#and its hard to break that routine onces i start

[melanated-writersblock]

⋆˙⟡♡₊˚⊹.Lunch Rush.⊹˚₊♡⟡˙⋆

[CEO!Husband!Yunho x BlackFem!Exec!Reader]

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. Where you and Yunho wanted to start trying for a baby, and with a long lunch break in your schedules, you decide to pay him a visit to try your hand at conception.

content: car sex, semi-public sex, thigh riding, cloth-ripping, piv, unprotected sex (wrap it up irl pls), cowgirl, doggy, full fledged backshots, like 2 creampies?

word count: 3.4k

a/n: This fic cost me 5 FUCKING DOLLARS TO MAKE?!?!?! I had to pay to use a fake text generator, so if any of you have a site or app that I can make fake text messages FOR FREE then PLEASE let me know😭. This was self indulgent but I wanna dedicate this fic to all my fellow Hotteoks🫶🏾 And the bitches that fantasize about getting nutted in and getting it poppin’ in the back of the parking lot (in theory of course)! WwaBRiM (if you can’t tell from the fact the reader is rocking soft locs😛)

‧₊˚✩. ˚. ♡ ☁︎

To this day…you and Yunho’s BIGGEST regret in your relationship…is and ALWAYS WILL BE….agreeing to go to the christening of your friends’ 6-month old baby boy.

Everything was beautiful. The ceremony, the cathedral, the way the baby nestled into Yunho’s arms so naturally, and reached out to play with your bangles with such curiosity and wonder. It altered both of your brain chemistries, and you weren’t sure if it was for the better or not.

Your friends didn’t help either, saying things like “Parenthood would look so good on you two!” and “I can’t wait for your baby shower invitations.”.

How could they…….

After you pushed your meetings back to later in the week. After Yunho gave his team a free day when they could’ve been in the office perfecting the play-through on his new game before its release. Two very busy people with very busy work schedules, and you carved out time to come support your friends and their son, and they pay you back with…….

BABY FEVER?!?!

You and Yunho planned your futures out to a T. Go to university, get your respective degrees, join a company that you interned with, work your way up, become the boss, get married, honeymoon in The Maldives and spend your paid vacation days in The Swiss Alps.

Starting a family was definitely in there somewhere, but everything fell in line so well that it got lost. You’re at the top of your games…Yunho, figuratively and literally, with his gaming company being the best in the country and all…and you became the creative director for a top cosmetic brand. It really was all good. But it was lacking. And you both felt it. Ever since that christening.

You felt it every time one of your work partners went on maternity and paternity leave. Every time there were children in the offices on ‘Bring Your Kids to Work Day’. Every time Yunho saw posts or videos of kids around the world dressing up as characters he helped create. Every time your homegirls would send you milestones of their babies taking their first walk, or biting into a lemon for the first time. You two worked hard and accomplished everything you wanted to, everything except starting a family. It resonated for days after that christening.

For Weeks.

Months, even.

The energy around the house shifted. Yunho would steal glances at you as you did the simplest of routines, imagining your belly being round as you sip your favorite tea in the kitchen, waddling from room to room barefoot and pregnant. And you’d watch attentively as he’d play his video games, envisioning a child full of joy as he teaches them how to defeat their first villain. After a while it got to a point where neither of you would hide it. It became all too real, too wanted. And why not? What was stopping you two?

Everything was green lit once you and Yunho put it into the atmosphere and finally discussed it. You both were just about ready to start baby proofing the house and nothing even happened yet, becoming more proactive than you already were. Tracking apps were monitored, routines were tweaked, and everything seemed to be doable…but your work schedules…your jobs were the biggest obstacle. Just when could you slip away for a bit to see each other? When would be the right time to make a ba-

“Hey, I’m picking up my kid so we can go to lunch. I’ll be back in 2 hours!”

Your Editor in Chief pops their head in your office briefly before heading down the hall to the elevator, snapping you out of your rambling thoughts.

…………..Lunch Break.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

You reverse your sedan into the space next to him before hoping out and swishing towards the driver’s door, knocking softy. Your ears perk up at the sound of r&b playing and a silent laugh escapes you. The dark windows of the door lower, revealing Yunho in the driver’s seat, fully reclined with the top buttons of his shirt undone and the silver crucifix you adorned him with for your anniversary gleaming.

“For a second I thought you were backing out on me.” He smiles at you, his voice deeper than usual, evidence of a brief stolen nap. “Traffic was hell, I would’ve been here in half the time otherwise.” The door unlocks and you climb in, grazing over Yunho’s body as he adjusts the driver’s seat sitting up slightly, he grabs ahold of you to help you straddle him and closes the door back behind you. And like clockwork, you lean in, beginning your onslaught of abuse on his lips.

Snaking your hands into Yunho’s hair, he moans, deepening the kiss, his tongue dancing ever so eloquently with yours. “I missed you.” He says breathlessly between kisses, “You saw me this morning before I left boo!” You tease him, fixing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose that slid down in the midst of your passion, “That’s too long.” He pokes his lips out, and you console him with light pecks to ease his playful angst. “You’re so needy, you know that right?” “And you love me for it.”

Yunho starts to undo his shirt more, a sinister smile on the corner of his lips as he looks you over. “Come here,” You lean into him, your hand placed against his bare chest, the rock on your wedding band a flashy contrast to his skin. “Lift up for me baby.” You lift off of Yunho for a second as he helps you readjust yourself, now straddling one of his thighs. The pinstriped black skirt you wore for work today riding up your thighs. You let out a huff, immediately feeling the pressure of Yunho’s toned thigh on your bundle of nerves. Your black tights and panties not serving as any sort of buffer to the sensations. Your pussy lips spread apart feeling the course texture of his slacks. You let out a staggering sigh, reality finally setting in what you were about to do. “That’s right, you’re gonna ride me and come all over my thigh, and thennn~” Yunho begins to rock your hips back and forth on his thigh. You lurch forward, your right hand immediately planting on the interior wall of the Rover, “Damn, feels good right?” “Yeah, yes it does. Fuck.”

You place your other hand on his shoulder, stealing support as you rock onto him quicker, a few front strands of your freshly done soft locs coming undone from the high pony you put them in this morning, to his delight. Yunho enjoyed the sight of you working yourself on him, he loved how neat you looked before you climbed in the suv with him, and is obsessed with the thought of how disheveled and fucked out you’re gonna look when he’s done and you climb back out. Fuck, it’s all he’s thought about since you mentioned it in the texts. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on you, to touch you, to feel you, to fuck you, to ruin you, to caress you, to make love to you, to put a baby in you……finally.

You watch Yunho as he closes his eyes, deep in thought, mindlessly guiding your hips against him, as if he’s immediately feeling all of the pleasure that you are in that moment. You begin to rock against him quicker, an impending climax moments away. Yunho opens his eyes, watching you as your moans get louder, less polite, more shameless. You lean your head forward trying to compose yourself as much as you possibly can in this situation, and he smiles at the sight. “I’m close………..fuck, I’m close.” Your hand now caresses his face as you lean your head on his shoulder, hunching him like a bitch in heat. “You’re close?” “Yeahhhh~” “Fuck, you’re gonna come all over my thigh like that?” “Yeah!” “Yeahhh, just like that?” “Yes! Yes! Just like that!” Yunho bounces his leg softly as you continue to rake against it, riding out your high as a warm dampness spreads on his designer slacks. He moans at the feeling, damn near coming untouched just from witnessing your pleaser unfold before him.

You steady your panting for air. Embarrassed, you pat at the wet spot you left on your husband, “I did not expect that I-“ “I did, you’re ovulating.” Yunho caresses your cheeks fully heated with shame, and kisses you, laughing into the kiss. “I don’t think you understand how hot that was, don’t apologize my love.” He gestures to the passenger seat, helping you off of him and guiding you there to sit tight and catch yourself for a second. He then leans the drivers seat back fully again, stepping over it to sit in the spacious middle seat. He unbuttons his shirt the rest of the way before removing his glasses, tossing them somewhere far in the back seats. He holds one of his hands out to you, patting his thigh sharply with his other, ordering your immediate presence.

You crawl over the front armrest and take Yunho’s hand as he helps you towards him. You start to kneel down in front of him and he stops you, “Nooo no, no, none of that today.” “But I really want to.” “I knowww, and you do it so well, but we’re kind of on a fixed schedule.” Yunho gestures behind you to the time on the soft glowing screen on the dashboard. You sigh in agreement, “I wanted to get you ready too.” “Oh babe,” He begins to undue his belt buckle and pants, his fully hard cock slapping against his lower abdomen as he slides his pants down lower freeing him. “Does it look like I need to get ready?” Your mouth waters, his cock glistening as precum trails down the tip, and you moan at the sight. “Oh my God.” He laughs at your eager demeanor, “Come here baby,” he pats his thighs again signaling you to straddle him once more, your legs on either side of him cushioned by the materials used to adorn the luxury car seats.

Yunho hikes your skirt up higher, sliding his hands underneath to trail down your sheer-tights-clad inner thighs and up to your panties. Your breaths were short, shallow, hesitant. You closed your eyes as Yunho felt you up, getting you worked up again in the process, unbeknownst to himself, or was this all part of his plan? “These weren’t too pricey, right?” He pinches at your tights, “No they weren’t, why?”

****rrrr-rrrrrr-rrrrrrriiiiippp!****

You gasp as you feel the force from Yunho ripping your tights right down the middle, smacking his shoulder. “They weren’t pricey but they were my favorite!” “Shhh, I’ll buy you 10 more.” You lean your head on his shoulder, pouting…until you feel his slender hands move your panties to the side. Your breath begins to get shallow again, feeling his warm tip slide up and down your wet folds. You moan involuntarily, “Awww, come on baby I haven’t even put it in yet.” “I knowww, I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.” “I do,” You feel him slowly push into you, leaning your head back as you cry out. “This cunt was just waaaiting to get fucked, because today is a little different than the other days,” He picks up his pace, fucking up into you steady but firm, “Today your pussy is a little bit more needy for me,” the recoil of your ass sending vibrations through your lower body as Yunho’s movements are relentless. “Today you’re gonna let me get you pregnant.”

And there it was. Your brain immediately shuts off. “I’m gonna fuck you so good, and so hard-” “Unnnnhhhhhooohhhh my Godddddd!” “Yeahhhhh, yeah let me hear you baby,” You grip the disheveled collar of Yunho’s shirt, completely at his mercy, taking what he gives you. “I’m gonna cum all in this pretty fucking cunt and get you pregnant, I’m gonna make you a Mommy.” “Yunho Please! Pleaseee~” “Please what my love?” Yunho lifts your chin up to meet his gaze, your dark brown eyes staring several miles into his own, communicating beyond a frequency that sound couldn’t even capture in that moment, and he understood every bit of it…but figured it would be fulfilling just to hear it fall from your lips, “Pleaseeee? What.” “Please make me a Mommy~” In seconds, he snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest as he drills into you. “Ahhhhhh!!!!” The sound of your screams, bounce off the interior of the car, and you pray that the seats absorb it all.

“Yesss, yes! Let me hear you Mama. Fuckkkk let me hear you!” “Fuckkkk!” “Uh huhhh~ Fuck! You sound so good taking my dick like this! Ughhhh~” You both were a mess, fully enraptured in pleasure and no longer prisoners to time. You place your forehead against Yunho’s now eye to eye as he continues to lean into you with force, your breathing syncing with his, both chasing your highs. “You’re gonna cum, aren’t you.” He asks you with dark eyes, almost as if it wasn’t a request. Suddenly you’re whimpering against his lips, “Yeah you are gonna cum, you’re close, so close for me.” “I’m-“ “I’m gonna-“ He mocks, imitating your whines, “You’re gonna what, cream around me and take this cum like a good little wife?” All you could do was gasp at his sharp remarks, “You’re gonna cum for me like a good little wife? Hm?” “Yeah!” “Yeah? You’re gonna take my fucking cum like a good fucking wife?” “Yes! Yes! Ye- Yes! Yes! Yes!” You gush around him, repeating your words like a mantra against his ear. He returns the favor, “Good Girl” replaying in his surprisingly vulgar vocabulary as he finishes inside of you. You collapse against him for some time. Aligning your heaving chest with his as you both come down. Clammy from the altercation. You swivel around some assuming it may help with the progress, and he moans a little.

“What are you doing?” Yunho laughs at you endearingly, watching you be an unintentional menace. “I don’t know I just thought it might do something.” You giggle some, lifting off of his softening length with your combined messes drooling out of you and down your inner thighs. Yunho takes it all in, shaking his head in amazement at the fucked out state of you. Just as he imagined it, better than he imagined, even. Staring him down, you study his body language, how he looks subtly exhausted but not TOO drained. Almost as if on a bodily timer, your temperature starts to rise again, “You’re plotting.” you narrow your eyes at him. Sucking in a sharp breath between teeth, Yunho helps you up, only to place you over the front armrest.

You squirm as your stomach and breasts make contact with the cold leather. “See I KNEW you were plotting!” “Oh hush, don’t act like you’re not excited.” Yunho makes light work of your tights, pulling off and discarding what was left of it, and sliding your panties off of one of your legs in order to spread them further apart. Your breathing catches at the gust of air that hits your pussy. Yunho’s cock inches away as he works his hand over it. He reaches his hand around holding it out to your mouth, “Spit.”, and you oblige him. He continues to work himself hard again, one hand bunching your business skirt up your waist, exposing your bare ass. His hand slides down to caress it, before landing a harsh smack, resorting back to soothing over the stinging spot. All marks undetectable on your brown skin, he lands a few more smacks on both cheeks, knowing he’ll be safe. You jolt and whine at the barrage of sharp pain and he leans down to pepper the side of your face in kisses, rubbing your attacked spots to soothe the pain.

“Don’t forget to breathe my love.” You didn’t realize you weren’t until he mentioned it, immediately offloading a heavy breath. Yunho clicks his tongue as he braces one hand on your shoulder to hold you in place, fiddling with the bunched up hem of your skirt. Your body stiffens as you feel him use his fingers to collect your cum and push it back into your pussy. You shudder in pleasure, still recovering from your last high, not too far from another if touched too much. You feel him shift behind you again as his cock teases its way past your entrance one more time. “Mmm, You wore this skirt on purpose Mama?” He glides into you with ease, bottoming out effortlessly, and you sink into the armrest, your moan resembling that of a pornstar’s. “You knew you were gonna see me to get this pretty pussy filled, Hmm?” Yunho immediately picks up the pace, keeping his hand firm on your shoulder, guiding you back onto him. “Ooooohhhhh~” “Yeahhhh? You wore this skirt because you knew you were gonna get knocked up with my babies? Huh?” Yunho’s words started to slur as they turned into shameless moans, “Yeahhh~ keep moaning for me, it’s just us here, keep going, I wanna hear youuu~” even he started sounding pornstar-like, it was music to your already ringing ears.

He began to pound into you with fervor, your tits now hanging over the armrest, bouncing violently as you grip the seating of the driver’s and passengers seat to avoid going headfirst into the dashboard. “Oh fuckkkk I’m gonna cum again, shit- shit- shittttt~” Yunho plants a foot on the flooring of the suv to steady himself as he leans flush against your back, engulfing you. “Yes, yes, yessss~ come inside of me pleaseeee~” Your final plea sends him over the edge, ultimately setting off a chain reaction that makes you cum around him all over again.

You shudder with each thrust as he slows his pace gradually before coming to a complete stop, staying in the same position as he bear hugs you from behind over the dashboard. You laugh to yourselves as you match your breathing once more, an exercise you both had been doing since the start of everything. Thank God workers at Yunho’s job actually took advantage of leaving the facility for lunch, or else your windows definitely would’ve been knocked on. Sure, the 5% tint helps, but you’re sure the car rocking would’ve given enough away.

Yunho peels himself off of you and helps you up, sitting you down next to him in the middle seats. You lay your head on his shoulders, the both of you visibly fucked out, his shirt open and hanging off of one shoulder with a button or two missing, crucifix chain crooked yet still sitting proudly on his chest, even after such a sinful act, your soft locs fully down, and splayed along and running down the side of Yunho’s torso, your skirt and his pants still undone, your blouse surprisingly still somewhat presentable. You both sit in solitude and enjoyment of each other for a little while. Yunho looks down at you lovingly, watching as you pull your phone out to do something. “Are you doing what I think you’re doing?” “Letting the Editor in Chief know that I’ll be out of the office for the rest of the day? Noo, I couldn’t possibly…” “Oh well that’s a shame…” You look at your husband, waiting, “Because I told the team to take the rest of the day off.” THAT’S why the deck looked so lifeless. “I can’t believe you set me up!” He peppers your face in kisses one last time.

“Alright, let’s get out of here, we defiantly need to change. We’re celebrating tonight.” “Tonight? Forrrrr?” “For theeee…..you know…..” Yunho gestures towards himself then your stomach, and you grin knowingly. “The lunch rush?” “Exactlyyy, the lunch rush.” He says before pulling you in for one last kiss. Yunho helps fix up your appearance before assisting you out of the Range Rover and back into your car. Kissing you for the last time yet again. “I’ll be right behind you.” He starts back to his vehicle, looking over to you, “Oh, feel free to put me in your schedule whenever you have an hour or two for lunch. Just to make sure it takes.” Yunho winks at you, getting back in the car as you both leave work for the day.

‧₊˚✩. ˚. ♡ ☁︎ If you liked what you read, please let me know, it gives me hope. Comments and Reblogs are always appreciated ‧₊˚✩. ˚. ♡ ☁︎

[killallxys2]

Chapter 3 - Why is it Difficult to Stop?

All makeup users often feel as though something has taken over them. In the early stages, it’s a simple matter of saying, “I’ll stop relying on makeup, just not today.” Over time, we begin to feel like we don’t have enough willpower to step away from it, or that there’s something about makeup we truly need to feel good about ourselves. Breaking free from makeup dependency is like trying to climb out of a slippery pit: we get close to the top, catching glimpses of self-confidence, but then find ourselves sliding back down as our insecurities resurface. Eventually, we reach for the makeup, and as we apply it, a sense of guilt creeps in.

If you ask someone hooked on makeup, “If you could go back to a time before you felt you needed makeup every day, would you have started using it like this?” their answer would be, “NO WAY!”

Ask someone who’s a firm believer in makeup and insists it’s harmless or even essential, “Would you encourage your child to depend on makeup from a young age?” The answer, again, would likely be, “NO WAY!”

Makeup dependency is a strange paradox. The difficulty isn’t in explaining why it’s easy to cut back, but in explaining why it’s hard to let go. And why, once we recognize the toll it takes on our self-esteem, do we keep reaching for it? Part of the reason is that we see millions of people using makeup — it feels normal. Yet many who rely on it wish they hadn’t started in the first place. We try so hard to master makeup techniques, thinking it’s a form of freedom or self-expression, only to spend years trying to undo the habit, often feeling like we’re alone in this.

We end up feeling hopeless or unhappy, preferring the perfectly contoured face over our own natural features. This constant dependence keeps us caught in a cycle of insecurity, fatigue, and self-doubt. Relying on makeup — with its inability to bring out our true confidence — we ultimately feel drained and dissatisfied.

Ironically, reading about the addictive nature of makeup routines on beauty sites only makes us feel more insecure! What kind of habit leaves us wishing we could stop when we’re using it, yet feeling anxious without it? We criticize ourselves every time we hide behind makeup with friends or family, and every time we skip activities that make us feel vulnerable, like going out without makeup. We end up spending a significant part of our day struggling with self-image. But the real question is: what do we truly gain from a life spent hiding behind a layer of makeup? Absolutely nothing!

You might be thinking, “That’s all well and good, but once you’re hooked on makeup, it’s really hard to stop.” Why is it so difficult? Some may say it’s because we’re afraid of the way we look without it, but you’ll soon realize that this fear is actually quite mild. After all, many people who wear makeup every day never realize how it influences their self-worth.

Some say makeup is accessible, making it a valuable tool for everyone to feel beautiful — but this is misleading. It can easily become a crutch. If you ask someone who only wears light makeup if they've ever felt tempted to try heavier or bolder looks, they’d likely admit to moments when they crossed that line, rather than going without makeup altogether.

Enjoyment has nothing to do with makeup dependency either. I enjoy crayfish, but I’ve never felt like I needed to have crayfish every day. With most things in life, we enjoy them in the moment, but we don’t feel deprived or anxious when they’re not there.

Some people say: “It’s empowering!” But how has it truly helped you grow as a person? “It’s about feeling beautiful!” Then why does it often leave you feeling insecure or dissatisfied? “It’s a form of self-care!” So why does it just temporarily mask insecurities, only for them to resurface? “It helps me feel relaxed.” But others seem to feel relaxed without relying on it. There are plenty of genuine self-care practices that provide peace and relaxation without dependency.

Many believe that makeup fills a void of boredom, but boredom is simply a frame of mind. Over-relying on makeup can lead to constantly seeking the next look, the next trend, or the perfect style, eventually causing us to chase a sense of novelty that feels exhausting, never really feeling "enough."

Some people use makeup because "everyone does it." If so, let’s hope those same friends don’t cut their heads off and expect you to follow! Most makeup users who think about it would admit it’s mostly habit. But this is hardly a real explanation. The truth is, we change habits all the time — some very enjoyable ones too. We’ve been conditioned to believe that makeup is just a harmless habit and that habits are hard to break.

But are habits really that hard to break? In the U.S., people drive on the right side of the road, but when they travel abroad, they adapt quickly to driving on the left with little difficulty. Starting a new job or moving to a new city changes our routines entirely, yet we adjust with time. We change habits every day, so why is it that breaking a makeup habit — something that often leaves us feeling worse when we use it and guilty afterward — feels like such a struggle?

The answer is that makeup dependency isn’t just a habit, it can become a type of emotional reliance, even an addiction to feeling "masked" or altered. That’s why it can feel hard to let go. Many people who feel dependent on makeup don’t understand this and think they’re genuinely sacrificing something if they stop.

The beautiful truth is that once you understand why you feel this reliance on makeup, it becomes much easier to let go. In a few weeks, the only question you’ll have is why you felt so dependent on makeup for so long, and you’ll wonder why you can’t convince others just how freeing it is to go natural and feel comfortable in your own skin

3.1 The Sinister Trap

Makeup can be a subtle, addictive trap, one created by both society and our own insecurities. Often, it starts with a small introduction — maybe a simple lip gloss, mascara, or foundation, something we try out of curiosity, fun, or a desire to feel a bit more confident. These first uses seem harmless and even empowering. But over time, the habit of makeup can become something we rely on, creating a belief that we’re not enough without it.

Initially, makeup gives us that sense of control, helping us present our "best self" to the world, like putting on armor. We think we can stop whenever we want, feeling secure that it’s just for fun or a little boost. But as we incorporate it into our daily lives, the routine becomes harder to break. We start seeing makeup as essential, and soon, we may not want to face the world without it.

For many, trying to quit using makeup might only come after an “incident” — feeling dependent, noticing skin concerns from overuse, or simply feeling trapped in a routine of covering up. But as we try to break free, the absence of makeup can lead to feelings of vulnerability and discomfort, as if we’re lacking a shield. Instead of gaining the confidence we wanted in the beginning, we find ourselves feeling anxious or exposed.

In these moments, we might rationalize keeping up the habit, thinking we’ll cut back when life feels easier or less stressful. However, that stress-free period never truly comes, and the idea of quitting feels daunting. Just like we once believed makeup made us look better, we might now feel it’s necessary to cope with life’s pressures. But makeup isn’t truly relieving stress or solving any problem; it’s just become a habit.

Understanding the true nature of makeup dependency can be freeing. Makeup isn’t inherently harmful, but we don’t need it to feel whole or capable. Once we realize this, the process of letting go can become a path toward greater self-acceptance and peace with who we are.

We often confuse responsibility with the stress of maintaining a certain appearance. Just like any addiction, relying on makeup can actually increase our stress over time, even though many of us believe it’s relaxing or comforting. In reality, the constant need to apply makeup, cover every perceived flaw, and keep up appearances can weigh us down, especially when we feel guilty for not being confident without it. Over time, each layer applied late at night, every time we feel "not enough" without makeup, only adds more to this stress.

Many people who decide to quit makeup do find relief, only to sometimes fall back into the same cycle, feeling drawn again to the allure of looking "perfect." It’s as if we’ve wandered into a maze of beauty expectations, one that makes it hard to escape. While some do manage to break free, the pull to reenter the routine often remains, especially when society keeps reinforcing that polished look as the standard.

The challenge of stepping away from makeup dependency is complex and often feels like a riddle. But once you see the answer, it becomes clear and liberating — and you might even wonder why you didn’t realize it sooner! This journey is about breaking free from this maze by slowly unlearning the beliefs that make makeup feel necessary.

However, it’s important to take things step by step. Rushing through this transformation without careful thought, or skipping parts of the journey, could make it easy to slip back into old patterns. Most people can quit the habit once they understand the core reasons that keep them hooked, which boil down to two main influences:

Society's unrealistic beauty standards

Personal insecurities and cultural brainwashing

People who rely on makeup are thoughtful, rational individuals. Yet deep down, they know they never "needed" makeup before they started using it regularly. Many even remember feeling unsure or awkward the first time they applied it, driven by curiosity or a desire to fit in. But over time, we learn techniques, save tutorials, follow beauty influencers, and work hard to master the art, eventually feeling like we can't go without it.

The funny thing is, many non-makeup wearers — whether they’re older people, those with different beauty norms, or those who never felt pressured by societal standards — don’t feel like they’re missing out on anything at all. By understanding the influences at play, we can dismantle the trap makeup dependency creates, freeing ourselves to embrace our natural beauty with confidence.

