manipulated him, turned him into something he wasn’t, twisted his mind into something else. And in the moments that the others fought Sentry all you saw was you. Something contorted and warped by Hydra, a monster created for the sole purpose of someone else’s gain, someone who got lost somewhere along the way to the whims of others.

It was the first time in your entire life that you'd hesitated to do what you knew needed to be done.

Sentry had slammed you into a wall, unaffected by your hesitation.

Later Bob had apologized profusely, stumbling over his words and refusing to make too much eye contact. You didn't understand what the feeling was in the pit of your stomach when he had. The only thing you could think to tell him was that he didn't have to apologize, because you understood what it was like to be used. And then walked away before he could ask you how.

"What the fuck Bob?" Walker's voice splits through the silence in the wake of the accident. "You could have killed me!"

The weights were scattered around where Walker had been sitting on the floor to take a minute break from lifting, and a 400 lb was sitting directly where Walker's head had been, a long thin crack snaking out from where it made impact with the floor.

"I- I'm sorry." Bob stutters out, eyes flicking around the room from Walker, to Bucky, then to you. The shock of bright blue rests on where you stand for an extra beat before his gaze moves back to Walker.

Walker stands from the ground, fists clenched at his sides, face contorted with rage and annoyance as he glares down at Bob.

"Sorry doesn't cut it! Why are you so fucking careless? I could be dead right now!"

Bob shrinks back from Walker, disappearing further into his blue sweatshirt. Some of his brown hair has fallen forward into his face like a shield as if it wishes to block the onslaught of Walker's anger.  "I w-wwas just trying to-"

"I don’t care what you were trying to do!" Walker snaps back.

Something inside of you flares red-hot.

"Back off Walker." The words pass through your mouth before you can think to stop them. "He said he was sorry."

Walker's gaze doesn't move from Bob. "I wasn't talking to you Mystic."

"Yeah, well unfortunately I'm talking to you." You continue, eyes flicking over to where Bob has begun to fiddle with the ends of his sleeves nervously. "So I guess we're both doing things we don't want to today."

Walker turns in your direction his eyes narrowed. "Why don't you go back to having your ass handed to you?"

By now the dull throb of your anger in your body has transformed into a roar, the uncomfortable feeling of whatever the hell it is telling you to stand up for Bob unable to ignore.

You hated how small he looked. How Bob seemed to be trying to vanish into the floor, to melt away into the concrete, or blow away like a piece of lint. He'd been through enough in his life and you'd be damned if you were going to let an asshole like Walker treat him like trash.

"Listen Captain Douchebag. Your massive inferiority complex does not give you the right to talk down to people. So why don't you pack all that up and your gym bro muscles, and get the hell out of here?"

Bob lets out a giggle-like snort before he can stop himself at your comment, the small sound making the end of your mouth curve up in a half smile. It made you feel a little better to see him smile, it was better than him looking like he wanted to melt into a puddle of goo.

But predictably, all it does is make Walker go from mad to furious. His left eye begins to twitch with annoyance.

"What did you just say to me?" If looks could kill, you'd definitely be on the ground bleeding out from the way Walker is staring at you, but you don't care.

"You heard me."

"Why don't you come over here and say that shit to me?" He snarls while flexing his muscles under the dark gray t-shirt he's wearing.

You wonder if he thought he was intimidating you, even when he knew that you had enough strength to squish him down accordion style. You go through the mental filo-fax you had on all the people who had tried to stand in your way. Most of them had the same attitude as Walker. An all American asshole who thought that everyone should kiss the ground he walked on.

They really chose a winner for Captain America. Was there even a screening process? Or did they immediately choose the guy that is every nerd's waking nightmare in high school?

"Okay." You shrug. "Here I come."

You didn't need that cup of coffee for an energy boost to kick Walker's ass. Hell, you could have a whole month of sleepless nights and still put him in his place.

Bucky's thrusts his arm in front of your chest to stop the advance. "Go cool off John. There's been enough bloodshed this week already."

"No, I don't think there has." Walker retorts.

"Yes, there has. Plus, we've got that briefing in an hour with Yelena about the Op in Europe. And I really don't want to bench you again."

"But she-" He points an accusatory finger in your direction and you flip him off.

"Go." Bucky says more forcefully.

Walker stands there for a few extra moments watching you with narrowed eyes, teeth grinding down together. Your gaze is locked with his, daring him to say something else. But he relents, muttering something under his breath and stalking out of the room, each heavy footfall down the hallway a thunderclap.

What a toddler.

"Don't do that." Bucky sighs, lowering his arm to his side again and giving you an annoyed look.

"Do what?"

"Make me get between the two of you. It makes me feel like a Kindergarten teacher."

"Judging by how childish Walker is acting-"

"You were both acting childish."

You roll your eyes at him. "I didn't ask you to step in. And Walker was asking for it-"

"I have told you time and time again not to goad him into a fight."

"I was not!"

"Yes, you were." Bucky sighs again.

Sometimes you thought it was funny that despite only meeting Bucky a year ago, he still acted like he'd been your dad for decades. Truth was, you knew that Bucky struggled with that little detail, the perversion of Hydra with his genetic material to create you without his knowledge.

"I'm not going to do this with you." You echo his sigh before marching over to the scattered weights on the ground and the overturned shelf.

Bob is still standing there, slightly curled in on himself, but he hasn't glanced away from you. He looks like he's contemplating something, trying to find the courage to speak.

"Are you okay?" You ask him softly as you pick up the empty shelf with one hand and set it straight before moving on to the scattered weights.

"Y-yeah." He nods enthusiastically, a few extra bobs of his head than what should be normal, his cheeks flushing that cute pink color. "T-tthanks for doing that. You- you didn't have to."

"Yeah I did." You pick up a stack of weights. "You're apart of this team. He was being an asshole."

"He always is." Bob gives you a half smile that makes something inside your chest tighten for a moment.

That's weird.

"True." You mirror his smile, lifting another few weights.

"We're not done talking about this," Bucky says your name, but comes over to help you clean up. "Maybe it's best if you stay here."

"What?" You half turn to him.

"The Op. I think you should stay here."

"But-"

You didn't know what you were going to follow up that sentence with. Probably something like 'but I was looking forward to breaking some noses' or maybe 'but I was looking forward to taking some anger out on the bad guys.' Both weren't the best to admit aloud, not to your therapist and not to Bucky.

You were supposed to see her again tomorrow, which meant another awkward hour long session where she dredged up things from the past you wished that you could forget. The overbearing sense of foreboding had begun to weigh on your shoulders again when thought about the upcoming appointment.

He shakes his head. "No buts. You were all over the place in training, and I want you to get some sleep. Besides," Bucky brings his right hand down on Bob's shoulder to give it an encouraging squeeze. "You can keep Bob company."

Bob's cheeks flush an even deeper red and he drops his gaze from your face to his hands to fiddle with his oversized sleeves again. They hang almost a full hands-length from his fingertips, the material beginning to fray and pull from the cuff.

"Buck, I'm fine-" You begin to say.

"No, you're not. I want you to take it easy. We'll be back in a few days."

"But-"

Bucky sighs your name, releasing Bob's shoulder. "I'm worried about you. You were distracted today and the last thing I want is for you to get hurt because it’s your fourth day in a row without sleep."

Your mouth drops open in shock. "How did yo-"

"I know everything." He answers. “But go on and see if you can convince Alexei to turn off the documentary and get ready for the brief. I want to talk to Bob for a minute.”

You glance over at Bob, who is watching you with curiosity. Bob knew that you hadn't slept last night or the night before because he'd been there sitting at the kitchen island the way he always did whenever you were making something.

You noticed that Bob had been doing that more and more since you moved into the tower permanently. That he seemed to appear in rooms that you were too, but he wouldn't always talk to you. At least, Bob only really talked to you when no one was around. Sometimes he would sit somewhere on the edge of the room with a book or something to fiddle with, occasionally looking up as if he was checking you were still there. You were under the impression that was what he meant to do today before he knocked over the weights on the shelf. That Bob really didn't want to lift, but for some reason he'd come in to see what you were doing.

You didn't understand why he was doing that, but you also didn't quite understand the feeling that sprouted wings in your chest  whenever it was just the two of you.

It was unfamiliar.

It felt differently than the usual buzz of warmth you had when Bucky and you used to hang out in his one bedroom apartment, crashing on the couch and watching an old black and white movie he called "classic." Or when Yelena and you went to the giant thrift store down the street to see if you could score some new jeans or a pair of leather boots. The feeling you had when you always thought to yourself that it was nice to have a friend.

But this was… odd. Not a bad odd, just different, something you’d never felt before and you couldn't name.

That being said, you did like being around Bob. Despite the whole Sentry/Void situation that happened before, there was something about him that was calming. He wasn't loud like Alexei. Didn't annoy you like Walker. Wasn't aloof like Ava.

