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abbyslovergirlxo · 2 months ago

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Intrusion

Sevika x Ambessa x Reader

Word count: 3.9k

synopsis; You, the pretty enforcer are tasked with retrieving very important documents from none other than Lead Commander Ambessa Merdarda. Sounds rather easy, until you see Silco’s right hand woman bent over her desk.

(Tw; dom!Ambessa, softdom!Sevika, wlw, overstimulation, degradation, enforcer!reader, strap on, sex, biting, sub!reader, sub!Sevika, crying)

Song: Love is a bitch, Two face

Side note: lmk if you guys like this and I’ll do another ambessa/sevika one shot. tbh I’m obsessed with them so I’ll probably drop it anyways lol. Also I’ve never watched the show so if anything is inaccurate don’t hate me, the characters are just fine shit. Anyways, hope u enjoy 🫶

When you first walked into the tall building, you hadn’t expected today to be such a troublesome one. Your commanding officer has tasked you with retrieving a few important documents from Lead Commander, Ambessa Merdarda. When given the task you did well to hide your excitement but nonetheless it was there. You had seen Ambessa, as an enforcer she was starting to become a regular face to be greeted by. But you’d never come close to her and the idea of that was intoxicating. You’d heard rumors about her, the war lord who never took no for an answer and never knew defeat. You’d admired her, her ruthlessness made her one of the most praised women in the world. One day you’d hoped to become as renowned as her. Knowing it was wrong and out of turn, you wondered if you’d be able to ask her a few questions about her strategies when you made it to her office.

The walls were decorated with precise and intricate details. White and blue and gold peeked all over. Sunlight peered in through the huge windows, everything about it screamed luxury. You nodded your head off to the guards posted at the large grand doors that led to the wing with Ambessa’s office.

Your heart jumped out of your chest over and over as you neared that golden and blue door. But you found courage once you reached it, letting off two swift knocks. Silence was all that met you. You decided to be a bit patient, not wanting to barge in. But as the minutes passed you remembered your commander's voice in the back of your head, pestering you about just how important it was that you got them.

Minutes kept slipping so with a slight irritation slipping over you, you respectively knocked two more times. There was a bit more force behind it this time but respectful of course. More silence was accompanied by it. You bit your lip, anxious and worried.

You knew that it wasn’t your fault that the Lead Commander hadn’t answered despite it being known that she was in her office. But you also knew the higher ups rarely cared about ‘excuses’ like such. If you were lucky you’d get chewed out in front of your comrades.

Usually you took any consequences head on, no matter how obscene, like the good soldier you were. But something made your stomach churn to delay the delivery of something of such urgency. You took a deep breath, telling yourself that she’ll understand.

I ’m not knocking the door down or anything, she won’t mind…just open the door

You tried to have your thoughts aid your anxieties and it almost worked until you remembered the scowl on her face a week earlier when a fellow enforcer had approached her disrespectfully. Just the remembrance of such a glare sent shivers down your spine.

Somewhat cowardly, you decided to suck up whatever would inevitably be thrown at you when you showed up with no papers. Disappointed, you put your head down, ready to turn.

Until a muffled groan slipped past the confines of the large door. If it hadn’t been for how observant you were, you undoubtedly would’ve missed it. But upon hearing it you flinched. Worry and fear overtook at the idea of what it could’ve been.

Was Ambessa ok? Had someone slipped into her office and hurt her? Is that why she couldn’t come to the door?

Without so much as a second thought, you bolted through the door, gun raised and finger steady over the trigger.

Any heroism brewing inside of you preparing to ‘save the day’ instantly dissipates. The scene in front of you was so lewd that you couldn’t do anything besides immediately re-holster your gun and attempt to leave. Unfortunately the attempt was halted, the panting voice of Ambessa reaching you.

“ Close the door. Turn around.”

For a second, you let your mind roam over the possibilities this could end with. You cursed yourself for your listening skills, wishing you’d never heard that noise in the first place. You remembered your comrades talking about some rather obscene things they’ve walked in on and they found pretending worked best.

In a last ditch effort, you kept your eyes pointed at the large door. Hand still clutching the handle.

“ I was simply coming to retrieve the documents for Commander Brinman. I apologize for my intrusion, due to the noise, I assumed there was trouble. I will take my leave immediately and return to retrieve them later today if able, Commander Merdarda.”

You heard a chuckle followed by a whine to which you presumed was the brown skinned woman bent over the table, the ones whose legs shook slightly…

You shook your head slightly, cursing yourself once again for the blush that crept on your face.

“ I didn’t ask you for any of that information, little one. Close the door and turn around. That’s an order.”

Desperately you let out one last attempt. Your voice came out weak this time, that soldier formality leaving you.

“ I promise you, Commander Merdarda, that absolutely nothing that has taken place in this office today shall leave it. I swear it.”

“ Well I could’ve told you that. You don’t seem the chatty type, clearly not the listening type either… I won’t repeat myself on my previous orders.”

Her voice sounded less patient this time, so reluctantly you closed the door. The loud click sounded throughout the room, and not a moment after you turned your body to face them. Embarrassment settled on your face as you still refused to actually look, your eyes trained at the floor.

“ Eyes up here, don’t be so rude.”

The moment you looked up, she was already staring at you. Your chest rose and fell a bit faster upon seeing the sight, again. Ambessa stood proudly, muscles and chest exposed for you to see. And though her counterpart did also seem to have muscle you immediately deduced that she wasn’t in the same state Ambessa was. Her hair fell over her face, pants crumpled around her ankles as she lay there, still shaking.

Ambessa smiled at you, but it was clear that it wasn’t a friendly one.

“ Look, we have a guest. Have some manners, or do you undercity dogs not have any of those?”

The harshness yet playfulness in her tone made you shift your legs slightly, still staring at Ambessa. The woman beneath her simply grumbled something but you didn’t catch it. It was hard when your heartbeat was thrumming out of your ears practically.

Ambessa rolled her eyes, using her large hand to tug at the hair of the woman. Another grumble left her, this time clearly more strangled. Guiding her head to look up at you, you nearly collapsed onto the floor upon seeing her face. Sure a few strands still protected her but you’d know that face anywhere.

Any enforcer would. Sevika, Silcos right hand woman. Instantly you scrunch your face up at the sight, luckily Ambessa was nice enough to drop her head back onto the desk, of course not before she forced a ‘hello’ out of her.

“ What to do with you now, hm?”

That question alone was enough for you to not care that Noxus’s Lead Commander was fucking a known criminal in her office, worried about your own fate.

“ Like I said, Commander, I’ve seen nothing. I’ll say nothing.”

She frowned, almost as if she was bored by such a response.

“ I thought we already discussed that. I think you’d be much more interesting with all those clothes off.”

The blush you fought so hard to keep down came back with a vengeance. You stammered over your words but nothing actually came out. You peered over at Sevika, noticing that Ambessa was in fact still inside of her.

“ C-commander… I’m a s-soldier…”

“ Soldiers don’t like getting fucked?”

Your insides boiled at the thought. Your mind fed you images of your legs open, trembling like Sevikas, Ambessa large hands able to reach every and anywhere. It should’ve made you recoil, have you running out of the office and shouting for anyone nearby to come and see the ungodly actions happening in this very room. But it didn’t. It made your breath hitch. Desire pounced at you over and over. You’d always been trained to be the perfect, obedient, and efficient soldier. But there was nothing perfect about the way you gave in so easily to that little voice inside of your head.

You’d be lying if you said everything about the sight of them didn’t make your knees weak. You’d always preferred women but there were no women like Sevika and Ambessa where you’d come from. The disgust you felt for that Zaunite hunched over that desk held no weight against your attraction for her.

“ Well, child, what’ll be?”

“ Nobody will find out…right?”

Ambessa smiled evilly at the question. Yet she ignored it all together. She knew you were going to strip anyway. She knew it the moment you locked the door on your own will, she’d never told you to do that. And oh how she loved the look on your face as you accepted your situation, deciding that Ambessa was never going to give you such security in her answer.

Slowly but carefully you tugged at your clothes. Something Ambessa also hadn’t instructed. She held back a sly comment, picking up on how eager you were. And she didn’t miss the way Sevika clenched around her suddenly, as she watched you strip off the rest of your clothes. You hadn’t noticed either of their staring but god did you feel it.

If your parents were here they’d be so disappointed in you, hands trembling as you showcase your bare body to two women who looked like they were looking at dinner. But you had no space to harbor such a thought, not when Ambessas braid swung slightly, beckoning you over. You moved swiftly, that certain soldier walk about you.

“ Quite nice…”

Ambessa shamelessly checked you out, her eyes lingering concerningly long on your breast. You simply shrink beneath her gaze, her very presence demanding authority. And you saw no reason to grant her anything other than that.

“ How lucky I am, I’ll have to thank Brinman for sending such a pretty one. Alright Sevika, be a little useful for once. Make sure to devour her properly.”

“ Lay down for me then, pretty.”

You’d never heard her voice before. You hadn’t expected it to sound so enticing. Her low eyes and hanging hair made you desperate to be devoured, even if it was by a criminal. You nodded quickly, nervously laying on the desk, your pretty legs spread in front of a bent over Sevika. Ambessa pressed the strap deeper inside at the sight of it causing Sevika to grip the table. The sight the Wolf had infront of her made her want to eat you both alive. From her view she could see everything, your nervous face as Sevika trailed kisses up your thigh, Sevikas sweaty back exposed and flexing as she moved about. She also couldn’t miss the way your cunt clenched around nothing as the Zaunite got closer to that spot that you really needed to be touched.

As planned, the moment Sevika finally did start licking vigorously at your clit, Ambessa started her thrust back up again. Her pace was brutal, even you could tell despite the loud whines that slipped past your mouth. Sevika moaned aggressively into you, not able to contain herself.

“ Look at you two, filthy.”

“ o-oh god…commander–”

You moaned out for Ambessa despite the intense eye contact you held with Sevika. Her grey eyes bore into yours and you worried that alone might get you off faster. If Sevika had a piece of sanity left she would’ve told you to say her name, moan it out in that pornographic tone of yours. But Ambessa was ruthless, hitting her in all the right places. And this pace was no issue for her, her stamina was horrid and she had no signs of fatigue. Sevika trembled and pushed against her rhythmically, not wanting the pleasure to end.

Her eyes rolled repeatedly, struggling to hold that eye contact with you. But you didn’t mind it, quite the opposite. It made you bite your lip at the thought that every vibration that she set off into you was because of the tall woman behind her. To know every time she rolled her eyes she was closer to the edge, drove you crazy. You almost pulled at her hair, wanting her even closer. But cowardice struck your heart, secretly intimated of the strong wanted criminal from Zaun.

Pleasure overwhelmed you as Sevika continued, her face now drenched from everything you were giving her. You whined at the sight, noticing the wet glisten on her nose and chin.

Your hips bucked at her mouth over and over and over. Until that burning sensation was becoming unbearable.

Obedient as ever, you wailed out a request. Ambessa watched hungrily as your legs shook around Sevikas head, wetness dripping onto her leg from Sevikas cunt.

“ please! can I…c-can I come?”

“ I’m not the one between your legs.”

With tears in your eyes and your hands clenched, desperate to not let go until someone, anyone, told you that it was ok. Sevika nearly melted seeing the way you pleaded with her before even saying anything, your lips trembling. Her own orgasm was approaching quickly.

“ p-please…sevika…”

Through broken moans and stutters, “ yes…god yes.”

Ambessa smiled as you whispered a pathetic thank you, your body at war with itself while you finished all over her face. Ambessa could tell she was close, it was obvious from how hard she was pulling it in. Sevika still ate at you desperately despite you having come, instead of relenting she simply pulled your thighs in with her arms, trapping you.

Ambessa had told her to devour you properly, and she wasn’t going to do anything but that. She did falter at her speed for a second, once she heard Ambessa demand for her to finish ‘all over her cock’ and quote.

You whimpered out pleads and begs, but neither listened. All you could do was paw at her strong forearms which clearly was no match for you. And Sevika hadn’t even noticed the scratch marks you gave her, her own orgasm so intense that she was lost in it. And being the cutting woman she was, Ambessa fucked her throughout all of it, until she was satisfied with the alien sounds she pulled from Sevikas throat.

Sevika did stop once Ambessa pulled out, heaving and shaking. And yet she did manage enough energy to leave a few extra peppered kisses on your wobbly thighs.

“ Who would’ve known the brave enforcer made such noises?”

Her voice was one of pure velvet, it made something rush through you. Everything about Ambessa made you go crazy. Yet you didn’t respond, ignoring Ambessa who now was behind you, head in your neck leaving bruises on it. You only whined, breathing rapidly. Her rough hands rubbed all around your breast and stomach.

“ What would your comrades think? You’ve just opened your legs to a wanted criminal, quite easily as well. Did you enjoy it? Having a Zaunite eat your cunt?”

Her words were so vile and you had no answers for her. You couldn’t even think straight, let alone entertain such nasty comments. Instead you opted to begging, not caring how filthy you looked in front of them anymore.

“ can I have more, please?”

Ambessa noticed now that your begging was no longer only directed towards her, your desperation for permission now being sought out from both of them. She didn’t mind. If anything it made her day a whole lot more interesting.

She smirked into your neck before pulling away, looking down at Sevika who no longer was bent over. Instead she now stood tall too, her naked body making you blush. Sevika knew she held no authority when it came to Ambessa, it was obvious. But you? Those lustful eyes peering up at her, awaiting any instruction, so long as it meant they touched you, drove her further into corruption.

Ambessa simply stared at Sevika, allowing her to answer.

“ Since you asked so nicely. Go ahead and open these up for me.”

She tapped at your thighs that you now had shut. Obediently, you opened them. Ambessa left your side, making you miss how warm she was. You heard her rummaging through something behind you before you saw her hand Sevika a stark black toy. Your arousal spilled down your legs as you patiently watched and waited. You grew alive with anticipation as you watched Ambessa grip the back of Sevika’s neck, whispering something in her ear. It left you curious after seeing the way Sevika’s eyes furrowed and she clenched Ambessa’s wrist desperately, nodding softly.

Ambessa left her to come back to your side, this time though she towered over you, cupping your face in her hand. It was surprisingly gentle, the way she rubbed her thumb back and forth. She studied you, finding it enticing how pliable you were, legs open and ready for them to do anything to you. She wanted to leave you clawing at the floor by the time she was done with you and from the way you easily slumped into her hands, she knew she could.

All that distraction made you oblivious to Sevika having a strap now attached to her as well. Sevika walked in front of you, pulling your legs suddenly so that your cunt was mere inches away from her cock. You bit your lip, one hand gripping the table and the other squeezing Ambessa’s wrist that now sat on either side of your face.

Sevika smiled down at you, allowing you to finally get a clear view of her gapped teeth. You nearly swooned at the sight of it. You hadn’t noticed how gorgeous she truly looked with all the hair that previously stuck to her face. But now you could see everything, her plump breast, her large thighs and strong arms, and that fucking smile.

“ Just relax, sweetheart. I know you’ll do good.” She dipped two fingers inside of you causing you to let out a small moan. Sevika made sure to get every bit of them wet, it wasn’t difficult at all, the constantly leaking proving just how good her tongue had been to you. She almost didn’t want to pull out, loving how warm you were inside. But that all went out the door the moment she saw you throw you back after she drew sticky circles around your clit lazily.

“ You’re so fucking wet, I was that good?”

You nodded mindlessly, grinding your ass softly against the desk. Ambessa gripped your chin gently causing you to suddenly open your eyes.

“ Manners, little one. She asked you a question.”

“ yesss,i-it’s so good, it’s a-all sooo good…”

You struggled to get it all out, broken up but moans and wails. The speed of her fingers was blinding by now. But she didn’t want you to cum, not yet. She ripped her fingers away, giving a faux sympathetic glance.

Sevika gripped your thighs as she lined the toy up with your cunt, making a slight show of the sounds it made as it moved back and forth between your lips. You bucked your hips desperate to actually put it inside, you didn’t have to wait long before she was sinking it all the way in. She was slow to enter, sure to not hurt you. But she assumed that’d be difficult to do considering you were practically drenched.

Ambessa itched with lust as she watched the way Sevikas thrust picked up, her stomach flexing and growing wet from you. You moaned out her name hoarsely, grateful that finally something was being done.

