#I kinda wanted a little more with her sister - she comes in more at the end but I would have liked more throughout the book idk | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

loaksky · 6 months ago

Text

— come a little closer

hockey jock!vi x tutor!reader, fluff / humor / angst / kinda slowburn / smut (18+ mdni!), wc: 16k+ [buckle your seatbelts bc i could not shut the fuck up about vi if i wanted to !]

synopsis: you’re many things; an exemplary student, quiet and well-mannered, loved immensely by those who bother to get to know you, but most importantly, the newfound object of superstar athlete vi’s every affection. or, in other words, hockey jock!vi is lowkey a loser, atrociously down bad, and will stop at nothing to make you hers.

content warnings: language (duh), brief mentions of familial issues, latent insecurity, miscommunication & lack of communication, kissing, groping, SEX! mdni, seriously, i’ll THROW UP!, more specifically fingering (r!receiving), oral (r!receiving), spitting, makeup sex idk, just good old fashioned lesbian BANGING! also! jazz cabbage, lets pretend for the sake of this au that student athlete’s don’t get tested bc i NEED hockey jock!vi to hotbox reader PLS.

fic soundtrack: i could imagine —alina baraz /snooze — sza /tonight — summer walker / pressure — james vickery + sg lewis / wish that i could — umi

author’s note: of course it’d be arcane s2 that resurrects me from my almost yearlong hiatus...pls enjoy this fic even though i’m pretty rusty; she’s been cooking in the drafts for weeks T-T i’ll be answering some (very long overdue) asks and chatting with you guys <3 and finally, this shit is barely proofread bc my brain is fried lol

main masterlist | arcane masterlist

VI HAS A HUGE PROBLEM.

One that supersedes every issue she’d ever given weight to in all of her four (and a half) years of university. Is way larger than twice-a-day practices on and off the ice that go hand-in-hand with studying so hard to make sure that her grades don’t slip a fraction. Probably way bigger than the fact that her little sister’s graduating high school soon and she’s trying her absolute best to be as great a role model as she can despite wanting to crack under the pressure. And most definitely bigger than her favorite on-again-off-again fling, Cait Kiramann, who’s rare to come by these days.

Vi has a huge problem, and quite frankly, it’s you.

In hindsight, she’s been relatively good at overlooking you, not that it’d been intentional to begin with, but Vi knows a lot of people. Too many, she feels sometimes. So it's easy for you to slip through the cracks when everyone’s vying for even a shred of her attention.

Perhaps it’s what piques her interest when your orbits finally do collide. Because, admittedly, you know all about Vi. Know that she’s probably one of the most valuable players on the uni’s hockey team (she’s an absolute beast on the ice). Also know that she’s a biomedical physics major and actually incredibly smart. But most of all, you know that not only is Violet a flirt, she’s a player.

Not necessarily that you’ve ever really been on the receiving end, but mostly because her reputation precedes her and you’ve seen it all from a distance. Can't not when the decorated hockey star is such a charmer whether she intends to be or not. Vi has girls both certain and questioning stumbling for a single glance.

You often think it’s pitiful, but it’s not like it’s really your problem.

Until it is.

It all starts at The Afterparty.

Hours after a big victory in the first game of three that solidifies whether the university hockey team participates in the championships, Violet is the star of tonight’s celebration.

She’d sunk the winning shot, and for that she’s being poured shot after celebratory shot. By eleven she’s practically hammered and it’s when her teammate, Ellie, and the captain, Abby, finally show up.

The three of them together, drunk, is like a minefield of obnoxious laughter, dirty innuendos, and rowdy behavior.

And for a while it’s funny, has Vi feeling like she’s on cloud nine, but eventually, the drunken high begins to evaporate and she starts to feel a little overwhelmed.

The spotlight shifts and even though Vi typically preens under the attention, she’s grateful to finally breathe.

With a plastic cup full of water, she’s sliding the back door open and stepping out onto the back patio to take in the cool air for a breather.

She makes a move towards the stairs, but nearly jumps out of her skin when she registers the silhouette at the base of the steps.

“Jesus, fuck,” Vi hisses to herself. “You scared the shit outta me.”

You don’t even spare her a glance over your shoulder, just take a sip from your drink.

“Sorry,” you hum passively.

She catches her breath, doesn’t even bother to ask permission as she drops all of her weight next to you.

The step creaks under pure muscle.

Her strong legs stretch out, elbows settling back against the step up as she waits. And waits. And waits.

The amount of silence that lapses is unusual, uncharacteristic for Vi, especially so because people are typically babbling enough to fill the void when it comes to her.

But you just sit there, nursing your beer and staring up at the stars. The moon hangs half in the sky, softly illuminating the planes of your features.

It’s her first good look at your face and Vi’s definitely drunk, but the immediate thought that comes to her mind is pretty, pretty, pretty. Undeniably and painfully pretty. And not Caitlyn pretty, the only girl she’s ever really used as a benchmark, but intimidatingly so in your own right. Makes her swallow hard, throat bobbing as she watches you unapologetically.

“It’s rude to stare, Violet,” you say simply, eyes finally flitting to meet hers.

Her breath catches in her throat, earthy flecks dancing in your moonlit irises. God, your eyes. Framed by thick lashes and round as you look up at her.

“You know who I am?” she asks stupidly as if point fives of her face aren’t blown up into memes and plastered all over the house.

“Who doesn’t?” you ask, breathing a puff of humorless laughter as you crush the can in your ringed fingers.

And perhaps you got her there, but Vi’s feeling exceptionally small under your gaze despite usually filling out a room. Something about you makes her shrink.

“I— fuck,” Vi stumbles, cheeks red because you’re looking at her with an indecipherable gleam in your gaze that has her squirming. “What’s your name?”

She cringes at herself, rolls the piercing in her nose once, twice, for comfort.

You laugh again, a little more genuine this time because, from a distance, the athlete’s usually so suave, undeniably gorgeous and composed. Right now, the girl in front of you only ticks one of those boxes.

“________,” you offer.

She weighs the name on her tongue, decides she likes it a lot, and tries to shake off whatever this feeling you’re giving her is.

“And you go to school here?” she asks.

You nod once.

“Neuroscience, fourth year.”

“Huh, we’re in similar fields, but I’ve never seen you around,” Vi observes. Because she’s certain she’d bookmark a face like yours, absolutely no doubt about it.

“We had organic chemistry together sophomore year with Dr. Talis,” you say matter-of-factly, like you’re not blowing her mind right now. “And I’m auditing Medarda’s biometry class this semester.”

Vi’s floored.

“Wait, wait, but...” She’s trying to piece the puzzle together, but her brain’s still a little fuzzy, equal parts from the alcohol, but also because she’s caught a whiff of your perfume and you smell so sweet.

“I pop in every once in a while,” you tell her. “But I tutor in that time slot every Tuesday and Thursday, only really go when I don’t have any appointments.”

“Hold on, this is nuts,” Violet says, body easing to face you. You flinch because she doesn’t realize she’s practically yelling. “There’s no way, I definitely would’ve remembered you if that was the case.”

You hum, corners of your lips quirking as you shrug your shoulders.

“Doubt it,” you counter. “I’m nothing particularly spectacular.”

“Nothing particularly spectacular,” Vi repeats under her breath.

And under normal circumstances, she’d be flirting up a storm right now, trying to charm her way into getting you to bite, but this is one of the first semblances of normalcy she’s experienced in a while. No ulterior motives, no exaggerated kindness, no outright asking her to fuck.

Suddenly your phone lights up in your lap and you’re turning your attention to the device.

“DD duties call,” is all you say as you make a move to stand up.

No, this can’t be all she gets from you tonight. Not when she’s been narrowly missing someone like you for the past four years and you’re just now coming to light.

The dormant liquid courage bubbles and Vi’s gently grabbing your wrist to pull you to a stop.

“Maybe I’ll see you around?” she asks, steely eyes liquid as she stares up at you.

You eye the scar on her lip, gaze lingering there before flitting to meet hers.

“Maybe.”

Vi decides that she needs to see you again.

You’d left her with crumbs this past Friday night and she’d spent the better part of the weekend trying (and failing) to cross paths with you again.

“Jesus, you’re down bad,” Ellie chuffs Monday morning on their walk to the campus coffee shop.

“You don’t understand,” Vi defends. “She’s so...so...”

“So?”

“Different, I dunno,” Vi sighs, fiddling with the strap of her backpack as they walk. “We didn’t even talk about much, but that was the most normal I’ve felt around someone in a while.”

Her teammate snorts.

“Probably the gayest thing I’ve heard you say,” Ellie deadpans. “She isn’t immediately trying to munch and you’re already in love. Pathetic.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Vi scoffs as they approach the coffee shop, inside packed full with half-functioning college students so early in the morning. “Trust me, if you met her, you’d—”

The words die in her throat because halle-fucking-lujah, the universe or god, or whatever has answered her every prayer this past weekend as she clocks you a few paces ahead in line.

Ellie follows her friend’s line of vision to find exactly what she’s staring at and she lets out a low whistle when her gaze finds your frame.

From a completely aesthetic standpoint, she can see why Vi’s immediately hooked.

“Hah,” she makes a noise in her throat. “Okay, so maybe it makes sense.”

Vi can’t help but stare because, if it were possible, you were far prettier under the warm lighting of the cafe’s ambiance. The curls of your hair frame your face beautifully and it’s so fucking cute how focused you are on your phone.

“Hate to break it to you, though. That girl’s way out of your league,” Ellie says like it’s common knowledge.

“Wow, way to boost my ego,” Vi mutters drily.

“Just being realistic,” Ellie argues. “If you bag her, she’s easily the hottest girl you’ve been with.”

And Vi can’t really contest that, not when the proof’s in the fucking pudding.

Her body’s moving of its own accord and before she can register her own actions, she’s mumbling quiet s’cuse me’s under her breath as she squeezes between patrons to close a bruised hand over your shoulder.

You nearly jump out of your skin, fumbling with your phone as an earbud falls out.

“Shit, sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” Vi says quickly.

Your gaze snaps to her, brows furrowing almost imperceptibly before your expression settles.

“Violet,” you acknowledge.

And she realizes that she didn’t really have a game plan coming up to you so abruptly. Had been so focused on actually just seeing you again, that she hadn’t thought through the rest of it.

The way you stare up at her is thoroughly disarming because she doesn’t have the shield of night or alcoholic courage to carry her through it.

“Can I help you?” you ask, but not unkindly.

“Oh, uh, I...” She chances a glance over her shoulder to find that Ellie is watching her from a few customers away, eyebrow cocked and smirk testing. She word vomits before she can think of a coherent thought. “You mentioned tutoring...the last time we talked.”

You don’t even bat an eye.

“I did.”

“You’re also auditing Medarda’s biometry class.”

“I am.”

“I’m...I’m not really doing too hot in Medarda’s right now,” Vi says, brain nearly short-circuiting and freezing up because, lie! She’s doing phenomenally in Medarda’s session and, truthfully, she’s just downright scared to ask you to hang out.

Especially when you look up at her like that.

You shift and she’s swallowing down around nothing.

“Hmm, can’t have that, can we?” you hum.

Vi could melt.

“No,” she breathes out a laugh. “Can’t.”

“You can sign up for a slot through the library’s website,” you say after you weigh the thought.

Vi’s pausing, staring at you like a deer caught in the headlights.

“So I can get paid?” you fill in.

“Oh, right,” Vi chokes. “Right.”

You give her a soft smile before plugging your earbud back in, leaving Vi to rejoin her obviously amused friend.

“You’re fucking joking!”

The librarian gives you and your incredulous roommate a look from the circulation desk and you return it with a sheepish smile from where you’re tucked by a wall of looming floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Maddie,” you whisper.

“You’re telling me that The Violet asked you personally to tutor her?” Maddie asks you, leaned over the tabletop with wide eyes.

“Yeah, cornered me at Brew House this morning and asked me to tutor her in Medarda’s class.”

“Just that?” she asks. “Nothing else?”

You look around in disbelief.

“Uh, yeah?” you scoff. “What else would she want?”

“What else would she— are you serious?” Maddie leans back in her seat, arms crossing over her chest as she gives you a plain look. “You know all about Vi, you’re actually gonna play stupid?”

“Oh, come on.” You roll your eyes. “You’ve seen the girls Violet’s fucked, right? Kiramann? The blonde from the tennis team? She’s got a type and you know it.”

It’s Maddie’s turn to roll her eyes and you see the exasperated groan she’s staving off.

“None of that self-deprecating bullshit—”

“It’s not self-deprecating!” you argue. “Not everyone wants to fuck Violet, Maddie. Put me in the number one spot.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Don’t start.”

“All I’m saying is that anyone with eyes can see that Vi’s hot as fuck. That being said, you’re also hot as fuck. Not only that, but rumor has it, she gives the most toe-curling—”

You’re rolling your eyes again, gaze fluttering out the window momentarily only to find that, speak of the devil, Violet’s approaching the library with a skip in her step.

Maddie stops her spiel to trace your gaze and nearly falls out of her seat when she finds the object of your conversation is advancing, fast.

“No fucking way,” you whisper to yourself, pulling up your tutoring log on your tablet to find that, yup, Violet has most-definitely taken your advice and signed up for a tutoring slot.

If the time reads correctly, you’ve got three minutes before she’s due to be taking Maddie’s seat.

Your friend is grinning at you mischievously, stuffing her backpack quickly to vacate the space across from you.

“Un-fucking-believable,” you scoff, slumping back in your seat.

“Tell me how it goes,” she giggles, slinging her bag over her shoulder as she stands.

“Maddie,” you warn.

“Love you, see you at home!”

Violet’s strolling into the library just as Maddie leaves through the other doors and try as you might make yourself small in the open air near the research center, her gaze falls on you as soon as she enters.

“Hey,” she breathes once breaches your vicinity.

“Hi.”

A moment lapses before you’re nodding towards the seat before you.

“We can get started whenever you’re ready.”

Right. Right! Vi’s mentally cringing, pulling the chair out with a squeak and dropping onto the worn cushion.

Her eyes are locked, watching as you pull the biometry textbook from your little messenger bag.

“Any particular areas you’re struggling in?” you ask, flipping to a clean sheet of paper in your notepad and clicking open your pen.

Vi combs her brain, tries to think of anything she’s not really grasping in Medarda’s class, but she’s been acing all the exams with flying colors, so she spits out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Logistic regression, probably,” she answers.

“In relation to...?” You tilt your head and Vi’s breath is hitching.

“The Confusion Matrix,” she answers, even though she knows all about it.

It’s only when you start breaking it down from the bare bones that she realizes that she could listen to you talk for-probably-ever.

You obviously have a great understanding of the subject if the way you deconstruct the relationship between sensitivity and specificity (or whatever the fuck) is anything to go by, and she doesn’t realize that she hasn’t even blinked until you’re glancing up at her.

“Am I making any sense?” you ask softly, taking in the almost confused look on Violet’s face.

“Huh?”

Vi snaps out of it, cheeks coloring pink when she notes the way you straighten in your seat.

“Am I going too fast?”

“No, no!’ Vi practically shouts before chancing an embarrassed gaze around the library to find a few wandering eyes. She clears her throat and tries to relax. “No, you’re doing great. I get it.”

You don’t seem convinced, but the faster you get through the material, the faster Violet can leave and you can finally catch your breath.

Because maybe Maddie’s a little right. That while you know, one hundred percent, without-a-doubt, that you and Violet are cut from two different cloths and that you ultimately won’t mesh, there’s still a sliver of want that settles somewhere confined in the pit of your gut.

You don’t know how long you continue before you notice that sun has begun to set in the horizon, but Vi’s effort is unwavering. She’s probably on her tenth practice problem by now and so far, she’s only flubbed once.

You decide to fold your cards first.

“O-kay,” you say, sucking in a sharp breath as you roll your shoulders and squeeze your hands shut so tight your knuckles crack. “This is a good stopping point, don’t you think?”

No, Vi could keep going forever if it meant hearing you talk all night, but the little G-shock wristwatch winks the time and she realizes that the two of you have been going at it for going on two hours and you’re probably exhausted.

“Yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you so long,” Vi says sheepishly. “Thanks a lot for your help, I...”

You look up from where you’re shuffling your papers together, pausing when she hesitates.

“I really appreciate you. I know you probably help dozens of people every week and—”

She stops talking when she sees you crack what seems to be the first genuine smile she could get out of you since Friday.

“It’s my job, Violet,” you tell her. “I’m happy to help.”

And she’d done well enough during the tutoring session, had a successful run with the practice problems. You were confident it was just a one and done. Perhaps served as a review for the upcoming exam Medarda had posted on the class page.

But then you see her name in the final time slot on Thursday, don’t really think much of it until you’re tabbing to next week’s schedule for shits and giggles. Tuesday and Thursday are booked through again, her name highlighted in yellow.

You minimize the calendar and pull up the aggregate schedule only to find that every 4 o’clock slot every Tuesday and Thursday’s been booked until the end of the semester.

You refresh for good measure.

“Oh, you’re so shitting me.”

You don’t know what kind of joke this is, if Violet thinks that this is funny, but you’re not amused.

Especially when you’re stalking all the way to the athletic hall, ignoring the wolfish stares from shameless student athletes to whip into the women’s hockey team’s reserved conditioning space.

You find her benching near the center of the room, Abigail Anderson spotting her while the rest of the team engages in various workouts and exercises.

A hush ripples over the weight room as you approach the hockey star, standing at the end of the bench where her knees are bent. One of Abigail Anderson’s eyebrows quirk up as you stand there with your hands on your hips and you hope the chill that runs down your spine as she checks you out doesn’t visibly vibrate your body.

When the barbell nearly crushes Vi’s chest on her last rep, Abby’s quick to help her re-rack and takes the biggest step back as Vi sits up.

Her expression falls and her face pales when she locks eyes with you, your features severe and gaze stony.

“Oh, hey,” she squeaks.

Truthfully, she hadn’t really pinned you as the type to be confrontational. Thought she’d have enough time to build a strong enough story as to why she booked out all of your tutoring sessions when in actuality she panicked when Ellie started grilling the fuck out of her about being a fucking pussy and begging her to just ask you out.

“You have some explaining to do, Violet.”

And she should definitely be embarrassed, not at all turned on, but she can’t help it as she gulps. Because when you stand before her like this, she can easily admit that she’d die for a private version of the view.

The silence in the weight room is palpable and you want to back down, but if this is some running joke and Vi’s going to make a show of humiliating you in front of her teammates, then you’d give her a show.

“Violet.”

Someone in the back snickers, another whistles, and Vi’s cheeks go red.

She’s standing, sweaty hands closing around your biceps as she spins you around and quickly guides you out of the conditioning room and out of her teammates’ line of ogling sight.

“V—”

“I’m sorry,” Violet splutters. “I’m just not really confident in Medarda’s class right now and I don’t trust myself to study alone, plus you’re a really good tutor and—”

“You do realize that those tutoring sessions are added to your tuition, right?” you ask incredulously. “It’s fifteen dollars an hour.”

Vi’s smile is crooked.

“That’s what my scholarship’s for,” she grins.

“Don’t you think that’s a bit excessive?” you try again. “I feel that before an exam for a little refresh is fair, but this would be like relearning the material after every class, all over again.”

“If it’s taught by you, I’ll take it,” Vi says quickly, and you pause because what does she mean by that?

You don’t really have much rebuttal left even though you’d marched up here with a fire under your ass. Vi’s looking down at you with a softened edge in her gaze and she’s wearing nothing but a pair of black sweatpants and sweat-soaked grey tank that reveals swathes of ink that curls up her arms and disappears under the fabric of her shirt.

She breathes out a small laugh when she notices the way your eyes dance.

“Anymore concerns, cupcake?”

Your gaze snaps to hers and her grin widens when she sees you fidget, little pet name obviously eliciting a semblance of a reaction from you.

“N-No,” you stammer.

“Great, see you tomorrow?“

You swallow.

“Okay,” you agree. “See you tomorrow.”

Violet pops into the library at four on the dot.

Her hair’s wet from an obvious shower and you smell her, warm like honey and cedar as she takes the seat across from you.

“Afternoon, cupcake,” she greets, slinging her backpack into the seat next to her.

You give her a warning look, but she just flashes you a toothy smile and nods towards the opened biometry textbook before you.

“What’s the lesson today, Teach?”

And this feels an awful lot like mocking, but you can’t be sure, not when Vi’s been somewhat respectful, sweet even.

“What do you know about the the sigmoid function?” you probe.

“Jack shit,” she laughs.

And maybe you’d find it endearing if the entirety of the situation wasn’t still absolutely mindfucking you at moment.

“Can I ask you something, Violet?” you ask, leaning back in your seat as you cross your arms to level her with as an intimidating look as you can.

“Sure, anything.”

“Are you messing with me?” you ask. “Is this some joke you and your friends are playing? Because I can’t really think of an outcome that would be funny.”

And you’d like to say that the look of horror on Violet’s face is consolation enough, but you know how being loved and being popular can make people act sometimes.

Vi contemplates telling you the truth, that she’s too chickenshit to ask you out, that getting close to you in any other way scares the fuck out of her. That maybe getting you to tutor her will segue into some form of friendship that’ll allow her to ease her way in. And maybe she’s going about it the hard way, but maybe Vi also likes a challenge.

“No jokes, just bad at statistics,” she says weakly.

You’re silent for way longer than comfort allows before you turn your attention to the textbook and Vi’s letting out a breath she doesn’t realize she’s holding.

“Fine,” you give in. “Let’s talk about sigmoid function and practice some applications...”

Vi’s happy to listen, goes through your preselected practice problems with ease (and maybe fucks up a value or two here and there to really sell her need for you). But the sun’s going down again, and it’s nearing six when Vi folds her hand this time around.

It comes in the form of her stomach grumbling in the emptying library and she looks up at you in embarrassment as you crack the first smile of the evening.

“Hungry?” you ask.

“Starving,” she replies dramatically, leaning so far back in her seat, her knees bump yours under the table.

Your toes curl at the contact, heart skipping when she doesn’t make a move to reposition herself.

“Have you eaten yet?” she asks, eyes looking everywhere but yours.

“Not since breakfast,” you admit.

“You like pizza?”

“Only the good kind,” you challenge.

“Beautiful,” Vi hums, shuffling her papers into her textbook and chucking it back into her bookbag. “I know the best place.”

Valentino’s is a hole-in-the-wall right outside of campus, a short walk from the library that Violet leverages as a way to get to know you outside of being lectured about statistical curves and correlation.

“Did you grow up around here?” Vi asks once the waiter sets two glasses of water down between the two of you.

You shake your head.

“No, grew up on the east coast and decided I needed a break from my life there,” you admit easily.

It’s almost as if the facade of professionalism fades away, melting to reveal you.

Vi’s desperate for more.

“As in?”

You look at her for a moment, wonder if you should divulge because you’re not really sure if Vi would get it, but she watches you like she’s hanging onto every single word you say, so you’re spilling.

“My dad died when I was little, left me and three other siblings with my Mom,” you offer. “And I love my siblings. Love my mom. She’s been a great parent, better than great actually, but most of our family disowned me when I came out and it was easier to run away than to deal with it.”

Violet’s expression falls, a furrow settling deep between her brows.

“Wow, I’m, uh, I’m really sorry to hear that,” she says, and she sounds sincere. A long moment lapses before she’s adding, “for what it’s worth, I think that’s very brave of you.”

And you seem a little surprised at the sentiment.

“Thanks.” You smile. “That’s sweet of you to say.”

Vi could turn to goo in this dimly lit booth, stained-glass wall sconce casting a warm glow over your pretty face.

“You—” She sniffs, changes the subject because she doesn’t know if she can do this on an empty stomach. “You like pineapple on your pizza?”

“Oh yeah,” you confirm proudly. “It’s a hill I’ll die on, I’m not sorry.”

“God, marry me now.”

She doesn’t realize she says it out loud until you’re bursting into a fit of laughter on your side of the booth.

“So this is something we can agree on?” you ask, head tilting in the way that makes Vi want to grab your face and taste you.

“Oh yeah,” she parrots instead. “One hundred percent.”

Valentino’s becomes routine just as much as Vi seeing you at four every Tuesday and Thursday becomes routine. It’s always after the Thursday session (because they have a three dollar slice from 6 to close) that you and Vi cram yourselves in the same booth near the kitchen and giggle over half a Hawaiian pizza.

“...And my little sister blew up her science project in the fourth grade—”

You choke on your bite, eyes wide as Violet recalls Powder’s little mishap that sent the entire gymnasium evacuating despite the tiniest fire.

“Now she’s about graduate and start school for chemical engineering,” she says, obviously proud.

“She seems like a smart girl,” you observe, if the countless stories Violet shares with you is anything to go by.

You figure being related to someone as great as the new friend you’ve made also speaks for itself.

“The smartest,” she agrees. “I’m proud of her.”

“I’m sure she’s proud of you too,” you assure her. “You’re a good big sister.”

And it’s in these moments that Vi realizes that she’s in far, far deeper than she initially gave stock. Because these past few weeks, she realizes that there’s a lot more to your big brain and your pretty face. You’re an attentive listener, way funnier than she could have anticipated, and just a lot more laid back than you let on.

That much she finds out after the two of you graduate from emailing with silly sign-offs to exchanging phone numbers and texting. It starts off rather irregular, a coffee order here and there, maybe a TikTok that Vi swears is funny, you just have to watch it all the way through! But then she starts texting you when she’s bored, when she’s in class, before practice, after. Even pops the question that’s been niggling at her since she met you: on a scale from 1 - 10 how down are you to smoke?

Like cigarettes?

no, weed, dummy.

Oh. Hmm. 7. 10 if I’m drunk.

She could not wipe the smile from her face even if she tried.

And then she gets the invite.

Ellie swears it’s her in.

“Jesus Christ if you even consider me a friend, you’ll bang,” Ellie calls from the couch.

“It’s just tutoring,“ Vi argues.

“Yeah, at her place,” she scoffs. “At least test the waters, maybe cop a feel.”

“You’re a pig,” Vi snorts, making sure her laptop and all of the worksheets Medarda’s assigned over the course of the week is in her backpack.

“You’ve been wet dreaming over this girl for months.”

“Fuck all the way off.” Vi’s face warms because her best friend isn’t necessarily wrong.

You’re too hot for your own good, but you don’t even know it and Vi thinks she could die sometimes. Especially when you wear your favorite pair of jeans, the ones that hug the swell of your ass just right. Or swipe on that shimmery lipgloss she swears makes your mouth look edible.

If you were willing, Vi would be all over you, but thinking about taking advantage of the fact that you trust her enough to invite her into your space feels a little grimy.

“Whatever, bang, don’t bang,” Ellie says nonchalantly. “Blueball yourself for all I care.”

Vi rolls her eyes, slings her bag over her shoulder before sliding on her shoes and leaving her friend on the couch with a resounding click.

You live off-campus, maybe a ten minute drive, in a cozy little complex near the suburbs. Your roommate, Maddie, a chipper blonde with a bob, is all too eager to leave when Vi arrives.

“Hi, sorry we couldn’t meet anywhere else,” you apologize as you let her into your space. “Even if the library wasn’t closed, the vet said I have to monitor Pip for the next 48 hours.”

Vi raises a brow.

“My cat,” you clarify.

“Oh.” Vi doesn’t know why she suddenly feels like she’s intruding as she hesitantly toes off her shoes and follows you down the hall.

But she does take the opportunity to take you in in all your glory; all cozy and cuddly in an oversized sweatshirt, plaid pajama shorts and mismatched egg socks.

Cute. So fucking cute.

You spare her a glance over your shoulder and she’s clearing her throat.

“We don’t have to have a session tonight," she says, stopping at the threshold of the living room. “I would’ve understood if you had to cancel.”

You shake your head, give her a soft smile that has her knees feel like jelly.

“S’okay,” you assure her. “A promise is a promise.”

And you do start off studying, shoulder to shoulder in front of your coffee table, but then Pip crawls from his little hiding spot under the TV console to curiously nose along Vi’s feet and she’s a goner.

“He’s so sweet,” she practically wails as he paws at her thigh and nudges against her arm so that he can climb into her lap.

You warm at the sight, can’t help but snap a picture, much to Violet’s dismay.

“Stop,” she laughs. “That picture can’t see the light of day.”

“Why?” you whine, making a show of climbing onto your wooden coffee table to get a funny top down photo of the hockey star with your cat. “You and Pip look so cute together.”

She feigns a scowl even though her shoulders shake with laughter.

“I have a bad boy image to uphold, sweetheart.”

You snort, reach into her lap to scratch behind Pip’s ear, and her heart melts, body warm from her ears to her toes.

“Is he sick?” she asks cautiously, petting him softly.

“Just a little,” you say. “Something some rest and medicine won’t fix.”

It’s how the two of you end up on the couch, study materials long forgotten as Animal Planet plays in the background. Pip’s moved to lounge atop the covers draped over your lap and you’re blowing your nose into a tissue as an especially sad segment about baby animals being rejected by their mothers finishes.

Vi knows she shouldn’t laugh, but you’re too fucking cute and she can’t help but coo at you.

“You can’t tell anyone about this,” you hiccup.

“What, that you’re a big soft baby?” she teases.

“Vi,” you whimper.

And something in her brain tickles because she can’t recall a time you’d ever called her by her nickname, only ever referred to her as Violet and nothing else.

She resists a smile.

“Okay, okay,” she gives in. “Lets change the subject.”

You make a noise of agreement as you cuddle your sleepy Pip.

“I actually wanted to ask you something,” she says, arm slung over the back of the couch, fingers a hairsbreadth from your figure.

Test the waters, cop a feel.

Vi’s not particularly into the idea, but the opportunity’s right there in the way wisps of your hair falls from its hold. Her fingers move of their own device, tucking the strands behind your ear.

She feels you still for the slightest, most imperceptible of moments, but then you’re relaxing, letting her fingers brush from your ear down to your shoulder, then back to where it rests on the back of the couch.

“You doing anything on Saturday?” she asks, really hopes you’ll say no.

“Not that I know of,” you say without second thought.

Not that you really need to. Your tight circle of friends are all alike, tethered to their hobbies and their homes.

“I have a game on Saturday,” Vi starts, fiddling with a little hole in the cushion. “If you wanted to come.”

You don’t agree or disagree immediately, and Vi’s scrambling to soothe over any potential discomfort.

“You don’t have to if you don’t wanna, of course,” she says quickly. “I just— I thought you might be interested in going and I’d really like to see you there and—”

A small little laugh puffs from your lips.

“Of course I’ll go,” you agree easily.

Vi deflates in relief.

“Great,” she sighs. “Awesome.”

Vi doesn’t know why she invites you. More so, she doesn’t know why she tells her teammates that she’s invited you because now they’re whooping and hollering in the locker room, towel-whipping her and sing-songing that their star player’s gonna get laid.

Doesn’t know why she invites you because as soon as she glides on the ice, she’s searching the stands high and low for your familiar figure. When she clocks you nestled in the middle with your roommate and another friend she vaguely recognizes, her heart’s soaring and her stomach’s twisting in knots.

Vi’s never nervous, but somehow you bring out the worst of it.

It only takes a few moments, though. The blare of the horn snaps her back into her zone and she leaves all the noise off-rink. In this moment, all she knows is cutting ice, dodging the other team’s most aggressive players and sinking shot after shot.

It’s nearing the end of the second period when she finally glances at the score.

5—4.