He was different, quiet, and shy. He spoke only when he needed to say something- unfortunately sometimes the things he said only made you mad because he would say something self-deprecating that wasn't true at all.

But the truth was, you'd be lying to yourself if you didn't admit that there was just something about Bob that you liked.

You think back to a few moments ago when you'd defended him from Walker. That instinctual urge to protect him from Walker's undeserved rage. The only person you'd ever really cared about and tried to protect was the man you were designed to kill, but you cared about Bob. You knew that.

It was just hard to decipher why.

"Fine. But come get find me before you leave." You say to Bucky before giving Bob a quick once-over.

He was standing up straighter now, still hiding a little bit behind his hair, but he did look better than he had when Walker was in the room. A sense of relief settles in the center of your chest, replacing the anger that burned hot beneath your rib-cage only moments ago.

"I'll see you later." You say to Bob, giving him an encouraging smile as you pass.

"O-okay." He stammers.

You knew you would. After all there was no doubt in your mind you wouldn't be able to sleep tonight and would yet again end up in the kitchen at 3 am holding a spoon with Bob sitting at the kitchen island watching you with rapt attention.

You took in another deep breath counting to five before you released it, feeling the slow rise and fall of your chest, the gentle cradle of your mattress beneath your body. Your eyes were shut, the soft pillow beneath your head plush and cool to the touch. The pitter patter of rain against the roof of the tower a soft reminder of where you were, the rhythmic sound a soothing lullaby.

But not for you.

You turn over again fruitlessly going through the motions  to try and fall asleep. Mentally checking off the list of things your therapist told you to do to make it easier and also the random things you'd found while surfing the internet bleary eyed and trying to find something, anything to put you under.

But nothing ever seemed to work.

She'd also suggested melatonin or something stronger, but the problem was losing control like that, taking something that dulled your senses didn't appeal to you. Of course this also only emphasized the idea that maybe you weren't falling asleep because you didn't feel safe, didn't feel like you could surrender yourself when anything could happen while you did.

Also, because it reminded you too much of the syringes full of clear liquid that made your mind feel foggy, hazy, as if there was a cotton ball inside your head getting slowly pulled apart. The same ones that were used to keep you docile when you didn't want to go under.

The memory surfaces like a rising wave before you can distract yourself. The prick of the needle in your arm, the tug of the leather straps on your wrists that held you down on the bed, while the hospital gown scratched at your legs. The face of the doctor above you materializes, the bottom half of his face obscured by a mask, eyes shielded with goggles.

"Stop fighting. It'll all be over soon." His voice echoes in your ears as the straps rub your skin raw.

You open your eyes to rid yourself of the image, fighting the shudder that crawls down your spine as the memory comes back. The digital alarm clock on your bedside table comes into focus, the bright red 2:37 am flashing, mocking you.

Alright. I'm up.

You sit up and look around the room.

It was an average size and held only a bookshelf, your bed, a small desk, and your bedside table. There was a large window on the back wall that gave another stunning view of the city and the bathroom you shared with Bob, Yelena, and Bucky was across the hall.

When you moved in you hadn't had much. You didn't have any personal photos or mementos from before, however you did have drawings.

Every single blank wall was covered with them, overlapping and tapped together, a hobby that you picked up on the road somewhere, drawing places you'd been, people you saw. Bucky had one of your drawings framed in his room. Something you drew of the two of you sitting back his one bedroom apartment on the couch, eating pizza on a Saturday night while watching a movie.

Your eyes flicker across the drawings on the wall, stopping on one you drew while at a coffee shop in Berlin. It was of an older couple sitting on a bench feeding the pigeons.  It was your favorite one, the memory of you sitting there with  the soft chatter of the patrons around you, feeling the tickle of the wind in your hair, watching the couple laugh, watching the older man gently brush hair from the woman's face.

It was the first time you'd seen something like that on your first real mission alone. And after you'd been late after to meet up with your handler and he'd given you something to remember what would happen if you ever were again.

Just inhale… exhale.

You think to yourself taking a moment, before you slowly get out of bed and make your way to the door of your bedroom.

The tower is quiet and dark. The only sound coming from the soft patter of rain against the roof and the gentle pad of your footsteps against the cool black marble floors. You pass Bucky's room, not bothering to look up. He wasn't here, neither was the rest of the team.

It was just Bob and you, and you hoped that he was having better luck at sleeping than you were. You hadn't heard anything coming from his room next door to suggest otherwise.

The thought of him brings the memory of how he looked earlier with Walker in the gym, an unpleasant emotion flickering in your chest as it does.

He's okay. He's asleep.

You weren't buying that. You knew it was only a matter of time before he came out of his room to find you in the kitchen as he usually did.

The kitchen is huge. A monstrosity of gold appliances, solid black backsplash with flecks of gold, countertops made of hard black granite, and tucked into the far corner of the living room, directly across from the bar. The large windows show the city below slightly blurred with rain, the lights beyond hazy, as the distant rumble of thunder rattles the glass in the panes.

You pull open the pantry and root around in the refrigerator as you try to figure out what to make.

Maybe an apple pie?

As cliché as it was, apple pie was one of Bucky's favorites and you thought that maybe he'd like something familiar when he came back.

Besides, apple pie is always better the second day.

You find the recipe on your phone that you bookmarked the other day and the bag of apples in the back of the refrigerator, striking gold when you realize that you had some sense to buy some granny smiths as well as red delicious when you'd made a grocery run two days ago. One of the contestants on the GBBO had sworn that using different kinds of apples "enhanced" the flavor of the pie. No idea what that meant, but you were going to try.

It takes about ten minutes for Bob to come out of his room, slowly but surely making his way down the hallway with tentative footfalls, while you back is turned, but you can still sense that he's there.

Years of training and your heightened senses alerted you to his presence the second he took a hesitant step out of his bedroom onto the polished floors. The soft swish of the fabric of his pants together, the gentle pad of his bare feet against the ground, and the prickle of his eyes focused on your unprotected back.

"Are you trying to sneak up on me?" You ask, looking through the pantry. "Because it's kinda hard to do that."

"N-." Bob audibly swallows. "No I was- was just about to say hello. Um. Hi?"

The sound of his voice makes you smile to yourself. The nervous tremor apparent as he stumbles through the sentence… but it didn't annoy you. You found it cute.

"Hi." You smile at him as you turn to lay the bag of apples on the large kitchen island between the two of you.

He slides into one of the barstools across from you, hands in his lap, still wearing the oversized sweatshirt from before. Your eyes trace over the frayed sleeves once more and you make a mental note to pick him up another one at the thrift store Yelena and you had been frequenting once a week.

 "Couldn't sleep?" You ask, beginning to peel the apples.

He shakes his head once. "Y-you?"

"Nope."

A moment of silence passes between the two of you as you continue to peel and slice apples.

"What are you making?" He asks watching you with curiosity.

"Hopefully an apple pie. I thought maybe that Bucky would want something a little more 'familiar' when he got back." You twirl the knife expertly in your hand, but feel a twinge of something when you think of him off on a mission without you there to watch his back.

Bob hesitates for a moment, ducking his head to his lap shyly, but you can tell he wants to say something.

"What?" You raise an eyebrow.

"Are- are you and B-b-ucky," Bob bites the inside of his cheek. "Together?"

You almost drop the knife in surprise. "What?"

It was the last thing that you expected him to ask you. Bob had never asked you something so personal before. Usually the conversations revolved around ridiculous things that happened at the tower, what you were baking- once Bob had asked you what your favorite flower was, which was weird and you didn't understand why he needed to know that, but never anything like this.

"I mean you and him are always-" Bob is flushed to the roots of his hair, still not looking up at you. "Around each other joking and I-I-"

"No." You shake your head with a laugh. "We're just friends."

The rest of the team didn't know about Bucky and you, and personally you wanted to keep it that way. It wasn't the easiest thing to bring up in conversation and your trust issues didn't let you. Something about giving out that extra bit of information seemed unnecessary, and you'd always rather have people underestimate you than know exactly who and what they were dealing with.

"Oh." Bob's face is the color of the apples you were cutting up, and again you can’t help but smile at how nervous he was.

He really is so different than everyone else.

"Bob can you reach the flour?" You ask to change the subject. "I'm pretty sure Walker keeps putting it up there to piss me off."

"O-okay." He stands from the barstool, the metallic legs making a high pitched screech across the floors. Bob winces at the sound, giving you a sheepish smile, before he rounds the counter to the pantry. He stands up on his tip-toes to reach the top shelf, the bottom of his sweatshirt pulling up to reveal a tiny slip of the skin above his waistband, the taunt muscle of his abdomen catching for a few moments in the can lights fastened to the ceiling of the kitchen.