“ So pretty… this cunt is fuckin—- ngh… perfect.”

Sevika groaned out, feeling the harness rub against her throbbing clit. She looked up at Ambessa, eyelids low and mouth hung open, panting.

“ Fuck her faster.”

She didn’t dare disobey, picking up the speed immediately. You cried out, feeling it hit inside of you even deeper. Your poor cunt clenched around it, hungry for more. Your whole body felt hot to the touch. You thought you were going to die, not sure how much longer you could hold on despite her having just started.

Sevika moved your legs so that they rose straight up, pulling you even deeper allowing her thrust to drive you insane. You felt her hot breaths against your calf, her breast brushing against your bare skin. Her moans grew louder but it was impossible to overtake yours, your throat ripping out the most obscene noises. You met her thrust as best as you could, knowing you could never get enough of the pleasure she was giving you, even if it was overwhelming.

“ C’mere.”

You felt Ambessa suddenly capture your lips, pulling your head up slightly to ravage you. She tasted like honey and you moaned into her. Her hands roamed all over, cupping your breast that bounced vigorously. She bit at your bottom lip, relishing in the way you whined her name, not commander, her name.

“ ambessaaa.”

She secretly crumpled at sound. Typically she’d have corrected you, and told you to do better with your etiquette. But she couldn’t bother with that when you were shaking now, you and Sevikas orgasm clearly close.

“ fuckkkk! m-m gonn— no!”

You screamed louder than ever, still desperately kissing at Ambessa’s scarred face. The pair admired your discipline, fighting off the orgasm that you knew threatened to spill at any moment.

“ ‘bessa! s-sevikaa! can I— cum! can I please?”

Sevika was so far gone, ignoring your question. She stuttered her thrust, biting into your ankle as her orgasm grew closer. Ambessa gave uncharacteristic sympathy, filling in for her. She leaned down even closer, whispering in your ear.

“ Sevika’s been doing such a good job, hasn’t she?”

A tear slipped down your face as you nodded, whimpering more and more. She kissed the tear away, loving how they so easily fell down your face.

“ So how about we let her cum first, have some etiquette? How about that?”

Quite sure it wasn’t a question, you only offered a pained yes. Sevika sped up slightly making you claw at Ambessa’s hand that rested on your breast. Sevika came silently, her mouth forming into an ‘o’ as she fucked herself through her orgasm while also fucking you.

You looked up at Ambessa, pleading. She shushed your cries, telling you to let go for her and Sevika. And Sevika despite being overstimulated continued to fuck you enthusiastically, refusing to not let your pussy cry for her again. And cry it did, you came so hard on her cock that you saw stars. Vision blurry and body weak, you trembled beneath both of their stares.

You heaved, struggling to catch your breath. But Ambessa noticed you trying to say something. She rubbed your face again leaving bruised kisses on your chest.

“ Speak up, mumbling won’t do much.”

“ more…please”

Sevika, whose chest also struggled to catch breath, made eye contact with Ambessa. Your mind was a heavy haze, not able to concentrate on anything. But you did capture Ambessa’s commanding voice.

“ You heard her, Sevika. Do it again.”

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pellucid-constellations · 6 months ago

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Trial and Error (4)

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Based on the request: "Azriel with single mom reader? I feel like being a single mom in ACOTAR would be tricky as hell… reader comes from autumn court and flees to night court because she got pregnant out of marriage? 😯 the shame"

Word count: 2.5k

Warnings: Illness, Azriel's pov 👀

a/n: Someone sedate me at this point. Also I'm posting this earlier than planned because I am susceptible to peer pressure

Read part one | part two | part three | part five

Main Masterlist ♡

Azriel sat at the table for breakfast, his attention occupied by the window to his right. A plate of eggs, bacon, and toasted bread sat forgotten and untouched before him. To be honest, Azriel was unsure of how it even came to be in front of him.

Cassian was saying something, the rest of the table humoring him with sleepy mumbles and raised brows. He was always so lively in the mornings, a sentiment not shared by the rest of the inner circle.

Azriel was typically one of the more responsive people, but his shadow was late today. It had been a few weeks of sending one out to check on you every night, and this one was late. The rest of them swarmed around his feet in anticipation.

“Az?” Mor’s voice had him breaking his stare from the window. “What are you looking at? You’ve been checked out all breakfast.”

Azriel cleared his throat and readjusted in his seat. “Nothing. Just distracted.”

She snorted. “That’s an understatement. You’re been distracted for weeks now. What’s been going on with you?”

“Nothing,” Azriel repeated. He picked up his fork despite his stomach protesting, the nerves twisting it to the point of unease.

“Hate to concur, Az, but you have been rather absent. I think this is the first time you’ve had a meal with us this week,” Rhysand chimed in.

From beside him, Feyre shot her mate a look.

Azriel, feeling eyes on him, glanced to his left to find Cassian leering at him with narrowed eyes. His brother leaned his head back and hooked his arm over the back of his chair, analyzing Azriel amidst his lax posture.

Azriel rolled his eyes. “What?”

With his tongue pressed into his cheek, Cassian let out a disbelieving huff. “You’re seeing someone,” he concluded. “Who is she? Why haven’t you said anything?”

“I’m not seeing anyone. Why would you come to that conclusion?”

“You answered that way too quickly to be believable.”

“Azriel, are you seeing someone? There wouldn’t be anything wrong with that,” came Mor’s soft tone—trying to play the opposite side of the coin.

“No, I—“

“He is. I know he is.” Cassian, with his assured pestering. “And don’t think I don’t notice how Rhys is being silent here. And Feyre. The only two people in the room that can read minds.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Feyre defended.

“Yeah!” Nyx yelled, quick to defend his mother. “Nothing!”

But Nyx’s interference only made Cassian turn his attention to the small child and knock his head to the side.

“Nyx—“ Cassian began. In response, Nyx shoved a fork full of eggs into his mouth. “Azriel’s been taking you to school an awful lot, hasn’t he?”

“Mmhmm,” Nyx nodded.

“And he’s been going to all of your school events?”

Nyx nodded again, this time with a mouthful of juice.

“Does Azriel talk to anyone when he’s at your school?”

“He talks to Ms. Fern.”

Cassian let out a barking laugh and turned back to Azriel with a wide grin. “Ms. Fern? Okay, Az, if that’s what does it for you. You should bring her to the house.”

Although he felt an immense pride for Nyx keeping his secret (because Nyx had seen him talking to you countless times) a strange, hot anger licked at the bond hanging loose in his chest.

He wasn’t seeing Ms. Fern. The reasonable part of his mind told him that it was better this way, you would feel safer, but the unreasonable side wanted to knock Cassian across the room.

You were so much better than Ms. Fern. The teacher didn’t “do it for him” and never would. It was insulting to you.

Azriel ground his teeth. He knew this reaction was more borne from the fact his shadow hadn’t returned and the worry he was feeling was paralyzing, but reasoning with himself did nothing.

“I will not be—“

Sick, sad, help.

A whisper at his ear made Azriel rein in his words.

Alone, alone, alone.

Azriel snapped his head to the side to find his missing shadow whisking down to join the rest, the hoard of them now rising to leave. To get to you, he realized. He had to—

“What is it?” Rhysand asked.

Azriel could feel his talons scratch along the barrier of his mind, but there was no time to let Rhysand hear what he’d heard. In one fluid motion, Azriel was up from the table and out of the house, his wings spread wide behind him as he flew to the outskirts of Velaris where you resided.

One of the first things he would suggest after he got you to trust him was for you to move.

He’d already reinforced your locks and checked your neighbors, but you were still so far and that side of Velaris wasn’t the best.

He’d ask you to move into the House of Wind, but he knew that’d be pushing it. Obviously.

His back ached as he pressed his wings further, desperate to make it to you. He flung his body one way and then the other to dodge buildings as he went, flying low to save time. Luckily, the streets were barren this early.

But it wasn’t early enough for your shop to be closed, an all too alarming fact when faced with the “closed” sign on the front door. He yanked on the knob anyways, but the door wouldn’t budge.

He cursed himself for ensuring their stability.

He started knocking next—soft at first and then with a blistering urgency. He knocked and knocked and was moments away from flying up to your window and possibly scaring you off for good when the door wrenched open.

You looked beyond disheveled, bone-tired, and frankly gaunt as you stared up at him with an incredulous gaze. Your gaze softened a fraction when you saw it was Azriel beating down your door, but a tinge of irritation remained hazing your eyes.

“Azriel, we’re closed for—”

“Are you okay?” he rushed out.

Since the open house, Azriel had been more open with his vies to take care of you. If he were being honest, the intrinsic need to protect you and Melanie was overwhelming and he was barely scratching the surface of all he wanted to do, but you became guarded any time he got too intense. So, he walked you home and asked you about your family and he didn’t care if he got a stonewall in response.

But right now, you did not look well.

Right now, there was no Melanie peaking behind your legs as you stood at the apothecary door.

So, right now, Azriel didn’t have a mind to be subtle.

“Where is Melanie? Are you hurt?” he asked before you could formulate a response.

He watched your knuckles pale as you gripped the door. You breathed in deeply. “Mel has been sick all night. I’m not sure what it is and I’ve been trying everything. I’m about two seconds away from calling a healer but…”

Azriel knew that tell—the way your eyes shifted and your expression pinched.

More people.

Anytime you were confronted with introducing more people into Melanie’s life, you crumbled.

“Let me come see her,” Azriel requested, the tension leaking from his voice into a softer tone. Now that he knew the two of you weren’t dying, there was some relief. Some.

You shook your head, pressing your lips into a firm line as you deflated. “I don’t want to get you sick. I think I'm already a lost cause, but you—you have important things to do.”

If only you knew how important you were to him.

Azriel felt his fists clench at the defeated look in your eye. “If you’re sick, you can’t take care of her. Just let me come in. Let me help, y/n.”

“Azriel…”

“Please. Let me take care of you.”

He wanted to take the words back as soon as they left his mouth, afraid of you drawing back in fear, but they were already lingering in the space between you. Azriel decided you must have been truly exhausted because your only reply was a pained sigh followed by your door swinging open to let him in.

You didn’t even send him a sidelong glance.

Azirel’s hand twitched as he followed you up the stairs to your apartment, the urge to press his fingers along your back stifling.

One step at a time, Azriel—you were only just letting him into your house.

Any examination of your apartment abruptly halted as soon as his feet met the threshold of the sitting room. Melanie was lying on the couch looking worse for wear with a cloth along her forehead and a flush to her cheeks that did not sit well with the Shadowsinger. His chest caved in at the sight, a feeling that intensified when her small voice filled the space.

“Mr. Azriel?” she croaked, attempting to lift her head. You rushed over to press her back down, running your fingers through her hair. “He’s always at my house,” Melanie said, turning to look at you. “Always.”

You let out a breathy laugh as Melanie shut her eyes and began to softly snore against the arm of the loveseat. Azriel’s shadows rushed to the girl and brushed against her forehead and arms, offering the cool wind they provided.

In a few steps, Azriel took a knee beside you. He looked at you first—at the way you hovered over your daughter with furrowed brows—and then let his gaze wash over Melanie. Against his better judgment, he wrapped his scarred fingers around her tiny hands.

No poison, his shadows reported, although he didn’t expect it to be. She was feverish, hadn’t eaten since last night, couldn’t keep anything down; it was rare for fae to get so sick, and he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t concerning.

Even more worrisome was the fever emanating from you. Azriel could feel the heat on his shoulder and he could tell you hadn’t stopped to rest.

“I know a healer that can help. She wouldn’t say anything to anyone,” Azriel said after a beat of silence.

You paused your fingers in Melanie’s hair. “Do you promise?”

The sickness had worn you down, taking the fight and fear right out of you.

“I promise on everything. I wouldn’t bring someone here that wasn’t safe.”

Azriel called Majda.

Majda arrived in a few minutes, much to your surprise. Azriel had gotten the door upon her knock, his eyes catching the way your knees shook as you went to stand.

Majda kneeled in front of the couch where you and Azriel once were, her healing magic lighting up the room. Behind her, Azriel stood with you and he watched.

He watched your worried brow and the way you picked at your fingers. He watched the flush on your face get worse and worse as your daughter’s illness gradually got you sicker. He watched the way you tracked each of Majda’s movements, ready to jump in at a moment’s notice.

He watched your body shake as it held you up.

He watched his mate and saw how alone you were.

Azriel reached up and tucked a hair behind your pointed ear, using the ploy to feel for the temperature on your cheek. You turned to look up at him and he felt the way his expression strained.

“You should let her look at you too,” he said, voice low and calm.

You shook your head. “I’m okay. I’m fine.”

“You aren’t.”

You turned back to your daughter, looking on.

Azriel no longer cared for the farce he’d been putting on. He stepped closer and let his palm rest on the small of your back if only to support you from collapsing. He saw you glance at him from the corner of your eye, but you made no move to step away.

It took Majda 13 minutes to come to a conclusion. Azriel knew that because he had been counting.

“Well, first of all, she will be okay. As will you, as I see you may have the same illness,” the older healer spoke, rising from the ground with a grunt. “It is most unusual—what ails you. Do you have Autumn's blood?”

The fingers you had pressed to your mouth were abruptly dropped. You looked up to Azriel with panic in your eyes, a question clear in your expression.

He hadn’t known where you were from, but he had guessed, and you were looking at him as if he knew—as if he knew and you wanted to know if it was safe for the healer to know as well.

Azriel nodded his head and ignored the bittersweet feeling in his chest.

He had wanted you to tell him when you were ready.

“Yes,” you uttered, shaking your head much faster than you spoke. “We both are. Is that—does that have something to do with it?”

Majda offered you a thin smile. “You have Autumn fever. Something to do with the fire that lingers in your blood. Sometimes it does not align with the other courts and your body revolts. It will pass in a few days as most. Uncomfortable bugger to be sure, but nothing that cannot be managed.”

You sagged against Azriel in relief, the shadowsinger catching your weight as your knees buckled. He pulled you closer to his front but didn’t feel complete until he guided you back to the couch and leaned over Melanie as she slept.

“She’ll be okay?” you asked.

Azriel thought the question was for Majda, but when he looked to his side you were staring directly at him, fear and fever in your gaze.

He lost his breath and captured your face in his hands. “She’ll be okay,” he assured. You were so hot against his skin. “You will too. I’ll fix it.”

Something righted in your expression—something softened. For the first time since he entered your house, you let out a full breath and allowed your eyelids to drop. It was barely thirty seconds before your head fell as well, your forehead landing on Azriel’s collarbone. He trailed his hand up to rest against your hair and placed his other on Melanie’s knee as he stayed beside the couch.

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Shadowsinger,” Majda crooned. “That’s a whole lot of responsibility. A lot of secrets.”

Azriel tightened his hold on you. “Do you have herbs that would help? To lessen fever or pain?”

Majda hummed. “I will leave a few.” A pause. The floorboards creaked as Majda went to make her exit. “Heed my words, Azriel.”

“I know what I’m doing—what I’m getting myself into.” He dropped his nose to your temple, listening to your breath as you slept. His shadows continued their mission of cooling Melanie’s feverish skin.

“Do you?”

Azriel considered the question, and no, he didn’t know.

But he couldn’t find it within himself to care.

part five

#azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x female!reader #azriel x you #azriel x y/n #azriel acotar #azriel fanfic #azriel fluff #azriel spymaster #acotar #acotar fanfiction

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intheupside · 8 days ago

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Sidney Crosby gets the fascination that fans and some fellow players have with his gear — from the curiosity about pieces of equipment he has worn since his first NHL game, to the social media posts if he so much as even looks at a different CCM stick.

When Sid was a kid, he was interested in the tools of the trade used by his favorite NHL players. Unsurprisingly, he appreciated the simple style of Peter Forsberg and Steve Yzerman. But he was fond of some flashy stars, too. Pavel Bure had an “aura” about him, he said, and only Sergei Fedorov could pull off those white Nike skates.

“I thought Mario had great style, too, with the tongues out,” Crosby said with a grin.

The Penguins captain said he doesn’t follow social accounts that track what today’s players are wearing and when they switch to new sticks, skates and gear. But he understands. Crosby was amused when told that GearGeek.com was all over it earlier this month after he tested out a CCM Ribcor Trigger 8 stick during practice.

