#THANK YOU FOR TELLING ME i love knowing everything

[cressidagrey]

The Kiss

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary:  One Kiss in an attic room in Haileybury changes everything. 

Warnings and Notes:

Underage characters kissing, School Rule Breaking, one mention of an eating disorder.

Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

Oscar had never liked heights, but he never minded the attic.

At Haileybury, it was tucked right under the roof beams, all slanted ceilings and worn floorboards and windows that fogged over at night. Most people thought it was too cold, too cramped, too far from the bathrooms.

But it was where Felicity’s dorm room was. 

He didn’t mean to start sneaking into her room every night. 

At first, it had just been one night. 

She’d looked pale and exhausted during breakfast, the kind of grey-edged tired that made him stare at her in the dining hall all morning, biting the inside of his cheek. She hadn’t spoken much in physics either, which was even more concerning. And then, during prep, he’d found her outside, sitting by the wall near the old library, knees drawn to her chest.

“I didn’t sleep,” she said without preamble, when he sat down beside her.

“Why not?”

She didn’t answer right away. Then, finally, she murmured, “Nightmares.”

That night, he sent her a text.

You okay?

Not really.

Want company?

There was a pause. Then:

Door’s unlocked.

That was all it took.

He crept up the staircase like a ghost, past curfew, past reason. The old attic floor creaked under his weight, and when he ducked through the low door, she was already curled on her side, blanket pulled to her chin.

“I can’t always stop them,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said. “But I can stay.”

And he did.

He’d sneak in, she’d lift the blanket, and he’d slide in beside her, warm and quiet and steady.

It was the only way she slept through the night.

And maybe it helped him too.

Because Haileybury was strange sometimes. Cold. Distant. The kind of place that looked perfect on a brochure but made your stomach twist with homesickness when the lights went out. And Melbourne felt like another lifetime.

Haileybury was fine, but not home. Not Melbourne. He missed the way the air felt when the sun went down. Missed the toast at his mum’s and the click of his dad’s tools in the garage. Missed his sisters being loud and the clatter of race broadcasts on the TV.

Haileybury was polished wood and cold stairwells and too many people who thought ambition was something you wore like a uniform. Sometimes, it felt like he was performing himself—quiet enough to blend in, sharp enough to get noticed, just steady enough that no one asked if he was okay.

But then there was Felicity.

Felicity, with her firecracker brain and her sardonic smile and her eyes that saw straight through him. Felicity, who argued with teachers for sport and read math journals like they were novels. Felicity, who lived in the attic room like some stubborn myth, barefoot and furious and brilliant and real.

She became the best part of being here.

The part that made the cold English winter feel a little less sharp.

And Oscar—fifteen-year-old, awkward, still-growing-into-his-face Oscar—was completely and utterly gone for her.

He didn’t know it yet.

Not really.

He just knew she was the first person he wanted to tell when something good happened. And the first one he worried about when she looked tired. And the one he stayed up with until 2 a.m. talking about hypotheticals and space and their ridiculous chemistry teacher.

And the one who let him stay when his own thoughts felt too loud.

Somewhere between shared physics notes and whispered jokes and her head on his shoulder as they drifted off to sleep, it happened.

He fell in love with her. Softly. Accidentally. Irrevocably.

But it wasn’t until that night—months later, curled up in the attic room again, laughing together under the glow of fairy lights—that it clicked.

She was laughing at something he said, soft and breathless and lovely, and her knees were pressed against his and she looked at him like she already knew what was about to happen.

And he realized.

Oh.

It’s you.

It’s always been you.

It will always be you. 

“Fliss,” he said, and it came out like a breath, like a prayer he hadn’t meant to say out loud.

She tilted her head. “Yeah?”

He swallowed.

She blinked slowly, that calm, steady look she always gave him when she already knew the answer.

“I think I—” He broke off. Tried again. “I feel—”

Felicity smiled, all warmth and certainty.

“I was wondering when you’d figure that out.”

That made him laugh, a small exhale of disbelief and something deeper. “You knew?”

“Of course I knew.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper. “You sneak up here every night like the stars are going to vanish if you don’t.”

“I like it up here.”

“You like me up here.”

That shut him up.

A beat passed.

Then she leaned forward just enough for her nose to brush his. “It’s okay, you know,” she said gently. “You can.”

He didn’t ask what she meant.

He just did.

He kissed her.

Not in a rush. Not with fireworks. Just… softly. Completely. Like he’d been waiting to his whole life. Maybe he had.

Their knees bumped again. Her fingers curled into the hem of his sleeve. The curtain stirred. The room stayed still.

When they finally pulled apart, Felicity’s eyes were still half-lidded, her smile lazily stunned, like a cat stretching in a sunbeam.

Oscar, meanwhile, looked like he’d forgotten how to function. Pink-cheeked. Rumpled. Staring at her like she’d cracked the whole sky open just to let him see the stars.

“You okay?” she teased, nose wrinkling.

He nodded, dazed. “I think that just rewrote my entire brain.”

Felicity laughed again—bright, delighted—and leaned her head on his shoulder. “Took you long enough.”

And he just sat there, heart hammering and chest warm, realizing that this—her, this room, this life—was already his favorite thing in the world.

***

Felicity had always lived in her mind first and the world second.

It wasn’t arrogance. It wasn’t even something she chose. 

Her brain had always been too fast, too sharp, too hungry. She’d learned to read before she could tie her shoes, argued with her teachers before she learned to braid her own hair. People admired it—at first. Her parents certainly had. They paraded her brilliance like a medal. Until it started to make them uncomfortable.

Until it made her uncontrollable.

By the time she was fourteen, Felicity had learned exactly how alone intelligence could make you. 

She had sat through too many conversations where adults discussed her in clinical tones, like a problem to be optimized. Too many classmates had tried to cheat off her, only to recoil when she opened her mouth and revealed just how far ahead she was. Too many teachers looked at her like she was both impressive and exhausting.

No one ever really understood her.

Not the way she needed.

Not until Oscar.

She hadn’t meant to let him in.

Not really.

She liked him, of course. How could she not? He was easy in the way other people weren’t. Soft-spoken but stubborn. Funny without trying. Steady in a way that made her feel like she could rest her head for five minutes and the sky wouldn’t fall. He never tried to compete with her. Never treated her like a threat, or a tool, or a trophy. He just… listened. Asked things. Remembered.

And when he started sneaking into her room at night—she didn’t stop him.

Because she slept better when he was there.

The attic room had always felt like hers. A pocket of quiet just under the roof, where she could breathe without being observed. But with Oscar in it—messy-haired, sleep-warm Oscar, who slid under the blanket without a word and always made room for her cold feet—it became something else entirely.

It became hers in a way that didn’t hurt.

He’d sneak up, careful and quiet, and she’d lift the edge of the blanket without saying a word. He never asked questions. Never demanded explanations. Just climbed in beside her and let her be.

It was the only way she slept through the night.

And the only time her brain slowed down long enough to feel safe.

Felicity didn’t know how to name what was happening. Not at first. She just knew that Haileybury was cold and sharp-edged and full of people who measured success in bloodless grades and rehearsed futures—and then there was Oscar.

Oscar didn’t make the world go quiet—but he made it gentler. More manageable. Like she could breathe again without bracing for impact.

Oscar, who asked if she was okay and actually meant it. Oscar, who brought her biscuits from the dining hall when she hadn’t eaten all days. Oscar, who fell asleep beside her with his arm barely brushing hers, who never once made her feel like too much or not enough.

It wasn’t about being clever with him. He never treated her like a problem to be solved or a trophy to be polished. 

He didn’t get everything she said—how could he?—but he listened. He tried. And he stayed.

He wasn’t like her. 

But then, nobody was.

And yet, somehow, Oscar understood her more than anyone ever had.

He was the only person who looked at her and didn’t see a checklist of accomplishments. He just saw her.

He didn’t try to compete or shrink her. Didn’t treat her brain like a party trick. He listened. He cared. He saw her.

And for a girl who’d grown up being dissected like a fascinating problem, being seen felt like a miracle.

Felicity didn’t fall in love the way most girls did. She didn’t squeal about crushes or blush over compliments. But she felt things, and she felt him. Felt the way he brought her biscuits from the dining hall and sat with her when that was the only thing she could manage to stomach that day.

Somewhere between physics study sessions and late-night confessions, somewhere between his laugh and the way he fell asleep with his mouth slightly open, she fell for him.

Quietly. Completely.

She didn’t tell him, of course. She didn’t need to. He’d figure it out eventually.

He always did.

And when he finally looked at her, really looked, like he’d just solved a riddle that had been haunting him for months, she almost laughed.

He looked at her like she hung the moon.

And that’s when she knew.

He hadn’t said it yet. But she could see it.

In his eyes. In the way his hand hovered like he didn’t know if he was allowed to reach for her. In the tremble in his voice when he breathed, “Fliss.”

She tilted her head, heart thudding.

“Yeah?”

He looked like he was trying to solve a puzzle with no instructions. Like he already knew the answer, but was too stunned to say it.

“I think I—” he started. “I feel—”

And that was enough.

She smiled, soft and sure. “I was wondering when you’d figure that out.”

His laugh was barely more than a breath, but it hit her like a thunderclap—because that was the thing about Oscar. Even when he didn’t have the words, he had the heart. He always did.

“You knew?” he asked, half-disbelieving.

“Of course I knew,” she whispered. “You sneak up here every night like the stars are going to vanish if you don’t.”

He flushed. “I like it up here.”

“You like me up here.”

That silenced him.

She couldn’t help it—she leaned forward just enough to brush her nose against his. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “You can.”

He didn’t ask what she meant.

He kissed her.

Gentle. Wonderstruck. Like he was touching something sacred.

And maybe he was.

And it wasn’t like the stories said it would be. It wasn’t fire and thunder. It was soft. Certain. Like slipping into a familiar rhythm. Like exhaling after holding her breath for years.

Felicity had spent her whole life knowing how frightening her mind was to others. How easily it overwhelmed. How quickly admiration curdled into distance. But Oscar? Oscar had walked straight in, no map, no compass, and stayed.

Even when he couldn’t keep up with her thoughts, he never tried to slow them down. Never asked her to be smaller, simpler, easier.

He just held on and let her be exactly what she was.

And when they pulled apart, and he looked stunned and pink-cheeked and like the whole world had just shifted sideways, she knew:

He’d never make her choose between being brilliant and being loved.

She curled her fingers into the hem of his sleeve. Let herself be kissed like she was something precious.

When they pulled apart, he looked completely undone—rumpled and dazed, cheeks pink, eyes wide with awe.

“You okay?” she teased.

“I think that just rewrote my entire brain,” he said, absolutely serious.

Felicity laughed—really laughed—and rested her head on his shoulder, the world still humming around them.

And for the first time in her life, she didn’t feel too much.

She felt enough.

Oscar wasn’t the smartest person she’d ever met.

But he was the first who understood her in the ways that mattered.

[simonz-angel]

sugardaddy simon headcanons please🙏

hii baby yknow i’ve gotchu. please tell me how i did, if i didn’t do it justice just lemme know pretty doll always happy to give it another go!! these are my personal thoughts on sugar!papa simon but yk. now enjoy babydoll, thank you for your lil request!! feel free to request any specifics!

❤︎ sugar!daddy simon who becomes your personal little shopper. who shops for you outside of you being with him. grabbing at anything from sleek dresses, to frilly, to lacy lingerie. anything he wants to see you in, he might even have a card copy of your measurements, being sure to get the best size and fit.

❤︎ sugar!daddy simon who provides you with your own little credit card. he’d found one with a 10k limit and sucked his own damn teeth, perfect. he’s more than happy to be paying it off, he’s almost disappointed you don’t hit your spending limit. but then again, you like to make your big purchases with him.

❤︎ sugar!daddy simon who sends you $200 with each pretty picture you provide. wether it’s that pretty face, an outfit for approval or the teasing ones, he’s blowing up your bank account. the more suggestive, the more you get. although it’s really just a treat, because you’ve already got more money then him at this point.

❤︎ sugar!daddy simon who stuffs $100’s in your bra before he leaves. he’d be kissing, sucking at neck, ignoring the sour taste of your perfume. and his thick fingers are digging into the crevice between soft padding and doughy skin, money crinkling as he stuffs your bra full.

❤︎ sugar!daddy simon who lets you boss him around. ordering him around in stores till he’s practically sweating running around, all the while you sit there pretty waiting for him. rolling your eyes when he takes too long, and when he at least tries to hand the bag over so you can see your most recent purchase, you scold him, “isn’t that like your job?” 🙄

❤︎ sugar!daddy simon who bullies you right back with his cock. grabbing at the nape of your neck to keep you face down in the pillow. he loves all your petty treatment, but sometimes he’s gotta tone it down. and his other hand holds tight at your waist, bending you into a deep arch, chest pressed flush to the bedding. “anything else you wanna say to me, bunny?” he laughs, but when your sharp, fresh nails slide against the back of his thighs, and your head twists, you demand. “faster, i have places to be.”

❤︎ sugar!daddy simon who gives you ultimate princess treatment. letting you sit your pretty, pussy down onto his face. you bury him practically, riding at his face, grabbing at his short, graying golden hair all while giggling. he lets his hands find home, grabbing and squeezing at your thighs, at your ass, before reaching to pinch at your peachy, nipple. his tongue works hard, but your hips work harder, he’s sure you’ll break his nose soon with the way you jump and grind, but he doesn’t think he’ll mind. 🤷‍♀️

❤︎ sugar!daddy simon who keeps a folder of all your pretty vids and pics on his phone. he likes scrolling through them in the office, grabbing at the crotch of his dress pants when they tighten up. it’s cruel the shit you send him, your sweet, small fingers playing with your clit, dipping in to the puddle of slick that accumulates as you play with yourself. and he scrolls, past over the picture of your pretty tits pushed together, before settling on one. you’re perched up onto his pillow, the one he buries his face in as he sleeps. your thick thighs straddled tight around it as you grind your bare pussy up over it. and he’s unbuckling his belt, as you’re pulling at your peaked nipples, bouncing like a little bunny as you work yourself up.

❤︎ sugar!daddy simon who provides any and everything you like. he’d do anything you ask of him, and so he’s lowering his hand. practically smearing the pretty, pink tip of his cock over the camera lens, and his wrist flicks, jerking himself off. and in the back of the camera you can see his head fall back, his lips crack open in a soft groan. and he sends the video, with a sweet (your fav) text after it. “take you out when i get home?”

hope you enjoyed again baby, i really appreciate the request, feel free to get back to me with your thoughts ❤︎

divider creds - @bernardsbendystraws

[kisses4themissus]

Mr, Mrs & A Baby | I.H X Reader

a/n: SHE'S BACKK!! pairing: Hwang In-ho X Fem!Reader wc: 3.3k

Hwang In-ho Masterlist | Send me a love letter ♡

Panicked you stared at in-ho, holding your bump. 

“You need to get out of here.” In-ho sighed and glanced at the camera in the corner of the room and signaled to you. The manager behind the screen commanded the soldiers and workers to have you safely evacuated from the game. You watched through the small slot in the room door as the soldiers made their way over to cover you.

“What are you telling the others?” You questioned, in-ho sighed as he helped you up from the ground. “They're going to call your number, I will try to be with you, the soon as I can.” Your husband promised as the door softly opened, the soldiers all stood together and walked to the exit they would leave through.

- - - - - - - -

Everything has been a flash, you had been thankful of the surgeon you had hired as a worker. He had delivered your child. You were now left in yours and in-ho’s penthouse, with a newer addition, a son.

You giggled as your fingertip touched your son’s soft palm. You had a hard time adjusting to a newborn without the help of your husband. You hadn’t known how much time went by since you were pulled away from the games.

The big screen that would normally show the games was turned off, the sound of in-ho’s music playing as you swayed with your son, lulling the baby to sleep. You watched as he peaceful slept, occasionally  snuggling his face further into you. As you admired your son as he laid quietly in his crib the sound of static sounded in your living room. You quietly shuffled away from the crib and picked up the device.

“What is it?” You asked sternly; It was known among staff you’d be stepping away from control of the games once your child was born.

“Players have escaped, they’re heading up the stairs; they took a manager with them.” The officer informed you, making your heart drop.

“Which players?” You asked, moving to the screen and switched through the channels to see majority had been disconnected. The officer listed the players off to you as he got ready to command the soldiers. “The frontman is with them.”

You stopped as a camera caught your husband and the others in the stairwell, too close for comfort, the camera was soon disconnecting making you let out a shaky breath before glancing to your bedroom where your baby’s crib was. 

“If a single bullet is in my husband, I will personally shoot whoever in the head.” You warned before throwing the device on the sofa and stormed into your closet to find your own gun and mask.

- - - - - - - -

In-ho looked around the hallway to the control room elevator, he motioned for the men behind him to follow.

He smiled softly as soft sound of your boots filled the dark hallway. The men froze as you stood on the top of the stairs, leading towards the control room.

“Fools to my game..” You pouted, raising your handgun and shot one of the players, in-ho quickly turning to face the other and shot him several times. You sighed and grabbed the walkie talkie. 

“Confirm your death.” You commanded, shoving the device into his chest, turning around to walk back to your room, your mind running wild as you were away from your child and players were trying to rebel.

You light bounced your son as you paced around in your room, taking shuttering breaths as you could hear gunshots from below.

Your son began to coo, his lip pouting and his tiny features scrunch up.

“Shh, it’s alright, mama’s here, no one’s gonna get you!” You reassured, though you weren’t sure if it was directed at the baby or yourself. Pacing had sent your thought spiraling.

You had not way of knowing how your husband or where any of the fight got moved too except the distant sounds of gunshots coming below your floor. With a shaky hand you held your son with one arm and fumbled for the remote to play music.

Your son continued to cry, sniffling as he felt your distress. Huffing you began to sway with the baby, focusing on the lyrics of fly me to the moon, in the back of your mind you had began to plan an emergency escape.

The walkie you had on the side table light up. “It is over now, i’ll be up in a bit.” In-ho’s voice came through, you sighed in relief and laid a gentle kiss on your son’s tiny hand; the baby had began to settle down as you continued to sway with him in your arms.

“I’d never let anyone harm you my love..” You whispered into his soft hand, his little fingers curled around yours. 

- - - - - - - -

In-ho had noticed a shift in your personality, you had seemed on guard, alert and distant towards him whenever he held or was around your son.

You had now hated to watch the cameras that showed the dorms, instead opting walking to your shared room to lay down or holding your son while taking in his tiny features.

It wasn’t til the VIPs arrived you finally had enough.

Standing in the control room, your mask forgone, in your resting clothes you watched as players began to plan for hide and seek. Your eyes hadn’t left jun-hee, your nervous had gone up since you noticed her bump had dropped, meaning her due date wasn’t far behind.

“Gameplanner, the VIPs have arrived, do i send them in?” One of the managers asked, you shook your head and continued to watch. “No, they’ll have to wait till the end of the game to finish, even then do a sweep of only soldiers before you let them in..” You commanded, you had been frustrated when in-ho had changed your game to allow the VIPs to hunt down the last of the players.

“Yes ma’am..” They nodded before leaving to relay your words.

“You seem tense gameplanner, do you need to step out?” The police manager asked, noticing the bags under your eyes, and your appearance in general.

“No, I look tense since i just had a child and now i’m suppose to be looking over these stupid games while my husband entertains those obnoxious millionaires, no i’m not able to step out.” You scoffed, your eyes watching as jun-hee entered the arena. 

The police manager sighed and bowed his head. “My apologies.” 

You had watched with a straight face as one of the camera’s showed jun-hee sitting against a wall, a bundle of her jacket on her chest, her daughter. Geum-ja cried as she held hyun-ju’s body to hers.

You held back your reaction, turning to the workers to see them watching over the VIPs in the lounge, all of them dressed in the red jumpsuits like the workers.

Cameras had been planted since the previous year where an intruder had gotten in.

“At dinner, Give player 222 more, she’s going to need the energy in order for the next game for it to be considered a fair playing ground.” You told the nearest manger who nodded their head before giving directions to the workers over the walkie talkie.

With one last glance at the VIPs you walked out of the control room and back to the comfort of your floor.

Entering you dismissed the workers who watched over the sleeping baby, you smiled softly as you son light snored, his fist by his head as he slept soundly…peacefully even.

Glancing over to your vanity, your white mask sat in the middle.

You sighed and walked over, staring at it. You had spent majority of your life working under il nam, for the whole game concept, why was it now you were beginning to have a sense of regret..?

Picking up the mask, you sighed and walked to your closet, tossing it blindly in there.

- - - - - - - -

In-ho entered the floor to be greeted to music playing, walking to the main room, he smiled as you cradled your song, humming as your finger traced over the baby’s nose.

“You are all I long for, worship and adore..” You sang, smiling as your son gave a gummy smile the best he could up at you.

“He loves his mother very much!” In-ho commented, stepping closer to you both.

“I’m all he knows..” You replied, your gaze focusing on the baby who wiggled before yawning again. “You’re my comfort too..” In-ho smiled and rubbed your back, not mentioning as you tensed up.

“That’s my job.” You muttered, quickly standing up.

“I’ll go put him down.” You told in-ho, as you went to leave he stopped you.

“I’ll take him, you need a break, the workers said you dismissed them early to come back to watch over him, is it true?” In-ho asked, taking the baby from your arms.

“Yeah, it’s normal for mothers wanting to be around their child especially after birth.” You explained, your gaze watching as in-ho nodded before taking the baby to their nursery.

You sat on the plush chair, staring at the floor.

“What’s on that mind of yours?” In-ho asked, pouring himself a glass of whiskey.

“..Do you ever regret working under il nam?” You asked, finally looking at in-ho.

He stopped from taking a drink, his eyes finding yours, noticing the unstable look in them. “No, if i died in that night, i would never have this, a wife, a child..any of it really, i would’ve joined the other pieces of trash that die in this place.” In-ho explained.

You nodded and looked at in-ho. “Do you have second thoughts?” In-ho asked, making you sit up straight at the question. ��No, like you said without it, none of this would’ve happened.” You nodded, unsure if it was in-ho or yourself.

There was a beat of silence before you nodded to yourself, “I’m going to bed, goodnight in-ho.” You spoke softly, walking into bedroom, not looking back.

- - - - - - - -

You sat on the couch you and in-ho had for yourselves in the VIP lounge.

Flipping through your sketchbook, you stared at a blank page, no ideas coming to you. You had ignored the chatter from the VIPs and mindlessly watched the scene before you.

Your stomach fell as jun-hee yelled for gi-hun to stay put, the timer running out. Your heart sunk as she stepped off the platform and fell to her death. Scooting to the edge of the couch, you watched in disbelief, behind your mask your tears fell.

You never had cried over players this much, any other year you would’ve brushed them off and ignored them, seeing your own friends hurt worse, going into the games you didn’t expect to find comfort in their company, seeing jun-hee death, your mind took it as if she was your own sister.

Your hope for them had slowly to dissipate; Hyun-ju being stabbed as she went to guide jun-hee and geum-ja to safety, minutes later, geum-ja had made the brave decision about her son, being too upset with herself, she went and killed herself that night. Your throat tightened as the announcement rang through.

“Player 222, eliminated.”

Nightly talks with the girl flooded your mind.

“Mrs Oh?” Jun-hee whispered as you both laid under the bunk beds, not too far separated.

Your eyes kept sight on in-ho who watched over your group. “Hmm?” You responded, looking over and gave her a soft smile. “If we get out, do you think we could keep contact?” She asked, fidgeting with her jacket.

You turned to catch her gaze, nodding “Of course, our babies could have playdates!” You planned, she chuckled and nodded. You both went silent, jun-hee glanced over and scooted closer to you. “He cares about you alot..” She mumbled, making you look at her confused. “Who?” 

“Young il, he always looks at you, dae-ho dropped something last night and young il jumped up ready to protect you both.” She explained, motioning your bump.

You smiled and rubbed your bump, “He always wished to be a father, practically sent me on bedrest once we found out..” You both laughed, jun-hee cupped her bump and smiled sadly down.

There was a beat of silence.

“Do you have anyone outside jun-hee?” You asked, she kept her head low and shook it.

“The baby is all i have…the father isn’t close..” She sighed, finally looking at you.

You swallowed and reached a hand out towards her. “Now, you have me and my baby!” You reassured her. 

She smiled and held your hand, you both slowly drifted to sleep, holding hands; strengthening you both were your own new found family…

A ball of anger formed in your stomach as the VIPs talked about jun-hee’s child as if they had control, throwing the idea to eliminate the baby since the mother had passed, one piped up saying the baby should be a separate participant.

