#Anyway I should been sleeping right now...

[esmeefreckles]

Golden Exchange | Alexia Putellas x reader

Chapter 1: The proposal

⚠️ This story is +18 contains mature themes.

Tags: Slow Burn · Slow Build · Fake Dating · Angst & Comfort · Emotional Tension · Escort AU · Sugar mommy Alexia.

You made it through undergrad while working nights, barely sleeping, always pushing. But law school? That’s a different beast. Tuition, rent, books... it’s too much. Escorting isn’t the dream, but it pays, and right now, survival beats pride. Alexia thought retiring from football would give her peace. Instead, she’s dodging rumors, fake friends, and relentless attention. So when she sees you, her sister’s childhood best friend, at a gala, all poised and stunning, she blurts out a half-joke: "How much would I have to pay you to pretend to be my girlfriend?" She’s only half kidding. You’re only half sure you should say yes.

A/N: A huge thank you to @sswed for being the best beta reader and helping me so much.

Alexia got a text from her manager, she considered not checking it. The entire reason she gave him his own ringtone was so she'd be forewarned not to look at a message from her on a day she couldn't handle it. With a rough sigh, Alexia pulled her phone out of her clutch, keeping her gaze fixed out the car window. Right before an event wasn't an ideal time to have an interaction with her, but if she was texting her now, it might be important.

"Have you left already?"

Alexia scowled at her phone, typing out a quick,

 "Yes." 

She was thirty-three; she really didn't need her manager still micromanaging her. This was part of why she'd retired from professional football. That and the fact that she hated every second of the relentless spotlight and the immense pressure that was going to bring her an early grave. 

"Mead will be at the event, as will Hegerberg- Watch yourself."

Why her manager asked now made more sense; she wanted to make sure Alexia was already on her way before warning her. Even halfway to the event, Alexia considered telling her driver to turn them around.

"Fran, how far are we?" she sighed, looking up to the front seat of the car. 

Fran paused, tilting his head back to listen.

"Twenty minutes to the press entrance," he told her, sounding a little apologetic. Alexia sighed, glaring at her clutch as she slipped her phone back inside.

"Is Mario waiting there already?" she confirmed.

Fran nodded in the front seat. Alexia slumped in her seat. She couldn't bail on a charity event anyway, but considering they were almost there and her bodyguard was waiting, she just felt trapped. It would be good to see Marta again, but the rumors about the two of them were just starting to calm down. With Marta and Pablo broken up again, Alexia didn't doubt the top story in the tabloids would be about them making eyes at each other.

Alexia was still glaring at her phone when the next message came in.

"Have you given any more thought to my proposal?"

Alexia turned her phone to silent and slipped it back into her clutch. She had thought about it, and she'd decided for and against it at least a dozen different times. Tonight was definitely going to put her back in the "for" column.

You'd been an escort for three years now, but this was your first hate-client. You weren't sure you could even call it that as you watched Marta’s gaze catch on her ex’s back. Despite the small "ugh" of disgust she released, her eyes lit up, and she was clearly interested. Marta had been blunt when she hired you, saying she wanted someone to keep her company and show her ex the kind of person she wanted to date, someone responsible, who knew how to behave in polite society, apparently.

If they weren't back together in two weeks, you'd return her fee. Well, no, you would never do that, but you wouldn't have to, because she was right. When Pablo spotted them, the actor’s eyes lit up, and he hurried over. Marta tightened her grip on your arm, and you pointedly turned to walk a few feet over to the gaggle of people that had cropped up around Marta’s latest producer.

Marta gave off a satisfied air as Pablo stopped in the middle of jogging over to them, looking crestfallen as he finally registered that Marta was hanging off someone else’s arm. The arm of someone significantly shorter than her, sure, but you were dressed nicer than Pablo, and you knew for a fact he was a millionaire, so you considered it a power move still. You turned your attention away from him as Marta’s producer greeted her and began introductions with the group.

He didn't bother introducing you, wearing a full suit and a real tie instead of the bandana Pablo was sporting didn’t make you actually matter. You were here as a buffer and a distraction. As another attempt by Marta to affirm to the public that she was, in fact, bisexual, even if she had been dating a man long-term. The rant she gave you in the car had been long but also relaxing. You had to pretend to be a lot of things for your job, so it was nice when you could just relax and be yourself a little with a client and especially be queer.

Marta seemed to enjoy your bitchiness, at least. You figured she would, or you wouldn't have busted it out. You hadn't been doing this for three years for nothing. You had a good eye for what a client wanted. Being an escort had, without a doubt, made you a better lawyer. You had learned to read people, a skill you already had but had perfected since you began the work, and you had grown comfortable in a variety of situations.

Marta tapped on your arm, prompting you to push up your shirt sleeve so she could glance at your watch.

"Hmm, she should be here by now. Do you know Alexia Putellas?" Marta questioned, raising her line of sight to meet your eyes. 

Through years of training, you did not let your eye twitch, your expression impassive as you nodded. 

"She probably got trapped at the front door. Go fetch her for me. Tell her you’re with me," Marta told you, a clear dismissal as she dropped your arm. You nodded, giving a short bow before turning to find Alexia.

You hadn't looked up the event before agreeing to this job; you knew if Alexia wasn't going, you could take it comfortably, but if she was, you wouldn't have been able to make yourself accept the job. You were in your final year of your J.D. You needed the paycheck from this event to pay for your tuition. You'd done some uncomfortable things for your job before, and running into your ex-crush shouldn't rank that high on the list, but of the uncomfortable things you knew about in advance, it was pretty much at the top.

There was always the chance Alexia wouldn't recognize you. 

You comforted yourself as you slipped through the crowd. If you hadn't known for the last fucking decade that Alexia had forgotten about you since she signed for Barça, that thought wouldn't be a comfort. But you already knew you were unimportant to the girl you were in love with. What you wouldn't be able to stand was Alexia recognizing you and still putting on a PR smile.

Marta’s prediction was accurate. Even with the rich and famous attendees at the charity gala, Alexia drew a crowd. You drew yourself up, projecting uninterested confidence as you walked past the gaggle forming around Alexia. You ignored every single one of them, focusing on Alexia as you swept up to her side.

Alexia spotted you a half-second before your eyes met, raising an eyebrow in challenge as she offered her arm without greeting. It was a power play; everything was with crowds like this. Alexia’s eyes widened slowly, her pupils dilating even as confusion clouded her expression. Some part of her recognized you, which honestly floored you, considering the decade of radio silence and the colored contact lenses you were sporting. Clearly, she wasn't sure of her recognition, though. You cleared your throat as the dozen people surrounding watched on with interest.

"Hey, Alexia," you greeted her, because if Alexia could begin to recognize you even with color contacts, then maybe your voice would be enough to push her over into realizing who you were.

The moment you echoed your old flirtation, Alexia’s eyes widened further, her breath hitching as she took your arm without hesitation.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, I have an old friend to catch up with," Alexia said, almost as an afterthought, not looking at anyone but you. 

You managed to keep your posture perfectly still, throwing the group a smirk to show just how collected you were as you pulled Alexia away. She followed, still staring at you. You didn't know why. Yes, your appearance here was undoubtedly surprising, but you didn't know why Alexia bothered to even remember what you looked like.

"A contact?" Alexia asked, her voice low, as you led them. 

You glanced over, intending to make quick eye contact, but you caught Alexia staring at your pupil, which should be blue. Alexia nodded, seeming to have confirmed to herself that she was right. You knew if you looked close enough at your eyes, it was possible to spot the ring of blue peeking out from the edge of the contact, as well as the slight difference in shade and texture from your truly green eye. You cleared your throat, looking forward again.

"Yes, Marta sent me to fetch you," You told her.

Alexia startled a little, turning to stare at you, but you had caught sight of Marta again, so you ignored her. Marta hadn't stayed put, and she was talking to her ex now. You were glad Marta didn't even question your policy of being paid at the beginning of the night. Letting her get cornered by the ex she was trying to teach a lesson, even if she sent you away first, was the kind of thing a bitchy client would call a failure of service. You had your policies for a reason.

At your side, Alexia let out a long breath as she spotted Marta.

"Thanks for not saying her name in front of the crowd. She’s a good friend, but…there are rumors about us," Alexia said, a little sheepishly. You gave a slight nod in acknowledgment. Yeah, you knew. Unlike Alexia, you kept up on what your friend was up to.

Marta spotted them, glancing down at your intertwined arms and looking amused. She raised her eyebrow as you dropped Alexia’s arm and returned to Marta’s side. You sent Pablo a challenging look as Marta took your arm again. Pablo looked a bit deflated, but at least Marta looked like she was having fun before you showed up to rescue her.

"I fetched her for you, darling," you told her, in the sweet voice you perfected in high school that Alexia used to know meant "fuck you," but who knows, because it was convincing as hell at this point, if you said so yourself. 

Alexia was a little flushed, her gaze still locked on you, though she looked calculating rather than wide-eyed now.

"Figured you were getting swarmed. Thought I’d send rescue, but I didn’t think you’d take my escort for yourself," Marta told Alexia, seeming amused. 

Her voice was low so as not to be overheard, but you still felt a ball of dread in your stomach. You couldn't take watching Alexia realize what you did. It was a fucking charity event, but you weren't a charity case. It was a job. Your job.

Alexia’s eyes went wide at the same time that you narrowed yours at her. You looked away, not wanting to see whatever pity bloomed there. You knew the perception of your night job, but you made good money, enough to pay for law school. You didn't need Alexia, with all her unlimited money and fame, suddenly feeling sorry for the girl she left behind without a care.

"Rule number two of hiring an escort is not telling people that’s what they are," you pointed out, your own voice low. Marta snorted with amusement, sending you a glance.

"Alexia helped me put my bush out when it caught fire. She’s cool," Marta said. 

You blinked, but part of your job was not asking questions, regardless of how badly you wanted an explanation for all that. You could also point out that Pablo was, at best, five inches away from her and definitely heard that, but he also didn't seem surprised.

You were hired after he embarrassed Marta one too many times in public, meant to be an example for the kind of behavior she was “actually interested in” but apparently, Marta meant for him to watch and learn. You moved up your mental timetable on them getting back together for the next forty-eight hours.

In front of them, Alexia cleared her throat. You had undergone a lot of training, largely under trial by fire, in remaining impassive, but you couldn't hide your slight wince, at least not to Alexia.

"Where are you seated?" Alexia asked, despite the way she was still looking at you.

Marta seemed amused, glancing between the two of you. She probably just thought her friend had the hots for her date; she couldn't be more wrong. You put on a stunningly impassive bitch face. If you had to deal with Alexia for the entire event, this was going to be the hardest you had ever had to work for a paycheck in your life.

"Near the fountain in the middle, not all of us get front row," Marta said, with a vague wave of her hand. Alexia deflated and you barely bit down on your sigh of relief.

Alexia should have been more subtle, probably. It was going to be all over the tabloids how she couldn't keep her eyes off Marta, but the truth was Alexia had hardly looked at her friend once. No, she'd been far more focused watching you. Alexia had recognized you immediately and felt a bit insane, given that your eyes and hair were wrong. It wasn't until she was able to look closely and see the contact that she truly knew.

Alexia hadn't seen you since she was fifteen. Despite not realizing her true feelings for you until they were apart, Alexia had been hung up on you ever since. She barely got a few minutes with you, impassive and polite, not acting like yourself, before they were being called away for the ceremony.

It was Alexia’s own fault for showing up so late, but she hadn't wanted to socialize. She only stepped into the limelight again for charity events like this, and she wanted to minimize her exposure. She intended to show up, greet a few people, make a quick appearance, and leave. Instead, she spent the entire ceremony taking any excuse to glance back in Marta’s direction. 

You were professional. Alexia could tell because there was hardly any trace of you in your actions as you played the perfect gentleman for the entire night, chatting with Marta during the lulls and intermissions, casually fending off others attempting to make conversation with the bored actress, and maintaining an engaged expression throughout the entire night. 

When it came time for Alexia to stand up and make her brief speech about the charity, the kind of speech she always gave, and the absolute last thing she personally wanted to do, Alexia had to keep her eyes fixed on the front of the crowd. If she saw you making that faux-interested expression in the face of her performance, no matter how much she disliked public speaking herself, Alexia didn't think she could take it.

She looked when the speech was finished, though, as she took her polite bow and reminded the audience of the importance of the cause. You were leaning forward attentively, though Alexia couldn't see your expression from there. Alexia swallowed as she departed the stage. The rest of the night was torture. As part of the ceremony, she had to hang back and give one last endorsement to the cameras. When she was finally free, she couldn't spot Marta or a familiar face amongst the crowd. Alexia deflated, but she hurried towards the entrance now that she had confirmed you were already gone.

"You look even worse than I was expecting," Mario greeted when Alexia rejoined her event bodyguard. 

Mario didn't give a shit, and that was why Alexia liked him. He had said she might be her favorite client because he never had to coddle her. Alexia had been careful to cultivate a group of people who were more likely to avoid her for her status than seek it out.

"The tabloids are going to be terrible," Alexia returned, already opening her clutch to pull out her phone as Mario escorted her back out to the limo. 

There were reporters waiting, there always were, but Alexia ignored them. Mario just grunted affirmation. His entire job was protecting Alexia from the reporters and fans; he knew just how rabid they could be.

Alexia didn't dare to pull up her conversation with her manager until Mario had seen her into the limo, waving goodbye to him through the window as Fran peeled away from the venue. She didn't need anyone to catch a photo of what she was about to send and print it.

"I’ve thought about the proposal. I’ll do it."

You peeled off your suit the moment you got back to your dorm. Stupid mock trials and archaic legal precedents that hadn’t been used in decades would absolutely get overturned in a real courtroom, but no, Mr. Simmons let it stand in the classroom and declared your case lost. 

You were muttering to yourself as you changed into sweats and didn’t even bother with a shirt. You were so frustrated. You knew what you needed right now, but you wouldn’t even be thinking about it if it weren’t for last weekend.

You hadn't collapsed into Alexia's arms after a long day to receive comfort and reassurance in a decade, but one stilted conversation with your ex-friend, and you were craving it. You put your hair up in a ponytail and flopped down on your bed, yanking your laptop into your lap and ignoring the restlessness you felt. Checking your website while you were already in a bad mood was probably a bad idea, but right now you actually wanted a handsy client, if only to feel some contact, even if it wouldn't be real affection.

No one had ever had affection for you, though. You thought Alexia might feel the same when you were kids, but the second she got swept off to the glamour of football, she didn’t give enough of a shit to even call you. 

Sometimes, handsy clients made your skin crawl; other times, you just accepted it as the closest thing you were ever going to get to feeling wanted. Love was a dream that died a decade ago. You knew these thoughts weren’t healthy, but even with your night job, you couldn't afford fucking therapy.

You could hardly make your tuition payments as it was. Your website was subtle and understated. It was possible to look at it with an innocent eye and not realize what you truly did. 

Well, it would be if the majority of your clients weren’t referred to the site by the agency you paid to list you in a private database, where clients knew the truth. Publicly, you advertised minder services for events, offering to watch and corral clients who might get swarmed by others or get a bit too drunk for their own good. 

Until you got to the booking form, there wasn’t even a mention of your one-on-one services. You were an escort, but you didn’t need creeps coming to you, and if what you did became public knowledge, it risked undermining your legal career before it even got started. You covered your most defining feature and used a fake name, but you still had to be careful. It was a balance between advertising enough to get work and not getting caught. You hadn't gotten any new offers since the charity event a week ago.

The best part of your job was how well it paid, the worst part was how sporadic that pay was. You kind of needed another client in the next few days, or you might not have enough for your tuition payment, even with the ridiculous amount Marta paid you. You made a nice profit, but college was expensive. You opened your inbox and breathed a sigh of relief when you saw an offer there. A one-on-one, which wouldn’t pay as well as an event, but it would lower stress.

You caught sight of the name on the booking.

Part of Alexia wondered if you were even going to show up. 

You hadn't seemed interested in talking to her at the event, and despite Alexia's purposefully leaving parts of the booking form blank, you never reached out for clarifying details before accepting the appointment. Granted, you had less than two days to do so, but Alexia still left a lot of blanks, barring her phone number, and heard nothing. She'd already put two hundred dollars down as a deposit, and even though that was only a tenth of the full price, waiting for you, should you show, it might be enough.

It would certainly be a clear "fuck off," and you always loved dramatics. 

Alexia got your contact information from Marta the day after the event, while Marta ridiculed her mercilessly for getting hot for her escort, but that was far from the truth. Well, okay, Alexia had been hot for you always, but she also never thought she would get to see you again. She couldn't let this opportunity slip through her fingers.

Despite Alexia’s worries, you arrived exactly ten minutes before your “date” was supposed to start. You seemed wary as you were led into Alexia’s private room in the back of the restaurant. You were wearing suit pants and a black satin button-down, a bow tie undone loosely around your neck. 

It made Alexia relax a little to see you in something closer to what you used to be comfortable in. You were dressed appropriately fancy for the restaurant, a slate waistcoat buttoned over your shirt, but one of the blouses Alexia had left was the desired attire. She smiled hopefully as she rose from her seat, the hostess giving a short bow as she quickly backed out of the room to give them a private moment.

"It’s good to see you," Alexia told you, cautiously stepping forward within hugging range. She had no idea what the protocols were for this. You were wearing your contacts again. Alexia could see calculation in your gaze as you appraised her before you raised your arms.

Alexia breathed a sigh of relief as you hugged her. It made warmth flood through her chest, a relief she hadn't known in years.

The restaurant was stupid fancy; you figured that out from a quick Google search, a search you had to do given that Alexia provided no dress code. Alexia had one of the private rooms with a balcony overlooking the street below. The door to the balcony was firmly closed, and the gauzy privacy curtain was drawn over it. Someone on street level might be able to tell there were people inside the room, but that was about it.

You had no idea what to do. You hadn't felt this unsure since your first client. It wasn’t just because you were meeting with Alexia, you had been given next to no instructions. Alexia lit up like a goddamn winterfest display when she saw you enter the room. She went to hug you and you allowed it, partially because Alexia was paying you two grand just to have dinner with her, and partially because, alright, you missed it. 

You had no clue why Alexia would hire you after not attempting to reach out for a decade, but from the plainly joyful expression on her face, you suspected that Alexia just wanted to catch up. It was the only theory that really made sense anyway. You were friends before Alexia became richer and famous. She was probably sick of the way people treated her now and looking for something "down to Earth" or some bullshit.

"Please, have a seat. Take a look at the menu. We can catch up once we’ve ordered," Alexia told you, confirming your suspicions. 

You straightened your shoulders a little, nodding as you slipped into the appropriate persona for the evening, dialed back a few degrees. You might be bitter, but you could bury your feelings and work for your paycheck. You could pretend to be whatever vague recollection Alexia had of the “friend” she left behind. Alexia, to your surprise, frowned.

"Don’t do that. I want it to be us. No bullshit," Alexia told you as she returned to her own seat, a plush chair directly across from yours at the table for two. 

You could keep it up. If you dropped the persona, you might end up just cursing Alexia out, and you couldn't risk that before you had collected your fee. Alexia continued to surprise you, sending you a pleading look when you didn’t relax for her.

"Why the fuck did you hire me, Alexia?" you had to ask as you slid into your seat, unable to hold it back any longer. 

It had been more than 10 years with no phone call, no lyrics vaguely directed at you, no allusion to missing someone in the press. You would watch interviews, hoping for a hidden sign Alexia never gave. You could guess that Alexia was sick of fame leeches and she basically said as much in her retirement announcement, but Alexia wasn’t ready to deal with no bullshit you anymore.

