#and their expressions are on fucking point too

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

Hi, there! I've seen you're asking for some Thunderbolts requests, so: what about the reader and Bob having to share a bed during a mission, having both big crushes for each other? No pressure at all, only if you like the idea ☺️ thank you!!

a/n: Ah yes the one bed troupe, one i love reading but never got around to writing. Okay so i didn't know if you wanted it to be a smut but i ended making it one 😬 hope that's okay. Also thanks for the request and enjoy!

Bob Reynolds X Reader: No room for secrets.

Warnings: smut, one bed troupe, mutual pinning, forced proximity, wet dream, injuries (not graphic), kissing, Bob being a sweetheart, penetration (p in v ), cowgirl, handjob, kind of subby Bob, fluff, cute ending, no use of y/n.

Word count: 4.3K (i am so fucking sorry)

You were going to kill Valentina.

You’d stumbled into the room, half-walking, half-dragging yourself inside. The mission you'd just finished had been successful, but you didn’t get out completely unscathed. You felt like shit, and all you wanted to do was lie down and pass out.

And you were planning to—until you saw your room.

You and Bob always shared a room. It was just how things ended up being organized. Ava and Yelena got a room, Bucky and John shared another, and Alexei slept alone—because the Russian's snores made it impossible for anyone else to fall asleep in the same room. That left you paired up with Bob. It didn’t bother you. Bob was sweet and quiet. He kept to himself and didn’t talk in his sleep. He was practically the perfect roommate.

The only thing was that you each slept in your own twin bed. Space and privacy—well, as much privacy as you could get while sharing a room.

You stared at the queen bed in front of you, doing your best not to let your face show how pissed you were. You were failing miserably, of course. Anyone who walked into the room could tell you were angry.

You turned to face the door just as Bob walked in. He had a bag of chips in his hand, which told you he’d stopped to raid the snack machine on the way. He walked in, a small smile gracing his features.

And then he noticed your expression, and his smile shifted into a look of confusion.

You didn’t even bother saying anything, opting instead to just point at the bed. Bob moved closer to you, the bed finally coming into his line of sight. It took him a moment to realize the problem, his eyebrows rising as he finally understood the issue.

You sighed. You needed to calm down before doing anything else. Poor Bob wasn’t the subject of your anger, so you weren’t going to make him a victim of it.

“I need a shower,” you muttered, moving to grab your bag from the floor. “We can figure this out after we clean up, okay?”

You turned to Bob, who was still staring at the bed. He looked at you and gave a small nod.

“O-okay.”

You took your sweet time in the shower. Washing off the grime from the mission was easy; the problem was the thousands of little cuts and bruises littered all over your body. Every movement hurt a bit, and the soap stung wherever it found your skin. Still, you managed to get cleaned up.

You walked out of the bathroom, releasing a wave of steam as you stepped back into the room. Bob was sitting in the armchair, eyes glued to the TV as he finished his chips.

“Bathroom’s free. If you wanna clean up.”

Bob shifted his focus to you as soon as he heard your voice. He stared for a moment. You kept patting your hair dry with the towel as he observed you.

Bob couldn’t help but notice how pretty you looked. You were in what he guessed were your pajamas, your hair still damp from the shower, beads of water sliding down your skin. It felt awfully… homey, seeing you like this. So casual. So close. He was having a hard time stopping his mind from spinning a thousand scenarios of what it would be like to be with you—really be with you.

“Bob?”

You tilted your head slightly, your voice laced with a light note of concern. He’d been staring too long, and the questioning tone made it clear you’d noticed.

He shook his head, forcing himself back to the present.

“Sorry. My mind was somewhere else.”

“It’s okay. I left enough warm water for you. And there’s an extra towel by the sink.”

Bob’s heart fluttered at the thought that you’d cared enough to make sure he could have a warm shower—and had even laid out a towel for him. He stood, brushing crumbs off his lap before heading to the bathroom. You watched him disappear behind the door, and only then did you let out a breath. That look he’d given you… It wasn’t nothing. It couldn’t be.

You picked up the remote leaning on the edge of the bed as you flipped through the channels. Your head snapped over to the bathroom as you heard the shower come to life. Your eyes continued glued to the door for a moment, the documentary about baby otters suddenly forgotten. your mind kept drifting to Bob, standing just a few feet away, behind a thin door. Wet. Shirtless.

You sighed, shaking your head, forcing yourself to focus on the tv before you. You remembered you needed to pass some medicine in the worse cuts you’d gotten so you bussied yourself with that. 

The water shut off after a while. You tried very hard not to glance up every time a sound came from the bathroom, tried not to count how long it was taking him to come out.

Then the door creaked open.

And there he was.

Bob stepped out, steam curling around his tall frame, hair damp and tousled, cheeks still flushed from the heat of the shower. He wore nothing but a towel slung low around his waist, clinging to his hips in a way that felt... unfair.

Bob lifted his eyes from the floor, expecting to find you dressed and relaxing on the bed.

He was not expecting what he saw instead.

You were shirtless, hands resting on your ribs, mouth slightly parted as you looked up at him. He froze mid-step, caught off guard, eyes dragging across your bare skin before he could stop himself.

You stared too—eyes tracing the lines of his body, still damp, still only wrapped in a towel.

And then, almost simultaneously, you both seemed to snap out of it.

You scrambled to cover yourself, suddenly realizing how exposed you were. Bob’s eyes widened as color flooded his cheeks. He turned sharply, head ducking as he tried to look anywhere but at you.

“Oh—sorry,” he blurted out, gripping the towel tighter with one hand. “I, uh, forgot my clothes in my bag. Wasn’t expecting you to be…”

His voice trailed off again as his gaze accidentally flicked back to you. He immediately dropped his eyes to the floor.

“You’re fine,” you said quickly, though your throat felt bone-dry. Your heart was pounding way too loud in your ears.

In your hand, the medicine tube you'd been holding slipped slightly as you clenched your fingers too tightly around it. A glob of the ointment squirted out and plopped onto the floor. Bob made his way to his bag as you let out a soft curse moving to scoop it up with your finger. Behind you, you heard the faint rustle of fabric as he changed, and you bit the inside of your cheek to keep your expression neutral.

“Do you need any?”

“Sorry—what?”

Bob turned to look at you, realizing you were carefully keeping your back to him as he changed.

“I’m dressed,” he said gently. “You can turn around.”

You glanced over your shoulder, your eyes immediately catching on Bob’s still very bare abs. He wasn’t wearing a shirt—but then, he never did when he slept. He ran hot, so he opted for fewer layers. You knew that from all the nights you'd shared a room with him. It had never been an issue before.

But now, the idea of lying next to him, just inches away from that warm skin, was going to be a problem.

“Are there any cuts that need ointment?” you asked, mostly to distract yourself.

“Oh, no, I…” He trailed off mid-sentence, looking a little sheepish. “I don’t get cut.”

You shook your head at yourself. Right. Of course he didn’t. He was incredibly powerful, despite having the most innocent face you’d ever seen. You were so used to looking out for him, you sometimes forgot he could bend metal with his bare hands.

“Sorry, I forgot.”

“You don’t need to apologize. It’s… nice. That you, you know—” he shrugged slightly “—that you care enough to ask.”

“Of course I do, Bob. You’re my teammate. I want to make sure you’re taken care of.”

Bob desperately needed you to stop talking to him like that. The warmth in your voice, the way you said his name—it was doing things to his head. Dangerous things. He gave you a small smile, his eyes drifting over your skin almost unconsciously.

You felt his gaze like a physical thing—soft, warm, reverent. You weren’t even sure he realized how he was looking at you, but it was doing things to you. Things it probably shouldn’t.

“You have one on your back.”

You blinked, needing a second to catch up.

“I do?”

You tried to twist around and look, searching for the injury.

“You probably can’t see it,” Bob said. “It’s like… right in the middle of your back.”

He opened his mouth, hesitated, then pushed himself to keep talking.

“I can get it for you. If you want.”

You couldn’t help the soft smile that tugged at your lips. Oh, this man is going to be the death of me.

“That’d be great, Bob. Thank you.”

You handed him the medicine and turned around. Bob squeezed a little onto his fingers—the cut wasn’t big, so he didn’t need much. Your skin tingled in anticipation as you waited for him to touch you. And when he finally did, you shivered. Partly because his hand was cool against your back and partly because it was him.

Bob’s fingers were gentle, almost too gentle, as he smoothed the ointment over the cut. The pressure was light, careful . His hand lingered a second longer than it needed to.

You felt it.

The pause. The heat.

Your breath caught for just a moment.

Then his fingertips brushed down slightly, like he was checking to make sure the ointment had spread properly. It wasn’t necessary—but he didn’t stop. And neither did you.

Your voice was quiet when you spoke. “You okay back there?”

Bob's hand stilled.

“Yeah,” he said after a beat, his voice softer than usual. “It’s just… hard to focus when you’re this close.”

That pulled your attention.

You turned your head, just slightly—enough to catch the faint flush spreading across his cheeks. His eyes were still on your back, but they kept flicking down, then away, like he couldn’t decide if he was allowed to look.

“We’ve shared rooms before,” you said gently, teasing. “We’ve slept five feet from each other for months.”

“Yeah,” he said, almost laughing. “But never like this.”

“I can take the floor.”

You’d been thinking about it for a while. You didn’t want to sleep on the floor—you wanted to sleep in the soft bed, preferably next to him. But you also wanted to be considerate.

You knew Bob had some issues with physical touch. He wasn’t opposed to it, but sometimes, when you caught him off guard, you’d see the way he flinched slightly—instinctively—before realizing you weren’t going to hurt him. Years of abuse would do that to a person.

Of course, you didn’t say any of this. You didn’t have to. Bob knew exactly why you’d offered. And still, he couldn’t help the warm, fuzzy feeling that filled his chest.

You were always doing stuff like this. Opting to help him out even when you had other things to do. You’d help with the dishes. You’d hang around with him in the living room, even though he was sure you could be using your time much better with training. Every time you could be near him, you chose to be. Bob tried to play it off as just your personality, but a small part of him knew better. 

You weren’t like that with everyone.

You were like that with him.

“I know you like your personal space,” you added softly.

Your words pulled him out of his thoughts. He realized how long he’d been silent, his hand still resting gently against your back. The ointment had been absorbed long ago, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. Couldn’t bring himself to let go.

“I don’t mind,” he said, barely above a whisper. “If we share.”

You closed your eyes, your body relaxing instantly at his words.

You were glad he felt safe with you. You were really glad you wouldn’t be spending the night on the cold floor. You were glad that you’d sleep beside him tonight. It would probably be the last time you’d ever get a chance like this. So yes, maybe a bit selfishly, you were happy  you’d be sharing the bed.

You turned around to face Bob. He shifted his hand down, resting it against his stomach. You took in the look on his face, your eyes trailing from his eyes to his lips, to the flushed skin of his neck. And then you turned to look at the bed, choosing to focus on the task at hand.

“Okay. So how are we doing this?”

It had taken you a total of five minutes to figure everything out. Bob liked sleeping on the left, you liked sleeping on the right—so that was easy. You’d offered to make a pillow wall for Bob’s comfort. He’d told you it wasn’t necessary.

The two of you entered the bed, each settling on your respective side. You lay on your back, staring at the ceiling for a moment. Bob did the same.

A small yawn escaped your mouth before you could stop it. Bob turned his head to look at you, smiling at your sleepy face.

“I’ll get the light.”

You gave him a small smile before turning onto your side.

“Good night, Bob.”

“Good night.”

Darkness took over the room.

Falling asleep was easy for Bob. Keeping his mind clear, on the other hand, was not.

The dream had started simply. He could see your face, a small smile on it as you looked at him. And then it shifted. Your brows furrowed as you let out a soft groan. He was beneath you, hands resting on your hips as you moved. The sight was beautiful. He could live inside this dream.

Unfortunately, his body was beginning to betray him.

You felt him shift before you heard him. You turned your head to glance over your shoulder, eyes catching on Bob’s shaking frame. Your first thought was that he was having a nightmare. You knew it was a common occurrence, so you didn’t startle. You turned around, your hand reaching to touch his shoulder—when he let out a soft whimper of your name.

Your hand froze midair, breath catching.

He said it again. Clearer now.

Bob was dreaming. Dreaming of you. And by the sound of it, the dream was far from innocent.

You wanted desperately to keep listening—but you felt like a creep. So, instead, you gently tugged at him, trying to wake him up.

Bob was pulled out of his dream rather quickly.

He gasped, eyes flying open as he jerked upright. Disoriented, breath shallow, chest rising and falling. His eyes darted around the room until they landed on you—watching him with concern, still half-leaning over him.

“Hey,” you said softly, your hand brushing his arm. “You okay?”

Bob blinked a few times, swallowing hard. His face flushed deep red as memory rushed back in. The dream. Your voice. Your name on his lips.

Oh god.

“I—I’m sorry,” he muttered, sinking back onto the pillow and turning his face toward the wall. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Bob.”

You said his name firmly, gently, and his eyes hesitantly flicked back to you. You didn’t look disgusted. You didn’t look uncomfortable. If anything, you looked…curious. A little breathless.

“It’s okay,” you said. “You were dreaming.”

He nodded, ashamed.

“Was it… about me?”

Bob hesitated, then gave the smallest nod.

You paused. Your heart pounded. And then, barely above a whisper: “Was I… any good?”

That made him look at you. Really look at you. His lips parted, unsure what to say. You were smiling—soft and teasing, but your eyes were serious.

Bob swallowed hard. “Too good,” he said.

And suddenly, you were very aware of how close the two of you were. Of the warmth between you in the bed. Of everything unsaid that had built up over weeks, months. Your hand slid gently onto his chest. You hesitated for a second, eyes boring into Bobs. You could feel his chest rise and fall against your palm. You bit the inside of your cheek, realising that you were really about to do this. 

“Do you want to find out for real?”

Bob's breath caught.

You saw it in the way his lips parted, the way his fingers flexed slightly against the sheets, like he wasn’t sure whether to reach for you or ground himself.

He swallowed thickly. “Are you sure?”

His voice was low, hoarse, barely above a whisper—but it still managed to send a shiver down your spine. You leaned in just a little closer, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as you whispered:

“I wouldn’t be asking if I wasn’t.”

That was all it took.

Bob surged forward, one hand cupping your cheek as his mouth met yours—tentative at first, like he was still afraid you might vanish. But when you kissed him back, firm and hungry, something in him snapped. His hand slid into your hair, the other arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you fully against him. You took the hint, climbing onto his waist as you settled on top of him. Bob whined into the kiss as you grazed his hard on. 

“You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?” you whispered against the corner of his mouth.

He gave a soft, embarrassed laugh and nodded, eyes fluttering closed as your hands moved across his stomach. “I—yeah. I didn’t think you’d ever…”

You cut him off with a firmer kiss this time, one hand slipping up to cradle the side of his neck, the other resting just above the waistband of his shorts. 

“You think too much Bob. Just focus on the feeling.”

Your palm slipped inside his shorts and he groaned, head raising up as he did. The action caused his neck to be on full display for you. You took it as an opportunity to kiss him there. Your hand found his dick, fingers moving over the head as you littered his neck with wet kisses. Then slowly you shifted your grip, allowing you to begin stroking him.  

Bob’s breath hitched—sharp and shaky—as your hand moved along his length. He whimpered, his hips bucking ever so slightly against your touch, chasing the friction. You could feel how desperate he already was, how quickly he was unraveling under your attention. It felt better than any drug. The sight of him panting slightly as his brows furrowed made you grind your hips down on him. 

“God—” he gasped, clutching at your waist, trying and failing to keep still beneath you.

The sound caused you to smile.

“Am i as good as you dreamed?”

Bob gaspsed, mind trying to form a coherent thought to answer you.

“So much better.”

“Oh yeah?”

He nodded before letting out a small moan. You shifted around, tugging his dick free from his shorts so you could stroke him better. The cold air on his dick made him shudder but your warm hand dulled the shift slightly. His hands were still on the bed beside him. Almost as if he was afraid to touch you without asking.

“You can touch me too, you know? If you want to.”

That was all he needed. Whatever resistance he had left crumbled at those words. His hands found your thighs, holding you tightly as if he still couldn’t quite believe this was real. You leaned down to kiss him again, slower this time, your hand never faltering in its rhythm. He moaned into your mouth, every sound he made going straight to your core. You rocked against him gently, your own arousal growing with every twitch of his hips beneath you.

“You feel so good,” he murmured against your lips, his voice shaky with awe.

You smiled, brushing your nose gently against his. “You do too,” you whispered. “You’re perfect, Bob.”

His eyes searched yours like he couldn’t quite believe this was real—like any second he expected to wake up. You cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing just under his eye, grounding him.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” you admitted softly, heart fluttering as the words left your mouth. “Not just this—us.”

Bob swallowed hard, hands still resting on your thighs like he was afraid to grab too tight, afraid he’d break the moment. “Me too. God, me too.”

Your breath caught, and you leaned in to kiss him again, slower this time, lingering—like you had all the time in the world. Your hand still stroked him gently, feeling every twitch, every little reaction as you poured everything into that kiss. Bob let out the softest whine, hips jerking involuntarily into your grip. 

“I wanna feel you. Please, I need—”

You shifted your hips, clothed cunt rubbing against your hand and stimulating his dick. 

“You want me to ride you?”

He nodded frantically, his voice nearly gone. 

“Yes. Yes, please.”

You leaned down again, kissing him slow and deep. Then you shifted your hips back, just enough to push your underwear to the side and line yourself up.You both gasped at the feeling, completely overwhelmed. He filled you perfectly, and you stayed still for a moment, letting the warmth of him settle deep inside you.

“You’re so beautiful,” Bob whispered, his thumbs brushing over your skin like he was memorizing you.

You clenched around him, hips begging to quicken their pace. Bob's hands slid up to your waist, holding on like he might float away otherwise. His hips bucked up to meet yours every time you moved. The desperation was growing inside both of you. You wanted to take it slow, wanted to show Bob just how much you felt for him. But the need for him was stronger than you could control. Bob didn’t seem to mind, blabbering beneath you as you sped up. Your hands found their way to his chest, using him as leverage to lift yourself up before dropping down again. Bob groaned, his hands tightening just slightly on your waist. 

“You’re all I ever think about,” he confessed, eyes squeezed shut like the truth hurt in the best way. “Not just like this. Always.”

The words hit you hard in the chest, and your movements stuttered for just a moment. You pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then his jaw. You were overwhelmed, full to the brim with him—his scent, his voice, his body.

“You’re perfect,” you whispered against his skin. “You’re everything.”

His arms wrapped around you, holding you to him as your bodies moved in tandem. You buried your face in his neck, moaning quietly as each thrust made your core tighten and your breath grow shorter.

You could feel it building—slow and sweet. Not just the orgasm, but everything. The connection, the weight of unspoken feelings, the years of dancing around this. You were both trembling under the intensity.

“I’m close,” you breathed, a little desperate now, your hips moving with more urgency.

“Me too,” Bob gasped, clutching you tighter. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

And you didn’t. You clung to each other like lifelines, chasing the high with trembling hands and whispered names, until it hit—hard and soft at the same time. A release that was more than physical. You came with a cry muffled against his neck, and Bob followed soon after, gasping your name like it was the only thing he knew.

When it was over, you stayed there, pressed together in the quiet, his hands still stroking your back gently, like he couldn’t bear to let go.

You stayed like that for a long time—foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in the dark. Neither of you said anything at first, too wrapped up in the moment to break it with words. His hands never stopped moving, slow sweeps down your spine like he was trying to soothe you, ground you, or maybe himself.

Eventually, you stirred, gently lifting yourself off him with a soft hiss. Bob held your hips to steady you, eyes filled with concern.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You nodded, brushing his damp hair back from his forehead. 

“Yeah. Just tender.

He gave you a tired, tender smile that melted something deep inside you. You shifted off to the side, reaching for the blanket to pull over both of you. Bob curled closer instinctively, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other tucking beneath his cheek like a sleepy child. You ran your fingers through his hair, watching his eyes flutter shut, a soft hum of contentment leaving his lips.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured against your shoulder

“Me too.”

He smiled against your skin. 

“Good. 'Cause I think I’m in love with you.”

Your heart skipped, breath catching. You pulled back just enough to look at him. 

“You are?”

He nodded, shy but sure. 

“Yeah. I think I’ve been in love with you since the first time I saw you.”

You smiled, your chest aching in the most beautiful way. “Then we’re in the same boat.”

Relief washed over his face like sunlight breaking through clouds. He leaned in to kiss you again—slow and deep, with nothing rushed or frenzied. Just warmth. Just certainty.

When you finally pulled apart, you tucked yourself into his side, your fingers laced with his beneath the sheets.

And in the quiet stillness of the room, wrapped in the warmth of each other, the weight of everything finally lifted. You both drifted to sleep.

Maybe you wouldn’t kill Valentina after all. Maybe you’d just tell her to book a room with one bed for you and Bob. For future reference. 

[strang3lov3]

Rock You

Dad rocks you to sleep.

Tags - dad!joel, incest, smut, one shot, dad jokes, banter, dad!joel eats slim jim’s (sorry. they’re a certified #dadclassic), road head, blow job, cum swallowing, fingering, piv sex, creampie, cockwarming, somno-ish, Nirvana’s MTV Unplugged in New York lol. Sweet and loving nostalgia. THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION AND ALL CHARACTERS ARE ADULTS. 5.5k words

A/N - He’s back, daddy’s girls 🩷 thank you for your patience. And thank you to all who contributed in the #dadsnacks discussion! That was very valuable.

Joel pulls his truck up next to the gas pump, then puts the vehicle into park and steps out. With your head against the window, you watch him through the windshield that’s all spattered in gnats and flies, Dad rounding the front of his truck. He looks so handsome, brows knitted together as he untwists the gas cap and puts the pump inside, graying hair blowing in the breeze. He pulls out his wallet then, reads a little sign, and then hangs his head back in irritation. “God dammit.” 

Joel taps twice on your window, voice muffled as he speaks, “Gotta pay inside,” he says. “Let’s go.” 

You roll your eyes. “Dad, let me just stay,” you whine.

But Joel doesn’t budge. “No can do, kiddo. I don’t like ya out here alone,” he says. “Come with, come pick out some junk food with me, huh?”

“I don’t want…whatever.” You can’t fight the smile that grows on your face. Joel knows all too well how to bribe you, his sweet fucking girl. You unclick your seatbelt and Joel opens the truck door, and he takes your hand and helps you down. 

He’ll never stop doing that, you know. He knows you’re big now, all grown up. Your legs are longer and you’re more graceful than the little punk kid you once were, but Joel will always, always help you down. You bit it one goddamn time and ended up with a big gash on your forehead and all these scrapes on your knees, and you screamed bloody murder when Joel dumped peroxide on your skin to clean the wounds. It broke his fucking heart, hurting you like that, even if it was to help you in the long run. At least he got a giggle out of you when he let you hurt him - “hurt” him back by punching him in his strong bicep. Ouch, kiddo. Uh huh. Hurts real bad. Yep, we’re even now. 

Joel holds the glass gas station door open for you, then points to a stack of baskets. “You know what to do.” 

Joel follows you through the gas station, loving that beautiful grin on your face as you grab his snacks first - his preferred junk food never changes. Snickers, sunflower seeds, a honey bun, a couple of Slim Jim’s and some Reese’s peanut butter cups and a big bottle of Arizona Arnold Palmer to wash it all down. You did good, kiddo. 

Dad’s turn. Joel picks out Sour Patch watermelons, your very favorite. He grabs you a big bag of white cheddar popcorn, too, and some of those mini powdered donuts. You always had a thing for those donuts. Joel’s standing in front of the refrigerated section, thinking hard about what to get you to drink. You approach him and browse with him. “Could get ya Bug Juice,” he teases, nudging your arm. “‘Member those?”

You laugh out of your nose, “Ew,” you giggle, scrunching your face.

“Ya liked ‘em when you were little,” Joel replies, opening the fridge and grabbing you a cherry Coke. You smile, Dad knows you so well.  

You and Joel bring your items up to the register, where the attendant scans everything. Joel reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, then narrows his eyes at an end cap that catches his attention. “Grab me one’a them Paydays, would ya?” 

You raise your eyebrow and put your hands on your hips and Jesus, you truly are your father’s daughter. Same fucking mannerisms and facial expressions right there. 

“Dad, no. You broke your tooth on one of those the last time you ate one.” 

“It was one time,” Joel argues quietly, snatching a Payday himself, and handing it as well as a couple of bills to the attendant, who’s laughing at this argument. “Put the change on pump four, please,” he tells her.

“Dad–”

“Can it,” Joel says. “Tooth was already cracked to begin with. Thank ya, ma’am,” he says to the attendant, swiping the white plastic bags full of snacks off the counter. Then he nods his head in the direction of the door. 

“It was not,” you mumble, more for the attendant’s ears than for Joel’s. You wish her a nice rest of her day. 

Outside, Joel opens his truck door for you and helps you into it, then fills his truck with gas. When he’s done, he puts the pump away and joins you in the driver’s seat, the engine roaring to life as he turns the key. You’re back on the endless highway in minutes, snacking on junk food together. 

“And ya know the great thing,” Joel starts, pausing to take a swig of his drink, “All this garbage s’only eight thousand calories.” 

“It’s not, actually.” 

“Yeah, how’s that?”

You swallow the Sour Patch watermelons you were chewing. “Because it doesn’t count when you eat it in the truck.” 

Joel laughs at that, eyes crinkling with his smile. “You are wise beyond your years, girl.” He’s got his window cracked, and the wind is blowing his curls back. The sun beginning to set makes his dark eyes shine a vibrant amber in its glow. 

Another hour passes. You notice a Volkswagen Beetle and punch Joel in his bicep, snickering. Before he can argue, he notices the car, too. “Didn’t say slug bug, darlin’. Doesn’t count.” 

“Does too.” 

Joel takes his right hand off of the steering wheel and makes his pointer finger and thumb into a circle, and holds it above the floor of the truck. “Psst. What’s that, kid? That a bug on the floor?” You gasp when you look down and roll your eyes when you see Joel’s circle, and he punches you in the bicep in return, laughing triumphantly. He punches lightly, of course. Dad never rough houses too hard with you, baby girl. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head, then shakes out his arm. “Goddamn, girl. Your punch is gettin’ harder.”

More time passes by, and you’re keeping track of the number of flies that smack the windshield. You and Joel played twenty questions - he was thinking about coffee, and you were thinking about a cat. He tried to play again, but you shut him down. “I’m bored,” you whined instead, and Joel told you that you could go play in traffic. 

You’re flipping through radio channels now, looking for something to listen to. Remember when Uncle Tommy would sit with you in the truck with some AM station on? Joel hated that. He thinks that’s partially where you got your attitude from, or at least where you learned to argue. Uncle Tommy would beg to differ, though. He thinks you and his brother are the same fucking person. Joel can make all the excuses he wants, and it’ll never change the fact that everything he is - the good, bad, and the ugly - you are too. 

