#Now I'm going to be thinking about this for a long time

[bruhstories]

touch-starved

summary: dante is touch-starved, and he thinks the only way for him to feel something is to get punched by you

pairing: dante x afab!reader | based on the netflix version but definitely canon divergent

warnings: dry humping, unprotected p in v, creampie, degradation kink, very light choking, lots of swearing, kind of soft dom dante and light pain kink if you squint, idiots in love, friends to lovers, bit of praise, fem bodied reader

w/c: ~3.2k

a/n: this is definitely not my best work but it's a warm up ig. lol anyway i absolutely loved the dmc netflix version, and i'm considering getting the games

"Punch me."

Not a question, but an indisputable demand coming from the demon hunter, which made you do a double take, place the barrel of your M4 carbine on the table, and flat-out refuse.

"No."

He snarled, yes, snarled at you, slamming his pistol against the table with a loud bang. You looked up from your own weapon, taken aback by Dante's reaction, concern written all over your face. Was he high??

"Come on, Y/N, just do it. Just one punch, one tiny little punch. I know you want to." His cocky grin did numbers on your nerves, but you still refrained from giving him the satisfaction of hitting him. It’s been years since you met Dante, by this point you were used to his shenanigans.

"Why, though?" You decided to focus on cleaning your weapon, the sharp smell of isopropyl alcohol filling the room.

"Because," Dante groaned, snatching the bottle of liquid from you, causing you to glare daggers at him, "I'm touch starved."

You blinked once, twice, trying your hardest to process both his honesty, and the logistics of his request.

"Why not ask for a hug, then? Or, I don't know, go to therapy?"

"Hah! I'm sure my therapist is gonna have a field day with me! So, my dad, a demon, disappeared without a trace, then my mother and twin brother died, but actually my brother is alive somewhere. My therapist is gonna need a therapist."

"Okay, okay, you made your point. Still, you could just rephrase it. Maybe leave out the demon bit." You wiped the barrel clean before setting it aside.

"I'd rather get punched. Now, please."

"Dante, a punch isn’t gonna solve it. Are you sure you don’t want a hug? I could cook you something. Or we could grab a few beers and watch a movie, or talk about your feelings." You shrugged.

Both of you had done this before — went out for drinks, danced, cooked together, fell asleep together — it was so intimate, almost like you were a couple. But the reality was that you weren’t. Not by a long shot. Unfortunately for you, Dante was protective of you in the way an older brother was. You thought that, perhaps, he missed Vergil so much that you were the closest thing he had to a sibling in years.

"A punch would be less time consuming. Cooome on, babe, just hit me!"

You hated when he called you babe. He called other girls babe, girls that were hot, pretty, girls that were his type, and it was the nickname that made you clench your jaw and purse your lips.

"Ugh, fine!" You sat up, rotated your wrist and flexed your fingers. "Are you sure this is going to help in any way?"

"Positive. Right here." Dante pointed at his cheek.

"What, in your face?"

"You're stalling."

Without a single ounce of hesitation you swung your arm, hitting the demon hunter square in his face, but it caused you more pain than it did him, and you stumbled back, holding your fist in your other hand.

"Son of a fucking bitch!" You cried out in pain, knowing damn well that would happen. Still, you couldn't say no to him. Ever.

"Are you okay?" Dante was visibly concerned — a rare sight since he was always cool and edgy, even when his own life was in danger.

"Fuck no! Feels like I punched a brick wall!" You practically growled at him, gaze quickly softening when you saw the pure look of terror in his eyes. "But hey, nothing a little ice can't fix, right?"

"Right." He nodded and got up, making a beeline for the freezer.

There was no ice in it, but there was a pack of frozen peas somewhere at the bottom of a drawer, which Dante picked up and brought to you. When you reached for it, he, instead, took your sore hand in his, gently pressing the cold legumes onto your knuckles. You winced, instinctively trying to retract your hand, but he held it in place, his fingers wrapped around your wrist to stop you from backing away.

The pain wasn't gone, but it was becoming bearable, and a relieved murmur escaped past your lips, one that sounded closer to a moan than a sigh. Dante's cheeks burned, tinted red with embarrassment and arousal because you were yet another girl in his life who just didn't want to be involved romantically with him. Not that he tried anything with you, because he always thought you deserved better. Sure, he was cocky and flirtatious, but he wasn't a dick. If no one reciprocated the flirting, he didn't push his luck. It was simple. And he wasn’t the type who did one-night stands, despite the rumours. Dante enjoyed having a connection to the people he took to bed, he became sexually attracted to those he knew on a deeper emotional level. But sometimes, when he was really, truly desperate, he would download Tinder and hook up with random girls.

And he reeked of desperation.

"Dante, you can let go of my hand now."  You told him, part of you hoping he wouldn't.

Who could blame you? He was an objectively attractive man, with a charming smile and a body sculpted by the gods themselves. Why would he ever want to get involved with you? Dante was your opposite — he talked, he sang, he danced, he was obnoxious. You were quiet, most of the time, and shy. In fact, when he first met you, he thought you had some form of speech impediment, with your nose in Boccaccio’s The Decameron, a book you stole from the public library because you were much too young to read. That’s when knew you were trouble, just like him.

"Yeah, of course." Dante stepped back. "How's your hand?"

"Better. How are you feeling?"

"Me? Why are you asking?"

"Hello?" You scrunched your nose and frowned. "You wanted me to punch you because you were touch-starved. Did it help?"

"I'll be honest, it felt more like a tickle than anything." He shrugged. "Are you sure you didn't pull your punch?"

There it was, the one thing that turned you from an introvert to a bat-shit crazy bitch — his stupid little mouth that he opened without ever thinking.

"Are you fucking kidding me? You're telling me I risked breaking my bones so you could feel better, only for you to not feel anything? I swear to fucking God, Dante, this is the last time I'm doing anything nice for you."

"Nice? You punched me!" He threw his hands up in exasperation, while your blood boiled inside of you, sending you into a blind rage.

"You asked me to punch you, you maniac! You should've fucked me instead!"

Your eyes widened at the sentence that came out of your mouth without a single thought, mortified at your own stupidity.

"Hugged. I meant hugged. Shit."

"No, no, hold up, you didn't say hugged." Dante tilted his head, one hand rubbing his chin. "Isn't that called a Freudian slip?"

"I- well- how the fuck do you even know what a Freudian slip is?" You tried changing the subject but he didn't bite.

"Google." He closed the gap between the two of you, and for the first time you felt intimidated by him. "Do you want me to fuck you?"

The bluntness of his question, coupled with the sudden change in the pitch of his voice made you feel like a cornered prey. There was no possible way he was serious. But he wasn't wrong — the nature of your jobs made it impossible for either of you to have partners, and besides, you've known each other for years. It was only natural that some form of physical attraction would have developed between you two, right? But why you? Why now? And the worst of all your questions, why not?

You didn’t want to think about how this would ruin almost a decade of friendship. All you could think about was the look of pure lust in his eyes as he held your gaze, and how months upon months of sexual frustrations accumulated inside of you, bubbling and boiling and exploding when you dropped the pack of peas on the floor.

"Yes. I want you to fuck me."

Without a sliver of hesitation, you felt him pick you up with ease, hands roaming up and down his back as he slammed you down onto the table, desperately pushing away all the guns and knives. How thoughtful of him. Your hands slithered under his blood red coat while he tugged at your t-shirt, pulling it over your head to expose your bare breasts to him.

"No bra? Kinky." Dante stopped to take a better look at you.

"Stop talking." You firmly told him, but the chuckle that erupted from your throat betrayed you.

He was the one person you felt most comfortable around, so much so that you didn't feel weirded out by him pressing his lips onto your neck, or his fingertips bruising the plush of your hips, or his tongue flicking over your sensitive nipples. No, it felt natural, too natural, like your skin was made to be touched by him.

With his coat on the floor, you tackled his shirt, effectively tearing it off of him because you were just as desperate as he was, and Dante pulled your body closer to his, your clothed cunt accidentally rubbing against the bulge in his trousers. You were aching from the lack of sex, and you uncontrollably moaned at the tiny bit of friction before mumbling a weak 'sorry.'

"Fuck, don't be. That's actually kind of hot." He shamelessly admitted, and you rose a brow.

"Yeah? Then you wouldn't mind me doing it again?" You chewed on your lower lip, but he could see past the fake innocence when you rolled your hips, frantically and feverishly rubbing your clit through the layers of fabric. "Shit, I could come just from this."

For a split second, Dante wondered if this was all real. What happened to your shyness? How was it possible that his best friend, the quiet, nerdy girl he'd known for such a long time, was worse than any demon he'd ever encountered? Not that he was a saint. Far from it, because when you threw your head back, desperate to climax, his is eyes darkened, black seeping into his sclera. It should've made you afraid, but it had the opposite effect. The thought that he could activate his Devil Trigger and quite literally snap you like a twig turned you on.

"Do it, then." Dante's hand snaked behind the back of your neck, forcing you to look at him. "Show me just how needy you are."

Beads of sweat trickled down your forehead as you fucked yourself on the half-demon, fog settling in your brain with each breath, each movement, each beating of your heart. Faster. Harder. Faster. Harder. Faster.

"Oh-" Any sentence you tried to utter stopped in your throat, replaced by a string of whimpers and curses. Whatever you were trying to babble was reduced to incoherent words.

"Well shit, I didn't know you were such a filthy little slut."

"Just- oh- shut up-"

"Hmm, I don't think you really want me to shut up." Dante sneered when you picked up the pace. "I think you like it when I talk like this."

"N-not true!" You yelped as he pinched your nipple, barely doing anything and yet you were a mess already.

"So, you don't want me to call you a fucktoy, then? Bet you're dripping right now. Bet you want me balls deep inside of you."

"Fuck, I'm gonna come!" You proved his point when your entire body quivered under his, mind blank and vision blurry.

"There, there." Dante pressed his lips onto your forehead. "I got you."

The noise of his belt unbuckling made you snap your eyes open, filling you with newfound desire and guilt — poor Dante, his cock was probably aching by now while you had the time of your life. He stepped back, letting his trousers pool at his feet, and you lifted your skirt to peel your panties off. You caught him staring at you, taking the sight in, and what a sight it was — locks of hair fell out of your bun, sticking to your sweaty temples, your legs still shaking from the orgasm, and your cunt dripping wet.

"I'd love to eat you out, babe, but my balls are genuinely gonna explode." He confessed, earning a giggle from you. Even with his eyes pitch black and his Devil Trigger on the verge of activating, Dante was still Dante. And you loved that about him.

"Hurry up and fuck me, then."

"Are you that desperate that you forgot your manners?" He dug his fingertips into the plush of your hips, violently pulling you closer to him.

"Please hurry up and fuck me?" You pouted.

"Good girl, that's better." Dante pushed your leg to the side with his elbow, dragging his cock up and down your slit.

You didn't get the chance to take a look at it, but the tip felt huge, so much so that you gasped, propping yourself on your elbows to see better, and you were not disappointed. In fact, you were concerned. You could not take it.

"Dante, it's not gonna fit."

He shook his head with a half-smile, finding your concern quite cute.

"I'll make it fit."

It was both a promise and a threat, but you trusted him. God, you trusted him with your life. He slowly and gently pushed the tip, your slick more than enough to lubricate his cock, but he stopped every time you looked uncomfortable to make sure you were okay.

"Tell me if it's too much."

"No, you can- it's fine, keep going." You closed your eyes, the discomfort causing you to clench around him instead of relaxing, which made Dande forget how to breathe or think.

But the worst came to a halt when he was fully in, stopping briefly to allow you to accommodate to the size. Your breathing went back to normal soon enough, and the last ounce of pain in your body was swiftly replaced by a surge of electricity when Dante moved, slowly and softly rolling his hips, unable to abstain any longer. And you didn't want him to when his cock filled you up so good, reaching places you didn't even know existed inside of your body. Your fingernails dug into his back, clawing at his skin with desperation and impatience, like you needed more than what he was already giving you.

"See? I told you I’ll make it fit. And you take me so well." Dante said, dragging his mouth over your neck, your scent overloading his senses.

But it just wasn't enough. No matter how painful, you wanted it-

"Harder."

Assertive, demanding, you wrapped your legs around his waist, and he pulled back to look at you, as if not believing your request.

"A minute ago, you were wriggling in pain, now you want it harder?"

"Yes." There was no hesitation. "I want it harder, faster, please-"

You were shushed by two digits forcing open your mouth, and you instinctively wrapped your lips around them, sucking obediently.

"You talk too much." He gave you a taste of your own medicine. "Should've known you were just a dumb little cocksleeve."

The degrading words caused you to moan and drool around his fingers, tears welling up in your eyes. Each thrust had you clench tighter, the tip of his ridiculously large cock punishing your cervix. Pain and pleasure bubbled inside of you, sparking through your body as Dante practically ripped his fingers from your mouth, only to wrap them around your throat. He was a hungry man, and you were dinner — arching your back to get closer, deeper, you fucked yourself on his cock with his name spilling from your lips like a prayer, and he revelled in your worship.

"Shit, you like it when it hurts, don't you?" He whispered, squeezing harder while you nodded eagerly. "Of course you do."

Of course you did. How could you not when he fucked you so good that your dignity and modesty were long forgotten? When Dante stripped you of your decency to bring out the worst in you? You felt your second orgasm build up, causing you to twitch under him, eyes rolling back as you slipped your hands under his arms, holding on for dear life.

"Again- gonna come again, Dante! Fuck!"

"Atta girl." He held your quivering body, his own hips stuttering, brutally thrusting into you with raw, animalistic passion.

You came undone on his cock, fingers carding through his hair, pushing away white locks to look at his pretty eyes while his arm slithered under your lower back to both support you and bring you closer to him. Dante was close, his throbbing cock still stretching your sore cunt out. He bucked his hips, splitting you open while you latched your arms around his neck, tits pressed against his chest and your lips ghosting over his earlobe.

"Almost there, babe." Dante promised. "You're doing so well." He pulled back, nearly on edge, but you squeezed your legs tighter around his waist.

"Don't pull out." You demanded, and that was enough to help him reach enlightenment.

He filled you up, and when he did pull out, watching his cum slowly leak out of you, you could've sworn he whispered 'marry me' under his breath. Surely it was just the brain fog, or the post-orgasm high. Your whole body was numb, and you stumbled into Dante's arms when you tried to get down from the table, muscles sore and aching.

"You wanna get pizza?" He nonchalantly asked, as if he didn't just fuck his best friend.

"I- shouldn't we talk about this?" You avoided looking into his eyes, opting to stare at the floor instead.

"About what?"

God, he was either insufferably oblivious or remarkably good at pretending.

"Us." You sighed.

"What's there to talk about?" Dante's fingers found your chin, and he gently lifted it up, forcing you to look at him.

"Don't make this harder for me, please. You know things won’t be the same now. We’re not in a relationship and-"

"I don't follow." Confusion was written all over his face. "Do you not want to be my girlfriend?"

"Girl- I- hold up, what? Do you want me to be your girlfriend?" You tilted your head, baffled by his question, because of course you wanted to. You just never had the guts to admit that you like him. It was even more shocking that he liked you back. Wasn’t this all just a one-time thing?

"I mean, I thought it was pretty obvious when I fucked you. What, you thought I nut and dip? That I shoot a load and go back on the road? That I cum n go?"

"Wow, please never use those euphemisms ever again." You cringed at his words, trying your best to hide the smile that crept on your lips.

"Christ, babe, you know I don't do one-night stands unless I’m really desperate. And here I thought you were my best friend. Guess I was wrong." Dante gasped, dramatically feigning offence by placing a hand on his chest.

"I’m not your best friend anymore." You said, voice serious and cold, and his charade was quickly replaced by actual worry and offence. "I'm your girlfriend now. And your best friend."

"Okay, I was genuinely concerned. Fuck you." He flipped you off and you sneered.

"You already did."

"Wait, that's my line!"

"Skill issue."

[spikedfearn]

Under The Blood Moon

one-shot

Remmick x fem!reader

summary: in the humid belly of the night, you flee through the wild woods, breathless and bleeding, chased by a monster dressed in the skin of a man, and when he inevitably catches you, it's not to kill, but to keep. What follows is neither rescue or ruin, but a slow, savage claim written in blood, hunger, and heat.

wc: 8.1k

a/n: for this request, where anon wanted me to lean into Remmick's more monstrous side. My inbox is always open if anyone wants to submit more! also, thank you all so, so, so much for all the love, support, and general positivity you've all shown my fics lately—it genuinely means more than I can even put into words. I'm still blown away by the responses my fics have gotten in the last week, it warms my soul to no end every time I think about it <3 also have to credit axelboneboy for putting the idea of Remmick with a forked tongue in my head

warnings: heavy dubcon, blood kink, period sex, heavy breeding kink, monsterfucking, possessive behavior, coercive control, demon x human dynamics, religious imagery, breeding/ownership language, filthy talk, cockdrunk reader, forced orgasm, restraints/restraint kink, forced captivity, manipulation, southern gothic horror, explicit sexual content, obsession, violence, rough sex, blood play, dark romance,  somnophilia undertones (reader too weak to consent properly)

likes, comments, and reblogs appreciated!! please enjoy!!

MIND THE TAGS <3

Your breath saws raggedly through your throat as you run, legs scraping through the underbrush, branches slashing at your arms, the wet slap of mud against your calves. Your shoes are long gone, lost somewhere back on the splintered path—the soles of your feet raw and stinging with every frantic step.

Your dress, once a soft, homespun cotton in faded butter yellow, clings wetly to your skin, torn at the hem, heavy with damp earth and blood from shallow scratches. The thin petticoat underneath is ripped, the neckline torn where it caught on a low-hanging branch. Your bare legs gleam with sweat and dirt under the fevered gaze of the blood moon. The rough, hand-stitched seams bite into your skin with every frantic movement.

Behind you—

Footsteps.

Heavy, deliberate.

Not rushing, no.

He doesn't need to rush.

The blood moon glowers overhead, a bruised red eye in the sky, bleeding sickly light through the skeletal trees. The mist writhes around your ankles like grasping fingers, every breath clogged with the sour, choking scent of wet moss and rot. The forest feels alive—the cypress trees hunching closer, the swamp water sloshing in unseen black pools, the night thick with the buzz of unseen insects and the sticky slap of humidity against your skin.

You tear through a thicket, thorns slicing your thighs, the pain sharp but distant beneath the roaring panic. Your dress snags again—this time you rip free with a sob, fabric tearing in your frantic escape. You don't stop. You can't stop.

Your lungs burn. Your heart pounds a frantic, desperate rhythm against your ribs. Your hands are scraped raw where you shove branches aside. You don't know where you're going—only that you have to keep moving.

You think for one stupid, precious second that maybe you've lost him.

Then you hear it—

A low, rumbling chuckle.

The sound rolls across the mist like thunder, like a beast amused by the futile thrashing of its prey.

You shove yourself harder, feet slipping in the mud, the trees spinning in dizzy circles around you.

You should have listened.

The warning plays in your mind now, mocking and merciless—the old women in town, whispering in the feed store, their wrinkled hands making frantic crosses over their chests.

Don't go out on the blood moon.

There's something that walks these woods. A devil dressed in skin, hunting for its next meal.

You had laughed it off. Old wives' tales. A story to get unruly children to behave. Of course you didn't believe it...

Not until the heavy footsteps started following you.

Not until the woods seemed to shift, herding you deeper and deeper.

Not until the laughter—low, rich, and terrifying.

Your foot catches on a root hidden beneath the mist. You go down hard, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. Dirt and dead leaves cling to your palms as you scramble up, only to be yanked backwards by an iron grip around your ankle.

A scream rips from your throat as you're dragged across the ground, nails clawing uselessly at the earth, the taste of dirt and blood thick on your tongue.

"Well, lookie here," a deep, amused voice drawls from the shadows, thick with a Southern slur, soaked in heat and hunger. "Thought you could outrun me, lil’ hare?"

You kick, thrash, cry but—but it's useless.

He steps into view.

For the first time, you see him. Truly see him.

Broad-shouldered, wrapped in the kind of strength that speaks of old blood, of violence written into the bones. His bangs are slick with sweat and sticking to his forehead, catching the moonlight in glints of silver and soot. His mouth is a slow, cruel curve, teeth flashing when he smiles—serrated and sharp, dangerous in their promise.

And his eyes—

God, his eyes.

Deep, burning red, like fresh blood spilled on freshly fallen snow.

They glint at you through the mist, pinning you in place, drowning you in a voracity so raw it almost hums against your skin.

You whimper, trying to crab-crawl backward, but he just tilts his head, slow and mocking, one hand reaching lazily down to wrap around your ankle again.

"You run real pretty," he murmurs, accent thick and sweet as sap dripping down the bark of a Maple tree, "but you ain't got nowhere left t' go, sugar."

The gnarled woods close around you, the mist swallowing your pitiful cries, the trees bending low to listen.

And the monster—

The one you were warned about—

Grins as he pounces.

The world spins in a dizzy, mud-slick blur as he crashes into you, the full weight of him knocking the breath from your lungs. His hands are everywhere—rough palms sliding up your trembling thighs, your waist, trapping your wrists above your head with a grip so strong it aches.

You thrash, wild and panicked, but it’s like fighting against a landslide.

Every frantic buck of your hips, every desperate twist of your wrists, every teary plea for help, only seems to amuse him further.

He straddles you easily, his thighs like iron on either side of your hips, his body radiating impossible heat. His breath ghosts over your neck—slow, savoring—and when he inhales, it’s with a deep, shuddering drag, as though he’s drinking you in.

You go still.

Frozen.

A scared little rabbit under the paw of a hungry wolf.

Slowly, he lifts his head, and when your eyes meet his, your heart lurches sickly into your throat.

Those eyes—

Red as the blood moon above.

Glowing, starving.

The corner of his mouth curls, a slow, predatory grin, delighting in your overwhelming fear.

"Y' smell it, don't ya?" he murmurs, low and thick with appetite. His nose brushes the curve of your neck, inhaling again, greedily, his voice gone almost reverent. "Sweet lil' thing...bleedin' just f'me."

Your stomach turns over, nausea and terror twining like barbed wire.

He slides lower, his body pressing yours into the soft, damp earth. You can feel every strong inch of him—the way the metal of his belt buckle digs into your hip, the way his thigh muscles tense against you like a coiled predator savoring the final moments before it goes in for the kill.

His nose trails down, brushing the hollow of your throat, the dip between your breasts—slow, agonizing, torturous.

You try to pull away—

He growls.

Not a human sound.

Something low, rattling. Monstrous.

His hand tightens around your wrists until your bones creak. His other hand snakes between your bodies, grabbing your skirt—what's left of it—and dragging it higher, baring your thighs to the muggy night air.

"No use runnin' now," he says, almost gentle, as if talking down a skittish animal. His accent thickens, each word dripping slow as syrup, artificially sweet. "Gotcha all laid out pretty...just how I like ya."

You whimper, twisting helplessly, but he just chuckles deep in his chest, the sound vibrating against your ribs.

And then he goes still.

For one terrible, breathless second, he freezes—nostrils flaring, whiffing deeply, body tense as a drawn bowstring.

His gaze drops between your legs—to where your petticoat is soaked through, a dark, spreading stain betraying you to the night.

The change is instant.

A groan tears from his throat—raw, guttural, almost pained—and when his eyes meet yours again, they're molten red, desperate, devouring.

"God Almighty," he rasps, voice cracking like dry kindling. "Ain't nothin' in this world sweeter than a bleedin' cunt."

You sob, humiliated, terrified, as he shifts lower, his body dragging down over yours.

One hand shoves your thighs apart—roughly, possessively—while the other pins your wrists like shackles above your head.

"You don’t even know," he murmurs, almost tender, mouth ghosting over your inner thigh, his breath scorching hot, even in Delta’s sweltering humidity. "Don't even know what you’re doin' to me, sweet pea."

You can feel it now—his mouth, open and panting against the sensitive skin of your thigh, the tremble in his hands as he fights the urge to tear you open like a cat stretched over a fresh kill.

He presses his face against you, inhaling, low and deep, the sound of it filthy in the night.

And then—

He licks.

Long, slow, obscene—dragging his tongue up the seam of your cunt through the blood-slick cotton, a helpless whimper shuddering out of you before you can stop it.

He growls in response—a sound of such raw, savage pleasure you feel it bone-deep.

"That's it," he croons against you, dragging his mouth over you again, harder now, more desperate. "Let me taste it, baby...let me drink ya down."

You shake your head weakly, gasping, tears kissing along your water lines, vision blurry.

He only laughs —low and delighted—and tears the soiled remains of your petticoat aside with a quick, brutal rip of fabric.

And then there’s nothing between you.

Nothing but blood, skin, and his appetite.

Your thighs quake against the rough spread of his hands as he forces you open wider, his breath scorching hot against the most vulnerable parts of you, the parts that have never known a man's touch.

For a moment, he just stares—a low, reverent rumble building in his chest, vibrating through the muggy, blood-heavy air.

You choke on a sob, trying to squirm away, but his fingers dig bruises into your thighs.

"Nuh-uh, sugar," he murmurs, thick with amusement, the sharp scrape of his accent dragging down your spine like a blade. "You gone run enough."

You feel the shift—

Feel it deep in your marrow—

When he leans in and lets his mouth part against you.

A soft, wet, sinful sound fills the air as he licks—

And not just with any tongue.

When he drags it up your slit, you feel it—the unnatural split, the way the forked ends flick and curl separately, tracing obscene patterns through the slick, blood-slick folds of your cunt.

Your whole body seizes, a ragged, fragmented noise spilling from your throat.

He hums low—pleased, greedy—and licks again, slower this time, letting the twin points of his tongue tease your clit, your opening, flickering back and forth in a rhythm that makes your back arch high against the dirt.

"Mmm," he groans into you, nosing deeper, breathing you in like he means to fill his lungs with nothing but your scent. "Ain't never had a taste so fine. Like honey drippin' straight from the comb."

Tears streak from the corners of your eyes and down your temples, hot and shameful. You wrench your wrists uselessly against his grip, but he just pins you harder, his hand tightening like an iron shackle around your wrists.

He pulls back—just enough for you to see the blood slicking his lips, his chin—

And the red gleam of his eyes as he smiles, wide and mean.

"You wanna know what I was fixin' t' do t' ya?" he drawls, voice syrupy slow, full of wickedness. "When I caught ya runnin', I thought I'd rip that pretty lil' throat open. Watch ya bleed out all soft an' sweet beneath me."

You sob—broken, desperate.

His smile sharpens.

"Still might," he says, almost cheerfully, leaning back in, his nose nudging your clit so softly it makes your legs jerk. "If ya don't play real sweet for me, darlin'."

The implication settles heavy as stone in your gut—brutal, absolute.

Be good.

Or be dead.

You nod, trembling so hard your teeth chatter.

He croons a soft, pleased sound, rubbing his cheek against your inner thigh like a cat marking its prize.

"That's my girl," he says, thick and low, tongue flickering out to taste you again—slower now, more savoring. "Gonna treat ya real nice if ya stay still f'me."

You do.

You have no choice.

And he devours you.

The twin forks of his tongue work you open mercilessly—teasing, dipping, thrusting, flicking over the swollen nub of your clit in relentless, devastating licks. The sensation is too much—too sharp, too wet, too filthy—and you sob against the onslaught, your hips bucking helplessly beneath his iron grip.

He groans against you—filthy, hungry—and the vibrations make your vision white out at the edges.