No bullshit you were hurt and angry at being utterly abandoned by the one person you thought actually gave a shit about you, much less saw you for who you were. You raised an eyebrow, expecting Alexia to take back her "no bullshit" immediately. To your surprise, Alexia lit up, smiling as she relaxed back into her seat.

"How has your week been?" Alexia asked, smiling easily. 

She was really smiling, not the fake PR smile you usually saw her give. You shifted a bit uncomfortably as you flipped open your menu, if only to have something to do. You were good at this because you were a good actress and liar; you hadn't anticipated Alexia wanting honesty, and you were not sure you really remembered how to give it.

"Good," you finally responded, despite how it was a lie. 

Alexia frowned, deflating a little. You sighed, looking away. That was supposed to be a test, and Alexia was supposed to fail it. She was not supposed to actually want honesty, or to be able to tell that you weren't giving it.

You accepted a long time ago that fame had changed Alexia; she gave fake smiles to every camera, and she dressed in clothes that cost more than a car. You weren't sure what to do with the knowledge that, despite everything, Alexia still knew you. She wasn’t willing to call, but she apparently hung onto the knowledge of your calls for some reason.

"What do you really want from this? The request was blank, Alexia. I know you must have no idea how this works but usually I’m an unlicensed therapist for my clients that will also stroke their egos," you told her, carefully looking to the left at a gently swaying plant decorating the corner of the room. It was an orchid, healthy and vibrant. 

There was a moment of silence.

"I want to catch up. I never thought I’d see you again. We can talk business after," Alexia said softly. 

Your eyes snapped to Alexia. There was a lot to unpack there. What business Alexia wanted to talk about probably should be at the forefront of your mind, but "I never thought I’d see you again" was ringing far too loudly in your ears for any other thoughts.

"You know, there is a solution to that and I was trying to reach out even once before I turned eighteen. You knew where I fucking lived, Alexia," you told her, slumping back in your seat a little. Alexia’s eyes went wide, and you flinched. 

You hadn't even collected your fee yet, despite your policy being upfront payments, and you let your bitterness get the best of you.At least the deposit would more than cover your cab ride back; you were probably going to be forced to call one in the next five minutes when Alexia decided this wasn't what she wanted. She already decided she didn’t want you once anyway. You weren't really expecting things to be different this time around. 

Alexia swallowed, staring at you with blatant surprise.

"I did," Alexia protested, her voice a little weak. 

You stilled, your gaze boring into Alexia’s as you searched for the lie. You didn’t find it. Alexia just looked sad. 

"A few weeks after I got into Barçs, my manager let me call the school. Someone told me that you got in trouble after I left and were transferred to a home for troubled youth. She couldn’t legally give out details because you were a minor," Alexia explained, her voice a little unsure, almost like she didn’t believe the words she was saying anymore.

That absolutely sounded like a lie they would tell, but you couldn't believe that Alexia just accepted it unless she wanted to find a reason to leave you behind. 

"You fucking fell for that? I was there until I aged out at eighteen, Alexia," you asked, despite how you knew it wasn’t fair. 

Alexia was always gullible. Her expression crumpled, and your breath stopped short when you saw tears had pricked at the corner of Alexia’s eyes. You forced yourself to draw in a deep breath and blow it out slowly.

Alexia didn’t really have any choice but to believe them. It was just easier to stay mad than to deal with the fact that both of you were powerless back then. Alexia had a family, money, and fame, but you had suspected for a long time how little agency Alexia gained when she signed for Barça. 

“I assumed she pinned something on you so she could get rid of you. She let me call because she knew I missed you but once she heard you were gone, that only made things easier for her. Everybody was telling me you were gone," Alexia told you.

You blinked at her across the table, your leg thumping a nervous rhythm against the seat.

It still hurt, it was going to keep feeling raw for a long time, you suspected, but Alexia did try. Alexia thought about you, wondering if she would get to see you again. You had been mad at Alexia for loving and leaving you for so many years. Not an ounce of that anger dissipated with Alexia’s words. You swallowed, sitting forward in your seat.

"Let’s try this again?" you asked, your voice quiet. Alexia looked a little heartbroken still, but she nodded. 

The damage had been done; it would be hard for it to go away in one conversation after more than a decade of feeling this way, but the hurt was a little eased, and now that you knew Alexia reached out, you wanted to take the chance to talk to her again. You could work on shifting your anger to the appropriate target later.

Your attitude towards Alexia made a lot more sense now that you’d cleared the air a little. There was definitely more to catch up on there, but you had actually relaxed now. You picked out your meals together. When you had both chosen something, Alexia tried to subtly encourage you towards the lobster and felt satisfied when you agreed to try it despite cringing at the price tag, you rang the bell for the waiter so they could deliver your orders.

As the waiter left with your menus under his arm, Alexia pulled out her phone, laying it on the table so you could see her screen without asking, as Alexia sent the rest of the payment over using her banking app. You flushed as she did so, but you nodded and leaned back in your seat as Alexia slid her phone away into her pocket.

"Tell me what you’ve really been up to in the last fifteen years?" Alexia requested, trying to move past the awkwardness of how she set up this meeting. 

You were going to get there eventually, even worse, you were going to get her proposal eventually, but for the moment, she really just wanted to meet the girl she lost so many years ago. Your eyes twitched, your cheeks dusted pink, but you launched into an abridged explanation.

"I was at home for most of high school. I was able to go to a college upstate for free. I fell into the political science program somewhere along the way," you explained. 

Alexia nodded, your conversation falling into a lull as your waiter arrived with the complimentary opening dish while you waited for your real meals. Your eyes went wide when you realized it was crab cakes.

Alexia specifically picked this place because of its amazing seafood, in addition to the privacy. She grinned at you as she popped one in her mouth. You rolled your eyes, but you practically melted when you took a bite yourself, a low hum of contentment escaping your lips that had Alexia gasping and you blushing furiously.

"Not a word," you hissed, flustered, even as you took another bite. 

Alexia mimed zipping her lips shut, but she couldn't help but stare at you, relaxed and a visible warmth spreading through you across from her, your eyes soft and slightly unfocused with pleasure as you blinked slowly, looking between the food on the table and Alexia. Alexia knew that happiness was for the delicate crab cakes, but she was willing to let herself have a brief delusion.

"Tell me about undergrad," Alexia requested. 

Your website mentioned you were a law student under your "conversation topics" header. You paused, taking another bite as you considered it.

"I took an obscure political elective freshman year, and somehow that just turned into my major. By junior year, I was looking into law school after graduation since political science doesn’t have a lot of job opportunities, but, well, I needed money to pay for it," you explained with a shrug. 

Alexia nodded, trying to keep her expression neutral. From the way you shifted uncomfortably and looked away, she knew you had failed. Alexia leaned back in her seat. She had begun to lean on the table as you talked, naturally swaying closer to you.

"You're comfortable? And safe?" Alexia had to ask. You scowled a little, still looking away as you folded your arms. Your fingers drummed restlessly against your bicep.

"I can more than defend myself, Alexia. I have rules, and if a client doesn’t respect them, that's why I make them pay up front," you told her. 

Alexia hated that answer because it meant that clients hadn’t respected them in the past, but she already knew that was an inevitability in this line of work. Your fingers dug into your biceps, a sharp, almost defensive posture in the dim mood lighting as you gripped your crossed arms. Alexia sighed.

"Some of the charities I work with are dedicated to supporting sex workers. I know it is a job, even if I worry about the risks," Alexia offered, as diplomatically as she could. She didn’t know if you even went that far with clients, but she would bet some clients had tried. Besides, if you were willing to agree to her proposal at the end of the night, it wouldn’t matter.

"I know you, Alexia. I don’t need saving or whatever else you’re thinking right now. This line of work has the best pay for the lowest time commitment, and the hours don’t conflict with my classes. I don’t want pity. I’m happy with my job," you told her, shrugging a little with your arms still crossed. Alexia winced. The thing was, yes, part of Alexia was trying to get you to quit, but she also very much wasn't.

Alexia had been miserable for the last decade, but she had more money than she knew what to do with, and she felt guilty that you had to deal with unwanted come-ons from clients while Alexia was settled in her penthouse. Still, she wasn’t coming at this from a place of judgment. 

The idea was there before she even met you again.

"I never said you weren’t happy? Look, I didn’t exactly know how else to get in contact with you. This isn’t…. I’m not trying to save you, I’m trying to hire you," Alexia returned. 

She knew the judgment you had to have faced about your job, but she would have thought the fact that she had already hired you for the night would make it clear she wasn’t judging you for that.

Your brows furrowed, and your lips parted slightly. You finally turned your head to look Alexia in the eye again, your expression confused. Alexia could see the disbelief written across your face. 

"I don’t believe you," you told her, your expression challenging. 

It wasn’t ideal, but Alexia felt herself smiling as she relaxed in her chair again. Despite not believing her, you were not defensive now, although you seemed confused by Alexia smiling.

"I missed the hell out of you," Alexia explained, shaking her head a little, all fondness, but she didn’t care how obvious she was. 

"We’ll catch up, eat dinner, and then we can talk about what I actually want to hire you for, okay? If it makes you uncomfortable, you can just leave then," Alexia offered, gesturing at the table between them. In truth, she couldn't stand scaring you off so soon, but she also didn't want to make you feel trapped. 

You considered her for a long moment.

"Fine," you agreed with a sigh, like you were doing Alexia a favor. Alexia just beamed at you.

There was no reality in which the Alexia you knew would actually be okay with defining you as a sex worker in her head, but it had been fifteen years. You thought fame had changed Alexia, but even if it turned out Alexia wasn’t a stuck-up prick who forgot you, there were still differences. As you talked, sharing stories from undergrad and law school while Alexia gave anecdotes of the moments from her life that didn’t make it into the tabloids, you discovered a more disillusioned Alexia than you once knew. She was far from cynical, but the absolute innocence she had was gone.

Maybe that should be expected, but her innocence managed to hang on through all the abuse she endured, so it still surprised you. None of the stories Alexia offered had anything to do with her football career achievements. Just as you didn’t mention your night job, Alexia didn’t mention her day job.

"Tell me about what you do now," you prompted softly, as dinner was winding down.

Alexia blinked in surprise, pulling out of the reverie of the story she was telling about the day she did a photoshoot on a farm. No part of the story was about the photoshoot; she was mostly gushing about all the animals she got to pet that day. You remembered that photoshoot, and you felt jealous over the goat Alexia was holding in a more candid-style shot.

Alexia paused, glancing out the covered balcony doors. The lights of the city at night could still be seen through the thin curtain. Eventually, she sighed.

“I don't want to complain cause I made all my dreams come true. Being at Barça was everything to me, the dream I'd worked for my whole life, but the biggest issue was my manager pressuring me to leave Barça for a bigger paycheck, even though I loved playing there. It was a huge problem throughout my career. Back then, I worried he might turn me down and destroy everything I was building, especially the 11 foundation," Alexia told you, shrugging. Her expression was conflicted, bitter, and guilty.

Your entire job was to comfort and assure clients, even when you just wanted to tell them to go fuck themselves. You comforted a manager on a dinner date once when he was upset because an employee that he fired called him a bloodsucking leech. You agreed with the employee, but you needed your paycheck, so instead you slid a hand onto his chest and softly murmured to him that he was doing what was good for the company. In this moment, though, you didn’t want to offer empty comfort because you were angry, and not at Alexia.

"That bitch exploited the hell out of you," you told her. 

Alexia startled, turning to look at you with wide eyes. After a moment, Alexia relaxed into her seat again, shrugging a little, but at least the guilt was gone from her face. She didn’t want to complain about being famous.

"Maybe. He knew what he was doing when he set up my earnings trust to release at twenty-one instead of eighteen, but he was a decent man. He could have easily kept the money for himself. I mean, he made plenty off of me, don’t get me wrong, but so many child athletes get nothing," Alexia told you, shrugging. 

You scoffed, but you didn’t push it. It was still exploitation, but you knew there were far worse ways Alexia’s life could have gone. Still, you had a realization looking at the resigned expression on Alexia’s face.

"I didn’t ask what you used to do, Alexia. I want to know what you do now. What makes you happy?" you settled on saying. 

Alexia let out a breath, sending you a look bordering on thankful before taking another bite of her food, stalling as she thought her response over.

"The part I did like was the charity work. I also gained a lot of experience from managing my own career, especially over the last two years when I was able to set boundaries with my manager. Now I work for an organization that helps private companies and large donors find charities to work with. We help them decide who to donate to and how much of the donation budget they get, arrange event organization, do their PR promotion, that sort of thing. The charity gala last weekend was one of ours," Alexia told you, shrugging.

You knew Alexia’s official job title; it made its way into the tabloids, but it was the reason you wanted to know. Alexia released a public statement saying the charity work she had managed to do over the years impacted her and led her to this career change, but you knew there was a deeper story to it. Alexia finding it as the one bright spot amongst all the stress made sense.

"I fell into political science because of what I went through in the system. I wanted to change it," you said quietly, offering a piece of yourself in exchange. 

Usually, when you did this, it was carefully curated and not necessarily truthful, but this was Alexia. Alexia’s expression softened as she nodded at you from across the table.

"And now? What do you want to do with your law degree?" Alexia prompted you. 

You had shared plenty of stories, but you weren't really talking about the future, just how you ended up where you are now. You paused, looking down at your empty plate. Alexia’s was basically empty too, you were just talking now, all courses finished with the possible exception of dessert. Technically, dinner was over. It didn’t feel like stalling, but it probably was.

You had relaxed a lot over the course of dinner. You had suspected in the past that Alexia wasn’t given a choice in contacting you, either by her manager or by her sister, but often you pushed it aside in favor of bitterness. It was easier to be mad than to acknowledge how hopeless your positions had been. Now that you had it confirmed, you found talking with Alexia surprisingly easy, despite your bitterness and the matter of business hanging over you.

"At first, I wanted to fight the system from the inside, but those cases don’t pay well, and they’re depressing. I switched to focus on civil suits. I graduated with my J.D. in May, but since I changed focus, I want to go for an extra year to get my master of Laws degree so I can really focus on it before taking the bar," you told Alexia, shrugging. 

You expected it to go flying over Alexia’s head, but she seemed to follow well enough, nodding along as you spoke. You shifted a little in your seat. You could keep talking all night, probably, which was the last thing you expected when you walked into the restaurant a few hours ago, but you still had a question.

"What is the business you wanted to talk about?" you asked. Alexia immediately winced, looking off to the side. Her eyes caught sight of the bell to call the waiter, and lit up.

"Do you want dessert?" Alexia asked, already leaning for the bell. You scoffed.

"No and you’re stalling," you returned. The fact that most desserts were heavy in sugar and thus inedible for you hardly registered on your list of reasons for declining. Alexia sighed, dropping her hand to instead fidget with her fork.

"You know, I get proposed to a couple times a year? And the amount of guys who hit on me thinking they’ll be the exception…just don’t get me started. The tabloids are the worst part. I can’t have lunch with a friend without there being all these predatory articles written about us together," Alexia rambled, waving her hands vaguely. 

You cocked your head, looking between Alexia’s waving hands and her pinched brows. Alexia caught your expression, flushing and looking away. She drew in a deep breath.

"I want to pay you to be my girlfriend," Alexia finally admitted.

You were staring at Alexia. She flushed harder, hunching down in her seat a little. 

There were a thousand ways to word it that didn’t make it sound like that, but Alexia kind of got caught up in herself this evening. It sounded like she meant it because she did. You and Alexia still clicked the way you used to. The whole thing was supposed to be fake, at least it was when her manager proposed it, but now Alexia was envisioning more than a few public dates.

Now, the idea of you kissing her because you were paid to was almost bad enough to outweigh how badly she wanted to kiss you, but it wasn’t, and she was still making the offer. You were just staring, though, all but gaping at her in surprise.

"Like, a sugar mommy thing? I can’t date anyone. I have yet to find someone who actually gave a shit about me. I know the speculation about my love life will never stop entirely, but it is starting to affect my business now. There were rumors about a charity getting a grant because I was sleeping with their director. I’ve never even met her, but the media found out she was a lesbian and decided she was my type. That was an uncomfortable meeting with my boss," Alexia explained, slumping a little in her seat. 

You were still staring at her, Alexia bit her lip.

"I’m not trying to save you, that’s not what this is. The idea of hiring someone was floated during a PR meeting, and then I ran into you, and… I wasn’t comfortable with it, but I could be with you. I’d pay you each week, and you would still have plenty of time to focus on your studies," Alexia tried. All she knew to do was dig herself deeper into a hole as she waited for your reply.

You finally managed to close your mouth, which had fallen open in shock. You were still staring at Alexia, though. Alexia fidgeted with her napkin, laid across her lap to cover the expensive dress she was wearing. Looking down was easier than looking at you. All she could hope was that when you said no, you were still willing to talk to her again. Maybe you could go the rest of your lives without mentioning the time when Alexia was so desperate to stop the media from hounding her that she tried to pay you to kiss her in public.

"You can’t act to save your life, Alexia. You barely manage a PR smile. How the hell do you think this would work?" you asked. 

Alexia flushed, chancing a glance up to find you still staring at her, but at least the shock seemed to be wearing off now, even if the confusion hadn’t faded.

"I know I can’t act, that’s why it has to be you. Someone I actually click with. I would be dating you, not you with a contact lens and whatever the hell you did to your hair at the charity gala. You would have to take down your website or the media would find it, but I know a hacker who can take care of it," Alexia explained, still fidgeting, but watching your face closely. 

You flushed, your gaze darting away as you shifted uncomfortably in your chair.

"You know this just sounds like a ploy to get me out of sex work, right?" you returned. Alexia paused. At least you didn't sound mad.

"You know I’m hiring you for sex work, right?" Alexia shot back. 

You huffed, sending her an annoyed glare. For some reason, seeing you tense, your shoulders squaring in defiance, relaxed Alexia. You weren’t calling her a creep at least, even though she was having to dig this hole even deeper just to get you to believe her. You bit your lip, narrowing your eyes out the window.

"I’m not saying yes tonight," you settled on saying. 

Alexia let out a slow breath, nodding and forcing her body to relax. It wasn’t a no, and moreover, it wasn’t a ‘get out of my life.’

"You have my number. Think about it. If you’re interested, we can meet up at my place to talk about the details. And…" she cut off, her gaze darting away as she took a breath to rally herself,

"I’ve missed you a lot. I want to be friends again, even if you don’t want to do that," Alexia told you, looking back at you sheepishly. To her disappointment, your face fell.

"I use the contact and the fake name to avoid people knowing about this once I start practicing, Alexia. If I were spotted with you, people might still find my website no matter how I’m dressed. I’d be ruined before I even took the bar," you told her. 

Alexia did her best to stamp down on the heartbreak that flared at that, but she knew she had failed from the way you winced.

"Right, of course. I don’t want to do anything that endangers your future," Alexia managed to agree, though she had to force it out in her business voice. 

Alexia looked away, glancing towards the clock on the wall as she did so. She kind of wanted to go to her car to cry now. 

"Alexia, I do want to talk again, it’s just.. hard with the media," you told her, softly. Alexia let out a slow breath, her gaze still fixed on the clock.

"Trust me, I know. That’s the whole reason I ended up here. I can’t trust anyone to actually want something to do with me. The best I have is other celebrities but even then, you don’t know if they’re just trying to boost their own careers until it is too late," Alexia returned, bitterness in her voice.