[oifaaa]

I dunno if you wanted confirmation, but I saw in the tags of a previous ask that you need to remind yourself it's ok to post non-dc stuff. So, as one random follower, I'd love to see more of whatever your current hyperfixation is. Especially if you've made art for it, 'cause I love your drawing style

Thank you that's so sweet of you but don't worry it is really more about me remembering I can post other things in the way that my autistic brain likes routine and doesn't like change but I specifically made this blog with the basis that I would be able to just post what ever I wanted so should probably remember I can do that again

[reilemon]

Beneath the Collar

♡︎ synopsis: What do you tell yourself when you develop a crush on a hot priest? 'It'll pass.' But what if it doesn't?

♡︎ pairing: priest!Zayne x fem!reader

♡︎ cw: personal sacrilege, mutual masturbation

♡︎ word count: 13k

♡︎ a/n: the fifth story for kinktober 2024. i know i wrote something else as a prompt for this story, but it kinda didn't fit into the vibe. I hope you'll still like it.

♡︎ Thanks to my dearest friend and beta reader ♡︎@its-de♡︎ for helping.

divider by @cafekitsune

You’d been absentmindedly wiping down the counter, eyes flicking to the clock every couple of minutes. You were anticipating the weekend as if it was your lifeline. The shop was nearly empty, just a couple pastries left. You could already taste the freedom that awaited once you locked up. Saturday nights were your escape. You’d head out of town and finally let loose with your old friends. You couldn’t wait to slip into a tight dress, feel the beat of music thrumming through your veins, and drown the stress of your quiet life with a few too many drinks.

You loved the buzz, the way you could disappear into the crowd. It was so different from the slow, predictable pace of this town—so different from the way you had to be here, composed, calm, responsible. You could already imagine the way your friends would greet you with shrieks and hugs, the taste of sweet cocktails on your lips, the feel of someone’s hands on your waist as you danced the night away.

You hadn’t realized how tightly wound you’d become until you started thinking about it. The endless days of baking, of small talk with customers who didn’t really know you, of going home to an empty apartment. This wasn’t the life you’d imagined.

The chime above the door rings, pulling you back from your thoughts. You straighten instinctively, slipping back into your practiced routine, eyes flicking up with a tired smile ready—until you see him.

The man who steps in isn’t like any customer you’ve seen before. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in dark, understated clothes. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the stark white collar around his neck—the unmistakable sign of a priest. Yet you can’t help but stare at his features - his sharp jawline, the raven-black hair falling slightly across his forehead, and those intense green eyes. He looks cold, distant, his gaze hard and unreadable as it sweeps the room before landing squarely on you.

You can feel your heart pound as your breath catches. You aren’t supposed to feel this way. He’s a priest, for God’s sake. Yet here you are, rooted in place, unable to tear your eyes away from him. You shouldn’t be thinking about how strong his hands look, or how his lips might feel if they ever touched yours. Guilt twists in your gut, making you flush with shame.

You swallow hard, the professional smile faltering for a second as your thoughts race. What is a man like him doing here? He doesn’t look like the type to indulge in something sweet.

He steps forward, approaching the counter, and the closer he gets, the more you can feel your façade slipping. You force yourself to break eye contact, focusing instead on the pastries.

You need to say something, anything to break the tension. “Good evening,” you finally manage.

“I’m sorry for coming in so late,” he says, his voice deep and smooth, instantly making you feel butterflies. “I was hoping to grab something before you closed.”

You nod, trying to keep the conversation professional, though your mind is anything but. “Of course,” you reply, forcing yourself to meet his gaze again.

His eyes flick over the display case before returning to you, making your heart flutter. “Macarons,” he says after a moment. “Do you have any left?”

You blink, thrown off by the unexpected request, by how he knows exactly what he wants. “Ah—no,” you stammer, shaking your head. “Sorry, they sold out earlier today.”

He nods once, but doesn’t seem disappointed. You half-expect him to say something more, maybe ask about the next batch or try one of the remaining pastries. But he doesn’t. His eyes flick to the empty spot where the macarons should’ve been, then back to you.

"Thank you," He doesn’t smile, just offers a polite nod before he turns and walks toward the door. The air feels lighter the moment he steps out, but your heart is still racing, your mind still tangled in thoughts you shouldn’t have.

You stand there for a moment, unsure of what just happened, your hand still resting on the counter as if anchoring you back to reality. Slowly, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

‘What the hell was that?’

���꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

Later that evening, you stand in front of your mirror, smoothing your dress down over your hips, but your thoughts are miles away. You’ve been looking forward to this night all week— but now, you can’t stop thinking about him.

As you spray the perfume on your neck, your mind drifts back to the way those cold green eyes had fixed on you with such unnerving intensity. You replay the interaction over and over in your head as you fix your lipstick, each swipe of color across your lips bringing back the memory of his deep, steady voice.

You grab your heels and slide them on, trying to push the image of him away. It’s your night - you should be thinking about the friends you’ll be laughing with, the strangers you might flirt with, but your mind keeps drifting back to him. And that damn collar, the way it stood out against his sharp jaw, mocking you.

You sigh, frustrated with yourself as you grab your clutch and head for the door. Tonight is about fun, freedom. As you step outside, you convince yourself that by the end of the night you will forget all about him.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

You stand just outside the church, a box of macarons clutched in your hands. The crisp autumn air hits your face, cooling the remnants of your hangover. You wince slightly as the last pulse of your headache throbs behind your eyes. But it’s nothing compared to the nervous energy swirling in your stomach. The night before is a blur of music, laughter, and drinks—too many drinks—and yet, through it all, he was still there. No matter how hard you tried your mind kept circling back to the priest.

You woke up early this morning, despite the dull ache in your head, the need to see him again pulling you out of bed far earlier than your body wanted. You spent more time than usual getting ready, trying to make yourself look presentable. Like you hadn’t spent half the night dancing under neon lights, sweat mingling with perfume. Like you were fresh and composed, not some hungover mess delivering macarons to a man who probably didn’t even remember you.

Now, as you stand outside the church, watching as the last of the congregation trickles out from Sunday mass, you can’t help but feel a bit ridiculous. ‘What the hell am I doing?’ You glance down at the box in your hands. Last night, you’d come home and found the extra macarons sitting in your fridge—fresh, untouched. And somehow, in your alcohol-soaked brain, you’d convinced yourself that bringing them to him would make sense. That maybe, just maybe, seeing him again would clear your thoughts.

Inside, you hear the faint echoes of voices, the last goodbyes being exchanged. Your pulse quickens, the nerves settling in deeper now. ‘What if he thinks I’m crazy?’ You glance up at the church doors as they swing open again. More people spill out, some of them familiar faces, regulars from your shop. You offer a small, polite smile to those who glance your way, though the last thing you want is to be seen here, holding this box like some desperate girl with a crush.

The crowd thins, and finally, you see him. He steps out of the church, tall and composed, his dark coat catching the cool breeze as he exchanges polite nods and handshakes with the remaining parishioners. Your heart stutters in your chest when his eyes land on you, sharp and focused, just like yesterday. His gaze flickers with confusion as he approaches. The contrast between the two of you couldn’t be more stark. He’s the picture of calm and control, while you feel like a bundle of frayed nerves.

"Good morning," he greets, his voice low and even, though there’s a hint of curiosity in it. His eyes drop to the box in your hands, and then back up to meet your gaze. "I didn’t expect to see you here."

You force a small smile, suddenly feeling foolish again for showing up like this. "I, um..." You glance down at the box before awkwardly extending it toward him. "I brought these... for you. Macarons. I had some extras, and I thought..." Your voice trails off as you realize how ridiculous you sound.

He hesitates for a moment, clearly taken aback by the gesture, his brow furrowing slightly as he looks between you and the box. "That’s very kind of you," he says after a beat, his tone polite but still laced with confusion. He takes the box from you, his fingers brushing yours briefly, sending an unexpected jolt through you. "But I’m afraid I don’t understand. Why bring them here?"

You feel your face heat up, the embarrassment creeping in again as you try to explain. "I just... yesterday, you asked about the macarons. And I had some left at home, so I thought..." You trail off again, unsure how to finish without sounding completely absurd.

His eyes soften slightly, the confusion changing into something more like understanding. "I see," he says quietly. He looks down at the box in his hands, then back at you. "Thank you. This was... thoughtful."

There’s a long, awkward pause before you gather the nerve to ask, "Have you visited my shop before? I mean, you knew we sold macarons, but I don’t remember seeing you."

He glances away for a moment, then returns his gaze to you, his tone still measured and calm. "I have stopped by a few times, yes. But more often than not, my colleagues bring me your macarons. They speak highly of your pastries." His lips twitch slightly, not quite a smile, but the closest thing you’ve seen from him. "They’ve made sure I know where to find the best sweets in town."

You blink, processing that information. ‘So, he has been there.’ A strange mix of relief and disappointment washes over you—relief that he’s not a complete stranger to your shop, but disappointment that you missed those visits. Still, knowing he’s tasted your work fills you with a sense of pride.

"I see," you murmur, nodding. "I wasn’t sure, since... well, you don’t seem like the type to indulge in sweets."

He raises an eyebrow. "I do, on occasion," he says, then adds, almost as an afterthought, "Especially macarons."

Another silence falls between you. The cold morning air feels sharper now, the quiet around the church almost too loud as the last of the parishioners filter away, leaving just the two of you standing there.

You feel the urge to say something, anything. "I hope you enjoy them," you say quickly, nodding toward the box in his hands.

His eyes linger on you for a moment longer than feels comfortable. "I’m sure I will," he replies, his voice softer now, though his serious demeanor never wavers. "Thank you again. This was... unexpected."

You nod, unsure what else to say, and suddenly, the weight of what you’re doing—standing outside a church, hungover, giving a priest macarons—hits you all over again. You swallow hard, feeling the need to leave before you make things even more awkward.

"I should probably go," you blurt out, taking a small step back. "I didn’t mean to interrupt your morning."

He watches you, his gaze steady, and for a split second, you wonder if he’s going to say something to stop you, but he doesn’t. Instead, he simply nods. "Take care,"

You turn and start walking away, your heart pounding in your chest, the cool air biting at your skin. You feel a little silly, a little reckless, but something about the way he looked at you, the way his eyes softened just a fraction when he accepted the macarons... it stays with you.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The next Sunday arrives quicker than expected, and this time, you're determined to play it cool. You still went out the night before, but you kept it light—a couple of drinks, no wild partying. The ache behind your eyes this morning is faint, nothing like last week’s pounding. You’d woken up with enough time to fix your hair and choose an outfit that’s both casual and appropriate, though you spent longer than you’d like to admit deciding on it.

As you step inside the church, the scent of old wood and candles washes over you, calming your racing heart just a little. The crowd is larger than you expected—families, couples, elderly regulars. You quietly slip into a pew near the back, hoping to blend in.

You settle in, your eyes scanning the front of the church, seeking him out. There he is, standing at the altar in his robes, his presence as commanding as ever. He’s facing the congregation, his expression stoic, speaking in that calm, steady voice that fills the room with reverence. At first, he doesn’t notice you. He’s focused on his sermon, his attention on the crowd as he guides them through the service.

And then, as if he can sense you watching him, his gaze flickers toward the back of the church—and locks onto you.

For a moment, the rest of the congregation fades into the background. It’s just you and him, his eyes lingering on you longer than they should. There’s no surprise in his expression, but his gaze isn’t the distant, detached look you remember from before. Your breath catches, and for a second, you’re not sure what to do. You glance down at your hands, trying to steady yourself, but when you look back up, his eyes are still on you. He’s quick to recover, though, returning his focus to the sermon, but the brief connection leaves your pulse racing.

The rest of the mass is a blur. You try to listen, to follow along with the prayers, but all you can think about is the way he looked at you. The quiet intensity of his gaze, the way it felt like he was seeing more than just another face in the crowd.

As the mass ends and people begin to rise from their seats, you remain seated for a moment longer. You watch as the crowd shuffles toward the exit, murmuring quietly amongst themselves, offering their thanks and farewells. For a second, you think about slipping out quietly and disappearing before he notices you again. It would be the easiest thing to do—walk away, avoid any awkward conversations.

But just as you start to stand, your eyes find his across the room. He’s still speaking with a couple of elderly women near the front, but his gaze shifts—briefly, unmistakably—back to you. And there’s something in that moment that makes it impossible to leave. Before you know it, you’re moving toward him, your pulse quickening with each step.

You tell yourself it’s only polite to say hello, maybe thank him for the sermon. It’s what people do, right? But the truth is, you haven’t attended a church service in so long, you’re not even sure how you’re supposed to talk to a priest. What do people even say in these situations? Your mind races as you approach, trying to figure out what you’re supposed to say.

When you reach him, he finishes his conversation with the elderly women, offering them a polite nod before turning his attention to you. For a moment, you stand there, unsure of how to start, but before you can stumble over a greeting, he speaks first.

"Good to see you again," Zayne says, as he offers you a barely visible smile. It’s subtle, just a small upturn at the corner of his lips, but it’s enough to make your heart race. "I don’t recall seeing you here before last week."

You blink, feeling like you’re caught red handed. You fumble for a response, trying to sound as casual as possible.

"Oh, no, I—I haven’t been here before," you admit, glancing down at your hands before looking back up at him. "I mean, I used to go to church when I was younger, but... it’s been a while." You force a small smile. "I’ve been in this town for a few months now, but I guess I still feel kind of... new. I’m trying to, you know, be a part of the community."

It’s a half-truth, but close enough to reality.

Zayne listens intently, his expression thoughtful as he considers your words. "It’s understandable," he says after a moment, his voice softer now. "Moving to a new place can feel... isolating." His gaze lingers on you. "I’m glad you’re finding your place here."

You nod, trying to ignore the fluttering in your chest. "Yeah, I think I’m making some progress."

You’re unsure of what to say next, but Zayne is the one that speaks next. "Those macarons you brought last week," he begins. "There was one flavor I hadn’t tried before—rose, I believe?"

You hadn’t expected him to bring it up. "Oh, yeah," you say, a giddy smile creeping onto your lips. "I like to experiment with new flavors in my free time. I wasn’t sure if anyone would like that one."

He nods, with a faint smile. "It was... different. Unexpected, but in a good way."

Your smile widens at that, unable to contain the warmth blooming in your chest. You hadn’t realized how much his opinion would matter to you. "I’m always experimenting," you admit, feeling more at ease now. "Sometimes I stay up late trying out new combinations."

The air between you feels lighter, warmer. "I can tell you put a lot of effort into it."

The compliment catches you off guard, and you’re not sure how to respond. But before you can say anything, Zayne shifts the conversation slightly. "We’re hosting a bake sale next week," he says, "It’s for a local charity. I was wondering if you’d have the time to volunteer."

Volunteer? At the church? You’ve never done anything like that before. But the idea of working with him, of contributing in some way—it tugs at you, and before you can think it through too much, you find yourself nodding.

"Yeah, I’d love to," you say quickly, the giddiness from earlier still bubbling beneath the surface. "I mean, I’m sure I could make time."

His gaze softens, and there’s that almost smile again. "Good," he says. "I think your talents would be appreciated."

You nod, feeling strangely content. Working with him, even if it’s just for something simple like a bake sale—seems like a small step forward, a way to stay close without pushing too far.

As the crowd continues to thin, you realize you’ve lingered long enough. You take a small step back, your heart still racing from the interaction. "I’ll see you next week, then," you say softly, offering him a final smile before turning to leave.

"Yes," he replies. "Next week."

You can feel his gaze on your back as you exit the church, the weight of it lingering long after you step outside into the cool autumn air. And though you try to tell yourself that it’s just a bake sale, just a way to be part of the community, you can’t shake the excitement simmering beneath the surface.

Next week couldn’t come soon enough.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The bake sale was a success. The air was filled with the scent of baked goods and laughter, but you hardly had time to enjoy it. Zayne, ever the center of attention, had been pulled away in a dozen directions the entire day. When you’d arrived early that morning, hands full of pastries and stomach full of butterflies, you barely got a chance to exchange more than a quick greeting.

He had smiled at you, brief but warm, though his attention was quickly snatched away by people needing his assistance, asking for advice, or organizing last-minute details. Of course, he handled everything with calm efficiency. You watched him navigate the chaos with admiration, though a part of you ached for more than those fleeting glances you stole throughout the day.

Now, as the sun begins to set and the crowd dissipates, everything is finally winding down. The tables have been mostly cleared, the leftover baked goods packed up, and most of the volunteers have either left or are chatting amongst themselves. You’re still tidying up, folding a tablecloth when you feel a presence beside you. Zayne.

"Need any help?" he asks.

You offer him a small smile, shaking your head. "I’ve got it," you say, too aware of how close he’s standing. "But thank you."

"You did a lot today," he says quietly. "The bake sale wouldn’t have been as successful without you."

The compliment, though simple, warms your chest, and you can’t help the slight flush that rises to your cheeks. "I’m just glad I could help," you reply, glancing at him, and there it is again—his gaze, lingering just a fraction too long.

"Will you be attending mass tomorrow?" he asks after a pause, his voice soft, almost hesitant.

For a moment, you’re not sure how to answer. Attending Sunday mass on a regular basis was not something you imagined for yourself when you moved here. But neither was the crush on a priest. You tilt your head slightly, offering a small smile. "I might," you say. "But... I’d be more than happy to help out around the church too. If you need extra hands for events or... anything else." The offer hangs in the air.

Zayne’s eyes hold yours for a moment longer, before he nods, his lips curving into that barely-there smile that always makes your heart race. "I’ll keep that in mind."

As you both finish the last of the cleanup, the weight of the day settles over you. The connection between you and Zayne feels more real.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

Days pass after the Sunday mass, and your mind is restless. You had hoped—foolishly—that this crush would fade. That the flutters in your stomach and the lingering heat in your chest, and somewhere else, would disappear. But it hasn’t. If anything, it’s grown stronger. It’s more than just attraction now—it’s curiosity, fascination, a desire to know him beyond the surface.

You had gone to mass that Sunday, and the entire service, your eyes had found his. After the service, you exchanged pleasantries as usual, but there was something beneath the surface. The way he smiled at you, as if holding back. And then, before you left, he had handed you his phone, suggesting that you exchange numbers, “in case there’s any more help needed with events.”

It was a perfectly reasonable request, and yet, your hands had trembled slightly when you typed your number in. A simple exchange of phone numbers shouldn’t feel like this, but you couldn’t shake the thrill it gave you.

Now, days later, you’ve been staring at his name in your phone for what feels like hours. Your fingers hover over the screen, your mind spinning with a thousand excuses you could use to text him.

‘Just invite yourself over.’ Tell him you’ve been working on new desserts and want to share them. It’s innocent enough—after all, you’ve done it before, and he was more than happy to accept. Why should this time be any different?

You lean back, the phone still in your hand, your thoughts a tangled mess. ‘It’s not wrong to want to see him, is it?’ When you’d exchanged numbers, had there been something in the way his hand brushed yours? Something more than just casual contact?

Your thumb hovers over his name on your phone, heart pounding in your chest. ‘One message. That’s all. Just one message to bring him something.’ It’s innocent. Harmless.

You begin to type. “Hey, I’ve been experimenting with some new dessert recipes. Thought you might like to try them. Could I drop some by?”

Before you can second-guess yourself again, you hit send.

The message disappears, leaving you staring at the screen, your heart racing.

Your phone buzzes a minute later, and you can hardly breathe as you open the message.

“That sounds great. I’d love to try them.”

His reply is simple, casual, but the effect it has on you is anything but. You glance around your apartment, suddenly feeling the weight of what you’ve done. You’re going to see him again, and this time, the meeting will be more personal, more intimate. ‘Just you, him, and those damn desserts.’

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

You close the shop with shaky hands, flipping the sign to "closed" and locking the door behind. You try to calm your nerves as you walk toward the church.

‘Why am I doing this?’ you ask yourself for the hundredth time. You always shared your new recipes with your two employees—they were your taste-testers, your go-to feedback. So why now? Why are you heading to a priest, of all people?

‘He’s the customer experience,’ you remind yourself, a weak excuse at best. However, if anyone could give an honest opinion, it would be him—level-headed, composed, with that quiet seriousness that always unnerves and excites you. It’s just an opinion, nothing more. You repeat it like a mantra as you approach the church.

The doors creak open as you step inside, the familiar scent of incense filling your senses. The church is mostly empty, the soft glow of evening light filtering through the stained-glass windows. As you enter, you spot Zayne standing outside the confessional. He’s speaking quietly with an older woman, but his eyes flick up as soon as you walk in. The moment he sees you, his expression changes for a split second, barely noticeable, but it’s enough to make your heart skip a beat.

The woman finishes her conversation, offering him a polite smile before heading toward the door. Zayne watches her go, and when she’s gone, he turns his full attention to you.

His lips curve into a subtle smile. "Good evening," he greets you with that calm authority that always makes you feel both at ease and strangely vulnerable at the same time. "Thank you for coming. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble."

You shake your head, trying to keep your voice steady as you return his smile. "No trouble at all. I just closed up the shop, so... it worked out."

He nods, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer before gesturing toward the back of the church. "Shall we?" He leads you down the quiet hallway, until you reach his office—a small, private room tucked away from the rest of the church. The walls are lined with bookshelves, a modest desk in the middle, and a soft lamp casting a warm glow. Zayne closes the door behind you, and for a second, the air between you feels thicker than it had before.

You sit across from each other at the small desk. You set the box between you, showing a display of your latest creations. Zayne’s intense green eyes take in the array of sweets.

"These look incredible," he says as he leans in. He reaches for one, pausing as if to savor the moment. "Shall we start?"

You nod, your voice wavering as you describe the little creation.

As he finishes the first dessert, followed by more praise, his eyes drift over the others in the box. His eyes linger on a small orange-tinted one. His brow furrows slightly, and he glances up at you. "Is that… carrot?" he asks, with reluctance in his tone.

You laugh softly, "Yes, it’s a mini carrot cake," you say, your voice light and teasing. "I’ve been thinking about adding it to the menu."

Zayne’s smile tightens just a little. His fingers hover near the pastry, but he doesn’t reach for it. "Carrot cake... that’s..." He trails off, clearly searching for the right words, though his discomfort is obvious. "I’m sure it’s delicious," he adds, his tone strained with effort.

You can’t help but chuckle softly at his expression, the idea of Zayne being uncomfortable with something as simple as a carrot cake is both endearing and amusing. "You don’t like carrots, do you?" you ask, raising an eyebrow at him with a grin.

Zayne shifts slightly, his ears tinged with a faint blush as he gives a sheepish smile. "I’ve never been... fond of them," he admits.

You laugh again. "That’s completely fine," you say, shaking your head. "You don’t have to try it if you don’t want to. I won’t be offended."

Relief washes over his face, and you can’t help but find it charming. "Thank you," he says with a smile, his voice more relaxed now. "I’m sure it’s wonderful. Just... not for me."

You nod, smiling back at him as you make a mental note not to add the carrot cake to the menu after all. Who would have thought Zayne, of all people, would have such a small but specific dislike?

As you both settle into a comfortable rhythm of tasting the remaining pastries, the earlier tension eases, replaced by the easy conversation and laughter that flows between you. There’s something natural, almost soothing, about this—sharing these quiet moments, watching his reactions as he tries each new flavor, the occasional teasing smile crossing his lips.

You hesitate for a moment, then decide to push the boundary just a little. “I won’t ask what made you become a priest at such a young age,” you begin, offering a shy smile to lighten the weight of your words. “But I have to admit... I do wonder what you do when you’re not here. What’s Zayne like when he’s not... well, Father Zayne?”

Zayne’s lips twitch slightly at the question, as though he’s surprised but also amused by your boldness. He leans back in his chair, his posture relaxing a bit.

“Well,” he begins, a faint chuckle escaping his lips, “I don’t have much free time, to be honest. Between the church, the community events, and my other responsibilities, it’s hard to find a moment just for myself.”

He pauses, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. “But when I do get some time, I like to read. Mostly fiction—novels, stories that take me somewhere else for a little while.” His voice softens with a hint of something like nostalgia. “I also try to visit new restaurants when I can. There aren’t many options in this town, so sometimes I take trips to the city just to try something different.”

There’s something so relaxed, almost vulnerable, in the way he talks about it that makes you feel like you’re seeing a side of him that few people do. A side that isn’t weighed down by the responsibilities of his role, but is simply... Zayne.

He shifts the conversation, leaning forward slightly as he looks at you. “What about you?” he asks, his voice warm with genuine curiosity. “When you’re not experimenting with food, what do you do in your free time?”

“Well,” you begin, shifting in your seat, “when I do take a break, I like to drive out of town, too. I’d meet up with old friends, go out for a drink or two... but honestly, I like the quiet here. It’s different. Calming, in a way.”

Zayne nods, his expression thoughtful. “I can see that. There’s something peaceful about being here, away from the noise. But I imagine it must get lonely sometimes.”

His words strike a chord in you, and for a moment, you feel a vulnerability creeping in. You hadn’t expected him to understand, but somehow, he does.

“Yeah,” you say softly, almost to yourself. “It does.”

You glance at him, and for a moment, you feel like you’re seeing him in a new light— as someone who, like you, is navigating his own struggles, his own desires.

The rest of the evening continues with light topics and soft laughter. But as you glance out the window you see it’s pitch-black outside. You glance at your watch, feeling a pang of reluctance as you realize it’s time to go.

“I should probably head out,” you say softly, not wanting to break the moment but knowing it has to end.

Zayne nods, though there’s a hint of something in his eyes that shows he feels the same reluctance. He stands, walking you to the door of his office. “Thank you for the desserts,” he says, his voice feeling more personal now. “And for the conversation.”

You smile. “Thank you for listening. And for the... honesty.” There’s a moment of hesitation before you step toward the door, the space between you suddenly feeling too close. He opens the door, and as you step out into the quiet hall, you glance back at him one last time.

