#Small Bottle Labeling Machine

[dove-from-above-133]

Stitched beer labels. I removed the original labels and made some new ones out of fabric. I used a sort of paper appliqué method on top of that. I always choose to leave the strands of thread as I think they look better. And, yes, the beer is still inside the bottles. 🕊️

[coriihanniee]

WHAT'S YOUR LOVE LANGUAGE? ༻°₊ ｡

۶ৎ ALTERNATIVE : how boynextdoor express their love for you

۶ৎ PAIRING : boynextdoor x gn!reader۶ৎ GENRE(S) : established relationship, FLUFFNESS OVERLOAD!!! ~ ۶ৎ WARNING(S) : slight mention of stress/anxiety, excessive chessiness?? (secondhand blushing!!), uncontrollable smiling, Woonhak's failed basketball attempt (may cause emotional damage) ۶ৎ WORD COUNT : 0.2k - 0.3k words

۶ৎ A/N : new headcanons!! I personally feel like all of them would express their love in such diverse and sweet ways~ likes/reblogs/comments = a fish doodled by Leehan and a kiss from Jaehyun 😉

SUNGHO ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚

۶ৎ always walks on the street side of the sidewalk to protect you from traffic 

۶ৎ remembers your coffee order down to the ice cube count and brings it to you without being asked :

“I passed the café and they had your favourite coffee!”

“You walked ten minutes in the opposite direction.”

“So what? Let me live babe.” 

۶ৎ plans thoughtful dates based on your interests, not his 

۶ৎ if you once mentioned liking stars? He's dragging you to an observatory at night (You said it one time. He remembered.)

۶ৎ if you once mentioned craving bunggeoppang at 1am during winter? He's showing up a week later asking :

“So, hypothetically, if I knew a place that sells it late... and hypothetically, if I was already outside your place… would you hypothetically want to come down or—?” (He already bought two. Yours has extra red bean. He remembered. AGAIN.)

۶ৎ adjusts your seatbelt for you when you get in his car with no complaints because he loves taking care of you 

۶ৎ knows your go-to order at like five different restaurants and recites it like it’s a password to a secret base

۶ৎ will not let you carry anything heavy, no matter how small it is :

“Give me that.”

“It’s literally just a bottle of—”

“Give.”

۶ৎ knows your routines better than you do. If you forget something? He’s already packed it :

“Did you bring my charger?”

“Bottom left pocket.”

“Wait, seriously—”

“You forget it every time. This isn’t new.”

۶ৎ buys those mini heat packs and sneaks them into your pockets when it's cold

۶ৎ cooks your favourite comfort food when you've had a rough day without you having to ask

۶ৎ complains about your bad habits but always helps you through them anyway :

“Why are you like this? Also I reorganized your entire fridge and labelled the sauces. You’re welcome.”

۶ৎ overall the best boyfriend ever! ~ 🥹💕 

RIWOO ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚

۶ৎ unconsciously reaches for your hand when walking together 

۶ৎ leaves you little handwritten encouraging notes around your house whenever possible, says it's his new daily morning routine 

۶ৎ always making silly jokes that makes your stomach hurt from laughing :

“If that vending machine eats your dollar again I will fight it. I don’t care if it’s built like Jaehyun.”

۶ৎ gives the most comforting hugs when you're stressed, will wrap his arms around your waist and let you rest your head on his shoulders while tracing circles around your back 

۶ৎ spins you around randomly just to hear you laugh :

“You looked bored.”

“I WAS COOKING.”

“Yeah, now we’re waltzing. Multitask!”

۶ৎ gives you forehead kisses before leaving, entering a room, or just because the lighting hits your face a certain way and he can’t resist 

۶ৎ brings you little desserts when he goes out 

۶ৎ plays with your hair when you're close 

۶ৎ keeps his phone gallery full of blurry pics of you : 

“Why do you have this? I look like a goblin.”

“Exactly. My goblin.”

۶ৎ man of a few words, but text? Oh he's going out of his way to make sure you know you're genuinely the most beautiful person he's met : 

“Just remembered how pretty you looked this morning… ♡”

۶ৎ links arms with you in crowded places, he just doesn’t like the idea of losing you, even for a second! 😭🩷

۶ৎ randomly starts dance battles with you at home :

“ROUND ONE! LET’S GO LOSER.”

“I DID NOT CONSENT TO THIS.”

“WINNER BUYS ICE CREAM. MOVE IT.”

۶ৎ also links arms with you everywhere you go, even just walking to the kitchen :

“Where are we headed?”

“Fridge.”

“Perfect. I love a good journey.”

JAEHYUN ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚

۶ৎ dating Jaehyun is a 50/50 gamble between :

“My boyfriend just serenaded me with a ukulele at 2AM because he missed me”

AND

“My boyfriend ate my last snack and left a post-it that says ‘this is the price of loving me’”

۶ৎ wakes you up in the most dramatic way possible :

“WAKE UP, LOVE OF MY LIFE, WE’RE GETTING PANCAKES—”

“Jaehyun it’s 7am—”

“AND THE SUN IS SHINING AND I MISSED YOUR FACE!!!”

۶ৎ saves every picture you send him and makes them his wallpaper

۶ৎ plans elaborate surprise dates months in advance because he loves seeing your reaction 

۶ৎ always brings you little gifts : 

“Here. Saw this and it looked like you.”

“It’s a sparkly pink pen shaped like a cat?”

“Exactly. Sexy and sharp like my gorgeous girlfriend.” 

۶ৎ teases you 24/7 but defends you the moment someone else tries 

۶ৎ blows up your phone with memes and chaotic selfies, half of which are him doing something dumb like wearing five sunglasses indoors

۶ৎ calls you by the most ridiculous nicknames :

“You good, my little microwave-safe spaghetti?”

“...That’s not even—what?”

“Shhh. Just accept my love.”

۶ৎ texts you fake love letters in Shakespearean English :

“To mine dearest heartthrob, thy gaze doth slay me—also we’re out of milk.”

۶ৎ always has a hand on you. Thigh, waist, pinky, shoulder, doesn’t matter. Even if it’s just brushing against you on the train, he’s gonna make sure you feel he’s there :

“Do I have to let go?”

“You’re hugging my leg while I’m washing dishes.”

“So… no?”

۶ৎ never misses the opportunity to surprises you with back hugs with his arms around your waist whenever he feels like 

۶ৎ dramatic as hell when you're affectionate first 

۶ৎ genuinely hypes you up like you’re his celebrity crush :

“You’re telling me YOU chose to date me?? That’s so crazy. How did I pull such fine shyt??”

TAESAN ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚

۶ৎ writes you lyrics when he can't express his feelings verbally 

۶ৎ does your chores when you're overwhelmed without making a big deal out of it 

۶ৎ sends you good morning/goodnight texts that are never the same or copy-paste

۶ৎ loves making you flustered, then pretending he’s innocent :

“You look cute when you’re mad. Should I annoy you more?”

“Dongmin.”

“Not a no.”

۶ৎ defends you in conversations when you're not around if anybody tries talking bad about you 

۶ৎ slips your name into lyrics he's working on and pretends it's a coincidence :

“Dongmin, this is literally our inside joke in verse two.”

“Oh, weird, huh? ☺️” 

۶ৎ hums your favourite songs when he thinks you can't hear him 

۶ৎ remembers every important date and celebrates all milestones, big or small 

۶ৎ knows when you’re lying and loves to call you out :

“I’m not jealous.”

“You changed the subject and flared your nostrils. That’s your tell, babe.”

“Do you study me or something?”

“24/7. Get with the program.”

۶ৎ this man teases you more than Jaehyun but that's just his way of showing his undying love for you ~

۶ৎ leaves you voice messages when he knows you’re too tired to talk :

“You don’t have to reply. I just wanted you to hear my voice. I love you.”

۶ৎ keeps one earbud in at all times just in case you send a voice note. If it’s a voice message, he’ll pause everything to listen, even if he’s mid-writing lyrics

LEEHAN ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚

۶ৎ gives you his full attention when you speak, like you're the most fascinating person in the world 

۶ৎ shares the most random thoughts : 

“Do you think fish get jealous?”

“...Jealous of what?”

“Like… other fish with cooler scales. Or the ones that get fed first.”

“Donghyun what—”

“Anyway, if I were a fish, I’d be jealous of whoever got to swim next to you.”

۶ৎ gets pouty when you tease him, but lets you win anyway.

۶ৎ draws little doodles of you and him as corydoras fish : 

“This one’s you.”

“Why do I look nervous?”

“Because you’re next to me and you just realized how much you like me.”

“...Donghyun.”

“Hang on, let me give you heart eyes. There. Fixed.”

۶ৎ shares his hobbies with you and gets genuinely excited when you show interest 

۶ৎ teaches you about his interest (fishies! 🐠) with endless patience 

۶ৎ starts learning your favourite hobbies too so you can do them together 

۶ৎ Absentmindedly plays with your hands. Twirls your ring. Taps on your fingers like a keyboard. Draws little shapes on your palm : 

“You have the cutest hands. Very holdable!”

۶ৎ wants to do everything together with you, even the boring stuff :

“Wanna go grocery shopping with me?”

“You just went yesterday.”

“Yeah but you weren’t with me, so it was lame.”

۶ৎ spoils you with food and loves watching you eat like it's his favourite hobby because he wants you to eat well

۶ৎ enjoys taking long walks with you just to have uninterrupted time together 

۶ৎ shares weird animal facts as a way of showing affection : 

"Did you know penguins propose with pebbles? I found you a cool rock today. It reminded me of you…kind of oddly shaped but very special.”

WOONHAK ✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡ ˚

۶ৎ randomly piggybacks you everywhere 

۶ৎ gives you his hoodies and gets happy when he sees you wearing them 

۶ৎ starts fake arguments just to get your attention : 

“Why would you rank mint choco above cookies and cream???”

“Because it tastes good???”

“You can’t be trusted. Don’t talk to me.”

...10 seconds later

“Wanna try mine though?”

۶ৎ posts unflattering pics of you on social media with stupid captions

۶ৎ says random sweet things when you least expect it 

۶ৎ the type to point directly at you and say "this one's for you" and try to shoot the ball into the hoop and miss miserably 💀

۶ৎ doesn't want to admit it but he's very big on physical touch, holding pinkies, resting his chin on your head, throwing an arm around you

۶ৎ if you sit on the floor, he will lie on you :

“Woonhak you’re heavy—”

“You’re soft.”

۶ৎ shares his food automatically with you, even his favourites 

۶ৎ chaotic dates >>> romantic dates :

 → Arcade nights where he tries to win you a plushie and refuses to leave until he does

→ Supermarket speed runs where you split the list and compete

→ “Let’s cook dinner together!” (and by cook he means burn half the kitchen)

۶ৎ is weirdly obsessed with your laugh :

“Can you do that thing again?”

“What thing?”

“That sound you made when you snorted mid-laugh. That’s my new ringtone.”

@coriihanniee 💌

˖➴ reblogs are appreciated! ty for reading! <3

taglist: @lvlyhiyyih @supi-wupi @tinyelfperson @8makes1atom @s0shroe @imhereonlytoreadxoxo @mydeepestsecrects @brownetry @pumpkg @heeheesang @jungwonbropls @prodkwh @reibelhearts @beomev

[formulafanfics13]

Another Day, Another Look II- Toto Wolff 🔥

Masterlist || Part 1 || Part 3

as requested <3

Kimi didn't even look up when George tossed the bag of crisps on the bed. He just kept sitting there, slouched on the edge of the mattress, hood up over messy curls, thumbs tapping half-heartedly at his phone screen like he was reading but not replying. His entire body said tense, the way teenage boys get when they don't know what the fuck they're feeling, but they know it's not nothing.

Lewis came back from the bathroom with wet hands, drying them on the front of his hoodie. He caught George's eye, a small shrug, then sat down on the other bed, across from Kimi.

"So," George said lightly, cracking the crisps open with a pop. "You rich now?"

Kimi blinked. "What?"

"The new contract. The pay. You're, like, officially on Daddy Mercedes' payroll now, yeah?"

Kimi huffed a laugh. "Shut up."

Lewis grinned, voice gentle. "He's right, though. It's a damn good contract."

George tossed him a crisp. "Don't act like you're not gonna buy something stupid with it. Like a boat or a vending machine or a lizard or some shit."

"I'm not mad about the contract," Kimi muttered.

Lewis tilted his head. "You sure?"

Kimi didn't answer right away. He picked at the edge of a water bottle label. Peeled it in one long curl. Then said, softly, "I'm not mad at her either."

George blinked. "You're not?"

"I knew this was gonna happen," Kimi sighed. "It's just... the kind of shit she does."

George leaned back. "What, fall into offices with Team Principals?"

Kimi cracked a smile. It didn't quite reach his eyes. "She's always gone for older guys. It's a thing. Ever since she was sixteen."

Lewis didn't say anything, but his expression sobered.

Kimi glanced up. "I'm not mad at her. I'm not. I just don't want Toto thinking I-" He stopped himself. "That I put her up to it. Like I sent her in to flirt so I could get a raise."

George scoffed. "Mate. You really think Toto fucking Wolff would fall for that?"

"I think people think worse things," Kimi muttered.

"You think Toto does?" Lewis asked.

Kimi shrugged. "I don't know."

Lewis shook his head immediately. "No. He doesn't."

Kimi looked up again. "You sure?"

"I'm sure."

It was quiet for a second. George blinked. "Wait, did Toto say something to you?"

Lewis scratched the back of his neck. "He just said... he knows you didn't ask her to. That it wasn't about you."

George narrowed his eyes. "And what was it about, then?"

Lewis paused. Thought. Then said quietly, "Honestly? I don't think even he knows."

Kimi didn't answer. He just leaned back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling like maybe it had answers. Like maybe it was safer to look up than down at the screen of his phone, where her name sat unread, her last message unsent, a green bubble glowing like a fuse.

The silence stretched again until George cleared his throat and said, "You know what? I'm gonna leave you with your emotional support uncle."

Kimi rolled his eyes. "Where are you going?"

George smirked. "Gonna go see if there's any minibar vodka in my room." He grabbed his jacket, slapped Kimi on the foot as he passed, and disappeared into the hallway with a lazy wave. The door clicked shut.

Kimi let out a breath.

Lewis stood, wandered to the desk, and poured two glasses of the hotel's shitty complimentary water. He handed one over. Sat back down. "Can I say something?" he asked.

Kimi shrugged. "You're thirty-nine. I'm seventeen. You can say whatever the fuck you want."

Lewis huffed a laugh. "Fair." He sipped. Then looked at Kimi. "Toto doesn't think you manipulated anything," he said softly. "If anything... he thinks she played him."

Kimi blinked.

Lewis kept going. "He was quiet, after. Strange. Kind of like he couldn't believe what happened."

Kimi's voice was tight. "Did he tell you what happened?"

"No. But he didn't have to."

Kimi stared at the floor. "Do you think I should talk to her?" he asked.

Lewis didn't answer right away. Then, gently, "Do you think you'd say something you'd regret?"

Kimi was quiet. Then nodded.

Lewis clapped his shoulder. "Then wait."

There was a beat. And then, a ding. Kimi's phone lit up. He didn't move to grab it. Just stared at the screen like it might burn him.

"Is that her?" Lewis asked.

Kimi nodded. Lewis watched the notification disappear. "Do you want to know what I think?" he said softly.

Kimi glanced at him. "No. But you're gonna say it anyway."

Lewis smiled faintly. "I think she's grown. Maybe not smart yet. But grown. And I think she doesn't ask for things she doesn't want."

Kimi looked down at the floor. "She said please."

Lewis tilted his head. "What?"

"In the hallway. To Toto. She said please."

Lewis's face didn't change. But something behind his eyes flickered. Knowing. Complicated. He stood. Gave Kimi's shoulder a final squeeze. "Get some sleep."

And then he left. Kimi sat in the quiet.

Phone buzzing again. Her name. A second message. Still unread.

And 35 minutes away, down in Oxford, Toto Wolff stood alone in his living room. Staring at the bar cart. Tuxedo shirt unbuttoned. Tie discarded. Hands braced on the countertop like he was keeping himself from slipping.

Because no matter how calm he'd been earlier, no matter how carefully he cleaned her, he could still taste her perfume on his mouth.

* 

Mercedes HQ had never felt this full.

There were children trailing engineers down the production floor. Spouses balancing champagne flutes while gaping at the wind tunnel. Retired mechanics giving talks beside massive screens projecting brake telemetry in high-def. Staff from every division walking their families around the place like it was an extended Christmas dinner, and everyone was trying just a little too hard to behave.

The whole thing reeked of good PR and polished shoes. But Kimi wasn't thinking about that. He was gripping his sister's wrist like she might fucking bolt.

"Come on," he muttered under his breath, dragging her across the marble-tiled atrium and straight toward a pair of familiar figures. George, tall and bouncing on the balls of his feet like he was half-wired, and Lewis, calm and smiling beside him, surrounded by four different teenagers in matching STEM t-shirts asking him about rear-wing flex limits.

George spotted them first. "Hey-"

Lewis turned, eyes catching on Kimi, then on her. He smiled. "Afternoon."

"Hi," she said warmly.

George raised an eyebrow. "Older Antonelli. The troublemaker, right?"

Kimi huffed. "Shut up."

She laughed, light, innocent, but her cheeks flushed. Just slightly. Just enough.

Lewis tilted his head. "Good to see you again."

She nodded. "You too."

George narrowed his eyes, playful but sharp. "You sticking close to Kimi all day or gonna start climbing boardroom tables again?"

Kimi stepped in. "She's being good."

"I'm trying," she said with a faint grin. "He's just not letting me go anywhere."