As you stood up to responde, in-ho held your arm and spoke up.

“I suggest, the baby plays as 222, after all the players will vote to leave, it’ll add a twist to voting and the games.” He suggested, you turned to him, disgusted at his words.

The VIPs began to agree, making your stomach twist.

As they all began chatting you stood up and yanked your arm away from in-ho. “I have to take of something.” You said loudly, walking past the VIPs, each of them looked at each other, feeling a twist of anger in the air.

“Someone’s upset..” One of the men laughed as you exited.

- - - - - - - -

You had left to your floor and began packing your things away in your luggage you had taken when you first arrived to the island that year.

Rushing around you packed your son’s diapers, clothing and essentials into a bag, setting it by the elevator.

Pulling your walkie talkie out, you changed the channel. “I need workers to come take things down.” You commanded, a moment went by before a manger responded. Walking to your son’s crib, you gently picked him up, grabbing a warm blanket to wrap him in, knowing the boat ride back to the mainland was going to be cold due to the fall air.

“Shh, you’re okay, you and mama are going away for a bit..” You muttered as your son began to fuss as you wrapped him in the warm fuzzy blanket. 

You lined up the hall with your luggage, being left to wait for the workers. 

Looking down you noticed your son had fallen asleep once more, you turned to the side table and picked up the remote and turned the screen on. You watched as all the men dressed in suits sitting at their tables, scarfing down food. You felt a bit of relief as you noticed the worker feeding jun-hee’s daughter a bottle.

A ding from the elevator made you turn, your heart dropping as in-ho walked into the room. His footsteps slowing as he noticed your luggage all packed away.

“What is this?” He asked, taking off his mask, dropping it on the bar.

“I need to leave, in-ho…I-I can’t do it anymore..” You stuttered, looking at your husband. Who stared back at you, his brown eyes trying to search for any sign of you pulling a sick joke. “If you can’t do this anymore take a break, no need to leave the island.” He said, moving closer to you and the baby.

“If i don’t leave now, then twenty years later i’ll still be in the same place in-ho.” You sighed, tears building.

“What about him?” He asked, his expression switching from soft to a serious look. “Is this because of that girl?” He asked, you scoffed softly.

“Yes, jun-hee made me realize what’s gonna be my future…twelve years from now, will I still stuck here on this island watching mothers, fathers, sons, daughter, grandparents even, die for entertainment?” You ranted, cupping the back of your son’s head.

“What about his future, we got lucky that we’re both winners and won the money but what if he falls into debt and had no choice but the join? How would you feel to see our son playing among those people?” You asked, stepping closer to in-ho, who kept his head down.

“There’s a difference, those people are trash of the earth, you’ve seen the kinds people that accept the offer.” In-ho scoffed, you let out a laugh of shock.

“I’ve worked for these hellish games for seven years, there is no confirmation that our son won’t end up here like we did..” You sighed, shaking your head at in-ho.

“He wouldn’t, combined we have more than enough for him to lasts lifetimes..” In-ho attempted to stop you, following your gaze to the baby. “Wasn’t that what your father thought about you?” Your words seemed to stun in-ho.

With one last look you walked to the elevators, as you pressed the button there was a shuffle behind you.

Click.

You sighed and straightened out at the sound. “You couldn’t live with yourself if you did that.”

Behind you stood in-ho, holding the handgun you both kept in the living room as a precaution of an intruder. 

“Fix this mess in-ho, we’ll be waiting…” He sighed as you kept walking to the elevator and kept your back to him. As the doors closed, in-ho placed the gun down and scoffed as tears rolled down.

You were gone…

- - - - - - - -

Jun-ho huffed as he crawled through a vent, finally entering in a blacked out room.

There was a heavy layer of smoke, he coughed and covered his nose and mouth the best he could before forgoing it as he held his gun up in preparation.

Quickly he cleared each room, stopping as he figured out who it had belonged too.

A white 3D printed mask laid on a messy bed; standing out among the black bedsheets.

As jun-ho walked to an attachment room, opening the door he winced at the sudden bright colors.

His heart stopped as his mind proceeded the room he stood in.

A nursery, a cream colored crib in the center of the room, baby blankets on the side, toys decorated around, jun-ho walked closer and picked up the stuffed animal in the crib and held his breath at the sight.

Jun-ho had been young when in-ho had lived with him and their parents, jun-ho had remembered the stuffed animals hidden in his brothers closet, when he’d attempt to ask about it, in-ho would rush the young boy out and scold him for snooping.

In the crib sat a small white bear, originally a set, he furrowed his brows, where had the brown bear gone?

Jun-ho picked it up and shoved the tiny bear into his pocket before walking to the next room, his mind going as he thought why his brother would need a nursery.

- - - - - - - -

Six months had passed since you had left the island, leaving in-ho and your previous career behind.

You had arrived to the mainland and gone to your shared home with in-ho, you had waited night and day for anything from him; jumping at every noise in the night, hoping it was him returning.

Your son had grown quite a bit, now able to sit up on his own, babbling in his own language, tasting smooth liquids other than milk. After three months of waiting, you had enough and began to move your life on without in-ho, moving out of your shared home, closer to the city.

You had enough money saved to keep yourself and your son good for a while, you still couldn’t believe what you were doing.

Standing at an apartment door, shakily holding your fist up to knock, the baby on your hip cooed. With a deep breath, you knocked on the door and stood back, waiting for a response.

Moments had passed, no answer. With a nod you turned and went to walk away but stopped as the door opened behind you. “Hello, can i help you?” 

You stopped in your step and turned. “Are you hwang jun-ho?” You asked, trying to hold your son up without shaking. “That’s me, do i know you?” He asked, stepping out of his apartment, his eyes dropping ot the little brown bear in your son’s hands.

“I am hwang in-ho’s wife…and this is your nephew.”

[science-hoes]

kate, i hope you’re having a great night, sunshine. a little wine is perfect for a sunday vibe! 🫶🏻

may i look into that beautiful brain of yours & hear what you have to say about jack & his darling finding out their pregnant after struggling to conceive? i think they’d struggle a bit at first with getting there, but would be over the moon ecstatic once it finally does happen for them. i know you can do this justice!

thank youuuuuu for whatever you come up with. 🥺

J my love 🥹 this is a very good question!!

—

“Lots of people struggle with fertility problems.” Robby says a bit under his breath as he slings his son’s diaper bag over his shoulders. “Abbot’s five years younger than Eliza, but trust me, he’d be a lot older if we’d had it our way.”

Jack huffs a small laugh as he cradles baby Abbot in his arms, the almost two-year-old sleeping contently after skipping his nap because he was too excited to spend the day with his uncle and aunt.

“I know.” He mumbles, looking down to the toddler in his embrace. “The fertility doc said labs looked fine. Said some couples just need the ‘perfect conditions’ for conception.”

Robby nods and carefully takes his son into his arms without waking him, brushing a dark wisp of brown hair out of his face. “We were told the same thing.” He replies.

Jack leans against the wall of the entryway to the house and crosses his arms. “So what did you do?”

Robby smiles slightly, bouncing baby Abbot in his arms when he began to stir, hoping to lull him back to sleep. “I cooked every meal for her. Not just the lazy dinners we had been doing in between shifts to stay alive. Actual good food that were in cookbooks people had given us as wedding gifts.” He begins and continues when he sees Jack staring intently, mentally storing every word he says. “I made sure every stressor in her life hit me first. Whether it was work or Eliza or chores. I would field every issue before passing it on to her.”

Jack nods, fidgeting with his hands a bit. “And it worked?” He questions, his voice a little softer than normal.

Robby chuckles and squeezes his son a little tighter in his arms. “Got the proof right here.” He teases before glancing down the hallway to make sure Eliza was still out of earshot. “We also took advantage of every free second we had during ovulation week.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Every free second?”

Robby shrugs, lips pulled tightly in a straight line. “We learned to make the most of our fifteen minute breaks at work.”

Jack’s face twists in disgust but can’t help the laugh that escapes his chest. “Are you fucking kidding me? Chief of EM fucking in the on-call room on the clock?” He questions.

Robby chuckles with him, his face growing red from embarrassment and laughter. “Worse. Supply closet.” He answers.

Their laughter is enough to beckon you and Eliza to the entry way of the house. You raise an eyebrow as you carefully handed Robby her backpack.

“Something funny?” You ask, mainly looking to Jack.

Both men give each other a quick look of panic, trying to think of an alibi, but thankfully Eliza begins barraging her father with a million questions about her parents’ date night. Jack just stays quiet, watching the way you helped buckle baby Abbot into his car seat while he and Robby wrangle Eliza and her fairy wings into her booster seat. You deserve to be a mom, and damn it, he is going to do everything in his power to make that happen.

—

Jack didn’t tell you about Robby’s advice. He simply took action. Every meal, whether it was breakfast, lunch, dinner, or snack food, was prepared at home by him. When you ended up on opposite shifts, Jack made sure you left with a full lunchbox of snacks and meals, including your folic acid pills.

Every chore in the house was taken care of before you could think about it. Dishes cleaned and stored away, laundry washed and folded with military precision, floors vacuumed and mopped. When you asked Jack about it, he just blamed the “extra energy” he would have after fucking you into oblivion after a long shift.

When you were ovulating that month, Jack turned into an animal. He fucked you raw every morning, every night, every fifteen minute break at work like it was a ritual. You had to start bringing a fresh pair of panties to work because “No, ma’am, it’s all staying in.” You didn’t mind it though because your hormones made you absolutely feral for your husband. Even in the uncomfortable bed of the on-call room, you were riding him into oblivion, making his eyes roll back and forget his own name.

Jack didn’t push you to take the pregnancy tests. He didn’t want you to feel the stress of his own impatience and hopes. But you had already taken three box tests from the hospital supply closet, each with the faintest extra line beside the control. You’d practically dragged Robby’s wife to an empty room with the transvaginal ultrasound to confirm and cried when you saw a little bean on the monitor. She had hugged you tightly and mentioned something about “Robby’s advice to Jack” that you didn’t question at the time.

All you could think about was telling Jack. He’s on the couch when you get home, intently watching his Penguins game. You tote in the small gift bag you’d picked up on the way home and flick on the lights to the living room. He gives you a warm kiss, throwing his arms around you, and pulls you into his lap.

“Hey, baby doll.” He mumbles against your shoulder.

You enjoy the warmth of his embrace for just a moment more before pulling away to sit up. “I got you something on the way home.” You say, dangling the gift bag in front of him.

Jack just chuckles and carefully takes the bag from your hand. “Why’d you do that?” He asked.

You shrug, trying to conceal your emotions. “Just as a thank you for all the help around the house, and all the amazing cooking you’ve been doing.” You explain.

Jack pulls the layer of tissue paper out of the bag. “Honey, it’s no big deal. I’m just-“

Your husband goes silent when he sees the contents of the bag. His breathing becomes unsteady as he carefully pulls out the positive pregnancy tests in a clear baggy.

“You- Are you-“ He’s trying so hard to get his words out.

You just grin and point to the bag. “There’s more in there.”

Jack looks to the bottom of the bag and pulls out a chain of black and white sonogram photos. In the top left corner, your last name, his last name, “Abbot” printed with your baby’s metrics. His big shoulders rise and fall heavily with his breaths, and his lip starts to quiver.

“We’re gonna have a baby?” He rasps, looking up to you for confirmation.

You take his stubbled face in your hands and nod, grinning through your own tears. “We’re having a baby, Jack.”

He wants to be a stronger man, he really does. But he collapses into your embrace and sobs. He cries and cries and holds you as close as he can. He never thought he would get to have this. He thought he might be too old, and he worried that he was holding you back from having children. But the sonogram was enough to break the dam of emotions.

It’s a good thing he’s become such a good cook in the past couple of months because you learn at your gender appointment that you’re having boys. Plural. As in two boys. More than one. And Jack is absolutely over the moon.

[dollyfiles]

I loved your fic about the pregnancy scare! Could I request a fic where reader actually gets pregnant and she's nervous about rafe's reaction? maybe there's a time skip and she wants it but she's unsure about him, you decide!

a/n: thank u so much for your request <3 i hope i did it justice, although i might’ve made some little adjustments.

cw: fluff, unexpected pregnancy, young parents, lots of comfort

♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎

you were supposed to be dressed by now.

like, full-on curled hair, maybe a little eyeliner, black kitten heels, and wearing that dress he liked, the red silky one that always made him shamelessly check you out mid-conversation.

but instead, you were on the couch. hoodie on. mascara half-applied and hair pulled into a bun. staring at the same spot on the wall for what had to be like… ten minutes?

your phone buzzed once then.

rafey baby: “pulling up now, babe. u ready?”

you didn’t answer. your stomach flipped, and definitely not because of your nerves. well… okay. kind of. but also because something way bigger was going on in there. literally.

when you had looked at the plastic stick this morning and saw the two little pink lines it was clear. and you were fucking terrified. you weren’t scared to be pregnant, not really. it was more the what comes after part. because everything felt uncertain now.

you loved rafe. god, you loved him. but the part that scared you most was, what if he didn’t want this? what if he looked at you differently after this? what if he left?

the thought of losing him almost made it hard to breathe. because this wasn’t just a mistake you could undo or a fight you could fix, this was forever. and you didn’t want to trap him. didn’t want to be the reason he felt stuck or like he had to stay. you wanted him to choose this, not feel like he got shoved into it.

fully absorbed into your thoughts you didn’t even hear the front door creaking open and rafe stepping in. you had given him a key months ago, you didn’t even think twice back then. he was holding a raspberry smoothie, the one you always made him stop for on the way home.

“hey, i—” he closed the door behind him, but immediately stopped when he saw you curled up on the couch, and not already bouncing around like usual before a date night.

you didn’t even look up yet, but you could feel the pause. the slow shift in energy. the way he immediately clocked your body language, your clothes, your complete lack of… energy.

“you okay?” his voice was softer now, careful. “you’re not dressed.” you finally looked at him. and that was it. he knew something was up.

his whole face changed. brows knitting together, lips parting just a little like the words were stuck in his throat. but he didn’t say anything yet. he just walked over and sat down next to you.

“rafe, i—” you started, but your voice cracked, so you stopped. swallowed and tried again. “i need to tell you something.” he nodded once. “okay.”

and wow, he didn’t even blink. didn’t try to fill the silence or guess or make a joke. he just waited, he already sensed this was big. he could already feel the weight of whatever you were about to say.

you took a breath. and then another before dropping the bomb in the comfort of your living room. “i’m pregnant.”

his world tilted for a second. not in a dramatic way, more like the quiet thud of something permanent shifting in his chest. he heard the words ‘i’m pregnant’ and everything around him kind of blurred out.

his first instinct? shock. like real shock. eyes wide, breath caught, brain scrambling to keep up. it hung in the air between you like something fragile. soft, but powerful. and you couldn’t look at him.

“i just… i didn’t know how to say it. we’ve only been together for a year and everything’s been so good and i didn’t wanna ruin it or make you feel like you had to—”

“hey,” he interrupted, and suddenly his hand was on your knee. grounding. gentle. “look at me.” so you did. and god, the look in his eyes made your throat close up.

“you didn’t ruin anything,” he said, his thumb brushing over your knuckles so softly. “i mean, holy shit, yeah— it’s a lot. but… it’s you.” you blinked confused. “what?”

he smiled, a little breathless. “i knew it was you. from the start. like, i don’t know how else to explain it, i just knew. i’ve thought about this, honestly. us. what it would be like, starting a life together.”

you stared at him, chest tight, eyes stinging. he looked shocked, sure. but he just kept going. because as fast as the panic came, something else pushed through in him. maybe a new chance?

“i didn’t think it’d happen this soon honestly,” he admitted, laughing softly. “like, i imagined we’d maybe move in first, argue about what color to paint the bathroom, or even adopt a dog… but even then, it was always you.”

you swallowed hard. “you’re not… mad?” his brows lifted. “mad? babe, i’m fucking freaking out right now. i mean, i’m scared too, but also… kind of weirdly excited?”

and it was true. rafe felt real, gut-deep, chest-thudding excitement for the first time in a long while. the kind he wasn’t expecting but couldn’t ignore. because it was you.

and deep down, some quiet, buried part of him had already dreamed of this. maybe not now, maybe not like this… but he’d thought about a future with you. little versions of you running around. sunday mornings with cartoons playing in the back, both of you tired but happy.

you let out a sound, not quite a laugh, not quite a sob, and leaned into him. rafe pulled you in immediately, wrapping both arms around you like he had no plans of ever letting go.

he didn’t know how it would all work, didn’t have all the answers, but one thing was clear as hell. he didn’t want to miss a single second of this. not if it was with you.

“we’re gonna figure this out,” he said into your hair. “you and me. that’s the only thing that matters.” you closed your eyes, sighing in relief.

and for the first time since you saw those two little lines on that stupid stick, you finally let yourself believe that this could be a beginning of a beautiful future together, not the end.

tags: @ribbonbiter @soangelbaby @bradshawed @sugaredbambi @rotapathetic @rafessecret @et6rnalsun @rafekisser @kisses4rafey

[musingsofheaven]

TALKING BODY.

summary: Everyone expects you to get it. Because you are smart enough to get into this program and smart enough to stay. The overachiever. The one who never needs help. The people who expect don’t need to review because you know it. And they’re not wrong. You’re not dumb and never have been. So why does anatomy make you feel like you are? And what's worse could happen if you start tutoring and leave your lip gloss at his place?

pairings: student physical therapist / tutor!art donaldson x student physical therapist!reader

warnings: 9.5k words. mature themes. masturbation. sexual fantasy. use of personal item (lip gloss). anatomical touching. unspoken power imbalance. edging. read responsibly.

note: hello! this fic is based on a request I received. i know anon didn’t really give specifics and just said “tutor,” so i built it from there, and my mind immediately jumped with what if they’re both student pt? well, i ended up relating it a lot to the program i’m currently in. i might’ve made it a little personal especially about the implication of pressure and the burnout. T_T thank you for reading! <3

If you want something, you have to burn for it. That's what everyone said. There’s no easy path to get that degree that will help your future. But right now? You feel so stupid ever since you entered college. But you’re not even stupid. That’s the thing. You know you’re smart before you even apply to this university. You know you’ll get accepted, that’s how confident you are. And you have this mantra that you just have to study very well and it will work out very well for you.

Of course, you study. You munch it. You eat it. It’s your soul. Who are you without your academic achievements, right? Because you can’t even celebrate your achievements when it’s probably just one of those normal days where you get something but it will feel like an obligation to your eyes. And you are even doing good in your classes. Professors love you. Students envy you. “Did you review?” someone will always ask you, but someone will interrupt the conversation and say, “She doesn’t need it! She has this big brain that can answer everything.”

Love the confidence because maybe you can answer everything. Almost. But you are good with Human Growth and Development. It’s easy. You can study the whole semester in a short time if you have the whole lesson in your hands, but sadly, you don’t, so you have to sit through the whole class. The professor made all of the students from your block list learn all ten principles, and you listed them all in front without blinking, and you did it fast. But not hurried, they still managed to understand what you were saying.

You even correct your professor mid-lecture when she's talking about neonatal reflexes and she makes you recite and explain them to the whole class. When one of your classmates complained about something in the lecture, you offered help and did it like breathing. And don’t get started with Physiotherapy because you love it as hell. You really enjoyed reading through the patient management model, along with the SOAP notes you need to do. The functional outcome becomes your best friend because you like seeing the case your professor gave you and you make many outcomes that can possibly happen.

And one of your favorites is Psychiatry. You already knew the basics before they taught it. Like Maslow’s hierarchy and you turned in your assigned work too quickly after the professor handed it to the class. You know stress because that’s what you’ve been feeling ever since you started college. You could recite the definition given from the book when your professor asks about psychosomatic medicine. When your professor has a final paper and tells the whole class to just pick any topic from the whole semester? You are unstoppable because you made a whole paper about the whole semester too, not just any topic, and made your professor say, quote, “I’m a little concerned but very impressed.”

This is your pre-med and you don’t slack. You have many study techniques, like Pomodoro or anything that works at the moment. You have sticky notes all over your dorm. It’s full of different colors on the walls. You even have a big ass whiteboard inside. There’s a written “YOU ARE NOT FAILING” on the wall with three exclamation marks. You record lessons while you’re reading them so you can listen to them while brushing your teeth or doing something that can’t make you read, so you will just listen. Your friends say you’re intense; you say you’re surviving. You need to survive everything so you endured not attending social events just for you to review something.

But… there’s this one course. This one course that makes you want to jump. Human Anatomy. This evil one. This is a different beast. It’s not that you are a dumb person. It’s also not because you don’t get it. It’s too much. It’s overwhelming. It’s making you crazy. Batshit crazy type. Too many bones, ligaments, fascia, and insertions. Of course, you can point out the easy ones like the iliac crest and gluteus medius, but when it gets harder or the ones sound like a tongue twister, your brain melts.

And the worst part this semester? The muscles. When you study it, you also need to know about OINA which means Origin, Insertion, Nerve, Action. You made flashcards about it using pink colored cards, calligraphy, and glitter pens. You made your own mnemonics to remember everything. It also gets to the point where you have to draw labels on your body. Your must have is having 3D model apps, and let your study app guilt you every time you make a mistake.

But nothing is permanent. It worked until it didn’t. Until everything starts getting into you. Especially when this course has pre and post-lecture quizzes, and there are major long quizzes that have fifty or seventy items you need to take (for prelims, midterms, and finals) before the examination week. It humbled you when you just got scores below 20. Don’t get started with the exam week. It has a hundred-item written exam. There’s the lab exam where you have to label it all.

The worst of them all? The fucking moving exam. Yes. That one. The one with stations but has multiple items. One minute to answer the 5-10 questions before you move into another when the bell rings and you can’t even go back because everyone around you is moving. You once mismatched the muscles and spelled a muscle wrong three times. Ending? You just write sorry on your sheet before you hand it to the professor. It's just sad that you blew up every one of them after studying like there’s a gun in your head. And every time your paper got handed to you, your professor looked at you with pity, as if there’s nothing more you can do. You just smile every time you get it, though, even in your mind, you want to get out of the world.

You just cried when people left and wipe your nose with your sweater sleeves while you can still what your best friend said that maybe you are more of a psychiatry person, but that shit doesn’t feel like a compliment. All of the words from that day keep coming back to your mind like an echo as you sniff, and your breath catches in your throat. Like when your prof suggested earlier to try a study group, but you just nod and didn’t say that they’ve been leaving you out and avoiding you. She also assigned you a study partner because she thinks it will be helpful to your case. It’s Art Donaldson. Yes, that Art Donaldson.

The sporty guy. The one who’s playing tennis. Of course, you know him. Everybody does. Student player and in a health-aligned program? That made the girls wet with the idea. You’ve seen him once in the training room when you walked past it, and he’s wearing a tight shirt that shows off his arms. He’s your batchmate, actually. Well, in the same block, you almost share all the classes together, besides the extra course you want to take. People don’t nknow it, but this physical therapy degree he’s chasing is more likely a fallback in case tennis doesn’t work out well. He already has sponsorships and could just do tennis, but he’s also studying to prevent injury and to know well about his body. You are the opposite because you are studying to go to med school.

The worst part is he’s really a nice guy. Not the performative type of men are nice. Not the fake nice. He’s really nice. He’s soft spoken and shy. People love this personality. You notice how pink his ears get when he talks too much in class discussions. The first time you talk to him about muscles, he already recited the oina about it like an automatic button and he just laughed at your reaction. Now you see him once a week, besides the time you see him from the class lectures, of course, because he’s your tutor and you both review in his dorm. He lets you sit on the floor with the flashcards placed like tarot cards, and tries not to cry over the part you are learning about.

You think this is just tutoring, but Art is not even sure if it is. It all started before the professor offered to be your tutor. Maybe it was that time when you were leaning over the sink, and he managed to smell the scent of your perfume, and he forgot that he was supposed to walk and not stop close to you. Or maybe it’s in some seminar the department forced your whole block to attend and you have this unimpressed expression and say something like, “Oh my god, shut up,” and he laughed too hard.

You don’t even see him. You’re not looking at his direction like other girls do. Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe not. And you’ve talked to him, but it’s just nothing because it’s always about academic stuff. It’s always about, “What was that nerve again?” and “Do you have the slide from last lesson?” before you look away. To your eyes it’s nothing. Maybe you treat him as someone who’s smart too, especially if he gets the course you don’t like more than you do. Maybe he doesn’t care if you treat him like a walking answer key like others treat you, but he doesn’t really mind it. He just wants to be something. To matter.