His eyes linger on you. “Goodnight,” he says, his voice low, and for a second, it feels like there’s more he wants to say, but the moment passes.

“Goodnight,” you reply, turning to leave, your heart still racing from the quiet intimacy of the evening.

As you walk out into the cool night air, you can’t help but feel that this connection—whatever it is between you and Zayne—has deepened. And as you head home, your thoughts linger on him, wondering where this path will lead.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The next day, your phone buzzes. You glance at the screen, and your heart skips a beat. It’s a message from Zayne.

“The desserts were incredible,” it reads. “You have a real gift for combining flavors. Thank you again.”

You smile, rereading the message a few times before typing out a casual reply. His words, the thoughtfulness behind them, mean more than they should. You tell yourself it’s just feedback—he’s just being kind, just acknowledging your work—but the fact that he took the effort to write this message... it lingers in your mind.

Days pass, and the messages continue. They’re not frequent, but every other day, you’ll receive something from him—a thoughtful comment on one of your desserts or a small exchange that feels more personal than before.

One evening, your phone buzzes again. This time, it’s a picture—a grainy snapshot of a small, scruffy-looking cat sitting outside the church doors.

“This little guy hangs around the church sometimes. I think he’s starting to expect me to feed him,” the message reads.

You can’t help but laugh softly to yourself as you look at the picture. You quickly type out a response: “He’s adorable! Have you tried petting him yet?”

A minute later, Zayne replies: “I’ve tried. He runs away every time I get close.”

You smile to yourself, finding the image of Zayne—a man so composed, so in control—being outwitted by a stray cat endearing. You imagine him, kneeling down, trying to coax the little creature closer, only for it to scurry away. There’s something so human about it, so... normal.

“That’s adorable,” you reply, the smile still on your face. “Keep feeding him, and he’ll come around eventually.”

The conversation carries on like that—simple, easy exchanges that make you feel more connected to him in ways you hadn’t expected. But with every message, every small insight into Zayne’s life outside of his role as a priest, the ache in your chest grows. The attraction you’d hoped would fade has only grown stronger, and now it’s not just about the way he looks or the way his voice makes your heart race. It’s about him—his quiet strength, his thoughtfulness, the way he seems to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders but still finds time to send you a picture of a stray cat.

You know you shouldn’t feel this way. He’s a priest, and you’re well aware of the boundaries that are supposed to exist between you. You’ve tried telling yourself that it’s just a crush, something that will pass.

But it hasn’t.

Late at night, you lie in bed, staring at your phone, your thumb hovering over the screen as you reread his latest message for the hundredth time. You feel a warmth spread through your chest, a soft ache blooming alongside it—a gnawing longing.

Your set the phone beside you as you exhale, closing your eyes. The ache doesn’t go away. The thought of him consumes you. Every night, it’s the same. You tell yourself not to think about him, not to let your mind wander to those places where it’s dangerous to go, but you’re powerless to stop it.

You imagine his hands—strong yet gentle—the way they would feel against your skin. You think about his lips, how they’d taste, how they’d move against yours, how they’d trail lower. Your body heats at the thought and before you can stop yourself, your hand slips beneath the waistband of your panties. The room feels too quiet, too still, as your breath quickens, and all you can think of is him.

Every night, you touch yourself to the thought of him. It’s become your secret ritual, a way to chase the frustration and desire that builds up inside you. You picture the way his body would feel pressed against yours, the way his breath would hitch as he gives in, as the control he fights so hard to maintain finally snaps. You can almost hear his voice—low, rough with need—as he murmurs your name, telling you how much he’s wanted you, how long he’s been fighting it.

Your fingers move faster. And just as you reach the edge, teetering on the brink of release, you whisper his name into the darkness, your voice barely audible.

When it’s over, you lie there, breathless, your heart pounding in the silence of your room. The guilt creeps in, just like every night.

During the day, at the shop, you go through the motions—serving customers, smiling, chatting. But your mind drifts back to him, and you wonder –

‘Does he ever think about me like that?’

You think of him during the slow afternoons at the shop, when the world feels like it’s moving on without you. You wonder what he’s doing, if you cross his mind in those rare moments when he’s alone. Or if you’re just another parishioner to him, someone he texts about cats and pastries and nothing more.

The next time your phone buzzes, and you see Zayne’s name light up the screen, your heart skips a beat, followed by that all-too-familiar flutter in your belly. He’s sent another picture of the cat, this time with a playful caption:

“Still no luck with petting him. I think he likes to torment me.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. Warmth spreads through your chest, but the ache follows closely behind.

You type out a response, light-hearted to match his tone. “Maybe he’s playing hard to get. He knows you’ll keep trying.”

The response comes seconds later, “You’re probably right. I’ll keep trying. Maybe one day he’ll trust me.”

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The next Sunday mass comes, and you sit quietly in the back, as you’ve grown accustomed to. Zayne stands at the altar, delivering his sermon with the same calm and captivating demeanor. The words, though meaningful, drift over you like a gentle breeze—comforting, yet distant. You can’t help but let your mind wander, your gaze occasionally flitting up to meet his. Each time your eyes find his, there’s a momentary spark, a flicker of something that passes between you.

At first, it’s subtle—a glance, nothing more. But as the moments pass, the weight of his attention seems to grow heavier. His gaze lingers on you for just a heartbeat longer than it should. The words coming from his mouth slow for the briefest second, just enough to notice, before he corrects himself and continues. But the flicker is there, a momentary lapse in the composed, unwavering Father Zayne.

You feel a rush of heat rise in your chest. ‘Is he losing focus because of me?’ The thought sends a thrill through you, though you immediately try to brush it off as wishful thinking. But then, it happens again.

Zayne’s sermon flows smoothly as usual, but this time, when his eyes find yours again, there’s a subtle shift in his expression. His voice falters, just slightly, as if he’s momentarily forgotten his place. He pauses, clearing his throat, his gaze quickly flicking away. You feel your heart pound in your chest, and you know he felt it too—his usual calm shaken, if only for a moment.

It doesn’t go unnoticed. A pair of elderly women seated a few pews ahead of you exchange a glance, their heads turning slightly as if they’re trying to figure out what—or who—might have caused the good Father to stumble. They lean toward each other, whispering quietly, but you can’t make out what they’re saying. You shift uncomfortably in your seat, a mixture of excitement and guilt flooding through you.

Zayne continues, his voice steady once more, but you can see the subtle tension in his posture now—the way his hands grip the edges of the lectern just a little tighter, the slight crease between his brows as if he’s fighting to regain control. You try to focus on the sermon again, to pull yourself out of this strange, charged moment, but it’s impossible.

When the service ends, and the last of the parishioners trickle out, you step forward, your heart still pounding in your chest. Zayne looks up, and you can tell he’s still unsettled from earlier.

But he smiles. "Good morning," he says, his voice quieter now. "I—uh, hope you enjoyed the service."

You nod, offering him a small smile in return. "I did. Though, I have to admit... I still don’t understand most of it."

Zayne chuckles, "As long as you’re here, that’s what matters," he replies, and for a moment it seems as if there’s more he wants to say but can’t quite find the words.

Before either of you can speak again, you glance toward the doors and realize that, during the service, the skies outside have opened up. Rain pours down, tapping against the windows with a steady rhythm. You curse softly under your breath, realizing you hadn’t brought an umbrella.

"Looks like I’m stuck for a while," you murmur, half to yourself, half to Zayne.

He follows your gaze, then turns back to you with a thoughtful expression. "You don’t have an umbrella?" he asks.

You shake your head, feeling a bit foolish. "No, I didn’t think it would rain today."

Zayne pauses for a moment, as if thinking about something, before he speaks again. "I could walk you home," he offers. "I have an umbrella, and I need to head out anyway. We could talk about the next bake sale on the way."

Your heart skips a beat at the prospect of walking alone with him.

"Are you sure?" you ask, though you already know what his answer will be.

Zayne nods, that soft smile returning to his lips. "Of course. It’s no trouble."

And just like that, the decision is made. You follow him to the coat rack near the entrance, where he retrieves a large, dark umbrella. He opens it with a swift motion, then gestures for you to step under it with him. As you do, the two of you step out into the rain, the world around you suddenly feeling smaller.

You walk side by side, the umbrella barely covering both of you, forcing your bodies to press close together. His arm brushes against yours every few steps, the warmth of his presence almost too much, making it difficult to focus on what he’s saying. The scent of rain mingles with the faint hint of his cologne, and it makes your head dizzy.

At one point, your eyes meet again, and for a split second, Zayne’s step falters, just slightly. His words stumble as he’s explaining something about the church’s plans for the sale. He catches himself quickly, but when you glance up at him, there’s a flush of color in his cheeks. And in that moment, you wonder – ‘Is he affected by this as well?’

As you walk, the rain begins to lighten, turning into a soft drizzle, but neither of you rush to part ways. The conversation continues, easy and unhurried, and for a moment, you forget about everything else—the church, the responsibilities, the complicated emotions swirling between you. It’s just the two of you, walking in the rain.

When you finally reach your street, Zayne stops in front of your building.

"Thank you," you say with a smile.

Zayne smiles, that familiar softness in his eyes again. "It was my pleasure."

There’s a brief pause, and for a moment, it feels like something hangs in the air between you. But before either of you can break the silence, Zayne steps back, offering a small nod.

"I’ll see you soon," he says, his voice quiet.

You nod, watching as he turns and walks away. As you head inside, you can’t shake the feeling that the space between you and Zayne is growing smaller with every encounter. You wonder if the boundary between friendship and something more is becoming increasingly blurred.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The next day, you couldn’t stop replaying it all in your head. The way he had looked at you, the subtle hesitations in his words, the fleeting touches. You found yourself waiting for a message from him, hoping for a hint that he felt something.

But the message never came.

You tried to brush it off at first. ‘He’s busy.’ The church had its demands, and the bake sale was coming up soon. He probably had a hundred things to take care of. But as the days passed, the silence grew heavier. Each time your phone buzzed, you found yourself hoping it was him, only to feel that familiar stab of disappointment when it wasn’t.

When you finally couldn’t stand the silence any longer, you sent him a message, keeping it casual. You told yourself that it wasn’t a big deal, that he’d reply, and everything would be fine. But when his response came, it was short, almost curt.

Your stomach sank as you stared at the screen. You told yourself you were imagining things, that maybe he was just having an off day. But the pattern repeated itself. Another message from you, another short, impersonal reply from him. It was as if a wall had gone up between you, growing taller with every passing day.

And then there was the shop. Zayne had always made a point of visiting at least once a week, stopping by for a quick chat and dessert. But that week, he didn’t come. Each day, you glanced toward the door, half-expecting to see him walk through it with that quiet smile, but the door never opened for him.

The absence weighted on your mind, leaving you questioning everything. ‘Did I do something wrong?’ you wondered, replaying your last conversations over and over in your head.

You tried to focus on work, on the bake sale preparations, but your mind kept drifting back to him. You thought about sending another message, something more direct. But each time, you hesitated. ‘What if he’s distancing himself on purpose?’ The thought left a hollow feeling in your chest.

By the time the weekend approached, the doubt and confusion had hardened into something else—hurt. You couldn’t understand why he had gone so cold, why the easy warmth between you had turned into this frigid distance.

And as you stood behind the counter of your shop, watching the door and waiting for a familiar face that never came, you realized something. ‘He’s avoiding me.’

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The next Saturday, the church is buzzing with activity. Tables are set up along the hall, covered in pastries, cakes, and breads that you had carefully crafted over the week. The sight of them should be enough to fill Zayne with excitement. He usually enjoyed events like these. Always eager to chat with volunteers, admire the work of the community, and, if he was honest with himself, look forward to seeing you.

But today, as he scans the room, his gaze lingers on the table where your pastries sit, beautifully arranged and ready to be sold. He can feel a flutter of anticipation. ‘She’ll be here.’ he thinks to himself, hoping to see you among the busy volunteers. You hadn’t come to last Sunday’s mass, and even though he had tried to keep his distance, part of him had been looking forward to seeing you today. He hadn’t realized how much he missed your presence until you weren’t there.

But as the minutes tick by, his eyes sweep over the table again, and something unsettling clicks into place. You’re not here. Instead, your two employees are standing behind the table, chatting with customers, offering samples and smiling as they go about their work. The sight of them, rather than you, feels like a punch to the gut.

Zayne takes a deep breath, as he walks over to the table. He exchanges polite greetings with your employees, but his mind is racing. ‘Why didn’t she come?’ He expected you to be here, after all the work you had put into the preparations. He glances around the room again, hoping maybe you’re somewhere else, mingling with the other volunteers. But you’re nowhere to be seen.

The knot in his chest tightens. For the first time in days, the weight of his own silence, his distance, hits him with full force. ‘She didn’t come because of me.’ His guilt, which he had been trying to push down, now rises to the surface. This time, for a different reason. He remembers the unanswered messages, the short replies, the way he had deliberately pulled away, thinking it was the right thing to do.

He moves through the rest of the bake sale with that guilt gnawing at him. Every time he passes your table, he feels the weight of your absence, the emptiness it leaves behind. And though he tries to focus on the event, shaking hands and exchanging small talk with parishioners, his mind is elsewhere—on you, and how he pushed you away with his silence.

As the crowd thins and things begin to slow down, he can’t resist any longer. He approaches your employees again, keeping his tone casual.

“She did an incredible job with everything,” Zayne says, offering a small smile as he glances over the leftover pastries. “I was hoping to thank her in person, though. Is she around?”

One of your employees, a young woman with a friendly smile, looks up at him. “Oh, she’s not here,” she says. “She’s actually out of town right now. I think she’s with her friends for the weekend.”

Zayne’s chest tightens. ‘Out of town?’ ‘With friends?’ The information feels like another blow. He hides his reaction, nodding politely.

“Ah, I see. Thank you both for participating,” he says, his voice a little more strained than he intends.

As he walks away from the table, the guilt intensifies. The thought of you spending the weekend elsewhere, with your friends, leaving the bake sale in the hands of someone else, feels like a quiet rejection. ‘She didn’t want to see me.’ The guilt twists in his chest, tighter and heavier than before.

⋆꙳❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

You stood in your kitchen for a few minutes, debating what to do. You weren’t planning on attending tomorrow’s Sunday mass—again. The thought of sitting there, with Zayne at the altar, pretending everything was normal, made your stomach twist. But the tablecloths. They needed to be returned, and the idea of just dropping them off quickly, quietly, without having to see anyone—without having to see him—seemed like the easiest solution.

You didn’t expect the rain. The sky had been calm when you left, but halfway to the church, the clouds burst open. Within seconds, the rain comes down in torrents, soaking through your clothes as you clutch the tablecloths tighter, your feet pounding against the wet pavement.

By the time you reach the church, you're drenched, the fabric in your arms heavy and useless. Gasping for breath, you push open the door. Your shoes squeak on the stone floor as you step inside, water dripping from your clothes and pooling beneath you. You wipe a hand over your face, trying to gather yourself.

"Hey," a voice calls from deeper within the church.

Your heart skips a beat. You recognize that voice immediately. Of course, it had to be him.

You’re standing there, dripping wet, trying to catch your breath and your bearings when Zayne steps closer, his eyes scanning over your soaked clothes. There’s a flash of concern in his expression, though he quickly tries to mask it with something lighter, a smile playing on his lips.

"You really don’t like carrying an umbrella with you, do you?" he teases softly, trying to ease the tension, and it works—just for a moment. You chuckle, shaking your head.

"I guess not," you manage to say, a small smile tugging at your lips despite your shivering.

His smile fades slightly as he takes in the sight of you, soaked and visibly trembling. “You’re freezing,” he says, his voice gentler now, more serious. “Why don’t you come to the rectory? You can dry off and change into something warm.”

The idea of going to the rectory, the space where Zayne lives, feels like crossing a line, a line you’ve been tiptoeing around for weeks. You shake your head, stepping back slightly. “I’ll just call a cab. I’m just here to return these,” you say quickly, you murmur, gesturing to the tablecloths. "I don’t want to intrude."

But Zayne steps forward, his brow furrowed as he looks you over. "You’re not intruding." he says, his voice more insistent now. "You’ll get sick if you walk back out like this. Please, just let me help."

You look up at him, the concern in his eyes stirring something deep inside you, something you’ve been trying to suppress. The rain outside is relentless, and despite your instinct to retreat, you find yourself nodding. "Okay," you whisper.

Relief flashes in Zayne’s eyes, and he nods, stepping aside to lead the way. "Good. Follow me."

Zayne leads you into the rectory, the warmth of his home. He guides you toward a small bathroom. “Take a hot shower,” he says, “I’ll put your clothes in the dryer, and I’ll leave some of my pajamas for you to change into.”

You nod, stepping inside the bathroom and closing the door behind you.

As the hot water runs over your skin, you feel the tension in your body begin to ease, the heat chasing away the lingering chill. You try to focus on the steam rising around you, on anything but the fact that you’re in his home, about to wear his clothes.

When you finally step out of the shower, you glance at the folded set of Zayne’s pajamas waiting for you on the bathroom counter. You slip into them, the soft material comforting against your skin, and can’t help but take in the smell of his fabric softener – fresh, floral scent. As you step out the bathroom, suddenly you’re self-conscious, aware of the fact that you’re not wearing a bra. The loose fabric brushes against your skin with every movement.

You walk timidly toward the living room, your heart pounding in your chest. As you step into the room, you find Zayne waiting for you, seated on the far end of the sofa. He’s placed two steaming mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits on the coffee table. The room feels intimate, almost too intimate, with just the two of you here, the rain still tapping against the windows outside.

Zayne looks up as you enter, and for a moment, his breath seems to catch in his throat. His eyes widen slightly, and a blush creeps up his cheeks as he takes in the sight of you in his clothes, fresh from the shower. He clears his throat, his gaze quickly dropping to the tea in front of him, but the redness on his face betrays him.

You feel your own cheeks burn in response, suddenly hyper-aware of the way the loose fabric hangs on you. You move quickly to the far end of the sofa, sitting down with careful distance between the two of you.

"Thank you... for the shower," you say. "And for letting me stay while my clothes dry."

Zayne glances at you, his eyes flickering briefly over you again before he focuses on his hands resting in his lap. "Of course," he murmurs, his voice a little strained.

You give him a small smile, wrapping your hands around the warm mug of tea, grateful for something to do with your hands.

Zayne speaks first, before the uncomfortable silence could stretch, “I heard you were out of town,” he says, his voice soft but probing. “What are you doing here?”

His question catches you off guard. You hadn’t expected him to bring it up so directly.

“I was supposed to be,” you say quietly, your fingers tightening around the cup of tea, the warmth barely grounding you. “But... the friend I was supposed to go out with caught a cold. She cancelled last minute.”

The explanation hangs between you, and even though it’s true, it feels flimsy. You look down, staring into your cup. ‘I shouldn’t have come here.’

Zayne’s gaze remains fixed on you, as if he’s waiting for something more. Then, he continues. “And the bake sale?” he asks, “You didn’t come.”

The question lands like a blow. You know why, of course. Your throat tightens as you try to form a response.

“I—uh, I got caught up,” you say, your voice faltering.

You know how weak that lie sounds. But he doesn’t push.  Instead his gaze softens as he looks at you. "I’m glad you’re here now," he says quietly.

You stare at him for a moment, his words sinking in, and a small, ironic chuckle escapes your lips before you can stop it. "I find that hard to believe,"

Zayne looks at you, a flicker of confusion crossing his face, his brow furrowing slightly as he waits for you to elaborate.

"I thought..." you begin, but then pause, biting your lip as you glance away, trying to gather your thoughts. "I thought you didn’t want me around."

The room falls into an uncomfortable silence.

Your eyes find his and the vulnerability in them makes your chest tighten.

"I’m sorry," he says softly. "For keeping my distance. For... pulling away."

The apology lingers between you, and for a moment, you don’t know what to say. You can feel the weight of his words, the sincerity behind them, but also the pain. He’s struggling—just as much as you are, maybe more.

"I thought..." he starts, his voice faltering for a second. He pauses, his hand moving to the white collar at his throat. "I thought keeping my distance would help, that it would protect both of us. But it only made things worse."

You swallow hard as you watch him. His fingers linger on the collar for a moment longer before he drops his hand, his eyes filled with a quiet regret. He takes a deep breath before continuing. "I started hearing things. Rumors. People talking about... us." The words make your heart skip a beat. "It was like a wake-up call, a hard one." His fingers brush the collar again, this time more deliberately. "That I’m a priest. And I took vows. Vows I can’t break."

You want to say something, anything, to ease the guilt you see in his eyes, but before you can, he continues, his voice even softer now. "But no matter how much distance I try to put between us, you’re always on my mind." He looks away for a second. "Everywhere I go, everything I do... I can’t stop thinking about you."

You don’t know what to say, what to do. Zayne’s vulnerability, his confession of how deeply you’ve affected him, makes the tension between you almost unbearable.

His eyes meet yours again. "You’re everywhere," he whispers, his voice almost breaking. "And I don’t know what to do about it."

Zayne’s words linger in the air, pulling at your heartstrings. You want to say something, to ease the pain, and you don’t know if you can. Not when you’ve been feeling the same way.

"Zayne..." you say softly, "I don’t want to be the reason you’re struggling," Zayne’s gaze drops to the floor, shoulders tense. Seeing him like this makes your chest tighten, but you can’t stop now. There’s too much unsaid.

"But I can’t stop thinking about you either," you confess, your voice trembling slightly. The words make you feel exposed, but it’s the truth you’ve been holding in for so long. "You’re in my thoughts all the time. It’s like... no matter where I am, no matter what I’m doing, I just want to be near you."

Zayne looks back at you, and you fight every fiber in your body to close the distance between you.

"I care about you, Zayne," you whisper. "And I hate seeing you like this. But I can’t pretend that what I feel isn’t real."

He’s quiet, his breathing shallow as he processes your words. Neither of you has the answers, but in this moment, it’s enough to know that you’re not alone.

"I’ve tried to ignore it," you continue, your voice shaky but honest. "I’ve tried to stay away, to give you space, but..." You take a deep breath, gathering the courage to say what’s been burning inside you for so long. "It’s not just the little things. It’s all of it. The way your touch lingers... even when you barely graze my skin. I keep thinking about it, imagining more, wishing you would... touch me, hold me.”

Your cheeks burn as the words leave your lips. This is it. There’s no turning back now. You’ve held this in for so long. And now, it’s out there between you, impossible to ignore, to pretend it doesn’t exist.

"I want to feel you," you confess softly. "I want to feel your hands on me. I can’t pretend I don’t need this anymore."

For a moment, Zayne doesn’t move. His breath is shallow, his eyes locked on yours as his fingers flex slightly against the fabric of his pants. You wait, breathless, watching him.

"I want to touch you," he whispers finally. "I’ve thought about it more than I should. About how it would feel…” Then, his expression falters, frustration flashing across his face. “But I can’t."

The empathetic side of you understands him completely, and you don’t want to push him. But at the same time, you can’t just let this moment slip away.

Your hand moves instinctively, slowly sliding down your chest in a deliberate motion. "You don’t have to." you murmur.

You don’t wait for him to respond as you reach up, your fingers tracing the top button of the shirt. Then, one by one, the buttons come undone, exposing your skin to the warm air of the room. You hesitate for just a moment, your breath catching in your throat as you look at Zayne. His gaze is fixed on you, the unbuttoned shirt, eyes betraying everything his words deny.

Your fingers slide along the edges of the unbuttoned shirt, and, with a steadying breath, you shrug your shoulders slightly, letting the material slip down your arms. The shirt falls away, delicately sliding off your skin. Your skin is bare now, exposed under the dim light, your chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. Your nipples are hard as the air brushes over your skin.

Zayne’s reaction is immediate. His eyes widen, and you can see the deep flush flood his cheeks and ears. His gaze roams over your body, taking in every inch of exposed skin, his pupils dilated. He’s stunned, frozen in place, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing—what he’s allowed himself to see.

His hand twitches, as if he wants to reach out, to touch you, but he doesn’t. He’s rooted to the spot, his body betraying him with how tightly he’s gripping the sofa, the knuckles of his hand turning white from the force of his restraint. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak—he’s completely consumed by the sight of you.

Without another word, you let your hand slide down, your fingers brushing against the waistband of your pants. Zayne’s eyes follow your movements. You pause for a moment, savoring the anticipation. Zayne lets out a ragged breath, his body tensing as he watches you, helpless to do anything but stare. Your fingers tremble as you hook them into the waistband of your pants, eyes never leaving Zayne’s. You push the pants down slowly, the fabric sliding over your legs and pooling at your feet, leaving you sitting in just your underwear.

For a moment, you hesitate, your heart pounding in your chest. You give him one last chance to stop you, to pull back before things go any further. "If you want me to leave," you say, your voice low, "you should say it now."

Your words hang in the air, the final chance for him to take control, to push you away. But Zayne says nothing. His lips part slightly, but no words come. He doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t tell you to leave. Instead, his eyes stay locked on yours, his silence a wordless plea for more.

That’s all the confirmation you need.

Your hand slides down slowly, Zayne’s eyes following every move. You let your fingers brush over the front of your underwear, and you know he can see the obvious damp spot, his presence alone having you already soaked through the fabric.

His pupils dilate as he watches, and for a second, you think you hear him let out a soft, involuntary sound—something like a groan—but it’s barely audible. His chest heaves, and his grip on the sofa tightens even more, as if he’s hanging on by a thread.

"I think about you all the time, Zayne," you whisper, your voice trembling. "And when I do... this is how I touch myself." Your hand presses down on the damp fabric. "There’s nothing wrong with this," you continue, your voice silky and sweet. "Not if you just watch."