"She's not," Kimi muttered. "I don't trust her."

"Fair," George replied, smirking. "I wouldn't either."

She just smiled and let her brother keep hold of her wrist.

The day unfolded like it was meant to. Tours. Talks. Photos. Factory walkthroughs. At one point, she found herself chatting to Lewis' step-mother about carbon composites while two seven-year-olds tried to crawl into a prototype simulator. Another hour passed. Kimi still hadn't let her stray more than five meters.

They had talked about it. The night after the contract. After the hotel. She'd texted. He'd answered. Slowly at first. One sentence replies. Then longer ones. Then emojis. Then photos. Then a voice note that she definitely wasn't meant to replay as many times as she had.

She hadn't told Kimi any of that. But he wasn't stupid. "Stop smirking," he muttered as they walked toward the presentation stage.

"I'm not."

"You are. And it's suspicious."

"You're paranoid."

"I'm seventeen," he muttered, tugging her toward the side of the temporary stage where the engineers were finishing setup for the drivers' talk. "You're twenty something. It should be you babysitting me. Not the other way around."

She grinned. "So let me go."

"Absolutely not."

She stood off to the side, crossed her arms, and watched Lewis, George, and Kimi step up to the platform. That was when she felt him. Not saw. Not heard. Felt.

The air behind her shifted. The faintest brush of warmth. The scent of cologne. A presence you could lean into without turning. Then a hand. Big. Flat. Confident. Settling low on her waist, fingers spreading gently over the fabric of her dress. She inhaled, a little too sharp. A little too late.

And then his voice, low and warm, directly against her ear, "You look beautiful today."

She didn't move. Didn't dare. Just stood there. Breathing.

"You've been very quiet," he murmured.

"Well, your driver was holding my wrist hostage."

A soft breath of amusement. "We'll fix that," he said. "Come find me in my office at the end of the day."

She swallowed. Nodded once. His hand didn't leave her waist.

Instead, he squeezed, brief, possessive, and then stepped past her with the most casual pivot in the world, jacket perfectly pressed, voice smooth and easy as he approached a pair of adults near the simulator stations.

Her mother. Her father. She watched, stunned, as Toto shook hands with both of them. Charmed them. Warm, polished, even. No trace of the man who had just whispered you look beautiful into her ear like he was seconds from devouring her.

Kimi's dad smiled. Her mother touched Toto's arm as she laughed. Toto didn't even glance at her again. Not once.

And she was left by the stage. Thighs tense. Lungs tight. Watching her baby brother talk about downforce while their Team Principal very, very politely seduced her family.

And within five minutes, her phone buzzed.

TW: office will be left unlocked after 5. lock the door after you.

She stared at it. Then at him. Then at her own reflection in the polished chrome panel next to the stage. And smiled.

By the time the clock hit 5pm, the factory was quiet. Silent, almost. Only the low hum of lights overhead and the distant clatter of some late-shift cleaner echoing faintly down the polished corridor.

Toto's office door was closed. But not locked. Yet.

She stepped in without knocking. Without pausing. Without saying a single word. And he didn't look up right away. He was seated behind the wide glass desk, tie loose, top button undone, flipping half-heartedly through a stack of documents that didn't seem to be holding his attention. His body was still. But his foot tapped once under the desk.

She shut the door behind her. Click. The lock turned. And only then did he lift his eyes.

It was subtle. That shift in posture. That slow glance up from the paper to the girl. But the second he saw her, standing there in the quiet, backlit by soft amber hallway light, eyes locked on his, the whole room changed.

He didn't smile. Not yet. But he did smirk. The kind that curled at one side. Quiet and dangerous. The kind that said, I've been waiting for this. He pushed his chair back slightly. Just enough. Legs spread. Arms resting on the desk edge.

And she moved. No words. No hesitation. She walked forward, dropped her bag on the floor without looking, and stepped between his knees.

Toto's hands stayed where they were. Barely. She climbed onto him, one knee on either side of his thighs, settling into his lap like they'd done this a hundred times. Like his body was hers.

And maybe it was. He inhaled. Sharp. Quiet. His hands lifted slowly, one to the curve of her waist, and the other,  to the back of her neck. Firm. Possessive. Spreading through her hair like he owned every strand.

"Scheiße," he muttered under his breath, voice low and reverent.

She said nothing. Just stared down at him from where she sat, breath uneven, lips parted slightly, thighs tense around his legs.

His thumb stroked the base of her skull. "You came," he said, soft.

She blinked. "You told me to."

That made him smile, not smirk, a smile. Like she'd just confirmed something sacred. "And you listen now?" he murmured. "Just like that?"

She tilted her head. "Only when you ask nicely."

His hand tightened at her neck. Not hard. Just enough to feel it. "I didn't," he said.

"No," she whispered, leaning forward just slightly. "You didn't."

He caught her jaw with his other hand. Held her still. Studied her. "You're sure?" he asked. "You want this again?"

She kissed him. No hesitation. No answer. Just her mouth on his. Hot. Deep. Open. It was slow at first. Controlled. But only for a second.

Because the moment he groaned, that low, broken, tired sound, everything snapped. His hands gripped her waist, pulling her down harder against him, his hips already shifting forward, cock straining beneath her even through the fabric.

She gasped into his mouth. He bit her lower lip "Fuck," he muttered, voice guttural now, teeth against her jaw. "You've been driving me fucking insane."

"Good," she breathed, rocking once against him.

He grabbed her hips and stilled them. Hard. "Stop."

She blinked, panting. "What?"

His eyes were dark. Focused. Hungry. "You don't get to tease me now."

"I'm not-"

"You climbed into my lap," he said, fingers digging into her waist. "Locked the door. Straddled me in my own office."

Her breath hitched.

"You're mine now," he said. "So you stay still until I say otherwise."

She shivered, then, slowly, painfully, nodded.

Toto's hand moved back to her neck. Held her there. His other traced down her spine, settling low, dragging her closer until her forehead pressed against his.

They sat like that. Breathing. His cock hard beneath her. Her thighs trembling above him. Everything silent.

Until he whispered, "You're going to regret wearing this dress."

And she whispered back, "Good."

He didn’t speak when he lifted her off his lap. Didn’t ask. Didn’t check. He just dragged her forward on the couch by one arm until she was kneeling on the rug, legs spread wide between his shoes. He looked down at her. Quiet. Steady. Then said, low and brutal, “Open your mouth.”

Her lips parted instantly. She didn’t blink. He stared like he was about to ruin a cathedral.

“Good girl,” he muttered, voice gravel now. Then he reached down. Undid his belt again. Slower this time. Deliberate. She was breathing heavier already, eyes flicking to the waistband of his trousers, the dark line of fabric underneath. And when he pulled himself free? He was already hard again. 

“Look at you,” he whispered. “So good.”

She nodded, lips still parted.

“No,” he said. “You don’t get to nod.”

She swallowed. Tried again. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, sir.”

That made something in his face flicker. Barely. A spark behind the eyes. And then he was cupping the back of her head, guiding her mouth forward, cock pressed to her lips as his other hand tilted her chin.

“Suck,” he ordered.

She did. God, she did. Her mouth was hot. Soft. Tongue already swirling as she hollowed her cheeks and took him in deeper. Toto groaned low in his throat. “Fuck- good girl.”

She moaned around him, and it vibrated up his spine. He grabbed her hair tighter. Started fucking her mouth slowly. Measured. Every thrust was timed like a heartbeat. He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. The only sounds were her gagging softly, her lips stretched wide, the wet suck of her mouth around his cock.

He was watching her face the whole time. “Look at me,” he growled. “Eyes up.”

She glanced up, big, glossy, ruined, and he almost came right there. Her mascara was smudged. Her mouth was slick. And still, she held his stare like she wanted to drown in it.

“You like being used, don’t you?”

She whined around him.

He pulled her hair harder. “Say it.”

“I love it,” she gasped around his cock. “I love being used by you.”

He grunted, pushed deeper. “Fucking knew you would.” He fucked her mouth harder now. Faster. Not merciless, but close. Enough to make her choke just a little, enough to make her thighs clench, enough to make her eyes water. And she took it. Like she’d trained for this. Like it was what her mouth was made for.

Then he pulled out suddenly, dragging her up to her feet with one rough jerk, spinning her around and slamming her chest-first against the window. The Brackley test track glittered in the distance behind the glass. Her tits were pressed flat to the cold pane. She gasped.

Toto kicked her feet apart. “Hands on the window. Don’t fucking move.” She obeyed. Immediately. Shaking. The tension in her legs made her whole body tremble.

He yanked her dress up again, then over her head. She was naked now, exposed to the whole test track. To the sunlit sky. To him. And then he was behind her. Hot. Tall. Hard. The head of his cock pressed to her soaked entrance again. “You want this?” he asked, one hand curling tight around her throat from behind.

“Yes,” she choked out.

“Louder.”

“Yes!”

He slammed into her in one vicious thrust. She screamed. “Fucking take it,” he growled into her neck. “You begged for this.”

And she did. He fucked her like a man possessed. No slow build. No teasing. Just relentless, punishing thrusts that made the glass fog in front of her. Her breath smeared across the window, lips open in silent moans as her whole body was jolted forward with every stroke.

Toto didn’t hold back. He gripped her hips hard enough to bruise. Slammed into her so deep she saw stars. Groaned in her ear like he was trying to mark her from the inside out.

“You know what I’m going to do?” he hissed, voice pure filth. “I’m going to keep you bent over every fucking desk in this building. My office. The sim room. The boardroom. Anywhere you smirk.”

She gasped, legs shaking.

“I’ll fuck the attitude out of you every time,” he snarled. “Until you can’t walk without remembering who owns you.”

“Please-Toto-please-”

“No,” he growled. “Not yet.”

He fucked her harder. Faster. Filthier. And then he stopped. She sobbed. “Turn around,” he ordered.

She stumbled back, dazed, flushed, covered in sweat. He caught her. Pulled her into his chest. Lifted her onto the edge of the desk again. Spread her legs.

Looked her dead in the eye. “Now you’re going to come on my cock,” he said. “While you look me in the fucking face.”

He slid back into her in one brutal thrust. She screamed his name. He gripped her jaw. “Keep your eyes open.”

“I can’t-”

“You can.”

And she did. She came like she was possessed. Clawing at his shoulders, eyes locked on his as the orgasm tore through her like a live wire. She didn’t just moan, she cried. The kind of wrecked sob that came from being split open in every way.

Toto fucked her through it. Didn’t stop. Drove deeper. Dripped sweat onto her collarbone as his own breath hitched. He was close. So close. Then softer he asked,  “Where do you want it?” he panted.

“Inside.”

“Fuck-”, and he came. Deep. Hard. Filling her with every last pulse, groaning into her neck, hands tangled in her hair like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

They collapsed together. Chest to chest. Breath to breath. The office was wrecked. Window fogged. Her dress slightly torn. Her body trembling.

Toto brushed her hair from her forehead. Kissed her temple. “I’m not done with you,” he whispered. “Not even close.”

She smiled. Weakly. Glorious. “Good.”

He smiled too. Dark. Full of promise. Then reached for his phone. “Dinner,” he said. “You’re coming with me. No arguments.”

She didn’t argue.

She just leaned forward, whispered into his ear, “Only if you fuck me again after dessert.”

He was still catching his breath, shirt half unbuttoned, the skin of his chest slick where she’d clawed him, and that smirk was back. Not the quiet, measured one he used for boardrooms. Not the faintly amused one he gave to George when he crashed the simulator for the third time. No, this was different. Slow. Possessive. Filthy in its calm.

She was still perched on the edge of his desk, legs trembling, thighs glossy with him. Her shirt was hanging off one shoulder, hair a mess, lips swollen and jaw bruised where his fingers had held her. She hadn’t moved since he came inside her, hadn’t wanted to.

And Toto, steady as ever, stepped back with the kind of calm only men who live in high-stakes warfare could pull off. “I have something for you,” he murmured, walking to the cabinet near the corner of the room.

She blinked, dazed, trying to reassemble the alphabet in her head. He opened the door with a soft click, reached into the shelf where he kept a few emergency shirts, black Mercedes-branded team kit, crisp and soft and washed a hundred times over, and pulled one out. Turned. Walked back to her.

Held it out. “Put this on.”

She stared. It looked like nothing in his hand. But it was one of those long cuts, meant to layer under jackets. She took it with a weak grin, unfolded it slowly. “This is going to fit me like a dress.”

“Good,” Toto said simply, stepping back. “You’ll look like you belong to me.”

Her breath hitched. No teasing. No flirting. Just the plain, brutal honesty of a man who already had her.

She stood, wobbling slightly. He reached out, steadying her with one palm flat to her waist. She peeled off her ruined shirt and slipped the tee over her head. It fell past her thighs, soft cotton against her raw skin. It smelled like fabric softener and Wolff. She tugged the hem down, glanced at her reflection in the glass. No underwear. No bra. Just his shirt and her own skin, still sticky with him. “This isn’t exactly dinner attire,” she murmured.

Toto didn’t respond. He was staring. The kind of stare that made her throat close. Like he was considering bending her back over the desk. Again. Instead, he leaned down. Picked up her bag, the structured little tote she'd dropped beside the couch when this all began, and handed it to her gently. She took it with slow fingers, watching him.

And then he kissed her. Not her mouth. Not her neck. Her forehead. Soft. Careful. Reverent. Again. Like she was more than what they'd just done. Like he’d just taken her apart and was putting her back together again with one press of his lips.

“You ready?” he asked, voice low.

She nodded.

Toto reached for the lights, turned off all but the soft desk lamp, and opened the door for her with a hand pressed to the small of her back. They stepped out into the hallway. It was quiet. Not empty. Just enough hum in the distance that they had to keep their voices low. Her bare thighs brushed under the hem of the oversized shirt as they walked, and Toto stayed close. Close enough that his hand could return to her waist if she stumbled. Close enough that when they passed an intern headed toward the lift, the poor boy stammered so hard he dropped his clipboard.

Toto didn’t even blink. Just kept walking beside her. One long shadow. One smirk pulling at his mouth.

“Where are we going?” she asked softly as they approached the back staircase.

“Private dinner,” he said. “Not far.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Hotel suite?”

His eyes cut sideways. “You’ll see.”

She didn’t press. Just followed him down the stairs, past the service corridor, through the executive exit where a blacked-out Mercedes EQS waited with the engine humming low and the back door already open.

He helped her in. Slid in beside her. And as the door shut and the glass privacy partition rose behind the driver’s seat, she looked down at the shirt she was wearing, his shirt, oversized and clinging to her bare skin, the hem brushing her thighs, her nipples faintly visible through the cotton.

Toto glanced over. Rested a hand on her knee. And said, “You’re not going to need anything else.”

The car slipped through the Oxford countryside like a whisper. Trees blurred under a pale dusk sky, fields edged with fences older than most empires, and every few miles, the kind of estate you didn’t see unless someone let you.

She watched the land pass by in quiet awe, thighs still sticky beneath Toto’s Mercedes shirt, bare legs curled on the leather seat as her hand rested on the armrest between them. She hadn't said much. She didn’t need to. The air between them was charged and oddly calm. Wrecked and reverent. There was no shame in the silence, just tension coiled like a spring.

By the time they turned off the private road and wound up the drive, her breath hitched without permission. The house wasn’t just big. It was imposing. Built of pale stone and tall glass, the front stretched wide with sharp geometry and soft curves, like someone had cross-bred Bauhaus with old Viennese money. The garden lights were on. Warm. Clean. Minimal. The kind of quiet, curated wealth that didn’t need to try to impress you.

It just was.

Toto opened her door. Handed her out like she was something to be escorted. His palm on her back stayed a second longer than necessary. He didn’t say anything until they crossed into the wide, high-ceilinged entryway. She caught a glimpse of dark marble floors, a floating staircase, some kind of abstract sculpture on the wall that looked more like a blade than art.

Toto tossed his keys into a minimalist tray near the door and turned to her. “I’m cooking,” he said, calm.

She raised a brow, still barefoot, still in nothing but that oversized shirt. “You cook?”

“I do,” he said, already walking toward the kitchen. “I enjoy it. It’s an act of control.”

Of course it was. She followed. The kitchen was almost clinical. White walls, matte black cabinets, brushed steel appliances that buzzed in expensive silence. A sleek island, a double stove, three bottles of wine already chilling in a marble cooler. It was unreal. The kind of space designed by someone who didn’t cook for convenience. He cooked to perfect.

He turned to her and gestured to the far end of the kitchen table. “Bag?”

She handed it over. He placed it gently on the chair, like it mattered. Like everything she brought into his space should be treated with intention. Then, he looked at her. Just once. And before she could ask 'what now?' his hands were on her hips again, lifting her effortlessly onto the edge of the counter beside the stove.

Her bare thighs hit cool quartz. She gasped.

His palm spread across her lower stomach. Firm. Controlling. Like he needed to feel her breath move beneath his skin. He stepped in between her knees, gaze darkening as he took in the sight of her. Bare legs. His team's shirt. No bra. No panties. Nothing but soft heat and sin curling beneath her skin.

She let her hands brace behind her on the counter, head tilting to meet his stare. Then, with a slow smirk, she murmured, “You know I’m gonna drip all over your expensive countertop, right?”

Toto didn’t flinch. Didn’t smirk. Just looked at her, eyes quiet and locked. And said, “Good.”

Her breath caught. His hand slid lower. Between her legs. Parting them with obscene confidence, two fingers dragging through the slick mess between her thighs, just once, just enough to make her gasp and jolt.

He pulled them away. Shining. Then wiped them, deliberately, against the inside hem of his own shirt. “Let me see what I've done to you,” he said, turning casually toward the fridge.