The opposing team’s giving them a run for their money and this is probably one of the tightest matches they’ve played all season. She takes a moment to find you in the stands again, and you’re right where she left you, eyes already glued to her as you hover over the edge of your seat.

She hadn’t realized it before, but you’ve got her number painted on her face and another surge of warmth layers over the exertion.

You give her a thumbs up and she feels like lightning.

They reset and she’s off, like a streak of light in the night sky, she’s shuffling the puck towards the goal.

Then you see the navy uniform barreling towards her, voice caught in your throat as Vi gives the puck one last shot before that damned Jersey Number Six shoves her so hard, she’s flinging into the rink’s wall.

The horn chugs, signaling the end of the second period and the stands erupt in a ceremonious cheer as the playback reveals that Vi had sunk the puck before time.

“Fuck yeah!” you cry out, shooting to your feet to clap your hands.

Vi ignores the instigating chants to fight, only really pays attention to your little dance of excitement as she shakes off the other player and rejoins her team for intermission.

“Fuck, Vi, you got it bad, huh?” Abigail Anderson’s spearheading the teasing once they all return to the locker room at the end of the game.

Vi’s body heats at the thought, isn’t really in the business of denying it anymore, because, you know what? Yeah. Vi’s got it so fucking bad for you, she doesn’t even know what to do with herself. You’re her first thought, her final prayer, and everything in between.

So all she does he shrug, can’t help the grin that splits her lips as she rubs her towel through her sweat-damp hair.

She’s the first one out of the locker room, dressed in some sweats and a pullover, towel slung around her neck as she steps into the tunnel. Your contact’s pulled up, and she’s ready to fire off a text asking where you want her to meet you, but she stops short to see you already leaned outside of the change room’s doors.

“Hey, cupcake,” she murmurs, smiling hard when she finds the smudged number 5 still chalked on your face.

“Hi, Violet,” you return shyly, hands clasped behind your back.

She hears the telltale whoosh of the locker room doors, the chattering of her teammates as they poke their heads out into the hall to be nosy, but she’s guiding you along, throwing a wink over her shoulder as the two of you fall into step.

“Thank you for coming,” Vi says after a moment. “You being here really meant a lot to me.”

You don’t know if Vi’s always been this sentimental, but just never given the opportunity to showcase it, or if she’s just buttering you up, but you can’t help but beam at her with pearly teeth and dimpled cheeks.

“God, Violet, you were so good!” you say excitedly, a little skip in your step. “You were in the rink, skating circles around them, like this, and like this.”

She bursts into laughter as you start speeding down the tunnel, dodging garbage bins and jumping up into the air to click your heels.

Something falls out of your little fannypack when you land, and Vi’s crouching down to pick up the tulle baggie to find a little beaded bracelet with a gold clasp that reads puck off.

“What’s this?” Vi asks, and you stop your shenanigans to turn your attention to her.

When your expression falters and you’re running back to her at full speed, she’s holding the baggie up just a little too out of reach for you, grin smug.

“Is this for me, sweetheart?” she asks presumptuously, even though her heart’s thrumming hard in her ribcage.

You’re on your tiptoes, chest pressed against hers, and god, please! is all Vi can think when your head tilts up, a little defeated knit between your eyebrows.

She milks the fuck out of whatever this is, arm banding around your waist as she returns the baggie to you.

“Maybe,” you whisper finally.

“Maybe what?” Vi teases.

“Maybe it’s for you,” you respond, free hand coming to rest on her chest.

“And what do I have to do to get it?” she asks, voice low.

It makes your body jolt hard as a shiver slinks down your spine because there she is, the insufferable flirt who knows exactly what to say to have your brain turn to mush.

You seem like you’re contemplating for a moment and Vi’s breath is hitching in her throat, wondering if you’re willing to play this cat and mouse game with her.

You smile, something glinting in your warm eyes.

“Puck off.”

Your giggle is maniacal as you slip away, leaving her temporarily stunned before she chases you down the tunnel. And she should expect your speed, especially because you’ve got legs, but it takes her a moment to catch up with you when her practice bag’s thumping on her back like that. Her calloused fingers are closing around the flesh of your hips in no time and she’s pulling you back into her arms.

“Cough it up, sweetheart,” she huffs.

You whine.

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” you counter.

“Gimme, gimme, gimme.”

And you give in because Violet’s made you weak. She’s holding out her wrist as you free the multi-colored bracelet.

You barely clasp the closure in the ring before Violet’s stumbling into you, a big burly girl from the other team shoulder checking the fuck out of her.

“Nice job standing in the middle of the walk way,” she bites.

Violet only snorts a laugh.

“Whatever, good game,” she calls.

Whoever she is, stops, levels Vi with a deadly look before her gaze flits to the bracelet you’ve just fixed around her wrist to you who stands frozen into place as the tension crackles between them.

“Cute,” she observes and your skin prickles. “Let me take her for a spin?”

“Violet,” you warn when her shoulders square and she takes a step forward.

She looks torn between walking away and beating the shit out of whoever this instigator is, but one of her teammates is shoving her along.

“Leave it.”

Whatever that was shatters the moment between the two of you and Vi’s taking in a deep breath as Abby trails behind the two of you.

The girl whistles for good measure and you throw a dirty look over your shoulder.

She winks.

You’ve still yet to find out who hosts these parties, but this time around gives you a weird sense of deja vu as you climb the steps with Maddie in tow.

You and Vi had parted ways at the rink, not before extending you an invite to the celebration later in the evening.

You should come, I can pick you up.

But per usual, DD duties call, and you’d smiled up at her despite the lingering pressure from the prior confrontation and promised her that yes, you’d absolutely be there.

Maddie squeals from the step below as you climb the front porch, breaths coming out in puffs of steam.

“You look so hot,” she says excitedly.

You giggle nervously, sure hope you do because you’re freezing your ass off!

“Yeah?”

Maddie gives you an incredulous look, eyelids powdered with glitter and gaze lined charcoal. She’s looking extra cute tonight too and you know that the two of you could fall into an endless cycle of teasing because a certain someone’s probably inside tonight.

“If she doesn’t fuck you before the night ends, I will,” Maddie teases, and you’re warming unceremoniously at the thought.

Because maybe you’ve been thinking about it a lot more recently despite only going into this trying to get through these tutoring sessions and dipping. Especially as of late now that Vi’s made it a habit to FaceTime you after practice, on your walk to the library, dripping sweat and chest heaving.

You’d always seen the appeal, but now you feel it.

You smooth down your asymmetrical skirt and Maddie steps up to adjust your tits in your lowcut lace blouse just as the door swings open to reveal none other than Violet.

“Oh—” Her voice catches as she takes you in.

Maddie gives your ass a little swat and Vi’s gaze is following the movement as your roommate pushes past her to slip inside.

“I was— I was just about to step out. To, uh, to call you,” she stammers.

You breath out a little laugh.

“Here I am.”

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Here you are.”

Jesus, fuck Vi could burst into flames right now. Your boots hug your thighs and Violet’s not gonna lie, she really wishes it were her head squeezed between—

“You look...” Hot, so fucking edible, downright fuck— “...really nice.”

You smile, but you can’t help the way your teeth chatters.

“Fuck, shit, you’re probably cold,” she curses, warm hands closing around your shoulders to pull you inside. “Why didn’t you wear a jacket? You’re gonna get sick.”

I wanted you to want me.

“Guess I just forgot,” you say quietly.

She looks like she wants to scold you, but instead, she’s pulling down her coat, a big black work jacket, hanging from the banister of the stairs around your shoulders and you’re relishing the residual warmth that lingers there and her familiar scent.

“Can I get you a cider?” she asks. “It’s still warm.”

It hits you as her fingers curl through yours, that Vi’s truly nothing like what you initially thought. She’s sweet, and she’s respectful, and she’s everything you could ever hope for.

You freeze at the thought, and Vi’s glancing at you when she’s tugged to a stop.

“You okay?” she hums.

Your eyes search her face, gliding over the scar on her lip and the one slit through her eyebrow. The gold hoop pierced through her nose glints under the lowlight and her thick lashes flutter as she looks down at you.

You give her a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes because wow, you’re in deep.

“I’m okay,” you assure her, give her fingers a squeeze for good measure.

When she finally secures you a mug of steaming cider, she’s guiding you to her group of friends that occupy the living room.

You only recognize Ellie, her best friend and her roommate, and Abby, the captain. Everyone else is a jumbled mix of names and faces and you stick close to Vi as she settles into the left corner of the couch.

You make a move to sit on the armrest, legs crossed and hands folded around your mug, but Vi’s spreading her legs and pulling you into her lap before you can effectively protest.

Her warmth immediately engulfs you and it takes every ounce of self control not to curl up into a ball in front of all her friends and classmates.

As they recap the game and catch up with each other, you remain hushed, eyes flitting from person to person as they speak. Toes curling whenever Violet’s voice vibrates in her chest as she talks big about sports and the hot teams this season.

You’re caught off caught when Ellie’s directing a question towards you and you barely register.

“What do you like to do?” she asks you.

All eyes audibly shift to where you’re cozied up in Vi’s lap, cider empty and abandoned on the side table.

“Uh.”

Your words are lodged in your throat because you’re so used to talking Vi’s ear off about your interests (namely, Animal Planet and your son Pip), showing her your little craft projects you like to do in front of the television on a weekend evening (you’d taken a break from the scarf / hat combo you were knitting to finish the bracelet you designed for Vi), and yapping about some obscure film you’d watched while finishing said projects.

But here, now, you don’t know what to say. Not when this isn’t your typical crowd and you don’t know what to expect from her friends.

Vi must feel your hesitation because her digits are slipping into her jacket, fingertips ghosting the small of your back as she presses a palm against your spine to smooth the tension there.

It’s okay, is a silent insinuation.

You give her a look from the corner of your eye before you turn your attention back to Ellie.

“I don’t do much,” you offer honestly. “Just starting my old cat lady duties early, I suppose.”

Ellie laughs benevolently.

“You have a cat?”

“Yes, his name’s Pip, and he’s basically my kid.”

“Cute,” Ellie coos. “You got any pictures?”

And you seem to light up, spare Vi one more glance as you dig in her coat pocket to produce your cellphone, charms jangling as you power it back on to show Ellie the lockscreen.

“I contemplated naming him Toothless from—”

“—How To Train Your Dragon!” Abby fills in from across the couch. “That’s such a good ass movie.”

It warms Vi to the bone, seeing you and her friends nerd out. Seeing them put in the effort because they know she likes you and seeing you reciprocate because, well, you’re you, and you just need a little warming up.

She doesn’t know how long you and her friends chat for until you’re shifting a little and turning your attention back to her.

“Can you show me the bathroom, please?”

Her gaze flits to her circle, and they’re smirking, obviously under the impression that this must be some sort of code the two of you concocted.

She ignores them, and most importantly she ignores the way her pulse jumps when you stand from your seat and perch between her legs, offering both of your neatly manicured hands to her.

This is getting fucking ridiculous.

The bathroom is tucked under the stairs near the front of the house and she stands post outside the door as you finish up.

It’s only when you’re poking your head outside the door sheepishly that she stands up straight.

“Can you help me with my zipper?” you ask timidly.

She puffs a laugh, slips in through the space you crack for her to find you holding the two sides of your skirt together.

And she knows she shouldn’t look, but the space allows her to see the pink lace of your panties. She’s shoving her tongue in her cheek, focusing on lining up the seams and pulling up your zipper as you hold the fabric taut.

“Thanks,” you whisper, looking up to see that Vi’s impossibly close to you in this cramped little powder room.

“Anytime, sweetheart,” she croaks, leaning against the counter as you wash your hands.

She thumbs the hem of your skirt absently.

“I like this,” she admits, gaze trailing up to meet yours. “You look pretty.”

Your ears burn, unable to meet the smolder of her steely eyes. You’d probably find that her pupils are blown wide if you did. Instead, you’re watching her mouth, lips stained cherry and tongue coming out to wet the dry patch.

You hold your breath as you reach across her for the hand towel, but her hands find your hips, teetering into dangerous territory as she moves almost close enough to slip her hands under your skirt.

“You’re not gonna say thank you?” she asks, watching you through hooded eyes.

A nervous giggle bubbles.

“Thanks, Violet,” you murmur.

“‘Course,” she agrees easily. “You gonna wear it again?”

You bite.

“If you ask nicely.”

She licks her lips again, body flexed as you allow her to press you closer. One of your hands splays on the counter behind her, the other brushing over the blooming bruise on her jaw.

“Can I?” she husks.

You don’t need to ask for clarification, not when her nose is nudging yours and your breaths are mingling.

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Pl—”

The door rattles with the ferocity of whoever’s knocking on the other side.

“Hurry up in there, I gotta piss!”

To your dismay, the two of you don’t talk about Saturday night. And things’s aren’t particularly bad, but something’s definitely shifted and it’s driving you nuts.

Vi’s on the ice practicing the following morning and after classes on Monday, so you wait for your session with bated breath on Tuesday. You try extra hard despite every voice of reason telling you that you’re reading into it too much.

Vi smiles at you easily as she drops into the seat across from you, pulling out her biometry textbook without so much as a peep about the fact that the two of you almost kissed in whoever the fuck’s bathroom that was over the weekend.

You’re staring, hard.

Because that familiar feeling’s coming back. The seedling of doubt that had rooted in the beginning about Vi’s intentions with you. She’d done a good job of weeding it out over the weeks, of dismantling whatever image you’d built of her in your head, but it plants itself again.

She’s squeezing your hand across the table and your gaze flits down to her rough fingers. That’s when you notice it, the bracelet, still fastened where you clasped it on game night.

You relax a fraction.

“Everything okay?”

You smile, something small.

“Yeah, good,” you assure her.

The rest of your tutoring session is uneventful, goes off without a hitch. And you’re shameless in admitting that you hate to see her go as she walks you to your car in the student lot near the library.

You’re grasping at straws, clearing your throat before she closes your door for you.

“Uh,” you squeak. “Do you want to come over?”

Vi’s pausing, hand still on the edge of your door as her lips twitch.

“Like right now?”

You nod because you’ve already pulled the trigger.

“Like right now,” you confirm.

She checks her wristwatch, sighs heavily because fuck yes, she’d love to come over right now, but Anderson and Williams are expecting her for a strategy meeting with the coach and—

“Sorry,” you say quickly. “You don’t have to, I know we only really—”

She pinches your cheek before tucking some of your hair behind your ear.

“I can’t tonight, sweetheart, I’m sorry,” she says. “But tell you what, if you’re willing to free up your Friday night, I’d really like to plan something.”

Your heartbeat skips.

“All yours,” you say without missing a beat.

Vi’s grinning wide.

“Perfect, drive safe,” she bids. “See you tomorrow.”

And you don’t know why you’re so fucking high strung, not when Vi hasn’t done anything to make you doubt that this isn’t all in your head, but it only gets worse as the days go by.

It doesn’t come to a head until Thursday, when your tutoring slots are miraculously empty until Vi’s and you receive an email from Medarda to meet in her office after her string of lectures.

“Afternoon,” the older woman greets, smiling warmly at you as she lets you into her office. “Just wanted to check in with your audit and request any feedback you have.”

You think for a moment before shaking your head.

“Nothing in particular that I can think of,” you say easily, then add with a laugh, “feel like I’ll be a professional by the end of the semester.”

“Why do you say that?” Medarda chuckles as she logs into her computer.

“I have a student sitting every Tuesday and Thursday for tutoring in your class,” you reveal.

She gives you look crossed between surprise and amusement.

“Really?”

��Yeah.” You giggle at the distant memory of Vi’s expression in the weight room. “She seems to be picking it up well enough, though.”

“Huh, every Tuesday and Thursday?” she asks, fingers flying over her keyboard. “I must be doing something wrong.”

“I’d hardly say that,” you say. “When Violet booked all my sessions, I thought it was a joke, but I think she’s just really dedicated to doing well.”

“Violet?” Medarda repeats, hands stilling over her mouse.

“Yeah, Violet, on the women’s hockey team?”

Your professor’s eyebrows twitch.

“Why would you— huh. Weird,” she comments.

“I admit it was a little strange, but—”

“Violet’s a consistent top scorer on the exams,” Medarda shares. “She’s been top of the class since the beginning of the semester.”

And it’s like the world stills as she reveals that information, fragile pieces shattering as the gears start turning in your brain and you try to put the puzzle together.

You glance at the clock, find that you’re due to meet Violet in half an hour.

“Uh, if you’ll excuse me,” you say politely, try to ignore the concerned expression etched on your professor’s face at your sudden departure. “It was nice chatting with you. If I think of anything feedback-wise, I’ll be sure to email you.”

And you’re running.

Vi’s in the locker room after practice, toweling off after an extra long shower because she’s been looking a little extra forward to seeing you today, but perhaps that’s everyday as of late.

She’s hooking the bracelet you gave her back on when her phone vibrates and she’s practically diving into her locker when your text tone bleats.

sweetheart: I have to cancel your session this afternoon. I’m sorry.

Her expression screws up.

everything ok? can i do anything for you?

sweetheart: Personal things to take care of. I’ll see you next week.

I’ll see you next week.

But what about tomorrow? She’d been working so fucking hard on tomorrow, on finally pulling her head far enough out of her ass to ask you to give the two of you a shot.

She sets her phone down, slumps down on the bench as she turns her wrist and takes in the smooth glass beads of the bracelet.

She sighs. Hard.

You hole up all weekend long, put your phone on do not disturb, and try your best to get whatever this is out of your system. But you’re a slave to your emotions and you can’t help but check your messages every time you know Vi’s free.

It’s a single text on a Saturday night, one that surprises you because you know she has practice now that the big game’s fast approaching.

violet <3: hey sweetheart, just checking in. i know you said you had a few personal things going on, but i’m here if you feel like you need someone <3

You’re texting back before your better judgement can stop you.

Just been a little stressed. You wanna come over?

Then you add, We can smoke.

Vi’s sending you three running emojis and you crack a smile at your screen before realizing that you need to shower.

You lay out some clothes beforehand, ultimately settling on last Saturday’s skirt.

Vi’s giggling as you fumble with the wrapper, rolling it with clumsy fingers because, truthfully, you don’t do this often, but she shuts right up when you don’t break eye contact as the tip of your tongue slides across the seam to seal the joint.

She’d picked you up with a Sprite and a slice to split from Valentino’s, throat drying as you bounded down the stairs in the same fucking skirt that had her touching herself after she’d gotten home from the party, guilty and wound tight. Now the two of you are tucked away behind some abandoned strip.

“Ready?” Her voice rasps as you pop the end between your lips and she brings the lighter to ignite the end for you.

It burns as you inhale and Vi’s thighs squeeze together involuntarily. She’d smoked with you twice before, both times on the roof of your apartment building and at a reasonable distance. But now, she knows what your body feels like, almost knows what your lips taste like.

You take a few more puffs before offering it to her and the smoke begins to plume to fill the space of her little coupe. It’s moments like these, tucked away from prying eyes, that it’s just you and Vi.

Not Vi, the supposed womanizing hockey star, or you, the nerdy homebody tutor. Just the two of you, two souls trying to get through university and carve your paths.

“I aced Medarda’s exam this week,” Vi says softly, jay pinched between her fingers as she watches you with lowering eyes.

“Oh, yeah? I wonder why,” you quip in return, face impossibly close to hers despite the console between you.

“I have a smartypants tutor that does an especially good job when she’s motivated,” she answers.

Your cheeks flame, but you don’t back down. Vi’s been extra good at pushing your buttons and flirting hard as of late, and maybe you’re a little more than willing to receive and reciprocate, but the two of you have been toeing the line, yet neither of you have taken the leap.

This moment, however, feels like it could be it. Like you’re going to find out what the fuck all of this even is.

“I have to meet this tutor of yours,” you play along. “She sounds like a miracle worker.”

“Among other things,” Vi teases, sucking in the smoke and blowing it through her nostrils.

“Like?”

“She’s also funny as fuck,” she hums. “A big baby when we watch Animal Planet.”

You narrow your eyes at her and Vi lets out a little laugh that makes your toes curl.

“Uh-huh?”

“She’s really fucking pretty too,” she says quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she affirms. “Kind of pretty that makes you wanna do bad, bad things.”

You smile falters as a shiver rips down your spine and before you know it, Vi’s putting out the joint before climbing in the cramped backseat of her car to spread her legs.

Doesn’t even give you a moment to process before she’s pulling you on top of her and allowing you to settle comfortably in her lap. Her hands run up your thighs and disappear under your skirt to grab the fat of your ass.

You breathe out a little giggle as your slender fingers come up to cup her jaw.

“Think my tutor’ll be mad at me?” Vi murmurs, nose brushing yours. “‘Cuz I really, really wanna kiss this pretty girl in my lap right now.”

You let out a broken little sigh when her hips buck.

“Maybe she’ll forgive you,” you whisper. “I know I would.”

And that’s all the affirmation Vi needs from you before she’s taking the plunge and slotting her lips with yours; kissing you with so much fervor, you’d think she needs you to breathe. She tastes like mint and weed and you can’t get enough.

Vi’s all-consuming, her kiss a delicious mix of teeth and tongue. And, god, her hands. Rough and calloused, but gentle in the way she explores your body. It isn’t until she’s snapping the band of your thong and her fingertips ghost the seam of your sticky heat that you’re hyper-focusing.

“Mmmph, Violet, Vi—” Your voice cracks as she breaks from your lips to map a series of kisses from your jaw, to the juncture behind your ear, down the column of your neck. “Wait.”

She stops, hands pulling from under your skirt like you’ve burned her. And perhaps you have, branded nearly every part of her because she can’t really think of a sound moment if you’re not there.

“Sorry, sorry,” she shudders as the arousal ebbs through her tightened body. “I—”

I’m caught up. I’m losing it, and it’s all your fault, and—

“Violet,” you swallow, fingers toying with the collar of her varsity sweatshirt. “I have something to say.”

Her throat bobs and her grey eyes gleam like ash in the lowlight of the backseat of her car. The windows are smoked out and it’s exceptionally warm, equal parts sexual tension and another thing Vi can’t quite pinpoint.

“Yeah, anything,” she assures you, hands resting on your waist instead. “You can tell me anything.”

One of your palms settles over her chest, right where her heart is and you suck in a sharp breath.

“I— uh, I really like you, Violet,” you admit quietly. “A lot more than I think I’ve ever liked someone in a long, long time.”

Oh.

Oh. Here it comes, the big fat rejection. The coming to your senses.

“But?”

The look on your face is devastating and Vi’s scared.

“I have to know that if I give you a chance, you won’t abuse it,” you hiccup, and wow, that’s definitely not what she expects you to say, but fuck does it leave a sour taste in her mouth.

“Abuse it?” she repeats, face crumpling.

“Violet,” you sigh.

“Abuse what?” she husks.

“I know you—”

“Do you?” she scoffs, a wave of irritation washing over her as she looks you with disappointment. “What gave you the idea that I would ever even dream of taking advantage of you giving me a chance?”

“You don’t necessarily have a spotless record, Violet,” you say, voice edged. “And I know that I’m not your usual—”

“Not my usual what?” The venom in Vi’s tone is uncharacteristic, but this is not at all how she expected tonight to go and she’s frustrated. “Not my usual type? You internalized all this shit that people say about me even though I’ve been trying to get you to see me for months.”

Emotion clogs your throat because a small part of you knows that Vi’s right. She’s never given you an outright reason to doubt her interest in you, but it all just seems too good to be true.

“Sue me for wanting to protect myself,” you choke, climbing out of her lap and back into the front seat. “Especially because I know that you don’t actually need help in Medarda’s class.”

And that catches Vi off guard. You see as much in the rearview mirror when she pales.

She clambers back into the driver’s seat.

“Who told you that?” she asks, not even bothering to deny the fact.

“I mentioned that I was tutoring you in passing when Medarda asked for feedback on her class,” you respond, crossing your arms over your chest. “She asked why I’d be doing that when you’re top of all her sections.”

Violet’s voice is stuck in her chest.

“And then your past hook ups parade around campus like a reminder that—,” you cut yourself off, obviously hurt after bottling this all up. “And it isn’t any of my business, nor are we anything enough for me to plausibly upset—”

“Yes, I lied,” Vi admits quietly. “But only about one thing.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re right, I don’t need help in Medarda’s class. I lied about being clueless and I signed up for tutoring even though I didn’t need it,” she says.

“Why?”

“You know why,” Vi huffs. “From the moment I met you, I knew.”

It’s a glaring insinuation that makes you crack.

“No one ever says it out loud, but I know what everyone thinks,” you choke. “Violet’s fucking that loser?”

“You really believe that?”

“God, Violet, I don’t know what to fucking believe,” you cry out. “My life’s fucking fine and dandy and then you show up and make me fucking question everything I—”

Vi lets out a humorless laugh, can’t even look at you and it could make you sick.

“You’re so fucking loved by everyone, even those who won’t admit it,” you croak. “And you’re incredible at everything you do, turn everything you touch to gold, and I’m just...”

Vi’s brows furrow.

“You’re what?”

“I’m me,” you whisper meekly. “I’m just me and you’re you, and I just don’t see what makes me so different.”

And Vi realizes that she’d read it all wrong.

“Look at me,” she says softly, fingers tracing your jaw.

You knuckle your tears away, make a petulant noise in your throat.

“You wanna know why I booked all your stupid tutoring sessions?” she huffs. “Because I really fucking like you, ________. And it’s beyond wanting to fuck you even though god knows I’d fucking die if you let me. It’s so much more than having you physically. Because I’ll take being just friends with you if it means having you around. I don’t give a shit about anything else but you.”

It’s the most sound declaration you hear from the girl in the semester you’ve known her and it makes you cry.

“You make me feel so fucking normal and you remind me that I don’t need to be anything else but me,” she breathes. “And I get where you’re coming from, I hear you. I just really hope you hear me too.”

“I do,” you whisper. “I’m just—”

Vi squeezes your thigh, takes your hand in hers and brings your knuckles to her lips.

“Let’s get you home, okay?” she offers gently.

Vi only has one more game before the championships and she won’t lie and say that this limbo with you has her feeling like she’s going to be ill.

You’d cancelled her tutoring sessions this week, told her that maybe the two of you needed to spend some time apart and that she was clearly doing a number on you. So she agrees, tries to give you space to work through what’s weighing on you.

sweetheart: Good luck at your game tonight, Violet. I’m rooting for you.

She really wishes you’d be there, but she knows you need the time alone.

thanks, sweetheart. i appreciate you.

“Alright Vi, we have fifteen til puck drop,” Ellie says carefully, has been front row to everything transpiring between you and her best friend.

Vi tucks her phone away in her backpack, unhooks your bracelet from around her wrist and fastens it to the handle of her bag, and grabs her stick from the rack before she lets her teammates jostle her into the tunnel.

And she wishes she could lock in, clear her head and get into the game, but all she can think about is you.

It’s a narrow victory once the game ends, but she can’t find it in herself to celebrate, especially not at the kickback afterwards because fucking Sev and her assholes are there.

“Where’s your little dime piece?” she taunts.

“Fuck off,” Vi warns, obviously not in the mood.

“Shame,” she whistles. “She looks like a fucking weirdo, but she sure does have a fat ass—”

Ellie’s fist cracks so hard across her jaw.

“She told you to fuck off,” she hisses.

Sev spits the blood in her mouth on the toe of Ellie’s shoe, fists bunching the collar of her sweater.

“Keep that fucking energy on the ice because I’m gonna wipe the floor with your fucking pissbaby team.”

You wake up on Monday morning to a text from Vi and a handful of notifications from Instagram.

violet <3: can i see you this week?

You open Instagram.

sev.94 has requested to follow you! sev.94 has sent you a message request!

Your brows furrow, opening the message request hesitantly. There’s a few DMs and a video from this Sev person.

sev.94 hey pretty, sorry to text you like this. sev.94 just thought you should know the kind of person your little girlfriend is sev.94 sent a video. sev.94 i don’t really do relationships, but i’d take your mind off of it if you let me.

You’re playing the video, quality grainy and audio blasted. You don’t know what you’re looking at at first, it’s dark, and there’s so many voices. But you see skin, see the outline of a girl’s naked back, delicate and arched in pleasure.

You think this Sev person’s just fucking with you, playing some stupid joke with a shitty punchline as someone’s hands snake around to palm the flesh of the unnamed girl’s ass, but then you see it.

The bracelet.

Vi going to lose her shit for two reasons.

(1) Because you haven’t responded to her message despite your read receipts being on, and (2) she can’t fucking find the bracelet you’d gifted to her.

She’s barging into Ellie’s room, shirtless and hair dripping.

“Jesus, fuck, do you knock?” Ellie hisses, buds she was in the midst of grinding scattering across the floor.

“I can’t find the bracelet she gave me,” Vi says quickly.

Ellie’s face scrunches.

“Huh?”

“The bracelet ________ gave to me,” Vi says. “I hooked it on my backpack before practice on Saturday but it’s not there anymore.”

Ellie’s expression morphs, eyes narrowing in thought.

“Maybe you misplaced it,” Ellie offers. “Regardless, we practice tonight, I’ll help you look for it.”

Vi’s chest is tight, doesn’t want to admit that the stupid little bracelet means way more to her than she lets on. She only ever takes it off when she’s on the ice, won’t risk losing it when she’s got a target on her back and everyone plays rough.

It turns out to be futile when they enter the rink and she retraces her steps only to come up empty-handed.

This, she realizes, is the start of a very long week.

You should’ve seen it coming, really. Don’t know why you tried to psyche yourself into thinking that Vi could ever really want something with you when the world’s her fucking oyster and she can have anything she wants.

And you want to feel bad when she texts you intermittently through the days, checking in, offering to meet you, anything. But part of you is angry, unforgiving, tired.

You could’ve gone the rest of the school year unscathed if she’d just left you the fuck alone, but she pried and she tugged and she settled, and she made a home inside of you and you hate that you let her.

xxxx: i really miss you.

You block her number, block her social media, and even though finals are imminent, you now know that Vi’s been playing you for a fool this whole time and you cancel every last one of the sessions she’s booked.

You hope she’d get the message, figure that you’d caught onto her little game and aren’t willing to play anymore, but she doesn’t, that much is clear when you’re finishing up your two thirty session and find her stalking into the library just as the student leaves your table.

“Are we going to talk like adults or are you going to keep acting like—”

You don’t entertain a response, just pack your bag and sling the strap over your shoulder because the tears are bubbling and you don’t trust yourself not to break.

“Seriously?” Vi bites, hot on your heels as you throw all of your weight against the library doors and suck in the icy air.

“Leave me alone, Violet,” you warn.

“No, fuck that,” Vi spits, hand closing around your bicep. “You don’t— You don’t get to make me fall for you and then try to leave with no explanation.”

“Fuck you,” you whisper.

“What?”

“Fuck you, Violet,” you hiccup, yanking your arm from her grasp and putting as much distance as you can between the two of you. “I hope you and your friends got a good laugh out of it.”

Her face is screwing up and if she wasn’t confused before, she’s definitely confused now.

“Listen, I can’t fix something if I don’t know what’s wrong,” Vi argues. “I’m so fucking lost right now.”

You hate how believable she is. How the thought of hurting you seems so inconceivable to her. But that grainy video was clear enough.

“I hate you,” you murmur. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.”

Your name comes out broken, like you’ve wounded her. But you’ve officially folded your hand, won’t dare look her in her eyes because the both of you know it’s not true.

The championships roll in fast like a tide and neither your or Violet are ready for it.