Joel reaches over your head for the CD case attached to the mirror above your seat and pulls out Nirvana’s MTV Unplugged in New York. He puts it into the disc drive, humming along to ‘About a Girl’. You don’t remember it, but Joel used to play this album for you to get you to sleep, sometimes. He’d sing ‘Where Did You Sleep Last Night’ to you, too. Not very well, but neither of you gave a shit, because it was your special thing. Just for you and him, you and Dad.

“Are we almost home?”

“Do you see our house, baby?” 

“No.” 

Joel gives you a silent look in response, and you sigh dramatically. “I’m bored to fucking death,” you complain. 

Joel clicks his tongue. “To death, huh? S’a shame. Well, was nice knowin’ ya.” 

“Daaaad.”

“Oh, I know, I know, I know.” Joel leans over and pushes open the glove box, and rummages around for a pen and some paper. He finds a napkin instead. “Draw me somethin’ pretty,” he tells you. 

You take the napkin, and you can tell it’s many years old by the words ‘a note for your lunch’ that are written on them in faded ink. You chuckle and put that napkin back, and find a different, blank one instead. 

You can’t believe it’s still there after all these years. When you were in elementary school, you asked your dad to leave you a note in your lunch box because you liked that the other kids’ parents would write them sweet and loving notes. Notes like, you’re gonna do great on that test! I love you! 

And what did your dear old man, Joel, write? A note for your lunch. 

Joel would give anything to see the look on your face when you opened it, but in truth, he could perfectly picture it in his imagination when he was at work that day. Your cute little pout, inherited directly from him. When he picked you up from school later, you angrily handed it back to him. 

“What? S’what ya asked for, right? A note for your lunch?”

“I hate you.” 

“Uh huh,” he smirked.

You put your pen to your napkin before you’ve even got the faintest idea of what you want to draw, you just hope you’ll end up somewhere eventually. A squiggly circle here, a wobbly line there, all accidental mistakes. You groan in frustration, then put the napkin and pen back in the glove box. “I don’t wanna draw. It’s too bumpy.” 

Joel sighs deeply and puts his head against his left hand, his elbow resting on the driver’s side door. “You don’t wanna draw,” he starts, “Don’t wanna play games, either. Just wanna complain, huh?”

“Yep,” you answer, crossing your arms and resting your face against the glass window. 

“Then f’ya wanna complain, I’ll give ya somethin’ to complain about.”

You look over and see Joel switching his grip on the wheel. He uses his right hand to start to unbuckle his belt, his eyes darting from his crotch to the road ahead. “Gimme a hand here, kiddo. Shouldn’t be takin’ my eyes off the road.” Another one of his do as I say, not as I do moments.

“Now?”

“Yes, now. C’mon now, don’t make me ask twice.” 

You huff and puff and sigh as you unbuckle yourself to take care of Joel’s belt and jeans. You poor girl, all bored and antsy. Your generation’s gonna have a tough time figuring that one out, Joel thinks. Keeping yourself entertained without a screen in front of your face. Shoot. 

He’s getting hard as your soft, gentle hands undo the leather, patting over his bulge. Joel lets out a sigh when he feels you drag the zipper down, fingers tugging on fabric to free his cock. Joel sucks in his soft belly and pulls himself out for you, giving his length a couple of strokes with his fist before letting you take over. 

It’s difficult to keep his eyes on the road with you bent over his crotch the way you are, with one of your hands wrapped around the base of his cock and the other on his thigh. You begin with a couple of kisses pressed against his soft tip, moving your way down his veiny shaft. You are dad’s kind, sweet girl, through and fucking through. He keeps the fact that this is quite an excruciating tease to himself, because he likes your generous kisses, finds it cute that you do this. 

You circle his head with your tongue just twice, then take Joel into your mouth completely, gagging yourself in the process. You feel embarrassed as Joel pats your back, softly warning you, “Easy - woah - easy, baby girl. Not all once, honey, that’s how ya choke.” He chuckles after he says it.

It took Joel forever to stop cutting your grapes in half. 

He rests the back of his head against his chair as you try again, this time working your way down his shaft a little slower. You’re making a mess of both yourself and Joel, just like he tells you to. “With your hand, baby, just like I showed ya,” Joel reminds you. You move your hand in time with your bobbing head, and the quiet, pleasured groans Joel makes go straight to your core. “Doin’ so good, honey. Attagirl.” 

He grunts in surprise when you pull away suddenly, whining his name. Daaad. Joel pulls his eyes from the road momentarily to watch you pull one of his wiry, graying pubic hairs off of your tongue. He laughs, “Oh shit, I know. My bad, kiddo, I’ll trim first thing tomorrow.”

“You better,” you murmur, wiping your hand on his jeans. You bend back over and continue pleasuring him, and look at how quickly you find your rhythm, baby girl. It’s that steady, quiet, mindless repetition that calms you down, regulates your system. Joel tries to stress the importance of slowing down to you, of getting your mind off of stuff and things. It’s those quiet, repetitive activities that help you. Folding laundry, sorting buttons. And then, your oral fixation is satiated when you bob your head up and down on Dad’s cock, too, isn’t it? And it helps that much further, pacifies you in a sort of way. Funny how that works, huh?

Joel gives your back a couple of taps to signal his impending release. You pump your fist and massage the underside of his cock with your tongue, working him to his peak. Joel moans your name with all the love in the world as he cums all over your tongue, and you taste each rope of the very spend you’re made from, swallowing it all with a hum turned squeak when Joel tugs on your hair a little too hard. “Sorry, kiddo,” he apologizes quietly. Dad always did have a tendency of being rough with your hair when he would put it into pigtails or braids, but you were always a little tender headed, too, weren’t you? Christ, he misses doing those pigtails. The smell of green apple scented Suave’s detangling spray, those colorful hair ties he was always buying. Joel always wondered where they’d disappear to. 

You take a sip of your Coke, then lay your head on Joel’s lap with the back of your head resting against his soft tummy, all tuckered out, just like he wanted you to be. Dad pushes some hair out of your face and traces the curve of your ear, rubbing the cartilage between his fingertips.

Your father has such gentle, loving hands as he runs one of them down your body, tugging up on your shirt. He rubs the valley between your hip and your waist, where it dips just so, then runs his hand over the curve of your ass. He pats you in time with the beat of Nirvana playing over his tinny speakers, then lets his fingers travel lower. He traces that little diamond shape that frames your pussy so perfectly, and tugs your soft shorts and panties to the side, dipping just his middle finger into you. 

Joel can feel you clenching around his knuckle as he pumps it in and out of you, and he can hear that soft murmur of pleasure you let slip. “Yeah, that feels nice, huh, baby?” 

“S’nice,” you mumble in agreement, and Joel’s adding a second finger. Dad’s got you memorized by hand, and knows how to touch you to make you come undone for him like you’re meant to. A little wiggling, curling of his fingers and you’re gasping, dripping into your cotton panties. Joel pulls his fingers out and slides them up the warm, wet seam of your pussy, and he finds your clit swollen and throbbing. Poor kid, he thinks. That can’t feel good.

He rubs your clit in steady, expertly made circles to get you off. He’s not looking to make you cum especially hard or anything like that - just a soft, sweet orgasm to soothe you off to sleep for the rest of the ride. 

There are days when Dad does just that to you though, where he overstimulates you and fucks you so hard you sob. Sometimes he’ll shove his fingers down your throat to keep you from making too much noise, and he’ll feel a little guilty when you gag on them. Sorry, baby. Dad got ahead of himself. 

And then, there are days where you ride him until you’re out of breath and gasping for air, where Joel has to slow you down and force you to take a break. Time out and have a sip of water, kiddo. There’s no rush. Dad’s not going anywhere. 

Dad’s taught you the nuances of sex, and you’re lucky for that. To learn from someone who loves you and who’s so patient and experienced, similarly to when he taught you to drive. It doesn’t have to be all rough and grabbing hands, grabbing fistfuls of hair and flesh like you see in some TV and movies. Dad’s introduced you to the simple pleasure created between a body pressing against another body, the special warmth that comes from skin resting on skin, bones resting on bones, muscle twitching against muscle. Heavy breaths syncing as his arms wrap around your shoulders and waist, holding you close. Soft, gentle, never ending orgasms simply experienced for the sake of being experienced. 

Joel doesn’t change his pace at all when your clit starts to throb and pulse rapidly. “That’s it, honey. Cum for Daddy.” 

He works you through your orgasm, right until you’re whimpering, “S-stop, Dad, please. M’done, all done.”

“All done?” Joel asks, and you nod. He pulls his fingers from you and sucks them clean, then puts his hand on your back again. A little bit of rubbing, maybe some scratching, and you’re out like a light. Joel looks down at your sleeping face and notices a bit of his spend still on your lips. He licks his thumb, brings it to your mouth, then wipes it away. 

And wouldn’t you know it, your song is playing. Joel sings along to the lyrics, repeatedly rubbing your cheekbone with his fingers, looking down at you every so often, though he knows he shouldn’t. 

Sometimes, Joel will still instinctively look into his rearview mirror and angle it down, looking for your little legs kicking in your booster seat. Those days are long gone now, but the alternative isn’t so bad, is it? His sweet little girl asleep in his lap, drooling onto his jeans. The sun’s gone down, and there’s another two hours before he’ll be home with you. Joel holds his forearm protectively around your body. 

When those two hours pass, Joel pulls into his driveway, then shuts off the truck. He puts his keys into the pocket of his soft, worn shirt, and he’s gentle as ever when he lifts your head from his lap, doing this silly and awkward, careful maneuver as he opens the truck door and slides out of the vehicle. He leans over your body and grabs you in his strong arms, then carries you tightly against his chest. Joel closes the truck door shut by kicking it with his foot, then looks down at you. 

Your sleeping face, knocked the fuck out. Lips plump and pouting, drooling - there’s a nice stain of spit on his jeans, too. Not that Joel minds any. Lord knows he’s cleaned up worse from you. “Ohh,” he sighs quietly. “What’m I gonna do with ya, my girl?”

Drives in Joel’s truck always put you to sleep. Joel remembers when you were a baby, and fucking inconsolable. Colicky, you poor thing. All out of sorts. Nothing worked to soothe you - not a bottle, not a story, not being rocked or bounced or anything else. And Joel didn’t have the heart to just let you cry it out, either. He just couldn’t stomach listening to you cry like that, all alone and scared because your dad wasn’t there, and you needed him.

You kept Joel awake for days at a time, screaming your little head off. Joel was at his wits end with you, and he needed a break before he screamed his head off, too. So he buckled you into your little carseat and began driving to Uncle Tommy’s. Tommy owed him one, anyway. And you always had a thing for Tommy, too, which helped. You were sweet on him from day fucking one. He just had this special way with you, where he could soothe you and charm you out of your moods in a way Joel couldn’t always do. It made Joel jealous, if he’s being honest with himself. Still kind of does. 

On that particular drive, Joel had realized at a point that he could actually hear Nirvana playing on the radio, and not your agonized screams and cries. In however many minutes it was you’d gone out like a light, and it’s like everything clicked in that moment. Whenever you got too fussy to relax, he’d just drive with you, his sweet baby girl. Sometimes listening to music, sometimes not. Sometimes Uncle Tommy would come with and he and Joel would talk in whispers that lulled you off to sleep, paired with the dull roar of the truck’s engine.

Joel grunts when he carries you inside, muscles burning as he brings you up the stairs. “When’d you get so fuckin’ big, huh?” he murmurs, laying you down on his bed. He tells himself you probably would’ve ended up in his bed, anyway. Joel unties your shoes one at a time and slips them off, quietly placing them on the floor. And it wasn’t so long ago that your shoes had velcro straps and lit up when you ran, was it? Good fucking god.

Joel takes off your clothes, one article at a time. Socks and pants first, then panties. He gingerly slips your arms back through your sleeves and the collar of your shirt up and over your face, careful not to disturb your slumber. But of course…

“Dad,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep.

“Shit, sweetheart. M’sorry,” Joel whispers, stroking the side of your head. “Didn’t mean to wake ya. Go back to sleep, darlin’. S’okay. You’re home.” 

You shake your head, wiping your eyes as you sit up. “Can’t sleep,” you argue tiredly.

Joel scoffs a laugh. “Oh bullshit, yes ya can. You’ve been knocked out for a while now,” he whispers, pulling off his own shirt. “Jus’ close your eyes, honey. Be right there to snuggle ya.”

“Mm-mm. Rock me, Daddy.” 

Oh, Joel knows what that means. When he looks at you, he’s met with pleading, tired, and big eyes, asking him oh-so-kindly to rock you. You’re a master manipulator with those eyes of yours, you know. It took Joel a long time to learn not to cave to your puppy eyes, and it took Uncle Tommy even longer. If you asked Joel, he’d tell you that you can still get Uncle Tommy with that look.

“Rock you, huh?” Joel’s cock jumps in his denim. “Reckon s’a little late for that, kiddo. ‘Specially for a weeknight.” 

“No, please,” you beg, reaching for your dad’s warm hand and putting it between your thighs. “I need you, Daddy.”

“Y’sure like to pull your ‘daddy’ card when you’re wantin’ somethin’ from me, huh?”  

Joel loves the way you can’t hide your grin from his accusation. He sighs, then bites the corner of his lip to keep himself from mirroring the same smile. It’s true what they say, about kids making you soft. “Yeah, alright. I’ll rock ya,” he concedes, already pushing down his jeans and boxers. He plops in the seat of his La-Z-Boy rocker recliner that’s been in the corner of his room since you were born, lazily pumping his own cock while patting his thigh. “C’mere.”

You groan as you stand up, pausing to yawn while stretching. “Ohh, you are not long for this world, daughter of mine,” Joel murmurs, eyeing you as you move closer to him. You straddle his lap, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and burying your face into his neck, inhaling the warm, familiar scent of his skin. “Scoot, kiddo. C’mon, up,” Joel grunts, urging you to sit up before spitting into his palm. “Lazy ass.” You whine in disapproval but do it anyway, sighing when you feel the blunt head of Joel’s cock prodding at your folds. He passes his cock through your seam a couple of times, then lines up with your entrance.

“Careful, baby. Easy does it,” Joel grunts, easing you down his length, sighing at the feeling of being enveloped in your warm cunt, warm for him and him alone. Joel thrusts up a little to bottom out, soothing your cries with the kindest of kisses pressed against your lips. “There she is. Down here, darlin’. Right here.” 

Joel wraps his arms around you and pulls you close, close so that you’re chest to chest, skin to skin. He inhales deeply the scent of the top of your head and rubs your back, propelling the rocking chair with his feet on the ground. He notices goosebumps on your skin.

Rocking used to mean one thing, a long time ago. Joel soothing you to sleep, bonding with you. Your little self pressed against him, with a blanket over your shoulders and tucked under your feet as he read picture books to you. And it still kind of does mean that, in a way. It’s different now, of course, and it was always going to change. But it’s just as special. Maybe even more so, now.

Joel groans as you clench around his length. “Bedtime story,” you murmur against his skin. You’re holding onto him so tightly, warming your hands on his soft body. 

Dad chuckles. “What, am I supposed to read your textbook to ya or somethin’? We donated all your picture books to Goodwill forever ago.” 

“Just wanna hear a story, Daddy.” 

“Mhm.” You moan as Joel leans forward, reaching behind his head to grab a blanket draped over the recliner. He spreads it out, then wraps it around your shoulders. “Let’s see…”

Joel thinks for a moment, quietly rocking you on his cock. With one hand under your ass, he uses his arm’s strength to assist in moving you up and down on his cock, just gentle, easy thrusts. His cockhead rubs perfectly against your g-spot, like you were made perfectly for him. And really, weren’t you? Isn’t this exactly what he brought you into this world for?

One of these things, at least. 

“Alright. I know one,” Joel says. 

“Tell me,” you breathe. 

“I lost ya once,” Joel admits quietly. 

You hum in surprise, pulling away from Joel for a moment to look at him. “Really?”

Dad clutches you back against his chest, putting you right where he wants you. “Sure did,” he answers, pausing for a moment. “Felt so fuckin’ guilty, kid. I thought I failed ya.” 

Your heart pangs at that. “Daaad,” you whisper sadly.

“You couldn’t’ve been older’n four,” Joel begins. “I was tryin’ to get some work done with Uncle Tommy here in the house and ya wouldn’t leave us alone.” 

When you giggle at that, Joel groans softly. You clench around his cock when you laugh. 

“Yeah, laugh it up,” he continues in a soft voice. “Every other minute you wanted juice or a snack or you’d be sweet talkin’ Uncle Tommy into playin’ dolls with you,” Joel says. “You were drivin’ me fuckin nuts, girl.” Joel squeezes you tighter, then turns his head and kisses your forehead. “I sent ya outside in the backyard, which Uncle Tommy and I had just fenced in, mind ya. Because of you, if you’ll recall.” 

“What do you mean?”

“I never told ya?”

“Mm-mm.”

“I sent that fence up because of you, trouble. I’d be grillin’ us hot dogs or somethin’ for dinner and I’d have ya right by my side, drawin’ me pictures with chalk on the patio. Remember this?”

“Mhm,” you murmur.

“Do you remember haulin’ ass across the yard the minute I turned my back?”

You giggle, “No.”

“Mhm, well - so I’m grillin’ for us, right, and I’d turn my back and pshoo, you’d be gone at the neighbor’s house charmin’ that sweet old lady outta the cookies she made. Miss Rosie was her name, right?”

“Yeah, I remember her,” you say fondly. She passed away a few years ago. You and Joel had gone to her funeral.

Dad laughs at the memory. He remembers stomping across her lawn, “Get your little ass back here,” he’d scolded, and you looked like a deer in the headlights with chocolate all over your face. “Did you spoil your dinner?”

“No, Daddy.” 

Joel huffed in frustration as he bent down to pick you up, then held you on his hip. “Well,” he’d said, tickling your chin with his finger, “What do you say to Miss Rosie?”

“Thank you.” 

Joel rolled his eyes and apologized to her, but she didn’t mind your little impromptu visit. Joel maneuvered you so that you were sitting on his shoulders, your little fingers tugging at his hair, and he marched you right back home. 

“Anyway, you were buggin’ me an’ Uncle Tommy so I sent ya outside to make friends with a squirrel or somethin. And sure enough, you stayed busy out there,” Joel says. 

He continues, “An’ then I got nervous,” he explains. “‘Cause I couldn’t see ya, and it was quiet. And quiet usually meant you were troublemakin’, my sweet girl.” He continues, “So I went lookin’ for ya out there and you were fuckin’ gone, kiddo. Gone,” Joel enunciates. “Didn’t know if you’d snuck out through the fence somehow or if some fuckin’ pervert lured ya out with candy and snatched ya off the street. We called the cops an’ everything. Screaming your name, lookin’ for ya in the neighbors’ yards.” Joel sighs deeply before continuing. You squeeze him tight and kiss his neck, and he squeezes you back, almost like he’s trying to remind himself that you’re right here, safe in his arms, and everything’s okay. “I was a wreck talkin’ to the cops. Cryin’ and everything ‘cause I lost my baby.” 

Joel inhales deeply. “And then,” he says, “A cop came up to me and asked me what shoes you were wearin’, and I told him that you were wearing your pink Chucks. He told me to c’mere and I found ya in the fuckin’ egress window. Little shoes pokin’ out.”

“What?”

“The egress window, like the basement window,” Joel clarifies. “You’d lifted up the grate and sat down there, made friends with some toads. An’ then you fell asleep, you little shit.” Joel smiles at your giggle, the same sweet laugh you’ve always had. “Oh, you scared the bejesus outta me, baby girl. Think I started goin’ gray that fuckin’ day,” he whispers, then goes quiet as the story hangs in the air. “Anyway. That’s how I lost ya.”

“Father of the year, huh?” you tease quietly.

Joel rolls his eyes. “Uh huh.” He wants to tell you how sorry he is still, all these years later. But he thinks you know. “I love ya,” is all he says when he focuses on fucking you in the rocking chair he used to soothe you to sleep in, working himself and you closer and closer to the edge. You wriggle your hand between your bodies and touch your clit, and the way Joel fucks himself into you provides enough friction that you’ll be coming soon. He can hear it in the way you moan, or rather, the way you’ve stopped moaning. When you go quiet, he knows you’re close. He is too. 

It’s only one, two, three long and deep thrusts before you’re coming, whimpering, “Dad, Dad, Dad,” as Joel fucks you through it, finding his own orgasm. Fuck, coming with his baby girl. Is there anything in this world more precious and special than that?

You stay on Joel’s lap, dripping his spend. Just quietly coming down, held securely in Dad’s strong arms. You’re exactly where you’re meant to be, and drifting off to sleep. 

“Alright. Up, baby, up.” Joel pats your ass to rouse you. “I know you’re not sleepin’.” 

But only silence from you. 

“I can’t stay like this with ya, honey, my back’ll be all fucked up. C’mon, kiddo. Up.” 

You don’t budge. Joel sighs deeply, accepting his defeat. He’ll stay like this with you, his softening cock buried in your pussy, maybe just for a moment longer. Rocking you gently, whispering sweet nothings to you. He’s a fucking sucker for you, baby girl.

More dad!joel here and a playlist here!

Hi ♡ if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging and/or sending an ask, but reblogs are especially appreciated. I get people are hesitant to publicly engage with a fic as icky as this one but it goes a long way in breaking the stigma, because after all, it is just fiction. Strength in numbers and all of that :) It’s been a rough go for me lately. I love you, thank you for reading.

Aaaand cat tax. Say hi to Gizmo :)

[tricksterrune]

Not fully the point, authors love comments but if you feel like yours aren't adequate, it may be because they're generic.

Writing good thoughtful comments is hard. Really hard.

A generic comment is sth like "cool story", "awww", "I loved it" and even "I love how you write" or "the way you portrayed their relationship is uncanny"

You have no idea what story they could be referencing. Spn coffee shop au? Superbat mpreg? Baldur's Gate pwp? The complete rewriting of Lord of the Rings, as told by the ring if it had the personality of a surly teenager?

If you want to write comments that are better at expressing your feelings, use names. Reference specific events. In ye olden days of lj we would pick quotes from fic and explain what this line did to us.

"Cool story, I had to laugh when Astarion tripped over his boots"

I bet now you know which fic this is about. It's one sentence more but makes all the difference.

"I love how you write Benny". "Awwwww, Clark was so cute" "I loved the Gollum bit"

See? Now those comments are more specific.

And if you really want to express your thoughts, get detailed. Authors love that shit.

"Garth was not paid enough to deal with his coworkers' romantic hangups. He was paid minimum eage, thus literally had no fucks to give.

Great attitude from Garth, act your wage. He needs to be left alone with Dean's drama"

This is not a "hey reader, write better comments" post. I love all the comments I get. This is a "how to write specific comments when you want to" post.

It's hard. I too am guilty of not doing it enough (insert my theory on devices changing fandom, lack of a proper keyboard sucks life)

@gorogues writes beautiful amazing comments and I'm both in awe and ashamed at how good they are

[xoxbunni]

warnings: smut smut smut. spit, arguing in the beginning, car sex, BEARD, p n v (unprotected), oral (f receiving), bulge in your tummy idk, matt is pussy drunk

matt and you were in the car. your legs bounced up and down annoyed. "ma you can't be serious" matt said his eyes rolling back.

"i am serious! seriously i don't get why you were talking to her" you spat your voice raised in a way matt was my expecting. "lower your voice y/n." he spoke his head turning to yours ,giving you a warning look.

"fucking dumbass" you muttered under your breath. matt suddenly took a sharp turn pulling the car into a parking lot.

"you wanna say that again?" matt said his expression filled with anger "you are acting like a child y/n." he continued.

"i don't care you wanna talk to other girls fine go ahead. i don't care" you said though you didn't mean anything that just came out your mouth.

"oh so now we are lying? that's cute baby" matt said a low chuckle leaving his mouth. he lifted his hand to scratch his beard. "whatcha staring at mama?" matt teased his tongue pushing through his cheek.

you rolled your eyes trying to ignore the ache inbetween your thighs. matt stared at you "get in the back" he said suddenly. "no" you said stubbornly you were not letting him win.

"oh for real?" he said his voice laced with warning. "alright then" matt said leaving the driver's seat and walking around the car to open the passenger seat. he grabbed you by the waist pulling you out the car as he opened the back seat door and pushed you in.

"matt nooo" you said though you found him surprisingly hot. "tell me to stop" matt said his beard scratching your neck as he kissed and sucked your neck.

a low shaky whine escaped your lips. "what i thought" he said unbuckling your shorts. he tapped your thigh so you would lift your hips. he pulled your shorts off easily revealing your damp panties.

"this all f'me mama?" he said pulling your shirt off too. you nodded staring up at him. "fuck you're gorgeous" he grunted. he rubbed your pussy through your panties.

"oh! f-fuck" you said your head falling back. matt lowered himself so he could be face level to your wet slick.

his head dipped into your pussy. he pulled your panties to the side. his beard rubbed against your thighs causing a delicious burn.

"oh please don't stop" you whined repeatedly. matt ran his tongue through your folds. he groaned when you clenched around nothing. he loved having you like this all whiny, all his.

he slowly brought his hand to rub your clit as he fucked you with his tummy. slurping noises were the only thing heard apart from your loud moans and whines.

as he felt you reaching your high as he quickened his pace. "matt!" you said. tears falling from your face. pants and cries escaped your mouth.

"shhh" he said pussy drunk. he continued his fast pace. his beard scratching against you in a slightly painful way. "come! c-come" you said as you came over him. he placed light kisses to your pussy pulling away.

you stared at his beard drenched with your come. he crawled back on top of you pulling his sweats off. "yeah you liked that huh baby?" he whispered softly. you nodded softly.

"can i? please baby" you said pointing to his beard. "go ahead baby it's all yours" he said. you softly licked his beard tasting yourself.

he groaned pulling his boxers down as he softly swiped himself up and down your pussy. as you pulled yourself off his beard. he sat up spitting on his cock.

he entered you softly yet brutal. your hands were above your head as matt interlaced his fingers with yours. he set a fast and brutal pace on you.

clap. clap. clap. "yes yes fuckk" you moaned. "kiss me please please matt" you begged. matt nodded quickly pushing your lips together. it was messy filled with lust.

his tongue danced with yours as he didn't stop his rough movements. your back arched off the car seats. one of matt's hands went to rub your clit.

"come on baby. know you want to" he said into your ear his voice hoarse. your eyes rolled to the back of your head. the band inside your lower tummy growing tighter.

matt needed you to come. he pulled his hand off your clit and pushed the light bulge in your lower stomach. "holy s-shit!" you moaned "don't stop oh my god don't stop" you said biting your lip.

"come! come" you whimpered. matt stared at your face as you came. he followed right after you. he pulled out staring at your pussy as his and your come seeped out.

"look at her. so full"'

©xoxbunni

a/n. idk what got into me. this is the longest thing ive written. PLEASE DONT FLOP

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𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃

$10.99 $6.99

[simplylov3ly]

pairing: max verstappen x fem!reader

summary: you had a party and you came home very late knowing that Max was going to punish you.

warnings: smut, lots of smut, dirty talk, vulgar language, hot swearing, oral sex, punishments, flirting, spanking, breast massage, rough kissing, tongue kissing, neck kissing, doggy style, p inside v, blowjob, spanking, hair grabbing, lick clitoris, jealousy, couple and more.

words: 1.8k

You'd just gotten home from the party, kicking off your heels so you wouldn't make too much noise when you walked in, knowing you'd never told Max you were leaving at midnight.