“You were right.” She forced down her unwarranted hurt. If you could get over thinking Alexia abandoned you, she could accept the real reason you were turning her down.

After a moment more of gathering herself, Alexia looked back at you. You looked unsure and conflicted. Alexia sighed, reaching for her purse to pull out her phone.

"Let me call you a cab and walk you out? It’s getting late. My driver has probably been here for the last hour," Alexia offered. 

You relaxed, nodding a little as you both stood. Alexia followed through, paying for your cab as it pulled away and waving you off with anxiety rioting in her chest. She knew a way to get in contact with you now, at least, and you had her number.

Alexia just had to hope you would call.

[mediumgayitalian]

“You know I love you.”

Will grins, and it is wide, and it is shameless. Nico should be wary, probably. He is only warm.

“I know you like me,” Will says, indulgently. He leans over the bed, hair flopping into Nico’s eyes; were Nico more than half awake he’d shove him away, huffing, but as it is he doesn’t even consider the option. Instead he drags his hand up, trailing over Will’s bare arm, his shoulder. Palm smoothing over his cheek. Fingers gliding through his curls, brushing back his hair. Will’s grin falters, ever slightly, to something small, something soft.

“I do,” Nico admits.

“Well,” Will says, flusters. But he recovers, and grins again. “Well, prove it.”

He is teasing and Nico knows he is — shameless, fishing for compliments. What he wants is: a kiss. What he wants is: you know I love you, you little shit. What he especially wants is: yes, you dork ass, I love you enough to wake up and go on this run with you.

Nico opens his mouth for any of the implied. But instead, what his lips do, is bypass the instructions his conscious brain gives them, weakly tired as it is. Instead the wider, darker, hidden part of him, that rules his dreams, steps smoothly in. And he says:

“If you would only let me, there would be no doubt left for even the dead.”

What’s more damning than the words themselves is the way in which Nico says them. While his lips, traitors as they are, have loosened with sleep, his throat at least was wise enough to try to hold the truth back, to rasp his voice. Only the attempt makes things — worse. Only now Nico’s voice is raw and aching, and his palms are warmed, still, from where they pressed to Will’s chest, his stomach, all night, and his eyes are thick with morning tiredness, but awake enough still to watch the shock spread across Will’s face. Watch his full, pretty lips part, watch black spread over dawn blue, watch — feel — blood warmth bloom under scar-and-stubble rough cheeks.

“I —” Will says, and stops. His mouth opens, and closes. The flushed red grows deeper. “I —”

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you,” Nico says, quietly, because he’s in deep enough now, isn’t he. The blinds are open and nosy sunlight spills in and he itches to close them, to throw off the twisted blankets and yank the heavy curtains closed, but he holds himself, keeps his cupped palms loose. Exhales. “You know that, right.”

It is a punctuation more than confirmation — you know that. Right. You know that is right. You, know that is right. Remember. Remember.

Curled next to his ribs in the sheets, Will’s fingers shake.

“I — I know,” he stumbles, and he’s bright red, now, voice cracking — “gods, Neeks, of course I know, I —”

“Anything you want,” Nico continues, quiet still. Will cuts himself off and swallows. “I have everything you need, already, but —” Nico exhales, now, and his breath shakes too, but his voice is firm, his eyes head-on to Will’s. “Zeus once offered Hera everything,” he says. Will’s inhale is sharp and pointed. “He couldn’t give it to her, in the end.”

“Please don’t get smitten,” Will begs, glancing worriedly out the open window.

But Nico smiles only. “Too late.”

“You — corndog.”

It had not been his goal to fluster his significant annoyance so early in the morning but it is a good stopping point, anyway, because Will’s heart is hammering so quickly Nico can hear it from down on the pillows, and his own eyes have gotten heavy again. It’s early, still. Nico would do anything for Will but a five-in-the-morning run is not quite on the table.

(Thankfully, at least, Will hasn’t outright asked.)

(…Nico would rather not stoop low enough to grab it off the floor.)

(But it would not be the first time.)

“Not corny,” Nico corrects, smiling. He swipes a thumb over Will’s freckled cheekbone and smiles wider when this makes him warmer. “Not if I mean it.”

“Well! You — well.”

Some poet, Nico thinks, teasing, rendered speechless by a promise.

But he keeps it to himself. Because he knows Will, and how things cripple him. How he is laughing and brazen but how he startles at tiny little touches, at Nico’s linking their pinkies together. How he stares at the smallness of it. The easy way it can be memorized, in its entirety. Relived, again and again.

“I love you,” he repeats.

Will ducks his head down.

“I know,” he mumbles.

Nico’s eyes crinkle and he allows the Han Solo-ing. He worries Will might burst into sunbeams again, otherwise, like the last time Nico held him, kissed down his throat and hovered his teeth on either side of his trachea, scraping the whispering promise of it. Everything. All of it.

“Go for your run,” Nico murmurs. He pushes up and brushes his lips against the corner of Will’s mouth, deliberately avoiding where his breaths come in quick. Squaring instead the tiny scar then, from when he broke a guitar string as a toddler and it snapped back into his face. Nico lingers there until it is not a kiss, anymore, but the press of his curved smile to warmed skin. “I’ll be here.”

“I — know.” Will says again. He pulls away and is redder. He fidgets. “I. Love you too. You know.” He darts out the open door, glowing. “Bye.”

Nico watches it slide close behind him, grinning.

“Little shit,” he murmurs to himself. And shakes his head.

[musicallisto]

ᯓ★ THREE A.M. SHADOW ⁵⁵

… starring carlos sainz x f!reader ... 2.0k words ... in which you usually come find carlos at the airport when he gets home from races, but this time he comes to you instead. ... features fluff, established relationship, hurt/comfort (comforting carlos after silverstone ☹️) ... author notes just a self-indulgent little something because im SOOO sleepy it's ridiculous and carlos looked so so sad after the british gp... free my man please god F1 MASTERLIST / ASK BOX

You had gone to tremendous lengths to make sure you did not fall asleep.

Past six p.m. coffee was off the table, since you did want to wake up a fully functioning human for work in the morning, so you’d had to get a little more inventive. Borrowing a drink from Carlos’ secret Red Bull stash, that he’d fill back up at the beginning of each European leg with cans stolen from motorhomes—“it’s not like they’re gonna run out of them anyway”. Putting some cardio dance workout on TV to get your blood pumping, and giving up halfway through out of fear the neighbors would break your door down and demand a halt to the ruckus. Drinking again, water this time, and hoping the urge to pee would keep you awake. Turning the TV brightness all the way up to play the first reality TV episode you could find, and when even their escalating drama had you dozing off dangerously, you flicked an old newspaper open to the sudoku page and devoted yourself to that, so your brain would not go one second understimulated.

Each message strung out like hours of the night spreading across the sky.

“The flight is delayed. At least one hour.”

“We still haven’t boarded, they’re saying 9:40 now”

“I thought this wasn’t supposed to happen with jets 🙄 I’m going with ryanair next time”

Carlos was usually much more verbose than this—especially after a race, when you’d practically hear him bounce on his feet from the way he’d recount every detail of the GP, every sensation on the wheel, until boarding cut him off and he invariably signed off with a promise to tell you all the rest on the other side of the flight and a can’t wait to see you. That was part of the ritualistic Sunday night, when he had nothing to stay overnight for; so was you driving to Nice and waiting for him at the gate. 

And no matter how jet-lagged or sleep-groggy Carlos was, or how well or horrendously his race had gone, he always beamed like a little kid when he saw you jogging down the tarmac. Someone who ran to him while he let his aching muscles rest, for once.

It was a ritual, and you and Carlos could never do without those. He was a man of repeatability. Of obstination and carefully unchanging variables, lest the simulations run all wrong. A little superstitious, you’d tease him, and he’d scowl, No, conscientious. Very different.

So when you got the text at 11:52 p.m. Monaco time, you knew right away the weekend had been bad enough that Carlos did not mind sacrificing conscientiousness anymore.

“Boarding now, I think we should land around 2am. Go to sleep love I’ll take a taxi”

Your phone flickered back to sleep, untouched, taking its notification with it. Two sudokus and an Italian word puzzle had already tested your patience, and you’d tossed the newspaper off your lap with a staggering yawn. On the coffee table, Carlos stared up at you from the Gazzetta dello Sport cover, immortalized mid-laugh beneath the red-hot Mexican sun.

Your boyfriend needed you more than ever. He’d sounded dejected over the phone and you’d watched enough of his recent Grands Prix to understand his apathy. It was absolutely imperative, tonight of all nights, you stay awake and drive the forty-minute drive along the coast to be the very first person who’d embrace Carlos Sainz on French soil.

But you were so exhausted… your bones so crushed… your vision so blurry already—wait, had that guy been in the villa all along, or was he a new contestant?

Maybe if you laid your head on the armrest time would tick by quicker. Maybe you’d finally figure out who the hell was cheating on who if you watched the show sideways. You’d even remembered to line up your shoes at the foot of the sofa, and the car keys locked tight in your fist, ready to bolt out into the Riviera night at a moment's notice...

The clinking of keys tumbling out of your lax fingers and onto the floor did not wake you.

Neither did the rustle of them in the door.

Soft footsteps, the distant swish of a door across the floorboards, even the very faint roll of small wheels; but it was the hand on your cheek, with its callouses you could place even in slumber, that woke you up.

“Love?”

Carlos’ warm accent dripped from his whisper, trickling down over your ears like honey. You blinked repeatedly; he was there, overhead, flickering in and out of focus in the pitch-black room; bone-weary, his tan almost a shade lighter, but rumbling from within with the purest relief. Like all his joints had unbent the second he’d felt your skin.

“Carlos,” you croaked, “you’re… oh crap, I really wanted to pick you up.”

“I told you to go to bed,” he mused gently. “And I’m always the one who drives on the way home, so it’s more like I’m picking myself up anyway.”

“Hey,” you pouted, “you love when I come meet you at the airport.”

“I do,” a small chuckle escaped his throat like second nature.

You were barely now sitting up on the sofa, while Carlos was tidying up the room with devoted diligence—picking up cushions and discarded car keys and the corpse of an energy drink. He must have switched the lights and TV off as soon as he’d entered, because the tropical villa and its melodramatic heartbreakers had succumbed to the night too. All the router read instead was 2:56 a.m.

You knew the man inside out. The way his shoulders bent and his eyelids fluttered as he crouched around the living room. There was not an ounce of his marrow that was not begging to be relieved from the plight of being awake.

“Leave it, Carlos,” you spoke, voice quiet like the ruffle of bedsheets. “Let’s just go to bed.”

Those words made him look up, the candle he was about to blow out still in one hand; his entire frame sagged, curling on itself like he’d just been freed from the torment of a malevolent spirit, billowing out of his parted lips.

“Yes, please.”

The sea shimmered like a gaping void beyond your wide-open window when you nestled into bed. Monaco’s night time chill finally descended upon the rocks, after an interminable day of sweltering heat, and you breathed a long, deep sigh as the cool marine breeze tickled your skin. Light filtered from beneath the bathroom door, where Carlos was showering. The steady, placid purr of the water was enough to lull you, and you closed your eyes within your haven of silence overlooking the marina. Minutes later, you sensed him more than you saw him—the scent of fresh cotton and aftershave filling your lungs as he sank into the mattress by your side.

He spoke no word as he snaked an arm around your waist, the other grazing your shoulder with feather-light touches. Bringing you closer to him, in the crook of his chest as though you’d been carved from the very same block of marble. Just an exhale, of the most battered sort, that Monaco caught in its glittering hands and threw out to the waves.

“How was your weekend?” you murmured after a minute or two of utter quiet, only half expecting an answer.

This, too, was a post-race tradition; when you were separated over the weekend you would take turns telling each other everything that happened, especially the most mundane things—the ones too quiet for razor-sharp cameras were your favorite to hear. He made it a point to ask you then, in the dead of night, because he believed you hold things to be more sacred when they are immanent; when night has lifted its blanket and slumber has played its tricks on things they lose some of their vitality, he swore. But Carlos had already disregarded the airport tradition tonight, and the weariness he carried seeped heavy in your hands as you held him. Maybe he’d need another derogation.

“Really bad,” he said eventually, after you’d thought him asleep already.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Outside the window, a flock of seagulls cried out for one another, nose diving down the cliffside. Carlos’ breathing slowed, but grew more profound, his thumb running deliberate circles on your collarbones.

“Honestly, I don’t even know what to say.” His words were slightly muffled, as though he were speaking them through tight lips, and a shiver of surprise ran up your spine when you thought he might be crying. “I should feel relieved that it’s got nothing to do with me, that it’s always something external coming up and fucking up my whole weekend and not outwardly my fault, that I can’t do any better, but…”

He swallowed with difficulty. His strong neck vibrated against the back of your skull.

“That’s exactly the thing. That I can’t do any better. What if… this is as good as it gets? As good as I get?”

“Carlos.”

Careful not to hit him, you turned around, tangling your limbs and breaths until the beginning of you faded into the ending of him. With one hand, you cradled his handsome face, on which fatigue dug new crevices every week. Scanned his eyes, glistening with something more fragile than tears.

“I would follow you to the ends of the Earth, not because I like doing charity work, but because I believe in you. I have no doubt in my mind that you are promised to so many successes with Williams. You’ve been down before and you always made it out on the other side stronger. Things aren’t working out right now because there’s so much at play and that means so many parameters that can go wrong, but you… you are so much faster than this. You are one of the fastest. Hey, look at me,” you gently guided his cheek back to you before he could roll his eyes and shake his head. “Don’t give me that look, I know you think that too.” He smiled, something timid but good enough for now. “You are an incredibly skilled, hard-working, and intelligent pilot. I’m not worried about you at all. And neither is James, by the way. So no room for doubts, okay? Look, I’m gonna laser zap all your doubts.”

You scooted your fingertips up, so they were resting on both his temples, and made a show of squinting in intense concentration. ‘Fzzzt!’ you hissed through your teeth, and released his skull. 

“Done. All your doubts have been evaporated.” 

He chuckled delicately, as if the shake of his throat were exhausting what little energy he’d conserved, but the sound rang familiar, impossible to forget and devastatingly easy to miss. Gentle streams of heat lapped at your belly when he pressed a kiss to your nose and pulled you flush against him.

“Thank you, my hero.”

“Anytime, Carletes.”

He allowed his lips to linger against your forehead, not quite a kiss but something unhurried, less intentional. You looked up at him through your lashes. After months upon months of mapping out the valleys of that face, you’d think you’d know every ridge of it. Yet every time he relinquished control like so—not passing it over to you, but surrendering himself entirely to nothing at all—you discovered new fractals and hues on his caramel skin. Each one a little bit more of him to fall in love with.

Carlos let out a long breath, his last before slumber, just as Monaco did. Summer air, breaking free from the surf below, drifted up to your bedroom and wrapped around your still forms. Soon, your eyes began to droop, then closed, and refused to open again.

Your heartbeat matched the Spaniard’s, and the night hushed entirely.

©musicallisto, 2025

⤷ liked this fic? then you might enjoy... if (sainz win == true) (cs55) !

[rosenclaws]

chocolate || Worst Logan drabble

warnings: minors dni, flirting, logan and the reader are pervs low key, spice but no smut

wc: 818

a/n: ngl I saw this picture again and my mind kinda went feral. I guess that was my motivation for todayu sadfl;kj anyways ty @lubdubology for igniting the freak in me once again

You should really stop sneaking off to the kitchen in the middle of the night. The things you see living with Wade...it's too much. Plus he brought home a very hot stray and now you're living with two superpowered men who really don't have any shame anymore. But you were hungry and Wade had a stash of your favorite chocolate somewhere in the cabinets.

You tip toe out to the kitchen, breathing a sigh of relief when you see it empty. You open the cabinets and move around the dishes. Nothing. Maybe he put it on top? You climb onto the kitchen counter looking for that damn box of chocolate.

"God dammit Wade where did you put it." You mumble quietly. You're too wrapped up to notice the sound of footsteps coming down the hall.

Now Logan has never been a great sleeper and tonight was no different. He just needs some water, or whiskey. Whatever he finds first. Though he doesn't expect to see you on the counter blindly looking for something.

He should say something. Make his presence known. But damn those tight pajama shorts look good on you. He licks his lips as he watches your ass shake as you struggle to reach the top of the cabinets. God he's such a perv.

"Looking for something sweetheart?" He asks, finally deciding he's been staring long enough.

"Logan!" You squeak as you almost slip off the marble. You turn to look at him and fuck...it should be a crime to be as handsome as this man was.

He was shirtless, of course he was. Actually he sleeps naked but he remembered to put on clothes before coming out here this time. His hair was all messy from the tossing and turning. His firm chest has a small sheen of sweat from the hot weather. Gray sweatpants rest low on his hips and leave nothing to the imagination. Your eyes zero in on that one little vein that likes to pop out. You wanna follow it with your tongue to figure out just where it goes. He looked like walking sex.

You close your legs, becoming very aware of how little clothing you're wearing. When you drag your eyes up his body to meet his eyes you see the wide grin on his face.

Busted.

Now he doesn't feel so bad about staring at your ass for so long. He walks over to you quietly, staring you down like his chosen prey.

"You're looking in the wrong place." He hums.

He gently grabs your knees and pushes your legs apart, resting them around his hips loosely. You can barely breathe as he leans in close, his chest right in your face as he reaches up and plucks the box from what seems like thin air. He looks down at your wide eyes and just smirks.

"Found them." He places the box on the counter and takes the lid off. Grabbing a piece and popping it on his mouth. The pleasurable moan he lets leave his lips is absolutely sinful.

"I see why you wanted these so bad." Logan grabs another piece and holds it up to your lips.

"Open up sweetheart." You grab his wrist to keep it there, opening your mouth and taking the sweet from his hands. His eyes grow darker as you stare directly at him. Your tongue peaking out as you lick your lips clean of some of the melted chocolate.

"Fuck me." He whispers under his breath. But being quiet was never his specialty and you heard it. You could hear how hungry he sounded.

The low growl in his voice making you shiver. Your eyes trail down to his arms and you feel yourself growing hungry for something other than chocolate. Something like...a 200 year old mutant with claws.

"I'm trying." You shoot back. He raises an eyebrow but otherwise seems to stand his ground. He won't let you shake him that easy.

"You have no idea what you're asking for sweetheart." His hands slide under your shirt. Their warmth sets your skin on fire.

"Oh I think I do." You wait for Logan to make a move but he doesn't. His thumb rubbing your side gently. Fine, you'll just have to make the move.

"This has been fun Logan...but if you're just going to stand here. I think I'll go back to my room." You hop off the counter, purposely rubbing against his crotch as you do so. His eyes shut at the friction. A low groan falling from his lips.

You grab the chocolate and walk back to your room. Though you don't make it far as a pair of strong arms wrap around your waist.

You drop the box as Logan carries you easily back to his room. What a shame, you'll have to apologize to Wade tomorrow.

As for tonight, well you're getting something even better.

[jays-bonnie-on-the-side]

BUT NEVER AGAIN

PAIRING : beau arlen x younger fem!reader

SUMMARY : beau sees reader for the first time since he disowned her, on their anniversary of all days, and she isn’t alone.

WARNINGS : age gap. strong language. angst. fluff. smut. unprotected p in v. rough sex. pregnancy sex. makeup sex. semi-pubic sex. creampie. cockwarming. dom!beau. sub!reader. pregnant!reader. daddy!kink (if you squint). size kink. maiesiophilia. physical altercation. jealous!beau. slightly corrupt!sheriff.

