#you can make levels just the way YOU like them

[pucksandpower]

Midnight Sun

Oscar Piastri x astrophysicist!Reader

Summary: for the first time, the girl who studies stars becomes someone’s sun

You are not built for this.

Not the headphones clamped too tight on your ears, not the sterile studio lighting that hums faintly overhead, and definitely not the bright-eyed producer trying to coax a smile out of you like it’s some quantum equation.

“You’ll be great,” she insists, bouncing on her toes like the floor’s electrified. “Just … a little looser, yeah?”

You blink. “That sounds like medical advice.”

She laughs too hard, probably to cover up the silence on the other side of the glass where the sound engineer sits. You glance toward him, but he’s preoccupied adjusting levels. You consider making a run for it.

“You said the guest was from Doctor Who,” you say instead, squinting at the notes you scribbled on the back of an old star chart. “I prepared for someone who at least pretends to know physics.”

“Close,” she chirps, already halfway to the door. “He’s dealt with time — just at 300 kilometers an hour.”

You don’t process that fully before the studio door swings open and someone breezes in with the kind of easy, unhurried energy of a man who lives without traffic or consequences.

“Hi,” he says, and it’s almost apologetic. His accent curls around the syllables like it’s trying to make them less obtrusive. “Sorry I’m late. Cab driver took us to the wrong building. Twice.”

You look up.

And you blink.

“That’s Oscar Piastri,” someone whispers into your headphones — probably the producer, definitely smiling — and suddenly you understand the joke. He’s not from Doctor Who. He’s from McLaren.

You stare at him. He notices.

“I know,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, “not exactly Neil deGrasse Tyson.”

“No,” you reply, slowly peeling off one headphone. “But he also hasn’t won Baku.”

“Yet,” he grins.

You’re not smiling. Not exactly. But you’re no longer glaring either, and he seems to take that as a win.

***

They mic him up quickly. He sits across from you, spinning a pencil between his fingers like he’s back in school, half-listening to the rules being rattled off in his ear. When the producer gives the signal, the red recording light blinks on.

“Welcome to Stars Between Us,” you say into the mic, voice steady, clipped. “I’m Dr. Y/N Y/L/N. I study black holes, gravitational waves, and all the strange ways time can bend and fold. Joining me today is — unexpectedly — Oscar Piastri.”

He laughs. “Unexpectedly is fair.”

You glance at your notes. They're useless. None of your questions about the TARDIS or relativity in sci-fi apply now.

“So,” you say, pivoting, “what brings a Formula 1 driver to a podcast about astrophysics?”

He leans in, suddenly serious. “Honestly? I’m curious. There’s a lot about racing that feels … surreal. Like time moves differently when you’re in the car. I wanted to know if that’s just adrenaline or if there’s something real behind it.”

You narrow your eyes, reluctantly intrigued. “You’re asking about time dilation?”

“Is that what it’s called?”

You nod. “Special relativity. When you approach the speed of light, time moves slower for you compared to someone standing still.”

“Sounds useful in a race.”

“Only if you’re traveling at 299,792 kilometers per second. You’re just … fast.”

He smiles. “Thanks, I think.”

There’s a beat of silence. Not awkward, but considering.

“What does that feel like?” You ask, almost against your better judgment. “Driving that fast?”

He pauses, and something shifts in his face. He doesn’t reach for a joke.

“It’s quiet,” he says. “Everything else fades. The noise becomes background. It’s just … instinct and motion. Like the world slows down and speeds up at the same time. You’re nowhere and everywhere.”

You stare at him.

“That’s … poetic.”

He looks startled. “Wasn’t trying to be.”

“That’s worse.”

He laughs again. It’s warm, low, not forced. The producer signals something behind the glass, but you wave it off.

Oscar rests his elbows on the table, eyes fixed on yours like the room’s contracted around the two of you.

“What about you?” He asks. “What’s your version of being in the car?”

You pause.

There’s a constellation blooming behind your ribs now, hesitant and bright.

“I watch stars collapse,” you say finally. “And try to make sense of why they do. I teach, late at night. I go home. I draw them, sometimes.”

He raises his brows. “Draw them?”

“In a notebook,” you mutter. “It’s not important.”

“No, it is.” His eyes flicker. “Why draw them if you already know what they look like?”

You don’t have an answer for that. Not really.

“To remember that they’re real,” you say after a while. “That they’re not just data. That they existed.”

He nods, slow.

“That’s the thing about fame, too,” he says. “People think it’s this massive, burning light. But it’s only a flare. It burns out quick.”

“Like a supernova.”

“Exactly.”

You both sit with that for a minute.

Then he glances down, sees your fingers resting on a battered leather notebook, and grins.

“Let me guess — constellations?”

“Mostly. Sometimes nebulae.”

“You ever draw racetracks?”

You snort. “No.”

He looks disappointed in the theatrical way, like you’ve just told him Santa isn’t real.

“Guess I’ll have to bring my own then.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t tell him to leave.

The red light on the mic blinks off. You both pull off your headphones. The studio suddenly feels smaller.

He stands, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeves, and stretches like he’s been sitting still for too long.

“Thanks for not kicking me out,” he says, half-teasing.

“I considered it.”

“Yeah, I could tell.” He smiles. “But seriously. That was cool. Weirdly calming.”

“You don’t strike me as someone who needs calming.”

He gives a little shrug. “That’s ‘cause I’m good at pretending.”

You should say something polite. Professional. You don’t.

Instead, you ask, “Do you ever wish you’d done something else?”

He looks genuinely surprised by the question. But he doesn’t brush it off.

“Sometimes,” he says. “I don’t know what. But sometimes I think about it. Especially when I’m not sure who I’m doing this for anymore.”

You nod. Quiet understanding passes between you like an electrical current.

“Maybe you should draw more racetracks,” you murmur.

He smiles, opens his mouth to respond-

Then his phone buzzes. A sharp interruption.

He checks it, winces. “I’ve got to go. Team thing.”

You nod, already pulling your thoughts back into your chest like a turtle retreating into its shell.

“Good luck,” you say, casual, a little too clinical.

He hesitates, then starts to walk to the door — stops, spins back.

“Oh. My water bottle-” He looks around. “Did I leave it?”

You glance at the table. “No idea.”

“Damn. Well, no worries.”

He waves, one last flash of a smile, then he’s gone. The door clicks shut.

You exhale, sit for a moment, then begin to gather your things. The headphones. Your notebook. A pen that’s run dry.

And there, tucked just beneath the edge of the table, almost hidden-

His water bottle.

Plain. Scuffed. You reach for it, about to set it on the counter for someone to return, when you see it:

A small sketch drawn in Sharpie.

It’s crude, but deliberate. A racetrack — one you recognize from the way the corners loop, the way the chicane bends back on itself. Monaco.

You pause.

Your thumb runs gently over the linework.

Then, without really thinking, you slide it into your bag.

Later, when the lights are off and the stars are out, you’ll press your fingers to that curve again and try to understand why your heart is moving like it’s found some new orbit.

***

The message arrives two days later.

It’s early evening and your phone buzzes as you’re halfway through transferring rough calculations from a whiteboard to your notebook, elbow-deep in chalk dust and equations about stellar death. You glance at the screen.

Instagram DM from oscarpiastri

Your first thought is why do I even have notifications on for this app?

Your second thought is oh no.

You stare at it. Don’t open it. Just … look.

You’ve barely touched your Instagram account since undergrad. It’s a digital graveyard of telescope selfies and star trail experiments. You don’t even know how he found you. You consider not opening it at all. But curiosity — that wretched, shimmering thing — wins.

The message is short. Innocent.

oscarpiastri

Thanks for the chat the other day. Really enjoyed it.

You don’t reply.

You tell yourself it’s not personal. You’re just not someone who does casual messaging. You don’t like small talk, and Oscar Piastri feels like small talk. Fast cars, bright lights, the occasional philosophical tangent — but none of it rooted in the quiet gravity you orbit.

You close the app.

And then, three days later — another ping.

This time, it’s 2:17 a.m. You’re on your balcony with a mug of tea, too wired from class to sleep and watching Orion climb over the skyline like he owns the place.

oscarpiastri

What’s the name of that star you mentioned? The red one near the edge of Taurus?

You stare at it, baffled.

He remembers. He listens.

You type. Delete. Type again.

Then finally, you send.

yourusername

Aldebaran.

The response comes in less than a minute.

oscarpiastri

That’s the one. Looked it up, but your way of describing it was better.

You bite your lip. He’s probably just being nice. But something flickers inside you anyway — soft and unsettling.

You should leave it there.

But then you type:

yourusername

It’s often called the “eye” of the bull. It’s not actually part of the Hyades cluster, it just looks like it is from here.

oscarpiastri

So it’s a loner pretending to be part of the group?

You pause.

yourusername

Something like that.

***

After that, it unspools gradually. Almost imperceptibly.

Not a flood of texts or calls. Nothing loud or demanding.

Just … voice notes. Little ones. Scraps of sound tossed across time zones.

The first is from him. Late. You can hear hotel AC in the background and the faint rumble of a distant elevator.

“Hey. I’m in Suzuka now. Couldn’t sleep. Watched this video about neutron stars you mentioned in the podcast and my brain hurts. Did you really say one teaspoon of that stuff weighs four billion tonnes?”

He pauses.

“I think that’s the weight of my eyelids right now. Good night. Or good morning. Or whatever it is where you are.”

You listen to it twice.

Then you send one back.

It’s short. You’re walking home after a night lecture, boots crunching over salt-stiff pavement. Your voice is low, breath visible in the cold.

“Technically, it’s about a billion tonnes, not four. But the number’s less important than the idea. Density like that — it defies everything we understand. Anyway. Hope you got some sleep.”

You almost don’t send it. But then you do.

And after that, it becomes a habit.

A quiet ritual.

***

“Have you ever felt like time changes depending on the country?” He says one day. “Like, I landed in Australia and my brain reset to childhood. Haven’t been here in ages. The stars are upside-down.”

You laugh into your phone.

“They’re not upside-down. You just never learned the southern sky.”

“Then teach me.”

And so you do. Piece by piece. Over fragmented voice notes and links to star charts. He sends photos from hotel windows — night skies dulled by light pollution, but earnest in their effort.

One day, you’re in the lab, cleaning equipment after a lecture, and a colleague walks past your open laptop.

“Is that Oscar Piastri quoting you?”

You glance up. “What?”

She points at the screen. A muted interview is playing on auto-repeat from a motorsport feed. You hadn’t realized the tab was still open.

The caption underneath reads.

“We think of time as constant, but it stretches and shrinks depending on your frame of reference. It’s wild.”

— Oscar Piastri, in an interview from Jeddah.

You stare at the screen.

You don’t breathe.

Because that line — that exact phrasing — is yours. You said it to him. Offhand. At 3 a.m. in a voice note while explaining why GPS satellites have to account for relativity.

You sit down.

Hard.

Your heart’s doing something very stupid in your chest. And the worst part?

You don’t hate it.

***

Later that night, he sends you a photo from a Melbourne airport bookstore.

It’s a star map. Rolled up, rubber-banded, creased in one corner.

oscarpiastri

Thought of you. Bought this while flying back from visiting family. Gonna hang it above my bed.

You grin despite yourself.

yourusername

That’s the northern sky. You’re in the southern hemisphere, genius.

oscarpiastri

… Shit. What if I hang it upside down?

Then, a follow-up photo.

It’s blurry. The lighting’s terrible. But the subject is clear.

A tiny telescope. Child-sized. Plastic. The kind you buy in the “educational toys” aisle.

It’s perched on a hotel windowsill.

oscarpiastri

Bought one. Fix it?

You laugh so hard you drop your phone.

***

By the time you realize what’s happening, it’s too late.

You’re used to him now.

To the unpredictable pings of his name across your screen. To the long silences followed by sudden outbursts of curiosity. To the way he says “your stars” like they belong to you.

You don’t tell anyone. Not because it’s secret, but because it’s yours. And that — somehow — feels rarer than anything.

And it’s not romantic. Not exactly.

But it’s also not not romantic.

You’re standing in a grocery store one evening, half-reading a list off your phone when your screen lights up with a new message.

oscarpiastri

What’s the name of the star that’s always behind you?

You frown.

yourusername

Behind me when?

oscarpiastri

When you’re walking home. I see it in your stories sometimes. The one that flickers near the rooflines. Looks stubborn.

You blink.

You hadn’t realized he watched those.

You scroll through your own stories. Grainy footage. A lamppost. A shimmer.

yourusername

Altair. Part of the Summer Triangle.

oscarpiastri

Sounds like a spaceship.

yourusername

It kind of is. It’s spinning so fast it’s not even round anymore.

There’s a pause.

Then another photo comes through. His telescope again, now perched next to a hotel room cup of tea and a very rumpled travel pillow.

oscarpiastri

Gonna find it tonight.

You reply before you can stop yourself.

yourusername

You won’t. It’s not visible from where you are.

Another pause.

oscarpiastri

Then tell me what is. I’ll watch your stars tonight instead.

You freeze.

The message sits there. Not loud. Not pushy. Just … real.

You stare at it for a long time.

Then you record a voice note. Your voice is soft, uneven.

“Look due west. About thirty degrees up. You’ll see Canopus, it’s one of the brightest. You’ll know it when you do. It doesn’t twinkle as much.”

You hesitate.

Then add, almost inaudibly. “It’s always made me feel less alone.”

You hit send.

And the night moves on. But something else stays.

***

A few days later, you receive a package at your office.

No note.

Just a Southern Hemisphere star map — this one beautifully illustrated — and a sleek black journal with faint constellations etched into the cover.

You trace the lines.

And in that moment, for the first time in your measured, structured little life, you let yourself fall just a little bit out of orbit.

***

You’re not supposed to be watching the race.

You’re supposed to be prepping slides for your 6 p.m. lecture on stellar nucleosynthesis — the chart on the evolution of elemental abundances still half-finished, your notes scattered like meteor debris across the desk.

But your laptop, traitorous and gleaming, is open to a livestream. The race is in its final laps.

Oscar is leading.

Your heart is misbehaving in ways you’ve tried to intellectualize and failed. It pounds — not like something mechanical, but like something alive, startled and pacing.

You adjust the volume and pretend this is just … scientific curiosity. A physics-enthusiast’s idle interest in speed, aerodynamics, G-forces. But when his name flashes across the top of the leaderboard, glowing in white against black, you make a sound — soft and involuntary — that doesn’t belong in any academic setting.

When he crosses the line first, fist raised, team yelling in the background, you press a hand to your mouth.

And then, quietly, you whisper to no one, “You did it.”

You don’t message him.

You know his phone’s probably a furnace of alerts. It’d be ridiculous. Presumptuous.

Still, you keep the window open, watching the post-race interviews unfold like a dance you’re learning in reverse.

At one point, he smiles — really smiles — and it’s like the stars blink out for a second, jealous of the attention.

You close the laptop.

Then you do something completely uncharacteristic.

You open your camera.

Not the front-facing one. Never that.

Instead, you aim it upward, from the park bench outside the department building. The sky tonight is low and smeared with a watercolor wash of indigo and silver. There’s a crescent moon tucked behind the clouds like a secret. Your notebook is open on your lap, constellations half-sketched in pencil. A tea flask beside you. Your coat wrapped around your legs like armor.

You take the photo.

And, after five full minutes of hovering over the send button, you DM it to him.

yourusername

Congratulations.

That’s it.

No emoji. No overthinking.

You shut your phone off and go back to your lecture slides, trying not to hope.

***

He calls two hours later.

Not with a voice note.

A video call.

You freeze when you see his name blinking on the screen.

The rational part of your brain — mildly frantic, deeply British — screams, decline it, for god’s sake, you’re not even wearing proper socks.

But your hand moves of its own accord.

You answer.

The screen goes black, then flickers to life.

He’s on a rooftop.

Lit by golden streetlamps and distant city noise. His hair’s damp, curled a little from the shower. He’s wearing a hoodie and eating something out of a paper bag.

“Hi,” he says, like it’s not 3 a.m. in London. Like this isn’t completely insane.

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

“Hi,” you manage. “You won.”

“I did.” He grins, mouth full. “Thought about you.”

You blink. “Sorry?”

“During the cooldown lap. I was thinking about that thing you said. About time. How it stretches.”

“Time dilation.”

“Yeah. It felt like that. Like I was moving through something slower than everyone else. It was … quiet. Clear.”

You stare at him through the screen, barely breathing.

“And then,” he adds, grinning again, “I saw the photo.”

You look down, cheeks hot.

“I wasn’t going to send it,” you mutter. “It’s not even of me, not really.”

“I know,” he says, voice softer now. “But it is you.”

You don’t say anything.

He shifts the camera. Shows you the skyline — soft orange lights, a tower blinking red in the distance.

“I’m on the team hotel roof,” he explains. “It’s quiet up here. I wanted to see stars but there’s too much light. Still nice though.”

You smile without meaning to. “I can tell you which ones are behind the clouds.”

“I’d like that.”

And just like that, you fall into orbit again.

The conversation stretches.

From the sky to the race to the taste of churros from a street vendor (“Life-changing,” he says, waving the bag at the screen). He asks about your students, and you tell him about the undergrad who thought neutron stars were “just edgy white dwarfs.”

He laughs so hard you worry he’ll drop the phone.

Time dilates, just like you said it would.

You only realize how much of it has passed when the sky behind you turns pale.

“Is that dawn?” He asks, blinking.

You glance behind you. “Looks like.”

He rests his chin on his fist. “Should we sleep?”

You consider it. “Probably.”

But neither of you ends the call.

Instead, you both sit there.

Watching a world shift toward morning.

***

You don’t mean to let him in.

Not like that.

But three nights later, it all breaks open.

You’re supposed to be asleep. You’ve got your departmental review the next morning — a committee of stone-faced academics armed with funding reports and agendas.

But you wake up in a cold sweat. Palms tingling. Heart galloping like it’s trying to outpace the past.

You sit on the bathroom floor, knees pulled to your chest, and try to breathe through it.

It’s not your first panic attack. It is your first in months.

You try every trick: grounding, counting, reciting star names like prayers.

It’s not working.

So — on a reckless, breathless impulse — you call him.

He picks up on the second ring.

Doesn’t say anything.

Just listens.

You don’t speak either. Not for a full minute. All he hears is your breathing — ragged, shallow, afraid.

Finally, you whisper, “I’m okay. I just … I didn’t want to be alone with it.”

Still, he doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

He’s there. Solid and quiet as gravity.

After a while, your breathing evens out. You wipe your face. You lean back against the cold tile.

You don’t even realize you’re speaking until the words are already halfway out of your mouth.

“My mother died when I was seventeen,” you say.

Oscar’s breath catches faintly on the other end.

“She was sick for a long time. I’d just gotten my first telescope. She used to sit outside with me, even when she was too tired to stand. Said the stars helped her forget her body was failing.”

You close your eyes.

“After she died, I stopped going outside for a while. But eventually … I came back to it. Because it was the only thing that still made sense. The only thing that felt big enough to hold it all.”

You swallow.

“Stars are all I have left.”

Silence.

Then, his voice — rough, certain.

“You have more than that now.”

You don’t reply.

You can’t.

Because if you speak, you’ll cry again.

But you don’t hang up.

And he doesn’t go anywhere.

***

The next day, your departmental review passes without incident.

Your pulse is steady the whole time.

When you get home, there’s a message waiting for you.

oscarpiastri

I found Canopus again. Still stubborn.

You smile.

And for the first time in your life, the space between stars doesn’t feel so lonely.

***

You say yes to the awards ceremony because saying no would have drawn more attention.

That’s the irony, isn’t it?

You’d rather drink comet dust than be in a room full of polished people and flashbulbs. But this is for a science outreach grant, and your department is quietly ecstatic. You’ve become a reluctant poster child for “brilliant and relatable,” thanks to the podcast and your stargazing voice notes that somehow got repurposed for a university social media campaign without your permission.

You try to laugh it off.

But it feels like your insides are folding.

Because Oscar will be there.

McLaren’s a sponsor of the initiative. Something about youth engagement and STEM and sleek orange backdrops. He texted you about it with the kind of emoji-free confidence you’ve come to recognize as his version of enthusiasm.

oscarpiastri

Looks like we’re both on the guest list. Wear something with stars.

You hadn’t replied.

You couldn’t.

***

The night before the event, you ghost him.

Delete your Instagram account.

Turn your phone off and shove it into the bottom drawer of your desk.

You spend the evening in the astronomy lab with the lights dimmed low, pretending to fine-tune your lecture notes while your chest caves in by the hour. Your email inbox piles up. Your hands tremble.

You try to picture yourself standing next to him. In public. Under bright lights, photographers shouting names you don’t even want to be called.

But the picture won’t form.

Not fully.

Not without a fight inside your skin.

So you stay.

Safe.

Invisible.

***

You don’t expect him to come.

You definitely don’t expect him to show up in person.

But the next day, mid-afternoon, you’re walking across the stone quad on your way back from a student meeting, notebooks clutched tight, trying not to overanalyze a second-year’s strange interpretation of gravitational lensing.

You see the hoodie first.

Then the cap, pulled low.

Then the boy underneath it, standing awkwardly beside the bench under the cherry tree that never quite blooms properly in spring.

Oscar.

Your breath stops.

He’s holding nothing. No bag. No sunglasses. No shield.

Just his hands jammed into his hoodie pocket like it’s the only armor he’s got.

You freeze mid-step. The wind kicks at your coat.

He sees you.

And it’s over.

He walks toward you, slowly. Not fast. Like you’re a scared animal and he doesn’t want to startle you.

“I was going to wait,” he says, voice low and wrecked and somehow still gentle. “But I figured if I waited, I might not get the chance.”

You glance behind you. Around. Anywhere but directly at him.

“Why are you here?”

He doesn’t answer at first.

Then-

“You disappeared.”

“I had to.”

“No, you didn’t.”

You hug the notebooks closer to your chest. “You don’t understand. I’m not built for that world.”

“It’s just an event-”

“No.” You cut him off, shaking your head. “It’s not just an event. It’s cameras. It’s questions. It’s people looking at me like they know who I am because they watched a five-minute clip. It’s being asked to perform a version of myself that I don’t even recognize.”

He steps forward, slow again.

“I wasn’t asking you to perform.”

You’re already unraveling, you can feel it — the tightening in your throat, the heat behind your eyes.

“You don’t get it,” you say, voice cracking now. “You live in the spotlight. You’re seen. All the time. You get parades and podiums. I survive by disappearing.”

He stares at you. Really stares. Not like he’s judging. Just … taking it in.

Then he exhales.

Hard.

“I didn’t come here to drag you into anything,” he says, quieter now. “I just wanted to say one thing.”

You say nothing.

He takes one more step, and you don’t back away this time.

He lifts a hand — carefully — and cups your face like it’s something fragile and familiar all at once.

“Then I’ll find you in the dark,” he says, his thumb brushing just under your cheekbone, “every time.”

The words hit you like gravity.

Your breath shudders out.

And for a moment, it’s just the two of you in that pocket of the world where time bends — somehow still, somehow heavy with the weight of everything you’ve been afraid to say.

“You shouldn’t have come,” you whisper.

He smiles, barely.

“I couldn’t stay away.”

***

The conversation that follows isn’t neat.

You cry. Not in some cinematic, graceful way — your nose runs, your eyes puff, and at one point, your voice cracks so hard you almost don’t recover it.