"You taste like a blessin'," he mutters into your cunt, grinding the words into your skin with his mouth. "Sweet lil' Sunday sacrament, all laid out f'me t' worship."

You gasp, legs trembling violently, as the first orgasm builds—fast and brutal, cresting through you with the same merciless inevitability as the hunter pressing you down into the dirt, refusing to let up.

You don't want it.

You don't want it.

You can't want it.

But your body betrays you—spasming against his mouth, a shuddering cry breaking loose from your throat as you come, helpless and raw, against the wickedly incessant flicker of his tongue.

He moans as if your climax is the answer to damnation.

When you finally sag against the ground, limp and wrecked, he rises up over you—his mouth and chin slick with blood and slickness, his chest heaving, his cock straining hard against the rough denim of his trousers.

And for the first time—

There’s something in his face that’s not just hunger.

Something softer—

Something almost awed.

"Didn't think," he says roughly, almost to himself, "you'd be this damn sweet."

He leans down, pressing his forehead to yours—a rough, possessive, almost tender gesture.

"Ain't lettin' ya go now, sweet pea," he whispers, voice cracking like a prayer. "Ain't never lettin' go."

His hands trail down your body—calloused, devout—and you realize with a sick, fluttering horror that he’s not finished.

Not by a long shot.

He’s only just getting started.

You’re barely aware of him moving—too dazed, too wrecked—until the earth suddenly tilts wildly beneath you.

He rises to his feet in one smooth, terrifying motion, hauling your limp body up like you weigh nothing at all. His arms lock around your thighs, hoisting you over his broad shoulder, your face bouncing helplessly against the curve of his back.

The rough weave of his shirt scrapes your muddied cheek, damp with sweat and the humid Mississippi night. His scent floods your nose—salt and soil, blood and musk, something darker, wilder, something inhuman.

You whimper—too weak to fight—as his hand slaps possessively against the back of your thigh, holding you steady like a trophy kill.

"Shhh," he croons, his voice a low rumble vibrating straight through the very marrow of your bones. "Ain't no good wigglin', sweet pea. Y'belong t' me now."

Your fingers scrabble weakly against his shirt, nails catching on the coarse fabric, but he just laughs—a low, satisfied growl that rolls through the mist like thunder.

He starts walking—long, lazy strides deeper into the woods—further from the safety of town, further from anyone who could possibly hear you scream.

The trees lean in overhead, their gnarled branches clawing at the blood-colored sky, the cry of the cicadas like a chaotic choir, being taken deeper into the ugly underbelly of the forest.

The swamp breathes heavy and wet around you, the thick reek of stagnant water and moss closing over you like a suffocating shroud.

You can't see where he's taking you.

You can barely think.

Only feel—the slow, relentless sway of his body, the iron strength of his arms locking you in place as you look at the passing blur of gnarled foliage and plant litter every which way you twist your neck.

And his voice—

Low, filthy, almost tender—

Whispering promises against the slope of your thigh, each word branding itself into your skin.

"Gonna keep ya," he mutters, almost to himself. "Chain ya up nice 'n' sweet...keep ya all soft an' wet f'me...pretty lil' plaything, made jus' fer me."

You sob quietly, the sound muffled against his back, not that anything other than things that go bump in the night would hear anyways.

He doesn't stop.

Doesn't waver.

Just keeps carrying you deeper and deeper into the black heart of the woods, where no one will ever find you.

Where you’ll be his.

Body and soul.

Whether you want to be or not.

The world sways sickeningly with every step he takes.

Your body hangs limp over his shoulder, the thin fabric of your torn dress sticking to your skin, soaked through with sweat, blood, and the sticky breath of the Delta night. Every time he shifts you higher, the calloused drag of his palm across the backs of your thighs sends a tremor through your aching muscles.

The woods are different here.

Deeper.

Darker.

The trees older, skeletal and gnarled, twisted into shapes that look unnaturally human in the bloody moonlight, the knots in the bark large and gaping like mouths frozen mid-scream. The air thickens, heavy with the reek of standing water, mold, the cloying sweetness of rotting flowers.

You choke on it—each breath a struggle, sticky and wet in your throat.

He walks without hurry, the heavy tread of his boots sinking into the soft, muddy earth. The mist clings low around his legs, swallowing the ground whole. Crickets scream somewhere in the black, distant and frantic, but otherwise the world is eerily, horribly still.

You try to lift your head, try to see, but it only makes your vision tilt crazily, a low moan of sickness rising from your gut, feeling the bile trying to crawl up your esophagus.

He chuckles—low and knowing.

"Easy, lil' thing," he drawls, one broad hand stroking up the back of your thigh like a man soothing a spooked filly. "Ain't no sense gettin' y'self all riled."

His bloody fingers trail higher—under the torn remains of your petticoat, brushing the damp, sticky mess between your thighs. He hums, pleased.

"Still drippin'," he mutters almost to himself. "Still sweet."

The mist parts ahead like a curtain—and then you see it.

The chapel.

Or what's left of it.

A crumbling ruin of warped wood and sagging stone, half-swallowed by ivy and moss. The windows are shattered, jagged teeth of stained glass glinting in the blood moon's light. The steeple leans drunkenly to one side, bells long since stolen or fallen.

It should have been abandoned.

It was abandoned.

But now—

It breathes.

The mist coils around its dirty white skeleton, hugging it tight, the trees bending low like penitents around a grave.

He shoulders through the warped doors, boots echoing hollowly against the splintered floorboards. The air inside is thick—choking with mildew, smoke, old blood, the slow, sweet rot of something long dead, something long past salvation.

He carries you down the nave like a groom bearing a bride—if the groom were a wolf and the bride a carcass.

In the very center of the chapel, where once an altar might have stood, there’s only a low, crude bed—little more than a frame of old wood lashed together with vines and rope, a soiled mattress bowed low in the middle. Chains dangle from the bedposts, dark with rust, heavy enough to hold an ox.

Your heart stutters against your ribs.

He stops at the edge of the bed and lets you slide from his shoulder like a sack of grain, dropping you onto the mattress with a grunt. The springs wheeze under your weight. You scramble weakly, trying to push yourself up, but he just watches—arms folded, a slow, wicked grin playing at the corners of his bloody mouth.

"Look atcha," he says, voice dripping slow and fond. "All scared and pretty."

You whimper, trying to scoot back—away from him, away from the bed, away from the chains meant to shackle you to the floor. To him.

He lets you.

For a second.

Then he moves—faster than you can track—grabbing your ankle and yanking you back down the mattress with a savage jerk that knocks the breath from your lungs, chuckling low and mean under his breath, smiling like a predator playing with its food.

He looms over you—all broad shoulders and hungry red eyes, his chest heaving, his hair sweaty and sticking to his face. The crumbling roof of the chapel overhead caved in like a skylight created by time and erosion, the moonlight streaming in creating a bloody halo behind his head.

You kick out at him, weak and feeble. He catches your other ankle, spreads your legs wide with ease, and pins them to the bed.

You stare up at him, wide-eyed, chest heaving.

"Y'know," he says thoughtfully, almost conversational, "I ain't never done this before."

"Usually," he drawls, slow and deliberate, your blood dark and drying to his jaw, teeth sharp and daggered like the canines of a beast. "I catch my prey...an' I tear it open. Bleed it dry. Toss what's left t' the buzzards."

His hands slide up your calves, over your knees, rough palms mapping the shivering muscle of your thighs.

"But you..."

His grin widens, sharp and wicked.

"You got somethin' special in ya, sugar. Somethin' sweet. Somethin’ addictin’.”

His hands move higher, pushing the torn hem of your dress up around your hips.

"Gonna make a pet outta you," he murmurs, almost worshipful. "Gonna keep ya chained up nice and proper. Keep ya fed, keep ya warm...keep ya wet and loose."

You sob, twisting against the hold he has on your legs, but it only makes him chuckle low in his throat.

"Not just a meal, no sir," he says, voice thick with something like wonder. "Ain't never turned a meal inta a pet before."

He leans down, his mouth brushing your ear, his breath hot and damp and hungry.

"Gonna fuck ya every which way," he whispers, each word sinking into your flesh like thorns pricking your skin. "Gonna break ya in nice and slow. Make ya forget y'ever had a name b'fore me."

You shake your head, tears spilling over.

He just laughs—low and delighted—and kisses your temple, obscene in its mockery of tenderness.

"You'll see," he croons. "Ain't nothin' sweeter than bein' wanted, sweet pea. Nothin' sweeter than bein' kept and cared for.”

He shifts, reaching for the chains.

You hear the clatter of iron against wood, the heavy clink of rusted links.

Your blood goes cold.

You realize—

This isn't a nightmare you can wake from.

This is your life now.

Your body.

Your blood.

Your soul.

All belonging to him.

And the monster smiles.

The chains rattle in his fists, thick and rust-bitten, heavy enough to feel like fate.

You kick again, heart thundering in your chest, but it’s nothing against him.

He grabs your wrist with one hand, slamming it down against the splintered wood of the bed frame. The iron cuff closes around your wrist with a brutal finality, locking tight with a groaning snap of the old metal.

You cry out—a broken, pitiful sound that nothing but the cicadas will hear.

He shushes you—a low, almost tender croon—as he grabs your other arm, dragging it above your head and shackling it too.

The chains clink as you struggle, the cold bite of them against your bruised skin making you tremble harder.

"There we go," he murmurs, stepping back to admire his work, red eyes gleaming under the dripping shadows of the ruined chapel. "All trussed up like a good lil' prize hog."

You sob again, humiliated, terrified—but he only grins, predatory and bright, his chest rising and falling with heavy, panting breaths.

Slowly, leisurely, he kneels over you.

His hands trail down your body—dirty palms leaving streaks of blood, sweat, and swamp filth over the ruined silk of your dress. He hooks his fingers into the ripped neckline and tears—a wet, brutal sound of fabric giving way.

Your dress peels open like fruit skin, baring your chest to the swamp-choked air.

He makes a sound then—not quite a growl, not quite a groan—something broken and devout.

"Goddamn," he breathes, one palm spanning your ribs, feeling your heart rabbit helplessly beneath the thin shell of bone and skin. "Y'look sweeter 'n a sunrise after the flood."

His thumb brushes one nipple, watching it harden instantly under the humid chill.

You try to twist away—shame burning hotter than the blood in your veins—but the chains rattle uselessly, locking you in place.

He chuckles, low and dark.

"Ain't no hidin' from me, sugar," he says, rough and sweet, dragging his knuckles down your trembling belly. "Ain't no shame neither. Y'was made fer this. Made fer me."

His hands find the bunched remains of your petticoat around your hips.

Slowly—cruelly slow—he tears the rest away.

Until you're laid bare before him.

Blood-slick, shaking, eyes wide and wet.

He stares at you for a long moment—drinking in the sight of you like a starving man at a banquet that hasn't been permitted to feast yet.

You can feel the weight of his gaze—heavy and hungry.

"Mmm," he hums deep in his throat.

"Prettiest lil' pet I ever seen."

He palms your thighs, rough thumbs pressing bruises into the soft flesh as he pushes your legs open wider.

You sob—mortified, helpless—but it only seems to please him more.

"Lookit that," he murmurs, dipping his head down, close enough that his breath fans hot across your cunt. "Still bleedin'...still so damn sweet."

And then—

The flicker of heat—

The twin points of his forked tongue lash out, slick and obscene, stroking along the weeping seam of your cunt.

You gasp—body jolting violently against the chains—a sharp, helpless cry tearing from your throat.

He groans deep, low and guttural, as he licks again—slow, deliberate—tasting the blood and slick pooling between your thighs.

He moves with maddening patience—the split tips of his tongue teasing either side of your clit, circling, flicking, taunting.

"You hear that?" he mutters thickly, rubbing his mouth over your cunt, tongue dragging up every inch of you. "Hear how messy y'are f'me, sugar?"

You can't answer.

You're beyond answering.

Your thighs quiver against his shoulders, muscles locking and spasming as he devours you—slow, relentless, merciless.

He pulls back only long enough to watch you squirm—your face flushed, your lips trembling, your hips jerking up helplessly as if chasing the wicked flick of his tongue.

"Poor thing," he croons, mock-sweet. "Y'bleedin', cryin', achin'...and ya still openin' them pretty legs f'me."

He laughs—low and pleased—and dives back in, feasting like a man who'd been starved for a hundred years.

You can already feel yourself unraveling—

Can feel it building again—

That terrible, traitorous heat coiling low in your belly, shame burning so brightly it tastes like iron on your tongue.

He tongues you deeper, forked tongue writhing against your soaked, blood-slick entrance, and you sob, straining against the chains as your body gives in.

You come—

Harder than before—

Your cunt clenching helplessly around nothing, your blood and slick gushing against his mouth.

He groans, hips grinding into the bed, rutting against the mattress like he can't stand it, like the taste of you is killing him.

He pulls back, panting hard, mouth and chin dripping in a fresh coat of crimson.

When he looks at you—

It's not just hunger.

It's possession.

"That's it, baby," he rasps, voice raw, shredded with want. "Give it all t' me. Ain't gonna leave nothin' behind."

You whimper brokenly, chains rattling as you pull uselessly at your bonds.

And then—

You see it.

Him undoing his belt.

The clink of metal, the low rasp of fabric sliding down heavy thighs.

His cock springs free—thick, veined, flushed red—already weeping at the tip.

Your mouth goes dry with terror.

He crawls up the bed like a predator stalking wounded prey, his glowing eyes locked on you, his smile wide and merciless.

"Gonna claim ya proper now, sugar," he says, his voice low and trembling with barely-restrained hunger. "Gonna fuck ya bloody, fuck ya dumb...make ya forget the whole damn world 'cept me."

You sob, head thrashing weakly against the mattress.

He just laughs—low, light, loving—as he fits the head of his cock against your slick cunt.

And pushes in.

The first push of him inside you is a shock—

Stretching, burning, splitting you apart on the thick, heavy drag of his shaft.

You sob, twisting against the chains, but he just groans guttural and filthy, shoving deeper with a slow, brutal roll of his hips that forces your body to open up for him.

"There we go," he pants, sweat dripping from his brow to your heaving chest. "Takin' me real sweet, ain't ya, darlin'?"

The stretch feels endless, unbearable—every ridge and vein of him dragging against blood-slick, swollen flesh.

Your body tries to resist, clenching tight, but he's relentless—grinding deeper, forcing himself past the trembling, fluttering grip of your cunt.

"You fightin' me," he groans, voice ragged with pleasure, "but ya can't stop it, can ya? Body knows. Body knows who owns it now."

Tears spill from your eyes, hot and helpless.

The chains rattle with every shuddering breath you take.

He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours, his skin sweaty and warm same as yours, trapping you together in the sticky, blood-sweet air.

"Y'made fer this," he whispers, voice breaking on the edges of worship. "Made fer me."

With a slow, grinding thrust, he bottoms out—buried to the hilt, your body stretched taut around him, trembling with the effort to contain him.

He doesn't move at first.

Just breathes—hard, shuddering—his cock pulsing hot inside you, his hands gripping your hips so tight you know you'll wear the bruises for days.

"Sweetest cunt I ever had," he murmurs, almost dazed, rolling his hips just enough to grind against the blood-slick walls of your cunt. "Sweetest thing I ever tasted."

You whimper, wrecked, overwhelmed.

He starts to move—slow at first, almost lazy, dragging his cock nearly all the way out before slamming back in with a wet, obscene slap of skin on skin.

The bedframe groans under the force of it. The chains rattle. The chapel breathes with the rhythm of it—an old, rotted cathedral witnessing your ruin.

He keeps his forehead pressed to yours, breath coming hot and ragged between clenched fangs.

"Fuck," he snarls, thrusting harder, grinding deep. "Ain't never...fuckin'...lettin' you go, sugar."

Each word is punctuated by a savage snap of his hips, driving you higher up the mattress, making the iron cuffs bite deeper into your bruised wrists.

Your world narrows to the brutal stretch of him inside you, the thick heat of his body pinning you down, the filthy grind of his cock dragging more slick, more blood from your battered cunt.

He groans again—a raw, broken sound—and pulls back to stare down at where your bodies meet.

Blood coats his cock, painting the base of it slick and glistening in the crimson moonlight.

He growls—a deep, vibrating sound—and slams in harder, hips jerking.

"Bleedin' all f'me," he mutters, awe bleeding into the filthy cadence of his voice. "Markin' me proper. Good lil' bitch, lettin' me ruin ya."

You sob—don't know if it's from the pain, the shame, the unbearable rush of something darker pooling low in your belly.

He leans in, dragging his split tongue up your throat—slow, languid—tasting the salt of your skin.

"Gonna fill ya up," he rasps, thrusting harder now, the rhythm getting ragged, desperate. "Breed ya good. Chain ya to this bed and fuck ya full every night till y'don't know nothin' but my cock."

Your hips jerk helplessly against him, legs trembling, blood and slick dripping down your thighs onto the ruined mattress.

He bites down suddenly—not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough to bruise—right over the frantic pulse at your throat.

You keen—a high, broken noise—and the orgasm hits you like a lightning strike.

Your cunt clamps down around him, spasming violently, drawing a raw, broken snarl from his chest.

"That's it," he growls, fucking you through it, his cock thickening even more inside you. "That's it, dove, milk it. Milk it good."

You come undone—

Body locking, heart hammering, chains rattling—

As he drives you through wave after wave of brutal, bloody pleasure.

His rhythm falters—

Hitches—

And with a hoarse snarl, he slams deep one last time.

You feel it—

The hot, thick flood of him spilling inside you—

Coating your walls, mixing with the blood already slicking your thighs.

He stays buried deep—panting, shaking, his arms trembling where they cage you in.

For a long moment, the only sound in the chapel is the labored, broken gasps of breath—his and yours, tangled together in the hot, heavy dark.

He nuzzles into your throat, murmuring low, senseless things against your skin.

"My girl," he breathes, over and over, as if trying to convince himself. "My sweet girl."

You lie limp beneath him—wrecked, used, ruined—your body claimed in every way it can be claimed.

And somewhere—

Buried under the terror, the humiliation—

A dark, terrible heat begins to flicker in your chest.

You're his now.

There’s no going back.

And the monster—

The one you were warned about—

Whispers that maybe, just maybe—you don’t want to.

The world feels soft and hazy when he finally moves.

You’re barely aware of it—just a weak, blood-warm ache where your legs sprawl open, your wrists burning raw from the chains. Every nerve ending feels stretched thin, humming with the aftershocks of being wrecked and claimed and ruined.

He shifts over you—his cock sliding free with a wet, filthy sound that makes you flinch—and you feel the thick, sticky mess of blood and come seeping down your thighs.

You whimper weakly, body too used up to fight.

But instead of leaving you—instead of walking away like the monster you thought he was—

He stays.

He kneels between your ruined thighs, the broken mattress sagging beneath his weight, and for a moment he just looks at you—head cocked, hair wild and dripping sweat, red eyes burning.

Something like awe flickers across his face.

"Sweet lil' mess," he murmurs, voice thick, almost tender.

One large, calloused hand cups your knee—thumb stroking slow, idle circles into your bruised skin—as he leans in.

You feel the first press of his tongue before you can even gasp.

He drags that wicked, forked tongue up the inside of your thigh again, lapping at the blood and slick smeared there like it’s the finest ambrosia.

He groans deep in his chest, his hands tightening on your trembling legs to hold you wide open for him.

You sob—broken, humiliated—but he just keeps licking, slow and steady, cleaning you up like a beast grooming his mate.

"Can't waste none of it," he mutters between licks, his breath damp against your skin. "Every drop...mine."

You twitch beneath him, wrists jerking weakly against the chains, but there’s no strength left in you.

There’s no fight left at all.

He licks higher—over the tender, battered folds of your cunt—gathering the mixture of blood and seed with obscene thoroughness, his tongue darting deep, savoring every taste.

You shudder violently, a broken whimper escaping your throat.

He shushes you again—so softly, so lovingly it makes your heart twist.

"Easy, sweet pea," he croons against your skin. "Ain't hurtin' ya now. Jus' takin' what's mine."

His tongue splits and flicks, teasing your clit, making your hips jolt despite yourself.

"That's it," he murmurs, smiling against you. "That's my good girl."

When he’s satisfied—when every drop of blood, every smear of slick has been licked from your trembling body—

He pulls back, wiping his mouth lazily with the back of his hand.

He looks down at you sprawled out on the soiled mattress—swollen wrists chained, thighs open, skin sticky with sweat and tears—and his smile softens.

"Pretty lil' thing," he murmurs, reaching out to thumb the tear tracks from your cheeks. "Took it so good. Knew ya would."

You try to flinch away from his touch, but it’s pathetic—a trembling, fragmented twitch.

He hums low in his throat, pleased.

Slowly, purposefully, he reaches for the shackles binding your wrists.

For a sick, dizzy second, you think he’s going to tighten them—punish you for even thinking of pulling away.

But instead—

You hear the click of old iron locks giving way.

The weight of the cuffs falls from your wrists, leaving raw, angry bands of flesh behind.

You sag back against the mattress like a puddle of liquid bones and flesh, too stunned, too hollowed out to move.

He watches you for a moment—head tilted, red eyes gleaming—like a man admiring the final brushstroke of a masterpiece.

Then he moves.

He scoops you up with terrifying ease—one hand under your knees, the other cradling your back—lifting you like you're weightless.

You make a weak, pitiful sound against his chest, but he just hushes you—soft and sweet—pressing a rough kiss to the crown of your filthy, sweat-drenched hair.

"Shhh, baby," he croons. "Ain't gonna hurtcha. Ain't gotta run no more."

He carries you to the far corner of the chapel—to a weathered old pew tucked into the shadows—and settles down onto it, shifting you into his lap like you belong there.

Your thighs straddle his hips, your chest crushed against his filthy shirt, your legs dangling uselessly on either side of his body.

He rocks you—nice and easy—the way a man might rock a newborn calf.

And all the while, he talks.

Low, sweet, steady.

"Got a place fer ya," he murmurs into your hair. "Back in the bayou. Little cabin where nobody'll never find ya."

His hands roam lazily over your battered body—soothing, petting, possessive.

"Got a bed there," he goes on, voice almost dreamy. "Big enough to tie ya spread-eagle. Big enough t' keep ya wet and ready all the time."

You shudder in his lap—a broken, helpless thing—but he just rocks you harder, nuzzling into your neck.

"Teach ya how t' live on nothin' but my cock and my seed," he whispers. "Keep ya full, keep ya heavy...make ya forget the whole damn world but me."

You sob softly against his chest.

He smiles against your hair.

"That's it," he croons. "That's my sweet girl."

His hand slides between your thighs again—unhurried, filthy—and cups the used, swollen heat of your cunt, thumb stroking lazy circles into the mess he left behind.

You twitch helplessly in his lap.

"Always knew I'd find somethin' special out here," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "Didn't reckon I'd find my forever meal...my lil' blood-slick pet."

He presses his mouth to your temple—a kiss, obscene in its tenderness.

"Mine now," he whispers. "Mine 'til the river runs dry."

The chapel groans around you—old wood settling, whispering, watching—as he rocks you slowly in his lap.

You’re weightless against him.

Soft.

Malleable.

The chains are gone, but you’re no freer than you were before.

Your body has surrendered.

Your mind—

God help you—isn't far behind.

He hums low under his breath, a tuneless, lazy thing—some old hymn twisted into something darker. Something damned.

His hands roam over you without hurry—stroking your bruised thighs, cupping the raw stretch of your hips, smoothing down the arch of your spine.

One of his palms cups the back of your head, pushing your face against his chest, holding you there like a possession too precious to lose.

"You feel it, don'tcha," he murmurs against your hair. "Way y'body melts into mine. Way y'cunt still pulses f'me even now."

You whimper—soft and splintered—and he smiles, wide and slow.

"Don't fight it, sugar," he says, low and coaxing. "Ain't nothin' left but me now."

You feel the slow, lazy roll of his hips beneath you—the thick, heavy press of his cock, still slick and blood-warm, nudging insistently between your thighs again.

You sob weakly, your body jerking against his.

But it’s useless.

Inevitable.

He shifts you higher, lining himself up, one broad hand guiding your hips as he pushes back inside—slow, deep, claiming.

You choke on a whimper, trembling violently in his lap as he fills you again—stretching your battered, blood-slick cunt to the limit.

"There we go," he croons. "There she is."

He rocks you on his cock—gradual, thick, obscene—grinding deep with each lazy roll of his hips, never pulling out, never letting you escape the feel of him inside you.

His mouth finds your ear, breath hot and heavy.

"Y'ain't even know my name yet," he murmurs, almost laughing. "Been takin' ya, ruinin' ya, bleedin' ya dry...and you don't even know what t' call me."

You shudder helplessly against him.

He presses a kiss to the hinge of your jaw—filthy, tender.

"Remmick," he breathes.

"That's what ya call me, sugar."

Another slow grind of his hips—another thick, aching thrust deep inside your ruined cunt.

"Say it," he whispers, voice breaking sweet and sharp against your skin. "Say my name."

You sob—mind reeling, body burning—but the word tumbles out of you like a rejected prayer.

"Remmick."

He groans, raw and reverent, and rocks you harder, the weathered pew creaking beneath the slow, punishing grind of his body.

"Good girl," he pants, forehead pressing to yours. "Sweet lil' thing...mine now. Mine forever."

He kisses you then—

A brutal, clumsy thing—

Mouth crushed against yours, tasting of blood and salt and something older. Something primordial.

You sob into the kiss, legs trembling against his hips, your body clinging to him without thinking, without reason.

Remmick smiles against your mouth.

"That's it," he murmurs. "Ain't no runnin' now. Ain't no leavin'."

He rocks you again—slow, deep—every thrust branding you, sinking you deeper under his spell.

"You got my name now," he whispers, voice thick with triumph and devotion. "And soon enough, baby...you gonna carry the rest of me too."

His hand slides down, splaying wide over your lower belly—

Possessive, filthy, promising.

"You gonna carry me inside ya, sweet pea," he breathes, voice almost shaking. "Gonna grow fat an' heavy with me...my blood, my seed, my babies."

You sob against his chest—wrecked, overwhelmed—as he rocks you through it, slow and relentless, every movement carving your fate deeper into your body.

And Remmick—

The monster, the devil, the man—

Just holds you tighter, crooning low and filthy against your skin.

"My girl," he whispers. "My sweet, bleedin' girl."

The slow grind of him inside you never stops.

Remmick rocks you lazily in his lap—the pew creaking under the weight of his possession—each slow thrust pushing you deeper under, erasing everything but the burn and the stretch and the unbearable, filthy tenderness of him.

Your head lolls against his shoulder, sweat-soaked hair sticking to your temples, every nerve frayed to a live wire.

He strokes your back in long, rough sweeps—the calluses of his palms rasping over every bruise, every bite mark, every blood-smeared inch of you.

"You feel it, don'tcha, sugar," he breathes into your ear, voice sweet and sticky as syrup. "The way yer body listens to me now. Way it wants me even when you don't."

You sob weakly, too broken to deny it.

His arms tighten around you—one locked around your back, the other spreading wide over your hips, guiding you up and down the thick, blood-slick length of his cock.

"You was made fer this," he murmurs, his breath hot and humid against your skin. "Made t'be mine. Made t'be fucked full, bred fat, kept warm an' wet in my bed."

He rocks you harder—deeper—the swollen head of his cock grinding up against that raw, aching place inside you, making your whole body jolt and shudder helplessly.