A/N : just wanna start off with i’m sorry, this wasn’t supposed to take as long as it did. i have plenty of valid reasons as to why but the cutest one was each time i opened my laptop to write, my cat would hear and wander over to lay on the keyboard and my lap, refusing to get up. and if i dared try moving him, he’d bite me then go back to cuddling. anyways, i hope y’all enjoy the final part of this mini-series! (kind) thoughts are always appreciated.

You couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be happening. It had to have been a mistake. Why would God ever play such a cruel joke on you? After everything you’ve gone through with Beau, this was the last thing you needed. The irony was evident: You wanted nothing to do with your ex, and now you were pregnant with his child.

Fucking shit. You were filled with a mix of emotions: happy, sad, panic, excitement, to name a few. You dreamt of having Beau’s children. Who wouldn’t? He was a great man and, as far as you could tell, a great father. With everything going on, you weren’t sure what to do, but if one thing was certain, you were keeping it.

The problem wasn’t questioning what you’d do with your offspring’s life. No, the issue was your indecisiveness about whether to tell Beau or not. After all, he made his choice. He was ashamed and disowned you, so why would he want a pregnant you? Would you really give him a chance to disown your baby too?

But would he? Would he really want nothing to do with you or the product of love that was growing inside you? Or what if you told him and he only wanted you because of the baby? Too many thoughts were running through your head, making you dizzy. You gripped the bathroom countertop and closed your eyes, inhaling a deep breath.

I just need a sign, you thought. Any sign that tells me if I should tell Beau. Suddenly, your phone rang, causing you to jump in surprise. You looked at the device and your heart quickened with rage. It was your ex-cowboy—your sign. Fuck that!

You had hit the end call button, refusing to speak with him. Really, God? So not funny! You weren’t amused at the sign He sent you, and you weren’t going to listen either. Maybe that was your sign. Knowing how you truly felt when the opportunity to tell the sheriff arose.

After throwing the test in the trash, you walked to your bedroom. This can’t be happening. You climbed into bed and wrapped your body with your duvet, wishing, deep down, it was Beau’s warm embrace. The room was pitch black, the perfect setting to fall into a peaceful slumber, but you couldn’t sleep. No, the news of your unborn baby kept you up. You just wanted to talk to someone, and you hated that that someone happened to be Beau.

A week had passed, but not a moment when Beau didn’t try to win you back, and you certainly didn’t make it easy. You refused to answer his calls or texts, not that he blamed you. So, every morning since his conversation with Emily, he stopped by your work, hoping to get a chance to see you. When he didn’t, which was no surprise, he’d leave your favorite meal, and the most gorgeous roses the florist had to offer with one of your coworkers, instructing that they pass them along. Each bouquet came with a handwritten note, and despite your many warnings, you couldn’t resist reading each and every one.

I’m so sorry, princess. I was stupid and an idiot—a stupid idiot. Please forgive me.

Sweetheart, please call me.

I’m not giving you up, darlin’.

I’ll make it up to you. I’m gonna make this right. For us. I promise.

There’ll never be a moment when you’re not on my mind, sweetpea. I need you more and more.

I love & miss you more than you know, angel.

I’ll never forget the first time I laid eyes on you. Happy Anniversary, beautiful.

If he hadn’t disowned you, his attempts would’ve worked. Your heart wanted to let him in, but you knew better since he broke the very thing you told him not to. It was hard getting over a man like Beau, though you had no choice but to. For weeks, you were a complete wreck over him. However, as time passed, you began to heal. That was until the shock of your pregnancy.

Every reminder of him made your decision harder and harder. You so desperately wanted to tell Beau the truth. There were signs everywhere but you were too damn stubborn to listen. You knew you had to face him sooner or later, and you prayed it was the latter. But as your luck would have it, it was the former.

It was your anniversary, or what would’ve been if you were still together. Your heart was heavy and your body was weak, but you couldn’t call in to work again, especially when you had to train the new hire. So, on the rarest of warm days in early Spring, you put on your favorite summer dress, one you won’t admit was also Beau’s favorite. It was long & flowy, hugging you in just the right places while showing a tasteful amount of cleavage. If you were going to move on from the sheriff, you needed to enjoy the day instead of wallowing in it, and if putting on a nice dress helped, then so be it.

It was almost half past noon meaning your lunch break was coming up; Beau knew it like clockwork. Deciding to get out of the office, you asked Wren, the new associate, if he wanted to accompany you. He was new to town and didn’t know any good spots so you thought you’d be nice. He happily agreed, so you drove to your favorite brunch spot. The only downside was that it was down the street from Dewell & Hoyt Private Investigations, a place your ex-cowboy frequently visited.

Sure, it was risky but you had to rise above. And what were the chances that he happened to be on that side of town as you were? Being the Sheriff, he had more important things going on than keeping his eyes peeled for you everywhere he went...or so you thought. Beau jogs out of their office the second he catches a glimpse of your vehicle. His heart skips a beat as you and Wren exit your vehicle, and he can’t tell if it’s because it’s the first time he’s seen you in three weeks, or if it’s because some man, closer in age, is with you.

He knew this day might come but not this soon. Not when he hasn’t shown you that he’s changed. Not when your last memory of him is heartbreaking. Not while his heart still beat for you. You walk toward the diner and the cowboy’s feet move faster than they ever have before. As if it were slow motion, Wren begins to pull the door open just as Beau’s large hand wraps around your arm.

Instinctively, you pull out of the grasp before you even turn to see that it’s him. And when you do, your eyes widen in surprise. The very possibility of bumping into him materialized before you, and yet, here he stands—unexpected and undeniable. The father of your child. Fuck!

You take a few steps back, baffled that he had the nerve to touch you. “Sweetheart—”

“No. We’re not doing this.”

“Please, darlin’, I need to talk to you.”

His hand goes for yours but you move it away. “Damn it, Beau. No! I don’t want to hear it. Just go on somewhere.”

“But, Y/N, I—” He moves closer, eyes filled with so much emotion you could melt.

Wren steps in between you, unfamiliar with the situation yet brave enough to do so. Intrepidly, he reminds your ex, “Hey, man. She said she doesn’t want to talk.”

Beau’s attention shifts to the man before him, brows drawn together and eyes darker. “Excuse me?”

“You heard her: Leave her alone.”

The cowboy scoffs, amused by the pair the stranger seemed to have. Who the fuck does he think he is? He thought. “Listen, buddy, it’s best you just stay the hell out of our business.”

“I will when you walk away.”

Your ex takes a step closer, a daring look in his eyes. You know that look, and it’s dangerous. As your heart increases rapidly, you move around Wren and try adding distance between the two, but neither man moves.

“Hey, it’s alright. Let’s just go inside.” You encourage your associate.

Beau’s forehead wrinkles. He’s determined to tell you that he came clean to Emily. “I’m not leaving until we talk.”

His hand reaches toward your waist but Wren stops the Sheriff before he can make contact. The younger man shoves Johnny Law, warning him not to touch you. Beau stumbles back, completely caught off guard. An audible gasp leaves your lips; You hadn’t expected the escalation.

Your ex’s once chartreuse eyes turn to a forest green. He steps forward and Wren shoves him again, telling him something neither of you hears. His nostrils flare with rage and you can see the logic and law slip from his mind. Oh, shit... Before you can say a word, you witness Beau’s fist collide with his opponent’s jaw.

The impact makes an audible sound, one you feel in your bones. Wren’s body twists in the direction he was punched, nearly falling from the hard blow. With his balance compromised, he teeters back and forth, surely fighting unconsciousness and you’re shocked it wasn’t a swift knockout. He was a tall and lean male, just taller than your child’s father with a similar build. If you weren’t so hung up on your cowboy you would see how handsome Wren really was.

“You fucker,” The young man spits, swaying slightly.

He lunges forward and tackles the sheriff, nearly taking you down with them. You leap out of the way, fear coursing through your body at the possibility of your baby getting hurt. They wrestle on the ground while you stand back, watching with panicked eyes. Wren delivers a sucker punch to your ex’s cheek and though he deserves it—Lord knows as much—you can’t bear to see Beau hurt.

“Stop it!” You frantically cry.

The cowboy grabs the civilian and flips them over so he’s on top. He’s quick to strike the guy’s pretty face, again and again. Wren grunts in pain and it shatters your heart. You can tell he’s surprised at Beau’s strength as he struggles to break free of his hold. Though you’re terrified to get hit, you refuse to let the fight continue.

“Beau!” You run over and see your associate’s swollen and bloody face. “Beau, stop!” It’s risky but you try catching his flailing arm. “Get off of him!”

Whether it’s the growing crowd or your helpless tugs, maybe even both, Beau ceases the abuse. He rises from the beaten man, panting heavily. He reaches for his cuffs, shouting at Wren to turn over. The sun shines on the brass clipped to the sheriff’s belt and reflects into Wren’s eyes. He sees the badge and immediately curses to himself, knowing he was fucked.

“Now!”

“Okay, okay.” He lifts his hands in surrender and does as he’s told.

Beau immediately wraps Wren’s wrists and with ease, yanks him up from the ground. This isn’t right, you thought. He didn’t know. He was just trying to help me. Your ex escorts the new worker to his vehicle and you follow closely behind.

“Let him go!” You demand. “He didn’t know any better.”

“Sweetheart, stay outta this,” Beau warns sternly.

“No, this is my business, too!”

“We’ll talk later.”

“The hell we are—let him go!”

He opens the rear passenger door and damn near shoves the ‘criminal’ in. The cowboy walks around the front of his Defender and hops into the driver’s seat. You pound on his door, loudly insisting that he free your coworker. Instead, he starts his vehicle and tries his hardest to pay you no mind. He’s almost convinced to let the guy go on your behalf, but he just can’t. So, he speeds off.

You rush to your car, and as soon as you get in, you scream. You scream because of his fight with Wren. You scream because luck was never on your side. You scream because of all the days to see your ex, it had to be on your anniversary. You scream because you’re pregnant with his child. You scream because you realize how much you aren’t over him. You scream because you know if you don’t, you’ll cry.

With a deep breath, you race to the station. By the time you get there Wren’s in lockup, and Beau’s in his office. You aren’t sure if it’s your natural rage or the added hormones but your body was on fire and everyone you passed could see it too. The workers within the station come to a halt, seeing you beeline straight to the Sheriff to unleash some much-deserved wrath. However, one individual makes the mistake of stepping out in front of you.

“He’s busy right now. You’ll have to come back another time,” says Sargent Crowders.

“Fuck off, Madge.” You order and storm past her.

He heard you as soon as you entered the station, your heels clattering angrily against the tile floor. He knew he was in for it but he was ready. Or at least he thought so. He discarded his jacket on the back of his chair, the heat from his anger causing him to shed it. Too upset to sit at his desk, he stood as he waited for the background check on Wren to come through and for you.

“Let him out now!” You command the moment you enter his office.

“‘Can’t.”

“Like hell, you can’t! You’re the sheriff, or did you forget when you were beating the shit out of that poor man?”

He walks past you and calls from the doorframe, “Everybody, leave.”

“But, boss—” Poppernak begins but Beau interrupts.

“NOW!” His voice makes you flinch unexpectedly. You had never heard his voice reach that octave before. “All of you, get the hell out. And be back in 20.”

Everyone shuffles to the front doors, leaving you two alone. He walks back in and silently closes both doors to his space. He shuts each blind before hitting his mark beside his chair. His eyes are the same darkened color as they were earlier. You wait for him to speak before you counter.

“You know I respect you—”

“Oh, please!”

“But I would never tell you how to do your job so don’t tell me how to do mine.”

He had a fair point but you were too prideful and stubborn to admit it.

“He was just protecting me.”

“From who? Me?” He asks, his voice growing louder. “You know I would never hurt you.”

You scoff and the sound hits him right in the chest. “I’ve heard that lie before.”

“It isn't a lie.”

“Right..so tell me why we aren’t celebrating our eight-month anniversary again.”

He shakes his head in disgust at his regrettable actions. “Because I’m stupid.”

“That’s one word for it,” you murmur.

“I made a horrible mistake. Hell, mistakes, and there will never be enough apologies to reflect how sorry I am but I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

You roll your eyes but it strikes your heart. Damn it, Y/N, get it together.

“Don’t bother. I’m done giving you chances. After you kicked me out then pretended not to know me!” The memories are still fresh and it hits you harder today. “You deserve to have your ass handed to you.”

“You’re right.” He admits. “But you know I can’t let him go. He assaulted a sheriff.”

“You’re the one who threw the first punch! And plenty after. You’re supposed to be the sheriff and you abused your power. You could lose your job!”

He sighs in defeat. You’re right. This hadn’t been the first time he’d roughed someone up but it was the first time he’d had witnesses. He could lose his new permanent position. After he convinced Carla to stay in Montana with Emily, he accepted the offer and then met you.

“That’s…something I’ll have to deal with later but right now, all I want to do is talk to you.”

“We have nothing else to talk about unless it’s regarding Wren walking out of here today.”

He glances at the floor, a sly smirk involuntarily tugging at the corner of his mouth before licking his lips to mask it. His eyes lift from the ground and focus on you. God, she's so stubborn. He pauses, thinking it over. He knows he shouldn’t but he’ll do anything to repair your relationship. So, if that meant bending the rules and releasing the man who attacked him then so be it. Though envy influenced his actions, he knew he was wrong. He shouldn’t have reacted the way he did towards the young man.

“I’ll make you a deal,” He piques your interest, but you remain wary. “I’ll let him go after we talk.”

You hesitate but agree. “Fine. Talk.”

“Do you want to sit?” He offers you his large, comfortable chair, but you decline.

“No, I’m good here.”

“Okay,” He clears his throat, suddenly nervous despite his consistent daydreams about this very moment. “I know it’s probably too late, but I told Emily and Carla about you. About us.”

Your heart dares to jump excitedly, but your brain frowns against it. Did he expect you to applaud? Did he want a medal for doing what every boyfriend should’ve done from the start? For once, he’s right: It’s too late. But was it? Deep down, you don’t want it to be, especially with your growing fetus.

“And?”

“And I was foolish. It was all in my head, and to an extent, you were right. I was ashamed; Not of you, but of our age difference. I was scared I’d risk losing Emily when I should’ve thought of you, too. I know a daughter and an ex-wife wasn’t something you signed up for, and part of that turned into fear, that one day you’d wake up and realize you didn’t want me anymore.

“What if you want things I might not be able to give you? Hell, I don’t even know if I can produce any more kids. And I’m only getting older. What if that’s something that affects our decision to marry? To buy a house and live together. I was scared that if you had met the girls, you’d break Emily’s heart if you chose to leave. Most of all, I was scared I wasn’t good enough for you. And after all I’ve done to hurt you, I realized you’re better off without me. Lord knows I don’t want to lose you, but if moving on is what you need...well, I’ll love you even if you can’t ever love me again.”

You’re left speechless. All the anger, all the words, the hurt, and betrayal, suddenly fly out the window. You should be upset that your fire’s been extinguished by his honest and powerful words. Part of yourself curses your ability to be easily swooned. You stare into his precious green orbs, and a thought occurs: I hope our baby has his eyes. And you realize you’ve found your sign.

With a neutral face, you walk toward your cowboy and he swallows nervously. He isn’t sure what you’re going to do. It’s cute—satisfying even—that you make him so vulnerable. You halt before him, your eyes searching his for any sign of lies. When you can’t find any, you wrap your hands around his neck and pull him toward you.

Your lips gently meet his, moving in a soft yet firm dance. His shock paralyzes him for a moment; He didn’t expect this. Without wasting another beat, he kisses you back. All those weeks apart, all the pain, ignites a familiar spark. With much regret, you break away. He stares into your doe eyes, falling even deeper in love.

“I’ve never stopped.” A smile spreads on his handsome face, and you fear you’ll wipe it off after you come clean. All right, now or never. “About the concern of your reproduction...I don’t think that’ll be an issue.”

His brows furrow. I don’t get...Wait. Is she saying what I think she’s saying? Is she..? You see the wheels turn in his beautiful head. So, with a grin upon your pretty face, you confirm his suspicion.

“I’m pregnant.”

The air in his lungs vanishes as if he had been struck hard in the gut. His mind races, and so does his heart. He hadn’t expected this news, maybe ever again but here you were, the love of his life, telling him you’re pregnant with his unborn child. He stands frozen again, making you worry just slightly.

Oh, no. He’s upset. He doesn’t want any more babies, your mind automatically assumes. Suddenly, he breaks free from the block of ice and wraps his arms around you. He sweeps you off the ground, spinning you joyfully in a whirl of laughter, his delight infectious as you both revel in the moment.

“Oh, sweetheart, that’s the best news I’ve heard since Carla told me about Emily.” He puts you down, grabs your arms loosely, and looks at your small belly. “How are you feeling? Have you gone to the OB yet? How far along are you?”

“I’m fine. I’ll see them in a few days to find out. Wanna come with?”

“Are you kidding? I’ll be at every appointment.”

His large hand cups your cheek and he stares into your eyes. Oh, how he’s missed you. You lean into his touch, missing him just as much. Now that he has you again, he isn’t letting you go. So, he sets his lips on yours and takes his sweet time, enamored by the way your mouth responds to his.

He pulls you in closer, pressing your body against his. His right hand rests on your lower back, but as your kisses get deeper, he glides it over the curve of your bottom. His left slips into your hair and cradles the back of your neck while his other hand squeezes your plump cheek; A move he often made when he wanted more. You aren’t opposed. Hell, you thought about calling him a few times over your break just so he could fuck you.

He spins you around, shoving his chair away, and backs you into his messy desk, your thighs leaning against the edge. You know he wants you just as much as you want him. The butterflies migrate to your fanny, begging to be set free by the only key you’ll ever allow to enter your keyhole again. He attacks your neck, kissing, licking, and biting just how you like it. You can’t help the moans falling from your swollen lips but they only spur him further.

The Sheriff kisses the top of your breasts, his beard hair tickling your skin. You want to laugh being as ticklish as you are but the moment he pulls down your strap, the support for your chest falling with it, and takes your sensitive nipple into his warm mouth, you melt. His expert tongue swirls around it, and when his teeth sink in, your body shivers. Instinctively, your arms wrap around his head, and your fingers tug on his perfect hair. The hand perched on your ass moves past your hip, down to the back of your knee, and pulls your leg toward his waist. His free arm wraps around your back, holding you steady. He gingerly sucks your growing boobs, and you can feel the bruises forming.

“Fuck, princess, I want you so bad,” His husky voice murmurs against your chest. “Let me show you how sorry I am.”

You whimper at his words. The hold he has over you is so unhealthy. What can you say, you were a sucker for that cowboy. The pool between your legs begs to be swum in, and you know from experience that he’s an excellent swimmer. So, who are you to deny the wants and needs of your body?

“Fine,” you cave. “But don’t think I’ve forgiven you just yet.”

“‘Course not. I’ll happily spend the rest of our lives making it up to you.”

“Your life,” you joke, lifting the mood.

He chuckles, the crow’s feet around his eyes making their dashing appearance. “Yes. My life. Thank you for reminding me how much older I am.”

You gently hold his head, guiding it closer to yours, to place a soft, tender kiss on the sensitive spot just beneath his ear. The warmth of your lips lingers there, evoking a shiver of pleasure that travels through him. He groans, desperate for more. “You’ll feel young again when you’re chasing our kid around our house.”

He smiles widely at the imagery. “‘Can’t wait.”

“But for now, I need you inside my guts.”

His dick twitches at your request and the tug your teeth deliver to his earlob. “Whatever you want, darlin’.”