The words feel like a challenge, a tease. Zayne’s face is a mixture of conflict and desire, but he doesn’t stop you. His eyes are glued to your hand, to the way your fingers move against the fabric of your underwear, his gaze filled with hunger he can’t hide anymore.

Your hand moves in slow, deliberate circles over your underwear, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through your body, and you let out a soft moan. The sound makes his jaw tighten, and he shifts in his seat, clearly aroused but still holding himself back. His gaze flicks back and forth between your eyes and your body, torn between wanting to pull away and being unable to look anywhere but at you.

Then, finally, his voice breaks the silence. "Take it off," he rasps, his voice trembling with the weight of his words. His eyes meet yours, and there’s no mistaking the command in them now. "I need to see... all of you."

His words send a rush of heat through you, making your entire body tingle. There’s no hesitation in his voice this time. Without a word, you hook your thumbs into the waistband of your underwear, your fingers trembling slightly as you slowly slide the fabric down your hips. The underwear slips down your legs, falling softly to the floor, leaving you completely exposed before him. You sit there, vulnerable, your skin glistening with arousal. You can feel his gaze on every inch of your body, lingering on your thighs, your hips, and finally, on the slick wetness between your legs.

"You’re... so beautiful." he breathes, his voice barely audible, filled with astonishment and desire. Zayne swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tries to steady himself. "Show me," he says, his voice low, trembling with desire. "Show me how you touch yourself... when you’re thinking about me."

Your heart races, your entire body flushed with heat as you slowly slide your hand down your stomach, your fingers grazing over your slick skin. You let out a soft moan as you begin to touch yourself, your eyes fixed on Zayne. He’s completely captivated, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he watches you.

Your fingers move with a growing urgency, sliding over the slickness between your folds. The sight of you touching yourself, moaning softly, has him teetering on the edge of his restraint. You’re watching him just as intently as he watches you, and you need to see more.

"Touch yourself too," you whisper softly. His eyes snap up to yours, stunned. "It’s not so bad," you add. "You’re not touching me. We’ll just… watch each other."

Zayne’s jaw clenches. His eyes are locked on yours, a storm of guilt and desire brewing beneath the surface. But then he slowly reaches up and unclasps the white collar at his throat.

For a moment, he holds it in his hand, his fingers trembling as he looks down at the small strip of fabric. Then, with a quiet exhale, he sets it aside on the table beside him. His hands move to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one by one, each motion slow, as though he’s still hesitating at the threshold. When he’s halfway down, Zayne pauses, then pulls the shirt over his head in one fluid motion, slipping free, leaving him bare from the waist up.

The muscles beneath his shirt are more defined than you had imagined. Your eyes roam over every line, every curve of his body, taking in the way his chest moves with each heavy breath. He sits there for a moment, shirtless, his collar gone, his identity as Father Zayne falling away along with it.

He’s just a man now—just Zayne.

You swallow hard, your fingers still moving, your own arousal building with each second that passes. "Please," you whisper. "I want to see you. All of you."

Zayne’s hesitation doesn’t linger for long, before he undoes his belt, his eyes never leaving yours. Your pulse races as the pants drop to the floor, leaving him in nothing but his underwear, his arousal straining against the thin material. His eyes flick to yours, searching, almost pleading. He’s asking without words—asking if this is what you want, if this is what you’re ready for. And you are.

You nod, biting your lip, your body trembling with anticipation. With a shaky breath, Zayne hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear, and you can see the tremor in his hands. But he doesn’t stop. He slides them down slowly, the fabric falling in one fluid motion, leaving him completely naked.

Your breath hitches, a soft gasp slipping from your lips as you take in the sight of him. His erection stands thick and heavy, the tip glistening with need. Every inch of him is raw, masculine, breathtaking. He’s stunning, more than you could have imagined, and for a moment, you’re lost in the sheer power of him—his vulnerability and strength laid bare before you.

Your fingers slide over yourself again, the slick heat of your arousal making you moan softly, your body shuddering from the touch. Zayne’s erection throbs visibly as he watches you. His hand twitches at his side, his body screaming for release, but he waits for you to give him permission, waiting to be told it’s okay to let go.

"Touch yourself," your voice is breathy, filled with need. "Please, Zayne."

His eyes flick between your hand and your face, but then, slowly, he wraps his hand around his length. The sight of him finally surrendering, of his strong hand gripping himself, sends a surge of heat straight to your core. You can’t help the soft whimper that escapes your lips as your fingers move faster.

Zayne lets out a low groan, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment as he strokes himself. The room is filled with the sound of your combined breathing, the soft moans that slip from your lips, the slick sound of your fingers slipping inside your wet entrance. You’re both completely lost in each other now, and there’s no going back.

Zayne’s hand moves slowly, rhythmically over his length, his breathing heavy and uneven as he watches you, his eyes filled with a hunger so intense it makes your pulse race even faster. His breath catches in his throat, and you know he’s still holding back.

“Relax,” you whisper, your voice shaky but filled with warmth. “It’s okay... I want this. You don’t have to hold back.”

Your words seem to wash over him, his eyes flickering with something like relief. His gaze is locked on your body, the way your fingers are soaked with your wetness, the slick sound filling the quiet space between you. His jaw clenches as he tries to steady himself, his hand stroking his length with increasing need.

"You’re... beautiful," he murmurs, his voice hoarse, barely more than a breath. "God, you’ve been... in my head... in my dreams... almost every night."

His confession makes your squeeze around your fingers, a soft moan escaping your lips. The raw honesty in his voice, makes your body tremble as you teeter on the edge. Your fingers press harder, your breath coming in shallow gasps as you feel the tension in your body building, coiling tight, ready to snap.

You can see he’s close too—his hand moving faster, his body tense with the effort of holding on. But even now, even with his own release so close, his eyes are locked on you, filled with a hunger.

"I want to see you," he whispers, his voice low and rough. "I want to see you... let go. I want to hear you... Please..."

That’s all it takes. His voice, thick with need, and the sight of him on the brink, unravel you completely. Your breath hitches, turning into ragged gasps as pleasure overtakes you, your fingers moving faster, desperate to prolong the sensation as wave after wave crashes through you, each one more intense than the last. And all the while, Zayne watches, his hand moving faster, desperate to join you in the release.

Your breath steadies, your hand still resting on your wet folds, the space between you now feels too wide. "Come closer," you whisper. "I want you closer... please."

The raw need in your voice, the tenderness of your plea, draws him toward you, erasing any hesitation. He hovers over you, kneeling between your legs, not quite touching but close enough that you can feel his breath on your skin. His arousal still hard and throbbing, inches away from you, his gaze filled with so much want that it makes your own body heat up again.

"I’m... I’m so close," Zayne gasps, his voice shaking, laced with desperation.

"Let go," you whisper, your voice soft but unyielding. Your eyes lock with his, your breath hitching as you speak. "Let go on me, Zayne."

His eyes widen at your words. He looks conflicted for a moment, as if he’s about to argue, to get up and find something else—a tissue, anything to keep from crossing that final line. But the hunger in your gaze, the trembling of your body beneath him pulls him back into the moment. The sight of your hand sliding over the slickness between your thighs seals his fate. His hand tightens around himself, his strokes quickening as his control shatters.

"Please," you whisper, your soft plea the final push he need.

And then, with a deep, shuddering breath, he finally lets go.

The first hot spurt of his release hits your belly, warm and wet, the sensation eliciting a soft gasp from your lips. His body trembles violently above you, his muscles taut and shaking as his hand moves over himself with desperate need. He groans deeply, the sound raw and primal, as more of his release follows, thick and hot, landing between your thighs, coating your skin. His breath hitches, his body tensing with each spasm of pleasure as he watches the way his release paints your skin. His hand continues to pump his length, his chest heaving with ragged breaths, caught in the overwhelming force of his orgasm. 

Zayne closes his eyes as the last drops land on your flushed skin, his body still above yours.

For a long moment, neither of you move. The air is thick with the weight of what just transpired, but there's no guilt, no regret. His breath is still ragged, your own chest rising and falling with the same uneven rhythm.

When Zayne opens his eyes, they’re soft with awe—filled with pure, unguarded admiration.

"You..." he whispers, his voice rough and shaky, barely able to finish the thought. His eyes trace the glistening trail of warmth he’s left on your stomach, the way it pools between your legs, marking you with the undeniable proof of how far you’ve both fallen. "You’re... perfect."

A soft, breathless smile plays on your lips. "So are you," you murmur back.

For a moment, Zayne just stares at you, his eyes filled with something deeper than words can express. Then, he leans forward, pressing a soft, featherlight kiss to your forehead. The gesture is so tender, so filled with affection, that it takes you by surprise. It feels fragile, like something you both need to hold onto, if only for a little longer.

When he pulls back, his eyes meet yours again, and for the first time, there’s a sense of peace. Just the quiet aftermath of something real—messy, complicated, but undeniably real.

And for now, that’s enough.

[leahwllmsn]

the reason

alexia putellas x reader

word count: 6.1k

When you showed up to your first training session of the season, you weren’t expecting to see your ex-something standing in the middle of the locker room.

; some angst, happy ending though, just a bunch of miscommunication 

“Y/N! You’re here, perfect,” Jonas gave you a huge smile as he directed you towards the woman you hadn’t seen in months. “Meet our new signing!”

You swore you’d never seen Jonas smile that big during your time at Arsenal, which was understandable if he managed to sign Alexia Putellas to this damn club.

You looked at her outstretched hand, acting as if this was the first time you two met—acting as if she didn’t break your heart just a few months ago. 

At once, the memories came rushing in and you looked up to meet her eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart started to pick up its pace. For a second you were shocked at how familiar it was, to have her staring at you like you were interesting to her, but you quickly shook it off. You knew it was all a lie, a façade. Alexia was good at making people think they matter to her when she couldn't care less about anybody but herself. 

You ignored her and you ignored Jonas’ yelp of surprise when you didn’t kiss the ground Alexia walked on. You went straight to your cubby and did your usual routine.

Training gear checked.

Boots checked.

Hair tie checked.

Alexia standing next to you—

“What?” you hadn’t meant to sound harsh, or maybe you did. You didn’t really care.

Out of all the things you expected to come out of her mouth, an apology for breaking your heart, or a simple ‘how are you’ or whatever, you hadn't expected her to say, “I missed you.”

You were indifferent to her being here before (that was what you convinced yourself anyway), but now you were livid. 

“Seriously?” your voice apparently was louder than you intended because you could feel a couple of eyes on you.

“Y/N…” maybe it was hearing her say your name again after all this time. Maybe it was the way she said your name with a hint of longing when she had no right to do so after what she did to you. Maybe it was the way she was standing there within your reach after you thought that you were never going to see her again.

You think it was all of it combined that made the ache in your heart, which you’ve managed to seal tight all this time, to seep through the seams and inject itself back into your veins.

Taking a deep breath, you will yourself to stare into her eyes. “Go fuck yourself, Alexia.”

You heard everyone inhale a sharp breath all at once as you exited the room. You definitely were getting an earful from Jonas but you didn’t care.

Alexia could really go fuck herself for all you care.

—

It was Leah that Jonas assigned to talk to you.

You hated it because aside from the fact that she was your captain in the Lionesses, she also had known you since you were barely in diapers, seeing as your mothers were best friends. 

You were hiding in your usual spot, the old storage room that no one used anymore. 

“Want to talk about why you were so rude to one of the best footballers on this planet?”

You scoffed. Great. Even your best friend was kissing Alexia’s ass. “She’s overrated.”

Leah sat down on the floor next to you, grabbing the back of your shirt when you went to stand up. “You’re not going anywhere, mate.”

“You can't make me talk,” you scowled at her. “I just hate her. Don’t really care if I was rude to Jonas’ newest favourite.”

Leah laughed, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. “Chill out will you! You’re acting so tense.”

“I’m not tense! It’s just been a shitty morning, with her being here and all.”

“I feel like there’s something I’m missing,” Leah looked at you questioningly. “You’re jealous of her or something?

You barked out a laugh at that. That was good. “Hell no. Why would I be jealous of her? Like I said, she’s overrated.”

“Then?”

“Then nothing,” you rolled your eyes. God, why was it so hard to be moody about your ex in peace?

“If it’s nothing then you wouldn't mind going back there and being nice to her, yeah?”

“No.” 

There was no way in hell you would be nice to Alexia. No. fucking. way.

“Y/N. Jonas is counting on me to talk some sense into you, he's scared Alexia is going to resign on the first day here if her teammate is rude to her.”

That sounded like a great idea, you thought. Just as you smiled at Leah, she was frowning at you.

“Y/N. Be nice. Please. For me?”

You always did have a soft spot for Leah.

“Fine.”

—

Everyone was already at the field when you returned with Leah.

You weren't sure who witnessed your little interaction with Alexia earlier so you kept to yourself for a bit, not wanting anyone to ask anymore questions.

You got through the training smoothly and it was over before you knew it. You kept on avoiding Alexia’s gazes, trying your best to pretend that she wasn't there at all. In your mind, Alexia was still in Barcelona, right where she should be.

Not in London Colney here with you. Definitely not.

“Hola.”

Damn it.

You were putting your stuff into your duffle bag aggressively, lifting your head just for a second to glare at her. 

Alexia seemed unperturbed at your cold gaze, sitting down on the cubby next to yours so she could look up at you and catch your eyes.

You were always a sucker for her stupid puppy dog eyes.

But you were stronger now. You were.

“Y/N,” she tried again, her voice a whisper. “Can we talk? ”

You replied with a simple “No.”

“We are going to be teammates, we should at least be civil to one another, no?”

“No,” you rolled your eyes, who did she think she was? “I’ll pretend you don't exist and you can do the same.”

Alexia scoffed at you. “Why are you being so difficult?”

That got your attention. “Me?” you raise your voice and Leah suddenly stepped in between you two, probably fearing that things might escalate.

“Hey,” Leah gave you a pointed look. “People are watching.”

You glanced back and people were watching, most had a curious look on their faces. No one knew you and Alexia knew each other, but everyone knew you and they knew you were anything but hostile. So this attitude might be slightly disconcerting for them.

You took a deep breath and willed yourself to calm down. You need time to process the events that happened today.

“I’m just gonna go,” you told Leah. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

Not sparing Alexia another glance, you grabbed your bag and took off.

Tomorrow. You’ll face her again tomorrow and maybe you can try to be civil with her. Only for the sake of your teammates.

—

“You know… if you keep on staring at me like that, one might think you’re in love with me.”

You thought you were being discreet with your gazes towards the brunette who was sitting a few seats apart from you, acting as if you were staring at the ocean instead.

But apparently that wasn’t the case and as soon as you heard those words come out of her mouth, you choked on your ice tea and patted your chest repeatedly to stop the coughing fit. 

The brunette beside you laughed and you halted your movements to stare again because wow, the pictures really didn’t do Alexia Putellas justice.

She turned towards you and held out a hand for you to shake. “I’m Alexia.”

You accepted her hand with a bashful smile. “I know.”

She raises her eyebrows at you.

You could feel the blush rising to your cheeks, trying to play it cool with a simple shrug of your shoulders. “Who doesn't know Alexia Putellas at this point? It would be weird if I didn’t.” you paused. “And I wasn’t staring at you, by the way.”

“Oh, you weren’t?” Alexia smirked. She slid into the empty seat between you and you could feel your heartbeat racing once you caught a whiff of Alexia’s perfume. A strong flowering scent. Huh. You've never thought about what Alexia Putellas would smell like, but it probably wasn’t this. It somehow made you even more attracted to her.

You nodded, playing with the straw of your drink. “I totally wasn’t.”

“Then what were you staring at?” 

“The… sea.”

Alexia laughed once more and you couldn’t help but laugh with her. Her laugh was infectious.

“Okay, sure,” Alexia took a sip of her drink. “Just so you know though, I wouldn’t mind if you were staring at me.”

You hummed, pretending to be in thought. “I’d rather not.”

“No?” Alexia raised her eyebrows. “Why not?”

You shrugged. “Then you’d think I’m into you, or something.”

“Well aren’t you?”

You clicked your tongue. Her ego was through the roof. You get it though, if you looked like that, you’d think everyone was into you too. “No.”

“Your stare suggests otherwise.” Alexia smiled smugly.

You stepped down from your stool and put your hand out. “Why don’t you take a stroll around the beach with me?”

When Alexia was still staring at your outstretched hand, you motioned for her to take it. Alexia complied and let you drag her away to the shore. 

“It was getting kinda boring, wasn't it? Just sitting by yourself at the bar,” you explained, swaying your hands back and forth as you walked along the coast. “I don't know if you know me, but I play football professionally too. For Arsenal and England. I’m here on holiday with my family but they can get kind of crazy sometimes so I want to have some alone time for a bit.”

“I know the feeling. I'm here with my sister but she drives me crazy most of the time.” you laughed along with her. 

“So you’re free then,” you halted your steps. “Spend the day with me?”

Alexia gave you a huge smile and you wanted the waves to swallow you whole, because how can someone be so gorgeous?

“I thought the answer was obvious the moment I let you drag me away from my unfinished cocktail.”

“Sorry,” you laughed. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

“That’s okay,” Alexia leaned forward and whispered in your ear. “As long as you admit that you’re attracted to me at the end of the day.”

You gulped, the close proximity was making your head spin. “Never,” you stuck your tongue out at her.

“We’ll see.” Alexia leaned back and grinned. “For now, can we go see some dolphins?”

You had already seen the dolphins the previous day. You hated it because the dolphins thought it was a good idea to splash water all over your brand new Dior bag and you swore you would never come back. 

But Alexia was looking at you with wide, excited eyes and a smile so bright that you didn’t have the heart to say no to her. So you went to see the dolphins and you did everything Alexia wanted.

The entire day, Alexia didn’t let go of your hand and you swore you had never been happier.

—

You and Alexia ended up talking to each other everyday ever since the Ibiza trip. She didn't exactly tell you that she felt the same way you did, but you figured that her constant flirting was supposed to clue you in. 

It went on for months and before you knew it, you were hopelessly in love with Alexia. 

Alexia was kind, thoughtful, she was so passionate about the sport that you both loved so dearly and you were just a goner. 

Who wouldn’t be, honestly?

It was certainly a bonus point that she was super attractive too. 

In the morning when Alexia would call you on facetime, and you were greeted with her face still full of sleep, blanket engulfing her as she recounts to you her plans for the day, you couldn't do anything but stare helplessly at how good she looked and how extra raspy her voice was. 

You and Alexia never put a label on things but you figured you were sort of… dating? Or it was a… situationship? Whatever it was, you knew it was beyond the level of friendship.

You loved your friends and you called them on the daily, but you couldn't imagine doing it to this extent. Alexia would call you in the mornings and at night. You’d call her when you got off training, you’d call her when you heard a funny joke Kyra said and you wanted to tell Alexia about it. She would call you when she got anxious because she was starting her match and her doubts of still being not good enough post ACL still haunted her.

You loved Leah, your bestest friend in the whole world, but you couldn't imagine telling her the things you told Alexia in the early hours of the morning. There were some things that you didn’t think you'd share with anyone, but with Alexia, it was… simple. It was easy. It felt right.

But maybe it was all in your head.

It went on for so long that you didn’t even think labeling it was important anymore. You were Alexia’s and she was yours.

She told you she loved you, for fuck’s sake.

She told you she loved you and one day when you were at camp, Lucy mentioned how Alexia was seeing someone.

Someone who you thought was you, but how could that be if Lucy was talking about having a double date at the best paella place in Barcelona with Alexia and her girlfriend when you were all the way in London. 

Apparently Alexia’s girlfriend was someone named Olga and they'd been dating for a few months and your blood pressure went through the roof.

A few months.

You thought you were dating Alexia for a few months (one year actually, but you didn’t give a fuck anymore).

You ignored Alexia’s call that night because, what the fuck? She had a girlfriend in Spain and you were what? Her side piece? That thought made you sick.

You didn't reply to Alexia’s messages anymore. Too hurt, too embarrassed at everything.

don’t text me again, Alexia 

I mean it

You declined all her calls and never bothered replying to her texts that were pleading to tell her what was wrong.

Eventually when weeks passed by and you still gave no response, she stopped trying.

You didn't know if you were relieved or disappointed.

—

It seemed like the universe had something against you because as soon as you got out of your car, Alexia was also getting out of her car across from you.

If you weren't so pissed off at the reminder that she was actually a part of Arsenal now, you would laugh at how comical this sight was—you scowling at her and Alexia scowling back at you.

“Bon día,” Alexia had the decency to greet you.

“Morning,” you grumpily greeted back.

You walked side by side into the building. you didn't know why, you could have walked faster, or slower, or turned in the other direction so you wouldn't have to walk by her side, but you did it anyway.

Despite only having hung out with her in person a few times during your time together/not together, you kinda missed her.

“Is this you finally being civil with me?” 

“I still hate you.”

“Okay ouch,” Alexia placed a hand over her heart, pouting at you. You continued to scowl at her, trying to hide how your heart had betrayed you and skipped a beat.

Before you had the chance to respond, you two arrived at the locker rooms. Only Leah was there, who immediately came over and sling an arm around your shoulder and grinned cheekily at you. “Best mates already, are we?”

You flicked Leah’s forehead, causing her to yelp and do the same to you. “Leave me alone, Leah,” you grumbled.

“Someone’s moody this morning,” Leah whispered to Alexia, to which the latter hummed in agreement.

“Have I mentioned how much I hate you both?”

Leah chuckled, whispering something to Alexia that you didn't quite catch. Nor did you care enough to find out. 

How funny was your life right now? Your best friend and your… something were friends. Ugh. Your ex-something, now your teammate. Ugh.

You were too caught up in unpacking your things that you didn't notice Leah calling your name.

“Y/N!” 

You turned around and raised an eyebrow at her. “What?”

“I’ve been calling you twice! Alexia distracting you that much?” Leah said teasingly.

You looked towards Alexia who was changing her clothes, leaving her in a Nike sports bra and her abs on full display. Fuck. Bad idea.

“Oh fuck off,” you quickly turned back around, feeling the heat rushed to your cheeks.

“Stop being so moody,” Leah shook her head in amusement. “You’re terrible when you’re moody.”

“Not moody.”

Leah chuckled like she couldnt believe you but she let it go. “We’re planning a welcome party for Alexia this weekend at my place. You’ll be there, yeah?”

Your reply was immediate. “No.”

“Oh I’m hurt,” speak of the devil. Alexia joined in on your conversation with Leah, now all dressed in her Arsenal training kit. Your eyes raked up and down her body. You didn’t have time to admire her in her Arsenal kit yesterday. (You wouldn't admit that it looked good on her.) “You won’t attend your own teammate’s welcoming party? Dios mío. So much for being a team.”

“Not if the teammate is you,” you retorted.

Alexia pouted at you. Leah looked like she was having the time of her life watching your interaction. “Do not be like that, darling,” Alexia teased. You badly wanted to smack her in the face. “You did say you have always wanted us to play together. Now we are on the same team and you are acting like you hate me?” 

At that your eyes bulged out of its sockets. Leah looked mostly confused. “I never said that!”

Alexia only smirked at you as she passed by, blowing you a kiss before she went off to the pitch. 

“She’s so bloody annoying,” you grumbled after her. “I never said anything like that!”

—

The first time you argued with Alexia on the pitch, it was entirely your fault. You could admit this. 

Alexia was dribbling the ball—looking so good doing it, like everything was so effortless for her, that you sort of got annoyed and went in to tackle her. It could’ve ended badly if it weren’t for Alexia’s quick reflexes.

“Oh come on! That’s a yellow!” Alexia looked genuinely pissed off, she quickly stood up, throwing her hands in the air. 

“Oops,” you shrugged, mockingly patting her cheeks. “Good reflexes though.”

All your teammates looked away as Jonas scolded you in front of everyone—not that you care, you weren’t hearing a word he said. You were too busy sending a smirk Alexia’s way. You didn’t look guilty in the slightest and that was probably what made Alexia’s blood boil.

She took her water bottle and she didn’t just spray water on you, she turned the cap and poured the whole thing on top of your head.

“Oops,” Alexia mocked your earlier words. 

Oh you were livid. “What the bloody hell is wrong with you?!” 

Alexia leaned in and whispered in your ear, “You should work on your reflexes, babe,” before walking away. She didn’t get to walk very far before you ran after her and jumped on her back, tackling her to the ground.

You didn’t know what you wanted to do but you were so annoyed at Alexia—annoyed that she was able to get under your skin, annoyed that she was so attractive and you were still so attracted to her even though she broke your heart! It was ridiculous.

You were tackling each other on the field, and you could hear Alexia start to laugh and you realized it was because you were tickling her and Alexia was ticklish.

“Y/N! Stop! What the hell!” You sure as hell weren’t stopping now.

(It was definitely not because of how addictive the sound of Alexia’s laughter was.)

“Say sorry!” You shouted back, you were straddling her at this point, your hands still poking at her sides.

“No!”

“Alexia! Say sorry!”

“No! Get off!”

“I’m not getting off until you say sorry!”

All your teammates were watching the scene with bewilderment on their faces. Earlier, when you tackled Alexia, everyone was holding their breath, anticipating the bomb that was due to explode anytime (the bomb here being the tension created by you and Alexia being in each other’s vicinity). 

Now, everyone was just amused. You two were still taking turns straddling each other, trying to outpower the other, a scowl ever present on your face (although if one were to look closely, you did let a smile slip). Everyone thought you hated each other. Jonas was making himself go crazy trying to find the history between you, needing to find a solution to make you like each other as one of you leaving was not an option.

Now, everyone could see that you two were fine. Some unresolved tension, for sure. Full on hatred? Not so much.

—

The days passed by pretty quickly and the next thing you knew you were standing in front of Leah’s door, about to enter Alexia’s welcoming party, the one you were adamant to not show up to.