You hear they’re live streaming the game, it’s the most anticipated one in the season. Piltover Stallions against the Zaun City Tigers. A part of you wishes you could support them, but then you’re starkly reminded that you’re a laughingstock amongst them.

The library on a Friday night is as quiet as can be, the hum of the fluorescents background to the voices in your head that are loud. You’re so engrossed in the study material that you don’t realize someone’s making a beeline for you until they’re knocking on the tabletop.

Ellie Williams stands before you in all her lean glory, hands sunk in her pockets as she stares down at you.

“Aren’t you supposed to be playing?” Your tone is clipped, disinterested because you believed that you and Ellie could be friends once upon a time.

“Coach sat me out because I socked one of those dickhead Zaun City Tigers in the mouth last weekend.”

You humph.

“Listen, we don’t have much time left, so I’m going to make this short and sweet,” she says. “Whatever happened between you and Vi is obviously personal and that typically would have nothing to do with me, but she can’t get her shit together because all she can think of is you.”

“And that’s my problem because...?”

“I know that Vi comes off a certain way, but she’s my best friend, like my best friend in this entire shithole of a world, and she’s—”

“No offense, Ellie,” you cut her off. “But if Vi sent you here to plead her case, I think that’s pathetic and—”

“Okay, well maybe if you shut up for three seconds and let me get to my point—”

You close your textbook and shove it in your backpack before standing to signal the end of the conversation.

“Whatever, I don’t have time for this.”

Ellie watches you walk away, takes in a deep breath because wow, you’re a bitch when you’re mad, but she absolutely gets why Vi is whipped.

“Violet’s in love with you.”

And that statement makes you freeze. Tears cloud your vision as your fists tighten around the strap of your bag.

“If you fuck someone else while you’re in love, I want nothing to do with it,” you bite.

Ellie’s brows shoot up.

“Whoa, what?”

“Violet fucked someone else as soon as things got tough, and if that’s the kind of person she is in love, I’d rather be alone,” you say stiffly.

“Respectfully, there’s no way Vi’s interested in getting pussy from anywhere else with how down bad that bitch is for you, but even if she was, I spend over seventy percent of my day with her and know that all she’s been doing the past two weeks is moping over the fact that you handed her ass to her on a silver platter.”

“There’s a video.”

Ellie’s brows must be mingling with her hairline right about now.

She reaches a palm out.

Show me.

You open the DM from sev.94, watching as Ellie’s expression morphs from morbid curiosity to disbelief, to a quiet rage.

She’s handing your phone back to you and grabbing you by your forearm.

“She’s fucking dead.”

When you enter the rink, the ice is tense.

It’s the middle of the second period and the game is tied 3—3.

Your eyes comb the playing area, can’t find Vi’s jersey number in the mix, but finally settle on her on the bench, shoulders terse and obviously on edge.

She doesn’t clock you yet, had given up on the idea of patching things up with you after your last conversation.

“Vi’s been missing her bracelet since practice on Saturday,” Ellie’d told you on the way there, then pulled out her phone to show you the photo she’d taken of Vi passed out in nothing but her boxers on the couch the night of the last game, fucked up and sad. “We went out for like an hour after the game, but that was it. Vi was too fucking in her head.”

The girl from the tunnel, the one who’d been taunting the two of you, you piece together, has been the one behind it all, stirring the pot.

Throughout the end of the second period and all through intermission, Vi doesn’t notice you, too busy trying to get off the fucking bench to survey the crowd.

It’s only during final puck drop in the third period that their coach finally gives in, smacks the back of her helmet and tells her to make him proud that she lifts her head up.

And there, front and center of the student section is you.

Her eyes are wide, body frozen in place as she tries to figure if you’re just a figment of her imagination, but then the horn’s blaring and she’s having to zone back in.

At this point in time, she doesn’t give a fuck if they win or lose, she just needs to get to you.

“Your little bitch looks cute tonight,” Sevika comments wolfishly. “Bet she tastes as good as she looks.”

Vi easily intercepts her pass, cuts between two players as she shuffles it along with practiced precision. She sends the rubber flying and the goalie narrowly misses block.

“Maybe if you played as good as you ran your mouth, you’d wipe the floor with my pissbaby team you big bitch,” Vi calls, resetting in their corner.

And perhaps you’re her good luck charm, the only thing she needed to see to get back into it, because Vi reignites. The adrenaline pumping through her veins fuels every shot, and soon the timer’s buzzing.

7—5.

The roar is deafening, but you’re all she sees in the ocean of cowbells and pompoms.

She barely inches forward before something arcs through the sky and lands before her feet.

Her bracelet.

You watch from the sidelines, the final confirmation as Vi picks up the loop and launches herself at Sevika.

The crowd cheers.

Fight, fight fight!

You don’t know how many swings Vi gets in, just know that she’s flashing you a bloody smile before she skates off the ice.

Ellie emerges from the locker room and you’re perking up.

Most, if not all, of Vi’s teammates had come and gone and you’d been waiting patiently, anxiously, for her to emerge since the end of the game nearly an hour ago.

“She’s the last one in there,” is all Ellie says before strolling off.

“What if...what if she doesn’t want to see me?” you ask hesitantly.

Ellie chuffs a little laugh, doesn’t bother turning as she calls from halfway down the hall, “Find out for yourself, sweetheart.”

Vi’s pulling a tank top over her head as soon as you enter and your cheeks bloom when you catch a split-second of her tits.

She glances up at you, nose bruising and lip busted.

“Hey,” she spares you, stuffing her uniform and skates into her gym bag.

“Hi,” you squeak.

A pregnant pause as you take her in, hesitant to close the distance between the two of you.

“Didn’t think you’d make it,” she observes.

And you don’t really have a bullshit response, know that you had every intention of staying as far away as humanly possible, so you settle on humming your agreement.

“Ellie told me,” she starts. “Why you lashed out on me.”

You swallow.

“And part of me gets it, I really do,” she continues, “but I also thought you had more faith in me than that.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “Fuck, Violet, I’m so sorry.”

“I told you to free up Friday night a few weeks ago,” she says, shuts her locker door and slumps down on the bench behind her. “I was going to tell you everything, officially ask you out, but then all that shit happened and it caught up to me.”

You take a step forward, and then another, and another until you’re standing in front of her.

“You have to know that I would never do something like to anyone, but especially not to you,” she says softly, taking your hands in hers.

“I know.”

She brushes her lips against your knuckles, pulls you in closer so that you’re standing between her legs.

“You’re right,” she continues, voice hoarse. “I don’t have a spotless track record, but I meant it when I said that I don’t give a shit about anyone else but you. I would give you anything I can if you let me.”

Your hands rest on her shoulders, her chin resting against the plush of your belly as you look down at her, speechless.

“That night, in the car, you said that you didn’t see what made you so different.”

“I don’t,” you admit.

Vi stands, caging you between strong arms as she drops her face into the hollow of your neck. You shiver when you feel her lips press to the skin there.

“We could start off with the obvious.”

One of her hands rests on the small of your back, pulls you flush so that the only things that separate you are the flimsy fabrics of your clothes. The other grabs a handful of your ass.

“I meant it when I said that you’re the kind of pretty that makes me wanna do bad things.”

You gulp, thighs squeezing as her lips part and she bites.

“Vi.”

“You got a giant brain,” she laughs breathily, fingers coming around the fiddle with your belt.

She kisses you, mouth hot and breath warm. It’s better the second time around, no doubt obscuring you from truly indulging.

“Pl—ease.”

“You’re kind and you’re selfless, and you’re my sweet, sweet little crybaby.”

“Violet,” you sigh breathlessly. “Listen to me.”

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“Fuck me,” you pant. “Please.”

Violet nearly runs two red lights and whips into your neighborhood on two wheels.

The two of you are stumbling up the stairs and she’s spanking your ass on the last step as you fiddle with your keys and try to find the right one under the dim light of the complex hall.

Violet’s already unbuckling her belt as you turn the key, nearly taking you down as she shoves you inside and up against the front door.

“Maddie home?” she breathes.

“Out of town,” you answer quickly, kicking off your sneakers and pulling your sweater over your head. “Visiting her family upstate.”

“Perfect,” Vi hums. “I’ve been fantasizing about fucking you on your couch.”

“Oh–”

One of her rough hands comes to cup your tit over your bra, her tongue laving over the other while her free hand makes work of the clasp.

You walk her back to the couch, stand between her knees as she flops back into the seat. Her arms spread over the back as she settles in, legs widening to give you ample room to strip.

Her eyes never leave yours as you easily unclasp your bra and shimmy out of your jeans, leaving you in nothing but a tight pair of little lace panties and pink socks that has Vi wet.

“C’mere,” she rasps, pulling you to straddle her lap.

Her lips immediately latch onto one of your pebbled nipples, tongue hot as her hands wander.

“Fuck.”

“Tell me what you want,” she husks, biting down on the swell of your breast.

And having Violet this close, her touch excruciatingly featherlight and tempting, you wind tight.

“Want you inside of me,” you whimper, fingers fixing around her throat. “Please.”

“Yeah?” she eggs you on, lips brushing yours as her palms settle on your ass. “You want me to fuck you?”

You nod eagerly, hips rolling in her lap as her breath pitches.

“Vi.”

Her nickname puffing from your lips makes her crack. You’re wound in her arms, face in her neck as she peels your thong taut, away from your waiting cunt, and runs her fingertips from your slit down to your clit.

“F...F—uck,” you sigh.

“Holy shit,” she marvels, licking her lips when she easily glides through your folds. “You’re really fucking wet.”

You grind down against her, clothed clit catching against her belt buckle. The cool metal sends a jolt through your pussy and you’re moaning loud in her ear.

And Violet really wants to take her time with you, wants to milk the first time she ever gets to fuck you for as long as she humanly can, but she’s still fully dressed and you’re practically naked, perfect tits pressed to her chest and fat ass in the palm of her hand.

She shifts you further into her, so that she can peek over the arch of your back as she sinks her middle and ring finger three knuckles deep into your needy heat.

“Ah, fuck, Violet.” Your voice breaks as she starts pumping into you, your arousal coating her fingers and the sound of her easily slipping through your pussy reverberating through the living room. “Fuckfuckfuck.”

She kisses your jaw, litters them until she’s catching your lips and licking crudely into your mouth.

You cry out when her fingers slip out.

She’s leaning the both of you forward, easing you from her lap and onto the couch as she takes a moment to shuck her shirt off and pull her belt through the loops in one tug.

You watch her through it all, the way the trim muscles of her biceps and shoulders flex as she leans over you, takes you by the ankles and yanks you until your ass is half-hanging from the edge of the couch.

She kneels before you, strips you out of your thong.

You don’t miss the way she shoves the soiled fabric in her jeans pocket.

“Jesus,” she breathes, gaze fluttering between your eyes and your pussy. “You’re so fucking pretty, sweetheart.”

Your toes curl at the praise, fingers closing around where Vi’s holding your legs apart.

“You know how bad I’ve been wanting to taste your pussy?” she rasps, gathering the lewdest amount of spit to dribble onto your clit. When you don’t answer, she’s freeing a hand to slap your slit.

“Nnngh, fuck!”

“Think I’ve always wanted to have you,” she admits. “But it was that stupid party fucking party and that stupid fucking skirt. God, I would’ve fucked you in that skirt if you let me.”

“Yeah?” you whine breathlessly. “Tell me.”

She’s stuffing you again without warning, curling her fingers in a way that has your back arching off the couch.

“Would’ve bent you over that sink and made you watch yourself while I ate you out,” she says easily.

And it’s so fucking delicious, the nasty shit Vi’s saying to you while she pounds your aching heat; the way she finally gives in and tastes you, sucking on your clit like she’s starved and you’re the only thing that can sate her hunger.

Your fingers curl through her hair as you teeter dangerously over the edge, nails grazing her scalp and tugging when she hits the spot deep inside of you that has you keening for more.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ cum,” you choke. “Holy fuck.”

You feel Vi grin against your pussy, watch her with a slack jaw and half-lidded eyes because the sight of her between your legs in your moonlit living room has your insides twisting hard.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” she encourages you. “Cum all over my fingers. Wanna see you gush.”

“Hah, h—” Your thighs tighten around her head, fingers curled so hard in her hair, she moans in a mix of pleasure and pain. “Don’t stop, Vi, please.”

She moans into your cunt, savoring the heady taste of you as you practically ride her face.

The sound that fills the room is downright filthy, the sight that Vi beholds when she peeks from where she’s devouring you equally so. It’s picturesque, the way she has you writhing. A sheen of perspiration glistens over your flesh as she eats you out and it’s a perfect mix of her tongue and her fingers that send you soaring over the edge.

It’s a pitched whine that echos, the staccato of your shaky breathing that sings like music in her ears as you cum. And hard.

Her lashes flutter against the skin of your inner thighs as she peppers kisses there, her lips slick with spit and arousal.

“Fuck, babe,” she whispers. “That was...”

She can’t really choose a specific word, is just mind blown at the fact that she’d just made you cum so hard and so fast. It makes her tense and tingle, a smug wave of pride washing over her as she starts mouthing a trail from your belly, between the valley of your tits, up your throat, to finally press a chaste one on your lips.

You taste yourself first and foremost, but then you taste everything she’s ever wanted to say to you, all the unspoken words and the things she’d been too scared to share. Feel it in the way her hands are roaming, squeezing, caressing.

You breathe a disbelieving laugh, peck her lips again when she pulls away to brush your hair from your face.

“Vi—” Your breath hitches and your eyes glaze.

“I know, I know.”

You wrap your arms around her shoulders, legs hooking around the narrow of her waist as she bears your weight and picks up your boneless figure.

“I’m not done with you yet, sweetheart.”

The sun is warm against your skin when you wake up the following morning, your bedroom bathed in an orange glow.

You feel bone tired, body sore and muscles tight as your arm sweeps the other side of the bed in search of balmy skin, but instead you’re met with cool sheets and swelling dread.

You sit up quickly, find that you’re still naked, and take a moment to asses your bedroom. The bathroom door’s cracked, light off, and everything else is exactly where you left it.

Everything except Vi.

Oh, you think to yourself.

Almost don’t want to leave your room because your empty apartment will be confirmation enough that Vi really did get the last laugh in the end.

But you force yourself out of bed, shrug on an oversized t-shirt before finding the living room just as still as it had been before the two of you had barreled in the night before and she’d left her mark on you.

The only sign that the entire thing wasn’t just a figment of your imagination was Vi’s belt strewn haphazardly on the coffee table.

You feel hollow, almost numb, and even if a persistent part of your brain was consistently telling you that you should’ve known better, the tears well in your eyes because you’d really hoped Violet was different.

You knuckle the tears away angrily, mind racing far too fast to register the door quietly unlocking and the soft footfalls coming down the hall.

“Babe?”

Your gaze snaps up.

Like a vision, Vi’s standing in the doorway, a handful of plastic bags in tow. She’s wearing her clothes from last night and the puffs under her eyes make her a little worse for wear.

She sets the bags down on the eat-in, rounds the couch to take you by the shoulders.

“What’s wrong?” she worries. “What’s going on?”

You hiccup, crumpling in her arms because you were so fucking scared.

“Thought you left,” you croak.

Vi breathes a sigh of relief, blowing out a hollow laugh because her girl’s such a baby.

“You have jack shit in your fridge,” she teases lightly. “How am I supposed to make you a five star breakfast with greek yogurt and carrot sticks?”

You whine.

“Don’t care about breakfast,” your muffled voice sounds from where your face is pressed in her chest. “Just wanted to wake up to you.”

Violet groans.

“You’re so cute,” she laughs, kissing the top of your head.

“I wanna go back to bed,” you mutter petulantly, emotional whiplash making your eyes droop.

“You’re not gonna let me make you breakfast?” Vi picks, smoothing the hair from your face.

Your eyes catch the bracelet refastened around her wrist and you grin softly, taking her fingers to press a kiss to her palm.

She could combust, gaze gooey as she watches you watch her.

Yeah, Vi has a huge problem.

One that’s particular, and overarching; one she doesn’t think she can go without.

And frankly, she wouldn’t have it any other way.

#arcane #arcane fanfic #vi x reader #vi arcane #vi fanfic #vi smut #vi league of legends #wlw #sapphic #arcane x reader

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lizardho · 1 month ago

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One of the weird things about growing up me is just the increased lack of social awareness sort of slowly reaching a crescendo in junior high. I remember getting picked on a lot more as I got older and older in elementary school, and the bullying started hitting in a weird way in Jr. High. Like, my knowledge of age-appropriate things had finally capped out and I was just entirely oblivious to the fact I was being picked on. Sometimes people made it easy, like the kid who told me my mom made me wrong, but sometimes it was harder. I do have some interesting memories from that time, though, and a lot of them are centered around a very small group of people who were willing to explain things to me. I remember in 7th grade I met a girl in a math class who was incomprehensibly kind to me. She wanted to be a special ed teacher, her older and younger brothers were both on the autism spectrum, and she was friends with all the emo and goth kids, so she was like the perfect storm of patient kindness and anti-establishment knowledge I needed. I remember one day walking out of math class after a fairly hard quiz, and she said,

“Oh man, that quiz was hard. I could really use a hug.”

An I responded with, “Oh, yeah, a hug would be awesome.” And then we just kinda sat there until I saw the light flick on in her brain, like “Oooh, that’s what her deal is!” and she said “Hey, can I have a hug from you?” and I said, “Yeah!” And gave her a hug, and like, even if I didn’t know what my deal was, she sure as hell did.

In addition to being absurdly kind, she was also EXTREMELY conventionally attractive, good at makeup, funny, and had an insatiable bloodlust for bullies, so she drew a lot of a certain type of people in. I always kinda felt lucky just being her friend because God only knows how I would have lived otherwise. One day we were walking to an assembly and she did a little jog to catch up to me because my confused gay ass always walked SUPER fast, and she got me to slow down so we could talk and that was VERY kind. And because of that, one of the kids in our class who had a HUGE crush on her and didn’t know the next thing about her thought that if he made me look mad enough or dumb enough or something that she’d stop talking to me and start talking to him. So he starts by coming up to me and saying,

“Hey dude, I fucking fingered your sister last night.”

And I am a bonafide grade-a dumbass who Does Not Know What Sex Is so I thought he meant he fingered her for a crime. But my sister was like 5 so I was like “What crime could a 5 year old commit?” so I was like “What do you mean? Like, shoplifting?”

And to his credit, he kinda stopped for a second. Not because he wanted to, but because with all his experience as a bully he had yet to encounter someone quite as earnestly confused as me. After he recovered from what, to him, was a bizarre crazy-person non-sequitur, he said,

“No, dude, I mean I fingered your sister last night.”

And I said, “Dude, she’s like…5, what could you have fingered her for?” And he was doubling down so he goes “Because I fucking wanted to,” with a big cocky smile on his face, which was NOT an answer to my question because I NEEDED to know what crime this dick thought a 5 year old could commit between 6:00 dinner and 8:30 bed time. So I kept asking, “But like, what was the crime? Like what did you finger her for?” and he kept being like “Because I want to” or “Because your sister’s nasty like that,” both of which were wholly insufficient answers. He thought I was ignoring him or stupid, and I thought he was a total moron, and realistically both of us were right.

And the whole time we’re talking about this, she is glaring daggers at him and telling him to Shut The Entire Fuck Up because she knows what he’s saying and she knows I do not and she doesn’t want me to learn like this. And finally, because he thinks she’s doing that thing that girls don’t actually do but that boys THINK they do of feigning being mad to play along and egg me on, he starts looking at her like they’re in cahoots, and she says “Oh my God you sick jerk just leave us ALONE!” and that gets a teacher’s attention. And suddenly he’s red-faced and confused because he thought he was looking like Chad Thundercock the top king stud of all time and realistically he’s looking more like the comedy relief pseudo-bully from an 80s film. And because she yelled at him to leave us alone, a teacher almost immediately comes over to check on what’s going on, and she explains it all in graphic detail and that kid got detention and probably a tension headache from trying to make his brain think good enough to figure out how all this happened. And once it was done she just grabbed my arm by the elbow and said “I’m so sorry about that, come on, let’s just go,” and I said, “Idk why you’re sorry, I don’t even know what’s going on.” And she said, “I know, sweetie, I know. Do me a favor and don’t look it up.” And because I promised her I didn’t end up knowing what fingering was until I was a Sophomore in high school when someone in theater explained it to me and I was retroactively so mad at this kid I almost went blind.

I actually have a LOT of stories about this kind of stuff so if y’all like this I will post more.

#tgirl swag #mormon #ex mormon #exmormon #trans pride #trans stuff #bullying #tw bullying #tw bullies #autism

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pascalissmoked · 24 days ago

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Sweeter Than Summer

Summary: It starts with helping Sarah. It ends with her dad looking at you like he can’t breathe without you. Soft smiles, stolen glances—until it’s not so soft anymore. Word Count: 8K Warnings: fluff, age gap (reader is 22 and joel is in his mid 30s), joel being the hot neighbor and a frienc od your dad's, tommy being a little shit to his older brother, team plotting from sarah and her uncle, blood (not gory though), joel not knowing how to take care of Sarah becoming a woman, food consumption, nervous!joel, texas!joel, no outbreak!joel, unprotected sex, A/N: I kinda let myself go with this one. But you can never have too much of dilf!joel anyway. I hope you enjoy xx

Sweat clung to your skin like a second layer, tracing hot trails from your neck to the hollow of your collarbone. Texas, in the dead of summer, had become less of a state and more of a furnace—an open-mouthed oven blasting dry, merciless heat at everything that dared to live in it. No breeze, no shade, not even the patchy ceiling fans in your father’s house could fight it off.

So you escaped to the only place with the illusion of relief: your old man’s rust-bitten Ford truck. The air conditioning groaned like an old man with bad knees, struggling to push out even a whisper of cold. Mostly, it just wheezed in competition with the faint melody of Avril Lavigne’s Complicated playing from a scratched-up CD.

That CD had been a gift from Sarah—the wild-hearted twelve-year-old next door with a halo of curls and a grin full of mischief. She’d handed it to you like it was treasure, wrapped in a scrap of pink paper with your name spelled in glitter pen. Babysitting her had started off as a favor, a quick yes when your father mentioned that Joel Miller—Sarah’s dad—needed someone to help out now and then. You’d barely met Joel, only knew that he worked with his hands, often gone at odd hours, and that he carried the kind of quiet sadness you didn’t ask questions about.

You were a high school senior back then, just counting days until freedom. But somehow, that little girl made you want to stay.

Your evenings slowly stitched themselves into a patchwork of Disney marathons, popcorn burned in the microwave, Sarah’s giggles echoing through the halls of the Miller house. She’d curl up beside you, head resting on your shoulder like a sleepy kitten, cookies half-eaten and forgotten on the table. She became something sacred—a bond, a heartbeat, the closest thing to a sister you’d ever have.

Even after you left for college, you kept coming back. Not out of duty, but because her tiny arms still wrapped around your waist when you walked through the door. Because her eyes still lit up like fireworks when you pressed play on The Little Mermaid. Because somehow, she had become your person.

You leaned back in the cracked leather seat, your legs sticking to it, the AC making a sad attempt at survival. You shut your eyes and let Avril’s voice carry you, half-lost in memory and heat-induced haze, until a sharp knock on the passenger window startled you.

Sarah.

She was grinning, as usual—her curls pulled into a wild ponytail, a Popsicle in one hand, and a look that said she was up to something.

You rolled the window down. “What’s up, bug?”

She climbed in before you could stop her, dragging a wave of hot air in with her. “Dad said we could go get ice cream if you’re up for driving.”

“Did he now?”

“Okay, I might’ve said you were bored and needed to get out. Same thing.”

You shook your head, biting back a smile. She shoved the melting Popsicle into your hand and snapped on her seatbelt with dramatic flair. “Let’s go. Before it gets hotter. I think I saw a squirrel burst into flames on the sidewalk.”

You laughed and turned the key in the ignition. The engine coughed to life, the truck rumbling beneath you like an old beast waking from a nap. You caught sight of Joel on the porch as you pulled away—arms crossed, watching with that unreadable expression he always wore. You gave him a two-fingered wave. He nodded once, and that was enough.

Sarah chattered all the way to the ice cream place, asking about college, about whether you had a boyfriend yet (she asked this every time), and whether she’d be tall enough to ride the big coasters at the state fair this year. You let her talk, let her words fill the space like music.

When you finally parked in front of the ice cream shop, the sun had started dipping low, turning the sky into a hazy peach-orange watercolor.

Inside, the cool air hit like salvation. Sarah ran to the counter, already debating between cotton candy and cookie dough. You trailed behind more slowly, letting the change in temperature settle over your skin like a blessing.

As you waited, your phone buzzed in your pocket. A message from your dad:

“Joel asked if you’ll be home later. Said he could use help with something at the house.”

You stared at the screen for a second longer than you needed to. Joel didn’t ask for help. Not unless he meant it.

“What’s wrong?” Sarah looked up from her ice cream conquest.

You smiled. “Nothing. Just your dad being mysterious.”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s always mysterious. He builds things all day and listens to music no one understands.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” you teased.

“I’m not mysterious,” she said, scooping her choice—cookie dough, of course—into a bowl. “I’m an open book.”

You paid for the treats and led her outside to a metal bench half in the shade. The breeze had picked up slightly. It carried the scent of pavement, crepe myrtles, and something else—something you couldn’t quite name. Something shifting.

The sun was beginning to slip behind the rooftops by the time you and Sarah returned to the Miller house, both of you sticky from melted ice cream and heat. The air had that golden hue of a Texas evening—dust motes glowing in the sunlight, cicadas beginning their slow song. The drive back from the ice cream shop had been quiet, but not in a bad way. Sarah had rolled the window down and was humming absently to herself between licks of her cone. You stole glances at her in the rearview mirror. She looked tired but content, her face a little flushed, her curls sticking to her temples.

You knew something had shifted. She’d been quieter than usual on the ride back, a little distracted. Not sad, just somewhere far off in her head. You didn’t push it. You’d learned a long time ago that Sarah always circled back in her own time.

When you pulled into the driveway, Joel was out front, leaning against the porch rail with his arms folded, like he’d been waiting. He looked up as the truck came to a stop, one brow lifting slightly in a kind of wordless check-in. You gave him a nod, just enough to say she’s okay.

Sarah climbed out of the truck slowly and stretched. “I’m gonna shower,” she mumbled, already heading toward the front door.

“You eat dinner?” Joel called after her.

“Ice cream counts!” she shouted back, disappearing into the house.

Joel huffed something like a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He scratched the back of his neck, eyes still on the screen door even after it swung shut behind her.

You shut the truck door and walked over to him. “Everything alright?”

He looked at you then, really looked. Not with panic, exactly, but something close. Hesitation. Worry. Maybe a little guilt.

“You got a minute?” he asked. “Need to run something by you.”

You nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

Joel gestured toward the backyard with a jerk of his chin. The porch boards creaked beneath his boots as you followed him through the kitchen and out the back door, into the thick, humid air. The sun was low now, bleeding orange across the fence line. Crickets had started up in the grass, and you could hear a neighbor’s sprinkler ticking faintly in the distance.

Joel didn’t speak for a while. He stood with his hands on his hips, staring out across the yard like it might offer him a script to read from. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and a little rough around the edges.

“Found somethin’ earlier,” he said. “In the bathroom. A, uh… towel. One of hers. Had blood on it…”

“Oh,” you said, gently. “Her period.”

He nodded, cheeks reddening, clearly trying to keep his voice level. “Yeah. That. She didn’t say a damn word to me. Just shoved a towel in the laundry like nothin’ happened and then asked if she could go out for ice cream. And I remembered… her mom used to—well, she always wanted something sweet on her bad days, so…”

You felt your chest warm. Not from the heat. From him. From this big, quiet man who looked like he could wrestle a bear but stood there now like a deer in headlights, wringing his hands over his little girl.

“She’s twelve,” he added, like that somehow made it more tragic. “I don’t… I didn’t grow up with sisters. Only Tommy. We were a disaster even on good days. I don’t know what to say, or how to—hell, I don’t even know what kind of… supplies she’s supposed to use.”

He fell quiet again, then sighed, long and slow. “I didn’t know who to call. I almost called Tommy, but you know, he’s as useless as I am when it comes to this kinda thing. So… I figured, maybe you’d know.”

There was something in the way he said it—maybe you’d know—that felt less like a request and more like a quiet surrender. Like this was his way of admitting he was scared, and he didn’t know how to say it out loud.

You stepped closer, your voice soft. “You did the right thing, Joel. Giving her space, getting her out of the house. That was smart.”

“She didn’t even tell me,” he muttered. “That’s what kills me. She used to come to me for everything. Now she’s just—dealing with it by herself. Like she had to.”

“She’s twelve,” you said gently. “She’s embarrassed. Doesn’t know how to talk about it. Maybe she’s scared you’ll think she’s different now.”

Joel blinked at that. “Why the hell would I think that?”

“Because that’s what girls worry about when they start this. That people will treat them differently. That their body’s changing and it makes things weird.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes were on the fence again. “Her mom used to say stuff like that. About how she hated how people treated her like she was fragile just ’cause she was bleeding.”

There was a rawness in his voice that hadn’t been there before. Not just nervousness—grief, too. That quiet, familiar ache of someone trying to parent without the other half of the puzzle.

“I’ll take her to the store tomorrow,” you said. “We’ll get her what she needs—pads, whatever she’s comfortable with. Maybe some tea. And chocolate. That always helps.”

Joel nodded slowly, like each word you said was another burden taken off his shoulders. “Thank you.”

You hesitated, then placed your hand lightly on his arm. “She’s not trying to shut you out. She’s just figuring it out in the only way she knows how.”

He looked at you then, really looked—tired, grateful, full of a quiet kind of worry that had nowhere to go.

“I feel like I’m messin’ it all up,” he admitted, so low you barely heard it.

“You’re not.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure.”

A long silence settled between you. The kind that wasn’t awkward, just full. Full of the things left unsaid, of the weight of love and responsibility and the kind of fear that comes with being someone’s whole world.

Joel rubbed a hand over his face and huffed a short laugh. “You must think I’m pathetic.”

“I think you’re doing your best,” you said. “And that’s more than a lot of kids get.”

He let out a breath, slow and steady. Then, after a pause: “You’re good with her.”

“I love her,” you said. “She’s like a little sister to me.”

Joel looked at you again—something unreadable in his expression. Maybe surprise. Maybe something else.

“I’m real glad you’re still around,” he said quietly.

You smiled. “Me too.”

From inside the house, Sarah called out, “Are we watching a movie or what?”

Joel didn’t take his eyes off you, but there was something softer in them now. Something unguarded.

“I guess we’d better get in there,” he said.

“Yeah,” you said, letting your hand fall from his arm. “Before she starts without us.”

It was the first time you'd stayed this late at the Miller house. Usually, your evenings with Sarah ended around sunset—movie paused, cookies half-eaten, Joel pulling into the driveway with dust on his jeans and tired thanks in his eyes. But this time, things were different.

Sarah had asked you to stay. She’d clung to your arm, eyes wide and wheedling, and Joel, surprisingly, had said yes.

“I mean… if it’s no trouble,” he’d added, rubbing the back of his neck, trying not to meet your eyes.

You’d said it wasn’t. And you meant it.

Now, the three of you were gathered in the living room. The lights were dimmed, the TV humming with the opening credits of Holes. Sarah had insisted on it—“It’s a classic, don’t even argue”—and had spread every pillow and blanket she could find across the floor like a DIY fort.