But you tell him.

You tell him about the version of yourself you’ve had to build over years — quiet, professional, unobtrusive. A woman of data and precision and folded-back emotions, so she couldn’t be mistaken for weak or needy or out of place in a room full of men.

You tell him about being seventeen and seeing your mother’s name etched into a hospital form the day she stopped responding to treatments.

You tell him about watching friends peel away in the aftermath. About learning how to be okay alone.

And then, at the end, you say it again.

“I don’t want to be seen.”

His hand is still on your cheek.

“Too late,” he says.

***

Later, somehow, you end up sitting beside him on that same campus bench, your shoulder brushing his.

He offers you half a chocolate croissant from a paper bag. “Bribery,” he says.

You take it.

Only because your hands are shaking less now.

He nudges you gently.

“I didn’t come here to pull you out of hiding,” he says. “I came here to be wherever you are.”

You look down.

“Even if where I am is nowhere?”

He tilts his head, considering. “Then I’ll make nowhere feel like home.”

***

You stay up all night. Thread between your teeth and needle in hand, stitching constellations you know will be beyond the clouds tomorrow onto the hem of your sleeves.

You only poke your finger twice.

***

The next morning, you show up at the awards ceremony.

Wearing a dress with tiny embroidered constellations along the sleeves.

Oscar’s already there, talking with someone from the foundation, looking infuriatingly calm. He spots you and stills completely.

Then smiles.

It’s not for the cameras.

It’s for you.

And just for a second, you let yourself smile back.

Even if you still want to disappear.

Even if you’re still afraid.

Because maybe you don’t have to do it alone anymore.

***

You don’t speak for weeks.

Not after the ceremony. Not after the photos. Not even after you sat beside each other in a quiet car on the way home, his pinky brushing yours like a question you never answered.

It starts with silence.

Then continues because neither of you knows how to break it.

You think about texting him every day.

You draft a hundred different messages.

Delete them all.

Because what would you even say?

“Sorry I panicked?”

“Sorry I don’t know how to be someone people look at?”

“Sorry I don’t know what you want from me?”

No version sounds like enough. Or safe.

So instead, you disappear again.

But this time, the quiet isn’t comforting. It’s suffocating. You don’t retreat into stargazing or sketching or soft evenings with tea. You just fold inward. Disappear even from yourself.

You cancel two nights of lecture Q&As. You stop checking your work email. You ignore your friends’ texts, your supervisor’s concerned voicemails. You walk home in the rain without an umbrella, letting it soak through your coat, because maybe that’s what it takes to feel something right now.

You convince yourself it’s over.

That you ruined it.

That he must’ve realized what a terrible idea it all was — that you’re too much, or too little, or just too you.

You sit at your desk one night, chin in your hand, staring at the mug of cold tea beside your notebook, and whisper, “You idiot.”

Not to him.

To yourself.

Because why would someone like him wait for someone like you?

***

The package arrives on a Thursday morning.

No sender listed. Just a small cardboard box with a Woking return address you don’t recognize. It’s light, padded, taped up neatly.

You hesitate before opening it.

Then tear the seal.

Inside is a mug.

A simple white ceramic mug with a black line printed around the side.

You stare at it, blinking, because it’s the track.

That track. The one from his water bottle. The one you held in your hands months ago, running your fingers over the tiny, smudged Sharpie lines like they meant something.

And they did.

Now, they’re printed clean and perfect on the mug’s curve, looping around like a silent orbit.

Underneath the track, in unmistakable handwriting:

Still orbiting.

You don’t mean to cry.

But your throat tightens instantly.

You press a hand to your face. Sit down hard in your desk chair. Stare at the mug like it just cracked open a part of your chest you’d buried deep under logical layers.

And then — without thinking — you pick up your phone.

No hesitation this time.

No drafts.

You dial.

He picks up on the first ring. “You got it?”

You close your eyes. “Yeah.”

Another beat. You think maybe he’s holding his breath too.

“I didn’t want to crowd you,” he says. “But I didn’t want to disappear either.”

“I thought you were done,” you say, voice thin. “I thought I pushed you too far.”

He exhales, low and rough. “You could push me into another galaxy, and I’d still find a way back.”

Your hand tightens around the mug. “Oscar …”

“I missed your voice,” he says. “Even when it’s telling me about gamma-ray bursts at 2 a.m.”

You let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“I’ve been a coward.”

“No,” he says. “You’ve been surviving.”

You don’t reply.

You can’t.

Not until your voice steadies.

Then, softly, like the words are being born as you say them. “I want to come to you.”

Silence again.

But this time, it’s charged with something electric.

“You sure?”

“No,” you say. “But I want to try.”

***

You book the ticket that night.

Direct to Nice.

Your first time flying in years.

You don’t tell anyone, not even your department. Just leave a sticky note on your office door that reads back soon, not quitting and hope no one panics.

The airport is chaos. The flight is worse. You nearly turn around three times, your heart hammering at the gate, in the bathroom, mid-air turbulence over the Channel.

But then Monaco.

Sunlight. Sea. Heat.

And him.

He’s waiting just outside arrivals.

Baseball cap. Hoodie. Trainers. A bouquet of white daisies in one hand.

No cameras.

No entourage.

Just him.

When he sees you, his whole face lights up. Not in a dramatic, movie-star kind of way. Just quietly. Completely.

Like the sun came out of him instead of above.

You walk toward him, suitcase wheels humming.

Neither of you says anything at first.

You stop right in front of him.

His hands twitch — like he wants to hug you but isn’t sure if you’ll let him.

So you make the first move.

You step in, press your face to his shoulder, and wrap your arms around his middle.

He exhales against your hair.

And holds you like he’s been waiting a lifetime.

“Hi,” you murmur.

“Hi,” he says, kissing your temple. “You’re here.”

“I am.”

You don’t cry.

But you want to.

***

His flat is all sun-washed wood and minimalist lines.

Too clean. Too quiet.

He tosses his keys on the counter. Offers you a bottle of sparkling water and a blanket, in that order. Like he knows your order of priorities.

You curl up on his sofa, legs tucked under you, mug of tea he made (with sugar, but not too much — he remembered), and your notebook open in your lap.

He sits beside you, one leg folded, body angled toward yours.

You start to read. An old favourite — Sagan or Leavitt or something soft and scientific and laced with poetry. You lose your place halfway through a sentence when his fingers brush your shoulder.

You pause.

“Keep going,” he says.

So you do.

And his hand moves gently — tracing constellations down your back with one finger.

Scorpius. Orion. Cassiopeia.

“Is this creepy?” He murmurs, lips close to your ear.

“No,” you whisper. “It’s … perfect.”

More silence.

“You know,” he says, “I never cared about stars before you.”

You glance sideways. “And now?”

“Now,” he says, his finger drawing a spiral just above your spine, “they remind me of your voice.”

You swallow. Hard.

He leans in closer, forehead nearly resting against yours.

“You’re not just my sun,” he whispers. “You’re the whole damn sky.”

You close your eyes.

Breathe in.

And let yourself believe it.

***

It’s been six months.

Six months since Monaco. Since a rooftop and daisies and a too-clean flat you made imperfect by shedding your cardigan on his floor and your doubts in his bed.

Six months of airports and voice notes and the soft click of your toothbrush beside his.

He still lives fast. You still live quietly. But the distance doesn’t feel as dangerous as it used to. He finds you in every city. You follow him in the night sky, even when you can’t be there.

You leave him notes in his luggage — tiny Post-its with sketches of constellations he hasn’t learned yet.

He sends you blurry pictures of hotel ceilings and titles them missing you, probably upside down.

Neither of you says “forever.”

But you both say “soon.”

And that’s enough.

***

Now it’s September, and you’re standing backstage at the Barbican, adjusting the mic clipped to your collar, trying not to vomit.

The TED Talk team is bustling behind the curtain. Someone hands you a bottle of water. Someone else adjusts your lighting.

You’re dressed in black, simple, classic. Hair tucked behind one ear. Notebook in hand — not to read from, just to hold. A small anchor.

The talk is on entropy.

You’ve practiced it a hundred times.

But it doesn’t stop your hands from shaking.

Not until you glance out past the curtain, eyes scanning rows of shadowy heads, and spot him.

Front row.

Oscar.

No cap. No hoodie. Just a dark jacket and that stupid, perfect grin.

He’s sitting with one ankle crossed over a knee, hands folded in his lap, like he’s never been more at home in his life.

You mouth, you came.

He winks.

You don’t remember walking out onto the stage.

You just know you’re there.

***

“I want to talk to you about decay,” you begin. “And about love.”

A few eyebrows raise.

You smile.

It’s a soft, self-deprecating thing.

“The second law of thermodynamics tells us that entropy always increases. That systems move toward disorder. That heat dissipates. That structures break down. It’s a law. Not a suggestion.”

You let the words settle.

“There’s a strange comfort in that. That the universe doesn’t make mistakes. That even our undoing follows a pattern.”

You shift on your feet, fingers brushing the edge of the podium.

“But I think about how stars collapse — how they burn through all their fuel and still find a way to shine brighter, just once, before the end.”

Pause.

“And I think about love. How it, too, can feel like entropy. Unpredictable. Messy. Disruptive. We spend so much time trying to contain it. Understand it. Prove it won’t fall apart. But maybe …”

You glance down.

Then up again.

Right at him.

“Maybe it doesn’t need to be controlled. Maybe love is beautiful because it follows its own physics.”

You take a breath.

“In my own work — mapping dark matter, tracing invisible currents through the universe — I’ve learned that the things we can’t see often shape us the most. And that some constants are worth holding on to.”

You close your notebook.

And smile directly at him.

“Even if it breaks the rules.”

***

Backstage is a blur of applause and champagne flutes and someone from MIT asking for your slides.

But Oscar is waiting just beyond the wings, hands in his pockets, leaning against the wall like he’s been standing there his whole life.

You spot him the second you exit.

He lifts an eyebrow. “So, entropy and love, huh?”

“Don’t.”

“What?” He says, holding his hands up in mock innocence. “I was just wondering if I’m the heat loss or the unpredictable variable.”

“You’re the interruption,” you say, smirking, stepping into him. “The system disturbance.”

“I’ll take it.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes still full of something that makes your stomach twist in that dangerous, lovely way.

“You were brilliant.”

“I was terrified.”

“You didn’t look it.”

“I was staring at you the whole time.”

He kisses you before you can say anything else.

Quick. Certain.

Like punctuation.

Like gravity.

***

That night, back at your flat, you’re the one who’s quiet.

You’re lying across your bed in your TED Talk outfit, heels kicked off, toes brushing the duvet, hair spilling across the pillow like you forgot you’re not supposed to be the disheveled one in this dynamic.

Oscar is sitting beside you, his shirt wrinkled, tie loosened. He’s holding your hand absentmindedly, like he doesn’t want to forget it’s there.

“I’m proud of you,” he says.

You nod, but don’t reply.

He shifts. “Hey.”

You look up.

“You okay?”

You hesitate. “Yeah. Just … I don’t know. That felt like a before-and-after moment.”

“It was.”

You close your eyes. “What if people expect more of me now? What if that was the peak?”

“Then we climb another mountain,” he says, completely serious.

You laugh.

Then sigh. “It’s stupid. I should be happy.”

“You’re allowed to be scared and proud at the same time.”

You squeeze his hand. “Thanks, Professor Piastri.”

He chuckles. “Please. I’d be a terrible professor. I’d forget to assign homework and bring everyone donuts.”

You nudge him. “You’d be great at it.”

“Only if I taught a class on you.”

“That’s creepy.”

“Is it?” He says, standing suddenly and walking to the window.

You sit up. “What are you doing?”

He draws the curtain back.

“Come here.”

You stand, wary. “It’s midnight.”

“Exactly.”

He opens the window wide. The city air rushes in — cool, sweet, a little smoky.

“Lay down,” he says.

You glance around. “On the floor?”

“No,” he says. “On the windowsill.”

You stare at him.

He raises a brow. “Trust me.”

You do.

God help you, you do.

You climb onto the wide windowsill — an old Victorian flat, stone ledge cool beneath you — and lie back, careful not to knock over a half-dead succulent.

Oscar settles beside you, shoulder to shoulder.

Above you: stars.

Scattered faintly, blurred by the city glow, but still there.

He points.

“That’s Orion.”

You smile. “I know.”

“That’s the one with the belt, right?”

“Yes.”

“And over there …”

He squints.

You wait.

“… is the one I’m naming after you.”

You blink.

“Me?”

He nods solemnly. “Yep. It doesn’t have a name yet, so I’m calling dibs.”

“That’s not how astronomy works.”

He shrugs. “Sue me.”

You turn your head. He’s still looking up, eyes tracking some invisible pattern across the night.

“You don’t even know which one it is,” you say.

“I do,” he says. “It’s the one that’s always there. Even when the others fade.”

Your heart lurches.

He turns to you then, face barely lit by the city lights.

“I don’t care about the physics,” he says. “Or the rules. Or entropy.”

Pause.

“I care about this. You. Right now.”

You close your eyes.

His hand finds yours on the windowsill.

And somehow, that’s enough to make the whole sky feel closer.

[princessaffirms]

how to ACCESS the VOID (it might not be what you think) 🪻✨

　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖

🤍✨ the void isn’t something you find… but something you REMEMBER

the “void” is often spoken about like it’s a mystical state that exists somewhere outside of us. something to chase, something to enter, something reserved for the “spiritually elite.”

but the truth is far simpler, and far more profound.

the void is not a destination. it’s your NATURAL STATE.

　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖

🤍✨ what the void REALLY is

the void is PURE AWARENESS. the consistent, silent field of consciousness behind every thought, identity, sensation, and desire. it’s not a place. it’s not a technique. it’s not a feeling.

it’s what remains when you detach from the ego. from your 3D. from the physical realm of reality. from the projection of your 4D. it’s the space between thoughts.

it’s the AWARENESS of thoughts.

it’s the “you” before you ever had a name. some people call it your soul, pure consciousness, etc. but ultimately, it all describes the same spiritual awareness that selects and experiences your reality.

when you are deeply present, not thinking, not doing, just being, you begin to REALIZE that deeper layer. THAT’S the void.

and here’s the twist:

you don’t fall into the void. you remember you already are it.

　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖

🤍✨ the void is AWARENESS — and awareness is EVERYTHING.

awareness isn’t passive. it’s creative. it’s selective. it’s the observer that COLLAPSES infinite possibility into experience.

this is where quantum physics meets spirituality: the same observer effect that defines physical outcomes at the quantum level also describes the mechanisms of your inner reality (interpretively):

what you observe -> BECOMES.

what you assume -> SOLIDIFIES.

what you bring awareness to -> COLLAPSES into form.

so the void?

it’s your SANDBOX.

because in that pure state of awareness, there are no limitations. only POTENTIAL.

　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖

🤍✨ how to ACCESS it (not as a technique, but a remembering)

you don’t access the void by escaping your body. you don’t “leave” your current reality. you don’t chase stillness. you SURRENDER into it.

here’s one way it unfolds (how it goes for me):

get still. physically, emotionally, mentally.

close your eyes. not to shut out the world, but to turn toward the one inside you.

observe your thoughts without following. let them pass.

observe and realize the awareness behind awareness.

sounds abstract? that’s because it is, but that doesn’t make it complicated.

this isn’t about doing more. it’s about letting go. the “difficulty” often comes from being deeply identified with the 3D and closed-off to the idea that there’s more to what we see in the physical.

when you’re attached to that framework, the void can feel confusing or unreachable. but the truth is: it’s always been here. it’s the source of the 3D projection that you experience physically.

　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔��✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖

🤍✨ why there’s no direct/traditional “PROOF” of the void

because this is DIRECT EXPERIENCE. not theory. not belief. not even science, though it echoes it.

no one can measure AWARENESS itself.

no one can define your inner stillness.

and no one can disprove your ability to return to the pure field of consciousness that you’ve always been.

it’s not anti-science, it simply exists BEYOND what conventional science can access. and that’s okay. like the quantum field, the void is limitless possibility until observed, and YOU are the observer.

　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖

🤍✨ final thoughts: you were never SEPARATE

if the void has felt like something UNREACHABLE, i’d like to leave you with this:

it’s never been outside of you.

it’s never been a reward for doing the “right” method.

it’s never been something you enter. it’s what you fall back into, BENEATH the noise.

and when you remember that, you stop chasing. you stop trying. you just return. to the stillness. to the limitless potential. you are the void. you always were.

　 . ★⋆. ࿐࿔　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.ੈ✧̣̇˳·˖

i hope this post clarified/provided insight on this topic! 🫶 i know that this concept can feel very abstract at first, so i tried simplifying it to the best of my abilities, whilst staying true to what the void really is 🥹 always remember that you innately already have everything you need within you to shift/manifest!! 🤍

love and light always <3

[batsovergotham]

₊ ˚ ⋅⠀୨ৎ 𝑳𝑨𝑪𝑬𝑫 𝑱𝑼𝑺𝑻 𝑭𝑶𝑹 𝒀𝑶𝑼.

𓆰❦꫶ུ⃛𓆪    —#2 𝗖𝗢𝗠𝗜𝗖! 𝗠𝗔𝗥𝗞 𝗚𝗥𝗔𝗬𝗦𝗢𝗡 𝗫 𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥 𝗦𝗠𝗨𝗧 𝗥𝗘𝗤! ↳"𝘏𝘐 !!!! 𝘉𝘌𝘍𝘖𝘙𝘌 𝘐 𝘔𝘈𝘒𝘌 𝘔𝘠 𝘙𝘌𝘘𝘜𝘌𝘚𝘛, 𝘑𝘜𝘚𝘛 𝘞𝘈𝘕𝘛𝘌𝘋 𝘛𝘖 𝘚𝘈𝘠 𝘏𝘖𝘞 𝘔𝘜𝘊𝘏 𝘐 𝘓𝘖𝘝𝘌 𝘠𝘖𝘜 𝘈𝘕𝘋 𝘠𝘖𝘜𝘙 𝘞𝘙𝘐𝘛𝘐𝘕𝘎, 𝘐𝘛𝘚 𝘚𝘖𝘖𝘖𝘖𝘖𝘖 𝘎𝘖𝘖𝘋, 𝘓𝘐𝘒𝘌 𝘏𝘌𝘓𝘓𝘖??? 𝘈𝘕𝘠𝘞𝘏𝘖!!! 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘸��𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦, 𝘴𝘰 𝘖𝘍 𝘊𝘖𝘜𝘙𝘚𝘌 𝘪𝘵 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘺 😛😛 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘍𝘙𝘌𝘈𝘒𝘐𝘌𝘙 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘉𝘌𝘛𝘛𝘌𝘙 𝘏𝘈𝘉𝘑𝘚𝘏𝘌𝘋𝘑𝘕𝘚𝘑𝘚𝘉𝘋. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭�� 𝘮𝘺 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘢 𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘰𝘶𝘴 >< 𝘛𝘏𝘈𝘛𝘚 𝘈𝘓𝘓 𝘓𝘖𝘝𝘌 𝘜𝘜𝘜𝘜 𝘔𝘞𝘈𝘔𝘞𝘈𝘔𝘞𝘈𝘔𝘞𝘈"

｡𖦹°‧➵ pairing - comic!mark grayson x reader

｡𖦹°‧➵ summary - mark wasn’t expecting anything when he walked in, just a normal night. instead, he finds you in lingerie. safe to say, dinner’s forgotten, and he’s on his knees before you can even say hi.

｡𖦹°‧➵ content notice - MDNI (18+ only), nsfw, oral (f receiving), dom!mark

The message is simple enough, casual, playful, completely unassuming.

“Dinner’s in the oven <3”

Sent. Delivered. Read. That little read receipt flickers on and a breath leaves you like it’s been knocked from your lungs. Now it’s real. Now there’s a ticking clock. Mark is on his way.

You’ve got the music low, warm honeyed synths pouring through your speakers like a slow, lazy drizzle of syrup. It vibrates the walls with a sound you can feel in your thighs. You cross the room barefoot, soft pads of your feet sinking into the rug like you’re walking through molasses. The scent of something faint, sweet, floral, clings to the air. You. You smell like candlelit sin. You’ve moisturized every inch, from the curve of your calves to the hollow of your collarbone, like preparing a canvas for masterpiece-level ruin.

The lingerie, God. It’s lethal.

Sheer black mesh wraps your body like it was tailored for cruelty. It whispers over your skin, delicate as breath, and yet it makes you look like a weapon. The cups barely hold anything in, more an idea of coverage than actual fabric. Bows ride the curve of your hips, begging to be pulled, ripped, savored between teeth. The straps dig delicious little lines into your shoulders where you’ve been adjusting, readjusting, trying to find the perfect fit, the perfect bait.

Your hands tremble as you press them to your thighs. You don’t know why. Or maybe you do.

This is new territory.

You’ve pictured it, fantasized about it, imagined it in the shower with your head tipped back and water pounding like heavy hands, but imagining it and orchestrating it are two separate things entirely. Right now? You’re not sure if you’re the seductress or the sacrifice.

You practice again. Over by the wall, you lean, shoulder against wall, spine curved, head tilted like you just rolled out of a dream and walked straight into the room. You drop your gaze, then flick it up. Bedroom eyes. You hold it. Try to hold it. Break into a nervous laugh.

Ugh.

Okay. Try the couch. One knee up, the other leg stretching back like you’re lunging your way through a paperback romance cover. You twist at the waist, arch your back, and freeze.

Too much? Not enough?

You check yourself in the mirror. The cut of the lingerie reveals more than it hides, your nipples show through the mesh, firm and aching in the cool air, and when you turn to the side, you see how the bow just above your ass jiggles when you move. You toy with it. One tug and the whole illusion would fall apart.

There’s a part of you that wants him to unravel you with adoring hands. But there's another part, darker, filthier, that wants him to tear this thing off your body like it offended him. Teeth, nails, heat and hunger. You don’t know which part wins.

You pace.

Mark’s not even here yet and you’re already soaking, thighs sticking as you move. Anticipation has teeth, and it’s gnawing slowly at your insides. You're playing it cool…trying to play it cool, but your pulse is a warning siren in your throat.

You check your phone again.

No new messages. Still read.

You whisper his name under your breath, like conjuring him. Like magic. Like blasphemy. Your voice sounds broken already.

This was supposed to be simple. This was supposed to be a “surprise him at dinner” kind of thing. But now it feels like you’re standing at the edge of a cliff, lingerie fluttering like a flag in a storm, and if he walks in that door and looks at you the way he does…

You’re not walking away untouched. Or upright.

You glance down at your legs again. Shaved. Smooth. Glistening. Your hand drifts across your stomach, down to the space between your thighs, where the mesh barely forms a triangle of coverage. You could touch yourself now, prime the pump, so to speak. Make yourself drip for him. But no. You want to be undone by him, not warmed up before the act like some polite hostess.

A creak outside makes your head snap toward the door.

Is that him?

Your heart slams into your ribs like a fist through drywall.

You strike the pose again, wall, not couch. Simpler. Softer. More vulnerable. You breathe in deep, hold it, and try not to shake.

Because if it is him…

It swings inward slowly, like the start of a movie scene right before everything changes forever.

Mark steps in, oblivious. He's halfway through a sentence, voice low and gravel-edged from the strain of patrol and whatever bullshit Cecil’s dropped in his lap tonight.