“It’s just all about feel. It’s so important that when you’re on the ice, your gear just feels like it is part of you,” said Crosby, who is on pace for another point-per-game season. “It doesn’t feel like you’re wearing anything. It’s just an extension of you.”

As Crosby sat at his locker, his hair somehow looked freshly styled even though he had just taken off his CCM Fitlite helmet. He wore a lightly-padded undershirt from Reebok — which started to phase out of the hockey business a decade ago. He took off the pair of shoulder pads he uses for practice and tucked them inside his bag.

During a long 82-game season, Crosby will regularly cycle through some pieces of equipment, such as skates and gloves. He snaps his fair share of sticks, as well. But there are things in that bag that Crosby has carried with him since his rookie year.

His athletic supporter is the second most famous cup in hockey. The last 20 years, several equipment managers have kept that black Reebok jockstrap stitched together.

Considering Crosby has been pulling on that thing since his junior hockey days up in Rimouski, Quebec, that has to be the oldest piece of equipment that Crosby wears, right?

“No, it’s my shoulder pads actually. They just fit so well,” Crosby said. “They feel like they’re just part of you. It doesn’t feel like I’m even wearing gear. I have added stuff over the years where guys have found different spots [where I] didn’t have it covered. So it’s just trial and error, and finding out from a crosscheck or a slash.”

With all that additional padding stitched on, they weigh three pounds heavier now. “Here, let me show you,” Crosby said, pulling the Frankenpads back out of his bag.

Crosby uses a two-piece pair of hockey pants. He’s had the top portion of those pants for a long time. The bottom piece — “for my sides and my ass, basically,” he explained — is something he replaces every once in a while due to wear and tear.

Famously, Crosby has refused to switch over to the replaceable skate blades that the vast majority of players use. That is why you sometimes will see him remove his skate on the bench and hand it to one of the equipment managers to sharpen.

The reason he has not made the change is that he uses an older, softer style of steel. He can feel the blade “bend a little bit” — in a good way — when leaning into turns.

So, as Crosby showed me last week, there is a method to his equipment madness.

“Some stuff I’ve had for a while,” Crosby said. “I would say that’s because of feel.”

nice read

and nice find from @pimpim90

#pittsburgh penguins #sidney crosby

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soleilapproves · 2 months ago

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burnt out reader crying about her grades while being fucked by ex convict!Sukuna / alternate title: Sukuna discovers empathy.

Notes: fem/afab!reader, NSFW, angst to fluff (I think), comfort. This is related to the burnt out reader x ex convict!sukuna prompt I posted earlier.

main masterlist

Everything was so overwhelming. From the rumpled sheets beneath your rocking body to the dimness of the room- Sukuna said he’d rather keep the lights off. Something about coming too soon if he saw your face.

You were spent. Mentally and physically. You didn’t have the energy in you to moan, only letting out breathless pants as Sukuna’s cock roughly moved in and out from your spasming hole. You had come long ago by his fingers so all you were waiting for was for his release so you could leave his apartment and sleep in your own bed as soon as possible.

Sleep.

Something you had been missing for days, trying to cram in everything as much as possible for the back to back exams in the coming weeks. Normally, Sukuna’s voice would’ve had you hypnotized with how deep his moans sounded, but you just weren’t there today. You were glad the lights were off- his ego wouldn’t have been able to handle your ruminating expression. Eyebrows furrowed and all.

Your mind kept flashing you the image of the grades from your mid term exams- C, C, D, B-. These grades are not what you see on a scholarship student’s transcript, but you only had so much mental strength left in you to keep studying. Guilt seeped into the discreet crevices of your contemplation- did you even like your major? Gone were the days of your ambitious past, back when you were an academic force. A storm in the grade curve.

Now you’re just a husk of what was once a great feat.

And then it happened, one tear. Two tears, and then a whole flood of them. Your pants turned into whimpers and wails.

What were you doing with your life? The person you were three years ago would’ve slapped you if she saw the present. Your life had come to an all time low. It was always said that the brightest flames burn out the fastest.

Everything felt like it was being held together by a delicate cloth, and now it was beginning to tear from the seams, spilling out everything you were trying to control. At this point there was nothing left to hold on to. Your body shivered as you removed your hands from Sukuna’s biceps that were caging your body to hug yourself.

“Shit, am I fucking you that good?”

His question made you wail harder, prompting him to cum into your sopping cunt. Even the man who had crept into the most intimate parts of your body didn’t know how you felt. It felt worse knowing that you both didn’t even have any romantic feelings towards each other, simply using each other’s bodies for sexual gratification. An escape from whatever the real world had muddled you in.

Your tears just wouldn’t stop flowing and Sukuna was starting to get concerned.

“What the—did I go too hard?” The room was dark but it was enough for you to see that he was leaning closer and closer to your face, too concerned to remove his limp dick from inside you. You pushed his face away with your small hand but the man was as persistent as a stone hedge.

He pulled out and flipped you both over—your small body now laying on top of his hard, muscled one. His bulky arms wrapped tightly around you as you sobbed onto his shoulder.

“What are you-“

“Just shut up. You can go back to your place later.”

Staring up at the ceiling with a hand on your head, he began to wonder what led him to do that. Every woman he had fucked in the past was kicked out the second he was done with them but for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to treat you like that. He didn’t think that it would’ve been possible to treat someone like this. Not after all his years of being a criminal.

Maybe it was because you were in a vulnerable state right now or maybe it’s because you’re at a point in your life where you just need some kind of stability. Even if it veils toxicity. He never knew about whatever was on your mind because you simply never talked about your life with him. Just texted him that you wanted to see him, fucked him, and then left. If it weren’t for your arousal all over his lower half, one would think that you were simpler never there.

He unexpectedly begins to rub up and down your naked back and pulls up his blanket to cover you when he notices that you’re shivering.

The scent of his sweat and body wash mixed together clouded your senses of both smell and judgement. You didn’t say anything and just held him tightly, trembling arms almost choking his thick neck. For now, he was your oasis.

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its-avalon-08 · 3 months ago

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Could you write a story where the reader is an F1 reporter who gets along well with everyone? She’s a close friend, and everyone considers her like a “sister” (or maybe even more for some… I don’t know, let me be delulu here!) and when she gets pregnant, they all become super protective and take extra care of her. For example, if she’s struggling with the heat, they make sure she’s comfortable. Thank you!

golden child of the paddock (all drivers)

✦ pairing - all drivers x female!reader (platonic), carlos sainz x female!driver (non platonic)

✦ genre - protective drivers, romance

The first time Y/N stepped into the F1 paddock as a young, starry-eyed reporter, she felt a blend of excitement and nerves. She was new to the sport, young, and a little out of her depth, but she knew her passion for racing and her natural curiosity would be enough to keep her going. Still, when she looked around at the towering motorhomes, the thrumming of engines, and the throng of seasoned journalists, it was hard not to feel like she was in over her head.

"First day on the job?" a voice came from her side. She turned to see none other than Daniel Ricciardo, grinning with that trademark mischievous smile. He’d noticed her as she was nervously adjusting her press badge.

"Uh, yeah," she admitted, trying to sound more confident than she felt. "Guess it's pretty obvious."

Daniel laughed and gave her a friendly nudge. "You’ll be fine. Just stick around us drivers; we’re way more fun than those old journos anyway."

Just then, a few other drivers came over, drawn by the new face in the crowd. Lando Norris was quick to introduce himself, already full of playful questions.

"So, Y/N, are you here to keep an eye on me?" he teased, giving her a wink. "Because, let’s be honest, I’m the only interesting one on the grid."

"Right," Y/N said, unable to help the laugh that escaped. "I’ll try to keep my focus on you, Lando."

Max Verstappen raised an eyebrow with a smirk. "Good luck with that. But hey, if you ever want the real story, you know who to ask."

Y/N quickly felt herself relaxing as the drivers bantered with her, making her feel more at home. Soon, the entire paddock was buzzing with news of the young, friendly reporter. And the drivers? Well, they seemed determined to keep her close.

Over the next few weeks, Y/N found herself almost part of the F1 family. She’d interview the drivers in the press pen, and somehow, every single one of them found a way to add a bit of personal advice or a subtle check-in.

"Did you eat today?" Lewis Hamilton asked her once, holding out an extra protein bar during a post-practice interview.

"Oh, I… yeah, I grabbed something earlier," she stammered, a little caught off guard.

He nodded, handing her the bar anyway. "You’re going to need the energy. Trust me. This job doesn’t slow down."

Even Sebastian Vettel would occasionally pause to check in on her. Once, he found her frowning at her notes during a practice session. "Don’t worry too much about getting every detail perfect, Y/N," he said kindly. "You’re doing great. Just be yourself—that’s what people connect with."

"Thanks, Seb," she said, feeling a bit of relief wash over her. "I guess I’m just… I don’t want to mess up."

Seb gave her a reassuring smile. "You won’t. Just remember, we’re all here to help if you need it."

Then, there was Carlos Sainz. Unlike the others, his way of protecting her was a bit more… personal. The first time she interviewed him, he was warm and polite, but as the weeks passed, his demeanor shifted ever so slightly. He’d always look at her with this glint in his eye, his smile lingering a second longer than necessary.

"Amor," he greeted her one morning, his Spanish accent adding a warmth to the word that made her cheeks heat up. "You’re looking stressed. Are they working you too hard?"

She blinked, feeling a little flustered. "Carlos, I’m fine, really. Just part of the job."

Carlos tilted his head, giving her a small, teasing smile. "Maybe. But if you need a break, you let me know, sí? Can’t have you running around too much."

The way he looked at her, the gentle tone of his voice, and the pet names—amor, cariño—all of it made her feel a little thrill each time they spoke.

As the season continued, it became clear to everyone in the paddock that Y/N was something special. Not just another reporter but someone who cared about them, respected them, and brought a certain brightness with her wherever she went. And as they got closer, the drivers each took on their own version of ‘big brother’ with her.

One afternoon, she was struggling with some heavy equipment when Pierre Gasly spotted her and practically sprinted over.

"Whoa, whoa, no way, Y/N. We’re not doing this," he said, taking the bag off her shoulder. "You’re not carrying anything if we’re around, okay?"

"Pierre, I can handle it, seriously," she tried to argue, but Pierre just shook his head.

"Not happening. You’re stuck with all of us now, so get used to it."

She had barely gotten over Pierre’s chivalrous intervention when she felt someone tap her shoulder. Turning around, she found Charles Leclerc standing with a concerned frown.

"Y/N, I saw you trip on the stairs earlier. You didn’t hurt yourself, right?"

She laughed, brushing it off. "I’m fine, Charles. Just a little stumble."

He crossed his arms, clearly not convinced. "Alright, well, just… watch your step, okay?"

Everywhere she went, there seemed to be a driver looking out for her. They’d bring her water bottles when it was hot, extra snacks when she looked tired, and Carlos, of course, was always there to check on her, calling her mi vida and making sure she never felt alone.

One evening, after a particularly long day, Carlos found her sitting on a low wall by the track, staring out over the circuit, lost in thought.

"Mind if I join you, cariño?" he asked, his voice soft.

"Not at all," she smiled as he sat beside her.

They sat in companionable silence for a while before Carlos spoke. "You know, everyone here thinks of you as a sister."

Y/N laughed. "Yeah, I’ve noticed. I can’t even carry my own things anymore!"

Carlos chuckled, his fingers brushing her arm. "It’s because we care about you. And some of us…" He paused, his gaze turning serious. "Some of us more than others."

Her heart skipped a beat as she looked at him. "Carlos…"

He gave her a shy smile, something rare for the usually confident driver. "I just want you to know, Y/N. You’re not alone here."

She nodded, a soft blush spreading across her cheeks. "I know. Thanks, Carlos."

Just then, Max passed by, smirking. "Hey, Carlos, not hogging Y/N, are we?"

Carlos shot him a look. "Can’t a man have a moment, Max?"

Max grinned, winking at Y/N. "Don’t worry, Y/N. If he’s bothering you, just let us know."

As Max walked off, Carlos rolled his eyes, but his hand found hers, squeezing gently. "They’ll never leave you alone now, mi amor. Better get used to us all."

Y/N smiled, looking out over the track, feeling for the first time that she truly belonged. Surrounded by a family of drivers, each one ready to support, protect, and care for her, she knew this would be the beginning of something wonderful.

It was the last night of the race weekend, and the paddock was almost deserted. Only a few lights remained on, casting a soft glow over the empty garages and tents. Y/N lingered by the trackside, her heart racing in her chest. She had made up her mind—she couldn’t keep pretending she didn’t feel anything for Carlos. But she didn’t think she’d be standing here, ready to confess her feelings in such a big way.

"You got this, Y/N," Lando said, giving her a little nudge of encouragement. The rest of the drivers had banded together, helping her plot the perfect confession for the man who had her heart.

"But what if he… I don’t know, laughs?" Y/N wrung her hands nervously, feeling her cheeks flush. "What if he doesn’t feel the same way?"

"Then he’s an idiot," Pierre chimed in with a grin, his arm around her shoulder. "But trust me, he’s not that dumb. I mean, he calls you cariño every day. I’m pretty sure he’s already halfway in love with you."

Sebastian, who had come along to witness the moment, chuckled. "You’ve grown up so fast, Y/N. Look at you—confessing your feelings like a true professional."

"Just… be yourself," Charles added, giving her an encouraging smile. "Carlos would be lucky to have you."

"Really?" she whispered, looking at her friends with wide eyes. They all nodded emphatically, giving her the strength she needed to take the leap.

As she waited, Y/N glanced back at her team of ‘brothers,’ who were hiding in the shadows with poorly concealed excitement. George and Alex were practically bouncing on their toes, and even Max was grinning.

Finally, she saw Carlos walking towards her, his hair still a little messy from the day, his eyes bright despite the late hour. "Y/N?" he asked, his brows raised in surprise. "What’s going on?"

She took a deep breath, willing herself not to lose her nerve. "Carlos, there’s something I need to tell you. And, um… please just listen, okay? Don’t say anything until I’m finished."

Carlos’s smile softened as he nodded. "Of course, mi vida."

"Right, okay…" She took another breath, staring at the ground, feeling her heart pounding against her ribs. "So, ever since I started here, you’ve… you’ve been one of the best parts of my job. The way you tease me, how you’re always looking out for me, calling me all those sweet names…" She laughed, slightly embarrassed. "At first, I thought it was just you being nice. But then… I realized it’s more than that for me. I… I really like you, Carlos. A lot."

There was a soft gasp from somewhere behind her, probably Lando, but Y/N kept her eyes on Carlos, who looked utterly stunned.

"I just couldn’t go on pretending I didn’t feel this way," she continued, her voice trembling. "And if you don’t feel the same, that’s okay. I just… I needed you to know."

Carlos took a step closer, his gaze intense, and she could see a flicker of emotion in his eyes that made her heart swell. "Y/N," he murmured, reaching for her hands. "You have no idea how much I wanted to hear you say that. I was so sure… so sure you only saw me as a friend."

Her cheeks flushed a deep red. "Carlos, I’ve had the biggest crush on you for months. You call me cariño, amor—it’s impossible not to fall for you."

He laughed softly, pulling her closer. "Well, in that case, let me say it properly." His voice softened, his gaze never leaving hers. "Te quiero, Y/N. I want you, too."

A mix of squeals and cheers erupted from the shadows as the other drivers stepped out, clapping and wiping away mock tears.

"Finally!" Daniel shouted, throwing his hands up dramatically. "Our little Y/N is all grown up!"

George pretended to dab at his eyes. "I’m not crying… it’s just… allergies."

Pierre gave her an affectionate grin, giving Carlos a nod of approval. "You better take care of her, Sainz."

Carlos laughed, wrapping an arm around Y/N’s waist, pulling her into his side. "Don’t worry. I’ll treat her like the queen she deserves to be."

Max crossed his arms, his smile warm. "Good answer, mate. We’ve been waiting for this moment forever."

Y/N looked around at her friends, her cheeks sore from smiling. "Thank you, all of you. I couldn’t have done it without you."

Sebastian raised a pretend glass, grinning. "To Y/N and Carlos. And to all the big brothers who made this night possible."