He wasn't the toxic type, but sometimes he'd have his jealous rages, asking where the fuck you were, even prostrating you on the pillow to lick your wet pussy and make you realize you were his.

As you closed the front door as gently and slowly as possible, you noticed out of the corner of your eye that the kitchen light was on: that's when you knew you were in serious trouble.

With nothing else to do, you walked to the kitchen, nerves rattling every part of your body. You felt Max's pure, overpowering presence, and when you reached the corner, you saw him sipping a glass of wine, leaning against the marble countertop with his back almost hunched over.

"What a sexy man," you thought to yourself.

Max looked up at you with a stern expression that screamed from the rooftops: i'm going to fuck you up and keep you from walking for a whole week, you fucking bitch.

"I can explain," was the first thing you said after the long silence.

"Oh, yeah? What the fuck are you going to explain, huh?" He asked in an angry tone, a little loud, but he sounded frustrated, as if you had slipped through his fingers for hours.

"Max..." You whispered, trying to calm him down.

"Shut your mouth! You're not supposed to go out to parties unless you ask my permission," he said, setting his glass aside to stand up straight, moving from his perch on the counter and demonstrating authority.

"You're not my fucking father to be asking your permission," you said, placing your heels on the kitchen floor and crossing. "I just went out to have fun with my friends! I came back at two in the morning, so it's not like anyone's death."

"I almost died when i didn't see you home," he emphasizes.

"Don't be so exaggerated."

"Exaggerated? Don't call me something i'm not," Max points at you. "Why the hell didn't you ask my permission, huh?" You didn't want me to find out you were fucking someone else, did you?"

You couldn't believe what Max was telling you right now. He's calling you a whore looking for another cock to sit on, and you know better, because there's no other cock that can beat your man's big one.

Having a 5.9-inch cock satisfying your hormonally charged moments is something you've always enjoyed. During the four years of your relationship, you never turned down a moment of good sex, knowing that Max gave you a lot of sex, mornings, afternoons, and/or nights.

"You're not answering now, are you?" He asked, placing his hands on the edge of the counter in front of him, pointing out the small veins on his forearms.

"I'm not what you think, Max," you replied, almost indignant. "I spend my time enjoying your damn cock, and you call me a whore? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"So why the fuck didn't you ask my permission?" Max asks, his tone somewhere between calm and serious, making you want him to fuck you against the damn marble countertop. "Answer the question or i swear to god..."

"Or what? What are you going to swear to, huh?" You challenged him with those words. Maybe you were going to finish the shit and ask for more, but right now you were too horny to think twice. "Are you going to punish me, Verstappen?"

"You want that? "Punish you for being a disobedient, rebellious little bitch?" Max asked in a tone that, god, sounded too sexy to be true. "Mmm, tell me, liefje."

"I don't know. Maybe you want to, or maybe i'm bored in bed, like always." You provoked him, wanting to pressure him to find his breaking point.

You reached for the wine glass, but he didn't let you. He grabbed it faster than you, and all he did was throw the contents of the alcohol in your face. He pulled you towards him by the neck while he kissed you roughly on the lips, devouring you and using his tongue to part your lips, opening your mouth a little wider and showing you that right now, he was always the one in charge of the relationship.

You gasped, unable to resist the urge to caress the bulge in his pajama pants. Unfortunately—actually, good luck for you—he decided to kneel down and pull your hair towards you.

He wanted you to look at him, so he felt powerful having you at his mercy, his control possessing every inch of your mouth and body.

"Now be a good girl and suck my damn cock, liefje," Max murmured, gently patting your cheek.

You didn't hesitate at all; you used your hands to pull down his pajama pants and make his 5.9 inch cock bounce a little. The best part was that Max always got hard; in less than a minute, he could already feel his damn cock exploding between his legs.

You looked at your man and stuck out your tongue to lick from the base to the tip in a torturously slow manner. You decided to use your skills, licking the tip of his cock in circles, listening as he let out several short, raspy moans.

Feeling your hair being squeezed means many things: Max wants you to take it all, no matter if you cry or anything. He wanted to see if you passed the test of being the little whore he loves so much.

You didn't even look at him as you took his entire cock into your mouth, feeling the soft, silky skin on the walls of your mouth. You threw your head back and forth, causing a few spasms in Max, who had his head thrown back, his eyes closed, and his hand buried in your already messy hair.

"Bottom, bottom, bottom," Max whispers, lowering his head to look at you and watching you roll your eyes, feeling a bit of the tip against your uvula. "That's it, look what a good girl you are, it's hard to tell you're a fucking whore."

For seven minutes, Max dedicated himself to fucking your mouth with his member, making you let out a couple of gurgles and squeeze his thigh for air.

He made you breathe a few times, then stood up and turned you around as he placed the front of your body on the cold marble countertop. You gasped at Max's abrupt and ardent gesture.

One thing you also didn't hesitate to do was to buck your hips, wanting him to fuck you right now, but you know Max, you know him so well, that he'll do anything to make you beg and give you what you like, what you crave for life.

"How do i ask?" Max asked, slowly hiking up your shiny black dress.

The worst part was, you weren't wearing your damn panties... And that was going to unleash the best damn rough sex of your entire existence, because you could hear Max's grunt when he realized that his bitch of a girlfriend wasn't just a whore, she was a whore who didn't wear anything between her legs.

"What the fuck does that mean?" He asked, gripping your hips tightly. "You didn't wear any underwear? What's that supposed to mean?"

And as always, you were going to set all the loose firewood on fire.

"I admit it, i've fucked someone else."

"Fucking hell, liefje," Max whispered against your ear, pressing his chest against your back, covered by the fabric of your dress. "I'm going to have to fuck your little pussy to know that whores like you get punished, you understand?"

"No," you answered without thinking and felt a hard spank on your left buttock.

It burned like hell, but you loved being spanked by him. You loved that Max made you his, knowing your blatant lie. You wanted him, you wanted him so much that you couldn't help being a rebellious little girl right now, feeling your ass burning from the rough, hard spanking he gave you. You could sense that each cheek was redder than when you blushed over something stupid.

But that wasn't the least of it. You heard your dress being ripped and Max grabbing your neck to press you against his chest, leaving you both straight. He pulled off your torn dress, leaving you completely naked while he massaged your breasts with a perversity and deep obscenity that you loved. You loved that he was just the way you liked him.

Max lowered one of his hands to begin masturbating your clitoris. He didn't do it hard, but he did it at the exact spot that generated an adrenaline-filled ecstasy of pleasure. You arch your whole body from those sexy, gentle movements in your core, feeling yourself getting wet, feeling yourself starting to soak your man's fingers a little, as he enjoys having you like this.

"Did you have fun with him?" Max asked.

"Why do you ask?" This time you answered with a breathless question.

Your moans were filled with deep, pure passion; you looked like a screamer, a screamer who wanted to be fucked right now.

"I'm asking because i don't think that idiot knew how to touch you the way i'm touching you, my little slut," Max murmured, moving his fingers a little faster, making you moan even more and squeeze his arm tightly, digging your nails into him. "I've touched you in less than thirty seconds and you're already wet."

"Because you make me wet like... Like that, Max," you said, panting like a dog looking for a bone. "Oh god, Max, don't stop."

"Oh, don't think i won't stop," he says, pushing you against the counter, putting you on all fours again, and now you feel the cold marble pressed against your damn breasts. "I'm going to fuck you all the way down and remind you not to pretend to be a rebellious little girl when you can't even lie properly."

"Max..."

"What? You thought i didn't notice? You're a fucking liar, liefje," Max declared, giving you one last spank to remind you that the best part of the action is yet to come. "And this time, i'm going to fuck you with a condom, because it doesn't satisfy me to finish inside you like every other time."

Now you feel like you're literally in heaven with the Sex God, because, despite what you thought he was going to fuck you right now, it was a lie: he's on his knees, eating your pussy while you're reading on the counter, on all fours, and Max is using his tongue on you. On your wet pussy, what the fuck... I was doing so well.

And the best part always comes in the second batch.

Okay, this is my second os/fic and i love it. I had a sequel, but i didn't like it that much, so i don't know whether to upload it or not. ୨ৎ

[inchidentally]

had to take a break, make a supercut and write out a whole Thing with gifs bc be who you aaaaaaare for your priiiide Barcelona press conference

kicking off strong with Lando's kitten smile at hearing "our winner Oscar Piastri"

DEODORANT GATE

also I need it be known that the official F1TV transcript having to include this is a win for homosexuals

Oscar's soft bedroom voice "no, I use my own" while they smile at each other like that jESUSSS

the way Oscar lowers his voice and pulls away from the mic bc it's THEIR little weird convo

and the switching back and forth between his voice for Lando and his voice for the press

Lando's possessive arm around Oscar's seat bc Charles is there looking pretty and needy and omegas in heat are so possessive damnnnn

Lando writhing around and jamming his hand between his legs after Oscar offers for him to get a better sniff oh it's BAD for him

no fr I cannot quite believe we got Lando at his most wriggly and saucy this race culminating in him noticing a change in Oscar's scent, saying that Oscar smelled like HIM, that Lando's scent is naturally feminine, and Oscar replying that it's chocolate FLAVORED and then they both get gaspy and giggly and poor Charles wishes he could be in the stewards office than have to witness Lando telling Oscar he's ovulating

Lando not knowing if they were three abreast at one point and needs Oscar to help! bc of course Oscar remembers, Oscar has That Kind of Brain <3

oh no, mic was turned too loud and icked Lando -__-

OSCAR didn't give him a slip stream !! naughty Oscar !! "I did in the second half" no !! bit late by then !!

Lando will say he didn't lose the race! Oscar drove so well both days! stop trying to make them fight when they're scenting each other!

both of them being cheeky with Charles over going to the stewards man with world's deepest voice didn't get the memo and Lando kitten giggles with Charles

(making this edit cracked me up here bc Charles just POOF disappears)

them bandying the Max question back and forth like a ball of yarn or kicker toy

g o d do you ever just realize you can set rpf entirely aside and the reality remains that Lando makes a cutie pie little face when he's being naughty precisely bc he knows Oscar finds him adorable and loves when he's naughty - like he watches Lando's face knowing what's coming and Lando's face goes :3 and it makes them both SO happy like what the fuck is that about

THAT SOFT LITTLE VOICE FOR LANDO AGAIN "teammates with you is so fun!"

Oscar's face going through EVery permutation of expression trying to get this out

Lando still trying to pin it on Lando and Oscar's joyous giggle over it

Lando making Oscar budge up so they can sit more centralized for the cameras asfkgasjlfg "move over a little bit" and Oscar obeys immediately

Lando overjoyed that Oscar gets the most vague question to answer like oh thank god

while I appreciated the mental health question I think there was a tiny bit of it coming out of left field for a post race press conference rather than a media day question and they both smile a little bc it's a BIG question for little Lando

but thankfully he has the prettiest thinking face ever <3

HAPPY PRIDE FROM THE RACE WHERE LANDOSCAR WERE SUPPOSED TO CRASH OUT IN EVERY SENSE BUT INSTEAD FLEW TO AND FROM BARCELONA TOGETHER AND SPENT THE WHOLE WEEKEND DOING WHATEVER THIS WAS

[gracie-eilish]

how about prompt #1, and20? Maybe reader tries pheromone perfume for the first time?

love you princess Gracie!

pheremoans

1. come back here… you smell good

20. feels better when a girl does it huh?

warnings: allusion to smut, making out

pairing: bsf/roomate!billie x bsf/roomate!reader

rainbow banner by @kodaswrld

when the front door opened, and you didn’t even flinch. you’d been stretched out on the couch all afternoon. your legs were bare, tank top loose and soft against your skin, and the faintest sheen of that new pheromone perfume lingering at your pulse points. the moment you’d put it on earlier, you knew it was trouble. it didn’t smell strong exactly. it was more like heat and skin and something sweet you couldn’t quite name

“hey baby,” billie called from the hallway, the familiar sound of keys clinking into the bowl by the door. “you home?”

“in here!” you called from the living room.

you smiled to yourself and rose slowly from the couch just as she turned the corner into the living room. she froze the second she saw you standing there with your tank riding up slightly, your shorts hugging high on your hips, and her eyes tracked you like a magnet. you didn’t even have to try. you started towards the kitchen, bringing your empty snack plate to the sink quickly. it was just an excuse to walk by billie, brushing her arm on your way.

“wait—” billie said, her voice catching. “woah. come back here.”

you poked back around the kitchen doorway, eyebrows raised feigning innocence. “what?”

she blinked. she looked like she’d just walked into a wall of heat.

“you smell good,” she said, almost breathless. “like… so good.”

you bit back a smile. “do i? thanks!”

“yeah,” she muttered, stepping forward without even realizing it. “what the hell…?”

her brows pulled together like she was trying to do math she couldn’t quite figure out. her nose twitched. her eyes dropped to your neck, your collarbone, back to your mouth.

“seriously, what is that?” she asked, barely above a whisper now.

you took a single step toward her, deliberately slow. her whole body shifted, like she was drawn in despite herself. she licked her lips.

“it’s nothing,” you said innocently. “same stuff i always wear.”

billie gave a breathless, slightly pained laugh.

“no it’s not ya liar. you smell like you just got back from heaven. like… i wanna bury my face in you and never leave.”

you raised an eyebrow, amused. “that intense, huh?”

she stepped closer again. she was so close now that your bodies nearly touched. her hand reached out and brushed your hip absentmindedly, like she didn’t even notice she was doing it.

“you’re not being very fair right now,” she murmured, voice low and rough around the edges.

“oh, i’m being so fair,” you whispered back, eyes flicking to her lips. “you’re the losing control.”

she scoffed softly, but there was no fire behind it, just a barely-contained kind of hunger. her gaze swept down your throat and she leaned in, so close you could feel her breath against your skin.

“i’m gonna get it out of you,” she said, just above your ear. “whatever you’re wearing. i’ll figure it out. and when I do…”

her voice dipped, sultry, dangerous, teasing…

“…i’m gonna buy a whole case of it. just so i can spray it on my pillow and pretend you’re laying next to me.”

your heart stuttered at that. the way she said it like a joke but didn’t pull away. like she wanted to say more. you kept your expression smooth, but your voice dropped too, just for her.

“maybe you don’t need the perfume,” you whispered, lips ghosting by her cheek. “maybe you just want me.”

she froze. your breath lingered between you and you could feel the shift in her. the way her fingers curled slightly against your waist, the way her lips parted.

“i’ve always wanted you,” she said softly, before she could stop herself. then, blinking like she’d said too much, she stepped back quickly and let out a shaky laugh. “shit—sorry. that was—damn. you don’t even like girls, fuck sorry. you’re just… you’re throwing me off.”

you smirked, slow and dangerous, as you sat back down on the couch and tucked your legs under you.

“you coming?” you asked, casually patting the spot beside you.

she looked at you like she was considering making a very poor decision. and then, she sank down beside you, too close. her thigh pressed to yours, hand brushing the curve of your leg like she needed to feel you to stay sane. she leaned into your neck again with a low hum, her voice gone airy.

“jesus,” she whispered, lips barely grazing your skin. “you’re actually ruining my life right now.”

you leaned your head back, giving her full access, letting her go nose-deep in the crook of your neck. she breathed you in like you were oxygen and she’d been drowning.

“i feel like ive been hit by a truck made of sex.”

you blinked slowly, amused. “charming.”

“i’m serious,” she muttered. “i don’t know what you’ve got on, but i’m about two seconds away from grabbing you by the waist and—”

she cut herself off. but her grip tightened slightly, fingers pressing harder into your skin.

you tilted your head, just a little, giving her more neck.

“grabbing me by the waist and what?” you murmured, voice airy, innocent.

she exhaled hard. shaky. like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to curse you out or climb into your lap.

billie swallowed. loudly.

her eyes darted to your lips. then your throat. then the little sliver of skin where your tank top had slipped off your shoulder.

“okay,” she whispered, leaning in closer, barely an inch between you. “this is crazy. i don’t even know why i feel like this. i’ve been touching you for years. we’ve cuddled. i’ve laid on your chest like a cat. i’ve slept next to you wearing less than this. you’re like fucking radioactive right now.”

you chuckled, holding her gaze. “maybe you’re just really repressed.”

“shut up,” she snapped, grinning — barely. her pupils were huge. “no, like, i might actually lose it. you smell like you’ve been dipped in sex — like you are sex. i feel like a cartoon wolf and i’m gonna start howling.”

you hummed, eyes half-lidded. “you do seem kinda feral.”

“you’re such a little shit,” she muttered, narrowing her eyes, her tongue poking her inner cheek.

“and yet,” you whispered, brushing your lips close to her ear, “you still haven’t moved.” billie blinked.

then her fingers flexed again at your waist. harder this time. possessive.

“i can’t move,” she hissed. “you’ve got me under some kind of spell. you’re—fuck, you’re like dripping want right now.”

you laughed soft and smug, while letting your hand trace lightly up her side, just enough to make her breath catch.

“you’re the only one panting, billie.”

her face twitched like you’d slapped her.

and then she snapped.

she surged forward, lips crashing into yours — not sweet, not soft, not a confession, but a collapse. like she couldn’t take another second of pretending she didn’t want to devour you.

you gasped against her mouth, and she groaned like it hurt her. her hand dragged up your ribs, pushed under your tank top like she needed skin, like she needed to feel if you were real.

“feels good when a girl does it huh?” she growled into your mouth, all teeth and heat. “you’ve been doing this on purpose, haven’t you? sitting around in those little shorts, smelling like sin, giving me that voice—”

you kissed her back, rougher now, letting your nails rake lightly up her spine. billie gave a low, wicked laugh, lips brushing yours.

and then she kissed you again, harder this time, tongue licking into your mouth like she owned it. you fell back into the couch with a soft noise, and she followed, half on top of you, thigh slipping between yours with devastating ease.

she felt your hips rock once — involuntary. desperate.

she hissed against your neck. “shit. don’t do that. don’t move like that unless you’re ready to ruin our friendship right now.”

you grabbed her hoodie, pulled her in tighter. your lips brushed her ear.

“i was ready ten minutes ago.”

an: i’m not crazy about this fic (except for the title, i’m super proud of that LOL) but i wanted to write some things in hopes it gets my inspiration back. so it’s not my fave fic ive ever written but i was happy writing so we’re on the right track :) love you all so much, happy pride :)

[paxaz535]

DOUBLE ( DATE ) TROUBLE [sequal]

at this point it’s you with the three of them lmfao

the foursome that you all requested! i hope i did good lolls

★☆✪★☆✪★☆✪★☆✪★☆✪★☆✪★☆✪★☆✪★☆✪★☆✪★☆✪★☆✪★☆✪★☆✪★☆✪★☆✪★☆✪★☆✪★☆✪

“So…”

You were sitting cross-legged on Jana’s bed, the scent of nail polish hanging in the air as she carefully painted your nails. You looked up at the voice from the doorway—and there she was.

Nika. Beautiful, cocky, completely effortless. Even after three years together, she still made your heart race.

“Hi,” you said, a little breathless, trying not to smile too hard. Nika smirked, her eyes dragging over your nails before flicking to your face. She leaned against the doorframe like she owned the place.

Jana didn’t look up as she spoke. “I’m gonna say this now—please keep your horniness out of this room.”

You snorted, already bracing for whatever slick comment Nika had loaded up. Nika raised her hands innocently. “Yes, ma’am.”

But then she slid over to sit beside you, close enough that you felt the warmth of her body. She leaned in, her lips just barely brushing your ear.

“We’re going to another cabin this weekend,” she murmured. “You already know what to do.”

Your heart dropped—in the best way possible. You bit your lip.

She pulled back, the ghost of a smirk on her lips, and stood up with a wink. “Nice nails, by the way,” she added casually before slipping out and closing the door behind her.

Jana glanced at your dazed expression and snorted. “Girl, you are so gone,” she laughed, slipping your hand under the little purple light. “Get it together before I start charging you for emotional labor.”

You let out a shaky breath, already picturing the things you’re gonna do when you arrive.

-

azzi:

dude

they’re at it again

you:

no seriously

nika came in while jana was doing my nails and whispered it to me

like it was a secret mission or something

azzi:

i was doing my hair

i think i messed up a part

because i flinched when paige said “round three” like it was normal

you laughed at the message, fingers hovering over the keyboard as your heart thudded once just a little harder.

you:

are you ready?

azzi:

fuck yeah.

-

Azzi was in the middle of packing—again—folding a hoodie when two hands suddenly covered her eyes.

“Guess who?”

“Steph Curry?”

Paige scoffed from behind her and gave Azzi’s head a soft muffing, her palm rubbing through the curls just enough to be annoying. Azzi laughed, already grinning as she turned around and pulled Paige in for a kiss.

Paige melted into it, her hand immediately finding its home at the side of Azzi’s neck, fingers curling just enough to make Azzi sigh. That touch—firm, possessive, gentle in its own way—always got her.

Azzi started to lean into her, one knee rising as if to climb onto Paige’s lap, but she caught herself.

“Mmh—no,” she murmured, pulling back and giving Paige a push to the chest. “We need to stop.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because we haven’t even made it to the cabin yet,” Azzi said, half-laughing, half-scolding. “Calm down, hornball.”

Paige groaned dramatically and flopped onto the bed, arms spread like she was suffering. “You’re impossible.”

Azzi just shook her head and turned back to her suitcase, folding her jeans with a little too much precision.

From the bed, Paige watched her, chin propped on her hand.

“You’re so beautiful, baby.”

Azzi paused, her fingers slowing on the zipper. A blush bloomed across her cheeks as she turned her head to glance back.

“Thank you,” she said softly, smile curling at the edges. “You too, pretty girl.”

-

you:

so who’s bringing the weed

paige:

you bring it

azzi:

yeah ngl

you’re our best bet

nika:

fuck you? i have a good weed man

you:

baby your weed man can’t stay outta jail to save his life

he probably locked up right now

nika:

…

so?

doesn’t change the fact his shit hits

azzi:

nika

just let her bring it

nika disliked this message

azzi:

can me and [ ] be front seat? i wanna drive

you:

yeah i need that aux cord

paige:

hell no

you:

bet you we’re still gonna be in the front tho

azzi:

fr

we just won’t go if we can’t

nika:

bruh

paige:

alright damn 😒

-

The trunk was packed, the cabin location was set, and somehow—somehow—you and Azzi ended up exactly where you said you would be: front seat. Azzi was behind the wheel, one hand casually resting on the top of the wheel, the other tapping her thigh to the beat of the music you were DJing.

Nika and Paige were in the back, visibly annoyed but saying nothing… yet.

“Next time,” Paige muttered, “I’m hiding the damn keys.”

“You’re welcome to try,” Azzi said sweetly, eyes on the road, smirking.

“Besides,” you added, glancing at her, “if you wanted the aux cord that bad, you should’ve claimed it before we even left the dorm.”

Nika scoffed. “You act like your playlists are untouchable.”

“Name one time I played trash.”

“That one random night you put on The Weeknd’s Dawn FM in full. No skips. No warning. It felt like I was in a haunted disco.”

“Okay, that’s fair,” Azzi said, laughing. “You did scare me a little with that transition into Gasoline.”

“You’re supposed to appreciate the art,” you defended.

“Mmhm,” Paige said. “Play something we actually like, DJ Trauma Bond.”

You grinned and scrolled through your phone until you found what you were really waiting for. The opening notes of On My Mama by Victoria Monét hit the speakers, and Azzi let out a little “Ooooh yes” under her breath.

Nika, despite herself, nodded along from the back.

“I do look good,” Azzi said, checking herself out in the rearview.

“You do, baby,” Paige muttered, trying to sound unimpressed. “Still mad at you though.”

Azzi blew her a kiss.

“Alright, now I’m mad at all of you,” Nika said. “I’m trapped in the back with no aux, no front seat, and y’all flirting in stereo.”

You turned in your seat with a smug smile. “You’re still high from yesterday’s pre-pack blunt. Relax.”

“She’s mad ‘cause she wasn’t in charge this time,” Paige muttered.

“I am in charge,” Nika shot back.

“You’re in the backseat,” you and Azzi said in perfect unison.

A beat passed. Then laughter filled the car.

It felt good—stupid and warm and full of that dangerous pre-weekend energy, like you were all revving up for something you couldn’t name but definitely wanted.

The car rolled into the gas station lot, bass still bumping as Azzi pulled into a spot way too confidently for someone driving a borrowed SUV.

“Alright,” she said, throwing it in park. “Everyone behave. And by everyone, I mean Nika.”

Nika was already unbuckling. ��You act like I can’t be chill in public.”

“You were banned from a gas station for yelling at the beef jerky,” Paige said, deadpan.

“That was once, and they were charging fourteen dollars for a Slim Jim. I was the voice of the people.”

You snorted, pushing open your door. “You’re banned from my aux if you go in there yelling again.”

“I’ll take that risk.”

The four of you filed into the store, sunglasses on, walking like you owned the place. You and Azzi immediately headed for the snacks aisle—eyes on the essentials. Azzi grabbed a family-sized bag of Hot Cheetos and a giant blue Gatorade. You picked up peach rings, Sour Patch Watermelon, and a suspicious-looking breakfast sandwich just because it felt right.

Meanwhile, Nika was eyeing the freezer section like it had done something to her personally.

“Why is every ice cream sandwich here freezer-burned?” she muttered.

“Because it’s a gas station in the middle of nowhere,” Paige answered, already at the counter with a pack of gum, a mini lighter, and a bottle of Smartwater like she was doing light damage only.

Back at the car, the vibe immediately shifted. You and Azzi had the trunk open, sitting on the edge while Azzi unpacked the actual essentials.

“Pre-rolls or blunt wrap?” she asked, holding both up.

“Blunt,” you said immediately. “It’s tradition.”

Paige leaned against the passenger door, squinting at her. “Y’all really about to do this in broad daylight?”

Azzi shrugged. “We’re parked. Who’s gonna stop us? The beef jerky cops?”

Nika took the blunt wrap from you and started rolling, resting it on her knee with practiced ease. “Besides, we’re not lighting it here,” she said. “This is a preparation stop. A strategic pause.”

You popped a peach ring in your mouth, leaning back on your hands. “Also known as stoner foreplay.”

Paige snorted, but she was smiling.

Azzi nudged you. “Front seat still ours, right?”

“Obviously.”

“Then this is a win all around,” she said, already stuffing the snacks back into the bag with one hand while holding the half-rolled blunt with the other.

Nika finished the roll, sealed it with a flick of her tongue, and held it up like a trophy. “We’re gonna smoke so dumb at that cabin.”

“You’re gonna be dumb at that cabin,” Paige said, sliding into the car.

“Can’t wait,” Nika grinned.

-

The SUV creaked as it turned up the gravel path, tires crunching through pine needles and dust. The cabin came into view through the trees—tucked into the woods, two stories, the wraparound porch catching golden slants of evening light.

Azzi whistled low under her breath. “Okay, damn. This looks even better than the pics.”

“Yeah,” you said, leaning forward in your seat, eyes scanning the porch, the open windows. “This is about to be a weekend.”