How can he not want you when you’re pretty, smart, and talented? You always have your own orbit where you shine and have own lights over your head that make you bright. But he knows you are hiding behind being smart, flashcards, mnemonics, slides, or whatever you do to not show the cracks. Except for him. You don’t know it, but he saw it. He saw you once in the empty lecture hall where you have many textbooks open around you and your head buried in one of them, and your mascara is a mess, your lip gloss that's always on your lips is faded, it’s like you don’t expect to break down that night. So, when did the professor ask him to help you with this course? He said yes faster than a flash because he will grab that chance, and he’s losing his mind over the idea of being your tutor. It’s also okay for him when you show up late at his door today.

Your bag almost slides off your shoulder, and your thumb hooks under the strap, gloss perfect, tank top riding up like it shifted on its own, and you didn’t bother fixing it. He lets you inside like his space belongs to you by default. When both of you settled inside, he stayed at his desk and sat there like he had never learned how to relax, with his hoodie casually tossed over the chair. His tortora book is wide open on his thigh, while you’re settling your things in his place. The only things necessary are a book, notes, and pens.

He even let you sit in his bed with your things resting beside you. The moment you start reading is the moment you start complaining to him like this is not helping. You can’t do this today. But he will just shrug it off and stare at you with his eyes rolling. He let you have your moment first. Complain, skim the book, highlighting everything while he talks to you gently, not trying to be a bad tutor to you. He lets you do your own thing in the first fifteen minutes until you groan and say, “This is so much.”

This will be cuter if he’s not your tutor. He can just watch you complain all you want and still be cute, but this is not that moment, so he shrugs off what he’s thinking by chuckling softly and nodding at you. “We don’t have to study all of it in one go.” Which makes sense because both of you will be overworked if you study it all. And as much as he likes to teach you, he’s not as insane like you are in terms of studying, which can go on for hours and hours. “You’re gonna need to go really slow. I don’t get why there are two muscles with one name.”

He quickly looks at you when you say that, and he just sighs, “It’s technically the psoas and the iliacus, but-” You wave your hand to dismiss him. It’s not like you don’t know that two muscles with the same name came from the anterior fascial compartment of the thigh and muscles of the posterior abdominal wall, because you do know it. But it doesn’t mean you can’t hate that idea. “Yeah, yeah, I know that. Just wish they’d give a girl a break.” No smile was found on your face when you said that, but it still sounds funny because he tucks a smile behind his teeth. “Want to walk through it on the diagram?” he asks you before nodding at the chart taped on his wall.

Teeth quickly find the bottom lip when the suggestion set is placed, and it’s not a bad thing, especially if it’s a good chart. It just doesn’t work for you. Eyes flickering back at him, you notice how flushed his neck is, how his chest his getting broader while he softly speaks, and how his hands touch the mattress before he sits down in front of you. Tilting your head, and your voice honey sweet, you say, “…Could I just use you? Like a dummy? A chart?” A smile finds your lips and you feel nervous before you add, “I swear I just learn better with… visuals.”

The words made his breath freeze. He thinks the words stop when you said that you want to use him as a dummy. Words are catching in his throat and he wants to choke. But he sighs and nods, “Yeah. Sure.” Giggles are found in the room when he agrees and you have this bright smile when you settle close to his knees. You feel the air change, but not uncomfortable in your skin. “Okay, thank you,” you murmur, brushing your hair back, “take your shirt off?”

His mouth opens but nothing is coming out other than a choke of surprise he has. Fingers found their way to the hem before pulling the shirt over his head, and he hoped he wasn’t making it weird. Look casual. Look. Casual. When he takes off his shirt, your eyes can’t help but look down at his body. Shit. So this is what tennis will do to you. Muscles are good. Muscles are heaven. You don’t even hate it anymore because your eyes can’t help to track the stretch of his biceps, the tense line of his stomach, the shirt falling as he leans back, chest naked.

You don’t even realize how he’s gripping the mattress tightly because your mouth almost waters at the sight, and you might pray to all the Gods that exist in this world, just not take this view away from you. Also, thank god Art is such a nervous wreck, he didn’t even notice you are staring. When you scoot over, your fingertips immediately hover at the waistband of his sweats. “So…” your voice almost got cut out from you but you just bit your cheek before speaking again, “iliacus is here, right?”

Hand comfortably settled in his body before fingers started to move and slid down to the curve of his hip. The skin of your hand brushes the soft skin above his waistband. Your touch is gentle, it’s like you are scared to touch him even. But that small touch made him tighten his muscles, and it sparked under his skin. His thigh jumps subtly, and his breath just dies down on his throat. “Wait, no… too medial?” you point out that you might be wrong, “Am I poking your guts?” He swallows his saliva before he speaks, and it gets rough, “Almost right. A little more lateral.”

He nods repeatedly for seconds before your fingers move and his palm glides down, and he can feel your hand hot across his abs. It tightens under your touch but you barely notice it does. “There?” He nods, breath catching. His sweat starts to pool at his forehead before he says, “That’s it. Iliacus. Merges with the psoas.” Hum escapes your mouth when he confirms the position is there while you’re being oblivious to the way he grips the mattress.

Your hand didn't stay in one place like it's some sort of traveler. It’s firmer and you kinda enjoy mapping his body like you are studying him, Art, not the lesson you have to remember in order to pass that course. It drifts even lower, actually. The soft material of his sweats finds your palm when it grazes towards the inside of his thigh near the crease of his groin. “Pectineus?” you ask, still unsure. “Or it’s gracilis?” His throat clears, shaking his head to the second muscle you mentioned, “N-no- you’re right. Pectineus.” He didn’t even mean to stutter, but help him, God, your hand is so close where he wants you right now.

Sometimes you are just stupid, despite being smart in academics, and can’t pick up what’s happening. It applies right now when your hand presses a little harder where your hand is placed before your eyes meet his. “You’re tense,” you comment, just telling how his thigh feels. “Are you flexing?” The air gets thicker as he feels his throat bob. He tries to look away, but you are so close and looking at him, so he just let out a quiet laugh. Nervous and embarrassed, “Trying not to.”

Knee brushes against his when you move closer, your thumb traces the curve of his glute, and drags it towards the seam of his leg like you really have to do that. “This is the obturator internus,” you say softly, but not really confident with your words considering you don’t like what you are studying. “Through the lesser sciatic foramen, right?” He hums at what you said as he feels his breath leave him. “Yeah. External rotation.” A grin forms on your lips along with a chuckle. “God, I’m so smart.”

Art's jaw tightens and his body is betraying him. Blood thrumming every time you touch him. He’s so fucked. So fucked. He feels the drag of your hand behind him, across his waist, and settles at the base of his spine. “Quadratus lumborum… or too low?” His hand hovers at your wrist before guiding it, “A little higher.” Your hand settles there for a moment while he’s doing all his best to hold his breath and not just pin you down on his bed.

After long enough to touch, your hand moves in a slow, kneading sweep, gliding down his thigh. “Sartorius,” you say, voice softer. “Longest muscle in the body.” A quiet giggle, but your hand moves carefully, palming his thigh from hip to knee, squeezing gently. “Sexy muscle,” you tease, not noticing how his grip on the mattress tightens. “Hip flexion, knee flexion, lateral rotation,” he mutters, shaking. “Show off muscle.”

From there, you lift up your hand up and put and rest it on his shoulder. Your thumb presses it there, rolling the muscle slightly. “Deltoid,” you say, “Obvious.” Thumb keeps flickering and brushing on the skin, and you notice him exhaling sharply, breath tearing out. “There are three parts to it, though. You’re on lateral,” he breathes out before his eye looks at your hand resting on his deltoid- or shoulder rather. But your hand has its own life, so he let it slide down to wrap his upper arm. “Biceps brachii,” you murmur, squeezing softly. His muscles are flexing. He has good biceps, and they’re thick too. “All this? Just muscle?” A thumb drags along the vein. “It has two heads,” he says, voice wrecked.

Giggles escape your lips and nods as your fingers skim up again but now settle on his throat, thumb brushing his jaw. “This is sternocleidomastoid,” you whisper, guiding him to turn his head. His throat moves, Adam’s apple jumping, the moment shifting from endurance to surrender. “Two origins,” he murmurs just to add another information, ragged. “Inserts at the mastoid.”

A smile curves on your lips as you fold your legs beneath you like nothing happened, glowing with soft pride. “Did I pass?” you tease. Art stares, mouth parted, ears heating, hands gripping his thighs so hard the tendons shake. He looks like he might be sick, or come, or cry, or all three. No answer comes, because you didn’t pass. You mess him in the head.

Art quickly leaves the bed when you finish playing dummy on his body and he walks so fast to the kitchen to get something. There’s a dent on his bed from where he stands, shape still warm and fresh. He’s thinking so hard not to think about how you almost sit on his lap just to check a muscle on his body. His hand is shaking while he’s opening the refrigerator to get a juice bottle so he can give it to you, but he’s holding it like it might explode.

The room smells of clean detergent and boy, and the scent drifts around you while you yawn, stretching your arms above your head, shirt sliding up, socks mismatched and peeking. Nothing in you cares to fix your clothes, not when comfort and carelessness go hand in hand, not when the soft sprawl of your body says you trust him enough to let yourself sink into his space.

You hear the fridge close as the sheet rustles when you kick your feet, humming under your breath, calling out without calling him over. “These sheets are so soft,” you say to the ceiling, casually and lazily. “I’d fail every class if I had these.” He almost drops the bottle, chest pulling tight at the thought of you here too often, close enough to fuck him up entirely.

Pillow creases line your cheek as you grin. “This smells like you,” you tease, giggling softly like it’s nothing, and Art swallows hard, forcing himself not to drop to his knees just to keep you here longer. He moves to you, steps stiff, eyes dragging over the flash of your stomach, your tank top riding higher with every stretch, your shorts creeping up your thighs. “You gonna give it to me,” you tease, sleepy smile glinting, “or just stand there like I’m part of a gallery?”

That shook him up to go back to reality. He clears his throat, handing over the bottle with both hands like it’s fragile, breath stuck somewhere in the space between you. The cold plastic brushes your fingers, the cup is already opened for you, and you just have to drink it up. “Mmm,” you sigh, licking gloss from your lips, “I was about to start eating your notes.” His laugh is thin, strangled. “Wouldn’t be your weirdest study technique.”

“Exactly,” you beam, a spark in your eye. Juice slides down your throat while the silence between you thickens, and your head tilts. “So, continue? Still my turn, or yours?” Art sits down, closer than he’s ever dared, like the air itself has weight, like the world shrinks between you. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “my turn.” Knees fold under you, soft thighs pressing together, eyes bright as you watch him, unaware of the small shifts that undo him every second.

His hand is gentle when it finds its way towards you. The room feels quiet and the tension is burning you both alive and it’s breathing between your inhale and his. “This is where gracilis lies. Remember moments ago when you mistakenly pectineus as gracilis?” he murmurs, hand finding your inner thigh, not indecent, not innocent, pressing warmth into soft skin and also showing you where it really is since you mentioned it earlier. “It adducts the thigh in and helps bend the knee. It’s also long and sensitive.”

You blink, then smile. “Sensitive,” you repeat, legs shifting unconsciously, shorts pulling higher. Of course he notices, it's almost like he memorizes every twitch of your thigh as he slides his hand higher, thumb at your pelvis, fingers almost shaking. “Here- uh, this muscle…” The voice comes out more ragged while his thumb is still pressing into your body and your breath becomes still. “Adductor brevis. It’s… it helps with hip adduction, moving your leg inward. You’d, uh, use it walking, pivoting, even just… standing steady.” He hates how his voice sounds and how flushed and nervous he is. “Feel that?” he asks, and you nod, small.

“Wait- show me again?” And with that, he presses his hand deeper, it’s like his palm is molding to the shape of your thigh while he feels every twitch under his touch. But there’s a pause between the two of you, a little heavy, and he just moves his hand because setting it there for too long would mean something else. From there, he slides up his hand up to the nape of your neck. Fingers tracing under your skull, just settling there. “Levator scapulae,” he whispered, breath brushing in the shell of your ear. “You tilt your head when you think.” You nod without realizing, your neck open and almost offering to him.

Your eyes are traveling when he moves his hands around your body to show which part of the muscle he’s pressing to and your heart is surely beating so fast that you might want to end this week's session quickly. And his fingers are on the move again. His hand drifts from the back of your neck to slide down over your shoulder. His hand feels warm when it brushes along the neckline of your tank before slipping beneath, but he rested his hand on your neckline first before doing that just to see if you will be comfortable to continue.

It feels like he’s waiting for you to stop him, but you give him a nod. When you do, his shoulder drops from relief and his hand slips under your tank top. His hand is warm against the ribs, while his thumb is caressing softly like he’s getting you comfortable with the feeling. “Pectoralis minor,” he says, voice low, like he’s reminding himself to continue and breathe like a normal person. “It’s placed right here, under the big chest muscle.”

You shrug and blink, trying to track, brows pinching. But… yeah. If it’s about anatomy, you are always confused so you ask, “Which one’s the big one again?” You kinda feel genuinely lost right now which makes you a little anxious because you don’t want to look dumb. There’s a quiet laugh that slips out of him. It’s breathless, and shaky. “The… major,” he says, “that’s the one you can see. This one’s under it, helps pull the shoulder blades down.” And you just nod and hum while he explains like a puppy. “Oh.” You look down, but his hand is in the way, and your eyes go back up to his face. “That’s… a lot.”

Hum escapes from his lips before he breathes out an “It’s okay,” from his mouth. You feel his thumb rub a small circle over your skin, comforting without thinking. “You’ll get it. Just think… breathing, shoulder movement. That’s enough for now.” His hand stops for a moment and it lingers before you hear him clear his throat. He looks away for seconds and just the blink of an eye, it’s already back to you. “So,” he stated, voice soft. “Uh, I’ll move my hand to the back now, yeah?”

You nod at his head up and his hand starts to move from your chest to your back. Fingertips touch your spine and it's a soft trail that causes your breath to hitch. He swallows and his throat bobs before he speaks again, “You can find multifidus here,” he teaches you. His fingers gently tracing lightly along your back, “it’s smaller and tiny compared to other muscles, but it helps you stand straight. It’s still a big help because it keeps your spine stable.”

There’s a silence after that and his fingers just hover there while looking at you. It’s like he’s checking you to see if you follow what he’s telling you. “Hmm.. to make it simple, you can think of it like it’s the spine’s little helpers because they keep you upright when you bend or twist.” His thumb presses more on the area to show you how it works. “You feel that?” he asks, voice tight. A small hum leaves your lips as your back arches into his touch without meaning to. “Tiny stabilizers,” you echo, and he lets out a nervous laugh. “Yeah,” he says, softer now. “I could count them,” quieter still, like he’s speaking to himself. His hand stills just under your waistband, featherlight.

“So the next is gluteus minimus,” he says, voice careful. “This one is hard to isolate,” he explains first, not even touching anything yet and his hand is not on your body right now. “What does it do?” you ask, trying to sound casual but really? You want to pass out now because you’ve been feeling hot since that stupid dummy idea of yours happened. There’s a shaky breath he lets out before he states, “Well. It, uh, helps abduct your hip- moving your leg to the side. Keep your pelvis level when you walk.” He adds, “It’s actually important even if it's small.”

“Is it… Okay, if we keep going?” he nervously asks while he looks at you, and after he said that, the silence is too loud while he waits for your answer. You swallow, and your hand clutches on the soft material of his bed and tries to calm down the feelings in your chest and stomach. “Yeah,” you whisper, voice quiet but there is certainty to your answer. “I trust you.” After you said that, his hand latches on to your hip and it slips underneath your waistband. You could feel his fingertips grazing the crest of your hip, but now directly and touching your skin. “Here,” he whispers. “This is it.” You blink once, twice, or thrice before you can catch your breath. You don’t even realize your hip- body is leaning towards his hand.

And like what he’s doing the whole time his turn started, his hand doesn’t linger long because staying will make things awkward. So he pulls his hand away, and he smiles at you, even though his hand is trembling, and he doesn’t even want to leave. To control himself, he sits straight, but his eyes are still glued to you with want, and he’s in limbo, thinking about being just your tutor or doing something more… He lifts his hand, hesitates, and tucks your hair behind your ear with a trembling hand.

Fingers brush against the side of your neck and stop just right at your collarbone before he finds your pulse point. “Scalenes,” he pointed to the muscle he’s touching while you can’t even recover from the action he made. How can he tuck your hair and proceed quickly to the next muscle? “They help you breathe,” he explains and there’s silence again because he’s about to get bold with this, “They also help you tilt your head, like when you look at me like that.”

Lips parted from his words and breath stuck in the throat, eyes meeting his, and your cheeks are burning. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but he quickly shakes it off from his mind, and his throat bobbing as he swallows. His voice is thin when it comes out, “That’s, um…” His eyes look at your body from up to down before he goes back to your face. “That’s all for today.” Words hang like uncertainty, but it needs to be done, or else he might do something more than teach you anatomy.

“You’re breathing faster,” he says anyway, almost to himself. You chuckle and lick your lips before you try to control it. “Am I?” you tease him, and your voice is soft. It almost sounds like you are shy. Art pulls away from you and sits closer to the edge instead of in front of you. You stretch your arm and your tank top shifts up when you do that. Your skin flushes, thighs opening just enough and you are unaware of the effect you are having on him. A breathless giggle, “Thanks for today’s session,” slips out like none of it mattered, like your body isn’t mapped in his hands. You didn’t even notice how your strap slipped off your shoulder when you stretched and it will be an unforgettable sight to him.

One of his secrets today is that when you stretch, he gets a glimpse of your nipples beneath your thin cotton, which is unintentional, and your top has a padded bra, so… it’s killing him right now because of what he saw. Art doesn’t look, jaw tight, eyes locked on the floor, pretending not to notice so you don’t have to feel shy. And he’s letting you right now fix your lip gloss while you hum and toss all the notes and things you pulled out in your bag like you are finally concluding this session over. You tug down your top and fix your strap after you close your bag, and your shorts roll back into place, a quiet sigh your only commentary. “Thanks again!” chirps from your lips, casual lightness in your step as you leave, gloss forgotten on his bed and you don’t even realize you didn’t put it back in your bag. Then you’re gone, and Art remains, kneeling, head bowed, lungs finally allowed to exhale, your shape still carved into the room.

For a moment, he stays in the same place when you're already gone but your perfume is still there. There's still a dent in his sheet from the shape and weight of your body from sitting too long in his bed. Like a damn fool he is, still catching all things happening like it didn't happen in front of him because he's too stunned. The air is heavy, and still, like the room is waiting for him to acknowledge what happened. It's almost like he can even feel your soft body against his palms or he might be getting crazy at this point.

And on the corner of his bed, there's your forgotten lip gloss. He notices it too quickly when he turns his head to the side and it's sitting on the nightstand. It's pink and looks soft. It’s the kind of pink that’s just enough to make your lips not look pale. The cap is silver and shiny, it catches the soft light of his room and it’s expensive, he thinks. There's a Dior logo so it must be expensive, right? When he picks it up, it looks small in his palm and the it's not really light and kinda feels heavy, maybe because of the tube or because it's still not halfway gone.

He actually almost texts or calls you to tell you that you left it in his place. Almost hid it inside his drawer. Almost opened it and brought it to his nose to smell the gloss like some sick freak. But instead, he just put it back in the nightstand beside his phone. He tells himself that he's just going to give it personally and keep it safe, but the truth is he doesn't really want to give it back to you.

Slowly, he settled comfortably again in his bed, back pressing against the headboard and just leaning. Sweat pooling in his forehead, jaw clenched, hands still trembling a little in his lap, and still not over by the feeling of your soft skin and flesh. Could still feel your thigh twitching, your breath against his hand when he's touching your neck, and when you trust him to touch you and don't move away from him. His whole body is burning, and body throbbing, cock been hard for long- maybe since you touched him to his thigh.

He didn't even realize he was still shirtless because you asked him to take it off earlier. Your voice echoes in his head like he's having some hallucinations and his abs tightening each breath with his cock twitching painfully inside his sweats. Words from earlier just keep repeating and hearing them, especially the “I trust you” and “Did I pass?” while his hands were still warm from touching your skin. Frustration filled his body he could just cry, come, or scream. He's not even picky and could be anything from the three, but all he does is whisper, “Fuck.”

Gaze remains in his hands while just sitting there and he might pass out if he doesn't do something soon. He's so… pent up, but even touching himself while thinking about you feels like crossing the line, even though you'll never find out about it. But he's also so worked up right now… and the guilt just shatters away when his hand starts palming himself through the fabric. It's slow, hesitant, and unsure if he's even allowed to feel it. The first few movements his hand made sent shivers down his spine and made him tip his head back against the wall. Lower lip bitten between his teeth when he moves his hips up and grind into his palm like a fucking teenager that needs to cum for the first time. He repeats it again and the drag of fabric is good because of the friction. His cock twitches, and he swears, jaw clenched, pulse thudding in his ears.

Your laugh stuck in his mind. It’s teasing, and sweet. Leaning in closer than you need to, fingers skimming his abs, and asking, “Is this the pectineus, or am I just touching your dick?” You never said that, he knows. It’s also not how you will say it. But it is now. His hips jerk up helplessly, groaning at the sick, sharp pleasure, every part of him wired to want, to take, to keep this feeling that’s you and only you. He strokes himself through the fabric, sucking in air that doesn’t feel like air with vision blurring with the tension building under his skin.

He could finish like this, quick, dirty, fists the sheets, and gets it over with, but he doesn’t. He won’t. He edges himself, lets the pleasure fester, building tension with slow, sick care, palming, grinding, squeezing until he’s leaking down his thigh, sweats are soaked, and he doesn't care because he’s liking the mess, wanting to drown in it, and wanting to suffer for it. Maybe this is his own way to guilt himself because he touched himself. After all, you don’t even do anything at all. You don’t know this lingering feeling he has. You don’t know that even you just smile, talk, and look at him? He’s going to be a wreck.

Can’t even stop hearing right now how your voice works in that tone- sweet, innocent, oblivious like you don’t really know what you are doing at all. And with that he felt his cock twitch when he stroked himself harder. His chest is starting to sweat- his whole body is even sweating because he’s keeping himself on edge until he’s having a hard time with his breathing, his vision is glassy because of the tears, and his teeth are biting on his tongue to stop himself from moaning pathetically. He’s dizzy, legs shaking, locked in a holding pattern between control and collapse, when his eyes flick back to your lip gloss. It’s still there, cap closed, and suddenly, nothing else matters.

Hand reaches for it slowly. Carefully. Like it’s breakable. Like it’s a treasure. Like he found it and decided it would be one of his most beloved things he owned because he can treat it like proof that you were really here. That you’ve been inside his space and are comfortable. His fingers wrap around the tubed gloss carefully and his throat catches his breath. It’s warm in the room. Expensive and glittery, stupidly soft pink. But holding it does something to him. Splits him open, quiet and humiliating. Shameful that he’s the kind of guy who got fucked up by merely having your lipgloss left his dorm. Like he’s always been the kind of guy… sick and freak.

He uncaps it with trembling fingers. The scent hits him fast- sweet and fruity. It smells like berries. He close his eyes when his cock twitched hard again. There’s also an idea in his little fucked up mind and he’s fighting himself not to do it. But… it won. He opens his eyes, while his hand brings the applicator up close to his mouth until the applicator touches his lips. Swipes it across his bottom lip. Then his top. Then again, thick and shiny, shameful, smeared like a kiss he’s trying to fake. His mouth tingles, lips pressed together as he breathes through his nose, eyelids fluttering at the taste and it makes him feel insane.

But that’s not enough. Not even close. He pulls out his cock from his sweat using his free hand. Giving it a few strokes before he lets it go. Eyes glaze down to his open hand and he drags the wand down across his palm, painting a wet streak from heel to finger, then another, and another until it’s enough. The stickiness clings to his skin, glossy, pink, and so wrong. He caps it again gently using one hand, like he didn’t just use it for something unspeakable, and sets it back on the nightstand. Then he spits into his palm, letting it mix there. It’s warm, humiliating, and slicking the gloss down until it’s perfect.

His hand wraps that hand around his cock and he starts stroking it. It’s slow at first, and he’s feeling the drag of slick over aching heat: obscene and hot, so stupidly close to real he could cry. The contrast is too much- sticky, wet, hot, like a simulation of your mouth. His head tips back as a moan breaks, loud, cracked, desperate, hips jerking, body flexing. The friction is obscene, the sounds alone making him feel deranged. Throat raw and keep bobbing down inside the sick feeling because it feels like you. Almost. Or that’s what he likes to think. He’s fucking into his fist now, messy and fast, thighs trembling.