She was speechless. And he? He was already pulling vegetables from a drawer like he hadn’t just fingered her against the counter and claimed her mess like a signature.

“I’m making risotto,” he said over his shoulder. “With asparagus, lemon, and parmigiano.”

“Okay,” she breathed, trying not to melt into the cabinetry.

He opened a drawer. Poured oil into the pan. Grabbed a chopping board. Every motion was exact. Clean. He cooked like he led. With ruthless control and unhurried confidence. The kind of man who could dice onions with the same hands that had choked her until she screamed.

“You’re going to sit there and behave,” he said calmly as he heated the pan. “You don’t touch yourself. You don’t squirm. You don’t even cross your legs.”

She gripped the edge of the counter. “And if I do?”

Toto smirked faintly, throwing the rice into the pan. It sizzled. He stirred once. Then turned to her, cocking his head. “Then I stop cooking,” he said. “And you go to bed hungry.”

She blinked. His smirk grew. And she whispered, “You’re evil.”

“I’m efficient,” he said, squeezing half a lemon into the pot without breaking eye contact. “Now be a good girl and sit there looking ruined while I make you dinner.”

And fuck, she did. She stayed there. Legs spread. Skin damp. Watching him. Salivating at the smell of garlic and lemon and her own arousal pooling beneath her. Every so often, he would glance sideways. Just enough to remind her: I see you.

He plated the food with terrifying elegance. White ceramic. No garnish wasted. He brought a dish to her, placed it beside her knees.

Then reached for a wine glass. And poured.

She reached for the fork, still wide-eyed and on the edge of spiralling, and before she could taste anything, he stepped forward again, between her thighs, pinning her to the counter with one slow drag of his palm over her bare inner thigh.

“Eat,” he said softly. “You’re going to need your strength.”

Her breath hitched again. Because dessert? Dessert was going to be her screaming his name against the window of his bedroom while he made her come so many times she forgot her own.

And Toto? Toto was already planning it. Down to the fucking second.

*

The light was soft. Morning filtered in through the tall, sheer curtains, casting a pale golden wash across the wide expanse of the bedroom. The bed itself was obscenely large, more square than rectangle, with pillows in disarray, sheets pushed down, and one thick white duvet half-spilled onto the polished oak floor.

She stirred. Bare. Every inch of her was sore in the best way. Muscles low in her back tight from being bent forward too long, thighs trembling from overstimulation, throat dry from begging. She barely remembered making it to the bed after the second round on the kitchen counter. All she remembered was his voice, quiet, sharp, “You’re not done yet, not until I say you are,” and then darkness, moaning, glass fogged, her legs shaking in his arms as he came inside her again.

And now? Now she blinked blearily, curling deeper into the scent of crisp white linen and clean masculine heat. He was already awake. Toto sat beside her, shirtless, in nothing but black boxers. His long legs were folded at the knee, one arm stretched lazily across the headboard, the other holding his iPad at a casual angle. His glasses were perched on the bridge of his nose, hair still slightly rumpled at the temples.

And when he saw her eyes flicker open, he smiled. That soft, knowing morning smile. No smirk. No sin. Just quiet satisfaction. The kind of expression that made something warm and stupid bloom in her chest. “Guten Morgen,” he murmured, voice gravel-soft.

She let out a groan and curled toward him, face pressing into the warm plane of his chest. His arm folded around her instantly, palm spreading wide over her bare spine, tugging her into his side like he’d never known the bed without her in it. He kissed her hair. Then, like it was just another line in his morning briefing, said, “Your phone has been pinging for the last hour.”

She groaned again, deeper this time, like the universe had reached into the perfect post-sex cocoon and stabbed her in the ribs.

Toto chuckled low and reached for the device on the nightstand, offering it to her without letting go. “It was vibrating across the floor. I was two minutes from confiscating it.”

She cracked one eye open, took the phone with a pout, and unlocked it. A blur of texts. WhatsApp. Three missed calls. FaceTime Incoming: Kimi.

She whined. Toto smirked. “You don’t have to answer,” he offered, calm.

She looked at him. He nodded once. Permission. And something else. Let him see. So she sighed. Hit accept. Rolled onto her back so her shoulders pressed into the pillows, the thick white duvet tucked strategically over her chest, one bare arm still curled around Toto’s stomach. The call connected. And Kimi’s face filled the screen.

“Where the fuck have you-” he started. Then froze. Dead silent. Because there she was. In bed. In his bosses bed. Hair messy. Skin flushed. Shoulders bare. Covered only by expensive white linens and the thick arm of his literal team principal curled behind her neck.

Kimi blinked. Swallowed. Froze again. Then made a noise so viscerally horrified it felt like the end of time. “You’ve got to be joking me.”

Toto didn’t flinch. Just smiled calmly and angled the camera slightly to better show his face. “Good morning, Kimi.”

Kimi closed his eyes. “No.”

She started laughing. Not cute giggles. Cackling. Actual chaotic laughter, breathless and broken by little whines of I can’t believe this is real.

“I FaceTimed you,” Kimi said, still frozen, still blinking at them both like they were a crime scene. “I thought you were dead. Or kidnapped. Or-”

“I was kidnapped,” she said smugly, curling further into Toto’s side.

Toto kissed the top of her head again. “Not kidnapped,” he corrected. “Held in strategic captivity.”

Kimi looked like he aged five years. “You’re naked.”

“You can’t see anything.”

“I don’t want to see anything!”

Toto nodded, calm as hell. “Then hang up.”

Kimi didn’t. Instead he covered his face with one hand and said, “You knew I was going to call.”

She blinked innocently. “I did not.”

“You absolutely did. You answered this call while naked in the arm of my boss.”

Toto looked pleased. Kimi groaned. “I’m deleting your contact.”

“No you’re not.”

“I’m blocking your number.”

“You’re FaceTiming me again by Tuesday.”

“I need therapy.”

“You need to stop calling me before noon.”

Toto chuckled again. “Kimi. I can arrange for Mercedes’ team psychologist if you’re emotionally impacted by this.”

Kimi flipped him off. She laughed harder. And Toto? Toto just pulled her closer, pressed his mouth to her hair again, and mouthed against her skin, “My girl.” And Kimi, sweet poor fucking Kimi, could do nothing but stare in real-time at the exact moment his big sister became a Wolff.

[babydoll372]

could you please do natasha romanoff x reader smut that's overall pretty sweet and domestic? That's all i really want, you can add anything that you would like <3 thank you for writing just in general even if you don't do this one <3

Stand By Me

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x reader

Word count: 1984

Warnings: smut, fluff, fingering, squirting, plz pretend gay marriages existed in 1990’s, mentions of children, overstimulation

A/N: the text makes a lot more sense if you listen to the music with it (It’s a really good song too) Also set in 1990’s because I think it’s cute so picture the early black widow Ohio home without the redroom :) (also ik I said I’d write longer fics now but I really thought this would be long and it wasn’t somehow)

Natasha rolled her shoulders against her hands tiredly after shutting the door behind her. She could only hope that the small three-year-old was able to sleep the night alone this time, not to further enhance the dark bags under the redhead’s eyes. A yawn left her lips, and she stumbled into the kitchen, setting the baby monitor down on the counter quietly as you sent her a quick smile, your hands wiping dry the last dish with a small rag.

“All kids are officially in bed. Lena threw a small tantrum, Peter was exhausted, so he was quite easy, and Alexandria required only two books tonight. I would say it was a success.” You offered a light chuckle to your wife’s humorous entreaty, raising your hand as she gave a weak high five in response. You switched bedtimes every night so that one of you could get chores around the house done, and the other could get a few extra minutes with each child before sending them off to a slumber. After six years of having children, you have both been able to form efficient habits and rules that made different parts of your lives much easier - this being one of them.

“I’m very proud of you, baby.” You moved closer to her, your hands now taking place on her hips. “So bed early tonight or late wine discussions?” She raised a brow as if the answer was obvious, and you quickly raced to the secret wine cooler you both hid in your basement. When doing so, with a large bottle in hand, your eyes stopped on the box sitting perfectly in front of you, as if calling your name. The basement was full of many items held in the same cardboard material that you had to get rid of someday, which is why you both decided on hiding the cooler downstairs, where the children had no interest in going. The contrasted black sharpie read, “Wedding Day” with a crappy drawing of two rings tied together next to it - Natasha drew that. You smiled at the fond memory, setting down the bottle carefully and opening the dust-ridden box. Tears streamed the ringing of your eyes as you slowly viewed each item, your hands falling on the cassette tape that held your wedding song. The date was labeled on it along with the name, and when you heard your wife calling you from upstairs, you knew you couldn’t leave it behind.

“Look what I stumbled upon,” Natasha turned to eye the small item in your hand, squinting ever so slightly to get a better look.

“Hey, that’s- that’s our wedding song. I thought we took all our wedding stuff out of the basement already…” She gently took the cassette from you and brushed it off, eyeing it carefully. “Wow, ‘May 23rd, 1986 - Stand By Me.’ That feels like just yesterday, somehow.” She then set it down on the countertop next to the wine you carried up. When you met her eyes, they were full of adoration and love, and her hands went around your waist to hold you closely and bring you in for a gentle kiss. One that still gave you butterflies over a decade later.

“Shall we play it?”

“We shall.” Natasha’s hand reached for yours as the beat began to softly roll out of the machine, low enough to not wake the children. She gave you a quick spin, and you giggled as a result. Her hands then found their way to your hips as they swayed in rhythm.

“When the night, has come…and the land is dark,”

“And the moon, is the only night we’ll see.” You continued for her, cupping her cheeks as you did many years ago. “No, I won’t be afraid- oh, I won’t be afraid.” Natasha smiled in return, one hand coming to interlace with yours and be kept in the air as her forehead made contact with yours in a resting position.

“Just as long…as you stand, stand by me.” She finished. As the chorus echoed through the background, you both hummed in a low tone, your voices just above whispers. And as the second verse began, you could feel Natasha’s soft sigh of relief as she heard your voice once again.

“If the sky…that we look upon, should tumble and fall,”

“Or the mountains…should crumble to the sea. I won’t cry-“

“I won’t cry. No, I won’t shed a tear…just as long, as you stand…stand by me.” And this time, your voice was the last to be heard. Her lips came to rest against the back of your palm, which she still held in the air, repeating the act a few times as the look in her eyes resembled one from many years ago. Complete silence began to fill around the two of you as the echoes faded. The music came to an end, and there was nothing but comforting emptiness.

Her mouth then found yours, her hand softly cupping your cheek as she let out a gentle moan of desperation. Your body tilted backwards at just below of a right angle, and her tongue traced over your entrance as it parted, granting her access. Your feet found themselves shuffling back a few steps until your butt hit the edge of the dining room table. You both pulled apart, trying to grasp any bit of air you could so you could quickly return. Natasha moved the chair beside you that was pushed into the table, hoisting you up onto the furniture. You both shared a quiet giggle, your noses touching as she hummed in contentment before slowly dropping to her knees, her eyes remaining on you the entire time. Your pants came off in a slow tease, yet the whimper describing your need caused her to quicken.

“You’re so beautiful, Y/N. I’m so lucky to have married you.” She kissed your thighs between sentences, causing your cheeks to darken. One hand then held them apart as the other rested on your waist, her thumb stroking gently on your skin. There was a comforting silence between you two as her lips pressed gentle pecks to the fabric covering the one place she needed to see.

“Natasha…” Brought your low voice in a raspy whisper, your fingers treading through her hair like gentle waves. She eased your panties aside and licked her lips, feeling a lustful moisture surround her inner cheeks. She quickly shared a glance with you before pressing her tongue against your clit. You shuddered with a craving, and she repeated herself multiple times before trailing down to your hole, where she collected your sinful drops. Her eyes closed shut as she hummed in satisfaction, feeling your body's reaction, even if it was nearly unnoticeable at times. She finally pulled away for a split moment, grasping the back of your neck in her hand and pulling you forward with little force.

“I’ve got you, baby.” Her lips then met yours as she sighed with gratitude, two of her fingers coming to replace her tongue’s previous position. “I always do.” Her knees lifted themselves as she stood over you, her eyes boring into yours before she rested your head on her chest. She shushed you quietly, almost like a mother consoling her young, crying baby, as her digits eased into your awaiting entrance.

“It’s okay, big stretch…there we go. You’re okay.” She whispered, beginning a slow rocking motion with her fingers and trailing her gaze to where they met your cunt. “Fuck- you’re still so tight, and I fucking love it.” Her crude words sent a shiver down your spine and caused a moan to escape your lips. It was loud, but it was gladly muffled by her shirt. She then chuckled, creating a stronger and faster pace.

“Don’t wake the kids up, alright? As much as I love hearing how desperate this pussy is for me, I don’t need them seeing their Mommy like this.” You nodded, stuffing your hand over your mouth as the sounds of your squelching juices now outshone your octaves.

“Nat, I- I think-”

“I know, I know. Whenever you’re ready, you just let it out for me, this is on your own accord.” She assured, feeling you practically pulse around her two digits. Her cock was much larger, and she adored the way you handled her despite your struggle with such smaller amounts. She had been conditioning it since she first met you and saw your shocked face when she revealed her length, but now you were well-adjusted to accepting everything she gave you.

Your eyes squeezed shut when you came around her, and you expected her fingers to slow to a halt but they didn’t. You whimpered quite loudly, your hooded eyes coming to meet hers as your body continued to spasm, your thighs shaking.

“I can’t…” You shook your head, gulping down the need to comply and say yes, to beg for what she’s giving you.

“Yes, you can. Don’t even think about it, just hold onto me and let me do all the thinking for you.” A tear streamed down your cheek while she added a third finger, allowing you time to accept the addition and wiping your tear with her free hand. Her thumb felt the wetness seep onto its skin while she cupped your chin, allowing you to kiss her passionately and in turn silence your moans. Your legs wrapped around her and pulled her even closer as she began to slowly thrust in and out of you, creating a steady rhythm that just wasn’t the same as before. You pulled away from her plump lips for a moment, your breath shaky.

“Faster- please, Nat, I need you to- to go faster.” A sly smirk found its way to her lips as she nodded before returning her mouth to yours, her fingers gliding against your walls quickly. There was a hidden force to it, one that caused your back to simultaneously arch into her as the rest of your body developed goosebumps. There was something about her in specific that made you this way, and while you never experienced this with anyone else, you knew no one would ever compare. When you began dating, she was only a few months older than you, and had been with two other women sexually, but you had been with zero, regardless of the gender. She worried that marrying you would someday make you wish you could’ve explored your options more, that you would’ve felt closed off from only ever having intercourse with her. But it was the opposite. You never once questioned what another human being could offer because you knew you had everything you’d ever need in front of you. And she had never felt so comfortable with another person, and even she knew she could never offer what she gives to you to anyone else.

And so as your tongues collided willingly, and her fingers continued at a steady pace, you allowed yourself to let go. You knew that even as she silenced your moans, your love for one another spoke in greater volumes. The woman only pulled back when oxygen became scarce, because she would kiss you even if she ran out, even if her last breath was spent doing so. She glanced down to her shirt splattered with your arousal and grinned.

“You must really like me, huh?” You rolled your eyes, panting quietly as you turned her body to the direction of the bathroom, knowing she would instantly sense what you were requesting. And as she came back with a towel, despite the cloth seeming to have no meaning to many, you smiled drowsily and kissed her cheek.

“I’m so glad I married you, Natasha Romanoff.” She returned your expression, taking your hand and kissing its back gently.

“And I am so glad I asked you to marry me, Y/N Romanoff.”

[casssmalefantasy]

team usa: the series — paige bueckers x oc!

vi. off days and what comes after — team usa is winding down. the future feels too close. the games slow down, the nights get longer, and ivy and paige ask the hardest question: what now?

s: the end of camp is creeping closer. ivy and paige are no longer dancing around each other, but the fear of what happens next lingers heavy in the air. on an off day full of team bonding and quiet moments, conversations get deeper.

w: emotional vulnerability, fear of change, team bonding, fluff, established tension, soft affection, slow pacing, college talk, soft moments, internal conflict, and azzi being azzi

word count: 3.8K

last part | final part

part six: “off days and what comes after”

ivy’s pov

there’s a weird stillness in the air.

not in the quiet kind of way. it’s loud—girls yelling over each other, someone singing along to the aux, sneakers squeaking against the gym floor as we pack up. but it still feels like something’s shifting. like something’s ending.

and maybe that’s because it is.

“we’ve got a full off day tomorrow,” coach yells over the noise. “team bonding activities. don’t be late.”

groans and cheers mix together. someone yells “let’s gooo” like it’s summer camp, and i guess in some ways it is. but i feel it. in my chest, in my stomach. team usa is winding down. and i’m not ready.

i glance across the court. paige is laughing at something azzi said, one hand on her hip and the other holding a water bottle like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like we’re not all secretly terrified of what comes next.

we’re not dancing around each other anymore. we share the same bed now without the space between us. she’ll grab my hand without thinking. i’ll look at her too long and not care if anyone sees. we’re not labeling it—but it’s real.

still, there’s this question sitting at the back of my mind: what happens when the summer ends?

paige’s pov

“team obstacle course?” azzi reads off the itinerary. “what are we, ten?” she says annoyed.

“you’re just mad you’ll lose,” i say, bumping my shoulder against hers.