“Yeah, I told you, if the Flaxan’s come anywhere near the city again, we’ll—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

Because he sees you.

And everything in him just stops.

Mark Grayson, flight-slick, suit clinging like a second skin, dripping faint steam from the chill of altitude, he halts in the doorway like he’s walked in on an act of God.

His mouth parts. A flicker of breath escapes him like it was punched out.

His eyes rake over you in stunned silence.

You don’t say a word. You don’t have to.

You're posed just as you practiced, one shoulder against the wall, leg bent slightly, hips cocked, mouth soft, lashes low, like you’re dreaming him into being.

The lighting bathes you in this soft, erotic glow, the mesh of your lingerie gleaming with hints of sheen where the low light kisses it. The bows, the sheer, all of it perfectly calibrated to look like temptation handcrafted by the devil and dipped in sex.

Mark’s phone drops from his hand.

It doesn’t clatter, doesn’t thud, it just falls, soundlessly. His whole body is static-stiff. His brow furrows like he’s rebooting from the inside out.

His lips barely move. But you hear it.

“...holy fuck.”

It’s adoring. It’s broken. It’s filthy.

Like a man kneeling at the altar of his own damnation.

He steps forward, slow, like the floor might give out. Like you might disappear if he gets too close too fast. His eyes are wide, dark, devouring. The blue in his irises flickers, catching the light as his gaze trails from your face, to your collarbones, down the valley of your breasts barely held in place by sheer black mesh, and lower still.

Your thighs shift and he sees it, how your body reacts before you even speak.

His breath stutters.

“Are you…” he swallows, “...is this for me?”

You tilt your head, slow, catlike. Your lips curve, not a smile, not exactly. It’s hunger wearing the mask of invitation.

Mark’s jaw clenches. You watch his hands flex at his sides, like he’s resisting the urge to touch you, to grab you, to shake the truth out of you with bare hands.

But then he exhales and laughs, soft, stunned, ruined. “You planned this.”

You don’t answer. Just shift slightly, and the bow at your hip trembles.

He lets out a low breath, almost a laugh. “You’re dangerous, you know that? Too pretty for your own good.”

His chest heaves, muscles flushed, still marked with faint lines of battle grime and sweat. There’s a smear of something across his shoulder, ash? Blood? You don’t care. It only adds to it.

He steps closer, slowly. “You know what you do to me?” he murmurs, voice a hoarse rasp now. “You have any idea what you look like right now?”

Your lips part, but no sound comes. Your heart beats too loud in your ears.

He’s in front of you now. Not touching. Not yet.

His fingers hover at your shoulder strap, then graze your jaw, slow, almost trembling.

“This…” he says, dragging his gaze over you like he needs to memorize this vision before it combusts. “This isn’t fair. I just fought a ten-story space monster. I’m—fuck—I’m tired, I’m sweaty, I’m—”

He presses in. Just a little. His breath fans against your cheek. You feel the tension rolling off him like heat waves.

“…and now I just want to hold you there, kiss every sound out of you, and fuck you so good you forget everything but me.”

His voice breaks near the end. Like he means it. Like it’s a promise, not a threat.

His hand moves lower, knuckles grazing your collarbone, then trailing down the centerline of your chest, pausing just above the mesh-covered peak of your breast. His thumb strokes just under the curve, not quite touching your nipple.

You shudder.

His eyes flick up. “Still nervous?”

You nod, just a little. Honest. Breathing too shallow.

His smile is soft, wolfish. “Good. That means you care.”

Then he finally, finally, leans in and kisses you, slow and devastating. Not a peck. Not chaste. His mouth opens over yours and he devours the sound you make like he’s been starving for it. His hands cup your face like you're fragile, but his body presses forward with heat, pressure, a low grind of his hips that lets you feel just how not fragile he is.

You’re not ready. You thought you were.

But he’s already peeling your mind apart with just his mouth.

And he hasn’t even touched the bows yet.

Mark drops. Not in slow motion. Not in ceremony. Just drops.

To his knees.

One second he’s standing, towering over you with heat in his stare, and the next, he’s on the floor like you prayed him there. Still suited, still panting from the patrol, still dripping adrenaline and sky-dust and want. Wide-eyed. A man hollowed out and filled with nothing but you.

He exhales and crawls forward on hands and knees like the distance between you is an ocean and he’s starving to drown. His palms hit the floor with soft, deliberate thuds, and every muscle in his back moves like a wave under that skin tight suit, rippling with purpose.

Your legs part without conscious thought.

Because of course they do.

His hands reach your thighs like they belong there. Like he's gripping a lifeline. Strong fingers splay over the curve of your skin, his thumbs dragging higher, higher, until they hook into the straps of your lingerie and tug, just enough to make the mesh groan against you.

“For me?” His voice is surprised. Wonderstruck.

Then he bows his head.

Not with words at first. But with lips. With tongue. With soft, trembling exhales that tickle your skin before the wet heat of his mouth sinks low, slow, seeking, tasting.

His kisses start at your inner thighs, one, two, a third, like he’s mapping constellations with his mouth. The first is soft. Chaste, almost. The second lingers. The third? It burns. Lips pressed firm into your skin like he’s imprinting himself there. His breath hitches, hot and needy, as he noses in closer to the dark stretch of lace between your thighs.

You twitch.

One hand grips the underside of your thigh, spreading you further, holding you steady. The other trembles as it drags fingertips over the front of your panties. He traces you through the sheer, wet fabric, pauses, presses his nose to it.

He inhales.

And groans. “Fucking hell.”

“Thank you,” again, whispered against your folds like devotion. “You didn’t have to—” His voice breaks, lips ghosting along the seam where the fabric clings tight. “—but you did. For me.”

And then, then, he tongues you through the lace.

Not teasing. Not slow.

He flattens his mouth and presses, hot and eager, licking you through the soaked barrier, letting the taste bleed through. The fabric darkens. Your knees wobble. His hands shoot out, gripping your hips, anchoring you as he moans into your cunt.

That sound, muffled and desperate and completely undone, makes you gasp.

He doesn’t stop.

His nose nudges your clit as his tongue moves lower, dragging slow, obscene strokes along your slit. The lace muffles nothing now, soaked to transparency, letting every detail of your heat reach his mouth. His hands tremble against your skin. His body rocks slightly, rutting the air like he’s grinding against the floor.

“God, I missed you,” he groans, voice raw with need. “Didn’t know how bad… not until right now.”

He licks again. Harder. Deeper. His tongue presses and wiggles against your entrance, making the lace dig into you, a rough contrast to the soft wet drag of his mouth.

You buck. Moan. Hands fly to his hair. He growls.

“Hold me there,” he pants, looking up at you, eyes glassy with hunger. “C’mon. Use me. Just—fuck—let me thank you.”

And you do.

Your fingers curl in his hair, tugging him closer, grinding your hips against his mouth as he feasts. He shifts, tears the fabric aside with a low snarl, rips it, baring you completely. No more barrier. No more restraint.

His tongue dives in. Slick. Greedy. Groaning into your cunt like it’s salvation.

He mouths at your clit, messy, fast, wild, and then sucks it in, lips sealing over it, tongue flicking rapid fire.

Your knees give.

He catches you, holds you, never stopping. You sob his name, barely coherent. He moans into you, frantic.

Your thighs tremble in his grip, and you feel the desperate clutch of his fingers locking you in place like he’s anchoring himself to the only thing that matters. His breath hitches against the fabric, hot and damp. Every slow swipe of his tongue through the soaked cotton is filthy, focused, insistent, the sound wet and intimate enough to make your spine arch. He presses in harder, nose smashed into the gusset, inhaling deep like he’s trying to taste you through every sense he’s got.

Your hips twitch. You try to shift, pull back, just a little, a breath, but he growls low in his throat, a vibration that echoes through the ache between your legs, and clamps down. One arm snakes tighter around your waist, the other curls under your thigh, spreading you wide, tilting your hips up, just how he wants you. Your knees are barely holding. His tongue flattens, presses, grinds slow and heavy over the damp seam, pushing the soaked panties into you like he’s marking territory.

And you’re soaked.

It clings, obscenely wet, and he groans into it like your taste is making him drunk. Then he finally does it, fingers hook the lace and tug, not aside, but down. Off. Gone. He tosses them somewhere behind him, already forgotten, and then he’s back in before you can even suck in a breath.

There’s no teasing.

His mouth seals over your slit, tongue plunging, desperate and relentless, and your head tips back with a cry that cracks into a broken “ahhnnnn—fu—Mark!” because it’s too much. Every stroke of his tongue is filthy, unhurried but deep, drawing slick sounds that make your ears burn like he’s trying to drink from you, lap it all up and never come up for air.

You’re panting. Drenched in sweat. Nails clawing at his hair, his scalp, anything to ground you because you’re flying apart.

“Fuck—fuck, Mark, please—”

He moans into you, nose grinding over your clit now, tongue pumping faster, deeper, and you swear to God you see stars. Your thighs are shaking. You try to warn him, stuttered breaths and whimpers that fall apart the second his lips wrap tight around your clit and suck, hard.

You shatter.

Orgasm hits you like a freight train. Your whole body locks, jerks, then convulses, and he doesn’t stop. His mouth is still on you, drinking you down like you’re divine, licking through your aftershocks, and your body keeps twitching, overstimulated and raw, but so good.

You’re whining now, hips wriggling to escape and needing more at the same time, and he finally lets up just a little, lips slick with you, chin drenched, eyes wild. He looks up like he’s on the edge of something dangerous, and he grins, smug, flushed, utterly broken.

“Dinner?” His voice dips, soft and steady. “You really think I could sit through dinner with you looking like this?”

Then he dives back in.

You're still gasping, your body trembling with aftershocks when he goes right back in, no hesitation, no mercy. His tongue parts your folds again, and this time it’s slower, richer, like he’s savoring the taste of you now that he’s cracked you open. Your hands are limp at your sides for a moment, twitching uselessly, and then you’re back in his hair, dragging your nails across his scalp, trying to grip something, anything, because it’s too much.

You’re already sensitive, every nerve ending raw and electric, but he doesn't give you a second to breathe. His lips find your clit again, too fast, and when he sucks it into his mouth this time, your hips jolt and you scream. It’s not a moan. Not a whimper. It’s raw, open-throated, desperate, your voice cracked and high-pitched, almost hysterical with overstimulation.

"F-Fuck—Mark, I—I can't, I just—"

You try to twist, to push at his head again. You collapse back, legs wide open, shivering, pinned by the sheer force of his mouth.

He doesn’t let up. Not even close.

His tongue circles your clit now, slow spirals that have you sobbing into your own shoulder, eyes squeezed shut. The pressure in your gut is building again way too fast. There’s no climb, no gentle crescendo, just a sharp, impossible spike that tightens and tightens until it snaps. You come again, violently. Like your body was waiting, aching, begging to do it the moment he started again.

Your thighs clamp around his head, shaking, your entire body locking up. Your voice is hoarse, choked out through gritted teeth as you thrash, your orgasm tearing through you like it wants to break you. It’s a flood. A hot, soaking rush that makes his groan deepen, hungry and savage, and you can feel his tongue still working, licking, sucking, drinking everything down.

"Fffuck—!" You choke on it, the pleasure so intense it hurts, and the only thing keeping you grounded is the feel of his strong arms under your thighs, his fingers bruising your skin as he holds you open and devours you.

You don’t know how long it lasts, seconds, hours, forever, but when you finally slump down, boneless and twitching, you’re soaked in sweat, flushed all the way down your chest, and still pulsing with the remnants of that shattering high.

Mark finally pulls back.

His face is a mess, slick with you, flushed, lips swollen, eyes glassy with need. He licks a slow stripe up the inside of your thigh and groans like he’s tasting victory. His voice is low, almost slurred with hunger.

“Shit,” he breathes, lips brushing just beside your soaked skin. “You come so fucking pretty for me.”

Then, his eyes lock with yours. “I’m not done.”

Your legs barely hold you as he stands, lifting you like you weigh nothing, mouth still slick from what he just did to you. He doesn’t bother asking, just hauls you up and slams your ass onto the edge of the kitchen table with a sharp grunt, the wood groaning beneath the impact. A dish clatters and spins out of the way, forgotten. His eyes are locked on yours, pupils blown, chest heaving.

“God, baby,” he breathes, shaking his head with a smile. “What am I supposed to do with you?”

His hands are everywhere, gripping your thighs, sliding up your ribs, thumbing under the edge of the ruined lingerie clinging to your damp, flushed skin. It’s stretched, wrinkled with sweat, straps torn, curling where it barely hangs on. He doesn’t try to fix it. He just yanks one side wider with a ragged rip, exposing one breast while the lace rides high on your hips, bunched at your waist like a flag of surrender.

“Keep coming like that,” he murmurs, half-laughing, breath warm against your cheek. “I swear I’ll marry you again just so no one else ever gets a chance.”

He fumbles with his suit open one-handed, yanking them low enough for his cock to spring free, thick, flushed, leaking. The second he’s bare, he’s already on you. One hand spreads your thighs wide, and then he’s there, pressing in thick and slow, the head of his cock stretching you open in one heavy, greedy push.

“Fuck—” You hiss through your teeth, head falling back as the burn of it rolls through you, slow and deep.

He doesn’t rush. Not now.

He drives in, inch by inch, jaw clenched so tight you can hear it. His hands hold your hips like handles, thumbs digging into the soft flesh just above the bone, guiding you down onto him like he’s fitting you onto something sacred. When he finally bottoms out, buried to the hilt, you both groan like you’ve been starved for centuries.

“Shit, baby…” he breathes, voice unsteady. “You feel so good—always so fucking tight for me.”

He doesn’t even strip the lingerie all the way. He likes it on, likes seeing what’s left of it after you’ve both torn through it like animals. One twisted strap still hugs your shoulder, the bra pulled just under your breasts, half-cupped by lace that clings damp and sheer. He watches it bounce with every roll of your hips, hungry and unblinking.

Then he starts to move.

Not frantically, not yet, but slow and deep, his thrusts measured like he’s tasting every inch. You feel every vein drag, every inch push slick and snug inside you. The table creaks. His hips roll in slow waves, grinding deep, grinding mean, and the friction has your toes curling in the air.

He watches you come undone with a grin that looks half flushed, half adoring.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Haven’t even started fucking you yet.”

He starts building pace, just enough to keep you panting, moaning, rolling your hips to meet him. You grip the edge of the table, knuckles white, head thrown back. He changes angles, pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, hard, and your body jerks with the impact.

“Ahh—Mark!” It tears out of you, loud, helpless.

“Yeah?” He’s panting, sweat slicking his chest. “That’s what you want, baby? Just wanna get ruined on the table like this? Can’t even wait for the bed?”

His words make your stomach knot, your pussy clench around him, and he groans, biting down on his lower lip to keep from losing it.

Your orgasm’s coiling again. God, you’re close, right there. But you’re not the only one. His thrusts get sloppier, his grip tighter, the rhythm starting to falter, but he pulls out suddenly, curses through his teeth, and grabs your hips to still you.

“Fuck. I’m not—gonna finish—not yet.”

He yanks out with a guttural curse, the head of his cock dragging soaked and swollen against your entrance as he steps back just enough to breathe. You're panting, strung out, thighs twitching, still open on the edge of the kitchen table, folds glossy and dripping. Your pussy clenches around nothing, so fucking empty it makes your whole body flinch. The second he catches your hips trying to grind down on air, he grins, sharp, hungry, a little wild.

“Look at you,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “You’re dangerous, you know that? The way you feel—what you do to me…”

You squeal as your back hits the table, your legs flying up, but he doesn't let you land, he guides you, hands under your thighs, wrists strong as steel, dragging you down with him as he sinks onto the floor and plants himself flat on his back. His cock is already standing, hard as fuck, flushed dark, wet from you, twitching up from his pelvis like it’s begging.

“You feel how ready I am for you?” he murmurs. “Come sit on it, sweetheart.”

You scramble, shaky and breathless, lingerie half-off, one strap falling down your shoulder, the bra cups crooked, barely holding on. Your thighs straddle his waist, the position spreading you wide, making everything ache. You grip his cock and line it up, he shudders, the muscles in his stomach twitching, and you sink down on him with a sound that’s more animal than human.

“Fuck—please—yes—need it—”

He fills you again, slow but deep, your body stretching, swallowing him inch by inch. It punches the breath right out of both of you, makes your mouth fall open in a silent scream as you bottom out and stay there, shaking.

“Oh my god, Mark,” you whimper, hands braced on his chest, fingers curling against hard, sweat-slick muscle. His abs contract every time you rock your hips, grinding slow, dragging your clit over his pelvis with each tiny, desperate circle.

“That’s it, baby,” he breathes, voice low and thick. “Take it. Just like that. You’re doing so fucking good.”

You ride him slow at first, your thighs burning, pussy fluttering with every drag, wet sounds obscene, your bodies soaked, tangled, flushed. The lace is twisted, digging in, the straps falling from your shoulders. He grabs one, pulls it taut, uses it to tug you down hard as your hips slam down onto his cock with a wet slap.

“You feel that, baby?” he murmurs, voice thick and warm. “You’re soaked for me… fuck, it’s perfect.”

Your pace stutters. Your nails scrape down his chest. You can’t think, can barely , rock, grind, grind, the tip of his cock hitting that spot inside you with every bounce. Your clit drags over his abs, catching on the ridges, and you moan high, breathless.

“F-Fuck—s’so deep—feels s’full—”

“Just like that,” he breathes, hand firm on your hip. “I can feel it—you’re close, aren’t you? You gonna soak me again?”

“No—no, not yet,” you gasp, voice shaking. “I can’t—I wanna—”

“Use me, baby,” he whispers, breath catching. “That’s what I’m here for. All of me—for you.”

Your hips slam down harder. Faster. The table groans behind you, chairs tipped over, the whole room fogged with heat. Your pace is desperate, frantic now, bouncing on him like your body’s trying to shake the orgasm loose and just can’t, it’s right there, throbbing behind your ribs, rising like a scream in your throat.

He grabs your ass with both hands, squeezing so tight your skin dimples. He thrusts up into you as you come down, meeting you, matching your pace. The slaps are deafening, wet and violent, punctuated by his groans and your cries.

You stay right there, teetering on the edge, shaking, riding him like you’re possessed, your body clenching so tight around his cock he can barely breathe. He’s gritting his teeth, head thrown back, sweat rolling down his temple as he holds out with every scrap of control he has left.

“You keep riding like that—fuck, baby—you’re gonna make me lose my fucking mind.”

Your thighs burn, your knees ache, and you don't care. You're riding him like a demon possessed, like the table under you isn't still rattling from earlier, like your pussy isn't already overstretched, dripping, swollen. You're soaked, hair stuck to your forehead, sweat dripping between your tits, and you’re making noises, wet, raw, ruined things that barely sound human anymore.

Mark is underneath you, flat on his back on the goddamn kitchen floor, staring up at you like you're something he hallucinated. One hand’s braced behind his head, the other’s digging into your ass, fingers spreading you wide as you slam down on his cock. You grind, bounce, twist, your soaked folds catching on every ridge, your clit grinding into his stomach with every rough pass of your hips.

“You’re doing so good,” he breathes, holding your hips steady. “I can feel you shaking, baby—keep going.”

“I c-can’t—” Your words stutter, cracked and breathless, your thighs seizing with every downward slam of your hips. “Mark, I—fuck—oh my God, it’s—”

“You’re crying,” he murmurs, like it breaks him a little. “I’ve got you, baby. Let it out. Let me keep you like this.”

You can’t even deny it. You’re riding him like you’re trying to get bred, like your body wants it, needs to be filled again and again until you're split wide and stuffed full. Your cunt’s fluttering around him with every drag, pulling tight as a fist, milking him even though you haven’t finished yet, and it’s killing him. His mouth drops open, eyes rolling for half a second as he groans deep from his chest, the kind of sound that makes your pussy clench and your nails dig deeper into his chest.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, breathless, eyes fixed on your face. “You’re so full… still taking me so well.”

His hands slide up your sides, grounding, guiding, as he lifts into you with slow, deep precision, just enough to make your breath hitch and your eyes go wide.

He leans in, lips close to your ear now.

“You love this, don’t you? Being mine like this…”

You sob, half from the impact, half from the way it hits just right, slams into that perfect spot inside you that makes your toes curl and your moans break apart into pure noise.

Your whole body’s shaking now, thighs trembling, fingers scrabbling for purchase as you lean over him, your hands splayed wide across his chest. You start to fuck down harder, more erratic, your hips snapping forward, backward, your pussy slapping down with such filthy wet claps that it sounds like you’re getting fucked by a goddamn machine.

“Uhhn—uhh—fuuhck, Mark, I—” You can’t finish. You can’t do anything but bounce and grind and sob into the heat of his skin, your voice breaking every time your clit drags across his abs.

“You’re so close,” he breathes, eyes locked on yours. A soft groan leaves him as he presses in deeper, slower. “You gonna come for me like that? Let me feel all of it?”

His cock’s twitching, veined and thick, buried so deep you can feel him in your stomach, and your body’s barely hanging on. You’re grinding now, desperate, staying down on him, rocking your hips in fast, brutal little circles that send aftershock after aftershock wracking up your spine.

Your orgasm doesn’t sneak up on you. It doesn’t whisper or ask permission. It tears through you, your whole body jerking, back arching, throat ripped open in a raw, high scream. You shake, muscles clenching tight around him, spasming in waves that won’t stop. Your cunt squeezes him so hard he gasps, the sound punched out of him like he’s been hit.

“H-Holy fuck—fuck, fuck—” Mark’s voice is strangled, broken. “I can’t—I’m gonna—fuck, I’m coming—”

He thrusts up once, hard, then locks his arms around your waist and holds you down, keeps you fully seated, his cock buried to the root as he cums with a deep, choked groan that vibrates against your collarbone. You feel it, every hot pulse of it, thick and wet, flooding you, leaking back out around the base of his cock, so much you can feel it running down your thighs.

Your whole body shakes through it, grinding helplessly even as you come down, trying to wring every last drop out of him. His cock twitches inside you, oversensitive, and he moans again, softer, more desperate, his breath panting into your skin.

Collapsed in a tangle of sweat-slick limbs, your chest heaving against his, your cheek squished into the curve of his shoulder. His cock’s still buried inside you, softening slowly, but not all the way, not with how your pussy keeps fluttering, twitching around him like it doesn't know how to let go.

And Mark… groans.

A low, filthy sound from deep in his chest, rumbling against your skin as his hands run up and down your spine. His fingers are gentle now, tracing along your back in lazy circles, slipping beneath the twisted remains of your lingerie. What’s left of it is clinging damp to your ribs, straps twisted under your breasts, the cups skewed like they gave up halfway through. 

He kisses your shoulder. Then your collarbone. The underside of your jaw. Slow, messy, lingering presses of his lips to every bit of exposed skin he can reach without moving you off his chest. You feel his cock twitch again inside you, still, and that makes you laugh. Or sob. Maybe both. Your body doesn’t know the difference anymore.

“God,” he whispers, mouth dragging across the side of your neck, “you’re unreal.” Another kiss. Then one to your cheekbone. One to the tear-track drying near your eye. “You always cry like that when you come that hard?”

You give a weak, breathless whimper of a laugh, twitching when your oversensitive clit drags across the ridge of his pelvis as you shift.

