#and they said at the start of the credits there's three lines for the three stories

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, strong language, time-skips, the absolute shit-show that was the first half of the 2023 season.

Notes — Amelia being McLaren's literal saviour? IKTR

2023 (Saudi Arabia — Silverstone)

The paddock in Bahrain had started to quiet down after qualifying, the desert heat finally slipping away into a cooler breeze. Amelia was walking through the paddock, steps quick and stride polished, muttering statistics under her breath and trying to burn off some extra energy before debriefs were due to begin.

“Amelia.”

She turned. Adrian stood just outside Red Bull’s motorhome, hands in his pockets, watching her with a thoughtful expression.

“Hi, Adrian,” she greeted, smiling politely at the man she’d once idolised who had become something more reminiscent of a friend over the last two years.

“Do you have a minute?” He asked.

She gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Sure.”

He gestured for them to walk a little away from the thinning crowds. “I’ve been wanting to speak with you since testing, but I figured it was better in person rather than on the phone.”

Amelia waited, quiet.

Adrian glanced toward the Red Bull garage, then back at her. “You have done something incredible,” he said. “The car — it’s… brutally efficient. Elegant, even. It’s the cleanest thing I’ve seen come out of our CFD pipeline in five years. Maybe longer.”

Amelia’s brow ticked up. “Thank you.”

He studied her for a moment, brow furrowed slightly. “So why did you leave, Amelia? You could’ve ridden that thing straight through another championship with Max. Earned the credit. The spotlight. A long, solid legacy.”

“I didn’t need to,” she said simply.

He blinked, thrown off. “Didn’t need to… win?”

“I didn’t need credit,” she clarified. “That was never the point. Max knows that this years car is ours — mine and his, in a way. You know, too. That’s enough for me.”

“You designed one of the most dominant aero concepts I’ve seen in a decade,” Adrian said, still incredulous. “And walked away before it even hit the track?”

Amelia nodded. Shrugged. “I didn't build the car for glory. I built it because I knew what it could be. And then I gave my concepts to you, so that you would make them happen, and you did.” She pursed her lips. “Max didn’t need me anymore. He knows how to handle a championship. He’s done it twice, now.”

“And McLaren does need you?” Adrian pressed.

“Yes,” she said. Smiled. “They do. Oscar too.”

Adrian looked at her like he was trying to understand a language he didn’t speak. Slowly, he said, “You’ve created a car that will be remembered for generations.”

“I know.”

“And you don’t care that you won’t get the credit?”

“No,” she said. “Doesn’t change what I did.”

There was a long silence, the dusk settling over them in a soft hush.

Adrian let out a slow breath, almost reverent. “I admire it, you know. Even if I don’t understand it.”

Amelia gave him the faintest smirk. “That’s okay. I’m not an easy person to understand.”

“No,” Adrian agreed. “But you’re very, very good.” He paused. “God, sometimes, Amelia, I wonder if maybe you’re better than me.”

“I might be. One day,” she said, and turned to go.

—

The debrief room was quiet, too quiet.

Oscar sat back in his chair, legs outstretched, eyes on the floor. His race suit was half-unzipped, his undershirt sweat-darkened at the collar. Amelia sat at the head of the small conference table, her iPad flat in front of her, her stylus spinning slowly between her fingers.

“Well,” Oscar said dryly. “That was shit.”

Amelia’s lips twitched. “You’re not wrong.”

He tilted his head. “Can I ask something?”

“Of course you can.” She frowned at him.

Oscar looked over at her, brow creased faintly. “You knew the car wasn’t going to be good this year. You warned me. So why did you still come back to McLaren?”

Amelia leaned back in her chair, thought about it, then shrugged. “Well, you were a big part of it.”

Oscar blinked at her.

“You needed somebody who was able to make the most of a bad situation,” she said. “Not someone who’d write it off before the lights went out. You’re better than the car right now. But the car won’t stay this way forever; I promise you that.”

Oscar was quiet for a moment. “Right. Thanks,” he said eventually, voice low.

“Don’t get sentimental,” Amelia said, flicking a button on her iPad. “We’re both going to be angry for a while, at least until I can fix this.”

He nodded, some of the stiffness leaving his shoulders. “Fine by me.”

She tapped through to the race data, then looked up. “Okay. So. Let’s talk lap one.”

Oscar squinted. “What was wrong with lap one?”

“You braked late into Turn 10. Just like you did in qualifying.”

“Maybe the corner needs to come sooner,” he muttered, deadpan.

Amelia rolled her eyes. “Maybe you just need more time in the sim.”

Oscar made a face. “If I spend any more time in it than you already make me do, I might merge with the chair.”

They dove into the telemetry together then — back and forth, sharp and focused, their language slowly becoming shorthand. She pointed out throttle traces, he challenged her on strategy calls. She fired back with sector deltas, he offered precise corner feedback.

By the time they were done, an hour had passed.

Oscar leaned back, drained but calmer. “You’re intense.”

“Yeah,” Amelia said, unapologetically. “I’m also right, most of the time.”

He nodded. “Yeah. You are.”

She packed up her iPad, stood, and gestured toward the door. “Come on, ducky,” she said. “My husband is probably pacing somewhere, lamenting about how shit his car is. We need to stop him before he spirals.”

Oscar made a face as he got to his feet. “I don’t like being ducky.”

Amelia shrugged, unconcerned. “Too bad. You are.”

He sighed. “Why can’t I just be Oscar?”

“You can,” she said simply. “But you’re ducky too. Both can be true.”