You unhook your leg from around his hip so he can kneel before you. He lifts your dress and you take the fabric from his hands, keeping it out of his way. His fingers wrap around the waistband of your drenched panties and he slowly peels them down your legs. You bite your lip in anticipation; He knew you hated taking things slow. When you wanted him, you wanted him right away, with no time to waste.

His lecherous eyes linger on your glistening folds, desperately wanting to devour you, but his need to be in you is stronger. The moment you step out of the soaked underwear, his mouth trails wet kisses up your thighs. Your fingers clutch the strands of his long hair as his lips travel over your hip. When they brush over your abdomen you gaze down at your boyfriend. He presses a light peck to your bump before warning the small fetus.

“‘Sorry, kid. Daddy’s gonna love on Mommy for a bit. ‘Better hold on tight.”

You giggle softly, but the sound quickly fades as he stands before you. A single glance into his deep, intense eyes sends a wave of eros throughout your warm body, leaving you utterly captivated. He holds your gaze, drawing you into a hypnotic trance, and without a second thought, you find yourself reaching for his collar, yanking him close to you. The world around you blurs, and the kisses that follow are urgent and passionate, filled with a raw intensity that makes them feel rushed and almost chaotic, but thrilling all the same. You aren’t sure if it’s the hormones or the desperate longing you’ve had since he was last between your legs but you’ve never wanted him more than in this moment.

Your fingers fly to his button-up and you swiftly undo each one before running your hands up and down his smooth and chiseled chest. Oh, how you missed him, all of him. They move to his Longhorn buckle, unfastening it with ease before reaching for his badge. You yank off his heavy belt and blindly toss both on the leather chair. His tongue explores your mouth as you unzip his jeans, your bodies grow hotter by the second, the anticipation nearly overwhelming.

You shove his pants down, liberating his well-endowed cock from its restraints. Beau reaches behind you and pushes the clutter aside, making room for you on his desk. He leans you back, your legs immediately wrapping around his hips. You break the kiss with a pathetic whimper as his hardened member skims along your inner thigh. He slithers his hand between you and grabs hold of his enlarged gourd. He rubs it through your wet folds, lathering his dick in your juice. Before you have a chance to vocalize your impatience, he aligns himself with your pulsing entrance. Your heels dig into the dimples at the bottom of his spine, urging him in.

Beau presses his swollen tip into your small hole and your breath hitches. He moves forward but your body rejects him. It’s been weeks since he last stretched you out, reverting to how it was before him. His brows pinch together, watching as your body refuses his thick limb. He thrusts again, this time sliding in further.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re so fucking tight,” He huffs as he forces himself deeper.

“Mhmmm...”

You couldn’t talk. Not just because it hurt too much to speak but because you felt all the pleasure that also came with it. He tells you to relax and you try your hardest. You can’t help yourself; It hurts so good. With each thrust, you accept him more than you did before.

“Just like that, princess. Open up for Daddy.”

His words nearly make you drool. You hadn’t called him that before, thinking it would be too weird as you were closer in age to his daughter than you were to him. But the way he says it makes you want to call him that more often, sexual or not. You nod, easing up on the vice grip your walls had around him. It didn’t take him long before he bottoms out and you’re squirming underneath him.

His thrusts are relentless. The room fills with the sound of skin slapping skin, as if you’re being punished when really, you’re being rewarded. You don’t have to ask him to go faster or deeper because he already is. Like a madman, he digs his pickaxe further into your cave. He forces your insides to conform around him. Hell, he’d rearrange your guts if your child wasn’t already harbored within.

Beau’s chest brushes against yours as one hand holds onto the edge of his desk while the other wraps around your shoulders. His fingers claim a death grip while yours clutch the fabric of his shirt. You hold on for dear life, your legs trembling around him. The objects around you bounce to the rhythm of your boyfriend’s hips, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re questioning the sturdiness of the mahogany table. Your moans flood his ears, loud and whiny. They grow stronger and more consistent when his abdomen rubs against your sensitive clit.

The pleasure becomes too much to bear. You hadn’t expected to last long but the way your cowboy grinds on you brings you closer to your climax than intended. If he were any other man, you would have felt embarrassed, but given your history with Beau, you feel a sense of satisfaction. Only he can get you there as quickly as you deserve, and after he’s hurt you, it seems to be quicker. Maybe makeup sex is the best kind of sex.

He grunts in your ear, only turning you on further. His breathy moans make you forget what he’d ever done. Beau was never shy about making noise, reminding you you’re responsible for each and every one. His face scrunches, and you know he’s as close as you. Your eyes roll back and so does your head as you near sheer ecstasy.

Struggling to get the words out, you stutter through, “I-I’m g-gon-na, oh, fuck—”

“Me too, baby,” His lips brush against your ear, purring the words that send you over the edge. “Cum for Daddy.”

You let out a ferocious scream, a primal sound that echoed through the room, one you had never unleashed before. It tears from your throat as the knot in your belly finally snaps, releasing a surge of raw emotion that had been building inside you for far too long. The tension that had gripped you so tightly unravels, leaving you breathless and trembling, as wave after wave crashes around Beau’s solid member. Your convulsions summon his release, so with a halt of his hips and a twitch from his cock, he spews his hot load into your spent cunt. A feral shout rips from the depths of his core, a noise that surprises even himself.

The Sheriff resists collapsing on you like he usually did after a round of intercourse, refusing to apply weight to your growing belly. Your chests heave quickly, your lungs desperately gasping for air. The office is so quiet, you swear you can hear the rhythm of your hearts beating as one. He captures your lips in a kiss, commanding the butterflies to flutter once again. The world fades around you leaving only the intensity of the moment.

The kiss lingers on the edge of breathlessness, leaving you wondering why you came here to begin with. He withdraws his luscious lips and you softly whimper, craving more. You dive into the pools of his enchanting eyes the second you open yours, all of your problems drowning the deeper you swim. He tucks his head in the crook of your neck, breaking the spell he held you in only to place you under another when he begins peppering your exposed skin with tiny kisses. You both lay in a comfortable silence, basking in the blissful aftermath of your physical and emotional unity as your nails lightly trace up and down his back.

“That was...wow.” He breathes.

You chuckle, quipping, “You have such a way with words.”

Beau snorts. He raises his head and a lazy smirk forms, his eyes raking over your countenance. “I got in between your legs, didn’t I?”

“For that, you can get out.”

“S’alright. I got what I wanted anyway.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“You, pregnant.”

Those two words went straight to your stuffed pussy.

“That so?” You struggle to ask calmly.

“‘Course. Why wouldn’t I want a kid that’s half you? You’re everything and more. I can’t wait to tell everyone.” Your heart melts and his eyes glance at your fleshy mountains above it. “Fuck, darlin’, the thought of my seed growing inside you does things to a man.”

You want to slap him for ruining the sweet moment but you’re too turned on to do so. He lifts himself off of you, careful not to pull out. Beau stares down at your small bump, his impure thoughts untamed. Just maybe, if he said them aloud, he could get another round before everyone returned. The way your breath hitches tells him all he needs.

“You’re gonna look so sexy with a swollen belly. I don’t know how I’m gonna keep my hands off you. You’re gonna be one smokin’ mom. ‘Think I might just keep you pregnant after this one.” He grabs the top of your thighs, pulling you towards the edge of the desk. One by one, he lifts your legs and leans them against his strong chest. He turns his head and presses tender kisses to your right ankle, sending tingling sensations down your legs, and straight to your core. In between pecks, he asks, “How’s that sound, sweetheart?”

You barely register the question as he switches his attention to your other ankle. He chuckles when you murmur something incoherently agreeable.

He can’t help but mock, “You have such a way with words.”

Beau’s kisses halt and he looks at you with dark eyes. You squeeze his hardening dick and in return, he pushes deeper, his bellend brushing your shut cervix. He forces a whimper out of your pretty little mouth, and it drives you both feral. The fire in your tummy reignites and you bite your lip with anticipation. You want him so bad, you don’t care who walks in. His hands secure at your hips and you brace at the new angle, ready for more.

With your arms comfortably propped against his desk, you lean back with a satisfied smile, watching as the hot sheriff tucks himself back into his jeans. The office was quiet except for the occasional and distant ring of the abandoned phones. You should have been ashamed for being apathetic to those calling but your selfishness thrives on the euphoria Beau brought to you moments before. Coming here—in more ways than one—to mend things was the last thing on your mind but you aren’t disappointed with how they turned out. He begins to button his shirt from the bottom up when he notices you staring.

“See something you like?”

“Yes, sir.” Your lip tucks between your sharp teeth, nearly drawing blood. Despite having him twice already, you could go for a third. “Something I really, really, like.”

His fingers fall from his shirt and a devilish smirk makes a broad appearance on his irresistibly handsome face.

He steps between your thighs and leans closer as his sultry voice remarks, “Sounds like you’ve got a problem, princess.”

“I sure do...Daddy.”

His eyebrow raises, and so does his package. “What’d’ya gonna do about it?”

“I would show you but I don’t think you could handle another round.”

“Oh, sweetheart, when have I ever stopped at two with you?” Beau rhetorically questions before seizing your lips.

His mouth moves in sync with yours but he’s damn near ravenous. You moan into the urgent kiss, slightly taken aback by his hunger. It was as if you hadn’t done it twice in the last twenty minutes, a record for him. Sure he’s right, he didn’t stop at two rounds, hell, there’ve been days you never left the bedroom, but there was time between each copulation. His thick fingers run through your hair and massage your scalp, turning your brain to mush. Your arms envelope his torso in a warm embrace, longing for the moment to stretch into eternity, wishing never to let go again.

It had surpassed the 20-minute limit that Beau hadn’t given to his subordinates. They waited outside and would’ve enjoyed the nice weather had it not been for the way the Sheriff had exploded. Despite the copious amount of stress that came with the job, Beau had never reacted in such a way, which caused them all to worry. Everyone had formed small circles, talking amongst themselves about what was happening in the office. Little did they know...

Jenny pulls up to the station and her brows furrow once she sees the individuals. What in the hell..? She throws her ‘96 Bronco into park, her eyes narrow as she scans the crowd for Poppernak after rounding the vehicle. His back faces her but she instantly recognizes her partner. As she walks closer, he hears her boots against the pavement and spins around with a relieved smile.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s Y/N. She showed up with hell to pay. They’re in there right now, going at it.”

“How long have they been in there?”

“Just under half an hour,” The detective nods, trying to piece together if that was enough time for you to kill him and hide his body. “The boss said to come back after twenty but we’re all too scared to go in before she comes out. I don’t want to get yelled at again.”

She huffs in slight amusement. “Do you want me to check?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What’d I tell you about calling me ma’am?”

“Sorry, ma—Hoyt.”

Jenny turns on her heel with a roll of her eyes. She walks up the steps and past the glass doors. It was quiet which made her wary. She figured the first interaction since that shameful day would involve yelling but nope. Just silence. A sick feeling set in her stomach. Maybe she had killed him, she thought.

Mo felt guilty for letting his partner go into the belly of the beast alone so he worked up the courage to follow after her. Jenny tiptoed through the station, not wanting to disrupt what may or may not be happening. He takes larger steps and catches up with her quickly, being just as quiet. She hears his heavy and nervous breathing, chuckling to herself. How can a man of his size be afraid of anything?

Then, there it was: The Sheriff’s office. They notice both doors and blinds are closed. This can’t be good. The Deputies shuffle closer and peer into the window of the door, past the vinyl lettering on the tempered glass. Beau’s lips attack your bruised neck and your body arches into his.

Their eyes widen as they watch the intimate scene before them. Your moans shove past the door and fill more than your cowboy’s ears. Poppernak gulps and his body goes hot; This wasn’t what he expected, and neither did Hoyt. She awkwardly chuckles but doesn’t tear her gaze away.

“Well, you weren’t kidding about them going at it.” Before he can respond, she knocks on the door, louder than normal, startling you. You jump while Beau slumps his shoulders. She pushes the door open and says with a sarcastic cheer, “I see you two made up.”

Beau sighs with great annoyance then straightens with a look matching his exhale. Your face blushes bright red, completely embarrassed yet thankful they hadn’t interrupted any sooner. But Jenny knew otherwise. The disheveled clothes, the messy hair, the faint smell of sex, the marks on each of your skins, the reason why the doors and blinds were closed to his office—it all added up. As soon as his partner opened the Sheriff’s door, his eyes stayed glued to the floor.

“What’d’ya want?” The handsome man beside you grumbles.

“Well, I was just wondering if everyone can come back and do their jobs, that is if you guys are done in here.”

You push your dress past your knees and hop down from the desk. Beau wraps his arm around your waist, holding you upright, knowing your legs are bound to give out on you. And he was most certainly right. They tremble underneath your weight but you hide it well. He gives you a look only you know and understand: Are you okay? You nod with a reassuring smile, once again, getting lost in his enchanting eyes until Jenny clears her throat.

“Sorry—Yeah, we’re finished.” You reply.

“Great. I’ll let ‘em know.” She closes the door behind her and takes Mo with her.

You grumble as you bury your flushed face in his naked chest. “Oh my gosh, that was so embarrassing.”

He rubs circles into your aching back, trying his best to comfort you. “I know, at least it wasn’t worse.”

“What would you have done if they came five minutes earlier?”

His brows draw together, glancing at you in question as he confidently answers, “If you’re asking if I would’ve stopped, the answer’s no.”

With a startled gasp, you snap your head towards his and witness his composed expression. He isn’t joking. Your laughter fills the room, instantly settling your nerves. The Sheriff cracks a smile; Oh, how he’s missed you. He was a fool for ever pushing you away and he’ll spend the rest of his life regretting the time he pushed you away. The station begins to fill with bodies, along with a light chaotic chatter, bringing you back to reality.

“I should call my boss. Tell ‘em the sheriff beat up our new hire.” You kid.

He rolls his eyes with a sly grin. “Tell him Wren wasn’t the only pussy I beat up today.”

“Beau Arlen!” Your face flushes at his quip. “I hate you.”

“Love you too, darlin’.”

Wren sat on the steel bench, cursing himself for letting another pretty girl get him into trouble. Footsteps echo down the corridor, grasping his attention enough to whip his head toward the exit. His shoulders slump in solace the moment you walk in but it doesn’t last long. His muscles tighten and his jaw locks in place as he shoots a fiery glare at the sheriff, anger crackling in the air between them. You could cut the tension with a knife and you hated it; It was all a misunderstanding, not that it mattered now.

Beau sighs in defeat as he takes the cellar keys from his pocket. A deal was a deal, and if he’s being honest, he got the better end of it: You. He inserts the key into the lock, and with hesitation to unlock it, he glances at you for assurance. You stare at him with expectant eyes and he knows he has to turn it. With a click, the cell unlocks and he slides it open.

“All right, you’re free to go.”

The inmate’s eyes dart between the two of you, bewildered. “I don’t understand.”

You gaze at your boyfriend, and ask, “Could you give us a minute?”

He was wary; He didn’t feel comfortable leaving you alone with the man who attacked him. He didn’t know him and neither did you. How bad could he be if he willingly defended you? You can practically feel Beau’s apprehensiveness, more now that you’re carrying his child.

“Please.”

He nods with reluctance. If he so much as lays a hand on her... “I’ll be right outside.”

You give your undivided attention to your coworker, wearing a look of sorrow. “Listen—”

“Let me guess,” He strolls from behind the bars toward you. “He’s your jealous ex-boyfriend who you’ve been avoiding, but then he sees you with me, unleashes his anger on my face, and now you’re sorry.”

That’s pretty spot on. “Yeah—”

“You could’ve told me he was the damn sheriff.”

“Well, I didn’t expect you to—!” You pause and exhale softly. “Look, I talked to him and he isn’t gonna press any charges, and I really hope you don’t either. I don’t know what came over him, and I’m not excusing how he handled the situation, but he’s a good man.”

“What’s your deal with him?”

Your eyebrows pinch together, confused by the question. “Huh?”

“Just an hour ago, you were demanding he leave you alone and now you’re team Arlen.”

“I—I just, I know he regrets what he did and I don’t want this one mistake to ruin his career.”

“So those hickeys on your neck didn’t influence your change of heart?” Your hand flies to Beau’s canvas, your face growing hot with embarrassment. You totally forgot, but your cowboy sure didn’t. “‘Thought so.”

“It’s not like that. We just, we finally talked, and I’m sorry it came at your expense but please don’t punish him because of me. I never meant for you to get involved and if there’s anything I can do to fix it, I will.”

His eyes scan your countenance, finding only sincerity. He kicks himself; It isn’t your fault that he ended up in a jail cell on his first day of work, at least not all of it.

“Can you fix my face?”

“And take away how badass you look? Nuh uh.” You chuckle whilst praying your persuasion works. “Taking on a sheriff...the girls are gonna be all over you, don’t you worry.”

“Ya think so?”

“‘Course. Everyone loves a bad boy.”

Wren grins, now content with his swelling eye, bruised cheek, and fat lip. “You better be right.”

You were.

A week had passed since you and Beau made up. He took a few days off work and focused on you and your relationship moving forward. You both went to the baby’s first ultrasound and found out you were nearly two months pregnant. The look on your partner’s face was the happiest you’d ever seen. A memory you’d never forget.

From the moment you mentioned you were expecting, he hadn’t shut up about it. He was so proud to be the father of your child. He’d talk about how to raise it, his hopes of it looking and acting just like you, and that he couldn’t wait for Emily to be a big sister. He wanted to call her the day he found out but you both agreed it was best to meet formally first. You didn’t want to overwhelm her; After all, one could argue that you and Beau were moving too fast. Though, neither of you had seen it that way.

The Sheriff had talked of marriage plans, wanting to—legally—keep you forever. You’d be honored to be made his wife, but you didn’t want to upset his daughter by rushing it. So, you each decided to wait until after she adjusted to your relationship and her new sibling. He adored you, even more so, having put Emily’s feelings first. From that moment moving forward, he vowed never to fuck up again.

You were outside of Beau’s trailer in your prettiest dress, setting up the table with four plates, four utensils, and four cups while he cooked on his George Foreman. Despite your efforts to buy him a real, big boy grill, he refused. It was a big day; You were finally meeting Carla and Emily. He looked over and saw the tremble in your hands. ‘Nervous’ didn’t begin to cover how you truly felt.

“Sweetheart,” He pulls you into an embrace, kissing your shoulder as a comfort. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“What if they don’t like me? What i-if they ask you to break up with me? Oh, gosh, my baby isn’t going to have a father—”

“Hey, hey, hey! Don’t ever say that. Don’t even think it. I would never leave you, just like they’d never ask. They’re going to love you. You hear me?”

He had cupped your face as he assured you, shooing away the tears that formed in your pretty eyes. You nodded softly, letting the words sink in. Maybe he’s right, maybe they’ll love you. With a deep breath, you blinked the tears away, refusing to listen to the doubtful thoughts that haunted your mind. Beau pulled your forehead towards his lips and delivered a lingering peck.

The gravel underneath Carla’s tires crunched as she drove toward the trailer. Emily was ecstatic to meet you properly, as her father’s girlfriend, but her mother...not so much. Sure she had moved on but the thought of her ex-husband involved with a younger girl made her skin crawl. She wouldn’t call it jealousy; She wanted him to be happy, like she was with Avery, but did it have to be with someone half his age? And when the sheriff moved out of the way and she finally saw you, a sliver of envy pierced her heart: You were beautiful.

Your own pounded against your ribcase; There they were. It was time. Beau took your hand and he squeezed it as a reminder that you weren’t alone. They exited the vehicle, both wearing bright smiles, one real, the other fake.