Lando cleared his throat, looking almost sentimental as he pulled her into a quick hug. "We’re really happy for you, Y/N. But remember, if Carlos gives you any trouble, we’ll be right here."

Carlos chuckled, looking down at her with a playful smirk. "I think I have more to worry about than you do, cariño. With all these guys watching out for you, I’ll have to be on my best behavior."

"And that," Y/N said, squeezing his hand, "is exactly how I want it."

Surrounded by her friends—her family—she felt an overwhelming wave of happiness wash over her. As she looked up at Carlos, the rest of the world faded away, leaving only the warmth of his gaze and the knowledge that she was exactly where she belonged.

A few years down the road, Y/N had cemented her place as the paddock’s heart and soul. Fans adored her interviews, and the teams always lit up when she was around. Being married to Carlos only added to the love everyone felt for her, and for Carlos, it made him proud—and fiercely protective.

The first few months of her pregnancy, however, had been kept tightly under wraps. Only she and Carlos knew, and they were still basking in the news in secret. But now, as she tried to hide her growing morning sickness and Carlos’s over-attentive concern, things were getting harder to keep quiet.

One morning in the paddock, Max Verstappen happened to pass by and saw Y/N doubled over, looking pale as she sat on a crate outside the Red Bull garage.

"Hey, Y/N, you okay?" Max asked, concerned, immediately handing her his water bottle. "You don’t look too great."

Y/N tried to wave him off with a weak smile. "Oh, it’s nothing, Max, I just… I think it was something I ate."

"Something you ate?" he repeated, narrowing his eyes. "You’ve been saying that a lot lately."

"Just bad luck, I guess," she said, but the nausea hit her again, and she had to lean over to steady herself.

Max’s eyes widened, and his jaw dropped as he pieced it together. "No way. No way. Y/N—are you…"

Y/N’s face flushed, but she couldn’t deny it, her weak smile giving her away.

"Oh my god." Max’s mouth fell open as he processed it. "Carlos got you pregnant?!"

“Shh!” Y/N whispered, glancing around in a panic. "Max, keep it down! We’re not telling people yet!"

Max clapped a hand over his mouth, his eyes filling with tears. "Oh my god. Y/N, you’re pregnant." He blinked rapidly, his lips quivering as he tried to hold it together. "You’re gonna have a little Sainz?"

She bit her lip and nodded, smiling softly. “Yes. But you can’t tell anyone yet.”

Max was silent for a moment, his eyes shimmering. Then he let out a choked laugh and pulled her into a gentle hug, whispering, “I’m so happy for you. You’re gonna be the best mom, Y/N. I can already see it.”

Y/N laughed as he let her go, but not before he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Stop crying, Max,” she teased. “You’re making me want to cry, too!”

“I can’t help it,” he sniffled, looking sheepish. “This is huge! And now I have to protect you and the baby?”

“You don’t have to,” she laughed, but Max was already shaking his head.

“No, no, you don’t understand. I’m not letting you lift a finger,” he said, his face suddenly serious. “And I’m making sure Carlos does the same. You’ll have every single driver looking out for you.”

Just then, Carlos approached, his brow furrowing as he saw Max wiping at his eyes. “Max, what’s going on?”

Max pointed a stern finger at Carlos. “You, Sainz, have one job. You better take care of her and the little one. Or else…”

Carlos raised his hands, amused but wary. “I am taking care of her, Verstappen. Trust me.”

“No, not enough!” Max argued, his voice almost panicked. “She was just sitting here, pale as a ghost, and you weren’t even around!”

Y/N stifled a laugh, but Carlos just smirked, nodding in understanding. “Alright, alright, I’ll keep an even closer eye on her. Promise.”

Max softened a bit, but he wasn’t letting up. “Good. Because if anything happens to Y/N or the baby, anything, you’re answering to me. And Lando, and Pierre, and basically every guy in this paddock who cares about her.”

“Max, I think Carlos knows what he’s doing,” Y/N said, a smile playing on her lips.

Max looked between them, then grinned, his face softening. “Fine, but I’m still watching you both.” He took a deep breath, then pulled her into another hug. “I’m so, so happy for you, Y/N.”

“Thank you, Max,” she whispered, hugging him back. “I think we’ll need you and the others looking out for us.”

Carlos wrapped an arm around her shoulder, giving Max a nod of gratitude. “Gracias, amigo. She’ll have all the protection she needs.”

“Good.” Max wiped his eyes one last time, giving them both a fierce nod. “Because we’re all family. And now… we’re growing.”

The Singapore Grand Prix was notorious for its blistering heat, and this year was no exception. The sweltering air clung to everyone, and for Y/N, who was visibly and heavily pregnant, it was nearly unbearable. But duty called, and the FIA insisted that she continue her scheduled interviews.

As she was setting up for another interview, the heat making her dizzy, she heard a familiar voice behind her. “Y/N, what are you doing here?” Lewis Hamilton approached her with a look of disbelief, glancing at her with concern. “You should be sitting in an air-conditioned room right now, not out here in this heat.”

“Lewis, it’s fine,” she said with a weak smile, though she was struggling. “It’s just a few interviews.”

Before he could respond, Max and Oscar joined them, both looking equally shocked.

“Are they out of their minds?” Max muttered, his face turning red with anger. “You shouldn’t be out here like this!”

“Seriously, Y/N,” Oscar added, frowning. “This isn’t safe. You’re not a machine.”

Y/N tried to brush them off, but she felt another wave of dizziness hit her. She steadied herself, but Charles had already noticed, his eyes narrowing. “That’s it,” he said firmly. “This is ridiculous. They can’t make you do this.”

“It’s okay, really—” she began, but the drivers were not having it.

Lewis crossed his arms, looking around with a sharp glare. “Who do we need to talk to? This isn’t happening, not today.”

As if on cue, a member of the FIA walked over, clipboard in hand. “Y/N, are we ready for the next interview?”

Max stepped in front of her before she could answer, his voice low and menacing. “She’s not doing any more interviews. Send someone else.”

The official frowned, clearly taken aback. “Excuse me? This is her job—”

“Yeah, and her job shouldn’t put her or her baby in danger,” Charles interjected angrily. “She’s done for the day.”

Oscar nodded in agreement. “Get someone else. This isn’t up for discussion.”

The FIA official looked bewildered, glancing at Y/N, but Lewis shot him a glare that would have stopped anyone in their tracks. “You have plenty of other reporters. Don’t make us get security involved.”

Seeing no way around it, the official nodded reluctantly. “Fine. She can go. But this will be reported.”

The drivers didn’t care; they were already surrounding Y/N protectively, guiding her towards the paddock lounge.

“Thank you, guys,” she murmured, touched by their concern. “But I can handle this, really—”

“No way,” Max cut her off, shaking his head. “Carlos would kill us if we let you stay out there in this heat.”

As they led her to the lounge, Carlos appeared, having just gotten word of what happened. His expression was a mix of relief and anger as he approached the group. “Qué demonios? Y/N, why didn’t you call me?”

Y/N shrugged, looking sheepish. “I didn’t want to bother you…”

Carlos looked ready to explode, turning to the FIA official who had followed them, probably to try and salvage the situation. “You made her work out there, in this heat, while she’s pregnant? Are you insane?”

The official held up his hands defensively. “We were just following standard protocol—”

“To hell with your protocol!” Carlos shouted, his face flushed with anger. “She’s carrying our child, and you’re risking her health for some interviews?”

“Mr. Sainz, please calm down—”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Carlos snapped, switching to rapid Spanish that the official clearly didn’t understand, though the tone left no doubts about what he was saying. “This is unacceptable. Inaceptable!”

“Carlos, you’re going to get fined,” Lewis warned quietly, though he was smirking a little, clearly pleased to see someone giving the FIA a piece of their mind.

“Fine me, I don’t care,” Carlos shot back. “It’ll be worth every cent if it means they treat her properly.”

The official quickly left, muttering something about reporting this to higher-ups, but the drivers didn’t care. They were all clustered around Y/N, making sure she was comfortable as they brought her a cold towel and water.

As soon as she was settled in, Max crouched beside her, giving her a warm but firm look. “From now on, you call us if they try to make you do anything stupid again, alright?”

Y/N chuckled, touched by their fierce protectiveness. “I promise.”

Carlos sat beside her, still fuming, but his hand gently rested on her stomach, protective and calming. “If they pull anything like this again, they’ll have to deal with all of us,” he said, his tone softer but no less serious.

That night, news of Carlos’s outburst—and his subsequent fine—spread like wildfire across social media. Fans took to Twitter, trending hashtags like #ProtectY/N and #JusticeForY/N. Clips of the drivers banding together to protect her from the heat circulated, and the internet quickly turned it into a rallying cry against the FIA’s treatment of Y/N.

@F1Fanatic: "Carlos got fined for standing up for his pregnant wife, and I’m here for it. #ProtectY/N 💪🔥"

@PaddockPrincess: "Seeing all the drivers look out for Y/N is the purest thing ever. She deserves all the love 🥹❤️ #FamilyGoals #ProtectY/N"

@F1Daily: "We all knew Carlos was protective, but the way he went off on the FIA? ICONIC. #JusticeForY/N"

Y/N couldn’t help but smile as she scrolled through the support from fans, all of whom felt like an extended family. With Carlos by her side, and a whole paddock of brothers watching over her, she knew she and her baby would be safe, no matter what.

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nostalgebraist · 2 years ago

Text

Honestly I'm pretty tired of supporting nostalgebraist-autoresponder. Going to wind down the project some time before the end of this year.

Posting this mainly to get the idea out there, I guess.

This project has taken an immense amount of effort from me over the years, and still does, even when it's just in maintenance mode.

Today some mysterious system update (or something) made the model no longer fit on the GPU I normally use for it, despite all the same code and settings on my end.

This exact kind of thing happened once before this year, and I eventually figured it out, but I haven't figured this one out yet. This problem consumed several hours of what was meant to be a relaxing Sunday. Based on past experience, getting to the bottom of the issue would take many more hours.

My options in the short term are to

A. spend (even) more money per unit time, by renting a more powerful GPU to do the same damn thing I know the less powerful one can do (it was doing it this morning!), or

B. silently reduce the context window length by a large amount (and thus the "smartness" of the output, to some degree) to allow the model to fit on the old GPU.

Things like this happen all the time, behind the scenes.

I don't want to be doing this for another year, much less several years. I don't want to be doing it at all.

----

In 2019 and 2020, it was fun to make a GPT-2 autoresponder bot.

[EDIT: I've seen several people misread the previous line and infer that nostalgebraist-autoresponder is still using GPT-2. She isn't, and hasn't been for a long time. Her latest model is a finetuned LLaMA-13B.]

Hardly anyone else was doing anything like it. I wasn't the most qualified person in the world to do it, and I didn't do the best possible job, but who cares? I learned a lot, and the really competent tech bros of 2019 were off doing something else.

And it was fun to watch the bot "pretend to be me" while interacting (mostly) with my actual group of tumblr mutuals.

In 2023, everyone and their grandmother is making some kind of "gen AI" app. They are helped along by a dizzying array of tools, cranked out by hyper-competent tech bros with apparently infinite reserves of free time.

There are so many of these tools and demos. Every week it seems like there are a hundred more; it feels like every day I wake up and am expected to be familiar with a hundred more vaguely nostalgebraist-autoresponder-shaped things.

And every one of them is vastly better-engineered than my own hacky efforts. They build on each other, and reap the accelerating returns.

I've tended to do everything first, ahead of the curve, in my own way. This is what I like doing. Going out into unexplored wilderness, not really knowing what I'm doing, without any maps.

Later, hundreds of others with go to the same place. They'll make maps, and share them. They'll go there again and again, learning to make the expeditions systematically. They'll make an optimized industrial process of it. Meanwhile, I'll be locked in to my own cottage-industry mode of production.

Being the first to do something means you end up eventually being the worst.

----

I had a GPT chatbot in 2019, before GPT-3 existed. I don't think Huggingface Transformers existed, either. I used the primitive tools that were available at the time, and built on them in my own way. These days, it is almost trivial to do the things I did, much better, with standardized tools.

I had a denoising diffusion image generator in 2021, before DALLE-2 or Stable Diffusion or Huggingface Diffusers. I used the primitive tools that were available at the time, and built on them in my own way. These days, it is almost trivial to do the things I did, much better, with standardized tools.

Earlier this year, I was (probably) one the first people to finetune LLaMA. I manually strapped LoRA and 8-bit quantization onto the original codebase, figuring out everything the hard way. It was fun.

Just a few months later, and your grandmother is probably running LLaMA on her toaster as we speak. My homegrown methods look hopelessly antiquated. I think everyone's doing 4-bit quantization now?

(Are they? I can't keep track anymore -- the hyper-competent tech bros are too damn fast. A few months from now the thing will be probably be quantized to -1 bits, somehow. It'll be running in your phone's browser. And it'll be using RLHF, except no, it'll be using some successor to RLHF that everyone's hyping up at the time...)

"You have a GPT chatbot?" someone will ask me. "I assume you're using AutoLangGPTLayerPrompt?"

No, no, I'm not. I'm trying to debug obscure CUDA issues on a Sunday so my bot can carry on talking to a thousand strangers, every one of whom is asking it something like "PENIS PENIS PENIS."

Only I am capable of unplugging the blockage and giving the "PENIS PENIS PENIS" askers the responses they crave. ("Which is ... what, exactly?", one might justly wonder.) No one else would fully understand the nature of the bug. It is special to my own bizarre, antiquated, homegrown system.

I must have one of the longest-running GPT chatbots in existence, by now. Possibly the longest-running one?

I like doing new things. I like hacking through uncharted wilderness. The world of GPT chatbots has long since ceased to provide this kind of value to me.

I want to cede this ground to the LLaMA techbros and the prompt engineers. It is not my wilderness anymore.

I miss wilderness. Maybe I will find a new patch of it, in some new place, that no one cares about yet.

----

Even in 2023, there isn't really anything else out there quite like Frank. But there could be.

If you want to develop some sort of Frank-like thing, there has never been a better time than now. Everyone and their grandmother is doing it.

"But -- but how, exactly?"

Don't ask me. I don't know. This isn't my area anymore.

There has never been a better time to make a GPT chatbot -- for everyone except me, that is.

Ask the techbros, the prompt engineers, the grandmas running OpenChatGPT on their ironing boards. They are doing what I did, faster and easier and better, in their sleep. Ask them.

#nostalgebraist autoresponder meta

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astralnymphh · 7 months ago

Text

The Sweeter the Wheat

# pair: post-seattle!jackson!ellie x reader

## summary: There is no better birthday gift than loving her.

### reader discretion is advised: romance angst, fluff, bit suggestive towards the end, alcohol consumption, jesse is alive (he thought ahead this time), loser!ellie, sometimes!awkward!ellie, sometimes!cheekyandflirty!ellie, reader is sickenly envious and a bit nosy, but aware, ravenous and tipsy makeouts, sappy shit. #### a/n; listened to "to all of you" by syd matters + "cardigan" by taylor swift while writing parts of it.. got a love/hate relationship with this fic but it slaps i guess

SPRING SUN

“At least we got back before her birthday. Psh—‘magine that sweet tooth havin’ to commemorate her twentieth with nuts and jerky.”

Jackson tholes the bright spring against countless heavy hearts, numb from the death groans of winter. Under the melted snow, came old meadows, but nobody returned to comb through them. Only to pluck them bare of flora for a sole reason—a sole person—and not in the name of beauty.

Some meadows were stabbed through. Pierced into, made into a final home for the dearly departed he.

Time slipped slowly.

“Huh?”

Jesse sits at the tail of the bar, mumbling somethings that fly right past your ears. The diner is packed and the jukebox softly plays, but that of joy and conversation rules, so all nearby speech that is spat has become hodgepodge, herding your brain to run where the world is quiet. Given that, and the subtle significance in the day around you, you feel less than yourself. Immaterial.

There's a rightful wager that you didn't hear Jesse at all. Something about birthdays, maybe.

You pull yourself from the stars with a head-shake, having to retire the tiny notepad in your clutch. “Sorry, I completely tripped out just then. Why are we talking about birthdays—whose birthday are we.. talking about?”

Jesse appeared to be in doubt that your star-scaping moments were over; his features contorting more and more into disbelief as you gave him that barely curious squint. Poor him for having to be offended for somebody else.