From the back seat, Nika grinned. “Call me when y’all stop fake acting like this ain’t about to be filthy within 24 hours.”

“Who said anything about 24?” Paige muttered, already stretching her arms above her head as the car rolled to a stop.

Bags thudded onto the wooden porch one by one. You and Azzi claimed the first bedroom on the main floor without discussion. Paige and Nika took the loft upstairs. It didn’t take long to settle in—hoodies flung over chairs, Bluetooth speaker connected, snacks unpacked into mismatched bowls in the kitchen.

Azzi was the one who lit it first. She stepped out onto the porch with the rolled blunt from earlier and a quiet kind of excitement in her eyes. You followed without needing to be asked. Paige and Nika joined with a lazy, practiced ease, like this had been part of the plan from the start.

The blunt made its way around the circle, fingers brushing, lips touching where others had just been. The weed hit slow and warm, melting tension from your limbs and coating everything in a golden haze.

Azzi leaned her head back against the cabin wall, exhaling slow. “God, this is so much better than smoking outside your dorm window like a criminal.”

“Speak for yourself,” Nika muttered, sinking lower into the Adirondack chair. “I am a criminal.”

“That’s not hot,” Paige said, stealing the blunt from her. “But keep trying.”

The group fell into a comfortable lull, the silence filled with the occasional cough, the click of a lighter, the low bass of the speaker vibrating through the wooden deck. Sunlight was bleeding out across the trees now, gold turning to amber.

You glanced at Nika and found her already watching you, eyes heavy-lidded and dark with something new. Her tongue dragged slow over her bottom lip like she was tasting the moment. You didn’t look away.

Azzi caught the look and let out a low, knowing hum. “Here we go.”

“What?” Paige asked, already smiling like she knew.

“Y’all feel it too, right?” Azzi said, eyes flicking between you, Nika, and Paige. “The shift?”

You let out a little laugh, half breath, half disbelief. “What shift?”

Azzi tilted her head, her voice dropping just enough to make your skin tighten. “The kind where everyone’s high and warm and looking too good to keep it casual.”

The air thickened.

Paige took one more pull and passed it, eyes dragging over Azzi slowly, almost reverent. “You’re the one talking like that, and I’m supposed to behave?”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Who asked you to?”

Nika didn’t say anything. She just looked at you again—this time slower. Hungrier.

You shifted in your seat, heartbeat steady but rising. The blunt was in your hand now, fingers warm from where it had passed through everyone else’s. You took one last hit and handed it off, the taste lingering on your tongue like smoke and heat and someone else’s mouth.

And then Nika stood, stretching like a cat.

“I’m going inside,” she said casually. “Anyone who wants to follow… should.”

That pause.

That look at you.

Your stomach flipped, and Azzi let out a laugh like she knew exactly where this night was headed.

Inside the cabin, the air felt warmer. Still quiet, but heavier now. The kind of quiet that vibrated.

You followed Nika into the living room where the golden light was slipping through the big windows, catching the edges of her jaw, her chain, the curve of her smirk. She flopped down on the couch like she owned it—legs spread, arm draped over the back, eyes never leaving you.

“You coming here to sit,” she said, “or to make me lose my mind?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but footsteps on the porch made you pause.

Azzi and Paige walked in still laughing about something—Azzi holding the Gatorade from earlier, Paige tossing the lighter onto the counter like they’d just finished some kind of shared ritual.

Azzi looked at you first. Then Nika. Then Paige.

There was a beat. A pause. No one said it, but it hung in the air like smoke.

They felt it too.

Nika, of course, was the first to lean in. “So… are we gonna keep acting like y’all haven’t been staring at each other all day?”

Paige raised a brow. “You mean like how you’ve been watching her every time she licked her lips?”

Azzi just grinned and leaned against the back of the couch behind you, voice smooth. “We’ve been watching all of you. Don’t worry.”

Your pulse skipped. You turned, eyes meeting Azzi’s just as she reached out to gently tuck a curl behind your ear. Her fingers lingered. Her eyes flicked down to your mouth.

Something electric sparked between you—and Nika noticed. She leaned forward slowly, possessive smirk stretching across her face.

“Y’all think you’re slick.”

Azzi didn’t even look away from you. “No,” she said, brushing your shoulder with her knuckles. “We just think you’ll share.”

There was no laugh this time. Just heat. Stillness. An unspoken agreement passing through the room like current.

You turned your head slightly, your eyes catching Paige now—who looked like she was trying very hard not to smirk. She tilted her head, her voice lower now, controlled.

“Only if y’all can handle it.”

Nika stood. Slow. Deliberate. She walked up behind you and rested her hands on your waist, her breath brushing your ear. “You know we can.”

You leaned into her instinctively—familiar and dizzying—but still looked over at Azzi and Paige.

Azzi stepped forward.

Paige followed.

No rush. No scrambling. Just a quiet kind of hunger filling the space.

Four people.

One weekend.

Everything unspoken, finally ready to break.

Azzi was the first to close the space completely.

She stepped around the couch, walking toward you like she already knew what you tasted like. Her eyes dropped to your lips again, and this time, she didn’t just look.

She leaned in.

Her mouth brushed yours—barely. A question.

You parted your lips in answer.

It was soft at first. Curious. Just a slow pull of her bottom lip, the edge of her teeth catching. But when her hand slid to your waist, fingers splayed warm over your hoodie, she pulled you in with something deeper. Hungrier.

Behind you, Nika went still. You could feel her watching. Feel the tension rolling off her in waves. But she didn’t stop you.

She didn’t pull you back.

She stepped to your side and let her hand trail up your spine, grounding you, her presence thick at your back. And then—because of course she would—she leaned in and whispered, “Yeah… just like that.”

When you pulled back slightly from Azzi, her lips were still parted, eyes heavy.

“I’ve wanted to do that,” she murmured, voice still warm from the blunt, “for longer than I should admit.”

You felt Nika’s hand tighten briefly at your hip. Possessive, yes—but not stopping you. Just claiming her place in all of this.

Across the room, Paige had her arms crossed loosely, watching like she was calculating every moment, waiting for the right time to pounce. But when Azzi turned toward her—slow, teasing, licking your taste off her lips—Paige moved.

She stepped close.

Grabbed Azzi’s jaw gently.

And kissed her like it was a promise. Slow at first… then deeper. Paige’s hand moved to the back of Azzi’s neck, pulling her in harder, mouth open, demanding. Azzi whimpered—just once—and it made something tug in your stomach.

You didn’t realize you were staring until Nika turned your chin toward her.

“Don’t forget who you belong to,” she said, quiet. Not cruel. Just steady.

Your breath caught, but you didn’t look away. You just nodded, heart pounding in your chest. “I haven’t.”

“Good,” she said—and kissed you like she was making sure of it. It was rougher than Azzi’s, needier. Her hands gripped your jaw, tilted your head just how she liked it. When she pulled back, you felt dazed.

Behind you, Azzi laughed softly. “Damn.”

“She likes to show off,” Paige muttered, dragging her thumb along Azzi’s lower lip. “Let her.”

Nika turned and looked at Paige fully now. The two of them locked eyes—sizing each other up, but not with jealousy. No, this was something else. Competitive. Curious. Some twisted mutual respect.

Then Paige looked at you. Slowly. Like she wanted to see what your mouth tasted like too.

And Nika didn’t stop her.

Didn’t say a word.

She just looked at you, and said, low and dangerous:

“Go ahead, baby. Let her try.”

Paige’s eyes dragged over you like she was already undressing you in her head.

You didn’t move—not because you didn’t want to, but because you wanted to see if she would.

And she did.

She stepped in close, slow and steady, stopping just shy of your space. Her hand lifted to your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. You inhaled softly—barely—and that was all she needed.

She leaned in.

Her kiss wasn’t like Azzi’s or Nika’s. It was precise. Like she was mapping your mouth, learning it. Her hand moved to your throat—not gripping, just there, a slow, grounding weight.

When she pulled back, her lips were still parted, eyes dark. “You kiss like trouble,” she murmured.

From behind, Nika scoffed. “She is trouble. I trained her well.”

You could feel the tension between them spike again—something cocky and unspoken, a silent battle playing out behind your shoulder.

And then, without warning, Azzi turned toward Nika.

They hadn’t kissed yet. Hadn’t even touched.

But the way Azzi looked at her now—challenging, curious—it was clear she was wondering how far this would go.

“You gonna be good?” she asked Nika, tilting her head slightly.

Nika raised an eyebrow, stepping close. “Only if you make me.”

Azzi smirked. “Didn’t think you’d let someone else take the lead.”

“I don’t,” Nika said smoothly, crowding into her space. “Unless they can handle it.”

Azzi didn’t back up. Instead, she reached up, fingers slipping into the chain at Nika’s neck, tugging her just enough to provoke.

“Then let’s see.”

Their mouths collided—no soft warm-up, just heat and teeth and pride. Nika kissed her like she was trying to win something, her hand locking tight in Azzi’s curls. But Azzi held her ground, her fingers curling in the front of Nika’s hoodie, hips brushing Nika’s just enough to make her breath catch.

You turned slightly, still dazed from Paige’s kiss, only to feel Paige’s arm wrap around your waist and pull you gently against her. She kissed your neck this time—slow, deliberate—and whispered:

“You looked good kissing her.”

You swallowed hard. “You like that?”

Paige’s hand dragged down your spine. “I like watching you come undone.”

Your stomach tightened. You glanced back at Azzi and Nika—now flush against each other, Azzi’s thigh slotted between Nika’s legs, both of them panting lightly against each other’s mouths, too stubborn to stop.

Azzi broke the kiss first, licking her lips and glancing over at you and Paige. “So,” she breathed, voice husky, “how are we doing this?”

There was a silence.

Not hesitation. Just weight.

Then Nika looked at you. “You still with me, baby?”

You nodded. “Always.”

Paige’s hand curled tighter at your waist. “I want her,” she said plainly, nodding toward you.

Azzi licked her lips. “Then I guess it’s only fair if I get yours.”

Nika’s eyes flashed. But not with jealousy. She grinned—sharp, competitive.

“Oh, you think you can handle me?”

Azzi leaned in and whispered something low in Nika’s ear—something you couldn’t hear—but Nika’s breath hitched, and her grip on Azzi’s waist tightened immediately.

“Try me,” Azzi said.

Then Paige turned you to face her again, her mouth hovering just above yours.

“Just tell me to stop,” she said, voice serious for once.

You didn’t.

Instead, you pulled her down to kiss you again—this time deeper, hungrier, needier—and felt the world tilt beneath your feet.

The couch was right there.

The night was young.

And nothing was off-limits now.

Cabin Bedroom

The four of you didn’t make it far.

Paige sat first, pulling you down into her lap like she already knew you’d fit. Her mouth met yours immediately—urgent now, with no one watching, no teasing left in her. Her hand slid under your hoodie, fingers exploring your waist and the swell of your chest like she wanted to feel every inch.

You gasped into her mouth when she cupped your breast over your bra, thumb brushing your nipple, slow and deliberate.

Behind you, you heard Nika’s voice—low, amused. “Damn, you didn’t even buy her a drink first.”

“Didn’t need to,” Paige murmured against your skin. “She’s been ready all day.”

Azzi climbed onto the bed behind Nika and pressed her chest to her back, arms sliding around her waist. “And what about you?” she whispered against her ear. “Think you can handle both of us?”

Nika smirked, but her breath caught when Azzi’s hand slid lower. “You wanna find out that bad, Fudd?”

Azzi’s answer was a bite to her neck—firm enough to make Nika groan and drop her head back.

You could barely think. Paige had lifted your hoodie halfway, hands greedy on your skin, kissing down your neck while her other hand toyed with the button on your jeans.

“You good?” she asked quietly, pressing her forehead to yours.

You nodded, breathless. “More than.”

She smiled and pushed your jeans down just enough—fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your panties, slow and teasing. Her fingers were rougher than Nika’s, a little cockier in how she moved, but you were wet enough to welcome the pressure.

“Mmm. Knew it,” she murmured, brushing against your clit. “You’ve been dripping since you kissed her.”

Nika, now turning in Azzi’s arms, snapped her gaze toward the two of you. “My girl’s dripping?” She pulled free of Azzi’s grip and crawled across the bed. “Move, Paige.”

Paige gave her a lazy grin. “Make me.”

Azzi grabbed Nika’s hoodie and pulled her back, flattening her to the bed. “You’ll get your turn,” she said, straddling Nika’s waist. “Let me see if your mouth’s as good as you say.”

Nika opened her mouth to respond, but Azzi was already tugging her own shorts down, shifting forward on her knees.

You watched, wide-eyed, as Nika gripped Azzi’s thighs and pulled her closer, pressing her mouth between Azzi’s legs like it was instinct. Azzi’s head dropped back instantly, her moan deep and sudden.

Paige turned you back to her, hand still moving between your thighs. “Let them put on a show. You’re still mine right now.”

Her fingers slid inside—just two, curling exactly right—and you arched into her chest with a moan that tore out of your throat.

“Shit,” you gasped. “Paige—”

“I got you,” she said, kissing you again. “You just stay right here.”

She curled her fingers again, thumb circling your clit now while her other hand wrapped tight around your waist to hold you in place. You were gasping into her neck, trembling, barely able to form a thought.

Across the bed, Azzi was grinding down on Nika’s mouth, one hand fisted in her curls, the other gripping the headboard for balance. Her breaths were shaky, desperate.

“Nika—fuck, right there—”

Nika groaned into her, holding her tighter, grinding her tongue deeper, loving every second of it.

You were close. You could feel it—your hips rocking against Paige’s hand, thighs shaking, lips parted in a silent cry.

“I’ve got you,” Paige whispered again, licking up the side of your throat. “Come for me, baby.”

And you did.

You came with a sob in Paige’s arms, legs trembling, nails gripping her shoulders like you might fall apart without her.

And from across the room, Azzi let out a broken moan and came too—grinding down on Nika’s mouth, her thighs shaking around her head, body locking up before she finally slumped forward, breathless.

Azzi collapsed onto her back, chest heaving. Nika sat up, lips glistening, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as she looked toward you—right as Paige slid her fingers free and kissed your temple.

“She’s still shaking,” Paige said, satisfied.

Nika’s jaw flexed. “Yeah? That’s mine.”

She moved like a storm—striding across the bed, grabbing your jaw gently but firmly, and kissing you deep, letting you taste Azzi on her tongue. It made your head spin. Your thighs were still trembling, but that didn’t stop her from pulling you away from Paige, repositioning you with practiced control.

She laid you down onto the mattress, climbing between your legs without hesitation. “Spread,” she ordered, voice low, and you obeyed before you even registered the command.

“You already came once,” Nika murmured, dragging her mouth down your stomach, fingers hooking in your panties. “Let’s see how many times you can take me.”

Paige, still sitting beside you, watched with interest, fingers tracing slow circles over Azzi’s bare thigh as she caught her breath.

Nika licked a long stripe up your center, and your whole body jolted.

“God, Nika—”

“You’re dripping,” she muttered. “I should be mad you gave that to someone else first.”

But the way her mouth moved said otherwise—possessive, hungry, fast. Her tongue curled around your clit like she’d missed it, like she needed this. You cried out, hand in her hair, already close again. She slid two fingers inside without warning, curling them while her tongue never stopped working you.

Across the bed, Azzi turned toward Paige, still breathless. “So…” she said, her voice husky. “You gonna be nice to me now?”

Paige leaned over, slowly climbing over her. “Baby,” she murmured, kissing her shoulder, “I’ve been nice.”

Azzi scoffed, but let Paige pin her wrists gently above her head, kissing her with slow, dark intent. Paige’s thigh pressed between Azzi’s legs, already feeling how soaked she still was. “You came fast,” she whispered, dragging her teeth across Azzi’s jaw. “Gonna give me another one?”

Azzi bit her lip. “Only if you work for it.”

Paige grinned, then slid down her body. “Challenge accepted.”

Nika was relentless between your legs, her tongue and fingers working you up again faster than you thought possible. “That’s it, baby,” she said against you. “Come again. Right now.”

Your second orgasm hit harder—sharp and sudden. You cried out, thighs locking around her head as she rode you through it, moaning into you like she wanted to live there.

When you finally collapsed, body trembling, Nika sat up, chest rising and falling. “Still mine,” she said, brushing your hair off your face. “Don’t forget that.”

You smiled weakly. “Never.”

Meanwhile, Azzi was unraveling again—Paige had one hand wrapped around her thigh, the other teasing her entrance as her mouth worked her clit with slow, excruciating precision. Azzi was panting, squirming under her. “Paige—fuck—”

Paige didn’t stop. Just grinned against her. “C’mon, pretty girl. Give it to me again.”

Azzi came with a cry, arching into her mouth, hands fisting the sheets, and Paige moaned into her like she’d just tasted something forbidden.

You sat up, still dizzy, only to be pulled gently into Nika’s lap again.

But this time—this time—Azzi reached for you too.

Her fingers brushed your knee, her eyes dark with something gentler, warmer. “Come here.”

You leaned toward her, and Paige shifted behind her, wrapping her arms around her waist while the four of you tangled together, bodies flushed and slick, breath heavy, kisses starting again—everywhere.

This time slower. This time deeper.

Not just heat.

Something more.

Bodies tangled—legs over laps, mouths on skin, hands everywhere.

Paige was still behind Azzi, one arm around her middle, the other sliding back down between her thighs. Azzi melted into it, her head dropping to your shoulder as she pulled you into a kiss—slow, messy, half-lost in the haze of overstimulation.

Nika, behind you, was kissing your neck again, her fingers teasing your breast, voice low and smug against your skin.

“Look at you,” she murmured, watching you kiss Azzi while Paige made her fall apart again. “God, you’re fucking gorgeous when you’re wrecked.”

Azzi gasped into your mouth, her thighs twitching. Paige had her right on the edge again—three fingers this time, curling up, working her with practiced precision. “She’s so responsive,” Paige said into Azzi’s ear. “Feel how tight she gets when you kiss her like that?”

You slipped your hand between Azzi’s legs too—right under Paige’s—your fingers circling her clit gently, in time with the rhythm.

Azzi shattered.

She came again, hard, her whole body seizing as she choked out your name and Paige’s together. You caught her mouth with yours, kissing her through it, while Nika’s hand crept between your legs from behind, two fingers sinking in like your body had been waiting for her.

You moaned into Azzi’s mouth, and Nika grinned.

“Still not done with you,” Nika breathed. “Lean back on me.”

You obeyed without thinking, chest arching as Nika fucked you from behind, slow and deep, her free hand gripping your throat—not tight, just there, grounding you in the overwhelming waves of pleasure. You could feel her breath at your ear, could hear Azzi and Paige tangled together in front of you, Azzi’s hand now slipping between Paige’s legs for the first time.

“Let me,” Azzi whispered.

Paige spread her knees wide, looking downright cocky about it. “You better keep up, Fudd.”

But the second Azzi’s fingers slid in, Paige lost her rhythm—her mouth dropped open, her hips grinding into Azzi’s hand before she could say a word.

“Oh—fuck, Azzi—”

You were watching it all—Paige unraveling for the first time, her dominant edge slipping while Azzi fucked her with slow, relentless strokes. Nika curled her fingers harder at that exact moment, making your back arch again, a desperate whine escaping your throat.

“Touch her clit,” Nika said into your ear, nodding toward Paige. “Make her come for us.”

You reached forward and did just that—your fingers rubbing tight, fast circles while Azzi’s moved inside her.

Paige’s jaw went slack. Her hips bucked, moaning your name now too.

“Shit, baby, yes—right there—”

And then she broke.

Her orgasm hit like a wave, crashing over her in full view of all of you, her head dropping to Azzi’s shoulder as her thighs trembled and her voice cracked. Azzi kissed her cheek, her jaw, her lips—soft and proud.

You weren’t far behind.

Nika had you spread wide in her lap, fingers thrusting deep, her grip on your throat just enough to have you floating. You turned your head, kissed her, whimpered into her mouth as you came for the third time—body seizing, stars bursting behind your eyes.

Every one of you, breathless.

Glowing.

Sprawled across the bed like wreckage.

——

It started with a look.

Azzi on one side of the bed. You on the other. Both of you grinning as your girlfriends lay back, catching their breath from the chaos of before—thinking maybe the night was winding down.

But no.

You exchanged a glance, and that was all it took.

Without a word, Azzi rolled over, crawling between Paige’s legs again, this time slower—intentional. You did the same to Nika, your palm pressed to her thigh as you pushed it open, her breath catching like she already knew what you were about to do.

“What are you—” Nika started, but her voice cut off when your tongue met her.

Paige flinched the same moment, head snapping up, only to fall back again with a low groan. “Oh my god, Azzi—”

Azzi just hummed in response, her mouth already deep on her, fingers gripping Paige’s thighs to hold her still. Paige’s hand flew to Azzi’s head on instinct, trying to ground herself, her legs already twitching.

Nika was no better. She bit down hard on her bottom lip, one hand tangled in your hair, the other blindly groping for something—anything—to hang onto.

And then her hand brushed Paige’s.

Their fingers locked on instinct. Tight. Desperate.

Neither of them said a word.

Paige’s hips jerked suddenly when Azzi sucked a little harder, a whimper escaping her mouth before she could stop it. Nika moaned at the same time, her hand squeezing Paige’s like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to earth.

“Shit,” Nika breathed, eyes rolling back. “She’s—fuck—she’s good.”

“Don’t gas her up right now,” Paige rasped, voice wrecked. “Or I’ll—fuck, Azzi, don’t stop—”

Their hands clutched tighter, forearms pressing, legs starting to tremble.

You looked up briefly, seeing it—Paige’s head thrown back, Nika’s jaw slack, the two of them gripping onto each other like the only thing keeping them sane was the shared overload.

And god, you wanted to push her over the edge. You sucked Nika’s clit a little harder, dragged your fingers along her entrance, feeling her thighs clamp around your head.

“Baby—baby, I’m gonna—”

Nika choked out a moan and came hard, her entire body convulsing, hand squeezing Paige’s like a lifeline.

Paige followed—seconds later—her voice cracking as Azzi buried her tongue deeper, not letting up until Paige was gasping, back arched, thighs shaking.

They came together, clinging to each other, falling apart in sync like they didn’t know how to fall separately anymore.

You and Azzi pulled back slowly—lips wet, proud smirks on your faces as you crawled back up the bed.

Nika looked dazed. Paige blinked slowly like she was just coming back into her body.

Azzi leaned down and kissed Paige’s neck. “Still dominant?” she whispered.

Paige didn’t answer.

Just pulled her into a kiss.

Nika turned to you, eyes heavy-lidded. “You’re such a fucking problem,” she muttered, voice hoarse.

You grinned and kissed her, slow and deep. “Good.”

⸻

A long silence followed—just the sound of breathing, skin against skin, the occasional soft kiss or stroke along a thigh.

Eventually, Paige spoke, her voice wrecked but smug. “…We’re doing this again next weekend.”

Azzi laughed weakly into her neck. “Bet.”

Nika kissed your temple, then looked around at the flushed, sweaty pile of limbs. “Can we just live here?”

You hummed, still too gone to form a real sentence.

But yeah.

You could get used to this.

-

The room was still heavy with heat—sheets twisted, bodies flushed, skin damp. But the urgency had passed. Now it was just weightless.

You were the first to fall back, chest heaving, limbs boneless. Nika collapsed beside you, arm flopping over your stomach, her face buried in your shoulder.

“I can’t feel my legs,” she mumbled.

You smiled lazily, turning to kiss her hair. “That’s fair. You didn’t exactly hold back.”

She made a low, pleased sound. “Neither did you.”

Across the bed, Paige was curled against the headboard, arms loosely wrapped around Azzi, who was tucked into her chest with one thigh still thrown over Paige’s. They looked like they’d been fused together. Hair tangled. Lips pink. Bodies humming in the same quiet rhythm.

“I think my soul left my body,” Azzi muttered, not moving.

Paige chuckled, low and smug. “Don’t worry, babe. I caught it.”

Azzi groaned and swatted her lightly. “Corny.”

You reached across the bed and brushed your fingers along Azzi’s arm. “You good?”

She turned her head toward you, eyes heavy but soft. “So good.”

Nika shifted slightly beside you, her hand slipping beneath the blanket to rest low on your stomach. “This,” she murmured, her voice rough from moaning, “this is so much better than last cabin.”

Paige lifted her head. “That’s because we weren’t competing the whole time.”

“You say that,” Nika replied, “but you definitely tried to one-up me with the leg shake thing.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “I succeeded at the leg shake thing.”

Azzi just snorted into her shoulder.

You smiled into Nika’s neck, letting your hand find her hip beneath the blanket. “You’re both hot. Shut up and cuddle.”

“Finally,” Azzi sighed, settling deeper into Paige’s chest. “Someone with sense.”

There was a pause—comfortable and full, silence settling between all four of you like a blanket. Legs tangled. Hands lazily trailing over skin. Breath syncing up.

“I kinda don’t want to move,” Paige mumbled after a while.

“You don’t have to,” you said softly.

“Good,” Nika added, nuzzling closer to you. “Because I’m stuck. You broke me.”

“Good,” you echoed, lips curling.

Azzi turned her face into Paige’s neck, her voice barely audible now. “Next time, I want a whole weekend of this.”

You nodded, even though she couldn’t see it. “Same.”

No one moved.

No one needed to.

Just the sound of hearts slowing down. Fingers brushing. Lips pressed gently to shoulders and necks. Everything quiet except the occasional shared breath or sleepy giggle when someone’s hand twitched or thigh shifted just right.

By the time sleep crept in, none of you were sure where one body ended and another began.

And none of you cared.

[luvismenu]

> motive — pt.19 (2/2) ,, jjk . index !

. . brother's bestfriend!jungkook au . .

note: ok. so. rushed chapter, messy writing,,, i was fully SICk when i wrote it and only edited it like, a few minutes ago — still kinda sick tbh (excuse me.. 😿) i just really want motive to end at this point pls im tired of all the sadness 💔 I AM SORRY i know i like drama but errrr hahaha. time to say your goodbyes bbgs — one more part left 😛

taehyung freezes at the door. bags in hand. mouth slightly parted. and then his eyes land on jungkook; his face buried in his hands, your hand on his shoulder like you’re holding him together.

then he sees jimin, head down, yumi’s hand over his. like he’s just said something that shattered the room.

taehyung doesn’t move. not a step forward, not a step back.

then he looks at you fully. and you give him a small, almost imperceptible nod.

taehyung’s expression shifts. because he knows.

he knows exactly what this is about.

he sets the bags down slowly. like rushing might make things worse.

jungkook finally looks up. jaw clenched. and when his eyes meet taehyung’s, something in him crumbles.

“when were you going to tell me?” jungkook asks.

his voice isn’t loud. it’s quiet. too quiet. but it cuts through the room like glass.

“i…” taehyung starts. his throat tightens.

“i couldn’t.”

everyone stands slowly. like something heavy just dropped and they all felt it. even jimin rises, sluggish, quiet, but on his feet.

taehyung steps forward.

just once.

“don’t,” jungkook says immediately. “don’t come closer.”

taehyung stops in place. his hands curl into fists by his sides.