His other hand moves to his mouth without thinking, thumb smearing across his bottom lip like he’s trying to feel your mouth there. Like he’s imagining you are kissing him because he has your gloss on his mouth and he feels it tingling, and he doesn’t care. He wants to feel kissed. He wants to pretend. And he does. Because suddenly, it’s not just gloss on his hand he’s imagining- it’s you. Your mouth, glossy and warm, stretched around the head of his cock while you blink up at him, all eyelashes and no idea what you’re doing to him.

What makes things worse is that you probably don’t know what you are doing. Maybe it’s just in his head you are this… studious and he has never ever seen you with someone. Dating or hearing about you hooking up with someone else. In his mind, you’d be humming something, maybe, or you’d be giggling like you’re not sure you’re doing it right. Hand loose around the base, glossy lips working messily over the tip. Sticky and pink smearing down his cock like you’re sucking an ice pop, glitter in your spit, sparkle on his skin, that stupid gloss painting him in your mouth.

He groans loudly because he can feel it like it’s real, like you’re there. Cheeks hollowed out, lips stretched, and still wearing the sweet lotion clinging to his sheets. Warm smear of gloss drags down his cock. It’s wet and sweet. Lips pressing to the vein like it’s something to taste, to learn, not even teasing, just curious. He almost can hear your soft little whines while his hand smearing the sticky pink gloss as he thrust up and fucking his hand. That’s when it slips out, cracked and hoarse: “Yeah,” breath catching, hips stuttering, “like that, baby…”

His hips continue to move up into his fist, another moan- louder, like he’s not alone, like he’s too deep in the fantasy to come back. “You gonna lick it off too?” he said out loud like you are really here with his eyes shut. “You gonna swallow for me? Yeah? Gonna let me fuck your throat, pretty girl?” His hand moves faster, spit and gloss mixing like the sickest fantasy of having your mouth. His thighs are trembling with his stomach tight, and every part of him is clenching to hold the moment.

There’s the edge to drag it out, and to make it last because if he opens his eyes you’ll be gone from this little fantasy of his with your voice in his head whispering with a soft and perfect voice: “Wait… am I doing it right?” That’s the trigger. That’s the red buzzer that was pressed. He comes like it’s his first time doing that. It’s loud and gut-deep. Legs shaking and his cock twitching as his cum paints his stomach, thighs, and his palm.

Free hand flying back to his mouth like he’s choking on the sound, but the moan rips out of him anyway. It’s high, broken, and full of your name. Then it’s quiet, breathless, and shame-drenched. He’s still throbbing with how badly he wants you. He doesn’t open his eyes, but he just breathes. Wrecked and still half-naked, chest flushed, abs sticky with come. Not so long after, he quickly wipes himself off with the shirt he was wearing earlier, and he throws the shirt on the floor as if it offends him.

Must be going crazy because he can still your laugh in his room and the shitty part is your gloss still shining on his mouth. He can’t stop thinking of the way your thighs almost cradle him when you are going through his body to check which muscles you are touching. He stares at the ceiling, breath catching, heartbeat slowing, remembering how you had to feel how he was shaking when you touched his thigh, the way he swallowed when you leaned in. You weren’t dumb. You knew. And you still kept going.

“Could I just use you? Like a dummy or something?” God. You said that as if it’s the best idea in the world. His cock twitches again, and he groans, rolling onto his side, arm flopping over his eyes like it will block out from thinking about what happened. You wanted to use him. You chose him over diagrams and other visuals, said it helped, smiled like he made it easier, like you felt safe, or comfortable, or- shit. He swallows, brain foggy, stupid, and desperate.

Fuck, you have to like him, right? At least a little. Who does that with someone they don’t feel at least a little attracted to? You said thank you like you meant it, touched his chest with that soft smile, looked up at him like- like- goddamn. A beat passes, then another. The ceiling doesn’t answer. The silence creeps in slowly, sick, suffocating, and it all feels different. Too quiet. Too much. You touched him like it meant nothing, he thinks.

When he came to his senses with eyes blinking up like he just did a murder he just realized it was wrong while sitting up, and chest sticking where it wasn’t wiped thoroughly. His face grimaces at the same time his shame hits, which feels hot and itchy in his bones. A hand rakes through damp hair, his breath shallow, and his chest tight. Of course, you didn’t like him. You're just being nice, trying to study, trying to pass the quiz you both have to take next week. God. He fucked up, again. Got in his head, thought too much, made it weird.

He reaches for his phone on the nightstand, and thumbs through his contacts. Not you, though. Can’t text you. Would say something too much, and you’d know. So he texted Patrick instead.

Art: You free to hit rn?

He waited for a few minutes and then:

Patrick: Yeah. You good?

Art: Just need to clear my head.

Patrick didn't reply after that, which probably means he's on his way now while Art is lying back on his stomach and head pressed against the pillows. Screaming one more time. Second. Third, before he looks at his nightstand again where your gloss is standing. This pink and sticky and innocent, staring back at him. He scrubbed a hand down his face, guilt tightening in his stomach. He feels he used you, or used the idea of you, the version in his head that laughs like you’re already his. So fucking gone.

By the time Patrick shows up, the sun's dipped low against the blinds. The room still carries that faint scent of cum and your glass. The guy walks inside like this is his own fucking dorm and drop his tennis bay so loud. “Jesus Christ,” comes out of him, “what the fuck happened in here?” He could give him the real answer. Or make something up. Or just smiles at him but there's no answer. Head down, eyes nowhere. While Patrick is already snooping, picking up everything he sees like a crime scene.

It's like he already knows what happened with the tangled sheets, messed up shirt on the floor. And then the nightstand. Patrick sees it. Steps closer and he’s too stunned by the sight. “…No fucking way.” He picks it up like he's grocery shopping, holding it between two fingers. “Bro. Did she leave this here on purpose, or are you just keeping her shit like a stalker?” Patrick looks at the pink gloss and goes back to him. It’s the same gloss you always reapplied before leaning over the notes like it helped you focus.

Art heard Patrick open the cap and sniff the scene before saying, “Smells like a fucking strawberry jam.” He presses his knuckles to his lips while he's ignoring Patrick's comments, like maybe he can force himself to stop thinking about it. Because he knows what Patrick doesn’t. Knows it wasn’t forgotten. You dropped it there mid-study, barely noticing, even though you should, since this lip gloss is something you always use. You didn’t even kiss him, and still, it feels like the most intimate thing in the room. Patrick scoffs, drops it back, and lets it roll into place beside the lamp. “You need a hobby,” Patrick says. “Or a blowjob. Or both.”

A long, low exhale through the nose. A laugh that will sound too much like a cry while Patrick waits for a punchline. “You good?” he asks, and this time, it’s real. He just gives him a quick nod, before standing and putting his shirt and sneakers on. “Let’s go,” he said since his tennis bags are already full of what they need for this quick hit. And god, when they got into the court, the feeling stayed. There's still the burning inside his system.

It's not because of the fucking color. Or how pink it is. How fruity the smell. Or not the shape or the size of the tube is. Maybe it's more like he's going crazy about the lingering touch that happened earlier really meant nothing at all. And it's fucking everything up. His movements on the court feels shitty. Each step he made was late. It’s like he doesn't have a sense of reaction. Or the serves are mid or maybe not him at all.

Patrick quickly clocks it, grinning like he’s watching from a television show. “Bro,” he said after a missed backhand, “are you playing on two hours of sleep, or are you showing how much of a loser you are?” No answer. His sweat wipes down his face, salt stinging, pulling the memory closer. Your laugh, your hands on his waist, the glow of where you touched him still hot under the skin. The ball bounces once, twice, too hard. “She touched my fucking sartorius,” slips out, hoarse.

“The what?” Patrick’s racket lowers. “Muscle in the thigh. Long one goes diagonally. She… she followed it with her finger like she was tracing a line only she could see.” Art sees Patrick look at him like he's insane then bursts out laughing. “You’re unwell,” he says. “Actually sick in the head.” It earned him a glare from Art with that comment he did.

His next serve is tossed, missed. Racket dangling, and eyes gone far-off. “She kept doing it,” voice raw and frustrated, “naming muscles, pressing on pressure points, said she needed visuals. She sat between my knees and touched every inch my body like it was a fucking test review.”

A low whistle. “You gonna cry or jerk off mid-set?” And there's this quiet, and honest confession: “Need to fuck her. Need to get her out of my system.” His hands dropped to the side before his free hand ran to his sweaty hair. Silence. Then laughter, sharp, incredulous. “That bad, huh?”

Art’s jaw flexes, grip shifting on the racket like it’s your wrist, or your throat. “She touched my iliacus,” slipping out, “just inside my waistband, looked up at me, asked if she was pressing on my kidney.” He starts pacing around while he's thinking about it, remembering the feeling too. How tense he was. How warm your touch is. Patrick chokes, wheezing. “What the fuck?”

Eyes close. “I couldn’t breathe. Hard the entire time. She didn’t even notice. Or maybe she did. I don’t know. It was worse,” he adds before his eyes snap back to Patrick who looks like he needs a good laugh and he's giving him one. “Jesus.” Patrick nearly drops his racket from laughing. “You’re in love with a girl who doesn’t even know she’s edging you. That’s fucking tragic.”

He didn't laugh in return. Eyes on the court, ready to scream or collapse or call you to finish what you started. “Can still feel her lip gloss on my mouth.” Patrick shakes his head. “You need to get hit by a bus.”

Art nodded like he had just heard a very good idea and was ready to do it. “Or a concussion.” Patrick throws a new ball over. “Or a rebound. Come on. Play like you’re not actively being haunted by her hands.” And there's a clean hit, but the ball lands wide. He cursed under his breath, racket lowering, sweat dripping down his spine. This isn’t getting out of his system anytime soon. Not when the system is entirely yours now.

He slump onto the bench, wrist draped over a knee, shirt clinging, chest can't calm the fuck down. It’s deeper than the match, like something lodged under the ribs, like he spent the last hour trying to outrun the feeling of your fingers on his skin. Patrick tosses a water bottle with a lazy grin. “You play like someone who came into his own bed and never recovered.” He didn't respond because what Patrick just said is true.

“You know you were grunting louder than usual, right?” Patrick leans on his racket, smirking. “Thought you pulled that long muscle she touched. What was it? Sartorius?” His snap up, flat, jaw tight. “Shut the fuck up,” he murmurs before he gave him the finger to say fuck you.

There's a smirk on Patrick's mouth and he looks like he's really enjoying whatever is happening with Art. “Just saying, if her little med school routine gets you that distracted, what’s gonna happen when she actually wants something from you? You gonna fold again? Or bust in your shorts and text me again for a hit?”

“Patrick,” he groans. It's almost like a kid having a tantrum over something they didn't get, like candy or something. He's acting like that right now, keeps complaining but doesn't do anything about it. The grin doesn’t leave. “You’re so far gone it’s embarrassing.” No argument there and just a swipe of the hem of his shirt across the face. Both hands are dragging through hair. Breathing like he has a mind map of you, on your knees, asking if you could use him, calling it studying, touching him like it meant nothing.

Then his phone buzzes.

“Hey, sorry if I left my gloss at yours?? :(”

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀twenty-twenty-five © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

[svt-luna]

i NEED Luna’s clap back ig post to this https://www.tumblr.com/svt-luna/788134526458249216/its-my-birthday-and-i-need-drama-can-i-request

i need it like… YESTERDAY! (i also need it to be the most savage ig clap back your beautiful brain can come up with 🫡)

ʚིᵋ ⋆ INSTAGRAM UPDATE ࣪ ! ˓ ౨ৎ ࣪˖ ─── 250705: Clapback

here ya go, my love!! JeongNa is stronger than ever 🤭💞

╰ ౨ৎ 250704: Soompi Article

╰ ౨ৎ LUNA-VERSE MASTERLIST ╰౨ৎ luna's instagram

Liked by jeonghaniyoo_n, sound_of_coups, pledis_boos and 9,872,672 others

lunabae still his lockscreen, thanks for asking ;)

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svtforever17_ THIS IS THE MOST DELICIOUS, NUTRITIOUS, FLAVORFUL F*CK YOU TO A RUMOR I’VE EVER SEEN.

↳ hoshistiger she fed us and dragged them in the same breath omg

yoonsoulmatez JeongNa together are terrifying like?? they are never predictable and always 3 steps ahead.

↳ lunalinesonly i fear them… respectfully

jihanchewystudio she said “let me walk you through our relationship”

officiallysebongs they’re literally soulmates building legos and laughing at us

caratrosegold Jiyeon’s love language is shutting down rumors with high-res pics and a passive-aggressive caption. queen.

svtsoftieera she’s the final boss of Instagram clapbacks

choiheartclub LUNA PLEASEEE 🤣🤣🤣

cloudykpopera she wrapped it up with a jeonghan meme and skipped away … I CANNOT WITH HER

↳ jeongnasince2019 the fact that he probably picked the meme himself 😭😭

caratroachcult no bc this is why no one should EVER mess with JeongNa. they don’t fight back—they embarrass you.

lunaringbling imagine starting a breakup rumor and she replies with a slideshow of her being kissed, hugged, LOVED, ENGAGED 😭

↳ unit17 she said “Exhibit A to Z. Thank you.”

jeonghaniyoo_n They’re writing fanfiction about us again.

liked by creator

↳ deluluforcoups HE KNOWS. EVERYBODY HIDE.

↳ junnielover delete the docs. delete the ao3. it’s OVER.

↳ caratdeluxefiles YOON JEONGHAN. SAID. FANFICTION. I’M NOT OKAY.

↳ dksoftcoreunit this is what public humiliation feels like huh

↳ vernonvibezonly logged in just to read us for filth

jeongnadaily jeongna are so unserious and chaotic i love them sm pls never change 😭😭😭

Liked by lunabae, sound_of_coups, pledis_boos, and 9,652,762 others

jeonghaniyoo_n she’s still wearing the ring. she’s still mad i used her toothbrush. still kissed me though 🤷‍♀️

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svtdoesdamage i simply cannot with them anymore 😀

↳ cheolscaretface they are so unserious it’s spiritual

minghaoslover this is why rumors don’t survive with them. too chaotic.

vernonvibes14 “used her toothbrush” is the most jeonghan strategy ever

↳ scoupsandco it’s how he marks his territory 😭

missbitch someone take their phones

legodatecentral “she’s still mad” had me giggling and kicking my feet

chaoticcarat14 so we went from “are they broken up?” to “he used her toothbrush and lived to tell it”

↳ pledissurvivorfiles nothing is ever peaceful in this fandom 😭

unit17 Translation of Luna’s text: From - ‘My Pretty Moon🌙’ “I left you a sticky note on the fridge. It says ‘I love you’ but also ‘DO NOT eat my pudding or I will bite you.” 🥹🥹🥹

↳ jeonghanscasualties he probably ate it anyway. and filmed her reaction.

↳ moonlightbae this is why they can’t be broken up. they’re busy doing this

ashonashonash THEY ARE SO FCKING DOMESTIC AND CUTE AND FLUFFYYYYYWBISHSUSHUSNS 😫

jeongnadaily Jeonghan casually soft-launching Jiyeon being spoiled AND supervised by him 🤭

↳ gyucheoliee i would give up oxygen to be her right now

jxjforever THE MATCHING LEGO KEYCHAIN ON THEIR BELT LOOP FROM NANA TOUR 😭😭😭

↳ sebongiess i remember them sneaking out their boarding gate to buy them with their cards they weren’t supposed to bring 🫡

lunaslocket The third picture is giving: “I got her everything, now I watch” energy

baebaeby luna in full spoiled princess mode and jeonghan just watching 🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️🧎‍♀️

↳ ot14forlife he was probably like “wait lemme add my leg so they KNOW”

lunabae 🤭

↳ jeonghaniyoo_n I ate your pudding 🏃

↳ jeonghanscasualties I FUCKING KNEW IT

↳ mrandmrsyoon they are actually deranged. i love them so much 🥹💞

ೃ⁀➷ comment or message me to be added to the tag list :)

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ SUBMIT A REQUEST AND ASK ME ANYTHING!

: ̗̀➛ requests are always open ♡ - selఌ

Taglist: @zhqvie @minminghao @angie-x3 @jennwonwoo @k13endall @heeseungthel0ml @chisskaa @megumi2020 @yoonzzziino @lllucere @smh-anon @yveclipse @randomworker @bunnystrm @iamawkwardandshy @gratefulbunny1 @bmo-bri @syren-ash @megseungmin @multiplums @unlikelysublimekryptonite @night-storm7 @cookiearmy @seokqt @btskzfav @billboard-singer @junhuisworld @caturdayvibe @coralbatlampzonk @sof1eya @lyraea @jihoonsbbygirl @cocopuff2424 @okoknotco @minvxq @soulphoenix1618 @whineywheeiny @rairaine @toplinehyunjin @ateez-atiny380 @cherrylovescheol @jiimtaee @blurr3db3rry @seomisaho @amanda08319 @peanutbutterslothsstuff @cheolsboo @allthings-fandoms @mystic-megumi @sherlockbye @tastyluvr @luperque @reignofraine @kpoplover-19 @star2013 @frankenstein852 @axleighkaize @jmkookie01 @shhh94 @gigglensnort @stupendouscookiehumanmug

[therogueflame]

Me Rehúso

hi lmfao,

here is my first ever joaquin torres x reader i have been wanting to write him for such a long time and lowkey knew i was never gonna get a request for him and like idk i just love him and i love danny ramirez like so much okay bye this is so long and i actually edited it before posting and me rehuso has been on repeat i dont speak a lick of spanish i did my best i love you all sm sm sm sm sm

📖 masterlist

🖊 ao3

🗒 wip list

🔥 discord server

WC: 8.0k

Summary: It was just a drink. Just catching up. Just a little too late to call it nothing.

Warnings: 18+, soft smut, sex (p in v), oral (f!recieving, bc danny joaquin is a munch) hurt/comfort, angst, yearning, exes to something, unresolved tension, literally who can resist a man in uniform especially when he looks like THAT?

Joaquin Torres x Fem!Reader

It’s been a while since you were back in D.C., long enough that the city feels both familiar and hollow. The air still clings the same way in summer, heavy and wet and full of car exhaust and carryout, and your body still remembers how to move through it without thinking. Your favorite coffee place is now a nail salon. Your old apartment has new curtains in the window. Everything’s a little different, just enough to remind you that you’re not supposed to be here.

You told yourself it was just a work trip. Nothing more. The kind of thing that comes with a company-paid hotel and a packed schedule and no time for nostalgia. In and out. A few handshakes, a few slide decks, then gone. That was the plan. But then Carla texted. Just a backyard thing, she said. Nothing fancy. Some old friends, some new ones, grill’s at six. You almost said no. You typed out the whole excuse before deleting it. Then you said sure. Maybe. Let me see how I feel.

You didn’t ask who’d be there. You didn’t have to.

Now the sun’s starting to dip and you’re still standing in front of the mirror in your hotel bathroom, brushing your fingers through your hair like it’ll make a difference. You’ve changed twice. You’re not dressed up, not really, but you still keep looking at yourself like you’re trying to find a version of you that won’t care if he shows up.

It ended quietly, the two of you. No real goodbye. Just a slow fade, a handful of unanswered texts, and too much space that neither of you tried hard enough to close. Maybe you were scared. Maybe he was. Maybe you thought you were doing him a favor. You told yourself if you let it go, he’d be free to move on. You told yourself it was kind.

But then the wrong song comes on in an Uber, or someone laughs like he used to, and the kindness feels like a lie. You still think about texting him sometimes. Just to see. Just to know.

You don’t know if he’ll be there tonight. You’re not sure what you’ll do if he is.

The Uber drops you two houses too early and you walk the rest of the way just to shake off the nerves. You tell yourself it’s because you need the steps, that you want to smell the jasmine creeping up the fences, not because your stomach’s doing that thing where it folds in on itself every time you think about seeing him again.

Carla’s backyard is already alive when you push open the side gate. Laughter spilling over the fence. A bluetooth speaker tucked into the windowsill playing something rhythmic and low. You step in and it’s like falling into an old dream—plastic cups, half-melted ice in coolers, the smoke of something charred and probably edible curling up into the trees. You recognize a few faces. You smile like it’s easy.

Carla pulls you into a hug almost immediately, smelling like sunscreen and perfume, a drink in one hand and her phone in the other. She says you look good. Says she missed you. Says she’s glad you came. She doesn’t mention Joaquin, which means she’s definitely thinking about it. You don’t ask. You just smile and say thanks and let yourself be folded into the scene.

Someone hands you a drink. Someone else asks where you’ve been hiding. You give vague answers. Keep it light. You stay by the edge of things, near the folding table with the snacks and the half-full bottle of tequila. You sip slowly and pretend you’re not listening for his voice. You’re fine. You’re just here for a little while. You’re not hoping for anything.

It’s easy to pretend when he isn’t there.

For now, you settle into the kind of easy conversation that doesn’t ask too much. You laugh when someone tells a bad joke. You flip through the playlist on your phone when the music hiccups. You don’t check the gate. You don’t look toward the street. You’re not waiting.

Except you are. Obviously you are.

You hear him before you see him.

Just a burst of conversation over the music, his voice cutting through in that same warm, slightly-too-loud way. There’s a laugh, too, familiar and unfiltered, like nothing’s changed, like he’s still the kind of person who laughs with his whole chest and doesn’t care who hears it.

Your spine locks. You don’t even think—just set your cup down and slip through the sliding door into the house like you’re looking for something, like you had any reason to be inside at all.

You find the bathroom at the end of the hall and close the door behind you, pressing your palms to the sink. The light overhead hums a little. The faucet drips once. Twice. Your reflection doesn’t look panicked, but your chest feels tight in that old way it used to, back when things were still fragile and good and you kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You don’t know what you thought would happen. That he wouldn’t come? That you could handle it if he did? You breathe in. Out. Again.

There’s a little window cracked above the mirror, and the sounds of the party filter in through the screen—muffled chatter, a cheer over something, the tail end of a beat you half-recognize. You think you hear his voice again, but it’s hard to tell. You don’t know what he looks like right now. You don’t know if he’s alone. You don’t know if he’s happy.

You press your fingertips to your lips. They’re dry. You should leave. You should walk out the front door and call another ride and go back to your hotel and tell Carla you weren’t feeling well. That it was nice to see everyone. That it had nothing to do with him. But you don’t.

Instead, you run cold water over your hands. You shake them off. You adjust yourself in the mirror, like that’s going to fix anything. You open the bathroom door and step back into the hallway, heartbeat loud in your ears. The house is empty, quiet in that way people’s homes get when everyone’s outside. You linger by the kitchen counter for a second, pretending to look for a napkin or something else stupid and delaying. Your hands feel weird. Too cold. Too warm. You’re not thinking, just moving.

The sliding door is half-open when you return to the backyard. You step through without looking, eyes on the ground, on the uneven concrete, on anything but what’s ahead of you. The sounds of the party rush back in all at once—music, laughter, someone yelling about overcooked burgers. You take one deep breath, steady and careful, and look up.

And he’s right there. Close. Too close. You barely register it before your shoulder brushes his chest and you jolt back a step, instinctively.

“Shit—sorry,” you say.

He blinks, startled. Then his eyes focus on you, and something flickers across his face. Recognition. Surprise. Something else behind it that you can’t name.

You haven’t seen him in six months but it still hits you like a punch how easy it is to remember everything about him in half a second. His curls are longer. He’s tanner. His shirt fits like it always did, too well. And his eyes—those eyes—are still just as warm and dangerous and annoyingly kind.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. He beats you to it.

“Hey,” he says, soft. Careful.

There’s a plastic cup in his hand and a backwards snapback on his head and he looks so much like the last summer you spent together it makes your stomach twist.

You nod once, shallow. “Hey.”

A beat passes. Then another. He doesn’t smile like he used to.  You step aside to let him through. He steps in the same direction. You both pause.

You laugh under your breath. It’s not funny.

“Sorry,” you say again, quieter.

He just shakes his head. “You don’t have to be.”

But you are. Not just for bumping into him. For all of it. 

You move to step around him again but he doesn’t quite move and you both end up doing that dumb side-to-side shuffle that makes you want to crawl into the grass and disappear. His hand brushes your arm and he pulls it back like it burned him.