“Hey!” He called, matching his daughter’s grin.

Emily jogged up the porch steps while Carla followed slowly behind. You released his hand before he pulled his daughter in for a hug, watching with a large smile as he held her close, incredibly grateful for her, and her acceptance of the two of you. When she began to groan, he set her free. She turned to you, each of you nervous about how to greet each other. Finally, you settled on a quick embrace.

“It’s so nice to see you again!”

“You too! I’m so glad you’re my dad’s girlfriend.”

“Awe,” Your heart clenched at the lovely comment. “You are so sweet.”

“Did you like the flowers he sent?”

“I loved them.”

“They were my idea.” She bragged.

“I knew it couldn’t have been him. They were too thoughtful.”

“Hey!” He called sternly. “That’s not true.”

You both giggled before you cleared your throat pretending to be serious. “No, of course not.”

Beau rolled his eyes with annoyance, earning another laugh. He should have known how fast it would be before you two turned on him. This next one better be a boy! He grumbles to himself. Carla watched how quickly her daughter took a liking to you so she figured it was only fair to give you a shot.

“Carla, this is Y/N. Y/N, Carla.” Beau introduced.

She extended her hand and you gladly shook it. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“You as well. I’ve heard so many great things about you.”

“Thanks,” Her eyes glanced at her ex-husband and she playfully remarked, “You’re right about his thoughtfulness. It’s terrible.”

“Okay, okay. That’s enough.” He hollered.

You led them to the table to get to know one another better while he finished cooking. You both agreed to keep the baby a secret for a little while longer so you made sure not to mention it. Time flew by and before you knew it, Beau had finished grilling. The man was right, they loved you. After eating, they stayed well into the night, everyone exchanging stories and having a grand ol' time. He was grateful as he watched the most important women in his world build a bridge he should've crossed a long time ago, and he was ashamed he hadn't done it sooner.

BEAU ALREN MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST | JOIN THE TAG LIST

FOREVER TAGS : @jaredpadonlyyyy @nicksalchemy1 @impala67rollingthroughtown @nancymcl @graciehams

@spacecowgirl126 @lmg14 @gurneetsadhra23 @crooked-haven @idontwannabehere7

@littlejackles @1316lalaloopy @sherlockstrangewolf @schattenphoenix-cave @coventina2001

@poisonivy2267

BEAU TAGS : @criminalyetminimal @lailawinchesterr @globetrotter28 @chi_raz @blueschevy

@will00008 @the-last-ry @tzahwananda @alwaysdaydreamingoffiction @ry-ry-rambles

JENSEN TAGS : @cheynovak @deadlymistletoe @1-read-the-hobbit-in-1937 @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld @smoothdogsgirl

@juicyballsworld @devilslittlehelper @giggles1026 @ravenrose18 @writtenbyhollywood

@spxideyver @tinas111 @1967barracuda @alediao @leila22rogers

@ralilda @sapnaploves @mandee7 @mostlymarvelgirl @winchestersbgirl

@a-cup-of-nightshade @jaystexastornado @childofluztoye

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: do not steal, plagiarize, translate, and/or republish any of my works* on here or another platform

*beside my writing, my works include : all banners, dividers, and gifs that i use (which were made by me,) unless otherwise stated.

[staticthread]

A Peek Into Your Pre-Transmigration Life!

pairing: phainon x reader (fem.)

tags: isekai & transmigration, attempt at humor, additional tags tba

author's note: hi everyone! this is my first star rail fanfic! i hope you enjoy! my askbox if open for any thoughts, comments and criticisms (just be nice please!) <3

masterlist

3.4 was devastating.

You read the leaks. You swear you wouldn’t but you did and you ended up doomscrolling on Twitter for hours. So, even when you said you’d permanently quit Star Rail months ago you came back. 

You finished the other main story quests the days before the update and then completed the 3.4 story on the day of. Now, there’s nothing left to do—you’re not gonna count the bajillion other quests you haven’t done yet, but wait for the next patch. 

You’ve been scrolling on TikTok for an hour now, maybe two. It’s probably past midnight now and you should probably go to sleep but you won’t. There are a bunch of used dishes and cup noodles all over your room that you should’ve cleaned out yesterday. Their presence made the air smell like stale soup.

It isn’t anything new. Your room, by all accounts, is a mess like it has the potential to rival Asmongold’s sink kind of mess. 

You said you’d clean your room when the school year ended.

 It’s the middle of summer now.

All you’ve done is doomscroll, bedrot and play games. Just like any summer. 

It feels a little depressing thinking it out loud.

Anyways, “I’m bored,” you say out loud, ignoring the current state of your living area. 

Opening Star Rail on your phone, you mentally calculate if you could pull a new character. There’s not enough jades in your account to guarantee a five-star, and even more important, who are you going to pull?

You yawn—guess, you’re sleepier than you thought, and rub your eyes.

Tribbie and Sunday are good supports….but my current. DPS— Your brain pauses.

…

...

…What was I saying again…?

Oh…Right…

A DPS…

Firefly is good but….it’s hard…to clear end content without her…Lord, I sound like a metaslave…

Phainon is good…

Maybe…Maybe I should…?

Yeah… You close your eyes, slowly, exhaustion taking you. 

Maybe I should…

You fall asleep before you can finish that thought, and j ust like that, you wasted another day of your final summer vacation. 

[hauledbylove]

be friends (forlorn)

tim drake x fem!reader,

OR: going from friends to lovers is scary, but perhaps there is a chance for your ungodly, untimely crush—on Tim Drake himself, no less. they say that absence makes the heart grow fonder (and exponentially hornier).

wc: roughly 1.3k; part 1; part 2.

cw: injury mention; slight creeper!Tim; suggestive themes at the end.

the days have been different without Tim.

this is how summer is: time for travelling, or whatever holiday plan available with your savings. going out of state with your friend was a right decision, even if your time with Tim has been cut in half—if not more.

you scoff at yourself. is it even legal to be so head over heels with someone else?

you miss his smile and those thoughtful hums he makes when he divides his attention between three things at once; his angular face that looks strangely soft in the dim yellow light of a 24-hour coffeeshop he frequents when you two cannot sleep—or whenever you crave attention (even when it’s criminally late by societal standards). you’re used to his erratic sleep pattern and find it cute how he can nap anyplace and anytime—though you wish he slept when he was supposed to.

you’ve known him long enough to know he won’t change, and you’ve come to respect that.

sometimes, you swear, sometimes it feels like you’ve known him for longer than forever. immense comfort and safety his mere presence inspires warms you, makes the heart rattle behind your ribcage, a frantic bird not unlike his persona. bordering on horrifically pathetic.

you sigh and shake your head, rolling onto your stomach. you’re about to set your morning alarm when the screen lights up; 1 message from dream man. you should rename him, really.

Tim sends you a selfie, right arm in cast—no caption but the telling expression on his face. you text him immediately:

rough patrol?

I’m benched now.

need a helping hand?

you send it without thinking and then scold yourself; how transparent can you be, really?

no, I’m ambidextrous, Tim’s message reads.

you chuckle fondly; what a Tim thing to say. the innuendo either went past him or he opted to not acknowledge your futile attempts at flirting.

you wait another minute and sigh, leaving your phone be and staring at the ceiling. it’s your vacation: you should be happily drinking iced coffees in the morning and hike and wander to your heart’s abandon, but not having Tim—a constant buzz of messages in your trouser’s pocket—tears at your heart a little, darkens your mood. if only he were here, you think fruitlessly, and turn on some music to tune out your restless brain.

there’s no other text from him anyway; you’re too tired to make a conversation so late at night. you barely manage to find a comfortable position to fall asleep, what with your heart nagging at your chest and asking for your—or Tim’s, your mind supplies—undivided attention.

on the other side of the screen Tim is still staring thinkingly at your message history. he wants to text something else, ask about your day—schedule a call, if you’re free? he’s so lost to the world that he ends up ignoring Kon—until he throws a fry at Tim, eyebrows cocked.

“you listening?”

“yeah, no. sorry.”

Kon snatches Tim’s phone and whistles.

“dude, she was totally hitting on you.”

“what! no?” Tim frowns, looking at the messages himself. “was she?”

“she was, you weirdo,” he replies, amused, and lightly kicks Tim’s shoulder. “are you that oblivious?”

“am not,” Tim says defensively, worrying a napkin between his fingers. Kon huffs.

“liar, liar, pants on fire!” he taunts and makes Tim scowl. “is that your girl?”

Tim bites his lip, sighing heavily. how is he even supposed to answer? I’m so into her it hurts? I don’t function properly if I don’t check on her three times a day? I jump over CCTVs to walk her home when I’m not around to do it myself? I want her in my bed and my bath and my car and my clothes and my claim?

at last, he opts for,

“not yet.”

Kon smiles at him knowingly.

“playing hard to get?”

“no,” he says softly, “I just want to do it right.”

“I didn’t mean her,” Kon laughs, and it takes Tim a minute to comprehend what Kon said; he grumbles and steals his fries.

“super-asshole.”

“I’m realistic,” Kon clicks his tongue, “and you better do something about her. she must be sweet to have you so hung up. or as weird as you are.”

“that checks,” Tim laughs, shaking his head.

and yes, Kon thinks, it definitely checks. he hasn’t seen his friend so flustered over anyone; ever. that smile means more than Tim lets on.

they switch topics, and Tim pays as much attention to their conversation as he can, still desperately fixated on your texts—as well as a tangible absence from his routine that makes him chew on his lip uncontrollably.

you’re not in Gotham now, having left a few days ago to go for an out-of-state vacation. he remembers how giddy and excited you were, talking about all the natural sites and landscapes you wished to see; you’d even let him take a look at your itinerary, and he smiles now, thinking of that. he misses constant texting and lazy unproductive calls you two are prone to: when you’re set to finish whatever project crawls upon you and Tim is right there, headphones on and mind focused on WE papers, quietly humming to your rambles in his ear. he’s never declined a call with you, he thinks fondly; how could he, when he knows how cherished it makes you feel?

he digresses; Kon seems to abandon any attempt at a consistent conversation with him and it makes Tim wince and apologise.

“nah,” Kon says, waving his hand, “no hard feelings. maybe wanna talk about her?”

Tim entertains the idea briefly but ends up declining.

“not in the right mind for it,” he says, and then yawns almost immediately, “painkillers are hitting pretty hard too. wish it was sprained, honestly.”

they finish their food and decide to call it a night. Kon smiles mischievously and flies Tim home on a whim, very much unprompted, and steals a carton of juice from his fridge in the process. asshole.

the rest on the night (case work, washing up, a quick chat with Bruce) passes in a blur; Tim’s sure you’re asleep already. you two have a slight time difference now, and knowing he has a few hours on you relaxes him a bit; he’s gotten some proper time to finally think freely (rather brood, his inner voice teases, resembling yours heavily); time to think about you, him, and everything he’s afraid to ruin.

he recalls those damned messages.

ambidextrous, huh? Tim tuts, lazing in bed. he certainly can imagine a scenario where it can come in handy.

Tim doesn’t usually let himself think in that direction; too great a temptation to sneak his hand below the belt. he thanks his vivid imagination and restraint for keeping himself in check. however much it hurts and blue-balls him, Tim tries to get it out of his head.

how would he look you in the eye and not think about a specific fantasy of you he came to? of you: on your back and arching, hips quivering and pussy squelching; not a sound louder than heavy breathing past your lips. he’d stuff your cunt and your mouth with his fingers and fuck you rhythmically, moves eerily coordinated; his thumb brushing your puffy clit just once, as if teasing. your legs would shake to close around him on a particularly hard thrust of his hand, his rings a cool touch to your stretched rim. he would marvel at your whimpers and trembling stomach. would you be soft in bed or as feisty as you are in daily life? would you get off on bossing Tim around—or him you? how kinky would you be; and how desperate to have him near?

Tim hardens gradually, cock lightly tenting his sleeping pants. right; keeping himself in check. and failing.

[edawgz]

ᝰ.ᐟ TETHER

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆ tangerine x reader. ( bullet train). ~650 words.

❚ ❙ ❘ fluff. comfort. angsty-ish. yes, more tangerine. established relationship.

: ̗̀➛ He’s all sharp lines and danger, and you should know better. But something in you still aches when he’s near.

| masterlist. | atj collection. |

You didn’t mean to wait up for him.

You told yourself it was habit, told yourself the light above the stove was for your own sake — but there you were, leaning against the counter with your arms folded, heart pacing quietly in your chest as the lock finally turned and the door creaked open with the low groan of a man who’d been through more than he wanted to explain.

Tangerine stepped inside like a man used to dark thresholds, his hand still brushing the inside of his jacket where the weight of a weapon sat snug against his ribs. He was silent for a beat, eyes flicking toward you with a sharpness that softened almost imperceptibly when he saw your face — tired, a little frustrated, but still waiting.

“Didn’t expect you to be awake,” he said, voice low, accent curling around the words like smoke. He shrugged off his coat and laid it over the back of the chair like he lived here. Like he had every right to.

You raised an eyebrow, arms still folded. “Didn’t expect you to disappear for three days either.”

He gave you that look — the one that walked the tightrope between guilt and defensiveness, the one that said this is who I am, as if that excused the way he vanished without explanation. And maybe it did, because even though you hated the silence, even though it left your mind racing through worst-case scenarios and half-formed headlines, you were still here. Still watching him from across the kitchen like the worst of your anger had already burned itself out.

“You know what I do,” he said finally, pulling a chair back and lowering himself into it with a wince. He wasn’t limping, not exactly, but he moved like his body had taken a beating. You wanted to ask — but didn’t.

“That’s not the same as knowing where you are.”

He dragged a hand over his face, leaning back, neck tilting toward the ceiling like he could stretch the tension from his spine. “Didn’t mean to worry you, love.” His voice was quieter this time. Sincere.

You hated how much that mattered.

He looked up again, and for a moment, there was something unguarded in the way his eyes settled on you — not just tired or bruised, but tethered. Like some part of him was only just remembering why he came back at all.

“You should go to bed,” he murmured. “You’ve got that look. The one that says you didn’t sleep.”

“I didn’t,” you admitted. “Not until I heard your shoes.”

Something flickered behind his eyes — some kind of ache, or guilt, or whatever approximation of love a man like him could manage. He stood slowly, closing the distance between you with that same quiet confidence he always carried, and rested one hand on the counter beside you, fingers brushing yours.

“You waitin’ up like this,” he said softly, “it’s dangerous. Makes a bloke think you care.”

You didn’t smile, but you didn’t pull away either. “I do care,” you said, and the words landed heavy between you.

He looked at you for a long time.

When he finally moved, it was careful — as if he wasn’t sure whether you’d let him — and his fingers trailed up your arm before settling on your cheek, rough and warm and steady. His thumb brushed just beneath your eye.

“I don’t deserve that,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“No,” you agreed, letting your hand curl around his wrist. “But I’m giving it to you anyway.”

He kissed you like he was still figuring out how — like it had been a long few days and you were the only thing that hadn’t gone wrong. And when his arms finally wrapped around you and your body pressed into his, all you could think was that you were already too far gone to stop now.

[httpconcrete]

BAD DESIRE - Chapter 3

summary: Just when Bad Omens loses their bassist due to health issues, Noah receives an audition tape that feels almost like an angel sent from heaven to save the production of their second album. However, even though it solves the problem of losing a member, Noah finds himself having a hard time concentrating when his newfound angel stands so close to him all the time.

Chapter warnings: nothing, just fluff

masterlist

You woke up late that day, wanting to get as much rest as you could. You wanted nothing more than just a lazy day watching Netflix and eating popcorn.

But life had another plans.

Your phone buzzed with a new message just as you finished brushing your teeth. It was from the band’s group chat.

Noah Sebastian BO [10:32 AM]:

Day off at mine. Pool, BBQ, all that.

Noah Sebastian BO [10:35 AM]:

@Y/N you should come and spend some time with us today, we can talk about the new album and you can properly meet part of our crew.

Your heart thumped a little too hard in your chest when his name popped up. You quickly typed out a simple “Got it, thanks” before tossing your phone onto the bed and scrambling to find something to wear.

You weren’t sure why Noah was inviting you over, despite the album conversation and the “meet the crew” thing. After all, it was a day off, they were just having fun between actual friends. Maybe he just wanted you to fit in and not feel weird or left out, like just another co-worker… right? Despite the soft way he’d looked at you before, the quiet little moments that lingered longer than they should have, he was probably just being nice.

He was probably just afraid you would step back.

You grabbed your phone again and texted Crystal, who insisted on calling him “demon boy” because of his screams on stage, his height, and his tattoos.

You were sure she would get her hopes high about something happening the second you texted her. She always teased you about it and dreamed about Noah noticing you, claiming in the most excited voice ever, “Come on, I’m like a super powerful psychic. If I say something’s happening, you should believe me.”

But at the very least, she could help you decide what to wear.

Crystal [10:43 AM]:

Idk, maybe something cute? A sundress to make demon boy lose it?

You couldn’t help but chuckle and roll your eyes at her words. She really had the audacity.

But you chose your best sundress after being quickly convinced because of the “pool” part, even if you weren’t planning on getting in. The snake tattoo on your arm would be showing for the first time around them, since you always wore long sleeves while in public because of the weather.

And as the sun decided to visit your city again, you wanted to try something different.

Crystal offered to give you a ride to Noah’s place, rambling about how proud she was of you finally fulfilling your dream. And obviously hoping you’d get a new hot lead vocalist as a boyfriend.

You could only roll your eyes at every teasing word.

“C’mon, he’s handsome,” she said, her gaze flickering between the road and you before fixing back on the road ahead. “And he seems single, so why not?”

“Maybe because sleeping with your boss is a terrible idea,” you said matter-of-factly, chuckling at her funny face as she clearly disagreed.

“Anyway, I’m happy I get to give my best friend a ride to her band’s BBQ,” she said with a bright smile, swaying her head side to side as she did a little victory dance in her seat. “When you guys get really big, don’t forget about me.”

You couldn’t help but watch her with quiet admiration, her happiness and excitement filling the car.

Crystal had been through so much.

A tough life, a sad backstory of bouncing through foster homes until she finally landed with your neighbors. She’d been with you since she was eleven, bullied at school for not having parents and left out by the popular kids, and you were the one who had always protected her as fiercely as you could.

But looking at her now, glowing with confidence and smiling like she had the whole world ahead of her, your chest tightened with love and admiration.

She really was the prettiest woman you had ever seen.

And you hoped she would be by your side through every moment of your new rockstar life.

“I will never forget you,” you said softly, trying to keep your voice from shaking with emotion. “You’re my eternal best friend. You’re stuck with me.”

She smiled at you before looking back at the road.

She knew you meant it with all your heart, that you two belonged together as sisters.

And as a sister, she wanted you to be happy, hoping you’d find love soon.

A few minutes later, Crystal pulled up to Noah and Jolly’s place, barely able to hide her excitement as she parked.

“If you don’t at least get him to do something gentle like… I don’t know, give you a plate or something, I’ll disown you,” she teased, lightly shoving your shoulder. “Or maybe get Ruffilo’s phone number for your bestie.”

“Shut up,” you laughed, adjusting the strap of your bass case over your shoulder as you climbed out of her car. “Ruffilo has a girlfriend, but I can try Jolly’s.”

“Another hot guitarist? It’s a win,” she teased, wiggling her eyebrows. “Text me when you’re done here so I can come pick you up,” she said, rolling down the window as you shut the door with a laugh.

“Fine,” you replied, waving at her with a small smile “Text me when you get home.”