“i never meant for it to happen like that,” he says. “i never wanted to hurt you.”

jungkook lets out a hollow laugh. “you didn’t want to hurt me, but you let me hate you.”

jungkook's voice isn’t raised. it’s too calm. like he’s past the point of yelling.

“you...” jungkook sighs, “you let it happen.”

taehyung swallows, eyes glassy. “i thought—” he stops, voice breaking. “i thought if you had her, you’d be happy.”

jungkook finally looks at taehyung.

“you gave up everything,” he says, and there’s something bitter in his tone. “you let me have her? are you serious? you let me have her like she was something to give?”

taehyung flinches.

“and ever since then..” jungkook shakes his head. “i thought you betrayed me. i thought you didn’t care. and you just... you didn't tell me.”

taehyung’s voice is quiet. “i was trying to protect you.”

“you didn’t protect me,” jungkook says, jaw tight. “that— whatever happened between us; destroyed us.”

and then, softer.

“you let it happen.”

jungkook turns to look at jimin, who’s startled; just a flicker of it in his eyes— like he didn’t expect to be pulled back into this.

“you let it happen too,” jungkook says. his voice isn’t loud, but it hits hard.

jimin doesn't speak. he just stands there, frozen, eyes meeting jungkook’s. and for a moment, he looks younger. like the scared kid who didn’t know what to do back then.

“you knew everything,” jungkook continues. “and you said nothing. not to me, not to anyone.”

jimin opens his mouth, but no words come out.

“i blamed him,” jungkook nods toward taehyung. “i blamed him for years. and you just watched.”

“i was trying to protect you,” jimin finally says, quietly.

jungkook snaps. “stop fucking saying that.”

jimin turns to taehyung then. the shift in the room is fast.

“you broke your promise,” he says. voice low but firm. “you said you’d stay away. you said you’d choose jungkook.”

taehyung swallows. eyes down. “i did.”

“you didn’t,” jimin snaps, raising his voice, stepping closer. “jungkook was—”

“for god's sake.” jungkook cuts in, eyes flashing. “don’t speak for me.”

the room gets heavier. taehyung lifts his gaze now, finally meeting jungkook’s eyes.

“i’m not a fucking child,” jungkook says, stepping back like the air is too thick. “you should’ve told me. both of you. you acted like you knew what was best for me. but all you did was leave me confused and angry for years.”

jimin and taehyung both go quiet.

then yumi speaks.

“enough.”

everyone looks at her.

“you’re all fighting,” she gives the boys a sharp look. “again.”

you step in too.

“you all keep talking over each other. yelling. blaming. that’s why it never got fixed in the first place. so please..” you exhale softly. “talk it out properly.” you’re shaking a little. but you mean every word.

silence stretches again.

but this time, something’s different.

because now they’re looking at each other.

and not with anger.

but with something closer to regret.

after some silence, taehyung exhales shakily. but he doesn’t look up right away.

“i’m sorry,” he says.

his voice is soft, like he’s scared to use it. like speaking too loud might break whatever fragile thread that's still holding the three of them together right now.

“i really thought i was doing the right thing,” he goes on. “back then, i thought… if you hated me, that would be better than being hurt by her. i didn’t expect everything to fall apart like this. i didn’t think—” he pauses, jaw tight, eyes flickering to jungkook, “....i didn’t think.”

he looks down. like he’s ashamed. like he knows it’s too late to fix anything, but he’s still hoping.

jimin shifts, then steps forward a little.

“no,” he says. “i’m sorry.”

taehyung looks at him, surprised.

“i should’ve said something. a long time ago. to both of you.” his throat bobs. “i thought i was protecting everyone by keeping quiet. i didn’t want to see you break, kook. i didn’t want tae to carry the blame. but i was just a fucking coward.”

kook.

tae.

his voice tightens. “and you’ve been carrying all this shit alone for years. blaming yourself, and i let it happen.”

your brother's finally speaking up. after years of keeping it buried. it shows on his face, the relief and the guilt all tangled together. like every word is lifting something off his chest and replacing it with something heavier.

jungkook doesn’t speak right away. his eyes flicker between them. and slowly, something in his expression begins to shift.

he swallows hard. his voice comes low, rough. “i’m sorry too.”

his eyes don’t lift. “for not seeing it. for believing in something that was never real.”

he means yeonha. and they all know it.

you glance at yumi. she looks at you, a little surprised. like she hadn’t expected any of them to actually say it. to actually get here.

but they did.

finally.

a/n: no i didn't forget abt oc and jks relationship .

💌 permanent taglist: @annyeongbitch7 @internetrando64 @jkvias @lovieku @deluluisdasolulu @ddanasjk @onlyforyoukook @diamondjeon @nnybtitts08 @lil0u0 @butnotmontana @fr0ggieth1nk @minimoninini @whoa-jo @lola75111 @jaytheatiny @iswearimover5feetall @kooverses @134340-kr @mar-lo-pap @fluttershypoo @kyuupii @https-mei @elinaki92 @jungkookmyoneandonlybaby @hoseokteardrop @winterbeartaehyungbestboy @jaykay-world @jmscaffeine @libra04 @beigerin @nikidream24 @svnbangtansworld @mimi1097 @kookoo-kachoo @junecat18 @dollyunjinz @rrosiitas @jjeonjjk7 @remgeolli @ty-moy-ya-tvoy @rpwprpwprpwprw @jimineepaboya

[emjayewrites]

ball in your court • aurélien tchouaméni [1/25]

SUMMARY: Los Angeles Sparks forward Jiana Jackson is a force on the court…and a nuisance off of it. From fights to partying mere hours before important games, Jiana needs a redemption tour, and her agent thinks Madrid may be her best option. But navigating Madrid during the WNBA off season requires more than learning Spanish, the country’s culture, and understanding the cutthroat fan base, Jiana finds herself in the line of sight of Real Madrid’s midfielder Aurélien Tchouaméni, who just like every other man with eyes is instantly attracted to her. However, just like any other man who comes her way, she spits him out before he could even figure out what’s happening. Too bad for Jiana that Aurélien is already head over heels.

PAIRINGS: Aurélien Tchouaméni x Jiana Jackson (fc: Rickea Jackson)

WARNINGS: cursing, graphic sexual scenes, mentions of sexual/emotional/physical abuse, mentions of group homes/foster care system, depression/mental health issues, romantic!aurelien (18+/minors dni)

TAGLIST: @rougereds @kjlovesbigwilo @amirawrah @mufasathatniggatho @captainwithoutmakingitlove @reveuseetoiles @yeea-nah @aurelover @judesvirtual @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro @mariejuli @dexastres @beauty-gurl @virgilsgurl @iamryanl @muglermami @jessnotwiththemess @bbgkoo @peyiswriting @imjustheretomanifest @127hydrangeas @sailurmewn @cocobutterqwueen @irishmanwhore @dima-lfc @iam-lulu

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The conference room at CAA Sports feels like a fucking courtroom, and Jiana Jackson is pretty sure she's about to get the death penalty. The leather chair beneath her is too stiff, the air conditioning set to arctic blast, and her agent Rob sits across from her looking like he'd rather be anywhere else on earth. Rob Martinez—mid-forties, salt-and-pepper beard meticulously trimmed, wearing a Tom Ford suit—has that look on his face. The one that means she's about to hear some shit she definitely doesn't want to hear.

Here we go, Jiana thinks, crossing her arms over her chest. The defensive posture is automatic, learned from years of protecting herself in situations where bad news came wrapped in concerned voices and disappointed expressions.

"Jiana," Rob starts, his voice carrying that careful tone she's learned to hate. It's the same voice her social workers used to use, the same one her mother's public defender had perfected. "We need to talk."

"We are talking," she replies, but her stomach is already twisting itself into knots. The wall-to-wall windows of the Beverly Hills office show a perfect view of LA sprawl, palm trees swaying in the October heat, and she finds herself wishing she was anywhere but here. "So talk."

Rob slides a tablet across the polished mahogany table, the glass surface reflecting the recessed lighting overhead. ESPN headlines fill the screen in that familiar red and black font: "Sparks Forward Jiana Jackson Ejected After Technical Foul," "Jackson's Locker Room Altercation Raises Questions," "WNBA's Bad Girl: Has Jiana Jackson Gone Too Far?"

She's seen them all already. Hell, she's lived them all. Each headline represents a moment when her anger got the better of her judgment, when the pain she carries around like a second skin finally broke through the surface. The problem is that the pain never goes away, but the headlines keep multiplying.

"Your reputation is becoming a problem," Rob says bluntly, and Jiana appreciates that he's not trying to sugarcoat it. After four years of working together, he knows she prefers brutal honesty to diplomatic bullshit. "The Sparks management is getting pressure from the league office. They appreciate your talent—you averaged 18.2 points and 8.4 rebounds this season—but talent doesn't mean shit if you're a liability."

Liability. The word sits heavy in the air between them. It's not the first time she's been called that, and it probably won't be the last. From the moment she walked into that first foster home at eight years old, people have been trying to figure out what to do with Jiana Jackson. Too angry for some families, too damaged for others, too much trouble for anyone who wasn't her grandmother.

"I'm not a liability," she snaps, though even she knows it sounds weak. Her voice carries the slight rasp she's had since childhood, a remnant of too many nights spent screaming into pillows to muffle the sound. "I play hard. Sometimes that means getting physical."

"Getting physical is one thing." Rob leans back in his chair, and she can see the exhaustion in his dark brown eyes. He's been fighting for her longer than most people, longer than she probably deserves. "Getting arrested for public intoxication three hours before a playoff game is another."

The memory hits like a physical blow. That night three weeks ago—sitting in a holding cell in downtown LA, still wearing her pregame outfit, watching her teammates on the news talking about how disappointed they were. The shame had been worse than the hangover, worse than the media circus that followed.

She'd been dealing with her half-brother Malik calling again, asking for money she didn't have to spare. "Mom's in the hospital again," he'd said, like that was supposed to make her care. Like twenty years of neglect and abuse could be erased by a medical emergency. "She's asking for you, Ji. She wants to make things right."

But there was no making things right. Not after what that woman had put her through. Not after what she'd allowed to happen.

"It was a mistake," Jiana mutters, picking at the edge of her thumbnail—a nervous habit from childhood that she's never been able to break.

"It was the last straw," Rob corrects, his voice gentler now. "The Sparks are considering a trade. They don't want to—you're one of the most talented players they've ever had—but they will if you don't get your act together."

The words hit like a sucker punch to the gut. Los Angeles is the only home she's known since her grandmother died five years ago. Grandma Rose had been everything—mother, father, best friend, biggest supporter. She'd sat in the stands at every high school game, cheering louder than anyone else, wearing a homemade shirt with Jiana's number painted in glittery letters.

The thought of starting over somewhere else, with new teammates who'd already heard all the stories about her, makes her throat tight.

"What do you want me to do?" she asks, and she hates how small her voice sounds. It reminds her of being fourteen years old, standing in a police station trying to explain why she'd beaten the shit out of three older girls who'd cornered her after school. "They started it," she'd said then, the same way she says it now. But starting it and finishing it are two different things, and Jiana has always been better at the finishing part.

Rob leans forward, his expression softening in that way that makes her think of her grandmother. Sometimes she forgets that Rob isn't just her agent—he actually gives a damn about her wellbeing, which makes him either incredibly stupid or incredibly loyal. Maybe both.

"I want you to take the off-season seriously," he says, pulling out a thick folder from his briefcase. The leather case is buttery soft, probably Italian, and she wonders absently if successful agents learn about expensive accessories in agent school. "Not just training, but working on yourself. Your mindset. Your reputation."

"I train hard every off-season—"

"In LA, where the same temptations and triggers are waiting for you every day," he interrupts, and she knows he's right even though she doesn't want to admit it. "I'm talking about a change of scenery. Complete change."

The Real Madrid logo catches her eye immediately, bold white letters against a royal blue background that somehow manages to look both classic and intimidating. She's not much of a soccer fan, but even she knows what that logo represents—excellence, tradition, winning at the highest level.

"Real Madrid Baloncesto," Rob explains, opening the folder to reveal glossy photos and official-looking documents. "Their women's team. They've extended an invitation for you to train with them during the WNBA off-season. October through March."

Jiana stares at the folder like it might grow teeth and bite her. The photos show a state-of-the-art facility that makes the Sparks' training center look like a high school gym. Players in crisp white and blue uniforms running drills, lifting weights, looking like they actually enjoy being there.

"Spain?" The word comes out strangled. "You want me to go to Spain?"

"I want you to go somewhere you can focus on basketball without distractions," Rob says patiently. "Somewhere you can rebuild your image and work with some of the best coaches in Europe." He slides another photo across the table—the Madrid Baloncesto women's team celebrating a championship, confetti falling around them like snow. "They've produced players who've gone on to dominate in the WNBA. This could be huge for your development."

Development. Another one of those words that follows her around like a lost dog. She's been "developing" her whole life—developing coping mechanisms, developing trust issues, developing a reputation for being too much trouble to handle.

"Or it could be a complete waste of time in a country where I don't speak the language," she says, but she's already studying the photos more carefully. The players look happy, united. Nothing like the tension she'd felt in the Sparks locker room these past few months, where conversations stopped when she walked in and teammates looked at her like she was a bomb that might explode at any moment.

"You'll learn," Rob says simply. "You're smarter than you give yourself credit for, Ji. And it's not just about basketball. Real Madrid has one of the best PR teams in the world. They know how to rehab a public image."

Rehab. Like she's broken and needs fixing. Maybe she is. Maybe that's exactly what she needs—to be thousands of miles away from everything that reminds her of who she used to be, who she's been told she is.

"What about my sponsorships?" The practical question grounds her, pulls her back from the edge of whatever emotional cliff she'd been approaching. Under Armour and MAC Cosmetics aren't huge deals—not like what the NBA guys get—but they pay her bills and then some. More importantly, they represent the first time in her life that someone wanted to pay her for something other than keeping her mouth shut. "They okay with me disappearing to Europe?"

"Already cleared it with both brands." Rob's smile is genuine, the first real one she's seen from him today. "Under Armour is actually excited about the international exposure. They're trying to expand their European market, especially in women's basketball. And MAC..." He grins wider. "They're planning a European campaign launch next year. Having their brand ambassador playing in Madrid could work out perfectly."

He's thought of everything, which means he's been planning this for longer than just today. Probably since her arrest made national news, maybe even before that. The realization should piss her off—the idea that people are making decisions about her life behind her back—but instead she feels something that might be relief. Someone is looking out for her, even when she's too stubborn to look out for herself.

"When would I leave?" she asks, though she's not sure she's actually agreeing to anything yet. Her grandmother always told her to ask questions first and make decisions second, one of the many pieces of advice she's been terrible at following.

"Two weeks. Gives you time to get your affairs in order, maybe visit Rose before you go."

The mention of her grandmother hits different than she expects. Rose Jackson is buried in Forest Lawn Cemetery in Hollywood Hills, a far cry from the South Central neighborhood where she'd raised Jiana after the state took her away from her mother. Every month, Jiana drives there with fresh flowers—sunflowers, because those were Grandma Rose's favorites—and sits by the headstone trying to figure out what the hell she's doing with her life.

"I need to think about it," she says finally, but they both know what her answer will be. Where else is she going to go? Back to her apartment in Manhattan Beach, where the silence is so thick she can taste it? Back to the Sparks, where her teammates tolerate her presence but don't really want her there?

Rob nods, sliding a business card across the table with elegant script that reads "Carmen Ruiz, Player Relations, Real Madrid C.F." "Carmen will be your point of contact in Madrid. She speaks perfect English, knows the city inside and out, and she's dealt with American players before. Think of her as your cultural translator."

"And if I hate it?"

"Then you come home and we figure out plan B." Rob's voice is steady, confident. "But I don't think you'll hate it. I think you'll find exactly what you've been looking for."

What I've been looking for. Jiana almost laughs at that. She's been looking for peace of mind, for a place where her past doesn't follow her around like a shadow, for the feeling of belonging somewhere that she lost when her grandmother died. But those aren't things you can find by changing geography. Those are things you have to build from the inside out, and Jiana's inside has been under construction for so long she's forgotten what the finished product is supposed to look like.

But maybe that's exactly why she needs to go. Maybe being somewhere completely new, where nobody knows her story or her reputation, is exactly the kind of fresh start she's been afraid to want.

"Forty-eight hours," she says, standing up and gathering the folder. "Give me forty-eight hours to decide."

Rob stands too, straightening his tie in a gesture that probably costs him a thousand dollars. "Fair enough. But Jiana?" He waits until she meets his eyes, and for a moment his expression reminds her so much of her grandmother that her chest gets tight. "This isn't just about basketball. This is about giving yourself permission to start over. Clean slate, new environment, new opportunities to be whoever you want to be."

New opportunities. The phrase follows her out of the building and into the parking garage where her Jeep Wrangler sits baking in the October LA heat. The car is one of her few indulgences—matte black with custom rims and tinted windows that let her disappear when she needs to. She sits in the driver's seat for a long moment, air conditioning blasting, staring at the folder Rob insisted she take with her.

Real Madrid. The most successful football club in the world, and apparently their basketball program isn't too shabby either. The photos show facilities that would make NBA teams jealous, players who look like they actually enjoy being there, coaches who seem invested in development rather than just managing personalities and putting out fires.

Her phone buzzes with a text from her teammate Nneka, asking if she wants to grab dinner. For a second, she considers it. Nneka is one of the few people on the team who still talks to her like a human being instead of a walking PR disaster, who remembers that underneath all the attitude and anger is someone who just wants to belong somewhere.

But then she thinks about sitting in some trendy LA restaurant, trying to pretend everything is fine while people at other tables recognize her and whisper about her latest fuck-up. The idea makes her stomach turn and her skin feel too tight, the way it always does when she feels trapped.

Instead, she drives home to her apartment in Manhattan Beach, taking the long way along the coast because the sight of the ocean sometimes helps quiet the noise in her head. The Pacific stretches endlessly to the horizon, indifferent to her problems and her reputation and her inability to stay out of her own way.

The apartment is nice—ocean views, modern kitchen, walk-in closet full of designer clothes she rarely wears because most places she goes, people are looking for reasons to judge her anyway. But it feels empty in a way that has nothing to do with furniture or decoration and everything to do with the fact that she's been living there for four years without making it feel like home.

She spreads Rob's photos across her coffee table, pushes her laptop aside, and FaceTimes the one person whose opinion actually matters to her.

"Hey, baby girl," comes the familiar voice of Coach Thompson, her high school coach who'd been more of a father figure than anyone else in her life. His weathered face fills the screen, dark skin lined with years of standing on sidelines and dealing with teenage attitudes, but his eyes are the same warm brown that had made her feel safe when she was seventeen and angry at the world. "How'd the meeting go?"

"About as well as expected," Jiana says, settling back into her couch and pulling a throw pillow into her lap. "Rob wants to ship me off to Spain."

Coach Thompson's eyebrows raise toward his receding hairline. He's in his sixties now, retired from coaching but still involved with youth programs in South Central, still the same man who'd seen something in a angry, defensive teenager that nobody else wanted to deal with. "Spain? That's a new one. What's in Spain?"

She explains the Real Madrid opportunity, watching his expression shift from skeptical to thoughtful as she talks. He's one of the only people who knows her whole story—the childhood trauma, the trust issues, the way she uses anger as armor to keep people at a distance. He'd been there through the worst of it, never judging, never trying to fix her, just consistently showing up until she'd finally learned to trust that he wasn't going anywhere.

"Sounds like Rob is looking out for you," he says when she finishes. "Question is, are you ready to let him?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" But she knows what it means, even as she asks the question.

"Jiana, I've known you since you were fourteen years old, sitting in my office after getting suspended for fighting." His voice is gentle but firm, the same tone he'd used when she was a teenager convinced that the whole world was against her. "You've got more talent in your pinky finger than most players have in their whole body. But talent isn't what's holding you back, and we both know it."

She knows where this is going, but she asks anyway because sometimes she needs to hear it said out loud. "What is?"

"Fear," he says simply, and the word hits like a physical blow because it's true. "Fear of trusting people. Fear of letting your guard down. Fear of being vulnerable enough to actually grow."

The words sting because they cut straight to the bone, past all her defenses and excuses to the truth she's been running from for years. Ever since what happened with her mother's dealer when she was fourteen—the thing she's never talked about with anyone, not even Coach Thompson, not even the therapists her grandmother had insisted she see. Ever since the juvenile detention center, where she'd learned that the world was divided into predators and prey and she'd rather be the predator. Ever since watching her grandmother slowly waste away from cancer while Jiana was powerless to help, learning that loving someone just meant having more to lose.

"So you think I should go?" she asks, her voice smaller than she intended.

Coach Thompson is quiet for a moment, studying her through the screen with those eyes that have always seen too much. When he finally speaks, his voice is careful, measured. "I think you should ask yourself what Rose would want you to do."

The mention of her grandmother makes her chest tight in a way that still catches her off guard, even five years later. Rose Jackson had been everything—mother, father, best friend, biggest supporter, the only person who'd ever looked at Jiana and seen potential instead of problems. She'd sat in the stands at every high school game, cheering louder than anyone else in her homemade shirts and costume jewelry, believing in Jiana even when Jiana didn't believe in herself.

And she'd died just as Jiana's professional career was beginning, leaving her alone with nothing but basketball and a chip on her shoulder the size of the Hollywood sign.

"She'd want me to stop being scared," Jiana admits quietly, the words barely audible even to herself.

"There you go," Coach Thompson's smile is warm, proud. "That woman raised you to be brave, not bitter. Maybe it's time to honor that."

After they hang up, Jiana sits in the quiet of her apartment, watching the sun set over the Pacific Ocean through floor-to-ceiling windows that she'd thought were so impressive when she'd first moved in. The Real Madrid folder sits open beside her, full of possibilities and unknowns that should terrify her but somehow don't.

Spain. A country she's never visited, a language she doesn't speak, a team full of strangers who probably know her reputation but not her story. It should be the kind of situation that sends her running in the opposite direction, the way she's been running from anything that requires trust or vulnerability for years.

Instead, for the first time in months, she feels something that might be hope.

_____________________________________________

The terminal is massive, all gleaming steel and glass, filled with the sounds of multiple languages and the constant movement of travelers heading to destinations she's only seen in movies. Everything feels foreign—the signs, the accents, even the way people dress and carry themselves. For a moment, the panic she's been keeping at bay threatens to overwhelm her.

What the hell am I doing here?

Carmen meets her at the arrivals gate. She’s a woman in her forties with short dark hair styled in a way that suggests she pays attention to fashion, kind eyes that remind Jiana a little of her grandmother, and the kind of professional warmth that seems genuine rather than forced. She speaks perfect English with just a hint of an accent, and she doesn't seem fazed by Jiana's obvious culture shock or the way she's gripping her carry-on bag like a lifeline.

"Welcome to Madrid," Carmen says, taking one of Jiana's bags despite her protests. Her handshake is firm, confident, and she's wearing a Real Madrid polo that somehow manages to look both professional and approachable. "How was your flight?"

"Long," Jiana admits, following her through the airport and trying not to gawk at everything like the tourist she definitely is. "And turbulent as hell over the Atlantic. I think I saw my life flash before my eyes somewhere over Ireland."

Carmen laughs, a genuine sound that helps ease some of the tension in Jiana's shoulders. "Your first time in Europe?"

"First time anywhere outside the US, actually." It feels embarrassing to admit, but it's true. Most of her teammates have traveled extensively—summer leagues in different countries, vacations in exotic locations that they post about on Instagram with captions about finding themselves. Jiana has always spent her off-seasons training in LA or visiting her grandmother's grave, too afraid to venture beyond the familiar.

"Then you're in for a treat," Carmen says as they approach a sleek black Mercedes that screams "expensive but understated." "Madrid is a beautiful city. Rich history, incredible food, some of the most passionate sports fans in the world."

The drive into the city is like something out of a European travel documentary. Ancient buildings with intricate facades stand next to sleek modern architecture, tree-lined boulevards stretch as far as she can see, and everywhere there are people—walking, talking, living their lives in a way that seems more relaxed than the constant hustle of LA. The city feels old in a way that America never does, like it has stories to tell and all the time in the world to tell them.

"Your apartment is in Malasaña," Carmen explains as they navigate through traffic that somehow seems more civilized than LA despite the narrow streets. "Great neighborhood, lots of young people, very safe. Close to the training facility and to the city center if you want to explore."

"And the team?" Jiana asks, watching Madrid unfold outside the window like a painting come to life. "What should I expect?"

Carmen glances at her in the rearview mirror, and Jiana can see her choosing her words carefully. "They're excited to have you. Your reputation precedes you, but in a good way. They know you're talented, and they respect what you've accomplished in the WNBA."

"Even with all the..." Jiana waves her hand vaguely, and Carmen's understanding smile tells her that she doesn't need to finish the sentence.

"Everyone has a story, Jiana. What matters is what you do going forward."

The apartment is better than she expected—a two-bedroom space on the third floor of a building that looks like it was built sometime in the last century but has been renovated with modern touches. High ceilings with exposed beams, hardwood floors that gleam in the afternoon light, modern furniture that manages to feel both stylish and comfortable. There's a balcony overlooking a tree-lined street where she can see people walking dogs, carrying grocery bags, living their ordinary lives in a way that seems almost magical after the isolation of LA.

"You'll get a phone with a Spanish number, and there's Wi-Fi already set up," Carmen explains, showing her around with the efficiency of someone who's done this before. "The kitchen is fully stocked with basics, and there's a grocery store two blocks away. El Corte Inglés is the big department store if you need anything else—clothes, electronics, whatever."

"When do I meet the team?"

"Tomorrow. Practice starts at ten, but come in at nine to get your physical done and meet the coaching staff." Carmen hands her a folder similar to the one Rob had given her weeks ago, but this one is in Spanish and English. "Everything you need is in there—training schedule, team contact information, emergency numbers. My cell phone is highlighted—call me anytime, day or night, if you need anything."

After Carmen leaves, Jiana stands in the middle of her new temporary home, feeling more alone than she has in years but also, strangely, more hopeful. The silence is different here—not the constant hum of LA traffic and sirens, but something quieter, more peaceful. Through the open balcony doors, she can hear the distant sound of conversation in Spanish, the clip-clop of heels on cobblestones, someone practicing guitar in another apartment.

She unpacks methodically, the ritual as much about claiming the space as it is about organization. Her clothes go in the spacious closet—Under Armour training gear, a few nice dresses for whatever social events might come up, the vintage Lakers jersey that had been her grandmother's. Her basketball shoes go by the door, a habit from childhood that she's never been able to break. Her few pieces of jewelry—the diamond studs Rob had given her when she signed her first endorsement deal, the simple gold chain that had been her grandmother's, the small cross pendant she'd worn since she was baptized at eight years old—go on the dresser beside a photo of her and Grandma Rose at her high school graduation.

By the time she's finished, the sun is setting, painting the apartment in warm orange light that makes everything look like a postcard. She should be hungry—it's been hours since she ate anything substantial—but her stomach is still on California time, confused and slightly rebellious.

Instead, she sits on the balcony with a bottle of water, watching people walk by on the street below and trying to process the reality of where she is. Tomorrow she'll meet her new teammates, women who probably know her statistics but not her story. Tomorrow she'll start the process of rebuilding her career and maybe, if she's lucky, herself. Tomorrow the real work begins.