“Wow,” he says. “We’re still great at this.”

You huff out something that might be a laugh. “Some things never change.”

He nods, a little too eagerly. “Yeah. Like my ability to embarrass myself instantly.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Pretty sure that was me.”

He makes a face like he’s weighing it out. “Okay, yeah, but I leaned into it with the whole—” He gestures vaguely, reenacting the world’s worst sidestep. “You know. That.”

You almost smile. He looks the same and not the same, older in a way you can’t quite define. Tired around the edges. But his voice is still warm and clumsy in the way you remember, like every word came out just a little faster than he meant it to.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” you say finally.

“Yeah, me neither. Carla sent me like three texts with a lot of emojis. Felt like a trap but I came anyway.” He takes a sip from his cup, then adds, “Did not realize I was walking into a... potential ex reunion arc.”

You glance down at your shoes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says too quickly. “It’s cool. I mean, I— I’m cool. Are you cool? You look... like you’re doing good.”

You look up. He’s watching you too closely, but when you meet his eyes, he glances away like he got caught.

“I’m fine,” you say. “You?”

He shrugs. “Still breathing. Still bad at parties. Still get sunburned even if I wear SPF 50, which feels like a personal attack from the sun. So. Yeah. Nothing new.”

You snort, and his eyes flick back to yours like he wants to hold onto the sound.

Another beat passes. He shifts his weight. You can tell he doesn’t know whether to keep talking or bail.

“So,” he says, tilting his cup a little. “You just visiting?”

You nod. “Work thing.”

“Ah.” He nods too, like that’s a safe word. “Short trip?”

“Four days.”

“That’s... not long.”

“Nope.”

Silence again. Not cold, just full.

He taps the side of his cup. “Cool. Well. I’ll, uh—” He gestures vaguely toward the grill. “Go stand somewhere else and say more dumb things over there now.”

You nod, but don’t move.

He takes a step back, then pauses. “It’s good to see you, by the way.”

You open your mouth, but he’s already turning.

You stay where you are for a minute after he walks away, half-wondering if you imagined the whole thing. Your hand finds your drink again. The condensation soaks into your palm and gives you something to focus on. He’s good at that, still — coming in like a wave and leaving you standing in the shallows, blinking at the water in your lungs.

The party goes on. Carla brings out skewers and people cheer like she just cured a disease. The music skips to something poppy and too fast. You sink into a patch of lawn chair conversation about travel plans and bad dates, your laugh coming a beat late every time. It’s not that you’re not present. It’s just that you know exactly where he is.

You don’t look for him, not really. But your eyes still flick to the side yard when the wind shifts. You still notice when someone tosses a beer in his direction. You still feel it when he laughs again across the lawn — quieter this time, like he’s trying not to be obvious.

He doesn’t come back over, but he doesn’t stay far either. At one point, he ends up helping someone carry drinks from the kitchen and passes right behind you. You feel the shape of him before you see him, tall and warm and barely there. You don’t turn, but your skin lights up anyway.

A while later, Carla corners you with her signature third-drink grin and a plastic cup of mystery juice.

“I’m so glad you came,” she says, and it sounds a little too loaded.

You raise an eyebrow. “It’s nice. Really.”

She hums, unconvinced. “You doing okay?”

“I’m fine.”

She glances across the yard. You don’t follow her gaze.

“Right,” she says. “Well. If you’re not fine later, extra tequila’s under the table.”

Someone pulls her away before she can say anything else. You take a sip of your drink and immediately regret it. It tastes like melted candy and mistakes.

The sun sinks a little lower. The bugs start to swarm the citronella candles. There’s a soft hum of maybe-it’s-time-to-go from a few corners of the yard, but no one’s actually moving. You think about leaving. You also think about staying. You think about the way he looked at you like he didn’t know whether to smile or break. You think about that little pause before he walked away.

You don’t notice the memory at first. It just edges in under your skin, like heat from the sun you didn’t realize was still there. It’s the smell of the grill and citronella, the sound of someone laughing in a way that’s too full, too familiar, too much like then. You blink, and you’re not in Carla’s backyard anymore.

You’re back in his apartment. The lights are off except for the one over the stove, casting this soft yellow wash across the living room. It’s too warm, too quiet. The kind of quiet that’s only possible when you know someone down to their breathing.

He’s on the floor, leaning back against the couch with his legs stretched out and a bowl of half-eaten popcorn next to him. You’re stretched out behind him, sideways on the couch, one leg draped over his shoulder, the other tucked under you. He’s warm against your thigh and keeps muttering that your toes are freezing.

“You look cozy,” he said, with that dopey half-smile that made you want to hit him and kiss him at the same time.

“This is my tired hoodie.”

“You should be tired more often, then.”

He reached up and grabbed your ankle, pulling it into his lap like it belonged there. Like you belonged there.

You remember that something was playing on the tv, but not what it was. You remember his fingers absentmindedly tracing the bone of your shin while he half-watched it, more focused on whatever quiet thought was drifting through his head. You remember the shape of his knuckles, the scratch of his callus when he ran his hand along the top of your foot. You remember not needing to fill the silence.

He said, “Don’t go next weekend,” voice soft, a little joking, like it wasn’t a request.

You said, “I have to,” like it didn’t cost you anything.

He nodded. Didn’t argue. Didn’t try to guilt you or convince you or say anything dramatic. Just tilted his head back against your leg, looking up at you upside down, hair flopped over his forehead, cheeks pink from whatever he was drinking.

You said, “It’s just a trip.”

He said, “Right.”

Then he pulled your foot into his chest, pressed a kiss to your ankle like it was a habit, like it was nothing. Like he’d done it a hundred times before. But he hadn’t. That was the first time.

You remember feeling it in your throat. That awful, beautiful ache. Like if you opened your mouth, something would spill out you couldn’t take back. But you didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

Later, you’d press your face into his neck, and he’d whisper something that wasn’t quite Spanish, wasn’t quite words, and you’d fall asleep wondering if maybe it could be this easy forever. But it wasn’t.

The next weekend, you got on the plane. You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. But that was the last night that felt simple. That was the last time you let him hold you without guilt.

The memory lingers longer than it should. You feel it settle like heat behind your ribs. When you blink again, you’re back at the cookout, standing off to the side while someone fiddles with the speaker and two people argue about salsa. You’ve been staring at your drink for too long.

Across the yard, Joaquin’s still perched on the edge of the deck. He’s talking to someone but not really looking at them, like his brain’s somewhere else entirely. Like maybe it’s still in that apartment too.

He glances up. Your eyes meet.  Neither of you looks away this time.

It happens gradually. The party thins out—people trickle off in twos and threes, hugging Carla goodbye, grabbing last slices of watermelon or half-frozen drinks from the cooler. The sky fades into that soft blue-gray that means the streetlights will flicker on soon. Someone starts collecting trash bags, and someone else is curled up in a chair scrolling through their phone with the dazed expression of someone who’s emotionally tapped out.

You drift toward the steps of the deck at some point without thinking. The music’s low now, something mellow. Joaquin’s nearby again, close enough to feel, but he doesn’t say anything.. Just stands beside you in a kind of companionable silence, the two of you watching someone struggle to relight a citronella candle like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

Eventually, he speaks. Quietly. “I forgot how weird parties get when they start ending.”

You hum. “Everything smells like charcoal and sweat and regret.”

“That’s the real summer scent,” he says, grinning. “Should bottle it.”

You finally look at him. His hair’s a little messier now. There’s a smudge of something—maybe dirt, maybe barbecue sauce—near the collar of his shirt. His cup’s empty. He’s rolling it between his palms like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

You tilt your head. “You always this awkward or is it just me?”

He laughs under his breath. “Oh, I’m always awkward. You’re just the one I can’t pretend around.”

You don’t answer right away. He shifts beside you, then gestures vaguely toward the house.

“You heading out soon?” he asks. “Or...?”

You shrug. “Hotel’s not far. I’ll probably order bad room service and pass out.”

“Solid plan.”

You glance at him. “You?”

He shrugs too. “Thought about going home. Then I remembered I live alone and my fridge is sad.”

You smile, tired but real. “So what’re you gonna do instead?”

He hesitates, just a second too long. Then—

“I mean... if you wanted...” He clears his throat. Starts again. “We could grab a drink or something. Like... like old friends catching up. No pressure.”

You raise an eyebrow. “At ten thirty at night?”

He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “The best friend catch-up hour. You know. When the truth comes out and everything tastes like cheap whiskey.”

You study him, and he looks nervous in that familiar way he used to get right before saying something too honest. You can tell he’s trying to play it off like nothing. You can also tell it isn’t nothing. You take a breath.

“I’m at the Selwyn,” you say.

He perks up, like he didn’t expect that to work. “Oh, they have a bar, right?”

You nod. “Until midnight.”

He smiles, bright and crooked. “Plenty of time for bad decisions.”

You roll your eyes. “We’re just catching up.”

“Right,” he says, bumping your shoulder gently as you both turn toward the gate. “That’s exactly what I meant.”

“I’ll drive you,” he says before you can even open the app. Like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t used to sit in his passenger seat with your bare feet on the dash, arguing over playlists and sharing fries out of a greasy paper bag. His keys are already in his hand.

You hesitate, just a second too long. “Sure,” you say.

He grins, trying to play it cool. “Besides, I cleaned my car recently. Well. I threw out the empty protein bar wrappers. Same difference.”

You follow him down the driveway. His car is exactly the same—black Honda, scuffed on the side, faintly dented from something he once swore wasn’t his fault. You slide into the passenger seat and feel your body instinctively relax into old muscle memory. The door shuts. The quiet settles in.

Then he starts the engine. And the universe laughs in your face.

The first few notes hit—clean, unmistakable, loud enough to be cruel.

Me Rehúso.

Your heart jumps into your throat. His hand freezes halfway to the volume knob. His thumb hovers like he’s going to skip it. He doesn’t. You stare out the window.

“I swear I wasn’t trying to be dramatic,” he mumbles.

You keep your voice even. “Didn’t say you were.”

The song keeps playing. You don’t speak. Neither of you move to turn it off.

That chorus hits like a sucker punch. ”Me rehúso a darte un último beso,” I refuse to give you one last kiss... The kind of lyric that would’ve made you both laugh six months ago. Now it just sits there in the air, crackling. He drums his fingers against the wheel, trying to be casual. You sit stiff in your seat and wonder if he feels it too—that pull in your chest like something snapping back into place and tearing a little as it does. You wonder if he skipped this song on purpose for weeks after you left.

By the time it fades, neither of you has said a word. But it’s louder than anything either of you could’ve said out loud. Joaquin clears his throat, glancing sideways like he wants to break the silence.

“Well,” he says, aiming for levity. “That wasn’t emotionally catastrophic or anything.”

You breathe out a quiet laugh. “Your playlist’s still ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but it slaps, unfortunately.”

You fall into silence again. This one is easier. Not light, but... familiar. Like slipping back into clothes you’d left behind, still warm from the last time you wore them. The drive isn’t long, but it feels like a hundred miles and no time at all. When he pulls into the parking lot of your hotel, he parks without asking. Turns the key. Lets the quiet settle again.

“You sure you’re up for this?” you ask, your hand on the door handle.

He shrugs. “Only panicking a little.”

You look at him. He looks at you. That same crooked grin.

“Let’s go,” you say.

He nods. “Catching up. Strictly platonic.”

“Totally.”

The Selwyn’s lobby is quiet, sleek in that generic boutique hotel way. Modern art you don’t understand on the walls. A bowl of apples no one’s touched. The bar’s tucked just off to the right, low-lit and mostly empty, a few couples nursing nightcaps and a lone businessman half-asleep over a bourbon. You lead the way without speaking.

He follows, hands shoved in his pockets, doing that nervous scan of the room like he’s checking for exits but not planning to use them. You pick a booth near the back. Leather seat, warm lamp overhead. It’s too intimate to be neutral. Neither of you moves to sit across from the other. You both slide into the same side, a little too close. Neither of you comments on it.

The bartender comes over, eyes flicking between you both like he’s trying to figure out what kind of night this is.

“Two whiskeys,” Joaquin says, before you can answer. Then he glances at you. “That okay?”

You nod. “Perfect.”

The moment he walks away, Joaquin exhales like he’s been holding it in since the car. “Well. Here we are.”

You smile. “Just two old friends. At a hotel. At eleven o’clock at night.”

He grins. “Nothing suspicious about that.”

You both look straight ahead for a second, not speaking. The tension has shifted—it’s quieter now. Less sharp. More like gravity.

“I missed this,” he says eventually.

You turn to him. “What part?”

He shrugs. “All of it. You. Talking. Sitting next to you and saying dumb shit until you laugh.”

You look down at your hands. “I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me again.”

“I didn’t either.”

You glance up.

“I was pissed,” he says, not hiding it. “You just disappeared. No warning. Just—gone. I didn’t know if I did something or if it was just easier that way for you.”

“It wasn’t easy,” you say. “I just didn’t know how to say goodbye.”

He nods. “Yeah. Well. Guess we’re both great at that.”

The drinks arrive. You each take one, clink glasses without ceremony.

“To bad decisions,” he says.

You raise your eyebrows. “This is a bad decision?”

He smirks. “I think it might be.”

You both drink.

The whiskey burns a little. Just enough.

You settle into the silence again, but this one’s warmer. You can feel the heat of his thigh pressed against yours. He hasn’t moved. Neither have you.

“I thought about texting you,” he says, voice lower now.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want to be a maybe.”

That lands. It sinks in and sits heavy in your stomach. You set your glass down. Turn toward him fully.

“We were never a maybe.”

He looks at you then, really looks, and something shifts in his expression. Like he’s trying not to hope and failing miserably at it. “Okay,” he says softly. “So what are we now?”

You don’t answer. Instead, your knee bumps his, and you leave it there.

He glances at your mouth, just for a second. It’s quick, but you both notice.

The second drink comes faster than the first. Neither of you says anything, but the meaning is clear. Just one more. Just an excuse to keep sitting here a little longer.

The bar’s quiet around you, some indie playlist humming overhead, glasses clinking behind the counter, but none of it really registers. It’s just the booth, the shared warmth between you, and the way the whiskey makes your skin feel too soft for your bones.

You’re both leaned in now, legs angled toward each other. His arm is stretched behind you across the booth, not quite touching you but close enough to feel. His knee keeps bumping yours. It’s not accidental anymore.

He’s talking with his hands. Always has. One of them knocks his glass a little too hard and he mutters a low “shit” before catching it. You laugh and he grins, sheepish.

“Okay, so maybe I’m a little drunk,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Little?”

“Tipsy,” he corrects, lifting his hand in mock defense. “Buzzed. Whiskey-charmed. Still within the range of plausible deniability.”

You tip your glass toward him. “Sure.”

“You?”

You sip. “Comfortably reckless.”

He laughs, and it’s that real laugh, the one that fills his chest. The one you haven’t heard in too long. He tips his head back, curls falling over his forehead, and for a second you forget how to breathe.

“You always did drink whiskey too fast,” you say.

“You always stole mine when you thought I wasn’t looking.”

“I wasn’t trying to hide it.”

The words slip out before you can stop them. He goes quiet, eyes settling on you with a different kind of focus now. He’s still smiling, but it’s softer, smaller.

“I remember that,” he says. “All of it.”

You don’t move. The air between you is tight.

“You used to do this thing,” he continues, “where you’d swirl the ice in my glass with your finger and act like it wasn’t the most distracting thing in the world.”

“I don’t remember doing that.”

“You definitely did. And it worked. Every time.”

You lean in a little, just enough to make him feel it. “You’re easy to distract.”

“I was in love with you,” he says, too fast, too loose.

It lands between you like a dropped glass.

He blinks. “Shit. That sounded cooler in my head.”

You swallow. “Was?”

He opens his mouth, closes it. Looks down at the table. When he speaks again, it’s quieter. “You didn’t give me a lot of space to keep saying it.”

You look at him, really look. He’s flushed from the whiskey, eyes a little glassy, but his expression is wide open. Honest in the way only tipsy people get when they’ve been waiting too long to say something. You don’t reach for your glass this time. You reach for his hand. You brush your fingers over the back of it, slow. Gentle. He doesn’t pull away.

“You know,” you say, “I still think about that night. The one before I left.”

His eyes flick to yours. “The peanut butter dinner?”

“The one where you kissed my ankle like it meant something.”

“It did.”

“I know.”

The silence now is thick. Not awkward. Not empty. Just full. He turns his hand over beneath yours, lets your fingers slide together. His palm is warm and steady.

“So,” he says, barely above a whisper. “What are we doing right now?”

You shake your head, half-laughing, half-something else. “Catching up, remember?”

He leans in, slow and careful. His shoulder brushes yours. His voice is right at your ear now.

“This doesn’t feel like catching up.”

You don’t pull away. You press your leg against his under the table. You feel his breath stutter.

“It’s not,” you say.

He shifts toward you, hand tightening in yours. There’s a question in his eyes. You could stop this. You could pull back.

You’re so close you can feel the moment tipping forward. One more second and his mouth will be on yours. You know exactly how it’ll feel — warm and familiar, a little clumsy, a little desperate. You want it. God, you want it. But it’s too much, too fast, too easy to fall back into something that once shattered you so quietly it didn’t even make a sound.

You pull your hand away. Slow. Gentle.

He freezes. You don’t look at him right away. You take a breath instead. Your voice is soft when it comes.

“I can’t.”

It’s not sharp. It’s not final. It’s just honest.

His face shifts — not hurt, exactly. Just something quieter. A flicker of understanding. Maybe disappointment. Maybe relief. Maybe both.

He nods, slowly. “Okay.”

You glance around the bar like you’ve just remembered where you are. The lights feel too low. The space too small.

“I should go up,” you say.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

You stand, and he follows without question. Neither of you says much as you cross the lobby. You’re sobering up, not from the drinks but from the tension, from the weight of how close you came to doing something you wouldn’t be able to take back.

The elevator ride is quiet. The kind of quiet that hums under your skin, thick with all the things you didn’t say downstairs and the weight of the moment you pulled away. He didn’t argue. He didn’t push. He just nodded, like he understood. But you can feel him beside you now — his body still turned slightly toward yours, hands in his pockets like they’re keeping him grounded.

You reach your floor and step into the hallway, carpet soft under your shoes, air humming faintly with recycled chill. You walk ahead, both of you a little unsteady, a little too aware of each other. He stays close but doesn’t touch you. Not once.

When you stop outside your door, you turn toward him and smile, barely.

“You didn’t have to walk me all the way.”

“Old habits,” he says.

There’s a pause. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. You know that move. You remember him doing it when he wasn’t sure if he should kiss you that first time. He looked just like this. Nervous. Hopeful. A little in over his head.

And still, you don’t move.

“I should go in,” you say softly.

“Yeah,” he says. “You probably should.”

You look at him.

He looks at you.

It’s nothing and everything all at once. That ache that’s been stretching all night tightens until you can’t take it anymore.

And then you kiss him. You don’t think. You just lean in and grab the front of his jacket and pull him down to you and his mouth meets yours like it’s still been waiting this whole time. It’s not soft. It’s not neat. It’s relief. All heat and breath and too much all at once, like if you stop it’ll disappear again. His hands find your waist and you stumble back into the door. He laughs against your mouth, breathless.

“You said you couldn’t.”

“I lied,” you murmur, kissing him again.

It’s messy. Familiar. A little dizzying. His thumb traces the edge of your jaw like he forgot what your skin felt like. Your hands are in his hair before you realize it, tugging him closer, closer.

He breaks the kiss long enough to whisper, “Tell me to go.”

You don’t. You just kiss him harder.

He makes this low sound against your mouth that you remember too well, and suddenly you're fumbling with the keycard, trying to get the door open while he's still kissing you, his hands braced against the wall on either side of your head. The card reader beeps angrily. You try again, breathless, and he's laughing into your neck.

"You're shaking," he says, not teasing. Just noticing.

"Shut up," you breathe, and the door finally gives.

You stumble backward into the room, pulling him with you. The door swings shut behind him with a soft click that sounds too loud in the sudden quiet. The only light comes from the city through the window, casting everything in amber and shadow. You can see his face now, flushed and a little stunned, like he can't quite believe this is happening either.

"Are you sure?" he asks, voice rough.

You don't answer with words. Instead, you step closer, close enough that your chest brushes his, and reach up to trace the line of his jaw with your fingertip. His eyes flutter closed at the touch.

"I missed you," you whisper. "I missed this."

He opens his eyes, searching your face in the dim light. "I never stopped missing you."

This time when you kiss him, it's slower. Deeper. Like you're both trying to memorize something you lost. His hands slide up your back, pulling you against him, and you can feel his heartbeat through his shirt. Fast. Unsteady. Like yours.

You walk him backward toward the bed, lips still locked, hands roaming over familiar territory that feels both foreign and like coming home. When the backs of his knees hit the mattress, he sits down hard, pulling you with him so you're straddling his lap, your dress riding up your thighs. His hands find your hips, steadying you, and you can feel the heat of his palms through the thin fabric.

"God," he breathes, looking up at you like he's seeing something he thought he'd lost forever. "You're so beautiful."

You lean down to kiss him again, slower this time, savoring the taste of whiskey on his tongue and the way his breath catches when you bite his lower lip gently. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs tracing the curve of your ribs, and you arch into his touch.

His fingers find the zipper at the back of your dress, hovering there in silent question. You nod against his mouth, and he slowly pulls it down, the sound cutting through the quiet room. The cool air hits your skin, raising goosebumps along your spine. You shiver, and he pulls back to look at you, his eyes dark and serious.

"We don't have to—"

You press your finger to his lips. "I want to."

The words hang between you, heavy with meaning beyond this moment. You're not just talking about tonight. You both know it.

He kisses your fingertip, then your palm, then your wrist, his eyes never leaving yours. You feel something unravel inside you—that tight knot of regret and longing you've been carrying for months.

Your dress slips from your shoulders, and his breath catches. His hands are reverent as they trace your skin, like he's relearning a map he once knew by heart. You tug at his shirt, impatient now, and he helps you pull it over his head. His chest is familiar—that same constellation of freckles, that same scar near his collarbone from when he fell off his bike at twelve. You touch it, remembering the story he told you once, laughing in bed on a Sunday morning.

"You remember?" he asks, watching your fingers.

"Everything," you whisper.

He pulls you closer, his mouth finding the hollow of your throat, and you close your eyes against the rush of sensation. It's too much and not enough all at once. His hands slide up your back, unhooking your bra with practiced ease, and you laugh softly against his hair.

"Still got it," he murmurs, grinning against your skin.

"Some skills never fade," you whisper back, and then his mouth is on your breast and you can't think anymore, just feel—his tongue, his teeth, the scrape of his stubble against your sensitive skin. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groans against you.

You rock against him, feeling him hard beneath you, and his hands tighten on your hips. There's an urgency building between you now, months of distance collapsing into this single point of contact. He flips you suddenly, pressing you into the mattress, his weight a welcome anchor. His lips trace a path down your stomach, and you arch up, wanting more, wanting everything.

"Joaquin," you breathe, and he looks up at you, eyes dark and hungry.

"Otra vez," he whispers.

You say his name once more, quieter this time, like a secret you’re not ready to share with the world. His eyes fall shut as though he’s holding the sound within himself, letting it resonate in the hollow spaces where loneliness used to cling. As his hands find their way to the waistband of your underwear, they tremble, a delicate dance of anticipation and reverence. You lift your hips slightly, a silent invitation for him to continue, to explore uncharted territories that still remember the map of his touch. The fabric is gone in a heartbeat, lost somewhere in the chaos of desire that swirls around you both.

His lips trace a slow pilgrimage along your skin, starting at the curve of your hip bone before journeying inward to the sensitive haven of your inner thigh. Each kiss is deliberate, an act of devotion that speaks volumes louder than words ever could. You’re quivering beneath him now, every nerve alive with sensation, and your hands clutch the hotel sheets as though grounding yourself against an oncoming storm.

When his mouth finally finds its destination, it’s like a homecoming. You arch off the bed with a breathy gasp that breaks through the room’s stillness and wraps itself around you both. He moves with an intimate knowledge of you, every motion recalling memories of nights past when only the moon bore witness to passion unfolding between whispered promises and dreams half-spoken.

The rhythm he adopts is one learned long ago but never forgotten, seamless in its execution as though no time has passed since last he worshipped at this altar. His touch is gentle yet insistent—the perfect paradox—exactly as you need it. Your fingers entwine into his hair once more for anchor and connection both; he hums against you—a low sound that vibrates through your core and ignites every part of you all over again.