Leah then threatened to take away your PlayStation for a month to which you finally caved in with the biggest sigh and “Remember Lee, it’s not about me wanting to be friends with Alexia, okay? I literally cannot live if you revoke my PlayStation privileges!”

You entered Leah’s place with an even more sour mood than you were at training this week.

Training was fine, as always. Having Alexia there to train with you in London Colney was not fine.

(Although you couldn’t help but notice how well you and Alexia played with each other, managing to have some sort of telepathy that let you two find one another on the pitch. 

Just your damn luck.)

You made your rounds and spoke with everyone. You were less tense now, somehow having adjusted to Alexia being around.

You could see the relief in Leah and Kim’s face when they saw you weren’t trying to start fights with the new signing anymore.

So much so that they decided it was you and Alexia that had to be the one to get more beers in Leah’s pantry. You took the instructions with a scowl, Alexia trailing behind you like a lost puppy.

You entered Leah’s pantry (if one could even call it that, it was spacious, Leah had more space than one living alone would need), and you were about to tell Alexia to hold the door open and not let it shut because the handle was broken and Leah still haven’t gotten it fixed when Alexia shut the door closed.

“Fuck.”

“What?”

“Guess we’re stuck here.”

—

After both of you had tried your luck by pulling the door handle and nothing seemed to work, you two settled on the floor, sitting on opposite ends of the room.

You were scowling at the blonde, who was looking everywhere but you, a guilty expression on her face.

“This is all your fault,” you were sulking. You both stupidly didn’t bring your phones and you couldn’t call anyone for help. “This is all your fault,” you repeated.

“I told you, I’m sorry,” Alexia mumbled, bringing her knees to her chest. You hated that she looked like a kicked puppy.

You sighed. Maybe you were being too harsh on her. “I’m surprised there hasn't been an uproar online with you leaving Barcelona,” you changed the subject.

Alexia raised an eyebrow at you, not expecting you to start another conversation apart from telling her that being stuck here was Alexia’s fault. “It hasn't been announced yet,” she clarified.

“Well, goodluck,” you felt bad for her. Just a bit. “They’re going to rip you apart for that. Unloyal, how you downgraded, and all that.”

Alexia let out a big sigh. “I know. I have prepared myself for it. The goodbye video is a good one though, it was so emotional, I even cried. I just hope people understand.”

You looked at her, you still couldn’t understand her. “I thought you loved Barça? You are quite literally a carbon copy of Leah with Arsenal.”

“I did. I do. I love the club with all my heart, you know that.”

When you didn't reply Alexia continued.

“There were a lot of factors, to put it simply. Financials, is one. I didn’t like that in order for me to receive more, someone has to get less. We won the Quadruple, we won a lot of fucking things for the club, there should be enough money going around. Anyway, I won’t go into detail because it is a lot more complicated than that. Then there was going to be changes, with Jona leaving and all. I didn’t like where it was headed.”

Alexia took a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling. “I didn’t want to leave everyone behind, but I felt that it was for the best. They still have Marta and Patri so I’m leaving them in good hands.”

“Sorry to hear that,” you murmured, now feeling guilty for your behaviour towards her ever since she got here.

Alexia turned to look at you and gone were the wistful look in her eyes. She looked serene—if that was even possible after leaving the club of your life.

“Then you were also a factor, definitely,” Alexia said so softly that you might have missed it. “I didn't know why you were suddenly ignoring me, I feel like I definitely did something wrong because we were fine one day and not the next. I want to apologize for whatever it was. I really do miss you.”

You could only look at her as you processed her words. Your loud laugh broke the silence “Me? You moved to shitty Arsenal because of me? Please be serious.”

Alexia laughed at that. “Don’t call your club shitty. I think it’s quite a good club. With an interesting league.”

“If you're comparing it to Barcelona—“

“I like it here so far,” Alexia interjected. “You should be proud of your club.”

“Of course I am—”

“And you’re here so it’s definitely a bonus point.”

“No, no, wait, just pause,” you ran your hand through your hair as you took a deep breath. What the fuck was going on. You stood up and started pacing the floor, Alexia looking at you expectantly. “You,” you pointed at her. “Moved to Arsenal, to bloody London,” you waved your hand around, “because of me?” you pointed at yourself in disbelief.

“One of the reasons, yes.”

“No!”

Alexia looked taken aback at your outburst, her face showing that she was amused at you. “What do you mean no?”

“No as in you're lying.”

“I’m not lying,” she rolled her eyes at you. 

“Yes, you are.”

Alexia mumbled some Catalan you didn't understand and stood up, inching closer to you. When she was about to take your hand, you immediately pulled away, “Stop,” you warned her, “you have a girlfriend.”

“What?” Now it was you who was taken aback by her outburst.

“I know all about your Spanish girlfriend,” you crossed your arms over your chest. “So cut it out.”

“I don’t have a Spanish girlfriend?” Alexia was confused and you were too, but you know she has a hot, Spanish girlfriend somewhere in Barcelona and it was igniting the rage in the pit of your stomach.

“Lucy told me that you went on a double date with her and Ona. While we were together,” you scoffed. “So not only do you have a girlfriend but you cheated.”

“What!” Alexia looked at you like you were crazy. “Cheated? Sí, I was in love with you, but we were never together?!”

Your jaw went slack at that, how could she?

“Never together- all the daily calls and texts and the I love you? Jesus, Alexia. What was all that?”

Realization seemed to dawn on her face at the same time as yours. There was a chance that… Alexia didn’t think you were together when you thought otherwise…?

“I didn’t—” Alexia sighed, shaking her head. “I thought we were friends!”

You groaned, palming your face. Oh my god. This must singlehandedly be the most humiliating point in your life. You were heartbroken over someone who didn't think you were together? “What kind of friends—”

“Okay, okay,” Alexia stepped closer to you, her hands reaching out in an attempt to touch yours. “Lo siento. I really am.” You let her touch you, Alexia immediately holding your hands and running soothing circles with her thumb.

“I didn't know you felt that way towards me, honestly,” Alexia continued. “I was trying to forget you, so I went out with someone for a bit but it was nothing serious. I—wait, was that why you stopped talking to me?”

Still feeling the embarrassment, you pulled your hands from her grip and began walking towards the door. Before you remembered that you were locked in. Great.

Alexia caught up to you, essentially blocking your path. Not that you could go anywhere anyway. 

“Y/N,” Alexia gave a small laugh and you frowned at her. What was so funny about this? “You thought we were together?”

Your frown deepend even further, hearing her say it out loud was so, so embarrassing. “Yeah, whatever, go ahead and laugh at me.”

Alexia turned serious at your tone. “I am not laughing at you. I promise,” she took your hands in hers. “I think it is… cute. We both suck at communication. I’m sorry.” Alexia brought your hands up to her lips, pressing the softest kiss to your knuckles. 

You wanted to die, in a good way. But you were still so embarrassed about this whole thing, so you remained quiet.

“I was in love with you,” Alexia clarified. “Still am. But I did not know that you feel the same—“

You groaned. “I don’t call my friends 24/7 or end everything with an ‘I love you’. Of course I was in love with you!”

“I am oblivious, I know!” Alexia laughed. “Sorry! But you never clarified things.”

“I thought it was obvious,” you pushed her shoulder halfheartedly. “If we were to date and you do those things with someone else, I would be concerned.”

“Never,” Alexia placed her hands around your waist, having you essentially pressed against her. “Sorry again about everything.”

“You should be,” you whispered, the close proximity making your heart beat wildly against your chest. “You broke my heart without knowing it.”

“Won’t ever do it again, te prometo,” Alexia rested her forehead against yours. Alexia filled all your senses and you were overcome with a wave of contentment. “Just so we are clear… you like me in a romantic sense and you want to date me, romantically, yes?”

You could only roll your eyes, grabbing her by the neck to pull her in for a kiss.

Suddenly the door flew open, causing you two to break apart. It was Leah, a bewildered look on her face with a screwdriver in hand. You didn’t even realize she was trying to open the door.

“I thought you two hated each other?!”

You opened your mouth to reply but you didn't get the chance to, not when Alexia grabbed your jaw to turn you towards her and placed her lips back on yours.

“Seriously?!”

You heard Leah muttering curse words as she slammed the door shut and Alexia giggling against your lips at the same time. You were the most content you had ever been.

—

bonus:

When you and Alexia weren’t throwing snide remarks at one another, people started to look at you weirdly, apart from Leah, obviously, who was sporting the biggest scowl on her face.

You didn't get a chance to talk to her after she caught you, your best friend prying the door open once more then left without a word, trying to act like a good host and preparing unnecessary foods and drinks for everyone. Basically, she was ignoring you.

You've known Leah all your life and you knew she was pissed that she was kept in the dark about your… developments with Alexia. To be fair, the developments did happen a few minutes before Leah got the door to open, so you didn't really have time to tell her.

Plus, you hadn't told her about how you and Alexia were sort of together but not really for a year and you knew Leah would be even more pissed that you decided to omit this from her. You loved Leah for it though. You knew she meant well. She was very protective over you.

You knew better than to approach Leah when she was like this, opting to leave her to brood in peace for a few days.

You would tell her about Alexia eventually, never really one to keep secrets from her. 

At the thought of Alexia, you instantly had a smile on your face.

You two were back to the way it was before—regular calls and texts, only this time you could meet each other for coffee in between the time you weren’t calling or texting each other.

This time, you two were on the same page. You were in love with each other. No one else. And you were dating each other—no one else.

Training became… eventful. 

Not only were you and Alexia civil, you two were making jokes with each other. At one point, you even managed to hug her discreetly, when no one was around—or so you thought anyway.

“Whoa.”

You instantly pulled back at the voice, it turned out to be Mariona, Alexia’s Spain teammate.

“Since when is La Reina a hugger?”

“Shut up, Mario,” Alexia glared at her, although you could see the small smile on her lips. “We are dating. Of course we hug. Just be thankful we were not in the middle of making out or doing something worse.”

What?

You could only stare at Alexia in shock, mouth hanging open. Mariona was the same, she was catatonic.

Whatever you were expecting to come out of Alexia’s mouth, it wasn't that.

“I think you broke poor Mario,” a voice chimed in from the doorway. “I was the one who walked in on their making out session,” Leah continued, stepping into the room. “That was pretty traumatizing.”

Leah was looking at you with that glint in her eyes, one that told you all was well. “You still mad at me Williamson?”

Leah scoffed. “Oh please. Why would I be mad at you?”

“Because I didn’t tell you Ale and I were a thing, and because you had to walk in on me being all over her- in my defense, have you seen her? How could you not want to jump her bones—”

“Okay, nope!” Leah closed her eyes with a grimace, trying to burn the memory away. “Please, please keep it in your pants.”

You shook your head fondly at her, moving forward to engulf her in a hug. “Dinner at my place tonight?”

Leah pulled back and placed the sloppiest kiss on your cheek. “Sure, darling. I know you’ve missed me!”

“Lee! What the fuck!” Leah was giggling and you were shooting daggers at her. Alexia was looking at the both of you with amusement on her face. 

Mariona suddenly burst into laughter, taking everyone by surprise. “This is gold,” Mariona said in between her laughs. “So I am not the only one who moved countries for a girl?”

Alexia looked genuinely offended at the accusation. “I did not move here because of a girl!”

You wrapped your arms around her waist, “Oh you so did, babe. That’s okay, no one is holding it against you. I am pretty hot.”

Alexia was about to counter your statement when Mariona chimed in, an ear-splitting grin on her face, “I am going to go tell everyone about this.”

“What- no! Mario!” Alexia went to chase after the brunette who had made her exit. You could hear their voices echoing throughout the hall. “I moved here because of a lot of reasons, you know this!”

“So,” Leah kicked your shoe to get your attention. “Alexia, huh? Didn't you say she was overrated?”

“Shut up.”

[nanowrimo]

4 Tips for Autistic Writers

Autistic writers can face unique challenges when it comes to writing. NaNo Participant Auden Halligan has tips to handle some of those challenges!

So, you’ve just sat down at your desk, all ready to work on your next chapter, but you just can’t seem to start. Something is itching at your brain, and no matter how hard you think, you can’t figure it out. For autistic writers, that itch might be even harder to get around when compounded with autistic inertia, introspection issues, and sensory processing disorder — even if we were super excited to get started, sometimes the stumbling blocks are enough to keep us from going anywhere at all.

Here are four tips to identify your struggles and work around them rather than against them as an autistic writer!

1. Schedule your writing time appropriately

While keeping a schedule can help you stave off unwanted change in your routine, the need to switch to another task when the clock strikes the hour sometimes feels like a monumental task, one that eventually becomes detrimental to your creative pursuits.

If switching tasks is the biggest hurdle to your writing, setting a designated writing time with no other plans around it could do the trick. Oftentimes, just one hour of time to transition from doing dishes to sitting down at your computer to write is exactly what you need to get past that point and find your writing headspace.

2. Make sure your sensory environment is right

Sometimes getting into that writing headspace is harder than normal, but you can’t put your finger on a reason. Chances are, you’re not quite ready until you have your sensory needs met and you can fully focus on your story.

Personally, I like to be on the couch with my water bottle, a playlist at just the right volume, and a comfortable jacket or hoodie on. For you, the ideal sensory space might involve a desk and a snack, a pet nearby, and a quiet room. For others, it could be outside or even at a library or coffee shop. Autistic people are all different and so are their sensory needs, so this one is super subjective — do what works best for you!

3. Take breaks often

Writing can be exhausting, and if you’re struggling to keep going, you might need to take a pause. If you’re like me and struggle with remembering to hydrate and eat once you’re deep in a task, use your break to get some water and a snack. If you’re having trouble staying focused, get up and move around and stim or go outside to give your brain a reset. If you feel like you’ve gotten some good progress done, however small, reward yourself — do something related to your special interest, dance with a pet, and celebrate your little (or big!) win!

The pomodoro method is a good way to keep yourself from working too long without a break, and if that doesn’t work for you, methods like the Eisenhower method with breaks interspersed and even simply inserting breaks into your scheduled writing time are just as valid.

4. Don’t be afraid to skip around

Another thing that often trips us autistic people up is needing to follow the story down its natural progression, from start to middle all the way to the finish. But inevitably, once we’ve gotten past the initial excitement of having the project started, we hit a stumbling block…and the project gets abandoned. I’ve left behind countless projects because I lost interest after hitting a scene I wasn’t excited for after just a few chapters.

To combat this, try writing out of order! Skip ahead to the scene directly after your stumbling block. You could also skip to the next scene your favorite character is in or even to the climax if it helps you move forward. If you’re having trouble putting your first words down, try writing a random scene in the middle of your story to get into the groove of writing your characters.

Alternately, if you can’t abide by the out of order method and really need to get your characters from Point A to Point B, try putting the scene you’re stuck on in brackets. For example:

[Character 1 and Character 2 fight over the decision to kick Character 3 off the team. 2 leaves in anger.]

It’s simple, efficient, and gets you out of that particular rut so you can keep moving toward that sweet, sweet conversation you’ve wanted to write since Day 1.

Now go forth and write, my friends!

Auden Halligan is a creator through and through. She’s been writing her entire life, but didn’t start participating in NaNoWriMo until 2017–right now she’s working on developing a TV series (or two!) and has several novels and short films in the drafting phase. Auden is currently a college student studying film production and hoping to minor in disability studies. You can find her on her very sparse Twitter at ink.and.spite. Photo by Lisa Fotios from Pexels

If you’re an autistic writer, check out the Pillow Fort in the NaNoWriMo forums! It’s a group for people who are neurodivergent, have disabilities, mental health concerns, or physical challenges that affect their lives.

[azzibuckets]

now that we don’t talk part 1 [paige bueckers]

paige bueckers x fem!reader

summary: you and paige break up and neither of you know how to move on properly with your life

a/n: decided to go for some angst again…didn’t really have an aim or a direction when writing this so not sure if i should turn this into a series or not ? lmk what yall think

word count: 1.5k

masterlist | next

The First Week

In the first week, Paige had fallen into her daily routine. Her moments of forgetfulness were instinctual; she’d laid a dollop of minty Crest toothpaste on her blue toothbrush before doing the same thing to your red one, leaving it hanging over the edge of the counter.

The first time she did it, she’d hadn’t even noticed. It was only when she’d turned her mouth to catch the water under the faucet that she’d spotted your toothbrush that she’d set up, ready with Crest, as if you’d pop in any moment to stick it in your mouth and start scrubbing. Paige had almost choked on the water she’d been gurgling, grief worming its way up her throat and making it hard to breathe.

Heaving, she’d stood over the sink, hand gripping both sides of the counter to support herself until her knuckles turned white. It took all her strength not to buckle over from the precipitous wave of agony that had collided into her with gut-wrenching speed.

But for some reason, Paige had stuck your toothbrush under the stream of water then placed it carefully back in its cup. And so she’d made the same mistake the day after. This time, when she realized what she’d done, it wasn’t the weight of sadness that compressed her lungs, but a brewing storm of fury. Her vision had gone red, and she’d grabbed the toothbrush and hurled it against the wall as hard as she could, with a strength that she didn’t even know that she’d still had. And this time, when Paige stared at the toothpaste dripping slowly down the wall, mocking her as it made a mess on the floor, the counter couldn’t save her. She’d succumbed to the force of her fury dragging her down, and had crumpled to the floor, sobs racking her body.

The First Month

Your room was dark, in almost sub-freezing temperatures with the windows wide open to welcome in the frosty, bone-chilling winter air that Connecticut was known for. The only light in the room came from the dim glow of your laptop screen, opened live to the UConn women’s basketball game playing live on ESPN.

At first, you’d attempted to be nonchalant whenever Paige sunk yet another basket with ease, making the crowd and commentators going feral as she celebrated with her signature moves. But as the game between UConn and Stanford got closer and closer, you couldn’t help but smile when Paige crossed over her defense, sending them flying to the floor and leaving her wide open to score yet another 3. It reminded you all too well of the Paige you’d met and fallen in love with, whose confidence on the court had made you start viewing her as more than just your teammate.

But any trace of smile on your face quickly vanished once you watched Paige’s post-game interview during the livestream. “You’ve had quite a run this season despite being out for most of your sophomore and junior year due to injury. Who would you like to thank for your unpredented comeback?”

“I’d like to thank God. He’s been with me through everything, given me trials to test my resilience. In fact, he’s made me stronger than ever.” Paige had paused. You’d recognized her hesitance; the way she nibbled her bottom lip, her mouth half open as she debated a response, the uncertainty in her eyes as they flickered. But she seemed to recover from any reluctance, and what she said next made your heart drop. “I’d also like to thank my girlfriend, Leslie.” She motioned to someone off camera, and soon the frame was filled with tousled brown hair and soft green eyes.

Paige pulled her in close, and your world spun as you watched Paige, your Paige, press her lips against the brunette. Your hands had reached up to tear your headphones off your head, unable to further listen to the claps and hoots of the crowd along with the cooing of the commentators without feeling the need to throw up. But before you could, Paige had started speaking again. Your hands froze. You hated yourself for it, but you had to listen.

“She’s been with me through everything, from freshman year to now. She was my number one supporter when I got injured.” She wrapped her arm around Leslie’s waist, staring intently at the camera, and never before had you been this sickened staring at the blue eyes you’d once adored, could’ve spent hours getting lost in. “But even outside of my injury, Les has been on my side. Especially with all the immature drama that happened on the court last year, she was really a clear voice in all of that. So I’m pretty grateful for her.”

Leslie’s mouth split into a grin, and she turned to pull Paige in for another kiss, and that was when you slammed your laptop so hard that when you opened it the next morning, you were surprised to see that the screen hadn’t shattered.

You were not someone who cried. Your family members, your friends, Paige could all attest to that. But the torment that was clawing its way through your body, threatening to suffocate you, finally exploded. Tears had surged from your eyes, seemingly never ending, and you’d cried so much that night that it suddenly made sense why you’d almost never cried before; it was like all the tears in your life had been pent up, waiting for this moment, for when the pin fell.

That night was the lowest you’d ever felt in your life, and possibly even the lowest you’ve ever acted - blinded by a jealous rage over the girl that Paige had always promised you not to worry about, the girl Paige was basically making out with on live television just one month after you guys had broken up (and when it’d taken her two years to show PDA with you), you’d gone on all your social media accounts and blocked Paige on every single one of them.

Then an idea came to you. An act of retaliation that would hurt Paige as much as she hurt you. So you’d reopened Twitter, unblocked Paige. You’d scrolled until you found the perfect tweet. Your thumb had hovered for a split second over the like button, haunted by images of Paige’s hand trailing your stomach, her hair brushing your eyes, her mouth on your neck, before it was violently replaced by the image of Paige locking lips with the brunette flooding your mind, causing you to jam your thumb down with ferocity on the like button. You’d slammed the final nail in the coffin by deleting the app so that you couldn’t go back and undo your action before word got around to Paige.

The First Year

You thought you knew grief. You thought you’d familiarized yourself with every aspect of mourning: the realization in the morning, when your eyes open and you lose the blissful state of dreaming and you’re confronted with the harsh truths of the world. Or the late nights, when you’re restless and can’t sleep because of jealousy plaguing your mind. Even the deep longing of missing someone’s touch so bad that you swear that you can almost almost smell their perfume.

So you thought you knew grief - until your grandma died. It had been a matter of time. She’d had breast cancer, and for years now the doctors had been saying any time. But that still didn’t prepare you for the overwhelming pain that consumed all your senses, making it hard to think or eat or sleep or even breathe.

The first few nights after you received the news, you stared at the ceiling, unblinking until the early hours of the morning when the sun started creeping up through your windows. But you couldn’t even cry; you felt like a broken faucet. What the fuck was wrong with you? Sobbing over your stupid ex that you’d broken up with an entire year ago, but unable to shed a tear for your grandma, the woman who had single-handedly raised you. You were exhausted to the point of no return. When would everything stop hurting?

You’d only torn your eyes from your ceiling when your phone had lit up. It was 4 AM, and you wondered who it could be. You checked your phone, and every part of your body froze when you read the notifications.

TWITTER

From: paigebueckers1

I’m so sorry

TWITTER

From: paigebueckers1

I just heard the news

TWITTER

From: paigebueckers1

Don’t know if you’re even active on here anymore but it’s the only way I could reach you. If you see this, I just want to ask you to not keep your grief to yourself. Isolating yourself won’t make the pain go away. Make sure to talk to someone

Your heart had ached, your phone trembling in your hand. Because Paige had cared enough to send you a message, on the same app where you’d given the tabloids a wet dream and caused the UConn fandom to go into a spiral by liking a hate tweet about Paige. She’d cared enough to disregard all that to make sure you were okay. But she still hadn’t cared enough to offer to be that someone that she wanted you to talk to so bad.

So you’d left her on read, without responding. Had slipped back into your sheets, your head pounding and your lungs aching. This time the tears fell out easily.

[court-jobi]

Tagalong

((banner by me! I don't own Horikoshi's work OR the mindblowing art of @toshiimura))

Pairing: Midoriya x reader (retired by injury pro-hero fem!reader)

Words: 2.6K

Rating: T (18+ touches later on, to be safe~)

Warnings: Interrupted first time, heavy petting, established relationship, sharing a bed, honestly just Izuku in love and fluffy times commence in a hotel room.

Summary:

Joining Midoriya Sensei on his work trip -and yes, even sharing a bed for the first time- is medicine for you. The exchange of your passions has -and continues to be- an endless source of healing as you navigate life post-hero work. Each night away, you've danced into a settled calm with him; learning the rhythm of his habits. His sounds, his silences. When Izuku meets your gaze in the mirror, you read his mind loud and clear in how he emotes: he fawns, he sighs, then nods in the dearest way.

A/N: give me my sweet, simpering Deku, or give me death. Also by the way, yall are the best readers out there, thank you so much for all the love for my lil stories!

For my My Hero Academia Masterlist, check it out here!

Read on AO3

Life post-hero work was an adjustment for you… but you were starting to really get into the perks.

The lack of daily physical hardship holds the top spot on your list. PT? You can handle that on a rolling basis– the worst is behind you, and due to what you put yourself through which resulted in your injury, you’re out of official hero work for the foreseeable future- and in a way, grateful for the break on your muscles. You still retain your quirk, but can enjoy its thrills on a more recreational basis– your sweet boyfriend has even helped your healing by way of gentle exercises to keep things moving properly and get life manageable for you. 

Next would be the diet. You could certainly dip back into your baking hobby guilt-free now. You couldn’t get away from the hero world entirely -nor did you want to… but being able to settle into an agency office with an hourly job was also an incredible blessing. Late nights here and there were inevitable, but on the whole, you were able to greet and end your days with a steadiness of routine and safety.

Meeting Izuku Midoriya was the icing on your early retirement cake. Where you were tenderly finding your footing off the hero charts, Izuku held your hand to keep you upright. He didn’t lead or pull back on you– just came alongside you, so you didn’t fall too hard on the knees of self-doubt. He’s always so good like that. He knows your path because he himself shares it, and what a thing of fate that is.

New to you now though, is the general scope of free time you have. Not a forced flexibility due to the demand asked of an on-call hero, but you have paid time off. You have flex hours. You can work from home, if you so choose– so when you get the call that Izuku has been asked to hold a spot at the Sports Festival as the lead commentator, you are over the moon that you can answer with a wholehearted ‘yes’ when he asks you to come with him.

As if he’d be anything short of ecstatic, you truly believe the job was made for him. He’s got books upon books of hero research written by hand, and is essentially a walking Brittanica for Japan’s up and coming heroes, because of course he watches every other school’s sports fests in his free time so that his class can be the most prepared. Taking the role Present Mic once held when he was a student is a full-circle moment, and it's pretty precious seeing him in it. 