You stare for a few seconds longer than was necessary. It was easy to forget how muscular he was, especially when Bob wore all those oversized closed all the time. But you weren't expecting to feel the skin of your cheeks heat for a few seconds when Bob turned around and caught you staring.

His wavy hair is hanging forward in his face again, long and curling up at the ends, but you can still see the shimmer of the cobalt of his eyes beneath watching you.

Something passes between the two of you, some unspoken electricity that makes you feel like you’d just jumped out of an airplane. As if every single neuron in your body is firing at once.

"Um- thanks." You avoid his gaze as you take the flour from his outstretched hands and turn back to the apples, beginning to measure out the spices, sugar, and flour needed for the filling listed on the recipe shinning on your phone screen.

Bob doesn't move from beside you for a few moments. His feet shuffling in place slightly. You know he wants to ask you something, but this time you're not sure if you should ask him what it is. Something about him being so close to you was making you feel weird.

Not a bad weird, but an unusual feeling. A warmth that seemed to rise up from the bottom of your stomach that you'd never experienced before.

You still couldn't figure out why being around Bob seemed so effortless, so easy, so… different. You weren't used to being like this either. Your entire life you'd never held back what you said, the questions you asked, but right now you were almost afraid.

Odd given the fact that you'd faced down numerous enhanced opponents and never felt a tickle of fear, but now… you weren't sure.

“Um-" You clear your throat. "What did you and Bucky talk about?”

Bob leans against the counter to your immediate left, toying with a discarded remnant of an apple skin between his fingertips. “He-he told me that he wants me to start training more.”

“Really?” The rhythmic motion of the spoon in the bowl, stirring together the ingredients is doing little to block the way your heart has begin to beat a little faster in your chest.

What is happening to me?

Bob nods.

“I mean it’s not the worst idea." You muse, scooping out a spoonful of apples into another small bowl before pushing it across the counter to Bob. "Maybe it would help? Or maybe you'd feel better about being more in control?"

"Maybe." He pulls out the drawer to his left for a fork, the high pitched ring of the silverware inside snapping through the kitchen.

The other version of you that lived in your head was confused. The version that recognized that power meant control, and if Bob was supposed to be the strongest being in the entire universe, why wouldn't he want to be? Why wouldn't he want to use his powers?

It seemed ironic that someone so powerful was so determined to be so invisible. But the other part of you couldn't help, but feel bad for him. Because you knew Bob- well, knew him enough. He wasn't like any of the other opponents you'd faced, the ones that were loud and boisterous and thought themselves unbeatable.

He was just Bob.

Bob spears an apple on his fork before taking a bite, audibly moaning at the taste. "I can't wait for this to be done."

"You like apple pie? Would've pegged you for a Key Lime Pie kinda guy. You being from Florida and all-" You smirk, but feel a sense of pride swell in your chest at the compliment.

"That seems a l-little stateist." He cracks a smile.

"I've never been to Florida so I can't exactly comment or speculate."

"Really?"

"Nope. No missions to the Sunshine State. I've also never had a beach day." You add with a shrug. "Hydra didn't exactly give me any days off or benefits."

The pre-made pie dough was more than thawed out on the counter by now and by some miracle there was a pie plate in the kitchen. How or why you had no idea who had thought about it, but you were thankful. The dough is soft and squishy as you unroll it and place it carefully in the bottom.

Bob doesn't laugh at your joke. "How long were you-"

"Ah, Ah, Ah. Nope. You don't get to change the subject." You say before he can ask you about it. Mentioning Hydra was enough of a dip into the past for you, thank you very much. "We're talking about you. Now, in your head, what's the worst thing that could happen?"

“Huh?” He sounds confused.

“Tell me what you think the worse thing that can happen is if you trained more."

The sugar and spice coated apples tumble into the crust with a delightful plop.

"I c-could hu- hurt someone." His eyes flick to yours for a second, before he drops his gaze to his hands.

"How would you hurt them?"

“I-.” He hesitates. “I don’t know my strength. And before I-“

His hands pull at the fraying sleeves of his oversized sweatshirt. It didn’t take a genius to know that he was thinking about the day a few months ago when he basically dismantled the team within seconds and threw you against the wall. Concussions weren't fun for anyone. You'd spent the better part of a week with intermittent headaches while Bucky had to practically sit at your bedside to make you stay in bed all the while you complained that he was babying you.

Bob curls in on himself again, turning away from you, his eyes falling down to the half-eaten bowl full of sugary apples on the counter. It reminds you too much of how he looked when he was with Walker earlier. How small he was. It makes an unpleasant sensation spike just under your rib cage.

"Bob." You sigh his name to make him look up at you again, he does, blue eyes just a little watery, faded to a darkened gray. The color of the sea on a stormy day. Breakers stirring the chilling water into a frothy white in a torrential rainstorm.

"It's not going to get better if you ignore it, and I think it's a good idea for you to train. You wouldn't be afraid about losing control or hurting people if you used your powers more. I think it'll help you be just a little more comfortable."

He doesn't answer.

"How about this?" You bite the inside of your cheek in contemplation. "How about you let me train you?"

Probably not your best idea. Going toe to toe with Bob when he was Sentry was not your idea of a good time, but you hated the way he was looking at you.

Lost and vulnerable.

"You?" Bob gulps.

"Yeah. I mean I don't have powers like yours, but I'm a little stronger than most of the team so I can take a punch or maybe two from you." You crack a smile, but he doesn't return it.

In fact, Bob's eyes widen at the thought, worry flashing through his irises. "But- But I'd-" Bob stumbles slightly over his words. "I-I don't want-t to hurt you."

"Trust me." The smile slips into a frown. "I've had worse."

The scars that crisscrossed over your body were proof of that, the ones you hide beneath long sleeves and your favorite oversized worn in leather overcoat- the one you stole on your first mission ages ago and never regretted once. Each one a reminder that failure was never an option, and that there was a price to pay for disobedience.

Bob doesn't answer.

You turn back to the pie dough, cutting the lattice. It comes out a little more clumsy than you want it to, but you didn't mind. Baking to you meant something that didn't have to be perfect. And after years of only being perfect it was a relief.

"Do you re- really think that it-" Bob swallows. "Would help me?"

"Maybe. I'm not an expert, but I think that if you're scared about hurting other people then-" You begin to lay the strips of dough down on top of the pie. "I think that it would make you feel better to know you're in control. I mean-"

You hesitate to finish.

After years of being manipulated and years of losing pieces of yourself to other people, sharing things about yourself was difficult. Finding the courage to trust, really trust another human being was like having your hair pulled out. Even with Bucky at first it had been so hard to share things with him without feeling guilty or worried later on that he was going to use it against you someday.

But there was a little part of yourself that wanted to share things with Bob. You still weren't exactly sure why that was or why you wanted to trust him, but…

He's watching you again with his big blue eyes, waiting for the next thing you're going to say. Face open, vulnerable, and trusting-

You didn't know how he did that. Bob didn't know you and didn't know the real you.

How can he do that so easily?

"I understand what it's like to be afraid of yourself." You begin slowly, turning away from his gaze because it's too much. "Afraid of what you're going to do. Afraid of losing control. But, if you ignore it, it won't go away. It'll only grow more and more each day, until it consumes you and there's nothing that you can do to stop it."

Sometimes you could feel it inside- the other half of you. The darkness that tried to rip it's way out, the person you used to be rattling the walls of her cage where you locked her away. Biding her time for the moment you were too weak to push her away.

"So maybe, we start out slow." You continue as you pick up the pie to place it in the oven. "Take it one day at a time. Respect your boundaries. And see what happens."

A pleasant wave of heat comes when the oven opens, before you gently slide in the pie, but for some reason it feels different. The whole time you can feel Bob's eyes on you, studying you, and it makes the heat prickle further underneath your skin.

Sometimes it was difficult for you to discern what he was thinking, something that infuriated you given that you spent so much of your time and prided yourself on the ability to read people. It came with the job and you were the best- except when it came to him.

"Y- you don't think I'll hur- hurt you?" He mumbles quietly.

The worry that shone in his gaze makes a small shock travel down your spine. Again you think to yourself how weird it is that Bob is so focused on the possibility of hurting you, when it was him that should be worried of you hurting him.

But there was another thought buried deep down that you couldn’t shake- that Bob may have been the first person who didn’t want to.

"There's always the possibility of that." You shrug. "Honestly I'm also kinda worried I might hurt you."

The end of his lips twitch slightly in a smile as if you'd said something funny.

Why does he think that's funny?

He waits another few moments, living in the silence that stretches between the two of you. "O-okay."

"Good. We can start tomorrow-" You glance up at the clock hanging above the bar across the room. "Or later today."

Bob nods.

"Now, come on. We've got fifty minutes and there's a new episode of Crime Scene Kitchen on Hulu."

Bob's face lights up. "Can we m-mmake popcorn?"

"If you don't I won't let you watch it with me."