She was nestled into the middle of it, legs tucked under her, one of Joel’s flannels hanging off her shoulders. You sat on the edge of the couch, nursing a soda, while Joel took the armchair, one ankle propped lazily over his knee.

The movie started, and for a while, it was all popcorn rustles and Sarah quoting her favorite lines before they even happened. Joel chuckled at her enthusiasm, and you found yourself watching them more than the movie—how Joel’s eyes softened every time Sarah laughed, how she leaned toward you like this was the most natural thing in the world.

Somewhere around the third lizard sighting, Sarah moved to sit on the couch between you and the armrest, leaning against your side like a sleepy cat. You didn’t even notice when her breathing evened out and her head rested on your arm.

Joel noticed though.

His voice came low, amused. “She out?”

You glanced down. “Dead to the world.”

“She’s like her mom that way. Could sleep through a tornado.”

It was the second time he’d mentioned her. His voice was gentle, a little distant, but not painful. Just remembering.

You both sat quietly for a while after that. The soft flicker of the movie lit his face in blues and golds. He looked… peaceful. More relaxed than you’d seen him at those neighborhood barbecues, where he always kept a beer in his hand and one eye on Sarah like he didn’t trust the world not to fall apart.

Now, she was here, asleep beside you. And you were here, beside her.

When the credits finally rolled, Joel stood up slowly, stretching with a soft groan.

“I’ll carry her,” he said, and you nodded.

He moved carefully, gently scooping her up in his arms. She stirred just enough to murmur your name and Joel’s, then went limp again against his chest.

You watched them disappear down the hallway, the quiet creak of her bedroom door closing like the final note in a lullaby.

When he returned, he found you curled up on the couch, clearly half-asleep yourself.

Joel stood there for a moment, just watching you.

He thought about waking you. He really did.

But then he sighed, rubbed a hand over his jaw, and muttered, “Alright then.”

A few minutes later, he was spreading a clean blanket over you in his room and stacking an extra pillow beside your head. He lingered there, eyes soft, before turning off the light and closing the door behind him.

The smell of coffee nudged you awake before sunlight did. For a few seconds, you lay still, half-dreaming, until the stiff cotton sheets and unfamiliar quiet reminded you—this wasn’t your bed. It was Joel's.

You blinked at the wooden beams above you, the smell of frying bacon drifting in through a barely-cracked door. Joel's room was neat but lived-in. The flannel shirt hanging off the bedpost, the guitar case by the closet, the worn boots by the door—it all felt very him.

You sat up slowly, pushing hair out of your face, squinting toward the hallway. It felt intimate in here. Like you were somewhere you weren't quite supposed to be. And yet, the warmth in your chest told a different story.

The floorboards creaked softly as you padded toward the kitchen, feet bare and cautious. Joel stood at the stove, t-shirt wrinkled, hair a little messier than usual. He was flipping bacon, one hand holding a spatula, the other nursing a coffee cup.

He turned when he heard you, and for just a second, there was something caught in his expression. Not surprise. Something softer.

"Mornin'," he said, voice low and a little scratchy.

"You gave me your bed?"

Joel shrugged, turning back to the stove. "You were out cold. Didn’t wanna wake you. Couch ain’t so bad."

You glanced over at the couch, then back at him. "That couch is shaped like a capital 'L'. No way your back's okay."

He smirked, sliding bacon onto a paper towel. "I'm tougher than I look."

You raised an eyebrow, settling onto a stool by the counter. "You mean grumpier."

Before Joel could reply, Sarah wandered in like a hurricane with the battery drained. She wore a hoodie zipped halfway and socks slipping down her heels. Her face was twisted in dramatic agony.

"It feels like a war zone in my gut," she moaned.

Joel tensed. "You need Tylenol? Heating pad?"

"I need ice cream," Sarah said. Then her eyes landed on you. "You're still here?"

You smiled. "Yep. Joel gave me his bed."

Sarah blinked. Then grinned like she’d just won a prize at the fair. "Ooooh."

Joel, behind her, quietly muttered, "Sarah."

She leaned in close to you like you were co-conspirators. "Did you sleep in, like, his bed? Like with the plaid sheets and the pillow that smells like sawdust and... man soap?"

You tried not to laugh. "That very one."

Sarah's eyes glittered. "I knew it! Dad always acts weird around you."

Joel nearly choked on his coffee. "Alright, that's enough. Go sit down."

Sarah plopped onto the couch, cradling a heating pad Joel must have already warmed up for her. Despite her cramps, she looked content. Radiant, even. You noticed her eyes drifting shut, the tiniest smile playing at her lips.

"We should probably go grab her a few things," you murmured to Joel.

He gave a quiet nod. "She said she used the last pad yesterday. I just... didn’t wanna get the wrong thing. Didn’t know there were fifty types."

You touched his arm lightly. "We’ll take care of it."

Just then, the back door creaked open with that familiar screech that only old hinges and a Miller brother could make.

"Hope I’m not too late for bacon," Tommy called, strolling in like he owned the place. He wore his Sunday-best version of casual: jeans, a button-up rolled to the elbows, and a grin that could get him out of any ticket.

Sarah brightened at the sound. "Uncle Tommy!"

"Hey, sweetheart," he beamed, ruffling her curls gently. "Heard you had a bit of a rough morning."

She held up a thumbs-up from under her blanket. "I’m surviving. Thanks to the ice cream and the guest star who stayed overnight."

Tommy's eyebrows shot up, and he turned to look at you, then Joel. "Guest star, huh?"

Joel stiffened where he stood. "She crashed after the movie. I gave her the bed."

Tommy leaned on the counter, eyes twinkling. "Your bed?"

Sarah giggled. "With the plaid sheets and the soap smell and everything!"

Joel let out a breath like he was trying not to combust. "Can y’all stop announcin' that to the whole neighborhood?"

Tommy laughed, clearly enjoying himself. "I’m just sayin’—breakfast smells like affection, and you’ve got your flannel lookin’ a little less grumpy today."

"She’s good with Sarah," Joel said gruffly, pouring another cup of coffee. "That’s all."

"Sure," Tommy said, nodding slowly. "And the way you’re hovering near her like a guard dog in flannel, that’s also ‘just good with Sarah’?" he whispered.

Joel shot him a warning glance, but Tommy only grinned wider.

"Uncle Tommy," Sarah said sweetly, suddenly conspiratorial, "do you think Dad has a crush?"

Joel nearly dropped his mug. You buried your face in your hands, laughing helplessly.

Tommy gasped theatrically. "Sarah! I think you might be right. Look at that blush—he’s turning redder than my truck!"

Joel groaned. "Jesus Christ, I should’ve stayed in bed."

"Too bad someone else was in it," Tommy teased.

Joel turned to you, his voice dry. "You wanna take her to the store now? Might be safer."

You, still laughing, nodded. "Before Sarah starts handing out wedding invitations."

Sarah waved a hand from the couch. "Too late, I already made a vision board."

Tommy threw his head back, howling. Joel just stared at the ceiling like it might open up and swallow him whole.

You grabbed your bag, still chuckling, and gestured to Sarah. "C’mon, let’s get you the fancy kind of pain relief. Maybe even a heating pad shaped like a llama."

Sarah sprang up with unexpected energy. "This is why you’re my favorite."

Joel muttered, "You weren’t sayin’ that when I was up at 2 a.m. gettin’ you ice water."

She kissed his cheek and skipped toward the door.

As the two of you left, you heard Tommy say behind you, "You know, I really am happy for you, big brother. But I’m gonna keep messin’ with you just the same."

Joel replied with a grunt, but his voice, softer now, said more than his words ever could.

He was grateful.

And he was in trouble.

The store's fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead as you and Sarah wandered down the aisle lined with shelves full of period products. The “feminine care” section was a riot of pastel colors, cryptic labels, and brands that somehow managed to sound both comforting and clinical.

Sarah stared up at them, arms crossed, mouth slightly open. "Okay, so... what's the difference between ultra-thin and ultra-thin with wings? Is it, like, flying powers?"

You snorted. "No flying powers, sadly. The wings just help keep things in place."

"Disappointing," she said with a sigh. "I was hoping for at least a little magic."

You crouched to scan the lower shelves. "Do you want the same kind you had last time, or do you wanna try something different?"

Sarah shrugged. "Whatever you think’s best. I trust your judgment. You’re clearly a seasoned professional."

You tossed a box into the basket. "The seasoned-est."

Sarah peeked up at you, slyly. "So... speaking of judgment."

You raised an eyebrow. "Uh-huh?"

"Do you like older guys?"

You blinked. "That’s... a jump."

She grinned, clearly proud of herself. "No it’s not. It’s an investigative segue."

You tried to stifle a laugh. "Sarah."

"What? I’m curious! You’re, like, a woman. With... grown-up tastes."

"You’re twelve."

"Exactly! I need mentorship."

You paused, holding a box of heating patches. "Is this about your dad again?"

"I mean, not entirely. But also: yes."

You gave her a look.

"I just think you two would be cute. You both make weirdly good pancakes. And when you were sleeping in his bed, I swear he was, like, standing in the hallway checking if you were still breathing. Like some kind of lumberjack angel."

You put the patches in the basket. "Lumberjack angel?"

"Don’t mock the poetry."

You walked toward the checkout, and she practically skipped after you despite the heating pad she clutched like a teddy bear.

"Okay but seriously—" she continued, lowering her voice dramatically, "—do you think he’s cute? Like, if he didn’t have the whole ‘dad’ thing going on?"

You sighed, amused. "Sarah, I’m not talking about your dad like that."

She smirked. "That means yes."

You gave her a mock glare as the cashier started scanning your items. Sarah, never missing a beat, leaned on the counter like she was discussing secret spy business.

"Also, Uncle Tommy said you could do better. I told him to hush. I think my dad is the best you’re gonna get."

"Wow. Brutal."

"I'm in pain. Let me live."

As you bagged everything up and started walking toward the exit, Sarah looped her arm through yours and leaned against you.

"Thanks for coming with me. It’s way less awkward with you. Dad would’ve had an existential crisis in the tampon aisle."

"I believe it."

"And also... thanks for not making this whole thing a big weird deal. I was really freaked out yesterday. Thought I was dying. You were cool about it."

You softened. "That’s what I’m here for."

She looked up at you, a little more serious now. "And I really hope you end up my stepmom. But, like, the hot kind."

You blinked. "SARAH."

She cackled. "What? Just planting seeds."

Outside, the sun was warm on your face. You shook your head, laughing as you loaded the bags into Joel’s truck.

And somewhere inside that little gremlin of a girl was the biggest heart you’d ever met. Even on her worst day, she was matchmaking and joking and holding your hand.

God help Joel.

He didn’t stand a chance.

The sun was angling low by the time you pulled back into the driveway, the kind of orange Texas glow that made everything look a little too golden and a little too unreal. Sarah was humming to herself in the passenger seat, clutching the drugstore bag like it held state secrets.

You climbed out of the truck, stretching, only to freeze halfway through.

Joel was out front, shirt sticking to his back in the heat, kneeling beside a crooked section of the fence. A small toolbox sat next to him, half-open, nails scattered in neat little rows. His shirt—dark blue and worn—was clinging to his frame in all the right places. Sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Forearms dusted in sawdust.

He looked up as you shut the car door, and for a moment, all you could do was blink.

“Hey,” he called, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. “Y’all make it okay?”

Sarah jumped out of the truck and held up the bag. “We conquered the period aisle!” she declared, marching proudly inside.

Joel chuckled. “That so?” Then his eyes flicked to you, and something in them softened. “Thanks. For takin’ her.”

You nodded, but your voice caught somewhere in your throat. “Of course.”

He bent back down, hammer in hand, and you stood there a beat too long watching the muscles in his arm flex with each nail he drove in.

It’s just because of what Sarah said, you told yourself. That’s all. She put it in your head.

But that wasn’t entirely true. The man looked like a Calvin Klein ad shot in a lumber yard.

You forced yourself to turn toward the house before your brain made it worse.

Inside, Sarah was already curled up on the couch, heating pad in place, water bottle in hand, victorious and slightly smug.

Joel followed you in not long after, wiping his hands on a rag. He glanced at the clock, then at you.

“You hungry?” he asked. “I was gonna grill a few things for dinner. Nothin’ fancy.”

“Stay!” Sarah added immediately, perking up. “You helped today and you’re, like, family. Dad even makes real food when you’re here. It’s a rare event.”

Joel gave her a look but didn’t argue. His eyes landed on you again. “You’re welcome to. Honestly.”

You smiled. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Joel grilled something—probably out of guilt for the frozen waffles breakfast. It smelled amazing. Burgers, seasoned fries, sliced watermelon, the works. You sat across from Sarah while Joel set everything out. Just as he was bringing over a dish of pickles, the back door swung open.

“Smells like a cookout for three, but I count four plates,” Tommy drawled, letting himself in like he always did. His jeans were too tight, shirt a little too fitted, like he was contractually obligated to flirt with the universe.

Joel gave him a side glance. “Don’t you have a house?”

“Sure do. But yours has food. And company.”

Tommy’s eyes slid to you, and his grin grew. “Well hey there.”

You smiled. “Hi, Tommy.”

Sarah rolled her eyes dramatically. “Don’t even, Uncle Tommy. She’s my best friend.”

Joel muttered, “God help me,” under his breath and passed you the ketchup.

Halfway through dinner, Tommy was in rare form. He elbowed Joel mid-bite. “So. When’s the last time you cooked like this for anyone?”

Joel didn’t look up. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just sayin’. I visit and get leftover chili. She visits and it’s gourmet.”

You were trying to hide your grin behind your water glass.

Tommy pointed his fork at you. “He always gets like this when you’re around. All tense and upright like he’s bein’ evaluated by the food network. You got the man sweating over burger seasoning.”

Joel groaned. “I swear to God, Tommy.”

Sarah giggled. “He did check the grill temp like, five times.”

You caught Joel’s eye. He looked exasperated, but his ears were red. Very red.

Tommy wasn’t done. “You know, Sarah’s got a good eye. She’s not wrong. This whole thing”—he gestured vaguely between you and Joel—“feels domestic.”

“Tommy,” Joel warned.

Sarah added, “We’re basically a sitcom now. One where the hot dad doesn’t know he’s in love.”

Joel dropped his head into his hands.

Tommy raised his glass. “To sitcoms. And slow burns.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or run.

Joel caught your eye again. And this time, he didn’t look away.

It wasn’t a big party. That had never been your dad’s style. But the backyard looked sweet under the string lights he’d looped between trees, casting a soft gold hue over the old lawn chairs and the fold-out table covered in mismatched paper plates and bowls of chips. A CD player in the corner hummed the tunes of old country and early 2000s radio hits, the kind your dad thought “young people liked.”

You’d just turned 22. Most of your college friends were scattered across the state—too far to make it for a casual Sunday night cookout. So it was just a few neighbors, your dad manning the grill, and a soft breeze that hinted at the edge of summer’s peak.

Joel showed up just as your dad was tending to the barbeque, Sarah at his side, her curls bouncing in a way that made her look like she was floating toward you. She held out a card like it was a trophy.

“Happy birthday!” she beamed. “I made you a masterpiece.”

You laughed and took it carefully. The card was covered in glitter and tiny doodles: a birthday cake, a sparkly dinosaur wearing sunglasses, and a poorly drawn but heartfelt portrait of you, her, and Joel standing under a rainbow.

“I love it,” you said, genuinely. “I’m framing it.”

“Good,” she grinned. “It took me forty-five minutes and three glitter glue explosions.”

Behind her, Joel gave you a small smile. He was in a dark gray button-down rolled to the elbows and jeans that didn’t look new, but still somehow looked good. Really good. You’d never seen him dressed like this—like he tried, just a little. He was holding a six-pack of Shiner Bock and a small rectangular gift wrapped in brown paper and string.

"Happy birthday," he said, voice quieter. “Didn’t know what to get, so…”

He handed you the gift and scratched at the back of his neck.

You gave him a curious smile as you took it. “Should I open it now?”

He shrugged. “Up to you.”

You peeled back the paper. Inside was a well-worn copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. The corners were softened from age, and the inside cover had a note in Joel’s neat, deliberate handwriting:

“You mentioned this was your favorite once. Figured you should have a version that’s seen a few years too. —J”

For a moment, the backyard went quiet around you—music, chatter, all of it faded. You looked up and met his eyes. Warm. Kind. Embarrassed, maybe. But also something else. Like he saw you in a way that you hadn’t let yourself imagine too much.

“Thank you,” you said, and meant it more than he probably realized.

Sarah was watching the two of you with her arms crossed, smirking. “You two are so obvious.”

Joel cleared his throat and turned toward the food table. “Burgers should be ready soon.”

You followed, your cheeks flushed.

Later, after burgers and sides and Sarah’s overenthusiastic attempts to pin the tail on the inflatable donkey, which your dad found hilarious, the grill was cooling and the sky was a bruised violet. You were inside the kitchen, trying to find a knife that wasn’t dull to slice the birthday cake. Your dad had disappeared, muttering something about “checking the propane line,” which you were 99% sure was code for “giving you space.”

Joel came in behind you with a tray of empty cups. “Need a hand?”

You turned, knife in one hand, cake staring back at you. “Yeah. Unless you wanna watch me murder this thing.”

He smirked, stepping beside you. Close. His shoulder brushed yours as he reached for a stack of plates.

“What kind of cake is this, anyway?” he asked, leaning just enough to read the label on the box.

“Chocolate with strawberry filling. Sarah picked it out. Said it was ‘romantic birthday vibes.’”

Joel laughed softly. “That girl’s gonna run a matchmaking business one day.”

“She already is. We’re just her test subjects.”

You looked up to find him looking down, his eyes flicking to your mouth just for a second. Just a second—but it was enough to knock the air sideways in your lungs.

You turned back to the cake, hoping your hands weren’t shaking. You started to cut, and Joel leaned closer, one hand resting on the counter beside you.

“Need me to steady the plate?” he asked.

Your hands were a little clumsy, distracted by the warmth of him next to you. “Maybe. It’s a two-person job.”

He chuckled, and you could feel the laugh more than hear it—like it buzzed through the space between your arm and his.

Then—

“You guys are standing really close,” Sarah’s voice rang out behind you, making you jump. She was leaning on the doorframe with a smug little grin.

Joel jerked his hand away like he’d been caught stealing.

“I was helping,” he muttered.

“With cake?” Sarah raised an eyebrow.

“Cutting’s an art,” Joel said, deadpan, making her giggle.

You just shook your head and passed her a plate. She skipped off with her prize, leaving you and Joel blinking in the soft hum of the kitchen.

“Thanks,” you said after a beat. “For everything today.”

Joel nodded, still a little red around the ears. “Wasn’t much.”

“It was,” you said. “And the book… I mean it.”

He smiled, shy but genuine. “Glad you liked it.”

And then neither of you moved. The air hung between you like a stretched-out string.

Until Sarah called from outside, “We need cake now!”

Joel exhaled. “Duty calls.”

You followed him out, but something lingered behind in the kitchen—the warmth of him, the nearness, the feeling that this thing between you wasn’t just in your head anymore.

The backyard had emptied. The last of the neighbors had waved their goodbyes. The string lights were still glowing, bugs dancing lazily in their warmth. Your dad had gone to bed after mumbling something about “too many burgers, not enough bourbon,” and the house was quiet now — quiet in a way that left too much room for your thoughts.

You were in the kitchen rinsing out plates, the hem of your party dress damp from leaning too close to the sink, your hands wrinkled and smelling like lemon soap. There was half a chocolate-strawberry cake left, the one Sarah had insisted on, and somehow you couldn’t just toss it.

She would’ve protested. Loudly.

You dried your hands, boxed the leftover slices neatly, and stared at the little pink-and-brown cake box for longer than you needed to.

Your feet moved before you could talk yourself out of it.

It was pushing 10:30, but Joel’s porch light was still on, casting a dim halo around the faded welcome mat. You knocked lightly, the box balanced on your hip.

A few seconds passed. Then the door creaked open.

Joel stood there barefoot in gray sweatpants and a black T-shirt, looking tired in the way only dads could be — soft around the edges but still solid, still present. His hair was tousled, and he looked like he’d only just sat down for the night.

“Hey,” he said, surprised but not unhappy. “Everything alright?”

You held up the cake box like a peace offering. “Didn’t feel right keeping it. Sarah picked it. Thought she might want it.”

He stepped aside, motioning you in. “She would’ve. She’s at Tommy’s tonight, though. Asked to sleep over.”

You paused on the threshold, your heart thudding a little louder. “Oh.”

“Come on in,” Joel said gently. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded, stepping inside. The house smelled like clean laundry and cedar. Familiar and warm. Lived-in. You followed him into the kitchen and set the cake down on the counter.

Joel leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “Long day?”

You smiled faintly. “Fun day. Weird, too. Turning twenty-two in your childhood backyard while your babysitting kid gives you love advice.”

Joel chuckled, eyes crinkling. “Yeah. She’s... somethin’.”

You leaned back on your elbows against the counter. The room was dim — just the small lamp over the sink on — and the silence was comfortable at first. But then it turned charged. He hadn’t moved. Neither had you.

Your gaze drifted. His jaw was stubbled, his hair slightly damp, like maybe he’d just taken a shower. He looked... good. More than good.

You caught him watching you back, just a second too long.

The moment thickened.

“I, uh,” you started, voice catching slightly. “I meant what I said earlier. About the book. It was... really thoughtful.”

Joel looked at you then — really looked — and whatever wall he’d been holding onto, the one made of age difference and neighborly boundaries and the awkwardness of being Sarah’s dad... it cracked.

He pushed off the doorway slowly, walked toward you, stopping just close enough to make your breath hitch.

“I’m glad you liked it,” he said softly.

The space between you was a livewire.

“I keep trying not to think about you like this,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

His jaw tightened — not in anger, but in restraint.

“Me too.”

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

Then — softly, carefully — Joel reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek, lingered.

“You’re too young for me,” Joel said, the words barely more than a gravel-edged whisper.

You looked up at him, your chest tight, heart thudding in your throat. “I’m not a kid.”

His eyes darkened, like you’d struck a match in the middle of a dry field. He swallowed hard. “I know.”

The silence between you turned into something electric, something living. The only sound was the quiet hum of the fridge and your own uneven breathing.

Joel took a small step forward, just enough to close the last of the space. He stood so close you could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, the faint crease between his brows like he was warring with himself. His hand came up—slow, hesitant—and hovered near your face before he finally gave in and touched you. His thumb skimmed along your jaw, rough fingertips brushing the soft edge of your cheek.

“Been tryin’ real damn hard not to want this,” he said, voice ragged.

Your breath hitched. “Then stop trying.”

That was all it took.

He kissed you.

But it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was weeks, maybe even months of unspoken glances, quiet admiration, long nights with Sarah between you, laughter over coffee, shared space, and now, finally, just the two of you.

His mouth found yours like he’d already dreamed it. His hands were sure now, cupping your face, sliding into your hair, then down—down to your waist, your hips—pulling you flush against him. You made a quiet sound against his mouth and that undid something in him. He groaned, low in his throat, and kissed you deeper, lips parting, tongue brushing yours, slow and deliberate.

You didn’t realize you’d moved until your back hit the counter behind you. His hands braced on either side of you, caging you in but never pressing too hard. Just close. Just real.

You slid your fingers into his hair, damp from a shower or maybe just the heat of the night, tugging lightly. He leaned into your touch, one hand sliding beneath the hem of your shirt at your back—his palm hot against your skin, callused but careful. The contrast made your knees weaken.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t move far. His forehead rested against yours, his breathing fast, uneven. You could feel his heart pounding through his chest, matching yours like a drumbeat in sync.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said again, but this time it sounded like a confession. A regret that wasn’t real.

“But you did,” you whispered, lips still tingling, hand still curled into his shirt like you couldn’t let him go just yet.

Joel’s eyes searched yours, something stormy flickering in their depths. “If you stay... if we do this... it ain’t casual for me. You understand that?”

You nodded slowly.

A beat passed. Then another.

His hand slid to your cheek again, and he kissed you once more—slower this time, a kind of reverence in it. His lips pressed to yours like he was trying to memorize the feel of you. Like he didn’t quite believe it was real.

When he pulled back again, there was a trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Tired. Hopeful. Hungry.

“You wanna stay?” he asked softly.

You looked at him, really looked. His bare feet on the kitchen floor. His hair mussed. That tiny crease between his brows. The way his eyes had gone soft, all guarded affection and barely restrained want.

“Yeah,” you said. “I do.”

Joel’s breath was still shallow when he stepped back just enough to look at you, like he was double-checking that you were still there, still real. You didn’t let go of him. Your fingers were still hooked into the front of his shirt, still pressing against the solid warmth of him.

His voice was quiet, low and careful. “If we go upstairs…”

“I know what I’m saying yes to,” you interrupted softly.

He hesitated, studying you like you were a question he’d never been brave enough to answer until now. But something in your face, in your voice, seemed to break whatever final restraint he was holding onto.

Joel nodded once.

Wordless, he took your hand.

The walk through the house was quiet, heavy with tension—not the awkward kind, but the kind that hummed in the air like a string pulled taut. Each step up the stairs felt like it carried weight. Anticipation. Choice.

His bedroom door creaked softly as he pushed it open.

In the dim lighting, it felt intimate. Lived-in but not messy. Clean but unpretentious. The scent of him lingered in the space—cedar soap and sawdust, fabric softener and something deeper, something unmistakably Joel.

He turned to face you in the doorway, fingers still twined with yours.

“You still okay?” he asked, voice rough, eyes searching yours like he was afraid to blink and miss something.

“Yes,” you whispered, breathless. “More than okay.”

Joel looked at you for a long moment. Then he leaned in and kissed you again — deeper this time, with more certainty, like the last of his resistance had slipped loose.

Your fingers slid into his hair, tugging gently, and he groaned softly against your mouth. He tasted like something rich and dark and slow. His hands roamed, reverent and careful, touching you like he was trying to learn you by feel — every curve, every sound you made under his fingertips.

When you gasped as his hand skimmed lower, he paused. “Tell me if you need me to stop,” he murmured into your skin.

You shook your head. “Don’t stop. Please, Joel.”

He kissed down your throat, down your chest, leaving a trail of warmth wherever his lips touched. Your back arched instinctively, your body aching to be closer. There was nothing rushed in the way he undressed you — every movement was measured, like he was unwrapping something he’d wanted for a long, long time but never thought he’d be allowed to have.

And when you were bare beneath him, laid out in the soft hush of his bedroom, you felt more seen — more wanted — than you ever had before.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” Joel murmured, his hand brushing along your waist, your hip, your thigh. “Don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”

You reached for him, found the hem of his shirt, and he let you lift it up and over his head. He was solid and warm and real beneath your palms, and when you kissed down his chest, he hissed through his teeth — a sound that made heat curl deep in your stomach.

The rest came off piece by piece — not rushed, but not slow either. Just… inevitable.

And then he was over you again, skin to skin, his weight pressing you into the mattress, grounding you. His nose brushed yours, like a silent request.

You cupped his cheek. “I want this. I want you.”

He kissed you again — not soft this time, but sure, open, claiming. His hand slipped under your thigh, lifted you to him, and you felt him press against you, heavy and warm.

You both gasped as your bodies joined — not all at once, but slowly, carefully, like you were fitting puzzle pieces together. Like your bodies already knew the rhythm even if the rest of you hadn’t caught up yet.

Joel’s breath stuttered as he sank fully into you, and for a moment, he just held there — his forehead against yours, both of you trembling, trying to hold on.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “You feel like heaven.”

You didn’t have the words to answer. Just the way your hands clung to him, the way your body opened for him, welcomed him in.

He moved slowly, deliberately — not just fucking you, but feeling you, like this meant something. Like he was afraid to miss it.

And you met him, movement for movement, every breath shared, every sound caught in the dark like a secret.

There was something tender in the way he whispered your name when you cried out his — something reverent, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to have you like this. And when your body tightened around him, shuddered beneath him, he caught you through it, kissed your cheek, your mouth, your neck — whispered that you were perfect, that you were his.

He followed soon after, his voice breaking into a groan as he pressed as deep as he could, shaking with the force of it, with everything he’d been holding back.

When it was over, he didn’t move far. Just enough to roll you gently to your side and pull you close, your bodies still tangled together, still warm and slick with each other.

You felt him kiss your shoulder, then your neck. “You okay?” he asked again, voice softer than ever.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “Joel…”

He pulled you tighter. “I got you, baby. I got you.”

You tucked your face into the space between his neck and shoulder, listened to his heartbeat.

And that’s how you stayed — wrapped in warmth, in quiet, in something neither of you were ready to name, but both of you felt all the same.

A/N: Should i make a part two for this? Idk how i would continue it, so if you want drop some ideas in the comments. Thanks for reading hun xx

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lowkeyremi · 14 days ago

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Inspired by this person’s little sister 🥺 she’s so cute.

“Wa-ah-ah-ah-ah!” You hear coming from the bathroom where Kuroo is currently bathing your three year old daughter.

Kuroo snorts at the imitation of his laugh; you can’t help but giggle quietly from where you’re sitting on the bed reading a book.

“Wa-ah-ah-ah-ah! Dada says ‘Wa-ah-ah-ah-ah!’” Bath water splashes ensue shortly after that.

“Oh, you think you’re funny, huh? Imitating my laugh?” You knew what was coming next. Your daughter is really sassy (you blame Kuroo for spoiling her). So, she’s quick to argue back with her father. She even takes these “arguments” seriously, though Kuroo is only teasing her.

“Yeah! Dada got a funky laugh.” Her own cute little laugh meets your ears and you can’t help but smile.

“Funky? Do you mean funny?” He asks in confusion. She couldn’t mean ‘funky’ right? Where would she even learn that or the meaning of that word?

“No! Not funny. Funky!” You bring your book up to your face to hide the laughter seeping from your lips. Oh boy, little does Kuroo know you taught your daughter that word one day after using it, and she wanted to know the meaning of it.

“And what does ‘funky’ even mean, hm?”

“Mama said it means something not normal.” She splashed around some more in the water.

“YOU THINK MY LAUGH ISN’T NORMAL?” You can’t even contain it anymore; laughter bursts from your chest.

“Dada, I think you need to go to the doctors.” Your daughter says in the most serious voice ever.

“For?” Kuroo unplugs the bath water and grabs her pink, Barbie towel.

“For your laugh! It’s funky.” Another round of laughter leaves your body. You can practically feel your husband roll his eyes.

It makes it so much funnier that she’s serious too.

“Baby girl, I promise my laugh is normal. Maybe a little weird, but not something to go to the doctors for.” He holds the towel out for her. She quickly snuggles into it, and proceeds to complain about the cold air nipping at her skin.

A few seconds later you see a little body run out of the bathroom.

“Mama, do you think Dada laughs weird?” Your three year old struggles her way up your bed.

“Hmmm, not really, not anymore at least. I think it’s special. Unique to Dada.” Kuroo smiles, he’s leaned up against the doorframe of the bathroom.

“Wa-ah-ah-ah-ah!” She says with a little giggle and kick of her feet.

You give her a little kiss on the forehead. “Go get your pajamas, baby. Do you need help putting them on?”

“No! I’m a big girl!” Your little girl slips away from your bed, her tiny little feet padding against the hardwood floor.

As soon as she’s out of sight, Kuroo walks up to you, “My laugh does not sound like ‘wa-ah-ah-ah-ah.’” A lopsided grin covering his face.

“Eh, it kinda does. You can’t tell me it’s not cute how she imitates your laugh.”