She only winked before driving off, leaving you standing there alone in front of Noah and Jolly’s house. It was big, in a cool area of LA, and you felt nervous stepping into their little bubble without it being totally work-related.

Your heart did little flips in your chest, your hands sweaty as you gripped the strap of your bass case, trying to hold yourself together. You took a steadying breath and walked up to the front door, but before you could even knock, it swung open.

“Hey, Y/N!” Folio greeted you happily. “Come on in and make yourself at home, they’re in the backyard. I’m just grabbing more beers.”

He spoke casually, leaving the door open for you as you stepped in shyly.

The house was cozy, warm despite its minimalist decor. Guitars lined the living room walls, amps and scattered cables filling corners alongside potted plants and band memorabilia. You could hear Ruffilo and Jolly’s voices from outside, mingled with Noah’s laughter and the sizzling sound of something on the grill.

“Hey, Y/N,” Noah greeted casually as you approached the backyard after setting your bass next to the couch. He wore black athletic shorts and an oversized Bad Omens tee, his damp hair pushed back from his face like he had just showered. He was flipping burgers with a beer in his free hand. “You’re meeting new people today. I mean, you saw them at our show, but you didn’t really get introduced. Things happened too fast.”

You smiled, waving shyly as you looked at the different guys standing there, your nose instantly hit by the smell of grilled meat.

Your stomach growled embarrassingly loud at the scent, and his lips curled into a quiet chuckle.

He had to notice. Of course he would notice, for your embarrassment.

“Hungry?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at you with the smallest smirk.

You nodded quietly. “A little,” you admitted shyly.

“Come say hi to your brothers,” Ruffilo cheered as soon as you stepped onto the grass. He wore swim trunks covered in little rubber duck patterns, sunglasses pushed up onto his head as he helped Noah with the burgers. “And to your new brothers.”

You felt heat rise to your cheeks at the word.

Brothers. Family.

It sent a warmth through your chest you hadn’t felt in a long time. Were they really letting you into this little family?

“Hey,” Jolly greeted softly, holding out a fist for you to bump. He sat cross-legged on a pool chair, notebook balanced on his knee as he scribbled down lyrics, sunglasses hiding his eyes. “That one is Matt, our tour director and mixing engineer. You saw him running around backstage, worried about everything and yelling,” he introduced, pointing to the blonde long-haired guy wearing a black cap.

Matt shouted “HEY” in protest, but Jolly just chuckled and ignored him.

“Those three dumbasses over there are Bryan, our photographer, Davis, our creative director, and Jesse, from ERRA,” he continued. “Jesse lives with us. The other two who split the place aren’t home right now, Orie and Michael.”

You nodded, smiling and waving at each of them as they greeted you back.

“Sit down,” Noah ordered gently, nodding towards the shaded table where a few beers and soda cans sat in an ice bucket. “Relax.”

You sank into a chair, taking a moment to watch them all. This was quickly becoming your favorite version of them: not on stage, not rehearsing, but just existing. Laughing, teasing, letting the world slip away for a while, just being with their friends as normal people.

“Here,” Noah said suddenly, placing a cold soda can in front of you before sitting down at your side. You hadn’t even noticed him switch places with Jolly; now he was flipping burgers along with Matt. “So… first week with us. Tour, rehearsals, plans for a new album, everything. Thoughts?”

You blinked, trying to process his words, surprised by his question. “Uh… amazing,” you said, biting your lip nervously. “Overwhelming, but in a good way.”

He nodded slowly, looking away from you and staring at his can. “Good. That’s… good.”

“Dude,” Folio interrupted as he came back from the grocery store, tossing a bag of beers onto the table. “She kicked ass on stage. Even the fans who were being assholes at first shut up by the third song.”

Noah didn’t respond, but you saw the smallest twitch of a smile on his lips before he hid it behind a sip of his beer.

After lunch, and after they teased you for eating three burgers, you all moved to the living room.

Ruffilo, Matt, and Folio set up a Mario Kart tournament on the giant TV while Jolly scribbled more lyrics in his notebook, humming under his breath. Davis, Noah, Bryan, and Jesse kept chatting about ERRA’s plans.

“Wanna play?” Folio asked, handing you a controller.

You hesitated. “I suck at Mario Kart, really.”

“Even better,” Jolly teased, grinning lazily. “Easier win for me.”

The next hour was filled with curses, laughter, and Folio’s dramatic wails every time someone knocked him off Rainbow Road.

You lost every round, but the sting of it faded with how much they teased you like they’d known you forever. You felt included.

Eventually, Noah disappeared into the kitchen.

You watched him for a moment before handing your controller back to Folio and following him, finding him leaning against the counter, scrolling on his phone quietly.

“Need help with anything?” you asked softly. You didn’t even know why you followed him… you just felt the pull. And now, standing in front of him as he scrolled through his phone doing nothing, but looking incredibly handsome, you felt pathetic.

He glanced up, surprised. “No. Just… needed a second,” he admitted, rubbing his thumb across his forehead dramatically. “They’re a lot sometimes.”

You smiled, playing with your hands to keep yourself from looking too nervous. “They’re… good people.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. “They are.”

Silence fell between you, comfortable but charged with something you couldn’t name.

You looked away first, clearing your throat as you busied yourself with rearranging the cans in the fridge.

“Hey,” he said after a moment. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For… fitting in. For trying,” he said simply, shrugging one shoulder. “Not everyone would. Not everyone can, actually, and you did amazingly well.”

Your chest warmed a little at his words.

You turned to him, meeting his gaze with a small, grateful smile, almost letting a can slip.

“I’m not trying,” you said quietly, finishing stocking the cans. “I just want to be here.”

Something shifted in his eyes, softening into an expression you hadn’t seen before. One that made your pulse stutter and your breath catch with how intense his pretty boba eyes were.

Dammit, I shouldn’t be noticing this, you scolded yourself.

“Yeah,” he said softly, looking away with a slight smile. “Yeah. I know.”

The silence fell again before he opened his mouth again, leaving the kitchen right after to reunite with his friends at the living room.

“Nice tattoo” he said motioning to your arm.

You smiled quietly, looking at your own arm with a warm expression. “Thank you,” you muttered.

When you finally texted Crystal to come get you and left his house that evening , totally sunburned, tired, but still glowing with quiet happiness, Noah walked you out to Crystal’s car.

“See you tomorrow,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets as he watched you climb in.

“See you,” you echoed, waving as Crystal pulled away from the curb.

She waited until you were a block away before squealing, shaking your arm as she stopped at a red light. “OH MY GOD,” she shouted, almost fangirl-like. “Was that Noah Sebastian walking you out?! Girl, tell me everything right now.”

But you just leaned back against the seat, staring out at the summer sky with a small smile. You shook your head, exhaling softly. “Tomorrow.”

Everything could wait until tomorrow.

For now, all you wanted to do was replay every second of today in your mind, memorizing how it felt to be part of something real.

[dontmakemebabyblue]

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑷𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑲𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒀𝒐𝒖

𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝟖 | 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

ok so I didn’t mean for Ghost's povs to only be him getting emotional over someone napping but hear we are🥲(so please enjoy Simon having an emotional crisis in real time while you drool on your pillow.)

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

He tells himself he’ll only stay until you fall asleep.

Just long enough to make sure you settle, that your breathing evens out and your body relaxes. Then he’ll get up go sit by the fire, maybe stand watch by the window. He doesn’t sleep much anyway. Hasn’t for years. Not properly. Not the kind that sticks.

The mattress dips slightly under your weight, and the blankets shift with your movements. He keeps his back angled toward you, giving space, because it feels like the right thing to do. He listens to the soft rustle of fabric as you get comfortable. The way your breath catches slightly just once as if even now, you’re unsure how much to let go.

You shift again. Closer, but still not touching.

The firelight flickers faintly across the wall. He watches it with half-lidded eyes, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting loose against his stomach. He doesn't remove his mask he never does but there's something about being horizontal that already feels unfamiliar. Exposed, even.

Still, he doesn’t move.

You let out a slow, quiet breath beside him. The kind of breath that only comes after days of holding everything in.

And that sound it makes something inside him twist.

So he stays.

Just a little longer, he thinks. Just to keep watch.

He lets his eyes flick around the room once. Checks the door. The windows. Listens for anything beyond the soft crackle of the fire. It's instinct. Habit. The part of his brain that never shuts off. Always scanning. Always tense.

But here? There's nothing to find. No threat. No pressure. Just the warm hush of a space that doesn’t feel temporary, even though it is.

Your breathing changes deeper now, steady.

You're asleep.

He should get up.

Instead, he turns his head, just slightly. Eyes find your silhouette in the dim light. You’ve curled onto your side facing him now, your face half-buried in the pillow, your hair fanned out around you face like a halo. One arm is tucked beneath your chin, the other resting over the blanket. You look peaceful in a way he doesn’t know how to describe. Not innocent. You’re not that. But… safe.

It's unfamiliar this softness. The quiet intimacy of sharing a bed without expectation. Without schemes. Just being here. Just existing near someone and not feeling like the world might cave in if you let your guard down.

He watches your chest rise and fall. Slow. Rhythmic. Almost hypnotic.

He tells himself again that he’ll move in a minute.

Just a minute.

But time blurs. Your breathing keeps that steady rhythm, inhale, exhale. Inhale… exhale. Like a metronome pulling the edges of his thoughts inward. Slowing everything down.

His body sinks heavier into the mattress. Muscles that have been tense for weeks finally start to unwind. Piece by piece. Breath by breath.

He doesn’t realize when his eyes finally close. Doesn’t notice the exact moment when your breathing stops being the thing he’s keeping track of and becomes the thing that lulls him under.

But for the first time in what feels like years… Ghost sleeps.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

tag list: @floweronacloud @full-cover32bitch @headphones-on100 let me know if you want to be added! ( ˘ ³˘)♥

[sweetonsin]

- where he found me -

A DBF! Joel Miller x f!reader oc fanfic. NO OUTBREAK AU!

CW: SMUT, PARENT LOSS, ALCOHOL USE, MILD LANGUAGE.

WC: 3.1k

note: two chapters because the last was super short :,) love u!

CHAPTER EIGHT: ALL OF YOU

The silence stretched longer than you expected.

Days passed.

Joel didn’t text. Didn’t call. Didn’t come around.

You told yourself you were grateful for it—that maybe he was finally getting the hint. That maybe distance would make everything easier. Simpler.

But it didn’t feel like relief.

It felt like something dying slowly inside your chest.

You sat in the kitchen with your dad most mornings, picking at toast and sipping bitter coffee you didn’t finish. He still mentioned Joel here and there—casual, like always.

“Think he’s been working a lot. Said Sarah’s got some school stuff going on.”

You’d nod like it didn’t hurt. Like you hadn’t been checking your phone at night just to see if he was thinking of you.

You tried to move forward. Tried to go out again, force yourself into clothes that didn’t feel like armor and paint your face with something close to confidence. There was a guy at the bar who bought you a drink. Asked if you wanted to talk.

You left halfway through his sentence.

The emptiness inside you has teeth now. It gnaws at your ribs, sharp and constant.

That night, lying awake at three a.m., you scrolled through old texts like an idiot. Staring at the thread between you and Joel. The way he used to say your name. The way he used to say goodnight.

You hated yourself for missing it.

You told yourself you were the one who ended it. That you’d made the right choice.

But when you drove by his house—just once, just to see—the right choice didn’t feel right at all.

There was a woman there.

Outside with Sarah, laughing, groceries in her arms, like she belonged. Like she was part of that little world you were never supposed to be part of in the first place.

You parked two streets down and stared at your steering wheel until your throat burned.

He moved on.

You told him to.

You asked him to.

So why did it feel like drowning?

You drank that night. Harder than you meant to. Alone this time.

You put on one of your mom’s old records.

The first verse played and you started crying before the chorus hit.

Not soft tears. Not romantic, tragic movie tears.

You broke open.

All of it came out—the grief you’d swallowed for months, the shame, the guilt, the bone-deep ache of wanting someone who wasn’t yours. Who was never supposed to be yours.

You cried so hard you forgot what started it.

Joel?

Your mom?

Yourself?

When the sobs finally eased, your throat was raw and your eyes felt carved out.

You stared at the ceiling, tears drying into salt.

The house is still.

Quiet in that way that makes your ears ring.

You’re curled on your side, phone buzzing weakly in your palm. Your head’s foggy from the half bottle of wine you didn’t mean to finish. You know you should sleep. You know you shouldn’t do this.

But your fingers move anyway.

You tap his name.

That same thread of messages from weeks ago.

The one you swore you’d never touch again.

You stare at the blinking cursor like it might stop you. Like it might be a sign.

It isn’t.

You start typing.

Is she your girlfriend?

Backspace.

That woman. At your house.

Backspace again.

You inhale shakily, the alcohol buzzing beneath your skin, your stomach tight.

Then—

Is she why you don’t come around anymore?

Send.

Your heart stutters.

No response.

You stare.

And stare.

And then:

I saw her with Sarah. She looked… happy.

Pause.

Then you add:

You did too.

Still no answer.

Your vision is swimming now. You close your eyes. The shame will come later. Right now, all you want is the truth. Or maybe you want him to say something that will make you feel again—anything but this numb, twisted ache in your chest.

So you type again. One last message:

You can fuck me up all you want, Joel. But don’t lie to me. Please.

You’re half-asleep when your phone buzzes again—loud in the silence. Your eyes snap open, heart lurching in your chest.

You fumble for it, your screen too bright, your fingers too clumsy.

Incoming call: Joel

You blink at it.

Stare.

He’s calling you.

Not texting. Not ignoring. Not pretending nothing happened.

Calling.

You hesitate.

Then swipe to answer.

“…Hello?”

Your voice is barely a whisper, thick with vodka and sleep and regret.

There’s a pause on the other end. Just breath.

Then his voice—rough and low. Tight.

“You drunk?”

You blink again, swallowing. “Maybe.”

He exhales sharply, like he’s been holding it in. “Jesus, Delilah.”

You sit up in bed, clutching the phone tighter. “Sorry,” you murmur. “I shouldn’t have texted. Just—forget it.”

“No.” His voice cuts through fast, firmer now. “You don’t get to send me shit like that and then tell me to forget it.”

Your stomach flips. “I just… I saw her. With Sarah. And I thought…”

“What? That I replaced you?” He lets out a dry, bitter sound—half laugh, half something else. “She’s my cousin, Delilah. She came by to drop off groceries. Sarah hadn’t seen her in months.”

Your lips part. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” he snaps. “Oh.”

Silence.

Your head spins. Guilt and heat curl low in your chest.

“I thought you were happy,” you whisper.

Joel doesn’t answer for a moment.

Then quietly, like he’s admitting something to himself more than to you:

“I haven’t been happy since you stopped looking at me like I meant something.”

Your breath catches.

“Joel…”

“I shouldn’t be calling you. Your dad’s asleep down the hall. You’re drunk. I know this ain’t smart.” He pauses. “But I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t hurt.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “I’m sorry.”

“You said that already.”

“I know. But I mean it.”

Another beat of silence.

“I know you do,” he murmurs. “That’s the fucked up part.”

You press the phone tighter to your ear, wishing he were here. Wishing everything was simpler. Wishing you weren’t the one who broke everything and still wanted him like this.

“I miss you,” you whisper.

He doesn’t say it back.

But he doesn’t hang up either.

He just breathes. Quiet. Heavy.

And stays on the line.

You don’t speak for a while.

Just lie there with the phone pressed to your cheek, letting his silence hold you like it always does—strong, steady, warm enough to make your throat ache.

When he finally speaks, his voice is different.

Not angry.

Not soft.

Just… tired.

“Delilah,” he says, slow, careful, “you gotta decide what you want.”

The words settle heavy in your chest.

“I can’t keep getting ripped outta your life every time you get scared.”

You close your eyes, shame crawling across your skin. “I know.”

“I mean it,” he goes on, and you can tell this isn’t rehearsed. It’s just pouring out. “I ain’t mad at you, baby. Not for the drunk texts. Not for showin’ up yellin’ on my porch. Hell, I deserved half of it. But this—” he sighs, low and deep, “—this halfway shit’s killin’ me.”

Your breath catches at the pet name. At the truth in his voice.

“I need to know,” he says, quieter now, like he’s afraid of the answer. “If you want me. If you want this. I won’t ask again.”

The vodka in your bloodstream makes everything slow, a little too raw. You swallow hard.

“I’m scared,” you whisper.

“I know,” he replies. “So am I.”

Your lip trembles. “Joel…”

“I’m not doin’ this over the phone, Lila..,” he says. “Not when you’re drunk and I can’t look you in the eyes.”

You nod like he can see you.

“I wanna see you. Tomorrow.” His voice lowers, softer but no less firm. “Clear-headed. Just us. No sneakin’, no lies. You say the word, I’ll be there.”

You don’t answer right away.

Your stomach’s in knots. Your brain foggy.

But your heart—your stupid, traitorous heart—knows exactly what it wants.

“I’ll text you,” you whisper.

Joel is quiet for a moment. Then—

“I hope you do.”

And he hangs up.

You’re left in the dark, phone still warm in your palm, heart beating so loud it drowns everything else out.

You don’t sleep much after that.

———

The sun is too bright.

It slices across your face like a punishment, and for a moment you’re sure your skull has cracked right down the middle.

You groan, turning your head into the pillow, breath shallow and sour. Every part of you aches. And not from the wine.

Memories flash in fragments—your fingers fumbling over your phone, Joel’s voice in your ear, that low and steady “You gotta decide what you want.”

You sit up slowly, blinking at the daylight like it’s an accusation.

The bottle of alcohol is still on your floor. Half-drained. Your phone, face-down on the nightstand, stares back at you like a silent dare.

You stretch, muscles stiff, then drag yourself to the bathroom and run the coldest water you can manage.

You splash your face. Twice. Three times.

Then you lean over the sink, gripping the sides like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

“I have to stop doing this,” you whisper.

To yourself. To the ghost of him. To the ache still blooming in your chest.

You take two Advil with a gulp of tap water, then go back to your room and sit on the edge of your bed, phone in hand. The screen feels heavier than it should.

You open the messages.

You scroll past last night’s drunken confessions and shaky words.

And then, heart pounding in your throat, you type:

I’m sorry. I want to see you.

Send.

Simple. Bare.

But maybe that’s what this needs now.

The text bubbles disappear.

Seconds later, your phone buzzes.

Joel:

You free in an hour?

You stare at the screen, thumb hovering.

Yeah. I’ll come to you.

He replies instantly:

Okay.

That’s it.

 No teasing. No pressure.

Just okay.

You toss the phone on the bed and head to your closet.

You try to make yourself look like you slept. Like you didn’t spend the whole night staring at the ceiling with tears drying on your cheeks. You brush your hair. Apply a little mascara to hide the tired around your eyes. Pull on a sundress—neutral, soft, something that makes you feel almost normal.

You stare at your reflection a moment too long.

Then you grab your phone and head out the door.

You take the long way.

Just a few extra steps down the drive, past the hydrangeas your dad refuses to trim and the cracks in the sidewalk like the ones you used to trip over as a kid back in Georgia. Your sandals make soft noises against the concrete, heartbeat louder in your ears than anything else.

The air is warm already, thick with the promise of another too-hot day in Austin. But there’s a breeze that catches your dress and reminds you—this isn’t the end of the world. Just a porch. Just a man.

Just Joel.

He’s already there when you round the corner—

Sitting in a chair on the porch with a mug in his hand, flannel sleeves rolled to the elbows even in the heat. His hair’s a mess. The kind of mess you know from fingers tugging, not sleep.