“Shut up,” you mumble, hiding your face in his throat.

He grins against your temple, lips pressed there as he wraps his arms tighter around your waist, still holding you down, still buried inside you.

Then, a beat. A long, drawn-out sigh from both of you.

And softly, he murmurs, “…So… dinner?”

You snort so hard your whole body jumps, and he groans again as your pussy flutters around him, tight and reflexive.

“Fuck, baby,” he mutters. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“I am dinner,” you mumble, voice muffled in his skin.

He pulls back to look at you, brow damp, lips crooked into a cocky, half-sweet, half-devastated smile. “Then dessert’s next. You’re not going anywhere.”

And he means it.

You burst out laughing again, and he winces when your pussy clenches in rhythm with the shake of your body. “I hate you,” you gasp through laughter.

“I love you,” he shoots back, hands cradling your hips. “So much that I’m not even mad about—”

BEEP BEEP BEEP.

“…That.”

You both freeze. Your eyes go wide. His face contorts slowly in horrified realization.

“The oven,” you whisper.

“THE OVEN.”

Suddenly he’s scrambling, trying to lift you without pulling out, which just doesn’t work because he’s still half-hard and you’re still hot and full and every shift sends a wet squelch between your thighs.

You both groan in unison.

“I told you we should’ve just ordered takeout,” you grunt, arms wrapped around his neck.

“And I told you I was starving.”

“Oh my god, you’re impossible—”

You’re laughing so hard you can’t breathe. He carries you anyway, up from the kitchen floor, still buried inside you, both of you dripping down his thighs.

He makes it four steps toward the hallway before he sways and groans. “Okay. Fuck it. Shower first. Or couch. Or floor, again.”

You clutch his shoulders, whimpering when his cock twitches inside you again. “Bed. Bed. Bed or I’m gonna melt.”

“Yeah?” he breathes, voice hoarse. “Good. Melt on me.”

You don’t remember if you make it to the bed, or the couch, or if he fucks you standing in the hallway with your back to the wall, hands tangled in his hair, your panties thrown in the corner.

But dinner definitely burns. And neither of you cares.

[controld3vil]

midnight snack

pairings: yelena belova, bucky barnes , john walker, robert reynolds/sentry, ava starr/ghost, tony masters/taskmaster (comic), alexei shokstakov/red guardian x gn!thunderbolts!reader (separate)

synopsis: You’re one of the stealthiest members and they catch you making a midnight snack.

notes -> ive never written for marvel before!! tags: inaccurate characterization/take it w/ a grain of salt, i have NOT seen the film, reader is part of the thunderbolts, mentions of minor injuries; canon typical violence, reader making midnight snacks (grilled cheese w/ jam, s’mores dipped in peanut, cheesy noodles w/ cream cheese, chip sandwich, mixed cereal, ice cream w/ cookies), headcanons can be seen either platonic/romantic!

YELENA BEVOLA

-> is consciously disturbed by it. she always feared that your name, reputation, and expertise are not something to laugh about. hell, coming from her, that is enough to say you were beyond her level. however, the obscurity of seeing you making a grilled cheese… with jam? that blows her mind out of proportion.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to eat that…” Yelena doesn’t even attempt to hide her disgusted look. What you’re doing is absurd. Even more, she has always respected your name, representing the standard of Hydra operations that they have always been proud of. She had expected to see you in the morning. Instead, she finds you leaning over the counter, cuts, bruises in all, while you were making a sandwich for yourself.

It wasn’t particularly what you were doing that startled her. Yelena has seen you make a variety of sandwiches — the simple turkey club, egg salad, tuna, and all you’ve seemed to master. You always packed pretty lunch boxes for yourself. It was a simple way to stay motivated. But the jam? The thought of combining grilled cheese with sweet strawberry syrup makes her stomach grimace.

You look at your blonde friend steadily. “I’m hungry, though.” You say, unfazed by the abomination you were making. “I didn’t know what else to make.”

“I could think of plenty of things you can make besides that,” She sneers, almost offended by what you created. You shrug, casually, not even caring about Yelena’s persistent glares.

BUCKY BARNES

-> is confused. so confused about your choice in cravings. he’s survived scarce military rations during the war. the food back then was bland and lacked nutrition, but it was all he had during those grueling days of fighting. he’s survived times when food was difficult to salvage. but you, dipping homemade s'mores into peanut butter?

He doesn’t know what to say. What the hell? No. What the fuck? Too much.

“What are you making?” Bucky questions, dragging the last part partially too long as if he was unsure if he should’ve asked or not. The whole scenario was bizarre. Because never would he, Bucky, catch you doing something like this.

You were just like the rest of them, ruthless killers with no place to call home. Yet along the way, you’ve connected and called it friendship. Bucky especially favored you, believe it or not, because of your kind-hearted spirit. 

“I was craving s’mores!” You raised your hands, holding one s’more between your fingers. “But when I bit into it, it tasted like something was missing…” It was almost comical how innocent you looked during this confrontation. You were still in your tactical suit, with your weapons and all. Your face looked vaguely exhausted, with your droopy eyes and smile.

“So you thought peanut butter could fix it?” The ex-Hydra assassin looked in disbelief, unable to piece together how the two could possibly be a good combination.

“It’s actually good if you try it.” You blink before catching Bucky slowly backing away. “Hey! It is good!”

JOHN WALKER

-> looks at you like a disappointed dad. trust me, he’s seen one too many mishaps from his son. he knows kids playing with their food is normal. how many times has he seen his kid splash spaghetti all over the table? the only difference between you is — well, you’re an adult, a very skilled assassin who could make people disappear without a trace.

“Uh— What the hell are you doing?” John walks into the kitchen with squinted eyes. The bright ceiling lights were blinding him, as his eyes were still trying to adjust to the brightness.

“Making dinner?” As you continued to stir the boiling pot of noodles you cooked up. It didn’t look out of the ordinary, you were cooking instant noodles, thinking it was the quickest meal you could make.

“Yeah, I know that,” the super-soldier points to the opened package of American cheese. “But why the hell do you need cheese?” Shortly after, he noticed the jar of cream cheese you had by the boiling pot. What?

“I saw a video online where putting cheese and sour cream in your noodles would taste better.” You explained simply. Because there was no other way to put it. John looks at you with mild disgust, with one eye scrunched and a frown beginning to form. It was as if his expression was saying, “What is wrong with you?”

“Well, does it?”

“I don’t know! So I’m going to try it.”

“You’re insane.” He doesn’t give you the pleasure of giving you a face palm, knowing you would be annoyingly satisfied with his distaste. Instead, he grumbles like any parent would when their child makes a mess. “You better clean up after yourself.”

ROBERT REYNOLDS/SENTRY

-> genuinely curious what you’re up to! he may seem scared at first, but will eventually show that he is more curious, that’s all! he’s never had such a domestic conversation with you before, so don’t be so quick to jump to conclusions! will occasionally ask about your odd cravings, as if they’re not the most grotesque creations you’ve made, but more so to understand you better.

“This is…new.” Bob appears out of the corner of the island table as you grab two plain pieces of bread. He’s become used to you returning around this time, at the dead of night. Most of the time, he’s awake with his mind too occupied to fall asleep. At times, he’s afraid to walk outside his room, not wanting to disturb the rest of the team’s deep slumber. But on particular nights, when he knows you’re coming back from a grueling operation, he waits for you.

“I saw it from someone on YouTube,” you placed the two pieces of toast into the toaster, dialing the heat to medium. Once you confirmed the temperature, you walked towards the cupboard where all the dry snacks were and scanned the selection. “Thought I’d give it a try.”

“Sounds… good.” Bob didn’t know how to respond. He had never had this kind of experience with food before. Food was always prepared for him in a monolithic and minimalistic fashion. The same proportions and items every day. The more he thought about it, it made him feel like a prisoner, a person out of his skin.

So seeing you, being carefree about what to eat, makes him feel something. Not in a bad way, but a strange, warm feeling. Even if you don’t realize it, he’s probably more attached to you than anyone else in the team because of how relaxed you are with him. You don’t throw insults or glare his way. You just exist, treat him as a human being. Make odd-looking meals in front of him like he’s another friend witnessing one of your many creations.

When the timer runs off, you carefully pull the two pieces onto your plate and lay them next to each other. He watches as you open the bag of your preferred chips and place them neatly on one side. With the other piece of toast, you place it on top, putting pressure on the sandwich. He hears the crinkling of the chips as a few pieces fall out. 

It wasn’t the most exquisite-looking meal. But it wasn’t the worst he’s seen.

“Would you like to try?”

AVA STARR/GHOST

-> the only person who tolerates your creative mind. under her tough exterior, ava cares for the people close to her. no matter how broken or messed up they are, she’ll still choose them. including you, so no matter how strange your meals were, she won’t say anything bad. out of the corner of your eye, she’ll give you a strange look, but otherwise she won’t go any further than that. 

“Whatcha got there?” Even you sometimes had to double-check the corners of the room for Ava. She was quick and could faze through walls, the perfect ability for an assassin. However, you’re glad you trusted your intuition, half-expecting her to pop up eventually. Ava does not look as tired as you expected. Rather, she looks oddly calm and relaxed in her casual wear. 

“Cereal,” You plopped one box of Toast Crunch beside you. However, you know she’s eyeing the Coco Puffs sitting next to your bowl. Do you want a sugar rush? 

“That’s a lot of sugar, don’t you think?” The ex-agent nudges playfully, choosing to sit across from you. She rests her elbow on the granite table, leaning her chin onto her palm. 

“I’m a sweet person,” You grin to yourself before momentarily letting out an agonized groan. Your friend stands up, giving you a sympathetic look. “Ah, it’s okay, I’m fine.” 

“You sure?” Ava inspects you with clean precision. The way you hold your tricep meant something more. You were hurt badly. “You may want to lay off the cereal, then. Let me help you get to the medics.” 

You shake your head, insistent on staying where you were. “It’s alright, it’s not that bad.”

“Let me at least look at it first.” She doesn’t leave you a second to refuse. Ava is swift on her toes, grabbing the emergency medical kit on the top shelf. Turning back to you, she fixes you with a gaze, firm yet gentle. “Come on, you have your cereal after I patch you up.” 

TONY MASTERS/TASKMASTER

-> leaves you be. tony isn’t the type of person to barge into your business. but since getting to know you, you’re absolutely certain he’s growing to become comfortable around you. the way he walks over with quiet concern, or offers a slight nod whenever you ask a question. tony is a scarred man, yet somehow you’re able to bring out some kind of softness in him. 

You came home to a quiet kitchen. You hadn’t intended on returning so soon, but due to the nature of your work, sometimes you made choices less advantageous. You’re hurt, bleeding from your head, most likely from a concussion. The medics reaffirmed that you should rest in the meantime. Bucky would not be so pleased to see you so soon. 

You were busy, scooping the last clump of ice cream into your bowl. All day, you couldn’t stop thinking about ice cream, especially cookies and cream, topped with chunks of chocolate chip cookies and syrup. You knew it was a bit of a stretch to add cookies, but your mind was elsewhere already once you added them on top of your dessert. 

Tony was there somewhere the entire time. Whether your mind was too fuzzy or you had no intention of asking why he was standing by the doorway for so long, you didn’t care. All you wanted at that moment was to eat your ice cream in peace. 

Eventually, halfway through your meal, you finally address him. “I know you don’t speak, but you don’t have to just stand there and watch me eat like some animal.” Your eyes lock with his blank mask. You often found yourself talking aloud more around Tony because of his lack of expression. “Come sit.” 

Tony threads out of the shadows like a predator hidden behind the bushes. His steps are intentional, short, and steady. You’ve never seen him out of his suit and mask. It was almost like he wasn’t human, never once allowing his guard down. 

You glance at him, catching the way he’s frozen mid-stepped, scanning you like he’s accessing every wound.

You rub the back of your neck, a hint of embarrassment in your gesture. “It went…bad.” His stillness urged you to go on.. “I didn’t see the bomb. The ceiling came down on me… actually, multiple floors did.” The silence in between your words made the weight of your injuries feel heavier. You glanced back at your ice cream, slowly melting away. 

You feel his hesitancy to move closer, feeling the sense of guilt and frustration through your words. 

“I got checked– they said I needed some rest, that’s all.” You gave a small smile, knowing he could see right through you. Suddenly, the simple act of eating ice cream left an uneasy twist in your stomach. The silence was almost unbearable. You felt you couldn’t look at him properly, knowing now he’s a witness to your failure– your injuries. 

You were careless. Reckless. If you had taken a second longer to search the building, you could’ve avoided the bomb from going off. The more your thoughts consume you, the more you feel bad about yourself. 

Then you spot a vial near the edge of the table, right where Tony stood. However, when you looked around, he was already gone. You pick it up, eyes scanning the bottle.

Pain relief.

ALEXEI SHOSTAKOV/RED GUARDIAN

-> supportive about it! he’s very caring about your well-being, so he doesn’t judge you with whatever you make. as long as you're happy eating it, he’s alright about it. but if there is any chance that he catches you, returning home in a battered state, he will 100% make you a meal. that’s just the dad in him.

“You’re back!” You bring yourself to give him a weak smile, before he engulfs you in a hug. Alexei is one of those people who are naturally affectionate and are not afraid to show it. That’s what you think, at least. 

“I thought you would be asleep by now.” You unlatch yourself from his bear-like grip. The Russian man has started to cook something, which makes you question if he knew you were coming home later tonight. 

“The rest are asleep! But me? No, I could never have you come back on an empty stomach!” Now you see the apron he’s wearing, and the faint smoke coming from the stove. You couldn’t say no now, not while Alexei put all this effort into making you dinner. You owed him big time. 

You found yourself a seat, while the Red Guardian’s back was facing you. Whatever he was making smelled good. It had a rich flavor like barbeque, but better. You hadn’t realized how hungry you were until he placed a plate in front of you. 

“Thanks… Alexei. You didn’t have to.” Your stomach grumbled in protest, weak at the aroma of perfectly grilled skewers, fluffy rice, and tangy pickled vegetables. You caught your teammate’s intense gaze as you grabbed a fork and speared a piece of the meat. 

“Wow, this is good,” 

“Of course it is! I made it!” 

“I didn’t know you could cook.” You pulled the skewers free of the meat, digging in with mouthfuls of rice and tangy vegetables. The warmth settled your hunger. You’re able to sleep tonight. All thanks to Alexei. 

“I’ve been practicing!” he said with a booming laugh, wiping his hands on a clean towel. “It’s my specialty– so you don’t have to make any more of those monstrosities when you get home!”

You paused, looking up at him, surprised. “I thought you liked them!”

“I do, I do! But you know– sometimes I think it’s better to eat real, digestible food.”

[emisluvr]

‎ where they cum ◜ᯅ◝

엔하이픈 ( legal line ) and where they cum ! ⭑ ── wc. 485 ୨ৎ hard headcannons ✧ w. smut ( 18+ mdni! ) , heavy cum play , unprotected p in v ✴︎ requested !

୨୧ heeseung | inside

heeseung finishes inside you. always. he wants to be buried deep in you, holding you close, and groaning the filthiest praises in your ear as his cum spills inside your pussy.

"fuck, doll.. this pussy’s all mine, hm?" he mutters, hips jerking as he pulls out of you, watching his fluids drip out of your throbbing core. his eyes stay locked on the sight, dazed—maybe a little too into it, as he feels tempted to fuck it back inside you.

୨୧ jay | mouth

jay is obsessed with the way you take his cum in your mouth. whether he’s fucking your mouth or your pussy, his favourite place to let go is always your mouth.

"swallow it for me, yeah? be a good girl," he says, voice low as he holds your chin, tilting your head up so you’re looking right at him. you feel his warm load shoot down your throat, and just like he asked—you swallow every drop, sticking your tongue out to prove it.

୨୧ jake | ass

jake can never get enough of spilling himself on the flesh of your ass. something about the way his mess drips down your gorgeous curves drives him insane.

"shit.. you look so good like this, baby," he murmurs, lightly smacking the flesh as he watches his white-clearish load slide down your skin. it trails slowly down the back of your thighs, so filthy and so pretty—and that alone is enough to make him go another round.

୨୧ sunghoon | tits

sunghoon finishing on your tits brings him another level of satisfaction. maybe it’s the way he strokes himself off right before it shoots out, making sure it lands exactly on your chest, or maybe it’s the way his cum drips down your soft skin, gliding over your pretty nipples like it belongs there.

"mm, so pretty with my cum all over them," he utters, watching his thick release paint your breasts. he leans in a little, one hand squeezing your tit as he swipes his thumb across your nipple, dragging his mess along it.

୨୧ sunoo | thighs

sunoo cumming on your thighs is his favourite. he loves how soft and warm they are, and how pretty the mess looks on your delicate skin. he finds joy in watching it drip between your thighs too, just barely missing your pussy on purpose.

"stay just like that, darling.. wanna watch it drip down those pretty thighs," he breathes out, watching his milky streaks leak down your skin and in between your core—the one part you so badly wish he’d make a mess on too.

୨୧ jungwon | stomach

jungwon loves cumming on your stomach. he always notices the little things when he does—like the way your tummy flinches under the warmth of his release, or how good it looks with his mess splattered across the soft skin.

"your belly looks so perfect with my cum on it," he murmurs, eyes fixed on how his spurts paint your flesh, some even dripping into your belly button.

୨ৎ taglist: @murassl, @chuhees, @heebear, @kisuumei, @bangchanwifey, @h0onviv, @kikidoul, @highway-143, @kyanmeai, @nithxhoon, @fdzvie, @hyeinsveil, @curryyed

© emisluvr 2025. all rights reserved.

[a-sky-full-of-ideas]

Disclaimer: I haven’t had gym class in 10 years so it might have changed

It was definitely fun at times, like when we played badminton or table tennis or volleyball ! And you could try out different sports you might have never been able to get an in in! We did capoeira for example!

And I think it’s great that gym class is an option at all just because going to a club etc. is expensive and not every person/family can afford to do so, aka it might be the only time that some kids learn about health and sport etc.

The issue is that this is in no way treated like that, like a health class. Nope! it’s a popularly contest based on your physical abilities! By both the students and the teachers!

Finding teachers who actually built their class on the principles of “every body is at a different level and that is fine and should not be shamed” is so rare!” Someone who created a class on beginner friendly to professional exercises! While managing to convey that there is no need to be ashamed or feel guilty for not being able to keep up, whether that is bc someone has never trained like that or because of a mental or physical disability.

Teachers that shut down mean comments or “jokes”, who actually take time to give individual tips while also making sure everybody understands you can always go back to the basics and that health and physical ability is just as fluctuating as life and that’s fine! Some days you can run 8 rounds and some you barely make 2 and then next time you’ll make 6! It’s fine it’s not that serious!

Also there is usually a pronounced misogyny in the class: it’s always about how you built teams “girls vs boys” “noo girls are too weak no boys are to aggressive” idk it could be such a weird mood at times.

And some are clearly using this class as an anger management class, which is fine but that should be taken serious by giving them actual options and making it clear to direct it at the right target (aka NOT other students)

TLDR: basically PE is a health class, that should shame free showcase how health is fluctuating and how you can accommodate and individualise exercises to fit it ever time! Instead it’s a hot or not show.

I remember skipping my 4th hour class nearly every day for the second semester one year because my 4th hour was gym first semester and I could go there and play and run and have fun because the teachers thought I was still in the class.

I loved gym class so much, more than any other class, including art class.

[azzibueckers5]

i want you to need me (need to want something more)

(ao3 link) (read iwkpa first) (wc: ~9k)

five times paige bueckers curses azzi fudd's entire existence and generally wants to die, and one time she curses azzi fudd's entire existence but for really awesome reasons this time so it's chill.

chapter 1 (of 2): in which paige is down horrendous. like horrendously horrendous

AN: hi hello looky here, i did indeed write more of these idiots. enjoy angtsy paige as promised. i swear the second chapter will make up for it. i hope. i smoked a joint by myself and listened almost exclusively to waiting room while writing the majority of this... so that's your warning in terms of angst levels and editing levels lmfao i'm sorry <3 (also there's a BRIEF mention of religious guilt but its like so super light- but if you're worried at all just message me)

1. june 2020, arlington, virginia

the dc humidity is stifling as paige races up the last stretch of asphalt after azzi and turns up the driveway to the fudd’s house, breathing heavily and trying to muster up enough remaining energy to catch the younger girl in the last stretch of their run.

the air is heavy around them, thick with an incoming summer storm, and paige doesn’t even have the breath to groan aloud when azzi’s finger’s graze the basketball hoop’s post at the top of the driveway a second before her own, their designated finish line. 

“i win again, fuck you,” azzi wheezes, the pride in her voice still audible even through her heavy breathing.

paige’s eyes do not catch on the strip of skin exposed between her waistband and the bottom of her shirt when she pulls her arms up to rest them on her head. they do not. 

she slaps at azzi’s leg half heartedly and attempts to keep both the fatigue and petulance out of her voice when she whines, “you cheated- grabbed my back when we turned up the hill.” 

they both know that paige was already losing. 

azzi doesn’t dignify it with a response, and only shoves her leg back in retaliation, which. rude. 