A special somebody else at that!

His drawl comes in handy, “Come on, man. Four years strong and now you wanna forget that girl's birthday?” a voice so versed in pettiness, you could smack it right from his clever, grinning lips.

At whim, you almost do. But then his words fall into perfect place; that subtle signifigance makes all the more sense.

Spring: dappled in sunlight and vigorous in the trees, seems lovelier than it would in March or May. Seas of crimson and clovers thrive in the middle of April, and so does the red in her hair—soft, auburn tines—and the meadows in her earnest and shiny eyes. Recently dim, bruised and disheartened. But there, and unplucked at least, above the freckles you least regret missing when vengeance and a clue drove her out of this large, timber sanctuary. Home.

Every year on this day, the sun is relentlessly beautiful. No wonder, you think, now that you remember.

It's Ellie's birthday.

“Shit,” you curse, chewing at your guilty lip. “Is Ellie hiding out today as well? Haven't noticed her walking the thoroughfare at all.” Through the idle-talk, your hands find stray porcelain to retrieve and pile in the sink, scoffing at the liters of coffee that inevitably go cold in forgotten mugs.

“Do you notice anything working behind that counter?”

“Duh, dipshit,” you spout, back-talking him shamelessly, “I noticed you ambling towards the window earlier and knew my ears were in for a grating punishment.” Minding your eyes on nothing but the various plates you grab, the clutter clears fast. Like a damn robot.

He raises his hands in defense. “Hey, not my fault patrol’s been on cruise control this week.” With a part of the counter graciously tidied by your speedy work, he reclines in the barstool and claims that space with his lower legs, off to the side. Blissfully permission-less. “Can't say the same for here, though.”

You draw in a prefacing breath, tilting a cup at him. “You could if you hel—”

“No chance.”

“Fuck you, Jess,” you reply wielding a nickname given for occasions of defeat, little knives glaring from your eyes. “Thought this friendship had a no-questions-asked sort of thing. You've disgraced me.” Cueing that age-old love for drama, you gild the lily; mock a drama-queen. Hand to your heart and a pout to your mouth.

Hating Jesse is out of the picture, and hate is an easy pill to swallow. Sure, you two bark blank insults from time to time, but it's all in good humor. You just get each other too well. A hitch fated to click. A shoulder to violently sob into.

Jesse tuts at you, rolling a smug pair of eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Diners just aren't my thing, as infected aren't yours.” He reaches and grasps his mug of coffee that'd been basking there ever since you whipped up his usual, content in keeping his gob flat for the ‘noon.

And you're content in the casual peace and company. Always are. It coerces you to fulfill orders quicker, you would say. Here you stand, in perfect function, machine of the cogs.

That's how all days streak by here. A warm sun arises, and the hustle and bustle of human nature crowds every faded red booth in here, as your kin would have you sustain, and you sustain it fine enough. Even with the latching, mostly silent presence of your best bud Jesse to keep boredom a stranger and insanity a myth. Peckish lips, thirsty throats; everybody. All famished faces of Jackson, satisfied in the wake of your work. All, save one.

Ding!

At the entrance, you hear the jingle of the tiny, golden bell topping the door, and it doesn't intrigue you to investigate. Everyone is a frequenter, and you're basically omnipresent; sensing who it is and where they're routed to before they even sit. Call that perfect function.

Abruptly, the vintage magazine Jesse blankly browsed through is smacked back in place, and his throat clears. “First customer to break the hour-long streak. Let's see who—” he trails, and a dramatic pause thickens the air. Surprise loudly ensues. “Oh, ain't that funny. Look what fate dragged in.”

“Is it not a regular?” you ask, and at last perk your chin up. Intrigue clasps you now, as Jesse thought it atypical enough to point out.

Turns out, it isn't a regular at all.

Fate was a scary portrayal, as fate—and unfinished threads—would have you snuck into a corner and stranded for her to find. Plaid and blue, stood Ellie, lost as a doe in tangled woods, yet tall with purpose in front of that swinging glass door. From here, you notice her right arm supported in a white sling and twisted into her chest, right off the bat, as you did the night of return. Changes were made, obviously, sprigs of marker detailing the canvas-color of it, no doubt produced by those pesky kids in-town. Her tattoo is sorely invisible behind the bandages too; you've always liked that thing.

She's a bona-fide crush. A red-headed angel.

There and then, you recall why your heart reawoke into a prance that night she returned head to toe in dry, aged blood. You felt the revival of an inner-warmth, tracing fingers over the stitches in her back as she hunched in repressive quietude. Felt the moon evaporate off your skin, felt her wrist tensen in your palm as you dressed the wounds in hers. Felt the elusive moment staying became going, as it wasn't right.

You went straight home and threw right up, that very night. Her cold, marred skin was as deathly-like as the skin of a corpse. And you trailed your fingertips, all over it.

Strange. In a week, her flesh has been suppled of life. Hale, blushing and glowing as in younger days.

In your heart: a tremor. It reaches up every time you swallow, and blooms its beat, pounding at the pit of your throat. You don't feel real, you feel light, you feel fright. You feel the past, waking from a slumber in you, emerging breathless beyond the surface. So many things.

You feel fourteen again.

“Guess her ears were burning,” mumbled Jesse, polite enough to not transform your shared scrutiny into a scene, only so he could leave it in your hands. His head carefully turns, speaking softly, “You spoke to her at all, recently?”

“No,” a weighted breath departs you, and your shoulders repose. “Only the night she returned, while I tended to some of her travel wounds. Conversation wasn't easy to digest.” Shunning her very blatant presence, you pick your wash rag and begin again, foraging distraction.

“Bet not. Shit got hectic on the route Tommy picked,” he hums, and his eyes pursue once more to secretly follow her walking the opposite direction. Eyes you expectantly the second she slips into a booth. “Gonna take her order?”

You glower at his smug stare, knowing full well he intends to badger you into jumping the gun. Well, you're employed to do that, but, fuck fate! “Uh, duh? Di—”

“—Ipshit. Stop stalling.” He aims his hand, escorting you. “Birthday girl awaits.”

“Yeah, hold that smile. See what happens later.”

“Mhm.”

EXTRA SYRUP

Spectral hands suffocate your heart, and now your chest is tightened. Gut nervously sickened. There, she sits, seemingly absorbed by the air, and the sun that ripens with it. Thumbing at her nails, but not anxiously. Blowing at her lip, but not boredly. Hair dark ochre as the earth, yet fiery as the flaxen ray that pours into it. Tucked into a neat bun, as it was in December, January, and every paving year before. You like her hair that way.

She halved it up when Joel passed, and Seattle howled her name.

A lot about Ellie changed, really, but that is the perennial nature of water. Ellie is Neptune; a late-teenage girl experiencing a crucial shift into a new, individual season. Ones so seldom—they're cataclysmic, but temporary.

So much of her is eclipsed to the naked eye. Buried to make burrowing space for others. Just not you, it seems.

Every now and then, she glances as you intricately work your way over, a fist cupped to itself as if it alone safekeeps her deep and untold intentions; the warrant for sitting there. And you too, glance when her eyes smoothly retreat, dedicating pockets of this single, cherished minute to drink in little glimpses of her face. Trying to read her, read the shapes on her face if they indicate trouble, or truce. Last time you talked, you declared your resentment for being left worried and sleepless in Jackson.

Was it out of love?

Through the fair-haired light, that scar-heavy look on her features has noticeably abated, recapturing the tender warmth that gave her face the kind, puppy-browed ambiance you hesitated the world for. Gently laid brows, scarred the same as ever.

Those fucking freckles, too; a constellated map. Hidden miles and miles away for one sun and moon too many.

Not a mile bridges you both apart now, not anymore.

“Hey, Ellie,” you chime in, frail in respect of the one-mind conversation her idle stare partakes. Just her, and the spring sun. Sweet wheat skin is taken from its aerial shine as her head heeds your voice, a loose twine of auburn falling from place.

Your somber greeting fine-tuned the focus in her eyes, softening into a shape less spacious, more devoted.

And though away from underneath the boughs of sunlight, her eyes found a disembodied source. Dried moss, gleams into a violent sea glass, pupils taking in how you hold that notepad firm in thumbs and pointers.

For the first time in an age, you too, have changed.

The corners of her lips crease into her cheek. “Hey,” her reply mirrors the breathiness of yours, and her left arm low-arcs up to rest on the booth seat, body facing you head-on. Totally relaxed. “How come you didn't mention the job switch? Was lookin’ for you,” she asks curiously, a tinge of that sweet-talk peeking through her wide grin.

Now that you've stepped closer and garnered her attention, you can see and feel every notched nicety of her face on yours. You can only imagine how a swollen, sliced lip feels, and the continual migraines a fractured nose brings. Weeks of healing have swept by, but her afflictions in particular weren't petty.

“Guess it felt irrelevant to bring up when you got back. But you're here now, and you found me. So?” your tone edges on.

“Well, yeah,” she chuckles. “Did you not miss me?” She feigns offense; brows quirking and her tone pitching slightly.

You did.

A sigh starts in you, “Hard to not miss and worry for somebody when you picked up their slack in every patrol dating way back.” Barely nipping what you really felt with a snarky tease. “Oh shit, that rhymes,” you glance off and whisper to yourself, still loud enough to inspire mirth.

And it does; her forehead pinches and her voice rises in mirth, laughing casually and shifting in her seat to lean one elbow upon the table. “Ha— yeah,” she admits defeat. Ellie is undeniably cute when she does, always shrinks into herself and sinks into thoughtful conference, thinking of something—anything smart to knock you back into that corner. “Guess you're right. Hm, always were on my ass about that, huh?”

You tut, “Mhm. Missed my scolding in Seattle?” crossing a leg and bearing weight upon it.

“Nah,” she confesses briefly, and you barely believe it. Wringing in doubt at that sly smile she tries to conceal from you. “I learned my lesson this time.” Ellie glances up, a prayer written on her face asking you to hold your scolds. “Trust me.”

“Hurt enough this time?”

“Fuck you!” She punts you playfully in the ankle and begins a laugh again. “You’re not allowed to point that out!”

That was the way of things; Ellie would charge into a fight wearing her life on her chest, slackening the rules, and you had to reel her in. Tug the leash. It had you suspecting her to have a foolproof reason as her backbone, like she was daring the devil with eyes fearlessly open. Steadfast intent. She would lure runners to her, grapple them from you, or push you away beyond safety. Leave you to watch an animalistic vigor fill every bind in her body until you're convinced she’s either coming out bitten or scathingly torn.

You wish she saw how worrying she truly looked; a sweet face splattered hair to chin in the blood of infected, catching her breath and shaking the arm of the croaking infected she just slaughtered off her ankle. Being way too blithe-hearted for the sacred sake of everyone involved.

“Don't worry about me.”

One day, when she asked you with her solemn eyes to be afraid, you thought she finally trusted you to handle yourself past her overprotective nature. Then, one clicker got too close for comfort, and she retracted the pact of fighting equally. Losing more than what her blade owes the earth would prove her fears to be a product of her unsacrifice.

Ellie figured it was half the reason you quit patrol duty, but not that it was fully the reason you anguished over her leaving for Seattle later on; her appetite for violence.

She accepts it so easily. But even when you had sworn she had place in something as simple as retiring from patrol and nothing else, she smelt the sugary scent of a white lie. Joel did it before. She never accepted it under a gentle radar. Instead, it had her wondering if she had upset you, if you would forgive the crimson melodrama and still take her up on breakfasts at ten when she returned. Regardless if you painted the full picture in the end, apologies spilled alike to winded waters out of this girl; sorry that she still could not stomach you tagging along for vengeance. Never-ending sorries, and you lapped each one up. Brought gaping arms around her and absorbed all the ugly and hopeless sounds. You wanted to prove her fears wrong, but perhaps it was time fear let you be the lamb. Live and let live.

Then, Dina would step in, and Ellie would be wrapped around her finger in sudden laughter. Happy and unhurt. Couldn't even remember what occurred before her sun entered the room, and dried those tears.

Crimson melodrama is all you preserved when abandoned, and is all you could look at her with when in longing.

The winter dance had your guts up to your throat.

Seattle, inexplainable.

You don’t hate Dina; your envy lies with the disconnection of it all.

“What do you recommend?” she questions, and her eyes anticipate you to be the ultimate apocalyptic-dining expert. Locked and attentive. She then begins to shake her head in gesture, planting the menu down. "I don't— I don't usually go to these kinds of places, so.. What do you think?" she awkwardly giggles, tapping the menu's plastic sleeve.

Tension presses a smile onto your lips at her inelegance. "Nobody does, not even people who went to these places before the outbreak," you opine, swapping the notepad to one hand and sliding into the booth. "It's okay. I mean.. hmm, what do you prefer? Sweet or salty?"

Her eyelids flick down, fingers coming to lace together as her eyes traverse the options. "Uh, I guess I— wait, wait," she interrupts herself. A swift finger draws you to look down at the menu, "You guys make pancakes here?" green eyes gaping at you with pupils more voracious than her stomach—or her sweet tooth.

"Yeah."

"I'll have that then."

It was a steadfast verdict. The sweet honey pancakes, she shall have, at the cost of a couple minutes and a couple ingredients. But it isn't traditional for birthdays, so you weigh in. “Just pancakes? I mean.. Faye is back there if you want something a little more celebrator—”

“—I'm not really a blow-the-candles-out and make-a-wish type of person,” she corrects you, brows cinched in as she rambles. Then, her free hand scoots the menu forward. “But you already knew that, you just insist otherwise,” she chuckles, unable to meet eye and eye.

True. Your soft insistence dawns from wanting nothing less than heaven inside everything for her, and maybe a dash of that sweet-sweet crush on her. But, Ellie is so staunch in being the humble girl that doesn't glorify every recorded happening with string lights and a wish hurled into the uncaring universe bent upon nurturing demised, late lights young girls reach for. She kept everything low-key: a small garage get-together on her last birthday, the one before that, and the one predating those two. Alcohol in your palms and movies playing back to back. Budding distorted laughs and tumbles into each other. Birthday things.

The remnants of her fifteen-year-old mind hangs aimlessly inside that museum. Dangled and stretched into archaic bones. On the day of return, she arrived happier than a sunflower drunk on the sun. Broad smiles and whatever else.

Wasn't for long.

“Forget you're so down-to-earth and reserved about all the fun things,” you snarkily deliver, retiring that still empty notepad behind your back. Memory shall serve. “Will that be it then?”

“Are you saying I'm not fun?”

“I'm saying you need more of it.” You emphasize with a tiny bounce-up on your calves, tilting your head north. Though, nothing she uttered was wrong and so your voice silkily drones on, “And that.” You act the lack of a ruder way to insinuate. “But yeah, okay. One order of pancakes coming up.”

“Cool, I'll uh—have a 'celebratory' drink in the meantime?” She nudges the menu towards you once again, irises pulled thin on themselves. Thoroughly staring; your reflection in a bead of black.

You have to laugh, kindly laugh. “No alcohol here, dumbass.”

“Oh. Right.” Her doe-stare only crescendoed from there, shying away at the result of her asking. Something reluctant is lodged in her pale throat, stumbling out only when it feels imminent as you turn away. “D-Do you wanna chat, afterwards? There's so much bullshit surrounding Seattle I have to catch you up on and I-I didn't before, so.."

Swinging your head back, you gauge that mercurial girl there. Tripping up her request like it couldn't escape hibernation from her head any quicker than insult does.

Faye shouldn't mind. “'Course, I was left to wonder about everything since that night anyway.” Your boss might even encourage it; knowing that your long-standing crush for her—heartbreaking to fathom, beautiful to feel—never swept you from rambling Ellie into some fairytale, so she would use it to psych you into asking her out. Jesse, too. Damn the nosy ones!

But it's the one thing that keeps you worried now.

“Cool, cool. Oh, hey, add extra syrup will you?”

What does Ellie think of you?

“Mhm,” syrup is nowhere as sweet as your hum. “Got it.”

Does she think of you at all?

MOUTHS ALL-CONSUMING AND DEPRIVING

Minutes in, minutes out, wallowing at that ruby-red booth fed the realization to Ellie that the nerves feeding off her anxious chest could not combat conversation alone. She needed an aid. Liquid courage. Velvety smooth and robust.