But tonight, for the first time in months, Jiana Jackson allows herself to feel something that might be optimism. Maybe Rob was right. Maybe this is exactly what she needs—a place where she can be whoever she wants to be, instead of whoever she's been told she is.

___________________________________________

The training facility is everything the photos promised and more, a testament to the kind of resources that come with being part of the most successful sports organization in the world. State-of-the-art equipment that looks like it belongs in a science fiction movie, multiple courts with perfect hardwood and professional-grade lighting, weight rooms that put most NBA facilities to shame. Jiana arrives early—partly because she's still adjusting to the time change and partly because she wants to get a feel for the place before meeting everyone.

The physical exam is routine but thorough—height, weight, body fat percentage, flexibility tests, blood work, the kind of comprehensive evaluation that makes her feel like a racehorse being assessed for breeding potential. At 6'2" and in the best shape of her life, she knows she's impressive on paper. It's everything else she's worried about.

"Your Spanish is..." The team doctor, a middle-aged woman with graying hair and kind eyes, pauses diplomatically as she reviews Jiana's medical history.

"Nonexistent," Jiana supplies, because there's no point in pretending otherwise. "I'm working on it."

"Don't worry. Most of the team speaks English, and they're very patient with Americans who are learning. You'll pick it up faster than you think."

The coaching staff is a mix of Spanish and international backgrounds, led by head coach Elena Vargas, a former professional player who speaks four languages fluently and has a reputation for developing young talent. She's probably in her fifties, with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a practical ponytail and the kind of no-nonsense demeanor that suggests she's seen it all and isn't easily impressed.

"We're not here to change who you are," Coach Vargas explains during their one-on-one meeting in her office, which is decorated with trophies and team photos spanning decades. "We're here to help you become the best version of yourself. On and off the court."

It's exactly what Jiana needs to hear, even if she's not sure she believes it yet. Too many coaches have tried to mold her into something she's not, to smooth out the rough edges that make her effective on the court but difficult to manage off it.

Meeting the team is the part she's been dreading most since the plane touched down. Fifteen women from different countries and backgrounds, all of whom probably know her reputation for being difficult, for being the kind of player who comes with warning labels and asterisks. She expects judgment, whispers, the kind of cold reception she'd gotten from some of her teammates in LA after her arrest made national news.

Instead, she gets enthusiastic introductions and what seems like genuine enthusiasm for her presence. María Sánchez, the team captain, is a point guard in her late twenties with the kind of court vision that makes everyone around her better. She speaks perfect English with a slight British accent—the result, she explains, of playing professionally in London for three years—and immediately takes Jiana under her wing with the easy confidence of someone used to being a leader.

Lucia Romano, a shooting guard from Italy, shares stories about her own adjustment period when she first arrived in Madrid three years ago, not speaking Spanish and feeling overwhelmed by the cultural differences. Even the younger players, the ones who seem like they should be intimidated by having a WNBA All-Star join their team, are eager to practice with her and ask questions about playing in America.

"They're good people," Coach Vargas tells her after the first practice, as they watch the team cool down and chat in small groups. "Give them a chance."

Practice itself is brutal in the best possible way, a reminder of why she fell in love with basketball in the first place. The pace is faster than she's used to, the style more fluid and creative than the structured systems she's played in since college. There's less emphasis on set plays and more on reading and reacting, on building chemistry through repetition and trust rather than rigid adherence to schemes.

Jiana finds herself working harder than she has in months, pushing her body to keep up with teammates who've been playing together for years, who communicate in a mixture of Spanish, English, and basketball universal language. By the end of the two-hour session, she's exhausted, exhilarated, and cautiously optimistic about what the next few months might hold.

"You did good today," María tells her as they stretch in the cool-down area, sweat still cooling on their skin despite the October chill. "Tomorrow will be even better."

"Thanks," Jiana says, and she means it more than she expected to. "This is... different than I expected."

"Different how?"

Jiana considers the question, trying to put her finger on what feels so foreign about this environment. "Less toxic, I guess. More like a team and less like a group of individuals competing against each other for playing time and recognition."

María nods knowingly, the kind of understanding that comes from years of experience in different basketball cultures. "That's the Madrid way. We succeed together or we fail together. No room for egos or drama."

No room for drama. Jiana can work with that, even if drama seems to follow her around like a lost dog regardless of her intentions.

After practice, she grabs lunch at a small café near the facility, a tiny place with mismatched chairs and walls covered in local artwork. She practices her Spanish on the patient waitress who corrects her pronunciation with gentle humor and seems genuinely delighted by her attempts to order in broken Spanish. The food is incredible—fresh bread that tastes like it was baked that morning, olive oil that seems to have been blessed by gods, jamón that melts on her tongue like butter.

Later that night, in her apartment, she thinks about how long these five months will be and whether or not she made the right choice coming here.

Across the city, Aurélien is having the best water break of his life, and his teammates are starting to worry.

"Bruv, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Jude jogs over, grinning. "You're smiling like you won the lottery."

Aurélien can't stop scrolling through his phone, refreshing Instagram for the third time in two minutes. He's been following WNBA news religiously for years—initially because someone said American women could actually ball, but staying because the level of play genuinely impressed him.

But this? This is something else entirely.

"Nothing's wrong," he says, not looking up from his phone. His accent wraps around the English words in that way it always does when he's distracted, consonants just a little too precise. "Everything's perfect, actually."

Camavinga bounds over, always ready to investigate any potential drama. At twenty-three, he's got more energy than a hyperactive puppy and the curiosity to match. "Let me see," he demands, trying to grab Aurélien's phone. "What's got you acting like this?"

"Like what?" Aurélien pulls his phone away, but he's still grinning, and he knows his face is giving him away. He licks his lips—a nervous habit he's had since childhood—and tilts his head in that way he does when he's thinking about something that makes him happy.

"Like you're in love," Vinícius Jr. says with a laugh, joining their little circle. "Who is she? Spanish girl? French? Please tell me it's not another Instagram model."

"Better," Aurélien says, and he can hear the excitement in his own voice. "So much better."

He holds up his phone, showing them the post that's got him acting like a teenager with his first crush. It's from thescoreWNBA, one of the basketball accounts he follows religiously:

liked by wnba, hoops4life, jianajacksondefenceattorney, and 1.3M others

BREAKING: Los Angeles Sparks forward Jiana Jackson will spend the WNBA off-season training with Real Madrid Baloncesto's women's team. The 24-year-old All-Star arrives in Madrid this week for a five-month stint. 🏀⚪

ballfan23: Spain about to see what real basketball looks like 👑

wnbastanley: MADRID BETTER TREAT OUR GIRL RIGHT

eurohoopsaddict: She's gonna dominate over there. Different level.

madridista_forever: Welcome to the best city in the world!

basketballjunkie99: Plot twist: she never comes back to the WNBA 😂

hoops4life: 5 months in Madrid? Lucky girl

"Oh shit," Jude says, recognizing the look on Aurélien's face. "You know her?"

"Know her? Bro, she's incredible. Like, legitimately one of the best in the world."

He'd discovered Jiana while she was at USC, initially drawn to the highlights of her dunking. But it was her overall game that kept him watching—the way she could take over when needed, her defensive intensity, leadership qualities that showed even when teammates seemed to annoy her.

"You have a crush on a basketball player?" Camavinga asks, amused. "That's so random."

"It's not random. She's one of the best to ever do it."

"Show us," Vini says, genuinely curious.

Aurélien pulls up YouTube, finding a highlight reel from her rookie season. They huddle around his phone, watching her dominate with size, skill, and intensity that's undeniable.

"Damn," Jude whistles. "She can actually play."

"She's beautiful too," Vini adds appreciatively. "Those tattoos are nice."

Aurélien's jaw tightens slightly. "She's not just beautiful. She's talented, smart..." He trails off, realizing how he sounds.

"You're whipped for someone you've never met," Camavinga laughs. "This is amazing."

"I'm not whipped. I just appreciate good basketball."

"Uh-huh," Jude grins. "And her being gorgeous has nothing to do with it?"

The whistle blows before Aurélien can respond, but as they resume practice, his mind races with possibilities. Jiana Jackson, here in Madrid, training next door.

He's going to have to figure out how to meet her without looking like a complete fanboy.

"Focus, Tchouaméni!" the coach barks as he misplaces an easy pass. "Where's your head?"

About a hundred meters away, he thinks but doesn't say.

That evening, Aurélien sits in his La Moraleja villa while Uncle Bertrand cooks, filling the house with Cameroonian spices. Ocho, his Belgian Malinois, plants himself beside his chair, brown eyes hopeful for dropped food.

"You're distracted," Bertrand observes, setting down ndolé that Aurélien barely tastes.

"Just thinking about training."

"Training, hmm?" Bertrand's tone suggests he doesn't buy it, but he doesn't push. He's been around long enough to know when to give Aurélien space to work through whatever is occupying his mind.

Aurélien absently scratches Ocho's ears while scrolling through his phone again. The Real Madrid Baloncesto women's team has posted a welcome message for their new American player, and the comments are full of excitement from Spanish basketball fans. He finds himself studying every photo of Jiana he can find, trying to get a sense of who she is beyond the highlight reels.

Her Instagram is practically bare, which he respects even as it frustrates him. Her public persona suggests someone who values privacy, who doesn't seek attention for its own sake. The interviews he can find show someone articulate and thoughtful, though there's always an edge to her responses that suggests she doesn't suffer fools gladly.

"She's pretty," Bertrand says casually, and Aurélien nearly drops his phone.

"What?"

"The basketball player you've been staring at for the past hour." Bertrand's smile is knowing. "Very pretty. Good player too, from what I can see."

"I wasn't—" Aurélien starts, then gives up. "You know about basketball?"

"I know about many things, nephew. Including when you're interested in a woman." Bertrand sits down across from him with his own plate. "What's her story?"

Aurélien finds himself explaining what he knows about Jiana Jackson—her college career at USC, her WNBA accomplishments, the fact that she's supposed to be training with the Real Madrid women's team for the next five months. He doesn't mention the part about having watched her highlights obsessively for the past few years, or the way his heart rate picks up every time he sees a photo of her.

"Sounds like fate," Bertrand says simply when he finishes.

"Fate?"

"Your favorite player, coming to your city, training at your facility." Bertrand shrugs like it's obvious. "What else would you call it?"

Aurélien wants to argue, but the logic is hard to dispute. What are the odds that the one American basketball player he's been borderline obsessed with would end up in Madrid, of all places?

"I should probably leave her alone," he says, though even as he says it, he knows he won't. "She's here to work, not deal with football players trying to hit on her."

"Probably," Bertrand agrees. "But there's a difference between hitting on someone and being friendly. You're part of the Real Madrid family too. It would be rude not to welcome her properly."

The rationalization is thin, but Aurélien clings to it anyway. He's just being welcoming. Showing proper hospitality to a fellow Real Madrid athlete. Nothing inappropriate about that.

His phone buzzes with a text from Jude: So when are you going to accidentally run into your basketball crush?

Aurélien doesn't respond, but he's already making mental notes about training schedules and facility layouts. Just in case an opportunity presents itself.

______________________________________________

The next afternoon, Jiana navigates her first full team practice. The language barrier is more challenging than expected—not because teammates aren't accommodating, but because basketball has its own vocabulary that doesn't always translate.

"More aggressive!" Coach Vargas calls in Spanish, then English. "Use your size! You're bigger than everyone—act like it!"

It's advice she's heard her whole career, but there's something different about how Coach Vargas says it. Not like she needs to apologize for physical advantages, but like she should be proud of them.

Practice is intense but enjoyable, focused on fundamentals and chemistry rather than rigid systems that had drained her love for the game in LA. Teammates are patient with her Spanish, generous with their English.

"You're picking up the system quickly," María says during a water break. "Most players take weeks to adjust."

"Different but good different. More creative than what I'm used to."

Through the windows, she can see movement in the men's complex next door. Real Madrid footballers going through routines with impressive athleticism and precision.

"They're good to look at, aren't they?" Lucia grins, following her gaze. "Some of the most beautiful men in the world, all in one place in Spain."

"I'm here to play basketball," Jiana says automatically.

"Of course," María agrees, smiling. "Just saying, if you change your mind, there are worse places to appreciate attractive men."

After practice, Jiana heads to recovery—ice baths and stretching, her body adapting to European training intensity. She's finishing her cool-down when she hears voices in the corridor, speaking French and Spanish. Male voices, probably the men's football team.

For a moment, she's tempted to look, but that way lies distraction. She gathers her things and heads for the exit.

She's walking toward the parking garage when she hears rapid footsteps behind her. Her defensive instincts kick in—years of unwanted attention—but the voice that calls out is friendly.

"Excuse me!"

She turns, immediately on guard. A man in Real Madrid training gear approaches, and her first thought is oh shit because he's exactly the kind of distraction she came here to avoid. He's tall—probably six-two as well—with dark skin and a fresh high taper fade that frames his face perfectly. His features are striking in that casually sexy way that should probably be illegal: full lips, an African nose that speaks to his heritage, and the kind of effortless confidence that comes from being successful and knowing it.

"You're Jiana Jackson, right?" His accent wraps around her name, making it sound more interesting than usual.

"Yeah," she says carefully, taking a step back. Her defenses are fully up now because this man is trouble with a capital T, and she can tell just by looking at him. "And you are?"

"Aurélien Tchouaméni," he says, extending his hand. The name comes out in a way that sounds foreign to her ears.

"What?" she asks, genuinely confused.

He smiles, and she notices how it transforms his whole face. "Oh-ray-lee-EN Choo-ah-MEN-ee," he says slowly, pronouncing it properly. "Or just Aurél if that's easier. I know French names are weird."

His handshake is firm but brief, professional athlete to professional athlete. No lingering contact or attempts to stand too close, which she appreciates even as part of her notices how his training shirt clings to his chest.

"Right," she says, because her brain seems to have temporarily malfunctioned. "Aurél."

"I play for the men's football team. Just wanted to welcome you to Madrid," he continues, and she can see genuine enthusiasm in his dark eyes. "I'm actually a huge fan of your game. Been following the W for a few years now."

This catches her off guard. Most people—especially men—who claim to follow women's basketball can barely name three players. "You really watch women's basketball?"

"All the time," he grins, and the expression transforms his entire face in a way that makes her stomach flutter annoyingly. "Started during the bubble, got completely hooked. The level of play is crazy—pure basketball, you know?"

He's not performing or trying to impress her, she realizes. He's genuinely excited to talk about the sport, the same way she gets when someone wants to discuss technical aspects instead of drama and storylines.

"What's your favorite team?" she asks, testing his knowledge.

"Don't really have one. I just love good basketball." He tilts his head slightly, a gesture that somehow makes him look younger. "But I've been keeping up with the Sparks since you got drafted. That series against Vegas last year? Man, you were cooking."

The specificity surprises her. He's talking about games from months ago with the kind of detail that suggests he actually watches, not just highlights on SportsCenter.

"Well," she says, adjusting her gym bag and trying to ignore how his eyes seem to track the movement, "thanks for the welcome. I should head home—still adjusting to the time change."

"Of course," he says immediately, stepping back to give her space. She notices he's careful not to crowd her, which shows more awareness than most men his age possess. "Just wanted to say hi. If you need anything—food recommendations, help with Spanish, whatever—feel free to ask. We're all Real Madrid family here, right?"

The offer seems genuine, and his smile is the kind that makes people want to trust him. Which is exactly why Jiana's defenses slam back into place. Men who seem too good to be true usually are, especially when they look like they just stepped off a magazine cover.

"I'll keep that in mind," she says, noncommittal but polite. "See you around."

"See you around, Jiana Jackson," he says, and the way he uses her full name makes it sound like something special.

As she walks away, she can feel him watching her go, but when she glances back, he's already heading in the opposite direction, seemingly unaffected by their interaction.

Interesting, she thinks despite herself. Very interesting indeed.

But also dangerous. Because the last thing she needs is to get distracted by a pretty face with an accent, no matter how good he looks or how genuine his interest in basketball seems.

She came to Madrid to figure her life out, not to complicate it further. And Aurélien Tchouaméni—with his perfect fade and easy smile and way of saying her name like it means something—feels like exactly the kind of complication she should be running from.

The problem is, for the first time in a long time, she's not sure she wants to run.

The Real Madrid men's team has the day off before their match against Celta Vigo, which means Aurélien is supposed to be resting, maybe doing some light recovery work, definitely not sitting courtside at a basketball arena getting increasingly distracted by a woman who probably doesn't even care that he exists.

But here he is anyway, flanked by Jude and Cama in the premium courtside seats at WiZink Center, trying to look casual while internally freaking out about seeing Jiana Jackson play live for the first time.

"Mate, you've been checking your phone every two seconds," Jude observes, his Birmingham accent cutting through the arena noise. "What's got you buzzing?"

Aurélien slips his phone into his pocket, that unconscious lip-licking thing he does when he's thinking. "Just excited for the game."

A young boy, maybe ten years old, approaches with his father, clutching a Real Madrid jersey. The security guard starts to wave them away, but Aurélien catches the kid's eye and nods toward the guard.

"It's alright," he tells security in Spanish, then switches to English for the boy. "What's your name?"

"Pablo," the kid says shyly, his English careful and practiced. "Can I... picture with you?"

"Course you can," Aurélien grins, standing up and moving closer to the barrier. Jude and Cama follow suit, all three of them posing with the starstruck kid while his father takes photos on his phone.

"You like basketball too?" Cama asks the boy in Spanish.

Pablo nods enthusiastically, launching into rapid Spanish about how he plays for his school team and wants to be tall like the American players someday.

"Keep working hard," Jude tells him, ruffling his hair. "Maybe one day we'll see you playing here, yeah?"

After they take a few more photos and sign the kid's jersey, the family heads back to their seats, beaming. Aurélien settles back into his chair, that warm feeling he always gets from fan interactions spreading through his chest.

"That was sweet," Cama says. "Remember when we were that age?"

"Speak for yourself," Jude grins. "I'm still that age mentally."

"We can tell," Aurélien shoots back, but he's smiling.

The arena starts filling with that pre-game energy that's universal across all sports—the kind of electric anticipation that makes his skin prickle with recognition. The Spanish crowd is different from football crowds, more family-oriented, but the passion is just as real.

The paparazzi are having a field day with three Real Madrid stars at a women's basketball game. Aurélien can see the flashes going off, but he's gotten used to that kind of attention over the years.

"Proper circus, this," Jude mutters, noticing the cameras. "Should've known they'd make a meal of it."

"Free publicity for the women's team though," Cama shrugs. "That's good, right?"

Before Aurélien can respond, the arena lights dim and music starts pumping through the speakers. The Madrid Baloncesto women's team is coming out for warm-ups, and suddenly he forgets how to breathe properly.

Because Jiana Jackson dressed for game night is something else entirely.

She's wearing an oversized bomber jacket in army green with patches and embroidered details that scream expensive streetwear. Underneath is a fitted black crop top that shows off the subtle glint of a belly piercing, and her legs are wrapped in leather pants that look like they were painted on. Her hair is styled in sleek waves, and she's carrying herself with the kind of confidence that suggests she knows exactly how good she looks.

"Bloody hell," Jude whistles low. "She's gorgeous, mate. Properly fit."

"Look at those legs," Cama adds appreciatively. "How tall did you say she was?"

"Six-two," Aurélien says automatically, his voice slightly hoarse. He licks his lips unconsciously, watching as she moves with that easy athlete's grace he recognizes from his own teammates.

"Six-two," Jude repeats, grinning. "That's almost as tall as you, bruv. Must be nice not having to break your back talking to someone for once."

Aurélien makes a noncommittal sound, but privately he's thinking that Jude isn't wrong. There's something appealing about the idea of being with someone who can look him in the eye, who takes up space with the same kind of unapologetic confidence that comes with being a professional athlete.

"She moves like us," Eduardo observes, his tone more serious now. "Like, you can tell she's elite just by how she walks. That body language....ouf."

It's surprisingly insightful, and Aurélien finds himself nodding. There is something familiar about the way she carries herself—the same kind of controlled confidence he recognizes in elite athletes, the constant subtle awareness of her environment that marks the truly gifted ones.

"Court vision," he says quietly, watching as she starts her warm-up routine. "That's what they call it in basketball."

"You actually know about this sport now?" Jude asks, sounding genuinely surprised. "Fair play to you, that."

The warm-up routine is mesmerizing to watch. Jiana moves through drills with fluid precision, every movement purposeful and controlled. She's stripped down to just the crop top and leather pants now, the bomber jacket folded neatly on the bench, and Aurélien can see the intricate tattoo work covering her arms in more detail.

"Fuck me, she's talented," Cama murmurs as she sinks three consecutive three-pointers from different spots. "Like, properly good."

"She averaged eighteen and eight last season," Aurélien says, then immediately regrets it when both his teammates turn to stare at him.

"Eighteen and eight what?" Jude asks.

"Points and rebounds per game," Aurélien explains, giving up any pretense that this is casual interest. "Those are quality numbers."

"You've been doing homework," Cama grins. "That's actually mad. When did you become a basketball expert?"

Before Aurélien can answer, something catches his attention. Jiana has moved closer to their section of the court, working on shooting drills, and for just a moment their eyes meet across the distance.

It's probably nothing—athletes look at the crowd all the time, especially the expensive seats where sponsors and celebrities sit. But for just a second, he swears she pauses, like she's trying to place where she's seen him before.

"Mate," Jude says quietly. "She's clocking you."

"She's just looking around," Aurélien argues, but his heart rate has definitely increased.

"Nah, she's proper looking at you," Cama chimes in. "And now she's saying something to her teammate."

Sure enough, Jiana has turned to María Sánchez and they appear to be having a brief conversation while glancing toward the courtside seats. It could be about anything, but the way María grins and says something that makes Jiana shake her head suggests it might be about him.

"This is torture," he mutters, running a hand through his hair. "Should've stayed home."

"Are you mental?" Jude laughs. "This is quality entertainment. You're absolutely gone for her."

"I'm not gone for anyone," Aurélien protests weakly. "I just think she's class."

"And fit," Cama adds helpfully.

"And tall," Jude continues.

"And I like that shit," Aurélien says before he can stop himself, then immediately wants to disappear into his seat.

The moment of silence that follows feels like an eternity.

"Did you just—" Jude starts.

"No," Aurélien says quickly. "I didn't say anything."

"You definitely said you like that she's tall," Cama says, barely containing his laughter. "Which is probably the most honest thing you've said all night."

Before Aurélien can respond, the warm-ups end and both teams head back to their locker rooms for final preparations. The break gives him a chance to collect himself, though his teammates seem determined not to let him off the hook.

"So," Jude says, settling back in his courtside seat, "what's the plan here? You gonna try chat her up after the game?"

"There's no plan," Aurélien insists, that lip-licking thing happening again. "We're here to watch basketball, remember?"

"Right," Cama nods. "Basketball. That sport you just now care about."

"I've always been interested in different sports," Aurélien says weakly.

"Name another WNBA player," Jude challenges.

"Besides Jiana?" Aurélien stalls, trying to remember names from his recent research. "Uh... A'ja Wilson?"

"Fair enough," Cama concedes. "That's actually a proper player."

"I told you I've been learning," Aurélien mutters, but he's grateful he managed to pull a name out.

Before the conversation can continue, the teams return to the court for player introductions. The arena goes dark except for spotlight that follows each player, and the crowd's energy shifts from casual excitement to genuine enthusiasm.

"Y desde Los Ángeles, California, la delantera, número veintitrés, ¡Jiana Jackson!"

The spotlight finds her at the tunnel entrance, and Aurélien's breath catches. She's changed into her Madrid Baloncesto uniform—clean white with royal blue accents that somehow make her look even more imposing. The crop top and leather pants have been replaced by the team jersey and matching shorts. Her hair is now pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and she's wearing that game face he's seen in highlights but never in person.

She jogs to center court with easy confidence, acknowledging the crowd's applause with a small wave that manages to be both gracious and completely unbothered.

"Proper class, that," Jude murmurs appreciatively. "She carries herself like she belongs, doesn't she?"

Aurélien nods, not trusting himself to speak. Because "class" doesn't begin to cover what he's seeing. Jiana Jackson in person, in her element, commands attention without demanding it.

The thing that gets him most is how focused she is. She's not looking at their section anymore, not seeking out recognition from the crowd. She's locked in, professional, treating this like the serious competition it is.

"You know what I rate about her?" Cama says quietly.

"What?"

"She's not bothered that we're here," Cama observes. "Like, she probably knows who we are—everyone in Madrid knows who we are—but she's not playing to us or trying to impress anyone. She's just here to ball."

It's exactly what Aurélien has been thinking. Too many people treat meeting him like an opportunity—a photo, a connection, a story to tell. But Jiana Jackson is treating this like what it is: her job, her passion, her chance to prove herself.

"That's what makes her different," he says quietly. "She's not here for anyone but herself and her team."

"And that's what makes you fancy her even more," Jude adds perceptively. "Because she's not trying to impress you, which makes you want to impress her."

Aurélien starts to deny it, then realizes there's no point. "Yeah. Maybe that's exactly what it is."

The game starts with Madrid winning the tip-off, and immediately Aurélien understands why Jiana Jackson is considered elite. She moves like water and strikes like lightning, seeming to anticipate plays before they develop. Her first basket comes three minutes in—a smooth jumper from the free-throw line that doesn't even touch the rim.

"Crisp," Cama murmurs appreciatively. "Look at that technique."

It really is textbook. Perfect shooting form that probably took years to develop, executed with the kind of muscle memory that only comes from thousands of hours in the gym. But what impresses Aurélien more is her court vision, the way she sets up teammates and creates opportunities even when she could easily score herself.

"She's not selfish," he observes, watching as she threads a pass through traffic to set up an easy score for María. "Could've taken that shot herself."

"Smart player," Jude agrees. "Knows when to be aggressive and when to facilitate."

"Like a good midfielder," Cama adds, and Aurélien nods because the comparison actually makes sense. The way Jiana controls tempo and creates opportunities reminds him of how the best midfielders orchestrate games.

By halftime, Madrid is up by fifteen and Jiana has seventeen points, seven rebounds, and five assists. The numbers are impressive, but what's more impressive is how effortless she makes it look. Never forcing anything, never getting frustrated, just consistently making the right play.

"She's gonna be class in Europe," Aurélien says during the break, watching her interact with coaches. "The style here suits her perfectly."

"You mean the team-first mentality?" Jude asks.

"Exactly. American basketball can be very individual-focused, but European basketball is more about system and chemistry. She's already adapting her game."

It's true. Even from their courtside seats, he can see how Jiana is adjusting her usual style to mesh with her new teammates. Less isolation plays, more ball movement, constantly communicating. It's the mark of a truly elite player.

"You actually understand this sport," Cama says with genuine respect. "I'm learning stuff just listening to you."

"It's not that different from football, really," Aurélien explains, his hands moving as he talks. "Reading spaces, creating opportunities, knowing when to be patient and when to attack. The fundamentals are the same."

The second half is even better. Jiana seems to grow more comfortable with each possession, her chemistry with teammates becoming more apparent. She hits a three-pointer that has the crowd on their feet, then immediately celebrates with her team like their success matters more than individual stats.