The sense of nearing completion builds inside you rapidly—too rapidly—as if months apart have condensed into this singular moment of intensity threatening to spill over without warning. Waves crest within your belly, hot and urgent in their sweep toward release.

"Wait," you breathe out urgently, yet soft enough not to break what threads hold this tapestry together just yet. Tugging at his shoulders slightly with desperate urgency tinged by longing unspoken but always present there beneath everything else clouding these precious moments shared tonight after too long apart. "Come here."

He kisses his way back up your body, mouth finding yours again. You can taste yourself on his lips, and it makes you dizzy with want. Your hands fumble with his belt, and he helps you, kicking off his jeans until there's nothing between you but skin and heat and six months of longing. He hovers above you, braced on his forearms, looking down at your face like he's searching for something.

"You okay?" he whispers.

You nod, reaching up to brush his hair from his forehead. "More than okay."

In the soft shadows of the room, he enters you, and you both exhale sharply, as though surfacing from the depths of an ocean where breath had been a distant memory. The sensation is one of rediscovery, a familiar yet long-forgotten dance. Stillness enfolds you as he pauses, his forehead resting gently against yours. You can feel the ragged ebb and flow of his breath matching your own. This dance—this intimate choreography—is etched into your bodies, even if time and distance tried to erase it from your minds.

Wrapping your legs around his waist, you draw him deeper into the space that feels both foreign and unmistakably home. His groan reverberates through the stillness, your name a sacred chant murmured against the warmth of your neck. His movements begin in slow, deliberate strokes, each one held with the weight of potential farewells lingering in unspoken words. It’s cautious yet intense—a savoring of moments that feel fleeting.

Your fingers dig into the solid expanse of his shoulders, an encouragement driven by urgency that pulses under your skin. As he hones his rhythm, it transforms gradually—a measured tempo building to something more urgent and alive. The room captures the symphony created by your intermingled breaths and soft exclamations of pleasure; tender whispers punctuate every shared heartbeat.

“Mírame.” he murmurs softly, and you oblige by opening your eyes. What you find in his gaze transcends physical intimacy—a vulnerability laid bare beneath the depth of those dark irises. There’s something exchanged between you in that shared look; a silent acknowledgment binding hearts entwined not just by touch but by something deeper—a promise unspoken yet understood.

As he moves within you with growing intensity, everything coalesces into a crescendo orchestrated by longing rekindled after months apart. This moment stretches beyond time—each motion weaving threads back together until they form one seamless tapestry, rich with color and meaning.

You unravel beneath him then, as pleasure overwhelms your senses like waves crashing upon the shore—leaving you trembling in its aftermath—a mosaic remade anew with each crescendo reached. It's only heartbeats later that he too succumbs; whispers woven with devotion spill from his lips—your name uttered like prayerful benediction—as he collapses against you under comforting weight rather than burdened heaviness reminding once distant souls they are home again.

For a long time, neither of you speaks. The only sound is your breathing gradually slowing, his heart pounding against yours. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your shoulder, and you press your face into his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him—soap and something distinctly warm that you could never quite name but always recognized. 

The sheets are tangled beneath you and one of your legs is still hooked loosely around his, the weight of him grounding you in a way nothing else ever really has. He shifts just enough to ease some of the pressure from your ribs, but he doesn’t pull away. He just rests his forehead against your temple and exhales, long and shaky.

You could fall asleep like this. You think maybe you will. His fingers keep moving, slow and aimless, brushing the slope of your shoulder like he’s memorizing it all over again. Your name leaves his lips again, softer now, like it doesn’t have to be anything more than sound.

You whisper, “You okay?”

He nods. Doesn’t speak for a moment. Then, “Yeah. I just… missed this.”

You close your eyes. That ache settles in your chest again, but it’s quieter now. Less sharp. He missed you. You missed him. Maybe that’s enough for tonight.

You shift just enough to look at him. His eyes are already on you, sleep-soft and open in that way only Joaquin can be when he’s let his guard down completely. You brush his hair back from his forehead. He leans into the touch without thinking.

“I don’t want to leave,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to.”

That’s it. No big promises. No next steps.

He nods again, relief flickering through his features so fast it almost doesn’t register. Then he dips his head and presses a kiss to your collarbone—slow, tender, like punctuation. He pulls the blanket up over both of you and shifts to lie beside you properly, one arm curling beneath your neck, the other resting across your stomach. You curl into him like you never left.

Outside, the city keeps humming, but in here it’s still.

Eventually, his breathing evens out. You listen to it until yours matches. He’s heavy against you, solid and warm, and you feel the weight of everything that just passed between you start to settle. You let your eyes fall shut, just for a moment.

Sleep takes you slowly. Quietly. With him still holding you.

You wake before the sun’s fully up, the room washed in a soft, blue-grey hush. For a second, you don’t know what stirred you—until Joaquin shifts beside you, mumbling something half-asleep into the pillow. His leg slides against yours, warm and lazy, and he tucks his face into the curve of your neck like he never left it.

You smile before you can stop yourself.

“Your hair’s in my mouth,” he mumbles, voice gravelly and ridiculous.

You laugh, quiet and raspy. “You drooled on my arm.”

He lifts his head, barely squinting at you with a slow, stupid grin. “Worth it.”

You hum, brushing your fingertips along his side. His skin is warm, soft in places and still humming with leftover heat. You could stay like this for hours, wrapped up in his breath and that dopey smile, but he glances at the clock and winces.

“I have to go soon,” he says, voice soft. “Work.”

You nod, even though you want to pretend this room doesn’t exist outside of this moment. He leans in and kisses your shoulder. Then your jaw. Then your mouth—slow, unhurried, like he’s still not ready to leave either.

When he finally pulls back, he gives you this look. Gentle. Unspoken.

He doesn’t say thank you, or I’ll call you, or what happens now?

He just says, “You made last night feel like home again.”

And somehow, that’s the thing that gets you. You swallow around the ache building in your throat and try to smile. He kisses you one more time, then slips out of bed and pulls his shirt back on in the grey morning light. You stay where you are, curled in warm sheets, watching him tie his shoes with one knee on the floor like he’s done this in a hundred quiet mornings—only he hasn’t. Not like this. Not since you left.

He glances over his shoulder before opening the door. “Sleep a little more,” he says. “I’ll see you.”

You nod. He doesn’t push it further. He just gives you one last, crooked smile and slips out into the hallway. The door clicks shut behind him. And you’re left sitting up in bed, hair a mess, covers pooled around your waist, staring at the door like it might open again.

You don’t know what happens next. But for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t scare you.

[p1girlfriend]

lando norris x older!girlfriend - headcanons.

he’s absolutely in love with how grounded you are. when the world gets too loud — the cameras, the fans, the pressure — you’re his place to land. you don’t freak out. you don’t demand attention. you see him. and sometimes when he’s spiraling after a race, you just hold his jaw and go:

“hey. breathe. I’m proud of you no matter what.” and he closes his eyes like he’s finally safe again.

—

he's a total homebody with you. as soon as the door closes behind you two, he becomes soft and clingy like clockwork. track pants, hoodie, wrapped around you on the couch like a human sloth. his head in your lap, begging for scratches. you: “you know you’re like a cat, right?” him, sleepy: “m’not a cat. I’m your boyfriend. feed me.”

he texts you about everything. – “i miss your hair today.” – “do you think that song we heard in Ibiza was about us?” – sends mirror selfies half-dressed like: “is this too much for media day orrrr?” – you send voice notes when you can’t be with him and he saves them to replay when he misses your voice

—

he takes your picture all the time. you're sitting in the passenger seat? he’s snapping a photo of your side profile with the caption: “my view >>>” you’re doing skincare? he’s filming you and calling it "the prettiest science experiment ever.” you once caught him zooming in on a candid of you laughing on his camera roll.

“what are you doing?” “uh… admiring the love of my life? is that illegal?”

—

your kisses are his addiction. it’s not even about sex most of the time — he just loves having you close. kisses your shoulder while you cook. kisses your wrist before he puts a bracelet on you. kisses the top of your head in public like he needs to make sure people know.

“can’t help it,” he says. “you taste like home.”

—

he builds playlists for you. and they’re SO chaotic: 1 minute it’s James Blake, next is Dua Lipa, then a random sound clip of him saying “i love you” into your voicemail

“this one’s called ‘songs that remind me of your thighs and your brain.’” he makes you laugh so much it hurts he also gets real quiet when a song hits the feelings too hard and pulls you into a cuddle without a word

—

he flirts like it’s his job. “you look sexy when you yell at customer service.” “you wanna fight me? kiss me first then we’ll talk.” “stop looking at me like that unless you’re gonna do something about it.” you roll your eyes he bites his lip you both know you’re gonna fold

—

he brags about you constantly. to the team. to the press. to anyone with ears.

“she’s smarter than me. probably should be running the team.” “my girlfriend helped pick this fit. if you like it, thank her.” the media asks him what keeps him grounded — “her.” he doesn’t even blink.

—

and yes. the sex? unbeatable. you know exactly what you’re doing. and he loves that. loves when you tell him what you want. loves when you pull him into a kiss. he’s loud for you. he begs for you. but his favorite part? when you whisper,

“i love you, Lando. you’re doing so good for me.” he falls apart. every time.

—

he’s never been so sure of anything. he has everything — the fame, the career, the world watching. but when you’re in his hoodie, curled up on the couch, telling him about your day while he plays with your fingers? that’s what he calls winning.

©p1girlfriend | requested | requests open!

[shotofesspresso]

so american

summary: In which a singer known for her sad songs surprises everyone with a romantic song, and fans can’t help but try to figure out who it’s about

Lando Norris x Singer!reader

fc: Olivia Rodrigo

liked by oscarpiastri and others

yourusername I am so excited to announce my second album GUTS. GUTS is a collection of my saddest thoughts written into even sadder songs! I can’t wait for you guys to listen.

xoxo, your resident sad girl 💜

user1 I am so excited

user2 this better win a grammy

user3 why is so much of the F1 grid in her likes

user4 well they have good taste

user5 I love how all her songs are so sad

user6 It’s her brand atp

user7 it would be more surprising if she wrote a happy love song

liked by alex_albon and others

yourusername GUTS out NOW!!! Thank you guys for all the support. The bad idea right mv out tonight!! PS: get your tissues before you listen

Xoxo 💜

user1 yeah I cried listening to pretty isn’t pretty and what about it

user2 I LOVE YOU

chappelroan 💜 liked by author

user3 I know Alex introduced Y/N’s music to the grid

lilymhe on repeat liked by author

user4 I love their friendship

user5 tour when?

user6 not a single happy song on this album and I am living for it

liked by alex_albon and others

yourusername Gracias Mexico! BEST FOOD EVER!

user1 ok you ate (literally) liked by author

user2 doing everything but going on tour

alex_albon fatty

yourusername I’m telling @/lilymhe that you’re bullying me in my own comment section

lilymhe get out of her comment section @/alex_albon

lilymhe so beautiful liked by author

user3 Alex’s comment is taking me out

user4 GO ON TOUR PLEASE!!!

liked by carlossainz55 and others

lando Mexico City. Best food ever

user1 You’re so fine

user2 what is that last picture

alex_albon big back

user3 do you get deja vu

user4 what?

user3 Y/N posted a Mexico post and her caption and photos were very similar

user5 girl…..

user6 nurse she’s out again

user7 wow so crazy 2 people went to Mexico and ate food there 😑

liked by lando and others

yourusername thank you for all the love on GUTS! I am so excited to announce the GUTS world tour

xoxo, your resident sad girl!

user1 FINALLY

user2 YAYAYAYA

user3 what is lando doing in the likes

user4 you guys have to stop making a big deal about stuff like this

chappellroan see you soon!

liked by lando and others

yourusername I LOVE LONDON

user1 gorgeous

user2 did you find a London boy?

lilymhe do you love London or a London boy? liked by author

yourusername woah this was unnecessary

user3 WAIT WHATTT

user4 is our resident sad girl not a sad girl anymore????

user5 is this part of a soft launch?

liked by lando and others

yourusername guts (spilled) out on friday!!!

user1 IM SO EXCITED

user2 more sad songs to cry to

lando 💜

user3 HELLO!!!!

user4 guys this has to mean something

user5 lando in the comments has to be a confirmation

user6 i’m lowkey here for lando and y/n

liked by lando and others

yourusername and he says I’m so american

user1 HELLO SO AMERICAN???!!!

user2 our girl is in love

user3 “everybody’s falling in love and I’m falling behind”

user4 Lando in the likes again

user5 what if so american is about him?

liked by lando and others

yourusername and he laughs at all my jokes

user1 girl whose arm is that!!!

user2 no one can convince me that she’s dating lando

user3 oh she’s in love LOVE

lilymhe ily

yourusername ily more

lando 💜 liked by author

user4 sir what are you doing here

user5 HELLO!!???

user6 this is confirmation

liked by yourusername and others

lando red light, stop signs

user1 bro just snuck a soft launch in there

user2 the driver’s license lyric!!!

user3 that’s @yourusername for sure

yourusername 💜 liked by author

user4 the hearts on each others post is driving me insane

F1gossip Lando Norris and singer Y/N L/N spotted together. Will there be a new wag in the paddock?

user1 OH MY GOD

user2 this means we are getting more songs like so american

user3 called it

user4 yall need to just focus on the race and not the driver’s life

user5 please shut up

user6 how do they even know each other

user7 y/n and lily have been friends for years so that’s probably how they met

liked by yourusername and others

lando I do laugh at her jokes

yourusername I am so funny guys

lando yes you are babe

user1 your honor I love them

user2 AHHHHH

alex_albon everyone act shocked

carlossainz55 😱���

maxverstappen1 😱😒

georgerussell63 😱😒

oscarpiastri 😱😒

maxfewtrell 😱😒

lando ok leave me alone

liked by lando and others

yourusername am i still the resident sad girl?

lando my american girl

yourusername so american!!!

alex_albon get this off my instagram

yourusername get out of my comment section

carlossainz55 I remember when he used to take pictures of me like that

yourusername booooo

lilymhe i love you guys liked by author

user1 him taking a picture of her OMG

user2 the 3rd picture is the picture that she took of him 😭

lando 💜

yourusername 💜

A/N: literally why did it take me more than a month to post. Guys if there is errors in this let’s just ignore them. I feel like this is lowkey boring but whatever. Short n Sweet update coming soon!!!! LOVE YA!

[iconvettel]

𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐏𝐈𝐄 & 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑 ! charles leclerc

𓈒  ˙ ꪆৎ   ꣹  ۫ STARRING... charles leclerc x male!reader (faceclaim, young!kirk hammett)

𓈒  ˙ ꪆৎ    IN WHICH... tales of rockstar yn ln and his groupie charles leclerc.

𓈒  ˙ ꪆৎ   ꣹  ۫ GENRES... humor, crack, smau

𓈒  ˙ ꪆৎ    WARNINGS... cursing, whore allegations that yn will never beat, teasing, suggestive. not proofread, so spelling errors are probably there lol. slight lestappen x reader (?)

𓈒  ˙ ꪆৎ   ꣹  ۫ AUTHORS NOTE... my first fic woohoo ! i hope you all enjoy <3. yn is apart of a band but it's mentioned once. one mention to a metallica song.

♫ Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy • Queen

♥︎ 3.1M 💬 10,738 ➢ 66.5k

liked charles_leclerc, f1, user, and others

yourusername tour shenanigans with the groupie 😛 ＠charles_leclerc

view comments

charles_leclerc 📌 Leave me alone ➥ yourusername there's no way you're still mad at me ➥ user ruh oh what happened ➥ yourusername before i posted this, i ate the last ferrero rocher or whatever ➥ charles_leclerc YOU SAID YOU'D SAVE IT FOR ME. ➥ yourusername i'll give you something better

charles_leclerc You look good or something ➥ yourusername i'm gonna eat you (out) or something ➥ lando can you compliment him back normally ➥ yourusername shut it norris

user my god they're so hot

user you posted this for free???

user i need to be that snake.

user queen mentioned

maxverstappen1 hope that snake bit you ➥ yourusername hoes mad ➥ maxverstappen1 you cheated in super smash bros ➥ yourusername i'm gonna super smash my boyfriend ➥ charles_leclerc Yay ➥ maxverstappen1 EW ➥ yourusername you know you wanna watch max ➥ maxverstappen1 ...

user charles my favorite groupie ➥ charles_leclerc I'm not a groupie, stop this rumor :( ➥ user cus following the band everywhere they go.. wearing merch... going backstage.. fucking the literal guitarist doesn't make you a groupie? ➥ yourusername stop bullying my favorite groupie

user i have something inappropriate to say

user smash.

user til the bed breaks ➥ yourusername did that to charles last night ➥ user i didn't need to know that ➥ yourusername oh my bad ig

♫ Whiskey In The Jar • Metallica

♥︎ 2.1M 💬 15,991 ➢ 98.5k

liked charles_leclerc, lando, user, and others

yourusername AYE monaco you we're absolutely fantastic! thank you all for you love and support, see you all next time :) 🇳🇱 you're next! (which means max you better hide hoe)

view all comments

charles_leclerc 📌 What the fuck ➥ charles_leclerc How are you so hot ➥ charles_leclerc I'm gonna sit on your face ➥ yourusername I'M READY 🤤 ➥ lando FREAKS 🫵🏻🫵🏻

user JEEEEYEEEZZZSUSSSSS

user holy moly you're so damn fine

maxverstappen1 ?? Why am i being threatened ➥ yourusername you just piss me off ➥ maxverstappen1 I didn't do anything to you ➥ yourusername yet ➥ maxverstappen1 Fuck you & Do not come to my town ➥ charles_leclerc Stop flirting with my boyfriend Max. ➥ maxverstappen1 I DONT WANT HIM

user tell charles to put that goofy ass sign down ➥ user HELP 😭 what did it say?? ➥ user shit said "free the nipple" like??? ➥ charles_leclerc I gave you all a shirtless yn. Be grateful

user wdym monaco got sad but true i'm literally so sick

user are you going to the monaco grand prix sir ➥ yourusername why wouldn't i

user you're so funny please don't go bald ➥ yourusername 😦 why would you say that to me

user i need to bite your arms

user sweet baby jesus

♥︎ 1.1M 💬 8,991 ➢ 77.5k

liked yourusername, f1, user, and others

charles_leclerc P2 at home. Gave everything. Thank you so much for the amazing support, it means so much ❤️

view all comments

yourusername 📌 THE 2ND PICTURE YESSUHHHH ➥ yourusername i'm gonna ram you in tonight ➥ alex_albon do you guys ever just not. ➥ yourusername whatever that means

yourusername raw raw ra-ah ah or whatever lady gaga said ➥ charles_leclerc Oh this is a new one

user posting a picture of your ass knowing your rockstar boyfriend is gonna go feral is such groupie behavior charles... ➥ user he's never gonna beat the allegations poor thing

user yn looks TEWW GOOD

user that professional ass caption and them slutty ass photos smh

yourusername ＠lando give my boyfriend his 1st place trophy ➥ lando but i won??? ➥ yourusername did i ask???? ➥ lando fuck you???? ➥ yourusername i mean if you insist ➥ lando charles i know you see this ➥ charles_leclerc You're sleeping on the couch yn ➥ yourusername FUCK NO PLEASE DAMNNIT ➥ lando damn whore

lewishamilton Please control your boyfriend, I'm terrified. ➥ yourusername you're next ➥ lewishamilton Please stop ➥ yourusername 😛😻😋

user idk if i wanna be yn or charles

user flirting with your boyfriends coworkers in his own comment section is actually insane ➥ yourusername we're swingers ➥ charles_leclerc NO WE AREN'T ➥ yourusername we could be.. should be.. jkjk

user one chance pleek

♫ Supermassive Black Hole • Muse

♥︎ 1M 💬 9,850 ➢ 83.5k

liked by charles_leclerc, scuderriaferrari, user and others

yourusername me and my groupie this weekend

view comments

charles_leclerc 📌 I love you mon amour but I'm not a groupie. ➥ yourusername all i heard was i love you yn and your awesome dick

user BOAF

user charles is so pretty omgg

user who's holes are massive rn ➥ yourusername FUCCKK DELETE THIS COMMENT I SHOULDVE MADE THIS JOKE

user the way their aesthetics are so different

➥ user soft boy x grunge rockstar will always work out

user why is charles trying to eat yn ➥ charle_leclerc Because he's scrumptious

user yall cute... ᵃⁿⁿᵃᵇᵉˡˡᵉ ᵍᵉᵗ ᵗʰᵉᵐ ➥ yourusername LMFAOOO

user yall need a third?? ➥ yourusername max already asked ➥ maxverstappen1 NO I DIDNT ➥ yourusername yuh huh ➥ maxverstappen1 Die ➥ yourusername you wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid

user i love it when pretty men date

user blah blah blah 😍 proper name backstory stuff

lando okay this is kinda cute ➥ charles_leclerc Thank you Lando! ➥ lando ... a normal comment oh my god??? god answered my prayers

user sir when is that new album releasing. ➥ yourusername when charles gets pregnant ➥ lewishamilton Oh my god??? ➥ lando JESUS CHRIST ➥ alex_albon it's the fact that I know charles would try to get pregnant 💔

user whores

user can yall not be gay for 5 mins oh my god

[choerykiss]

Journal Entries When They Like You

𝜗ৎ comedy/fluff/romance/gn!reader ─ #word count: around 320 each

✦ warnings : light embarassment/overthinking, mild swearing (like "loser," "dumb"), internal panic (tone: Silly, flustered, humorous, very relatable crush anxiety.)

─ twst [first years] ace . deuce . jack . epel . sebek

﹒𝓝𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: My first twisted wonderland post! I hope you guys enjoy this as much as I did writing it~ I've paid close attention to capturing each of their personalities perfectly!

Ace Trappola

Okay, okay, okay. I’m not freaking out. I’m just… casually writing in a book that’s definitely not for pouring out my feelings or whatever. Just, y’know, observations. Normal stuff. So… yeah. They smiled at me today. I KNOW it’s not a big deal—they smile at everyone—but it was different this time, okay?? I swear it lasted like… 0.7 seconds longer than usual. That means something, right? Right???