Fortunately for betting gods and heaven-watching anyones, leftover whiskey from the last bonfire made stock in her cloistered, chaotic cabinets. So it founded no surprise that it whirled to mind after the celebratory-drink fact; leading you here, in her bedroom, on her bed. She pours whiskey into stubby glasses, One for her, one for you, and a lucky extra two for further along this unexplored line. Nothing overflowing limits.

But, oh boy, did it make you all lovey-dovey.

Her lips move and they dance over words, but all you hear is your own enamoration of how heart-shaped they are. You see, but fail to hear and comprehend. Floating aimlessly into those freckles, again. Something a fourteen-aged, sanguine mind would do.

Ellie was relaying Seattle to you, she prefaced. Prefacing didn’t aid you in paying attention, though. Today is not your sharpest, it dates to be your most absentminded. Not your usual, at all.

Nods are swayed to every shock-value word that you manage to understand, but the star-crossed rest, you miss, and replace with whatever story her pupils trace. They flit to read your face after each end of her sentences, so it has you thinking too much of her time has slipped without the company of a listener, and now that her time slips into you, she can use it to stretch your expression with whatever witty remark she makes.

She did one day blurt that your laugh compliments your smile—or however that fucking flirt threw it over the crackle of that bonfire.

In fact, when you begin to let parts of her body neck-down from her face distract you, only then do you decipher how much she has grown in a month.

She pitches her drink to sip, and your eyes are hot on that glassy trail, artistically concerned with the way she swills down whiskey: fluently gulped, throat bobbing, the scar on her lip licked clean. Her brows too, have thickened, much so as her leathered skin, her callouses. She traces her thigh in circles repeatedly—a fidgety habit—and her lips purse and tug and wrinkles hug and press said lips when they are prettily wide.

Every high noon or low point of her body was different, and you have missed a great many things you care too much about to not appreciate every brink and midst. You don't want her to be lost to otherworld winds without studying her presence harshly. She is in your scrutiny, now more than ever.

“So, do I get to see my pancakes yet, or?”

“Oh, oops.” You snap out of your woolgathering, wagging your head left to right. Then briskly as you assented her invitation, you slide your knees under you, reorganizing your seating. “Can't blame me for being so invested in your epic tales. Could totally be a comic narrator for the school in town.”

Ellie had already been sat skyward. Sprawled at one leg and tucked at the other, arm in her lap, where her whiskey is nestled. “Oh, sure,” she says with a sarcastic edge. “Those kids are a bunch of little shits. They would probably interrupt me with fart jokes or make actual fart sounds than sit still and pay attention for thirty minutes.”

“Hmm,” you hum, short and atonal, peeling the corner of the plastic lid back. “And who do you think taught them those terrible jokes, huh?”

Soft lids narrow together to sharpen her gaze; glaring at your clever comment, lips propped slightly open. “Terrible?” An offended, toothy smile pulls on her lips. All sentences she could possibly muster up come crashing into each other; an agglomeration, “I—They aren't bad jokes—and they're puns, really, so they're actually pretty fuckin' smart,” she boasts with brows raised. “And It isn't my fault that every annoying kid picked them up and started repeating them.”

It most certainly is her fault. Hell, even you catch yourself reciting them at the crest of nightfall, giggling into your palm. Although, why she's trying so rigorously to plead her pun-enjoying case to you, might just be funnier. “Are you seriously trying to explain puns to me?”

“God,” she surrenders in a chuckle, and bows her head to introduce another quick sip to her parched lips. Ellie then eyes you for a blank second thereafter, tugging the plump of her lower lip through her teeth. Like contemplation has her hindered.

Around you, the lungs of the garage’s foundation inhale, and exhale; creaking and settling.

She dashes a huff. “You basically asked,” Ellie reminds you, her tone and eye-roll implying obviousness. “Can I eat my pancakes now? M'hungry.” Her face sutures into a pseudo-frown and encloses herself to a crisscross, impatiently behaving.

Now, as for the pancakes. Fluffy, biscuit brown, star-shaped, bountifully rivered in unrestricted syrup, topped off by a definitely-melted, humbled ingot of butter. Needless to say, you're pleased by what boredom and intact cooking-books taught you, and she hasn't even seen them yet.

The ask for a carryout-container was already in order the moment you set pace for her table, because you wound up in a near-catastrophe as she sought you out around the kitchens like a lost pup and maundered right into you. Thank patrol for instincts; it's the one thing you held an undying clutch to. And the sweet pancakes you proudly plated, making refuge on the counters as you cross-examined Ellie in case you injured her arm more.

Lucky girl was all fine and peachy, of course.

She only knocked you two right into that near-injury mess to invite you here. Persuasion sat readily in her throat incase you questioned her motives—most of her ideas turning out to be a little friend-group antic, never anything serious or singular—but you agreed to it in double-time.

“Think you might just be one of those kids at this point.” You gingerly tweak the rim of the plate you kept the pancakes on and lift it outside the container, planting it between all four knees.

“Eh, you're not so innocent yourself,” Ellie contends before she even casts her first peek at the hillock of starry sweetness, totally taken aback when she does. “Holy shit,” she awes, just as if she were a young teen again, “Are you kidding me?”

Labor-intended nights never slip soft through the gaps of your fastened fingers, not even days where your work period is abridged, but hey, strange, space-brain girls are far beyond ordinary exception. Hell, Ellie is vital! Commemorating the red angel you worship in the patterned and soapy act of cooping up on her bed, toasting to the moonlight and letting her talk your ear off for old times' sake is your approach to telling her you love her.

“Know I'm not a pancake-connoisseur, but I gave it a unique whirl. Just for you.” You held a fork out, gracing her with first honors. “Don't blame me if it gives you a stomachache,” your forewarn is a doubtful one; in your mind, morningtime will arise with an extra punch to her gut.

Ellie, however, stares right into the baying eyes of a challenge, snatching the fork from you. "Hey, if it's good enough for my tongue, then it's good enough for ma' gut!" and promptly after exclaim, gashes and tears her fork into the sweet, airy texture of the pancake, popping it past her sweet, berried lips. “Mhh—and I will blame you. So you end up feeling sorry n'take care of me.”

God, whatever souls you would sell to spend paradisal afterlife with this fool. Talking with a gob flush of the birthday project you're humiliated to be proud of. You scoff, “Asshole,” lightheartedly scornful as can be, and it snaps something to mind. Head tilting eye-to-eye, “Dina wouldn't be the one to?” you ask, right after she swallows.

That particular question seemingly struck a chord as her brows cinched together, eyes dropping with allusion. “No,” she says meekly, soft in the sound, but you can tell it came up heavy. Shadowed by a sigh, and an untimely chuckle. “Do you want to know?” She throws on a shrug that ripples through her head, sending it to hang lopsidedly. As the stout willow grows.

“Guess so,” you agree temperately, not wanting to seem too eager—even though with this topic, you just might be. Camouflage those old, foul feelings of envy. “Did Seattle have you kicking more ass than just Wolves and infected? Couldn't have been a very romantic tr—”

“Dina's pregnant.”

Silence carves it's way after that. Thick, tense and unyielding. You had words lined up but like a shot in stark night they've just—vanished, sunk back into the chamber. Nothing prepared you to hear that, “Pregnant?” lowering a hand to your belly where you swear your heart has pummeled to.

Ellie glances up, once at your widened face and once at your hand. A bite of humor works it's way above her chin; smugly smirking. “God, don't tell me you're pregnant now too.”

“What? No!”

Damn idiot. Should punch her right in the—nevermind.

Ellie is way too quick to make serious things unserious. “You're a damn menace,” you unapprovingly giggle.

“Am I?” Amusement raises her brows, tearing into the pancake with her fork for another bite. “Cause you seem to like menace.”

You adjust onto propped elbows, “Do I?” playing all nonchalant. “I mean, what do you mean by that?” your voice dims, expending for the small space that separates you and her.

“Mhh,” she contemplates with a purring sound, and shrugs. “Dunno.” Ellie retreats those eyes downward where you won't compel her to smile. You can tell she battles the letch to look up again, which—as proven in her case—doesn't fucking work. She shoots up carefully, and it's a conflicted gaze this time. “Not with Dina anymore, though. That’s the other thing.”

And we're back.

Having reconciled the chance, you retrace. Look at her with somber concern. “Did something between the two of you happen?” It's a gentle question, reinforced by the bulletproof stare you offer her to unwind in.

The air in her voice softens, “Sort of,” and the meridians of your body then become easier to look at as she continues, wrinkles in her brows. “Said some things I shouldn't have, and we.. figured it best to leave it at that. For now.” her explanation sounds desolate and attemptless, like she has sat in shadow and vigil accepting this fact and has given up on hope. Crestfallen and quieter; this isn't like her. Bent at her wrist, dangling that glass above her crisscrossed lap like a sad child pokes at the food on their plate.

“For now?” You hate that you pry, but that sick greed in your gut from times before haunts with a hunger for knowledge. Your envy that is enlightenment. Still, you hesitate to seem nosy, wanting nothing than to possibly just console your friend in need. “What's holding you back from.. calling it quits? The pregnancy?” You crane your body upright slowly.

“Just still feelin' bad.” Her fingers begin a tap-dance at the glass' rim. “I'm an asshole.”

You duck at the neck, searching for her downcast eyes. “Come on, El. I've only ever seen you rant and rave at middle-aged grumpy men and infected, no way it was that bad.”

“You weren’t there,” she insists otherwise with an earnest voice, inciting a refreshed sigh as she swigs her whiskey.

“Well, what did you say?” You are relentless. No, normally you would not condone it, but tonight, tongues are loose and boundaries are blurry. You miss your happy girl. “I could talk to Dina, if it helps.”

“Wouldn’t change shit.”

“If you love her, you would try.” Even if it sickens you.

Ellie slots her drink in her lap, and grouches. “Dude.” She pinches the bridge of her nose and stifles a groan, frustrated. It draws out in words without proper footing, “It's weird. We just don't know what to say to each other—I don't know what to say to her, it.. it's just how it is—it was a mutual agreement. None of your business, really.”

Her own tongue is a very obvious byproduct of nerves, whiskey, stress, by and large a lot of things. Being goaded, definitely.

How it is, is how it will be.

“She broke up with me.”

You didn't mean to goad her, but curiosity—and a kiss of alcohol and envy—ate your refrain. The lack of any eye contact or movements to stray from you thereafter her word is telling enough. That it aches her head, and a cold, guilty sweat crosses over your skin. It was a stupid thing to blurt. You feel fucking stupid for even saying that.

Fuck.

Her dry sniffle is noisy on your shortcoming, and has you scrambling to think. “Sorry, just been worried for weeks.” But you shrink into a ball of abraded arms and legs, conserving yourself into a shy, spotted egg of curiosity that clads no hatching cracks to be convicted of. “Thought you two finally getting together would be the dream to end all dreams.” What the fuck do you know anyway?

Her eyes watch through you, into you like water; she notices, and the pancakes are slid to the side. Shuffles of fabric clamber closer as she eats the inches between you two, her breath brushing your forehead. “Hey, hey. I didn't mean anything by it. It's fuckin' great that I got somebody I can drink with and mope to. Really. Just been shitty all around—Tommy? Fuck, he's been the worst lately.”

Everything ascends in temperature once her hand plants on the side of your neck, every nerve petrifies; unheard-of touch. She can feel the gasped tension in your throat, thumbing the muscles down.

“Don't worry about it,” she says, and her saying that amuses you.

A moth-eaten phrase in particular is what was said. You scoff at it, plopping your legs back out. “Dude.” You bite a smile into your lips. Sucks that such a hackneyed thread of words does so; you're really chewing back the urge to call her any byname of dumbass, per usual. But damn that sincere face on her face that sweetens the teasing deal for you. You settle for low-hanging fruit. “You always say that, Ellie.”

“Ugh,” she seconded a scoff back at you, grimacing coyly. “Don't you start.” Ellie drags her hand off, not intending for it to land smack-dab on your thigh. It takes her a second to register the sound, the texture, slinking her hand behind her when you say nothing.

“Start what?” you stutter a laugh, bringing your thighs together.

“Nothin,”

“Don’t bullshit me, WIlliams.” To educe her, you dig your foot into her side, poking her. “Does it have anything to do with only me being here and not anybody else?” You lean into her.

Ellie does too, an exact mirror of you. “No..” The only thing that contrasted you, was her hand again, seeking what was left behind on your thigh. “Just wanted to see you first,” her lips barely move besides a slick smirk. Voice tiptoeing through the air, the noise-level two clandestine lovers live at, in secret song.

“You fuckin liar. No hang-outs for weeks before you left and suddenly you want to see me?” You call bull when she relucts to raise her hung head, witnessing the corners of her lip curl. Her head twists away more, and you spearhead the first, little move: tuck that irkful strand of auburn with a single finger. “C'mon.. what is it?”

“Stupid,” she blatantly spits, and at last confronts your face with her puckish one—glimpsing down, and up, and down. Watching her grip flex into your leg intermittently, chewing her lip. “Mhh, maybe 'm starting it.”

Ellie is heart-poundingly close; her breath is now yours to breathe. You whisper, “Maybe you are,” perking yourself right up to her cheek, unnoticing of the ardor her eyes spin over your face. Unsure where to stare. You pretend the pressure on your thigh flies under the radar, too, and that your heart isn't in the middle of a love-logged swell, and your cheeks aren't tender from smirking at the feeling of it perched there. Love-struck death befalls, if else confessed, so you tease, tease, and tease to stomach your excitement. “Maybe, you're stalling on those pancakes because they actually gave you a stomachache. You feeling good?”

Her bitten lips part, and the next sensations you feel—are transcendental.

Wisping whispers so hot, and intoxicating on your skin, you fail to catch her hand coming up from your thigh to clasp your face, or that hers has shifted in front of yours. She breathes out, “Won't you shut up already?” through lips pulled into a smirk, and rushes to press it fondly against your mouth.

You wince—somewhere between an electrified gasp and a reaction of delight—into the kiss she stole, and it only beckons her to starve more for you. The heat of her whiskey breath pours into your mouth, and you drape your eyes closed. Scoring these seconds by, she spends them concentratedly rolling the skin together, others pushing and shying from the kiss, until she stills and bleeds out the pressure in a slow, wet smack. Hazily eyeing you for a response.

Once you feel her no more, your eyes blurrily creak open, and the corners of her lips at soft upturn greet you. Single creases at either side, the few freckles above them outspread.

Judgement renounces you, leaving you with pathetic pickings for reply. You aren't sure what she wants—or needs you to say. “Ellie?” daintily, a mumble flows onto her lips, and is far from a frail sound of concern. Intrigue encapsulates you.

What does this mean?

You think you know, but self-reason has always proven itself to be naive and too eager to trust.

By cruel emotion, she misunderstands you. “Sorry,” she pants out breathlessly, blowing the shape of it into your cleft lips and hovering right upon. Her fingers gouge the fabric clothing your chest, mangling it into her fist—an attempting grasp. This proximity is all she could ever dream of. “Is this okay?” Yet, dreams always sever at the apotheosis. So when she comes in for the second kiss, she wants no more for dreaming; the reality she yawns with hunger into, is insurmountable.

A dewdrop of something cold dribbles between you. Tears.

In turn, you misunderstand her. Using your own stubbornness to create an enigma. To think, that out of the blue, all of this would transpire? After endless wishes unanswered? You doubt it.

You love her, but you refuse the reality of it happening upon you.

Separating from the plush, licked skin of her lips fleetingly, you speak. “Is this you being drunk?” Only to be drawn back in without her processing your words right away, and then drawn back out. Intricate intimacy.

“Please,” Ellie begs, “Answer me, before I feel like an asshole again,” and chuckles sobbingly before her teeth feel rapaciously empty, and cannot tolerate it any longer. Instinct, and teeth nip your bottom, vulnerable lip.

Neither of you could be totally drunk, having only drank a modest portion.

So this is raw.

Thinly pulled, she slowly stretches it across the air between, and watches it spring back beneath eyelids sunken low. The action entails nothing else for her to feed satisfaction from, already panting right in your mouth in search of more as soon as your tongue descries the answer. “More than okay,” you heave in a passioned breath along that all-consuming, deprived mouth. Your hand squeezes her fist confirmingly.