If it's possible, Bob's smile gets even bigger as he turns back to the pantry in search of popcorn, while you make your way over to the plush leather couches in front of the TV, settling in for the long haul.

Outside the tower the rain continued to pummel against the glass windows, slipping and sliding down the smooth cool surface that shook with the distant rumble of thunder, while the inside filled with the sweet smell of apples and cinnamon, the warmth of the oven, and the crisp sound of popcorn.

A/N: Guys I think the slow burn on this one is gonna kill me, because I promise no matter what y'all are feeling when you read a slow burn, writing one is a hundred billion times worse 😅

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, Reblogs, and Comments are not required, but are always appreciated! The comments really keep me going! Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist for this fic series!

Taglist:

@jollyhunter @angrydragon90 @toxicrelief

[julia4today]

y'all want a fic?

is simon really trying to do better for his bird? or his he still the same deadbeat husband he portrayed himself to be?

(simon riley x exwife!reader)

"drop it, mactavish." a firm order. an edge of warning to his sergeant. his sergeant, who was always a curious one. interested in whatever simon riley was doing, or where he was. and unfortunately john "soap" mactavish did not drop it. he kept pawing at the inners of ghost. extracting what little information he could find and compiling it until he had his pièce de résistance.

"you got a family, lieutenant?" the room went quiet. no more grunting of men lifting weights, no more slamming bodies on mats, just the dead silence. johnny wasn't one to shy away from the attention given to him, especially if that attention was from his lieutenant, but right now...

simon's face was red, you could feel the heat radiating off of him. johnny of course couldn't see this, but the pure blind rage that wafted towards john from simon was palpable.

"no." simon stands up to his full height. the slight bend to his posture gone. if you were close enough, you could hear the creak in his joint and the pained groan he exhaled as his back stretched to it's full potential.

an audible thud is heard as simon takes the back of johnnys neck in his large hand. "and i told you to drop it, didn't i, lieutenant?"

the squeeze placed on johnny's neck was a sight to see, you could tell it was painful. the rest of the gym tried their best to continue on with their workouts, but the sight of the rambunctious sergeant being in a near death situation was something they couldn't pry their eyes away from. "yes, sir." johnny's words interrupted by his labored breathing. all he could do was hold eye contact with the angry blue eyes staring at him.

with one last scrutinizing stare from the lieutenant, simon brushed past him. his hulking figure stalked through the gym, cutting his workout short. small whispers were heard throughout the gym. after a minute everybody returned, all slightly more on edge than originally.

anybody in that locker room before simon walked in scattered before he even stepped foot inside. "my bird." a pained voice sounded from him. one he hadn't heard in a while. he pulls out his phone. almost 7am. maybe she's awake.

"what."

"hi baby..."

"i'm not your baby anymore simon. leave us be, please. i don't need to hear your begging."

he didn't talk for a while. 'she hates me' he used to think. but he doesn't think so anymore. he knows so.

"hellooo? going to answer? you know i'll hang up on you. honestly i don't even know why i haven't blocked you-"

"just calling to ask about the kids."

"oh..." his bird breathes out. almost confused. for a moment she was surprised. he rarely asks about them anymore, at least since the court hearing. the court case where you had won full custody since his job was so dangerous and required him to be away from home so often. "well, amelia is fine. she recently got glasses. seems she's got my mothers vision aswell."

"bloody brilliant. and charlie?"

"he's... he's having some trouble at school. at home too." you laugh, although nothing is really funny. your son, charlie, has been getting into it. fights, smoking, drugs. certainly reminds you of simon. of when you two met for the first time.

"just like his old man." simon replied, a distant smugness with an air of melancholy surrounding the call.

"i'm not exactly pleased about your two similarities. let's just hope he doesn't become a deadbeat like his father." a wrong thing to say, but you knew that the second it came out of your mouth. and in a way you both knew this. so you sat, in silence. until eventually you couldn't take it.

"you could. you know, if you have time off soon you could-" you interrupt yourself, almost hard to get the words to leave your throat. "you could come see them. maybe talk some sense into charlie's head. have him see where he'll end up if he doesn't get his act together."

his coarse breath comes through the receiver. you can practically hear the disbelief. he hadn't seen his kids more than 6 times since the trial. and that was years ago. "really?" the response is almost practiced. he had been through this before with you. you'd offer, then back out. because seeing him again may trigger something in you, that you're not ready to face yet.

"yes, that is what i said isn't it?"

a giggle can be heard in the background. he can't hear the television program but he can guess amelia has got some drama on. if that is what 8 year olds like nowadays. god he doesn't even know anymore.

when you were still together he knew everything about amelia. and amelia would just cling to him for hours. she would use him as monkey bars, have him throw her in the air, or push her on the swing sets.

"when? when can i see my kids?"

"you tell me."

beep. beep. beep.

he stares down at his reflection in his now dark phone screen. all he can feel is relief. relief that you didn't cuss him out this time for even suggesting the thought of him seeing his kids. he knows why you do it though. and it was his fault. he just hopes you don't change your mind this time.

i kind of want to write a fic where he has to earn her love back. and i slowly give backstory to like how they met and what he did. would y'all read? cause i'd write it

[cherryribbcns]

♪ ༘⋆ ❝ pretty little baby, i'm so in love with you ! ❞

𐙚 ⠀leo valdez x reader

it was only natural that you and leo started dating.

you were the only single people on the argo, so it didn’t take either of you very long to start to levitate towards each other. you began spending your afternoons goofing off with him, or keeping him company in the engine room━you were bewitched, body and soul by the brunet.

somehow this strange friendship morphed into the start of a relationship, and the journey was even stranger━the two of you were constantly caught between friends and whatever was the opposite of friends. you'd been teetering on that ledge for a while before the two of you were shoved over onto new territory.

this was new.

so now here you are, sitting criss-cross apple sauce on his bed. he didn't spend much time in his cabin, most of his time was lost to the engine room; he even slept there because the constant humming of the machinery served to help him sleep peacefully, or at least as peacefully as sleep came to demigods.

leo clutched your hands in his, tracing the scars on your skin along with a million other mindless shapes and words. the conversation was mostly one-sided; you were content to sit here and listen to leo ramble all day. all week. until forever fell apart.

he was complimenting you now, and though you heard the same words every morning and every night, you still loved it all the same, and butterflies still rose up to your throat every damn time.

"you're really pretty," he said, drawing a heart on your fingertips for each syllable. his lips tilted into that familiar, crooked grin.

"you're even prettier," you replied back, lips moving up into a grin to match his.

"like hell i am!"

"no, really. have you looked in a mirror lately?"

"i try not to."

you scoffed, flicking his forehead. "stop that."

leo let go of your hand to press his hands to his forehead all too dramatically, face scrunched up in faux pain. "that hurts, cariño!"

you rolled your eyes. "you're so gorgeous, i could just eat you up." you took his face in your hands, palms curving around the fullness of his cheeks.

you smiled triumphantly as leo's cheeks flushed a lovely strawberry shade that crept to his hairline. with his face now merely inches from yours, you could properly look at his features━his bambi brown eyes that crinkled at the edges, his bushy, full eyebrows, and though it was hard to decide what you liked best about him, his freckles were way up there.

"you have freckles."

"yeah, i do. is that a bad thing or a good thing?" usually, leo’d was self-conscious about his freckles, but you were so blatantly examining them, like they were something to admire.

"definitely a good thing."

leo hadn’t ever thought of his freckles as ‘beautiful’ before. But coming from you, he was starting to re-think all that. they were a part of him, after all.

you pressed your fingerpads to the apples of leo's cherub-like cheeks. "and you have baby cheeks."

it was getting increasingly difficult for leo to keep composure with how softly and gently you were touching him. every new comment you made added fuel to the fire burning under leo's skin.

“yeah, i’ve been told i have a baby face before.”

you leaned down and pecked his cheek. just once, just a brush of your lips against the warmth of his skin. but it held the promise of more.

"i love you," you repeated over and over again, as that one kiss soon turned into a onslaught of kisses across his face. some were rough and some were gentle. you kissed the bridge of his nose, the space between his brows, his chin and the tips of his ears.

he giggled and squealed, holding onto your wrists and gasping like a fish out of water. but he didn't want this to stop, not really. he adored every kiss you showered upon his poor, humble self. even the ones in the morning where your raccoon breaths mingled and he had to wrench away from you.

he loved all of this━the sweet gestures and the passionate words and how you made him feel loved. like how the sky was blue, and the grass was green, leo was loved.

at least he was, as long as you were here.

talk talk ✶ LEO THE LOML, THE REASON I'M STILL STANDING, OH HOW I LOVE YOU! also this is what i envisioned while writing reader holding leo's face in their hands,, i will never be normal about him or anything for that matter,, i am nothing in my soul if not obsessive.