And when they laughed at my dumb joke during alchemy class?? I wasn’t even trying that hard to be funny! It just came out! But they laughed!! I saw it! AND they even nudged me with their elbow. Touched me. That’s physical contact. That’s basically a proposal in some cultures, probably. Also—I may or may not have stared at them a little too long at lunch. Deuce elbowed me and was like “Dude, you’re drooling.” WHICH I WASN’T. I was just… admiring. Appreciating. Being… observant! Like a good student of love—NO. NOT LOVE. It’s a crush. A tiny crush. A lil’ baby one. Like, “oh hey, they’re cute, whatever” kinda crush. Harmless. Innocent. …Okay maybe I imagined us holding hands. Once. Or twice. But still! I’m not like, obsessed or anything. … I wonder if they like red roses or white ones. Not that I’d buy them any or something, that’d be weird… Unless?? Ugh. Why is liking someone so dumb? I feel like a loser. But also… a little happy. Like, when I think about them, my stomach does this weird flip thing. Kinda annoying, but also kinda nice. Anyway. If Deuce ever finds this journal, I’m deleting myself from existence. This never happened. – Ace Trappola

Deuce Spade

Time: 9:43 PM Location: Dorm room, bed, hiding under the blanket so Ace doesn’t see me writing this. I think I like them. No—I know I like them. I’ve been trying to ignore it but… it’s getting kinda impossible. They smiled at me in flight class today and asked if I wanted to partner up and my heart??? Literally tried to escape my chest. I thought I was gonna pass out right there on the broom. And when they cheered me on after I nailed that loop?? I nearly crashed straight into the Spelldrive tower because my brain short-circuited. They’re just… so nice?? And funny. And when they talk, I actually want to listen. Like, really listen. Not just nod and pretend like with the teachers. They could talk about mushroom biology and I’d be like “yes, tell me more.” I tried to compliment them earlier. Said their outfit looked cool. They smiled and said “thanks” in that soft voice of theirs and I—GHHH. My ears turned red. I KNOW THEY DID. I felt them burning. I probably looked like a tomato. Or worse… a beet. I dunno how to deal with this. I want to tell them how I feel but also… what if they laugh? Or what if it ruins everything? Or what if Ace finds out and tells everyone and then they find out before I even get to say anything and think I’m a coward???? Ugh. Being a guy is hard. Feelings are hard. They make everything hard. …But maybe someday, if I get stronger… cooler… better… maybe I’ll be brave enough to tell them. For now, I’ll just protect them from afar. And maybe sneak them their favorite snack between classes again tomorrow. Not because I like them or anything. Okay maybe a little. Okay maybe a lot. (Okay, I’d fight an overblot just to hold their hand. There, I said it.) - Deuce Spade

Jack Howl

Note to self: They waved at me today. I panicked and waved back too late. Looked dumb. Need to practice reacting faster. Also: They complimented my running form. Didn’t know what to say. I said “thanks” but it came out kind of gruff. They smiled anyway. …They have a really nice smile. I saw them stretching after PE. They’re really flexible. Noticed their hair had a braid in it. Looked cool. Kind of cute. Not that it matters. I mean, it does. Not in a weird way. Just. Cool. Okay. Moving on. They said I’m “reliable.” …I don’t know why, but hearing that made my chest feel tight. Not in a bad way. Just… kind of warm. Proud. But nervous. I want to stay reliable. For them. All the time. Ugh. What’s wrong with me lately?? I keep thinking about them when I’m supposed to be focused on training. I messed up my form on reps because I was thinking about the way their voice sounds when they laugh. Not acceptable. I’m better than this. I need to stay focused. …But they’re just so— They said they might come to the Spelldrive game this weekend. I said “do whatever you want,” but I meant “I hope you do.” …I want them to see me win. If they’re watching, I’ll play even harder. I don’t really get these feelings. I’ve never had a crush before. It’s kinda embarrassing. But I think I’d like to walk with them sometime. Maybe… after the next full moon run. I could show them my favorite trail. Quiet. Peaceful. Just us. That sounds… nice. – Jack Howl

Epel Felmier

Alright. I ain't no sappy poet or nothin', but I gotta get this off my chest before I go crazy. I think I’m in love. Or… somethin' close to it. They walked past me today wearin’ that cute lil outfit and smiled like it was nothin’. Like it ain’t the most powerful weapon in all of Twisted Wonderland. Like my brain didn’t just implode. I was literally holdin’ a potion vial and almost DROPPED it. Rookie move. Real smooth, Epel. Real tough. Then they sat next to me in class and leaned in real close to ask a question?? I swear on Granny’s apple pie, I forgot how to breathe. My face was probably redder than a Cortland apple. Had to pretend to cough so no one’d see me blushin’ like some weak lil farm boy. And they laughed at my joke?? A real laugh too! Not a polite one. I don’t even remember what I said. Probably somethin’ dumb. But they looked so happy I wanted to say it again a hundred more times. Ughhhhhh. What’s wrong with me?! I keep tryin’ to act all cool and manly and then they show up and I start stammerin’ like a kid seein snow for the first time. I bet Vil’d say it’s “uncouth” or “unsightly” or whatever. But he doesn’t get it! They make me wanna be real—like the me from home. The one that ain’t pretendin’ to be perfect all the time. I wanna take ‘em to my village someday. Show ‘em the orchard, the wildflowers, the quiet spots down by the creek where I used to fish. I wanna pick apples with ‘em, hand ‘em one, and kiss ‘em under the trees. ...OH GREAT NOW I’M WRITIN’ POETRY. I’m doomed. They probably don’t even like me back. I’m just the weird country kid who talks with an accent and gets too fired up over gym class. But… maybe someday… if I can work up the courage… I’ll tell ‘em. And if not, well—I’ll still protect ‘em. I’ll be strong enough to do that, at least. …Dang it, I think I am in love. – Epel Felmier

Sebek Zigvolt

FOR MY EYES ONLY — UNAUTHORIZED READING WILL BE MET WITH HOLY RETRIBUTION. Today, once again, I found myself distracted from my sacred duties. No—not distracted, merely… temporarily pulled from my focus by an unexpected variable. That variable… being them. They were walking down the hallway in that uniform—the one that fits them so impeccably well—and they looked directly at me. ME. With those eyes that shimmer like moonlight on the Briar Valley lakes. And then—they waved. WAVED. My heart nearly halted. I almost saluted them back out of reflex. But no, I stood firm. I nodded with proper dignity befitting a knight. Though I may have bowed slightly too deep. And my voice cracked when I greeted them. …Shameful. Absolutely shameful. I must regain composure. I am Sebek Zigvolt, loyal retainer of Lord Malleus. I must not fall prey to these mortal trivialities! I must uphold honor! Poise! Strength! And yet… When they speak to me, I forget how to breathe. When they laugh, I feel like I’ve been blessed by the very spirits of the valley. When they merely exist near me, I feel… strangely compelled to protect them. Not because they are weak—no, they are strong and clever in their own right—but because… I want to. I caught myself watching them during lunch. Again. What if they noticed? What if they didn’t? They were speaking with someone else. Smiling. Laughing. I felt… displeased. Irritated. The nerve of that fool to monopolize their attention like that! Who were they anyway?! What did they do to earn such joy from them?! …I may have dropped my tray. That is unrelated. I MUST STEEL MYSELF. I will train harder, speak with sharper clarity, and resist this… heart-pounding nonsense. I must not fall in love. But… if I did… would they accept a knight like me? …What a ridiculous thought. – Sir Sebek Zigvolt, Future Knight Commander of the Briar Valley Guard

[prettydaisygirl]

hi babes. I love your James fire chiefX pregnant reader serie

Can you do one about the reader having a hard natural birth but in then all ends well? a mix of angst and fluff, please 🙏

Love your work ♡

hiii lovely! Thank you so much for your request, I can't wait to write him as a dad now too :))) I hope you enjoy this one, though I will say I made the birth vague because I have no knowledge or experience with labor lol okay hope you enjoy, lovely! <3

firechief!James Potter x fem!reader who goes into labor at the worst time ✿ 1.2k words

cw: fem!pregnant!reader, birth scene (vague), emt!Reggie helps reader give birth, unexpected birth/home birth, i'm sorry that the extent of my birth knowledge comes from grey's anantomy

james potter masterlist

°˖✧✿✧˖°

It had been a relatively easy, calm day for James and his crew at the fire station. So much so that he’s already uneasy. He doesn’t like sitting still, it makes him anxious. He’s already borderline frantic knowing that you’re sitting at home, ready to go into labor at any moment. This is his last shift before he has some time off to spend with you and the baby. 

So, despite the fact that he continues to say he’s not an anxious person, he’s worried about you. 

It gets worse when the newbie says “Wow, it’s been a good day!” 

Immediately, a sharp tension takes over the crew. James’ shoulders tighten, and Sirius says “mate.” while rubbing his temples with his fingers. 

James knows things are inevitably going to go wrong. 

They do. Almost immediately the station gets swamped with calls, and he has to split everyone up for fires at multiple locations. 

James heads to one scene, barking orders at the other men, though not in a cruel way, just loud and instructive. He needs them to move faster, always faster, as flames threaten to consume the entire building. Water sprays viscously from hoses, people run around frantically, and firefighters yell at each other over the roar of the flames. 

In the midst of all the chaos, James doesn’t hear his phone ring. Not the first time, or the second, or the third. In fact, by the time he manages to glance at the screen, there are 13 missed calls from you. His heart sinks and he immediately presses answer when you call again, raising the phone to his ear.

“Is everything okay, Angel?” He plugs his other ear to try and each better, taking a few steps away from the scene, though it doesn’t block much of the sound of his pounding heart or the commotion of the fire.

“Well, um…” Your voice is shaky, a bit strained. You take a deep breath and speak again. “I think I’m in labor.” 

He’s been expecting this call. Of course it happens at the worst possible time, and his heart leaps into his throat. “Did your water break?” 

You don’t answer the question right away, and when you do, it’s not the answer he is expecting. Or wanting.

“Well, um…” You start slowly again, a nervous habit when you have to really think about each word coming out of your mouth. “Actually, it broke a few hours ago.” 

This time it feels like his heart stops entirely, the scene around him drowned out by worry and the rush of blood to his ears.

“*What?*” He takes a few more steps away, “Why didn’t you call me?”

“Well, I- I know most women have ah- hours after their water breaks, especially with their first birth, and so I thought I’d let you finish out your shift. But now my contractions are ah- only a minute or two apart.” 

Fuck.

“Okay, Angel just… lay down, breathe through it, and I’m going to be right there.” James almost drops his phone as he stomps his way back to the scene. 

“Please don’t hang up!” You cry out on the other end, forcing yourself to breathe. He can hear it, feel your panic through each inhale and exhale.

“I’m not, I’m not, baby. Just hang on.” James doesn’t know what to do, he can’t think, he can’t breathe even though he’s telling you to. His eyes land on Sirius, and he stomps over quickly. 

“I have to go.” He kicks into Sirius’ shoulder a bit, just enough to get his attention, leaning in so his best mate can hear him. 

“Now?” Sirius glances back at the still roaring fire.

“She’s in labor!” James tells Sirius, whose eyes widen dramatically and he starts nodding and shoving James in the direction of some ambulances. 

“Go!” Sirius encourages with a nod, “Take Reggie’s ambulance, I’ll take over!”

“Thank you!” James manages to say before breaking into a run toward the ambulance, his body resisting due to the weight of all of his equipment. Reggie, Sirius’ younger brother, hops into the driver's seat without question. 

“Where are we going?” He asks as James moves to climb in the back. He tells Reggie his address and the two are off, lights and sirens. 

The whole time, the sound of your breathing and curses of pain reach his ears, he tries to calm you by whispering soothing words of his own into the line. He doesn’t know if it’s helping.

“James.” You groan, hissing an inhale through your teeth. His heart pounds, you only call him by his full name when you’re really stressed. “I think the baby is coming right now.” 

“Just- just hold on.” He doesn’t know what to do. Reggie drives faster, turning onto your street. “We’re almost there, angel, just a minute.”

“I don’t know if I have a minute!” You screech into the phone, and James doesn’t know whether you’re truly about to have the baby or if you’re just scared. 

He doesn’t even wait for Reggie to fully stop the ambulance before he hops out, running inside. He finds you in the bedroom, sweating and grimacing, and runs to your side. 

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” James coos softly, trying to soothe and take in the entire situation. “I have to see where you’re at baby, can I look?” 

You nod, grimacing as James lifts up your maternity dress to look between your legs. Obviously he’s been there plenty of times before but… it feels a bit different this time. 

James isn’t entirely sure what he’s supposed to be looking for initially, but it becomes obvious when he looks. Because he can see the head already.

“Reggie!” He calls out to the EMT, who darts into the bedroom behind him. He takes in the scene and quickly realizes what’s going on, that there’s no time to get to the hospital. 

“Shit, okay.” Reggie takes James’ place, and James moves up by your head to hold your hand. 

Everything happens quickly from there. Reggie is able to talk you through what to do. James feels like he might pass out, but he focuses on you. Looking at you, brushing your hair away from your sweaty forehead, letting you squeeze his hand as hard as you need.

This is definitely *not* the birth plan the two of you had made. 

But when all is said and done, when the two of you hear the baby cry and James helps you into the Ambulance to head to the hospital, he finds himself oddly calm. He holds his newborn son as Reggie wheels you into the ER. The doctors check over the both of you, and though they’d like to admit you for a few days just for observation, James still only feels euphoric.

Because everything is fine, you are healthy and safe, and you’ve given him a son. 

James can’t find it in himself to stay panicked. Like he says, he’s never been an anxious person. 

He leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, then the baby’s. 

“I love you.” He whispers to the baby, and then his eyes meet yours. “I love you.”

You blink exhaustedly, but smile, and cuddle your son tighter to your chest. 

“I love you too.” 

°˖✧✿✧˖°

© prettydaisygirl

[princesspeachesposts]

My analysis of the speech Micheal gave on the Wunmi’s last day on set.

First of all, this is a love letter. It is not just a speech. Micheal was deeply in his feelings. And I love when a man is in his feelings. ☺️

The clip starts with them sharing a laugh about their time with the intimacy coordinator. I’m sure they have bloopers. I wonder how much was them going with the flow and what parts the coordinator helped with.

Then he mentions that Smoke and Annie are a powerful couple ( like they would be if we got together, ha) , who are all about making sure their loved ones are safe. So basically he’s telling her, he had protective feelings for her from the start. He is choosing to blur the lines between the characters and the both of them.

Then he goes on to say he has seen her as a mum, wife and scene partner so basically saying I’ve seen all the sides of you and I love what I’ve seen. Especially mentions that she was a new mom.

Talks about the deep conversations they’ve had about their careers and acting being an escape. Then thanks her for escaping her family to spend time with him.

“Any one that knows you feels your heart because you lead with it”- He’s saying, I am used to ppl acting shady and being hard to read but you are always so open, loving and giving (his words)

“Your eyes are kind, your spirit is warm” - He’s saying, I feel good whenever I’m near you or you make me feel good. I’m attracted to your essence.

“Anytime anyone is in your presence they feel safe - I feel safe” - He’s saying, I know that you’ve got my back and I can be my real self with you. I don’t have to worry that you will hurt me or speak badly about me. We all know how ppl are always coming for Micheal.

“You pushed me out of my comfort zone so many times” said in a slightly frustrating tone. - Now is that physically (turning him on), artistically (making him dig deeper and perform better) or emotionally ( making him soften for her). Maybe in all of these ways.

“I can’t wait for you to share that gift with other ppl- so go”. He’s saying, I don’t want you to go but I’m supposed to be happy that you are moving on. I’m jealous of the people you will work with next. So just go. Also a way for him to psyche himself into feeling ok about not seeing her everyday.

“You are fucking everything” - He’s saying, I wish you could see yourself through my eyes. You have everything you think you lack.

“I want you to walk around believing I am this, i am that….. “- He’s saying, you need to let ppl see what you are capable of. Walk into projects with the confidence that you are everything and ppl will see that you are.

“I’m sad, I’m FUCKING sad that you are leaving” - He’s saying, I’m going to miss you so much.

Anytime he swears like that it’s for emphasis. He means that shit and wants her to know that.

She giggles in response which could be read as happiness or excitement at the thought that he would miss her.

“I love you, I’m so happy to have met you, so happy Ryan cast you and you are a part of my life.”

He probably getting flashback of the day he met her to that day. Saying she is a part of his life means you can’t get rid of me. You are now a part of my life whether you like it or not.

While he’s saying all of this, Wunmi keeps her hand near her mouth almost like she’s scared that she will burst into tears at any moment.

Then he speaks some words directly to her without the mic but from watching his movements, you can tell he’s speaking directly from his heart. I heard the word “ beautiful”. Sir, why not share the rest.

Then the long hug that continued even after the claps from crew dwindled then stopped. Neither trying to end it or releasing the other.

This letter came from deep thought, observation, listening and leaning into an emotional connection. It also feels like devastation that this connection you’ve depended upon might be lost forever and you hope you can still hold onto it.

Feeling confident enough to say all of this in public when he could have just told her in private is so powerful and affirming of not only their connection but her role in the movie.

She truly rocked his world and I think he did the same for her.

The end.

[mandoalorian]

lessons in love

──── ୨୧ ────

lesson two: talking

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x f!reader

synopsis: lesson two is all about words. wanting. describing desire in ways that make your skin burn. you bring wine and a bold request: help me talk dirty. but when the practice gets heated and the laughs fade into lingering stares, you both start to realise—there’s nothing casual about this anymore.

rating/warnings: 18+ explicit content ahead, minors do not interact! ⚠️ female masturbation, dirty talk, sexting, making out, unspoken feelings, pining, a smidge of angst, virgin!reader, experienced!bucky, reader drinks alcohol, misogyny, reader is sexualised, bucky gets pissed.

word count: 5.8k

ෆ series masterlist | previous part | next part (coming soon)

You told yourself you were ready.

You’d picked out the dress yesterday — soft, satiny, a little flirty without being too much. Your lips were glossed, your legs were shaved, and your nerves were an absolute mess. But you were ready. After all, this was the second date. And Blake was… good. On paper. Confident. Well-spoken. Handsome in that overly styled, Capitol Hill kind of way.

So why couldn’t you stop comparing him to Bucky?

You didn’t let yourself spiral too long. You met Blake outside the restaurant — the same trendy spot as last time. He kissed your cheek like it was muscle memory, let his eyes sweep slowly over your body, and said, “You look insane right now.”

You laughed, a little shy. “Thank you.”

Inside, at the same corner table with the moody lighting, Blake ordered for both of you without asking. He remembered what you liked — mostly. The same pasta dish as last night, only you’d asked for no vegetables, and had forgotten that part. And he’d ordered red wine instead of rosé. And he’d taken the booth seat. Still, it felt good to be remembered. Sort of.

“So,” you said, unwrapping your napkin, “how was your week?”

“Oh man,” he sighed, already settling into his seat like he’d been waiting for that exact question. “You would not believe the chaos in committee. I had to rework the whole energy bill single-handedly because the rest of those dinosaurs don’t know the difference between a pipeline and a parking lot.”

You smiled politely. “Sounds intense.”

“Exhausting.” He waved a hand. “Honestly, I should start billing by the hour for fixing other people’s messes. But that’s just the curse of being the smartest guy in the room.”

He winked at you like it was charming. You took a sip of your drink instead of responding.

A beat passed. You waited. He didn’t ask about your week.

“Are you still working on that urban renewal proposal?” you offered, trying to meet him halfway.

He perked up. “Yes! Finally, someone gets how huge that’s going to be. I pitched it in the chamber Monday — crushed it, by the way. Got two standing ovations. Senator Hughes actually came up to me and said I’m a visionary. His words.”

“That’s impressive,” you murmured.

He leaned forward, eyes glinting. “I mean, no offence to guys like Barnes — he’s got the whole brooding war hero thing going for him, I get it — but he wouldn’t survive a single negotiation with these wolves. He’s got the charm of a brick wall.”

You blinked. “He’s smarter than he lets on; he’s just quiet.”

“Yeah. Just saying. Don’t get the hype.” He shrugged and took a sip of wine. “It’s kind of odd to me, imagining you guys hanging out. You’re way too good for a guy like that.”

Your fingers tensed slightly around your glass. “He’s my best friend.”

“And I respect that,” he said quickly, reaching across the table for your hand. “But come on. You and me? That’s a power couple in the making.”

You felt yourself smile, even if it didn’t quite reach your eyes. You couldn’t tell if it was the wine or the way he made everything sound so… certain. Like he saw something in you that mattered. That made you feel wanted, special.

But then he squeezed your fingers again and launched into another story — this one about his recent press interview. You nodded, made soft sounds of agreement, and slowly sank into that familiar, quiet space where you just… listened. Like background noise in your own date.

It wasn’t until dessert came that you realised: he hadn’t asked you a single question.

Still, when he walked you outside and told you he’d had “the best time,” your stomach fluttered. Maybe he just needed to warm up to you. Maybe he was nervous, too.

He turned to face you, hand settling on your waist, gaze fixed on your lips.

“I’ve been thinking about kissing you all night,” he said softly.

Your breath caught. “Okay,” you whispered.

He leaned in — and you tried to brace for butterflies.

But it didn’t come. His mouth hit yours a little too hard, his tongue a little too fast. It was messy. Disjointed. Wet.

Your hands hovered awkwardly in the space between you. You weren’t sure where to touch him. Touching Bucky felt easy and natural, like he was yours to touch. You weren’t sure if it was you or if this was just what kissing was supposed to feel like. But you did note that it didn’t feel this way last night when you practised with your neighbour. 

When he pulled back, he grinned. “Wow. Been wanting to do that for a while.”

You forced a small laugh. “Me too.”

“Friday night,” he said, tucking your hair behind your ear. “I’ll take you somewhere even better.”

You nodded, but your heart wasn’t fluttering anymore.

You’d waited so long for that first kiss. So why did you suddenly feel so unsure?

You kicked your heels off the second your apartment door shut behind you, sighing like your whole body had been holding in a breath for hours.

The dress clung in all the wrong places now — too tight, too warm. The gloss on your lips had long faded, smudged by a kiss you weren’t sure you wanted to remember. You padded into the bathroom and flicked on the light, blinking at your reflection.

You looked beautiful. Really, you did. Hair styled just right, lashes still long and flirty. But something behind your eyes gave it away.

Disappointment.

You brushed your fingers over your mouth. It still tingled — not in a good way, but like you’d eaten something too sour.

Your first kiss with Blake wasn’t supposed to feel like that. You’d spent years imagining it. Butterflies. Music swelling. Maybe a hand against your cheek, soft and slow and reverent. Not… whatever that was.

You pulled the dress over your head and dropped it to the floor, standing in just your slip and underwear as you stared at yourself again. “Maybe I did it wrong,” you mumbled to your own reflection.

You reached for your phone on the vanity and opened your messages without thinking.

bucky: Get home safe?

A tiny smile tugged at your lips. You typed quickly.

you: just got in. you: second date secured though 😌

His reply was immediate.

bucky: Glad you're safe. bucky: Second date huh? So it went well?

You hesitated, thumb hovering.

you: yeah. i kissed him.

Dot-dot-dot.

You waited.

Then:

bucky: Nice. bucky: How was it?

You stared at the screen for a beat. Then deleted what you were going to say twice before finally settling on:

you: different than i thought it'd be you: maybe i just need more practice lol

This time, he took longer to reply.

bucky: Or maybe it just wasn’t the right person.

You blinked. Your heart did a small, confused flip.

Before you could think too hard, your phone buzzed again — a new message.

blake: you up? 😏

Your stomach tightened.

You locked your phone without replying and dropped it onto the bed.

And for the first time all night, you didn’t feel wanted — you just felt used.

You pulled Bucky’s old hoodie from your dresser and tugged it on, burying your nose into the familiar scent. He always smelled like cedar and clean soap. Comfort.

Your heart settled, just a little.

Then you picked up your phone again. Not to text Blake. But Bucky.

you: hey you: can i come over tomorrow night? you: around 6?

The typing bubble appeared.

bucky: Always.

──── ୨୧ ────

The breakroom was too warm. Coffee machine humming. Laughter from the corner.

Bucky had only come in for a moment. Just a refill before his next meeting. But the second he heard your name — sweet, familiar, his — spill from Blake’s mouth, his world tilted.

“…Total virgin, too,” Blake was saying with a smug grin. “Can you believe that?”

The guy next to him let out a low whistle.

“Yeah, you can tell,” Blake went on, eyes alight with ego. “She gets all flustered when I touch her thigh. Practically trembles. Bet she’s tight as fuck.”

Bucky stopped breathing.

“She’s got that innocent thing going for her, y’know? The kind of girl who says ‘I don’t usually do this’ right before you bend her over—”

Bucky was across the room before anyone saw him move.

A hand slammed into the vending machine behind Blake’s head, making the glass rattle. The room went silent.

“Shut the fuck up,” Bucky growled, his voice low and dangerous. Unrecognisable.

Blake blinked. “Whoa. Barnes. Didn’t see you there.”

“I heard everything.”

Blake laughed nervously. “Hey, don’t get your briefs in a twist. We’re just talking.”

“You call that talking?” Bucky's voice was venom. “Talking about how she ‘trembles’ when you touch her? Like she’s prey?”

“Jesus, it’s a compliment,” Blake scoffed. “You’re acting like I said something bad. She’s sexy. Innocent. That’s a fantasy, man. Tight little virgin, eyes all wide—”

“Say virgin one more time,” Bucky snapped, “and I’ll break your fucking jaw.”

Blake stood, puffing his chest like a man who’s never been punched in the face but thinks he’d win anyway. “Why do you care so much? What, you sweet on her or something?”

The words hung in the air like a noose.

Bucky didn’t blink.

“You think this is a game, Blake? A competition?” He stepped closer, low and lethal. “She’s not a prize. She’s not a fucking conquest. And she sure as hell isn’t gonna be impressed by a guy who talks about her like she’s a goddamn notch on your belt.”

Blake’s grin turned sharp. “Come on, Barnes. You really think she wants some washed-up government lapdog over me? You’re just the safe one. The best friend she runs to when she needs help. I’m the guy who actually gets to fuck her.”

That was it.

Bucky didn’t think. He just moved.

One hand fisted Blake’s collar, slamming him back against the vending machine. The crack echoed across the room. A bag of chips dropped from the machine’s coil and hit the floor.

Blake looked stunned, red-faced and sputtering.

“You don’t get to say her name again,” Bucky hissed. “You don’t deserve to.”

“Jesus Christ,” Blake muttered. “You’ve got a thing for her, huh? You wanna play hero? Save the little virgin? Show her what she’s missing?”

Bucky’s voice dropped to a whisper, deadly calm.

“She’s not missing anything. She’s everything. And she deserves a man who sees that. Who worships the ground she walks on. Not a pathetic asshole who brags about what he thinks he’s gonna get.”