He looks up when he hears your footsteps.

Doesn’t say anything. Just watches.

Your stomach flips.

It’s a normal morning. He looks like a man just enjoying the quiet before the day starts. But you know better. That stillness in his shoulders, that tension in his jaw—it’s for you.

“Coffee?” he offers.

You shake your head. “No. I—” Your voice cracks, and you clear your throat. “I’m okay.”

He nods, sets the mug down beside him. Then gestures with his chin. “Come sit.”

You do.

Slowly. Carefully. Like if you move too fast, you’ll unravel.

You sit next to him but not too close. Not yet.

For a few moments, there’s only the sound of cicadas and wind. And the quiet ache between you.

For a few moments, there’s only the sound of cicadas and wind. And the quiet ache between you.

“I didn’t mean to text you last night,” you say softly. “I just… I don’t know what I was trying to prove.”

Joel shakes his head once. “You were hurt. And drunk. I wasn’t mad.”

You glance over at him. “I meant what I said, though.”

“I know,” he says, eyes still fixed on the street ahead. “But I need you to figure it out, Delilah. ‘Cause if you don’t… I can’t keep doing this halfway.”

You nod slowly. “That’s fair.”

Joel’s quiet for a long time. Then, so softly it almost disappears in the breeze:

“I’m not askin’ you to be sure about everything. But be sure about me.”

You swallow hard, breath caught in your throat.

“I’m trying,” you whisper.

Joel turns his head, eyes meeting yours.

And it’s not anger there. Or even hurt.

It’s hope.

Quiet. Barely there. But it’s enough.

He gives the smallest nod, and that’s all either of you needs—for now.

“C’mon,” Joel says, pushing himself up from the porch with a soft grunt. “Let’s go inside.”

You hesitate, but he’s already holding the door open for you.

You cross the threshold slowly, the familiar creak under your sandals making your chest tighten. You’ve been here before—but not like this. 

The air is cool inside. Smells like old wood and coffee grounds and something distinctly him—cedar and warmth, the kind of scent that lingers in bedsheets and shirts long after he’s gone.

He leaves the door cracked, walking toward the kitchen, giving you space. “You want water? Somethin’ to eat?”

“No, I’m okay,” you murmur, eyes already drifting across the room.

It’s quiet. Lived-in. A little messy, but not in a bad way. Shoes kicked off by the back door. A flannel tossed over the arm of the couch. And the mantle—lined with things you never noticed before.

You step closer.

There’s a picture of him and a young girl—Sarah, you assume—smiling wide with two ice cream cones in their hands. Her hair’s pulled back in a braid, Joel’s got a sunburn across his nose. It’s the kind of photo that aches just to look at. Happy. Real.

Next to it, an older photograph—two younger men, arms slung over each other’s shoulders. Joel and another guy. A brother, maybe? The resemblance is strong. There’s laughter frozen in the frame, even if their smiles look tired.

You don’t know how long you stand there, staring. Something presses heavy behind your ribs.

You didn’t see this house when he pulled you into his lap in the truck that night. Didn’t notice the photographs on the walls when he had your back arched off his sheets.

This is his life.

He’s lived a whole one.

You feel him before you hear him, the soft thud of boots on the rug behind you. He stops a few feet away, not touching, just watching.

“I didn’t think you’d ever really look,” he says quietly.

You turn a little, eyes flicking to his. “I didn’t let myself.”

Joel nods once, jaw flexing like he’s biting down a dozen things he wants to say. “You weren’t part of all that,” he murmurs. “Not then.”

Your fingers twitch at your side.

“But you’re here now.”

The words hang heavy. Real.

You blink. “Joel…”

He steps forward just enough to close the gap, his voice low, soft like the morning sun bleeding through the blinds. “You don’t gotta say anything yet. I just wanted you to see it. All of it. Not just the parts I show you in the dark.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until his fingers gently brush a tear from your cheek.

You don’t flinch.

And for the first time in weeks, you let yourself look at him fully.

This man. This house. This life you keep pretending you can walk away from.

It’s all right here.

And it’s waiting.

You sit down on the worn edge of his couch, hands clenched in your lap like you’re bracing for something—though you couldn’t say what. Joel stands near the kitchen, arms crossed, watching you like he’s not sure whether to move closer or give you space to breathe.

The silence stretches.

You break it.

“I’m not… good at this,” you say finally, voice hoarse. “At—” your hands flutter, vague and uncertain “—feeling things. Letting people see the real stuff. Letting myself feel it.”

Joel doesn’t interrupt.

“I thought I’d be okay by now. It’s been almost a year since my Mom…” You pause, throat catching. “And I thought moving here, being with my Dad, starting fresh—whatever the hell that means—was gonna help me get over it. Over her. Over the guilt.”

He still doesn’t move.

“I’m confusing,” you admit, bitter, quiet. “I make bad choices. I hurt people. I don’t know what I’m doing half the time, Joel, and when you—when we—started… I didn’t think it was anything. I didn’t let myself think.”

You finally look up.

He’s closer now. Not touching. Just near enough that his warmth feels like a question.

“But then it was something,” you whisper. “You became the only thing that made me feel like I wasn’t falling apart. Like there was solid ground under me again.”

Joel’s brow furrows, but he says nothing.

And so you go on.

“I know I’ve been selfish. I know I’ve sent mixed signals and pushed you away and ran straight into things just to prove I didn’t care.” You shake your head, eyes stinging. “But I do. I do care. I want to stop pretending like I don’t.”

He watches you, gaze unreadable. Something flickering behind his eyes like fire behind glass.

“I want this,” you say finally. “Whatever this is. I want to know you. Not just the parts that come out in the dark, not just the way you touch me. I want to know about Sarah. Your brother. What you were like at my age. What scares you. What makes you laugh. I want all of it, Joel.”

Your voice cracks. “I want you.”

The silence that follows is thick, electric.

He takes one slow step forward. Then another.

Then he crouches in front of you.

“You sure?” he asks quietly.

You nod, eyes glassy. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Joel exhales through his nose like he’s been holding that breath for days.

He doesn’t kiss you.

He just sits there a moment longer, studying your face like it’s the first time he’s been allowed to. Then finally—

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Then let’s take it slow this time.”

[nayrawrites]

Wanda Maximoff x Fem OC

Title: Three Simple Knocks

Summary:

Wanda unexpectedly gets a new roommate and doesn’t know that the stranger isn’t who she claims to be. Secretly, the woman is there to give Wanda Maximoff the happy ending she deserves.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female OC

Status: Ongoing

Words: 28k+

Tags: strangers to lovers, roommates, slowburn, soulmates

Ao3:

Wattpad:

Chapter 2: A Game

"You can sleep here."

They were currently standing in the middle of Wanda's guest bedroom. It had never actually been used but Wanda still made sure to at least clean it once a month.

The bed sheets were freshly made, soft but plain. A simple gray, no actual personality. Just like the rest of the room.

There were two nightstands on each side of the bed with a nightstand lamp and on the opposite wall was a rather small TV. Wanda wasn't really sure why she even bought one, when she never used it anyway but it seemed like something a normal guest room would have. She liked normalcy.

There was a small desk next to the windows and the only other thing in the room was an empty closet. Maybe she should have decorated it more. Then again, she never actually expected someone else to stay here.

"Neat," Lucy placed her luggage next to the bed and walked over to the windows. "Did you do all that?" her finger was pointing out the window, as she glanced over at Wanda.

She didn't know what Lucy meant at first, until she spotted her garden. She nodded and took in the sight momentarily. Flowers, vegetables and fruits covered most of the green ground. Gardening had been one of her main activities ever since she came back; it was helpful when you just wanted to clear your head.

And Lucy had the perfect view from her new room.

"Some ground rules before I let you unpack." The brunette faced Wanda. "I'm all ears."

"That's rule number one; don't be all ears. I don't need you to be snooping around while you're staying here." If there had been a camera filming them right then and there, Lucy surely would've looked directly into it after hearing that.

"Rule number two." She paused, her forehead scrunching up in thought, "Actually that's it. Mind your own business and leave when you can."

Lucy held back a smile, when she realized that Wanda already ran out of ideas before she even had the opportunity to gather any momentum.

Tough front, huh.

"Yes, ma'am." She had never been good at holding back smiles.

Wanda rolled her eyes and headed towards the door.

"If you need to freshen up, feel free to use the towels and toiletries in the bathroom."

And then she left.

"Oh my God," Lucy whispered and threw herself on the bed. She couldn't remember the last time, she'd been so nervous. Of course she was aware of whom this house belonged to, but seeing her in person was a whole different thing on its own.

She let her stay though, so that gave her hope for what was to come.

Using the time, she unpacks and takes a quick hot shower. Although she had her own shampoo and other essentials, she used the stuff that was already in the bathroom, which was connected to her bedroom — very convenient, if she may add.

And she liked the way apples looked, so why not smell like them too.

When she finally left her room again, her brown hair still damp, she tentatively walked to the living room, where she found Wanda nose-deep in a book.

At first glance, it was hard to tell what she was reading, but as her fingers glided over the paper, swiftly turning the page as soon as Wanda read the last word, Lucy caught a glimpse of the cover.

Lucy knew that book and she also knew why Wanda was reading it. The realization dawned on her, filling the middle of her chest. She'd file that piece of information away for later. All it did now was flood Lucy with more determination of what's to come.

Hearing the soft steps, Wanda looked up from her book. It could totally be her imagination, but Lucy could've sworn the woman's lips were twitching.

What was so funny?

"What are you wearing?" she asked.

The brunette looked down at her clothes; a white shirt with Bibbles face planted on it and a pair of dark blue sweatpants covering her. Not like she would admit it to Wanda, but she just bought them.

"Pajamas?" Maybe she should be offended.

"It's not even 6 pm," the Sokovian countered.

"Can't a girl be comfortable in her own home," Lucy leisurely walked over to the white couch Wanda was occupying and sat down on the opposite end, "besides, there's no way I'm leaving the house today."

"Not your own home but sure," Wanda grumbled.

Silence settled between them again and Wanda genuinely tried focusing on the book in her hands, but it was difficult with the eyes of the woman burning a hole in the side of her face.

Sharing a space with someone felt weird, even weirder when you didn't actually know them, and the weirdest when they were basically openly stalking you.

Lucy didn't even try and hide it. Observing humans was her favorite way to pass some time. Body language, twitches in their faces and breathing patterns; they all told a story. Lucy had no clue what story, she never claimed she was any good at reading, yet that didn't stop her. If anything, it motivated her to continue.

Annoyed, Wanda closed the book with a flick of her wrist — a red mist surrounded said book and transported it right back to the coffee table.

Who knows when it will be able to fulfill its purpose and be read again.

Her new stalker watched, possibly in amazement, the way the magic formed at her fingertips and filled the atmosphere with its power. She'd always wondered, whether or not the mist made a sound. Now she knew it didn't. It was silent, not noticeable at all, if you didn't see it. Just like the wretchedness that had been simmering inside Wanda ever since she opened a certain door one fateful day. But Lucy had every intention to see.

"Can't you find something to do?"

The question shook Lucy out of her thoughts, "Oh yeah, sorry."

However, instead of marching away, Wanda had to stare in concern, as she noticed Lucy shuffling closer to her.

"What are you doing?" she asked incredulously.

"Finding something to do," Lucy deadpanned.

Now don't blame Wanda for where her first thought wandered. She didn't like it any more than you and she feigned no restraint in showing that displeasure for a split second.

To be fair, that phrase alone wouldn't have caused such a reaction, however Lucy basically getting in her face and invading her sacred space, hit the nail in the coffin.

At the plain look of disgust, Lucy's eyes widened.

"Not like that, perv," her hand rose to shove Wanda playfully by the shoulder. The witch just let it sway her, embracing the opportunity to get some distance between the two of them with open arms. Before she got to clarify who the actual pervert in this house was, Lucy continued. The nuisance probably saw it coming anyway.

"Let's play a game."

"No."

"C'mon, it'll be fun."

"No."

"You don't even know what game."

"And I don't need to. Crazy how the world works."

"Please," she stressed.

"No."

"You know, I can do this all day." Low blow, no point in denying that.

Wanda's answer was a groan in annoyance. Lucy took that as a great sign.

"How about 21 questions?"

When Wanda still hadn't said anything in return, she took that as her cue to explain, "I basically ask a question and yo-"

"I know how to play," Wanda interrupted.

In hindsight, the game would've been a good opportunity to find out more about her guest, which was the main reason she even indulged in her antics.

Especially because liars tended to slip up when they got too comfortable for their own good.

She faces Lucy properly, "I'll start. How do you know Clint?"

"Through a mutual friend. I've told you that already," she replied, crossing her legs to get more comfortable on the couch.

"Which friend?"

Lucy just shook her head, "Nope, it's my turn now."

Worth a shot, Wanda thought.

The brunette's eyes looked up for a second, trying to think of a question. She intended to start easy and slow.

"Why do you live so far off the city?" That should be simple enough.

"I like the quiet." Truth be told, Wanda expected worse.

Had Lucy even muttered 'Westview', she'd have shut the whole thing down.

"Why are you here?"

That was a really good question. Lucy just couldn't give Wanda the answer, she would've wanted.

"I needed a place to stay."

Irritation grew in Wanda.

"Are you reading that book for the first time?" to clarify, Lucy nodded over to where it was currently resting, the red mist of Wanda's magic long gone.

The witch tilted her head in confusion. She had no idea what Lucy was getting at but answered nonetheless.

"No." She wouldn't get into detail, how often she'd reached the last page of the novel and how often she'd flipped back to the first page again, in hopes of getting different answers.

“Where are you from?" she asked.

There was a moment of silence, in which Lucy had to take a second and consider her answer. It was only a slight pause, barely detectable but Wanda noticed and in the back of her mind, it unnerved her. Why would someone have to think about where they're from, if they aren't lying.

"I'd say further north from here."

Lucy saw the game for what it was — an interrogation.

Regardless Wanda being aware of that too by now, Lucy's avoidance was enough to piss her off.

"Stop doing that," she demanded.

"Stop doing what?"

Playing the ignorant gal wasn't always the best route, but it had to suffice.

"Giving me these vague answers that literally tell me nothing about you."

Oops, she caught on, Lucy thought.

"It's not like yours were any better," she countered and despite the threatening twitch in Wanda's eyebrow, Lucy had a point. Playing a game of honesty, where both parties had no intention of sharing, was never goint to end well.

"It's only fair that I know who I'm allowing to sleep in my house."

"It's only fair that I know whose house I'm staying at."

God, Wanda really didn't think she had anger issues.

Sure, there was the whole thing of manipulating a whole town and all, but that wasn't done out of anger.

Still, her unwanted guest seemed to get a rise out of her, "No one asked you to stay here."

Now that's when Lucy realized, it potentially wasn't the sharpest idea to test her luck on her first night. There was no certainty that Wanda wouldn't just as easily kick her out as she took her in.

After it was obvious that Wanda pretty much won the argument, which she secretly took great pleasure in, she cleared her throat, "I think the game is over."

Nothing more than a nod was given in return, until Lucy stood up from the couch. Wanda looked questioningly at her, when Lucy didn't seem to do anything else.

"I'm kinda hungry, can I check out the kitchen?", she asked.

Wanda didn't even consider that she could have any other needs; a mistake on her part. And she felt quite guilty for being such a bad hostess, albeit that was something she could quickly work on.

"Right, sorry." Now it was Wanda's turn to stand up.

Together, they made their way to the kitchen and Lucy was almost in awe.

Not because it looked grand and luxurious. No, that wasn't the case. Instead, it was because it seemed like the complete opposite of the rest of the house — save the garden.

While the other rooms she had been in; her bedroom, its adjoined bathroom and the living room, were cozy in its own kind, they didn't appear to be very lived in.

The ambiance was still cold. On pictures, it would've been decent, perfect for marketing and selling. Whereas for a place that had supposedly been lived in for the last couple of months, it seemed...empty.

The kitchen however, was warm and soft, perhaps even the heart of the house, at least for now.

Six hanging pendant lights in some kind of rustic style were the first things she noticed. They were scattered all over the room but the ones hanging near the large vertical windows by the sink were really bringing the room all together. Echoing the last light of the sun, right before twilight fell, Lucy wondered what it would look like when the lamps could rest and natural sunlight took over.

She'd have to wait until tomorrow to find out.

The rest of the kitchen was filled with wooden countertops and cream colored cabinets that were hanging on the walls. She spotted multiple plants near the window and on the small table in the middle of the room, adding to the whole vintage cottage charm.

Having breakfast in here must be a whole experience.

For now, she had to settle on dinner or some snacks.

"I got some leftovers from today, if you want," Wanda offered.

"Please."

Taking that as her cue, Wanda — the amazing hostess that she is, of course — prepares the dish for her and motions for Lucy to start eating.

"You won't have any?"

"No, I've already eaten," she replied and watched for a bit as Lucy seemed way too excited for a simple meal heated up by a microwave, but Wanda guessed she must've been really hungry.

God knows, how long it took her to get here and if that journey included any snacks.

Not exactly sure what to do, Wanda left the kitchen right before the woman got to eat. She settled on the couch again and grabbed her book.

She tried. She truly did. The book wasn't even opened though, so maybe she didn't try that hard after all. Instead, her eyes were settled on the door of the kitchen; a direct view to Lucy.

It felt strange seeing someone in her kitchen and she wasn't sure what it was, but seeing Lucy sit in the kitchen, alone, eating her meal, made her uneasy.

Sure, she still had no actual idea where Lucy was from, why she came and what she planned to do, but she knew what it's like to eat alone. Wanda did it every day. And it's silent and dull and sucks all the fun out of eating something good, if you do it often enough.

So that's why, with the book in hand, she walks right back to the kitchen and sits down wordlessly. Her sole focus on the words in her book.

However, Lucy was happily using her cutlery to devour the veggie casserole and the piece of chicken on her plate, when Wanda came. Her mouth stuffed with a big chunk of broccoli as she looked up in surprise. As Lucy saw Wandas masquerade of nonchalance, she couldn't hide the big grin forming on her face. Lucy would totally take that as a win.

Be that as it may, imagine the sight of a woman trying to grin when her mouth was barely able to cover the broccoli before that.

Chewing like you have a secret went out of the window.

When she was done, her hand patting the satisfied stomach, she promptly did the dishes before the Sokovian got any ideas. Her handiness was pretty much non-existent but it got the job done at some point, all the while Wanda stayed in her chair at the table.

Wanda left as soon as she was done, not bothering to wait for Lucy.

As she was about to follow her, Lucy stopped in her tracks once she saw Wanda standing in the middle of the hallway, a piece of paper in her hand.

She swallowed, when she felt her own empty pocket.

Had Wanda's eyes always flashed red like this, Lucy wondered, as the witch motioned to the note clutched in her hand.

"What the hell is this?"

Lucy already knew what was written on the paper, branded with her initials, before she even looked.

LM

Why aren't you a superhero anymore?

Why do you live here?

Did your fingertips ever start looking different lately?

Why don't you have any pictures in your house?

Why did you let me stay here?

Are you okay

In her humble opinion, it wasn't that big of a deal.

To someone who was wary of your whole existence, it might be.

If you liked it, feel free to check out the whole ongoing fic

[xxplastic-cubexx]

you open my Super Important Documents and its just pictures of charles xavier

[kindahoping4forever]

Pretend I gave this a hinged and appropriate caption

[redwidow616]

can I be honest?

[minviii]

So is a long winded text at 1am a good way of coming out to your parents?