He sighs quietly, “So darn cute, I can’t stand her.”

#mannnnnn I miss writing dad haikyuu 🥹#kuroo is a certified girl dad i just know it #haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #haikyu x reader #kuroo tetsurou #kuroo testuro #kuroo x reader #kuroo tetsuro x reader #kuroo tetsurou x reader #kuroo fluff #kuroo tetsuro fluff #haikyuu fluff

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xoxojisu · 3 months ago

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"WE'RE NOT DATING!"

synopsis: the 1a girls have a lot to say about you and katsuki's not-relationship.

a/n: hahahaha more pre-relationship just friends trope (do not tell me i do this trope too much it brings me joy) also a lot of people asked for a pt two to my unofficalbf!katsuki hcs and this isnt quiiiite that bc there's not a whole lotta interaction w katsuki but uhm its smth. i have more wips abt this tho so theres a LOTTT more where that came from!

"even if we don't talk about anything important, i want to force it to be about romance!" mina exclaimed as ochako floated off in embarrassment at being questioned about deku.

"oh! speaking of! how long have you and bakugo been dating, y/n?"

you froze. "huh?"

"i don't know how you handle him! you're so sweet and cute and he's all 'die! go to hell! i am the king explosion murder lord!' y'know?" she added.

"he's not really like that with her, though. he's always a lot quieter she's around. you can see the way his eyes soften." tsu commented thoughtfully.

they all stared at you expectantly, waiting for you to answer the question, and you could feel blood rushing to your cheeks. "uh.. katsuki and i.. aren't dating?"

a beat passed. then another.

"WHAT?!"

"no way! i thought you two were dating for sure! he's always holding your hand and grabbing at you and acting all soft with you! wait, i literally saw him carry you to his room! how are you not dating?" hagakure burst out.

"yeah! and during our movie night last week, you were laying your head on his shoulder and he had his arms around you!" mina chimed in. "we all just assumed you two were dating like a given! what do you mean, 'you're not dating?!'"

"i mean, we're not dating! we're close friends, sure, but katsuki's never, like, asked me to be his girlfriend or anything! we're just tight childhood friends, that's all! he probably thinks of me as a little sister with the way he looks out for me, or something." you explained, waving your hands in the air frantically.

"y/n, i love you, but you're being as stupid as kaminari! no boy, but especially not bakugo, would ever act like that with a girl he wasn't interested in." jirou sighed. "there really isn't such thing as 'platonic cuddling' or 'platonic handholding' between boys and girls."

"well, it's normal for kids, you know? and katsuki and i grew up together, so it just kinda stuck!" you said, making a noble attempt at justifying you and katsuki's we-are-definitely-not-just-friends behavior. they all looked at you unamused.

the girls continued to bombard you with questions, each one getting bolder than the last.

"seriously, though, y/n," mina said, her grin wide, "how do you keep it together around him? you two are always so… cozy."

"cozy?" you blinked, trying to avoid their intense stares. "what do you mean 'cozy'?"

"oh, come on," she teased, nudging you. "you hold hands, sit waaaay too close, and don’t even get me started on the whole ‘sleeping on and cuddling with him’ thing. also, i swear i saw him give you a kiss on the forehead!"

"i mean, that’s just how we are!" you said, exasperated. "we’ve been friends forever! it’s not a big deal!"

jirou raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms. "i don’t know, y/n. most guys don’t carry their girl friends to their rooms when they’re tired."

you froze. the memories flashed in your mind, and you couldn’t help the nervous laugh that escaped your lips. "i told you, he was just being—"

"overprotective?" yaomomo interrupted, practically reading your mind. "yeah, that’s what we thought, too. but i don’t know, seems a little… extra for a friend."

you groaned, burying your face in your hands. “this is ridiculous. we’re not dating! he’s not like that with me.”

they all stared at you for a long moment, clearly unconvinced, when suddenly, the door to the room swung open.

katsuki stood in the doorway, his signature scowl immediately visible, with kirishima and kaminari not far behind. "..what the hell are you all looking like that at me for? you got a problem?"

the girls didn’t miss a beat. mina jumped up, eyes practically sparkling. "we were just discussing how you and a certain girl over here are totally a secret item!"

you froze. oh no.

katsuki's eyes widened then narrowed as he stared at her, his eyes a mixture of grumpiness and fluster. "the hell?" was all he said.

“you’re always carrying her, holding hands, and let’s not forget you cuddling with her sleeping on you during that movie last week. with how comfortable you guys were with it, i'll bet it was far from the first time you guys have done stuff like that, too! you two are practically made for each other!”

katsuki glared at her, his fists clenching. "i don’t give a shit what you idiots think." his voice was sharp, dismissive, and he turned his gaze toward you for a moment, his usual annoyance evident.

you let out a nervous laugh, relieved that he wasn’t actually acknowledging any of the weird feelings the group was pushing on you two.

the girls looked between you and katsuki, still skeptical, but he wasn’t having it. he gave a quick, sharp glare to the group before glancing back at you. you failed to see the way his sharp glare softened ever-so-slightly when he did so.

“you’re all so damn nosy,” he muttered, turning to leave. "get a life."

he marched off grumpily, kirishima and kaminari now excitedly talking to him about assumedly the same topic. he slammed the door in their faces, but they were quick to scramble after him.

you let out a sigh of relief once they left, but before you could even speak, mina burst into laughter. "there it is! classic bakugo. totally in denial!"

"totally!" ochako giggled.

"mhm!" hagakure agreed.

"ugh," you groaned, face in your hands. "please just drop it already!"

the girls kept their grins, but the teasing finally slowed down. "alright, alright," mina said with a wink. "we’ll let you off the hook for now."

you exhaled in relief as the group slowly started to branch off into different topics, the heat finally off of you. you excused yourself for some water so you could get some air, and began heading back to the dorm rooms.

to your surprise, katsuki was already waiting for you outside the common area. when he saw you, he gave you a gruff nod of acknowledgement.

"kats! i thought you were going to bed!" you chirped, unaware of how your demeanor instantly brightened when it was just the two of you.

"i am," was all he offered before grabbing your hand and dragging you to presumably his dorm room to cuddle and hangout.

as you rambled and chatted with katsuki, hand-in-hand, on your way to hang out in his dorm alone, the words of your friends came back to you, causing a pink hue to rise to your cheeks.

..yeah. you two were definitely not "just friends."

#jisu writes!#erm this is lowk trash and i hate it what if i kms #dw guys i have better wips trust #tbh this is more 1a girls shenanigans than katsuki x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo fluff #bakugo katsuki #katsuki fluff #katsuki x reader #mha fluff #mha x reader #bnha fluff #bnha x reader #i love him #unofficialbf!katsuki #bakugou x reader #bakugou fluff

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yieldtotemptation · 3 months ago

Text

PYTHON ft. Danielle

danielle x male reader smut

17k words

“You really need to stop showing up like this,” you’re saying, knowing full well that it’s falling on deaf ears. But it doesn’t hurt to try.

Danielle tilts her head. Glossy lips part, flashing a smile. It’s pretty. So clearly practiced, and so fucking obvious. Worst of all—it absolutely works on you. “Like what?”

“Unannounced,” you start, before swerving, “Naked.”

“Well.” Danielle takes a step closer. Then another. Suddenly making you feel like a stranger in your own apartment. “If you really had a problem with it, you’d have changed the door code by now. Or told my sister what we’ve been up to.”

You need to correct her before this can get any further out of hand, there’s no we to tell anyone anything about, but—look. She’s half-right. You were going to get around to changing the locks. Eventually. The other part, the nuclear option, the sister of it all—“You know I can’t do that.”

“Then you’re just going to have to deal with me until you can,” she says, casually.

Doing that thing all pretty girls seem to have built into their genetic coding. Standing there, posing, like she’s the sum of a dozen happy accidents—the hip cocked just so, the hand at her impossibly tiny waist. The wet hair, the pout, the fucking collarbone.

Accidents—yeah right.

Anyone else but her, and maybe you’d buy it.

“Besides, I’m not completely naked,” she adds, smile sharpening into a grin, and—fuck.

She is far too gorgeous for her own good. She is also extremely, without a shadow of a doubt, bad news, persona non grata, unbelievably off-limits.

“I'm wearing your towel, after all.”

—

(Okay, okay, okay.

You’re well aware you’re the only person on this planet that wouldn’t be delighted to have Danielle stepping out of their shower.

But maybe consider the following points:

1) You’re still raw, wound’s barely scabbed over from the last woman you let into your home;

2) Your whole career kinda rides on the fact that you keep your head fucking straight and free from any distractions, especially the kind that’s crazy enough to break into your apartment and hot enough to make it seem like a perfectly good idea; and

3) If you were going to ignore points 1 and 2, and just decide you’re going to let that towel drop and let whatever happens, happen (hopefully something with a lot of moaning and a lot of sweat and a lot of giving up on what little modicum of peace you’ve managed to claw back from the world)—she’s your ex-girlfriend’s sister, for fuck’s sake.

Counterpoint:

She’s Danielle fucking Marsh.)

—

Clearly you should’ve ended things a week ago when she first showed up—kicked that irredeemably cute, tight ass out of your apartment and slammed the door behind her.

You should’ve seen Danielle for the walking, talking red flag that she is: a jump-scare in skin-tight jeans, or a barely-there top, or more frequently than necessary (or not frequently enough, depending on how honest you’re feeling) in nothing but your towel that’s now clearly found its home around her razor-thin waist.

The girl is apparently allergic to clothes.

“I’m gonna make some ramyun,” she’s calling from the kitchen, rifling through your fridge. Voice carrying over the sound of a week’s worth of meal-prepping and pre-blended protein smoothies being carelessly shuffled out of order. “You want some too?”

No, not a ‘would it be okay for me to help myself’, or even a simple ‘do you mind?’. Just straight up making herself at home, helping herself to your bathroom, your kitchen, and after a very strong suggestion, one of your old sweatshirts.

Your casa; now her casa. Or something like that.

“I don’t have any ramyun,” is your answer. It comes out weak.

To that, she whips around, cradling in her arms her bounty—a pack of noodles, a tub of kimchi, and a cut of pork belly you’ve been saving for a special cheat day. Throws you a far-too-easy grin that you’re realising is her signature. “I know. I picked some up on the way here.”

“Of course you did.”

“It’s a good idea to eat normal people food every once in a while, instead of whatever this is,” she says, nodding her head to your stacks of perfectly portioned containers; your towers of health and virtue.

“I think I’m good,” you reply, cautiously. Resisting the urge to let your eyes wander and get caught for the nth time. Don’t want to give her even more ammunition in her campaign against your very clumsily-established boundaries.

At least not until you’ve made your cursory attempt to get her the fuck out of here. Trying (and inevitably failing) to come up with a compelling argument that would convince her to leave. Something to illustrate that this isn’t going anywhere, she doesn’t do a thing for you, let alone register as anything other than a mild strain on your already tenuous relationship with your ex-girlfriend.

Yeah, you don’t even believe that shit yourself.

Regardless, recognise that your first instincts, like always, are terrible ones. Ignore all the parts of your brain that are telling you to do things that could end with you buried in some unmarked grave along the DMZ. Ignore how good she looks wrapped up in your oversized sweatshirt; how it looks so lovely draped over her body, stopping short of the tops of her thighs, letting the damp, pale skin peek out and glisten and—

Fuck.

Maybe you should take the sweater back. Peel it right off her body and—

Again. Fuck.

“Trust me, you’ll want some. Everyone thinks they don't, right up until they do,” she says, and there she goes, pursing her lips together, throwing you a wink. God knows what she’s insinuating.

“Do whatever you want,” you’re saying, leaving out the implied—‘not like I can stop you’.

“Careful with your promises,” she’s laughing to herself, turning away and setting her culinary treasures next to your stove. “I just might have to hold you to them.”

That you pick up on immediately. But she lets it rest, putting a pause on the flirting-that’s-totally-not-flirting, busying herself with the task on hand. Reaching for your pots, your spices, navigating around your kitchen like she’s done it a million times before. So at ease, so… natural, in your space.

It’s eerily intimate.

Wearing your clothes, cooking for you, chatting over her shoulder as if she’s the sister that you have the years of history, of baggage with. First times and fuckups. All the messy, complicated shit in between.

(No matter how well she fits the role, a reminder: she’s not.)

There’s all these incidental miracles too—a curtain of chestnut brown hair sweeping aside as she stirs, a hint of bare shoulder, a column of porcelain along her neck. The sag of her collar until it’s falling down one arm, and there’s no sign of a top underneath, no strap, nothing to curb your imagination from running wild.

And it's all extremely unfair, how the hemline rises with each sway, how it clings right to her waist and curves around the flare of her hips. It wasn’t built for someone like her, wasn’t designed to withstand being worn like this.

But it tries it’s best. You do too.

You really should force your eyes elsewhere. The living room, the TV, the window. Anywhere but her. But you can’t help yourself.

“So,” she starts, happy to let the dish come together on its own. Asks, apropos of nothing, “You ever wonder why my sister never wanted to leave us alone together?”

You blink, torn from the hypnosis of her bare skin. “What?”

Danielle’s facing you again, leaning over the kitchen island. Playing with a loose strand of hair, looping it around her finger. Taking the dumb look on your face as an answer. “I mean, before all these little hangouts we never even had a full conversation, just me and you. One-on-one. Isn’t that weird?”

No. It never occurred to you, because it’s not weird at all.

Because Danielle is, and this is plain fact at this point—not in any way, shape or form exaggeration—unfathomably, quite offensively hot, and very much aware of the devastating effect she has on the people around her just by simply existing.

You hardly trust yourself at the moment.

“Then again, she probably knew what I’d do if given the chance.”

Danielle bites her lip, and you make the mistake of staring for just a second too long.

Yeah, it makes a lot of fucking sense.

(Back in the kitchen, the pot boils over.)

—

(It was somewhere close to the end of things; when it became more common to talk in loud accusations than sweet whispers, that your ex was telling you—“I do love her. But I swear sometimes, I can’t stand her.”

“Who?” You’d asked, because playing dumb was much easier than accidentally stumbling into some new argument you weren’t quite prepared for.

“Dani.”

“Your sister?” you replied, too quickly, and without thinking, “I don’t know—she seems sweet.”

There’s a pause, a tension in the car and your hand clenches around the steering wheel as you realise what you said, and the entire world holds its breath. Then, she laughs. Something sad and bitter that makes you wince. “Sweet? Yeah, sure. She’s a fucking angel.”

And before she can even elaborate on that, she’s looking out the window, leaving you to wonder how you’re at fault this time.

So, you decide then and there to never mention her again, never even look in said sister’s direction when she’s around. Push her out of your mind completely. As far as you’re concerned, she never even existed.

That lasts right up until the next time you see Danielle, and she’s all smiles and friendliness and barely-dressed and so painfully attractive and so very happy to see you. And sure, maybe you smile back, reciprocate the hug, blush when she kisses your cheek, hold your hand on her lower back for that extra millisecond too long, bounding over that ephemeral line and right into flagrantly inappropriate territory.

All the while, somewhere over your shoulder your ex spits out the corner of her mouth—“Typical.”)

—

“I thought I already explained?” Danielle starts, the next time she shows up uninvited, half-naked, bright and early and ready to completely fuck up your day.

Despite the number of times you’ve witnessed the same routine, it still floors you every time she sashays into your kitchen, towel draped low on her body, wrapped around her ridiculously tiny frame, water droplets clinging to her flushed skin like a layer of glitter.

Fresh from a shower. She’s always just fresh from a shower.

She’s already rolling her eyes at whatever she’s about to say. Takes a deep breath, then: “There’s a whole thing going on with my living situation at the moment. You probably don’t need to know anything other than sharing a bathroom with four other girls can be a bit of a nightmare, and your place is so conveniently close, and your water pressure is actually unbelievably good, so—”

You’re very slowly realising that she’s never imagined a reality where this would actually be a problem for you. “And so you decided that the next best option was a complete stranger’s apartment?”

Danielle drums her fingers over your kitchen counter. Your eyes follow the beat. “You’re not a complete stranger.”

“You don’t even know me,” you say, trying to play the part of the responsible adult. Danielle scoffs, because you’re failing spectacularly.

“Well, according to my sister, I have nothing to worry about when it comes to you,” she says, adding, “she told me the two of you broke up because you were gay.”

“She said what?”

She recites, “He prefers rolling around with men than with me—were her exact words.”

“M-M-A. I do MMA.”

“Hm.” Danielle’s baring teeth now, a dangerous slant to her smile. “Is that a new addition to the acronym? LGBTQI-MMA? What colours are your flag?”

“It’s fighting,” you clarify, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. “Mixed martial arts. I’m not—not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I’m not—”

“Sure.” She pushes herself upright and rounds the counter, swinging herself around and over to you. “And here I thought you had all those muscles for show.”

“I’m very straight.”

Her laugh fills the room, makes it warmer, the air sweeter somehow. You choke on it. “Good to know.”

She closes the distance in much fewer steps than you’d like, bare feet gliding across heated flooring, until you’re forced to notice that she’s taken the liberty of using all your shower products too, and you’re starting to rationalise the perfectly normal response it's eliciting. The shortness of breath, the thumping in your chest, the stickiness of your palms.

All perfectly normal.

Stand your ground, what’s the worst that could happen? You’re taller, probably twice her weight. You could pick her up and throw her out if you had to. Or onto one of the many softer surfaces in your apartment.

Erase that thought.

“If it really helps, maybe all we need to do is get to know each other better,” she says, all honeyed-sweet and fucking hazardous, and when she’s this close, you can’t avoid looking.

You try not to, but you’re absorbing all the details—how are her lips this pink, how do they look this soft? How does her skin look so smooth, how does vanilla and coconut and sandalwood smell so much better on her?

It’s fucking troubling how much of her sister you can see in her, except it’s all skewed in directions that make your brain short-circuit. Similar eyes, same shape, but darker; less warmth, more heat. That same mouth, the curve is a mirror when she smiles, but on her its natural state is a pout or a grin over anything close to reassuring.

The dial’s been turned up, the sliders are all wrong, no one should look this good with this little effort.

“For starters, how about we just exchange numbers? So I can call ahead before I come up next time. Avoid any unnecessary surprises,” she throws out, noncommittal. “Even though that’s the best part.”

It should stun you, the smoothness of her request. So innocent in its construction. Yet she loads it heavy, suggestion stacked on suggestion.

She continues, when she catches the look on your face, “I promise I’ll only contact you in strictly emergency shower situations. Would that be okay?”

“That’s fine,” you answer, making liars of you both.

“Then it’s decided then!” She practically cheers, jumps in your arms, wraps you in a hug. Looks up at you, all smiles, all teeth; all wide eyes and hopefulness and fucking hell she’s so close.

Instinct has you leaning closer, has you maybe letting your hands rest a little too comfortably around her waist.

Panic has you recognising that you need to get out of here before she catches on to the involuntarily reactions she’s coaxing out of you. Eyes dipping down to the towel, heart bursting out of your chest, and your co—

“It goes without saying, but you can contact me too. For anything. Emergency or not.”

Yep, it’s about time to get the fuck out of here. Peeling her arms off you, bailing on this conversation before you start agreeing to even more things you know you shouldn’t. You declare, rather robotically, “I should be on my way out.”

“Guys waiting for you to roll around with?”

You sigh, “Something like that.”

“Well, I’m always available if you want someone more fun to practice with,” she says, before amending. “Or, on.”

Again, this can absolutely not happen. You’re not usually one for rules, but it goes without saying—no fucking around with your ex’s sister. It’s like the golden rule of dating, or human decency, or something.

Besides, it’s not really about you that she's into. It’s about the idea of you—the one person who won’t immediately give her what she wants.

That’s all.

She’s just a brat that’s dealing with denial for the first time. Right?

Danielle pouts when it’s clear that you’re not going to feed into any more of her flirty delusions. Twirls on her heels, the towel dancing around her waist. You’re pretty sure you could write a whole essay on the physics of it all.

“Guess there’s no point in me sticking around if you’re not going to be here.”

You avert your eyes. No need to watch her disappear into her room.

Correction—your room.

But then you hear it, and your head whips around so quick you get fucking whiplash.

Witnessing Danielle time her exit just right so the last thing you see before she rounds the corner is the sweep of her back, the drop of her towel, and the flash of her tight, bare ass that will burn itself into the back of your retinas and stay there for the rest of the day.

—

(You really should’ve seen this coming.

Or maybe you did, and the lesser angels of your nature thought it wouldn’t be so bad to let it happen.

Whatever, it’s too late to come back now because Danielle’s taken to sending you messages throughout her day. All mundane updates; what she’s doing, who she’s with, what’s she eaten for breakfast, lunch, dinner. Little things throughout the day that somehow remind her—through bizarre and barely tangential logic—of you.

You read them, pretend to ignore them.

You choose not to reply.

She chooses to start sending photos.)

—

It really, really doesn’t help that Danielle is everywhere.

She’ll be in your kitchen, your living room, your bedroom when she conveniently forgot to bring a change of clothes and the ones that she came over in are way too sweaty and sticky to put back on. Hopefully you don’t mind washing it for her?

You’ll leave your apartment thinking you’re finally free, only to find her flashing that grin on giant screens hanging off buildings, or on the side of the buses you take to the gym, or on the cover of every magazine at the convenience store where you used to dive in for a quick snack without ever even having to worry about her existence.

Her music plays in the café you get your afternoon caffeine fix; her commercials show up on every single app on your phone—she’s selling everything from headphones to sneakers to fucking bank loans. All with that same sweet, annoying, lovely voice that haunts you with unabashed innuendo and questions about where you keep your fabric softener and why your apartment is completely barren of anything that could be considered a snack.

It's a sick, sick joke the universe is playing on you. Throwing her in your face every five minutes when all you can think about is how she looked that morning when she took her time putting herself together—just lounging on your couch in nothing but a pair of glasses and a towel, kicking her legs up in the air while she laughs over some meme that's completely skipped your generation.

The legs. Can’t help but think what it would be like to run your tongue over them.

She'd probably be thrilled to let you try.

“Hey,” Danielle says, choosing the moment when you’re trying to figure out just how high her legs go to catch your attention. “Did you and my sister ever do it on this couch?”

“What?” —the fuck.

“Just asking,” Danielle sing-songs, taking the opportune moment to adjust the knot on the towel. Higher up her chest, higher up her thighs. “It’s got good cushioning, you know.”

“That’s,” and really, stop right there, because you’re not about to rehash the greatest hits with her. Not going to even get close to dipping your toes into an innocent, casual chat about ghosts long exorcised—about all the nights you had your ex spread out like a buffet, her legs around your neck, her nails digging into your back; her whispers and pleas, the sweet taste of her—and fuck, now the memory of her face is twisting and morphing and you’re seeing Danielle in those same positions and—

You shake your head, clearing the fog.

"Not going there."

Danielle feigns innocence, batting those doe-eyes. You’re already sick of that sugary-sweet giggle. "Where?"

“Anywhere. With you.”

“You never know, it could help,” she’s teasing. Possibly the most dangerous sentence you’ve ever heard. “Replace all the old memories with some new ones? A little less her, a little more," she pauses for great emphasis, and it feeds right into the mouth of the devil on your shoulder, "me?"

“Danielle—”

“You know, you can just call me Dani. All my close friends do.”

Alarm bells are blaring. Take the easy way out, just leave again. Maybe leave forever. Get out of here and don’t look back. She can have your apartment as far as you’re concerned—the backseat of your car isn’t that uncomfortable.

But before you can make a break for the door—"I just meant we could watch a movie or something.”

And again, you find yourself asking so often these days, “What?”

“You know a little bit of Netflix,” she suggests, and you’re already anticipating the grin before it spreads across her face, because she’s far too smart to play dumb, “and a bit of chill?”

“Danielle—” you try once more, then correcting before you can think better of it, “Dani.”

Danielle blinks. Adjusts herself. Pats the cushion next to her.

Her legs spread, then cross over each other. Just to give you some room.

The towel holds on for dear life.

—

It all goes to shit in a matter of days.

Truthfully, you can’t be blamed for this one, no matter how predictably it plays out.

Danielle’s fogged up your mind with thoughts you’d rather not be having, really been hard at work convincing you of just how available she is.

(Translation: Look at me, aren't I just so damn fuckable?)

Even though it’s all been common knowledge from the get-go, her cards have been on the table since she first stepped out of the steam and rented a space inside your brain, whether you want to be honest with yourself or not.

She wants you, badly.

You want her too.

It’s all you think about.

So, it’s no surprise your coach sends you home early from training after taking one too many unanswered shots to the head. Pushes you out the door and yells at you to get over or on top of whatever the fuck is going on in your personal life.

You know he’s right.

And it’s in this state, where your brain is mildly-concussed and filled with the images of Danielle—the ones of her wearing next to nothing except that fucking wry, knowing smirk of hers, like she’s just counting down the moments until you finally, inevitably give in—that you stumble into your apartment.

You don’t even have the strength to close the door properly.

You barely notice the closed blinds, the heating turned up too high, the light coming from your room, the scent of something much more sweeter; something that doesn’t belong here at all.

No, you don’t notice anything at all—until you do.

A moan from down the hall.

Louder as you approach, joined by noises of shuffling bedsheets, the unmistakable rhythmic squeaks of your mattress. The slick sounds of skin on skin, and—oh fuck.

You push open your door.

Danielle’s there to greet you, flat on your bed, fingers deep inside her cunt.

Wearing your sweatshirt and nothing else.

Crying out your name.

It’s game over.

Every filthy, lurid though, every half-imagined fantasy, everything your brain has conjured up whenever you've caught a glimpse of Danielle's bare skin, brought to life.

Fucking gorgeous, pretty, even like this. Wrecking herself so sweetly, fucking herself with her fingers so deeply and carefully, half-naked and wet and begging.

“Ah, God—” She’s sinking into herself, not even registering your presence, nor the fact that the door’s even opened.

Her face is locked into this smile, and you clock it as the same one she wears every time she catches you watching her, every time she manages to make that crack in your armour widen just a smidge. It’s a trap. A challenge. An invitation.

You hover by the door, unable to move, unable to breathe, unable to do anything but watch as she works herself over, eyes fixed shut, cheeks red, burning hot.

You shouldn’t look.

You should turn around.

You should do anything but stay.

But you don’t.

You just witness her, in your bed, chanting your name in tempo with her own fingers. Your body betrays you—you take a step forward.

Her eyes open. Unsurprised. “Hey.”

She keeps going.

One more step couldn’t hurt. Moth to her flame, fly to her sweet, sticky trap.

The sweatshirt is a crime against humanity, hiding her like that. You could reach down, rip it off her, expose all her secrets to the cold air. Finally see it all.

But instead, you keep your eyes trained, transfixed, as she arches her back, her breasts pushing up against the cotton, points of her nipples poking through. Abs—chiselled, firm, tense—revealed inch by glorious inch.

Your name on her lips, moaned into your ears.

And her pussy. So pretty. Pink, plump. Perfect.

Sopping wet and making a mess of your bedsheets. The mattress will never be the same.

“Welcome home,” she gasps out. Loving this turn of events. Spreads her legs wider, no intention to stop. Just going on and on.

She stretches out your name for good measure, fucking herself faster. Fingers plunging in and out of herself, hips rocking back and forth. Eyes locking onto yours, daring you to do something about it.

“How’s the view?” She’s grinning, aiming for seductive, nonchalant, but her voice is all broken-up and fucked up. Too turned on to be anything but earnest.

“Fucking hell,” you find your own voice much the same. Really, it’s a miracle that your lungs aren’t clogged up with the thick, heavy air that’s settled in your room. Or that your tongue isn’t a dry, useless slab of meat in your mouth.

“I’d say it’s rather—gah—” Danielle says, taking your words, twisting them into something that sounds like a whine as her eyes slowly shut, a fresh wave of pleasure washing over her. She opens them again, focuses on you. “Heavenly.”

You should have more to say. Something locked and loaded to navigate your way out of this specific situation, because face it, this was always going to happen one way or another the day you let her have free reign of your apartment, of your life, of your thoughts.

Your mouth opens, hoping something disarming and with enough wit comes out to end this whole farce, only Danielle beats you to the punch—“I bet it tastes heavenly too.”

And then the words come to you. You grit out, “Stop.”

Danielle laughs. Unconvinced. “Why should I?”

You repeat. “Stop.”

She just keeps fucking herself. “Make me.”

“Stop,” you let your voice come out deep, firm. Like it's a threat. Taking the closest ankle in your grip, lifting her leg up.

Danielle gasps. Her hand stills.

“Stop and let me.”

Danielle’s whispering now. “Then go ahead.”

You’ve never imagined yourself as that guy. You’re a romantic, you swear. Grand gestures, sweet kisses, candles, roses, the works, making love slow and soft until the sun comes up.

Nothing like this.

Like wanting to ruin something beautiful. Take the hottest girl you’ve ever met, probably ever lived. Cross lines so thick you’d typically need a buzzsaw to cut through. Make her forget about anything that isn’t you, anything that isn’t you. Make her need you in the worst way.

Make her come apart in your fucking hands.

The look on Danielle’s face gives you all the permission you need. Her words are just the cherry on top. “Please.”

You start small.

A kiss on the sole of her foot, and Danielle’s already trembling, giggling, at the light touch. More kisses, building, keen attention on the arch, the ankle, the calf, and she’s shivering. Muscles tensing under your lips, body tightening in anticipation.

She’s a ticking time bomb, was on edge when you walked in, so you don’t drag it out. Just long enough to make her whine. Get a few, “God you’re so—”, gasps and half-formed sentences that die the higher you get.

You kiss your way past her knee, and she’s properly whimpering now. Her fault that her legs are so long. A ladder of sweetness, salt on her skin, and you’re starving. She is right. It tastes heavenly. You’ll do your part by devouring it, bite by fucking bite.

“This is torture,” the words slip out of her, but it hardly sounds like a complaint. Moreso a confession. Something to say while her shoulders sink into the mattress and her fingers dig into the sheets. “Sweet torture.”

A chuckle into her inner thigh, where the skin is softest, smoothest, and her wetness has leaked down far enough to coat your cheek. Because this is the first time Danielle’s been anywhere close to a position of submissiveness to you. Let the mask, the control slip. The game, the pretences. All it took was the right use of your tongue.

“Higher, please, just eat me already,” she’s pleading now, and it sounds so lovely coming from her lips. And fuck, the scent of her, her arousal, sweet and heady. Calling for you to just dive in face-first.

But you want her to beg. Make her as desperate as she’s made you. It’s only fair.

Your nose meets the bottom of the sweatshirt. You push up, ghost your lips, the warmth of your breath higher up her thigh until her hips are practically stuttering.

Lean in, nibble the flesh just beside her pussy.

She convulses then and there. Arches off the bed, a sharp cry leaving her lips.

Only a moment to revel in it before your hair is snatched in her hands, pulling you closer, and you finally give her what she wants. Tongue darting out, tasting her.

“Right—yes—fuck!”

Her scream drowns out the groan climbing out from your throat, as your lungs are filled with the depths of her. No waiting, really, she’s fucking soaked already. Primed, prepared for your tongue. For the sucking, licking, kissing; every part of her that’s been begging for attention, waiting for you.

Her hips buck, but your palms shoot up, press down against the flat of her stomach, feel the ridged abs, the tiny waist under your fingertips. Holding her down with a firm hand. Letting her know the truth of it all. She’s yours now.