“no, i’m mad i have to wake up at seven for a ropes course in the woods,” she mutters.

the bus ride to the activity site is loud. our group’s split into teams for some team-building thing coach swears will be fun and character-building. i’m half paying attention—half watching ivy two rows ahead of me, her head leaned against the window, airpods in.

sometimes it hits me out of nowhere: i really, really like her.

and not just the fun parts. i like her when she's quiet. when she's stressed. when she's tired and leaning her head on my shoulder and pretending she's not falling asleep. and that scares the hell out of me because we never talked about what happens next.

i think about the convo we had a few nights ago when we talked for hours about everything and anything.

flashback scene

paige’s pov

the hotel was quiet.

not the creepy kind of quiet—just late. like everyone had already crashed and the building itself was finally exhaling. i found ivy sitting in one of the small seating areas near the elevators. fake fireplace on. vending machines humming behind her. she was curled up on the couch, hoodie pulled over her head, tapping at her phone screen like she wasn’t expecting anyone to show up.

“you disappeared after dinner,” i said.

she looked up. didn’t flinch. didn’t fake a smile. just kind of… scooted to the side to make room.

“couldn’t sleep,” she said, voice low. “figured sitting still might trick my brain.”

i sat down beside her. not too close. not far either.

we didn’t say anything for a second. just let the quiet be quiet.

“you always do that?” i asked. “go sit somewhere until your brain catches up?”

ivy shrugged. “sometimes. sometimes i just lay there until the sun comes up and pretend that counts.”

i smiled, even though it wasn’t funny. “that bad?”

she nodded, picking at the drawstring of her hoodie. “it used to be worse.”

i didn’t press. just waited.

and after a while, she looked up at me like she’d already decided to say it.

“i started playing ball because of my mom,” she said. “not because she pushed me. because she didn’t.”

i tilted my head. “what do you mean?”

ivy leaned back into the cushion, eyes on the ceiling. “she raised me and my brothers alone. worked double shifts at the hospital. we’d get picked up from school by our neighbor or sometimes just wait for her in the parking lot. one day she showed up late—like really late—and i saw her crying behind the wheel. i’d never seen her cry before.”

my stomach clenched. “damn.”

“i asked what was wrong,” she continued. “she just said she was tired. not sick, not sad—tired. and it hit me that all she ever did was give. and i wanted to give something back. i wanted to be good at something. to make her proud.”

i nodded slowly. “so you picked up a basketball.”

she smiled, just a little. “i was nine. the court near our apartment had a bent rim and half the chain net missing. but i went out there every day. shot bricks for a week straight before i even hit the backboard.”

i laughed gently.

“my brother finally took pity on me and showed me how to actually shoot,” she said. “i got better. fast. and she started coming to games. sometimes straight from work, still in scrubs. and every time i looked at her in the stands, i felt like… maybe i was helping her breathe easier.”

i didn’t realize i was holding my breath until i let it go.

“you ever tell her that?” i asked.

she shook her head. “no. not out loud. but i think she knows.”

i sat there for a minute, the weight of her words still sinking in.

“you’re a really good daughter,” i said quietly.

ivy turned to look at me. “you think?”

“yeah. and a really good teammate. even when you drive me insane.”

she grinned, nudging my leg with hers. “ditto.”

i leaned back, looking at the ceiling too. “my parents split when i was little. like, really little. i don’t even remember what it was like with both of them in the house.”

ivy turned her body toward me more.

“i live with my dad, step mom, step brother, and my little brother, drew,” i said. “my mom moved to montana and i stayed in minnesota. we talk. not every day, but… enough. she’s great, honestly. just—wasn’t great with my dad.”

“that hard?”

i shrugged. “at first, yeah. i didn’t get why they couldn’t figure it out. but now? i kind of appreciate having both of them separately. like, i get different versions of support. my dad’s like… the ‘run-it-back-what-did-you-do-wrong’ postgame talk guy. and my mom’s the one who texts me poems and song lyrics and tells me to take a deep breath.”

ivy smiled. “you’re lucky.”

“i know,” i said. “and i’m grateful that they’re still friends and that my mom comes to some of my games, whenever she can.”

she nodded, eyes soft. “that’s sweet.”

we went quiet again, but it wasn’t heavy. it felt okay. like we’d earned the silence between us. like it didn’t need to be filled.

“what’d you want to be before basketball?” she asked suddenly.

i blinked. “before?”

“yeah. before you knew you were good.”

i laughed. “an astronaut. or a zookeeper. i had a weird phase.”

ivy grinned. “i wanted to be a writer. used to make up these fake mystery stories about my teachers being secret spies. one time i turned one in for a book report instead of doing the actual assignment.”

“what’d you get?”

“an f. and a note home.”

i laughed so hard i leaned into her, shoulder brushing hers. she didn’t move.

“you ever think about what happens after all this?” she asked softly.

“like, after the season?”

“after the tournament. the team. the summer.”

i exhaled, the air catching in my chest. “yeah. all the time.”

“me too,” she said. “but tonight, i’m just glad we’re here.”

i looked at her, and for once, she didn’t look away.

“me too,” i whispered.

end of flashback

—

ivy’s pov

the ropes course is dumb.

it’s dumb, hot, and everyone’s yelling—and i kind of love it.

azzi’s stuck in a tire swing. someone just tried to army crawl under a net and lost a shoe. jordan and caitlin are arguing about whether or not someone cheated during the plank challenge. the sun is brutal, my shirt’s sticking to my back, and everything smells like dirt and sunscreen.

paige is on the other side of the course, helping one of the younger players up a wall. she’s so gentle. so patient. like the world slows down for her when she’s helping someone else. like she’s not even thinking about the heat or the yelling or the way her knee’s probably aching from all the climbing—we’ve all been sore for days—but she’s still just there, palms up, steady, saying, “you’ve got it. just one more step. i got you.”

i’m watching her when azzi’s voice breaks right into my ear.

“you’re staring”

i jump, elbowing her lightly. “shut up.”

she grins, completely unbothered, dirt on her cheek and a leaf in her hair. “you know she’s down bad too, right?”

i roll my eyes. “how would you know?”

“because i’ve known her since she was fourteen and awkwardly tried to flirt with a girl asking if gatorade was a good pregame drink.” she pauses. “then tried to impress her by telling her she could recite every WNBA team in alphabetical order.”

i blink at her. “did it work?”

“shockingly, no.” azzi smirks. “but my point is—this? whatever this thing is between you two? it���s not in your head. it’s real. and it’s probably the most focused i’ve seen her be all summer.”

i chew on the inside of my cheek, eyes flicking back toward the wall. paige is laughing at something now, brushing dirt off her hands, her braid slipping over her shoulder. she looks… happy.

"you two are different now," she says after a moment. "not just the sneaking around and the tension—like, real different. lighter. like you both finally stopped pretending you didn’t want this.”

i feel myself soften. “we did,” i admit. “stop pretending.”

azzi studies me for a second, the teasing edge in her expression softening. “then why do you look like you’re bracing for something?”

i shrug, eyes still on paige. she’s laughing at something the kid says, that soft crinkle in her nose showing. “because i don’t know what happens when this is over.”

“team usa?” azzi asks, gently.

“yeah.” i swallow. “when we go back home. when it’s school and teams and miles between us again. when this—whatever this is—doesn’t have a hotel hallway two doors down and shared practices five times a week.”

azzi leans back against the ropes post, arms crossed. “you really think that’s all it is?”

“no,” i say quickly. “i just… i don’t want it to be. and that kind of terrifies me.”

“it’s not nothing, ivy.”

i glance at her. “i know it’s not. that’s the problem. if it was nothing, i wouldn’t care what comes next.”

azzi’s quiet for a beat. then she says, “maybe it doesn’t have to be some huge what-comes-next thing. maybe it just is what it is right now—and you trust her enough to let it be real today.”

i let her words settle. they don’t fix anything. but they make something loosen in my chest.

“you’re way too good at this,” i mutter.

“i literally got stuck in a tire swing,” she replies flatly. “don’t give me that much credit.”

i laugh, for real this time. across the course, paige looks up. like she felt it. she meets my eyes—and smiles.

i don’t look away.

not this time.

azzi’s pov (ooo. words might be slightly different)

the ropes course is dumb.

it’s dumb, hot, and smells like dirt and teenage sweat. someone’s lost a shoe under the net crawl, jordan and caitlin are two seconds away from throwing hands over a plank challenge, and i’m currently trying to extract myself from a tire swing like it’s quicksand.

character-building, my ass.

but when i finally wriggle free and brush off the leaves sticking to my shirt, i spot ivy a few yards ahead—still as anything, eyes locked on the other side of the course.

it doesn’t take a genius to know what (or who) she’s looking at.

i follow her gaze.

paige.

she’s helping one of our teammates climb the wall, her braid’s falling over her shoulder, and her knee’s probably throbbing like the rest of ours, but she doesn’t seem to care. she’s just... there. calm. grounding.

and ivy?

oh, she’s gone.

i walk up beside her and lean in. “you’re staring.”

she jumps a little, elbowing me without taking her eyes off paige. “shut up.”

i grin, not remotely offended. “you know she’s down bad too, right?”

she rolls her eyes. “how would you know?”

“because i’ve known her since she was fourteen and awkwardly tried to flirt with a girl asking if gatorade was a good pregame drink.” i pause “then tried to impress her by telling her she could recite every WNBA team in alphabetical order”

flash back scene

we were at this weekend tourney in minnesota. summer heat, middle-of-nowhere gym, every kid trying to act like they were one step from going pro.

paige was still new to our travel team—quiet, serious, already scary good—but completely clueless when it came to literally anything that wasn’t basketball.

and apparently, flirting.

i remember we were sitting on the sideline during a break, dripping sweat and chugging water. coach was off talking to someone, and the rest of the team was joking around near the bleachers. paige had been eyeing one of the new girls on our team cameron for a full ten minutes. she was maybe sixteen, definitely cute, but older, but none of that seemed to matter to fourteen-year-old paige.

“you think gatorade’s, like, a good pregame drink?” she blurted, out of nowhere.

cameron blinked, confused. “…uh, yeah? i guess.”

“cool,” paige said. “i thought so too.”

then she immediately turned bright red and refused to speak for the next thirty minutes.

i damn near choked on my granola bar.

but the best part came later, when we were packing up and cameron walked by. paige got that look again—wide-eyed, focused, like she was studying game film—and said, watch this.

she walks straight up to cameron, stands like two feet in front of her, and goes:

“there are twelve WNBA teams. want me to name them in alphabetical order?”

cameron blinks and says, “um… okay?”

paige took a deep breath. “atlanta dream. chicago sky. connecticut sun. dallas wings. indiana fever. las vegas aces. los angeles sparks. minnesota lynx. new york liberty. phoenix mercury. seattle storm. washington mystics.”

cameron just nodded politely and walked off. didn’t even say thanks.

paige stood there like she just dropped the coldest pickup line in existence.

i couldn’t even be mad. it was so earnest. i laughed so hard i nearly pulled something.

end of flashback

ivy blinks. “did it work?”

“shockingly, no.”

she laughs under her breath, but it’s tight around the edges. i can see it. the way her jaw’s set. the way her arms are folded too tight across her chest.

“but my point is,” i say, watching paige brush dirt off her hands, “this thing between you two? it’s not just in your head. it’s real. and honestly, i think it’s the most focused i’ve seen her all summer.”

ivy doesn’t say anything right away. her gaze stays fixed on paige, soft in a way i’m not sure she even notices.

“you two are different now,” i add. “not just the sneaking glances and near-kisses and all the stuff you think i haven’t noticed. it’s like... lighter. like you both stopped pretending you didn’t want this.”

“we did,” she says eventually, voice barely above a whisper. “stop pretending.”

i study her for a second. the sharp edges are still there, but they’ve dulled. she looks like she’s finally breathing again. like she wants to be happy. but still, there’s this shadow in her expression.

“then why do you look like you’re bracing for something?”

she shrugs, doesn’t look at me. “because i don’t know what happens when this is over.”

“team usa?”

she nods. “yeah. when we go back home. when it’s school and schedules and miles again. when it’s not a hotel two doors down and practice every morning and this… easy thing we’ve built.”

my heart tugs a little for her.

i know what she’s saying without her needing to spell it out.

“you really think that’s all this is?” i ask, gently.

“no.” she swallows. “i just… i don’t want it to be. and that kind of terrifies me.”

i lean back against a rope post, letting the sun burn into my shoulders. “it’s not nothing, ivy.”

she glances over at me, face open and raw. “i know it’s not. that’s the problem. if it was nothing, i wouldn’t care what comes next.”

i breathe out slowly. “maybe it doesn’t have to be some big, scary what comes next. maybe it just is what it is right now. and maybe that’s enough.”

she doesn’t answer right away, but her shoulders drop the tiniest bit. something settles in her.

“you’re way too good at this,” she mutters.

“i literally got stuck in a tire swing,” i reply flatly. “don’t give me that much credit.”

she laughs for real this time—small and bright and real. i don’t say anything else. i just look at her, and then at paige, and then back again.

and when paige glances up, right in sync, like she could feel that laugh across the course?

she smiles

✦ ✦ ✦

paige’s pov

later, after dinner, it’s just me and ivy sitting on the grass behind the rec center. the sky’s this soft blue-orange and everyone else is inside playing card games or facetiming family. it’s quiet here. finally.

“i don’t want this to end,” ivy says, barely above a whisper.

“me either.”

we sit in that silence. bugs buzzing somewhere, a breeze shifting the air, my fingers brushing hers.

“what happens when we go home?” she asks, eyes still on the sky. “what do we even call this?”

“i don’t know,” i admit. “but i want it to be something.”

she looks at me then. “yeah?”

“yeah,” i say. “i know we said we shouldn’t get caught up in this. but i am. i’m already caught.”

her fingers tighten around mine.

“me too,” she says, voice barely there, like she’s scared it’ll crack if she tries louder. like saying it out loud makes it real.

i look at her for a moment longer, memorizing her face. like i’m trying to press this version of her— soft, honest, hers — into my memory.

i don’t say anything right away. just let the silence stretch a little, comfortable in it now.

“it’s been you this whole time,” i say finally, my voice low, like a secret i don’t want anyone else to hear. “even when we were pretending we weren’t anything. even when we tried to act normal. it’s still you.”

ivy swallows hard. “i thought… if i said something, it’d mess it all up.”

i shake my head, take ivy’s hand in mine. “no. pretending messed it up worse.”

then we’re both quiet again. and ivy shifts closer, barely enough for our knees to brush.

“i don’t wanna go back to the way things were before this summer,” ivy whispers. “i don’t wanna leave and wonder what we could’ve been.”

“then don’t,” i say. “don’t wonder.”

it’s not a question. not a plea. just a soft, steady promise.

and she’s leans in, like the answer’s always been written in the way i look at her. our foreheads press together first, then our noses brush. and when we finally kiss—slow, warm, and unafraid— it feels like choosing something real. something that matters.

when we pull back, ivy’s eyes are glassy.

“what happens next?” she asks, voice cracking just slightly.

i brush a thumb over her cheek. “we figure it out. together.”

ivy nods—and we just sit there because maybe team usa is ending, but whatever this is? it’s just beginning.

so for now sharing the same air was enough.

authors note: we are nearing the end of this series omg 🥲

[forthelostones]

𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 ➺ 𝚓𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚢 #10 (𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 1)

anderson construction and landscaping had been parked outside your door since you returned home from university. as if the summer couldn't get any hotter, the business owner works overtime in your area. anderson is collecting new, loyal clients of your neighbors, cementing her permanence in your life for the next few months. what's to come of your girlish crush when she keeps showing up?

𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜. 18+ (mdni); age-gap, young!reader, older!abby, butch!abby, slow-burn, suggestive language, thoughts of infidelity, ellie ft, smoking/drinking, mentions of parents, nickname: sweetheart, and modern au.

𝚊𝚗. guys, you're awesome that's for supporting me. i've recently stopped using grammarly for a more real writing experience. so if things are wonky, just know thats why! no more ai help.

♫ 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝. come see me by jill scott ♫

“Shit, what time is it?” She rubs her eyes.  

“Almost 12, but lucky for you there are no clients on the schedule today. It’s a planning period, remember?” You said, suddenly nauseous. 

Ms. Anderson’s hand grasped her chest and she slowly breathed herself out of the early chaos. In a poor attempt, she rakes a hand through gnarled hair and you stand with your arms crossed like an upset mother waiting for their daughter to explain a wild excursion. 

“Right.” She managed. 

“Nice robe.” You mutter sarcastically. 

Abby’s face contorts in pure embarrassment as she grips her ribcage before scurrying into the hallway leaving you alone with the ghosts of last night. An empty bottle of red wine with a gold label sat on the coffee table in plain view. You scuff, literally, letting out a breath of disbelief because the things you felt and believed were now un-real. You slump down onto the couch face warm from a certain humiliation that you could only associate as conflating her looks and kindness for more. You did it again. 

Abby walks out in a white Anderson and Co. t-shirt with the logo across her back. The fabric stretching across her traps, tightening around her muscles. You admire her ass in those dark wash jeans and her slick bun. Even as you were upset you couldn’t help but admire how her grays shimmered. “Want a cup?” 

Her offer of coffee was tempting after the night you had with Ellie. Being stubborn would make you look even more like a child so you kindly accept with the intentions of not drinking it at all. You follow her into the kitchen and stand in silence, staring at the unwashed pots and empty glasses. 

“I’ve been off my game, I had an unexpected visitor, I promise I’m more organized than this.” She sighed. 

Unexpected visitor.

“It’s perfect that I’m here now then, isn’t it?” Your voice unusually timid. 

She turns away from her machine and closes her eyes as if they weighed a ton. “It seems like once I gotcha, I lost all my senses.” 

A beat fell between two and the coffee drip pulled at the thick tension as Ms. Anderson’s gaze fell on you. You crack a willful smile and then peer at the kitchen floor knowing you can’t hide from her here. 