"Look at her face," Jude says during a timeout. "She's proper enjoying herself out there."

He's right. Despite the professional intensity, there's something joyful about how Jiana plays. She's not grimly grinding through another obligation—she's doing something she genuinely loves.

"That's what passion looks like," Aurélien says quietly, unconsciously tilting his head as he watches her. "When you love something so much that even at the highest level, it still brings you joy."

"You sound like you're talking from experience," Cama observes.

Aurélien thinks about that. Does he still feel that way about football? The joy, the pure love that makes everything worth it? Lately it's been more about pressure and expectations. But watching Jiana reminds him of what it felt like when he was younger, when football was just the thing he loved most rather than the thing he was paid to excel at.

"Maybe I need to remember that feeling," he admits.

The game ends with Madrid winning by twenty-one, Jiana finishing with twenty-four points, ten rebounds, and eight assists. The crowd gives her a standing ovation as she shakes hands with opponents, and she acknowledges the applause with that same gracious wave.

"So," Jude says as they prepare to leave, "you gonna go chat to her then?"

Aurélien looks down at the court, where Jiana is being interviewed by reporters while teammates celebrate around her. Even from a distance, he can see how carefully she answers questions—thoughtful, professional, giving credit to others rather than focusing on her individual performance.

"No," he says finally. "Not tonight."

"Why not?" Cama asks, genuinely curious.

"Because tonight was about her," Aurélien explains, licking his lips as he thinks. "About proving herself to a new team, new city, new league. She doesn't need some footballer interrupting that moment."

Jude and Cama exchange a look that suggests they think he's being overly considerate.

"But you're still interested," Cama says. It's not a question.

Aurélien watches as Jiana finishes her interview and heads toward the locker room, surrounded by teammates who clearly already respect her. She belongs here, in this moment, where her talent speaks louder than any reputation.

"Yeah," he admits. "I'm still interested."

"Then what's the plan?" Jude asks.

Aurélien considers this as they make their way out, nodding to photographers who capture their exit but managing to avoid direct questions about why three Real Madrid footballers spent their night off at women's basketball.

"Be patient," he says finally. "Let her settle in, focus on basketball, get comfortable in Madrid, then maybe I'll see what's up."

"That's very mature of you," Cama says, sounding slightly surprised.

"Or very stupid," Jude adds with a grin. "Depends how you look at it, bruv."

Maybe it is stupid. Maybe he should have gone down to the court, introduced himself properly, and asked her out like a normal person. But something tells him Jiana Jackson isn't the kind of woman who responds well to typical approaches, and that anything worth having with her is going to require more patience than he's used to bringing.

As they walk out into the cool Madrid night, Aurélien pulls out his phone and finds himself scrolling through photos and videos from tonight's game already appearing on social media. There's a particularly good shot of Jiana's game-winning three-pointer, her face a study in focused concentration.

"Research?" Cama asks, looking over his shoulder.

"Appreciation," Aurélien corrects, pocketing his phone. "Just appreciation."

But as he drives home through Madrid's quiet streets, he's already thinking about when he might see her again, and how he can make sure that when he does, it's because she wants to see him too.

For the first time in years, Aurélien Tchouaméni is genuinely interested in getting to know someone who isn't immediately impressed by who he is. And that might be exactly what he's been looking for without knowing it.

TO BE CONTINUED....

[that-smallinjured-bowylamb]

MY NAME IS. BRUTUS.

Damn fourth fic of the day, yeah? Why am I listening to these music while writing? Idk. But let me do my thing ‼️‼️ P.S. All this while it was 5pm in the evening too🙏

Gender Neutral reader

Genre: as you can tell with many others in the singer!reader au posts, Romantic.

Involvement: Main cast

Warnings?: cussy [yk what time it is ‼️‼️], comedy cus I can't live without it, if you see mistakes I'm probably half brain-dead for not noticing it, OOC[just in case], and uhmmm other things idk help me I'm multi-tasking through apps [texting my friends in whatsapp, TikTok, going back to Tumblr, and random ass research that has nothing to do with any of my works 🙏‼️], idk what else to add.

Ayeee shoutout to @sparklybasementcherryblossom

Thank you for reminding me I had this in my playlist!!!

So you see, you've been getting popular recently... but who cares? You're actually getting paid for it so, Letts cook up another one ‼️‼️‼️

And you thought of one thing.

Brutus...

Oh, that name. With so much envy driven into madness. Yes. That one.

You are going to have so much fun with this.

For the next performance.

They have no idea what's coming for them.

You've already set up the stage, and set in the camera for streaming. You've already had a few people in your otherworldly band, so you were happy to do more.

☆~~———~~☆

You've set up the play, it was like everything before, everyone had sat down to see the play, you had new additions for this music, though.

Because it's gonna get loud.

Riddle, Ace, Deuce, and Trey all sat in front since yk, they're your first friends in a dorm?? And so on with Leona, Ruggie, Jack, Azul, Jade, Floyd, Jamil, Vil, Rook, Epel, Idia[tablet], Ortho, Malleus, Silver, Sebek, and who else could be companions of yours.

You've started it.

Now they'll hear it.

The music begins...

It went silent before it got louder and louder.

You hear the chorus of women, humming, singing random incoherent words.

And no one fucking understands.

The beats sounds heavy, like any other songs you've recently played, but this one has something, unspoken, heavy, feeling.

I've been watching him for my entire life,

I hate the air he breathes,

his foolish decrees,

His words so contrived

And I hate the way the townspeople gather outside,

They hang on every breath,

Cling to his chest,

Home to his heart full of pride.

Whoa, now that was a surprising start, your voice seemed exhausted, angry in a way. It's like speaking through your teeth with unbridled rage.

The oracle told him to beware of the Ides,

And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't wishing,

For an untimely death or demise.

You've spat out those words like venom.

DAMN. Right off the bat?? Chill [Name]! Ruggie would've been scared if it weren't it being a music play.

Or am I just wishing just wishing I could be like you?

That the people would see me too as a poet,

And not just the muse.

The envy in your voice pours out for everyone to see.

Rook was wondering if it was pointing to him...

Vil felt a strange feeling of Deja vú.

Oh, it's not true,

I don't wish harm upon you,

You reassured in a mocking way.

Riddle was thinking on what the implications might be... Trey was attentively listening, could you be envious as well? Cater stresmed again, in a more hushed tone.

From birth,

We've been like brothers of different mothers,

within the spirit of the same womb,

May the Gods strike me down if I forsake you,

You sounded desperate, in what way, though?

Frater Meus, you're beautifully made,

And to you,

I'm forever grateful.

I'll never forget that you showed me to make art,

And I know the love you showed me came,

From a pure and noble heart.

Okay... weird thing to say when you literally wished for someone's death...

Idia seemed interested, Ortho likes the emotions put into this, Malleus is wondering why your singing all the time, Vil explained its a form of expression.

I love you,

And if you want, I'll call you king.

You said in a hushed tone.

All are listening closely like a secret being told

But why do I lie awake each night thinking,

"Instead of you, it should be me"?

Jamil looks at you like you've hit amnesia, no shit???

Something wicked this way comes,

And as I set to face it,

I'm unsure.

Should I embrace it, should I run?

The words weigh heavy, lingering in the air, crashing down in suffocation.

What motivates me?

Hatred? Is it love?

What's more wrong:

That I too wish to be great

Or,

My mother wished she'd had a son?

Your voice grows frantic, in a desperate dance.

Everyone is worried on the implications of what it could've meant, jealousy.

You gasp.

And even if I can't be the one,

Maybe I could at least help

Make way for him,

Until the day that he comes?

In a crazed manner, your expression was manic.

Maybe my name could also be known,

That I helped return good to the people,

And restored greatness to Rome?!

You raised your voice slightly.

Making some flinch in surprise.

A chant of 'Brutus' in the background.

A scene of Brutus killing the man she envied.

MY NAME IS BRUTUS,

AND MY NAME MEANS HEAVY,

SO WITH A HEAVY HEART,

I'LL GUIDE THIS DAGGER INTO THE HEART OF MY ENEMY.

Oh! Uhm...

MY WHOLE LIFE,

YOU WERE A TEACHER AND A FRIEND TO ME,

PLEASE KNOW THAT MY ACTIONS ARE NOT ONLY MOTIVATED ONLY BY,

ENVY.

I, TOO, HAVE A DESTINY, THIS DEATH WILL BE ART!

Your voice grew louder and louder, enough to awake the sleeping students.

THE PEOPLE WILL SPEAK OF THIS DAY,

FROM NEAR TO AFAR!

THIS EVENT WILL BE HISTORY,

AND I'LL BE GREAT TOO,

I DON'T WANT WHAT YOU HAVE,

I WANT TO BE YOU...!

The intensity of your voice increases, never ceases. The envy boiling in your tone like a forbidden spell not to be chanted.

The audience is left hypnotized with its intense tones and harsh words, it's like sharpening knives grazed on their ears.

I always knew I could be the one,

Though, I feel the endless pain of being,

And I am scorched by the sun.

What.

-Malleus, probably.

Of humble origins,

And born of the cursed sex,

My name is Brutus,

But the people will call me Rex.

Hushed out a voice from the last verse, a rasp sound in the throat.

The women hum and chant in incoherent voices.

The music ends.

Well done.

The audience was quiet, then finally.

"Wooo! That was amazing!!" Epel yelled.

Everyone erupted into an applause.

You're talented, [Name]. No matter what it is your good at, whether your confident or not.

You'll be recognized by the others.

The End.

OOUUFF DONEEE!!!

Enjoy !!! :>

[caughtnyact]

Yay Thedas Weekend! For Emmrich/f!Mercar: "Tell me where it hurts, and be specific." from the injury dialogue prompts?

Hi hi! This is so late because I got way too into this idea lmao thank you for enabling me to provide this nonsense for @thedasweekend

Rook dislocates her shoulder and goes to her resident necromancer for some medical assistance (and no other reason whatsoever.) Rook makes it weird. Pre-romance because the unaddressed sexual tension is hilarious, and I have a puckish side that will not be denied

Mature - 1,491 words

“Rook, are you sure you’re okay?” Neve emerged gracefully from the Vi’Revas, turning back to make sure Bellara and Rook were close behind.

“Oh, you know,” Rook laughed through a wince, “I’ll just need to lay down for a bit.”

“Rook. You fell off a building.” Neve’s tone expressed concern, but her eyes betrayed an amusement at how ridiculous their trip to Treviso ended up being. It was Bellara that had the idea to ambush the group of Venatori by catching air off of a zipline. It certainly caught them by surprise when Rook had overshot the landing and flew over the edge of the roof.

“It’s fiiiiiiine, Neve,” Rook dismissed. “I’m just happy that I landed in that cart of cabbages.” Neve was unconvinced; Rook seemed to be fine, but her mageknife arm has remained at her side since they dispatched the Venatori.

As the ladies made their way up the steps towards the main room of the library, Neve got an idea. “Hey, Rook,” she tossed her pen at Rook’s left side, “Catch!”

Rook reflexively reached out her hand to catch the pen. “Fuck—” she cried as her arm stalled out and the pen fell to the floor.

“Ah, yes, how silly of me to be concerned.”

“Ya know, Rook, you should really get your shoulder checked out,” Bellara chimed in. “I can stabilize injuries in a pinch, but I’m not a professional.” Rook rubbed her shoulder, feeling the odd angle that her bone jutted out. Perhaps this wasn’t an injury she could walk off after all.

Neve’s lips curled into a smirk. “Let’s go, Bellara— Rook has an appointment with our most enthusiastic healer.” Rook dramatically rolled her eyes as the two ladies split off towards the kitchen while she continued up the library stairs.

Rook hesitated to knock on the laboratory door. The ladies were right to tease her; Rook had flirted a few times with their resident necromancer, but she could not get a read on how he felt about it all. It started out as playful friendliness on her part, but she quickly found him to be an interesting man of superior intellect; it also helped that he was extremely easy on the eyes.

The sound of Manfred's feet clacking down the hallway snapped her out of her daydreaming. “Hiss!”

"Hiya, Manfred! How's my favorite boy doing?" Rook couldn’t help but smile as she patted the top of his skull. The second Emmrich revealed his skeleton assistant, she insisted he come along with them. Manfred had taken very quickly to her upon their arrival to the Lighthouse as well. They played many a game of Rock Paper Scissors, after all.

Manfred grabbed at Rook’s hand to lead her into the laboratory, as he always did, but Rook winced in pain. “Ah— Sorry, buddy, that’s why I’m here, actually.”

He stopped in his tracks, tilting his skull in confusion. “Hiss?”

Rook could hear Emmrich’s hurried footsteps down the stairs, clearly startled by the commotion. "Manfred, are you alright? I heard a shout— Oh, Rook! What might I do for you, my dear?”

“Hiss!” Manfred pointed at Rook’s arm.

“Hey, Emmrich,” Rook smiled. “Had a little mishap in Treviso and was wondering if you might be able to take a look at it.”

"Ah,” Emmrich clicked his teeth, “Of course, darling. Please show me where it hurts, and be specific." She gestured to her shoulder with her other hand. Emmrich ghosted his fingers over the bone, wincing as she flinched under his touch.

“Just so! Rook, your shoulder is almost certainly dislocated. Thankfully it appears to be a simple subluxation— if it were a full dislocation, this would have been much more unpleasant.”

“Soooo…. would you be able to pop it back in so I can get back into the field?”

Emmrich simply gestured for Rook to lay down on the exam table. She hesitantly hopped up onto the table and waited for instruction.

He stepped away for a second, returning with a small throw pillow. “Please lie down, if you would,” he instructed. As she laid her head down, Emmrich tapped the table gently next to her ear.

“Oh, thank you,” Rook blushed and lifted her head for him to gingerly slide the pillow under her.

Rook looked up at him through her lashes as he stood behind her head. From this angle, her mind wandered to dangerous places. It would be so easy for her to tilt her head back and open her mouth for him to use as he pleased. She was grateful that Emmrich couldn't read her mind.

"First thing's first, my dear," he asserted, "I must ensure your trapezius is as relaxed as possible. It would cause you more harm to attempt this while you are tense."

He reached over to grab some kind of massage oil, pouring a coin-sized amount onto his hands and rubbed them together to distribute it evenly. This was not how Rook had imagined this would go, but she certainly didn’t mind. “I’m going to touch you now,” he explained. “The oil might feel a tad warm.”

Come on, Rook, she pleaded with herself. Think about something unsexy.

All rational thought ceased completely as hands met skin. Whether it was something in this massage oil or whatever kind of magic he was imbuing his hands with, Rook felt the most delicious warmth spread through her muscles. He started at her neck, wrapping his delicate fingers around her throat. As his thumbs began to work the deep-set knots down the back of her neck, Rook fought the urge to sink into his touch.

“My word, these muscles are tight.”

“I appreciate you helping me out,” Rook admitted. “I owe you big time— Neve was practically ready to drag me back through the eluvian to see the Shadows’ medic.”

“Perish the thought, my dear. You do so much for us all, it’s the least I could do.”

His thumbs continued to rub circles into her neck— breathing steadily was becoming increasingly difficult. Emmrich must have sensed this, as he pulled his hands away. “Rook, I fear you aren’t relaxing. Perhaps it would help to do some breathing exercises.”

“Okay,” Rook exhaled, “How do I do that?”

“Oh, it’s quite simple. Just breathe through your nose, like so,” he demonstrated, “and out through your mouth.” As Rook began to do the same, Emmrich poured more oil onto his hands. She felt herself becoming lightheaded as her breathing remained shallow.

He tutted soothingly as he returned to his ministrations. “You’re breathing too quickly, my dear. I find it helps to count down in my head,” he suggested. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Rook felt her shoulders finally easing, her eyes closing as she surrendered to his touch. His hands started moving towards her front along the clavicles. “That’s it, darling. Slow. Deep.”

This is getting way too erotic, Rook thought as she rubbed her thighs together for some kind of relief. She could feel herself starting to blush across her chest as his hands continued further away from her shoulders. There was no way he didn’t know what he was doing to her, right? She searched his face for any indication of his intentions, but he appeared to be completely unfazed. Rook closed her eyes once more and tried to focus on the task at hand. The last thing she’d want to do is make him uncomfortable, especially while he was doing her a kindness. She had barely noticed as his left hand swiftly crossed over to meet with the other, working towards her injured shoulder. His right hand moved gently around the joint towards her back, and without warning he quickly snapped her shoulder back into place.

“Oh fuck—” Rook threw her head back as the most obscene moan escaped her lips. As she came back to herself, Rook saw the color had almost completely drained from Emmrich’s face. The professional composure had finally slipped— the sound of her pleasure practically bounced off the laboratory walls and straight to his cock. She thanked the Maker Himself that she was still eye-level with his quickly tightening trousers.

“My word,” he breathed. His hands were still holding onto Rook’s shoulder for dear life, as if to ground himself. He quickly removed them before he lingered too long. “I mean, that is to say, you should be all set now.”

Rook sat up and flexed her arm for signs of pain. “It feels good as new! Thank you again, Emmrich.”

“You are most welcome, darling. If you’re amenable, I would like to see you again— to ensure that nothing else needs to be done, of course.” Clearly still flustered, Emmrich retreated to find a cloth to wipe his oily hands on.

“Oh, you know me,” Rook smirked. “I’m sure I’ll find any excuse to come see you again.”

[hardyimagines]

Trapped

Incomplete request I recieved💗 ilysm, i’m specifically ending this at a point where I can do a part 2 should I ever get my ass around to it.

———————————————————————

The small dusty space you found yourself cornered in was far from ideal. The tight area stunk of spilled liquor and sweat-drenched men. The temptation to plug your nose in order to block out the scents was strong, but you were too busy banging on the sturdy, wooden door in front of you. Your palms were quickly reddening as you hammered them repeatedly against the block of wood, disregarding any and all restraint.

“Are you going to help me?” Your heavy puff of air told your boss that you were getting more and more agitated by the second.

“Right,” The bearded bloke in the corner straightened for only half a second before slouching once more against the wall and busying himself with his previous task — picking at his dirt ridden fingernails. “You’ve got it, pet, what fucking help am I gonna be, crowding you and hitting the door just as fucking noisily? We’re far from the lads, ain’t we? Nobody fucking hears you, yeah, not right now, but they’ll come fucking looking for me in no time. I am the boss, right?” His hands extended, as if ushering to his almighty self. He briefly looked toward you when the piercing heat from your unwavering gaze called his attention.

“Unbelievable.” You murmured before taking a small step back. The closet was tiny. Every time you twisted, your elbow hit the wall or a stray object that was perched on a shelf — and if it wasn’t something then it was someone and that someone didn’t take too kindly to the way you stumbled into his bubble of personal space.

Currently, you had your back pressed against the door you’d just been banging on. It was rough against your back, catching on the material of your dress. Your eyes moved from your boss, to the floor, and then back to him again. Your toes were inches from his, impossible to move elsewhere because of the clutter that lined the interior. How hard was it to clean this room out? It seemed like this was just the junk stash and you found it completely out of ordinary that the pair of you had managed to get locked away inside. You lifted your palms to your face and hid your expression from the man. You felt so.. seen.

Alfie noticed the tension and he expected it.

A week ago.

Alfie brushed his thumb along the cold sheet of glass that bordered his office wall. The window was stained with a blur of fog, murky and fuzzy making it hard for him to see anything in the street below. He lifted his hand to his face and lazily pulled at the soft strands that coated his chin, tugging and caressing them absentmindedly as he busied himself with anything except for work. He deserved a break every now and then too. A hot breath of air left his lips and wafted over the cold glass before vanishing as quickly as it had come. The man twisted away from the window and set off back toward his desk, but because of the new placement of your workspace, he tumbled right into the much smaller desk that you’d been given. His thigh rammed against the sharp corner, something which ordinarily would’ve pulled a string of curses from his lips, but when the desk shook, a thin piece of paper managed to slip free from its hidden position and fall willingly through the air to land beside the toe of his boot. He peered down at the thin sheet, ignoring the throbbing pain from the forming bruise and red, irritated patch of skin on his leg. He scrutinized the blurry words before slowly hunching over to grasp ahold of the corner of the page, lifting it from the dusty floorboards. His thumb moved along the soft paper, blue eyes drinking in every smudged letter on the initially blank sheet.

Privacy.

His brain warned him clearly. But temptation gripped every crevice of his brain and body, keeping him rooted in place. He read it once. Twice. He’d already overstepped, he couldn’t go back now. And seeing the words, *those words*, were enough for him to forget what was morally correct. He subconsciously moved toward his desk. The heavy thump of his loud boots accompanied the loud pump of his anxious heart as he made his way toward the sturdy, oak. Perching on the corner, he barely breathed.

Your handwriting was so satisfying. A swift swoop here and there, curves and circles and near perfect cursive. His touch grazed the borders, tender, as if it were you he was touching instead of a mere note. This was definitely an invasion of privacy, but the longer he read, the harder he found it to put the thing down. It was all about you and your feelings and the fact that you very much so felt something strong for him — your boss.

His cheeks had gone hot a long time ago. Though he was entirely composed. The usually cold room felt like it had been doused in gasoline and then lit with the stick of a match. Lugging the paper away from his eyesight, as if it weighed a hundred pounds, he shoved himself off of his desk and moved back toward your area. Lifting one of the books you had stacked high in a pile, he did his best to place the paper back in a secretive place. He wasn’t sure where it had come from.. not exactly, so this was just a guessing game. And a poor one at that.

The door behind him opened and before he could retreat, he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar. A sharp gasp left your lips, a sound of worry and plea. He could tell right away that this note was not meant to ever be read by him and she was humiliated to see that he had. Guilt surged, filled him in milliseconds.

“What is that?” Your voice cut into his raging thoughts.

“Nothing.” He growled, like he could defend your secret. “The paper, yeah, it just fucking fell. Wasn’t doing nothing, right, pet, just fucking putting the damn thing back.” He glanced in your direction, eyes glazed over. He was trying to mask his reaction. You straightened.

“Don’t lie to me, Alfie.” You whispered breathily. “Did you read it?”

He didn’t hesitate. Why would he? Lying to her wouldn’t benefit him. “Look, pet, it wasn’t fucking intentional — I wasn’t going through your things, right, just happened to hit your desk and the paper,” He barely had time to usher toward the thing before you curled into yourself. He felt the tension before he saw it. You were stiff, unmoving, and he could see your eyes growing increasingly watery. “I..” He couldn’t make excuses. How difficult would it have been for him to hunch over, grab the damn thing, and set it back on your desk? Apparently impossible. There was no time for him to even explain himself.. or comment on your feelings before Ollie had opened the door, mouth moving faster than he could conjure the words and the moment was gone.

But not the tension. Not the friction your little secret and his snooping eyes had conjured.

Present

That weight still hadn’t sizzled out. You’d been exposed without asking to be, and worse it hadn’t come from your lips and he hadn’t been given the chance to respond.

“I refuse to believe you can’t get us out of here.” Your quiet voice was enough to pull Alfie out of his wondering thoughts. He shifted stiffly before straightening. Your back was toward him again as you brushed your fingertips along the length of the door, searching for a weak point. Pushing once and then twice, you moaned out in agitation. Alfie sighed quietly before extending his arm. His fingertips were hot against your arm, but the contrast of his cold silver rings made you shiver before looking over your shoulder toward him. He knew how you felt for him. He knew how deep and strong the feelings you held for him were.. and it left you feeling vulnerable. Nevertheless, you kept a strong face, one that looked rather careless when he was touching you. Internally, you thought you might implode.

“Right, pet, shall I shout at the top of my fucking lungs in hopes of my voice being louder than the fucking machinery upstairs?” He hulked forward. His boots scuffed the ground audibly, hands withdrawing from your body before sliding along the length of his own forearms so he could roll his sleeves up. It was getting hotter and hotter with each passing moment in the tight space and he was getting uncomfortable from the claustrophobic closet.

His proximity was the least of your concerns. You didn’t actually think he was capable of aiding you in your escape. He had a point. Nobody could hear you, and the door wasn’t going to budge. You were damn near close to just sinking down to the floor and waiting like he’d said. But your stomach twisted with fury at being trapped.

You unknowingly shifted in front of him. Your foot retreated back a step, trying to get a better look at the door. Alfie stepped forward, ready to lend a helping hand finally. Your body hit his hard enough to make him grunt. He growled, grabbed your hip and straightened himself behind you, keeping you steady. The heat in the small space tripled, his fingers flexing against your dress before he closed his eyes and took a small step back.

“Right, get out of the way then before I damn near crush you.” He grunted, his fingers sliding around to your lower back, steering you aside. You maneuvered silently, the press of his body against your own staining your memory regardless of whether you tried to forget or not. You turned, hand bracing against his arm as you pushed past.

He wasn’t moving. Not at first. Rigid, strong. His arms hung at his sides, his breaths quiet. He was collecting himself. The warm press of your soft body against his had been enough to make his body react. He clenched his jaw and took a step forward, annoyingly turned on because he could still feel the indent of you molded against him.

He stepped around you, too fast, too rushed. His boot hit the shelf and it came forward without hesitation. Alfie had barely any time to blink before the metal fell against the wall and lessened the space they’d initially had. You let out a cry of surprise, followed by a groan of disbelief. “Mr. Solomons!” You seethed in panic. He was standing too close now, so close. He had no choice, one boot lifted to perch on the fallen shelf while the other planted comfortably against the floor.

The clutter in the closet near tripled and now you were really trapped. Trapped not only in this tight ass space, but trapped with a man that you were livid at. Your body was forced to settle against his. He shifted for several moments, tried to get leverage and move items that blocked his path to space, but barely anything budged. He let out a defeated sound and slumped uncomfortably against the shelf, wiggling now and then to try and get his arms free without knocking into you.

Beads of sweat formed lightly along the expanse of your forehead. You reached up in annoyance, wiping at your skin with the back of your hand. You tried to inch to the side, tried to step forward and give him a little more room. Every movement made you brush against one another. You refused to give up, refused to accept that you’d be stuck in here for who knew how many hours.

“Pet.” Alfie ground out. You didn’t respond, you merely hunched forward and wrapped your fingers around the bottom of the shelf, tugging in hopes it would loosen. “Pet..” he tried again, more warning present in his tone but you were careless as to what he had to say. You continued to squirm, wiggle, and fidget in front — on — him. It was only when he set his thick fingers on the curve of your waist that you stilled. “S’ a bit uncomfortable, yeah, all your fidgeting.”

You tipped your head in the slightest, the confusion in your eyes fading into realization. You straightened out of instinct, apologetic and alarmed that you’d been brushing against him and hadn’t even realized. Not to that extent. The motion of your body, angling upright, momentarily applied further pressure to the front of his crotch. Your entire face felt instantly hot and your pink lips parted to speak.

The words didn’t form, didn’t flee. The sight of Alfie was enough to render her silent. He looked somewhat shy, averting his gaze like he felt guilty for being any amount of aroused. He shuffled his feet in an attempt to draw your attention away from the space between his legs. You swallowed hard, blinked, and then tore your eyes away. You blames your dress, it was too thick for you to even notice what you’d been doing. After a few moments of shyly wringing your hands in the sides of your blue dress, you sucked in a quiet breath.