All she can do is whine, “I—I—God, I need—”

“Need me to taste you? Lick you, suck you right up, ruin you with my tongue?” The things coming out of your mouth, the aggression in your tone, it surprises you. But there's not enough time to ponder on what manner of beast she's turned you into so quickly, there's only what's next—press the flat of your tongue against her folds, give a rough, firm pressure, make her squirm.

It’s from here that you can witness it all: the bend of her neck as she throws her head back, the tightness in her stomach, the sharp inhale and heavy exhale of her chest. The tremble in her thighs against your cheek, her breath hitching and her pussy quivering over your mouth.

And it comes to you, so easily, like it was always there. Filth being composed in the back of your mind anytime she was in your presence. Everything you've ever wanted to do to this girl. Everything you've wanted to inflict upon her cunt.

“I'm gonna make you into a fucking mess all over my face, down my chin, all over my bed. Fuck this pussy, Danielle. I could get drunk off it. So fucking sweet.”

“It’s—fuck—” and you’re really enjoying this now, having her be the one that’s lost for words for once. “—whatever—all of it. Do whatever you want, please, because I’m so, so close.”

“I didn’t need your permission,” you tell her, speaking into her cunt. “But it’s appreciated anyway.”

And Danielle’s well and truly wrecked. Drenched cunt so swollen and desperate and really, truly in quite a state. So desperate for you, her body thrumming with it. Cunt pulsing like a fucking heartbeat.

You could take it slow. Could drag out the torture a little longer.

Fuck that.

Tongue goes higher, fixes upon her clit. Danielle falls apart.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck—” Her words are slurring together, choked out, gasps, whines. Barely coherent, and yet, “your mouth—tongue—please—”

The pleases you recognise, they come in staccatos as you lick her from bottom to top. Long, slow drags that make her legs shake.

“You’re going to scream for me,” you declare, a prediction more than an instruction. “Beg for me. Going to make you cum so hard. So loud. Going to make you remember it. Remember me every time you think about touching this sweet cunt.

“Sadist,” she manages, breathless, but it’s hard to detect anything from her other than pure glee. “I can see why my sister would always come home so—fuck—so worn out from seeing you.”

“Don’t,” you spit on her cunt. Take a long, gratuitous lap of your tongue against her folds. Force her hips against your face.

“I’m only wondering—” she says, and there’s an edge to her voice, and you know that whatever’s going to follow is going to make you fucking crazy— “Did she taste as good as me?”

You try your best to ignore the taunt. Just push your tongue inside her, feel the way she clenches around the muscle. Fuck her for making you even think about your ex.

“Or did she ever even get to feel like this? Did she let you? Or maybe you never gave her the honour. Because I can't imagine ever letting go of someone like you."

“Enough,” you murmur, not even sure if it’s a warning or a plea. Your teeth graze her clit. Danielle jolts. “This isn’t about her. It’s about you.”

A barely there—“Me?”

“You started this,” your voice is gravelly now, coloured with something mean, “Just had to be too pretty to ignore. Fucking cocktease.”

“Then—oh—give me what I deserve.”

“That would take hours.” The laugh that comes out of your mouth is anything but warm, and she tries to fire back with one of her usual quips—something that dances on the line of flirty and sarcastic and completely charming all at once, the full Danielle experience.

But that all dies on her lips when your finger pushes through until you’re knuckle-deep, curling up inside her.

“Ah—fuck—” That’s all she’s got, and it’s all you need.

You kiss her cunt, suction around those puffy lips. Her pussy is just so, so pretty; like the rest of her, same as every single fucking inch of her. Even now, all huffing and groaning and fucked-up on your tongue—so effortlessly beautiful.

“Baby,” comes out, all velvety and warm, and then again and again. Pitch rising, falling, voice getting louder, a crescendo dictated by your mouth.

Creamy thighs fit snug over either side of your head, but you’re not going anywhere. You need to make her cum—as hard as she can. Make sure she remembers.

You lick, kiss, suck. Danielle doesn’t require much precision, just intense passion. Showing her how much you love her cunt, love making her fall apart. Really sloppy with it, it’s the pace that matters at this point—giving her everything that’s been boiling deep inside her since she ever laid eyes on you.

Swirl your tongue around her clit, flicking it in a way that has her knees shake and bang together. Suck deep against her folds, making her fingers knot themselves in your hair. And when you moan into her cunt, vibrate your lips against her while your fingers—one, then two, now three—work her over, well—

She can’t fucking do anything but try to breathe, try to keep herself together. Be anything other than the excruciatingly cute and beautiful and fucking delicious mess you’re turning her into.

“Right—right there—right there—” Unnecessary instruction, really. Because you already have her dissolving underneath your tongue. Filling your bedroom, your apartment with noises of her cunt being properly fucked, the sighs and moans that bounce off the walls, echoing around your skull. Putting you in some heavenly torture chamber where the only way out is through her orgasm.

And it’s somewhere in her pleas for a higher power that you feel the beginnings, or the very rapidly approaching endings of it all. The tightness in her thigh, the convulsions. The waterfall dripping down your tongue, your fingers, onto the palm of your hand and pooling underneath her ass.

“This is—this is too much—"

Too much means not enough. Not enough of her, not when you’re so in love with the sound of her breaking apart. The smell of her on your nose, your chin. The feeling of her cunt colliding against your lips.

“Oh God, fuck, please, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—"

You breathe in, take all you can from what little oxygen she’s left in the room, and bury your face in her. You don’t let up until her cries become screams, until she’s bucking against your face, until her nails are digging into your scalp.

You don’t stop until you feel the first pulse in her climax, until her cunt clenches around your fingers like a fist, until she’s painting your face with her wetness.

And that’s when you reach your other hand around her, urge your fingers underneath those tight, firm cheeks. Push a finger up into her ass, press into that puckered button, making her seize like you just sent a bolt of lightning through her.

“What the fuck, it’s so—God!”

For a moment, she’s yours. Completely and utterly yours.

Her stomach tenses, abs bunching and knitting together. Not a single muscle in her body moves, just frozen in place, locked in pleasure.

Tiny, little shakes, building and building, until it’s a full-body experience; quakes all over her skin, shaking your whole bed. And then—

“Daddy!”

There’s a right word for this—flawless, absolute, divine. Or just plain perfect.

The way she cums is so at odds with who she is. It’s not pretty, it’s not subtle. God, it’s fucking apocalyptic. Orgasms herself into an out-of-body experience onto your chin.

It’s all so fucking obvious; people in the next building over will be able to feel what she’s going through just by the timbre of her voice when she cries out for some sort of God, or spits a filthy curse, or just screams your name in a dozen different ways.

“You’re fucking—yes!”

You need both hands back on her body to fix her to the bed, make sure she doesn’t fall off the fucking edge of the world. Help her bear it, through gritted teeth and sharp hisses, that one final push into oblivion.

A whine signals the end for her; a final real, loud, teary-eyed whine. The most honest sound you’ve ever heard from her and fuck you’d do anything to hear more of it. Give up everything for just an echo of the sweet obscenities that fall from her lips when she cums.

Danielle exhales.

Tries to relax her way out of it. But the trembles haven’t left her, still bubbling underneath her skin. Her legs fall away from your head, leaving your ears ringing, and you ease back. Wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

You massage her, run your hands up to her waist, underneath the sweatshirt. Stroke the lines on her body to coax her back down to the land of the living. Let it all slow down.

Her eyes are still hazy, glazed over, pupils all fucked-up and blown wide.

“Animal,” she says, when her lungs begin to fill again. She giggles, and there’s all the sweetness returning to her body. Radiating off her in this afterglow. Twisting herself a little beneath you to work out all the tension that you’ve just built up and wrecked her with.

“You asked for it,” you tease, hovering over her. Rightfully smug.

Danielle huffs. Looking so pretty behind all the tears. “And I will again.”

And you exhale too, because now you don’t know what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into.

But Danielle doesn’t give you time to dwell on your thoughts. Scoots up and shifts so she’s on her elbows. Takes your chin in her fingers. Kisses you.

Inhales you deep, tongue immediately pushing past your lips, scraping around the edges. Licking up all the evidence that’s still stuck on the roof of your mouth.

You fall into her, hands rising up her body. God, you just need to feel her nipples harden beneath your palm, her body fold back into yours. Get to know every curve, every dip. You’ve tasted heaven, now you want to map it out with your fingers.

Your hips urge against her waist, pushing her legs apart, and that tells Danielle all she needs to know.

But her tongue leaves yours, escapes the chase of your own.

“Not yet,” and she’s laughing because you actually believed for a heartbeat that you were the one in control here. That you weren’t the one that was going to be left begging. Aching. Left with nothing to do but commit the taste of her to memory.

She draws her tongue across your jaw, your cheek. Licks your face clean, leaves it sticky. Smiles against your skin.

“But maybe later.” She pushes back, hand at your chest. Gets herself up and off your bed, turns away from you so you can only imagine the grin playing on her lips.

Her ass tilts. Her pussy drips onto your floor.

She looks over her shoulder, blows you a kiss, a wink. “Gotta take a shower first.”

—

(This is the part where Danielle pulls her greatest trick yet—radio silence.

A week without hearing from her—not a text, not a peep, nothing. Turning your brain inside out. Leaving you with nothing but this tangled mess of thoughts about thighs and abs and moans and questions of did whatever the fuck that was really happen?

The worst part of it all is, you know exactly what she’s doing when she’s not busy haunting the edges of your apartment, leaving her fingerprints in every room, over every surface, just waiting for you to find them.

She’s quite easy to be found. She’s still everywhere.

Everywhere except the one place you need her to be.

It’s too early in the evening to be lying in bed, staring at your phone, nothing but the background noise of heaters, TVs and air purifiers to make you seem less alone.

You should really have much better things to do then to hover your thumb over her name.

Your screen lights up with a message—immediately disappointing you when you realise it’s not her. Just your training partner, sending a cursory group invite to anyone else that fancies a night out to break up the routine of getting punched in the head on the daily.

Fuck it.

It’s as good a time to drink as any.)

—

You’re barely in one piece when you get home; which is really par for the course for the past few weeks.

Dazed, horny, tired, concussed—and now, stone-cold drunk.

Habit has you collapsing on your bed in a heap, flicking on your phone, dragging your finger over the screen and taking an embarrassing amount of attempts to unlock it. The blue glow lights up your room, the screen immediately blasting you with the most recent thing you were looking at—the last photo Danielle had sent you.

The one she took in front of your bathroom mirror, where she’s leaning over the sink. A hand perched on the counter, hip cocked to the side. Towel hanging on by a thread, dipping, just so. Tongue poking out, lips looking so shiny and soft.

Eyes right down the barrel of the camera. Knowing the reaction it’ll force out of you. The power she has to stir your cock to life with just a single image.

It’s so fucked up. How in such a short amount of time, she’s occupied every corner of your mind, every corner of your digital life. Unavoidable. Inescapable.

And there’s truth in that: you’re flying too close to the sun; you’re going to get burned but you can’t help but soar a little closer anyway. Heading headfirst into tears, heartache, or worse, a very awkward family reunion.

And you hate that you miss her.

Hate that you’re calling her.

She answers.

“Hey—” you slur, making a stellar start.

You’re picturing the smug smile on the other end of the line. “Is this a drunk dial?”

“I—yeah.” No point in lying. You’re not good at it, and she’s not that dumb.

“Well, I’m flattered,” and there’s pure amusement seeping out of the speaker and into your ear. She sounds like she’s laughing at you. But it’s warm, familiar, and for a second it’s like she’s right here, in your room, in your bed, her naked body pressed against yours. “To what do I owe the honour?”

Since you’re too inebriated to be anything other than honest, you just outright say it—“Got drunk. Can’t sleep. Missed you.”

There's hesitation on the other end. Surprise, you guess. "Then that makes two of us."

"You're drunk too?"

"Unfortunately not. Just the insomnia and the yearning on my part."

“Why aren’t you here?” comes right out your mouth, before you can even stop it.

Her breaths come through the phone. Slow. “Because I’m in a hotel. Hong Kong.”

You roll onto your back, close your eyes. Picture it. Danielle, prettier-than-perfect, curled up on some plush, extravagant bedspread. A complimentary towel getting the luxury of being around her tight figure. Her long legs stretched out in front of her, painted toes digging into the sheets.

You still remember how they felt against your lips.

“I don’t believe you,” you decide, and demand, “Turn on your camera.”

“Oh, you’re very drunk,” is Danielle’s reply, right before the chime of your phone and—

There she is. Scarily accurate to your imagination. Only now, the details are colouring in the rest of the picture—the contrast of hotel white against her dark hair. The glint of light off her sharp cheekbones. Her lips absolutely wicked.

No towel, though. A bathrobe this time.

“It’s fucked up how pretty you are,” you say, because it’s true and you can’t hold back. “Like, Christ.”

Danielle giggles, and it’s also fucked up the things the sound does to your stomach. Forcing you to realise how much you missed having it in your apartment. She leans closer to the camera, head tilting a little to the side. “Very, very drunk.”

“Don’t have to be drunk to recognise how good you look.”

“I always look good.”

“If you were here right now—or if I was there—”

“You’d what? Bury your face between my thighs? Ruin me with your tongue?” She’s smiling. Teasing. Thank God you can see her face again. “Make me call you Daddy?”

“I didn’t make you do anything. That was all you.”

“And you just happened to love it,” she says so easily. Full of confidence. “What else would you love to make me do?”

It comes to your mind immediately, the thought of it—“Your shoulder.”

Her eyebrow jumps up at that, expression settling into something curious. “My shoulder?” She angles herself, gives you a better look. Leaving it bare, the bathrobe droops, doesn’t bother to hide the line of her throat. “Nothing about my neck, my eyes, my lips?”

“I’d get to that. But I’d start with your shoulder,” you recite, letting her in on the journal entries you’ve been writing in your mind. Notes on Danielle. “You’re always just leaving it out there. Your shoulder, collarbone. I’d kiss there first.”

Your words do something to her, you can see it through your bleary eyes. She shifts on top of her bed, twists herself around to settle into a more comfortable position. Leans back into the headboard of her bed. Juts her shoulder out so the bathrobe drops further down her arm.

Has you follow the path of her camera as she angles it lower, and it doesn’t help that she’s biting on her lower lip, and you can’t see where her other hand has gone, and she’s spurring you on by asking:

“Would you kiss me lower too?” The bathrobe parts, plush cotton revealing a single line of her sternum, and then further still, the shadow of her cleavage just out of view.

You nod, swallow. A strained, “Yeah.”

“And here?” The robe slips, falls further down. Revealing the swell of one perfect breast. A nipple, stiffened from the cold. Or the thought of your lips.

Your eyes are locked onto the image of her creamy skin, the darkened areola. You don’t care that you’re groaning, that your hand is already reaching down to palm your erection through your sweatpants. You don’t care that she probably knows.

It’s what she wants.

“Yeah, I’d kiss you there. Lick it. Get it between my teeth, and—”

“Sounds like you’ve thought a lot about me,” she murmurs, but she’s only saying things that you both are keenly aware of. You are—have been—putty in her hands. A man lost at sea with only her voice as a compass. The camera moves in closer still. You can feel the heat of her skin through the screen. “What if I told you I’ve been thinking about you too?”

Her free hand returns in view. Up to her chest. Teasing her own nipple; pinching between her thumb and forefinger. She gasps, breathes heavy down the line, and you swear you can feel it too, a phantom softness at your own fingertips.

“I’ve been thinking about what you did to me with your mouth, been thinking about it—” she’s panting, and her hand’s moving. Thumb tracing lazy circles around her breast, and you’re thinking that it’s the exact path you’d take with your tongue. “Every. Single. Night.”

It’s too much and nearly not enough. No where close to satisfying the ache she’s built inside you. You want her here, in your bed, underneath you. You want to show her what you can really do to her. How you’d kiss her until she couldn’t breathe, lick her until she couldn’t think, fuck her until she’s nothing more but a shivering mess, leave her begging.

And then, as if announcing your own thoughts back to you— “I want to cum,” she sighs, barely a whisper. “But I don’t want to do it alone.”

“Show me.”

There’s a beat, two, where Danielle mulls it over. Nothing but pants heard through the speaker. Her nipple still in view.

Until she turns, phone hitting the bedside table with a gentle thump. Screen still on, camera pointing right at her face. But the angle’s off—she shifts it downward and returns to the bed.

It sobers you up, puts you on alert. Danielle. Lying on her side. The soft, pale swell of her breasts, the dip of her vanishing, practically non-existent waist. The curve of her hips down to the long, smooth legs. The robe slides down, baring her other shoulder. Her neck. The cut of her clavicle.

Fuck.

Her breathing hitches when she sees you, the look on your face. So low, so quiet, when she says, “Now, you too.”

A mirror of her actions—your phone finds a spot to lean on. Hands wobbly, vision blurs as you rush to get the angle right. Sweatpants disappear, freeing your cock. The waistband catches on your length, causing it to spring out hard.

It’s Danielle’s turn now to groan out a “Fuck.”

And for a moment, it’s just heat and silence. Hot, laboured breaths filling the space between the two of you. Her hand drifts down, skating between her abs, lower—

“Tell me,” she says, fingers crawling to the hood of her pussy, gliding over where she’s most sensitive. Her thighs part slightly, slowly, showing herself to the camera, to you. How wet she is, how delicious she looks. You want to taste it. You’d die to feel the heat of her against your tongue once more.

But you’re not there. You’re both stuck in this digital limbo. Two people desperate to fuck each other through a screen. It won’t be enough. It just can’t be. But it’s all you’ve got, so it’ll have to do.

“Tell me everything.” Her eyes close, hand starting to move with purpose. Spreading her folds. Glistening clit standing proud. “Everything you’d do to me. All of it. I know you’ve been thinking about me. Give me every little detail. Make it dirty, make it good, make it—”

“I—” you start, only to stumble, “I want to fuck you.”

“Obviously,” she’s smiling into the camera, and yeah, you’re realising it was a stupid way to begin things. “Please don’t make me do all the work here. Where’s the guy that said he’d make sure I remember him every time I touch this tight, little cunt?”

“Sweet cunt.”

“You would know.”

You clear your throat. Adjust yourself. Angle your cock towards her so she can see how much you mean what you’re about to say. “Danielle—”

“Dani, please.”

“Dani,” you restart, “After your shoulder, your collarbone, after I’ve left those fucking tits all marked up—I’d run my tongue back up to your neck, suck on that spot right here—” you bring your other hand up, tap it over your pulse. Danielle’s eyes shoot open. Follows your finger. “You know the one.”

Her hand falters, she chokes on a breath. She’s picturing it. Feeling it. “Yeah,” she stammers. “Yeah, I know.”

“And then—then you’d feel my fingers. Pushing in,” you continue, hand tightening around your own shaft. Pre-cum making it slick. Recalling her heat, the tightness of her cunt. The clench around your digits. “So fucking slow. Watching your face as you take them. One, two. Three. Yeah, you’d look just like that.”

Her own fingers dip, bringing your words to life. Eager to follow word for word, whispering these hushed little pleas, and then a moan, and then— “Don’t—don’t stop.”

“Slowly, Dani,” you make her whine, as if you’re right there, holding her hand, forcing her to balance on that edge. “Just like that. God, you look so pretty. You would look so pretty. Coming apart on my fingers. I don’t think I’d ever be able to stop telling you, because fuck.”

You break it down—break her down. Tell her the steps, one by one. The way you’d kiss her, taste her. How lovely it would be, lips as sweet as her cunt was. Kiss so deep that you’d steal the breath from her lungs, make sure she knows what it’s like to be consumed. The way you’d kiss her neck, her ear, make a mess on her tits. Every spot that makes her quiver.

There’s tension in her shoulders, tightening across her muscles. Eyes clenched shut, fingers dancing over her every inch that you tell her you’d explore once you’ve finally stripped her bare.

Leave her in her natural state: naked, beautiful, fucking breathtaking.

Her hand’s a blur now, thighs trembling with each pass of her fingers, and she’s chewing on her bottom lip so hard you can see the indentation. Whining, pleading, these divine little noises, intermittent—“Keep going, don’t stop, tell me more,” —pure bliss articulated, and you’ve lost track of how many times she’s asked, “and then?”

“I’d spread you wide open, Dani,” you tell her, and watch as her legs part, leaving her splayed out on her bed. Image so fucking wanton it’s biblical sin. “God, look at you. You’re so fucking wet I can hear it through the phone.”

Danielle can’t help herself, “It’s you,” she’s gasping, panting, fucking herself with her fingers so intently that the sounds of her cunt are coming through loud and clear. “It’s all because of you. So, so wet. I’ve been like this all week.”

A thought, you realise, “So that’s why you stopped messaging me.”

The tightness in her voice confirms it for you, “Yeah. Couldn’t stop thinking of you. Reaching out would’ve made it too fucking much.”

This revelation hangs in the air, thick and palpable. Pushes aside any remaining inhibitions. You stroke yourself harder, faster, matching her rhythm, her breaths. Joining the slicks of her own cunt with the sound of your skin slapping against your palm.

“But it didn’t help. So, fuck it. I needed to let you see. Let you know. How much I want you. Need you.”

“Was never much a secret.”

“Never said I was good at hiding it,” and Danielle’s grinning now, looking so beautifully lost and downright filthy and there’s really only one thing left to ask, “Tell me how you’d fuck me.”

“Hard.”

One word and she fucking loves it.

“Flip you over, from behind. Against whatever hard surface I can push you up against. Nothing sweet about it. Giving you what you fucking deserve.”

“God!”

“Leave you out of fucking breath. Just take my cock deep. You can see it can’t you? How big it is. How fucking hard it is for you. I’d make you take every inch fucking fast and rough. Make you mine. My own personal cocksleeve. Daddy’s little cocksleeve, how do you like the sound of that?”

Danielle’s back arches, chest rises and falls. Hand moving faster, fucking herself, really going for it. Head thrown back, eyes open, on you. Like she’s memorising the way you’re looking at her. Unable to do anything but look when you’re puppeteering her body across an entire ocean, words dictating every little shiver, every little pulse.

“Pin you against a wall, Dani. Make it so you can’t move. Can’t do anything but feel me. So deep inside you that you’d feel fucking empty without me.”

“Fuck, that sounds so—” Dani’s barely breathing now, and whether by some reflex or just a need to make your words feel a little more real, she rolls onto her stomach. Ass up in the air, pushing her face down into the mattress. You can see the muscles in her back ripple, the fingers disappearing between her thighs, and she’s biting down on the sheets but you’re making out the— “Just like that. Yes, yes, like that. Fuck me like that. Make me—”

It’s the view of her tight ass and it's like she's inviting you to tell her, “I’d spank you—leave you all nice and red. So you’d feel it after. Have you screaming until you can’t even speak. Make sure the last word you’ll ever say is my name.”

“You’d pull my hair too, right?”

“You wouldn’t have a choice.”

Danielle screams your name; the first time you’ve ever heard it sound like that. Somewhere between worship and pure desperation. It’s fucking heavenly. Your cock flexes in your hand, and you want to drop everything and rush over to her hotel room right now and shove it directly in her face.

But you’ll have to be content with what you’ve got.

With Danielle, an utter disaster; soaked cunt and all, splashing down onto the bed. And it’s going to be a problem, an explanation she’ll have to provide. How the perfect, idol-princess left her room stained and forever ruined with the scent of her cum-drenched sheets.

She’ll lie, of course. Spin something about a spill, or a new perfume she’s trying, or maybe she’ll fucking own it.

How some guy over the phone left her shaking with his words alone. Made her scream his name until she got noise complaints from rooms on the opposite side of the hall. Caused a fucking mess that the hotel laundry service would never be able to scrub out.

She’s so close, so fucking close. You know because you’ve been on the same tracks as her, charting it through the throbbing of your own cock, the tightening in your balls.

She’s just dying for release. For your permission.

“I’m just—I can’t—Can’t believe you’re going to make me—”

“Just fucking cum then, Dani,” you command. An order.

She follows without question.

Hand builds speed—faster, faster, faster. ‘Fuck—fuck—fuck’ spilling from her lips until it’s all just one noise buried in a mess of pleasure and bliss. Until she’s just a heartbeat in the palm of your hand.

Fucking God, she cums hard.

You do too.

You swear the camera shakes, it’s not just your vision, the head spin, the alcohol. It all vibrates around you and you can’t see straight.

Watching Danielle; her abs tense, back bow, collapsing into her bed. Eyes squeezed shut, choking on sheets as she tries and fails to muffle herself. Orgasm ringing through your phone, a chorus of sin. Your own cock is bucking, moving with her hips, and you’re fucking her, fucking her through it all, making her fall apart again and again, making her shiver, beg, cry out your name and—

It’s a fucking masterpiece.

“Cum for me please, Daddy!”

Like a gunshot, a trigger, and you’re gone too.

A mess—sticky, warm. Fucking satisfying.

And then it’s over.

You both slump down, dissolve into your own individual puddles. Needing deep, heaving breaths. Sweat sticking to your skins, to the sheets. It makes her glow.

Just laying there. Not bothering to clean up. Evidence of your lust smeared across your hands, your stomachs, your beds. The trophies earned.

The silence stretches out, and it’s weird because it’s just like she’s breathing right in your ear, coming down next to you. Warmth against your neck, hand sliding down your body. Fitting right in your arms.

Her eyes finally open. Slow movements have her hand dropping away from her pussy, sliding over the wetness to her side. A mess, and there’s a new kind of smile on her face. A little lazy, weak. Satisfied.

“Fuck.”

“Tell me about it.”

She watches you for a beat. Runs a tongue over her lips. “Can’t wait to see you again.”

“When?”

“As soon as I fucking can.”

—

(It feels good—too good—to be honest for once.

The games are still there, but now that you’re a willing participant, Danielle’s tactics shift.

It starts innocently enough—a good morning text here, a photo of her breakfast there, a meme you’d both find funny.

And then the escalation.

Here’s what I’m wearing. Here’s what’s underneath. You want to see more?

Reciprocate.

Every notification from her has you running to the bathroom, or at least somewhere with a little privacy, because it’s always a photo or a video, a little slice of heaven to get you through the day or completely ruin it just by seeing her picture.

And fuck, you do look.

And then there’s the last photo—and of course there’s a bathroom and a mirror and your sweatshirt hiked up to her chest and she’s completely bare otherwise and you’re thinking she’s laughing here because she knows you’re going to zoom in and find the tiny caption left for you to discover between her thighs.

One word.

Your cock jumps, a silent cheer.

Tomorrow.)

—

It's borderline problematic how you have to hold yourself back from sprinting down your hallway when you get home. Just because you hear the sound of running water.

Danielle's here again.

She’s fucking back.

And that’s how you find her; the door to the bathroom’s been left wide open, an invitation you don’t really need—nothing could stop you at this point.

But it doesn’t take away from the surprise of it at all, you're knocked off your feet when you meet her in the shower.

Danielle, head thrown back, letting the hot water cascade over her. Down her neck, her shoulders, her breasts. She’s soapy, skin a canvas of bubbles, your bottle of body wash in her hand, flipped upside down and dripping on her tits.

There’s a smile in the opposite mirror for you, and fuck, for a second you’re believing in love at first sight or the existence of angels or just the fact that maybe you were put on this planet to procreate.

“You’re late.”

You clear your throat, steam starting to warm it up for you. “I was at the gym.”

And she giggles, and she’s smug, and you missed her presence so much more than you anticipated. “Then it sounds like you should join me.”

She reaches out, grabs you by the wrist, and you have mere seconds to get rid of your shirt and your sweatpants and anything you don’t want to get wet because you’re falling into her. Threading your fingers through wet mattes of hair, pushing her into cold tile, and kissing the prettiest fucking girl you’ve ever met in your entire life.

“Missed you,” she murmurs into your lips, warm and steamy words that taste like mint. “Really fucking missed you.”

She’s too real now.

In your shower, beneath your fingertips, water running in rivulets over her body. Moisture evaporating off her skin, sticking to yours. Photos, videos, everything from that fabricated reality of pixels and soundwaves, could never do enough to come close to having her right in front of you.

You run your hands over her body, hers are doing the same down yours—as if needing multiple points of contact to confirm that you’re really here, that this is really happening. Her skin’s like silk under the water, slippery and smooth. You trace the outline of her waist, her ribs, the curves of her ass.

And her abs. Fucking hell. Sculpted, each ridge a testament to her dedication, to hours spent. To the sweat, the tears, the sheer fucking willpower it takes to become an idol. A map of her life’s work, and they’re begging to be touched. Appreciated.

You do.

A soft touch. Reverent. She responds with a gasp that sends a shiver down your spine. Danielle’s eyes are on yours, watching, as your thumb traces the line of here stomach.

You get the obvious out of the way. “You’re so fucking pretty, Dani.”

She arches a brow. “Just pretty?”

You smile, kiss her shoulder. Lap up the water pooling in her collarbone. Stuck between the need to take your time to worship her body like it deserves, and the primal urge to just claim her, take everything about her that’s good and soft and hot and make it yours. “It doesn’t even cover it. I don’t think any words do.”

“Then show me.”

So, you pull her closer, hands cradling her face, thumbs brushing against the soft skin of her cheeks. Kiss her until she’s melting into you, until her body’s pressing into yours so tightly that you can feel the heat of her.

A palm falls to her hip, thumb resting at that glorious spot where her waist sinks right in just before curving out to her ass. Your fingers dig into flesh, and Danielle’s moan; the sweet, sweet sound fills your mouth, vibrates down your throat.

Her hand wraps around the back of your neck, gripping tight; she’s not shy of about touching you either. About asking for more. More of everything. More of this. More of you. You kiss her harder, like you’re trying to break her apart and rebuild her in your own image. Like you’re trying to brand her with your mouth.

“This is,” she breathes between the kisses, slurring against your chest, “so much different in person.”

“How so?” You ask, and follow her eyes southward.

Her cheeks flush, and she looks up at you through wet lashes. “Bigger.”

You laugh, feeling something unlock in your chest. It’s so absurd. Like all at once, your entire destiny's been flipped on its head.

Danielle’s fingers take hold of your cock, stroking you gently. Staring at it in wonder. She’s worshipping it. This goddess, and it’s your cock that’s her idol. She squeezes at the top of your head. The glee in her eyes when you groan.

“God, it’s—” Danielle voice cracks, and she gives the words their proper weight when she says, “Taken too long.”

You can barely think anymore. Not when her hand is winding up and down you in these long, smooth strokes. Like she's somehow been practicing, rehearsing for this exact occasion, studied upon every sensitive spot and how to hit it just right.

“Could’ve had this from the start,” Danielle tells you, and you’re throbbing so hard in her hands. “Could’ve had this any time you wanted,” she says again; like it’s fact, a simple truth of the universe.

And suddenly nothing really makes sense anymore. Whatever logic you had leading up to this point—why didn’t you just reach out and take her? All the times she was right in front of you, on your couch, in your bedroom, or in this very shower, with the door unlocked.

“Could’ve had me whenever you liked,” she whispers, pushing herself closer, her pert little nipples pointed against your chest. “I’ve been so wet and desperate and ready for your cock this whole time. All you had to do was take it.”

You’ve got nothing but an uncommitted, “Couldn’t.”

To that she laughs, presses her lips into your jaw and her grip’s tightening. There’s pre-cum beading from your tip and leaking onto her palm, you both see it clearly before it gets washed away. “I know. That’s why I tried my best to be patient.”

You need a reality check, make sure she’s at all aware of the damage she’s been wreaking. “You? Patient?”