© cherryribbcns 2025

[shortbcofkoffee]

Okay so let's say Bruce met Damian when he was like four or six, right? Damian who's never had a father figure is confused because why is there a man in a full klevar suit looking at him like a mother would be with her cub? Anyway so Bruce is around the League of Assassin's for the next few weeks and everything is just so futile.. he doesn't want to interact. Not out of curiosity, but out *fear*.

So, let's say after some pestering from his mother he finally winds up asking. Bruce is at a computer, some report or whatever of importance and all the sudden he hears, "Baba?" In the soft, almost timid voice if Damian could help it.

And he's immediately dropping anything and everything for his babyboy. Because that's his *baby*. His baby who wouldn't come out from behind his mother leg, who's well-spoken and definitely a hell of a fighter but still his baby nontheless and finally getting a solid conversation and potential bonding experience? Hell yeah.

Oogh you're fuckin cooking

--

Bruce can barely stand it when he hears that. Because Damian is so small, impossibly small, and so big at the same time. He's five already, and Bruce has missed every milestone up until this point. He's so perfect, too; he looks just like his mother with his sharp, intelligent eyes and his small, curious frown.

Bruce's breath hitches as he looks down at the boy. There's no doubt in his mind that Talia is nearby. Damian is too attached to her for that. He's a little- no very jealous of that. But now, here Damian was, asking him for something. And it must be important because Damian's voice was usually the strongest in the room. Bruce smiled, the softest, most genuine smile he thinks has ever graced his face.

"Yes, Damian?"

Damian stood rigid, something Bruce had noticed he'd done when stopping himself from fidgeting. "So you are my father."

Bruce was a little taken aback by that. He assumed someone, or at least Talia would've told Damian that by now. He was a little hurt. Was that why the boy was so cautious around him? Because from that perspective, a strange man just showed up one day with clear tension with his mother, and wouldn't leave.

Well, in the boy's defense, it wasn't as if Bruce had been giving it his best effort either. Dick was older than Damian when Bruce took him in, and Bruce was already terrible with interacting with a kid that age. Also, he didn't know how Damian had felt about him. Part of him assumed the boy hated him for abandoning him.

"I am," Bruce answered.

Damian's frown deepend. He hesitated, then walked closer, his voice back to it's usual state. "How come I never met you before? Is it because of Mama?"

Bruce looked away. It was probably not a good idea to tell his son he didn't know he existed. "Somewhat. It's a little more complicated than that."

Damian stood in front of his chair, looking up at him. "Is it because of Grandfather?"

"Also somewhat," Bruce answered. "But why do you ask?"

Damian went rigid again. "They talk about you a lot. Grandfather thinks you're very important and would be a great help to our cause."

Bruce hummed. "I've always wondered why he thought that. I'm only a detective, Damian, and while I have a lot of money, it's nowhere close to what your grandfather has."

"So you investigate things?" Damian's eyes widened. That beautiful green that reminded Bruce so much of the boy's mother. "You stop crimes?"

Bruce chuckled. "Yes, I stop crime."

"Well, Grandfather said what humans are doing to the Earth is a crime. Maybe he wants you to help stop it."

"That's a very good deduction, Damian. You're very smart."

Damian preened. "Is that what you're working on now? Are you stopping crime?" He asked, pointing to the computer screen.

Bruce glanced at the pages of notes he was currently working on. Ra's had put him onto a case where a man had his company illegally dumping waste too close to a wildlife reserve. Thankfully, he was letting Bruce do it his way instead of sending assassins to take care of the Guy.

"Yes. Do you want to see?"

Damian nodded and stood on his tippy toes, trying to get a better look. Bruce noted he was a little small for five. It wasn't really a problem, Bruce himself had been short until he hit puberty.

"Would you rather sit in my chair?" He offered.

Damian nodded. Before Bruce could stand, like he was fully planning to do, Damian was pulling himself into his father's lap. Bruce's heart squeezed. Damian was so perfect, so adorable. Bruce would certainly be sent to hell if he missed out on anymore of his son. Once settled, with Bruce's help, Damian looked at the screen.

When he got here, Bruce had demanded to know everything about Damian's education, among other things. He knew English was Damian's third language, and even if the boy excelled in it, he was still only six. He had trouble with the bigger words.

"Robert Green, in asso... asso-shi-a-shun with Lex Luthor," Damian read.

"Very good," Bruce praised. "But I can translate the pages if you want."

Damian shook his head. "I'm fine, I can read." He pointed to the picture of Robert Green. "What did he do?"

"He's dumping trash by a wildlife reserve. It's hurting all the plants and animals." Bruce frowned. "And Lex Luthor is funding his company."

Damian bristled. "Then he should be dead! Grandfather can get assassins to kill him."

Bruce ran a hand through Damian's hair. He'd make an effort to dispel Damian's beliefes, but it may take a while. Especially if he can't get them both back to Gotham, which he will. "It's not that simple, sweetheart. Do you know what the word systematic means?"

"It has to do with systems?"

"Very good. Yes, the dumping of waste into the wildlife reserve is systematic. That means it's not just him and Lex Luthor, there are probably dozens of people making this decision, all with different jobs and roles. Some of them might not even know what they're doing because they're too deep in the system. And as much as your grandfather wants to, even he knows killing that many people at once is a bad idea."

Damian pouted and Bruce fought the urge to pinch his cheeks red. "So we can't kill them?"

"No, sweetie. But that's why I'm helping. I'm going to take down the system from the inside so he can't hurt the wildlife anymore. And if it all goes according to plan, then it will be much harder for companies to hurt wildlife in the future."

Damian nodded hesitantly. "Okay, Baba. That sounds smart." Baba! Bruce wanted to explode. Damian started to climb out of his lap. "I have to go take care of my horses."

Bruce frowned as he helped Damian back on the ground. "Alone? Do you want help?"

Damian shook his head. "It's alright, Baba, you're busy."

"No I'm not." Bruce quickly saved his files and closed his tabs. "I have pleanty of time."

"But that was important," Damian frowned.

"Nothing is more important than you, sweetheart," Bruce said, standing from his chair. "And I haven't met any of your animals yet. I want to meet them."

"Oh." Damian smiled. "Promise?"

"I swear it. Now will you show me where the stables are?"

Damian nodded and grabbed Bruce's hand, tugging him out of the room. "They're this way!"

[nightplvmes]

you again (fluff)

zayne one shot (love and deepspace) — probably part 1 an arranged marriage was never in your plans. you'd always imagined yourself marrying your best friend zayne, until he left…⋆｡° | pairing : prince!zayne x princess!reader ⋆｡° | word count : 2.4k (2,400) ⋆｡° | fluff with slightly angst, happy ending, teenagers au likes and reblogs are appreciated!! :) ★ masterlist here

you sighed, your gaze fixed on the way your dog squirmed in your lap. a small smile formed on your lips as you watched him try to take off the ugly sweater that Alisa had forced him to wear.

"hey, hey, hey!" Alisa walked quickly towards them and forced the dog away from you. "what did I tell you about letting him dirty your dress?" she said in that usual annoyed tone.

"he can poop on my dress if he wants." Alisa rolled her eyes. you were impossible to talk to, always making her angry or refusing to follow orders. how hard was it to follow a simple order?

"let's get back to the plan." Alisa turned to point to the whiteboard where she had written a small list of what you needed to do. "you're going to talk to each of them for at least fifteen minutes. they'll talk to you about themselves or about the benefits of uniting the two kingdoms. you have to listen to everything they say and memorize it."

you narrowed your eyes in confusion. you have to memorize things that princes say, things that don't even interest you. you don't even memorize the things that really interest you.

at some point your mind began to wander, and you stopped listening to Alisa. you hated sitting there, you hated that your fate was sealed and that you were going to get married but not for love. your mother had been lucky to have truly fallen in love, but that was not the case with you. and for a second you thought that this wouldn't be happening if…

"you're going to fall!" Zayne spoke loudly and in that tone he used when he wanted to scold you. you giggled, stretching your hand out further, if you didn't have that silly dress on you would be more mobile. "you already have one, you don't need another!" Zayne spoke again but you didn't seem to hear him.

"no! this one's for you," you repeated and reached out your hand again but your fingers barely touched the apple.

your foot slipped from the trunk and you let out a scream as you felt part of your weight slide off. you were holding on to the tree trunk but was close to falling.

"get down from there!" Zayne motioned for you to come back to his side. he just hated the thought of putting yourself in danger for something as silly as an apple.

you sighed and finally obeyed him. feeling defeated, you stood under the tree, landing next to Zayne seconds later. sometimes you got the feeling that Zayne's mother hate you for getting him into trouble. Zayne was a pretty calm boy compared to you, he never got into trouble but he always followed you and when you got into trouble he was by your side. he had never left you alone, he accepted the blame for both of them even if he had done nothing.