“That easy?” You whispered breathily in attempt to add some amount of comedic relief to the suffocating space. The corner of his lips twitched before he shook his head and gently nudged your form forward. You didn’t go very far for there wasn’t anywhere else to go.

“Right, careful, yeah. You were fucking rubbing against me — intentionally it seemed.” His eyes twitched, challenging you. He could make you just as uncomfortable — whilst still holding on to that playfulness.

“It wasn’t intentional.” You murmured in the small space. Your breaths hot and frustrated.

“Whatever you say, temptress.” The want to bring up the note he’d read, regarding your feelings to him, was strong but he didn’t want you feeling stressed or on the spot, especially when there was enough of that.

“What’s that suppose to mean?” You narrowed your eyes and turned to face him with an impatience. You heard the little dip in his voice, the accusation. There was a moment of hesitation, as if he was pondering just how far this little game could go before one of you would take something too serious. Nevertheless, he played on.

“It means I think you’d love to see me all hot and fucking bothered, wouldn’t you?” He uttered hoarsely.

Your eyes snapped up to his own. “I think I’m already seeing that, Mr. Solomons.” The subtle eye-drop to his crotch made him straighten.

“I’m hardly bothered, yeah, just a little fucking..” He made an attempt to step back in the slightest, but he hit the wall immediately. There was absolutely no room.

“Stiff?” You almost giggled. Folding your arms over your chest slowly, you ran your tongue along your lips before nodding mockingly.

The man placed his hands on his hips, rings almost visible even in the dim lighting that fell on the pair of you. His eyes ran along your features before he slowly leaned forward, neck and head being the only thing that neared you, the rest of his body remained slouched against the wall. “Let us not forget, right, that I fucking read that pretty little note of yours, yeah, i fuckin’ did, so I think, if anything, you should be thankful you’ve got me right where you want me, yeah, instead of running your pretty little mouth? Unless you’ve got something you’re willing to confess?”

Neither of you had brought up the letter filled with your feelings, so the second that he did, you went rigid like he’d slapped you. The room felt as if it were an oven and you were on fire.

Clearing your throat noisily, you closed your eyes for a second, grateful for the dim lighting because you felt at least a little hidden. “Alfie.. you weren’t suppose to read that.” You told him softly. “And the fact that you did..”

“It fell.” He murmured. “I didn’t rummage through your fucking things, right, I wasn’t invading your privacy intentionally, pet, yeah, see, I was looking out the fucking window then, clumsy fucker I am, hit your desk and it fell.” He moved his hands around in visible circles, gesturing with every word that left his lips before he lifted his hand to the back of his neck, lazily rubbing the skin that resided there. It was a nervous gesture. You shifted slowly, eyes curiously flickering between his own.

“So? You picked it up and accidentally read it?” You shook your head.

“No. I picked it up and upon glancing.. I saw my fucking name and it made me curious, right, was just..” He didn’t know how to defend himself. He supposed he was still in the wrong. “I didn’t mean to go through your things.”

You nodded once. “Get us out of this closet and I’ll forgive you.” You whispered before turning away from the much larger man.

Alfie wrinkled his nose. He wasn’t sure how he was meant to get the two of you out. “Pet.. have you not been listening to a word I’ve been saying.” He paused. “I can’t just fucking beat the wall with my fist and shout, right, nobody will hear me. We just have to be fucking patient.” He grumbled before shaking his head. His hand discreetly slid to the front of his trousers, adjusting the restraining waistband.

Getting out of here would take time. Time that neither of you wanted to be stuck in. Too many things were left unsaid, too many questions unasked and unanswered.

It felt like an eternity that the silence stretched. Alfie would move every now and then, his hand bracing against her - mindful not to nudge or push too much.

“Can I ask you something?” His husky voice sounded so much rougher when he whispered. A shiver raced along your spine, something you weren’t use to feeling and found almost impossible to cover up. A light nod of your head was all he received in response. “If you’ve got all these fucking feelings, right, bubbling inside you and eating away at you.. why haven’t you said anything?” Alfie sounded so out of character, quietly making inquiries, almost as if he were too afraid to ask.

You were defensive, at first. Then you calmed before your mouth could respond. What was the point in hiding how you felt now anyway — he already knew, he just didn’t have the details.

“I didn’t think it appropriate to feel the way I do about you.” You told him almost inaudibly. Your focus was still on the rusted, cracked, but impossibly strong door.

“Because of the age difference?” He murmured, fingertips gliding along the block of wood you’d just touched. A small snort left your nose before you shook your head and tipped your head to the side to see him better.

“An age gap is the least of my worries, Mr. Solomons, I actually like the fact that you’re older.” The longer you spoke, the more you shied away, but he didn’t let you get too far. “You’re my boss. Didn’t peg you for the ‘sleep with my assistant’ type.” You confessed before brushing your fingers through your hair. “So I kept my distance.” You shrugged.

Alfie almost smiled, but just barely managed to bite back the involuntary twitch that formed at the corners of his mouth. “Now, I never fucking asked you to do that, did I?” He pressed, his hand shifting until he grabbed your elbow firmly and turned you around to face him. “Never once said I’d never date an employee.”

His eyes were dark as they searched the entirety of your face, drinking in details and imprinting them in his memory. He squinted, narrowed his eyes as his fingers lifted, brushing along the front of your throat. “You looked far too fucking pleased, yeah, to see me *riled*.” His tone was accusing as he stepped in closer.

You didn’t flinch under the proximity or his words. How long could you lie to yourself and pretend like this wasn’t exactly what you wanted? Your fingertips lifted, shaking only faintly as they brushed along the sleeves of his white shirt. You’d envisioned this thousands of times. But the real thing would never be like what you’d pictured. It would be so much more.

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

Quick run-through of M.O.D. pv observations and commentary:

They’re all in their Bridon arc outfits at the beginning, when they start playing! Is that because that’s where the game “started”, with Liu Xiao coaxing Cheng Xiaoshi to Bridon and Lu Guang making a big change in the timeline by arranging Vein’s death, or is it just because those are the most recent designs and they wanted to use them for no particular reason?

Qiao Ling, I support you in your new business, but may I suggest a slightly more extensive menu…?

…and maybe some better behaved workers… what’s wrong with them… (also Lu Guang, you ain’t slick, I see that smile)

…escaped prisoner, huh? Is this just referring to his time crime of trying to save Cheng Xiaoshi or is this something else too?

I nearly screamed at this. Qiao Ling??? HELLO? (I almost never say this but. Um. 😳)

Interesting progression. Lu Guang zips his jacket up as Qiao Ling and Cheng Xiaoshi reach out to point, only for their images to disappear and be replaced with “No Signal” as Lu Guang walks forward away from them. The zipping of his jacket covers the bottom part of his face, so it may have to do with his isolation in this. Maybe.

On the final screen for this song, there’s the letter “S” on the top and bottom parts of this image. The top could be an S • G or an S + G and then a “?”. Unknown effects from SYY and LG trying to avert death nodes?

Xia Fei you have such wonderful flirty dumbass energy here. Extreme Tamaki Suou vibes.

He gets taken out in one hit by Qiao Ling 😭

BRO WATCH YOUR SWORD!!!

save him

Ah, finally. Their true forms revealed.

What if you 🫵 wanted to fight the evil demon final boss but the evil demon final boss wanted to play mahjong

Whoa the vampire vibes in PAIN…

Why is this so erotic…? The mannequins but also the strings…? Xia Fei’s wine dyeing the white flowers?Liu Xiao clearly, ah, enjoying himself? Uhh

Oh, Vein has a cross here, which means he might not be the vampire, but the vampire hunter.

And they’re secret agents now. Really putting the Agents in “Time Agents” hehe

This seems to be the only part of the text that is legible. Not super informative…

Tbh. Kind of a good look for him. (Less the gun and more his expression… openly kind of pissed off but still focused and in control. Yeah I’d like to see more of that please.)

Holy fuck Cheng Xiaoshi jumped in there so fast to save Lu Guang I couldn’t even get a proper screenshot of it. Okay.

Hello my sweetie. My boy. Angel 😊 I say, right before he shoots me directly in the face

(Though if CXS shoots me, I am going to assume I deserve it.)

Well. That was fun. I’m excited!

[starhxney]

How can you get gayer this pride month?

Here's a little something in honor of pride month... EVERYONE GET GAYER NOW 🗣️🗣️🗣️ (but really just getting more in tune with the self)

Pile 1

I'm hearing get your get back. Be gay, do crime. Sexy revenge posting. Get sexy and put yourself out there, you're literally a baddie. You. Are. A. Baddie. Post those sexy pictures you've been hiding in your phone. Get all dressed up and go outside. Once you indulge in this energy of just feeling yourself and wanting to let the world know, you are going to have to beat the people off with a stick.

By the end of the month you might leave with a baddie on your arm and a new sense of self. Also having clear goals and knowing what you want will help you in all of this and more. If you want love, a hookup, new friends, whatever the case may be you HAVE TO get outside.

Channeled Songs: touch tank by quinnie, Mary Jane by Orion Sun, Get Sexy by Pgsspence

Pile 2

For my pile 2's I'm hearing get smart... Read... Indulge yourself in learning queer history because there is richness in knowing your history and in the history itself. I'm also hearing the word confess. Maybe some of you have a crush on somebody and you were thinking about saying something but you just haven't so you may want to spill the beans... Do it for the plot... Of looooooove ;) Yea... you should really confess. I'm also hearing something about and actually smelling lemonade soooo whoever that is for, there you go 🤷‍♀️ I'm also hearing that some of you might be coming out a period of rest and just inactivity and may be looking to get out and get active but not knowing what to do.

I'm hearing something about getting a job. 444. You're the embodiment of "will the plans make it out of the group chat".... Your brain is the group chat and now you are really looking to get out (similar to pile 1 so maybe you should read that one too if you feel called to) What do you want to accomplish this month? Evaluate what you need to do to reach your goals, what would make you happy, what you can do to go up from this point on. Actively thinking about what you want to do and about what you can do to be fulfilled this month. Try new things. If you can't think of anything, try anything and everything and with that I'm hearing think less, do more. After this summer you're gonna be like "let's run it back".

Channeled Songs: Can't Help My Self by Four Tops, If you do by GOT7, Still Down by H.E.R., Satisfied from Hamilton The Musical

Pile 3

You can get gayer by working on your self concept. Creating a better inner world for yourself. Working on your self concept can do so much for your inner and outer world. It can make things so much more beautiful and easier for the self and with that also getting to know yourself better. Experiment. I feel like you may have been grieving or just coming out of a period of sadness and you're looking for direction on how to lift yourself up and out. I want to say I love you.

Nourish yourself, do the things you like and don't give a fuck about what anyone else has to say and don't let yourself sabotage your greatness. You've been through a lot and you deserve to be happy. Care for yourself and affirm that you are the master of your reality. Do things that remind you that life is beautiful and you will have a breakthrough. You will have a change in your mind and the way you think. You deserve to feel the light.

Channeled Songs: Set Fire to The Rain by Adele, Here I Stand by Usher, Feel The Light by Jennifer Lopez

Here is a subliminal from a trusted sub maker!

Pile 4

Hiiii pile 4's :3, for you I'm feeling you need to express your truths this month. I feel like you're sitting on a big bag rn... Or how do they say it.. sitting on a gold mine. I feel like you have so much to offer and that there are so many things that you are juggling when you know there is this one specific thing that you really want to do right now. You have something to offer to the world. Maybe even multiple. There's something you want to put out and share.

You have the confidence to do it, it's just that you're indecisive but once you know what you want to do... when you give/share, you'll receive. Whatever it is you're thinking of releasing, putting out, saying, doing, that idea that you thought you should wait on... put that shit out NYEOW! Whatever it is you want to offer to the world or to a person, give it... I guarantee you'll be surprised. Like something so unexpected, in the best way. Whatever it is, it'll be well received. Be open cuz you're gonna be a big winner.

Channeled Songs: Do U Wrong by Levin Kali, Big Rich Town by 50 Cent

Happy pride month to all my queers out there. I love you! Let me know how I did and if this resonated with you. This is the start of something magnificent ⊂⁠(⁠(⁠・⁠▽⁠・⁠)⁠)⁠⊃

[auroralwriting]

illicit affairs chapter seven

pairing: biker!bucky barnes x stark!reader

summary: wanda and natasha are still pushing you to talk to bucky, especially now that you've joined the southside avengers. plus, it's your first mission. what could go wrong?

warnings: violence, language, small age gap (6~ years), angst, arguing, drinking, overall crime and gang stuff, sort of enemies to lovers

: ̗̀➛ series masterlist | masterlist

In the days since you'd left the Stark Syndiates, you felt more free than ever. You finally felt like you had a place to be with the Avengers. Steve was quick to take you in, making you feel more welcomed than you'd ever had with the Syndicates.

Natasha and Wanda were doing everything in their power to make you feel comfortable. Every night was a different adventure with them—shopping sprees, a little light stealing, some vandalism for kicks, and even getting your nails done. It was everything you'd ever wanted from girls in a gang. A family that wasn’t just about power and territory, but about loyalty and freedom.

Tonight, you were out with them. Natasha’s sharp eyes constantly scanning the streets, Wanda’s quiet power humming just beneath the surface.

"So," Wanda said, kicking a little rock with her feet. "Talk to Barnes yet?"

You sighed, "Of course not. I mean—what would I even say? 'Hey, I think you might've killed my parents, but I'm not sure. Tony sure hates you. So.. did you?'"

"Well don't fucking say that," Natasha chuckled from beside you. "Just ask him for his side of the story."

"That's still sort of just asking if he killed her parents," Wanda mused, raising a brow to the redhead. Natasha gently shoved her shoulder in response, giving a small huff. "Then do it however you'd like, Stark. It's up to you."

The night air was cool but thick with tension, the kind that settled in your chest whenever you were out in the city with Natasha and Wanda. Natasha’s gaze flicked sharply from shadow to shadow, her body taut and ready to move at any sign of trouble. Wanda’s presence was more subtle. A quiet, pulsing energy just beneath the surface, like a calm before a storm.

You glanced between them, feeling the weight of their expectations and their support. It was different from anything you'd ever known with the Syndicates. Here, you were more than just a pawn or an outsider. You belonged.

Wanda nudged your arm lightly, her voice softer now. “You know, maybe it doesn’t have to be a big, scary confrontation. Just... a conversation.”

You laughed, a little bitter but mostly relieved. “Easy for you to say. You haven’t had to wonder if someone you trusted was responsible for tearing your world apart.”

Natasha rolled her eyes but gave you a small, genuine smile. “You don’t have to figure it all out in one night. Start small. Maybe just say hi. Then ask questions later.”

Before you could respond, your phones buzzed almost simultaneously—a message from Steve: We’re near the warehouse. Heading your way. Stay sharp.

Natasha’s expression hardened. “Looks like the boys are close. Let’s meet up.”

Wanda’s fingers tingled lightly, her eyes already scanning the streets ahead. “Stay alert. Hydra’s been quiet, but that never means they’re gone.”

You swallowed, a strange mix of nerves and excitement twisting inside you. This was your new life. A chance to start over, to find the truth, and maybe, finally, some peace.

As you moved through the dim streets toward the rendezvous point, the glow from the city lights flickered around you, shadows dancing just out of reach. The night was far from over.

Tonight was your first mission with the Southside Avengers. Nothing too intense, just fucking up some Hydra boys who had been following Sam, likely for some information about their business with Nicholas Fury, leader of Shield.

Hydra was dangerous, sure, but these guys were scrappy, reckless—a far cry from the well-oiled machine Fury ran. You had heard bits and pieces about Shield, they weren’t just a spy agency or a military outfit. They were something else. A shadow government operating in the gray areas, weaving together intelligence, diplomacy, and sometimes dirty work to keep the world from spiraling into chaos. Their influence stretched from scientific research to covert operations, from counter-terrorism to monitoring global threats that most people didn’t even know existed.

Where Hydra thrived on brute force and fear, Shield played the long game. They manufactured stability, manipulating events behind the scenes. They developed advanced tech, negotiated delicate alliances, and handled the clean-up after the Avengers saved the day, making sure nothing got out of control. Their business wasn’t just about fighting bad guys; it was about controlling the narrative, protecting secrets, and making sure no one else got the upper hand.

Hydra used to be much more dangerous, but that was years and years ago. They were still trying to regroup and gain money and power. It would be a long time before they were ever a huge pain in the ass. Until then, they were little pains, but pains that had to be taken care of nonetheless.

Walking into the warehouse, Steve sent you all a sharp nod. Bucky and Sam were sat on some crates, their faces annoyed, brooding looks, mainly directed at each other. They were probably arguing like "normal," if you had to guess. According to Wanda, that is.

"First mission, Stark," Steve commented, squeezing your shoulder. "The Syndicates ever do missions like these?"

You shook your head, "No. More like fucking up anyone who dared bat an eye their way. But even then, I wasn't involved."

"Well, welcome to your first mission," Sam replied, hopping off the crate, shooting Bucky a small glare.

"Alright, it's gonna be an easy one. Sam's gonna come inside to guide Hydra in, too. They think he's alone, so once they follow inside, we jump them. Quick, easy, done. Got it?" Everyone nodded in response.

The warehouse loomed before you, its skeletal metal beams and cracked concrete walls swallowed in darkness. The faint smell of oil and rust filled the air, thick and heavy like a warning you couldn’t ignore. Steve gave the signal, sharp and silent, and everyone melted into the shadows, finding their places.

You pressed yourself against a stack of crates, the rough wood biting into your palms as you crouched low. Your breath was shallow, every sense stretched taut. The distant hum of the city filtered in through broken windows, but inside, time seemed to stretch and still.

Natasha vanished into a shadowed corner near the loading dock, her movements fluid and practiced. Wanda drifted close to a pillar, her fingers twitching ever so slightly, the faint pulse of her power vibrating in the air like an electric current just beneath the surface. Bucky leaned against a rusted support beam, his metal arm almost invisible in the gloom, eyes narrowed and alert.

Steve’s voice came low and urgent. “Sam’s coming. Don’t move until we give the word.”

The silence dragged on. Your heart hammered in your chest, each second twisting the knot in your stomach tighter. You tried to steady your breath, but every tiny noise—the scrape of a loose piece of metal, a distant car horn—made you jump. Then, footsteps.

Sam moved like a shadow, slipping through the cavernous space with ease. His eyes scanned the dim room, taking in the broken crates, the cracked walls, the empty barrels. He was calm—too calm, maybe—but focused. Like he knew what was coming.

You watched, waiting, every muscle coiled like a spring. And then, just as Sam reached the far side of the warehouse, a sound from the entrance—a muffled shuffle, a sharp scrape of boots.

Hydra.

At first, it was a trickle. Two, three men slipping in, weapons drawn, eyes cold and hungry. You tensed, ready to spring into action. But then the trickle turned into a flood.

More figures poured through the door than anyone expected, their numbers swelling like a dark tide. The harsh clatter of boots echoed off the concrete, mixing with low, cruel laughter and the unmistakable snap of weapons being readied. Dozens. Maybe more. They swarmed the warehouse like locusts, filling every shadow, every corner. It was no longer a small scouting party—it was an ambush.

Everyone jumped out quickly, guns firing, the sound of fists hitting skin echoing in the air.

You ducked instinctively, narrowly avoiding a hail of bullets that shattered a crate just feet from your feet. Quickly, you realized you had no place being on the ground. Not with how many guys there were. Your best bet was on the second floor with a sniper.

Tony had trained you from a young age to snipe. Well.. sort of. Happy Hogan had been your patient, steady teacher — so good, in fact, that you’d surpassed even his expectations. Sniping was the safest thing for you to do, something that ensured you wouldn't be hurt. Not like you'd actually ever sniped anyone before. Tony kept you in lock and ket. However, in that moment, you actually thanked Tony for making you learn.

You glanced around quickly and spotted a fallen Hydra soldier, the cold weight of a sniper rifle lying at his side. Without hesitation, you crouched low, grabbing it and checking the scope with practiced precision. The familiar heft steadied your nerves.

Spotting a metal ladder at the side of the warehouse, you dashed toward it, bullets kicking up sparks and dust around you. Climbing up quickly, you felt the cool night air rush past as you scrambled to the second floor—a mezzanine level running along the walls, overlooking the chaos below.

Finding a narrow alcove behind some stacked crates, you crouched into cover. The shadows wrapped around you like armor, and you brought the sniper rifle to your shoulder, heart pounding but steadying as your training kicked in.

Your fingers moved almost mechanically, setting the scope, steadying your breath, locking onto targets moving below. Hydra soldiers darted in and out of cover, some trying to flank your team, others shouting orders and trying to regroup.

The warehouse breathed with violence and tension, every corner alive with danger. From your perch, you could see the grim dance unfolding below—friends and enemies moving through the shadows in a deadly rhythm. The stale, industrial air was thick with the sharp scent of gunpowder and sweat, a harsh contrast to the quiet moments you'd shared with Natasha and Wanda just hours before.

Your pulse hammered in your ears as you adjusted the sniper rifle, the cold metal steadying your shaking hands. Every breath was measured, each second stretched thin with the weight of what was at stake.

Hydra’s numbers seemed endless, like a dark tide threatening to consume everything in its path. You caught glimpses of their faces—hard, ruthless, full of desperate hunger for power. They moved in packs, trying to overwhelm through sheer force. But the Avengers moved with purpose, honed skill, and unbreakable resolve.

You saw Steve’s shield flash as he blocked a bullet meant for Sam, the grit in his jaw as he pushed forward despite the odds. Bucky was a whirlwind of steel and strength, throwing enemies aside with brutal efficiency. Natasha’s movements were precise and lethal, like a predator stalking through the chaos. And Wanda, with her eyes glowing faintly, bent the very air to her will, turning the tide when things looked their bleakest.

The last of the Hydra operatives fell one by one, their desperate resistance fading into silence. The warehouse, once filled with chaos and the sharp taste of danger, now lay still—echoing only with the ragged breaths of the Avengers.

You lowered your sniper rifle slowly, muscles trembling from the adrenaline but mind clear. Below, Sam, Bucky, Steve, Natasha, and Wanda gathered, bruised but unbroken, their faces lighting up with relief when they saw you descend from your perch.

"Stark," Sam started in bewilderment, "when were you gonna tell us you could snipe?"

You shrugged, a tug of embarrassment pulling at you. "It never came up."

"We are so lucky to have you," Wanda sighed in relief, grabbing your hand and giving it a squeeze, a gentle smile on her face.

"Damn right we are," Steve replied with a small smile and nod. "C'mon, let's go back to my place to get cleaned up. I'll tell Fury we took out a troop that was on us. Hopefully this sends them a signal to leave Shield alone."

Steve’s place wasn’t a penthouse, but it was still impressive—a sprawling, loft-style apartment tucked in a quieter part of the city. High ceilings, exposed brick, and wide windows overlooking the distant, twinkling skyline gave it a rugged, lived-in feel. The place had a warmth to it, the kind of space that spoke to years of hard-earned camaraderie and shared battles. The air smelled faintly of old leather, coffee, and gun oil, the comforting scents of a soldier’s sanctuary.

You stepped through the door, still feeling the buzz of adrenaline thrumming in your veins, and glanced around. Natasha had already tossed her gloves onto a worn leather armchair, flexing her fingers as she made a beeline for the small, open kitchen. Wanda was a few steps behind, muttering something about needing tea as she flicked her fingers, sending a mug and kettle floating toward the stove. Steve closed the door behind you all, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow in the dim light.

Bucky, on the other hand, sank heavily onto the old, cracked leather couch, leaning back with a small, pained grunt. His metal arm clinked softly against the armrest, but it was his flesh arm that caught your attention—a thin line of blood seeping through the torn sleeve, just below the bicep. The bullet graze wasn’t deep, but it was enough to need cleaning, and the angry redness around the wound made you wince.

You hesitated for a moment, shifting your weight awkwardly from one foot to the other as the others moved around, already falling into their post-mission routines. Finally, you took a breath and grabbed the small, metal first aid kit from a side table nearby, flipping it open with slightly trembling fingers.

"Hey," you said, your voice coming out a little quieter than you’d intended. You cleared your throat, trying to sound less nervous. "Let me, uh, clean that up for you."

Bucky glanced up, blue eyes sharp even in the low light, his jaw tightening slightly. For a moment, you thought he might brush you off, but then he gave a small, reluctant nod, rolling up his sleeve to reveal the torn, blood-streaked skin. You swallowed, your heart doing a weird little flip as you knelt beside him, pressing a clean cloth against the wound.

"You don’t have to," he muttered, his eyes focused somewhere over your shoulder. You could feel the tension radiating off him, the rigid set of his shoulders, the way his metal fingers twitched slightly against the leather.

"I know," you replied, trying to keep your tone steady, gently dabbing at the wound. "But I want to."

The silence stretched between you, filled only by the quiet clinking of glass and the soft whistle of the kettle as Wanda’s tea brewed. You could feel the heat of his skin beneath your fingertips, the pulse of his heart quick and strong, even through the thin layer of muscle.

"You did good tonight," he said finally, his voice low and gruff, barely more than a rumble. You glanced up, caught off guard, and found his eyes on you, sharp but not unkind. "Up on that balcony. Didn’t think you had those kind of skills."

You felt a small, involuntary smile tug at the corner of your mouth. "Yeah, well... Tony always made sure I could handle myself."

Bucky’s gaze flickered at the mention of Tony, a small, unreadable shadow passing over his face, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he leaned back a little further, muscles slowly relaxing under your careful touch. You finished cleaning the wound, quickly wrapping it with a strip of gauze from the kit, your fingers brushing his skin more often than strictly necessary.

"All done," you murmured, leaning back on your heels and snapping the kit closed. You met his eyes again, and for a brief, electrifying second, neither of you moved, the air between you charged with something unspoken, something dangerous.

"Thanks," he said quietly, his voice rough but sincere.

You gave a small, uncertain nod, standing quickly and moving back toward the kitchen, where Natasha had already started pouring drinks. You felt Bucky’s eyes follow you as you went, the weight of his stare lingering like a phantom touch.

Wanda glanced over from the stove as you approached, her eyes glimmering with a knowing smirk. She didn’t say anything, but the slight tilt of her head spoke volumes. Natasha shot you a small, approving nod as she slid a glass your way, the clear liquid catching the low, amber light.

"You handled that well," Natasha murmured, her tone casual but her eyes sharp, always assessing, always noticing more than she let on.

"Yeah," you replied, trying not to glance back at Bucky, feeling the heat still prickling at your cheeks. "It’s nothing."

"Sure," Wanda whispered, the corner of her mouth twitching as she took a long sip from her steaming mug, eyes flicking briefly to the leather couch where Bucky now sat, head leaned back, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths. The air in the room felt heavier, tinged with unspoken words and uncertain feelings, a tension you couldn’t quite shake.

You took a deep breath, fingers tightening around the cool glass in your hand, and leaned against the counter, forcing your racing heart to settle. Whatever this was, it was just the beginning.

taglist: @shortandb1tchy @xoxpetals

bucky taglist: @shortandb1tchy @xoxpetals @crazyangel222 @messrkarmaismygf13