“Oh, you think this only started a few weeks ago?” Danielle taunts, and it’s with an air of ridicule. Incredulous that you could be so naïve. “You have no idea.”

But the honest truth is—you do. You’ve been aware of it—aware of her—from the start. Her sister had probably been aware of it even longer.

Probably why you chose to bury your head in the sand.

But there’s no avoiding it now. This girl—woman. This dream. A picture of youth and beauty; a masterpiece painted by time and genetics, with a touch of that special something that makes you want to frame her and hang her up on every wall in your apartment—make everyone see her the way you do.

And even then, strip that all away, and it's just those lips—the grin, the smile, the pout—and the intention behind each expression that is your true undoing.

It’s the smirk this time when she makes her point, “I’ve had the biggest crush on you since—” And that does it. That does you in. “Forever.”

“Yeah,” you tell her, falling straight into confession. “I think I have too.”

Danielle’s pace picks up, the rhythm building until it’s starting to drive you crazy. Making you lean into her, pushing into the warmth of her small hands. She’s back to kissing into your throat, your ear lobe, any part of your skin she can get her lips to when she whispers, mockingly, “Is this the part where you tell me—I want to fuck you—again?”

That’s an unfair callback.

Danielle quirks an eyebrow. Daring you to do something about it.

You push off her. Slip out of her grasp. Hand trapping her wrists above her head before she can grab you again. You're the one grinning now.

"No. This is the part where I spread you wide open. Pin you against this wall. Make you scream my name.”

Her eyes dilate, pupils blown wide. She licks her lips, “Spank me?”

“And pull your hair.”

“Then go ahead and do it.”

But you pause. Wait. Hold her wrists above her head and stare into her eyes. Give her the chance to put the magic words together herself. Your grip tightens.

Danielle’s smile widens. “Please, Daddy—”

She’s so fucking small, light, practically weightless in your hands. Easy enough to take her hips and lift and spin her around before she can even register that she’s moving. She catches herself on the tile when you set her down, bracing herself against the wall; palms flush, fingers splayed out. Legs naturally split just slightly.

All this build-up and you can’t help but rush.

She turns to look back at you. Needs to see you, needs you to see her, all of her. Giving up on all ideas of teasing, of whatever game took you to this point. Just need. Just burning desperation.

“Need it,” is everything she’s wanted to say, everything she’s tried to tell you over and over again. Everything that makes her vanilla thighs tremble, her knees all wobbly, her cunt drip onto your shower floor.

Your cock twitches, and there’s first contact, sweeping against her folds. Heat sticking to the tip and fuck, yeah, this is not going to be one of those slow, tender moments. You press into her, align yourself between her thighs. One hand at her hip, the other joining her palm against the wall because judging by the way she’s shivering, she just might slip away completely without it.

“Need it now, Daddy,” Danielle whines, so fucking cute and honest, and when you drag your cock so it’s kissing against her entrance, it turns into a demand of, “Inside—please, fuck, put that big cock inside my—”

A push of your hips, and she’s so fucking soaking wet that you slide right in.

Her moan.

You think she’s trying for ‘Daddy’ again, but it’s all fucked up and muddled. Lost in the clench of her muscles, the tension across her body, the way her face screws up and holds and makes all the noises that come out strained and whiny.

So fucking nice.

“God—fuck—finally—”

Fitting so perfectly around you; folding her body into yours. It’s partly the angle—her back arching into yours, her hips urging backwards so nicely, ass squishing against your waist. Her pussy. Hotter than hot, wetter than wet. A fucking vice, a perfect grip that makes you feel like this is where your cock was always supposed to be.

Buried deep inside Danielle’s hot, tight, fucking glorious body.

It’s all just so easy, everything about her, so easy to fuck. Not that she’s not tight—the feel is so fucking divine it’s enough to make your eyes roll back in your head—but because she moves with you, like you’re two parts of one machine, two bodies meant to be joined at the hip; or at the cock and the cunt.

She’s made for you. Tailored to each line and curve and angle of your length.

It takes several strokes—euphoric, mind-breaking, soul-shattering strokes—before Danielle gets some bearings on herself. Panting through it all, making some effort to tear off the bathroom tiles with just her nails, but she’s got enough breath to whisper over her shoulder, “Feels so good. I knew—knew it would be like this.”

A small hand leaves the wall, reaches behind her. Fingers dig into your thigh because she needs something else to hold onto. Something real.

“Knew I’d be perfect for you.”

You want to laugh, chalk it up to her doing her usual cocky little thing. But she’s got you too deep inside her, you’ve sunk all the way in so quickly your lungs are still in recovery trying to catch your breath. Got you so far up her cunt that it’s difficult to manage anything that isn’t a moan. So you just nod. Thrust harder. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“God this is exactly how I thought it’d go,” she keeps going, slowly finding her voice again. Each word like a spell, a curse. “I thought about it—what you’d be like—how you’d fuck me—”

“Danielle,” you grunt out, surprising yourself with how easily it comes out. Then again, it's always been on the tip of your tongue.

“I used to think it’d be nice and sweet—gentle—” she says, shakily, “But this—rough—fucking me like you own me—like you can’t get enough—it’s so much better than I ever imagined. So much better—”

Her words cut off into a gasp when you kiss into her throat. Her hand snakes back up to your neck, pulling you closer, nails scraping along your skin, leaving little white lines. The sting is nice. A welcome distraction from the fire burning through your veins.

Your lips drift higher, and she twists her body to draw you into this clumsy, uncoordinated kiss. Sloppy in construction, she’s kissing at the corners of your mouth, your tongue is dragging up to her cheek at one point. But it’s all communicated in the clash of lips and teeth and the way she’s panting into you, moaning down your throat, “So good, you’re so fucking good, Daddy—”

And then just—

“More,” and she’s at your mercy, and she just loves it, is so fucking earnest for her need for you to just keep going. “Harder, please, I need—”

But you already know. She needs to be fucked, handled rough and just nailed like she’s wanted you to for weeks. Months. Maybe a year at this point. She’s done watching from the sidelines while you were too stupid to realise that she was what you needed all along. Done being the outsider, the third party, watching you go by unappreciated, watching you not get what you needed.

Your name bounces off the shower walls and back into your ears. Impossibly loud; the sound hardly sweet or loving, but it’s pure music. Everything you’ve ever wanted to hear.

It’s joined by the wet smacks of skin on skin. The slick of her cunt around you. Her breaths hitching and catching every time you bottom out and rut your cock so deep in her bowels that it takes a herculean amount of effort to pull it back out again.

Her ass just bounces back against you. The perfect handful—slapping into your thighs with every push. And then, the idea thought of in tandem, two minds as one—“Didn’t you say you were going to—”

A smack ripples across Danielle’s ludicrously tight cheeks.

“Fuck!” She cries out, eyes start to moisten, but she just pushes her ass back. Ready for more.

So you give her another.

A snap; your palm against her. Making the flesh pink up, making it jiggle just right.

Her eyes squeeze shut, mouth opens. Forces out these adorable little sounds, mewls, whimpers.

And then another, and another, and her pussy tightens around you with every hit. You can hear her breath catch in her throat; and fuck she clenches even tighter down on your cock. It’s so dangerous for her because the way she’s reacting, practically thanking you with her moans and sighs and lovely tightening of her cunt around you—it’s making you so greedy.

Greedy to mark her up, to really draw a work of fucking art on her skin. Leave your handprints on something beautiful.

“Again,” she begs, and her voice is absolutely shot. Just raspy, desperate, needy. “Harder, please, Daddy. I’ve never, no one’s ever—"

You smack her again.

And again.

Leaving her cheeks red and stinging. Leaving her trembling. Just a boneless mess of beautiful sighs and blissful pleasure. You can see it, in the bumps rising on her skin, the way her toes are curling in ecstasy, her cunt gushing down your own thighs. There’s no hiding it. Without a doubt, this is what she’s always deserved.

It’s a hard thrust, a harsh smack, each following one after another in rapid succession. Fucking her apart, fucking her in two. Fucking her into oblivion.

Each spank, each perfect spasm of her abs, her cunt, it’s all a quiet mercy. Pain pushing her closer and closer to pleasure, balancing on that precipice where her pussy is strangling the fuck out of your cock so perfectly.

There’s only one word for someone who’s loving this kind of treatment, someone who’s this fucking filthy and vulgar and dying for more.

“Slut,” you bite into her ear, and the gasp that rises from her throat confirms it. The second word, “Cocksleeve," nearly shatters her completely.

You could never imagine someone like her, someone that could live in the torture if only because it brings out so much joy.

You know it, she knows it, but you still let her know, “You’re going to cum for me.”

And she whimpers and bucks against you because she sees it for what it is. A promise. And it’s all because she’s so fucking responsive, so eager for it, so fucking reactive. A pinwheel in a tornado, spinning and spinning until it’s just a blur of colour and motion and all you can do is watch in amazement.

“I will,” she promises back, and fuck you’re not far behind. “I'll cum for you. All over your beautiful fucking cock.”

It keeps you going, makes your strokes erratic, wild, just harsh, punishing thrusts into the depths of her cunt. And she keeps taking it, walls gripping around your cock with unreal pressure, like she’s trying to keep you there forever. Like she’s afraid you’ll pull out and leave her unsated.

But she’s wrong.

You let her know with your next spank. The hardest one yet.

“Fuck you’re—” and it’s your name, and curses, and filth, and begging and just “yes, yes, yes” again and again. Screaming it into your ear, crying it into your neck; she’s baring the deepest, darkest part of her soul.

Locked in place, cumming.

Unable to move, because her back’s to your chest, and she’s up against a wall so all she can really do is tremble and shiver and shake until she’s completely dissolved.

And it’s somewhere in all this that you come to terms with the fact that it’s not enough. You’ve crossed the line and you don’t even dream of settling. You’re going to make her cum again. And again. And again.

She’s spent all this time offering herself up to you, crafting herself into this toy for your amusement, a fuckdoll for you to play with; as if you were only going to take this one taste and let her go.

But you do give her a break, if only for a moment.

You massage her ass; soothe the sting with your fingertips. A little tenderness amidst the storm.

“Good girl,” you catch yourself kissing into her, and the words are like a password to some hidden part of her, something that makes her nearly collapse onto the shower floor.

Her cunt pulses, once, twice, milking you. Her muscles start to give out, and you need to wrap your hand around her body to keep upright. Fingers at her tits, squeezing, twisting her nipples because you’ve always wanted to and you know she loves it. Because she needs the sensation to keep her on her feet.

“Mine,” you grit out, and there’s no disagreement from Danielle. No, her eyes are too glassy, glazed over and not even looking at you anymore. Just feeling you, feeling what you’re doing to her.

There’s tears in her eyes too; it’s not just the water raining down overhead. She’s sobbing well and truly, because you’ve fucked her so thoroughly that it’s all she can do. It’s all her pretty eyes can show you to tell you just how fucking good it feels for her. So perfect. So much more than she ever hoped for.

Letting you see every bit of her. Every tear that falls down her face, every quiver in her legs. Every time she chokes out your name.

“Mine,” you repeat, kissing it into her shoulder.

Her response is a nod. She’s caught her breath. “Always have been.”

She’s just so soft, even as she’s still quivering. Legs somehow still holding her upright, even when the architecture's been threatening to crumble and collapse this entire time.

So you start to move again. Slower, gentler, almost apologetic.

Danielle ends all ideas of that very quickly. “Hey,” she kisses your cheek. Aiming for your lips, but misses entirely. You don’t mind much.

“Dani,” you groan, because God, even when you’re trying to take it slow, a little easy, it’s still so fucking agonising. So dangerous. Like you’re the first to ever get his hands on her. You’ve discovered fire, now you just can’t keep your hands off it.

“Don’t you dare go taking it easy on me now. Not after you just made me cum my fucking brains out,” is what Danielle rasps, “Remember, I’m yours.”

She kisses you again, gets your mouth this time, tongue pushes in. Convinces you with the sweetness of it that it’s far from over. Not until you’ve done exactly as you’ve promised to her—fucked her so hard, so deep, until she couldn’t move, until she’d feel empty without your cock inside her.

“Your slut,” she slides down you, until it’s only the tip of your cock that remains nestled at her entrance, “your cocksleeve,” her hips snap back, a rush of air exits your lungs and fuck, you’re in deep again, “and you still haven’t pulled my hair yet.”

Yeah.

Grab a fistful of chestnut silk, yank back, and she’s yours. Back to speed, fucking her open and raw, having this effect on her.

Seeing it blossom from her thighs, up her abs, her ribs, her tits, around her throat until it’s bubbling out of lips and the corner of her eyes. This girl is yours. This petite, perfect, fuckable body is yours to do as you wish—to use, to pleasure, to ruin.

You tell her to take it—she takes it. You tell her to beg for it—and she cries and pleas and makes it seem like the only thing that could settle her soul is your cock.

And when you command her to scream your name, and it's just so fucking soul-destroying—the loveliest noise from the filthiest tongue, and everything that comes with it. The ‘just like this’, the barely coherent ‘your slut, Daddy, I’m your slut’, and these encouraging quivers from her lips that take the shape of ‘give your good little girl all of your hot fucking cum and—”

“Fuck, this pussy is incredible,” you breathe into her, and your grip is tightening into a fist, tugging her back even further until she’s leaning into it, her back arched so beautifully like some mathematical wonder.

Head tipped back, throat bared, and she’s trapped. Trapped underneath your weight, trapped in your hands, trapped against the wall with nowhere to go but further down your cock.

It only seems right. After all she’s put you through; the mind games, the seduction, the fucking audacity. You’ll give it right back. Fuck her as hard as she’s been fucking with you. Roughness as penance, finding forgiveness in the soaked and messy and now red and swollen recesses of her cunt.

Fingers drift higher, two past her plump lips, into her mouth. She bites down. You don’t even care anymore. Pulling harder on her hair, fixing her body to yours, and God, even like this, wrapping her up in your body, having her as close to you as possible, being as deep as you are in her. It’s not enough.

She chokes on your digits, collapsing. “Fuck. Too good. Fuck!”

Getting wetter and wetter, messier and messier, thank God you’re already in the shower.

Telling you these things with every whimper, with every twitch of her body, every squeeze of her cunt around your cock. Find out, is what you’re getting. Find out how good she is at being a slut. Where her limits are—how much she can take. Find out how quickly she can make you cum.

“You want this, don’t you?” Danielle reads your mind. Had your number since the beginning, figured you out before you knew. “You don’t need someone nice. Someone sweet, someone good for you. You need someone who’ll—fuck—push you to the edge and then—and then—fucking kick you off. Someone who’ll let you do the same to her.”

Yeah, you’re fucked. Never had someone lay it out so bluntly. So perfectly.

“Daddy wants to cum so bad,” Danielle’s being whiny, slutty, drooling down your fingers, because there’s nothing else she can do. Just taunt and tease and be fucked senselessly. Helpless to take it—harder, deeper—faster, faster, faster. “Daddy needs to fill his slut’s cunt, doesn’t he?”

“I will,” you growl into her ear, and the quivers around your cock are nothing short of rapturous.

It’s all coming to a head—the shower’s a steamy mess around you; water’s cold now, but Danielle’s getting even hotter around you. Can’t stop moving; don’t you dare give her a moment to catch her breath. Not when she’s this close. Not when you’re this fucking close.

Her nails dig into your arms, you’re leaving bruises on her hips. You know it. You can feel them. She’s thanking you for them.

And then a glimpse, the light hits the glass walls of the shower just right and you’re seeing it. Danielle, grace and elegance in a package so tight and wet and perfect and it's all going to hell. Your hand in her hair, the water running over your fingers, splashing onto her back, hitting the gorgeous, sweet pink of her well-spanked ass.

You’re just fucking her. Like it’s all you can do. Like it’s all she’s good for.

Eyes fastened shut. Mouth—beautiful, kissable lips frozen into an even circle, letting out these wails. Danielle’s perfect. So flawless it hurts to look at her. And you’re ruining it all. Dumping a bucket of paint on a priceless work of art, watching the colours run down the canvas.

“God, just—“ Danielle tries, but it takes several attempts until she can piece together the words she really wants you to hear, loud and clear: “Just fuck your cum deep into me. Daddy, I’ve earned it, haven’t I?”

You’re not sure what noise you make as a reply. It’s very likely not something nice.

“Please, please, Daddy,” Danielle’s pouting, and there’s the brat again. The girl that gets what she wants with just the jutting of her lower lip and a voice so sweet it’s undoubtedly terrible for your blood-sugar levels. Just pleading for you to let her bring all your filthiest fantasies to life—fuck her deeper, fill her with all the cum you have, spank her, pull her hair, choke her, even. Letting you know there’s no limit to what she’ll do just to have her cunt spilling out your cum. “It’s what I need right now. It’s my reward for being such a good girl. That’s what good girls get, right? Their Daddy’s cum?”

Christ, this is going to become a problem.

You can never go back.

Not to anything less than fucking to incoherence; to cumming as gratitude. To using someone so pretty, so God-damn lovely, the embodiment of everything wholesome and good in the world; with all the angelic hopes and dreams and aspirations, and reducing it to a simple dumpster for your cum.

To destroying someone with just your cock, and being thanked for the privilege.

“Fuck you, Dani,” you spit at her, and you mean it. “You’re too fucking perfect. Too good of a slut, too needy of a cocksleeve. I’ll give you everything. Fill you with it. Every tight, needy hole, paint every inch of your body. Fuck you against every single surface in this apartment. Fuck.”

“Good,” and it’s fucked up how she blushes, only seeing the praise, the compliments in your words. Yeah, she’ll be all those things, and then some. She’ll be every pornographic fantasy you can think of and then show you even more you could never imagine. She’ll make sure to drain you dry and then drill deep inside you to get out every last drop. “All of those things. Do all of those things. But now—just—cum!”

Your hips meet, you nearly fuck her off her feet.

She cums, or you do, or you both do, it all gets lost in this noise. A wave of sound that could wake the fucking dead—you’re not sure who jumps first, no point in trying to figure it out. Just a blur of sensation and release, crashing through your veins and you’re going to tear her in half, or she’s going to swallow you whole; it’s two and one and fuck.

You try to hold on—her hands around your neck and then your thigh, yours straight to her tits; more of her, you need more of her.

But your knees are buckling. Your breaths are haggard. You’re pushing her into the wall, her cheek is squished against the tile and she’s slurring things that get lost in the water like God, fuck, this is so perfect and if you were paying more attention you might catch it when she says it’s all I’ve ever wanted.

You do hear your name.

“Thank you, thank you, it’s so fucking good, just fucking thank you—”

She’s on her tiptoes when you feel the rush down her thighs, when her cunt makes its final effort around your cock, and it’s all coming out in whispers and prayers and unholy verbal contracts to never let this end.

Her body jerks, hips slamming back into you, and the wall's cold on her face, but it's the heat from your chest that’s all she needs to soothe her shivering; her chattering teeth repeating, "Fill me, fill me, fill me, Daddy!"

Fuck, you’ve lost count how many times now, but you’re spurting inside her. Unbearable pressure, blissful release. You can’t see the end of it, but you don’t want to escape—only sink into the feeling of her cunt around your cock, the gasps of her breath in your ear, the pleas and overtures for you to keep going. And you do, because this is now your heaven, and you’re feeling more religious by the second.

Shot after shot into her, feeling it fill her up, pool inside her pussy. She tells you it’s not enough, her cunt tries to milk every single drop out. You’re okay with that. You’ll give her everything you’ve got. Just to see her stumble out of this bathroom with your cum leaking out of her. Witness her waddling down the hall, globs of it dripping down her thighs. That’s the power play right there.

And somewhere in all this obscene debauchery, she says, “I love this,” and there’s a kiss that follows.

Suddenly tender; still sloppy, and yet—gentle. Softer than any of the bruises you’ve left on her skin.

Danielle’s still holding onto your neck, your fingers are glued to her tits, but for the first time you give her the space to breathe.

Her body relaxes, the fight leaves her legs and she’s just a ragdoll in your arms. And you hold her. Just hold her there, still inside her, cum leaking out of her and running down her thighs, mixing with the shower water and going down the drain.

And you’re unwilling to let her go, you might never, because maybe if you pull out, she’ll vanish. Maybe you’re dreaming. Maybe it’s all some sick, twisted, fucked up fantasy spurred by every thought she’s filled your head with over the past month.

But when you blink your eyes, she’s still there. Real and present and just as fucked up as you are. And she’s smiling.

You lean into her, catching your breath. Danielle’s panting too, happy to let you carry her weight, and so content. Back to being so smug. Another round of fucking might fix that.

“Told you we’d be perfect together.”

“You told me a lot of things.”

Danielle's lips meet the back of your hand. Your wrist, up your forearm. Says, “I also told you that I’d have you screaming my name so loud you wouldn’t be able to speak.”

"I said that."

"And yet here I am, voice still intact."

You roll your eyes, take a slow, careful step back. Your cock slips out, accompanied by a groan and a splash of cum hitting the floor between your feet. Danielle’s laughing, still shivering in your arms, body still quaking with aftershocks. You kiss her back, her neck, her shoulder, her ear.

Anything to keep her here.

Finally, the taps are turned off, and Danielle shifts in your arms. Cheeks flushed, eyes half-open, but undoubtedly—satisfied.

You manage a weak chuckle. “What now?”

Danielle takes you by the chin, plants a kiss on your lips and yeah, this feels right, this feels like providence, and this is going to last until the universe says otherwise, and even then. “Now?” She says, and another kiss, on your chin, on your cheek, down your chest and lower and lower and, “Now, I go back to your room, and you come with me, and we do this all over until we pass out.”

—

Again, there’s the kiss.

Only you’re both on your bed, and it’s peppered down the underside of your cock. Then her tongue's dragging along your shaft, staining it in her glossy saliva. Slow and languid. More occupied with enjoying her new favourite toy than your pleasure. It’s the simple things, you guess.

And as she’s doing it, she’s talking. Planning out the rest of your day, your lives, you realise, and you’re just nodding along like you’re listening, but all you’re hearing is the wet smack of her lips around your cock, her tongue lolling and swiping around the head.

You look down at her, and she’s smiling, so goddamn happy, your heart fucking splits in half.

She’s curled up against your thigh, and she kisses into your cock, "God, I could never get tired of this."

"Really?"

Danielle pulls away, a sad pout on her lips, and you realise you may have offended her. Repeats, with emphasis, "Your slut."

And it's funny how easily that assuages you. You probably should be worried. Maybe deal with the very likely outcome that this will not end well—reality tends to have complications that the simplicity of just lying in bed with an impossibly beautiful woman cannot anticipate.

Yet, it's okay to just believe for a second that things will be alright. It's okay to lean back into the pillows and let her have her way. Let her suck you until you're seeing stars, and then climb on top of you again and fuck you until you've forgotten how to function and you can't even see past your nose, let alone whatever comes the morning after.

"Of course, I'll remember that."

"And here I am doing my best to make you never forget, Daddy."

Only, one final, stupid, silly little question—"I never asked, how did you know the code to my apartment?"

Danielle laughs, letting your cock pop out from her lips, stifling her giggles against your thigh. "My sister's birthday. Got it first try."

"Ah," you answer, and then, "Fuck. Probably should get that changed."

"Definitely should get it changed," she answers, then tacking on, "Especially if I'm going to be spending more time here."

"Even more than you already are?"

Danielle just grabs her hair in her fist, loops it around and tightens it into a makeshift ponytail. Lifts her chin and looks up at you. Defiant. "Where else would I go?"

And for now, it'll have to be enough, because really, all you can think of, as she sinks her lips back down onto your cock, takes you deep into her throat, and her eyes start to water and you're already throbbing and ready to release, is that she's claimed total victory over you, and for that alone you'll let her have it all.

To the winner, goes the spoils.

Everything she wants, everything she needs.

With a gasp, Danielle lifts her head up; pre-cum, saliva, drool falling off her lips and grins so fucking adorably that you're already thinking of rushing towards words that she’ll never let you take back.

She reads it on your face, sees it take shape on your lips and stops you. Her hand reaches up to cover your mouth, her eyes wide and gleaming.

“At least let a girl earn it first.”

And so you let it rest, because right now you’re exactly where you should be—in your bed, nearly reduced to a puddle of basic needs, with Danielle in your sweatshirt with all her otherworldly beauty and loveliness straddled right on top of you.

Her mouth full of you, your heart full of her.

“Then don’t ever stop,” you tell her, knowing full well that she never had any dreams of slowing down. Your thumb pads her cheek. She leans into your touch. “Keep going, just like this.”

#kpop smut #Danielle smut #newjeans smut #njz smut #male reader

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mia-fey-needs-a-drink · 1 month ago

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It's so annoying that to so much of the fandom Mia is just "boobs" or "girlboss", she's got so much more going on:

-She really struggles to remember people's names which often causes people to doubt her engagement despite genuinely caring and engaging with their situation and the case (she's just like me fr I really struggle with names (for probably autism reasons) and people really don't like that).

-She has a tendency to just not talk to people about things, especially about herself or her life. depending on when you think Mia actually started mentoring Phoenix he was a significant part of her life for at least a year and probably since 3-1, yet he only meets Maya and learns about spirit channeling after Mia dies, she never mentioned Lana either, or Diego, or DL-6, and this isn't just to Phoenix, she never told Maya about Diego either and it's vague how much Lana actually knows about her, hell it's vague how much Diego actually knew about her, maybe Grossberg only told him about DL6 and the Fey clan after he wakes up from his coma. Ultimately she isolated herself from everyone in her life to some extent and it's kinda part of how she died, no-one knew the danger she was in and she didn't want people to know.

-Her ineptitude with technology. Phoenix and Maya also have this, but I feel like Mia's and Maya's are so linked to their background in the fey clan, they were raised in a society and culture where they didn't have access to these things and integrating into broader society comes with difficulties.

-Her entire life and career is just things repeatedly going wrong and her being fucked over: DL-6, her disaster of a first trial, Diego being poisoned and just as she's about to try and finally put Redd White behind bars he finds out and kills her. She had shit hand after shit hand and was basically doomed from the start, but yet she persisted and she fought for what she believed and for the people she cared about and to make the world a better place, and everything good that Phoenix manages to do throughout PWT is thanks to Mia and everything she worked for, she laid the foundations for a better world for the ones she loved that she wouldn't get to live in and yet I think if she knew that it would all end this way from the start she'd do it all over again. I think a little part of me thinks that some part of her hoped White would kill her so there was something definitive to pin him with (which comes with some darker implications for how well she was dealing with life).

-Mia has such an interesting relationship to the legal system and her own sense of justice. So much of her experience with the law is with it failing her, repeatedly. DL-6 is a disaster that stripped her mother from her, her first trial ends in the clearly guilty party that murdered her client getting away with it, her boyfriend's murder goes unsolved from the same murderer who she dedicates the next 8 months to taking down, and then there's 1-2, her own murder trial. Mia has again worked for years to try and get this man convicted, the deeply corrupt legal system making it a near insurmountable task, then in the last stretch he murders her. The police immediately just try to brush it under the rug, blame her sister and get the trial over with. Grossberg is too afraid of White to defend Maya and Edgeworth is a slimy piece of shit the entire trial. When Phoenix finally finds the clearly guilty White, he simply makes a few calls and her understudy is the prime suspect. White goes up on the stand and just repeatedly comes up with any old blatant nonsense and excuses and no matter how many times and how much work goes into Wright picking apart every mistruth and detail and how many pieces of evidence he shows nothing will convict White, the court is completely corrupt, you'll never be able to defeat him within the system. So, what happens? Mia and Phoenix have to work outside the established rules, even working outside the rules of death itself. White is only defeated after Mia straight up blackmails him into confessing, and yet this is more justice than working within the law ever would allow them. Mia also only gets Dahlia through pushing the law to it's breaking point, she was a step away from being disbarred. I feel like it's easy to see her as a strong believer in the law but if you really look at it, to her, the law is not sacred or worthy of much reverence, if something is unjust, to hell if it's legal, she will try and reach justice no matter what.

-Look I may be projecting my woke onto the game a little bit but I can't help but feel the routine misogyny Mia faces in both the cases we play as her in T&T is more than just "a product of it's time" and more showing misogyny as an extension of the system being rigged against her.

Loooong post but there's so much going on with Mia.

#ace attorney #mia fey #ace attorney trilogy #turnabout sisters #phoenix wright #the GOAT #I have so many thoughts about Mia #She's basically a secondary protagonist of the PWT afaic #Mia fey prequel please #I didn't even get onto how PWT is about Wright taking up Mia's role not just as a defense attorney but also as an older sibling to Maya #and general positive force in the world

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charmedimsure · 5 months ago

Text

A WELCOME DISTRACTION || kang dae-ho

pairing: Kang Dae-ho x reader

summary: Dae-ho helps you learn to play Gong-gi

word count: 1.5k

warnings: squid game stuff, but other than than just fluff

A/N: I got the rules of the game from watching the show, so they could be wrong. I think it's gender neutral but lmk if it's not so I can fix it

It looks like you're going to spend at least another day here. You're going to have to play at least one more game. Despite voting to leave, the majority of people disagreed with you, and now you're stuck here. You may be drowning in student loan debt, but at least your alive, and, if you've learned anything positive from this experience, it is that life is full of opportunities.

You take your food from the masked men and find a small space in between the beds where you can be alone. You don't think you can eat right now, so you put those to the side and sit on your knees, pulling five small stones out of your pocket. When you need is a distraction, and this game could do it.

Across the room, Dae-ho winces as Jung-bae hits him in the shoulder, almost making him drop his milk.

"What?" Dae-ho says, annoyed.

"You're staring," Jung-bae says. Dae-ho gives him a confused look, to which he nods his head in your direction.

Dae-ho looks down at his feet as he feels heat rise in his face. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Jung-bae scoffs a laugh, looking at the former Marine. "Please. You cheered so loud when her team crossed the finish line I thought you're life was on the line, too." Jung-bae laughs at his own joke, Young-il laughing along.

Dae-ho rolls his eyes, finishing his milk and putting the carton down next to him. Sure he thinks you're cute, but this is no place for any of this stuff.

"You should talk to them," a quiet voice says. Dae-ho looks up to see Jun-hee looking at him.

Young-il nods. "She's right. We don't know how much longer we will be alive, you should speak now before you lose the chance."

Dae-ho looks back over at you. You're hunched over on the floor between beds, your back facing him. With a small surge of confidence, Dae-ho nods, standing up. He takes a few steps in your direction before second guessing himself, stopping in place. He nearly falls over as Jung-bae shoves him towards you.

As he gets closer to you, he can hear the sounds of something repeatedly hitting the hard floor, as well as soft curses coming from you.

"Are you alright?" he asks, standing by the entrance to the small alley between beds.

You gasp and look up at him, being too invested in what you were doing to notice someone coming up to you. Acting on instinct, you back yourself closer to the wall away from him.

Dae-ho puts his hands up. "I don't want to hurt you, just wanted to see what you were doing."

You take a look at his face and number. You remember seeing him yelling yesterday with his friend, as if he was a soldier. It had actually made you laugh, which was much needed in a place like this. You also thought he was kinda cute. Getting out of your defensive position, you shyly show him the small stones in your hand.

He furrows his brows and gets closer so he can have a better look, kneeling on the floor in front of you. He recognizes the rocks from the ground of the last game, but has no idea why you have them.

You see his confused look and sigh. "I was trying to play Gong-gi. I've never played before and it looked interesting." You let out a little laugh. "I'm not very good at it, though. I don't even know if I'm doing it right."