"I'm sorry. I only got one apple." you grimaced and held out the fruit to him, you had told him that apple was for him anyway. you didn't even care that you didn't have one.

"It's okay, we can share it," he said, shrugged and took your arm to take a seat under their favorite tree.

they both sat under the tree, you straightened your dress while you searched for something in the small bags you had sewn yourself on your dress. the seams were bad and looked like pieces of fabric glued together, but you had done it yourself and that made you feel proud. your mother hadn't said anything when you found out and she promised to put little pockets in all your dresses.

"can you do that thing you do with apples?" you asked. Zayne had a knack for peeling apples, sometimes he got it wrong but he had learned to improve his technique.

"I don't have a knife," his words hung in the air as you pulled out one of the small knives the cooks used. "where did you get it?"

"I stole it from the kitchen." you smiled excitedly as Zayne took the knife.

you looked at him intently without saying a word, you didn't want to interrupt him but you loved watching anything Zayne did, it was… mesmerizing.

"my sister is getting ready for her wedding. I heard her talking to mom today," you finally broke the silence. Zayne kept his gaze fixed on the apple but you knew he was listening. you didn't need confirmation from him, Zayne always listened to you.

"if we were to get married, what dress would you wear?" he asked. he wasn't looking at you but you could almost swear he was smiling.

"I always wanted to wear one of those fluffy dresses like the princesses" you replied without hesitation. you would never inherit the throne, that was your sister's job, you didn't need to find a husband… but if you had to marry someone you had always wanted it to be Zayne, he was your best friend and he could be a candidate like your mother had said.

"I would wear a blue suit," Zayne replied. you smiled, thinking it was his attempt to be different from the boring suits they always saw on the princes in the palace.

of course you didn't understand how those things worked, for you, in your little world it was just making a deal with your best friend. you knew your sister would have to marry a stranger and you didn't want that.

now you and Zayne had this little joke where they talked about their imaginary wedding. even if you never had to take the throne, you could marry whoever you wanted! and Zayne would be there because he was your best friend.

"and what flowers would we have at our wedding?" you asked as you took the piece of apple Zayne had given you.

"Jasmines" he answered without hesitation.

“are you listening?” coming back to reality had felt like the biggest shock of all. you had to blink repeatedly as Alisa was practically screaming in your face.

"Alisa I…" you fought back the lump in your throat. "I need air, I'm sorry."

you left the room as quickly as you could. you hated thinking about Zayne because you always ended up crying, you hated thinking about one of the last times together.

Zayne had disappeared from your life shortly after you turned 12, almost at the same time your mother and sister had died in an accident. it was a strange feeling all of that had left in your chest. you felt guilty that what happened to Zayne had affected you more. you'd had time to heal, had had time to process that your mother and sister had died in an accident. an accident that wasn't anyone's fault. you'd had help and support from other people, but Zayne…

Zayne had vanished like the steam that came out of their mouths when they played in the snow. you didn't know what had happened to him; your dad never gave you an answer, and eventually you grew tired of asking. your father told you you had more important things to attend to now that your sister wasn't around to assume the throne.

you had tried to sneak into the palace to Zayne's room, hoping to find clues about what had happened, but you were always caught. he hadn't called or even sent letters. it was really silly because letters weren't even a method of communication anymore, but for some reason, you always expected it.

there were people all over the place, walking back and forth, and it made you feel overwhelmed. you tried to walk quickly to one of the gardens without being seen, but you felt like you were attracting too much attention. your lungs filled with air as the cold hit your face. winter had finally begun, and you hated it. snow used to make you homesick, but right now, you were so lost in your own world that you didn't even care when your arms started to freeze.

you kept your eyes fixed on the way your feet left imprints in the thin layer of snow on the ground. if Zayne were there, would everything be different? maybe the death of your mother and sister would have been easier for you. you'd had her father's support, but it wasn't the same. you wanted Zayne.

would they get married? that was the question that was on your mind the most. when you were a child, you didn't understand the importance of marriage, even if it was forced. for you and Zayne, getting married was nothing more than a kind of agreement between best friends, but after so many years, you couldn't help but wonder what would have happened.

sometimes you thought Zayne would have encouraged you to find a partner, someone who would even remotely spark your interest enough to keep you from having a miserable marriage for the rest of your life. another part of you thought Zayne would have agreed to marry you to save you from a bad marriage and would have done everything possible to keep you calm when you assumed the throne.

"you're going to catch a cold." you frowned when a stranger interrupted your thoughts. you really liked getting lost in your imagination lately.

you looked up, ready to fight whoever had interrupted you, probably one of the princes who had been wandering the halls lately, claiming to need to talk to your father but actually trying to make progress with you. however, it wasn't even close to what you had imagined.

it wasn't one of the servants, not Alisa, not your father, not even one of the princes. well, it was certainly a prince, not the one you'd expected.

you felt like she was seeing a ghost, felt like you were seeing things wrong because of the snowflakes now practically covering your hair. you started to shiver, but not because of the cold; it was as if you couldn't move or even speak because it was practically impossible for Zayne to be in front of you.

he had obviously changed too much. it had been almost ten years since you'd last seen him. his sharp jaw and how broad his shoulders had become, but he still had that calm gaze you remembered. you were dreaming, you had to be dreaming.

Zayne knew it hadn't been the best idea to appear out of nowhere when he noticed you weren't going to move. you was too frozen to say anything, and he felt somewhat guilty for causing that reaction in you. he had a plan in mind: he had gone to the palace in search of Alisa. from what he had discovered, she was the girl who helped you with everything related to maintaining a good image. he hadn't thought he would find you right there, of all the places in the palace where you could be.

finally, he approached you to put his jacket over your shoulders to ward off the cold. you knew you weren't dreaming, or if you were, it was the most realistic dream you'd ever had.

"you…"

"I know," he interrupted you. he felt guilty for leaving, and he felt guilty for abandoning you right after your mother and sister died. "I'm sorry."

you felt tears blur your vision. it had been so long that you were almost sure something had happened to Zayne, almost sure he was gone and you'd never see him again.

you wanted to be angry, you wanted to yell at him for leaving like that, but for some reason you felt you didn't have the right. you wanted to walk away from him and take off his jacket, telling him you didn't need anything from him, but you couldn't. you couldn't do it when you'd missed him so much.

Zayne was taken by surprise when you leaned in to hug him and held on so tightly that he almost felt his breath hitch. you wanted to sob, you wanted to ask him where he'd been all this time, but no more words came out of your mouth; it was like if you mind was blocked.

words weren't necessary for several minutes. Zayne didn't move and simply held you against his chest, letting you cling to him as tightly as you wanted.

"where were you?" was the first thing that came out of your lips when you lifted your face to look at him. your fingers ran over his cheeks, caressing his cold skin to make sure he was real.

"problems…" he admitted softly. how was he going to explain what had really happened?

you nodded, not wanting to ask for explanations he clearly wasn't going to give. not right now, at least. you remained silent; there were too many things on your mind, and the worst of them came flooding back when you heard Alisa's voice. the reminder that you had to choose a new husband had hit you in the worst possible way; it was like a bucket of cold water.

you cleared her throat and took a step back, suddenly feeling ashamed. Zayne forced himself to let you go. you were nervous; he could tell by the way your entire expression had changed, and it didn't take long for him to figure out that her nerves weren't because of him.

"I…" he interrupted you.

"it's okay, you can go. I'll still be here when you get back." you narrowed your eyes, searching for any hint that what he was saying was a lie.

you nodded before turning around and walking in Alisa's direction. you needed to have a serious talk with her about stopping interrupting you. she was the organizer, she also helped you when you were a little lost, but lately Alisa was taking the liberty of controlling your life.

you still felt like you were floating in some kind of bubble. Zayne was there; he had hugged you, and you had felt his cold hands on the small of your back. it hadn't been a dream like the ones you'd had so many times in the past. however, your life went on. you still had to choose a husband, you still had to prepare for the dance where you would meet the prospects.

did Zayne still remember the promise they had made? maybe the dance wasn't necessary after all.

[hoe4hamzah]

BORN COUNTRY

⤷ A Hamzah Smut

──⋆. 𐙚 ˚

⤷ After your parents left you to help out with the farm chores, you find yourself bent over for the farmhand.

⤷ brat reader, mean hamzah, cunnilingus, fingering, sex

⤷ a/n: haven't written in forever so hop off my ass if this is shitty

──⋆. 𐙚 ˚ Living on a farm was NOT your dream in life. You were always a city girl, born and raised in Toronto, Canada.

When your parents got a divorce when you were 16, you were devastated, knowing your mom was going to move you away from your dream of being in the city.

That's precisely what happened when she remarried another man when you turned 18.

She met a man at a bar, and they'd been dating for the longest time, but eventually, they got married. This meant you and your mother had to move in with him and live on his farm.

You tried to be nice about the whole situation because your mother was in love, but you truly hated living in the country.