The time that you spend with Abby seems to go by quickly because by the time you check your phone it’s already 8:00 p.m. You press your hand to your forehead after looking through numbers and endless identical names, small square boxes on digital screens, it was straining on your eyes. You couldn't complain, you needed the distraction. After Ms. Anderson cleaned up her mess and you both settled into her office, the conversation and work flow clicked effortlessly. She listened when you spoke and took time to process every syllable, all while teaching you her customer management systems, and the basics of organizing a comprehensive schedule. The main priority today was allocating tasks to her staff for upcoming projects and seeing Ellie’s name on the roaster made your stomach flip. 

“Listen, I was thinking last night, this is pretty monumental for me as I am shifting into a new level of A&C and you joining me, maybe if you’re not busy we can celebrate?” She asked. 

“Oh,” Is all you manage. 

“Or not? I see you’re tired and had a long day, unpaid time with the boss, I get it.” Her instant defeat was a little adorable.

“No, no, Ms. Anderson I would like that, I just wish I wore something nicer.” You sigh. 

“I think this looks amazing.” She said drinking you in.

You arrive at one of the few standing lesbian bars in the state that invited all female jazz musicians to provide the entertainment. The building was brick and seemed small but spanned all the way down the plot, housing a wide parking lot, shockingly full with cars on a weekday. 

“I won’t tell you how long I’ve been comin’ here.” She smiles putting the car into park, flaunting those kind crowfeet. 

Slipping out of the truck and walking on the gravel you started to hear the grumblings of a drum kit and wonder what the hell you’ve gotten yourself into. As expected she opens the door for you and welcomes you into a private sliver of her world. Given Ms. Anderson’s past of being a bartender it made sense that she’d take you somewhere like this, but it being a lesbian bar, made it all the more interesting. Women, mostly older, scattered around in two main parts, the dining area with small duo only tables, or the bar that was cornered by a stage and dance floor. You had never seen so many lesbians in one place before, studs and butches vying for attention from femmes flaunting their silky legs and ready bodies. 

“Let’s have a bite. I promise it’s nothing like you had in college, sweetheart.” 

Self seating was a blessing as Ms. Anderson picked the prime seat, a booth big enough for two. You slip into the far end and Abby follows suit and reaching to pull out her glasses, but before she could you stop her. “I could read it for you.” 

Her brow rises and she sinks down a bit to spread her legs wider. Wider into yours. Her thighs brush yours and it was sweet, so sweet. The menu was held in a black, clothed book and the options spread from appetizers to dessert. A waiter, about your age, came over with Barbie pink lip and electric blue eyeshadow. “Hi, what do you want to drink?” 

No niceties just direct and you liked that. 

“I’ll have an old fashion and whatever she would like.” Ms. Anderson smiled at you. 

“I will have… that.” 

The waiter looked at you shocked and so did your counterpart. Back to the menu you lean in even though the music was a soft tickle of a riffing piano. “So, how hungry are you?” Looking up into her eyes was dangerous but you couldn’t help it. Abby chewed on the corner of her mouth and shrugged. 

“Hungry enough to eat,” 

You order two appetizers that serve as your meal. Once the drinks came out Abby turned towards you and raised a glass to make a toast. “For my very first and best-est assistant, thank you.” 

In unison the cups come to your lips with unwavering eye contact. Your eyes dipped over the rim to watch the handsome woman lick her lips to digest the flavor fully. Your body jolts from the immediate heartburn, this drink was nothing familiar, which made her laugh. 

“You didn’t have to get that.” 

“I know, jus’ something new when I’m with you. Plus, I need something stronger than a cider right now.” You add. 

“You’re okay right?”

You exhale allowing a tug at your lips, “I will be.” 

The pianist concluded its set before another large brass band started to infiltrate the stage.

“I would enjoy it if you joined me to watch the band.” She muttered, her words a bit stiff as if she had practiced them first. 

“Of course.” 

The image of Ms. Anderson, young and reckless flashed in front of my eyes as she swayed alongside you to the silky sound of the sax. The woman’s lower body rocks in opposition to her shoulders, making a good synchronous bounce to come about. Slightly shocked you watch her slyly rock side to side balancing another thick scotch in her left hand, eyes locked in on the band. Her eyes fluttering, a very subtle indication that she’s nearing intoxication.

Your eyes pace the room, searching for something other than Abby’s nose, that you can’t help but think about. Those lips sat perfectly between it and her chin, pink and damp, stinging from her top shelf beverage. Attempting to appear normal you step side to side and bob your head as the tempo increased. Couples begin swirling around you and Abby and suddenly you were transported to a different era. Legs thrusted out in kicks and ball changes which made your heart bounce. 

Abby leaned back slightly and lifter her glass in an admirable jeer. A slow figure closes in on your left side, taller than Abigail by a few inches and absolutely lofty. The woman had a head full locs, split down the middle, cascading down to her shoulders and skin so dark it had a sheen under the blue stage lights, as if she was glowing. She was probably closer to thirty and her confident was exuberant, you couldn’t help but lean in as she cut past all the flailing limbs. 

“You’re looking pretty nervous,” She chuckles in your ear. 

Her warm breath tickled you and as you adjusted to her body next to yours, you notice Ms. Anderson take an awkward sip, chucking a tight grin in your direction. 

“I need something to make me… less nervous, I suppose.” You reply, nearly yelling into her ear as she bends down, accepting your hand on her shoulder. 

“Your girl isn’t helping?” 

“Boss.” 

It stung to say that, especially with you and Ellie on the fence and an undeniable crush on Ms. Anderson, being in this position felt weird. 

“Shit, that makes more sense, would you like to dance?” 

She was so gentle with her large hand resting just above your hip ever so. You look at Abby who locks in on the stage while nursing the last few sips of drink. 

“Teach me?” You say, as she tugs you into her hips and dips you towards the ground. 

Her strength made you yelp over the clattering of instruments. Directly under a sudden white spotlight, her deep brown eyes focused into view, gold hoop in her nose, and a wide mouth that she wet slightly with the tip of her tongue. 

Once pulled back up, the audience began clapping and the next song began without missing a beat. Your new friend spun you around and twisted you so quick that before it registered that you could even move like this. Something opened up inside of you like a newfound freedom beckoning you to simply let go, which you did. 

꒰ঌ ໒꒱

[sexyirish7]

Tattoo Parlor Decor Set for The Sims 4

This set was inspired by my personal experience getting tattoos. Some of the signs are those I remember from my friend’s tattoo parlor. While I was excited about getting tattooing in the Business & Hobbies Pack, I did want more in terms of décor objects. I did my best to keep the items as low poly as possible, but be sure to check the poly counts for what your computer can handle.

The building in my screenshots is one I downloaded from the gallery and made modifications so it resembled my friend's tattoo parlor. The username is MickeySimmers and the original build is a NY Pizzeria uploaded on 4/7/25.

When appropriate, objects are available in English and Simlish versions. Simlish font credit to Franzilla: https://modthesims.info/  For new meshes made by me, textures from Blenderkit were used.

SexyIrish7 Phoenix logo credit: © Liliia Marchuk via Dreamstime.com

All items are base-game compatible.

This set includes:

·         Tattoo Counter

·         Supply Cabinet

·         Salty Signs – Small, Medium, and Large

·         Tattoo ink bottles

·         Tattoo ink cups – empty ink cup and cups with ink colors

·         Tattoo ink cup holder

·         Sharps container – Wall-mounted and counter versions

·         Tattoo Coil Machine

·         Foot switch

·         Power Supply

·         Stencil Machine

·         Autoclave

·         Non-sterile Nitrile Glove Boxes

·         Portfolios

·         Consent form

·         Tip Jar

You may view an Imgur album with 31 screenshots of the set here

Creations by SexyIrish7

DOWNLOAD for FREE: SFS

OR at Patreon*

*You must be over 18 to access my Patreon page.

These cc objects are new 3d meshes created using Blender and Sims 4 Studio.

All CC have:

*Ability to search catalog using search terms: sexyirish7 and si7

*Customized thumbnail

*******

CREDITS:

Software credits:

Sims 4 Studio v. 3.2.4.3 (Star): https://sims4studio.com

Blender 4.0: https://www.blender.org/download/

GIMP v. 2.10.34: https://www.gimp.org/

Inkscape v. 1.2: https://inkscape.org/

Thank you to the creators and moderators producing tutorials and answering questions!

*******

TOU:

Do not re-upload and claim as your own

Do not re-upload and hide behind a paywall

Mesh and Image Credits along with descriptions of each item are below:

Tattoo Counter

I was dissatisfied with the number of slots and their placement on the tattoo counter that came with the Business & Hobbies pack, so I modified EA’s The Ultimate Nightstand so that it served as a larger counter and added décor slots to it. There are a total of 3 large slots, 9 medium slots, and 27 small slots. I made some minor modifications to the EA texture for The Ultimate Nightstand but did include all 20 swatches.

Polygon Count: 162

Supply Cabinet

I have long been disappointed with the lack of deco slots in various displays. For this object, I modified EA’s Carina Dining Hutch so that it would serve as an appropriate supply cabinet. I made some minor modifications to the EA texture but did include all 9 swatches. There are a total of 2 large slots, 15 medium slots, and 140 small slots.

Polygon Count: 114

Salty Signs

There are 3 files of what I call “salty” signs. The large signs are not as salty, but I wanted to stick with my theme overall. What do I mean by salty? Well, these are signs that are not for the faint of heart and for those with a darker sense of humor. They were inspired not only by signs that I saw at my friend’s parlor, but also by things he and his colleagues would say frequently.

Large Signs: 7 designs (11 total swatches)

Medium Signs: 9 designs (18 total swatches)

Small Signs: 10 designs (20 total swatches)

Polygon Count: 4

The following were used in several textures in all three files:

Caution/Warning Sign Templates by kenshinstock via Freepik https://www.freepik.com/free-vector/blank-label-warning-caution-sticker-template-set_30903862.htm

Large Sign Image Credits:

Swatches 1-2: Original Artist Unknown. Image from https://razorbacktattoosupply.com/tattoo-studio-feel-the-burn-wrapped-canvas-graphic-art/

Swatches 3-4: Original Artist Unknown. Image from https://www.creativefabrica.com/product/funny-tattoo-artist-hourly-rate-cut-file/

Swatches 5-6: Original Artist Unknown. Image from https://www.pinterest.com/pin/tattoo-artist--218917231881445322/

Swatch 7-8:

Hands, Soap, and Ointment Icons by rawpixel.com via Freepik https://www.freepik.com/free-vector/coronavirus-prevention-icon-set-vector_30086831.htm

Do Not Touch Icon Image by Myshopsigns https://all-free-download.com/free-vector/download/18_warning_signs_47669.html

No Swimming Icon by Fitri Handayani via Vecteezyhttps://www.vecteezy.com/vector-art/51936014-no-swimming-sign-illustration

Bathtub Icon by Fitri Handayani via Vecteezy  https://www.vecteezy.com/vector-art/51406319-bathroom-icon-with-bubbles-and-soap

Sun and Breeze Icons Images by Freepik https://www.freepik.com/free-vector/weather-icons-set_709126.htm

Talking on Phone Icon by Mungujakisa Edmond via Vecteezy  https://www.vecteezy.com/vector-art/25410803-do-not-talk-on-mobile-cell-phone-icon-sign

Swatches 9-10: Tarot Card Images designed by Eight (Elian-James Showell) https://www.eightco.in/

Swatch 11: Original Artist Unknown. Image from https://www.amazon.com/Tattoo-Artist-Tarot-Card-Sweatshirt/dp/B0D8JBHBFZ

Medium Sign Image Credits:

Background images for Swatches 5-8 by All-Free-Download.com https://all-free-download.com/free-vector/download/advertising_sign_templates_retro_shapes_sketch_6849470.html

Swatches 1-2 and 13-14:  Tattoo Gun Image from IMGBIN https://imgbin.com/png/ZNRSzcqv/tattoo-machine-tattoo-ink-tattoo-artist-png

Swatches 3-4: Original Artist Unknown. Image from https://www.amazon.ca/Artist-Tattoo-Artist-Kitchen-Vintage/dp/B0B6DRXFZN

Swatches 5-6: Tattoo Gun Image from IMGBIN https://imgbin.com/png/36i2fKAG/tattoo-machine-body-piercing-tattoo-artist-old-school-tattoo-png

Swatches 7-8: Bullhorn image by All-Free-Download.com  https://all-free-download.com/free-vector/download/megaphone_312061.html

Swatches 9-10: Border by Rawpixel.com via Freepik https://www.freepik.com/free-vector/vector-set-vintage-elements_3139397.htm

Picture by EA from Business & Hobbies release video

Swatches 11-12: Cheese Grater Image by Macrovector via Freepik https://www.freepik.com/free-vector/cooking-food-icons_1530806.htm

Saw image by EA

Swatches 15-16: Images by EA

Small Sign Image Credits:

Swatches 1-2, 5-12, 19-20: Caution/Warning Sign Templates by kenshinstock via Freepik https://www.freepik.com/free-vector/blank-label-warning-caution-sticker-template-set_30903862.htm

Swatches 3-4: Tip jar image by Freepik https://www.freepik.com/free-vector/jar-background-with-hand-drawn-money_1148170.htm

Swatches 13-14: Image by Printable Designs https://free-printable-signs.com/

Swatches 15-16: Image by by Mungujakisa Edmond via Vecteezy  https://www.vecteezy.com/vector-art/25410803-do-not-talk-on-mobile-cell-phone-icon-sign

Swatches 17-18: Crying Emoticon Image from CLEANPNG  https://www.cleanpng.com/png-smiley-emoticon-crying-clip-art-no-whining-clipart-546524/

Tattoo Ink Bottles

Due to file sizes, I split these up into 2 separate files. One file has all of the bottles in English, and the other has all of the bottles in Simlish. I modified the EA debug glue bottle. There are a total of 24 swatches.

Polygon Count: 126

Tattoo Ink Cups

There are 2 files for this object. One is an empty ink cup. The other has all of the ink colors as different swatches. There are a total of 24 swatches for the filled ink cups. I modified the water glass object to create these items.

Empty Cup Polygon Count: 107

Filled Cup Polygon Count: 162

Tattoo Ink Cup Holder

When an artist is using a few different inks for a piece, they can sometimes use a holder for the ink cups so the cups do not get knocked over or spilled. This is an original mesh made by me. I have the object set up so that the ink cups (full or empty) will snap to the holes in the holder. Once the ink cups are in, you can move the entire holder to where you want it and the ink cups will go along. Or you can place the holder and then add the cups. While the holders I tended to see were plastic, I decided to make mine a metal version with slight ink stains.

Polygon Count: 208

Sharps Containers

I created 2 versions of sharps containers for this set. I originally was only going to create the wall-mounted one, but then decided to add the counter version of it as well. These are original meshes made by me.

Biohazard symbol is a public domain image

Wall-Mounted Sharps Container Polygon Count: 268

Counter Sharps Container Polygon Count: 106

Tattoo Coil Machine

There are different types of tattoo machines available, but I find the coil machine to be the most recognizable and therefore wanted this version in my game. This is an original mesh made by me. There are a total of 5 swatches.

Polygon Count: 640

Foot Switch

I created a foot switch to operate the tattoo machine with. This is an original mesh made by me. There are 11 swatches.

Design inspired by FK Delta Foot Switch https://www.fkirons.com/products/delta-foot-switch-cosmic-storm

Polygon Count: 57

Power Supply

For this object, I modified the EA Retro Rock of Ages Stereo mesh and texture to create the power supply. I used a few other EA textures to make adjustments to the components of the object.

Polygon Count: 336

Stencil Machine

Unless you allow your artist to freely draw on your skin before tattooing, many use a stencil machine to create the stencil so you can make sure that your tattoo is placed correctly and looks correct before beginning. This is an original mesh made by me. There are a total of 6 swatches (3 designs in English, 3 designs in Simlish).

Design inspired by Vevor Tattoo Stencil Printer https://www.vevor.com/tattoo-machines-c_12593/

Phoenix Image: © Liliia Marchuk via Dreamstime.com

Claddagh Image:  http://clipart-library.com/clipart/8iGbR5bbT.htm

Wolf Image: https://freepngimg.com/png/2674-tattoo-wolf-png-image

Polygon Count: 62

Autoclave

No tattoo parlor is complete without the sterilization equipment, namely the autoclave. For this object, I modified the EA The Schmapple Micro Microwave mesh.

Design inspired by Tuttnauer Valueklave 1730 https://tuttnauer.com/us/veterinary-practices/tabletop-sterilizers/manual/valueklave-1730

Polygon Count: 346

Non-sterile Nitrile Glove Boxes

For this object, I modified EA’s Softy Brand Tissues object. There are 2 box colors available, black and gray. There are a total of 12 swatches.

Non-Sterile symbol is a public domain image

Polygon Count: 40

Portfolios

A detail that I thought was missing was a display of the tattoo artist’s work. In real shops, they can be wall displays or portfolios. I decided to make a portfolio with different tattoo designs. There are 3 swatches of different tattoos. This is an original mesh made by me.