From day one, he’s a master of his craft, and from the couch you share in the observation deck with his co-teacher, Aizawa, you’re beyond impressed. You honestly wouldn’t be able to tell what department he was aligned with; he’s observant and complimentary of every students’ moves. You asked the pro hero hero beside you if this was the case when Izuku was younger, and he merely offered a sleepy,

“Intolerably, yes.”

But you see the lift of his cheek against his eyepatch and know that he’s secretly proud. 

The Sports Festival spreads over the course of a week now, as the culture surrounding the events available for support students to engage in has increased- to Izuku’s pride and joy. The training and feats of the heroes wouldn’t be possible without the other side of the coin, so he’s just as enthusiastic to hype up the developments of those courses as well. 

Watching your sweet Izuku -catching his eye when he looks back over to you and silently ushers you over to come watch an anticipated match-up of his kids off and on- is medicine for you. This entire exchange of passions has, and continues to be, a source of joy for you and is a treasured part of doing life with him. On that note, the event being held away from your district also grants you extended time to spend together that you normally wouldn’t, given the difference in your professional lives. Here, you’re locked in to five days and four nights of perfectly synced time– something you’ve not been able to do up to this point in your relationship.

Falling asleep and waking up together? This is the best thing ever.

On the first night, it hits your adorably flustered boyfriend that you’d indeed be sharing a room- and bed. That arrangement was something you’d registered the moment he’d asked you and were assuming he’d mentally (and spiritually) prepared for; but evidently it faced him the moment he stepped up to the counter to check in that Nezu had arranged you both to be together by default in the hotel block. 

But rather than falling on the trope of taking the armchair or sleeping on the ground like a middle school nervous nelly, Izuku was shy about it at first… but eager for the chance. The secret part of him finally let out some boyish excitement to find a bed big enough for you to actually share. You’d learned here that you both can spoon like you do on the couch, but you have so much room now. On both your parts, you’re a bit giggly and stiff at first- but settle in sweetly for the most comfortable night of your life.

By the second night, you both scoot into your room and -after a day of dancing around each other at more and more events- you’d be heard from the hallway: jumping into his arms and tackling him to the bed, filled with giggles and lots of kissing until you tangle up more willingly to sleep.

Night three, you’d both stayed out longer than you intended; catching up with some of the other instructors, which turned into essentially a repeat of the night you met. You take to talking up a storm on one of the hotel patios in a nerdy exchange of info-dumping and story-swapping that continues for almost three hours. You basically collapsed into bed the instant you got back, not even brushing your teeth out of exhaustion. Then by your fourth, you both are still so tired from the late night before and you flop on the bed, still in the sun-warmed clothes you set out in that morning.

It's so nice to be held by him- and it's torture to then look back up at each other. There’s definitely a softness found in Izuku’s face -as always, when it comes to your perfectly freckled sweetheart- but also something deep and personal. You want to ask him to shower together so badly and get rid of the day together- anything to add to this closeness you’ve been tiptoe-ing through all week. Worry over pushing him when he’s essentially on the clock keeps you from asking. This time, you still go about your rituals separately, only when you get out, you stay in a towel and shorts instead of full dressing down for bed.

When you're at the in-suite mirror doing your expedited, travel-sized skincare routine and Izuku stops by after he's out of the bathroom, he hesitates mid-step from trying to duck around you– and comes close, holds you by the middle. He stands shirtless behind you for the first time, showing you the scarring he carries in its fullest- no more tanks or undershirts hiding the worst from you. 

You’re as they say in the movies- incandescently happy.

“You smell so good,” he whispers. 

“You feel so good,” you answer. “Wanna go lay down?”

When Izuku meets your gaze in the mirror, you read his mind loud and clear in how he emotes: he fawns, he sighs, then nods in the dearest way. No sense in holding this darn towel up anymore, you simply turn in his arms, drop it, and kiss his surprise away with your reach up to his neck for a kiss. Your first of many, on this last night you could be wrapped up in your incredible boyfriend's arms with nothing but tender intentions on your mind.

Neither of you see a strong need for too many clothes under the sheets for this little foray into skin-to-skin contact, and enjoy a restorative makeout session. He's marked you up a bit, too, by all the harsh kissing he tends to do towards you (you low-key love this, since ‘that’s what makeup’s for’), and you especially appreciate how he plays with you perched in this arrangement.

You’re the first girl he's ever had topless in his reach– which is obvious from how he holds you in his lap nuzzling at your chest,

"Wow, y'r the moss'beautiful woman i'vever seen~"

From your previous talks of dalliances, you proudly keen over him, "I think I'm the only naked woman you've ever seen."

"-I've seen naked women."

You glance back to him, humored but flat, "Who."

Those green doe eyes flicker back up at you, oddly innocent as he quickly names his former classmate, who you’ve commonly heard referred to as Yaomomo, 

“Creati?” he tries to jog your memory, “i-it's part of her quirk, I didn't ev’r mean to look..."

Playfully suspicious, you test him, "Never had a feel?"

"I mean,” Izuku sharpens up a little to answer clearly, “She fell on me once, over in one of the training centers- and I wasn't gonna let her hit or head on something.."

"So a 'strategic catch'. Is that what we're calling it?" You sway your chest in front of him, feeling up his own, “I’m a horribly jealous creature, as you well know.”

He sinks and nuzzles gently at your pushed up chest- by his desire for lift. You’re playing with his painfully polite nature, of course- nothing but secure of your place with him.

"Not even once. Promise." 

Izuku lays a little kiss on your freshly cleaned skin where your heart lies under the surface, and ends up moaning at how soft it is- and so, keeps peppering kisses to your delight, "Oh wow... Oh wow, you're soft."

His name leaves you in an unsteady sigh as you’ve been scratching through his hair until it starts feeling so sharp and heady that you grip onto his neck in need of more support.

He's working on some passes with his tongue around your nipple when he whisper-sighs up to you, 

"mmmm don't stop doing tha'..."

So you play with his hair at his request, and he adores every bit of you that’s in reach: chin to cheek to neck while being the most gently vocal you've ever heard him.

The minute you rolled your barely clothed hips up on his lap just once, he split his attention from holding your waist to him to smoothing over your thigh to encourage the movement.

He started a slinking lean as he did so, losing his absolute mind watching you in a daze, before something dull hit your window - followed by a kid’s call of 'Sorry!!' . You siphon all your attention at the noise in a wide-eyed look that matches his.

Sweetly enough, you noted how fast Izuku held you at the sound, like he was going into strict ‘protect’ mode at the clash of a frisbee.

But, out of danger and out of breath, Izuku simply fell back and palmed his face.

"ughhbyou feel'so good... Mdizzy."

The heat you’d felt simmering in you has died at the interruption, but your fondness sure hasn’t.

You giggled, lowering into his chest and gripping the covers over your shoulders to warm you up, "Good dizzy?"

Even with an arm over his eye, your boy chuckled brilliantly, 

"Very good dizzy, hon’. Whew. We uh– we better stop before they start bangin’ on the door next."

You carded through his hair more, self-assured he was still just as taken by you despite the hard stop. How he kept you to him while shuffling the covers over you both was proof he didn’t want you going anywhere. Once settled, he felt he could focus again and brushed your hair back for attention,

"Hi there, handsome~"

"h-hi~" Izuku echoed.

You kissed again, a good deal calmer at first, but growing like a steady fire. Lips roaming, claiming, and keeping you ever closer. Comfort and reclaimed eagerness tipped you over by his strong guiding hand, all in favor to continue to mouth along your clavicle again.

Then, at the first sound of your addictive moans, he detached- forehead to your sternum, watching the rise and fall of your sweet belly beneath him.

"Ahh..” Izuku’s little war with himself was adorable, “w-we should stop. For real. I can’t- that’d be mean."

“You said that,” you answer with mirth, “but I don’t think ‘Little Deku’ agrees~”

Izuku wheezes out your first, middle, last and retired hero title to the point of coughing before you take it easy on him. Poor, desperate thing, brought low by little tease.

You chuffed against his stroke of nerves kindly. 

"Yes we should, if you say so," You snaked a hand through his hair, "Thank the Maker we don't have to second guess the chemistry department, huh?"

Izuku laughed brightly, slotting himself atop you, between the legs so you didn't have to feel how semi-hard he was. Snuggling back down, your heartbeats held their own conversation, content to cool to a reasonable temperature and slow things down, together.

"I'm so glad you came here with me." Izuku spoke softly to your neck, "This time with you really does me so much good."

And you really have enjoyed it. Getting to see firsthand the place where much of his proving of himself started, this event forged a lot of bonds with the close friends he still has to this day. 

"I'm glad I did too," You kissed the hairline within reach and simply laid comforting scratches along his back. "It's gonna be hell to go back."

"You don't wanna go back to work?"

You threw pity into your voice, "I don't wanna give up this glorified sleepover, no."

You don’t mean just getting carried away with thin walls and thinner restraint. You mean the intimacy that getting out of town sometimes offers in a way nothing else would. The week has made you softer, more in tune to the rhythm of Izuku’s habits. His sounds, his silences. 

The dampened shyness you hold thinking about it floats across him, so he laid back onto your arm to look up at you, 

"We don't have to. We can still have them~"

"Yeah?" You wonder how, earnestly, and he smiles in kind.

"Yeah!” his answer radiates nothing but pure sunshine, “Whenever you want! I'll come over, and we'll cook, and have podcast nights and snuggle, and... and.."

He’s got a look now- one that teeters along the line of flirty and unsure.

"Snuggle?" you finish for him mercifully.

"Y-yeah."

"Vocal snuggles?"

"Stop it," Izuku hid in your shoulder, "don't make fun of me."

"I'm not making fun of you~" you turned and kissed his blushing cheeks, rubbing his shoulder slowly. "No more than I'm making fun of myself for sounding like a wonton Victorian who just caught sight of an ankle for the first time."

His laughter betrays how offended he is at the idea, "Stoooop…"

"Mmmm, I don't think I will!"

Time to take things slow.. that might top your list now. If it means more nights with your hero draped in your arms, then the promise of time spent under his attention beats out any other remedy you’ve found so far. 

[talekinesis]

Random Gravity Falls Headcanons

Stan

This guy smokes to help deal with the stress of everything. He picked up the habit after he was kicked out by his father and hasn't quit since. He used to be a chainsmoker but after getting to look after the kids for the summer, he drastically cut back and is actually thinking of quitting altogether because he wants to be around long enough to watch Mabel and Dipper grow up

Actually a pretty decent cook, it's just baking he sucks at. With cooking you can sort of eyeball the ingredients and add more or less depending on your own personal taste, but with how strict baking is with its ingredients, he never really picked it up. He's only baked a cake twice in his life, once for his mom when he was a kid, with the help of Ford, and once for the kids' birthday (it was lopsided and runny and they decided to just go out for pancakes instead)

He can play the guitar really well. He had to teach himself how to play when he was young and homeless, playing for tips. He still has his original guitar and occasionally, on a good day, will get it out and play it. He played it once for Mabel, who, for once in her life, actually sat still and listened

Part of his daily routine is kicking gnomes out of the trash because they keep trying to eat leftovers. He just bats them off with a broom like they're raccoons

He grew up a huge mama's boy since she was the only supportive parent he had. After he got kicked out of the house, he called her from a pay phone a couple times to ask to come back home and to wish her a happy birthday. To this day he still makes it a point to get a cupcake on her birthday since he can't celebrate it with her, and sometimes he'll tell the kids stories about her, like how she would have loved Mabel since Mabel has all these different unique sweaters, and his ma used to collect different, big, unique earrings

Stan coaches Mabel in boxing, and actually helped her discover a passion for it, he attends all of her matches. He even taught her a couple illegal moves that she can't use in the ring but can use in real self defense

Even in his early 60s, he still thinks it's funny to bother Ford as if they were still kids. He'll randomly snatch his glasses off his face (forgetting that he also wears glasses and Ford can retaliate), he'll just start copying Ford and repeat what he says, he once even dressed up as Ford, but it didn't last very long because Ford wears a much smaller size of pants, and Stan has a bit of a gut on him. He changed after about five or ten minutes.

He's a die-hard fan of Chappell Roan

He's actually the more responsible of the Stan-Twins. He breaks laws sure, but he always makes sure everyone is fed and safe. He's like this close 🤏 to putting Ford and Mabel on leashes when they go out because they have a tendency to run off

"I'd like to make an announcement to the store, I lost someone." "Oh, did your kid run off?" "My 60 year old brother, yeah. No he doesn't have a cellphone."

Has a biological kid out there somewhere but the mom cut him off. I just think the scene where he said, "Scary movies are great, the girl cuddles up next to ya... next thing you know you gotta raise a kid.. And your life falls apart.." sounded too much like he was speaking from experience and not as a hypothetical. He wants so badly to be a dad though and regrets not keeping contact. (let me know if I should make an oc for this :] )

Ford

He can't eat doritos or any triangle shaped chip because one time Bill hid inside a chip bag just to startle him

It took him a while to adjust to this dimension's laws of physics. He was frustrated for a while that he couldn't just leave his coffee floating in the air. He broke three mugs and one of them was Stan's.

Despises pickles as if he held a personal grudge against them. He hates them an irrational amount, and even gets irritated with Stan for just having them in the house. He acts like a child about it too, arms crossed and everything. "Here, Poindexter, you want me to take the pickles off your sandwich? Like a child?" "Don't bother, the meal's ruined >:( "

He gets sucked into those soap operas that Stan watches, and will sometimes watch from the doorway or over his shoulder. He won't admit it, but Stan knows.

He lights his face on fire because he saw someone else do it in a different dimension where that was normal

Unlike Stan, he's actually amazing at baking (he likes to follow precise measurements and instructions) But sucks at cooking. Caught a pot of water on fire.

When he first discovered the shape shifter, he kept it as a pet because he found it cute, but ended up letting it go when he found out it had a human-like sentience and could speak. But for a while he raised it the same way Mabel raises Waddles, putting it in little shirts, hats, and just absolutely adoring it

Used to play 'Dungeons, Dungeons, and more Dungeons' with a group in college as the DM, and it was the first time he actually had a friend group. The other players loved the way he set things up

Doesn't like alchohol. At least from this dimension, he got used to alternate dimension alchohols that tasted way better, so when he came back to Earth everything tasted way too strong and almost like dirt to him so he just quit

Used to know a little banjo since Fiddleford taught him but forgot it while in other dimensions

Used to babysit Tate on occasion and sucked at it

He also used to babysit Shermie and *also* sucked at it. He'd have to pass him off to Stan if he got fussy or started crying since only Stan and their mom could calm him down

• Used to play David Bowie in his lab and would occasionally lip sync or dance to it. Even when traveling dimensions, he'd introduce David Bowie music to the people, creatures, and beings he met, until he lost the cassette tape and was devastated

Mabel

Allergic to chocolate and makes up for it by eating way too much of other candies. She still tries to eat it though because "Maybe I'm not allergic anymore," but Dipper has to stop her. Stan even makes it a point not to keep chocolate in the Shack when they visit because he knows Mabel is a heathen with little self preservation. It's not epi-pen bad, but it will burn and itch her throat and get her coughing (Ford will use chocolate substitutes when baking for her and Dipper)

She likes to tell people that she and Dipper were originally two of three, and that she ate their triplet in the womb to become stronger. This is not true.

She wants to be a big sister really bad and sometimes that comes out onto Dipper despite him only being 5 minutes younger, much to his dismay and protest

She found a passion for boxing after Stan taught her how, and even asked her parents to let her start doing it as a sport, which she got really into. Coincidentally, after she picked up boxing, Gideon suddenly left her alone completely. Future Headcanon: She grows up to box professionally and one day even faces Grenda in the ring, but there's obviously a mutual respect between them. They agreed ahead of time that if they ever had to face each other, neither of them would hold back and it would be a fair match. Even after there's a winner, they meet up afterward and go out for dinner with Candy, who posts their matches to social media. Waddles is her mascot.

Mabel makes even more friends when she returns home from Gravity Falls because she takes Waddles for walks on a leash and it's a pretty good conversation starter

She is convinced that if she eats all the ingredients for a cake, she'll have successfully made a cake in her stomach. Once again, Dipper has to physically stop her from doing this. Ford does too, the first time he heard her say this (through a mouthful of flour) he went, "That certainly is an interesting theory, Mabel, but no-"

Dipper

Let's get it out of the way, I really like the 'Trans Dipper' headcanon. It just fits really well and I, as a trans person, can relate to him a lot

I think he knows how to dance a little because his mom taught him and used to take him to 'Mother-Son' events

He secretly keeps a tally of how many times Mabel rolls herself out of bed because it always wakes him up but he also kind of thinks it's funny because she just sleeps through it. Even if they don't share rooms back at home, he can always here the distance "thunk" of his sister hitting the floor. The tally isn't a sheet of paper, it's a small notebook with multiple pages filled in

He sometimes gets the courage to try and roughhouse with Stan, who is always on board but purposely takes it easy on the kid because he's like "baby bird" fragile

Dipper was the one to break the news to his Grandpa Shermie that Stanley was still alive and Stanford was actually missing for 30 years with Stan taking his place, almost giving the poor man a heart attack. (Shermie ended up booking a flight to Gravity Falls to yell at his brothers in person because that's not a conversation you can have over the phone)

Dipper was the one to introduce Stan to Chappell Roan by accident, but now they listen to her if they're in the car together

his DD&MD character is a female orc fighter named Yotula and he got very excited to info-dump about her to Ford (who was equally as excited to listen)

Has an odd addiction to chocolate milk. He makes a glass of chocolate milk at least once a day. Twice if it's been a rough day. He actually gets a little upset if he misses his daily cup of chocolate milk, its just routine. Stan one time made an offhand joke that since Mabel's allergic, Dipper has to consume twice as much for the both of them, but Mabel took that seriously and now to her its just the truth.

[f4iry-dvst]

PRETTY SWEET

a/n: guess i’m back haha!

pairing: pussy drunk!Chris Sturniolo x fem!reader

summary: No one loves the taste of pussy quite like Chris; he never fails to show you that.

cw: smut, oral (fem!receiving), squirting, mommy kink, sub!chris

“Let me, please mommy, wanna taste you so bad”

The whine that trails off of his sentence makes you giggle in that degrading way you know makes his head mushy, while your hand gently tucks a rogue curl on his forehead back behind his ear. Chris is between your legs, stomach pressed to the mattress as his restless hips grind into the mattress while he thinks you aren’t paying attention and he’s looking up at you with those godforsaken pleading eyes of his that you cannot deny. Of course, you can’t say no to him, he’s your precious, precious boy. That doesn’t mean you’re opposed to teasing him though — sometimes he has to work for it.

You chuckle again at the rustling of the bedsheets from his desperate movement before giving in.

“Of course you can sweetheart”

Chris near enough shouts with joy. That’s one thing you’ll never understand: how he gets such a kick out of getting you off and is legitimately upset if he can’t. You do get it, obviously. Toying with him until dawn breaks is like, better than crack rock; you’ve never gotten so sad when he doesn’t want to be played with though. It’s endearing at the very least: you can’t say you minded how much attention he pays to your pleasure, even disregarding his own for it routinely.

Not even a second later you feel the delicate touch of Chris’s tongue winding its way from your navel to your middle, and that’s when you stop his fun with a tug of his hair.

“But, Mommy wants some marks first, okay? Can you do that baby? Can you claim me from everyone else?

He’s quick to nod, willing to go to the world's end if it meant he got to taste you. It’s not often he finds himself the giver of a hickey; always rushing into making you cum, it’s very rare he stalls long enough for something like that. Chris knows you love them: love being adorned with the bruises and the bite marks, feeling the burn when he gets a bit excited and nips a little too hard or accidentally brushing over one in the morning and being reminded all over again just how much he loves you. He knows. His head just gets a little bit cloudy sometimes, that’s all. You’ll never blame him for that, it’s all your fault anyway.

You weren't sure where he was going to start his assault with his mouth, as he typically chooses your chest. If there’s anything that comes close to his love of pussy, it's boobs. But he’s still between your legs, hands bound tightly around your hips and he doesn’t seem to be moving: excitement was beginning to bubble low in your stomach. Chris’s lips latch onto the pudge of your thigh a beat later, sucking the skin into his mouth like it’s his last meal and letting his tongue swirl to soothe any sting he might inflict. The edges of your mind begin to blur as he hums and whines away as if he’s the one being sucked on; you can practically feel yourself gush at that. He repeats this process a few more times, scattering pink and purple blotches across your inner thighs like they’re his canvas until he pulls away again to look you in the eyes. They’re wet with arousal and need, glistening and oh-so-blue in the gentle light of your bedside lamp. He just looks so beautiful like this.

“That’s my good boy…I think you deserve your treat now don’t you”

He whines pleadingly, rapidly nodding again.

“Go ahead, make mommy feel good”

Well, no need to tell him twice. He’s shockingly slow to it at first: the tip of his tongue dragging through your folds from your hole to your clit, circling the pulsing bud before pulling away to dribble a little saliva on it. His thumb reaches round to flick it – once, twice and then a third, each one making your hips jolt upwards towards his face. You may be in control of him, but that doesn’t mean his touch doesn’t reduce you to a mess of your own. He giggles all sweet like a child with candy, like he doesn’t even know how much all this is affecting you. Of course he does, he just loves playing up on it.

Then, his tongue flicks back out and starts playing with your clit almost teasingly. Chris knows your body like the back of his hand; he knows just how to work you up, what makes you cum and what sends you flying off the side of the earth. This is his area of expertise – as he likes to say – he’s well practised and he can get you there so quickly you won’t even know what hit you. It’s always been so interesting to you how someone so sweet, so innocent and needy could be such a beast between your legs. Don’t get him wrong he still needs your instructions and demands, you’re comforting words and praise, but this is where he thrives.

You don’t even notice when he pulls your clit into his mouth with a suction you could never replicate until he starts letting it go, slow, agonisingly slow and the fire that alights in your veins is feisty. It’s all over every inch of you yet simultaneously all in his mouth and it’s wild how incoherent you’ve become in a few short minutes. He sucks it all back in his mouth again and starts flicking his tongue over the tip, and it’s clear then just how close you truly are already. Your hands are gripped tightly onto the bed sheets, pulling so hard to ground yourself the cover has pinged off of one mattress corner but you don’t have it in you to care.

“Mommy, mommy I need you to cum, please… cum on my face please”

You’re not quite sure why that does it for you. Maybe it was the pleading and whining, or the way he sucks your clit back into his mouth so roughly when he was done begging. Whatever it was, it had you bursting at the seams immediately. You feel his left hand pushing down on your stomach as your pussy begins to convulse and throb, and a feeling hits you that you haven’t felt in a long time. With not even a second to acknowledge what he’s forced out of you, your pussy gushes into his mouth. It throbs harder as you squirt, every muscle in your body pulling tought and your head thrown back deep into the pillows. Chris swallows it all dutifully, moaning loudly into your middle at the taste of your cum on his tongue.

You’re not quite all back to yourself yet when he yelps and cries out your name, but you know exactly what just happened to him. His hips are still pistoning into the mattress when you finally look down, rubbing his sensitive cock through his orgasm like a pathetic dog. You can’t help but coo at him even through your laboured breaths.

“Thank you, baby, you made Mommy feel so good”

Chris whines at that, nuzzling his head into your stomach and grinning against your skin. What a perfect boy.

[tickettride]

My girl || J.D.

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔

pairing is johnny davis x f!reader

in which you've felt johnny drifting away from you for weeks. for once, you accept playing pool with one of the newbies at the bar. a little fun has never hurt anyone. the thing is, johnny doesn't seem to enjoy it as much as you do.

word count: 2,8k

warnings: angst, strained relationship, drinking, slight violence, comfort and smut (happy ever after, y'know?)

The familiar hum of chatter filled your ears as you leaned against a wall, nursing your drink. The bikeriders’ meeting place was packed that night, and you had lost count of how many men had brushed up against you to get your attention. At least those who knew you were Johnny’s girl wouldn’t try anything, so you were a bit safe.

You weren’t particularly close to that world, where men drank until they passed out and violence had its own rules. You’d have rather gone out to the movies with friends or stayed home watching TV. You didn’t belong here. 

At the start of your relationship with Johnny–when everything was easy and pretty–you had been worried about having different interests. But it wasn’t bad, was it? It made the conversations at home more lively. Johnny would tell you about his day at work while you cooked something, and he would listen to your blabbering as you sat on the couch. It had become the routine. At least, when he talked to you.

With your pop in hand, you tried to catch his gaze. It felt like you had taken a huge step backward in your relationship. Now, Johnny was too tired to ask about your day. He barely looked at you. And the main reason was the very sight in front of you. 

The club. 

Johnny was drifting further away from you every day, and there was nothing you could do besides trying to hold his hand a little longer when you could. There was this superpower force pushing him away from you, no matter how hard you pulled. Every day, the same questions made you uneasy. Had we moved in together too fast? Shouldn’t he have proposed by then? Is there someone else in his life? It wasn’t like you could tell him to leave the club aside for some time. This whole thing was his life.

Your second anniversary was in two days, and you weren’t even sure he’d remember. 

Without warning, warmth brushed your side. One of the new guys–blond buzzcut and cute smile–was towering above you. It would have been intimidating had he not been leaving a step or two between you both. Clever one, you thought. 

“Wanna try to beat me?” he asked you, and by the time you had registered his question, looking like an idiot, he had already repeated himself.

“Oh, um,” your gaze narrowed to the pool table, clearing your throat as it started to burn. “Why not. Yeah.”

You usually weren’t the kind to mingle with the men, but this time you really needed to be distracted from everything. Before the guilt pounding behind your breastbone became unbearable, you followed the guy to the pool table, where a few men were already gathered. 