Your mother told you not to worry too much, that once college started you'd be back in the city. But it was the summer, which meant you were going to spend the next three months of your life spending time with chickens and smelling cow shit.

There were multiple occasions where you told your mother you would get your own apartment back in Toronto, but your step-father said if you did that he wouldn't be paying for your college.

They got married a month ago, meaning you've been living on this farm for some time now.

It wasn't crazy, there was no silo or fields of wheat, just animals that liked to smell and make noise.

Your agreement with your mother is that you would live on the farm for the summers between college, but you weren't doing any farm chores because your stepdad was able to do them before you came along, so he shouldn't need you now.

Although she was a little frustrated about your lack of care to help, she felt it was more important to have you around while she could.

There were plenty of times when your stepfather tried to get you to do some farm chores, but you were still able to get around the trick.

The thing about your mother and stepdad was that they hadn't gone on their honeymoon yet, wanting to get you and your mom moved in and settled before they celebrated their new marriage.

This didn't seem like a big issue until you realized that meant you would be responsible for some farm chores for a week straight.

The topic of you doing farm chores didn't go over well, causing crying arguments and teenage tantrums.

"It's not fair! Just because you guys decided to get married doesn't mean I should be responsible for something I'm not even apart of. while you're on vacation!"

Your mother shook her head, "Y/N, I never ask you to do anything, the least you could do is cover for your stepdad for the week"

"You have people do do half of this shit for you!" You argued, "Just pay them more to do it!"

"It's not about the money y/n, it's about the time. Hamzah isn't going to be able to do all of the things I pay him to do as well as what I do in the time frame he's given." Your stepdad argued.

Hamzah was the boy your age that your stepdad paid to help do work. He was the son of one of his best friends, usually over every day to get work done and maybe stick around for dinner.

You didn't really talk to Hamzah, only when you had to. He'd occasionally walk in the house to fill up his water or talk to your stepdad about something. He knew your stepdad for basically his entire life, more comfortable around the guy than you ever would be.

Unfortunately, there was no way you were going to win the argument against your family, meaning you were going to have to work alongside Hamzah in taking care of the farm.

You knew Hamzah was a nice guy, he was always very respectful to your family and knew what to say. But you never had much of an interaction with him yourself.

Once the week of work came, you were already dreading getting out of bed. What if you just faked sick and Hamzah had to deal with everything himself?

Deep down, you really wanted to do that, but you knew it wouldn't be right. You eventually got yourself up and ready, making sure you ate enough breakfast so you didn't throw up from the smell of an animal.

By the time you got outside, you could see Hamzah standing in the barn, taking two of the horses out and into the pasture. Once he saw you, he tilted his hat down at you, "Hey there y/n"

You smiled, arms crossed as you dragged your feet over to him, "Let's get this over with already"

"Well, someone's excited this morning," Hamzah chuckled, "Taking the horses out to the pastures, how about you muck the stalls?"

You looked at him with furrowed brows, "Muck... the stalls?"

He smiled again, "Clean them out, they're getting to be too gross for the horses"

You nodded as you watched him walk off. Pulling yourself further into the barn, you looked at the stalls. The appearance of the stalls made you want to gag, staring at the horse crap and dirty bedding.

Looking around, you found yourself a wheelbarrow, gloves, a broom, and a shovel.

You huffed as you dragged the items back towards the stalls, pulling the buckets of food and water out of both stalls.

Grabbing the shovel, you took it into one of the stalls, shoveling up the bedding and plopping it into the wheelchair. The smell was hitting you quite hard, filling your nose with an odor that forced you to breathe out of your mouth.

The wheelbarrow was full when you were only halfway done with one stall, walking out of the barn to look for Hamzah.

You saw him out taking hay bales off a truck and stacking them under a gazebo. "Hey!" You shouted, "What the hell am I supposed to do with this?"

Hamzah looked over, squinting at you to see what you were doing more clearly, "Oh, just dumb it by the side of the barn, we'll use it for fertilizer and compost"

You gagged at the fact that you were meant to use this to grow food, feeling like you were practically eating shit.

Dumping the wheelbarrow contents onto the ground, you went back and repeated the steps about three more times. Filling the wheelbarrow, then dumping it out.

Once you got most of it cleaned up, you picked up the rubber mats that were lying under the bedding and took it out to rinse off before sweeping everything out that you could.

Hamzah came over to check in on you, holding large bags over his shoulders, "Lookin' good!"

You looked over at him with an exhausted face, wiping the sweat off your forehead.

"If you could just put the mats back down and put the new bedding in that would be perfect, come find me afterwards and I'll find you something else to get done"

"There's more!' You whined, shoulders dropping dramatically.

"Realistically, we aren't even halfway done" Hamzah said, dropping the bags onto the ground, "You finish up here, yeah?"

You nodded as you grabbed the rubber mats and put them back down on the ground.

Trying to finish up quickly, you tore the bags open and laid down the new bedding, putting the food and water buckets back in the stalls.

You were exhausted, even though you barely had much to do. This wasn't your thing; you could be shopping or scrolling on social media, but you were stuck taking care of a farm.

You plopped yourself ontop of one of the hay bales, sitting in the shade under the gazebo.

You saw Hamzah in the distance, finishing up with whatever chore he was doing.

He eventually saw you sitting and made his way over, "How's it going?"

"I'm tired, and I don't want to do this anymore"

Hamzah chuckled to himself, "You've only worked about an hour, its not even noon yet"

You looked up at him in frustration, "I can't take a break?"

"Sure you can, but the longer the break, the longer you're out here"

You sighed, groaning at the work you had to get done.

"Alright, well what can I do then?"

Hamzah thought for a second, trying to think of something easy for you to do, looking you up and down.

"How about you go fetch the chickens eggs, should be plenty in there for ya"

You nodded before dragging yourself off the hay bale and towards the chicken coop.

You grabbed the basket off the floor before squeezing yourself into the shed where the chickens all ran around. You looked into each box where the chickens would lay their eggs, grabbing as many as you could see, sometimes having to swat chickens away from you.

You took the basket inside the house, setting it on the kitchen counter.

Deciding for yourself that you were done for the day, you went to your room to shower the barn stench off your body.

The warm water felt relaxing as it fell against your sore muscles. You stretched your arms under the water, rubbing your eyes and yawning.

Once you were done showering, you turned off the water and dried yourself off, stepping out of the shower. You wrapped your towel around yourself as you heard shouting from downstairs.

"Y/N" Hamzah shouted.

"Y/N, where are you?"

Your eyes rolled as you stommed down stairs, marching over to see what Hamzah wanted.

"Y/n, there's still stuff we have to do today-" His words stopped once he saw you.

His face showed shock, wondering why you were clad in a towel. He wasn't trying to be creepy, but he couldn't help but look you up and down.

"W-what are you doing?" Hamzah asked

"I was showering, what are YOU doing?" You questioned back

"Well, we still have stuff to do, but clearly you're opting out on that," He said with an attitude.

"Hamzah I don't mean to be disrespectful, but we both know this isn't my thing"

Hamzah took a deep breath, trying not to show his frustration, "I understand, we'll reconnect tomorrow"

Except, tomorrow was no different. Hamzah dragged you back out to the barn to feed the animals and milk the cows.

You sat there on a milk crate, elbows resting on your as you dripped in sweat. The bucket in front of the cow in front of you was as full as it was gonna get.

To be honest, you didn't even know you knew how to milk a cow.

You were already wanting to be done, having fed the animals and milked the cows. Realistically, you were doing less work than yesterday, but somehow you felt just as tired.

Hamzah walked into the barn, checking up on how you were doing, "Hey"

You looked up at him, sweaty and tired, "What now?"

"You could go weed the garden, we should harvest some of the vegetables tomorrow"

Rolling your eyes, you threw your head back

"Not to be rude, but does it look like ill be getting that done today?"

Hamzah chewed the inside of his cheek, "alright, well, guess you have to do both tomorrow."

Hamzah turned around, walking out of the house with clear frustration, sick of having to cover up for your lack of work.

It wasn't your fault, you weren't born to do this type of work, and usually your stepfather is the one helping him.

Unfortunately for Hamzah, there wasn't much of a chance of getting you to help.

The next day basically went just how you hoped it would. You slept in, spent the morning sitting in the living room watching a show.

You saw the UV was starting to get really high, deciding you should go outside and get some sun.

Wanting to get a big of a tan, you changed into a white thong bikini, one that was quite small but would give you nice tan lines.

You took yourself out onto the back patio, seeing Hamzah digging weeds out of the garden across the yard.

He watched you for a second, switching between questioning what you were doing and admiring your appearance.

Hamzah walked over, bocking the sun from his eyes with his hand, "What are you doing? Can't weed a garden in that outfit"

You sat down in one of the sun chairs, looking at Hamzah and rolling your eyes.