Polygon Count: 262

Image Credits:

Swatch 1: EA

Swatch 2:

Snake and Flying Swallow Images by dgim-studio via Freepik https://www.freepik.com/free-vector/new-style-tribal-tattoo-collection_1168313.htm and https://www.freepik.com/free-vector/colorful-flying-swallow-template_8136770.htm

Colorful Old School Images by Freepik https://www.freepik.com/free-vector/old-school-funny-tattoo-collection_1165044.htm

Tribal, Achor, Ship’s Wheel, Skulls, Roses, Dice, Cards Images by Macrovector via Freepik https://www.freepik.com/free-vector/tattoo-black-white-icons-set_9398078.htm

Tribal Images by Freepik https://www.freepik.com/free-vector/new-style-tribal-tattoo-collection_1168313.htm

Swatch 3:

Colorful Images on Left Page by Freepik https://www.freepik.com/free-vector/collection-hand-drawn-decorative-tattoos_1175499.htm

Colorful Vintage Images on Right Page by Freepik https://www.freepik.com/free-vector/pack-vintage-hand-drawn-tattoos_1194571.htm

Crossed Swords, Anchor, Skulls, Scorpion Images by Macrovector via Freepik https://www.freepik.com/free-vector/attoo-studio-flat-icons-collection_4430574.htm

Consent Form

I created a consent form on a clipboard. This is only available in Simlish. I modified some EA textures to create the form. The clipboard is an original mesh made by me.

Polygon Count: 90

Tip Jar

Tipping is heavily encouraged for getting tattoos, at least in the U.S. As such, I decided I wanted to make a tip jar for my parlor. I modified the EA debug jar and some different debug simoleon meshes. The result is a tip jar with both coins and bills inside.

Polygon Count: 579

[cogimiun]

solomon x reader

summary: you find a mystery potion & bring it to Solomon for identification

warnings: none

rating: all ages

“Well now…” Solomon mused, surprise in his voice betraying a placid expression, “You won this from a prize capsule?”

“That's what I said,” you answer him. His surprise is fair. You're confused too. The small bottle on the table between you looks old. Very old. The dust is caked on, and the label long worn away, leaving parts of the glass surface sticky to the touch where it had once been adhered. It's also only about half-full. “So what is it?”

The fact that it clearly shouldn't have come from a capsule machine is beside the point. That's where you got it, and now you have it, so naturally, you brought it to your Master Sorcerer, since it's clearly a potion. Of some kind. Solomon picks it up from the table and unplugs the stopper. He holds it directly under his nose to smell. This strikes you as vaguely unwise. Also, you can smell it from your seat as soon as he opens it, and it's wretched.

“It’s hard to tell if the potion itself is putrified, or just the ingredients,” Solomon says, and before you can ask, he adds, “It makes a difference. But there are some notes of magdalena. My guess—” Solomon rises from the table, retrieving two cordial glasses from the cabinet, “—is that it's some kind of love potion, or aphrodisiac.”

He doesn't say this with any of the scandal or embarrassment you would expect if you had brought it to the House of Lamentation. You've caught him in a scholarly mood. Nevertheless, he fills the small glasses generously from what's left of the bottle, without asking, leaving only a splash on the bottom when he sets it back down on the table.

Like a good apprentice, you lift the glass and toast with him. You try to keep your nose from wrinkling. It truly is vile, and Solomon doesn't even seem to notice. You knock it back quickly, trying not to gag as it congeals slightly on the way down. Ultimately, you can't stop yourself from making a face, and by the time your attention returns to Solomon, he's smiling placidly, with his hands folded in his lap, looking at you attentively.

You wait a beat, assuming he's about to tell you what he learned from your utterly unscientific experiment. Then you wait two. 

“...So which is it?”

“I'm not sure,” he admits readily, still smiling at you sweetly, “I feel the same.”

[halexxsam]

Mushy May: Day 8 - Subtle Affection

Thanks to @forlorn-crows for mushy may! Calendar here. Divider from @wrathofrats.

words: 895

characters: dewdrop/rain/swiss/phantom/mountain/cirrus/perpetua

The ghouls noticed it a few days after the tour began. Small things left in the bunks from the city they were in. They thought it was one of the roadies or crew members at first, but later it became clear that it was someone on their bus. The ghouls first thought it was Mountain, who always had a knack for sneaking out to go shopping, loving to explore the food markets in Europe. When the gifts changed from sweets to personalized gifts, the ghouls suspected Phantom, or even Cirrus, but they were just as surprised at the gifts on their bed. On traveling days, they would find their bunk bed all made up, or stripped and their sheets being washed on the small washing machine. It was odd, but loving. 

One night, drinking over a lovely bottle of wine that was left on Mountain’s bed, the ghouls got to talking. 

“I don’t know who it is, but I have been eating all the little snacks I’m left. They are so good! I swear I can’t ever find them again.” Phantom whined out, missing the small piece of walnut chocolate he was left earlier. He had searched the markets for more of it but came up empty handed. 

“Me neither! But I keep on being left funny socks or fresh bandage wraps. I even got a pin to put on my boot.” Dew adds, knocking back his glass, red wine falling slowly from the corner of his mouth. 

“Maybe whoever it is doesn’t want to be found,” Cirrus says, though everyone can tell she wants to know who left a small lavender soap on her bed last night. 

The ghouls sit in peaceful silence, glad another successful show is under their belt. The bus moves along the dark roads of France, onward to Portugal. Perpetua pulls back the curtain and heads towards the lounge, nodding at the pack. 

“Hey, wanna join us?” Swiss asks, raising a spare glass. The human nods, and Phantom quickly makes room, moving onto Mountain’s lap. 

Swiss pours his Papa some wine, watching the man intently as he settles back against the cushions. Unbeknownst to his pack, Swiss quirks an eyebrow, covering the label of the wine from Papa. He watches him take a sip, savoring its taste. “What do you think?”

Perpetua nods, swallowing, his tongue darting out to savor the last of it on his lips. “Beautiful,” he hums, “a Bordeaux, very nice.” 

At that, Swiss let out a gasp. “You’re the one, aren’t you? Putting things on our bunks, leaving us gifts?”

The whole pack watches as the man blushes, looking down at his lap. His wrist moving still to swirl the wine. He hums out an affirmation. “Thought you guys would never guess.” 

Cirrus is the first one to get over the shock. “Well, thank you, Papa. It is very sweet of you.” 

The man just nods, smiling a bit. “My brother mentioned how you all like gifts, so,” He trails off, finally looking up at him, a nervous look on his face. 

They all nod, looking at each other. “We do, thank you. Can’t really have any possessions in the Pit.” Dew says, a hand digging in his pocket to pull out every single chocolate wrapper that was once left on his bed. 

Papa just laughs at the sight. “I’m glad you all like it. I didn’t know what else to do.” 

At that, Phantom makes a noise. “What do you mean?”

Papa blushes again. “Well, my brother told me about how he was with all of you. But I know I’m new, and different, and you are missing another ghoul this time around. So I didn’t want to impose anything.” 

Rain finally makes himself known, smiling devilishly. “Oh, is that right? Does our Papa want something?”

The man in question makes an odd noise, almost like he choked on his spit. “You are all very beautiful, you must know.” 

They all laugh, grins adorning their faces. Swiss moved closer to him, placing a warm hand on his knee. The man jumped slightly. “You know, Papa, you can be close to us and touch us, we are your ghouls, after all.” 

“I didn’t want to assume anything. I wanted you all to come to me when you were ready, if you ever were going to be.” He admits, a hand coming up to Swiss’, holding it softly. 

Rain flashed his eyes, his water ghoul siren blue coming out. His gills fluttered, tail coming up to play with the belt on his Papa’s waist. “You should come to the dressing rooms before the show tomorrow.” 

“Oh, okay. Do you need help with anything?” Papa asked innocently, taking the change in subject as an end to the previous conversation. 

Rain just nodded, his tails beginning to touch at the soft skin of the man’s hip. “Yeah, I think we all do. We have a part of our costume that is quite hard to get on, actually.” 

Dew laughed, his head falling back against the cushions, his second glass of wine sloshing at the movement. Rain moved from his seat, finding home in Dew’s lap, a hand moving up to his bare neck and taking hold. Dewdrop just whined, pressing into the hold. 

“Want you to put our collars on for us.” Rain smiled, “Dew likes his real tight.” 

[neon-kazoo]

Hey, I hope you have a good day.

I was thinking about a small story with a Hero that has super strength and the muscles to show for it, meanwhile, Villain is in a dark corner, quietly enjoying (swooning over?) the show of strength the Hero displays (it can be whatever you want, the Hero can lift up a heavy wall or even just train).

It is up to you if you want the Hero to know of Villain’s presence or not :)

Of Swooning and Super Strength

(Warning: risk of training accident?)

The gym was closed to the public, but hardly anything was ever closed to the city’s golden savior. All the machines were free, all the weights available for use, and there was no one to protest Hero’s outrageously loud work out playlist.

A private setting, allowing for all the mirror flexing and shirtless benching the hero’s heart desired.

Well, it should have been private. Camouflage abilities certainly had their advantages.

As such, Villain leaned quietly against the wall of lockers with crossed arms and an excellent view.

Sweat dripped down hard and defined muscles, hair slick with the sheen of perspiration, skin so perfectly tanned-

Well, the city didn’t call them ‘golden’ for nothing.

Villain’s eyes traced every movement of the hero’s body as they raised an impressive stack over their head repeatedly. Briefly, they flicked to the weight labels, doing some quick mental math and—wow—if that wasn’t the weight of ten Villains combined.

Villain made a note to add ‘show off’ to hero’s growing list of titles, not that they minded at all.

And then it was off to the bench press, Villain’s personal favorite. Hero loaded on weight after weight, plate after plate until they ran out of room. They laid back and unracked the bar, pumping through at least 50 reps with ease. Villain found themselves a bit breathless with the display.

It wasn’t until Hero started to slow that Villain really started to pay attention, though.

Suddenly Hero was sporting a face Villain had never seen before. They looked…pained. They were struggling.

With a heavy bar above their neck.

Arrogant hero, attempting that much weight without a spot, super strength be damned. How embarrassing it would be for a hero to go down in a training accident, of all things.

For Villain’s hero to go down.

With a heavy sigh drowned out by the blasting of the Sing 2 soundtrack, Villain crossed the room and stepped up to the bar. The hero was far too busy straining with accompanying grunts in an attempt to re-rack the bar to notice. The villain’s hands hovered under the bar, as close as they dared to Hero’s peripheral vision.

Oddly, the temperature in the room seemed to rise with the proximity.

Regrettably, Villain lost track of the heavy rise and fall of the hero’s chest in favor of tracking the progress of the steel bar. After a tense few seconds, the crime-fighter managed to raise their arms the final inch and slide out from under the press.

Villain stepped back as the hero blew out a breath.

“Phew, close one.”

They sat up and—impossibly— their gaze drifted to where Villain had quickly retreated back to the shadows. Villain held their breath and a second passed before the hero winked and turned around.

The villain was too frozen to do much of anything while the hero pulled their shirt back over their head, grabbed their water bottle, and left.

[bellrose]

Better choco-late than never

This piece came about through the Goose Groupie discord's writer's club! I picked the prompt sharing a box of chocolates with everybody's favorite assasin Court.

Summary: You and Court don’t do holidays. Not because of some aversion or disbelief, simply because it was never a given if or when Court’s hectic schedule would line up and he’d be there in the first place. You didn’t mind that much. Not really. Yes, it would be nice one day to have Court share a Christmas breakfast with your family and taste mother’s infamous stoll. But those were fantasies. You’ve settled on taking whatever you could get.

This is (sorta) set in the same universe as Pretty Phone in Pink, but reading that one first isn't neccesary! Though I'd love if you did hihi ;)

Court Gentry x gender neutral reader

Warnings: no warnings, maybe some chocolate cravings

Word count: 967

It might have been the tacky packaging that caught your eye. Glinting in the fluorescent overhead among many other candies dumped into the basket. It might have been the orange sticker smacked on the little box. It wasn’t Lindt, or GODIVA. Some off-brand confectionary you’ve never heard of. 50% off. Not a bad deal. 

Without another thought spent pondering the enormity of cocoa manufactory you throw it into the cart. Next, some bread. Lemonade. The orange one. Coffee. Caffeine free. A Cabbage. Dates. 

It isn’t until you get home, shaking out the umbrella on the front stoop while juggling your haul and keys in the other hand, that you second guess the purchase glaring from the bottom of your grocery bag. 

Deluxe, Belgian chocolate pralines. Ruby Raspberry Kiss. Dark Sinful Ganache. Double the Nuts (with nougat). Praline or pick up line?

Valentine's day was last week. 

You and Court don’t do holidays. Not because of some aversion or disbelief, simply because it was never a given if or when Court’s hectic schedule would line up and he’d be there in the first place. You didn’t mind that much. Not really. Yes, it would be nice one day to have Court share a Christmas breakfast with your family and taste mother’s infamous stoll. But those were fantasies. You’ve settled on taking whatever you could get. 

Court loved you. Full Heartedly. There is no denying it in the way he keeps wringing himself through the hanger to keep seeing you. The way he looks at you sometimes, when he thinks you don’t notice. Not with a hunger, or a passion, rather a calmth that flows through his shoulders, down to his toes. “I’ll be home soon,” he said, three days ago through the phone. 

Home. 

Your home. His now, too. 

Is it enough? To be some sort of safe haven? Is it worth it? You asked him once, on the phone as well because that was easier. He’d gone quiet and you dreaded the answer. But then he promised, steadfastly, “I won’t let anybody hurt you.”

And in return all you have to offer is a box of (questionably) Belgian chocolates. Does he even like chocolate? Would he be interested in a Caramel Embrace? Maybe he abhorred it. Maybe you should have bought some candy hearts. Little I Love You’s and XOXO’s. Buying a box of Valentine chocolates seems very stupid now in the first place.

When you open the door the apartment is just as you left it. The lights are turned off, the washing machine buzzing away. It’s in the kitchen putting away the groceries that you hear something else. 

Footsteps. 

Court comes up from behind and he is- half naked, actually. Still damp from the shower. Seeping through your t-shirt when his arms cover your midriff. 

You lean back into the embrace. “Hey.” 

“Hey yourself.” Court nuzzles into the space between your shoulder and your neck. “You smell nice.”

You snort. “Stole my body wash again?”

“Guilty as charged,” Court grins. You can feel it on your skin, his lips leaving a small trail. He is warm. Like a furnace. 

“Good thing I think ahead.” 

You grab the black bottle from the countertop and push it into his face. Court studies the label, frowning. 

“Deep sensation?”

“I had a coupon.” 

His gaze travels down to the box of chocolates, incriminating in all its red and gold glory among tomorrow’s dinner. “Hm, this too?”

Should have stashed it into a cabinet first thing. “Well…”

Court releases his hold and you turn around. Ever since he gave you the burner phone you’ve tried harder to decipher every little mask he’s got hidden in his arsenal. When he doesn’t want you to see what he truly feels. Now his expression is sober. The corner of his mouth turned down just so. 

“I forgot didn’t I?” he says, more an admittance than a question. Eyes guarded. 

“No, I mean-” you splutter, thinking what it could look like, what it could imply. A jab of some sorts. Happy Valentines! Oh wait, that was a week ago. Pay more attention to me. “I knew you would be.” You gesticulate with your hands to something on the ceiling. “Away.” 

You sigh. “Sorry, it doesn’t mean anything. I thought it would be… nice.”

His eyebrows draw closer together. “Is our love being attached to bowing under consumerism nice?” he asks, so serious and- now you want to punch him.

“You- What? Oh, shut it.”

And then you do punch him, but before your fist can connect with his bare chest he grabs your hand, pulling you closer. His stubble tickles your knuckles when he kisses them. 

“I love you. I don’t say it enough,” he states, looking up through his lashes. Like some damn knight from a fairytale dressed in your fluffy towel. It makes your knees weak. “And I’m taking it for granted, that’s what I’m forgetting.”

Court lets you press your thumb against his lips. Shutting him up.

“You don’t have to take anything, I’m already here,” you insist, softly. 

He smiles, melting the pensive melancholy from his face. “Yes. You are. Always.”

You cradle his cheek. Playfully tugging at his ear before kissing him back. On the lips this time. It's a slow kiss. One that tends to never begin nor end. Only his sturdy presence exists in your mind, the warmth of his mouth all engulfing when you pull him even closer. Sharing your breath. 

“I love you too,” you whisper, after pulling back reluctantly. There is still some rucola that needs to be put in the fridge before it withers away. “Now get dressed so we can enjoy my capitalistic chocolate.”

“I’m wearing clothes.”

You roll your eyes. “You are wearing a towel.”

“You don’t mind.”

No you don’t.

I'm in the mood for some chocolate now, and a damp Court to share them with.

Thank you for reading

[kingmlem]

With Roots

For @bucktommyfluffebruary Day 9: Moving in Together Can also be read here

Rated: M Summary: Ceramic mugs clink together once again in the quiet, a celebratory windchime that's been played on repeat ever since everybody had gone home. It's slowly becoming one of Evan's favorite sounds. After everyone heads home, Evan and Tommy enjoy the gifted bottle of wine on their back porch, complete with ceramic coffee mugs.

The literal castle of unsorted boxes sits abandoned in the openness of the main room, all decorated with individual color-coded sticky notes, all brandishing the same-colored label ‘just in case the other one fell off in the truck.’ The combination foyer-dining room still sits largely empty, walls still blindingly devoid of color aside from the swatch cards pinned up with a bit of painter’s tape.

The door hiding the kitchen swings lightly against the evening breeze, the first hint of summer adding a touch of warmth to the moving air. Paper and bubble wrap rustle in their opened boxes, wrapped glasses and plates decorating the otherwise bare countertops. More paint cards sit attached to the fridge, fanned out and held by a reused chip clip, prospective colors for the kitchen and small breakfast nook.

A few stray leaves tumble across the kitchen floor, making their way inside through the open sliding glass door only to get stuck in the bundle of trash bags and empty pizza boxes.