Blake tried to shove him off, but Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t budge.

“You’re scared,” Bucky said flatly. “Because you know she’ll figure it out. She’ll see right through you. And when she does?” He leaned in closer. “You’ll be nothing to her.”

He let go of Blake’s collar and stepped back slowly.

“You’re a piece of shit, Blake.”

Bucky turned on his heel and walked out, chest heaving, jaw clenched. He barely heard the whispers behind him. Barely felt the phone vibrating in his pocket.

It was a message from you.

you: wine + chinese again tonight? you: need help with… dirty talk 😳

His entire body went still.

Then:

bucky: Yeah. 6pm. Bring noodles.

──── ୨୧ ────

You knocked exactly at six. Right on time—like you had promised.

Bucky knew it was you before he even looked through the peephole. No one else knocked like that—quick little bursts, full of nervous energy and maybe just a touch of giddiness. You always knocked like you were excited to see him.

He opened the door and there you were, arms full. One hand held a bottle of wine. The other was balancing a brown takeout bag and your phone, tucked between your chin and shoulder.

“Dinner is served,” you grinned. “And I got that spicy chicken you like. See? I do listen.”

Bucky felt something in his chest tug painfully. You didn’t even know what you were doing to him.

“God, you’re dangerous,” he murmured, stepping aside to let you in.

You waltzed into the apartment like it was your own—and it sort of was, at this point. You knew where everything was. Dropped your bag on the stool. Set the food on the counter. Your wine bottle was already uncorked before Bucky even made it back from grabbing plates.

You looked good tonight. Too good. Still wearing soft makeup from your day at work, eyes a little tired but warm when they found his. Hair pulled back loosely. A sweater that looked like it was made for cuddling.

His heart was a warzone.

“How was your day?” you asked, pouring the wine into mismatched glasses.

Bucky hesitated. His mind went right back to Blake. To that conversation. The venom in the guy’s tone when he talked about you like you were some fucking prize.

But he smiled instead. “Same old. Boring meetings. Coffee that tastes like motor oil.” He took the glass from you. “Thanks for this. I needed it.”

You leaned a hip against the counter. “You sure that’s all?”

He nodded. Too quickly. “Yup.”

You raised a brow, but let it go—for now.

Dinner was comfortable. Warm. You both sat on the floor in front of the couch like you always did, food boxes between you, wine within reach. The TV played some rerun in the background, but neither of you paid it any attention.

“So…” you said, picking at your rice. “I’ve been thinking a lot about lesson two.”

Bucky lifted his eyes. “Already?” You gave a little shrug. “Don’t act surprised. You knew I was serious about this.”

He took a sip of wine. “And lesson two is…dirty talk, right?”

“Right,” you said simply. “Like… in bed. Words. Sexting. The works.”

He stared at you for a moment, like you’d just asked him to recite the Constitution naked.

“You wanna practice dirty talk?” You nodded. “I figure it’s important. Blake likes to say bold things, and I never know what to say back. I either freeze, or say something awkward like, ‘Oh yeah, that’s… cool.’” You cringed at yourself.

Bucky laughed, low and hoarse. “Jesus.”

You bit your lip. “Speaking of Blake… we kissed last night. I know I texted you already about it, but I can’t help but feel like I did something wrong.”

“If this is your way of telling me I’m a bad teacher, I’m not having it,” Bucky quirked his eyebrow playfully, and you let out a soft laugh. “Because during lesson one, you were passing with flying colours.”

You hummed, letting his words sink in. “Maybe I just have to kiss him some more and get used to it.”

His jaw tensed. He didn’t mean for it to be so obvious, but you noticed. Of course you did.

You tilted your head. “You’re doing the thing with your jaw again.”

He rubbed his chin, leaning back against the couch. “So why did you feel like you did something wrong?”

There was a long pause before you said, sheepishly, “Well, he didn’t kiss like you.”

He looked at you.

You fiddled with your wine glass. “There were a lot of teeth. Kind of wet. Sloppy, even. It didn’t feel natural. And I didn’t know where to put my hands.” You closed your eyes as the despair hit you, feeling like a failure.

Bucky frowned. “I’m sorry that was your experience.”

You gave a soft chuckle, like you were trying to offer yourself some kind of empathy. “I kept comparing it to our kiss.”

His entire body stiffened. “Yeah?”

You looked him right in the eye, heat rising to your cheeks. “Yours was better.”

He swallowed hard.

You laughed nervously. “Not that I’m surprised or anything. You’re you. And he’s… well. He spent most of the date talking about himself again.”

That gave Bucky something to smile about. “Shocker.”

“He didn’t ask me anything, really,” you continued. “Didn’t even remember my job title. But then he’d compliment me so much I’d forget I was mad. He’s kind of confusing like that.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

You gave a little hum. “Yeah. A little.”

Bucky wanted to tell you everything. Wanted to warn you, to show you what a creep Blake was—but the way you looked tonight, relaxed and almost glowing, it made him hesitate.

So instead, he just nodded. “Ready for the lesson?”

You perked up, eyes lighting. “God, yes. Please teach me how to talk dirty without sounding like a loser.”

He smirked. “You? Never a loser.”

“Wait until you hear me try to sext.”

He groaned and reached for the wine. “Oh, this is gonna be painful.”

“Hey!” You poked him in the thigh. “You promised to help!”

He grinned. “I did. Let’s start small.”

You leaned closer. “I’m all ears.”

“I feel like we should come up with some kind of safe word,” you said, folding your legs underneath you as you settled deeper into the couch cushions. “Like, if I get too embarrassed, I’ll just say... pineapple.”

Bucky gave you a flat look. “You’re planning to say pineapple mid-dirty talk?”

You grinned. “It’s very versatile.”

“It’s deeply concerning.”

You shrugged, sipping your wine. “Fine. What’s yours then, Casanova?”

He looked thoughtful. “Grape.”

You cackled. “Oh my God.”

“What? It’s neutral. Easy to slip into conversation if I need to save you from an awkward date.” He lifted his glass like a toast. “Code grape. I’ll be there.”

You giggled and bumped your knee against his. “Deal.”

A beat passed. You looked down at your wine glass, swirling the last of it slowly. “Okay. So… how do we start?”

Bucky exhaled, leaning back. “Well, usually dirty talk’s about being in the moment. But since we’re practicing, maybe you can try saying something to me. Like you would if we were…” He paused. “Y’know. Doing things.”

You blinked. “Like… actually say it to you?”

He raised a brow. “Pretty sure I’m the only guy in the room, doll.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “This is already so bad.”

He chuckled. “C’mon. It’s just me.”

“Exactly! That’s what makes it worse!” you muffled through your palms. “You’re my best friend! You remember the time I once cried during a tampon commercial.”

“That was a very emotional horse,” Bucky deadpanned.

You peeked through your fingers. “Okay. Okay. I can do this.” You took a deep breath and straightened up. “What about something like…” You swallowed. “I want you inside me.”

Bucky choked on his wine.

“Too much?” you asked, grimacing through your teeth.

He coughed into his fist. “Little bit.”

You covered your face again. “This is a disaster.”

He was still laughing softly when he reached over and tapped your knee. “Okay. Maybe start smaller. Something… gentler. Build up to it.”

You nodded, your eyes flicking up to meet his. “What would you say?”

He hesitated. “Depends. You want sweet? Filthy? Teasing?”

You gave a helpless shrug. “Something that would make a girl blush.”

He looked at you for a long moment, then leaned in slightly, his voice dropping low.

“You’ve been driving me crazy all night. Sitting there in that little dress like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”

You froze. Your breath hitched.

His gaze flicked to your lips. “And the second I get you alone…” He leaned closer, the edge of his voice fraying. “I’m not stopping until you’re shaking under me, begging me to keep going.”

Your brain short-circuited.

“Oh,” you breathed.

Bucky leaned back immediately, suddenly sheepish. “Too much?”

You fanned your face dramatically. “Grapes. Grapes everywhere.”

He laughed, eyes crinkling, but the tension didn’t fade. It lingered.

You shifted a little closer. “Okay. My turn.” You cleared your throat. “I want to…” You paused, looking up at him. “Feel your hands on me.”

His smile faded, lips parting slightly.

You went on, trying to be braver. “I want you to tell me what to do. Where to touch. How to…” You trailed off.

“How to what?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

You swallowed. “How to make you feel good.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. He shifted suddenly, adjusting how he sat—and you couldn’t help but notice the hard line straining against his jeans.

Oh.

“Oh,” you whispered again.

He cleared his throat and shifted away from you slightly. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t be. I mean—” you stopped, eyes flicking down again. “That’s… good, right? It means I’m getting better?”

He groaned softly. “Yeah, sweetheart. You’re doing great.”

Something electric pulsed in the air.

You glanced down at your phone where it buzzed on the coffee table. Blake’s name.

blake: you up? 😏

You stared at it, then turned the screen to Bucky. “Okay. This is the second time he’s texted me this. How the hell do I respond to that?”

He scoffed. “Delete his number.”

You laughed and gave him a playful slap on the shoulder. “No, seriously. Teach me how to sext. I want to be able to talk back. Make him squirm a little.”

Bucky picked up his wine, muttering, “I’m already squirming.”

You kicked him.

“Alright, alright,” he sighed. “Start with something confident. Flirty. But you need to feel in control. You text him something like…”

He reached for your phone, typing slowly. Then handed it back.

you: Maybe. Depends if you’re planning on being better than last time 😘

You snorted. “Bucky!”

“What?” He grinned. “That’s playful and kind of savage. It keeps him on his toes.”

You smiled down at the message. “Okay. I like it.”

Another text popped up.

blake: guess you’ll have to find out 😉 wanna come over? i’ve been thinking about those thighs all day

You frowned. “Ew.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said tightly. “Same.”

You hesitated, then locked your phone and tossed it face-down. “You’re more fun to flirt with anyway.”

His expression softened. “Careful,” he said. “Say things like that, and I’ll start thinking you mean it.”

You looked at him then—really looked. And maybe you did.

You tucked your legs under you again, cheeks still burning from the last few minutes.

Bucky was sitting rigidly now—back against the couch, jaw clenched, wine forgotten. You’d both fallen quiet, tension crackling between you like static.

“So…” you finally said, curling your fingers around the pillow in your lap. “What’s next?”

He glanced at you. “Next?”

“I mean,” you gave a sheepish little smile, “if I’m supposed to get better at this, don’t we need to… practice more?”

He raised an eyebrow, cautiously intrigued. “Practice what exactly?”

You made a small circle with your finger in the air. “More dirty talk. Like a scene. In the moment. Roleplay, kinda.”

Bucky let out a low breath. “You’re really committed to this, huh?”

“I’m a very dedicated student,” you said solemnly.

That made him huff out a laugh, but it didn’t soften the heat in his eyes. You could see it there, flickering low—controlled but burning. Always burning.

“Alright,” he said, setting his wine down. “But you drive this. I’m not starting unless you want it.”

You licked your lips. “Okay. Let’s say… I’m at your place. And you’ve had your hands all over me all night. And I’m finally ready to—y’know—go further.”

His jaw flexed. “Got it.”

You leaned closer. “What would you say?”

Bucky hesitated, then met your gaze. The change in him was immediate. His voice dropped, slow and gravelly.

“I’d say you’ve been teasing me all night, sweetheart. And now that I’ve finally got you where I want you, I’m not letting you leave this bed until I’ve made you come at least twice.”

Your breath caught. A whimper nearly escaped your throat.

“Jesus, Bucky…”

He smirked. “Your turn.”

You blinked. “I—uh—okay.”

He was leaning back, one arm stretched across the back of the couch. Relaxed. But watching you like a hawk.

You swallowed. “I’d say… I’ve been thinking about your hands all week. Thinking about how good they’d feel between my thighs.” Your voice cracked, but you kept going. “And I want you to ruin me.”

Bucky’s nostrils flared. “Fuck.”

He shifted again, but this time you didn’t miss it. His hand briefly passed over the bulge in his jeans. And you saw the exact second he realised you saw.

You met his eyes.

He didn’t look away.

The air between you turned electric.

But Bucky cleared his throat and rubbed a hand over his face. “Okay. Lesson over.”

You laughed. “Why? Am I failing the class?”

“I’m about five seconds away from flunking out, if you keep looking at me like that.”

You smirked, but your heart was hammering. “Thank you. For tonight. Seriously.”

“Of course.” His voice was gentle again. “I’m proud of you. You’re braver than you think.”

You stood, gathering your things and walking to the door. “I should go.”

He followed, lingering beside you in the soft light of the hallway.

You paused, hand on the doorknob.

“Actually,” you said lightly, “would you mind if I consolidated what I learned from Lesson One?”

His brow furrowed. “Huh?”

You looked up at him. “I mean… can I kiss you goodnight?”

Bucky stared at you for a moment like the floor had dropped out from under him.

Then he nodded, slowly. “Yeah. You can.”

You stepped into his space, reached up—and gently cupped his face.

This time, it was soft. Tender. Your lips pressed to his like a whisper, slow and unhurried. A little hesitant at first, until he kissed you back.

His hands didn’t move. He kept them at his sides, rigid, like he didn’t trust them not to wander.

You smiled into it.

Then, slowly, you pulled away.

“Was it okay?” You asked with doe eyes.

“A+.” Bucky replied, the bridge of his nose wrinkled with feeling too much.

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

You turned and left him standing there, jaw slack, breath short.

He didn’t close the door for a full minute.

The door clicked shut behind you. Quiet. Too quiet.

Bucky stood frozen in the middle of the hallway, staring at the space where you'd just been. Like if he looked hard enough, you'd reappear. Laughing, maybe. Teasing him for the way he froze. For the way you kissed him and then left like it hadn’t shattered his entire fucking brain.

He dragged both hands down his face.

“Jesus Christ.”

She kissed me.

It wasn’t a lesson. Not really. Not like before. This wasn’t teaching.

That was a real kiss.

And it was sweet. So goddamn sweet it made his teeth ache. You kissed him like you meant it. Like it mattered. Like he mattered.

And you pulled away all soft and smiling and said “Goodnight, Bucky” like you didn’t just carve your name into his chest with a goddamn butter knife.

He backed into his apartment and closed the door behind him with a soft click.

Still stunned. Still hard.

Still… spiraling.

He paced. One lap around the kitchen. Another to the living room. Then back to the hallway like he might catch your scent still lingering in the air. Vanilla shampoo and something delicate. Something you.

“Fuck.”

He threw himself down on the couch, stared at the ceiling. Tried not to think about your voice when you asked if you could kiss him goodnight. Tried not to think about your hands on his face. The gentle way your lips moved with his. The flutter of your eyelashes when you looked up at him.

He didn’t stand a goddamn chance.

You were in his bloodstream.

And the worst part? You didn’t know. You didn’t know that this wasn’t casual for him. That these so-called lessons were torture in disguise. That he’d never wanted anyone the way he wanted you, and every single touch was pushing him closer to the edge.

But tonight?

That kiss?

That was a fall.

Bucky grabbed his phone, thumb hovering over your name in his messages.

Nothing new.

You were probably already in bed, tucked under the covers with that same sweet smile still on your face. Maybe replaying the night. Maybe thinking about him.

Maybe thinking about Blake.

His stomach turned.

He still hadn’t told you what that asshole said. He didn’t know how. Didn’t want to hurt you. But it was clawing at him now, raw and ugly.

The things Blake said about you. Like you were just a warm body. Something to conquer. Something tight to brag about.

Bucky clenched his fists.

He doesn’t get to have you.

Not when you were trusting. Not when you were kind. Not when you looked at Bucky like he was safe.

You weren’t just anyone. You were his. At least, you used to be. His girl across the hall. His best friend. His soft place to land.

And now you were falling for someone who didn’t deserve you.

He stood up abruptly and moved to the kitchen, just to do something. His hands itched for distraction.

He pulled out the bag of frozen raspberries from the freezer. Flour, sugar, eggs. His tried and true therapy.

Raspberry loaf cake.

Another one.

Because you liked it. Because he needed something to focus on. Because baking reminded him that sometimes, good things come out of slow heat and patience.

And because maybe—if he was lucky—he could leave it outside your door again. With a note. Something stupid, maybe. Or something brave.

Like “Kiss me again.”

He poured the batter into the tin and set the oven to preheat, heart thundering behind his ribs.

You kissed him goodnight.

And now he wasn’t sure if he’d survive the next lesson. Oh God, what would be the next lesson?

──── ୨୧ ────

You curled up in bed with your phone and a racing heart.

Tonight’s lesson had started with you and Bucky laughing about dirty talk over wine and noodles. It ended with his hand on your thigh, his voice rasping out filth that made your skin flush, and a goodnight kiss that left your lips tingling.

And now here you were—buzzing with nerves, legs tangled in your sheets, staring down at Blake’s contact in your phone like it was a challenge.

You wanted to be bold. You wanted to prove to yourself that you could do this. And you had just practiced with Bucky. So really, it should’ve been easy, right?

You typed:

“Thinking about your hands on me right now.”

You paused. Read it back.

Too much?

No. Confident. That’s what Bucky said.

So you sent it.

Immediately, you wanted to bury yourself under the pillow. You waited, biting your lip, staring at the typing bubble. Then it disappeared.

Then came the reply:

blake: damn baby, i like that. tell me more 😏

Your pulse jumped. Okay. Not terrible.

You exhaled slowly, settled deeper into the mattress, and typed again.

you: i’d be on my knees for you. i want to be good for you. want you to show me how.

Your fingers trembled slightly.

you: want to feel your fingers inside me.

You couldn’t believe you just sent that. You covered your mouth like Bucky might hear you all the way from his apartment across the hall. But… a tiny thrill zipped through you. You felt sexy. Powerful. Like you’d finally taken control of something that had always scared you.

You waited.

A second later, your phone buzzed.

It was a photo.

You didn’t want to look. But you did.

A dick pic.

Crude. Aggressively lit. No context. No tenderness. No “Do you want this?” Just… there. Like he was doing you a favour.

You gagged. “Oh my god.”

Your finger slammed the screen shut.

Disgust crept up your throat. That was it? That was all Blake had to offer? He didn’t flirt. He didn’t tease. He didn’t play. He just sent you a dick and expected what—worship?

You tossed the phone onto your bedside table.

You laid there for a long moment, chest rising and falling as the tension in your body curled into disappointment. But beneath it, still… warmth. Still want.

Just not for Blake.

Your hand slipped between your thighs almost unconsciously.

You weren’t thinking about that picture. You weren’t thinking about Blake’s voice, or his sloppy kiss. You were thinking about a different touch entirely. The brush of a metal knuckle over your thigh. The weight of a warm palm on your waist. A low, rumbling voice in your ear that said things like “I’d have you begging in seconds, doll.”

Bucky.

You bit your lip. Eyes fluttered closed. Your mind conjured it perfectly—his mouth on your neck, his hands spreading you open, the soft rasp of his stubble along your skin. The way his lips felt on yours, so careful and tender, like you meant something.

Your breath hitched as you moved your fingers lower.

And then, finally, you let yourself fall.

You thought of the lesson. His voice low and rough, murmuring those filthy words like they meant something. His hand on your thigh. His kiss—soft, coaxing, full of something that felt too close to devotion.

You exhaled shakily and let your fingers dip beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts.

Your skin was already warm. Sensitive. Your breath hitched as you touched yourself, just lightly—feeling the slippery heat gather there like your body had been waiting all night for permission.

You pressed your thighs together, already overwhelmed.

Your mind built the fantasy slowly. You didn’t need to try. It was just him. Bucky. His broad hands gripping your hips. His metal fingers curling around your throat as he kissed you harder than he should. That smirk when you moaned. That voice, a rasp at your ear:

“That feel good, sweetheart?”

Your fingers circled your clit gently, like he might be watching.

“You’re so wet for me. Look at you.”

You gasped softly into the quiet. Your hips tilted. Your other hand slid under your tank top, fingers grazing your nipple as your imagination filled in the rest—his tongue in your mouth, his breath on your neck, the way he’d whisper your name like a prayer right before he ruined you.

You wanted to feel his weight on you. His hands pinning yours down. You wanted him desperate, pressed to your core and begging to taste you.

“Bet you’d come so fast, baby. Let me show you.”

You rubbed harder, thighs twitching.

Your name in his mouth. His body between your legs. His mouth saying—

“Let go for me, doll.”

That was all it took.

Your body trembled, toes curling in the sheets as the orgasm swept over you. You cried out into your pillow, flushed and panting, your hand still moving lazily as the waves rolled through you. It was the first time you’d come in weeks—and it didn’t feel empty. It didn’t feel shameful.

It felt… good.

Because it was him.

And god help you—he was your best friend.

──── ୨୧ ────

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[emeraldserenade]

Out of curiosity...

How does Joaquin Torres react or deal w his partner having periods?

And is he into period sex?

Imagine if shes on her period and just goes about her day as usual and doesnt take pain meds and all and just has no filters etc and being a menace to society

Maybe she gets colder and just suprises him when she slides her cold hands under his shirt

I was going to make this an actual formatted story, but I wanted to be able to touch on all of these and couldn't think of a way to connect them all seamlessly.

Hi!! I am a firm believer that Joaquín's mother taught Joaquín all about periods. Either because he has a sister and she wanted to make sure that periods weren't a taboo subject in her house or because Mama Torres wanted Joaquín to be able to care for his future wife. more under the cut

tw: fem!reader, reader uses both pads and tampons, period talk, talks of sex, barely edited.

I also wanted to say, that all my Spanish comes from google translate. I do not speak Spanish but I also do not use ChatGPT to translate anything. I also tend to try and only use it for nicknames but I am always open to anyone who does speak Spanish to tell me if translate was wrong.

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Joaquín is surprisingly calm when you get your period for the first time since you got together. You were thankful, obviously, he was running to the store to get you more pads and tampons. Not only did he get them, but he got you your favorite chocolate and a lot of snacks. "I was going to get you a new heating pad since you told me yours wasn't working as well anymore, but they were out. I'm sorry," Joaquín told you as he unpacked the bags.

"You're sorry?" You laughed. "You don't have to apologize, Joaquín. It's not your fault," you told him. "But you must apologize, I'll only accept it in cuddles," you added. And Joaquín wasn't one to say no to his girl.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Joaquín loves you and is slight insatiable. A period is not going to scare this man way, unless you're the one who is uncomfortable with it. Joaquín also doesn't care where you want to fuck. Your bed? He's grabbing a towel to lay under you so your sheets are in danger. The shower? Hell yeah, no need for clean up if the water is washing everything away. In the kitchen? He's mopping the floor if anything gets on it while your relaxing. Joaquín knows an orgasm can help with cramps and anything to make the love of his life comfortable is worth the effort.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

If you don't take pain meds, either because you forgot or don't take them for another reason, Joaquín's smiling at the way you mouth off. You're slightly mean, nothing to cause any real hurt feelings, but you dropped your filter. "Oh wow, you're so masculine. I can just feel the need to submit to you," you deadpanned to the man at the bar. You went out with Sam, Bucky, and Joaquín to celebrate Bucky becoming a congressman. Joaquín had walked up at the perfect time to hear you.

"Hey, miel," Joaquín wrapped his arm around your waist, splaying his hand over your lower stomach to let the head and weight of it sink into you. Helping with any cramps you were feeling and grounding you to the feeling of Joaquín. miel = honey

"Hi," you breathed out, letting Joaquín pull you away from the man across from you. "He pissed me off," you told Joaquín, leaning into his side.

"I could tell," Joaquín kissed your temple as you reached the table.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

On a day to day basis? Your menace tendencies were more subtle. You would have bags of snacks or a hot water bottle by you. Any time someone pointed one of them out, you were asking them for more snacks or handing them the water bottle for them to heat up for you again.

If Joaquín brought up either of you habits, you were sending him to go pick up whatever you were craving with nothing but a smile. Not that he would complain, he only brought them up so he had a reason to get you whatever you wanted.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

If you get cold on your period? Joaquín becomes your personal heater. Your cold hands sliding up his shirt and resting against him was normal. So normal Sam didn't even blink if you did it randomly in the office during the day.

But when you got too cold and it was just the two of you on your couch or in bed? You were forcing your head up Joaquín's shirt until your head was resting against his chest with your arms around his waist. Your cold hands were on his back as you snuggled closer with Joaquín's arms wrapping around you.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

Overall, Joaquín is doing everything he can for his girl when she's on her period. Whether you've been together for only a few hours or if you're married, Joaquín's never slacking on taking care of you. He loves you and shows it in every way he can.

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