Discomfort nipped at your edges as you stood there, tightening your grip over your drink. You greeted those you hadn’t seen quickly, not knowing what to do.

“Charlie,” the blond guy introduced himself, shouting in your ear. 

You gave him your name back, finally making a move to set your drink down on a table nearby.

“What do I get if I win?” Charlie asked, handing you a cue. 

You chuckled, and suddenly your chest started feeling a bit lighter. When was the last time you had fun? 

“What d’you want?” you replied with a quick shrug, breaking eye contact when you realized how flirty this sounded. 

“A kiss,” Charlie didn’t hesitate. “On the cheek, if you’d rather.”

“Right. I’m Johnny’s girl.”

With a raise of his eyebrows, Charlie invited you to start. You doubted he would give it a response or care, so you moved to the end of the table and inhaled sharply as you bent to take your first shot. 

“Ya won’t hit it from that angle,” he interrupted, pointing at the cue ball. “Ya need to move over there, see?"

“Is is obvious that I’ve only played once before?” you straightened, beaming at his burst of laughter. "I’m so bad at this."

“Nah. You’re okay,” Charlie rounded the table to stand beside you. Close. “Want me to start instead?”

Perhaps it was universe, or something linked to that superpower you often thought of. That thing beckoned you to glance over the tables against the wall. Johnny was watching you, his glass frozen against his lips. 

You imagined running your hands through his hair and feeling his muscles flexing under your touch. Asking him for things you had never had the guts to ask before. Bend you over the pool table. 

For a moment, you wondered if he could read your mind. You averted your gaze, reminding yourself of how distant he was. Even sex couldn’t fix things up. 

You heard a low whistle as the white ball hit the grouped balls with a sharp stroke. The men’s loud chatter brought you back to reality, in which Charlie was waiting for you to shoot. 

“Woah,” you forced a smile, although you hadn’t seen anything. “Bet I can do better.”

“Yeah?” Charlie grinned back, looking at you like he could eat you on the spot. "I can help if ya need.”

You imagined his hands on his waist, and suddenly you wanted to stop and go home. For real this time. Too uncomfortable to admit it, you willed yourself to get a grip on yourself and blamed your sheepishness. If you ended this quickly, you could go back to Johnny’s table.

“I should be fine.”

Bending again, you mustered all your concentration and tried hard to ignore Johnny’s hot gaze on you, as well as Charlie’s.

From his spot, your man probably had a very straight, public view of your bra. 

“C’mon,” you muttered to yourself, right before getting one ball into the far corner pocket with a smooth, hard stroke. 

“Look at that!" Charlie exclaimed, brushing a hand against your lower back as he slipped to the other side. “That was good.”

His enthusiasm almost made you smile.

“Uh-huh,” was all you said, locking eyes with Johnny again.

Nerves crawled through your veins as you felt Charlie’s hand again, this time poking your side playfully. 

“Hey, don’t go all sad on me. Ya can still beat me.”

No, but Johnny might.

Under the heat of his stare, you tried not to shrivel. You didn’t even know if you wanted to kiss him or make a run for it. That attitude–giggling with other men–was something you had never done before. Clearly, he hated that. And you, it made your heart pick up pace. Was it how it was between you now? Making each other jealous to get some attention?

Sitting uneasy at the table, Johnny didn’t think he owned you or anything. He just couldn’t stand the idea of someone treating you with less respect than you deserved. Getting physical wasn’t the solution–he was well aware, as you’d already warned him about it once–but he wanted to show you he had your back no matter what. Those young guys didn’t even give a fuck about getting to know you properly. How would they know you loved flowers more than anything else?

“What’s up?” Charlie asked, so close to your ear you smelled the booze on his tongue. 

You slightly shifted backward, pretended to be focused on the game. “Nothin’.”

Your hand sweated against the cue as you saw Johnny pushing his chair back and striding over to you from the corner of your eye. It was only when he stood at the other end of the table that you saw those dark, suspicious eyes. They glanced at you, and back at the man standing proudly.

“I suggest ya take your hand off her now,” Johnny feigned nonchalance, resting both hands on the table.

You didn’t miss the second glance at your lips. Beside you, Charlie replied, but you were barely listening. Your mind was still stuck on the idea of touching Johnny and hearing him say that he didn’t like when guys got too close to you. That you were the only one. Deep down, you knew it was closer to insecurity than lust.

Even your name had never sounded so sensual coming from his lips. It snapped you out of whatever dreaming haze you had been in, finally making you move away. 

“I guess we both lost,” you tried to lighten the mood, shooting Charlie a quick look. 

It was useless. His attention was tethered to Johnny as he moved to get closer. Their mouths moved, but you could no longer hear what they were saying over the roaring of your ears. Something about your right to be playing, and Johnny’s response about doing whatever the fuck you wanted to do. You didn’t dwell on the semantics. Charlie had clearly had a drink or two already, and the flush in his cheek only made you assume the worst. He would get physical, and it would be over for Johnny.

“If she can’t be left on her own, then maybe you’ve got somethin’ to worry ‘bout,” Charlie pointed out, glaring at Johnny like he wasn’t afraid of throwing a punch first. 

“What?” an offended gasp left your mouth, confused by his sudden aggressivity. 

You’d never understand men. The sight of him turning from a sweetheart with a bright smile to an evil jerk calling you a whore was jarring. 

“Not sure I get it,” Johnny replied, calm as ever. “What are ya callin’ her exactly?”

“Dunno,” Charlie didn’t lower his gaze as he retorted instantly. “The bitch’s been flirtin’ with me, and I’m in the wrong?”

You froze on the spot, knowing if you talked, an embarrassing sound would come out. Or maybe you would slap him.

The lights cast the area in dim light, and yet it was bright enough to see the flicker of red behind Johnny’s gaze. Time for you to step in.

“Listen to me,” Johnny was somehow nose-to-nose with the younger guy. “She’s under my protection. Right? She can do whatever she wanna do, but that doesn’t mean I’m gonna let a shithead like ya touch her the way ya did.”

“Yeah? She didn’t seem to complain ‘bout my hands earlier.”

You cringed at the words they were exchanging, although none of them truly gave a damn about the men listening in.

Before you could even blink, Johnny had backed him up against the wall, pressing so hard the guy gasped in a breath.

A curse left your lips as you rushed forward, trying to pull him away. “No, no, no. Let him go.”

“Say one more word about her, ‘n I’ll cut your dick out ‘n feed it to the dogs,” Johnny said, pretending not to hear or feel you, something violent spreading through his veins. “Next time I see ya anywhere close to her, I’ll kill ya. Understood?”

You were glad Charlie kept silent, swallowing harshly as he gave Johnny a death glare. You hadn’t noticed Benny until now, waiting for a sign to step into the fight. He gave you a quick look, and you tried to reassure him with a quick smile. Like Yep! He’s going to kill him but life’s good. 

“Fuckin’ wanker,” Johnny inhaled sharply as he let go of him, stepping backward.

You only figured Charlie didn’t fire back right away because he was being pulled away by two bulky men. He probably wouldn’t even remember after some sleep. 

Putting a cigarette between his lips, Johnny yanked the door of the bar open before body slamming his way into the small crowd gathered before the bikes. You were trying to follow closely, getting frustrated at all the fucking people on your way, stomping over feet and puddles. 

“Johnny!” you yelled as he made it to his car, his arm stiff as board on his side, his fist and his jaw clenched. “Hey!”

You’d seen him mad as hell once or twice, but never like that. He usually threatened guys calmly, like the boss he was. Losing his composure in front of the men–it had never happened. Dense fog swirled in the air, obscuring your view, so you nearly glued your body to his to have a good look at his expression. You were glad he hadn’t chosen his bike tonight. You hated it when he rode in a bad mood. 

The night was calm, the men having already dispersed or made their way back inside. Tire noises and sirens were steady in the background, but even louder than that was the way he said, “What?”. Like you were getting riled up out of nowhere.

The air settled around you, as though everyone had left to let you discuss. A pit of guilt burned in your stomach, but you couldn’t help but feel mad. 

“What the fuck just happened?”

Johnny huffed. “Ya wanted me to let him grope ya?”

You almost rolled your eyes. “Lighten up. He was… really respectful at first. If I’d wanted to, I’d have left.”

“Where to?”

“We were in a bar, Johnny. Not a stadium. I’d have figured my way out. And you knew this guy just wanted to fight anyways. That’s all he was lookin’ for.”

His lack of response pissed you off. Johnny blew the smoke away from your face, and you weren’t sure if he kept silent because he was still maddened or because he didn’t want to have this conversation with you.

“I’m not the dummy you think I am,” you added, spurred on by his eyes trained on you. “I appreciate you standin’ up for me, but–”

“But what?” he cut you off, a bit of smoke mixing with your air.

“But I don’t want to get your attention only when you’re jealous.”

Johnny glanced over at the bar’s entrance, where a couple was making out against a bike. “Bullshit.”

“Do you even love me anymore?”

Thick tension rolled off him, sucking all the air until you were left breathless, putting a shaking hand over your heart. It wouldn’t slow down. Not until he told you the truth. 

“Do I love ya?” Johnny kept his gaze on you, reading your face like you were high or something. “I could have killed a guy for ya in there, ‘n you’re askin’ me if I love ya?”

“Well, it’s not been very obvious lately,” you hissed as you remembered how he had barely greeted you the night before. “You haven’t kissed me in three days, Johnny. You… you could barely keep your hands off me at the beginnin’–”

“Jesus,” he mumbled, stamping out his cigarette to grab your face between his palms. “Look at me. I’m sorry ‘bout that, alright?”

Your face scrunched up, but you managed to suppress the tears.

“What’s goin’ on?” you asked. “I thought we were havin’ something beautiful, and now, shit, we barely talk. You barely touch me.”

Johnny swallowed, finally coming to the realization that the situation was worse than he’d imagined. 

“I’m sorry. Ya hear me? I’m sorry I’ve been leavin’ ya out. The club’s been draining me lately.”

Your eyes softened, a hand coming to rest upon his cradling on your cheek. “Talk to me, then. I was startin’ to think you were tired of me.”

Johnny frowned. “Fuck, no. I need ya.”

Your heart squeezed as the steady breeze made you shiver. “I miss you so much it breaks my heart.”

“I’m here,” he kissed a corner of your lips. “I promise I’m here.”

His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair. 

“Say it again,” you breathed. “I can’t stand stayin’ away from you. Not talkin’ to you all the time.”

A thumb ran across your lips with the perfect roughness. “I promise I’m not goin’ anywhere. Ya want me to take a few days off?”

“No,” you sighed. “I’m not sure we can afford this.”

“We can. I’ll rent somethin’ cute and we’ll celebrate our anniversary. Just the two of us. What d’ya think?”

A small but sincere smile pulled at your lips. God, you loved him. 

“Yeah. I’d like that.”

The next second, he was kissing you until you couldn’t breathe anything but him. His palms skimmed up the backs of your thighs as you stood on your tiptoes. Without warning, he pulled back to look at you, that spark in his gaze mirroring yours. 

“C’mon. I’m not fuckin’ you here.”

Relief and a spike of heat ran through your veins during the ride home. His warm hand rested on your thigh, squeezing it gently until he parked in front of the garage door. The silence only fuelled you, playing with your patience. 

He quite literally glued himself to your back while you tried to unlock the front door, cursing at yourself for your trembling hands. 

And finally, finally, he apologized with slow strokes of his cock and kisses on your breasts. Your clothes had been thrown aside haphazardly, abandoned in the heat of the moment. You had thought he would make you come like this, but he instructed you to roll over and lay on your stomach, and who were you to refuse? Those weeks apart, even when you had been in the same house and bed, had left you both pent up, wanting and missing each other more than anything else in the world. You didn’t even know how you had managed to stay silent this whole time. 

“Shit. I love you,” you moaned, eyes screwed shut as he kissed up your spine, his hips flexing in time to make sure he was fucking you as deep as he could.

Exhaustion hit you like a train, and it felt so heavenly lying there as he whispered that you meant the world to him.

“So pretty,” Johnny mumbled, his words muffled as he nipped at the sensitive skin between your shoulder blades, “Got me so hard just from lookin’ at ya, sweets.”

You fisted the sheets and dug your nose in the pillow when you came, and Johnny quickly followed. He stilled on top of you, his chain sitting on your back and shining in the cold light pouring through the window. 

“Gimme one minute and I’ll fuck ya again, right?” he breathed in your ear, making you grin against the pillow. 

From that day on, he always did as he said. A small house was rented in the woods, and you spent your second anniversary making love, promising each other the truth.

[heauxvibez]

Dipsea 3 part. 1/2

Warning: smut (18+)

The rich aroma of coffee and fresh juice filled in and out of the cozy little shop, one of your go-to spots, especially on work-from-home days. Joe & The Juice had become your sanctuary—a place to grab your lavender latte, get some fresh air, and still knock out a few meetings. It was the perfect escape from your home office, letting you feel like you actually left the house for a bit. Working from home had its perks, but sometimes it made you feel like the walls were closing in, and this little routine helped break that up.

Today, you decided to sit outside on the patio, soaking in the sunlight on your face while making sure you wouldn't disturb anyone when you had to hop on a call. Your loungewear was on point, a comfy cream corduroy set that kept you warm against the breeze but light enough to stay cool. Your hair was slicked back into a low bun, as sleek as you could get it, with a pair of sunglasses perched on your head, doing double duty as both an accessory and a way to tame any rebellious flyaways.

Your lavender latte sat next to your MacBook, cooling down as steam gently escaped through the lid’s small opening. You reached for it, taking a careful sip, lips first, just like you learned from reading fanfiction recently. No one likes a burnt tongue, right?

Even though you picked a spot outside to avoid bothering anyone inside the shop, you were still close enough to hear everyone’s orders. It became this fun little game of people-watching and trying to guess what drink they'd go for, sometimes getting it right, other times not so much. It helped the time pass on those slow workdays when there wasn't much going on.

You paused your game for a second, glancing down at your laptop as a new email came in. With a sigh, you stared at the screen, wondering how to even begin drafting a response. While you were mentally debating your reply, a few people must've walked into the shop, ones who could’ve added to your guessing game, but you were too caught up to notice. You figured you’d get back to it once you dealt with this email from a colleague.

Leaning forward, you rested your elbow on the table and pressed your forehead into your hand, eyes closed, as you tried to think through the reply.

“Mmm, it’s kinda hard to choose,” a deep voice chuckled nearby, the employee laughed along. “Uuhh, can I get theee Big Smash protein shake, please?”

Your heart practically dropped into your stomach, but you kept your eyes shut. That voice... it was way too familiar. It immediately brought you back to last week—when you’d practically soaked your bed listening to it, your eyes closed just like now, as he whispered pure filth into your ear, guiding you through one of the most intense orgasms you’d ever had. He knew exactly how to edge you, teasing with his "tongue" until you were a mess.

Heavy footsteps started coming closer, and every instinct in your body screamed for you to get out of there. But there was no way to gather your laptop, latte, and bag without making a scene, probably tripping and embarrassing yourself in the process. But then again, maybe you were overreacting. LA was full of people, some people sounded the same, so it had to be someone else, right?

You heard the screech of a chair being dragged from the table next to you—not the one right beside you, but the one in front of it. Whoever sat down definitely had a good view of you, probably thinking you were either stressed out or asleep if they were watching. You took another deep sigh, but this was nothing like the deep sigh you took earlier when you dreaded the email, it was shaky and hard to get out like the breath he told you to take at the end your "session".

“Breathe, baby,” your brain whispered unprovoked, sending a ripple of chills down your spine as you took a deep breath. You sat up straighter, freeing your hand from your head, which was starting to feel dizzy with... what? Delusion? Nerves? Whatever it was, it had you spiraling. Your eyes fluttered open, blinking a few times as the sunlight flooded your vision. You squinted, trying to adjust, and that’s when you saw it—his silhouette.

It was almost exactly like the one you remembered, framed in those familiar orange and purple hues from the erotic audio app. He wasn’t facing you. In fact, he seemed to have turned his chair slightly, angling toward the doorway of the shop. But the outline of his face was unmistakable—the sharp jawline, the way his beard framed his face. His head of hair wasn’t loose today. Instead, it was pulled back into a low ponytail, much like yours, though definitely not as sleek. His flyaways were more rebellious, wavy rather than coily like yours.

He looked like he’d just come from the gym, his tight muscle shirt clinging to every inch of his upper body. The fabric stretched across his broad chest, barely containing the powerful muscles underneath. The sleeves were cut off, exposing those delicious, sculpted arms—thick, inviting and practically begging for your touch. You could almost imagine your fingers tracing the veins that ran down his biceps, feeling the strength and warmth beneath your palms... maybe even more than that.

The black joggers he wore hugged his frame in all the right places, emphasizing the firm muscles of his thighs. Each sudden shift he made in the chair caused them to flex, drawing your eyes lower, tracing the way the fabric stretched across his legs. The joggers left little to the imagination, the way they clung to his body making it impossible not to imagine what lay beneath.

There was an AirPod in his left ear, a slight reminder of how you’d listened to that very same voice just nights ago, the way he’d guided you through your nut. His commands were still fresh in your memory, the tone that had made you fall apart, slowly unraveling you piece by piece until you couldn’t hold on anymore.

His skin gleamed under the sunlight, a soft sheen of sweat giving him a radiant glow. It was the kind of glow that only came after a hard, satisfying workout, his body humming with energy, muscles pumped and full. The sunlight seemed to kiss him, making his complexion even richer, more vibrant. He looked damn good—no, more like temptation personified.

As your vision cleared, you noticed the fresh haircut, the way his beard was perfectly tapered, lined up so crisply it looked almost too good. Everything about him exuded confidence and power, from the casual way he sat, relaxed but still commanding the space around him. He was slouched forward, elbows resting on his knees, his attention mostly focused on his phone. Every now and then, he’d glance up, probably checking if his drink was ready. And when he did, he wore a small, almost playful smile—likely from catching the eye of a barista.

Your chest tightened as you watched him, the way he moved so casually, so effortlessly, and yet, he felt miles away. You quickly looked away, afraid he might feel your eyes burning into the side of his head. Turning your attention back to the email on your laptop, the words on the screen now looked like a jumbled mess. There was no way you could focus—not with your Dipsea lover sitting right across from you. Maybe a few more sips of your latte would help calm your nerves.

You reached for it, not even looking, and almost knocked it over, managing to catch it just in time, but not without letting out a tiny squeal. You froze, immediately feeling his head snap in your direction.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, you thought, mentally rolling your eyes at yourself.

"Wow, such a good fucking girl..." His voice, the one that had basically lulled you to sleep not long ago, cut through the air, vibrating straight into your chest. Your head whipped toward him so fast, you barely had time to breathe.

"I—I'm sorry, huh?" you stammered, your breath catching as your eyes met his. He repeated himself with a soft chuckle.

"I said, 'Whoa, that was such a good catch.' That would've been a disaster, those MacBooks aren’t cheap." His laugh was easy, warm, and familiar, though he had no idea just how familiar it really was.

You laughed nervously, relief washing over you.

"O-oh, yeah... thanks. I guess I got lucky, huh?" You could hardly believe you were actually talking to him—the man who had no idea this wasn’t the first time his voice had filled your ears. The same voice you were planning to listen to again tonight.

You hadn’t hit play on the latest “Listen” audio from his series yet. You were savoring it—all nine parts of it, stretching them out to make the experience last. You’d been holding back, planning to save each one for moments when you needed to decompress, to unwind. The plan was to pace yourself, maybe one a week, or longer if you could resist... but with him sitting so close, resisting seemed impossible. If anything this was driving you further and deeper into the fantasy of it. Not only were you extremely star-struck and screaming from the inside, but this fueled any and all desire you had for that little app. He was for sure a walking advertisement.

He nodded, showcasing those pretty teeth and those deep smile lines. "Absolutely. So, what do you have in there, if you don’t mind me asking?"

Wait—he wanted to keep talking? Your heart started racing, practically hammering in your chest. Was he offering you another chance to embarrass yourself?

"Oh, uh, this?" You awkwardly pointed at your cup. Of course, he meant the cup, not your MacBook. You really thought he wanted to know about your homework assignments or work deadlines? God, get it together.

"It’s, um..." You quickly glanced at the receipt taped to the side. "A lavender latte with two shots of espresso, oat milk, and cold foam... well, I mean, you probably don’t care about all the details. It’s really just a lavender latte, you know, with some addictives. Uh, I mean, additives... like, extra stuff... personal preferences... things I like." You were rambling. "Not that you didn't already know what I meant by additives... I’m just gonna... yeah, shut up now."

Your voice trailed off into a whisper as you forced an awkward smile, wanting to disappear. He smiled back, his expression soft, a blush creeping across his cheeks as he looked down briefly, clearly holding back a laugh. He didn’t want to make you feel worse than you already did, and somehow, that made you more nervous. He had to know by now that you recognized him—though not just as the famous wrestler. But he had no clue about the other version of him you knew.

“Not that you asked, but I got the Big Smash protein shake. Ever had it?” His voice was casual, but there was something lingering beneath it, something that made your pulse quicken.

You shook your head, reaching for your coffee, taking a slow sip. “Nope. I’ve only ever had this. Trying new things makes me... nervous.” You set your cup down, but what you really wanted to say was: you make me nervous.

He caught onto it. “Are you sure it’s trying new things that make you nervous?” His tone was playful, teasing, but there was something about it that made your stomach twist and your chest tighten. Butterflies—no, something more powerful—flitted through your body, leaving you buzzing.

Your head tilted slightly, confused but intrigued. That teasing smile still on his lips. Then he asked, “Or is it Daddy making you nervous?” His voice dropped an octave, deepening with an intimate tension that made your entire body feel like it was suddenly on fire.

A nervous laugh bubbled up from your chest, your hand instinctively reaching to scratch the back of your neck as if that would soothe the heat rising to your face. “I—I'm sorry?”

He laughed softly, shaking his head. “I said, is it trying new things that make you nervous, or the additives?” He smirked. “Like those extra two shots of caffeine you added.”

For a second, your mind raced—was he messing with you? Was he saying one thing, then flipping the script? It felt like he was playing some kind of game, pushing your buttons in ways that made your body react before your brain could catch up. Whatever it was, it was driving you insane.

"Joe!" The barista called out from inside.

Saved by the barista. You almost let out a sigh of relief, grateful for the interruption. First, you nearly spilled your coffee, then you rambled like a nervous wreck. Now this? Classic. Joe stood up slowly, pushing off his knees with a grunt that basically rubbed your bud. It was just a small sound, but it echoed in your body, causing you to press your thighs together, trying to soothe the ache that pulsed between your legs.

“It was nice talking to you...” He trailed off, waiting for your name.

You gave it to him, almost too breathless to say it. His smile widened, a gentle, genuine one that only made you weak. “Beautiful name. I’m Joe, by the way.”

He leaned toward you, offering his hand. The moment his hand touched yours, the ache you felt below was on a whole new level now. His grip was firm but his palms were soft and warm. He was truly a gentle giant. The veins running along his hand were prominent, like contour lines on a map, guiding your eyes to the places you wanted them to go. His fingers squeezed yours just enough to make your mind wander—imagining them elsewhere, gripping your body, sliding inside you, pushing you to the edge over and over again.

You had to fight back a moan. Had to hold yourself back from imagining his hand wrapped around your throat, holding you in place, controlling you, like he described in that audio. You know, when he talked about holding you still, keeping you from running.

You hoped he couldn’t see those thoughts swirling in your eyes. You covered it up with a smirk. “And you came to Joe and The Juice?” you teased lightly, trying to keep the conversation safe, even though your mind was far from it.

He let out a hearty laugh, finally letting go of your hand, and you almost mourned the loss of that contact. But you were also relieved—any longer, and you weren’t sure you could keep your composure. If he kept holding you, you might’ve done something reckless, like pulling him closer, imagining him doing all the things your mind was racing toward.

“Of course,” he replied with a grin. “It only makes sense.”

You nodded in agreement, matching his smile. “It does…”

“Order for Joe!” the barista called again, breaking the moment.

Joe nodded at you one final time. “Have a great day,” he said, that same charming smile still on his face.

“You too,” you replied, mirroring him, your voice softer than you intended.

As Joe walked back into the shop, you watched him disappear, biting your bottom lip, feeling the tension still coiled tight in your belly. Your eyes fluttered closed for a second, and you let out a soft, muffled whine. The man had overstimulated you in the middle of a coffee shop. He hadn’t even done much, but the way he talked, the way he looked at you, touched you—God, it was more than enough.

Your imagination was running wild, mixing reality with fantasy. He hadn’t talked dirty to you, but your mind filled in the blanks, weaving in the audio clips you knew so well. And now, here you were, hot, bothered, and stuck—your panties ruined from a conversation about coffee.

You sighed in frustration, throwing your head back as you closed your laptop. There was no way you were going to finish your work now. Besides, your shift was almost over, and that email could definitely wait until tomorrow.

Right now, you had a date—with that same man’s voice. You were going to go home, put in your earbuds, and let him take control, just like you had planned... except now, it was going to feel so much more real.

----------------------------------------

Omg this was a perfect little filler. Hope ya'll enjoyed this little tease!

Tags: @harmshake @southerngirl41 @sortudademais @empressdede @alichesmi

@msbigredmachine @theninthwonder @blacst4r @sassginamillls @wrestlingprincess80

@headoftheetable @trashbin-nie @saintmagx @venusesworld @mzv11

@tshepisho @cyberdejos2 @femdisa @dayaimonee @sayyestoheav3nn

[berrieluv]

hold me, love me, touch me, be the first who ever did. a short blurb about james potter being boyfriend material.

It goes without saying that James Potter is definitely the best boyfriend, person, friend there was.