Your wrists curl weakly against his chest, the instinct to cling overpowering even your fear.

Remmick hums low, satisfied.

"Good girl," he praises, voice rough and ragged. "Good lil' thing, clingin' so sweet."

He kisses the side of your throat—a slow, open-mouthed drag of lips and teeth—and you feel him smiling against your pulse.

And then his voice drops lower—softer, darker—as he begins to whisper.

"But if y'ever think about runnin'..." he murmurs, rocking you a little harder, his cock dragging thick and slow inside your cunt, "if y'ever try t'leave me, lil’ hare...I'll hunt ya down."

You shudder violently in his arms.

"I'll drag ya screamin' back by that sweet lil' ankle," he whispers, almost lovingly. "Chain ya tighter. Fuck ya harder. Make sure next time ya can't even walk."

You sob—broken, breathless.

He kisses your ear, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your tears.

"Maybe I'll break that pretty lil' ankle," he muses, his voice so soft it’s almost a lullaby. "Keep ya bed-bound...keep ya needy...make ya beg for me t'feed ya, to fuck ya, to touch ya."

You whimper, hips jerking against him without meaning to.

Remmick groans low in his chest, thrusting up deeper inside you.

"You'd look so pretty like that," he pants. "All bruised up an' cryin'...beggin' me to keep fillin' this sweet lil' cunt."

His hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit—swollen, aching, blood-slick—and starts to rub slow, relentless circles.

You gasp, high and needy, clutching at him, legs trembling where they sprawl weakly around his hips.

"That's it," he breathes, rocking you harder now, rubbing you faster. "Cum f'me, sugar. Milk me good. Show me who ya belong to."

You sob, mind fracturing under the thick, unbearable pleasure—under the dirty, endless tenderness of his voice—under the awful, overwhelming rightness of it.

Your orgasm slams into you—sharp, brutal, dizzying—your whole body clenching down around him, sobbing his name against his throat.

Remmick groans, burying his cock deep one last time, grinding slow and thick against the fluttering spasms of your cunt.

"That's my girl," he whispers, voice cracked and worshipful. "My sweet, bleedin' girl. Mine."

He holds you through it—rocking you gently, slowly—cooing filthy promises against your skin.

"Never lettin' ya go," he breathes, voice drunk with possession. "Never."

And you know—

With a dark, shattered certainty —

That he’s telling the truth.

Your body trembles in his lap—used, slick, overflowing—and still, Remmick doesn’t stop.

Still buried deep inside you, he rocks you lazily—thick, slow drags of his cock against your raw, battered walls, the wet, messy sound of it filling the ruined chapel.

You whimper, limp and broken against his chest.

He shushes you, petting your hair, pressing kisses to your temple, your jaw, your throat.

"That's it, sweet pea," he praises. "Just keep takin' it. Keep takin' me."

His hips move slower now—deep, grinding thrusts that make you feel every vein, every throb of him inside you.

You sob weakly when you feel the telltale pulse of his cock thickening again—feel the way he holds you tighter, groaning low in your ear.

"Poor thing," he breathes, voice shaking with hunger and something darker, deeper. "Ain't built t'keep up, are ya?"

He rocks you harder, the sticky, bloody mess of your body clinging wetly to him.

His mouth finds your ear again—voice low, filthy, almost laughing.

"Y'know why?" he whispers. "Y'know why ya break so easy f'me, sugar?"

You whimper, unable to answer, unable to think.

He licks the shell of your ear—slow, lazy—before speaking again.

"'Cause I ain't no man, sweet thing," he says, voice rich with wicked delight. "Ain't no mortal that tires out an' falls asleep after one fuck."

He grinds deeper—hips jerking, cock twitching inside you.

"A demon’s stamina," he murmurs, "ain't like a man's."

You shudder violently in his arms.

"I can do this," he breathes, voice low and full of terrible promise, "forever."

He thrusts again—slow, heavy, final—and you feel it.

Feel the thick, molten flood of him spilling inside you again—hotter, heavier than before, painting your ruined cunt, seeping out around his cock.

Remmick groans low, deep in his chest—a sound full of brutal satisfaction.

He holds you there—stuffed full, pinned tight—grinding the mess deeper with lazy, possessive rolls of his hips.

"There we go," he murmurs against your throat. "Fill ya up good. Mark ya so deep ya gonna leak me out fer days."

You sob, a broken little sound that only makes him hum in pleasure.

He strokes your hair, your back, rocking you gently in the wreckage of the chapel.

"You're mine now," he whispers. "Ain't no priest, no preacher, no god up there that can take ya from me."

He kisses your temple—filthy, loving.

"Belong t' me, sweet lil' thing," he breathes. "My pet. My meal. My mate."

You lie limp in his lap, broken open, owned.

And you realize—with a dark, awful clarity—that you don't even want to run anymore.

You belong here.

With him.

Forever.

And the monster—

The demon—

Your Remmick—

Rocks you slowly into the night, crooning sweet, filthy promises against your skin.

[liafics]

۶ৎ oscar piastri 81: cyber sex

☆ lia yaps: osc gets very horny when away for races, gf!reader lets him film their naughty time. osc is feral and filthy

☆ warnings: sex tape, a lot of praise, dirty talk, established rel, oral, p in v, aftercare, bonus scene of osc jacking off to the video

the room is quiet, the only sound is the soft hum of the camera recording.

oscar’s fingers linger on the camera, adjusting it slowly, like he’s buying himself a few extra seconds to gather his himself.

you watch him from the edge of the bed, legs swinging lazily, a small smirk playing on your lips. it’s always so cute to see him like this, caught somewhere between his usual polite composure and the rising heat that always burns hotter whenever you’re about to be apart for his races.

oscar steps closer, slow and deliberate. his fingers brush against your knee, tracing lazy shapes. “you’re serious?” he murmurs, voice low.

you leans back on your palms on the bed, tilting your head to meet his gaze. a teasing glance, “only if you think you’ll need it.”

oscar’s mouth twitches into the faintest smile.

“i will,” he says simply, hand sliding higher along your thigh, just enough to make you shift beneath his touch.

the vulnerability in his voice makes you clench around nothing. you reach for him, tugging at the hem of his shirt until he’s standing right between your legs, hands settling instinctively at your soft hips.

“so you’re going to watch it when you’re gone,” you say, voice teasing but eyes serious. “imagining us… just like this. touching yourself to it.”

his breath stutters. his hands tighten on your hips, cheeks flushed yet he doesn’t shy away. instead, he leans down, brushing his lips along your collarbone.

“you want me to?” he murmurs. “want me thinking about you, replaying every second… every sound i manage to get you to make?”

you gasp softly when his teeth graze your neck, thighs clenching around his waist.

“i want you to miss me so badly you can’t help yourself…. that you become like horny teenage boy for me again.” you tease, threading your fingers through his soft hair and tugging gently.

he pulls back enough to look at you, restraint dying second by second.

“how do you still make me nervous like this?” he almost laughs under his breath, forehead pressing against yours as he focuses on his hardened cock.

his hands slide under your shirt, palms spreading across your warm skin.

“i’m gonna watch it,” oscar says, voice rough. “gonna listen to you. watch you fall apart, all desperate and needy for me.”

you moan softly at his words, arching into him, and he groans low in his throat, gripping your hips even tighter.

“every night i'm away, when it’s late and i can’t sleep,” his hand slides higher, fingers ghosting along the edge of your bra. “i’m gonna picture this. picture you in front of me. on me.”

you bite your lip. the idea of your gentle boyfriend desperate and alone in a hotel room, it’s nearly too much to handle.

“you better make it a good one, then,” you tease, reaching down to unbutton his pants, brushing deliberately over his hardening bulge.

oscar’s breath catches. his glance is different now, less polite and more primal.

he chuckles. “i plan to.”

you smile against his neck, feeling the way his breathing turns harsh. his usual polite effortless restraint is fading, and you shift your hips to grind against him. he lets out a low, needy sound.

“fuck-”

he kisses you, deep but cautious, “if you keep teasing me, i’m not gonna last long enough to make this a memory.”

you giggle and tug him closer.

“then you better start soon,” you nibble at his jaw, “because i want you to have plenty to watch when you’re… lonely.”

oscar groans, pressing his forehead against yours.

“you’re evil,” he mumbles, his blush betraying him. “you want me so fucked up i have to jerk off in a hotel bathroom thinking about you.”

you grin, teasingly slipping your fingers under his waistband. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

he lays your back against the bed and smiles.

“look at you,” he says almost to himself, trailing his fingers up your inner thighs, stopping just short of where you needs him most.

“already a mess for me, and we haven’t even started properly.”

you whine, shifting your hips up into his touch, but he only smirks cockily and pulls away to reach for the camera with infuriating calm.

“patience,” he says, adjusting the angle.

your breathing stutters as he flips the screen toward both of you, showing you flushed, trembling and spread open just for him.

“you’re gonna be the death of me, osc,” you gasps, when he presses his hand between your thighs, applying just enough pressure.

he smiles and leans in to kiss you softly. “then i’ll have something really special to watch… when i’m losing my mind thinking about you.”

you watch him adjusting the camera, pretending he’s in control, but the flush creeping up his neck and the trembling in his fingers gives him away. you spread your legs wider, letting your skirt ride up dangerously high. oscar’s jaw tightens. his hand flexes at his side like he’s physically restraining himself from escalating too quickly.

you smile sweetly. “quite a cute long distance gift.”

he stares at you, confessing all rough and low. “gonna fucking destroy myself watching this.”

the words send heat pooling through your core. you whimper involuntarily and oscar snaps. instantly, he’s kneeling between your legs, dragging his hands up your thighs and shoving your skirt up without any hesitation.

“open up, my sweet girl,” he orders quietly, voice stern. “show me. show me what im gonna be missing when i’m gone.”

you’re a moaning mess, lifting your hips off the bed as you obey, feeling filthy under his gaze. the camera records every needy breath, every trembling movement. he traces the edge of your panties with light tickling touches, making your squirm.

“already so wet,” he mutters, almost to himself. then he chuckles, “fuck, baby, you want it as bad as i do, don’t you?”

your hips are rocking into his hand, a desperate need for more friction,“i want you to watch this later… want you to see how messy you make me… want you jerking off so hard you feel embarrassed to be so needy.”

oscar finally hooks his fingers into your panties and pulls them down slow, dragging the soaked fabric along your thighs. he kisses up your legs, closer and closer, until he’s breathing against your drenched core.

just before he touches you, he looks up with a boyish grin. “smile for the camera, baby. I want to see everything.”

but you don't even get the chance.

oscar licks a filthy stripe up your core as you jerk off the bed, gasping. he latches onto your clit with soft, teasing kisses. but the careful control doesn’t last long.

every time you moan, every time you mumble his name, he gets rougher. messier. filthier. his tongue moves faster, sloppier, like he’s trying to memorise your taste.

“jesus, fuck-” his voice wrecked. “you’re so fucking sweet, baby. gonna go insane without this, without you.”

you tug sharply at his hair and he groans loud against your sweet cunt, the vibration making you cry out for him.

“osc baby, please—” you gasp, squirming under him.

“yea?” he rasps. “you want it, baby? want my cock now? want me to fuck you stupid for the camera so you can make me lose my fucking mind later?”

you nod frantically and shamelessly, tugging at his shirt and locking eyes with him. oscar fumbles his jeans down with shaking hands, cock flushed and leaking, aching just from eating you out.

he mutters some dirty confession that you can’t really hear, and he lines himself up against your hole.

“already so fucking desperate.” he teases you, dragging the head of his heavy cock through your folds. then with a broken moan, pushes in.

the stretch is filthy, slow, perfect.

“fuck-” oscar breathes deeply, his head dropping to your shoulder.

the stretch is perfect. too much yet still not enough. a delicious drag of his cock and oscar has to squeeze his eyes shut for a second to keep from cumming immediately.

“holy fuck, baby,” he chokes. “how do you feel so fucking good? been thinking about this all the time… can’t even jerk off without imagining how tight you are.”

your wrap your legs around him, locking him in and he loses it. he starts moving rough and desperate, the slap of skin on skin filling the room, recorders forever by the camera.

“gonna watch this video and cum so fucking hard… gonna jerk off so many fucking times thinking about this sweet pussy,” he groans.

every filthy word drives you closer, making your walls clench tighter around him and driving him to fucking into you even harder.

“gonna fist my cock wishing it was you. wishing it was your sweet cunt squeezing me. fuck, my little perfect slut—”

you cry out, nails clawing his back, and he’s a mess above you, thrusting harder, deeper, frantic for both of your releases.

“cum for me,” he begs, voice cracking. “please, baby. need to see you fall apart. need to watch it every fucking night while i’m gone.”

you cry out trembling under him, and oscar grits his teeth, pushing you higher, chasing your orgasm like the good boyfriend he always is.

“cum for me, pretty girl,” he begs, voice cracking. “wanna see it. wanna watch you cum around my cock over and over. i need it.”

and you do. you shatter around him with a broken sob of his name. oscar follows instantly, spilling inside with a desperate low moan, hips jerking as he empties himself deep inside you.

he collapses over her, panting and trembling. the camera records everything. every soft moan, every kiss he presses to your collarbone, your jaw, and your soft lips.

he doesn’t pull out right away. he stays buried inside you, breathing heavy against your skin.

“jesus christ,” he mutters, voice still wrecked and breathless. “you’re gonna fucking ruin me.”

you laugh softly, running your fingers through his sweat-damp hair. he looks flushed, just like after a race. “thought I already did,” you tease.

he cuddles closer. “mhm, years ago.”

finally, he gathers the strength to lean up and fumble for the camera.

“that’s gonna be on my mind all the time for next three weeks,” he mumbles, pressing lazy kisses along your collarbone.

“just me. locked in my hotel room. watching you. cumming so hard, it’s pathetic.”

you giggle, squeezing him tighter with your thighs, “you’re a disgusting perv.”

“your perv, you love it.”

“yea, i do.”

he smiles against your skin, that soft, stupid, lovey smile only you get to see.

his hand slides down between your thighs, touching your sticky, sensitive cunt. his thumb is brushing slow, lazy, filthy circles over the mess he made of you.

“still so fucking good for me,” he murmurs, voice filled with praise, sounding like still he can’t believe you’re his. “always so good for me.”

you’re oversensitive but still unwilling to make him stop.

“remember the first time you let me film you?” he says, voice smiling against your jaw. “you were so shy. kept hiding your face.”

you laugh, cheeks flushing, "you were definitely the shy one. you couldn’t even say ‘pussy’ without turning bright red.”

he chuckles, low and rough. “still can’t. just thinking about it makes me wanna fucking marry you.”

the words slip out so easy, so natural. your arms tighten around him and he kisses you again. it’s slower now, like he hates that he has to leave soon.

then carefully, he slides out of you, murmuring soft apologies when you whine at the loss. he disappears for a second to grab a warm cloth from the bathroom, like he always does, knowing exactly how you like to be cared for after.

when he returns, he’s gently cleaning you up. “thank you,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your hip, stomach and thigh. “thank you for letting me… for trusting me with this.”

⸻ ☆☆☆

a few days later

the hotel room is dark, except for the soft glow of his phone screen.

oscar is lying back against the pillows, legs spread, hand already working slow over his cock, biting back desperate little sounds. he’s exhausted. qualifying kicked his ass, but it’s all better now. much better now that he’s watching you.

the video is playing.

your wrecked moans.

his filthy words.

the way you look up at the camera, all pretty and ruined, soft body trembling under him.

oscar groans under his breath, hips lifting off the bed in little jerks.

“fuck,” he whispers all by himself, dragging his hand harder, squeezing the flushed head.

“baby, fuck, you’re so perfect.”

the video shows him pounding into you, your thighs shaking, your bodies being a beautiful, filthy mess.

he can’t tear his eyes away.

he thumbs over his slit, gathering the precum leaking and smearing it down his cock.

“wish you were here,” he pants. “wish you were riding me right now… taking every fucking inch like the good girl you always are for me.”

he strokes himself faster, thighs trembling, toes curling into the sheets.

“gonna make a mess,” he groans.

“im cumming all over myself. fuck-, all for you.”

his breathing turns ragged, hips fucking into his fist so desperately and pathetically. he pictures you wrapped around him, your pussy squeezing him so tight, your voice breaking when you beg for more.

he’s right there, seconds away, when your voice moans out through the video -

“need you, osc, please—”

he cums with a broken moan, spilling hot and messy cum all over his stomach, his own hand still working him through it. he falls back against the pillows, whimpering.

the video’s still playing. your desperate ruined moans filling the room and he smiles, all dazed out, wiping himself off with the hotel towel.

he taps a message out with shaking fingers:

oscar: just made a fucking mess thinking about you.

oscar: hope you’re ready for round two when i get home.

a minute later, his phone buzzes.

you: you made a cute mess and you didn’t show me? :( miss you.

you: gonna make an even bigger mess when you get back.

oscar groans, running a hand through his hair, cock already twitching at the thought.

god, he’s so fucking down bad for you.

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

old married couple. l Joel Miller

Summary: you caught a cold and Joel took care of you

Warnings: cold, Ellie teases Joel, Tommy and Dina show up. nothing special

A/N: .

your feedback is very important to me and I thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. 🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

short stories from life. [masterlist]

He buttoned his jacket more tightly as a cold wind swept the street and shoved his hands into his pockets. The patrol group was preparing to leave Jackson. Tommy was giving everyone instructions, and one of the people who had arrived a few weeks ago was among them. Joel watched them from a distance, feeling a mixture of longing and relief.

He had felt calmer since he had started to reduce his patrols and focused on managing the renovations of the buildings in Jackson. Besides, the overcast sky and cold wind were not exactly encouraging to venture outside the walls of Jackson.

The horses neighed one last time and soon the entire group left, the gates closing behind them. Tommy rubbed his cold hands together and, spotting his brother, approached him. "Brings back memories, huh?" he said, smiling. "I mean, when you two started patrolling."

"I wouldn't say I miss it," Joel replied. "Maybe she does more."

"That's why she still comes. Oh, I remember that!" Joel frowned and looked at his brother, who was grinning and laughing. "Your first separate patrol. You weren't thrilled about it. I think... I think you had a soft spot for her even then."

"These are the rules, Joel, two newbies don't go on patrol together."

Joel grabbed Tommy's arm, stopping him. "You're really trying to tell me I'm a newbie at this whole apocalypse shit?" he snorted. "I'll go with you."

Tommy looked at his brother carefully, then looked towards the group that was getting ready to leave Jackson. You were among them. A few weeks had passed since you arrived in Jackson. You and Joel had taken part in training with other people who patrolled the Jackson area, and this time you were going to go alone. Tommy had matched you with a couple of experienced people, but Joel was going to stay in the city. He had not liked the idea from the beginning. The thought of separating you seemed simply stupid and irresponsible to him.

Tommy's watchful eyes looked back at him, and his lips twisted into a victorious smile. "Never seen you that worried about any other newcomers going out on their first patrols. Is there something else you ain't telling me?" he chuckled "You have a soft spot for her, don't you?"

"Bullshit!" Joel muttered "I just think it's too soon."

Tommy nodded. "True. And I think she'll do great." He patted his brother on the shoulder. "You'll be going together in time. But for now, do something, try to relax."

Joel looked at him as if the idea seemed downright idiotic to him. But he didn't say anything more, seeing that his brother was having a great time teasing him. He must have gotten that from Ellie.

He watched Tommy go, then raised his hand when you waved at him a moment before you left. His concern for you was natural and obvious, there was nothing romantic about it. Joel was too old for such bullshit.

He returned home and closed the door behind him with relief. A fire was burning in the fireplace, and the familiar bulge under the blanket indicated that you had been dozing. The cold that had caught you at the beginning of the week refused to go away. And even if at first you had fought "No, Joel. I'm fine, I just have a cold.", now you obediently lay under two blankets and didn't stick your nose out of the house.

He approached you and placed his frozen hand on your cheek - you were still a bit too warm, but you felt better than a few days ago. Ann had brought fresh broth the day before, and Ellie had brought some herbs from the clinic to ease the symptoms.

You stirred slightly and opened your eyelids. "You're here already." Your voice was quiet, slightly hoarse.

"Yeah, and you're sleeping again." he replied, the corners of his mouth twitching "I'll make you some tea." 

You rubbed your eyes with your hand and sat up, wrapping the blankets around yourself more tightly. "Anything interesting in town?" you asked, listening to the noises from the kitchen, cabinets being opened, the kettle being put on the stove. "The weather doesn't look too good."

"Nothing that should interest you right now." Joel replied. "Will you eat something?"

You weren’t hungry, but you also knew there was no point in fighting with Joel. You didn’t want to spend another week on the couch under a blanket. Eventually, two steaming mugs appeared on the coffee table—one with herbal tea, the other with Ann’s broth. Joel sat down next to you, holding his mug.

"You'll get infected from me." you said for what seemed like the thousandth time this week.

“That’s why I drink the same thing you do,” he replied, lifting his cup slightly and smiling. “I’m cautious.”

“Or naive. My germs have definitely mutated. A sick man is the worst thing that can happen.”

"Oh, shut up!" Joel rolled his eyes "I can’t be sick. I don't have time for this."

"Right." You took a sip of the broth and a pleasant warmth spread through your insides. Feeling Joel's gaze on you, you took another few sips to satisfy him. The cold had completely taken away your appetite and even those few modest sips were a big achievement. With a quiet thud, you put the cup down. "Let's watch a movie?"

"What would you like?"

"Curtis and Viper?" You shrugged, glancing at Joel out of the corner of your eye.

"Have you seen it like ten times?" he sighed "Why do you want this?"

The answer was simple, obvious, and made him smile.

"Because you like it."

It was nice. It was home. You lay wrapped in a blanket, snuggled up to Joel, occasionally sipping tea or broth, giggling when you shouldn't, quietly mumbling dialogues you already knew by heart. Only the slam of a door and the icy air interrupted this pleasant moment.

"Shit! It's cold as hell!" Ellie groaned, rubbing her hands together "What are you doing?"

"Hi!" Dina's pleasant voice echoed right behind Ellie "How are you feeling?"

"Much better." You replied, giving a smile to the girl who had plopped down in an armchair near you "Are you hungry?"

Dina shook her head "We've already eaten. We just came for something and we're leaving soon."

Ellie's footsteps were already echoing through the floor, and after a few moments she ran downstairs again, this time with her backpack. "Come on, don't sit with those old people!"

"Hey!" Joel looked at her indignantly. "She's not old!"

Dina laughed. "She means you act like an old married couple. It's cute."

"You watch weird movies, spend a lot of time together, and I think you're also..."

"Get out of here!" Joel snorted, not letting Ellie finish her sentence.

Her eyes sparkled with amusement. She loved teasing Joel even if Dina thought she was a bit too hard on him sometimes. The door slammed shut again, and you were left alone.

"We're cute, did you know that?" you asked, breaking the silence.

Joel mumbled something incomprehensible. He clearly wasn't a fan of being 'cute'. You chuckled, nudging him lightly in the side.

"I think I should probably go back to patrolling for a while." he said, not taking his eyes off the screen.

You frowned. "What about the renovations?"

"I can do both. I don't want Ellie and Dina to say..."

"Joel!" you interrupted, straightening up and looking at him stubbornly. "But they'll always tease you. And me too. To them, we're old! And there's nothing wrong with that."

Brown eyes looked at you as if searching for some soothing words. You smiled, stroking his rough cheek. “You’re cute when you pout. But don’t tell me to stop calling you that.”

A large hand found your thigh under the blanket and squeezed it lightly. "Because it's you."

"And this is Ellie and Dina. Let them be teenagers."

Joel nodded, finally admitting you were right, and put his arm around you so you could snuggle up to him again.

You mounted your horse and adjusted your woolen cap. The day was cold, but the sky was clear. The morning patrol looked promising and you were happy to take part in it. 

You noticed Tommy only when he stood next to you. He patted the horse's flank and looked at the other members of the patrol.

"How's Joel?" he asked. "Is he giving you a hard time?"

"A little." you replied, unable to hide your smile. "He doesn't have a fever, but he's still grumpy."

"More than usual?" you shrugged, which made Tommy chuckle. "I'll check on him later. Bring him dinner or something."

"Thanks. I warned him that he could get it from me. He thought he was immune."

"Of course." Tommy nodded. "Take care of yourself. Be careful, okay? No unnecessary risks."

"Sure, Tommy."

You left Jackson, your thoughts returning one last time to the man sleeping soundly in your bed. Ellie had made him a whole pot of herbal tea that he hated so much. Your sweet, cute, old man.

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

taglist, i think: @picketniffler @orcasoul @bbyanarchist @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @somedayheaven @underneath-the-sky-again @callmebyyournick-name @hiroikegawa @mandaloriankait

[seb-boo]

Highlights from Seb's Interview with Sky Germany (Jeddah 2025):

Seb's kids don't want him driving (cause they like him home so much)

He regretted that when he got the chance to ask Michael a question, he asked about what he did to stay fit

He apparently hates swimming?

He recently broke his finger doing handy work

His son has started to ask about his career

How self-doubt played a role in his career and ultimately poor results were not satisfying to him in the end, especially when he could have been spending time with his kids

He was surprised at his first drivers' briefing how catty everyone was—this later, in addition to safety, was a motivator to reform the GDPA and actually have community amongst the drivers

He feels that Multi 21 made him and Mark closer (ala Baku 2017)

He is open to the idea of taking over Marko's job and discussed how their approaches are very different

He texted Lewis after his China sprint win

His projects allow him to be involved with F1, but keep enough distance to feel comfortable

His favorite thing to do is psychoanalyze the drivers (he also thinks reading people is his greatest gift)

He is struggling with grasses and herbs at agricultural school (but seems to do well on an impromptu quiz)

He's a control freak (he trusts his choice in restaurant and music over everyone else in F1 for a party—oh, and he would pay)

Direct quotes ↴

"I would say, well. It's my own perception, but I think pretty well. The, how do you say, the family peace still exists. [You're not annoying at home?] *laughing* I don't think so. I am still wanted. The kids also said I shouldn't start driving again because it's so nice that I'm there. That's great to hear something like that."

---

"When I imagine myself as a little boy, I can remember the key moments when suddenly Michael was standing there, maybe said something, and the question I asked was, 'what do you do to be fit?' And then you think afterwards or later I thought again, I should have asked so many other things. And then he told me that he does this and that and swims and so on, and I thought, 'oh no, I don't like swimming at all!' These are such small things, but yes, it meant the world to me at the time[...] because my hero listened to me in that sense."

---

"It's about intuition and what really drives you and what you really want, and yes, I think I might not be able to fully answer that question for a long time, or ever, but that's also what triggers curiosity somewhere. But to feel it and, yes, to develop more intuition, I think, was a big point for me and perhaps still is. And it's exciting to get to know yourself again like that. I don't know why I had this drive, after stopping, not to commit myself to a task or a job or, I don't know, partnership XY, but to be free first, for myself, to then feel myself and see, okay, what do I want at all, where is my journey going, and how do I deal with this, in quotes 'emptiness first,' before I immediately jump into the next project?"

"Agriculture has kept me quite busy in the last year with the training that I am now hopefully successfully completing and passing, and I have learned a lot of new things. Yes, there is always something to do around the house and things that have maybe been left undone in recent years, where I am still, yes, skilled. It's relative, I recently broke my finger, but yes, I do a lot and try a lot, and so the days actually pass quickly. I enjoy that. I enjoy the time as well, and this other life, but of course, I watch and follow what is happening and how the guys are doing, and I am still in contact here and there, so yes, it is a big part of me, and it will remain so."