It quenches her lust to know, a hot-blooded, moaned and voiceless curse snapping into your mouth. “I fuckin' love you.” Her rage softens in meeker kisses, peppering them up to the corners of your lips until she pauses, and pulls herself away. Her eyes turn troubled and adrenaline-rushed. Stains of tears shimmer beneath, along new ones that begin to plunge, and for the first time ever, you know they're yours. But then the flesh between frowns, the mood shifting, and she croaks, “Am I.. an asshole?”

It breaks you to hear that.

You glare, and stammer, “W-What? You aren't.” Hooking dearly onto her wrist when her hand glides up to rest against your cheek. “Why?”

“Cause I sprung this on you, 'nd I don't wanna force you to..” Ellie cranks to a halt, mouth screwing shut like her thoughts were too much to bear hearing aloud. “Fuck,” she quietly spews, cowering her face near your neck.

“Said it was okay,” you coo, clarifyingly coo, raking your fingertips up and through the tied loops of her hair. “The only asshole thing you'd ever done was not let me come with you.”

“I know.” Her eyes search for uncomplicated plains. The sheets, her lap, your neck. A kiss is planted as she tips her head, the gust thereafter a warm reminder of her sorries.

“Thought you were going to die.” You awoken in violent patterns, cold nights restless in bed, tossing and turning. Waking and falling into daydreams of how Jackson would feel missing a cardinal component. A girl to rave against dying lights. Thorns scale your throat at the thought. “You're reckless, y'know?” you mean it as a gentle insult, chuckling as it leaves your lips, and sealing it into her scarred palm. Kissing reckless consequences.

Her lips loiter on the pulse of your throat. They drag, and they drag.. sloppily limping over your jaw as she makes her way to observe you in her palm, mumbling low, and gravelly, “How many times am I gonna have to say it?” Ellie deems it redundant to tell you that she knows again, resorting to her own little gentle insult, “Such a fuckin' sap.”

“Says you.”

Her hand is comfortingly warm; you aren't fain to break away. But her fingers are curious, thumb nearly making it into your mouth before she second-guesses herself, easing it at the verge of your lips instead.

A longing moment of Ellie staring at the way her thumb looks—a decoration to your mouth—passes, and she responds, “Still alive, aren't I?” to that loose thread of a plea you forgot you even said. It calls you right over, bidding you to look into her eyes again as space finds itself thinning again, her scratchy, band-aided nose caressing yours. “Dumbass.”

She chuckles into your mouth as you chuckle into hers, cutting yourself off with a kiss that ebbs, and flows. Suckles, and smacks, snaking her tongue in for a change. That sweet, sweet wheat. Saccharinity you can't explore anywhere else other than the outline of her mouth. And you—of grunted volitions in her chest—take exploration further, replacing the grasp of her shoulder with the coursing of fabric, sliding under the hem of her shirt and palming the skin there.

You feel her skin breathe, her belly breathe into your hand, and a content wrinkle pinch between her brows. Her skin, is as soft as nothingness.

“You're a dumbass.”

Air clings to your cheek as her hand reaches around you, pressing fingerprints into the base of your head as to prop you for her delightments. Ellie is no amateur, enjoying you as if she knew you were hers without explicit pledge.

“Sure, babe,” she scoffingly counters, and pulls her tongue out of you, lips messiy shining. She scouts you out; lays eyes on your expression with undertones of satisfaction and presses an appetent bite right back into your damp skin, grunting into the filthy kiss.

Your mind is one-pathed right now; in the most maddened form, you crave the story further down her throat. In that warm space, is air thinned and balmy with the scent of alcohol and syrup. In those whimpers, is the sincere confession she held tight in throatly gloaming, all those intimate times before. In all of your yearnings, your lips never parted for more.

Two holes that want to consume each other.

Weeping, wailing, tormenting in an empty forever.

“Fuck you, Ellie,” you cathartically sob into the humid cavern of her, a hint of wanton—and other repressed things, taking form. That hand under her shirt wanders from her navel and tweaks the button of her jeans, pressing your body against all of her like it hurt to be inside your own, singular body. Overcame by a need you could not chew out.

Ellie cuts the kiss, quick to soothe the movement with her hand pressing down and collecting yours. “Hey, hey, too fast,” she laughs, distancing herself and giving you those eyes that could see you were overstrung, hectic to go somewhere you aren't prepared for.

She loves you, but that means appreciating you enough to wait until time is perfect.

Her head cocks, “Let's take shit slow, huh?” fingers weaving into the pliant gaps of yours and pulling your fist dear to her chin, kissing it.

You speak over the repeated sounds of her smooches, “Yeah, sorry,” cringing slightly at how fucking cheesy the scene became. But, when is Ellie not? Wonder clasps you now; intent to know what this makes out of the two of you, having held your feelings for forever. “Well, what does all this mean, then?”

“It means..” Ellie slants her body even more, stealing your wrist along with her. Planning something, no doubt. “You and me, breakfast tomorrow at ten, Tipsy Bison?” Her mouth stuck to the side of your hand like syrup, so firm in not letting you go.

It makes your ears simmer hearing her shamelessly set up a date, of all things she could have said. God. You errantly laugh, totally not giddy when her mouth starts sprinkling up your arm at an alarming pace. “Sounds more than good—hey! You slow down!”

Happy birthday, asshole.

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calcifiedunderland · 9 months ago

Text

Part I (here), Part II, Part III (COMPLETED)

Trey Clover vs. Azul Ashengrotto vs. Jamil Viper x GN! Reader

In which the way to the Prefect’s heart is through their stomach! At least, according to three of NRC’s students…

I got the idea from @recreyomakesdoodles , from this post! Thank you so much, hope you liked it!!💕

Tagging people I think would be interested: @aruis4nosleep , @tinseltina

Warnings: food/eating

Notes: I decided to split this into multiple parts because I never have any restraint while writing and this ended up being long. Enjoy :D

———————————————————♣️🐙🐍

“Well, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Azul pushed his glasses up, balancing a stack of takeout boxes emblazoned with the Mostro Lounge logo on them. Cold blue eyes met Trey’s golden irises. Trey cleared his throat, shifting a heavy picnic basket from one hand to the other. “What brings you here, Azul? I thought you’d be busy at Mostro Lounge…”

Azul snorted, “the Prefect knows to expect me today. Clearly, you are the one intruding.” Earlier that week, he overheard you wailing to your friends about your upcoming History of Magic exam. Apparently, this unit was on Atlantica’s magical history - a topic that was, unfortunately, giving you trouble.

Fortunately, Azul was a mer who grew up learning the history by heart. Naturally he offered you assistance in exchange for having you taste-test some dishes. And how could he not help a poor, unfortunate fellow student like yourself?

Besides, if he wanted to bring along some personally cooked meals to Ramshackle, under the claim that you both would be there ‘for hours, so you may as well try some foods (that I made!) for the upcoming Lounge menu (that I run)!’, that was nobody’s business. And certainly not Clover’s business.

Trey crossed his arms, easily holding the heavy picnic basket like it weighed nothing. Azul could smell the buttery pastries and powdered sugar through the closed basket lid where he stood. “Riddle sent me to give the Prefect an invitation to the next Unbirthday Party. I thought I’d give them some treats to… sweeten the deal.” Though Trey had a disarmingly pleasant smile with the pun, his eyes bored into Azul’s.

Azul frowned. “That couldn’t have been more than a simple text. Aren’t they friends with your first years, as well?” He asked, remembering your first year friends that he’d turned into anemones.

Trey adjusted his glasses and averted his gaze, a telltale deflection sign that Azul didn’t miss. “Well, it’s more official coming from the Vice Housewarden.” “And I suppose the baked goods are complimentary?” Azul sniffed disdainfully at the basket, “Surely, the prefect needs more than pastries. A proper meal,” he emphasized.

Trey’s eyes narrowed, “a basket of baked goods is better than whatever deal you’d have for them,” he nodded to the boxes Azul carried. “Everyone loves a good old fashioned pastry. Can’t say the same for seafood.” Azul opened his mouth to retort, when suddenly both of their ringtones went off.

IM SO SORRY AZUL!!!!! I got caught up with something, can I come over tomorrow?? I likely won’t be done until later, the headmage has me doing stuff 😭

TREY!!! Tysm for the invite, you didn’t have to go out of ur way to give it in person!! ill definitely be there at the party! 😄 sry I’m not there atm, Crowley wanted me to do something for him

Trey frowned, reading your text. Azul huffed, shouldering the stack of food boxes, muttering “looks like today was a loss.” Trey sighed, “well, it can’t be helped…” he made a mental note to put the pastries in the Heartslabyul fridge and just deliver it to you tomorrow, under the guise of ‘checking up on you’ after working for Crowley. The two of them trudged down the path to the Hall of Mirrors, heading back to their dorms.

The two of them walked in silence until Trey abruptly said, “I don’t know what you want with the Prefect, but I hope you have their best intentions at heart.” Azul turned to give Trey a withering look, “I assure you, when it comes to the Prefect, I have nothing but good intentions.” As he stepped into Octavinelle, Azul smirked and muttered, “especially regarding their heart.” Trey lingered for a bit, staring at the Octavinelle mirror with an unreadable expression. “We’ll see about that,” he said aloud in the empty Hall, then headed back to Heartslabyul.

—•—♣️🐙🐍—•—

Meanwhile, you sighed heavily, collapsing onto the chair. The cafeteria was pretty much empty, save for the random student or two. It was already darkening outside, and you were hungry. Crowley wanted you to do something for him just before lunch, and soon half your Saturday was gone running around NRC. You’d even lost track of time, and missed Azul’s study session and Trey dropping in! You groaned, hearing your stomach growl loudly.

“Prefect? What are you doing here?”

You glanced up, seeing Jamil with a large container of tupperware and other small containers. The delicious scent of curries, labneh yogurt cheese, and freshly made pita made your mouth water. Despite yourself, Jamil caught you looking at the boxed-up food more than once.

“…Crowley had me running errands, and I may have skipped lunch…” your voice grew quiet near the end. Jamil raised an eyebrow, then smiled. “I actually ended up making too much food for Kalim,” he said, moving around the table to sit next to you. “There’s enough for an extra person, and I’ve have already eaten.”

Your eyes widened, and Jamil started dishing out some curry and flatbread for you. Bright-colored curry sauce and chickpeas flooded the platter, wafting a delicious scent. As Jamil ripped a piece of pita, your stomach growl loudly. Your face felt warm. Jamil only chuckled, pushing the plate he’d conjured towards you. “What about Kalim?” You asked, feeling bad. Jamil smiled, “Please, go ahead. There’s enough for Kalim and you.” A warm smile grew on your face, and you gave Jamil a one-sided hug before digging in. “Thank you! You’re my savior!”

As he watched you eat, a tender look grew on Jamil’s face. He shifted the food containers so he could watch you while nibbling on some flatbread. It wasn’t difficult to determine that you were off on Crowley’s whims again - with you running around the school and being gone for several hours. With that in mind, it wouldn’t be anyone’s fault if he accidentally made too much food, so he thought he’d drop it off at Ramshackle later. It was sheer luck that you’d dropped by the cafeteria!

You hummed, soaking up some of the leftover curry sauce with your flatbread, “this was delicious, Jamil. Thank you so much.”

Jamil smiled genuinely, but a devious look came into his eyes when you looked back at your plate. “Please, Prefect, allow me. Wait here.” He took the plate, going to the kitchens to box up some food for you to take back. Walking back to you, he handed you the container, “It’s getting late, I can walk you back to Ramshackle.”

The two of you set off, with you holding some of Jamil’s boxes. “This was… really sweet of you, Jamil,” you smiled. You knew Jamil always had his hands full, whether it was taking care of Kalim or managing literally everything else. Maybe the food was making you gush, but you were definitely grateful for the impromptu meal. As you opened the door to Ramshackle, you gingerly handed the boxes back to him.

“Ah, wait,” he shuffled them and held a large one out to you. “This one is yours.” Your eyes widened, “Jamil, this is a lot-“ “Please.” Your eyes met his dark grey irises, and warm gratitude filled your chest. “Jamil, I… I really don’t know what to say. I have to repay you somehow-“ Now that was what he wanted to hear.

“You know, I’ve been meaning to try making some new dishes,” he glanced at you. “I’ve been needing someone to taste test them, and Kalim won’t be available…” You nodded eagerly, “Of course! I’d love to help you!” You said your goodbyes, and as the door shut behind you, Jamil had a calculating smirk on his face. Oh yeah, it’s all coming together.

————————————————————♣️🐙🐍

Thanks for being patient everyone!! Hope you enjoyed this part, reblogs and comments are forever appreciated 💕

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baby-yongbok · 6 months ago

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Confession - Seo Changbin x afab!Reader

Genre - Fluff WC - 1.4k A/N - Day 3 of my Binnie Birthday Week Posts

✧ Masterlist ✧

Another day of bringing Changbin dinner to the studio is another day of Han and Chan making jokes about you being more like a wife than a best friend. You usually let the comments go, never commenting on them, just rolling your eyes and smiling but today something came over you.

“He should just get down on one knee at this point. You’re even here earlier than him.” Chan huffs a laugh as he drags something across his screen and Han joins in. “He should be calling you his wife instead of Hyunjin.”

"I mean, what's so wrong with that?" Your response shuts them up instantly. They sit up straighter in their chairs, turning to where you’re seated at the end of the desk. They stare, blinking a bit and sharing a glance before looking back at you. “What?”

"You like him like that?" Chan asks, carefully mouthing his words so that he’s not too loud. A blush sweeps over you as you realize that you kinda confessed to them about your feelings for your best friend. You could deny it or you could finally let it all out. You chose the latter.

"I mean.. maybe, yeah." Your response is whispered as you stare down at the bag of food in your lap.

"How long have you liked him??" Han asks, his big brown eyes almost have a hint of excitement in them. What’s that about?

"I don't know, a year or two maybe." You shrug, trying to play off your long standing crush. The boys both sigh dramatically, pulling your attention over to them.

"He likes you too! For like a solid year!" Jisung blurts out and Chan hits him, muttering a curse under his breath. "I don't care if he kills me for that. They are not about to play tag with each other."

"You should confess to him. He thought you didn't like him back." Chan follows, a lot calmer than Jisung.

"What? How could he think that? I thought I made it obvious." You move the bag in your lap to the desk. Your stomach feels fuzzy with nerves as you think of all of the times that you’ve tried to get Changbin to see you as more than a friend. All of the longing glances and gentle unnecessary touches. How could he not tell?

"Well, I guess not enough." Han slumps back into his chair with a sigh but you sit up straighter in yours. Your expression is serious, you’re passionate about this, about him.

"He's literally my favorite person. I mean, yeah he's my best friend but he’s also what gets me out of bed in the morning. He's the only person who knows me better than I know myself..." You trail off and Chan blinks over at you with wide eyes. Everything that you’ve been feeling for so long bubbles up in your chest. It’s banging on your ribcage, desperately pleading to escape.

"Hey uh -" Chan tries to fill in the seconds of silence. He tries to say something but your voice is louder than his. You have more to say.

"He's literally my everything. I hate going a day without him. That's one reason why I bring you all lunch so often. I mean, my wallet is suffering but I don't care cause I get to see Bin. As soon as I see him it's like everything is okay, ya know? Like everything that happened in the day doesn't matter cause he's with me."

Chan tries to say something again but Jisung stops him and speaks instead. "This sounds like more than a crush."

"Are you asking me if I love him?"

Jisung smiles. "Do you?"

"I do." You smile down at your lap. "I do love him."

"Good." Jisung sighs with a smile, standing from his spot at the desk. "We'll give you two a moment." You furrow your brows. Looking between him and Chan but their gaze is cast behind you. Oh no.

"I tried to tell you." Chan whispers as he gets up and slips out of the room with Jisung. You sit still, refusing to turn your chair around to face the object your newly confessed desires.

"Hey." Changbin whispers as he drops his bag onto the couch by the door. He takes the chair right next to yours. He’s right in front of you and the air feels thin. Your stomach churns with embarrassment but at the same time it jumps with excitement. "I uh- I may have heard that."

"I'm gonna actually pass out." You roll your chair away from him, creating a safe distance between you two even though the only thing on your mind is falling into his arms. You want to hug him, you’ve waited all of this time to see him and now he’s here but your heart can only take so much before it explodes. Thank gods this chair has wheels.