Ceramic mugs clink together once again in the quiet, a celebratory windchime that's been played on repeat ever since everybody had gone home. It's slowly becoming one of Evan's favorite sounds.

That, and hearing people refer to the house as theirs. It might just be that theirs has become his favorite word, the meaning held in that one little pronoun.

Their space.

Their new house.

Their future.

It awakens something deep, soothes it into contentment, makes the gnawing beast purr. He has roots- they have roots. Together and entangled, metaphorically, emotionally, physically.

With both of their names on the house, Evan mentally checks off 'legally (but not that way... yet.)' It probably means more paperwork later on, getting his name changed and put on the deed properly, but all in time.

He hasn't even asked yet.

Or rather, he hasn't been asked yet.

He's still warring over whether to tell Tommy he'd found the ring box that had been stashed in his old mess uniform while packing the apartment closet into boxes. It's still there, tucked into the side pocket like it had been before Evan found it, housed in the third box of the second stack in their new walk-in. Through all of the moving and planning, the chaos of trying to close on the house, and getting moved in before the lease was up on Tommy's old rental the ring acted as a nice little reminder that they were in this together.

Root systems entangling more and more.

It was wonderful.

"Add plumber to the phone call list," Tommy's voice breaks the silence, mug set next to his thigh on the back porch. His eyes are locked onto the landscape of their backyard, assessment giving way to a scheming twinkle in his eye. "Get the outside spigot working again."

"Should probably do that before the cable company- unless of course you'd like to argue with the machine for me." Tommy's chuckle jostles Evan's head from its comfortable perch on a plaid-clad shoulder.

"Not a chance," The pilot's chuckles turn into full laughter a moment later at Evan's over-exaggerated puppy eyes, complete with batting eyelashes.

"You use your pilot voice and they practically give you what you want. It would be so easy for you." Not to mention there would be no later name change, which would save them both the agony of another phone call. Really, it'd be for the best. Sure, he'd be taking one for the team, but it would also mean a massive win in Evan's book.

"My pilot voice?" He really kind of wants to kiss that arched brow, as awkward as it is to try and catch it from this angle, but he's pretty comfortable against Tommy's side. Their hands naturally find each other, almost unconsciously twining together against the smooth wood of the porch. "Yeah- not the mouth static part though. Promise you won't do mouth static-" Evan laughs at the light shove that finally dislodges him from Tommy's shoulder.

The wind rustles once again, shaking loose leaves from their neighbors' trees into their- their- backyard.

"We have a house," Evan whispers into the night, clutching the hand in his tighter. Joy bubbles around the words, tone reverent and laced with barely concealed wonder.

This was excitement, this was the first big step into making his own happiness and making it with the person he saw himself growing old and wrinkled with. This was the joy of knowing there was more to come, that there are two bedrooms upstairs they don’t need, yet. This was the love and contentment he’d been feeling finally settled, made into physical form and set on a residential street in L.A., just needing someone to come and call it home.

Apparently that someone had been one Thomas Kinard: badass, hot ass, firefighter-pilot of LAFD’s Harbor Station.

Now it even says so.

Right on the legal deed, right next to his own name, like it’s belonged there all along.

"Come on," Stretching already tired muscles, Evan stood, wincing at the audible pop of his shoulder. "We can at least get the kitchen started."

Tommy accepted the offered hand, using the anchor to do his own standing and stretching. Through the whole process, he never dropped Evan’s hand. Not when he’d bent to retrieve their empty mugs, only to hand them off when he was upright again. Not even when he’d stretched his arms high over his head, Evan’s eyes catching on the bar of skin it exposed just above the cut of Tommy’s jeans, hand and arm just following Tommy’s movements automatically.

“Or,” A wave of heat burst under Evan’s skin at the drop in his boyfriend’s voice, following the movement as Tommy reeled him closer using their interwoven fingers, other hand settling warm against his hip. It should be illegal that Tommy can have him practically panting from just one word, in that deep tone that’s just one octave lower than that stupid pilot voice.

Evan also completely understands how his boyfriend has exceptional luck with call center agents, and how woefully unprepared they must be to face that.

His heart goes out to them, at least he gets the real thing at the end of the day. The real thing currently encouraging the little subconscious grind of his hips against the muscled thigh between his legs, the hand on Evan’s hip clutching and releasing in time with each movement.

“Or?” Their breathing the same air, being this close. That’s definitely the reason he’s already feeling a bit hazy, lack of oxygen contributing to the light-headedness and his own breathy tone. The breeze picks up and he can just barely catch a whisper of fading cologne, Tommy’s hand tightening on his hip at a particularly rough thrust. The resulting amused huff has his knees threatening to liquify.

It’s damning how easy Evan is for his boyfriend.

It’s even worse because Tommy knows it.

But the best part of it all is that Tommy’s just as easy for him.

“Or,” Tommy starts again, lips just barely brushing against the blonde’s as he speaks. He pulls back when Evan tries to chase the connection, hungry for the little disappointed moan that it gets him. “We can start unpacking tomorrow. Work on breaking the house in now?” Evan doesn’t let him pull away this time, surging forward while pulling against their joint hands to keep him stuck there.

The kiss is messy- off center and a little too hard- Evan nodding into it immediately, little hums vibrating through their lips.

They make it through the sliding door, Tommy leading them through the threshold only to trip on the slight step into the house. It’s enough to break them apart, matching amusement reflected on their faces.

Right, new place. Their new house.

That’s currently a maze of boxes and plastic totes. The counters, that are littered with their glass and dinnerware, pose more of a risk than temptation, not even accounting for the curtain-free, blind-free sliding glass door.

They just moved in. Probably not a good idea to scar them this early. Or worse, get the cops called and have Athena show up.

It’s Evan’s breathless chuckle that breaks the moment, reconnecting their hands and pulling Tommy into the house properly. He uses their tethered hands to pull his boyfriend toward the stairs after disposing of their mugs in the sink.

“Unpack tomorrow,” Evan confirms with a laugh, the burst of want still reverberating through him, only now tinged with a fondness to temper the desperation.

“Unpack tomorrow, we’ve got time.” Tommy follows up the stairs, face gone crinkly with his smile.

The expression embeds itself in Evan’s chest, further cementing the idea that yeah, this is the one he’s gonna grow old with. This is the one he’s going to spend forever with.

[spidey-bie]

Murder In The Morning

A/N: I am suffering. It's 2 in the morning. If there are errors then no there isn't. Hobie x g/n black reader  Summary: Your period came while sleeping over at Hobie's. Warnings: Blood (duh), Reader uses pads because tampons scare me

You should've known that it was coming. 

The signs were all there. The restless sleep schedule, the sudden shift in emotions, strange cravings, and the unusual forgetfulness.

You’d thought you had more time but, alas. 

Here you are, waking up in Hobie Brown's bed surrounded by a pool of blood.

"It's everywhere." Obviously you were exaggerating but you knew it was gonna be a pain to deal with later. 

"Oh my God." It was really bad.

"You alright in there?" Hobie calls from the kitchen. He's probably let you sleep in while he started cooking breakfast.

"It's a code red," You call back. This was a gag you both had started from the first time your period started at Hobie’s house. At least this time it wasn't on new sheets.

"What's the damage?"

"It was a massacre." You have to check to see if you bled through to the mattress. 

"Damn it." Unfortunately, you had.

"It's that bad?" Hobie 

"Captain, they ambushed us. We never stood a chance."

He ducks into the room, eyes widening at the scene. 

"Woah. All this came from you?"

You stare at him blankly. Sometimes you wonder if he says stupid stuff like this just to piss you off.

"Who else is there?"

"I just thought I was the only one with enemies to fight here." 

And if any of them popped up right now you would leave him to fend for himself. Spider-man values be damned.

"Gimme one good reason why I shouldn't punch you right now."

"Because." He says waving a bottle of peroxide as he walks towards you. 

"While you take a nice, long, hot shower I'll be cleaning up this whole mess for you." He was standing in front of you now. You started to feel bad for your small outburst.

“But before that.” He opens his arms wide. An open invitation for a hug you so desperately needed.  

"Fine" You sigh and let yourself be enveloped in his arms.

"Thank you." You mumbled into his chest. 

"Of course." He pressed a light kiss onto your forehead. "Now off you go." 

************************************************************************

After hopping out the shower and being met with the cold air of the bathroom you felt the cramps start to creep in.

"You got any ibuprofen or those para- whatchamacallits?"

"Paracetamols. Med cabinet." You grabbed a blister pack out of the cabinet and popped a pill.

You had thrown away the pants and underwear that you were wearing earlier; they were beyond saving. Thankfully, there were clothes for you to change into, courtesy of Hobie’s closet, and underwear from a previous visit. However, there was one thing that you didn’t have.

"Bie." You shouted. "You got any pads?" It was unlikely but, you might've left some behind before. If not you could always just send Hobie to grab some. 

“Umm. Check under the sink?"

You open the drawer and nearly cry from what you see. There sat a small box, clearly labeled in Hobie’s messy handwriting, Lovebug's Blood Kit. It held pads in a number of colors and sizes, as well as a variety of your favorite chocolates.

You put on a pad and headed to the bedroom, expecting Hobie to still be there. To your surprise, you were met with a bare mattress completely cleaned of the previous murder scene. "In here," he called from the kitchen. "Food's done." 

"How’d yo-"

"You were in there for ages, bug. I was starting to think you passed out from blood loss."

You roll your eyes and smile. You were in love with an idiot. A caring and considerate idiot, but an idiot nonetheless.  

"Thanks again for everything." You sit down and begin to eat.

“Don’t know what you mean,” he shrugged, glancing towards you with a smile.

You giggle. “Of course you don’t.”

The quiet hum of the washing machine continued in the background as you both sat and ate. 

(A/n I got lazy by the end lol. Thank you to my lovely lovely editors @whaliiwatching and @shuinami. This was truly a mess before they looked at it.)

[brokenpieces-72]

Mothers n Monsters

With Mother's Day coming up I figured I would include some wholesomeness involving the Hybrid 141. The following is inspired by @bluegiragi 's Hybrid au and includes @diejager 's reader character Hunter.

Mother's Day is something you are still new to since it was a holiday your biological parents didn't bother with. When you were in the program some of the other hybrids found mother figures in their retainers and mentors.

When it gets brought up in conversation and you learn more you start to wonder who exactly your mother is. Johnny's mom is definitely in there since she took you in. Hunter, you consider a parent because of how they've taken care of you in many ways, and not just you but the entirety of the 141. The last one you think of is Laswell since she'd been talking to you quite a bit to get information back to the program and keep you safe.

The question is... what do you do for each of them?

You ask Johnny for help with Mother's Day with his mother. Johnny often goes into whatever city is nearby and sends a few souvenirs to his mom, whether it's some trinkets, ingredients or even some alcohol. With it, he writes a letter, and you write one too. When the package arrives his mother smiles seeing the usual letter from her son, saying he's happy and grateful to have someone waiting for him to come home every day. What she isn't expecting is a second letter from you, and the adoption papers fully signed. In the letter, you tell her how happy you are to have a family not just on base but one waiting for you in Scotland. You've written about so many of the things you've done and all the things you're excited to do. You thank he for everything, letting you stay with them during the holidays, the extra clothes, and for becoming your new mother. She smiles reading through both letters, before finally looking inside the care package, seeing more than just knickknacks and the bottle of alcohol. You've left some drawings for her as well, of flowers you'd found and places you'd been.

Hunter is a bit harder. They're the kind of person who will say, "I don't need/want anything". You don't know what to get them so once again, you go around asking for help. Of course, you go to Johnny first, and he's a little confused at first. To his knowledge, Hunter doesn't have kids but when you explain your reasons that Hunter is kind of like a mom, he understands a bit better. Johnny has to think about it as well. He suggests coffee, as does Kyle. It's not a bad idea. You go to Price and ask him, and honestly he isn't sure himself. He settles with your help in the infirmary is probably enough. Next, you ask Simon. He also isn't sure but if he had to guess, probably less work needed to be done in the infirmary. Horangi straight up shrugs, not sure how to answer the question, though he figures that a massage or a few nights off would be a pleasant luxury. Konig did actually plan on getting Hunter something small for Hunter, not necessarily as a Mother's Day gift, but as a small thank you. A couple of chocolates couldn't hurt. You get Alejandro's input and it's one you can agree with, which is ensuring any and all prep work and inventory is completed ahead of time.

Rudolfo gives you a great idea though, the one you ask him for help with. Like Hunter, Rudolfo is human so he knows the drawbacks of being a human among many hybrids. You get one of those mugs, but make a custom label for it, and a bag of Hunter's favourite coffee and tea. For the next few days, you go to the other soldiers in the medbay to ask for their help in getting inventory and prep work done ahead of time, and they show you how to do all of it. When Hunter wakes up on Mother's Day they stretch, get out all of the sleepiness, and head over to the infirmary to get to work. When they get to the coffee machine they find the small gift and a small note. The note says, "Happy Mother's Day Hunter, I've gotten the prep work done in the infirmary the night before so you can have the morning to yourself. Enjoy." Hunter looks at the label on the mug and it says "The Beast".

Finally, there was Laswell, and once again you were a little stumped. You didn't know what she liked. Price is your go-to for this question, and he isn't entirely sure himself. He too, doesn't entirely understand the whole mom perception until you explain it. Not sure what else to suggest, he suggests you ask Laswell yourself.

Laswell comes to see you. These visits have become a bit more regular, to ensure the program has no reason to take you back. When you sit with her and go over the usual questions of, how are you, are you eating well, is everything going well on base, etc, you ask her what she would want for Mother's Day. The question catches her off guard a bit.

"Mother's Day? Spirit I'm not a mother." Laswell clarifies.

"You kind of are." You say. Laswell decides to humour you.

"How?" She asks.

"You always make sure we're okay on base, and have everything we need. You watch over us on missions, you come by to check in with me and make sure I'm okay. You've stood up for me before. When I saw my mother, and told you, you immediately called the program to tell them off for not telling us sooner." You explain. Laswell consider it for a moment and she gives you a smile. She didn't think of it like that, and honestly, she figured it was just part of the job and not much else.

"I think hearing all of that is enough for me." She tells you. "Thank you."

Note: Hey just wanted to chime in and wish y'all a good Mother's Day. I hope you're all doing well, and remember to take care of yourselves.

[littlenightma]

Sick | T-1000 x Reader

It was two in the morning when you felt your stomach cramp. You clutched yourself while you stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom. Falling to your knees, you not-too-prettily expelled the contents of your cramping stomach into the toilet. From behind you, Austin’s lean figure hovered defensively.

“What is wrong?”

You dunked your head one more time before answering, pushing the leftover bile back down your throat.

“I’m sick.”

Sick.

He took in your shivering form hunched over the toilet and the glaze of perspiration coating your skin. He did not like seeing you in pain and he wanted the wretched sounds coming from your mouth to cease.

His internal database held a plethora of files on the human anatomy, among other useful topics, which served to help him take down targets proficiently. He was created to kill, not to protect. In other words, he was out of his element when it came to nursing a human back to passable health.

He knelt down and felt your slick forehead with the tips of his fingers. The nanobots quickly pick up on your high body temp.

“Your temperature is 2 degrees above what it should be.”

“How did you do that without a thermometer?”

“Stop evading the issue.”

Evading the iss- God, he’s so dramatic.

You shoot him an annoyed look, “It was a genuine question,” you paused, “And there is no issue.”

“You have a fever.” He pressed.

“It’s barely a fever.”

“Your body is overheating.”

You winked, “So you’re saying I’m hot, huh?”

It did not register on his face, but Austin was growing frustrated at your nonchalantness. “Why are you disregarding the state of your well-being?

Starting to feel uncomfortable, you sat down with your back against the toilet. The cool porcelain felt good on your warm skin. You were in no mood to be chided by the machine about your well-being when not too long ago he was the reason it was in danger - on multiple occasions.

“Because,” you began, wiping the side of your mouth with the back of your hand, “I’ve been sick before. I know what to expect. Everyone gets the stomach bug. I will be fine in a few days.”

Austin internally bristled. “That long?”

You shrugged your shoulders, “Give or take. There’s medicine I can take that will help make me feel better.”

Austin stood up, “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“No, you’re not. It’s not that serious, Austin.”

“It is to me.”

Thankfully, T-800, Uncle Bob, appeared in the doorway wearing his signature shades, holding a small, plastic bottle in his large, mechanical hand.

“I heard you from downstairs. Here,” he offered you the bottle.

Before you could take it, Austin had snatched it from Bob, scrutinizing it. He ran his index finger down the back label and shook his head. “There are too many side effects.”

“Just precautions. The medicine will help them.”

You nodded enthusiastically along with Bob’s words. Austin glanced at you and reluctantly uncapped it with more force than necessary. He held the bottle in the air as he dropped the thick, red liquid into the cap, making sure you received the exact dosage for someone of your age and weight needed.

You shot it back with a grimace. “Hm, disgusting,”

Bob chuckled as he took the medicine back. “You sound like John.”

You perked at John’s name, “I haven’t woke him up, have I?”

“No.”

“Thanks, Uncle Bob,” You smiled weakly from the floor.

The T-800 had been around humans long enough to comprehend sarcasm. “No problemo, kiddo.”

You giggle even though your stomach gurgled threateningly. “Good one.”

Austin handed back the medicine and T-800 bid his goodnight, going back to do his nightly routine of surveying the perimeter of the house.

Austin helped you off the floor and you went over to the sink to brush your teeth. He stood behind you like a shadow, electric eyes never wavering from watching you, as if waiting for you to suddenly fall apart.

“Austin?”

“Yes?”

“Will you lay with me?”

His head lifted at your question. “If that’s what you want, I will.”