[So the identity as a racing driver will remain. How is that now, for example, at home? For the children, they are 10, 11, I think, then six or so, five?] "Yes, five." [Do they also ask about moments from your career, or is that not a topic at all?]

"Yes, it's funny. We were watching recently, just now, the race in Bahrain or qualifying, and then when it was finished, my youngest said something like, 'I would like to see where you were driving.' Then I said, 'Okay, I have to look first.' I couldn't find anything quickly in the media library, I had to rummage around, but yes, it is interesting. The girls, I think, have taken it in and perceived it a bit more. He was still too young. Yes, it would sometimes be interesting to know what the children think. Here or there, they notice it when we are out and about and perhaps meet people who remember and you stop for a moment and have a chat. But yes, my own perception and then the perception from the children's point of view is very interesting. I think we are coping well with the situation and of course we are trying to give the children a childhood similar to the one we had, in a normal sense, really."

[I also looked at how you have developed as a personality over the years, starting with your time in Formula 1. If you look back at your early years at Toro Rosso, maybe also a bit of the time at Red Bull, how would you describe yourself then?]

"Well, I think very focused, very goal-oriented. I knew exactly what I wanted. I had a very clear vision of where I wanted to go, and then of course I had this incredible time, the years when it felt like everything went well for me. Then with the move to Ferrari, of course, a big challenge, but also a lifelong dream that I could fulfill. The big success, the very big success that I had firmly set my sights on, the title, did not materialize. Now, of course, you can talk for a long time about why and how and why not, but I believe that in retrospect, the time was much more important, the people I met, the experiences I had, and the lessons as well."

"From, I don't know, a certain insecurity, self-doubt also played a big role, then to the last part of my career where I think I opened up more and also came out of myself more in the sense that I not only talked about racing but also addressed other topics and topics that were important to me, and so I gave room to a new side of myself and could develop. And yes, of course, I had a great privilege associated with it, that I was in a position where people might have listened to me or perceived me in that sense, and I actually had very, very many positive experiences with that. Of course, there were also people who said, 'That doesn't belong to you now, and you shouldn't focus on that, and rather focus on driving because things aren't going well there,' and so on. I think there was also a lot of humility in the sense of, yes, when you have a good run at the beginning and then everything picks up speed and you are in teams where things are always moving forward and faster and in big teams, then in that sense, I don't want to say falling behind, but switching to a team that is in this building phase and getting the momentum back was a nice time. "

"But of course, in terms of results, it was a very tough time, a tough pill to swallow, because suddenly you are, I don't know, not in oblivion, but from my point of view and own feelings, you have slipped to results that no longer matter, that are no longer relevant. Whether I was 8th or 12th or 14th, was for me, insufficient for me. Especially when you have already been at the very top, then that is no real fulfillment. But also dealing with that and getting to know that side of myself, I think I have matured extremely in recent years and knew more and more what I wanted. And then in that sense, that I see and want other things in my life and want to have time, especially for the children. Time is limited, and then I had the courage, I think, to say, okay, I know I can do more and I know maybe more is yet to come, but yes, I want to have time for other things and get to know other sides of myself."

---

"And I think our society has changed, that yes, young people or generally, that you now address certain topics and don't stop before certain topics anymore. And that you have to take a position in a certain way. Perhaps a piece of the freedom to withdraw has been lost, but I think that has a very positive overall effect. When you address topics in sport that are perhaps more political or play a role outside of sport, I think it has a lot of impact. So if the values are the right ones that you represent and it is good topics that you address, of course, it's not for me to judge what is good and bad and right and wrong, but I think if you stand up for others and draw attention to things, then that is a good thing."

---

"I remember my first drivers' briefing as a Formula 1 driver. I was somewhat shocked that no one was talking to each other, but rather talking about each other, sometimes with a bit of arrogance, and this difference in status, "I am here, you are there." Yet in sport, in Formula 1 or in life generally, our passion connects us, and then to seek points of attack instead of the things that perhaps distinguish us, I find much more sympathetic, because even if we weren't the best friends in that room of 20 back then and still are today as drivers, even if we weren't the best friends, there was still this great connection and the passion that we all shared or cared about, right?"

[Or I mean, towards the end of your career, you brought the drivers together, but this is now commonplace, right?]

"Because I simply thought or felt that this community was missing, and also to help establish the GPDA, and I went to Alex, to Alex Wurz, who is still involved, and said, 'Alex, we somehow have to manage to bring the drivers together.' Of course, safety is a topic that connects us all, but also generally, let's talk about the other topics when we feel that something is wrong, or that we simply get into an exchange. I think the space is good that you can, apart from statements you have heard about others, find this space to also go out for dinner in the evening and exchange ideas and get to know each other better. You spend so much time together, it feels like, and at the same time, everyone is so absorbed in their team with meetings and, I don't know, meet and greets and appearances here and there, that you actually don't have any time together, and that is really a shame."

[With Multi 21, for example, with Mark Webber back then, such an action, how do you see that now, from your past, do you say that was totally okay, or do you think it was difficult?]

"Especially, I think, that our relationship was strained until then. Or very, yes, we were very big competitors, so Mark. Of course, then also within the team, but I think that ultimately, clearly, it wasn't a nice event, but I think it led to us understanding each other much better today and having much more respect for each other. So, we talked afterwards, I told him what I didn't like about it and why I felt it was unjustified. He expressed his opinion, and yes, even if you don't completely agree with and adopt the other person's opinion, that's not what it's about. It's about talking to each other in the first step, and we were much better at that afterwards."

[Sebastian, when you look at the situation right now at Red Bull, it's funny that your name came up today because I was talking to Ralf about what you yourself once mentioned as a potential successor. Is that a role you could fundamentally imagine?]

"I think there is only one Helmut, and his role, clearly, is his. But yes, I think that generally, the exchange is also very inspiring, and of course, you have the experiences you have, and Helmut is similar in a way. He also grew up in motorsport, a completely different time, but the wheel still turns the same way in a way, and the similar and same things matter today as they did, I don't know, how many years ago, even if Formula 1 has changed significantly."

"Yes, I think there are many things and perspectives or parallels or things that one could pass on. Whether that will be something in the future, we'll see. I am still in contact with him, I also asked him a few years ago how much longer he wanted to do it, and he said not much longer, and he is still here. *laughs* So as long as he still enjoys it and feels up to the job, I think, yes, he is in a unique role, especially with the experience and the team dynamics. He knows that best, and from the outside, it is always difficult to judge, and perhaps you sometimes wonder here or there how this happened or what's the point, but of course, he has a completely different perspective and completely different experiences. And yes, it will be a shame when he leaves or steps down from the position at some point, but of course, then, yes, it has to develop in a new, different direction."

[I visited him recently in Graz, he had just come from the forest, it was 11 in the morning, he said he had already been there for 3 hours, and then he said he talks about it often with you too because you are also a forester and you have different approaches, right?]

"Yes, completely different views, but we both have respect for each other. He is more of the old school. I am more of the modern perspective, that you sometimes leave the tree lying there, and thereby cultivate or promote the beneficial insects, or in his view, pests, and thus ensure balance. But yes, neither of our views is just right and just wrong."

---

[I also said recently, after three races we say someone is great, and then they make a mistake again, and then they go down again. So this patience also to have with development, for example, with Lewis Hamilton. I think you wrote to him after the sprint victory in China, didn't you?]

"Yes, of course."

[Yes, he was probably happy because you texted him. How do you see that? I mean, you also made this move from Red Bull to Ferrari. What is this big adjustment that you need as a driver, and why does it take so long, maybe half a year, as Ralf, for example, said?]

"Well, maybe it takes even longer, depending. I think so many things depend on it. I think the car was less of a change for me back then. Everything was different. The car drove completely differently. But yes, I was able to get used to it quite quickly in that sense. But of course, it's other people, a different environment, a different language, a different culture. So I think the whole thing overwhelms you, and everyone is different. One person might need longer, another less long with one situation or another. I don't think there's any doubt that he can drive. There's no doubt that he can do all the things that are now demanded of him. But it's also completely normal to need a little time. And I think nothing is lost there either, in that sense. If the development suddenly takes the right path, then I think Ferrari is in a completely different position again. They were very strong last year, narrowly missed the Constructors' Championship, so you shouldn't write off the whole team and the two drivers now."

---

[If you could choose a role again in Formula 1, I know that you were, for example, in Monaco, we saw each other very briefly there, you came out of the Red Bull hospitality, you had an appointment with Stefano Domenicali. When people see you now, also with your experience regarding social projects, everyone would ask, why isn't Sebastian integrated into Formula 1 anymore with his past? What's the answer to that?]

"I have many, but would you like to do that? I am in contact with Stefano, we are talking about it and perhaps still refining and tinkering with what it would look like exactly. Yes, but I also don't want to push myself in any way. I think ultimately it has to fit for both sides. I don't know. I mean, I follow the sport with great interest, and now also with enough distance that I don't feel like it's a problem anymore. The first few races were perhaps a bit more difficult, but now after a relatively long time, it is no longer a problem."

"Yes, I don't know what it could be in the future. Of course, it would be nice to see that the goals that Formula 1 sets for itself are realistically approached and achieved regarding the future and regarding responsibility. So whether it's climate neutrality by 2030 or certain projects and aspects to use the impact of Formula 1 to really live, exemplify, and bring about good change. On the other hand, of course, as I said, staying close to the drivers in a certain role, I don't know what kind of role that will be in the future, is certainly something one can imagine, which I can also imagine."

[Simply because you have had so many experiences that you couldn't evaluate during your active time, but now I think with more distance, you see many things.]

"I watch the races, of course, I see the same things as everyone else, which tires, which strategy, and so on. But I think what tactic or what mindset is behind it, what is going on in the driver's head, I think I already have more insight, perhaps not better than everyone else, but more insight. And of course, yes, because it's perhaps still so fresh, I can still draw more from it. 'Does he feel comfortable now, and where is perhaps the problem? Maybe it's not the tire set or the strategy, but perhaps something else.' That's what I find interesting, the person behind it."

[I just wanted to ask you a few quick short questions at the end, including a quiz question about your training. I'm curious if you can answer it. Perhaps first, what are you learning right now that you are not yet good at?]

"Grasses and herbs."

[Okay...alphorn playing?]

"Alphorn playing! I still remember that, I put it aside but haven't completely given up. I heard something again recently and thought, oh yes, I must get it out again."

[What is your greatest gift?]

"Of course, you could talk about racing because I had some success there and so on, but I think, yes, this reading people, it sounds a bit much, but I think I can sense what is going on in people and in certain situations, and then, of course, when it comes to sport and performance or results in that sense."

[Looking back at your Formula 1 time with all the people you met, regardless of who they are, a really good evening, a final evening, perhaps. Who chooses the restaurant?]

"Me!" [Ja?] "Ja!"

[Do you have good taste?]

"I don't know, but I think I have learned over the years that, yes, I really enjoy doing that. Let's put it that way."

[Who is responsible for the music?]

"Also me. If I'm throwing the party, then at least the food and music. Music can either be right and you don't really notice it, it's in the background and it fits. But if it's wrong, it's already too late when you notice it. So, yes."

[What do you like to listen to? What's your favorite?]

"Everything. But when eating, yes, it has to be something calmer and something that fits the time and the setting."

[Yes, who pays?]

"I would also like to, I wouldn't have a problem." *laughs*

[Who leaves first?]

"That depends on how many people are there."

[But who would be the one you'd say, yes, okay, the slightly grumpy one.]

"Christian always left first!"

[Okay, okay, okay. And who locks the door at the end?]

"Adrian."

[Really? Such a party person?]

"Yes, well, there are others there too, but yes, he always had fun anyway."

[So Sebastian, the last question now. Now I'm curious. I hope I'm not putting you on the spot. So you are doing your training now in Switzerland, right? Agriculture? I think you are in the vocational school in Pfäffikon. Did I pronounce that correctly?] "Ja." [Watch out, now I have picked out a question. So, which plant is often referred to as "green gold" because it improves the soil and serves as animal fodder? Is it A) Wheat, B) Clover, C) Corn, or D) Rapeseed?]

"It's clover because it's a legume and the only plant that can store nitrogen in the form of nodule bacteria on the roots. You can even see them with the naked eye, and it's not only good for the soil and the plant, but also good for the animals."

[That's great. You passed the test!]

[screamlet]

hi hellooo for the intimacy prompts: ♟ Patching up a wound

well hello i'm back and it turns out i did have another one of these! in the same urgent care/dr. donna universe as the other patching up a wound fic. 1.2k, established bucktommy, future fic, set about a year+ after 8x15 (so canon compliant for 8x15). from the nonsexual acts of intimacy prompt list

and this is the last one!!!!!!!!! thank you all for the prompts!!!!! they're all available here and i'll post them to the ao3 at some point.

---

"Hey, you're back!" Dr. Donna says cheerily. "They should have told you at the front desk, though: I don't do loyalty cards. The 10th visit isn't free."

"No offense, but let's not see each other eight more times," Tommy says as politely as he can manage. (He can't manage much.)

Dr. Donna shoots him a wry look. "I don't just do stitches. I showed up for other parts of medical school, too, I promise."

"It's okay, it's me this time," Evan says, proud of his several-inches-long gash for some reason. "I was fixing this wooden post in our garden and, I don't even know, this happened."

Dr. Donna checks out Evan's bicep and winces. Tommy hasn't looked at the wound since Evan yelled in pain from the yard; they immediately covered it with some paper towels before jumping in the car to urgent care, but it's still too vivid in his imagination. "Jeez, it sure did happen. Shirley already gave you a tetanus shot so I'm just here for the fun part, huh?"

"Let 'em rip," Evan says. "Or not, since they're stitches. Hey, do you use the same kind of stitches for everything you sew up or do you mix it up? Like is it your choice or do you have to use a different kind of stitch for—"

Tommy's been doing a great job, he thinks, of Saturday afternoon moral support here at their local urgent care, but he's still not great with the stitches thing, with the doctors thing. People would think, pretty reasonably, that seeing as much trauma and outright carnage as he does on a daily basis for the past 20 years would mean that he's used to it, he's seen it all, and that's true—except. This is someone he loves getting a needle and thread jabbed through their skin several times because he let a particularly large bird distract him from repairing one of their raised garden beds. It's not the same thing.

"Evan," Tommy interrupts. "I love you so much, I do, you're the love of my life and there's no one I'd rather share all of this with, but you have got to stop talking about sewing your skin together before I throw up everywhere."

"Ooh, that'd be messy," Dr. Donna says. She looks away from Evan's arm and asks Tommy, "Do you want to lie down in one of the other rooms?"

"Yeah, Tommy, it's okay," Evan says. "Seriously, she's so quick."

"I'm so quick," Dr. Donna, Evan's new best friend, assures him. "Shirley, get him a compress and some smelling salts, and put him in room 6, huh?"

"No, I'm fine, I am," Tommy says, even though lying down sounds amazing right now. "I'm here for moral support and I'm doing it, right? I'm being so supportive. I just—"

"Tommy," Evan says, his voice gentle. "I promise, you'll be a lot more supportive if you're okay in another room, alright? You're making me nervous."

"Okay," Tommy says slowly. "Okay, I'll go, but I'm not abandoning you, I promise, I'm just—"

Evan tugs on the front of Tommy's shirt and pulls him in for a quick kiss. "You're not abandoning me. I know that. I'll be right out to get you, okay?"

"Okay," Tommy says. "I'll be right in—that room she said. I'm not going anywhere, I promise."

"I know you're not," Evan says. "I know you're here."

---

Shirley takes him to another room and helps him to lie on the exam bed. The lights are dim, he's got a cold compress, and for one reason or another, he's trying to remember Ian McKellen's monologue from The Two Towers. Through fire and water, from the lowest dungeon to the highest peak, I fought with the Balrog of Morgoth…

"Something something, smote his ruin upon the mountainside, ugh, I know that's not all of it," Tommy grumbles under his breath. Suddenly there's a quiet knock at the door and it's Evan, smiling like they're anywhere else doing anything else.

"Shh, you're good, don't sit up," Evan says as he pulls over a stool. "I'm all set. You wanna hear how many?"

"What'd you bet, 12?"

"I guessed 12 and I got 15! Same as you!"

Tommy closes his eyes. "You're so excited about that."

"What? We have matching scars. That's pretty cool." Evan pauses. "I wonder if she gave me an extra so we'd have the same. Dr. Donna wouldn't do that, right? Is that malpractice? I guess it was just a coincidence. I don't really care."

It's a short rolling stool, so Evan stands up and leans over Tommy. He lifts the compress so he can press a kiss to Tommy's forehead, then puts it back. "I'm sorry I got all carried away with gross stuff. How are you feeling?"

"Stupid. Really stupid." Tommy sighs. "I've popped shoulder joints back into place, tied off bleeds with tourniquets and t-shirts and whatever I have, literally held someone's guts together once, and I just…"

"Hey, hey." Evan leans down again and kisses Tommy's lips. "Stop apologizing, you don't have to prove you're a big tough guy. I know you are. Everyone's got their stuff. I can make myself a little sick just thinking about cutting up raw chicken breast. It's gross as hell."

"This isn't gross kitchen stuff," Tommy protests. "You needed me for something serious and I—"

"Chickened out?"

"Once I can stand and open my eyes for more than five seconds, I'm kicking you in the shin."

"Yeah, that's fair." Evan kisses him again. "Tommy, it's okay. When haven't you come through for me when I needed you?"

Tommy tries nodding without making himself nauseated. "Let's make a list of acceptable urgent care conversation topics on your phone, I'll keep some good noise-canceling headphones in the glove compartment, and neither of us will ever get injured again, okay? You heard Dr. Donna, she doesn't do discounts."

"Actually, since she teaches at the medical school, too, she's giving a talk next week or so about some new research in—" Evan catches himself. "Research in medical stuff. I'm gonna go to that and you have the house to yourself."

"Sounds like a blast, send her my best."

Tommy opens his eyes to the dim room and Evan standing over him, looking so soft and concerned. "I'm okay."

"I know you are," Evan says. "And this doesn't count, okay?"

"Doesn't…"

"You didn't leave me," Evan whispers. "I know you never will."

Tommy doesn't have anything else to say, so Evan kisses him again, then presses his ear to Tommy's chest, right over his heart. Tommy lifts his hand and rests it on Evan's head, fingers flexing gently in his curls until Evan stands up again.

"Oh, wait, actually," Evan says.

"You're too excited, please stop this ride."

Evan digs into his pocket and holds up a handful of lollipops. "She let me take one of each of the citrus ones, and a strawberry one. They're all yours."

Tommy sticks them all in his shirt pocket for easy access later. "When you run off with Dr. Donna, remember that I tried to be a good boyfriend, okay?"

"Shut up," Evan laughs, kissing him again. "Redheads… are a little my type, but not as much as you are."

"Are you helping or hurting, Evan? Helping or hurting?"

[bdbdbdbdmn]

"every time" i wish! what if i headcanoned every male character as a cis woman, would that make you feel better? what if i headcanoned that everything was the same except that our world's gender roles were swapped? all the chicks are dudes now? also uno reverse card, your headcanon that the charaters in people's trans au's are/should be cis is actually stealing from trans people! it's always the masc women that you always steal every single time, every single woman does this. yep. you hcing them as cis is transphobic now because why can't a character be made without you forcing them to be cis? if only cis people would stop hcing characters as cis, then there'd be no more transphobia! your headcanon personally erased my trans friend, i can't find him anymore! you see a trans man and your first thought isn't respect, it's conversion therapy! oh, the horror of your bias against trans men! your bias against your own sex, saying that you must be a good girl or else!

anyways i don't care if they hc more masc than fem women as trans guys. it would make sense considering they have to go through life being treated as "gnc women" and most likely grew up seeing themselves in a masc lady or two. idk why you think your gender has a moral monopoly over y'alls side of the sex spectrum, you're literally cis. if we're going by stupid marginalization points, trans men clearly have cis women beat by a long shot. imagine dealing with every sex and gender related issue you've ever had, and then on top of that you were also trans and had to deal with all of the issues that come with that (including being talked to by everyone the way you just talked to me). yeah, fuckin sucks. and it's technically more progressive too, so. yeah. i'm fully on trans men's side on this one, this petty fight over the right to control their hcs is doing nothing but stripping everyone except perisex cishet men of all of their rights. all anti-trans laws and beliefs ultimately stem from sexist cis men feeling like they have the right to tell You what to do, to keep you away from "male spaces," to define you out of humanity and into another species. you don't have to be trans, you don't have to be comfortable with transness, but right now in the US they're gonna put cis women on the sex offenders list for going topless just so they can more easily stop trans men from swimming shirtless after top surgery. they're segregating your sex from society even further to discourage trying to transition. they've successfully diverted the feminist movement away from abortion rights and convinced them to try and eradicate the less than 1% of the population that threatened cis male power and egos just a little too much.

also, it's not about only valuing women after turning them into men, it's about valuing the entire sexual and gender spectrums. if it were about valuing women if they're turned into men, it's still better than whatever you're doing because at least their love is unconditional. for you, a woman has to be a lady for her to be worth existing, even just as a thought about a character. why are you trying to control what someone does just because they're not born with the genitals that you despise? you'd think that'd give them a free pass, and yet...

also what'd i fuckin say about how they Are making their own characters, and in addition to that, headcanons are an entirely different skillset with different rewards? do you seriously not know what a headcanon is or why people like them? anyways, obligatory how fucking dare you compare a trans male headcanon to colonization you racist insensitive asshole lmao. and it's not even the best racist allegory for the situation! there's clearly no point to continuing on with anymore of my arguments because that alone disqualifies you. white 😃👉

I can't believe I gotta be saying this shit but. a trans guy headcanoning a masculine or strong female character as also being a trans guy doesn't take anything from cis women just so it's clear. first of all, it's a headcanon. in his HEAD. about a fake not real character. an angel has never had their wings "violently ripped off and thrown into a shredder" because of a headcanon, especially not for trans headcanons. it's not misogynistic for trans men to find common ground with girl characters, especially likable, cool, masculine ones who struggle against sexism. they know women can be strong too. they know that girls can like boy things. why are you assuming that everything they do is a betrayal and sexist? why do you think they skipped believing cis men and cis women are equal and went straight to transitioning? you have to not be sexist for the entire concept to work

[subbmissivesuccubus]

Watch your mouth

Ya'll fucking with fear play?

~~~~~

"Fuck you."

the words left your mouth without even realizing, an instinctual curse as a response to your boyfriend finally- finally- sinking his cock inside you. He was torturing you this whole time; hours spent between your legs where he edged you over and over again, driving you crazy with his skilled fingers and tongue. He ignored your countless pleas to just fuck you already, having a lot more fun devolving you into a blubbering mess. So when he finally pushed his length inside your dripping, stretched out cunt, you gasped out a curse that was more meant to convey your satisfaction but of course, that's not what he interpreted from it.

"What was that?"

"Nothing- nothing- sorry-"

"Did you just curse at me?"

"Nononono- I didn't- I didn't-"

"No? Really? Because it sounded to me like you said 'go fuck yourself'. Was I wrong?"

"Nono- I wasn't serious- I couldn't control it- Please- I didn't mean-"

Uzui clicked his tongue at your babbles and whimpers, your words getting lost among your ramblings.

"Five. Four. Three-"

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean it- I didn't mean it!" you whined, your heart leaping in your throat at the countdown, your instincts immediately taking over in fear of him reaching one.

"So you did curse at me."

"I did b-but it was an accident! I promise- I didn't mean to say it."

"I bet it was cause I know you're not that fucking stupid that you think cursing me out is a good idea. What were you even thinking?"

"I wasn't- I wasn't thinking Daddy. I'm sorry! Please- please-"

"Where's your hairbrush?"

"Daddy- please!" you babbled, heart jumping up to your throat at the implication, your behind already stinging just from the idea of what he was going to do to it, "I'll be good. I'll be so good for you Daddy please- please don't spank me!"

"If you're going to be good for me, you have to prove it. Now tell me where it is before you piss me off even more."

Rengoku tilted his head like a dog confused, his lower lip jutting out in a pout, eyebrows furrowed like he was about to cry even as he pushed his whole cock inside you, inches burying deep in your weeping cunt.

"Why would you curse at me, my love? That really hurt my feelings..."

"Sorry- i'm sorry- I didn't mean it- hah-"

"No? You didn't mean it?" he asked, hissing as your cunt throbbed around his shaft, squeezing him tightly as his heavy balls pressed against you, "Then why did you say it? Don't you know your words have meaning?"

"I know- i'm sorry- it was instinct!" you cried out, whimpering as he stayed completely still inside of you, his body pressed against yours, rendering you unmovable underneath his weight.

"You wanna show me how sorry you are?"   "Y-Yes- okay-" "Yeah? Then we're going to stay like this." "W-What?"

"Yeah~" he cooed, tickling your nose with his own, "You're going to cockwarm me for as long as I want. If you're really sorry, you'll do this for me, right?"

Sanemi gripped your face harshly, growling as he squished your cheeks between his fingers, forcing a silly pout on your face.

"Do you think I’m stupid?" he warned, grip unwavering at your whimpers,

"No- no- sorry- I didn't mean to Daddy!"

"Fucking brat. Just when I was going to take pity on you- you cuss me out?"

He ignored your continued apologies as his free hand went down to your ankle to grab at your panties that was still dangling off of it. Bunching it into a ball, he roughly shoved it into your mouth, muffling your squeals as you tasted your own essence, the fabric soaking up the remaining saliva in your mouth. He then flipped you over, a hand on the back of your head before pushing your face down on the mattress harshly.

You gasped against your panties as he pressed his cock against your entrance, the heat of his fat tip kissing your pussy making your eyes roll to the back of your head. Fuck. You were in for a night.

"You know, I was going to be nice." he said, gripping the base of his cock before he started to push inside you again, "Make love to you for being so good for me. Too bad. That's off the table now."

Gyomei pressed a heavy hand onto your chest, pressing down gently and that was enough to get you to stop talking.

"You know I don't like it when you lie. And you know I don't like it when you curse."

"It-It was instinct- no like- not instinct but-" you whimpered, "I didn't mean it Sir, I promise!"

"I don't care. You never curse at me. Understand?"

"I know. I'm sorry. I'm sorry Sir."

"Why have I told you not to curse?"

You sniffled, thinking back to your training- "B-Because I'm a strong and intelligent w-woman and I don't need to use b-bad words to- hah- to make my point."

"Good girl. I'm glad you remember. But we're stopping here."

"No- please- please- don't stop-"

He pressed down on your chest more, making you whimper as you bit back your words. He always knows how to render you speechless with just a touch. With just a word.

"You need to learn. You're going to suck me off and once I cum down your throat, we're going to bed. You'll be lucky if I decide to touch you tomorrow. Now, get on your knees."

Obanai raised an eyebrow, clearly not impressed by your whines and whimpers of apologies as he brought a hand up and wrapped his fingers around your neck. You gasped, air getting caught in your pipe as he choked you, fingers gripped you tightly from the sides.

"Since you can't control your potty mouth, maybe you don't need to speak at all." your boyfriend said, tightening his grip on your neck as he pushed back inside of you, walls parting for his meaty cock. You grit your teeth, mouth opening in a pathetic attempt to moan but you just felt lightheaded, your man giving you just enough to keep breathing but not enough to speak or gasp.

"That's better, isn't it?" he asked rhetorically, looking down at you with a dark look in his eyes, "Dumb little thing like you doesn't need to use words. Especially since you can't think before you speak."

He knew you could take it as you were a formidable Hashira yourself- a bit of choking wasn't going to really hurt you but you could feel his cock grow harder inside you as you struggled, gurgling nonsense as your eyes filled with tears, overtaken by the various sensations.

"S-Sor- I- Sorr-"

"Yeah, yeah. Just shut up and take my cock."

Giyuu clicked his tongue as he took his cock away from your cunt, ignoring your cries of protest. He stroked himself once before he started to crawl up, pinning your body down as he did. Eventually, he reached your chest, giving a nipple a harsh pinch and a twist to make you control yourself, unable to focus on babbling apologies as you had to focus on the pleasurable pain.

"Are you done?" he asked coldly, referring to your cries. You nodded quickly, gasping as he let go of your tit. "Good." he said before crawling up some more. You stayed still, obediently waiting as he straddled your face, knees on either side of your head as he towered over you.

"Open."

You obeyed, opening your mouth wide. He not so gently started sliding his cock into you, able to taste a little bit of your own juices as he did. While he'd usually take it slow, now he pushed in inch after inch, not stopping even as he hit the back of your throat.

You gagged around him, eyes starting to water as he mercilessly drove his dick into your mouth, his thick member sliding down your throat. Your legs kicked up and down as he stuffed himself balls deep, the tuft of hair on the base of his cock tickling your nose. You tired your best to breathe, blood rushing to your face, making you dizzy.

He rolled his hips against your face, a whisper of a laugh leaving his lips before he started to move, thrusting his hips back and forth, making you gag and choke as he started fucking your face.

"Since I don't have soap to wash your mouth out, my cum will have to do."