He cared so deeply for you and made you feel so loved all the time, you really couldn't complain, not for once has he ever make you feel unrequited.

And for someone who spent most of its life thinking loving them was hard, James Potter was quite the gift. There was something about his way, maybe it was his personality or the professing love he felt for you that made him act that way, whatever it was, you don't think of changing it for a mere second.

For summer break, James invited you to his house – more like his mansion –, it would be fun. Remus and Sirius would catch you there a few weeks later so you had plenty of time to get to know his parents better, and the alone time you would spend together. You were looking forward to it.

Except for the nights. You knew your nights were odd, no one really had this routine for it, you got to lower it down, your mom and dad always making sure it was fine.

"James?" You murmured in the middle of the night. You tried to push your needs as much as you could but it was getting imposible. James was facing the opposite side of you, one of his legs was on top of your body but it allowed you to sit "Jamie..."

"Mmh?"

"Did you closed the door?"

"S'closed, baby. See?" He said, extending his arms to the bedroom door.

"The principal door"

"I didn't. M'sure someone else did, s'fine"

James had a really thick accent, and he spoke too fast very often. In a daily and normal basis it was hard to keep the track of what he was saying, now sleeping it was even harder"

"What if no one did?" You asked, looking at his curls falling on his forehead, his pretty face illuminated by the peaks of moonlight entering through the window "Can we check?"

"I'm sure someone did, baby. There's many people living here"

"What if someones breaks in?"

"That won't happen baby"

You played with your fingers for a few seconds, you trusted James. He lived in a nice neighborhood. Entering was hard and the people around seemed nice enough to not go through their neighbors.

But still. You. Needed. To. Check.

"Can we go check?"

"Can you go back to sleep?"

He answered back with a smile, trying to push you to the mattress but your eyes were fixated to the door, thinking. You won't be able to sleep if you don't go and check that. You know it.

"Jamie..." He responded with a sleepy 'Mmh' before you said something else "Please, can we go check?"

"Alright" He said, taking the blankets off and revealing his naked torso. You knew he liked to sleep like that, in fact, those pajama pants were too many clothes for his liking – and yours too –, but you were at his parents' house, you should show respect "Hand"

You take James' hand and let him help you out of the bed, he waits for you to put on your slippers and starts walking to the stairs.

The big brown, beautiful principal door is standing right in front of you, closed. James stands at the edge of the stairs and waits for you to see it, not counting on you wanting to go and really check if its closed.

Still, he walks down with you, still holding hands and yawning.

"See?" He says when your hand meets the locker and check that it's locked. "Back to sleep now, baby"

But you were already downstairs. And the oven was just too close to go back to the room. "What about the oven?"

"The oven is in the kitchen"

You frown; "Is it off?"

"Of course it is"

You say nothing, but the eager look in your eyes directing to the kitchen makes James sigh and start walking with you.

Even if you could see the oven off you still kneeled a bit in front of it, just watching it. James couldn't be more confused, but what could he say? If checking the oven and the door would make his girl happy, count him in.

"Is off"

He smiles "See, baby? No harm as long as you're with your man"

And you smile back. Because what kind of guy would drag himself off bed and walk downstairs at 2:30 in the morning to just check if the door was closed.

When you exit the kitchen, the principal door is looking at you again, and suddenly you can't remember if you did a good inspection in there. Your body and James' is already four stairs up, but you had to check it.

You let go of James hand for the first time since you got out of bed and run to the door, check the look again and smile to yourself now that is locked.

"S'alright. We checked good the first time"

"Thank you"

You murmur and he just smiles and kisses your forehead.

After that day, James Potter goes through the whole house, holding hands with you, checking if everything is in order to go to sleep. Of course there's time you need to double check in the middle of the night, often he would try to help you to control it, but sometimes you really need to double check.

[rakurairagnarok]

My living arrangement at college is unbearable. I’m a dean’s list honors student, and my roommate is a dumbass stoner skater. Needless to say, we don’t get along at all, and the school isn’t allowing us to transfer. We found out about Rakurai Inc and decided to flip a coin: either he has to become a preppy academic like me, or I have to become a dumbass slacker like him. We’ll accept whatever outcome the company decides is best.

Tempting fate are we?

You were super excited. You had won the bet with your roommate and he would finally start to get his act together once the package would arrive.

You arrived home earlier than him and noticed the package by your front door. You giddily opened it up and saw it was... a candle? You smirked. A candle is way to bitchy for a stoner dropout like him. You decided to light it so the room would be all ready once hed got back.

You decided to do some homework while you were waiting.

As the time went by however you noticed you had a hard time concentrating on the material. Your thoughts kept drifting to your roommate. At first you thought it was because of your excitement for the transformation but then you noticed what you were thinking of. His long thick legs. His strong arms. His scent. You felt yourself get harder, and harder, and harder. You looked down to see a massive tent in your sweats. Wait... sweats? You were wearing khakis just before? You felt yourself rise up from your chair as your thighs suddenly began to fill out your sweats. At the same time your legs began to lengthen, your torso stretched, revealing your midriff, and turning your t shirt into a crop top. T-shirt?? You were wearing a shirt right?

Suddenly the front door opened and your roommate walked in. One glance and he immediately understood what was happening and smiled.

"Glad I told them I won, instead of you, you're looking so much better babe."

Babe? You weren’t his boyfriend though, and you werent gaaaaaaaayyyyy...

Your mind slurred. He had walked over to you and began to stroke your massive bulge. Each stroke send bolts of energy through your mind, breaking down the knowledge that you had been curating over the past years.

In its place came workout routines, different ways to use weed and multiple sex positions.

You turned your head to your boyfriend only to be met with his cheesy, musky rod against your new plump lips.

"They said it would work faster if you had some stimuli, so get to it baby"

You eagerly began to suck, feeling your torso broaden with each bob of your head. It didn't take long for him to shoot down your throat, and your arms exploded with muscle.

A musk began to permeate throughout the room and you felt yourself leaking in your tight sweats.

Your roommate might have lost the game but he sure has won the war.

Don't forget that Rakurai Inc. Is not liable for any unforseen events. Be sure to carefully consider that any changes are permanent.

[youreallyshouldtalkmore]

Closeted Theories 

A.N: Was finishing up my other Neuvillette series and this one just dropped into my head. Mighta have something to do with the fact I finished the Neuvillette storyquest the other day and he’s still on the brain. That was an awesome quest!! Definitely one of my hallmark favorites!

Genshin Impact MasterList

------

Picture this scenario: 

You were currently locked in a storage room closet, in the Palais Mermonia with Monsieur Neuviellette by your side.

Got it in your head?

Hard to picture, wasn’t it? 

Yeah, it would have been hard for you too, only a scant five minutes ago. 

But right now, this is your reality. 

You heard a gaggle giggling on the other side of the door as it shut. You dimly heard the lock as well. Then the voice of Sedene spoke over it, “Don’t worry, we will relieve you in an hour!” 

Then you heard the giggling and paddling of feet retreat. You just blinked at the door for a bit before finally looking up at Monsieur Neuvillette. It was a rare sight to behold, actually. He had frozen like a statue as he stared blankly at the door in front of him. 

“Check back with me, when you processed this.” you stated, “This is a lot even for a human.”  

You looked around the store room which was filled with mostly documents and books. It was big enough for two people to fit just so and had a single light on the ceiling. Thinking back you weren’t sure how you managed to get in this predicament but before you could try to analyze it further, Neuvillette stirred. Ahh, looks like he was coming back this way. It only took about five minutes. 

“Ahh, Miss. Y/N, I’d like to apologize for them. I don’t know what they hope to accomplish by this but I promise they mean no ill will.”

“Of course not. Those little younguns couldn’t do ill will if they tried, mischievous on the other hand is another matter. Anyway, can’t you break down the door or something?” 

Monsieur Neuvillette held his chin in thought, “Yes, easily. Though I hate to destroy such workmanship. It’s hardly the doors fault….” 

You smack your lips together, “Well, unless a Hydro Dragon suddenly knows how to pick a lock, we don’t know exactly how long we will be here for. Besides, isn't this getting in the way of your business to attend to? 

“Sedene clearly said they’d be back in an hour. My next meeting is scheduled for then. I don’t have any pressing matters right now. However, I would usually be using this time to get ahead on paperwork.” 

“...Hm. So they planned this down to the letter. I mean can’t have the Chief Justice of Fontaine and its Iudex, missing important functions over….being locked in a closet, now can we?” 

Neuvillette shook his head, “No, sounds quite lucidious to say it out loud like that.”  

“Equally as ridiculous as our reality. However they should be lucky I’m not claustrophobic.” 

Monsieur Neuvillette swung his eyes around to you, “Claustrophobic?” 

“Yes, some humans will start panicking in a tight place. They begin to feel the wall closing in on them and such.” 

Monsieur Neuvillette eyes widened at this, “Truly?! I hadn’t realized. And you are alright? I’ll break down the door immediately!” 

You reached out a hand in front of him, “I said I was fine! I’m not claustrophobic, only mildly amused and mostly annoyed. The only thing I worry about is how dus…” You paused in the process of wiping a finger over a shelf, rubbing them together, “Not so much as a speck of dust. Most impeccable.” 

“Of course not. I have learned that if left unattended a room like this will begin to rot. To take care of that, we have those hired to routinely clean spaces like this.” 

“Nothing escapes you, does it?” 

“Except for this.” He let out a sigh, “Rest assured, I shall have to give them a stern talking too.” 

You head bobbed up and down once, as you managed to find a reasonably comfortable spot to lean on the wall. 

Silence floated for a while before Neuvillette finally heaved a deep sigh, “Try as I might, I cannot see the reason for this insipid affair. Whatever possessed them to attempt this thing?” 

You snorted once making lavender eyes lock with yours. When you didn’t say anything more Neuvillette asked, “Why do I feel like you have an idea? Can you not share it with me if that’s the case?” 

You looked away then, “It would only be a theory at this point. I’d hate to paint them with conjecture.” 

“Let us hear it anyway. We have nothing else to do, until then and besides I’d like a better picture of what is going on before I speak with them on this matter. Perhaps there are some critical clues I am missing.” 

“....” 

Neuvillette watched as you absently began to “arrange” the books on the shelf next to you, your eyes not meeting his. Meanwhile his lavender eyes did not depart from you.

A lull prolonged itself until…

“Miss. Y/N are you….embarrassed, perhaps?” 

You snapped your head up, “What the-?! What makes you say that?” 

“Well, you have…” 

“I don’t want to play by play.” You interrupted knowing that Neuvillette was going to literally tell you all the actions he observed to arrive at this conclusion. It was bad enough that he was looking at you the entire time in expectation and equally bad that there was only room between you for a person to barely slip through. 

You cleared your throat turning away, “Actually I was thinking about it and it might be kinda, slightly my fault.” 

“I hardly doubt that but what do you feel you have done?” 

“.....read….scene….idea….” 

“Excuse me? Could you speak up?” 

“I said….” You jerked your head up only to stop when you realized that Neuvillette had closed the distance between you and was looking down at you with furrowed eyebrows. Clearly he had gotten closer to hear you better but still. 

You swallowed, snatching your eyes away from him, “I read the Melusines a story a little while ago.” 

“Yes, that doesn’t sound so horrible. In fact, I thank you for taking time out of your day to spend with them.” 

“Yes, yes, you're welcome. It’s fine. It’s just….they may have taken a story a little too…..realistically.” 

“In what manner?” 

“It was a romance story. One scene…the couple was trapped in a storeroom, you know?” 

“I see. And what does this have to do with our predicament now?” 

You almost banged your head on the shelf. You did not want to explain it in detail. Most humans would pick up and put two and two together. However, given that Neuvilletter wasn’t human, you couldn’t and didn't expect him to have two and two much less know to put them together in this instance.  

You heave a sigh. That still didn’t mean you wanted to explain this. 

“...I’m sorry. This is making you uncomfortable. We should cease talking about this then.” 

You felt Neuvillette put as much space between you as he was able. Part of you was grateful. Being locked in a storeroom with Neuvillette of all people was doing nothing for your nerves although you pride yourself in comporting yourself regardless of the situation. You knew it really wasn’t fair to keep Neuvillette in the dark, especially when he genuinely did not have the pieces needed to put together the puzzle. 

“It’s a common plot device in romance stories. When a couple is locked in a confined room it’s used to further their relationship.” You said this in one breath not looking up. 

“....” 

You could practically hear the gears in Neuvillette’s head turning. 

“I see. They had hoped that our relationship would progress and that is why they did this.” 

You hoped your laugh wasn’t forced, “What relationship? We don’t have one. We are just friends.” 

“Yes, we are friends.” 

You bobbed your head absently and just when you were beginning to find your footing, you felt Neuvillette move. Looking up, you startled to see him looming over you.

Wait, why was he even closer than last time?

Your throat went dry. 

“Rest assured, I will still express my displeasure at such extreme methods but I shouldn't let their goodwill go to waste. I suppose they were getting tired of my lack of courage.” 

“.....W-w-what are you talking about?” 

Neuvillette lifted his arms and trapped you within, his hands holding onto the shelf in front of you.

Hold on! What is this situation?!

You were pretty sure that Monsieur Neuvillette had never read such a scene before so why was he an accomplished actor now?

You knew you were looking up at him like a trapped boar. 

“I think I finally understand what message they were trying to send. I suppose they were getting tired of me taking my time. Had I had my way, I would still be taking time. Although I have an abundance of time, the fact is you do not. It’s unfair of me to continue to make you wait.” 

By now your head and eyes were spinning. Why did it seem like this went from 0 to 100 real quick? You weren’t even following anymore. 

“Miss. Y/N, when this is over, will you accompany me to dinner at Hotel Debord? Ah, I suppose I should convey my feelings first, shouldn’t I? Forgive me, allow me a minute to gather my bearings.” 

You turned so your back was to the shelf, looking up at Neuvillette, “H-h-hold on! Aren’t you…? What are you even doing? We are friends…” Your eyes dart back and forth, “...aren’t we?” 

“Of course, I am loath to lose our friendship but I confess I find myself thinking about…deeper things when it comes to us.” 

“Y-y-you do?” 

Of course you always like Monsieur Neuvillette but you’d never in your wildest dreams thought that a friendship with him could turn into more. You were just happy that he trusted you enough to become friends with you. The two of you had met through the Traveler actually. And being a Descender yourself, you had become privy to the fact that he was the Hydro Dragon. As the Traveler moved on to other nations with the goal of finding their sibling you lingered in Fontaine finding the nation agreeing with you. Fontaine eventually became your home base even as you travel to other nations. Unlike the Traveler you had no lofty goals in mind. 

“I confess this is so. However perhaps I’ve been spending too much time pondering on the idea instead of acting on it. The Melusines must have picked up on my feelings.” 

Ah, now that might explain why the Melusines went through a period of forcing you to read just about every romance book they could come across. Was this all research to help Monsieur Neuvillette?  

Your previous annoyance at being locked in a storage room was quickly dwindling even from the little bit you had. You hoped that you hadn’t displayed any odd tendencies when Monsieur Neuvillette was concerned that the Melusines picked up on. You thought you had had an impenetrable shield. 

“They had urged me to at least talk to you about it but I had refused. I wanted to ponder this a little more and see if it had merit. However, although I have learned more about humans, the complexities of this kind of thing still perplexes me. Sedene did present to me a list of findings about your behavior that made me think that perhaps you might feel more on the subject than you let on.” 

You stiffened and replied in which you hoped with a coolness that belied your feelings, “Such as?” 

“You have brought me meals when unasked for.” 

“We are friends. I’m interested in your health and you are busy.  Thought I’d help out here and there. There is nothing untoward about that.” 

“You made some of them yourself.” 

“Again, friendship.” 

“I have no basis for such things. Perhaps friends do make each other meals. This was a thought I came to as well. Next, they have observed that when I leave, your gaze lingers.” 

Your right eyebrow twitched, “....I’m making sure you leave.” 

That sounded lame even to your ears but you challenged it by looking Neuvillette straight in the eye. You would not bend first. 

“....and they have heard you give a…and I quote, ‘an heartrending sigh.’” 

You would have spat at this and your face showed. You looked away folding your arms, “Denied!! What does a ‘heartrending sigh’ even sound like? I didn’t swoon like a maiden.” 

“So you admit that you did in fact sigh?” 

Your whole face twitched this time, “Denied! You need to do better than this! It’s all circumstantial at best!” 

“Very well then. I’m not sure I should reveal this but….apparently, there were some Melusines in earshot when you and Navia were having a private conversation. They heard Navia ask when you were quote “going to make your intentions known.” And your reply was, and I quote, “When a boar flies and all the water in Fontaine is set on fire.”” 

Given that they were Melusines, in earshot was probably a generous term. You couldn’t help but to slap both hands over your face. Everything within you wanted to deny it but you couldn't very well make a liar out of both the Melusines and Navia. 

Checkmate. 

“Not to worry, I did admonish them about listening to private conversations such as those.” 

“I should find the nearest volcano in Natlan and jump in it.” 

Monsieur Neuvillette’s eyes widened as he placed his hands on your shoulders, “Don’t even joke about such things Y/N!” 

You still hadn’t raised your head. 

“Miss. Y/N, would it be wrong of us to try to see if our relationship can grow deeper?” 

Your voice was muffled by your hands, “Why, you want it to?” 

“Hm, I believe I would. You?” 

“....I’m amenable to it.” 

Monsieur Neuvillette’s mouth quirked, “I’m pleased to hear this. Won’t you look at me?” 

“Maybe after we get out of here.” 

Ahh, you were being shy about this. A chuckle escaped the Hydro Dragon. You reached one hand to slap him in the chest, “Hydro Dragon, Hydro Dragon, please be silent!” 

The chuckle turned into a laugh then. 

Then you felt him stepping away, “Very well. I know the benefits of having to gather oneself. We will have plenty of time to address this. Ah, what did you say to dinner?” 

You turned away from him, as you dropped your hands from your face, once again “arranging” the books.

A small smile made its way to your face as you replied softly, “Sure. I’ll be there.” 

[rileyslibrary]

The hot seat.

Synopsis: You decide to attend a speed dating event in the city where you're deployed. Simon “Ghost” Riley, your lieutenant, is also there.

Relationship: Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader

Word Count: 1,595

Notes:

I got this idea after a friend told me she matched with one of her colleagues on Tinder.

Fluff.

Want more?

———————————————————————

“Why don’t you just give it a try?” One of your friends suggested, “It’s not like you’ll be committing to anything.”

And when you told them there are other ways to meet new people, such as dating apps, they laughed so hard that you felt offended. “You don’t trust your own shadow,” one of them said, “how could you possibly trust a couple of pictures and a few messages before meeting a stranger?”

They were right; not only had it been months since your last date, but your trust issues weren’t helping. So you listened to your friends and decided to give it a shot. This could be your opportunity to get “back on the horse.”

They wanted to come to your house a few hours before to advise you on what to wear—it seems like it wasn’t just you who had trust issues. “You have a thing with self-sabotage,” one of them admitted, “and we don’t want you to portray yourself as less than who you really are.” A bolt claim from Jessica, the master of self-sabotage, who kept bailing her partner out of jail because he was constantly breaking into people’s houses.

You politely declined, promising to do your best. You chose a little black dress, opaque tights, and black heels. You let your hair down for once, since the army wouldn’t let you, and applied some make-up—but not too much—to enhance your features.

The speed dating event is held in a trendy downtown bar. The room is crammed with small tables, each with two chairs facing each other. You take a deep breath and walk over to the registration desk. You sign up, fill out a form with your information, and they hand you a name tag.

“This Is What You Came For” plays over the speakers, and you can’t help but wonder what made the DJ choose that song. What did I come here for, Rihanna? You think to yourself. To tell a stranger in three minutes about my food preferences and favourite colour? Is that what will ensure compatibility?

Your nerves start to kick in, so you rush to the bar. Your options are limited to beer or wine, according to the bartender. When you ask why, he starts narrating the horrors he’s seen of people attempting to calm their nerves with shots before the speed date. You choose wine and turn to face the people you’re about to meet in three-minute rounds. A few catch your eye; some look intimidated, while others appear overconfident and exuberant. “Peacocks”, as you call them.

The event organiser announces the beginning of the event, and you make your way to your assigned table. Dread grips you. What if you don’t meet anyone interesting? What if everyone you talk to is dull or uninteresting? You take a seat and wait for the event to start.

The first guy who sits down is a health freak, to put it mildly. He gets up at 4 a.m., lifts “hard” for two hours, goes to work, and waits until his next workout at around 6 p.m. He says he likes chicken because of its high protein content and asks what your favourite food is, to which you respond, “Haribos,” to piss him off.

The next one is a cryptocurrency investor. Enough said.

The third guy is a motivational speaker. You’re unsure about the “motivational” part, but he’s undeniably a “speaker.” He doesn’t. Stop. Talking. He only asks for your name, which you don’t have to say because it’s written on your tag. He then starts mumbling about books he’s read and the importance of a proper and consistent morning routine. He and Mr Health Freak could have easily become soul mates, you think to yourself.

Three minutes pass like hours, and you lower your head to the table. This was a mistake. Coming here was, as you suspected, a bad idea.

“I see you’ve already given up.” The man in front of you comments with a smile.

You look up and meet his gaze. He is tall and well-built, with short blonde hair and dark brown eyes. But it’s his sleeve tattoo that draws your attention.

It’s familiar to you. You’ve seen it before, peeking through a military uniform and tactical gloves.

Simon “Ghost” Riley.

You’d never seen him without his mask, but his build, voice, and tattoos are distinct. Your heart is racing as you struggle to remain calm. He, too, appears surprised. Did he not recognise you at first because of your make-up and hair?

Well, it seems like he recognises you now. But you’re not supposed to acknowledge his true identity; doing so might destroy everything he’s worked so hard to keep hidden all these years. It may also jeopardise your professional relationship.

But, my God, he’s hot. He’s exactly as you imagined him, if not better. It’d be best to act as cool as possible. Ignorant, stupid, call it whatever you want—just don’t reveal his identity. There are tens of thousands of people named Simon, and you are not supposed to give your surname to the other person here. So all you know about him is his name. He could be any of the other “Simons” out there.

You immediately put on a happy-go-lucky face and smile, trying to muster the courage to date your lieutenant for three minutes.

“Hi, I’m Y/N,” you reply, trying to play it cool.

He fidgets in his seat, still feeling uneasy. You need to act quickly.

“Yes, I’m about to give up,” you moan and pout, “so please, for the love of God, be a decent one.”

He lets out an awkward chuckle. “I’m not sure about that,” he says.

“Oh, really?” You exclaim, raising your eyebrows, “Unless you speak nonchalantly about yourself, chuck twelve egg yolks in the morning, or boast about imaginary coins, you’re good.”

“Ah,” he says hesitantly, “no, I prefer my eggs cooked.”

“Boiled, scrambled, or sunny side up?”

“I don’t mind as long as they’re cooked properly.” He responds, and you raise your fist to your mouth.

“I assume no runny egg whites?” You ask, making a disgusted face.

“Christ, no.” He smiles and shakes his head.

He appears more at ease now, thinking you haven’t identified him.

But then another problem arises. When dating, one of the first questions you usually ask is about the other person’s occupation.

“So, Simon,” you say, “what do you do for a living?”

“I, um, work as an operator,” he replies. “And you?”

That was a wise move on his part. He knows you’ll relate if he discloses his primary occupation, and you’ll start speculating. So he decided to reveal his side job. Although he is not completely honest with you, which could be interpreted as a red flag, there is a serious reason behind his answer.

“I’m a sergeant in the military,” you admit.

He nods and smirks but doesn’t ask a follow-up question.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m not very good at this.”

“Neither am I,” you chuckle, “but I can help you.”

“Thank you,” he says.

“Do you prefer cats or dogs, Simon?”

“I like both,” he says, “I can’t have a preference for animals; they aren’t eggs.”

“Phew!” You exclaim, theatrically placing the back of your hand on your forehead, “most of the men I met today hate cats!”

“Yeah,” Simon agrees. “I believe it’s because they don’t have control over them like dogs.”

“I feel bad for most of the women in here,” you say, looking around, “for settling for such controlling personalities.”

“How do you know I’m not controlling?” He asks, his brow furrowed.

“Men whose job is to order soldiers around, tend to live a more chilled lifestyle.” You elaborate.

“Order soldiers?” He asks, and you immediately stiffen up. “How do you know I order soldiers at my work?”

“I, um, assume you do because of your profession.” You stutter and look down at your lap.

“I said I’m an operator,” he smirks, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, “but I never said what kind of operator I am.”

Your chair has turned into a hot seat all of a sudden.

“From what you know, I could be a heavy machinery operator.” He adds, his smile widening.

You blush and turn to look at the clock; time’s almost up.

He leans forward to the table. “Why such eagerness to end our date, sergeant?” he whispers, “I thought we were doing so well.”

You raise your head to look at him. “I’m sorry, Lt.,” you admit, “I just didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“I appreciate that,” he says, “but knowing that you know who I am is already uncomfortable, don’t you think?”

You look down again, and he continues.

“Perhaps it would have been better to acknowledge the elephant in the room from the beginning.” He explains.

You let out a sigh. “You’re right,” you say, “I should have been more honest.”

He nods, and the bell rings for your next date. Simon gets up from his chair and smiles at you.

“Normally, I’d end this with a nice to meet you,” he says, “but in this case, it’s more of a nice getting to know you better,” he adds, extending his hand for a handshake.

You stand up and take his hand in yours. “Likewise, Lt.,” you say, smiling.

“See you tomorrow,” he says.

“For another date?” You joke, “You move too fast, Simon.”

“For the best military drill of your life,” he corrects you with a smirk, “for thinking you could fool me so easily.”

———————————————————————

Part 2 ->