“so hot out. wish it would start raining already,” is what she says instead, and it's a testament to how long their run was that she’s not fighting the cheating allegations. 

paige grunts in agreement and hunches over, hands on her knees, trying simultaneously to catch her breath and also valiantly to ignore the sight of azzi stripping off her tank top in her periferal. and then she discovers that if she leans over far enough, her ponytail will fall over her eyes and she can inconspicuously ogle azzi from behind strands of her hair. 

delightful.

she’s too busy letting her eyes roam across the smooth, taut skin of azzi’s stomach that’s being revealed and involuntarily tracing the sweat droplets on her abdomen to notice that azzi throws the damp shirt at paige’s head, until it hits the side of her face and drops to the ground next to her foot. 

it takes a concerning amount of strength for paige to not reach down, bring the teal material to her face, and do something entirely insane like inhale it. or worse, lick it, which she’s pretty sure isn’t something you’re supposed to want to do when confronted with your best friend’s sweaty work out top. 

belatedly, she says “ew azzi, that’s nasty it’s all sweaty,” and hopes the disgust in her voice is convincing. she wishes azzi’s sweat was as repulsive as she’s trying to make it seem, but instead it just makes her desperately want to put her mouth on the places that produce it. 

there might be something wrong with her. probably.

and then azzi’s head tilts, in the way that almost always leads to trouble, “yeah?” 

and paige’s disgust was either too convincing and azzi feels like being a shithead, or not convincing enough and still azzi feels like being a shithead but for entirely different reasons, because the brunette smirks, and proceeds to wipe a hand across the moisture on her abdomen and then shove it in paige’s face.

paige wants to die. like genuinely. death. drowning. incineration. a bolt of lightning perhaps. 

instead, she shrieks, catching azzi’s wrists in her hands, and tries to shove her sweaty forehead into azzi’s neck, wrestling with her hands to get one free and lift her own shirt up to wipe the damp material across azzi’s side. 

they’re both squealing, giggling in between indignant grunts, and the struggle lands them pushed up against the plastic of the garage door with a thud, paige pinning azzi’s hips to the surface with her own. 

and this. backfired. a little bit. because now she’s pressing a sweaty, wriggling, half naked azzi against a hard surface. with her own body. 

her brain whites out for a second, and azzi must notice because she takes advantage of her hesitation to do anything and flips them, wiping her face down paige’s arm. 

and paige isn’t like, turned on by that, but she’s not not turned on either. what the fuck.

she can’t even come up with retaliation, too focused on how close they are and how warm azzi is, and the feeling of her skin pressed up against paige’s, and. she’s going a little bit insane, she thinks.

azzi stills then, too, at paige’s non-reaction, and then they’re just staring at each other, hands still gripping each other’s in a now forgotten attempt at defense, air thick with more than just the humidity. 

they stand there for a second, just looking, chests heaving, and paige isn’t going to kiss azzi, obviously, that would be stupid, but she’s certainly thinking about it, and.

and then thunder claps, loud, above them, warning of an imminent downpour, and azzi jumps away from paige like she’s been burned, stumbling backwards. 

her face is contorted, a little shocked, like she doesn’t know what just came over her. paige wishes she knew the feeling, but unfortunately she knows all too well what just came over her. 

her head falls back against the garage door, arms going limp, and she watches, dazed, as azzi disappears into the house, calling out something about how winners get to take the first shower over her shoulder, the screen door banging behind her.

she lets out a groan loud enough to be mistaken for another roll of thunder and wonders how long this silly crush she has will continue to torment her. 

this awkwardness– usually the result of paige getting to close, touching too much– has been happening more often recently, ever since she eagerly embraced the fudd family’s hospitality to let her stay with them through quarantine. 

if she’s honest with herself, which she usually isn’t, the tension has always been there, she’s just now letting herself notice it more, and she wishes– especially in instances like this when azzi gets particularly close to letting paige cross lines before shoving her away– that she’d never let herself pay attention to it all. 

because it aches a little bit, in a masochistic, addictive sort of way, the exhaustion of having azzi close in every way but one– the one she only lets herself think about in the darkness of the middle of the night, with azzi’s slow breathing only inches away. 

she wonders when, if ever, she’ll have the courage to do something about the way her stomach flips when azzi smiles at her a little too long, or the way her fingers tingle when azzi grabs her hand during movie nights. 

she knows the other girl like the back of her hand though, knows that she isn’t ready yet, doesn’t know if she’ll ever even be ready, so she shoves her fascination with azzi’s sweat into the corner of her mind labeled things i shouldn’t think about and presses a hand to her forehead, hard, trying to physically force it back. 

she stays outside long after azzi disappears, body cooling all the way off, and doesn’t follow her until the rain starts, until the water droplets pour down onto her and cruelly wash away the traces of azzi’s sweat from her skin.

2. november 2022, storrs, connecticut

paige has had maybe the worst day ever. 

okay not really, but certainly the worst day she’s had in a while. she’s not dramatic enough to say it beats that one in august, the scar on her knee is too heavy a reminder of that, but it’s up there, just mundane enough to be brutal in the quieter ways, the ones that add up.  

it had started, this morning, when instead of waking to the movement of azzi disentangling herself from paige’s comforter, the blonde had been jerked awake by the sounds of jana and ice bickering, loudly, outside her door and an empty left side of the bed. 

azzi and her had fought the night before– nothing big, just a flare up of irritation that happened sometimes when they spent too much time together– and she’d left their weekly movie night early instead of curling up against paige’s pillows and falling asleep like usual, leaving a lingering annoyance over paige’s mood already. 

so, naturally, she’d started her day in shitty spirits, and they’d only worsened through a particularly brutal PT session. 

and then she’d had to sit through a team meeting preparing for an upcoming game that she’d spend sitting, uselessly on the bench, had gotten a paper back with a less than stellar grade, and had been caught in the rain on her walk back from the dining hall with nika. 

all she wants to do now is to wallow in self pity, make azzi cheer her up, and tuck herself into her favorite spot between the brunette’s head and shoulder and let her hands in paige hair wash away the day. 

they’d made up from the night before at practice this morning, when paige had been incessantly annoying, throwing basketballs at azzi’s shots during warm ups until she’d dropped her stupid ignoring paige act, and she’s looking forward to finally unwinding in front of one of the only people she’s ever been vulnerable in front of. 

azzi hasn’t responded to paige’s text about coming over by the time she gets out of the shower, but she doesn’t really care, too sulky to wait for her to be done with her homework or whatever she’s deemed more important than tending to paige’s ego, and she trudges down the hallway and up the stairs between their suites with more drag in her feet than usual. 

caroline is sitting on the couch when paige barges in, and she looks surprised to see paige here, which is odd considering she spends equal time in this apartment as she does her own, but paige ignores the hesitancy on her face in favor of starting down the hall, too tired to care. 

but then caroline says “ wait, no,” shrilly, a little panicked, when paige makes it about halfway through the living room after a muttered hello, and stands up off the couch, as if she needs to physically interrupt her movements. 

and that stops paige in her tracks, because what.

“bruh- what,” paige bites out, and if it's a little rude, sue her. “azzi’s here, right?”

caroline hesitates. “yes, but-”

but paige isn’t listening, and caroline will understand, anyways, that paige really just needs azzi right now, so she cuts the brunette off, mumbling “kay, catch you later,” before walking the short rest of the way down the hall and to azzi’s door.

she can hear caroline protesting behind her, more urgently, but paige is having none of it, and pushes open azzi door without knocking. 

and stops short. 

there is a boy in azzi’s room. 

there is a boy on azzi’s bed . 

in paige’s spot. on azzi’s bed. 

there is a boy in azzi’s room on azzi’s bed sitting next to azzi, touching azzi’s thigh. 

paige feels like she might throw up. 

“oh- i’m. oh-” is all she gets out, as azzi jumps off the bed like she’s been burned, the stupid boy’s hand falling limply off her leg in the process. 

“paige! what’re you- hi- what’re you doing here?” she says, eyes wide and flustered, like she’s been caught. 

because she has, a little bit. they don’t exactly talk about the people they hook up with, but paige usually has some semblance of idea on what azzi is doing, enough to know when she needs to let nika get her uproariously drunk, or call drew for a couple hours to take her mind off things. 

they also don’t really ever bring people back to their rooms– in the rare event paige is feeling particularly horny, she’ll always go to a girl’s room, never bringing them back to hers. because her room is her and azzi’s space, and she’d kinda thought azzi’s room was too, seeing as the brunette had never brought anyone back either. until now, of course. 

on a fucking random thursday evening. fuck.

paige is reeling, and the entire day’s worth of shitty events comes crashing down on her. 

“m’sorry- sorry i was just- i’ll just-” she flips a finger over her shoulder at caroline behind her and backs slowly out of the doorframe, trying to stave off the tears welling in her eyes until she’s alone.

“wait, p, are you- are you okay?” asks azzi, hands wringing together in front of her. she looks torn, and paige is genuinely offended that this mediocre boy is enough to even hold a candle to her, enough to make azzi glance back and forth between the two of them like they hold equal weight in her life.

stupid-ugly-boy has been entirely silent throughout this horrifically awkward interaction, head moving between the two of them in uncomfortable confusion, and paige really wants to kick his face in. 

instead, she mumbles out a “no yeah- i’ll just. come back later,” and her voice sounds shaky. what the fuck.

azzi tilts her head and asks, imploringly, “you sure?” and paige almost wants to just break down right then and there, and cry about physical therapy and the rain and her stupid knee and her stupid paper and how this fucking guy messing everything up, but she glances at ugly-stupid-boy still sitting on azzi’s bed, and nods once, before turning on her heel. 

“m’sure. see you like- tomorrow. or whatever.” 

her voice doesn’t crack, which is something, and she hears azzi ask again but she’s already halfway back down the hallway, speeding past caroline and her pitying expression to get the fuck away from whatever is about to happen in azzi’s room. 

she pauses once she gets outside their apartment’s door for a second, half expecting azzi to be right behind her with a dismissive excuse for ugly-stupid-boy and soothing words for paige, because azzi always knows when she’s upset, always prioritizes fixing it, but when she realizes after five seconds that azzi isn’t coming, she starts down the hallway and lets the tears begin to fall.

she hasn’t cried over azzi in months, ever since she decided that she was going to have to be fine with being just friends, just best friends, that it was enough, but by the time she gets back to her room, she’s full on sobbing, and she collapses down onto her bed, muffling her cries into the st. john's basketball sweatshirt that azzi had left two days ago when she’d been there for a movie night and had ended up sleeping over. 

she doesn’t even have the right to be upset, not really, and this somehow makes it hurt worse. 

because azzi and her weren’t dating– weren’t anything– and she didn’t owe paige an explanation for what she did with her life, her body. even if it was with really stupid ugly boys. especially then. 

her heart feels like it's been hit with a hammer anyways, though, and she takes back the thought that she’d had earlier– that she wasn’t dramatic enough to say this was the worst day ever– because this was now officially tied with the day she’d torn her acl. 

at least that had had a fix- a surgery, and a rehab regimen, and doctors telling her how to get better, get stronger. she even had a return date, a definitive end to the injury, even if it was far off. 

but this feeling in her chest, the absolute panic coursing through her veins? there was no doctor that could cure it, and no timeline on when it would get better. 

she was starting to think it never would.  

…

paige must fall asleep like that, curled around azzi’s sweatshirt crying, because she wakes to the feeling of azzi pulling the hoodie out of her arms. 

she blinks blearily up at her, eyes puffy and disoriented, and she hates herself a little bit for immediately noticing how soft and pretty azzi looks in the dim light of the room.

“can i-” is azzi’s sheepish, whispered question, gesturing down at paige’s arms. 

even in her sluggish state, she knows she should say no. even in normal friendship circumstances, crawling into each others beds after having sex with other people is considered fucking weird. 

but paige is a weak, sad, little idiot, and she does not say no. she nods instead, and azzi visibly sighs in relief, before slipping into paige’s arms like she has a thousand times before and tangling their legs. 

and paige’s heart hurts, because how dare azzi seek her out after breaking it so casually. and how dare her dumbass self let her. 

she doesn’t know why she asks, but she can’t stop the question once it pops into her head, and she waits a few moments, like maybe if long enough time passes azzi will fall asleep and she won’t have to hear the answer, and then:

“did you- did you fuck him?” she whispers, and the word fuck comes out harsh, vulgar. 

azzi stiffens in her arms, and there’s silence for a few beats, before she exhales a quiet “ paige,” and it’s answer enough. 

it cuts deep, so, so deep, and paige should cry, and yell, and kick azzi out of her bedroom, because that’s not fair , that she gets to sleep with other people and then come crawling back to paige, traces of someone else’s hands all over her, but instead she just inhales quietly against the stinging behind her eyes.

she shifts them on the bed, so azzi is curled up with her head on paige’s chest, and tilts her head back so the younger girl won’t be able to feel her tears when they inevitably fall.

and as azzi drifts off, paige wonders what her last straw will be, because she’s creeping closer and closer to the point of no return, the heartbreak of no return. 

she’s weak for azzi though, knows she’ll let the girl do almost anything, and as she lies awake, tears dripping quietly, uncomfortably into her ears, she knows she’ll always let azzi come crawling back, always give her whatever she wants. 

it’s not at all a comforting thought.

3. april 2025, tampa, florida

the music in the hotel suite they opted to turn into an impromptu after party is just on the side of loud called obnoxious , but paige can’t bring herself to give a fuck when azzi is singing along to the song emphatically next to her, smile wide and notes slightly off key as she tries to drag paige in closer to dance with her. 

her hair is damp from the earlier spray of champagne, and there’s confetti stuck to her forehead, and paige thinks she’s the most beautiful woman that's ever graced the earth. 

and she knows they’re both like, really, truly, exceptionally drunk, but she really hopes she’ll remember this moment in the morning: her and azzi, tangled together on the dance floor, pure joy splashed across the brunettes face, their teammates in various stages of hammered around them, champagne still flowing and laughter echoing through the room. 

she feels like she’s on cloud nine, like nothing could pull her down from  the high of the natty, and azzi’s unwavering attention, and her beautiful, strong, pretty hands that are tangled in the net still dangling from paige’s neck. 

when people start winding down (see: caroline carrying kk upstairs, and ice and jana passing out on the couch in the corner), paige and azzi drag themselves off to paige’s room. 

and in her haze, paige doesn’t really know why, but they stay tangled together on their waltz to the elevators, and in the elevators, and then back down the hall towards the room, and when paige almost trips over the door frame after fumbling with the key card, azzi laughs so hard she almost causes them both to crash to the ground, and.

and azzi’s laughter is still the best sound she’s ever heard– and she’s heard the buzzer at the end of a national championship game win– and paige really wants to taste it. 

and then. and then she is tasting it because she’s kissing azzi, wide and messy and giddy. 

and azzi’s kissing back, she’s kissing paige back, and this is definitely the best day of paige’s life, no doubt about it. 

they stumble through the door into the main room, bumping into the dresser in their insistence upon staying attached to eachother, but paige can’t be bothered to actually pay attention to where they’re going because she’s kissing azzi, and azzi’s hands are underneath her shirt on her stomach and her hands are in azzi’s hair– and holy fuck.

azzi makes a needy little noise in the back of her throat when paige tugs at her shirt, and their lips part for a second so she can yank it off, and paige wants that noise imprinted in her mind forever . 

she tosses the offending material behind her just as azzi turns around and launches herself onto the bed, giggling all the way, and paige takes a second, in her absolutely sloshed state, to appreciate the sight of a happy, half naked azzi climbing off balance onto the bed and waiting to be kissed, just as giddy as paige is. 

she’s so pretty. and she’s waiting for paige to come and kiss her, and fuck.

this is even better than raising the trophy over their heads, even better than cutting the net. 

and then azzi whines out a needy “ paige,” and she scrambles to follow, because what the princess wants, the princess gets. 

she giggles aloud at that thought– and then realizes when azzi makes an indignant noise that it hadn’t been just a thought but she’d said it out loud too. oops.

azzi pulls paige down on top of her the second she gets close, and she falls, limbs knocking and tangling in an unfortunate manner, but then their mouths are melding together again and paige doesnt care at all that her leg is trapped because they’re kissing . 

she moves her mouth down for a second, just to suck a mark into the skin of azzi’s chest, and azzi moans into her ear, and jesus christ. paige is overwhelmed. she pulls her head back with a nip of her teeth, and the sight of the darkened skin, red and angry and proof that azzi is hers, is enough to make her throb in her sweats. 

she surges back up to kiss azzi again when the younger girl's hands tangle in her hair, tugging like she’s just as needy for it as paige is, and.

and she doesn’t mean to– really, she doesn’t– but she’s still riding the high of the game, and azzi is spread out underneath her, clad in only a sports bra and sweats, kissing her, and there’s so much champagne running through her veins, and so much skin to put her mouth on and. she just loves azzi so, so much that she has to tell her. 

“fuck, az. love you- love you so much,” she mumbles, pressing the words into azzi’s neck, and dragging her tongue across her collarbone. “m’so in love with you,” she adds, almost as an afterthought. 

it seems like something azzi should know, probably, since it's so awesome and they’re kissing . 

except– azzi stiffens.

“no p, shhhhh– why’d you ruin it, c’mere,” azzi slurs, lazily, one hand pressing over paige’s mouth, and. 

and paige's heart cracks in her chest. 

she pulls back and blinks down at azzi, trying to come up with a coherent response while her mind catches up to the reality of what she’s just said.

“wha’” she says dumbly, at a loss, white noise suddenly filling her ears. 

“can we just. can this just be kissing– i don’ wanna complicate…” azzi trails off, and then when paige says nothing, tries to drag her in for another kiss, eyes unfocussed.

paige lets her, for a second, before her mind catches up to it, and then she jerks her face back, trying to ignore the keening noise azzi makes when she does, because. 

because she’s just told azzi she was in love with her, and the response had been don’t ruin it. she wanted to die.

“azzi, i can’t–” 

she frowns, eyebrows drawing up comically, and has the audacity to sound annoyed. “why not?”

paige cannot do this right now.

“can we just– can we just talk about this in the morning?” she asks, voice cracking on the last word. at azzi’s grumpy huff, she adds, a little desperate, “azzi, promise me we’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

and azzi must be really drunk, because her eyes are drooping, but she agrees. “yeah, promise, p.”

paige doesn’t believe her, doesn’t even know why she wants to talk about it in the morning anyways, but as she glances down at the mark, now taunting, that stares up at her from azzi’s collarbone, dread settles heavy in her gut.

“go to sleep, az,” she whispers, and tucks a curl behind her ear.

“‘kay,” she replies, sleepily, drunkenly, and paige thinks fuck.

and she doesn’t know how that started and ended so fast— they were barely in the elevator like ten minutes ago— but paige feels her whole world come crashing down. 

and when azzi falls asleep almost instantly, half on paige’s side of the bed, curls tangled and face peaceful, like she didn’t just shatter paige’s whole entire heart, paige thinks that this might be the thing that finally kills her. 

she’s still drunk, so drunk, and the room is spinning from the liquor and blurring from the tears. 

she tries to muster up sleepiness that won’t come, tries to shut down the searing panic that’s thrumming through her, but the only coherent thought in her head is fuckfuckfuckfuck.

she’d known, on a deeper level, that azzi probably didn’t feel the same, but the way she’d been looking at paige recently, they ways she’d clung to her tonight, the way they’d just been fucking making out , it had made paige think, just maybe, that she’d had a chance, that maybe azzi’d felt it too.

but now she knows, with certainty, from the way azzi had callously rejected her, that azzi didn’t feel the same. 

if her entire body wasn’t so paralyzed with dread, she thinks she would probably throw up.

eventually, on what should be the happiest day of her life so far, championship net still tangled around her neck, dreams achieved, and the love of her miserable life next to her, she falls asleep crying. 

because she knows, with all the drunk certainty in the world, that this has fucked them up, fucked paige up, in a way that will be impossible to fix.

the taste of champagne on azzi’s lips and the echo of the words why’d you ruin it follow her into her dreams. 

and when azzi is gone when she wakes up, she’s not even surprised.

4. april 2026, indianapolis, indiana

the arena is deafening with the wrong crowd’s noise, almost suffocating, sky blue and yellow confetti falling around the sea of people on the court, as paige watches in despair as ucla celebrates their thorough defeat of uconn in the national championship.

the huskies had barely stood a chance, in all honesty. sarah had gotten hurt in the semis- a strained ligament after a particularly hard fall in the paint that didn’t pose serious long term concerns but had sidelined her for today’s game, and kk hadn’t been able to clear concussion protocol after a hard hit during the first quarter. 

which left azzi, and the rest of uconn, limping through what would otherwise be a quite competitive match, and just trying to not get blown out. 

azzi had played spectacularly too, in paige’s deeply biased but correct opinion, keeping it close enough to not be embarrassing and racking up 33 points and 4 steals. 

but it hadn’t been enough, and even from a hundred feet away, without having talked in months, paige could see how upset azzi was, how hard this loss would be felt. 

it made her want to bundle azzi up in her arms and hide her from the rest of the world– tuck her away and talk her down from the spiral that paige knew with certainty her brain was already starting to spin. 

except she doesn’t have that privilege anymore, and it was killing her. 

she’d sat with nika and a couple other ex teammates, so they get to go down onto the floor to give consolatory hugs and apologies, but by the time paige gets through kk and geno and all the other people who want to talk to her, azzi has already disappeared into the tunnel. 

caroline takes one look at paige’s faraway gaze following the back of azzi’s head, and shoves her towards the entrance. “go find her. gonna be the only one who gets through to her anyways.”

and it should be reassuring, that caroline thinks paige is still the right person to go after her, but it only adds to the pool of dread in her stomach. regardless, though, with a pat on nika’s shoulder, paige slips away into the tunnel, knowing without a doubt that azzi is hiding in an empty room somewhere, trying to compose herself enough to talk to the media. 

she ducks into three different doorways with no sign of the brunette, before coming across an empty office, lights off but an achingly familiar back profile visible through the window in the door. 

paige pauses, hesitating. a year ago, she wouldn’t miss a beat, would already be next to azzi telling her a stupid joke and trying to get a smile out of her, but she’s not sure azzi wants that from her anymore. paige hasn’t exactly been a stellar friend, avoiding alumni events and dodging texts, and the guilt is suffocating. 

still though, azzi is hurting, and paige will never be able to sit and watch her be upset without at least trying to do something about it.

cautiously, she raps her knuckles against the doorframe, before pushing in, not waiting for azzi to turn around. 

she does a double take when she turns enough to see that it's paige, and her heart breaks in her chest at how surprised she looks that it's the blonde, and how upset she looks at the loss.  

they stare at each other for a second, and it's almost awkward– a reminder of the last year that's aged them and driven them apart– and paige’s heart constricts. azzi looks so tired. 

she doesn’t know why she says it, why she thinks it will be funny, but she makes a pathetic attempt at breaking the tense silence by blurting “miss me out there?” and immediately regrets it. 

azzi’s face falls, cautious expression morphing into blatant hurt, and she curls in on herself. and fuck. paige is really stupid. 

“no, azzi, i didn’t-” she stutters out.

and then without thinking, with only the visceral need to comfort the younger girl running through her, paige closes the space between them in three steps and wraps her arms around azzi, one hand cupping the back of her head and nestling azzi into her neck. 

and then they’re hugging, and azzi relaxes into her, curling so tightly together that maybe they’ll be able to forget about the distance of the last year.

“m’really proud of you,” she presses into azzi’s hair. “still the best shooter in the nation, forreal.”

“i still lost ,” comes the response, ever the pessimist. 

“not your fault. played better than last year, even, and you were the mop .” 

paige pauses, assessing the mood, and then adds, still into azzi’s hair, “gonna go number one next week, az. i just know it. dc’ll love you. they already do.”

“maybe, but i’d probably pick lauren, cause y’know, she won,” she protests, and paige can feel the tears soaking the collar of her t-shirt. 

“hey.” 

she gently tugs azzi’s head back and out of her shoulder to look at her for a second, faces close. 

which is a mistake, because now they’re inches apart and azzi is so beautiful, even crying like this, and paige has missed her so badly, but she needs to make sure azzi believes the next words out of her mouth. 

“if they don’t pick you, they’re fuckin’ stupid, okay?” she reassures, wiping a thumb under azzi’s eye. 

she inhales shakily but nods, and paige can’t resist adding “besides. either way you’re still gonna lose to me in the league,” with a lopsided smile.

azzi collapses back into her, with a weak groan, laugh muffled into paige’s shoulder, and it sounds more like a sob, actually, but it’s something , and paige just tries to hold her, tries to lessen the pain with physical touch alone. 

the last time they’d been this close without awkwardness had been almost exactly a year ago, and they’d been kissing, and. 

paige forcefully shut down those thoughts. she has azzi here, in her arms, and she isn’t going to waste it. she closes her eyes and tries to memorize the feeling of azzi’s strong body pressed up against her, the tickle of her curls against paige’s neck, the grip of her fingers against the back of paige’s shirt, the way she smelled, still sweaty from the game. 

because she doesn’t know if she’ll ever get this again, have azzi this close.

they’re quiet for a bit, just breathing each other in. 

and then azzi mumbles “i’m really mad at you,” into her shoulder, in lieu of all the distance between them, the awkwardness that they both know is paige’s fault, and guilt floods her senses.

paige thinks azzi can’t possibly be more mad at her than she is at herself.