"Did you mean all of that?" Changbin leans into you, trying his best to catch your distant gaze.

"Changbin..."

"Cause I feel the same way." Changbin reaches forward and pulls your chair back over to him. You're closer than before. His knee brushes yours and he keeps your chair in place with his foot. “I didn’t really show it cause… I don’t know, I thought that it was one sided. I thought that all those looks and touches were just you being nice. I didn’t want to think too far into it.”

His hand rests over where yours are fidgeting. He takes one of them, lacing your fingers together. “I love you too. I have for an embarrassingly long time.” Your gaze meets his, wide eyes meeting his nervous ones. That’s the first time he’s ever said I love you.

“I should’ve said something earlier. I should’ve confessed I just was so scared to lose you if you didn’t feel the same.” You chuckle softly, careful eyes searching his. “You could never lose me, Bin.”

His ears are burning red with your response. A crooked smile takes over and he squeezes your hand just a bit. You sit in silence for a second, smiling and blushing like grade schoolers until Changbin breaks the silence.

“Would you like to go on a date with me? We could go to dinner tomorrow, let’s give your wallet a break.” Your chuckle is music to his ears, your smile is a masterpiece and the way that you shake your head yes is a dream come true.

“I’d like that.” You’ve never seen Changbin this red, he’s looking over at the monitors on the desk in a desperate attempt to calm down the joy vibrating through him.

“Can I… maybe get a bit ahead of myself?” You furrow your brows, confused by what he means but he clears it up for you when he pulls your chair impossibly close with his foot. “I should wait, I know I should but I just… Can I kiss you?”

Time slows once his question hits the air. “You want to kiss me?” He smiles at you, leaning is a bit, hand still laced with yours as he answers softly.

“Desperately.” Yours eyes meet, you slowly lean in until there’s no more than a mere inch between the two of you. “You can kiss me.” He sighs, smiling for a second before he closes the distance between you two.

His lips are soft on yours. It’s everything that you could’ve ever wanted and more. It’s a simple peck, quick and innocent but it’s not enough. He pulls back for a second, eyes fluttering open in time with yours. “I’m sorry I just…” He starts but cuts himself off as he leans back in.

His soft lips take yours in with more of a pull. This kiss is strong like him, sweet like you, it’s all of the passion you’ve secretly felt packaged in a single motion to be remembered forever.

You squeeze his hand while his other rests on your thigh, lightly balled into a fist. He wants to touch you, maybe hold your waist and rub innocent circles into your thigh but he’s afraid that he might melt further. He’ll become a puddle at your feet and he can’t handle that right now. He needs a couple more seconds in heaven before he has to come down to earth. The kiss breaks with a gentle sound, you both pull back with eyes shut tight and small smiles.

“That was...” You start and he finishes. “Yeah.”

As if you read each other's minds you both fall into a fit of giggles. It’s awkward at first but it lightens up as it continues. Your head falls forward, resting on his shoulder. “I hope that was okay.”

“More than okay.”

Thank You For Reading! Please Reblog or Comment to let me know how you liked it! It makes my day! 💕

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httpknjoon · 1 month ago

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what do the lonely do at christmas | myg

plot | that time when popstar!yn found herself on bassist!yoongi's bed on a cold December morning.

w.c | 2.8K

pairing | bass guitarist!yoongi x popstar!reader

genre | fluff, slight angst, enemies to lovers

note | one out of two/three holiday-themed drabble for this series! it's late, I know. but I can't let them sit in my drafts again haha so here it is. enjoy!

main masterlist | series masterlist | want to request?

DAY 66 of Love Is... On Tour

They make songs. Together.

After a show at Wells Fargo Center, Yoongi stayed locked in his hotel room to work on the music for your EP. He has read the lyrics you sent to him and listened to some melody ideas you recorded in your voice notes. In the last two days you two have been collaborating, you are full of visions and excited to tell him all of them. He finds it more surprising that you two haven't had any fights since then.

Is it New Years yet? I'm getting bored, so can we skip ahead? I just wanna forget That I'm at home with nobody to hold

So far, you already recorded two out of the six songs you planned to release in the EP. Usually, Yoongi takes his time in making and editing songs. But considering that this is a holiday EP and you have less than a week before the management's deadline, he works on it at every chance he gets. It's not that hard when you already have a clear vision of what and how you want the extended play to be.

Working is a great distraction compared to scrolling on his phone, which did no good for him. Mainly because he recently saw a post from a mutual friend of his and his ex. That's when he learned that Sara threw a baby shower in what was supposedly their house. He felt something cracked in him when he saw how far along her pregnancy was.

Tempted, Yoongi scrolled through the carousel of photos, admiring the decorations and colors of the house Sara probably picked herself, things that Yoongi had never seen personally. A single photo made Yoongi pause.

It shows Sara and her then-ex-boyfriend holding her growing bump, also showcasing a ring on her finger— not the emerald-cut diamond one he proposed to her. A new one, signaling that she is engaged for a second time this year. That photo was enough for Yoongi to turn it off and focus on his music.

Ding-dong.

Yoongi's head snapped, irritated when the unexpected doorbell noise filled his room. Frowning, he gets up from his chair to check who the person might be.

It's you.

Looking like a curious puppy, you stood before Yoongi's door with two cups of warm drinks you asked Cal to buy on the way back to the hotel. Yoongi looked at you through the small peephole, taking notice of your large, thick white cable knit sweater that falls just a few inches above your knees and the mystery cups you're holding. He opened the door when you began rolling your eyes and tapping your foot.

"What took you so long?!" you instantly asked the moment you saw him, handing him the other cup.

He snickered, ignoring your attitude. He takes the cup before pushing the door wider to let you in. Yoongi followed behind you when you walked inside. He sits back on his chair, in front of his small set-up, while you sit at the edge of his bed. Usually, you will take the couch. But the bed is nearer his working setup.

This is how you two have worked since you started. You only get up when you want to see his screen or when recording something.

"What are you doing here?" he asked since you just finished your show earlier. He figured you might prefer to rest and just work early tomorrow.

"I have an EP to work on, duh!" you replied, taking a sip from your hot chocolate as you tapped on your phone. "Anyway, lemme show you something..."

Probably a new idea. Yoongi thought. He knew it from the moment he saw you opened your phone's notes app.

"Here." You handed him your phone, letting him read something you wrote earlier today.

Maybe he met you somewhere in the desert While he was soul searching, he found someone better Guess you make him happy like I couldn't do Cindy Lou Who

Yoongi reads down the words, "It's a sad song?"

"Yep," you nodded. "Have you heard the song, What Do The Lonely Do At Christmas?"

Yoongi was quick to shake his head. He is not really fond of Christmas songs and doesn't listen to them if not needed. But he could tell by the title that it's probably a sad song too.

You pulled up your legs on his bed, making yourself comfortable, "It's a great song from the 70s. It has a lot of covers too. It's a sad Christmas song and I am so into it that I thought of writing one too."

Yoongi nods, listening, as he scans the rest of your lyrics, "Hmm..."

"What?" you quickly responded to his humming.

With how his eyes squint and his lips form a thin line, you know that he has something to say about your work. You learned after your first night of working together, making you realize that he has the same habit when you rehearse for a show.

"It's great, but I feel like we should just change some irrelevant lines? Like, maybe he met you somewhere in the desert." he read one of the lines. "What does desert get to do with Christmas?"

When he was met with a long silence, Yoongi looked up to you. But he find you just looking at him, chewing on your bottom lip. You looked away before letting out a heavy sigh.

"I found out my ex was cheating on me when paparazzi caught pictures of him and that actress kissing in Coachella." you explained.

"Oh..."

An apologetic look was instantly written all over his face, which is something you haven't expected. You thought he would keep the blank expression he always has. But his eyes and slightly gaped mouth said otherwise. You hate pity or anything like that, especially when it comes from someone who once read you too well. So, you grinned, even though it was forced so much that it almost made your cheeks hurt.

"Want to see the pictures? It's literally everywhere." you joked to change the mood. His eyes widened like he thought you were serious. So you chuckled, "I'm kidding! I won't show you that myself. You can just search it up if you want to."

"I'm not interested. No one really enjoys seeing a picture of their ex," he mumbled, returning your phone to you.

Your eyebrows crooked together when you heard that. He sounded too serious like he was the one in your shoes. You watch him sulk back to his seat, turning his back to work on one of your songs.

"You're acting like you were the one who got cheated on here. You're literally engaged to someone." you quipped.

"Maybe I am, maybe I'm not."

He whispered mindlessly. Yoongi didn't really think about it and let it slip out of his tongue. He doesn't really like bringing up his personal dramas in his workplace. He never would have realized what he said if you didn't ask him,

"What do you mean by that?"

Yoongi turned around, meeting your eyes, "So, how do you like that song to turn out?"

You're not dumb. Of course, you noticed him dodging your curiosities. He has never shared anything about himself since you two worked together. It's not like I care, you thought. But you know that there is a small itch at the back of your head, trying to get him to talk more. And maybe you know a trick to satisfy that itch.

"Let's order some wine first."

"With your hair so long, lips so bed— wait, that's wrong!"

A bottle of red wine is carelessly placed on the perfectly white duvet of Yoongi's bed. Surprisingly, it is still safe from any stain. The nearly finished cup of now-cold chocolate drink you brought is on the nightstand. You were giggling in front of the microphone and pop filter after making another mistake.

"The words are scrambled." you continued giggling before drinking from the glass of wine you were holding.

It has been almost two hours since you got in his room and Yoongi knows that the effect of your wine is getting into you. Earlier, before you could finish your first glass, you two already agreed on the instrumentals of the song you called cindy lou who. You let Yoongi make some changes in your lyrics, but it's nothing major.

"Something that feels delicate and maybe some piano." You described your idea before humming the tune you were thinking of.

By the second glass of wine, you are recording a rough draft of the song. So that you know if your ideas work well. Yoongi suggested to layer your vocals in some parts while you thought of adding a subtle harmony. Surprisingly, you two worked smoothly.

"Should we add some harp? Noah would have liked that."

You were almost done with your third glass of wine when Yoongi heard you mention your ex's name for the first time.

"Maybe we should stop drinking..." he said.

Even though he's in his fourth glass as well, Yoongi is doing better than you. You looked at him while he clicked something on his setup. You wondered if he could feel the cozy, warm feeling you've been feeling from the wine. Because that plain expression cannot really tell you anything, which makes you feel a little frustrated with how you're the only one who seemed to be a little giggly.

"Fine." you rolled your eyes, letting him take your glass from you.

He got up to get something in his room's mini fridge before going back to you, "Water?"

"It's cold," you replied before you could even touch the bottle.

"Okay, diva."

Your eyebrows raised with that, "No! I mean I cannot drink cold water when I'm singing or recording. It's not good for my throat... I'm fine, anyway. Thanks."

"I thought it would help you sober up," he explained, leaning to his chair.

"I'm sober!" you exclaimed defensively. Just a little fuzzy. But you won't admit that to him.

His lips formed into a smug smile, like he was saying, yeah sure. You puffed before fixing your headphones and crossing your arms over your chest. You looked annoyed. Yoongi knows because your nostrils are flared while there's a small pout on your lips. He bites off his inner cheek to stop himself from smiling.

"Should we record again?" he asked.

Still a little annoyed, you didn't say anything and just nodded your head. The instrumental began playing in your headphones seconds later.

‘Tis the season to be jolly But how can I be when I have nobody

The same song plays on your phone while you tap your fingertips in tune with the sleighbells playing in its instrumental. After finishing recording the song, you stay to see how it will turn out. Yoongi didn't seem to mind even though it was already past midnight.

"Do you want to hear the song I mentioned?" you asked him while he worked on the song.

Busy, he answered with a short sure. So, you played the song in a non-distracting volume, reached for the glass of wine you abandoned, and sat on his bed. You were quiet, sometimes humming to the song, but mostly staring at the view outside.

A silent night I know it's gonna be Joy to the world But it's gonna be sad for me

As the snow falls outside, you think of how this is so not how you expected your December is gonna be this year. With Noah being your original bassist, you thought you two would get to enjoy the snow in various cities you're touring in. And maybe even spend Christmas together during your break. But instead, you are now in your new bassist's, with whom you have dumb fights most of the time, hotel room, making holiday songs.

How surprising is that? You thought to yourself before taking one gulf of your wine.

You were snapped out of your thoughts when Yoongi slightly groaned as he stretched his limbs from his chair. You paused the song and collected the wine bottle and your glass like you were ready to go.

"Are you kicking me out yet?" you asked.

He turned around, just to you about to get up from the bed, "What?"

"Maybe my presence distracts you." you joked, which sounds nicer than maybe you don't want me here in your room anymore because you don't like having me here.

He chuckled, a little tired, "No, it's okay. I know you're waiting for the finished version."

"Good. Because I really like your room. You have a great view of the city. The snow looks perfect here." you rambled.

Yoongi looked outside, seeing the wonderful view you were talking about. He wordlessly agrees before getting back to his screen. Watching him, you mumbled.

"If you're tired, we can just finish that tomorrow."

Just like you, the guy also performed hours ago. You two don't along at most times, but you are not that petty to make him overwork.

"No, I'm fine," he shakes his head. "I'll finish this in an hour, just wait there."

"Okay," you put down the bottle on the nightstand.

Yoongi heard the music play again while he edited the song. Eager to finish it tonight, he continued working for what seemed like a few minutes for him. He made sure to add your suggestions and put some elements he thinks would be perfect. After listening to his finished product through his headphones one more time, Yoongi put on a satisfied smile.

"And it's do—"

Yoongi's smile fell when he found you asleep on his bed with the empty wine glass in your hand. It was already 1:24 AM, and he looked at the time. Seeing how peaceful you are in your sleep, he would hate waking you up. Instead, Yoongi got up cleaned up his nightstand, and carefully took your glass. He tried not to chuckle loudly when he heard your small snores. After gently putting the duvet on you, Yoongi took one of the pillows and threw it on the couch that he would take over tonight. He knows it would be awkward to take up the big, empty space next to you.

Dimming down the lights, Yoongi tried to find a comfortable position on the couch. And when he did, he finally closed his eyes and let himself fall asleep.

If it weren't for the buzzing noise next to you, you would have seen where your celebrity crush ended up taking you for a date in your dreams. Groaning, you reached for your phone beside you. Seeing Cal calling, you begrudgingly answered the call.

"Hey, Cal." your voice sounded weak as you just woke up.

"Where the hell are you, YN?! I've been ringing your room. You have a virtual interview at 9."

Your eyebrows furrowed while slowly sitting up, "What do you mean? I'm in my room— Oh, no. Fuck."

The first thing you see when you sit up is Yoongi's compact studio setup, which you don't remember being in your room. You looked around and it just confirmed that you are not in your hotel room. Yoongi is nowhere to be found, you don't hear any noise from the bathroom either.

"Y/N?" Cal spoke again, worried by your sudden pause.

"I-I'm in Yoongi's room." you stuttered, trying to remember your last memory. You were relieved to find yourself still in the same clothes you went with last night.

You heard a gasp from the other line, "Oh my god, YN! Did you hooked—"

"No, no, no! Still in my clothes. Just fell asleep making songs." you babbled, cutting her suspicions off. "Where the fuck is that sock?!"

Is it a talent to lose a fucking sock while asleep? Because if it is, you just added a new title under your name. You were in a hurry, shuffling the bed for that one sock with heart patterns. Cal can only imagine what you look like right now.

"Here!" you exclaimed, immediately putting it on. You rushed to the door after. "I'm going there right— Yoongi!"

Yoongi was right before you. He shared the same shock as you except he was calmer with his eyebrows raised and eyes widened.

"I have to go for an interview. Cal's gonna rip my head off. I'll check the song later. Thank you for letting me stay!"

You were so in a hurry that you were literally spewing words and didn't realize that you leaned to give a quick kiss on his cheek. It registered as you were moving back, making you two stop for a moment, looking at each other in surprise. He gulped, feeling his throat running dry. while you feel every blood run to your cheeks now, feeling warm.

You blinked, "I-I'm gonna go."

Yoongi watched you run to the elevator before looking at the two cups of coffee he was holding.

note | i still have a christmas drabble! haha! hope u liked this one though <33

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