~~~~~

[azzibueckers5]

i wanna know peace again (wanna sing a different song) (ao3 link) (chapter 1 link)

chapter 2: in which azzi is a drama queen and mentally calls herself the word stupid so many times that it loses its meaning (wc: ~8.5k) (gasp)

AN: ummmm hiiiiii i'm back. please enjoy! i wanted to make it angstier but i didn't want to actually write that? so here you go. umm. any and all mistakes re: basketball and the wnba (and anything else) are mine and mine only! i'm learning slowly and I googled a lot of things but who knows. i think that's it? idk have fun freaks <3

azzi wakes to a pounding headache, a crick in her neck from sleeping on the couch, and an overwhelming sense of dread at everything in the world ever. 

hanxiety doesn’t even begin to capture the feeling that curdles in her stomach when she goes to confirm that last night wasn’t a hyper-realistic dream, the words outgoing call, 1:47 reflecting back at her bleary eyes underneath paige’s contact. she’d called her at two in the fucking morning. good god. 

she’s not sure if the wine or the hours of crying is the cause of the absolute knife between her temples, but it doesn’t matter because she needs three advils, like, now, before she begins processing the nightmare that the previous night really was. 

she drags herself off the couch, wincing at the ache in her muscles, and heads to her bedroom to change out of last night's pjs and try and dig up the pain killers that she knows are somewhere in her bedside table. 

briefly, humorously, she contemplates the tub of miscellaneous, much stronger drugs that she’s accumulated over her years of surgeries and injuries. maybe if she overdoses on the opioids she’d been given but never taken after her acl tear she won’t have to deal with this whole L-word realization that is sure to ruin the current stability of her life. 

as she mentally picks through the haze of wine over her memories from the night before, the pit in her stomach grows. she had been a lot of things the prior night- stupid, emotional, drunk, but wrong about the truth of her complex web of emotion surrounding paige? 

she wasn’t so sure. (she was actually kind of sure she hadn’t been wrong. which. fuck.)

after swallowing her pills (advil, not the oxycodone), she picks up her phone and fires off three texts to aaliyah in quick succession, needing her to know how much her line of questioning had caused azzi to spiral.

azzi: u suck btw. 

azzi: the all-star break isn't the time to make me over analyze my friendships

azzi: or my sexuality for that matter

the older girl responds in a matter of seconds.

lili: BRUH I THOUGHT U KNEW

lili: come shoot before practice w me and we can talk it out

lili: but jsyk uve been moping for A YEAR my bad for thinking it was cause yall broke up

azzi: brooooo everyone always says friendship breakups r worse anyways

she releases a long suffering sigh to the mirror above her dresser. she looks a little bit like shit, eyes puffy and cheek creased, posture slumped over looking at her phone. the picture of i don’t want to have this crisis right now but i fear it’s too late. 

screw everything. she looks back down at the buzz of her phone in her palm:

aaliyah: that’s only for straight girls dumbass

azzi: ok well i thought i WAS a straight girl

lili: [screenshotted image of her profile photo for azzi: her, sitting on the ground in the uconn facilities, propped up against the base of her locker, legs spread comfortably. her head is tilted up at the camera, a smirk lopsided on her face, and one hand is throwing up a four, the other splayed out across the top of her trucker hat. she’s wearing a huskies sports bra and sweatpants, slung low enough on her hips to exhibit the the thick band of her basketball shorts and the v of her lower abs] 

lili: does this look like a straight girl to u 

it's almost funny how obvious the answer is. azzi types out a succinct kill youself and throws her phone across her bed.

she feels like she should be concerned with how easily the knowledge that she’s into women (or at least one specific woman) settles into her skin. but somehow it feels more like something she’d known about herself and simply buried, waiting for the right time to fully process. and this doesn’t necessarily feel like the right time, but it's happening whether azzi likes it or not, and she supposes that accepting that you’re gay is a lot easier when every single person in your life already knew and thought you knew before you actually did. 

the only person she really has to solidly come out to is herself (she ignores the voice in her head telling her that she will also maybe have to come out to paige at some point. if they talk and y’know. things go the way azzi is somehow already desperately hoping they will), and she’d always kind of known, in an abstract sense anyway, that she was attracted to women, but she’d never really had a crush on one or had the inclination to actually do anything about that thought so it had sat on the backburner, something she only really thought about when she was drunk, or lonely,  or some combination of the two. 

she figures she can work out whether she’s ever even been into men at all at a later date. all she can think about right now is paige anyways, and it's childish, but she’s almost annoyed at how cliche she feels for having her gay realization be the blonde, like she’s just another fangirl in paige’s tik tok comment section writing some variation of ‘i'm straight, but its paige bueckers!’ 

and it’s stupid, but it feels like she’s feeding into paige's ego by just acknowledging this space that’s been carved out in her chest. paige had always been droning on and on about how much rizz she had, how everybody wanted her, and azzi had loved nothing more than humbling her, calling her conceited and egotistical and stupid, and well. it seems azzi had been the stupid one all along. 

she knows, though, that this feeling, this thing in her chest that has somehow ballooned inside of her overnight, runs much, much deeper than the silly, surface level attraction that most people attributed to paige. and she also reasons that she knows paige, both her flaws and her insecurities and the parts that make her so wonderful, in a way that none of the teenage girls on tiktok could ever begin to even dream of. 

being in love with paige (and she guesses she’s really acknowledging it now, so that's. cool.) didn’t feel like a fluke, but rather something that was simply innate inside of her, ever humming under her skin. 

she curses the universe for giving her this mid-life crisis eight days before she has to hop on the flight that will take her directly to paige’s city, but there's an underlying feeling of hope, too, that she tries to squash. she firmly ignores the thought that it feels a little bit like a cosmic sign. 

paige having a woman she was almost certainly sleeping with, minimum, in the background of her phone at 1am also kinda felt like a cosmic sign. a sign that meant it's too late. 

and. oh god. she needs to text paige about dallas. 

and what the fuck to you say to your ex best friend who you hypothetically were (are?) in love with and drunkenly called crying after a year of not speaking one-on-one to try and plan a hangout? your ex best homoerotic friend who maybe has a new girl? 

but paige had insinuated that she wasn’t expecting azzi to actually reach out, which, aside from the fact that azzi did want to, also made it somewhat of a competition, and azzi didn’t lose competitions. especially against paige. 

it's already nearing 10 am, and even though paige is an hour behind, she wants to make it clear that she’s true to her word. paige had seemed like she’d wanted her to text, too, and. she’d said she missed her. a lot.

she types out the first thing she thinks of, u gonna show me your cowboy boots collection or what, and sends it before she can talk herself out of it.

the anger at paige from the night before is still simmering in her blood, a little bit, because what the fuck? they haven't talked in a year and it was paige’s fault. but also. azzi knows paige, even after all this time, and. she has a growing hunch that instead of the callous disregard for azzi and their friendship that paige had tried so hard to portray, azzi is starting to think that it had been hurt, not indifference, that had caused paige to distance them.

when paige doesn’t immediately respond to azzi’s text and profess her undying love for azzi and azzi only, she tries to convince her immune system that she did not, in fact, just drink poison and she was not, in fact, having a heart attack. 

and god, was it normal to feel like she was dying after sending a text? yesterday-azzi was lucky as fuck that she thought she hadn’t been in love because this fucking sucked. 

she makes breakfast with her anxiety at an all time high, checking her phone every sixty seconds and nearly burning her omelette. as the minutes tick by, azzi tries to resign herself to the reality that maybe paige had told her to text because she didn’t believe azzi would, not in spite of it. 

but then, as azzi is throwing things in her bag to leave for the facilities and bombard aaliyah with questions and a borderline mental breakdown, she feels her phone buzz in her pocket. she drops her water bottle on her foot in her haste to check what it says, and it hurts like a bitch, but paige responds with ‘unfortunately only one pair of boots. but im sure my hat collection will impress u’ and well. 

azzi’s foot could be broken for all she cares, because paige responded and she’s texting like old paige, and maybe it's flirting, maybe it's not, azzi clearly has no idea, but it's a million times better than the one-word messages she received throughout last year, and.

hope blooms, slow and steady, in azzi’s heart, despite her attempts to squash it.  

…

azzi: please tell me you don’t actually wear any of them outside the house

paige: u have to wear one here at all times or they’ll kill u

paige: texas is no joke

azzi: so i guess i’ll need to borrow one when im down there then

paige: when do u fly in 

paige: ill give u the pick of the litter 

…

(azzi does not shriek when she sees that text after practice. she does not.)

…

three days before azzi flies to dallas (and potentially lights herself on fire), she has a moment of weakness. after a particularly tiring lift and a day without more than a few new texts from paige, she settles into bed freshly showered with her laptop propped open on a pillow. she means to put on the rest of the abbot elementary episode she’d been watching earlier, but her fingers apparently aren’t connected to the rest of her body because they type in “paige bueckers and azzi fudd” into the youtube search bar instead. 

a couple nonsense videos pop up before her eyes catch on to the SLAM interview they’d done together right before azzi’s freshman year season. she clicks the link before she can chicken out.

it's a behind the scenes, with interview anecdotes thrown in between clips of them messing around, and they look so young. and jesus the way paige is looking at her. like she hangs the moon in the sky. and eighteen year old azzi isn’t much better, and she can’t keep her eyes off the blonde for more than five milliseconds, and they’re, well, they’re flirting right in front of current azzi’s face, and good god. no wonder everyone had thought something was going on. 

if azzi hadn’t lived through it, known the way they’d only ever tiptoed the line, never crossing, she would’ve thought so too. 

she makes it six minutes into the video before she slams her laptop shut, rolls over, and screams bloody murder into her pillowcase. 

…

the mystics don’t fly down until the night before, and their game is in the afternoon, so she and paige make tentative plans to hang out after azzi ‘find[s] out what happens when you mess with texas.’

paige is a dork, and an unfunny one at that. she hearts the message when azzi tells her as much, and azzi has to hide her smile in the hood of her sweatshirt so georgia doesn’t ask any pestering questions when paige adds ‘unfunny maybe but a loser? never.’

azzi really, really hopes that this text-flirting or whatever they’re doing means that paige doesn’t have a girlfriend. she doesn’t think her heart could take it if she did, and she doesn’t understand how paige (maybe? she’s being optimistic. sue her.) lived with these feelings for so long and didn’t act on them because it's been a singular week of occasional texting and only that has azzi feeling like she’s going to tear her hair out. 

the flight to dallas and subsequent restless night of sleep in a mediocre hotel room crawls by so slowly that azzi feels like she’s been physically transported to a planet in which every minute that goes by is actually an hour. or something. she doesn’t remember the plot of interstellar but she feels like messy time travel and space stuff like that was part of it. maybe it's happening to her. stranger things have occurred.

(like not knowing you were in love with your best friend for eight years)

(she doesn’t remember the plot of interstellar because the uconn team had watched it one slow off-season afternoon, and azzi had let paige coax her into taking an edible, gotten ridiculously high and scared, and had spent the entire movie with her face tucked into paige’s shoulder, letting the hands rubbing her back and stupid commentary in her ear lull her into safety) 

(fuck everything)

…

and then the most dreaded and anticipated day of azzi’s short, miserable life so far is upon her. thank god it’s a saturday game, so tipoff is at 2:00, and she doesn’t have to drown in anxiety for a whole day beforehand, because breakfast and the pregame meeting in the hotel is tortuous enough as is. 

kiki has to forcefully put her hand on azzi’s leg on the bus to get it to stop jumping up and down, and everyone knows not to bring up anything related to paige in front azzi, and she hasn’t said anything to anyone other the aaliyah about how they’re speaking again, but she can feel the sideways glances her teammates are sharing behind her back and her brain itches. 

they warm up on the court after the wings are done with their shooting drills, meaning azzi only gets a glance of paige disappearing back into the tunnel when they head out to stretch, but it's enough to transform her anxiety from a level 6 on the richter scale to a solid, nauseating 8. 

there’s signs of paige everywhere: posters with her face all over the walls, her number plastered on the sides of the hallway they have to walk down to get to the arena, and, worst of all, fans milling about, decked out completely in #5 jerseys and paige paraphernalia. several have carefully drawn out posters and clever slogans, clamoring in the stands to get as close as possible in an attempt to gain the one and only paige bueckers’ attention. and azzi can’t even fucking blame them, as pitiful as it is, because she wants paige’s attention on her, too. probably more than any of these fans combined.

a twisted, irrational seed of jealousy takes root in her heart when she thinks about how these fans have gotten to see paige grow and blossom over the last year and a half, how paige had left connecticut and the team and azzi and come here and immediately charmed the hearts of this entire stupid city, not caring what, or rather, who she left behind.

and fuck texas and their stupid cowboy boots and hot weather and their ability to win over really pretty blonde girls and entrap them in their clutches. 

her shots are off during warmups, and it takes everything in her not to turn around and look for a familiar blonde head when they announce the starting lineup and paige’s name is called, but then that effort is entirely futile because paige’s face is suddenly plastered on every single god-forsaken screen in the entire arena as she runs back out through tunnel. and she looks so cool and confident and definitely not like she’s having a tweak-fest about her ex best friend being in such close proximity. and life isn’t fair. 

and azzi loses her breath for a second at how stunningly beautiful paige is. she’s always been gorgeous, even self-proclaimed-straight-azzi had known that, but something about paige in the center of the basketball court, completely in her element, has always made her look more magnetic than usual. 

paige’s eyes flit across the visiting team’s bench for a second, like she’s looking for someone, looking for azzi, and she wants to jump up and wave her arms or do something equally as ridiculous to get her attention, but it turns out she doesn’t need to because then blue eyes find azzi’s without any help, like a magnet, and, wow, azzi had thought that she’d mentally prepared herself for this as much as possible, but she’d been horribly, terribly wrong. 

paige seems almost bashful when her face tilts into a lopsided grin, and azzi’s heart is doing this weird little flipping thing inside of her chest, which, it's never done that before, or maybe it had and she’d just never noticed because she’s an idiot, but regardless, azzi grins back, eyes probably all squinty and everything, and she really hopes no one is paying attention to them right now because she knows she looks absolutely sick in the head. 

she feels bolder than usual all of a sudden, adrenaline coursing through her and the high of having paige’s attention on her after all these months must be messing with her brain to mouth filter, because then she’s mouthing “you ready to lose?” to the blonde girl across the arena. 

paige’s smile drops in exaggerated offense and she’s getting nudged by her teammates to pay attention to something else but she smirks lazily, and flips azzi off before her attention is dragged into their huddle. 

and azzi feels woozy- like a fucking cartoon character with little birds circling her head. lord give her strength. paige flips her off and suddenly she’s acting like the blonde girl came over and proposed or something. this whole thing is so. stupid.

the anthem and pre-game huddle is a blur of nerves and trying not to get caught staring at the back of paige’s head. and then it’s tip off, and blessedly, graciously, they’re not guarding each other, and azzi tries valiantly to focus on the ball and her teammates’ positioning and not on the blonde in her peripheral vision. 

she’s off balance though, only making one of her first four shots, and she knows exactly why that is and it's so frustrating because paige already has seven points and seems entirely unaffected. 

and then, six minutes into the game, paige knocks the ball away from kiki in a breakaway, and azzi is the only one who has a chance at stopping her from a simple, uncontested layup. they run up the court together, paige just out of azzi’s reach until they get to the paint. and azzi knows exactly the move paige is going to pull, could draw it up in her sleep, and the only real way to stop it is to throw her hip out and jump up at the exact second she knows paige will release the ball and pray that her hand makes contact with rubber and not skin.

and she does knock the ball away, fuck you, paige blockers, but her hip also makes contact with paige’s side and she goes sprawling, sliding across the linoleum. azzi has a split second of panic that she’s actually hurt paige, but paige is grinning up at her, the drama queen, and azzi groans when she hears the familiar whistle of a foul call somewhere behind her. 

azzi’s hand grips paige’s to pull her up, other hand going out to steady her hip, and the first real skin on skin contact in a year shocks her to her core. her fingers are tingling, and how on earth was she able to ignore the feeling that arises in her whenever paige is close to her for so long because it feels like the world has stopped spinning on its axis for a second. 

nothing had ever been able to pry azzi’s attention away from basketball before, except for paige, (which. add that to the list of things that probably should have clued her in years ago) and it’s even worse now that azzi understands why that was the case. 

and they are in the middle of a basketball court on live television with thousands of people watching their every move and azzi is still gripping paige’s hand. and someone needs to put her in a psychiatric hospital or something. 

she regrettably pulls her fingers away from the taller girl’s grasp and immediately misses the contact. 

“you playin’ dirty cause you don’t think you can win?” paige taunts, but she’s grinning at azzi like she knows it was an accident, and her face is flushed from the first few minutes of running and she looks positively edible and. how azzi thought of herself as immune to paige’s charm for so long is well beyond her now because she wants to do. a lot of things, actually, but she needs to focus on basketball right now. because again. middle of the basketball court.  

“shut up, cheater. you’re the one flopping around trying to get a call,” is her very mature and reasonable retort.

and oh. azzi realizes again, in real time, what everyone was talking about when they used to say that her and paige were constantly flirting. because her hand is still on the taller girl's hip (just to steady her. yeah right.) and paige is smirking down at her and azzi is teasing her and- oh my god she’s been so stupid. 

the familiar spark of competition (and probably some other things. like attraction. whatever.) lights up between them like no time has passed since they were staying late after practices and running shooting drills just the two of them, and azzi feels herself settle for the first time since she caught sight of paige warming up. 

she’d been worried that she’d be too distracted by paige’s presence to play well, but the feeling of blue eyes on the back of her neck whenever she has the ball, and even when she doesn’t, fuels her like nothing else. 

by halftime, she has 19 points. 

and when the mystics finally edge out an unexpected, much needed win, there’s a 34 next to azzi’s name in the box score. she only misses two shots after her exchange with paige in the first quarter. 

and it's merely an out of conference win, but it's a close one because paige had played well too, and she can feel the satisfaction of a well-fought game settling in her bones, and the added bonus of beating paige, specifically, is making her feel like she's on cloud nine.

they keep their post game hug short and cordial (or. as cordial as a paige burying her face in azzi’s neck and azzi gripping her shoulders as tight as possible can be) (azzi might be delusional but she swears the crowd gets louder when they hug)

she kind of never wants it to end, and misses her instantly when paige pulls away, but then paige stays close when they separate, and looks nothing but proud when she congratulates azzi, asking “you tryna outdo my rookie of the year performance?” 

azzi is grateful for the flush on her cheeks from the game, so it masks how hot her blood gets at the question. “maybe, we’ll see,” is the only thing she can come up with in response, and it sounds coy even to her own ears. 

“i know we will” is paige’s fond response, and there’s cameras surrounding them and azzi’s not stupid enough to bring up their post-game plans right now but she wants to so she just hums and stands there, probably looking like a fucking adoring idiot. 

paige smiles, big this time, despite their loss, and tugs azzi back into a much briefer hug. it’s friendly for the cameras, and quick, but paige manages to tuck an “i'll text you” into azzi's shoulder before she’s pulling away and leaving azzi to watch helplessly after her as she’s immediately swarmed by teammates and media. 

and winning the game was fun and great and awesome or whatever, but the mile-wide smile on azzi’s face has a lot more to do with residual tingling of paige’s hugs than anything else. she is so stupendously screwed. 

…

the press conference goes by torturously slow because azzi doesn’t have time to check her phone beforehand, but they only ask her one question about paige so she counts it as another win.

(they ask azzi if this victory is sweeter because paige is on the other team and azzi answers with a really eloquent “yes,” and doesn’t elaborate when asked. her teammates nearly wet themselves with laughter)

azzi almost falls out of her chair in her attempt to get up as fast as possible when they’re released from press, and it takes everything in her not to sprint back to the locker room to check her phone. aaliyah doesn’t even try to hide her laughter.  

three texts from paige from 10 minutes prior are waiting for her when she finally gets back to her locker. 

paige: about to hop in shower

paige: wanna j do something straight from here

paige: or we can do something later if u wanna go back to hotel first idc  

the three separate texts means that paige is nervous, and some satisfaction settles in azzi’s stomach, but it’s overshadowed by the fact that she’s left the decision making to azzi. 

she debates it for two seconds before deciding she might run into oncoming traffic or something equally as gruesome if left to her own thoughts for more than 5 minutes. she hearts the second text.

azzi: if u wait for me to shower i can be ready in 20

and then she’s only 20 minutes away from being one-on-one with paige for the first time in a year. her shower goes by in a haze and she hopes she remembered to like. use body wash but she can’t really recall because her mind is an abyss of nausea and stress and the little glimmer of hope that she keeps trying to make shut up. 

paige’s ‘kk call me when ur ready and ill tell u where to go’ is waiting for her when she gets out, and she curses herself for only packing a pair of old sweats and a tank top. whatever. it’s not like she needs to impress paige anyway- she’d seen her in every state of dress from black tie evening gowns to pajamas- but still. she’s stressed. 

and then she’s slipping out of the locker room (she’s not doing anything wrong, but she still feels a little bit like she’s sneaking around, trying to avoid questions on where she’s going from her teammates), and calling paige, and letting her voice guide through a hallway and out a couple doors and into the parking lot. 

she hangs up when she sees paige’s recognizable grey jeep ahead of her, and something settles in her stomach at the familiar sight. she’d been in the passenger seat of this car a million and one times. 

but then she’s opening the door and, wow, she feels the furthest thing from settled because there is paige, sitting in the driver's seat and looking clean and nervous and adorably small in an oversized hoodie and shorts. her hair is down and still damp, and she’s wearing glasses, and her hands are fidgeting with her phone in her lap, partially covered by the cuffs of her sweatshirt, and azzi feels something crack in her chest. because how had she not realized that this was exactly what she’d wanted all along?

“hi” paige greets her, voice small and a little shy. 

azzi’s answering “hey, loser” sounds just as bashful and wow, what have they become? 

but then azzi climbs into the passenger seat as paige groans and says “i knew that would be the first thing you’d bring up” and they fall into the ease of bickering about the game and the music paige is playing, and as they pull out of the garage and into the bright afternoon dallas sun, azzi relaxes a bit into her seat. 

they decide to drop their stuff off at paige’s apartment before potentially heading out to find some dinner, and it’s weird- how normal it feels, even though they haven’t done this in forever. azzi still has an undercurrent of panic coursing through her, and she knows she’s looking at paige a little weirdly because the blonde keeps glancing at her funny, like she’s trying to figure something out and can’t quite place what’s changed, but despite that, they fall right back into the simplicity and comfort that each others company has always held. 

until paige decides to ruin the ease of their conversation by glancing across the car at a red light and asking “you gonna tell me why you’re looking at me funny?” 

azzi squirms. debates jumping out, ladybird style. decides against it only because the risk/reward ratio is particularly low. she could deny it, call paige crazy, but that seems useless when she plans on bringing it up when they get inside in 10 minutes anyways. she was planning on waiting until after dinner, but the thrill of having paige within arms reach is making her antsy and she knows she won’t be able to wait that long. 

“no,” she replies. at paige’s sideways glare, she relents, “when we get inside.” 

paige hums, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, and the relaxed environment turns tense in seconds. the remainder of the drive is silent, and it's not awkward, necessarily, but anticipatory, tension clogging azzi’s lungs. 

she fiddles with the ac vents and tries to stop herself from thinking at all. she fails, obviously, and her mind is a mess of paige and random moments from their time at uconn and, the girl in the back of the phone call, and. somehow her hands are shaking. perfect.

she is somehow both thankful and miserable they’re almost there.

they finally pull into paige’s complex, and the mostly silent walk through the garage and elevator ride only further serves to heighten her anxiety. and then paige is pulling out her keys and opening the door and. 

they barely get inside before azzi is rounding on her, dropping her bag on the floor and backing up to lean against the opposing wall. she’d planned this part out in her mind a hundred times, dissecting all the possible pros and cons of asking in different ways, figuring out how to slowly work up to the question that’s been eating her alive since the the all star break, but one look at paige’s confused face and the adrenaline that's been coursing through her veins throughout the whole car ride has her sidestepping logic and reason entirely and blurting out a strangled “were we in love?” 

she’s pretty confident she knows the answer, but the ensuing silence is agonizing anyway. 

azzi can see the second paige processes her question, her face dropping in utter disbelief, and something like heartbreak splinters in her eyes at azzi’s words. paige’s arms go limp at her sides, her keys slipping to the ground beside her, and the jangle of metal against the hardwood floor is deafening in the silence of her entryway. 

“azzi,” paige chokes on her name, like it causes her physical pain. she looks shell-shocked, like she can’t breathe, and azzi can’t breathe either, but she needs to know anyway.

“were we in love, paige? were you in love with me?” she asks again, more desperate this time, the words ripping out of her chest almost without her permission. she feels out of control. between the two of them, paige was always the one to push things too far, press and press until azzi was forced to answer her questions or shut down, and the whip-lash of that role reversal is clear on the older girl’s face. 

still, paige is silent, gaping at her in shock. 

just as azzi opens her mouth to ask a third time, paige closes the gap between them with two steps and seals their mouths together in a desperate, searing kiss. 

azzi’s hands fly to paige's chest immediately, and the blonde’s hands find their place on the sides of her face, cupping her cheeks. azzi opens for her in seconds, and paige makes a wretched, helpless sound in the back of her throat as their tongues meet. she drags one hand down to azzi’s waist and pulls her closer, fingering the gap between her sweats and tank top, and azzi’s hands grip her shirt in return, needing her as close as possible. 

and wow. okay. if there was any lingering doubt in azzi’s mind about whether or not she was into women, into paige, it evaporates into thin air, heat pooling immediately in her stomach. 

and also. paige probably doesn’t have a girlfriend if she’s kissing azzi senseless in her foyer. the relief of that makes her needy, desperate. 

she feels wild with it, with the sudden release of this desire for paige that's been hibernating just under her skin for years, and as paige presses her back into the wall, all azzi can think to do is tug her as close as possible. her hands move again, this time sliding up to the back of paige’s neck, everywhere they can reach, and when they separate from each other for a second to breathe, foreheads pressed together, azzi’s eyes flutter open to probably the prettiest version of paige she’s ever seen. 

she looks absolutely ruined, cheeks flushed and mouth swollen, and azzi feels drunk on the look in her eyes, gazing at her like azzi is the sun and the moon and the whole fucking solar system too. and she’s struck with the thought that they probably could have been doing this for years, probably should have been doing this for years. 