“yeah,” she breathes out. “i know,” and tightens her hold. 

she wants to apologise, to get on her knees and beg for forgiveness and convince azzi to forgive her, to let her back in. that leads to hurt, though, so instead, she just grips her a little harder, like maybe telepathically she can convince azzi how much she misses her, how much the last year has fucking sucked.

the seconds tick by, and paige hopes that this is as healing for azzi as it is hurting for herself. 

and then a staff member paige doesn’t recognize comes barrelling into the room, shattering the sanctuary of peace that they’ve carved out, and azzi wrenches herself from away paige’s grasp, face wet and hands shaking.

“oh- i’m so sorry- i didn’t realize…” the woman trails off, seemingly processing that she’d just interrupted azzi fudd and paige bueckers.  

azzi wipes at her eyes frantically, and stutters out “no it’s um- it’s fine i think i have to go do press,” before darting out of the room with only a glance back at paige, eyes wide and expression weary. 

and then she’s just. gone. 

the woman looks between paige’s stock still position and the space by the door that azzi just fled from and starts profusely apologizing, but paige cuts her off with a gruff “its fine,” and the woman stops, before nodding and radiply following azzi out the door.

and then its just paige, and the lingering scent of azzi’s hair, and the ghost of her touch in this fucking empty office. 

she wishes, often, that she could hate azzi, because it would make this whole thing easier. but this is only a reinforcement of how she will never be able to do that, will probably spend the rest of her life loving her and missing the feeling of them pressed together. 

she stays in the room for ten more minutes, trying to compose herself, and when she’s more emotional for the rest of the day than she otherwise would be, she just blames it on ucla.

5. july 2026, dallas, texas

sometimes, on her darkest days, when she wakes up with azzi’s phantom touch on her face or her laugh still ringing in her ears, paige wonders if loving azzi as much as she does, without reciprocation, is her punishment for being gay, because it aches a thousand times worse than any injury she's ever had to endure. it's the kind of hurt that feels like it has to be caused by some higher power, has to be some sort of eternal damnation. 

this morning is one of those days, and she wakes with the echo of azzi’s name on her lips, only to be reminded of the harsh reality of her empty dallas apartment upon opening her eyes. 

she sighs, long-sufferingly, into her pillows, who offer her no advice, and resigns herself to another hollow day. 

there is no part of her, anymore at least, that struggles with her relationship with god and her sexuality– ironically enough it had been azzi that had talked her through her guilt-induced panic attacks during high school– but the feeling of punishment still lingers, occasionally, like maybe god was spiteful that she’d always worship azzi just a tiny bit more. 

she sighs again, this time to her ceiling, which remains as mockingly adviceless as her pillows, and counts to three in her head before dragging herself out of bed to get ready for practice. 

basketball is usually a sure bet at a good distraction, but today, they’re prepping for the next three games. 

which means they’re prepping for the mystics. 

which means paige has to see azzi’s fucking perfect (face) shooting form seventeen different times, and endure sideways glances from everyone in the room, as if knowing that azzi would be here, in dallas, in a weeks time wasn’t nauseating enough as is without everyone pitying her. 

only dijonai and arike knew the gut wrenching truth: that they had been neither lovers nor strictly just friends, but something worse, in the middle, just teetering on the knife’s edge that was more , until paige had knocked them off balance and the blade had eventually sliced through her head and heart and cut her open, leaving azzi with only a few knicks

the team was still aware, though, that they were on less than stellar terms– probably thought they were exes like the rest of the fucking world– but that didn’t spare paige from having to offer up intel, as coach had put it, on slowing her down 

(her quiet loyalty to azzi has no limits, it seems, because she only offers up a meager statement about the shooting guard occasionally favoring her left leg, which isn’t even really true anymore.  not that paige paid enough attention to azzi’s games to notice that progress. at all.)

film, evidently, drags by, and even the abnormal amount of stupid jokes from dijonai isn’t enough to distract paige from the miserable anticipation of having azzi in the same city. 

practice afterwards is even worse, somehow, and paige is uncharacteristically sloppy, getting told on three separate occasions to lock in. 

she lets arike trail after her when she hits the weight room instead of the showers, if only because she doesn’t have the energy to protest, and prays that the older girl, who has become something of a mentor, and who at least somewhat understands the predicament, leaves paige to her thoughts. 

surprise, surprise, her prayers go unanswered, and she makes it barely three reps into her chest presses before arike breaks the weighted silence.

“you can’t go on like this forever, p. you know that,” is her really chill, lightweight conversation starter. always to the point. 

“dunno what you’re talking about,” she says, stubbornly, sulkily. 

arike doesn’t even glance up from her own rack, like paige’s denial doesn’t deserve a response, before sighing.

“i’m talkin bout you barely being able to say the name of a girl you haven’t spoken to in months, haven’t been alone with in a year.”

paige resists the urge to tell her that, actually, paige had been alone with her in april, and it had hurt so badly to be that close to azzi that she’d nearly fled the state that night. it probably won’t help her case. 

“i can say azzi’s name. i just don’t like to.” her voice comes out relatively smooth, and paige mentally pats herself on the back.

“you grippin’ the bar so hard i’m worried you gon’ snap it in half.”

whatever. at paige’s stubborn silence, she continues. 

“look. i get it, okay, i do. but you need to at least try and move on. take advantage of what’s left of the break. take a pretty girl out on a date-”

“ rike-” paige starts to protest, but is ignored.

“you don’t have to marry her, paige. you don’t even gotta kiss her. but this sulking thing has got to stop.”

“i’m not sulking,” she says. not at all in a tone of voice that could potentially be mistaken for sulking. 

arike just raises an eyebrow. “i have a friend, jadyn, she’s cool. used to hoop. she’s asked about you before, definitely your type. lemme set you up, please. if not for your sake then the rest of us who’ve had to watch you mope since you got here.”

“how do you know what my type even is,” paige says, stubbornly. 

arike lets the bar fall out of her hands post-squat with a loud thump, before beginning to gather her things. mockingly, she asks, “do you want me to answer that?”

paige does not. she switches gears. “i’m not moping.”

unimpressed, arike squirts some water from her gatorade bottle down at paige as she walks by in response. “yeah, sure. just think about it, okay? baby steps.”

…

paige contemplates arike’s offer on the drive home, and in the shower, and even throughout her automated, rather lacking post shower routine. 

the last time she’d hooked up with someone had been a few months after the natty. paige had been hammered after a win with dijonai, had tried to take a random girl home from the bar, and had proceeded to call the poor girl azzi while they were making out against the door of her apartment. it had been as disastrous as you’d expect, and paige hadn’t tried since. 

she hopes, maybe, that the older girl has dropped it, and paige won’t have to either awkwardly shut it down again, or worse, suffer through a date with an unsuspecting stranger. but then as she’s pulling on a pair of sweats, her phone lights up in front of her with a text from the devil herself. 

arike: im sending jadyn your number, pleaseeee just give it a shot. 

she sighs, and glances at the mirror across from her. even now, a year since being anything remotely azzi’s, she still looks at herself and only sees traces of the younger girl. 

her third piercings that she’d let azzi coax her into (she had been staunchly against it until azzi had said, casually, “it’ll be hot” and paige had agreed in a matter of milliseconds.)

her hair, damp from her shower, smelling like the shampoo paige had been using since freshman year at uconn because azzi had said it smelled nice once. 

even her t-shirt, subconsciously chosen out of her drawer, was the color blue that azzi had said matched her eyes. 

it was ridiculous, after all this time, all this silence– silence that was paige’s doing– how firmly intertwined azzi still was in her life. her claws were still buried in paige’s whole being, dug just as deep as they’d ever been. to be fair, she’d never actually tried to dislodge them, beyond the whole no speaking thing, but still. 

she knows that probably needs to change, knows that part of the reason for putting distance between them was so that eventually paige could think about her without a knife between her ribs, but the thought of moving on feels wrong. even the idea of changing her fucking shampoo feels like a step too far. 

because paige doesn’t want to forget. there’s almost comfort in the misery: missing azzi– loving azzi– is as familiar as breathing, even if that breath feels like it's being ripped from asthma ridden lungs.

arike is right though, paige needs to at least try. she thinks about the words baby steps , and tries to ignore the nausea in her stomach.

she glances back down at her phone on the dresser when it lights up with another text, but her eyes skip over the notification from arike without reading it, and land on the time: 5:55. 

she only knows about angel numbers because azzi had gone through a brief phase during her second acl tear that she’d called her spiritual awakening (paige had called it azzi’s trip to crazy town ), but still, she remembered what 555 had meant. transformation. it had stuck with her, a little more than she’d expected, and she glances at her framed uconn #5 jersey that hangs next to the door to her closet. 

she can hear azzi’s voice in the back of her head, reading out of some voodoo book she’d picked up on a trip to her favorite bookstore, reverent even with paige making fun of her every thirty seconds. 

555 signals change and new beginnings, suggesting you should let go of old patterns that no longer serve you and embrace the significant shifts and personal growth that are on the horizon. 

god. she’d give anything to be back in that tiny dorm room in storrs, curled around azzi like nothing outside of her room had existed and listening to her drone on about tarot cards and spiritual realms. before paige had gone and fucked everything up.

but she’s not- she’s in dallas and azzi is in dc, she thinks , she doesn’t even know for sure, because they haven’t talked in months and- paige needs to get a grip.

and when the third 5 ticks to a 6 and her phone buzzes again, this time from an unknown number, paige resigns herself to trying . 

she’ll try to listen to this girl arike is convinced paige will like, and not picture azzi in her place; try and relax and let loose and embrace the possibility of moving on. maybe she’ll even let herself be taken home, she doesn’t know. 

but this moping thing is really getting old, and she knows it can’t last forever. over a year is already teetering on the edge of pathetic, and that's without considering the part about how paige is wallowing over a girl she didn’t even date. 

embracing change and new beginnings or whatever. she can do that. 

… 

god is laughing at her. he must be. embracing change this ass. 

as she sits in her car outside the apartment building she’s just fled from, trying to calm herself down enough to not be a danger on the road on her drive home, she curses her entire existence. 

herself, for just generally being a pathetic idiot, the stupid fucking angel numbers, for giving her the entirely false impression change was coming, and god, for making her life one long-running, miserable joke.

and most importantly, azzi fudd. for being like, so impossibly wonderful that paige is on the verge of a panic attack just from hearing her voice for the first time in months. 

how did she know. 

panic courses through her, more potent than the venom of a snake bite. all it took for paige to resort back to hopelessly, impossibly azzi’s, despite the taste of someone else on her lips, was a phone call that lasted less than 2 minutes and azzi saying i miss you.  

she feels like the scene is frozen (surprise, surprise, even the metaphors she makes up in her head about her own life are straight from azzi’s favorite movie) where ana begins to climb up the side of a cliff, huffing and puffing and evidently feeling like she’s made an exceptional amount of progress, only for the shot to pan out and reveal that she’s only a couple inches off the ground. 

because she hasn’t had to interact with azzi at all in the last year really, aside from painful group events and ignored texts, and she’s self aware, knows that getting over azzi is gonna take more than a year of just trying and failing not to think about her, but she didn’t realize how easily she’d fall back into her old feelings after a god forsaken two minute phone call. she’s been trying, slowly, to make progress, reconcile with what her life looks like without azzi in it, and had almost convinced herself real headway was being made, only for the last twenty minutes to completely shatter that mirage. 

paige knows she shouldn’t read into it, let azzi voice in her ear spark anything but regret and hurt.

except azzi misses her .

the ten minute drive back to hers is a miserable affair of trying not to think about the hurt in azzi’s voice following jadyn’s question in the background, and the fact that azzi said she’d text, and. 

and the fact that she’d called paige. drunk. saying she missed her.

paige has the backbone of a worm.

she’s returning from an otherwise very decent date and hookup and of course azzi as is the only thing on her mind. of course. 

she feels a little bit guilty, too, as if she was like. cheating on azzi. which is fucking ridiculous, she feels ridiculous. but she can’t fully squash the thought that azzi somehow knew that paige had just been kissing someone else and pretending the straight, silky hair in her hands had been curly and wild instead. 

whatever. 

she allots herself five more minutes to freak out, before resigning herself to the fact that she has to get out of the car, but as she goes to turn it off, her eyes catch on the time on the dash: 1:11am. 

the voice in the back of her head that sounds like azzi says the law of attraction and manifestation. 

she slams her head on the steering wheel in despair. 

…

sleep that night comes slowly, fitfully, morning even slower, and paige tries valiantly to set her overeager expectations that azzi will text to a very manageable zero.

she’s never been good at wrangling her mind into reason when azzi is involved, though, and when she rolls over at 8:30 and has no new notifications, she takes the pillow she’d just been lying on, presses it to her face, and tries to smother the side of herself that is still pining, nine years strong. 

(she fails.)

but then, after dragging herself out of bed, while her head is stuck deep in her closet, trying to pick out which depression hoodie she wants to wallow in today, she hears the distinct sound of a text tone from where she’d left her phone on the bed. 

she jams her elbow into the shelf, and then again into the doorframe in her haste to check her phone, but she can’t even pay attention to the sharp pain of her funny bone, because there, against her lockscreen of drew in a uconn bueckers jersey, is a text from azzi fudd. 

azzi 💗: you gonna show me your cowboy boots collection or what

and every (meager, pitiful) ounce of progress from the last fifteen months that hadn’t already disappeared the night before flies out the window. 

if paige were a smart woman, with her best interests at heart, she would reply with something dry and dismissive, push azzi away and resort back to the moping that’s been occupying her life for the last year. 

unfortunately, paige is a fucking idiot, through and thorugh, and azzi remembered to text, and is trying, again, despite paige’s track record of ignoring her, and. 

paige really, really misses her. 

and she hasn’t exactly made a lick of progress in this whole distancing herself thing, and really, what could one hang out do. it’s not like paige can fall more in love with her.

she waits for what she believes is a respectable, chill, not too eager amount of time– time in which she passes by pacing holes in her floor and trying not to throw herself out the window– and then responds an hour later. 

she can do friends. she can do one game and a hangout and not lose her mind. definitely. 

when paige has grey hairs in five years, she’s billing azzi for the dye treatment.

AN: peace and love <3 as always pretty pretty please tell me how you liked it. i BEG. wait also the title comes from lizzy mcalpine's pushing it down and praying, and it's the line that directly follows I wanna know peace again, wanna sing a different song which I thought was quite fitting. ALSO! the second chapter (the +1) should be out in the next couple of days i just wanted to get this out first don't worry. i will redeem myself from the angst and give you fluff and smut i swear on my life.

[redrosydiaz]

so oliver said it would be cool to check in on sperm donor baby and see if theres anything to explore there and i have NOT stopped rotating this inside my mind like a rotisserie chicken

just — i think it really could be SUCH a fun thing to revisit, later down the line, after buddie have gotten together and have settled a bit more. like it could be a really great catalyst for a "do we want more kids" kind of conversation.

like, they run into connor and kameron and sperm donor baby, who's really more like sperm donor toddler now, and it's maybe a little bit of an awkward encounter, bc none of the adults ever thought this would happen. like, after the baby was born they kind of went their separate ways, and idk maybe buck and connor still talk every so often, but its not regular and its never really anything deeper than a surface level catch up. theyre not exchanging christmas cards or anything. so, this is, really, the first time buck has seen the kid since he was born.

and it DOES kick up feelings in buck, but— not the expected ones that would come from seeing the kid that is half you but not yours. instead, it just stirs up that yearning that's always existed within buck, the yearning for a family, for a baby of his own. and — he's already got the first part. a family. he has that with eddie and christopher and he loves it, he loves their little family so so much. its absolutely perfect to him. but.... the idea of a baby.... he's always wanted one. he's always wanted to be a dad. to do the whole thing, from start to, well, forever. and he has christopher and he loves christopher but he also missed out on christopher's baby years, for obvious reasons. but he WANTS to experience that!! so bad!! and the idea of getting to do that with eddie.... it's a good one. its a good idea.

but its also a scary idea. because, buck knows eddie, he knows him better than he knows himself sometimes, but this? this isn't something he knows about eddie. he doesn't actually know if having more kids is something eddie wants. and he's maybe a little scared of what that kind of conversation could do to their relationship. because.... if theyre NOT on the same page about it.... well.

so he just. sits on it. doesn't bring it up. but of course eddie can tell that something is up, that buck has something on his mind. something he wants to talk about but isn't talking about yet. and so he does what he always does — he doesn't press right away. he gives buck the time and the space to decide when and how he wants to bring it up to eddie, whatever it is. except buck's fairly predictable in the sense that eddie can usually guess when buck will finally crack and start that long awaited conversation with him. but buck doesnt do that this time. he holds onto it still.

so eddie does press, and eventually buck does spill, and The Question comes up: would you ever want more kids?

and i think it would make for a deeeelicious storyline to have them NOT exactly on the same page, but also not not on the same page, yknow? just like — its not really something eddie has ever considered (aside from the baby scare with shannon all those years ago). it's just not something thats come up, like his other relationships never got to the baby conversation level and, frankly, he's had a whole lot of other Way More Pressing things to deal with to be sitting around contemplating a potential future second baby lol.

but then buck obviously HAS put some thought into it and it IS something he wants — has been for a long time, really — and so when The Question comes up and eddie's first response isn't an overwhelming yes, but is this hesitant, guarded well i don't know — buck's brain immediately starts to catastrophize. because an "i dont know" isn't a yes, and not a yes is a now a nonzero chance of no, which is a scary thought!! because this is buck's forever relationship!! and he doesnt want it to crumble apart over this!! and so he panics and hes trying to give eddie space to think about his answer, but that means that now instead of it being an open conversation, theyre both kind of stewing in their own thoughts and feelings and panics and fears about it and about what the other is thinking.

and for eddie — i think when he does think about it it's not something he is oppposed to, but he would initially approach it with a lot of hesitance and in a very guarded way bc his first instinct would be to think of all the ways hes fucked up with christopher and how terrified he would be to repeat that. of course, once he got past that intial reaction and like actually really thought about it (and went to bobby for advice about it!!) he would realize that these arent the same situations. he's older now, and he's more settled, and he's got a good partner in this — someone he feels supported by and someone he makes feel supported too! this isn't the same as it was fifteen, sixteen, seventeen years ago. the circumstances are completely different. and i think once he got over that mental block, of thinking it would be exactly like the first time, he would be — well, he'd still be a little terrified bc who ISNT a little terrified of having a baby, but he'd also be breathlessly exhilarated about it because. he loves being a dad!! he LOVES being a dad!!! and the idea of doing it again, WITH BUCK? theres nothing he wants more, actually!!!

meanwhile buck is trying to reconcile with what his answer would be to the question what do i want more? a baby or eddie? which one can i live without, which one can i not? and he would have to grapple with and ultimately make a decision to potentially give up one of those dreams. (he would, after deep thought and consideration, and ALSO a conversation with bobby, decide that he cannot live without eddie. he would choose eddie.)

and then when the two of them FINALLY come back together to have a conversation about this, buck would hit eddie with the i'm willing to give up this dream for you. because i love you, so much, and i love our family, and i want to grow it, i want more with you, i always want more with you, but if you dont then i'll be okay with that too, because our family is also perfect the way it is. and eddie is like buck and then he grabs both of buck's hands and he's like buck you dont have to make that choice and buck is like eddie yes i do, yes i do and buck is still obviously in distress bc like he made the decision and he isn't changing his mind he wouldn't but that doesn't mean letting go of the other dream wasnt hard. wasn't devastating too. so buck's like doing his best to not let that show but it's still bleeding through but eddie just takes his hands and his face is splitting into a smile bc he just cant help it he feels so joyous and so buoyant like hes walking on air and he tells buck you don't have to make that choice bc there isn't a choice. you can have both buck. and bucks like what... wait.... eddie are you saying.... and eddie nods and now BUCK is breaking out into a smile and hes got tears in his eyes and hes like eddie, oh my god we— we're going— and eddie finishes it for him, we're going to have a baby.

BUT JUST — the two of them having this conflict that isn't ACTUALLY a conflict at the core of it, because they ARE ultimately on the same page, but it takes some Work for them to get there and it makes them look at themselves and each other and their relationship in this whole new light, and it just proves how strong their partnership already is, how much love and also RESPECT there is between them, bc they dont just try to like convince the other to change their mind but they look INWARD and try to see if and how they can reframe their own points of view. and the whole thing just makes them even stronger together for it.

AND THEN THATS HOW WE GET GIRLDADS BUDDIE AND BIG BROTHER CHRISTOPHER <33

[itertarot]

TAROT | YOU

Pick an image:

One ⊹₊ ⋆°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⊹₊ ⋆｡°‧

A quiet intuition in a loud mind.

Your gift is seeing beyond the obvious, you are truly powerful on your own, someone destined to find your individual path. You were not made to follow the crowd, you stand apart, detached from the shallowness and emptiness of the world. You are an outsider, a leader. You, my dear pile one, carry the challenging mission of overcoming many losses and battling your own mind. You have a strong intuition: you’re not meant to see with your eyes, but with your senses, with your soul. Listen to your inner voice, feel your body, don’t trust just what your eyes show you. The truth lies beyond what we humans can see, and you are capable of sensing what’s behind the veil, connecting deeply with the spiritual realm around you. Your inner voice is calling you to stop being insecure, to stop doubting yourself. Once you learn how to access your power, you will find your true path, your true partner, and the life you were meant to live. The universe will reward you for unveiling your gifts!

Two ⊹₊ ⋆°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⊹₊ ⋆｡°‧

The empath with vivid memories.

As pile number one, you are not meant to trust your eyes, but rather, your emotions. Trust your feelings. You don’t just sense the spirit realm, you feel it. This isn’t only intuition or inner knowing, it’s deep emotional connection to what exists beyond the physical. You carry a heavy gift, my pile two. Perhaps the intensity of your emotions can sometimes feel overwhelming, or maybe you have the ability to feel other people’s emotions, absorbing them like a sponge, and that can be draining. You are very strong, possibly an empath, someone who’s here to offer healing and strength to others in need. You might experience frequent deja vus, premonitory dreams, and even access memories from past lives through your dreams or sudden flashes. You help guide people to their right path, often becoming a turning point in their journey. But unfortunately, you are not always meant to stay in their lives, you are a guide, someone who shows the way, even if it means walking alone afterward. Your gift is more powerful when it comes to seeing and understanding the past and the present more than the future. Your role is to bring clarity, healing, and direction where others may be lost.

Three ⊹₊ ⋆°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⊹₊ ⋆｡°‧

The master of divination.

You have a strong intuition, probably the strongest of all the piles. You’re already in touch with your spiritual gifts, you may even already know your spirit guides, and if you don’t, know that they’re already whispering in your ears. You’re likely gifted in divination could it be tarot, runes, even creating your own oracles and intuitive systems. You already know you’re special. This likely isn’t your first life as a witch, priestess, or healer. But still, many of you here feel unsatisfied with your current level of spiritual power. Maybe it’s because you feel there’s still so much to learn, or maybe you’re trying to profit from your gifts and aren’t making the income you hoped for. But don’t worry. Hard times are okay and unfortunately happen in our human life. They are part of the journey. What matters most is that you remember: you are on the right path, even when you feel blinded or stuck in the dark. Use your mind, be logical and grounded, don’t let your emotions (especially fear and insecurity) cloud your spiritual vision and make you doubt yourself.