"Good thing I'm not going to weed the garden!" You spoke

Hamzah huffed, annoyed at your lack of compassion for him doing all of the work himself. "Y/n it's not funny, you've been slacking all week"

"Okay, and I'm just keeping you occupied"

Hamzah rolled his eyes, knowing he wasn't going to win this fight. "You have an hour, then change and come help"

You glared at Hamzah while he walked away. He's never spoken to you in such a stern and demanding tone.

Trying not to let Hamzah ruin your vibe, you kept enjoying the sun until your time was up. After the hour, he glarred at you from the garden. "Go change, then get out here asap!"

Groaning and rolling your eyes, you took yourself inside. Instead of changing into something for gardening, you washed your sweat off in the shower and threw on a tube top and tiny jean shorts.

Going back downstairs, you saw Hamzah standing in the kitchen with quite a frustrated and annoyed look on his face.

"Seriously, y/n, I told you to change, not take a 45 minute shower and put on.. THAT"

"Well, I changed, didn't I?" You hummed, leaning against the back of the couch as he shook his head.

"And I said ASAP, didn't I?" Hamzah argued back, taking a step closer to you.

"Mhm, as soon as possible, and I changed as soon as I possibly could." You smiled

Hamzah pinched the bridge of his nose before lashing out at you, "You know what, y/n. I've tried to be nice to you this entire week, I let you off the hook with a ton of shit, I took over for you so you could go be a lazy princess, what the fuck is your issue?"

You furrowed your eyebrows, "First of all, I'm not a lazy princess. Second of all, who the fuck are you to be telling me what to do!"

Hamzah grabbed the sides of your arms, slightly shaking you as he spoke. "You know what, you're right! You're not a lazy princess, you're the queen of being lazy! You've done jack shit here, and I've been working my ass of trying to do your work. This isn't about you being worthless, it's about you not being the fucking bitch you are and caring about having to put me through more labor and work I shouldn't be doing"

Your lips parted in shock, you had no clue Hamzah had all that anger built up in him. Part of you wanted to smack him in the face, but another part wanted to rile him up even more.

You gulped, collecting yourself. "Hamzah, do I look like someone who should be out in a fucking barn? Or getting on my knees and pulling weeds out of a garden?"

Hamzah laughed to himself before taking a step back, "You're right, the only time you'd ever get on your knees is to suck your entire schools dick"

Your jaw dropped, not expecting Hamzah to come at you with such a harsh insult. "Excuse me! You don't know anything about me!'

"Oh trust me y/n, I can read you like a book"

You rolled your eyes again, "Right, sure you do. You're quite the asshole, you know?"

Hamzah nodded, "Trust me, I'm not here to please you okay?"

"You wouldn't know how to please a girl like me anyways!"

Hamzah laughed, tossing his hands in the air before dropping them again. "See! All you think about is dirty shit. You're literally a whore, y/n"

You had nothing to say after that, silenced by his crude words.

Hamzah shook his head, "You're not saying anything because you know it's true"

"You know what, I WOULD rather be on my knees sucking dick than on my knees in a fucking garden!" You decided the only way you would win this fight was to take the only material he had against you, and that would be being a whore.

"And you genuinely think that's a good thing?"

"It's gotten me a lot farther than you think Hamzah"

Hamzah shook his head, not believing your bullshit.

"Of course it has y/n" Hamzah smirked getting a little to close to you, "and what does that mean?"

"It means I've gotten just about anything I want," You whispered, getting equally as close to him.

Hamazah looked back and forth between both of your eyes, figuring out his next play, "how so"

A smirk grew on your face, then a small lip bite. Your eyes trailed down his body before you put your hands on his chest to back him up a little.

Hamzah watched your actions with a straight face. He knew exactly what you were getting at, but only played dumb.

You pulled yourself to your knees, pressing your palm against Hamzahs clothed cock while undoing his belt with the other,

You smiled while biting your lip, looking up and making eye contact with him while you massaged his dick.

His dick started to harden as you pulled it out of his clothes, yanking his jeans down to his ankles.

You heald his cock in your hand, slowly sliding it up and down, kitten licking the tip.

Hamzah took in a deep breath once you put his cock in your mouth, letting you slide it down your throat.

He knew this wasn't right, but he also knew he could tame your brat behavior. Hamzah understood your motives; you were going to use this as an opportunity to avoid doing farm chores for the rest of the week.

Although he should have stopped you, he didn't, though, he wasn't going to go easy on you.

You started getting more aggressive, sucking his cock faster, massaging his balls with one hand, and stroking him with the other.

Hamzah's eyes closed as his head fell back, breathing slowly. You pulled yourself off his cock and looked up at him, flashing him a smile and a giggle.

He looked down at you and furrowed his eyebrows, not thinking you were going to stop there.

"See!" you smiled, "I'll suck your dick whenever you want if that means I don't have to do the yard work"

There it was; you exposed your secret to him. Any man would have agreed, but Hamzah's not any man

"That's it?" He questioned.

You looked a little shocked. Did he expect more? Did you not do good enough?

"I- um. What?"

Hamzah shrugged, "I don't know, I guess I was expecting you to work harder than that. That's okay though, you tried. Now lets get outside and I'll show you what real hard work is"

"No no no! I'll do more! I promise, whatever you want"

Hamzah smiled, "Y/n, just admit it. You're not a hard worker, even when it comes to your own specialty"

You pouted, frustrated that you weren't getting your way. "What do you want them?"

"I want you to stop being a brat, you can't suck your way out of everything"

Shaking your head you argued, grabbing his dick with the effort to try again, "That's what you think"

Hamzah chuckled to himself while letting you suck his cock for a few minutes. Your face was showing frustration as Hamzah was showing boredom on his.

Pulling your mouth off his dick you looked up at him with furrowed eyebrows. Hamzah looked at you with a questioning face "What?"

"Why are you acting like you don't like it?"

Hamzah smiled and then shrugged, finding your frustration humorous. "I just don't think this is gonna go how you think, you've got quite the lesson to learn"

Before you could fully react to Hamzah's words, he pulled your body up and turned you around, bending you over the back of the couch.

With a gasp, you turn your head back and look at him, shocked by his actions.

Hamzah layed a harsh smack to your ass before yanking down your bottoms, smacking your ass again.

You bit your lip at his actions, his roughness and aggression turning you on.

Part of you should have stopped him, but another part of you knew this could convince Hamzah to let you not do farm chores.

Hamzahs hand slid to your cunt, gathering your moisture before sliding his fingers into you.

You felt yourself clench around his fingers, feeling him slowly slide the two fingers in and out of you, trying to loosen your cunt.

Hamzahs fingers perfectly stretched you out, readying you for his cock.

His fingers slowly pulled away, you whined at the loss of contact before feeling his cock press against your entrance.

Using one hand, Hamzah kept his cock lined up, pressing your back down with the other hand.

You felt a slow pressure as Hamzah started filling you up, causing your jaw to drop, letting out a soft moan.

You let out a hum as the tip of his cock reached the back of your walls. Hamzah gave you some time to adjust to his size before finally pulling himself back before pressing himself back in.

His thrusts were slow, but meaningful with demand.

Once you got yourself use to his size, you let yourself relax, letting out soft moans to his gentle thrusts.

Your moans signaled him to start thrusting a bit quicker, your eyes rolling to the back of your head, "Oh- my God Hamzah!"

"Just like that y/n, so fucking good" Hamzah grunted

You felt the pressure in your stomach build up, letting out whines and whimpers from the sensation.

"So fucking tight for a little whore" Hamzah spoke roughly

His degrading tone of his voice caused a tingle in your cunt, wanting more of him.

"H- Hamzah, please"

"Please what baby? You wanna cum angel?"

You nodded, eyes rolling back from his aggressive thrusting.

"You cum whenever you want, baby"

Hamzah hit another smack to your ass before both his hands tightened on the sides of your waist and roughly ramming into you.

The pressure inside you was so close to releasing, ready to cum on Hamzah's dick.

You tightened around his cock, trying to fight the sensation to make it last longer. Hamzah smirked at your efforts, slipping one of his hands to your clit to make you more needy.

That's when the pressure built up so intense that you couldn't keep yourself contained.

You felt your legs begin to shake just as you started cumming, "There you go sweetie, just like that"

You whined as you felt yourself come down from your high, whimpering as Hamzah was still chasing his own.

Hearing his quiet breaths and grunts, you knew he was close. You squeezed yourself around him, making yourself tighter.

His fingers tightened around your waist as his thrusts became very scattered.

Hamzah pulled himself out of your cunt before releasing on your back, muttering "Fuck" under his breath.

The both of you continued to catch your breath before you looked over your shoulder at him, giving himself a smile with a lip bit.

Hamzah grinned softly, "Now lets get you cleaned up so you can come help with the garden" leaving one small smack to your ass.