“did you- azzi- did you not know?” is the first thing paige gets out, voice sounding wrecked with emotion and something else, and if azzi had a nickel for every time someone had seemed incredulous that she hadn’t known about paige and her being in love, she’d have five fucking nickels. five nickels to place on the shelf next to her #1 stupidest person on earth trophy. 

azzi can’t help but sound indignant when she sputters out “well no one told me!”

paige just looks at her for a second, like she’s trying to cement this as real, and then she smiles, small and beautiful and just for azzi.

“you’re stupid” is her only retort. and, well. yeah. 

and she looks like she’s about to cry but in a good way azzi thinks, and then azzi can’t see her face anymore because they’re kissing again. she makes a sound in the back of her throat that she will not be recounting when paige slips a hand underneath her tank top, pressing her fingers to her ribs, and jesus, they’ve been making out for maybe a total of two minutes max and she already feels like she’s going to melt into a puddle on the floor. 

paige kisses her like she means it, like she’s starving for it, and azzi didn’t know it until right now but it's exactly the way she likes to be kissed. 

paige wedges a leg between azzi’s, somehow pressing closer, and this is really nice and azzi really doesn’t want to stop but also. they need to actually discuss this before she lets paige do something stupid like finger her in the hallway or drag her off to her bedroom. she might be jumping the gun but also. one of paige’s hands is sliding underneath the waistband of her sweats to caress the smooth skin of her hip, teasing. and, and. she really needs to stop this before her fingers dip any lower because she knows any coherent thought she has will crumble into nothingness. 

she tugs her mouth away for a second, and murmurs out a breathless “paige” in between kisses. she receives a contented grunt in response. 

“paige-” she tries again, except the older girl simply hums and moves lower, pressing open-mouthed kissed down her neck instead. azzi’s brain goes blank for a second, nothing but thoughts of paige’s mouth on her neck and her hands on her waist. but. 

they do need to talk about this. regretfully. 

“paige, we need to- to talk about this,” she stutters out, and when paige still seems undeterred, having moved down to attempt to suck a mark into azzi’s collarbone, she adds, “before we have sex.”

she tries to look away, so she doesn’t have to see the smug grin that she knows will spread across paige’s face at her words, but a consequence of furiously making out with the blonde is that their faces are still inches apart, so she still sees the sly smirk on paige’s stupid, self-satisfied face. 

“who said anything about sex, hmm?” she crows, and azzi blushes, and then looks down pointedly at paige’s hand that is currently slipping under the waistband of her sweats.

“oh i’m sorry, was that not on your agenda?” she asks, teasing, and pushes herself out from underneath paige, walking down the hallway towards the living room, smiling to herself at the immediate feeling of paige’s hands back on her hips, grasping at her to keep her close. 

“no, no, azzi, c’mon, i’m jus’ playing, come back here,” and she actually sounds a little bit worried, as if azzi will somehow change her mind or something ridiculous. 

she spins back to face paige when she gets to the couch, and laughs at the look on her face, hopeful and kind of like a puppy dog. it's definitely a diversion tactic and it almost works, she almost says fuck it and drags paige further into the apartment in search of the bedroom, but she stays strong.

“talk first, and then you can give me a very thorough tour of the rest of your apartment,” she assures, and paige relents, but not before pressing a short, close-mouthed kiss to azzi’s lips, as if sealing the deal.  

“‘kay. i’m holding you to that,” she adds, but she looks unsure of herself, and then they’re just standing there like idiots in the evening light of paige’s apartment, looking at each other. 

azzi decides she wants to be sitting for this, so she kicks off her slides and drops onto the couch behind her. 

for a second, paige looks like she doesn’t know what to do or where to sit, and she’s never been unsure of invading azzi’s personal space before, so azzi just rolls her eyes and tugs her down onto the couch next to her. paige flops down, sprawled out next to azzi, and they settle into the cushions, azzi curled underneath paige’s arm, facing her, legs crossed and socked feet tucking under paige’s thigh. 

paige is quiet, waiting for azzi to formulate how she wants to start this, and she’s grateful for the silence as she mentally grapples with how to open this particular can of worms. 

she settles on “can you tell me what happened the night of the championship?” 

might as well start out with the big guns.

paige inhales sharply, and she looks like she really doesn’t want to recount that night, so azzi gently takes one of her hands in her own and tangles their fingers. 

“you don’t remember?” she mumbles, and her voice sounds so small, not at all like the confident paige that had just been giving azzi shit and kissing the living daylights out of her. 

“no, only. only that we kissed, but even that’s hazy. and i had a mark,” she reaches up with paige's hand still tangled in hers and presses at her collarbone, “right here.”

“yeah.” paige’s voice breaks on the acknowledgement, and she looks like she’s gonna cry at the reminder, eyes watery where they gaze at the spot that her fingers are pressing into. azzi’s heart squeezes in her chest. she looks a little relieved, though, that azzi can’t recall what happened. 

“if i’d known you were that drunk i wouldn’t have…” she trails off, voice shaky, and azzi cuts in. 

“you were drunk too paige, s’not your fault.” 

paige hums. when azzi squeezes her fingers, she continues. “it was such a good night until then. we were so drunk, and you were so happy, and you were clinging onto me like it-” her voice breaks, and azzi leans further into her side to try and comfort her. they’re both already crying a little bit, and her heart squeezes, again, but she needs to hear this before they go any further. 

“like it meant something. something more than usual. and then you wanted to go upstairs and i kept thinking finally. and. and i kissed you when we got to my room and you seemed so into it. and then i said-” she cuts off again, and azzi feels dread pool in her gut. she isn’t sure she actually wants to hear this story but she can’t stop listening. 

“i told you i was in love with you, like an idiot, and you-” she inhales, through her tears, like she’s steeling herself, and azzi squeezes her eyes shut in preparation, gripping paige’s hand tighter. 

“you asked me why i had to ruin it, why we couldn’t just kiss without it meaning anything.” 

azzi makes a wounded sound, curling closer, and paige is sobbing now, and this is so, so much worse than she’d thought. 

“paige.” is the only thing she can get out as comfort, and now she's sobbing too. god she’d been so, so stupid.  “i didn’t know.” she shifts, and then climbs all the way into paige’s lap, trying to ease the hurt that her unconscious drunk mind had caused and pressing a messy kiss to her hairline. she tries to get as close as possible as a reminder that they're here now, not in a shitty hotel room in tampa.

god. no wonder paige had distanced herself. azzi doesn’t even know what she’d have done. probably run straight out of that hotel and thrown herself off a cliff

paige isn’t done, though, and azzi briefly wonders how it could possibly get worse, before regretting her curiosity instantly. 

“and then you got mad when i wouldn’t. wouldn’t just keep going. and i asked if we could jus’ talk about it in the morning and you promised that we would.” paige presses the words into azzi shoulder, bring her arms up to wrap around the younger girl’s back. her tank top is wet from paige’s tears and. this whole thing has azzi sick to her stomach. 

she presses a sob into paige’s hair, and she knows the next part but she lets her finish anyway. 

“and then you didn’t say anything the next morning and i didn’t know if you didn’t remember or if you just didn’t want to talk about it, but either way i just. couldn’t do it anymore.” her voice is shot, and she’s still crying, but she looks relieved to have finished. 

azzi lets the silence sit for a minute before responding. “i thought you regretted kissing me. or whatever happened, i couldn’t remember. and then you just. stopped, like, wanting to be friends, and i thought you’d decided you didn’t need me anymore,” azzi releases through tears, and her heart breaks for both of them at the stupidity of the last year. 

a “no!” rips from paige’s chest, insulted, and she laughs humorlessly. “az, i’ll always need you. for god sake, i pretty much just moped for the entire year plus. arike banned your name ‘cause she got tired of listening to me whine about how much i missed you.” she looks up at azzi through her eyelashes, tears clumped together, and she looks so beautiful, despite them, that azzi’s heart breaks all over again. 

“if it makes you feel better, i missed you just as bad, except i wouldn’t talk to anyone about it. the whole team knew not to bring you up around me cause i would just shut down.” 

she knocks their foreheads together, gently,  in affection before continuing, “one of the freshmen got your old room and i wouldn’t go anywhere near it.” 

paige smiles, brokenly, at that. “bet she didn’t decorate it as well as me.” 

it's not really funny, but azzi lets out a watery giggle anyways, pressing it into the curve of paige’s brow. “she probably didn’t have a blanket over the blinds though.” 

paige hums in agreement, and motions for azzi to continue before starting to trace lines on azzi’s back. 

azzi takes a deep breath before speaking. “over the break we went to dinner, me ‘n lili and a couple others. and somehow like dating and stuff got brought up and she asked me if i’d ever been in love. and i said no.” 

paige tenses under her, but azzi squeezes their hands that are still tangled together and waits until she relaxes again to continue. 

“and none of them believed me. they all thought we’d been dating in secret or whatever. and i couldn’t believe it but then i started thinking about it and. and then i got home and called my mom, and asked her if i’d been in love with you,” she pauses for a second, trying to get her words straight. paige’s hand on her back falters for a second, before continuing, slow and steady, and it grounds her. 

“and she said if i was asking her than i already knew.” 

paige laughs a little bit, commenting “‘course she did.” 

“i know,” she agrees, “and then. well. i got really drunk and somehow thought it was a good idea to call you.” 

paige smiles, a little crookedly. “wasn’t your worst idea, though.” 

azzi hums in agreement. “no, it wasn’t”

paige opens her mouth to say something and then stops, reconsidering. 

azzi narrows her eyes. “what,” she prods, needing to know everything. 

paige hesitates again before continuing. “i thought god was punishing me when i saw who was calling. i’d just made the first step in so long to try and get over you, finally relented to all my teammates telling me to get laid for the first time in over a year and. here you were calling me for the first time in forever like you knew i’d just spent half an hour pretending the girl on top of me was you.” she shakes her head, laughing a little. “i left as soon as i hung up. cried all the way home.” 

and azzi knows it’s fucked up, but satisfaction settels in her bones at the knowledge that paige hadn’t been sleeping her way through texas in azzi’s absence like she’d thought, even if the reminder of the girl on the phone kills her a little.

“i wanted to die when i heard her voice. almost hung up you,” she gets out, and paige presses a kiss to her shoulder in response. 

“baby, i haven’t wanted anyone but you since i was like, sixteen.” 

the word baby echoes inside azzi’s head and she smiles, ducking her head. 

“maybe if you’d ever told me that-”

“-i did tell you-” paige protests, but azzi’s having none of it.

“sober- if you’d told me sober i probably would’ve figured out i was in love you a lot quicker.” 

paige huffs. “azzi, the entire world knew i was in love with you. obviously i thought you knew, too, ” and then, when azzi’s words sink in a bit more, and she adds, a little in awe, “you’re in love with me? like, forreal?”

azzi doesn’t bother correcting her verb tense. it might seem stupid to already be saying i love you when they haven’t actually had a conversation in a year, but she knows with more certainty than anything ever that this is a past and a present and a future kind of thing. 

“obviously.” is her only response, gesturing to where she’s sitting on paige’s lap, their fingers still curled together. 

and paige’s smile is positively blinding as she leans up to press their mouths together, murmuring “s’ fire.” 

honestly. you’d think she’d be a little more romantic. 

and their faces are both damp from tears, but it doesn’t matter because paige is kissing her like her laugh is the best thing she’s ever tasted, and maybe it is.  

and paige flips them somehow (azzi isn’t really paying attention to the logistics, too focused on the patch of skin she finds below paige’s ear that makes her keen) and they end up pressed into the couch, paige laying on top of her. 

azzi finds paige’s mouth again, fingers tangling in her hair, and paige presses their hips together, swallowing the brunettes' moan at the contact. 

and then paige pulls back above her and grins. 

“so can we have sex now,” she questions, and azzi rolls her eyes, shoving at her shoulder.

“way to be a romantic, p,” she responds, but it just sounds fond instead of annoyed. 

“excuse you, i am such a romantic,” she retorts, and at azzi’s unimpressed look, she tries again.  “azzi jazlyn, i am very much in love with you, can i please make sweet, sweet love to you?” 

azzi groans, but it’s kind of a futile attempt to seem like she’s not utterly charmed, because she lets paige tug her up off the couch anyways. 

and there are still residual tear tracks on their faces, and more conversations to be had, but as she chases paige down the hallway to her bedroom, laughter flowing freely from them both, she figures they can figure that out later. right now, this is enough. 

AN: ummmm thank you for reading? pleaseeee comment/send me asks it literally makes my whole entire day and I need all the love I can get over the next week of hell (finals). i know i said i was writing smut and i ammmm it just is taking me. a while. so i cut it off here. but maybe keep your eye out for more of these two being freaky? idk. also if you wanna like see any more from them pls let me know what that would be! i have a couple ideas for a paige pov but it would be really angsty. and also a few about like their friends and fam finding out and being like THANK FUCK. took u long enough. idk. again, only time will tell but I can confirm that comments and asks do wonders for my creativity soooo. please do that! ok bye now <3

[rjkooks]

i'm outside, let's talk. (m)

you finally give in and talk to your ex after numerous attempts of him trying to contact you. surely, nothing will go beyond mere communication, right?

. pairing: exbf!jungkook x afab!reader . wc: 1.3k . genre: porn with very little plot, exes to lovers . cw: just two exes that don't know how to be exes lmfao, car sex, penetration, unprotected sex (don't be like them), doggy, dirty talk, dom!jk, sub!reader, creampie, i think that's it lmk if i miss anything!

a/n: heh... long time no see. after two years of hiatus, i thought about posting smth rlly short to ease myself into writing again :) happy reading! feedback is highly appreciated!

jungkook: come down jungkook: im outside jungkook: we need to talk

what more should be there to talk about? scoffing, you dismiss the string of messages your ex sent, proceeding to go back to your previous activity of mindlessly scrolling through tiktok videos.

why should you talk to him? he had a decision — and the decision he ultimately chose was to disrespect your relationship and leave, much like perpendicular lines never to cross again: that’s the only closure you need.

however, jungkook is different.

you think of him as an insect — those annoying ones in particular. once it gets in your abode, it’ll suddenly forget its way out and invade your precious space as if living with you free of charge.

that’s what your ex is.

stubborn, incessant, and most notably, stupid.

so, it’s not much of a surprise when you see his name appear on the banner on top of your phone again, one text being sent after the other.

jungkook: don’t leave me on read jungkook: i’ll climb up ur window if i have to, ___ jungkook: please baby i wanna talk with u jungkook: istg if u block me jungkook: pls dont

you were about to block him actually, if it weren’t for the video that redirected your attention.

“no caption, no hashtag, you were meant to see this! you’re going to get back with your hot ex tonight and i mean it. he’s thinking about you right now and is thinking of ways on how to make up for his mistakes. go get him, girl! get your fine shyt back!”

you swore your eye twitches after watching an absolute stranger predict the next moments of your evening.

with your ex’s unceasing messages and a random video that is severely relevant to your current situation, is the universe really giving you all the telltale signs you need?

as olivia rodrigo said, you probably shouldn't, but seeing him tonight isn’t a bad idea, right?

after deliberately having an internal conflict, you finally made up your mind after careful consideration.

you’re just going to talk. what harm could there be in that?

so, you heave a deep breath before standing up from your bed, your legs bringing you outside the premises of your home to see his black mercedes parked right in front of your lawn.

you stride over to it in quick steps with the intention of holding a brief conversation with him before you bid your final farewells: that’s what you hopefully thought.

assuming he’s inside the vehicle, you tapped on the tinted window a couple of times before you hear his muffled voice, “get in.”

you do as he says, sitting next to him on the passenger seat, and you almost regret it. it was no surprise that it was dim inside, and the air conditioning of his car only made goosebumps prick your skin, and what’s worst of all is the familiar scent of his perfume permeating your senses again.

and that’s when the realization sinks in that you’re actually with your ex boyfriend right now.

you gaze at him silently. thankfully, you couldn’t see his face clearly in the dark, but his features are still there. you part your lips to break the awfully dead silence, yet your voice came out more meek than you’d like.

“you said you wanted to talk..?”

he lowers his gaze to where your hands are placed right on top of your thighs. he knows his presence was suffocating you, so he can’t help the sigh that escapes his lips. “yeah, just wanted to clear some things between us.”

that’s the last thing you remember your ex saying before he has you bent over in the back of his car.

“ngghh… jungkook!” you gasp, a string of drool dribbling from the corner of your lip as you leave a faint handprint of yourself on the fogged window.

“oh, fuck,” he hisses feeling you clench down on his throbbing length. “missed this tight cunt so much,” he groans before landing a harsh spank on your ass, for sure leaving a red mark that will sting for days. “you missed this dick too, baby?” he pants through ragged breaths, and you could sense that damn cocky smirk plastered on his face despite being behind you.

he pulls out another cry from you when you feel his dick kissing your cervix. “y-yes..!” you sob, face buried in the leather seats.

a chuckle full of menace was heard from him as you feel his slender fingers wrap around the roots of your hair, forcefully tugging you until you’re eye-level with the window.

he rips sob after sob out of you, undoubtedly aroused from how your gummy walls were sucking him in so eagerly, a creamy ring of white making a mess out of his length.

“bet you couldn’t find someone who can fuck you like i do, huh?” he huffs against your ear, voice hot and heavy as a tattooed finger presses itself against your clit. “that’s why your slutty little cunt is making such a mess on my cock, right?”

you mewl, resting your head against his shoulder as you nod eagerly. your bottom lip was trapped between your teeth, rendering you speechless from the way he’s perfectly molding the shape of his cock in your pussy right now.

seeing you like this—all hot and vulnerable beneath him, he couldn’t hold in the cocky grin on his face, his ego inflating to a size larger than the earth itself.

he lands a particularly harsh slap against your ass, making you yelp in pain before you fall face flat on the leather seats again.

and when he sets his pace to that of raw, primal need, you begin to tremble, sensing as if your legs are about to give in on you any moment.

“j-jungkook—hah… too much,” you whine, feeling your impending orgasm approaching rapidly.

“cum with me, baby,” he pants, pressing his solid chest against your back, leaving you no room for any escape.

the way the tip of his leaking cock kept kissing your soft spongy spot has you seeing stars. his car became way too humid from how long he’s been fucking you, and you could care less whether the car could be seen rocking back and forth in the middle of the neighborhood, or whether or not the obscene noises you and jungkook were making could be heard a block away.

“please… wanna cum s’bad!” your words come out slurred, brain turning into complete mush devoid of any thoughts aside from cumming.

“awww, my baby wants to cum?” he coos sweetly against your ear, turning absolutely feral seeing you all submissive for him, sobbing as you beg for some sort of mercy from him.

and of course he’s going to give it to you.

he feels your walls hugging him for dear life, as if never wanting him to pull out, and he swears he could die a happy man like this right now.

“go on, baby, let go. i got you,” he whispers hotly before swiping your clit three more times, giving you the most delicious orgasm you haven’t tasted in months.

you tremble violently beneath him, a long whine escaping you as he fucks you through it, soon cumming right after you did.

he groans, flooding your hole with his warm cum before finally pulling out a minute later.

exhausted, he plops himself right next to you, and neither of you have spoken for a few minutes, merely the sound of your mingling breaths could be heard in his dark mercedes.

however, when you look into his eyes, you can see the change of look from lust to determination. you notice him hesitating for a bit, and before you could ask your ex what’s wrong, he swiftly cuts you to the chase.

“give me one more chance, baby.”

[miraculousshitandgigles]

I've been wanting to post something like this for awhile as well but I couldn't find the words.

A lot of these posts also bring up Marinette stalking, I don't think you ever met a teenager before have you. I can't remember how many kids I have met who have unhealthy depictions or understandings of love and they need to be corrected or helped. Everyone encourages Marinette for like the first 5 seasons and when she's called out it's like at least you didn't watch him sleep kinda, response. Like don't take it too far and I myself love stalker Marinette I honestly think it's fun to play with but I also work in heath care so I actually fucking know what I'm talking about when I say kids don't know their doing something wrong unless you explain it in a lot of detail why. Not the vague ass shit they did to Marinette. Yes including teenagers they're actually worse because it might take a few more times because they're starting to set habits.

Marinette hasn't been properly sat down and told hey you can give Adrien space. You don't need to know his diet. Or Marinette haters will bring up she doesn't love the real Adrien which I say we didn't watch the same show then. Marinette caught a glimpse at Adrien heart in origins and fell in love with that. When she learns that Adrien doesn't like something she supports him 100%.

I don't even ship Marinette and Adrien 99% of the time because they have better ships 100%. But that doesn't mean they aren't a good couple you're just wanting to be nitpicky about a show that's writing has always sucked. The basis of miraculous ladybug is what I think everyone loves not the actual show. Most fanfictions are based on other fanfictions. I didn't even like tuning in every week to the show until season 6 dropped. I got into MLB as a 13 year old I'm 22 now working in heath and started rewatching the show 2 years ago and weekly for season 5 and 6. But saying the show is any best media in fiction is a stretch it lasts this long is because of us.

I'm sorry it took 6 seasons to write a show that's any good. When the show started everyone thought it wasn't even going to get a season 2 where now 6. And people are adults now and people are realizing the show is problematic and Marinette is the center of it, no. She's just the most obvious since she's the main character, and Thomas astruc is a 40 year old dude who didn't know how to write teenagers.

Who words were for some reason listening to again like we didn't all agree last year he's a piece of shit. Make up your mind and form a opinion that isn't a brain dead response to your strong reaction to that fact all of sudden we got back to back bangers of seasons.

Marinette is not perfect and I bet if we saw the show from any other character we see them in either a better or worse light too.

If being a "Marinette stan" means I can understand that Gabriel Agreste is the reason Marinette is lying to Adrien in the first place and that she would never have done that if Gabriel had not manipulated her and that Nathalie should be the one telling Adrien the truth and not the 15 year old child and that Marinette's lies are hurting Adrien and that is awful and a tragedy and OBVIOUSLY she shouldn't have lied but that Marinette is also a victim of Gabriel and that Marinette is doing everything she does out of her deep love for Adrien and not to intentionally hurt him and that Marinette is 15 and acting 15 and that sometimes main characters have to do bad things and make mistakes to have a story and that those mistakes don't make Marinette a bad person but a good person in a very very very bad position.........

Then I guess I'm a dirty filthy Marinette stan.

[springintosummerxx]

⋆｡‧˚ʚ fresh out the slammer ɞ˚‧｡⋆

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mv1 x childhood friend! reader

fresh out the slammer, you know who your first call will be to...

warnings: mildly suggestive, ANGSTY, one-sided pining until it's not

word count: 2.4 k

masterlist

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your first relationship happened when you were 16.

he was smart, not as smart as you, but that was okay.

not many people were, your mom reminded you.

he was cute, too, in a boyish, charming way that reminded you of one of max's friends.

he shook your father's hand and kissed your mother's cheek; they liked him enough to let him tag along to one of max's races.

your first mistake was introducing him this early on to max.

18, a chip on a shoulder and something to prove, max had been yours since you were born.

your own father was his godfather, and max had deemed himself your protector since you were born.

you knew him when he was a shock of blonde hair and big blue eyes, before jos made it his mission to turn his firstborn into some project.

you'd stuck by him the entirety of his journey; he claimed you as family.

he'd told you once, last year, that you weren't his sister, not like victoria was, but something else.

when you'd asked him what, he'd shrugged, not meeting your eyes.

now, with your hands linked with someone who wasn't him, max's eyes glared the same way when someone beat him to a podium, or when the engine failed.

"well done, maxie," you murmur, and max hums, raising an eyebrow at the boy next to you.

"oh, this is..." you flush pink, "this is my boyfriend."

you turn to your boyfriend, who is turning paler and paler under max's gaze, "this is my..."

"i'm her max," he offers.

now, your boyfriend is turning purple.

"where's my congratulatory hug, liefje?" the nickname he uses doesn't go unnoticed, but you untwist your fingers from him, leaning to hug max.

max's arms go around your waist, and yours loop around his neck. you're practically off the ground with how much taller he's gotten. he squeezes, the same way he always does, presses a kiss to your forehead and smooths your hair.

when he lets go, you don't take the hand of the boy next to you.

the two of you break up the next week.

max doesn't question it, only shows up with ice cream and an offer to beat the kid up.

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||| 0:10

by the time you're 21, you've have your first long-term relationship.

he's older, right between you and max, and he's kind. he works as much as you, and understands your relationship with max.

no one has, ever.

you think you've found the love of your life, until you catch him in your shared bed with his colleague.

you're screaming at him, tears flowing down your face, until he raises his arms, confused.

"wait, wait. are you not sleeping with max? i thought we were both..."

now you're both pissed off and confused.

"what?" you ask, throwing your hands in the air, "no? why would i do that?"

needless to say, when you two break up, you don't tell anyone about what he had said about max.

but later, when you're hanging out with victoria at the paddock and you whisper to her what happened, she gives you a look.

"obviously, the guy is an asshole for cheating on you," she huffs, "but max is...i think he's in love with you."

coming from his sister, that's jarring to hear.

you shrug, and she rolls her eyes, taking your hand.

"do you remember," she prods, "the time he won his first race and he bought me a handbag and you a necklace?"

you nod, fingering the M pendant around your neck.

she nods, satisfied as if that proves a point.

"what? how does that have to do with anything?"

she throws her hands in the air, "he's practically peeing on you to mark his territory! how many best friends do you know are like you two?"

"alex! yeah, alex, come here," she beckons.

the british driver points comically at himself, then loping over.

"do you think max is in love with her?"

"absolutely." he nods, very seriously.

"guys, i really don't think-"

"do you know, that he keeps a picture of the two of you at all times?

"what?" you ask.

"yeah, he does." alex responds, "he looks at it all the time."

you flush, a little embarrassed and a little bit giddy.

"i still don't know..."

they both groan.

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||| 0:20

what victoria and alex say stays in your mind; in fact, it haunts you.

it's the little things you notice now, how max always opens your can of redbull (because he's nothing if not loyal, to both you and his team) for you before handing it over, how he always keeps his large, warm hand on the small of your back in crowds.

you know he's handsome, duh. with his pretty boy eyes and blonde, messy hair? of course you've always been aware.

but you start to notice him differently.

the way his muscles flexed under your hands when he lifted you onto a stairless platform to the hole-in-the-wall restaurant he found online, and the way his wide, pink smile pinched happiness all the way to his eyes.

if you're completely honest, you've always had a thing for him, really. he was just too...

out of reach.

a world champion.

completely wrapped in your history.

he knows every single part of you, every single mistake and shortcoming, but he still chooses to be part of your life.

so, with confusion and emotion turmoil at the forefront of your mind, you manage to ignore your budding feelings and move on with your life.

because there's no way anyone like max would ever want you the way you secretly wanted him.