“It is.”

Back in your room, he slid into your bed, carefully positioning himself in a way that prevented him from touching you. You may have been human, but you were by no means fragile. Austin didn’t fight you when you pried his arms open and settled within them.

As your head rested on his chest, you couldn’t hear the rhythmic thrumming of his heart or feel his chest rise and fall from breathing. He lacked everything that provided humans natural comfort, lacked any kind of genuine emotion or feeling and most of the time he was an asshole. Did it make sense to find safety in the arms of a killing machine? If he could kill you, that meant he could protect you all the same, right?

Right?

“If your temperature rises I am taking you to the hospital.”

His t-shirt hid your slight eye roll, “I’m not dying here, Austin.”

His fingers momentarily pressed into your ribs. His next words meant to comfort you, but they possessed a certain level of threat, briefly reminding you that the man holding you was not a man at all, and his whole existence, his whole purpose, was to dispose of people like you by ridding the world of the boy sleeping soundly in his bedroom just a few doors down.

“You’re not going to.”

Knowing you weren’t going to convince him otherwise, you didn’t argue. When your breathing evened out and your mouth fell slightly open, Austin shifted, lowering his head to your ear. Believing you wouldn’t hear him, he whispered two simple words.

“Get better.”

Little did he know that by laying in his arms, you already were.

[agirlsawalittlerose]

This is Me Trying

ModernAU!Aegon x OFC

Fresh out of rehab, Aegon Targaryen is looking for a way back into music when he meets Victoria, a talented but stubborn singer-songwriter who wants nothing to do with his family’s record label. Reluctantly thrown together, they form an unexpected creative partnership, finding common ground in music and shared struggles.

TW: Alcoholism, Addiction

MASTERLIST

CHAPTER 4: Death by a Thousand Cuts

Sara’s voice rang out brightly as she stepped aside to let Victoria take her turn on the adductor machine, her tone casual despite having just pushed 60kg with sheer leg power.

“And what about the pub?”

“I asked Tony to cut my hours,” Vic replied, struggling to get the sentence out between grunts of effort.

“Damn you, Vic, it’ll be tough not seeing you every day.” Sara pouted, her smirk turning into an exaggerated frown as she extended her hand. Vic took it, feeling oddly affectionate despite the ridiculousness of the moment. With her legs spread on the machine, it felt like she was a woman in labor squeezing her girlfriend’s hand for support.

Once Vic finished her set, the two headed for the locker room.

A strange buzz of adrenaline ran through her. Maybe it was the satisfaction of finally sticking to her promise and hitting the gym. Sara, blessed with boundless energy, was constantly in motion, while Vic struggled with the mere concept of standing for extended periods.

“It’s not like we can really chat at work, anyway. Every time I try, Rhys swoops in to hit on you. It’s honestly exhausting,” Vic said as she pulled her gym bag from the locker.

“Ugh, don’t even mention him,” Sara replied, her disgust at the thought of Rhys so potent it nearly trapped her in her sports bra.

“What about those guys Aemond introduced you to? What were they like?”

Vic shrugged, peeling off her leggings and wrapping herself in a towel, shower gel and shampoo in hand. “All super pro. One of them even toured with Robert Plant back in 2013.”

“Damn, that’s cool,” Sara commented, following Vic to the adjacent shower stall.

“Yeah, but people like that intimidate me. No wonder Charlie got cold feet. I had to work so hard not to blurt out some nonsense.”

Before Vic could finish, Sara’s shampoo bottle flew over the shower wall and hit her on the head.

“Victoria, I swear, if you bring up that piece of trash again, I’ll throw you out of the house,” Sara warned, her mock-seriousness dripping with humor.

“Are you insane? That probably killed, like, 200 brain cells!”

“Not like you’re using them!” Sara shot back.

“Broaden your horizons, my dear. How’s the tortured artist? Still hot?”

Vic thought of Aegon, the warm water streaming over her head. Still hot, undeniably so.

“This is going to end in disaster, Sara. I’m telling you now, in no uncertain terms,” Vic said, already resigned to her fate.

“What do you mean?” Sara asked, suddenly concerned.

“I mean he’s hot. Exactly my type. Just out of five months of rehab. And you know how weak I am for broken people who need fixing.”

“Aren’t we all…” Sara muttered.

“Yesterday, he was constantly looking for an excuse to touch me, and when I suggested we meet up…”

“You suggested it? You slut,” Sara said with mock indignation, thrilled her friend was focusing on someone other than Charlie.

“Yeah, semi-professionally. To see if we can work together! Can you imagine us in Viserys Targaryen’s snake pit of a studio, awkwardly staring at each other or, worse, making small talk about the weather and slow walkers?”

“Fair enough,” Sara replied.

“And do you know what he suggested? Meeting at his place.”

Sara let out a dramatic gasp. “Tell me you said yes.”

“Oh, sure, because I can’t wait to hook up with yet another guy who’ll leave me on read for days afterward.”

“At least you’d already know what to do for the second date,” Sara teased.

Vic poked her head into Sara’s shower stall, her face incredulous. “Why? Do people actually get second dates?”

“How would I know?,” Sara deadpanned.

“Obviously, I said no.” Vic rinsed the conditioner from her hair. “But I think it’s clear he wants to sleep with me, and I don’t trust myself—especially after a couple of pints. So, I suggested we meet at that vinyl café in Islington.”

“Vic, that’s so obviously a date. You know that, right?”

“It’s so not a date,” Vic retorted, wrapping her hair into a towel and examining her reflection in the mirror.

The gym contract should come with a disclaimer: you won’t turn into Adriana Lima after your second visit. Vic glanced over her shoulder, trying to be subtle so Sara wouldn’t notice. But no, months of effort and her butt still hadn’t grown. What a scam.

“Who cares? Just go for it. He’s loaded, too. Imagine if things go well—think of all the Louboutins he could buy you for Christmas or birthdays or anniversaries,” Sara pressed, undeterred.

Victoria sighed, grabbing her underwear and hastily getting dressed to spare Sara the sight of her untoned, naked self.

“What I love most about you is your optimism, the way you act like things could work out. As if you didn’t get daily status updates on my WhatsApp messages,” Vic muttered as she fumbled with her bra.

“Well, the alternative is wallowing in the ridiculous idea that you’ll never find anyone, and crawling back to Charlie every time he beckons, hoping he’ll take you back,” Sara shot back, slathering lotion onto her legs. Damn, Vic had forgotten her body lotion. Again.

“Don’t you think it’s fate that after all these years, we’re still in touch? I mean, even if it’s… weird?” Vic asked, a hint of self-delusion creeping in.

“Fate? No. Just some cruel, diabolical joke,” Sara replied bluntly.

“Whatever, I only meet up with him to stop idealizing him. Every time I see him, I care less and less. The other day, he asked me to come to his hometown in Essex, and I said no because I had a double shift at the pub,” Victoria said, genuinely believing she’d made a breakthrough.

“Wow, groundbreaking,” Sara quipped, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Vic immediately realized how stupid she sounded.

“Maybe it’s a terrible idea anyway. You do have to work with this Aegon guy,” Sara added, zipping up her jeans, her full bum practically spilling out from them, the waistband hugging her toned stomach perfectly. Vic sighed—she deserved a fast metabolism.

“Exactly,” Vic agreed.

“Well, if you’re not going for it, I might as well.” Sara’s comment was a light tease more than a real offer, a ploy to make Vic admit she was actually interested in that idiot Aegon.

It worked. A pang of jealousy twisted in her gut.

“Listen, babe. Find your own toxic blond guy” Vic shot back, smacking Sara with her towel in mock outrage.

Sara laughed, triumphant, extra satisfied when she saw Vic blushing.

Vic always looked forward to open mic nights at the pub. Sure, it meant arriving early to clear the tables from the raised booth that served as the stage, convincing Rhys to help her haul the piano or the amps (Sara was usually a lifesaver for the latter task), but by the end of the night, Vic was always satisfied.

After all, the open mic had been her idea. Tony had agreed on the condition that she handle everything—logistics, complaints, even when she wasn’t scheduled to work. He wanted no part in the chaos, especially when regulars grumbled about the lack of available slots. But that only made Vic more proud. It was her project, her success, her small claim to fame.

And if reserving a performance slot for herself each week meant that yet another patron couldn’t belt out My Way, well, so be it. These were the moments she felt truly appreciated, when her insecurities melted away, and she could revel in something she knew she was good at. The elderly pub-goers, always her most loyal fans, never failed to remind her of that.

Lately, someone else had been reminding her, too. Aemond Targaryen. Ever since he’d started showing up to this dingy pub in Peckham, he’d made it clear, in his understated way, that he was there to see her.

Right on cue, Vic spotted him walk in, just minutes before her turn on the makeshift stage. He settled at the table closest to the front, ordering his usual Guinness. After seeing him drink it twice, she had pegged him as exactly the kind of guy who made Guinness-drinking his entire personality. Vic wasn’t impressed.

From across the room, Aemond gave her a slight nod, and she nodded back, though reluctantly. They were practically business partners now, and to his credit, he’d been gracious—accepting her terms and even introducing her to the industry vultures she’d managed to fend off for so long. But she still hadn’t fully figured him out, nor had she warmed to his enigmatic vibe.

Mae, a fiery-haired woman with a penchant for the dramatic, had just finished her rendition of Fairytale of New York, impressively handling both parts. As she stepped down, Vic placed a warm hand on her shoulder, offering her praise before taking her place on the stage.

No piano tonight. Just Vic, her guitar, and the same old broken heart.

*******

Aemond knew he wasn’t obliged to keep attending that stupid open mic night at the rundown pub in Peckham, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a decent alternative when he had nothing better to do. And tonight, he had literally nothing to do.

Even Aegon hadn’t bothered him with his now-daily pleas to take him out.

Aemond despised playing babysitter to his brother—not because he minded being useful, he actually liked feeling needed—but because they had absolutely nothing in common. Now that Aegon had been out of the picture for a few months, Aemond had finally gotten the chance to mingle with people in the label without constantly being mistaken for him. God, he hated even thinking about that. But in the process, he’d also made a few friends. Take Alys, for example, the harpist who collaborated with most of the label’s artists. She had introduced him to Guinness, and since then, it was the only thing he drank.

It was a drink for people with patience, Aemond mused as he watched the bartender—who, bafflingly, was wearing jeans so low-rise they defied basic decency—pour his Guinness in slow, deliberate intervals.

He’d chosen the table closest to the stage. The acoustics would be terrible; he knew that much. But Aemond loved that thin sliver of space where physics betrayed itself, letting you hear the artist’s raw voice before it was amplified through the monitors. The only way to experience that was to sit close.

The downside? He’d had to endure a rendition of some old woman’s massacre of Fairytale of New York. Clearly, no one had ever told her music wasn’t on her list of talents. She’d butchered both Shane MacGowan’s and Kirsty MacColl’s parts, effectively killing them a second time.

Thankfully, Vic was next on the lineup.

There was something about the stage that transformed her. Normally, she was sharp-tongued, combative, and perpetually on edge. Yet every time she performed, she became almost… vulnerable. The closest comparison Aemond could think of was a child nestled in a cradle—a cradle of metaphors and chords.

The murmured conversations around the room quieted as she began strumming the opening chords. Aemond wasn’t surprised.

Her voice was raw and intimate, undeniably an acquired taste, and yet somehow, he had acquired it. She sang of love lost, love that lingered like a wound that never healed, love that felt like dying over and over again. Each lyric, every note, was a reflection of a heart shattered into countless fragments.

The song was a lament for the slow, agonizing release of something once cherished—the quiet, desperate clinging to a love that had long since dissolved.

As she sang, her eyes closed beneath her dark fringe, lost in the song's emotion. The lyrics were straightforward yet profound, weaving a tapestry of heartbreak and longing. She sang of the body’s grief, each pang a tiny cut that together delivered a crushing blow. And perhaps that was Vic’s true talent—her ability to tell a story, to turn emotions into vivid imagery, and to align the progression of chords with every stage of heartbreak, capturing its nuances with painful precision.

The audience was enraptured, their expressions a mixture of sorrow and understanding. They recognized the truth in her words, the universal ache of a love gone wrong. With every verse, she drew them further into her world, laying bare her deepest vulnerabilities with a rawness that was both stunning and shattering.

Aemond had never been in love. He’d never felt the need or even the desire for it. Aegon often teased him, saying he’d die a virgin—what an idiot. Just because he didn’t parade around with a new fling every night didn’t mean he lacked sexual experience or appetites.

But love? That had always been foreign territory. Yet in that moment, as Vic painted such a vivid, harrowing picture of it, Aemond found himself wishing—just for a second—that he had loved. Not for the sake of romance, but to understand. To grasp her song fully. To not feel so excluded, as he always did, while everyone around him resonated with the perfectly rendered portrait of a broken heart.

For a fleeting moment, Aemond wished he could feel that pain, too.

The sparse crowd had, of course, showered Vic with undeniable love, and she’d smiled, serene and satisfied, offering a small bow before making her way off the stage. Aemond had already braced himself for the usual routine: chasing her down across the room just to offer his compliments, only to be met with her trademark sharpness. But he hadn’t even managed a step before noticing something different—this time, Vic was walking toward him.

“I thought saying yes would stop you from stalking me,” she quipped as she slid into the chair across from him. But her tone wasn’t sharp; she was joking.

Aemond felt the tips of his ears heat up, the sudden realization of how pathetic he must have seemed all those times he’d cornered her, only to be barked at for his efforts.

“I wanted to make sure you hadn’t changed your mind,” he replied with a casual shrug, aiming for wit but unsure if his tone betrayed him. Vic grinned, tossing her fringe out of her eyes with a quick tilt of her head.

“And here I thought you were here for Terence,” she said, nodding toward the elderly man now on stage, reciting the same coffee poem she’d seen him workshop a few days ago.

Aemond let out a sarcastic hiss. “Better watch out, or you’ll have some real competition soon enough.”

Vic smiled again, clearly catching the irony but also radiating a genuine affection for the retirement-home rejects who frequented her workplace.

“Everyone has the right to express themselves in whatever way works for them,” she said, almost too kindly.

Aemond studied her for a moment, feeling a pang of guilt. Then he reminded himself that, sure, everyone had the right to express themselves, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t think they were terrible at it. After all, what was the point of striving to be a good artist if not to stand out? He kept those thoughts to himself.

“You were great. The song was beautiful,” he said instead.

She thanked him with exaggerated flair, the kind of theatrical performance that suggested she’d spent a long time perfecting how to accept compliments without succumbing to either embarrassment or imposter syndrome.

“You didn’t bring the golden retriever today?” she asked, clearly referring to Aegon.

Aemond rolled his eyes and took another sip of his beer. “You mean the socially hazardous gorilla? No, apparently, he had business in the attic.”

“Hey, gorillas are highly intelligent animals. My metaphor had purpose,” she retorted.

True. Her metaphors always had purpose. He raised an eyebrow, wordlessly urging her to elaborate.

“My mom has a golden retriever. His name’s Freddie. She got him when I moved here, clearly as a stand-in for me, and she treats him better than she ever treated me or my brother,” Vic began, her words spilling out in a torrent that swept Aemond along. He wasn’t used to sharing much of himself, and Vic seemed to live on the exact opposite edge, her quirky oversharing making him distinctly uncomfortable. But he didn’t stop her.

“I always say they’re the dumbest dogs, and Freddie’s the dumbest of the lot,” she concluded, signaling to her friend behind the bar for a drink, hands pressed together in an exaggerated prayer and a pout that made her look like a mischievous child.

“Hard to argue with your metaphor, then,” Aemond remarked, drawing her attention back to him.

“What animal would your brother be?” he asked, half-expecting her sudden good mood to fade and the conversation to fizzle out and rushing to prevent that.

“A socially hazardous gorilla, I suppose,” Vic replied after a moment, her eyes clouding with a flicker of sadness. “I think he has borderline personality disorder. He’s not stupid; he’s just always been a colossal prick.”

Her tone was unnervingly casual given the weight of her confession.

“Older?” Aemond asked, sensing a rare connection in the universal language of sibling trash-talk.

“Younger,” she said, and then added, “But that’s classic, right? Your parents have you, you’re their pride and joy for all of ten minutes, then another one comes along, starts showing behavioral issues, and suddenly you’re the one doing your homework alone. Next thing you know, you’re in another city, handling your problems solo, celebrating your wins alone because they’re too drained from dealing with your brother’s messes all day.”

Fuck, yes, Aemond wanted to say. His stomach twisted as her words perfectly captured what had always been his reality. It didn’t matter that they weren’t remotely close enough to be discussing such personal, delicate matters; for once, he was grateful someone was laying it all out because he knew exactly what she meant, how she felt.

He wrestled with himself, torn between his carefully cultivated mask of cold professionalism and the urge to tell her that he understood.

He wanted to share how things had only gotten worse since Aegon had been spat out of rehab, how he couldn’t even scrape together a crumb of acknowledgment from his father. He wanted to confess that Vic’s music was his ticket to finally earning some recognition, that her signing with him would prove he was more than capable as a producer, that he deserved a more prominent role at the label. Maybe, now that they’d found this unexpected common ground, she’d be more willing to accept his offer, sparing him months of dealing with Aegon’s chaotic creative process and her the tragedy of dealing with him at all.

But he said nothing, and she was quicker to close the conversation.

“Well, I’m not the first or the last, I guess. How the hell do you drink Guinness, by the way? It literally tastes like shoe leather,” she exclaimed, grabbing the lager handed to her by the low-rise jeans guy.

Aemond was abruptly yanked from his thoughts and back into the present, back in front of her.

“Acquired taste,” he replied.