[void-star]

To be honest, it sounds like we are talking about the same things and generally agreeing upon them, but you have personal discomfort with the concept of "Privilege" and maybe a vested interest in claiming that trans masculine people unilaterally do not experience structural or social advantages for their genders.

It's also making you talk to me like I am not, myself, a transmasculine person with my own specific place in the world of passing, stealth, and visibility, which I don't love.

At any rate, very few people have unconditional access to all those things... Like, Black cis men do not have unconditional access to medical research, medical treatment, health care, employment, physical and emotional safety, housing, social acceptance of lived realities, social standing, protection of individual rights, representation in media and government, etc. I would argue they don't have access to almost all of those things, despite being cisgender and men. This is why we talk about intersectionality.

Disability, racialization, wealth class, colorism, lookism, cultural linguistic expression, religious expression, sexuality, gender conformity, and a lot of other intersectional factors including different aspects of transgender experience in general create conditions that change our levels of access to all of these things. It can be very situational, and most of them are enforced based on the external perception of you from a person in a position of authority over you.

Privilege, with a capital P here to emphasize the sociopolitical concept of class Privilege (advantages, immunities, and rights granted to the benefactors of a hierarchical societal system) as opposed to the colloquial insinuation of boon, benefit, or honor, is something that is applied to you externally-- it is not voluntarily. And it is useful when discussing the relationship between different social classes within the greater hierarchical structure. Gender is one of those classes.

These social classes are not weighted evenly, either, where Race is a stronger category of separation than Gender, for example. And it gets complicated by the intrinsic relationship and history between Gender and Race, seen in the way Black women tend to be masculinized categorically, and how conceptions of Gender are informed exclusively by European beauty standards and phenotypes (you can also see this in the difference between what is considered attractive poc in the US vs in home countries, ie. which Asian men are considered attractive in the US vs in China or Japan).

So, a Black trans man would not have unconditional access to medical research, medical treatment, health care, employment, physical and emotional safety, housing, social acceptance of lived realities, social standing, protection of individual rights, representation in media and government, etc., yes, but is this based on his gender? Does being a man prevent him from these things? Or is it because he is specifically a Black man and transgender?

One of the hardest things I have to deal with on a daily basis is that I am nonbinary in a binary world. The fact of the matter is that we are placed into a binary category regardless and it is used by other people to determine who we are and where we should/should not be in this world. So, my tags explained how some of that has been noticeable to me. I don't identify as a man (or a woman), and yet I occupy two spaces in the binary society based on context.

And just from my experience as a first gen kid of a south american immigrant in the US, watching my mother give up her language, culture, and even her name in the pursuit of the conditional benefits of assimilation into anglo and white Privilege (to avoid xenophobia and racism), and how that sets her up mentally to be aligned with people that hate on and diminish parts of who she is and how she grew up at her own detriment, it's wild to consider the stance that class Privileges are All Or Nothing, especially from the list you provided of what Privilege entails.

Very many people do hide aspects of themselves to maintain access to class Privileges if it's something that can be hidden, whether that's hiding your sexuality or transgender status, erasing your accent, disconnecting from your culture, not wearing religious clothing in public, etc. It's not a privilege (colloquial), but it is about access to pieces of class Privilege.

Transmasc transition often involves so much loss of community. Especially if you already were in feminist or queer spaces before your transition. It's not true that we gain relevant social status within patriarchial structures by transitioning (if patriarchy supported the choices of those who they see as women to be anything other than a wife and a mother/to transgress gender-norms we wouldn't have to have most of these conversations) but we do noticeably lose social status within our own community. And along with that access to safe-spaces and ressources that we need for physical and emotional safety and well-being.

[dolliels]

oh myg GOD jade leech mischaracterization needs to be studied

1. please flanderizing his obsession with mushrooms!!

it’s canon that before mushrooms he was super into manholes (?) stated in his platinum wear ssr vignette, and the mushroom obsession will pass eventually 🥲

he also doesn’t yap and think about mushrooms and botany all the time! yes he’s super into it but he’s not gonna drag everyone’s ear to talk about it

2. which leads to my other point that any memorabilia that he would give to people would NOT be mushroom related

no, he will not make you a mushroom keychain friendship bracelet

no, he will not propose to you with a mushroom engagement ring

no, he will not gift you a fucking mushroom every time you meet him on a special occasion

jade is a very observant person, if he truly cares about you, he will go into the efforts of gifting you something that is perfectly catered to your tastes and wants. he’d remember things you want and like to the point where it might be borderline creepy, but it still goes against the fact that he’d give you mushroom paraphernalia

3. HES NOT A SOCIOPATHIC SADISTIC MASOCHISTIC FREAK OMFG

YES he easily gets bored YES he MAY have SOME sadistic tendencies much like floyd but NO he will not go into fucking heat seeing you squirm in fear 🥲🥲 the stereotype is funny but please stop watering him down to some freak

Yes he thinks it’s fun teasing and toying with people but (this applies to BOTH OF THE TWINS) they still recognize them are (mer)people and they don’t go against boundaries to like visibly and purposefully go against their boundaries— they both hold some level of distance and respect omfg how do you guys think the twins managed to be friends with azul for so long

yea when they were kids jade and floyd maybe poked fun a lil at azul’s chubbiness but it wasn’t borderline bullying to the point where he might’ve been uncomfortable and hurt, which is what azul literally experienced with others in his childhood making him want to go ahead of everyone else leading to his his fucking overblot 😭😭😭😭 if azul can see the difference between bullying and slight teasing jade and floyd did then YOU should be able to see that because the way some of you guys write the twins to be borderline bullies is concerning

People get freaked out by them but that’s literally before they even do anything, it’s just due to their tall stature and scary demeanour 😔😔😔

TD;DR jade isn’t some mushroom obsessed yandere freak 🥀 thanks for coming to my ted talk

[coldfanbou]

Paying to Forget

Here we go! So with this idea, it was pretty simple and basic breeding stuff. Considering the plot, which was Mother's Day-based, would be a little late, I changed it. Instead, I shifted things. Previously, this piece was a short thing written for a writer's prompt that you may have seen. I have added to it and made it a little kinkier. Please enjoy fellow Emma lovers.

Length 2K

Emma X Mreader

“How are you doing, mister? You seem down.” A woman asks you, bending over to be at eye level with you as you look up. “I can help you with that.” You meet the woman’s eyes and ask her name. “Call me Emma,” she says, smiling and shaking her head, her red hair shining in the evening light.  The two of you continue the conversation, where you learn Emma was an escort. “If you really want to forget about her, you can come with me.” Emma is proactive, sitting on your lap and caressing your face. “Come on, Daddy.” She says softly. You glance up at her, meeting her smirk. Emma was reading you like a book, figuring out what you’re into just by meeting your gaze. “I’ll let you make me a mommy.” You agree, and Emma climbs off your lap, taking you by the hand and hailing a taxi for the two of you. 

You exit the taxi with Emma and stare at the building in front of you, nervous.“Come on, Daddy. Don’t you want to go inside?” Emma says in a low, sultry voice. She runs her fingernail along your chest, slowly rising to your neck and finally stopping at your chin. “I thought you wanted to have some fun.” You stare at the door to the love hotel, wondering if you should go through with it. “That wife of yours cheated on you. Why shouldn’t you get to have some fun?” She whispers to you like a devil on your shoulder. “I’ll make sure to make all your worries disappear.” Emma grabs your hand, leading you inside as the last of your doubts fades away. 

You pay for the room, enter the elevator, and head to the top floor where your room is. You step out and see it at the end of the hallway. Emma grabs the key card from you before intertwining her fingers with yours as she holds your hands and runs ahead. You follow her, listening to her laugh as she taps the card and pushes the door aside. There was something about the way she led you that was infatuating.

Emma wastes no time, getting you to the bed and pushing you onto it. Emma might be on the smaller side, but her spirit more than made up for it. Once you’re on the bed, Emma straddles you, placing her hands on your chest as she leans over you. “Oh, Daddy, I’ll make sure you forget her. I’ll be the only thing on your mind.” Emma kisses you, her lips lingering against yours as her hands move to your bulge, rubbing it gently. “Do you want me to use my mouth?” She says, pouting. Emma’s plump lips made you think about how skilled she must be. You nod, Emma could do anything to you, and you’d probably be fine with it.

The young woman pulls down your pants and rubs your cock through your boxers, licking her lips as she feels your cock harden. You stare at Emma, watching her smirk grow larger as she pulls on the waistband and frees your cock. It springs forward toward her, nearly smacking her face. It spooks her, making her move back, but she laughs. Emma grabs it gently, her grip slowly getting tighter as she runs her hand up and down your shaft. “You nearly hit me, Daddy. Do you want me that much?” She doesn’t let you answer, rushing forward to kiss you again. “Do you want to see something special?” She asks, pulling the bottom of her top up to reveal her perky tits. Dark brown nipples topped her tanned breasts. Emma felt your cock when she grabbed it again. Your stare and your body told her enough. “Thank you for liking them, Daddy,” She says, shaking her upper body so her tits bounced. Your cock twitched again, “You better not cum soon. You’re going to make me a mommy, remember?” 

You were putty in her hands. Even if you knew it meant nothing in the back of your mind. You wanted nothing more than to put a baby in this young woman. 

Emma bent over, her hot breath hitting your head before you felt her tongue run along the underside. “I don’t think I’ll be able to fit you inside,” She says, flicking the tip of your cock with her tongue. The young woman presses her lips against the head, taking it in and wrapping her lips around the tip of your cock, her tongue gently lapping it. Emma’s tongue was small, but it felt fantastic. It moved over your tip, in small circles, swirling around you as she stared into your eyes.

“Ah, Emma.” You groan, her warm tongue swirling around the tip.

“Yes, Daddy?” She asks, a smile on her face as she takes control. “What is it, Daddy?” She asks when you don’t respond; while she waits, Emma moves her tongue quickly over the head. It makes it harder for you to come up with any words.

“You’re so good at this,” you manage to mumble. 

Emma smiles and pulls away, “It’s my job.” Emma wraps her lips around your cock, forming a tight seal as she sucks it, her cheeks hollowing. You groan, pleasure coursing through your body. When Emma starts to bob her head, you're taken to another world. Her tongue slides along the underside of your cock as she moves toward the base, you feel her lips pressed against your pelvis, kissing it before she moves back. You leak precum onto her tongue. Emma pulls you out of her mouth, giggling as she pushes a finger into her mouth. “You taste so good, Daddy. It feels like you’re getting close to cumming.” Emma reaches down, cupping your balls. “And these are so heavy, you must have so much baby batter in here…and it’s all for me.” Emma giggles, leaning over to kiss your balls. 

Emma stands up and unbuttons her pants, letting them fall to the floor; her lacy black panties were the only barrier now, and they disappeared just as quickly. Emma spun them around her finger, tossing them to the side as you stared at her. You took in Emma’s tanned body, noticing her toned stomach. “I was a dancer,” she says casually before climbing onto the bed and straddling you. Emma grinds against you slowly; she moans softly and grabs your hands, placing them on her tits. “Mmm, Daddy, I want you,” she moans, rocking back and forth over you. Emma’s slick lips glide along your cock. 

“I want you, Emma.”

The young woman smiles. Emma grabs your cock, rubbing it against her folds before pressing it against her entrance and sinking onto it. She tilts her head back, letting her low moans fill the room as you stretch her cunt. “Ah, Daddy, you’re so big,” she moans as she slows down, taking her time as she finishes taking in your cock. Emma leans back, swiveling her hips. Your cock rubs agaisnt her walls, bringing you both the pleasure you desired. You grip Emma’s toned thighs, holding them tightly as she rocks back and forth on your cock. Emma coos at your rough touch and brings herself forward, grabbing your hands and moving them back to her tits, making you knead them. Her hard nipple rubs against your palm as she begins to ride you in earnest.

Your grip on her tits grows rougher as you feel how tight she is. Emma smiles, enjoying the roughness. She begins to bounce on your cock, rising until just the tip was in before slamming herself back down onto it.  Every time Emma bounces on your cock, she becomes a little faster. The sound of your bodies colliding fills the room. She leans down, kissing you, her tongue invading your mouth as she continues to ride you. You both moan into the kiss, enjoying the feeling of each other’s bodies. When Emma pulls back, you pinch her nipples, leading to them being pulled taut. Emma cries out, the pleasure beginning to overwhelm her. A tightness begins to form in her core. 

Your hands move down to her waist for a moment before reaching for her ass. You spank her roughly, earning yourself a cry of pleasure from Emma. “You’re being so rough, Daddy.” Her moans grow louder with each subsequent hit. 

“You’re such a naughty girl,” you grunt through the pleasure. “Making me breed you.”

“Only for you,” She whines, continuing to ride as you grab her ass and begin thrusting. Emma’s moans can barely be contained now; if anyone were in a room next to yours, they would hear her easily.  “I’m cumming!” Emma cries out, pleasure overtaking her. You were close to cumming too. You thrust quickly, driving your cock deep into Emma before burying yourself inside and pumping her full of your baby batter. Emma rocks her hips as you cum, letting her walls flex around your cock in different positions, draining you of your cum. She tilts her head back, groaning as she feels your warm semen being pumped into her. You feel months worth of saved cum pour into Emma.

As she returns her gaze to you, Emma rubs her stomach, “Mmm, Daddy.” The young woman savors the feeling. “You were really trying to put a baby in me.” She plants a kiss on your cheek as you rest. You end up falling asleep, the orgasm exhausting you. Emma climbs off of you, your cum pouring out of her. She places hand over the slit, letting your cum fill her palm before bringing it to her lips, and eating it. A bright idea hits Emma at that moment. She searches through your things, grabbing your phone and setting it up on a drawer. She sets a timer and snaps pictures of herself, her legs spread apart to reveal the absolute mess that was her cunt. Globs of cum pouring out of her onto the bed. She knew you would appreciate something like this when you woke up. 

Emma grabbed your phone after, taking time to edit the pictures, putting small text over them. “Daddy came so much. I’ll definitely get pregnant. Daddy’s cock is the best.” She put it all over the picture. Emma giggled, enjoying herself before looking at your sleeping form, your cock still hard. One more idea came to her. She crawled between your legs, grabbing your cock with one hand while she began to film herself with the other. “Hi, Daddy! I hope you had a good time with me. I wanted to leave you a little something. I hope you like this.” She said before using her tongue on your cock, swirling it around the tip before taking the whole thing in her mouth. Emma would glance at the camera as she sucked your cock. Her tongue worked to clean your cock as she bobbed her head. She would occasionally take a small break to compliment your performance, saying things like, “You were so good, Daddy. My pussy feels nice and full after you came in me and your cum is so good. I think I might get addicted.” Emma finished you off soon enough, leaving your cock clean and pulling itout of her mouth with a pop. 

The young woman ended the recording with a peace sign and put your phone back in your pants before using your shower to clean herself up. She smiled as she glanced at your sleeping body when she came out of the shower. She went to your pants, looking through them for your wallet, grabbing a few large bills before putting them back. Emma checked the clock before walking over to the nightstand, grabbed a pen, and left you a note to wake up to before getting out of your room. She made sure to leave a “do not disturb” sign on your door as she went on her way.

 When you wake up, you find the note from Emma. “Thanks for the good time, Daddy. I took my payment. I hope we can do this again; I’ll meet you in the park when you want to have some more fun. Here’s my number, and check your phone for something nice.” A winking face was drawn at the end.

[mudtrash]

I’m so mad because I wrote this whole essay response to this then my fucking phone died and even though it SAID it saved it as a draft it just. Didn’t 😭

BUT BASICALLY I was gonna say that, when it come to sharing an online space with creatives and just- people being people, my gut reaction is always to be nice and present myself as approachable and non judgmental. I know what it is to be judged and to worry someone you admire doesn’t vibe with you, so I try to be the person I would want someone to be for me

The only area I “struggle” to be nice in, is my fandom community being harassed and judged morally for what shows we like and responding against it (I’m in the hazbin/helluva fandoms so I see this daily)

Obviously there are people who just generally don’t like what I like, and that’s okay! It’s usually pretty easy to tell who’s acting in bad faith and who just genuinely has a grievance with a property they wish to share, and even if I disagree and tell them as such, I remain respectful as long as they do.

I will usually match energies with anyone I’m talking with, I’ve had sassy back and forths, calm disagreements, and even ones that started sassy and ended with us calmly shaking hands and parting ways

I just- don’t stand for fandom wide harassment and holier than thou media illiteracy, like even beyond grossly misrepresenting a stories narrative to turn it into a moral high ground king of the hill, these days the hh/hb fandom can receive death threats for simply sharing a clip from the show on twitter

I have, for sure, been meaner/more defensive than I needed to be, either because I assumed they were being more hateful than they were or I just recognize after the fact that it wasn’t a productive way to handle a situation, and that is something I’ve been making an effort to be more mindful of and try to curb. I do also just generally enjoy media discussion and analysis, and playing up sass in that regard adds to the entertainment value, but this doesn’t really apply with people just genuinely sharing their thoughts and not being hateful/hypocritical (again, there’s been slip ups on my part in this regard, tryna be less trigger happy with clap backs)

Fighting fire with fire generally gets messy, and I do a lot of the time wish there was a scenario where killing with kindness actually worked the way I would want it to (and to be fair, sometimes it has in my experience!) if there’s anything I’ve learned from dealing with hate-doms, who dedicate their entire online presence to hating this one thing and making sure everyone knows it, there are some people who have just made up their minds and will never be satisfied by anything I have to say, and there’s nothing I can really do to change that, so at the very least I like to articulate why exactly those people are wrong and hateful, poking fun at their logic and shit attitudes for the sake of people who take them more seriously than they deserve

Does this mean I reply to every single hateful/negative post I see? No, in fact most of the time I just block/mute, but if I have something to say, I’m going to say it.

And if you’re going to claim moral superiority over me while being BLANTANTLY more ignorant and offensive than the thing we’re discussing, I’m going to show you the level of respect you deserve

Overall tho I do wanna dedicate less of my time to this kinda of thing, I wanna put out more good vibes than bad at the end of the day. I can let myself have the occasional sass as a treat, but I don’t want it to consume my online presence either

Just gotta find that balance

I think my general thought process with interacting with other people online is like yeah you have really cool art. You have really cool writing. You're really good at that thing you're posting about, but are you nice?

[hrrtshape]

please explain in the beautiful way you explain you things… how does it feel to finally kiss that person? to hold their hand and hum? to smell their hair and hear their laugh and have your knuckles kissed and be held at night?

it feels like giving someone else the password to your childhood email. like letting them see what you named your neopet. or worse, your first draft of a love letter written in comic sans and saved as "final final (2).docx" kissing him is that. that level of mortification. that level of.... okay. fine. you can have it. have the old shame. have the soft belly. have the archive.

you kiss him and suddenly you're fluent in a language that shouldn't exist. your whole life you've memorised things: national insurance numbers, multiplication tables, birthdays of people you barely tolerate. you catalogue, you collect, you file under "maybe relevant someday," and then he kisses you, and you're archiving the wrong things. you're remembering the shade of september sunlight, the exact second his eyelashes close, the sound, god, the fucking sound, of his breath hitching like it's about to leap from something tall.

holding his hand is inconvenient; your fingers were built for restless gestures, for flicking through worn paperbacks and tapping on glass counters and tracing subway maps upside down. your fingers are chaotic, unreliable narrators, yet here they are, quietly cooperating, curling into his palm like the page-corners of a favourite novel, softly creased, inexplicably careful. it's terrifying how naturally this tenderness arrives, unannounced, without clearance.

and his hand is warm. he runs hot. physiologically. and when he holds yours it feels like you're holding a radiator. you're being spoon-fed trust through the palms. maybe this is why humans started holding hands to begin with. not for comfort. but because it's the only place left on the body where skin is dumb enough to still believe in things.

your hand is warm because someone chose to warm it. not because you earned it. not because you begged. but because he did. and keeps doing.

you hum around him, and it's ridiculous because you hate humming, humming is for people who iron bedsheets or believe in vitamins. but he's here, so you're humming, low and tuneless, as if you're inventing religion from scratch in your kitchen. he kisses your knuckles and suddenly they're worth something. which is mind boggling. didn't your hands used to be ordinary? they used to open doors and carry groceries and occasionally throw things at walls, but now they're precious, and they're porcelain, and they're the last copy of something fragile, something out of print.

his hair smells absurdly familiar, a memory you've never quite had but always anticipated. old libraries, autumn in new england, or the inside of a cello case. his laugh is sharp and brief, punctuation rather than soundtrack, and hearing it makes you feel smarter, like you've just decoded some impossible cipher. you start keeping track of things you never thought you'd care about: his sighs at three in the morning, the particular quiet that settles over his shoulders when he thinks you've drifted off.

being held by him at night feels logistical. merging traffic, complicated and necessary. it's not theatrical or cinematic or whispered about over cocktails. it's not even whispered about over bad coffee.

your breathing syncs, but not poetically. you drool. he snores. the sheet is too hot but neither of you move because movement would mean acknowledging this isn't permanent. and that's that. it isn't. and you both know that. and you hold tighter because of it.

it's practical and quiet and essential, knowing exactly which floorboard creaks or the precise way to jiggle the lock when it sticks. it's breathing room, it's small print you happily sign without reading, it's absurdly specific, it's deeply personal, and absolutely, impossibly real.

[garez19]

a lot to share

rich! yandere x thief reader.

reader steals from her richie rich friends, yandere male, manipulation, subtle blackmailing, class distinction, 4.4k wc.

you had always wondered how it felt to be a rich kid. a real rich kid. not the upper middle class, i mean, rich kids whose parents could afford anything and everything for them. kids whose parents invest in their children’s education, their passions and aspirations without having to worry about paying the bills.

growing up you met a handful of them, and you even befriended some. you witnessed the fact that everything they -and you, for that matter- ever wanted had always been between their lips.

you were envious, even when they were certainly generous to you. why would they not be? they always had more. they could’ve always had more. and it pissed you off. the fact that you were never, no matter how hard you tried, on the same level as them made you turn into a grumpy kid most of the time. you wanted that one toy eliza had, and you didn’t want to play with it and give it back to her when the playtime was over. you wanted it to be yours. a belonging of yours.

your mother wasn’t happy in the slightest when she found the toy in your backpack. she was angry, for sure, but there was a different kind of emotion in her face; disappointed and embarrassed. still, you could only assume how much patience she needed to have to be able to have a normal conversation with you. she tried to seem understanding, and did her very best to explain what you did was not acceptable, and how eliza must’ve been very upset that her favorite toy was gone. you remained still, but your mother could see the way your upper lip was quivering.

“eliza’s mom can buy her a new one.” you said right before bursting into tears. what was the big deal? why did she have to ruin everything for you?

“that doesn’t mean you can get your hands on their belongings.” she replied, her voice sharp and stern this time. “i’m sorry.” was all you managed to let out. she gave you a sympathetic look. then she talked a bit more, and you agreed you’d give it back to her tomorrow.

“you shouldn’t do that again.” she reminded you once more. you hummed quietly. however, you still couldn’t quite understand what was truly wrong with it. even so, you did as your mother told you. but when you saw eliza with such big surprised eyes, full of joy and a beaming smile on her face, you could finally see why your mother was so upset with you.

you were happy she didn’t try to ask questions. where did you find it? why didn’t you tell me? were you the one who took it? no, none of them had crossed her mind. “thank you,” was all she said. “mom bought me a new one,” she added. “i can give it to you if you’d like.” she said while playing with the toy. you didn’t answer. you couldn’t find the right word. you were ashamed—a new emotion you’d learned very recently.