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||| 0:30

"wow. hey, liefje. where you going?" he asks, eyes widening at the short dress you're wearing.

"uh, out?" you answer with your own question, and he smiles at you affectionately, rolling his eyes.

his eyes, blue like a thunder-driven sky roam over you, "with a guy?"

shrugging weakly, you nod.

he hums, shoulders tightening just an inch, the same way they do when he's tired after a race and asks you to hold him for a while.

"call me if you need anything," he murmurs, the soft tone of his voice turning something over in your chest until you can't breathe.

max presses a kiss to your forehead, the same way he's done since you can remember, but this time, this time it feels different.

different from a congratulatory kiss for a graduation or promotion, different from a comforting one after a bad day.

don't forget me, the kiss seems to say. don't forget that i'm here, waiting.

you feel crazy, to think all of that from a peck. but when you look at him, the plastic, long-suffering smile he gives you to reassure, you don't feel crazy at all.

"okay, i will."

he smiles, one more time, and you try and return it shakily, leaving through the front door.

the date goes exceptionally well; jonathan, his name is, is sweet, kind and doesn't know anything about Formula One, which you can tell grates on Max's nerves.

you bring him to the monaco grand prix, and he follows along, a little bored but tolerant, for you.

you appreciate it, and you tell him so.

max, during a season of redbull domination, inevitably wins.

he runs to you, tugging until you're in his arms.

when he smiles, your heart tugs. you don't understand why, but you're smart enough to know that you haven't felt it with anyone else.

that night, jonathan watches you carefully as the two of you sit in your living room with the race highlights on.

"how long has he been in love with you?" he asks abruptly.

you sit up straight, "what?"

he gives you a bit of a condescending look, not intentionally, but a look that tells you he knows something you don't.

"max. how long?"

"i-"

he sighs, picking up his jacket.

not unkindly, he grasps your shoulder, "you should really figure that out. before you lead on more people."

"wait, jonathan, i-" you try and stop him, not because you want him to stay but because you want an explanation.

he shakes his head, a small smile on his face, "really. i think...i think you have someone waiting for you anyways."

"i'm sorry," you offer weakly, feeling stupid.

"don't be. just, call him. i'd bet he's waiting."

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||| 0:40

you don't call max, but you show up at his apartment instead.

he's not there, probably still out celebrating, but you let yourself in with the key he gave you.

jimmy and sassy wind themselves around your calves, rubbing their faces against your skin.

you murmur hello, stroking their fur. you wander around, going to the closet to grab a hoodie.

a box, ontop of all the shelves of redbull merchandise catches your eye.

scrambling onto one of the sturdier shoe shelves, you clamber up, taking it with you to the couch.

it's a pretty box, fabric-sown in your favourite colour.

you open it curiously, hoping whatever inside will be interesting enough to pass time.

to your surprise, it's full of letters.

carefully, you take the first one out.

2013, it's dated. your name, written in max's slanted print catches your eye.

dear schatje,

charles asked me about you today. he said you were pretty, but i told him you were off limits. he tried to laugh it off, told me i was an overprotective older brother.

i tried to laugh too. but you're not my sister. i don't know how to explain it, other than that i think i love you.

not in the way my dad loved my mum, we both know how that ended up. but like in those romantic movies you force me to watch, where the guy really, really loves the girl.

like leave the middle of a basketball game to get you a coke, or marry you so you don't get deported to canada love.

well, that doesn't really apply to us, but i'll stop watching a race to get you whatever you want.

anything for you, you know? i think i always will.

there's just something about you. you're always so kind to everyone, and you're so smart.

you talk about what you love so passionately, and you see people, not what's expected of them.

i know you love me, as a brother or a friend, but you never ask me to be max the champion. just max the boy.

i feel alive, with you. not the rush from driving, but a consistent warmth every moment i spend with you.

maybe some day i'll tell you.

love, your max.

by the time you stop reading, tears are streaming down your face.

max loves you.

since he'd been what, 16?

your breaths come out shaky, as you move on to the next letter, and the next, and the next.

every letter, dedicated to you, some soft, quiet declaration of love he's held in his heart for almost a decade.

you fall asleep reading them, late into the night. max finds you there, and picks you up into his bed.

the two of you fall asleep together.

when you wake up the next morning, max is already sat up in his bed, watching some old race highlights.

he studies you for a second, quietly and indulgently.

"morning," you whisper awkwardly, "i-uh. i found your letters."

shrugging, max smiles, although it doesn't reach his eyes, "i figured."

"i-"

"we-"

you laugh, and he reluctantly does too.

"let me go first?" you ask.

"sure," he says.

"um, i didn't know," you bite your lip, "i didn't know. or else i would've-"

this is a terrible time to cry; with max, all sleep-tousled, watching you with those careful, blue eyes like you're easily breakable.

he pulls you into his strong arms, into his warm, solid chest.

you take a shaky breath, and his palm that spans over the entirety of the back of your head stills you.

"if i had known," you start, sill not too steady, " i wouldn't have wasted all my time."

"i'm sorry," he says, and shushes you when you shake your head to dismiss his apology, "i should've said something sooner. to be honest, i didn't know if you had felt the same way."

"oh, max," your eyes start to water again, and he coos, brushing a calloused thumb under your eye.

"i love you, and i have for a very long time."

hearing him say that is way more jarring than you'd ever imagined it would be.

max loves you.

you start to giggle, "sorry!"

"are you seriously laughing right now?" he pouts, eyebrows raising.

"sorry, baby. it's just that the fourteen year old girl in me is jumping up and down."

"say that again," he demands.

"jumping up and down?" you ask, confused.

suddenly, you're met with a shy max, which is a very endearing max.

"you called me baby," he murmurs, nosing your hair.

you splutter a laugh, "max verstappen, world champion, are you blushing because of a pet name?"

"because you called me a pet name. okay, seriously though. i want to be with you."

he's so blunt, but that's something you've always appreciated about him.

"okay," you say, pretending like your heart is not exploding in your chest

"okay," he replies, stroking your hair once more. you can feel him smile into your hairline.

"i'm sorry for making you watch me go through all those relationships," you tell him.

you imagine having to see him be with other girls, and you want to throw up.

"but your first call after they ended were all to me," he grins, smug.

"now i'm here. i don't plan to leave," you tell him matter-of-factly.

"good thing, because i'm not letting you go."

when he pulls you up to kiss him, it's better than you'd ever imagined (which is surprising, because you'd imagined it quite a lot).

he's so warm, scent familiar, and he traces his fingers into the skin of your neck.

when you shiver, he pulls you closer, and you feel him smile.

you whisper a "i love you" into his lips, and you're both smiling so wide that it's hardly a kiss anymore.

neither of you mind: you've spent the first two decades of your lives together, as friends, as family. but you'll spend the rest with the love of your whole life.

[spidercatweb]

Your Embrace and My Collapse ★ Spencer Reid x reader

Warnings: fem!bau!reader, migraine!reid, angst, hurt/comfort, tiny bit of fluff at the end, established relationship, Spencer is snippy and a little mean but it's because of migraine, Spencer yells at reader, reader is sad for a bit, non-specific case details, mentions of women being murdered, a hint of misogyny from a suspect, one single swear word, umm nothing else I don't think? lmk if so. this is set in s6 :)

Description: Spencer has a migraine, he yells at r when it gets too overwhelming, he regrets this later, calling to apologize.

Word Count: 3.1k

Request: Hi! First off I loveee your blog!! Second off could I get a spencer reid x fem!reader where they r having an argument about literally anything and then a lot of spencer groveling? thanks for considering

A/n: thank you sm for the request, anon!! I am just now realizing that what happens in this isnt much of an argument 😬, but i quite like how it turned out. I hope you enjoy!! <3 Is it obvious i got carried away w this one?

After four years of working with Spencer, and nearly two years of dating him, it wasn't surprising that you were the first to notice that something was wrong. 

The past few days, Spencer hadn't gone on as many long rambles as usual. Maybe he was just tired this week, cases have been very time consuming lately. Not that they usually aren't.

You figured out what was wrong when you saw him squeeze his eyes shut and rub them with the base of his palms. Three times in an hour. Unusual. 

After the team finished delivering the profile for the current case, you took a moment to pull him aside. 

"Are you feeling okay?" Concern in your voice, you reached gently for his hand. 

He pulled away. "Yeah, I'm fine." His face scrunched up, he shut his eyes tightly and his nose crinkled up. You'd find it cute if it wasn't obvious he was in pain. He pressed into the bridge of his nose with two fingers,clearly trying to ease a headache.

"Okay," you gave him a small smile and nod, "let me know if you need anything, I've got Advil in my bag." 

"I know, thank you." He made an effort to return your smile.

"Reid, Y/l/n, we've got a lead. Garcia's about to fill everyone in." Hotch's commanding voice cut through the calm, quiet bubble around the two of you. 

The team filed into the briefing room of the BAU. Thankfully, the case was local. You were glad to be in a familiar place. 

Garcia was already seated at the small round table, tapping away on her laptop. You sat down next to Spencer, Prentiss sat on your other side.

"Lovelies, we have a small problem. I've found two men who almost exactly fit our profile."

"We'll bring both of them in for questioning, then. What do we know about them, Garcia?" Hotch directs the attention back to her.

"I was just about to tell you that, sir. First up, we've got Landon Adams, 27 years old. His childhood was... less than nice. Plenty of trips to the hospital, poor thing. Lots of injuries consistent with abuse. And I'm assuming everything going on at home was related to the multiple reports of violence towards his fellow students at school. Multiple suspensions, and he was expelled from his highschool." She takes a quick moment to switch the information on her screen.

"Second guy, Cole Parker, 29 years old. Similar childhood to Adams. Frequent hospital trips for supposed accidents, bad behaviour at school, suspensions, an expulsion. Oh and get this! They both work in construction! Different companies, though."

"Do we have home addresses and places of work?" Rossi chimes in.

"We do, sir, I've already sent them to you all." Garcia smiles proudly, always one step ahead.

"Thank you, Garcia. Alright, Prentiss, Morgan. You two go to Adams' home. Rossi and JJ, you go to his workplace. Seaver and I will go to Parker’s home. Y/l/n and Reid, you two go to his workplace." 

Everyone nods at Hotch as they receive their placements. The team splits up accordingly, each pair heading to a different SUV. Exiting the Quantico building, you see Spencer wince at the brightness of the sun. You sigh quietly. You don't like seeing him in pain, but you have a job to do. You'll talk more later.

The car ride is quiet. You drive, Spencer sits in the passenger seat. The silence isn't exactly comfortable, but it isn't awkward. You roll down his window just a little, to give him the fresh air he so obviously needs. You take the time to theorize about the suspect. Will he even be at work? Will he run? Put up a fight? You hope not.

As you pull into the small, gravel parking lot of the construction company, you sit for a moment to prepare yourself to talk to whoever is managing the place. In your experience, people in this line of work aren't often eager to talk to FBI agents. You look over at Spencer, he must have put on his sunglasses when you weren't paying attention. He now looks a little less irritated without the sun in his eyes. Good. 

You gently place a hand on Spencer’s knee, catching his attention. “You ready to go?” 

He brushes his hand over yours, giving it a light squeeze. “Yep.”

You both step out of the car into the bright sun. The sunlight reflects off of tiny, glistening specks in the gravel, and right into your eyes. You squint as you head to the front entrance of the building alongside Spencer, now wishing you’d also brought your sunglasses.

The inside of the building is similar to the outside. Concrete, dusty, smelling strongly of diesel. You noticed how Spencer scrunched up his nose at the pungent scent. 

The only other person inside is an older man who introduces himself as Mark, the manager of the building. 

“You two are FBI? Really? Well what are you two doin’ out here?”

You ignore the man’s questioning of your authority. “We’re here to ask you a few questions about one of your employees, Cole Parker?”

“Ah. Well, he called in sick today, and I’m not one to judge, but he didn’t sound very sick on the phone. If you ask me, he’s ditching work to be with that new girlfriend of his.”

“Girlfriend?” Spencer asks. He glances over to you, the unsub had been killing young women. If Cole Parker was your guy, this new girlfriend of his could be in danger.

“Yeah. He’s been yammerin’ on about her for the past week. Her name is Carol… or Christine? Somethin’ like that. Hard to keep up. He gets tired of em’ fast.”

Interesting.

“Have you noticed any shifts in his behavior lately? Short temper, violent outbursts, things like that?”

“Hm. Y’know I’m really not sure, I’m not around him long enough to notice. Might be better to ask some of the guys. I can give you the address of the site they’re workin’ if you’d like.” He offers.

Spencer pinches the bridge of his nose again, his vision beginning to blur. “We’ve already got two other agents headed there right now, but thank you.” 

The man notices Spencer’s clear discomfort, “You alright?”

“Yeah. Fine, thanks.” He runs his hands through his hair anxiously, further tousling his already messy curls.

“Thank you for your cooperation, sir.” You hand him a card with your work phone number, “Please call me if you remember any important details about Cole.”

He puts the card into his shirt pocket. “Of course. Have a nice day, you two.” 

As you both exit the building, Spencer stops right outside the door, running his hands over his face with a sigh.

You turn to look at him with concern. “Spence-”

“I just need a minute. I’m fine. I’ll meet you in the car.” His eyes are squeezed shut as he faces the ground, rubbing his temples.

You respond with a quiet “okay”, and silently head back to the car, where you wait for him. You put the air conditioning on blast as you pull out your phone to call Hotch.

“Hotchner.” He answers quickly.

“Did you and Seaver find Cole?”

“Yes, we’re just about to bring him in for questioning. How’s it going over there?”

“His boss told us that he can’t keep a girlfriend for too long, always switching between girls. He didn’t notice any other odd behaviors though. We’re just about to leave.” You spot Spencer walking over to the car.

“Alright, thanks. See you at the precinct.” He hangs up the call.

Spencer slides into the passenger’s seat, looking slightly calmer than before. “Who was that?” 

“Hotch. Him and Seaver are bringing Cole Parker in for questioning.” You turn the air conditioning down a little, so it’s still cool but not as loud, not as irritating for Spencer.

“Good.” 

***

Spencer leans his head back on his seat and closes his eyes. The drive back is just as silent as the drive there. By the time you get to the police precinct, Spencer is half asleep. He opens his eyes slowly. Squinting at the light coming through the windshield, he turns his head towards you.

“Hi.” You huff out a small laugh, earning a small quirk of his lips. “Feeling a little better?”

“Mm.” He sighs with a nod, “a little, I’ll be fine.”

You reach over and comb your fingers through his hair, he leans into your touch. You fix a few stray hairs that stick out, then give him a peck on his cheek. “Let’s go.”

***

The lights in the precinct are bright, filled with the chatter of nosy police officers. They flock around the team as you all enter with both suspects. Hotch and Rossi take on the task of interrogating, with the rest of the team on standby if needed. You stand behind the two-way mirror with Seaver and Reid. You listen intently to every word, you note mannerisms, you profile. That is your job after all.

Cole is becoming frustrated after only thirty minutes of interrogation. Hotch stays calm and collected as Cole’s volume rises. 

“I’m telling you! I was nowhere near there! I was out with some guys from work. Ask ‘em, they’ll tell you.”

“We did. They all had pretty different stories. We also got security camera feeds from the alley that night. Are you telling me that isn’t you?” Hotch slides a grainy photo across the table. The lighting is dark and the quality is less than ideal, but it’s clearly Cole in the photo.

He groans and mumbles something under his breath, “those bitches deserved it.”

“Pardon me?” Hotch prompts him to repeat himself.

“I said they deserved it! Every last one!” He yanks hard at the cuffs grounding him to the table, lunging at Hotch.

Hotch doesn’t move a muscle. “Alright, that’s enough.” He nods to the two officers standing at the back of the room. They move to restrain the man and bring him to a holding cell.

You look up at Spencer, who at first glance, seems fine, like he’s just thinking. But you notice his glassy eyes and flushed face. He tries to inconspicuously shield his eyes from the flickering fluorescent light above his head. Seaver notices this too, she gives you an “is he okay?” look, you give her a shrug and a worried look that says “I have no idea.” She exits the room to go check on Rossi and the others, leaving you and Reid alone.

You hover beside him, not wanting to worsen his pain any more. After a few moments of watching him silently suffer, you hear a sniffle. He’s crying. You get a sinking feeling in your chest, all you want is for him to be okay. 

“Spence,” you whisper. No response. “Do you want to sit down? I can get you some water,” you offer kindly. 

He shakes his head, massaging his temples again.

“Are you sure? The case is pretty much wrapped up. I’m sure Hotch wouldn’t mind.” Your voice stays soft, gentle.

He raises his voice “God, I’m fine! It’s fine! Nothing will help, just… Just stop trying to help me. I don’t need help.” You spot him wiping a tear from his face as he storms out of the room.

You don’t follow. Maybe he needs some time alone. You respect his wishes. You don’t help. Though you’d really, really like to. Instead, you follow Seaver’s trail to the second interrogation room where Rossi is still digging deep into the other suspect’s mind. You watch through the two-way mirror.

“Really, Landon? Were you really stopped on the side of that road for a nap? You were on your way home, weren’t you? Why not wait until you got back?”

“I was tired. I didn’t want to fall asleep at the wheel.”

“Alright. You’re sure you didn’t see anything suspicious? No … man lugging around a woman’s corpse? Burying her?”

“No, man! I was sleeping!” He throws his hands up in the air, as much as one can while cuffed to a table. He sighs defeatedly.

Hotch slides past you and into the interrogation room. He lets Rossi know that while he’d been interrogating, Cole Parker had fully confessed to the murders. He spared no detail, including  ones the police and FBI hadn’t yet shared with the public.

Rossi gives Landon a half-hearted apology and a pat on the back as the officers uncuff him.

***

You help Hotch to get a written confession from Cole, which takes longer than usual, because his handwriting skills aren’t exactly the best. But you sit in the room with him, waiting, as he drops the occasional rude comment directed towards you, his victims, or the police.

While sitting silently, you think about Spencer. You wonder if he’s okay. You think about what he said. He doesn’t need help from you. He doesn't want help from you. Leave him alone for once.

You shake the thought out of your head. He’s in pain. He didn’t mean it. This does little to ease the anxiety spinning in your mind.

“Hey, lady. I’m done writing.” He drops the pen down onto the metal table with just enough force to express his annoyance.

“Good. Did you sign it?” 

“Of course I did. What? Do you think I’m stupid or something?” He’s clearly looking for a fight.

Unamused, you respond. “No. I think you’re a serial killer with a severe lack of respect for women. I was just checking. A lot of people forget.” You slide the paper towards yourself and look it over before placing it into a file folder. You give a nod to the officers in the room and they take him away. You leave the room after them, meeting up with the rest of the team except Spencer, who’d reluctantly gone home per Hotch’s instruction. Thank goodness someone else noticed.

Hotch pulls you aside for a moment. “I wouldn’t mind if you left to help Reid. There’s not much left for us to do today anyway. You’re free to go.”

You hesitate. He doesn’t want help. He doesn’t need you. 

“Okay. Thanks Hotch.” You give him a faint smile as you go to grab your things.

***

Instead of heading to Spencer’s apartment, you go to yours. You want to check up on him, but don’t want to pain him with a blaring ringtone, and he was most likely staying away from screens, so he wouldn’t see a text. You keep him in your thoughts as you change out of your work clothes and settle down for the night. 

***

Spencer lies on his bed in complete darkness. At this point, the pain had brought him to tears. He hadn’t eaten anything due to the nausea looming in his stomach, which only made the headache worse.

He needed something. A distraction. Nothing loud. Nothing bright. Nothing that would irritate him further. He wanted you. He needed you.

He thinks back to what he said to you earlier. Why would I say that? Well, he knew why he said it. Scientifically. Higher sensitivity, more pain, more irritability, this leads to outbursts. He just wanted it to stop. He didn’t mean to yell at you.

He sighs, shifting to be face-down in his pillow. He just wants to feel okay. Why won’t it stop? What’s wrong with me? A pained whine escapes him as he decides to try to get some rest. 

***

Your phone’s ringtone pulls you out of your sleep. You grab it from your nightstand, checking the time first. Who’s calling me at 12:30am? Spencer. You answer with some hesitation, anxiety still whirrs in your mind, residue from hours ago. 

“Spence?”

“I really- I’m really sorry for what I said earlier. I didn’t mean it. And I know that’s not a good excuse but-” His voice is quieter than usual, strained.

“I know you didn’t mean it. You weren’t acting like… you. I was worried.”

“I said I didn’t need help but I’m um- really rethinking that right now. And I’d completely understand if you didn’t want to but um- could you maybe come over? I just really want someone here with me. I want you here with me.” 

You could tell from his voice that he was still hurting, he was scared. You get up without a second thought. 

“Of course, Spence. I’ll be right over.”

He sighs with relief. “Thank you.” 

***

Spencer hears the lock on his door click as you enter. He stays right where he is, in bed. 

You walk in as quietly as you can, leaving your shoes at the door and trying your best to navigate around in the dark. You nudge his bedroom door open and whisper a quiet “I’m here” as you spot the outline of him in his bed.

He sits up slowly with a small hum of acknowledgement. “Hi.” He reaches to turn on the lamp beside his bed.

“No, don’t, you don’t need to turn it on. It’s fine.” You reassure him. “Do you want me to get you anything? Water? Meds?”

“Both, please. Meds are on the kitchen counter.”

“Okay, I’ll be back in two seconds.” You head to the kitchen, spotting the meds once you turn on the lights. You fill a glass with ice, then water, grab the box of meds, then rush right back to Spencer’s room, turning off the kitchen lights as you leave.

You carefully hand him the glass of water, he thanks you, then takes a long sip. You hand him two tablets of his meds, and he swallows them with the water.

“You want to try to get some sleep?”

He nods, “Yeah, but these usually take about half an hour to kick in, hopefully they do kick in. I’ll probably be able to sleep then.” Your eyes have now adjusted to the dark, you can see him give you a small smile.

“You want me to stay?”

“I’d really like it if you did.”

“Alright, move over then.” You don’t wait to slide into bed next to him. It warms your heart to hear him giggle slightly from this.

***

Your next hour is spent with Spencer curled up to your chest, with your fingers carding through his hair. The room is silent, save for your breathing and the sighs he lets out every so often. You stay awake until you’re sure he’s asleep, then for a little while longer, just to make sure. Finally, you can’t keep your eyes open any longer, and you’re pulled into a calm sleep. You hope that when you wake up, everything will be okay. And it will be. Because it always is with Spencer.

Thank you for reading! <3

Feedback is very much appreciated!

My requests are open!

🪻

[lazysoulwriter]

the love we hide. - pedro pascal.

requested! hope you like it, honey. thank you for sending.

----

You always knew dating Pedro Pascal wouldn’t be easy. Not because he made it difficult — if anything, he made it feel like the most natural thing in the world. It was the world around him, the world that didn't stop spinning faster and louder with every new movie, every new award, every new headline with his name in bold letters.

From the start, he had asked for your privacy. "I just... want this to stay ours for as long as we can," he'd whispered one night, arms wrapped tightly around you, voice heavy with something that felt like fear. And you agreed. Happily. Proudly. You understood.

But lately... it had started to hurt.

The more his fame grew, the more invisible you felt. He walked red carpets with stunning co-stars, smiled in interviews when asked about his love life ("I'm married to my work," he'd joke), and your phone buzzed with articles, photos, videos of him living a life you weren’t allowed to share publicly.

And no matter how much you told yourself you were strong enough, you started pulling away. Little by little.

Skipping dates under the excuse of being tired. Replying to his texts hours later. Letting your hand fall from his when no one was watching. Convincing yourself it would hurt less this way. That he wouldn't even notice.

Of course, Pedro noticed. Pedro always noticed you. Every blink, every breath, every tremor in your voice. You were his favorite story to read.

It all came crashing down on a quiet Tuesday night. You were supposed to have dinner at his place — just the two of you, homemade pasta, a bottle of wine. Your favorite kind of night.

But you canceled, blaming a headache. And when you didn't answer his third call, he showed up at your apartment, heart pounding, palms sweating.

You opened the door, still in your pajamas, surprised and guilty at the same time.

"Pedro—what are you doing here?"

He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, eyes scanning you, searching for something. "Why are you doing this?" he asked softly.

You swallowed hard. "Doing what?"

He laughed, but there was no joy in it. Only hurt. "You think I don't see it? You think I don't feel you slipping away from me?"

Tears burned the back of your eyes, but you blinked them away. "It's better this way," you whispered. "For who?" he demanded. "For you!" you snapped, voice cracking. "You're becoming Pedro Pascal. You deserve someone who can stand next to you, someone who belongs in your world. Not someone you have to hide."

Silence. Heavy. Devastating.

Pedro stepped closer, closing the space between you with careful, deliberate steps. His hands framed your face, thumbs wiping away the tears you didn’t even realize had started to fall.

"You think I’m hiding you because I'm ashamed?" he asked, voice breaking. "You think I don’t want the whole damn world to know you're mine?"

You shook your head helplessly, but he wasn’t finished.

"I was trying to protect us," he whispered. "Protect you. From the cameras, from the gossip, from people who don't know anything about how beautiful and strong and perfect you are."

You let out a broken sob, and he pulled you into his arms, holding you like he'd never let go. Like he couldn't.

"I notice everything about you," he said into your hair. "Every smile you force. Every time you don't call me 'love' like you used to. Every night I sleep in an empty bed because you're trying to convince yourself I’m better off without you."

You clung to him, sobbing now, your heart cracking wide open. "I'm sorry," you choked out.

He kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your eyelids. "Don't be sorry," he whispered. "Just stay. Stay with me."

You nodded against his chest, breathing him in like he was the only air you needed. "I love you," you said, and his body trembled with the weight of it.

"I love you," he echoed. "So much. So much that I can't—"

He pulled back slightly, enough to reach into his jacket pocket.

Your breath caught when you saw the small velvet box.

Pedro smiled through the tears shining in his eyes. "I was going to wait," he said. "I had a whole plan. Paris. Fireworks. The whole cheesy thing."

You laughed wetly, heart hammering against your ribs.

"But I don't want to wait," he said, voice steady. "I don't want to hide. I don't want to spend another second making you feel like you're not everything I've ever dreamed of."

He opened the box. Inside, a delicate, breathtaking ring sparkled under your living room light.

"Marry me," he said simply. "Let’s tell the whole world you're mine."

You gasped, a hand flying to your mouth.

"Yes," you whispered, before throwing your arms around him. "Yes, Pedro. A thousand times yes."

He kissed you like it was the first time, the last time, and everything in between. When you pulled apart, he rested his forehead against yours, smiling that soft, boyish smile that had made you fall in love with him in the first place.

"Tomorrow," he said, "I'm posting about you. About us. About my fiancée."

You laughed, giddy and overwhelmed and so, so in love. "Are you sure?" you teased. "Might ruin your mysterious reputation."

He chuckled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "You're worth ruining everything for."

And for the first time in a long time, you believed it. With your whole heart.

----

[bloggerspam]

This fic seriously blew up in a way that kind of scares me. I didn't expect so many people to like my silly little fic---I see and read all of your comments, but I simply am too anxious/frankly scared of the sheer amount of them to actually respond.

Forgive me, truly. Hopefully the fic lives up to the hype!

===

Truth be told, Jazz didn't think Ellie would make it this far.

She honestly didn't think Danny would make it this far either, not that she'd ever tell him that because it'd either crush him or make him mad.