Dae-ho gives you a small smile. "I can show you, if you want."

You look up at him with wide eyes. "You know how to play?"

He grows a bit embarrassed and looks everywhere except for your face. "I have older sisters, we used to play when I was little."

Expecting you to laugh at him, he is surprised when you hold out the stones. He smiles and holds out his palm for you to place the rocks in, then moves back to make room between the two of you.

"You have to throw one of the pieces in the air as you grab the others, and you need to grab more as you go. You start with one each, then two, then three and one, then all four. After that, flip them onto the backside of your hand and catch them without flipping your hand over." He takes a deep breath as he rolls of the stones onto the floor. As nervous as he feels with you watching him, he knows he can do it. After all, he did just do it perfectly with guns pointed at him.

He quickly goes through the game, not dropping a single stone. When he makes the final catch and opens his palm for you to see, he finds your mouth open as you stare at his hand in awe.

"That was amazing," you say to him with a smile.

Dae-ho smiles and feels the heat rising to his face again. "You should see my sisters do it, they move so fast you can't even see what's happening," he chuckles, making you laugh. "Besides, I saw you do spinning top before. You wrapped it in seconds and got it to spin on the first try! I was always so bad at spinning top as a kid."

You smile shyly, feeling heat in your face. "It was my favorite game as a kid. I didn't have many toys, so I would play it for hours. I'd try to teach you, but I don't have a top."

Dae-ho smiles. "That's okay." He holds out his hand for you to take the stones. "You're turn to try."

You take the stones from him, scattering them onto the ground between you. You smile as you manage to get each singular one, but when you try to get two at once, you don't catch the stone in time. You let out a frustrated sigh, sitting back on your knees.

"You're doing good," Dae-ho reassures. "Try going for the ones that are closer together, and throw the stone a little higher to give you more time."

You nod at the advice and pick up the stones again. You get the first two, but lose it again as you try to get the second two. Though you get frustrated with yourself, Dae-ho never does, patiently watching you and giving you tips.

It takes more tries than you would like to admit, but you are finally able to make the final catch. You yell out in victory with a big smile on your face, and the man across from you does the same. You get a little shy as you see that your yells have got attention from the people around you, particularly that one judgmental old man who really has no right to judge anyone considering he has more debt than most people here combined.

When everyone looks away, you smile up at the man again as he hold him hand up for you to high-five.

"I feel so accomplished," you laugh, making him chuckle. "Thank you for helping me. It was nice to play a game and not have to worry for my life."

He smiles sadly. "I'm happy I could help. My name is Dae-ho."

You smile back at him and give him your name. "If we both get out of here, Dae-ho, I'll teach you how to get the top to spin every time."

"When," he says. You give him a confused look. "You said if we get out of here, but when we get out of here, I would like that very much."

You smile at him. "I'm looking forward to it."

Dae-ho spots your food sitting on the bed next to you and frowns. "You didn't eat?"

You look at it. "I wasn't hungry so I was saving it. I got so wrapped up in this game I forgot about it."

The man moves to get up. "I'll leave you to eat, then."

"You don't have to leave," you say quickly, making him stop and look at you. "I mean, I don't mind if you want to stay."

Dae-ho smiles and nods, sitting down again, this time next to you. As you eat, you both talk about yourselves, how you ended up here, your lives back home, anything that comes to mind.

"What are you going to do when you get out of here?" Dae-ho asks you when your food is long gone.

You sigh and shrug. "I'll pay off whatever debt that I can, but besides that, I really don't know." You look at him. "What about you?"

"I'll pay off my debts, too," he says. He takes a deep breath before looking at you, feeling his nerves rising. "I also think that I'd like to take you to dinner."

His nerves calm as he watches a smile slowly take over your face. "I'd like that."

Dae-ho smiles. "Then it's a date."

When it is time to go to sleep, Dae-ho can only think about how he is going to do everything he can to make sure the two of you get out of here alive.

#dae ho #player 388 #dae-ho #daeho x reader #dae ho x reader #dae-ho x reader #squid game #squid game 2 #squid game season 2 #kang dae ho #kang daeho #daeho

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cressidagrey · 2 months ago

Text

White Horse - Chapter 1: March 2023

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes:

....Do not expect particular quick updates on this, because it's a beast of a story. Also: kinda Charles bashing, but not really? You'll see.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

A Bar in Montecarlo:

Max had come to the bar for a quiet drink, not to get his world flipped upside down. But then he spotted her.

She was standing at the counter, waiting for her drink, all soft confidence and effortless elegance. The kind of woman who didn’t need to try to turn heads—she just did. And Max, never one to let an opportunity pass him by, slid up beside her with his most charming smirk and opened his mouth.

And because apparently, he had actually listened the last time Lando told him all about the absolutely horrible Pick-Up-Lines that he had tried with middling success…that was what came out of his mouth.

“Excuse me,” he said smoothly, “but do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?”

She turned, amused—

And Max nearly choked.

Because he knew her.

His brain scrambled for a second before his mouth caught up. “Oh, shit. You’re Charles’ little sister.”

Her entire expression changed. The amusement faded, her jaw tightening. “Wow,” she deadpanned. “That’s one way to ruin a moment.”

Max grimaced. “That’s not what I—”

She picked up her drink and turned fully toward him, raising a brow. “I do have a name, you know.”

He nodded quickly, recovering. “Right. Isabelle.”

“Good job,” she said dryly. “Want a gold star?”

Max huffed out a laugh. “Look, I just wasn’t expecting you. I see a beautiful woman at a bar, and my instinct is to flirt. Then I realize she’s my colleague’s little sister, and I panic.”

Her lips twitched. “And?”

“And… I’m still going to flirt with you,” he admitted, grinning. “But properly this time.”

She tilted her head, intrigued. “Oh?”

Max leaned in slightly. “Can I buy you a drink, Isabelle?”

She pretended to consider. “That depends. Are you going to keep calling me Charles’ little sister?”

He placed a hand over his heart. “I solemnly swear never to utter those words again.”

Her lips curled in the slightest smirk. “In that case, sure. Let’s see if you can impress me, Verstappen.”

Max had never been one to back down from a challenge. And something told him this was a challenge he’d never want to walk away from.

Max flagged down the bartender, ordering another round for both of them. Isabelle took a slow sip of her drink, watching him over the rim of her glass like she was trying to decide if he was worth her time.

He liked that. Liked that she wasn’t falling over herself just because he was Max Verstappen.

“So,” he said, leaning against the bar, “what exactly would impress you?”

She hummed, tapping a finger against her glass. “A conversation that doesn’t involve my brothers.”

Max smirked. “That easy?”

“You’d be surprised how many people fail that test.”

He could imagine. Charles was everywhere in the racing world, and by extension, so was Isabelle. It must be exhausting, always being seen as an extension of someone else.

Max took the challenge seriously. “Alright,” he said, shifting toward her. “Tell me something about you that has nothing to do with your family.”

She studied him for a moment, like she was assessing if he was genuine. Then, after a beat, she said, “I work in architecture.”

Max blinked. “Really?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why do you sound surprised?”

“I don��t know,” he admitted. “I guess I never thought about what you do.”

She smirked. “That’s because you’ve only ever seen me as Charles’ little sister.”

Max winced. “Okay, fair. But I’m interested now.”

“Are you?” She tilted her head, amusement flickering in her eyes. “I have heard your name at work before.”

Max frowned. “You have?”

“Oh, yeah,” Isabelle said, taking another sip of her drink. “Apparently, you’ve been house hunting. One of my colleagues nearly had a meltdown over the idea of designing a place for Max Verstappen.”

Max narrowed his eyes. “Wait… which project?”

She bit back a smile. “A penthouse. You toured it a few weeks ago.”

Max suddenly knew exactly which one she was talking about. He had liked the place, but something had held him back from committing.

Now, though?

Now, he was very seriously considering signing the papers just for an excuse to see her again.

He leaned in, watching her reaction closely. “And if I were to, say, buy that penthouse?”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Then I’d know you had good taste.”

Max grinned. “That’s it?”

She shrugged. “That, and I’d probably have to endure my colleagues freaking out for at least a week.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Alright, then. Guess I have some decisions to make.”

Isabelle rolled her eyes, but he caught the way her lips twitched like she was fighting a smile.

Yeah. He was definitely buying that penthouse.

Max drummed his fingers against the bar, pretending to think. "Alright, so let’s say I do buy that penthouse. Hypothetically."

Isabelle gave him a knowing look. "Hypothetically."

"Would I get a personal consultation?"

She laughed, shaking her head. "That’s not how it works."

"But if I had, I don’t know, questions about the design, or maybe some concerns about the layout, I’d need someone to talk to, wouldn’t I?"

Isabelle swirled the last of her drink in her glass, watching him with an amused glint in her eyes. "Max, are you trying to say you need my number for professional reasons?"

He grinned, tilting his head. "I mean, what if I need an expert opinion? You are the only architect I know."

She sighed in mock exasperation, but he could tell she was entertained. "I really shouldn’t encourage this."

"But you want to," Max countered, smirking.

Her lips twitched, and after a moment’s pause, she reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. "Fine. Give me yours, I’ll text you."

Max typed in his number so fast that she actually laughed. She typed something in her phone.

A second later, his phone buzzed with a new message.

Unknown Number: Congratulations on your completely unbiased, definitely not suspicious real estate decision.

Max chuckled. "So, what happens if I text you about things that aren’t penthouse-related?"

Isabelle lifted her glass to her lips and said, before taking the last sip, "Guess we’ll find out."

And just like that, Max Verstappen knew he was completely screwed.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

(Unknown Number): Hey, it’s Max.

(Unknown Number): Verstappen.

(Unknown Number): Just in case you know a lot of Maxes.

Isabelle: I don’t.

Max: Good. Would hate to have competition already.

Isabelle: Already?

Max: What can I say? I like you.

Isabelle: You barely know me.

Max: That’s true. But I’d like to change that.

Isabelle: …That was smooth.

Max: Was it?

Isabelle: Surprisingly, yes.

Max: Noted. I’ll add it to my very short list of smooth moments.

Isabelle: Very short?

Max: Tragically short.

Isabelle: I don’t know if I believe that.

Max: I promise, my sister would confirm it.

Isabelle: You have a sister?

Max: Victoria.

Isabelle: Right, I think I’ve seen her before.

Max: Probably. She’d probably like you, by the way.

Isabelle: Oh?

Max: Yeah. She has a good instinct about people.

Isabelle: And what does your instinct say?

Max: That I really, really want to see you again.

Isabelle: You’re very direct, aren’t you?

Max: Is that a bad thing?

Isabelle: No. Just… unexpected.

Max: Well, I can be subtle too.

Isabelle: Can you?

Max: Definitely. For example, I could subtly ask what you’re doing tomorrow night.

Isabelle: …Very subtle.

Max: Thank you. So?

Isabelle: I might be free.

Max: Good. Then I’ll subtly ask if you’d like to have dinner with me.

Isabelle: Are you always like this?

Max: Only when I really like someone.

Isabelle: …Dinner sounds nice.

Max: Perfect. I’ll send you the details.

Isabelle: Looking forward to it.

Max: Me too.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: I met someone.

Victoria: …Okay?

Max: And I think I’m in love.

Victoria: MAX.

Victoria: You literally just met her??

Max: Yes.

Victoria: And you think you’re in love?

Max: Yes.

Victoria: Oh my god.

Victoria: Max.

Victoria: WHAT.

Victoria: HOW.

Victoria: WHY.

Max: I don’t know, Vic. I just know. I met her tonight and I just…I just know.

Victoria: You’ve known her for one night.

Max: Yes.

Victoria: Max.

Max: Vic.

Victoria: Oh my god, you’re serious.

Max: Very.

Victoria: You’re actually gone for her already.

Max: Completely.

Victoria: …Okay.

Max: Okay?

Victoria: Yeah.

Victoria: I mean, I think you’re insane, but if anyone deserves to fall stupidly, recklessly in love, it’s you.

Max: …Thanks, Vic.

Victoria: You deserve to be loved, Max.

Victoria: For who you are. Not because you’re Max Verstappen, two-time world champion, but just because you’re you.

Max: …

Max: I think she sees me that way.

Victoria: Then hold onto her.

Max: I plan to.

Victoria: Is that why you’re texting me at midnight like a lunatic?

Max: …I may have also just bought that penthouse.

Victoria: MAX.

Victoria: YOU HAVE BEEN UNDECIDED ABOUT THAT PENTHOUSE FOR MONTHS.

Victoria: AND NOW YOU MEET A GIRL AND SUDDENLY YOU’RE BUYING IT???

Max: Her architecture firm is working on it.

Victoria: This is why people say Libras are intense.

Max: That’s astrology nonsense.

Victoria: SAYS THE MAN PLANNING A WHOLE FUTURE AFTER ONE CONVERSATION.

Max: I have a good feeling about it.

Victoria: MAX.

Max: What? You just said I deserve to be loved.

Victoria: YES, BUT I DIDN’T THINK YOU’D LOSE YOUR ENTIRE MIND OVER IT.

Max: Too late.

Victoria: Oh my god.

Victoria: You are actually the most ridiculous person alive.

Victoria: But if she makes you happy… then I’m happy for you.

Max: She does.

Victoria: Then that’s all that matters.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Emergency. Crisis. Disaster.

Emilie: That’s a lot of words. What happened?

Isabelle: I have a date.

Emilie: And that’s a disaster because…?

Isabelle: Because it’s with Max Verstappen.

Emilie: …

Emilie: I’m going to need a second.

Emilie:

Emilie: Okay, I’m back. WHAT???

Isabelle: We met at a bar. He asked me out. I said yes. And now I don’t know what to wear. Focus. Help.

Emilie: We met at a bar, he asked me out, I said yes—DO YOU HEAR YOURSELF???

Isabelle: EMILIE. FOCUS. OUTFIT.

Emilie: Right. Okay. Where is he taking you?

Isabelle: Some fancy restaurant. Not too fancy, but still expensive.

Emilie: God, of course. Okay. Simple but elegant. A dress that makes it look like you didn’t try too hard, even though you absolutely did.

Isabelle: Black dress?

Emilie: Obviously. And heels. You own some ridiculous ones. Wear those.

Isabelle: You are suspiciously good at this.

Emilie: Because I have taste. Now, more importantly—DO YOUR BROTHERS KNOW??

Isabelle: …

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle: No, they do not.

Emilie: WHY NOT???

Isabelle: Because I don’t want to deal with it.

Emilie: You are dating CHARLES LECLERC’S BIGGEST RIVAL. YOU DON’T THINK THAT’S WORTH MENTIONING???

Isabelle: One date does not mean I’m dating him.

Emilie: YET.

Isabelle: I don’t think Charles would care.

Emilie: …That is the saddest sentence I have ever read.

Emilie: You don’t think Charles would care.

Isabelle: No.

Emilie: Are we talking about the same man??? The one who holds grudges against people for bad karting races from 15 years ago??

Isabelle: I am saying that I am basically invisible in my family, and therefore, he will not care.

Emilie: THAT IS SO DEPRESSING.

Isabelle: It’s just reality.

Emilie: No, it’s tragic. And when Charles inevitably does care, I am going to be so smug about it.

Isabelle: He won’t.

Emilie: He will. And when he finds out from Twitter instead of you, I am going to remind you forever that I was right.

Isabelle: Fine. If he does, I will buy you dinner.

Emilie: And?

Isabelle: And I will admit you were right.

Emilie: Good girl. But first, we need to make sure Max Verstappen is absolutely floored when he sees you tonight. Let’s pick out your dress.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: HELP.

Max: I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO WEAR.

Victoria: Oh my god.

Max: I’m serious, Vic. This is important.

Victoria: It’s one date.

Max: Exactly! First impressions matter. What if I wear something stupid?

Victoria: You wear team merch 90% of the time, so that’s a real possibility.

Max: NOT HELPING.

Victoria: Okay, okay. Where are you taking her?

Max: Nice restaurant. Fancy-ish but not too fancy.

Victoria: Alright. Dark jeans, nice shirt, jacket. Clean shoes.

Max: That’s it???

Victoria: Yes, you’re not walking a red carpet, Max.

Max: What if she thinks it’s boring?

Victoria: If she’s going out with you, she probably already knows you’re a little fashion-challenged.

Max: Wow.

Victoria: I’m just saying, if she agreed to a date, she clearly likes you. Just wear something that fits and isn’t Red Bull merch.

Max: I feel like you’re underestimating the stress of this situation.

Victoria: I feel like you’re underestimating the fact that she already said yes.

Max: …Good point.

Victoria: Obviously. Now go find a shirt that isn’t a team polo and try not to overthink it.

Max: No promises.

Victoria: You’re impossible.

Max: And yet, you still love me.

Victoria: Unfortunately. Now go. And don’t text me from the restaurant freaking out.

Max: No guarantees.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: Well????

Isabelle: Well, what?

Emilie: Isabelle. Do not play dumb with me. How did the date go??

Isabelle: …It was really nice.

Emilie: THAT’S ALL YOU’RE GIVING ME?

Emilie: I want DETAILS. Did he show up looking stupidly handsome? Was he nice? Did he make you laugh? Did you kiss him??

Isabelle: Yes, yes, yes, and Yes.

Emilie: YES??

Isabelle: I kissed him.

Emilie: !!!!!

Emilie: Details. Now.

Isabelle: It was after our date. He walked me to my door, and I just… kissed him.

Emilie: You just kissed him?? Who are you and what have you done with my overthinking best friend??

Isabelle: Shut up. I didn’t even think about it. I just did it.

Emilie: And???

Isabelle: And then he kissed me back.

Emilie: …That better not be the end of the story.

Isabelle: It was soft. And slow. And he cupped my face like I was something precious.

Emilie: Isabelle.

Emilie: Isabelle, my love. My dearest best friend.

Emilie: You’re done for.

Isabelle: … I know.

Emilie: And how did he look after?

Isabelle: Like he was trying very hard not to kiss me again.

Emilie: Oh, you’re so doomed.

Isabelle: I know.

Emilie: Tell me everything.

Isabelle: He was already at the restaurant when I got there, which was sweet. He pulled out my chair for me. He was nervous, which was insane to me because, you know, he’s Max Verstappen.

Emilie: Boy has driven through Eau Rouge at full speed, but a girl makes him nervous. I love this.

Isabelle: He kept looking at me like I was the most interesting person in the world. Like he actually wanted to hear everything I had to say.

Emilie: I love him already.

Isabelle: You love him?? Emilie, I might actually be in trouble here.

Emilie: Uh oh.

Isabelle: …He sent me flowers.

Emilie: WHAT.

Emilie: When???

Isabelle: They just got delivered.

Emilie: EXCUSE ME.

Emilie: You go on ONE date with Max Verstappen and wake up to FLOWERS???

Isabelle: Apparently.

Emilie: What kind?

Isabelle: Peonies.

Emilie: Belle.

Emilie: He is so in love with you.

Isabelle: It was one date.

Emilie: AND???

Emilie: The man sent you flowers the morning after like he’s starring in a romance novel.

Isabelle: Maybe he just does that?

Emilie: Girl. Be serious.

Emilie: Did he say anything with them?

Isabelle: There was a note.

Emilie: AND???

Isabelle: It just says ‘Last night was perfect. Can’t wait to see you again. – Max’

Emilie: I’M GONNA SCREAM.

Emilie: Max Verstappen is courting you.

Isabelle: Courting is a strong word.

Emilie: He sent you flowers. He is so gone for you.

Isabelle: …Maybe.

Emilie: So… second date?

Isabelle: Saturday.

Emilie: GIRL.

Isabelle: I know.

***

Isabelle Leclerc’s Instagram Post

Comments:

@/emilie_abadie: 👀👀👀

@/F1GossipQueen: That’s a very ‘I have a thoughtful boyfriend’ kind of flower arrangement.

↳@/paddockprincessx: Soft launch era????

@/leclercsiblingtea: If Charles doesn’t know who sent these, I need his live reaction immediately.

↳@/monacogossip: Why do I feel like this is someone wildly unexpected?

↳@/redbullsimpclub: Place your bets now, I’m saying it’s a paddock guy.

↳@/f1shenanigans: If this is from an F1 driver, I am losing my mind.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: Thank you for the flowers. They are beautiful.

Isabelle: And for yesterday. I had a really nice time.

Max: I’m glad you liked them.

Max: What’s your favorite flower? For next time.

Isabelle: Snowdrops.

Max: Snowdrops?

Isabelle: Yes?

Max: I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone whose favorite flower is snowdrops.

Isabelle: That’s a shame. They’re beautiful. And they bloom in the cold, when nothing else does.

Max : Like you, then.

Isabelle: …Are you trying to be charming, Max Verstappen?

Max: Is it working?

Isabelle: Maybe.

Max: Good.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

Sophie: So… Victoria told me something interesting.

Max: She needs a new hobby.

Sophie: Max.

Max: What?

Sophie: Are you in love?

Max: …Maybe.

Sophie: After one conversation?

Max: No! After two conversations.

Sophie: Oh, well, that’s much more reasonable.

Max: Mom.

Sophie: Max.

Max: Look, I just know that it’s different. I’ve never felt like this before.

Sophie: That’s a big thing to say.

Max: I know. But I can’t explain it. It just makes sense.

Sophie: So how did the date go?

Max: …It was perfect.

Sophie: Now we’re getting somewhere.

Max: She’s funny, she’s smart, she actually listens when I talk about racing—like, really listens. And she doesn’t care about the other stuff. The money, the fame. None of it. She just likes me.

Sophie: That’s important.

Max: I know.

Sophie: So when do I get to meet her?

Max: When she doesn’t think I’m a crazy person for how fast I’m falling for her.

Sophie: I hate to break it to you, Max, but you bought a penthouse because her firm is working on it.

Max: …

Sophie: That’s what I thought.

Max: It’s a very nice penthouse.

Sophie: Of course it is.

Max: So you’re not going to say I’m insane?

Sophie: Oh, you are insane. But you’re also my son. And if this makes you happy, then I’m happy for you.

Max: Thanks, Mom.

Sophie: Now tell me, do I need to start planning a wedding?

Max: Goodbye.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale)

Arthur: Dinner at Maman’s, Saturday, usual time?

Charles: Yeah, I’ll be there.

Lorenzo: Me too.

Isabelle: I can’t make it, I’m busy.

Arthur: What’s Maman making?

Charles: Probably something with pasta.

Lorenzo: Didn’t she say something about lamb last time?

Arthur: Oh yeah, I think so.

Isabelle: Have fun!

Charles: See you all Saturday.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: Hey, if I were to ask for date advice, purely hypothetically…

Victoria: Oh my God.

Max: What?

Victoria: You NEVER ask for advice. This must be serious.

Max: It’s not that serious.

Victoria: You literally bought an apartment because of this girl.

Max: …That’s unrelated.

Victoria: Sure it is.

Max: So… hypothetically… if I needed some guidance, what would you suggest?

Victoria: Are you actually asking for advice, or are you just hoping I’ll make it easier for you by giving you a list of things not to do?

Max: ...

Victoria: That’s what I thought. Give me a second.

Victoria: Okay, here’s your DO NOT list:

Do not talk about tire degradation.

Do not mention iRacing, no matter how good your last stint was.

Do not wear a Red Bull hoodie.

Do not check F1 news during the date.

Do not turn the date into a competition.

Do not text me mid-date if you panic. Figure it out.

Do not propose.

Max: …That last one was unnecessary.

Victoria: I’m just covering all bases.

Max: I wasn’t going to propose.

Victoria: Good. Then this should be easy for you.

Max: The Red Bull hoodie rule feels unfair.

Victoria: Max.

Max: Fine. No Red Bull hoodie.

Victoria: Thank you.

Max: …Can I at least wear the cap?

Victoria: Max.

Max: Alright, alright. No cap.

Victoria: Proud of you. Now, go be normal.

Max: No promises.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase

Max: Hypothetically. If you were taking someone on a second date. What would you do?

GP: …Why are you asking me?

Max: Because you’re married!

GP: And?

Max: That means you’ve successfully dated someone.

GP: That does not make me a dating expert.

GP: Also, since when do you ask me for relationship advice?

GP: Who is she?

Max: …

GP: Max.

Max:

GP: MAX.

GP: WHO IS IT.

Max: Isabelle.

GP: Isabelle who?

Max: …Leclerc.

GP:

GP: MAX.

GP: CHARLES LECLERC’S SISTER?!?!?!?!?

Max: Yeah, she doesn’t really like being called that.

GP: MAX.

GP: DO YOU HAVE A DEATH WISH?

Max: Not particularly.

GP: HOW DID THIS HAPPEN.

Max: I met her.

GP: OBVIOUSLY.

GP: Where?! When?! How long has this been going on?!

Max: A few days.

GP: And Charles doesn’t know???

Max: I don’t think he notices much about her.

GP: Okay, that’s a whole other issue, but back to you.

GP: Do you have any self-preservation instincts?

Max: She’s nice. I like her.

GP: THAT IS NOT THE POINT.

GP: Do you realize the incident this could cause?

Max: If I wanted overreactions, I’d have texted Victoria.

GP: I AM REACTING APPROPRIATELY.

GP: What does Victoria think?

Max: She said, "You deserve to be loved."

GP: …Well, that’s suspiciously sentimental.

GP: But also, Charles is still going to kill you.

Max: You’re being dramatic.

GP: AM I?

Max: Are you helping or not?

GP: I AM TOO BUSY PROCESSING YOUR TERRIBLE LIFE CHOICES.

GP: Okay. Okay. Deep breaths. Let’s focus.

GP: You need a second date idea.

GP: That does not result in Charles Leclerc murdering you.

Max: I think you’re overestimating how much he pays attention to her.

GP: That’s between them. I am concerned for you.

Max: You’re being dramatic again.

GP: No, I’m being realistic.

Max: …I’ll deal with that when it happens.

GP: Unbelievable.

GP: Alright. Date ideas.

GP: What did you do for the first one?

Max: Dinner. Talked a lot.

GP: What does she like?

Max: Horses.

GP: Horses.

GP: You’re dating someone who likes horses.

Max: Yes?

GP: I feel like that’s relevant information I should’ve had sooner.

GP: Have you ever been near a horse, Max?

Max: Not really.

GP: Okay, no horse-related dates yet. You will get yourself killed trying to impress her.

Max: She’d find that funny.

GP: I wouldn’t.

GP: Let’s keep it simple. Somewhere quiet. Private. Where you can talk.

Max: I was thinking that too.

GP: What about a picnic?

Max: A picnic.

GP: Yeah. You get some good food, go somewhere nice, and just relax. No stress.

Max: Where am I supposed to find a picnic spot?

GP: You have a balcony, Max.

GP: You literally have a balcony with a view.

GP: Just set something up there.

Max: …That’s actually not a bad idea.

GP: Wow. Praise from the great Max Verstappen. I’m honored.

Max: Don’t get used to it.

GP: Okay, what kind of food does she like?

Max: She ordered pasta on our first date.

GP: That’s a start. You could order from the same place.

Max: Or I could cook.

GP: You could what?

Max: I can cook, GP.

GP: Since when?

Max: Since I lived alone?

GP: Okay, sure. But can you cook something that won’t poison her?

Max: Wow. Faith in me is at an all-time low.

GP: Just making sure she survives the night.

Max: I’ll make pasta. It’s simple.

GP: Fine. But don’t experiment. Stick to what you know.

Max: What do you think I’m going to do? Try molecular gastronomy?

GP: I wouldn’t put it past you.

GP: Okay, what else… You need drinks. Dessert.

Max: She likes red wine.

GP: Get a good wine, then. And dessert?

Max: She mentioned liking raspberries once.

GP: So get her something with raspberries.

Max: Got it.

GP: And what about ambiance?

Max: …

GP: Max.

Max: What?

GP: Do you even own candles?

Max: …Victoria gave me some once.

GP: Use them.

GP: And put some effort into setting the table.

GP: You know, for someone who acts like they don’t care about romance, you’re actually putting effort into this.

Max: …She’s worth the effort.

GP:

GP: Damn.

GP: Okay.

GP: You have to survive Charles finding out.

Max: I told you. I’ll handle it.

GP: Yeah, yeah. Just keep me updated.

Max: Sure.

GP: And if you need actual advice, ask Victoria.

Max: I did ask Victoria. She just sent me a list of things not to do.

GP: What was on the list?

Max: "Don’t talk about tire degradation. Don’t mention iRacing. Don’t wear a Red Bull hoodie."

GP: Solid advice.

Max: She also said, "Act normal."

GP: That one might be harder for you.

Max: Wow.

GP: Just being honest.

GP: So, do you have everything planned?

Max: Yeah. I think so.

GP: Good. Now all you have to do is not mess it up.

Max: Thanks for the vote of confidence.

GP: Any time.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: Soooooo... how was the date?

Isabelle: Good.

Emilie: …That’s it? "Good"? You had dinner with Max Verstappen, a man who has clearly lost his mind over you, and all you have to say is "good"???

Isabelle: Fine. Great. Amazing.

Isabelle: Happy?

Emilie: Better. But I’m gonna need DETAILS.

Isabelle: We had dinner, talked a lot, and then I stayed over.

Emilie:

Emilie: EXCUSE ME???

Emilie: YOU STAYED OVER????

Isabelle: Yes.

Emilie: As in "I fell asleep on the couch watching a movie and went home in the morning" stayed over, or "I am now intimately familiar with Max Verstappen's bedsheets" stayed over???

Isabelle: …

Emilie: ISABELLE.

Isabelle: Nothing happened.

Emilie: Oh my god.

Emilie: OH MY GOD.

Isabelle: I swear, nothing happened. It just got late and…

Emilie: This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

Isabelle: I’m so glad MY love life is giving you entertainment.

Emilie: You don’t understand. I’ve been waiting for you to have an actual romance for YEARS. YEARS, ISABELLE.

Isabelle: You make it sound like I was living in a cave.

Emilie: Emotionally? Maybe a little.

Isabelle: Rude.

Emilie: True.

Emilie: But seriously. How do you feel?

Isabelle: …I don’t know. It’s weird.

Isabelle: He likes me. Like, really likes me. And I’m not used to that.

Emilie: Then get used to it, babe. Because that man? He’s already gone for you.

Isabelle: You think so?

Emilie: I KNOW so.

Emilie: Now tell me: does he have nice bedsheets, or do I need to stage an intervention?

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase

GP: Well???

Max: Well, what?

GP: Don’t play dumb. How did it go?

Max: …

GP: MAX.

Max: It went well.

GP: That’s it? That’s all I get after coaching you through this?

Max: What do you want me to say?

GP: I want details. Did she like the food? Did you talk about tire degradation anyway? Did she laugh about your terrible jokes?

Max: She liked the food. No, I did not mention tire degradation. Rude.

GP: Growth. I’m proud of you.

Max: Thanks.

Max: The cats love her.

GP: …THE CATS?! MAX. That is NOT the update I was looking for.

Max: No, but it’s important. They don’t just like people.

GP: I was expecting romance, maybe a ‘we stayed up talking all night’ or ‘she laughed at all my jokes’—and you’re giving me ‘the cats love her’??!

Max: It means a lot! Jimmy and Sassy were literally fighting for her attention. She was just sitting on the couch, and they both climbed into her lap like she was their owner.

GP: …Okay, I’ll admit, that’s kind of a big deal. You’re in love, aren’t you?

Max: I mean… yeah.

GP: I knew it. The cats knew it. Everyone knew it. Charles is gonna lose his mind.

Max: That’s a problem for future Max.

***

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