“i don’t want it.” you mastered up all your courage. the desire was always bigger. it was bigger than shame, or wrath, it was bigger than any emotion you could ever describe. but you didn’t want someone to give it to you just because it was something they wanted to get rid of.

you wanted to conquer it instead. you wanted to get your hands on it forcefully, by grabbing it and making sure that you were the one who took it.

you ended up stealing it, told your mom she gave it to you because “her mom bought her a new one.”

soon it had become a habit. you knew how wrong it was, and you knew the consequences you had to face in a scenario where you were caught. you knew you weren’t worthy of having any friends, and the excuse of “their parents can buy them a new one.” didn’t work on your conscience anymore.

but, you couldn’t stop.

you tried your best to surpass the desire. the desire to have more, to own more, and to get to have a say in what you truly wanted in this life. you tried your hardest, so much that you even avoided rich kids like the plague.

but then he came into your life with classy clothes and a car you would have only seen in your dreams.

materials don’t mean anything to me, you reminded yourself. sure, they didn’t; what got on your nerves was the fact that they had the chance to have it, maybe. maybe it was the only reason you were angry.

none of it means anything to me. you reminded yourself.

but it was hard to do so when he was there. he was kind, charismatic and intelligent. truly an overachiever, and he certainly got it all.

you have never had such desire in a long time. the last thing you had craved something so painfully was eliza’s toy.

when you ran out of patience, you already found yourself seated next to him, glancing at the notes he took in class. first it was small remarks. then you became a familiar face for him. then you were talking to him, sharing stories and making stupid jokes, asking stupid questions.

you were weird. he could almost sense something was off with you. acting sweetly and bubbly all the time, yet he could see your eyes were dull when you looked at him. it was nothing he hadn’t seen as he had always been surrounded by people like you. sly and ready to fake any kind of demeanor.

no,

what he didn’t understand was you were still trying your best to do as your mother said. just because someone is rich doesn’t mean i can get my hands on their belongings. you reminded yourself as you found a better place for your -eliza’s- toy. more than a decade had passed, and you still didn’t grow out of it.

how laughable you were.

you observed the toy very carefully, adjusting its position and rechecking again.

as i said, the desire to own something was bigger than any meaningful sense of accomplishment. and, fairly enough, rich kids could never make sense out of something so sentimental. he could never understand such emotion. he never truly craved anything. nothing ever was over his reach, which is why he could never figure out motivation of people with tenacity.

he always knew he could get whatever he wanted. his parents didn’t hesitate to spend hundreds on toys he would play with only once. he didn’t have a favorite toy, because at the end of the day, none of them was special.

he didn’t have close friends that would truly care. he didn’t know how to forge unbreakable bonds with people, because at the end of the day, he didn’t crave anything including meaningful human connections.

he didn’t have a life-time goal. sure, he had got the best grades, but it wasn’t truly because he had the motivation. he simply had endless opportunities and didn’t have anything better to do than learning new stuff that seemed somehow entertaining.

an overachiever with no real ambition in his life.

how laughable he was.

and yet you were really getting on his nerves. it was nothing new for him really, being surrounded by girls who didn’t know how to take no as an answer. girls who wanted to taste how it felt like to be with him, to be him. girls who wanted pretty boys with a lot to share.

he hated people like you. he hated that he was only a symbol of achievement and acceptance to people with materialistic values. that was exactly when he decided to go along with you. he started agreeing with whatever you wanted to do. you had a stupid idea? all ears. you wanted him to be your project partner? sure thing. you had seen a funny video? show him.

because he really wanted to see where this was going for once. he wanted to see how much you were willing to go just so you could get what you wanted. you couldn’t decide if the change was good or not. it was unexpected, and unexpected things would make your stomach upset. you enjoyed his company, true, yet you still couldn’t get your eyes off of eliza’s toy. and you sure wouldn’t try to avert your gaze on his belongings. he should’ve known better, but you could still hear your mother’s voice in your head.

hanging out with him was fun. he was only there when you actually asked him to. he didn’t need you to check up with him because, fairly enough, he couldn’t care less about you. he didn’t consider you a friend, and he most certainly had lots of things to do. the comfort of such dynamic made you feel lighter. he made you feel comfortable unlike eliza and your other friends who found you distant the moment you tried to have some time by yourself.

hanging out with you, although hard to admit, was fun. you didn’t ask about his ambitions and such topics he wouldn’t want to answer. you were just so busy with telling him how much you hated your boss and your family matters you weren’t supposed to tell anyone. you had a lot to share. you had funny stories about high school. you had recommendations on books and songs about love. you had laughs and joy to share, even when it didn’t seem genuine to him at all.

“my friend made it, wanna taste it?” you told him. he didn’t answer. you still gave him a small piece of it anyway. he could see you actually liked sharing, and it wasn’t special to him. you were annoying, sure, but you still had qualities he liked about you.

he liked not having to talk about serious matters. he liked he had someone he could be stupid with.

and unlike he had assumed, you weren’t trying to pursue him romantically. you weren’t flirting with him, and you weren’t interested in knowing his current relationship status. some compliments here and there, small jokes about how your eyes were blinded by his light, and that was pretty much it. and weirdly enough, you didn’t appreciate it when he tried to treat you to your favorite dessert.

“how do you even call this shit a dessert?” you asked him while tasting what he had. he frowned for a second. “you’re jealous it tastes like heaven.” he said. you grimaced at him before tasting it again.

you had gotten even closer by the following months. he wasn’t quite sure if he still didn’t consider you a friend. and you were happy you didn’t catch anything you wanted to own. except his car, of course, but you didn’t want to play GTA in real life anyway, so you were good.

“are you going to come to the library tomorrow?” he asked, “for the project, remember?”

you checked the date. you rechecked it.

“i’m ditching school, can we do it the day after tomorrow?” you answered.

“oh, sure. did something happen?”

“it’s my birthday tomorrow.”

he frowned. then he also checked the date. turned out, you’d never talked about the dates of your birthdays. but he was still… annoyed for some reason. the fact that he learned about it just before the day made him uneasy. why did you not tell him? who were you going to celebrate it with? why wasn’t he invited? why was he upset over it?

mom makes a big deal out of birthdays, that must be the reason.

“okay, that’s good. what are the plans tomorrow?” he tried his very best to seem uninterested. so much that he hadn’t even said ‘happy birthday in advance’ or ‘ why didn’t you tell me?’ he was unbothered. he was completely fine.

“well, i’ll just celebrate it with my friends.” you replied. he still couldn’t hear what he wanted yet. you still didn’t offer him to join. not that he cared, no, he just. it was just an old habit from his mom. that was all. yeah. nothing else.

“oh. cool.” he said, the awkwardness taking over you thanks to his 2 worded answers.

“wanna come?” you doubted he would say yes as you remembered him talking about how much he disliked such concepts due to his mom’s exaggeration.

“yes,” to your surprise he didn’t hesitate, “sure,” nor did he waste a second. you couldn’t really hide your surprise, and he felt like he was supposed to disappear from the earth for a while.

“what? was i supposed to stay and do your stupid part too?” he laughed.

“oh and, you don’t need to bring a gift,” he lifted his eyebrow as you continued, “i mean, i don’t accept gifts. so just, bring your shiny self, okay?”

he looked at you with pure terror. no gifts, on your own birthday? his mother would’ve gone crazy. but he didn’t persist. it wasn’t easy for him to understand your perspective in many cases anyway.

the next day he truly felt bad for listening to you, because even though none of the guests had any gift for you, you truly deserved anything you wanted with that elegant outfit and your lovely smile. well, not anything. the exaggeration of birthdays was passed down to him from his mother. yeah. surely that was it.

your friends wouldn’t stop asking who he was and where you met him. was he single? wait, were you seeing him? no? good. well, happy birthday, dear.

the day ended with peace and happiness. you were thankful to your friends for being there and sharing the joy. the guests were leaving, and they didn’t forget to wish you the happiest birthday one last time. everyone left, everyone except him since he needed to answer a phone call real quick.

when he was done with it, he made his way to the kitchen to let you know he was ready to leave. that was the moment he saw it: a box wrapped in glossy yellow paper, tied with navy ribbon.

“so you accept gifts?” his voice was stern, for the lack of a better word.

“uhh, i don't,” you glanced at the present. “it’s from eliza.”

“so you accept gifts,” he said once more.

“well, what, are you jealous?” you grinned. that wasn’t the deal. his mother’s weird habits was — whatever.

“of what?” he sounded defensive, “anyway, nevermind, do you want to open it?” now he was like a little boy asking his friends to open their gifts out of curiosity. “let’s see what she got.”

you nodded slowly, gently unboxing it as he watched your hands. his gaze shifted to your expression once you were done—your mouth shaped like the letter o, your eyes glossy almost like you were crying.

he had never regretted anything as badly as not getting you a present. he knew there were times his mother was right, and yeah, he really should’ve known better.

he came up with a solution the next day: another package for you. and he certainly wasn’t any different than eliza, if not worse. even though you loved him and eliza, you still didn’t want expensive stuff from them. the little kid in you still thought it wasn’t truly yours if you weren’t the one who wanted it. when he saw you hesitate, he rested his hand on his chin. “i know you accept gifts,” he said with a faint smile.

his sharp gaze was lingering in the eyes of yours. you did your utmost to get it over with as quick as you could.

you didn’t have to know how hard it was for him to pick the ideal gift out there. you didn’t have to know he went as far as asking his old classmates from highschool to help him out. he didn’t have to tell you he kept annoying his mother—telling her she was the only one he could trust on this. she was taken aback by the sudden request as she had never seen him this excited for such occasions before. normally, he would buy whatever that seemed decent enough.

it was the prettiest bracelet you had seen. simple, and very elegant in its simplicity.

it wasn’t a gift you would -or could- buy your friends, to be honest. it was probably something you could only see on top of the counter. but, you knew rich kids had a different view on such matters. eliza never hesitated to get you such presents too, and she didn’t care which brand it was (or if it even had a brand, for that matter) as long as it seemed to look good on her.

you contemplated selling the bracelet before even getting to wear it. but his eyes were focused on your wrists, leaving you little to no choice.

you wore the bracelet, gently shaking your hand to make sure it wasn’t too loose.

“it’s pretty,” you said, still ashamed of the attention from him. you couldn’t find the correct words, and you hated the awkwardness of such words, “thank you, it’s… it’s so beautiful.” you said while looking at your bracelet. he liked your expression, and was most certainly satisfied with the reaction.

“of course, i picked it, after all,” he said with a boyish grin, certainly proud of himself.

the next day he couldn’t see the bracelet on your wrist.

did you not like it? that couldn’t be it because there was no way you could fake that type of expression. you liked it, no, you adored it, there was no way you didn’t. his eyes were on your bare wrist the whole day. the day after that, and the next day too. he hadn’t said anything, but his eyes were still.

“you think she didn’t like it?” he asked his mother. she was truly confused. there was no way her son, of all people, was nervous over a birthday gift.

“she probably just doesn’t like wearing bracelets.” she said with indifference. “some people are sensitive to how things feel on their skin.”

“she could’ve just told me.” he mumbled. he would’ve get you another gift if you asked him to. it was stupid of him, really, thinking too deeply over a stupid bracelet. but, in his defense,it was for you. from him.

even though you considered selling and getting rid of it, you couldn’t get yourself daring it. you knew he had tried to play it off, but you were able to see his content expression. and just because you felt awkward wearing it, you wouldn’t just do that to him. turned out even you had principles and some ethics. you put the gift right next to eliza’s toy as they brought a similar type of discomfort to you.

he had started to pay more attention to your sense of fashion. noting what you had wore and how you styled your hair, what accessories you wore, if you did. he tried to understand your preferences in perfumes and shampoos. you -and even he himself- didn’t even realize he did it. he kept asking his mom what type of gifts girls would like. he kept keeping track of every single piece of clothing you had. but there was still no trace of the bracelet. it was completely gone. he didn’t care if you wore accessories or not, all he cared was whether you wore that one single item he had for you.

“oh, it looks so pretty,” your friend pointed at the bracelet. “is it new?”

“oh, well, it’s been a while, my friend’s given it to me as a birthday gift.” you said, looking at the accessory.

“you should wear it,” she suggested. “it’s soooo beautiful!”

you didn’t answer. the weight of the item -of the feelings included in it- made it unable to lift your arm. but, you acknowledged you were making it a big deal. nothing wrong with using what your friends gave you, no?

no one including you could find out the reason he was so cheerful and ecstatic that day. not even his mom. he kept giving kind words to his friends whenever he had the opportunity— not something people caught him doing often. he even offered help to troubled people whose assignments were due. he greeted his mother so enthusiastically that she was almost 100% sure her son was finally losing it.

he was finally losing it, but your wrist looked so pretty with his gift on it. he couldn’t shake off the feelings of craving. he wanted your attention. he wanted you to think of him whenever you looked at your wrist. throughout his life, he finally had something to hang on to, to want, to desire. and it finally made sense to him when people had their lifetime goals they wouldn’t stop thinking about. people with undying ambitions and their dedication to do whatever it would take.

he wanted to be the subject of your attention. he wanted it bad.

you were finally losing it. because the more time you spent with him, the more you realized all that character development had gone straight into the trash—and that you weren’t fixable by any means. his company was comfortable, and you liked being around him. but, still, you could sense how envious you were. how jealous you were of his stupid car, his classy outfits, his big house and his mother who had mesmerizing eyes that were identical to his. you were upset he had everything, and you were upset there was no way you could drive that stupid car once your little hangout time was over.

you were finally losing it, because he had everything you had ever dreamed of. because he had everything, and the desire made your soul rotten.

it had started off slowly. like an old crow who adored shiny objects, you started off with a glamorous ring. it was his favorite, as you recalled correctly. and then it was his pretty bracelet, though not prettier than yours. then it was the jacket from that one luxury brand. and the list was getting longer. normally, you wouldn’t go as far as this because normally, people would start grumbling about how their stuff kept getting lost.

he was confused at first, though not exactly upset. he didn’t understand your motives as he had made it clear he was okay with sharing pretty much everything he had. he liked it when you had stuff that would remind you of him. why… did you feel the need to do that? was he not clear enough?

you didn’t accept his gifts, but you were completely okay with taking whatever you liked that belonged to him. you didn’t want gifts, but you didn’t stop pocketing his stuff. he was confused, but maybe, just maybe, you wanted little things in your house that’d make you think of him? maybe you were just too much of a loser and lacked good manners to ask like a normal human being.

no matter what the case was, he wasn’t bothered at all. even if you had ill intentions, it was no big deal, because at the end of the day, it wasn’t stealing if he was aware and okay with it.

he kept getting new jackets that seemed to fit your style. he got new bracelets and made sure you saw them.

the fact that he was totally unaware made you wonder if he was truly stupid, or just richer than you had imagined. he kept getting more and more stuff, and never mentioned anything getting lost. you were completely lost because… because it didn’t make sense at all. it had started to get annoying for you. that there was no way this man wouldn’t look for his items, nor was he even aware they were gone.

it started to piss you off. and you could feel your body getting tenser whenever you glanced at his figure. there was nothing you could do that’d affect this guy. you felt yourself distancing yourself from him. at the end of the day, the only person who was losing it was you. there wasn’t a single thing he would care about losing.

well, the only exception being you.

he could see you were annoyed, though not entirely able to tell the reason. he could see you drifting apart. and worth mentioning he didn’t take it well. things were getting more complicated day by day, and understanding you had never been harder.

there was no way you could walk away. not when he finally had someone to hold onto.

“my ring got lost again,” he mumbled while you two were working on an assignment together. you looked up at him, panic in your eyes lasted only a millisecond.

“oh…” you said, not managing to form a coherent sentence.

“it’s like… the third time this has happened in two weeks.” he peered at your wrist, the bracelet was still there. he smiled softly.

“you should’ve just told me if you had wanted a ring.” his voice was warm. it was genuine, and made you terrified of such warmth.

you didn’t answer, mouth going completely dry.

“you know how hard it is to deal with authorities, right?” he asked, but his voice didn’t sound threatening at all—he was still smiling, and his voice was still the softest you’d ever heard from him.

“i…” he didn’t let you finish. “it’s okay, dear,” reassured, “sharing is caring, y’know,” you looked at his expression to catch a glimpse of contempt— to your surprise, there weren’t any.

“i just… don’t think you should be distant to people when you have their ring,” he cooed, “isn’t that right?”

he made it sound weirdly romantic. like he was the one who gave it. you had his ring, that was true, and it was almost like he was happy you did.

“i’m sorry,” you finally managed to speak up. he shaked his head. “nothing to apologize, dear, the only problem we have is,” he gazed at your hands—stripped of any jewelry, “we need to find a ring that actually fits your finger.” he smiled.

you didn’t know how it came to this, but it was too late to reject any gifts.

[fanficgirl429]

Bucky Barnes Fluff

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

---

The compound was quieter than usual. A little too quiet, if Y/N was being honest.

She wandered the halls with socked feet, her boyfriend's hoodie that hung loosely off her and a determined pout, checking rooms like she was on a mission—which, to be fair, she was. A very important, highly classified mission: Find Bucky Barnes and initiate cuddle protocol.

She hadn’t seen him in over an hour, which was practically a crime in her eyes. Especially after the chaos of the last few weeks. The Thunderbolts mission was over, and for once, things were calm. But Y/N wasn’t about to let her grumpy super-soldier disappear into solitude again. 

She peeked into the kitchen. No Bucky. The living room? Empty. Gym? Not even a dumbbell out of place.

“Hm,” she muttered to herself, arms folded as she paced. “Either he’s hiding from me... or he’s made himself one with the shadows.”

Then it hit her. Of course. His room. Duh.

Y/N tiptoed down the hallway and eased his door open without knocking, already grinning. She found him exactly where she suspected: sprawled on his bed, shirt rumpled, hair a mess, one arm tucked behind his head, resting against his pillow, eyes closed.  

Bucky stirred when he heard the door, but he didn’t look. “If this is Walker again, I swear—”

“Disappointed it’s just me?” Y/N teased, already making her way to the bed.

Bucky slowly opened his eyes, smiling lazily. “Not disappointed. Just bracing myself in case I have to wrestle a guy with taco for a shield.” 

Y/N giggled and climbed onto the bed without hesitation. She straddled his hips, then laid down over him, stomach to stomach, her full weight pressing down onto his chest earning a soft ‘oof’ from him. 

“Comfortable?” Bucky groaned, his voice low and amused, one hand instinctively sliding over her back.

“Mmhmm.” Y/N slipped her hands beneath the hem of his t-shirt, resting them against his warm skin. “Perfect pillow. Bit grumbly and broody, but I make do.”

He huffed a laugh, chest rumbling beneath her. “I’m a damn delight.”

“Sure you are, Barnes,” she replied, smirking against his skin. “You grumbled at a pigeon this morning.”

“It looked at me funny.”

“It’s a bird, babe.”

“A judgmental bird.”

Y/N shook her head and snuggled closer. “Anyway. I was looking everywhere for you.”

“I was here the whole time,” he said, trailing his fingers slowly up and down her spine. “You could’ve just texted.”

“I could have,” she said dramatically. “But where’s the fun in that? Besides, I needed to find you myself. For science.”

He raised a brow. “Science?”

“Yup. I had to confirm that your cuddle levels were still dangerously high. It’s a safety concern, really.”

Bucky chuckled and shifted slightly beneath her so he could tuck her more snugly against him. “You know, you didn’t even ask if I wanted to cuddle.”

Y/N lifted her head just enough to meet his gaze. “Do you not want to?”

He stared at her for a beat, deadpan. “I didn’t say that. I just wanted to appear like I had a choice.”

She grinned. “You don’t.”

“That’s what I figured.” He leaned up to kiss her gently, then settled back. “Do you need something or did you just want to lay on top of me?” 

She shook her head and laughed. “Nope. I just wanted to lay on you.”

He smiled, soft and genuine now, as he wrapped both arms fully around her and exhaled. “Well... in that case, I guess I’m yours for the foreseeable future.”

Y/N closed her eyes, fully content. “Good. Because I’m not moving.”

“Even if I have to pee?”

“Too bad. Hold it.”

“Cruel.”

“You love it.”

Bucky sighed in mock defeat and pulled her closer. “Yeah. I really do.”

Y/N could feel the slow rhythm of Bucky’s breathing beneath her cheek, the way his chest rose and fell.  It was stupidly comforting. If she could bottle this feeling and sell it, she’d make a fortune.

She mumbled against his neck, “So... how long do you think we can stay like this before someone comes looking for us?”

Bucky hummed thoughtfully, running his hand lazily through her hair. “I’d say we’ve got maybe ten minutes before Walker busts in here asking if I wanna spar.”

She groaned. “Ugh, no. I’m not moving. If he comes in, I’m throwing a pillow at him.”

“Make it the heavy one,” Bucky said. “The one that feels like it’s stuffed with regret.”

Y/N giggled. “You mean the one with the weird beads inside?”

“Yeah. Weapon-grade throw pillow. Use it wisely.”

They lapsed into a quiet stillness again, her fingers tracing idle shapes across his ribs. It was domestic. It was peaceful. It was… everything she hadn’t known she needed.

“You’re warm,” she murmured.

“You’re clingy,” he shot back, though his tone was too fond to be serious.

“You like it.”

“Never said I didn’t.”

She tilted her head slightly to look up at him, chin resting just beneath his collarbone. “You’re extra soft today, soldier. Did you condition your hair or something?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes, pretending to be offended. “Soft? Excuse you—I am rugged. Brooding. Stoic.”

“You’re literally cuddling me like a human teddy bear.”

“Stoic teddy bear,” he clarified. “One with emotional depth.”

Y/N grinned. “I love your emotional depth. Very snuggly.”

He rolled his eyes, but the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

A knock came at the door. Y/N froze. Bucky didn’t move a muscle.

“Barnes?” a voice called through the door—too chipper to be anyone but Yelena. “Have you seen your girlfriend? She’s been begging me to paint her damn nails. I figured I’d do it to shut her up.”

Y/N whispered against his chest, “Don’t move. Don’t breathe. I am not here.”

Bucky held back a snort, pressing his lips together tightly. “She’s not here,” he called out, entirely unconvincing.

There was a beat of silence.

“I know she’s in there,” Yelena deadpanned.

“No, you don’t,” Y/N called back without lifting her head. “I am but a ghost.”

Yelena sighed. “Tell the ghost this is her one chance if she wants me to do her nails.”

Y/N waved a hand lazily toward the door. “You love me, you’ll offer again.”

There was a grumble, then a quiet, “Whatever.” 

When the footsteps faded down the hall, Y/N melted against Bucky again with a victorious sigh. “Safe.”

He looked down at her, smirking. “You’d rather be with me?”

“Obviously. Snuggles are so much better.”

Bucky shook his head and laughed. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Y/N blinked, then looked up. “Yeah?”

His blue eyes softened, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Yeah. I really do.”

Her heart did a whole somersault, but she tried to play it cool, nestling back into him with a grin.

“Well,” she said, her voice full of mischief, “you’re not getting rid of me now. You said the thing. That’s a binding contract.”

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I was never planning to.”