She thought that maybe, at a push, Ellie would accidentally phase through something (she's still getting the hang of it) whilst playing with Dad.

She even thought that maybe Danny would be seen putting stuff into his body (he's always been so mad that Ellie is better at it, and adamantly uses himself as a purse in retaliation).

She didn't think that they'd catch out another family member's powers. much less an entirely new cousin.

Admittedly, she's kind of proud of her siblings—proud of herself, even.

Mom had assured her a thousand times that nobody would notice, and to be fair to her nobody noticed Ellie until Baby Jon got involved.

She wonders if Conner or Baby Jon would notice if Dan joined them (he's still on probation though, so it might not be for a long while if ever in their lifetime, which is a shame).

The fact that Uncle Clark (because it must have been Uncle Clark, Aunt Lois would never have thrown her sons into the deep end this way) thought the same way makes Jazz cringe at the Walker Family Genes.

Perhaps, instead of calling it Fenton Luck, it should be re-dubbed as Walker Luck.

"So you're both metas," Ellie hums, bringing Jazz back to the present, "But Jon only got his recently?"

"Uh huh." Baby Jon confirms, munching on the food that Jazz sent Danny to grab for the group. "Got them just after the last reunion."

"That doesn't explain your supposed brother's sudden appearance." Danny points out, biting into a mini pie himself, Jazz sits back to let her siblings do the questioning, pulling out her phone to a specific text conversation as she keeps half an eye on the kids.

"I'm not an affair baby," Conner reminds them, dejectedly sipping his juicebox, "But Clark donated to a sperm bank once, and long story short, the Kents took me in to save me from a bad situation about four years ago."

"That's another thing that bothers me," Danny points a crumby finger at Conner, "You call Aunt Lois 'Mom' so naturally but you call Uncle Clark by his name. Why?"

"Clar—Dad didn't really react well to my existence." Conner grumbles, "He thought someone, ugh, I don't really know what he thought, but it wasn't great."

"Dad was a butthead for sure." Baby Jon chimes in, "But Uncle Bruce beat him up a little bit, and then tattled to Mom."

"Uncle Bruce?" Jazz daintily pops a grape into her mouth, the crispy juice flooding her senses as she ponders. This all seems plausible, but something about it is…off. Plus, if Uncle Clark really was that bad she's going to have words with him. She shoots off another text. "Uncle Bruce from Iowa, or the Uncle Bruce from the Big Apple?"

"Uncle Bruce as in my best friend's dad." Baby Jon clarifies, toothy smile a little messy around the edges with crumbs. "Uncle Bruce is Dad's best friend in the whole world, and his son Damian is my best friend in the whole world too."

"Anyway, me and dear old Dad are better now, but old habits die hard, y'know?" Conner grumbles, juicebox making loud crackling noises as the juice comes to an end. "Enough about us, what about you guys?"

"What about us?" Ellie tilts her head, mouth full of fudge. Jazz puts her phone down, grabbing a napkin to wipe a smudge of chocolate off her cheek. "We're metas."

"But Cousin Danny said it was a new development." Baby Jon argues, "I didn't even know the Walker Family had meta-genes—Ma said they didn't."

"There's bound to be at least a couple, big family like this. Dad has the meta-gene." Jazz pipes in, shrugging when Baby Jon looks over at her. "I mean, you've seen him,"

"I have not." Conner deadpans, making Ellie and Jazz giggle.

"Dad's like an off brand Kool-aid Man." Danny rolls his eyes, flopping back into the grass. "I got my powers three years ago."

"What?!" Baby Jon looks affronted, "That means I've had my powers longer than you!"

"And I'm still better at controlling my powers than you are." Danny agrees, smugly haughty in tone. "What's that feel like?"

Jazz has to smother her laugh—Danny does have an unusual ease with his powers. The hardest part for him has always been remembering what powers he has access to. Danny's always been like this with the littler cousins, and it always makes her laugh.

Before Baby Jon can retort anything else Ellie interjects by flopping over onto Danny, making him oof.

"I hate to say it, but big brother is just that good." Ellie huffs. digging her elbow into Danny's stomach as if in retaliation. "I got my powers just after him, and I still have trouble with my powers."

"You're not that bad." Danny feigns hurt, twisting and rolling around until he's got her in a headlock. "You just keep forgetting where the bar is."

That, and she only just got some stability in her genetic make up. With Mom and Dad helping with some ethical, wholesome science Ellie was finally able to stabilize the ecto in her chemical make up. She's been having a rough go, getting used to her powers and staying more human this past year.

"Crazy coincidental that you both got your powers so close to each other." Conner hums, watching Ellie and Danny wrestle with a weird kind of fascination. He looks over to Baby Jon, awkwardly patting him on the head twice. "Don't worry, you'll get the hang of hiding your powers."

"If Uncle Clark can't teach you, I'm sure your brother can." Danny smirks, down at Baby Jon. "He's not as good as me, but…"

"Wha—" Conner's head whips to stare at Danny, "I'm not—I didn't—"

"Danny." Jazz scolds, shooting her brother a look. "We do not out people!"

"I'm informing him that I know so he knows to do better." Danny sticks his nose up, "I am not outing him, I'm trying to help."

"You mean you were being competitive." Jazz rolls her eyes. "Pretending to be better at hiding your meta-status when you voluntarily used your powers to nab Ellie and Baby Jon is certainly a very interesting way to try and help."

"I'm just sayin'." Danny singsongs, smartassed-ly pointing out, "It's not like you didn't notice, and Ellie would have found out eventually."

Conner whips his gaze to her now, as if to silently ask if this is true. Jazz has no choice but to smile sheepishly at him in response—clearly he at least has some kind of advanced hearing if he was able to direct Jazz to the others so quickly.

Conner slumps in defeat as his little brother laughs at him. He wordlessly pushes Baby Jon into the grass in response, which starts another scuffle that Ellie inexplicably joins in on.

"How did you get your powers anyway, Baby Jon?" Danny asks once they've all settled once more. "Did something happen? Are you okay?"

"I just grew into mine!" Baby Jon smiles, "But thanks for worryin'. What about you?"

"Got em on a dare." Danny brushes off, plopping Ellie into his lap so he can play with her hair again, "Barely even noticed."

Jazz hits him on the back of the head. "Do not."

Danny grumbles, but says nothing. She's going to have to have a big boy conversation with him about being so blase about his death, mark her words.

"Danny had to go to the hospital." Ellie informs them, patting Danny on the leg. Jazz bites the inside of her cheek against the surge of grief that almost overwhelms her. "I got my powers because I'm—"

"Because of very private circumstances." Jazz interjects, firmly. Ellie's jaw shuts with a clack, burying her face into Danny's chest. Danny pats her hair soothingly, and Jazz rubs her back to apologize for cutting her off. "We're not particularly hiding it from the family, but things could get messy back home if someone found out."

"Are you from a small town or something? Dealing with meta-prejudice?" Conner asks, eyeing Ellie with a look Jazz doesn't like. It reeks of sympathy, the kind that you know first hand. Perhaps the bad situation Conner escaped from was meta-status related…She's definitely going to have to probe Uncle Clark later, or perhaps ask Aunt Lois about Conner's previous home.

"Wasn't it in Illinois?" Baby Jon hums, tilting into his brother. Conner doesn't seem to be used to contact, which concerns her—though it's a relief that he seems caring of his little brother. She watches as he hesitatingly wraps an arm around Baby Jon, as if unused to it despite the supposed four years with the Kents.

"Pennsylvania." Jazz gently corrects, reaching over to pet Danny's hair. "Don't worry, it's nothing serious. It's just a hassle."

Amity Park accepted Ellie's existence with little trouble, chalking it up to the Drs. Fenton's quirky natures to adopt some random cousin from one of Dad's late siblings.

But if Danny and Ellie's so-called meta status became public they'd have to be very careful to only show specific powers unrelated to their ghost sides.

There's also the matter of the GIW, and that entire…thing.

"If you say so." Conner eyes the siblings, crushing Baby Jon closer as if imagining worst case scenarios. "But if you need help, I know someone who works for the Justice League."

"Uncle Bruce funds the Justice League's space tower thing." Baby Jon explains, which is interesting but ultimately irrelevant—it's not like the Justice League did anything about the GIW before.

Though she can't really blame them, as far as she knows Amity Park never filed a complaint and it's not like the Justice League can be everywhere. Besides, Danny's got a handle on the ghost situation, and Mom and Dad are doing…something about the GIW with Vlad.

"It's fine." Danny waves them off, scoffing at the very idea. He's become very unimpressed with the JL lately, Martian Manhunter not-withstanding. "We can handle it."

Conner looks like he has something to say about that, but before he can get another word out a commotion of familiar voices nearby catches their attention.

"Oh no." Jazz and Danny say in unison, looking at each other and hurriedly getting up. Danny scoops Ellie up, holding her like a sack of potatoes and following after Jazz as she rushes towards the noise. Ellie simply lets him, going limp and brushing off the grass on Danny's shirt where she can reach.

"What? What's happening?" Conner jumps up, frantically looking around for a threat. Baby Jon grabs him by the sleeve and drags him to try and catch up.

"Ancients, they really just tossed you into the deep end huh?" Danny grumbles, giving a disapproving glance down at Baby Jon. Their little cousin sheepishly smiles back up, which Danny responds with a roll of his eyes. "Just so you know, this reaction would'a been another reason to be caught out."

"Dad said he got it!" Baby Jon tries to defend, but doesn't bother explaining the situation to his older brother.

"Well he clearly didn't!" Conner practically yells, hooking an arm around his brother's waist and catching up with her and her siblings. "So will someone please explain what the hell has you guys—"

Conner cuts himself off as they round the corner, a familiar (to Jazz and Danny) scene greeting them just behind the little gathering of trees that line the edge of the backyard.

Mom and Uncle Clark are, as usual, yelling at each other.

Aunt Lois looks very done, one hand on her hip and the other pinching the bridge of her nose. Great Aunt Martha is fixing Aunt Lois's hair and clothes, patting down her own hair once her daughter-in-law's all sorted. There's a basket of more mini pies on the grass next to their feet.

"Uncle Clark and Mom have had Grade-A Wagyu Beef with each other since they were kids." Ellie stage whispers to Conner, before bidding Danny to let her down. He does so easily, placing her between himself and Conner, who has also put Jon down to his other side.

"Oh you've always been like this! Golden Boy Clark Kent, can't do no wrong so he never thinks things through!" Mom is yelling, throwing her hands up in utter disgust.

"Me? You're the one who ruined prom with your experiments—" Uncle Clark has his arms crossed defensively, leaning down to meet Mom's height, "Mad Maddie Walker back at it again with her shenanigans, never lettin' sleepin' dogs lie, always gotta poke the hornet's nest!"

"Oh please, you should thank me for that prom disaster, what with that god awful suit Aunt Martha got you." Mom leans around Uncle Clark, smiling sheepishly at Great Aunt Martha. "No offense, Auntie."

"None taken, dear." Great Aunt Martha laughs gently, as Uncle Clark yells indignantly at the same time, "It was a nice suit!"

"It was periwinkle blue with ruffles, Clark. You're god damned lucky my experiment got you and you still fit Pa's suits." Mom scoffs, turning back to Uncle Clark with a sneer.

"I had to pay full price for that rental, had to use up all my Summer wages!" Uncle Clark retorts, but Mom isn't having it.

"And you should be thankin' me, like I said! Got that Lana girl all up in your business now didn't I?"

Aunt Lois snorts then, which makes Uncle Clark glow red. "You leave Lana outta this Maddie, and you weren't no better, sneakin' off with the Miller's boy, you think nobody knew?"

Mom sputters, turning red herself. "You were two states away, how did you know about that!"

"Distance didn't stop you from ruinin' my prom now did it!" They're in each other's faces now, which is comical considering the height difference,

Jazz decides that enough is enough. "Mom, you promised you would behave!"

"Jazz!" Mom jolts, backing away with a sweet smile and ignoring her scolding per usual. "Honey, what are you doin' all the way over here?"

"We heard the commotion, Mom." Jazz rolls her eyes. "What did Uncle Clark supposedly do this time?"

"Your Uncle Clark here," Mom's smile suddenly looks razor sharp. "is apparently Superman."

The silence that follows is very very loud, much louder than Uncle Clark and Mom bickering, much louder than the crowd on the other side of the row of houses where the rest of their giant family is still partying it up.

Aunt Lois face palms, the slap of it jolting every one back into breathing. Great Aunt Martha sighs gustily, hand pressed to her cheek

"Fuck," Conner finally says, breathing the curse out before saying louder, "Fuck, they're right, I get it from you—Batman's going to kick your ass."

A chorus of voices overlap each other in varying tones to yell out in unison:

"Language!"

Cousins, Clones and Conning the Family

Family Reunion AU, where cousins Maddie and Clark try to smuggle their clone children into the family reunion that happens every 5 years and pretend they've been there the whole time.

Spoiler alert, one of them does significantly better than the other. Mainly Kid POV, and also on AO3! Multichapter. ===

The problem with big family reunions, Danny thinks, is how utterly fucking lost Danny is all the gosh dang time.

"Well now, you're Maddie's son now ain'tcha? How old is you now?" The woman standing before him guffaws, ruffling his hair. He lets it, trying desperately to remember the speadsheet Jazz created for the family and (obviously) failing to recall this woman's name.

Agatha? Selene? Riri? No, Aunt Riri is over there—

"Yes ma'am," Danny smiles up at the unnamed aunt, accent going a little twangy like it always does at these functions, "I'll be hittin' 17 in a coupl'a months or so."

"My, my, you youngin's sure grow like weeds!" The aunt coos, gesturing to a height by her hip, "You used to be this tall last time I saw ya, betcha don't r'member me now do ya?"

It's a trap. If he says he doesn't remember, which is expected at reunions such as these that happen every 5 years or longer, she'll start going on and on about the stories she has of the family. Danny would have to stand here and demure and laugh at these cousins he doesn't really remember too well, but know enough to know that she's gotten them all mixed up.

"Pshaw," Danny doesn't react when a whisper breathes the answer into his ear, "I'd never forget a pretty lady like you, Aunt Helena!"

It works like a charm.

The second he's out of her clutches, he feels around for a cold spot. There, trailing just behind him, is Ellie. She's not invisible anymore, so he tucks her under his arm and bee-lines it towards the metaphorical kid's table.

"Thanks, Ellie. Weren't you supposed to stay with Dad?" Danny leads them around, trying to avoid any other mishaps. "Did Jazz send you?"

"She made me flashcards!" Ellie smirks up at him, ignoring his other question and pulling a corner of an index card out from the palm of her hand. She's always been better than him at manipulating the ecto in her body, for obvious reasons. Danny's not bitter about it at all.

"Damn, all I got was a presentation." Danny grumbles. Jazz and Dad somehow know every single one of their family members, which is ludicrous when even Mom doesn't know despite it being her side of the family.

He still can't really believe how big his family actually is, but he supposes that's natural. He only sees them once every couple of years, the only relative they see even on a remotely regular basis is Aunt Alicia, who has no kids and refuses (rightfully so) to remarry.

Danny's fine with that, he gets the best of both worlds after all. Cozy holiday stays with Aunt Alicia and he has places to stay all over the country if he really needs it, no questions asked.

Plus, crazy as they can be, these reunions have always felt like a big country festival for Danny.

"She likes me better." Ellie snickers, tugging him back to avoid Uncle Charlie's drunken stumbling.

"Everyone likes you better," Danny rolls his eyes, pushing Ellie's head down and ducking to avoid a stray kid's toy flying overhead, "I like you better."

As if somehow knowing Danny's being self deprecating again, Jazz shows up to smack him on the head. "I like both of you equally in special ways."

Danny makes a disgruntled noise, grumbling as he rubs his head, "Mooooom, Jazz is therapizing me again!"

Even though he was only half joking, Mom does show up specifically to laugh at him. "Honey, your father and I love all our children equally!"

"It's a secret," Dad says from behind Jazz, kids climbing all over him, "But Ellie's the favorite!"

"Jack!" Mom yells at the same time Jazz screams, "Dad!"

Ellie dissolves into giggles, making everyone but Dad helplessly laugh. It's good to see Ellie laugh, she does it a lot but it still doesn't feel like it's enough. Danny picks her up, giggling mess and all, and tosses her at Dad.

She lands, as expected, straight into the pile of children who scream and accept her easily.

"Nice." Jazz chuckles, this time patting him gently on his head in approval. Danny shrugs, dusting his hands off and heading back towards salvation: the food.

He and Jazz mingle a bit, exchanging greetings and school updates with the Aunts and Uncles they occasionally bump into, making their way slowly through and keeping an eye out for the other cousins.

Eventually, Jazz gets nabbed by Cousin Dermot just as Danny reaches the table, tossing a pig-in-a-blanket into his mouth and chewing with glee. The locals of the family usually something potluck style—and though Dad's genes are strong and the Fentons can't cook, the bulk of the Walker family definitely can.

In fact—Great Aunt Martha said she was going to bring some mini pies right?

Danny spies a pile of them in the middle of the large table and reaches for one, only to bump into the spikes of black fingerless gloves.

The gloves are, of course, attached to someone else.

It's a boy, around Danny's age, in a spiked leather jacket (matching the gloves) and white tee shirt with ripped jeans. He's got the tiniest John Lennon sunglasses and piercings everywhere—it makes Danny squint at him, with how much the sun keeps catching on everything—the spikes, the piercings, the metal arms of the sunglasses, is this dude also wearing lipgloss?

Danny's not judging, a guy can appreciate proper hydration to avoid chapped lips or even just for the aesthetic, but it doesn't help with the glare.

"Sorry, my bad." Right, okay, city slicker then. Not that Danny's much of a country boy or anything. "Did my spikes get you?"

Maybe Cousin Jenny brought a plus one? Danny eyes the guys jeans—they look tight. Was Cousin Mark into guys? Is this dude a guy or possibly a masculine girl? Ack. Stupid sun frying his brain.

"It's okay," Danny says, blinking away and tossing mini pie to the other person. "Aunt Martha's pies are worth the minor injury. You comin' in with one of the cousins?"

"Uh, yeah." Citypunk looks at Danny nervously, "I mean, I am one of the cousins." The guy bites his lips, shrugging, "Uh, one of the Kents, actually. Ma's real proud of the pies."

Danny blinks.

"…You're not Jon." Danny says, very carefully and slowly.

"…No…" Stranger Danger draws his vowels out, "I'm Conner. His, uh, older brother? Can't blame ya for being confused though!"

"…You can't." Danny agrees, because out of the two them, Danny definitely isn't to blame for the confusion.

"Yeah, lots of cousins, and all," Curiouser and Curiouser beams at Danny, shrugging and rubbing the back of his neck, "Plus, I know Jon's more sociable at these things."

"Right, he really is rambunctious, that guy." Danny nods, as if that's the problem, and not the fact that Danny knows every single cousin his age. Big as his family might be, Danny's generation came out the smallest. Cousin Jenny and Cousin Mark are the only two his age.

With Ellie and Jazz each being four years younger and older than Danny, and the other cousins being well beyond those ages in gaps, there is no way this guy is a cousin.

"Don't worry," Punk'd laughs self deprecatingly, "I know he's the favorite. even if Mom won't admit it."

Danny feels a vein throb in his right temple.

He's unsure if he should slowly back away or get up in the guy's face. It's just—now that Danny thinks about it, if wedding crashing is a thing, does that mean family reunion crashing is a thing too?

What's the protocol here? Should he fight this guy for having the audacity to use Great Aunt Martha's name in vein?

Wait, no, that's Jesus.

Is Great Aunt Martha Catholic? ...Is that the one with Jesus, or was that Christianity?

Wait, Danny, you knuckle head, Uncle Clark was adopted. Conner could be adopted too! Even though he looks exactly like that Uncle Clark when he was younger…

"Is this your first time at a reunion?" Danny ventures, "We only have 'em—"

"Every 5 years, yeah." Conner huffs, "Nah, I just used to hide with Ma in the kitchens."

Okay, clearly Great Aunt Martha isn't in on this, because Danny used to hide with Great Aunt Martha in the kitchens. Danny's about to lose his shit on this guy—or maybe sic Ellie on him. Whichever is worse.

"Oh yeah? That's must have been cozy." Danny grits out, taking a deep breath so his eyes don't flash.

"Yeah, it was!" Conner beams shyly. though all Danny sees is a smug smirk. "She's real nice-like, I'm sure you know. Real lucky to have her for a Grandma."

"Real lucky." Danny agrees, because Great Aunt Martha really was one of the better Great Aunts. Though most of the Walker Kin were hardy and tough, in that badass kind of way. Mom really liked Great Aunt Martha's lessons on bull wranglin' back when they were younger. "Speakin' of, she ain't here?"

"Nah," Conner makes a sad little pout. "She hadta stop by Auntie Agatha's for an emergency. She left two days ago, so she's runnin' a little behind. Cl—Dad went to go pick her up."

Danny squints at the possible imposter. That sounded like he was going to call Uncle Clark by his name, which makes things confusing for Danny. Guy will call Aunt Lois Mom but he won't call Uncle Clark Dad easily?  Maybe he's a kid Aunt Lois had before marrying Uncle Clark? But Aunt Lois would never hide a kid, and Great Aunt Martha would never let her treat a kid like that. That's not even taking into account that this kid looks way too much like Uncle Clark for it to be a fucking coincidence. Plus, Danny knew about Aunt Aggie's emergency and how she might not be making it to this year's reunion—this gives Conner's story credibility.

But Danny knows that the best way to lie is with truths, even if the truths are confusing.

So what the hell is going on? Is Clockwork fucking with him? Did an alternate timeline get switched with his?

It wouldn't be the first time, but Clockwork at least had the decency to let him know at least.

"What the—" Danny blinks, as Conner picks up a very familiar, eye-searingly green colored post it note that was stuck to the plate under a mini pie. "Is this yours?"

"Yeah," Danny huffs. taking the note and rolling his eyes as lies roll off his tongue, "Sorry, y'know how it goes with Jazz."

"Oh, yeah." And Danny has to give it Conner, he at least rolls with the punches real quick, "I heard about it but didn't ever uh, see it in action."

"Really?" Danny feigns surprise, head pulsing in irritation at the words all is as it should be written in purple pen. There's no mocking smiley face, but Danny feels it in the ink anyway. "Thought she got all the cousins at the last reunion."

Conner chuckles nervously, "Oh, yeah—Guess I'm just, easy to miss you know?"

"Uh huh…" Danny eyes the guy and his piercings and very distinct style, from the tip of his clearly styled hair and needlessly ostentatious big black studded boots. "…Right."

Conner laughs, wincing. "These're new. High school debut."

"…You're a freshman?" Danny tilts his head, squinting.

"Junior." Conner automatically corrects, before stiffening. "…I just wanted to reinvent myself for Junior Prom."

"Right." Danny repeats, drawing out the vowels and finally giving up. He can tell Conner already knows what Danny is going to ask, and is trying to exit this conversation post-haste.

Fortunately for Conner and unfortunately for Danny, Jazz comes barreling in, almost knocking the former out in the process as she grips the latter's biceps tightly with her eyes wide and nervous.

Unfortunately for Conner and fortunately for Danny, though the look in Jazz's eyes thoroughly distracts the latter and gives the former a window to escape, Jazz's hissed out words end up keeping Conner rooted to the floor.

"Baby Jon has powers!" Jazz hisses as she moves Danny away from the possible imposter a couple feet. Even though she says it low enough for only Danny to hear, Conner's wide eyes as he whips his gaze towards them suggests that Jon's not the only one with powers.

And then words actually register along with that thought.

Danny hisses out the first thing he thinks of. "Since when?? I thought he took after Aunt Lois!"

"Since now," Jazz gruffs, switching her grip to drag Danny away, "and I need you to do something about it!"

"What?" Danny doesn't struggle, going along even as he eyes Conner who seems to be following them at a distance. "Why?"

Jazz pushes him towards the kid's area, rushing out a frantic "He's in the bounce house with Ellie!"

Danny freezes, or tries to even as Jazz keeps tugging him along, before shaking off her hand and booking it towards the bounce house.

Once the bounce house (a castle) comes into view, Danny clocks several things in succession:

One: Ellie and Jon are thankfully the only ones in the bounce house right now.

Two: Ellie and Jon are laughing, and through the mesh Danny can see Ellie watching Jon jump way too high to be considered normal.

And three: The bounce house is about to fucking tip over.

There's a gaggle of Aunts herding the younger cousins towards the food that's dense enough for cover, but sparse enough for Danny to dash through.

Between one blink and the next, he disappears.

[thewertsearch]

Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain cloth. Or anything taking place out here in the emerald shitty paintjob, for that matter.

So, wait - in this extended Wizard of Oz analogy, Hussie is the wizard? It does seem fitting, except that the Wizard of Oz was only pretending to be an all-powerful god, whereas Hussie, as the author of the story, actually is omnipotent.

...not that there's any actual proof of that, come to think of it.

Perhaps the in-universe Hussie avatar is merely narrating the story, rather than creating it, and any claims to the contrary are really just smoke, mirrors and braggadocio. If that's true, then they're really just an observer of these events, albeit a particularly well-informed one.

JOHN: this place is weird. when are we gonna bust through the other window, anyway? JOHN: i'm kind of antsy to get on with our adventure and meet up with everybody! JADE: yes me too JADE: hmmmmmm

It's going to be hours, at the very least.

If our two parties were mere minutes from reuniting, there'd be no reason to drag it out for this long. Besides, if the kids' arrival in the B2 session was imminent, then they'd immediately steal the spotlight back from our four new protagonists, some of whom we haven't even officially met yet.

The B2 kids need room to breathe. They deserve some time to develop as characters, without being completely overshadowed by their predecessors. Therefore, said predecessors will have to slow their fucking roll for a second, and let the Alpha Kids shine.

JADE: we should arrive in about three years

Jegus, what?

I haven't been this blindsided by a timeskip since Scarab 25.6 - but the more I think about it, the more confident I am that it's the right decision. Not just because it gives the Alphas time to develop, but because of the possibilities it opens up.

When the B2 kids re-enter the story, they'll be around the same age as Jane's team - and since we've just met Jane's team, I think it's highly unlikely that they'll be included in the timeskip. The Alpha Kids aren't going to be nineteen when John's team arrive - they'll be in the same timeframe they're in now, on the same day they entered their session.

In other words, we're going to get to know the Alpha Kids as a group of hormonal teenagers - and then, when the time is right, we're going to drop a cluster bomb of additional teenagers right on top of their session, stand well back, and watch the shitshow begin. If you think the Jake/Jane/Dirk/Roxy love quadrangle is bad, wait until you see Jake/Gamzee/Karkat/Terezi/Dave.

Plus, a 3-year-timeskip means our protagonists can finally rest for a while. The Sburb crisis isn't over, of course, but it is on pause - and for much longer than I expected it to be, too. The kids can finally unpack what the fuck happened today, and the trolls can enjoy a non-hostile living environment for literally the first time in their entire lives. This is good for them, and I think it'll really help them grow.

It's a shame that we'll probably be splitting the party, but these two groups are still full of interesting dynamics, that we now have time to explore. John/Jade and Rose/Dave can finally get to know each other as siblings, Rosemary can develop as a couple, and the whole Karkat/Terezi situation can finally resolve, one way or the other.

We've been stuck on one single day for almost four thousand pages - but now, we're finally leaving this long, long Monday afternoon behind us. It's time to accelerate.