Oscar blinked at her, clearly expecting more of an explanation. Amelia paused in the doorway, tilting her head like she was debating whether to explain. Then she did — bluntly, honestly, in her Amelia way. “Nicknames are… structure,” she said. “They help me sort people. Feelings. Connections. If I nickname you, it means I’ve decided I trust you. It’s like… mental shorthand. Emotional filing.”

Oscar’s brow furrowed. “Like… categories?”

“Exactly,” she said, eyes lighting up slightly. “It’s not random. It means something. I call you ducky because you’re calm on the surface and all chaos underneath, and also because you look like someone who would fall asleep in a bathtub. And because I like you. You’ve earned it.”

He stared at her. “I… don’t know what to do with that.”

“You don’t have to do anything with it,” she said, already halfway down the hall. “Just know that it means I’ve put you in the ‘safe’ column.”

Oscar followed, a little dazed. “That’s a lot to attach to a duck.”

Amelia smiled to herself. “Also, my husband kept saying that I imprinted on you like a mother duck, so…”

They rounded the corner and found said husband, Lando, in the corridor, muttering to himself with a piece of tyre compound data pulled up on his phone.

Oscar pointed wordlessly.

Amelia just sighed. “See? Spiralling. I told you.” She stepped forward, nudged the phone down, and gently took her husband’s hand. “Hey,” she said. “You did well with what you had.”

Lando looked between the two of them, Amelia’s steady face, Oscar’s unreadable one, and let out a breath that was mostly a laugh. “We’re going to be fucking shit this year, aren’t we?” He asked.

Amelia sighed. “I hope not. I’m already trying to get my hands on the car, but the cost cap is preventing me from making any significant changes this early…”

Lando pouted at his wife.

“Pizza?” Oscar asked.

Amelia’s head snapped around in his direction. “Yes!”

Lando was still pouting when he said, “Sure. Yeah. Whatever. Depression pizza. Yay!”

—

The glass walls of the office reflected the glow of early evening. Outside, the MTC lake was still, pale with late-winter. Inside, Amelia sat at the head of the table with her knees drawn up in the chair, a pink, battered notebook open in front of her.

Andrea leaned in to look closer. “You did this all by hand?”

Amelia didn’t look up. “I think better with a pen and paper.”

Her dad, seated opposite her, turned a few pages. His brows rose as he scanned carefully drawn schematics, annotated calculations, wind tunnel projections, notes in tiny, slanted handwriting. Everything from ride height tweaks to theoretical suspension layouts to predicted competitor development trends.

“This is a full concept,” Andrea said, quietly impressed. “This is… years worth of work.”

“Just a few weeks,” Amelia said. “That’s not just theory in there, though. That’s a car.”

Zak sat back, flipping to the final page. It was labelled, in block capitals, with an underlined title.

PROJECT: MCL38-AN

Underneath, in her neat writing.

It’ll win if you trust it.

He looked up. “This will put us back on top?”

“I know it will,” Amelia said, finally meeting their eyes. “Everything I’ve learned — from Red Bull, from Max, from every telemetry graph and CFD failure and stupid porpoising issue in the last two years — I used it all. And not just to make something clever. To make something fast. Reliable. Adaptable.”

Andrea gently closed the notebook. “This is championship-level ambition.”

“It’s more than ambition,” Amelia said. “It’s your 2024 car. The notebook is yours now.”

Her dad raised his eyebrows. “You don’t want to keep it?”

She shrugged. “No. I won’t need it, but you will. I’ve already made a million copies, but I’d like you to keep the original.”

Her dad looked at her and reached for the notebook again with something like reverence. “We’re going to need to start assembling a team around this immediately.” He said.

“I already started,” she told him. “Tom in aero’s got preliminary CFD models. Jordan’s been mocking up rear suspension geometry in CAD for two weeks.”

Andrea laughed softly, almost disbelieving. “You went over our heads?”

“I’m not very good at leaving things to chance,” she said. “And our car this year is awful. So bad. I needed to start making something happen, even if most of it will have to wait until next year.”

Her dad stood and leaned across the table, hand on the notebook. “Honey, this is…”

“Yours. Ours.” She said.

Andrea let out a breath.

Her dad stared at her for a beat, and then he was beaming.

—

It was nearly midnight, and the MTC was mostly dark — save for the soft hum of light in the engineering wing. Amelia sat on the floor of her office, legs crossed, iPad glowing in her lap.

Oscar lay stretched out on the rug in front of her, still in his training kit, a protein shake abandoned next to him. Lando was in her desk chair, spinning gently, half-asleep and barefoot.

“This is the weirdest sleepover I’ve ever been to,” Oscar muttered.

“You say that every time you hang out with us,” Lando replied, yawning.

“I mean it every time.” Oscar said.

Amelia didn’t look up. “Shut up. I’m trying to change the trajectory of your entire careers right now.”

That got their attention.

Lando leaned forward. “What are you doing, baby?”

Amelia turned the iPad so they could both see the screen. Her voice was calm, even, but there was a thread of something bright underneath it. “This is going to be your 2024 car.”

Oscar blinked. “You—what?”

She tapped through a few screens: 3D renders, rear suspension models, aero flow maps. “Codename MCL38-AN. I told you both that I already had it planned out, didn’t I?”

Oscar sat up straighter. “You really think that’ll put us at the front of the grid?”

“Yes,” she said. “You’re driving scrap metal right now, I won’t lie. It’s holding you both back. But this car—” she tapped the image again “—this is what we’re building toward. This is the one. The team just needs time. I need time.”

Oscar was staring at the iPad, wide eyed. “You’re sure.”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything. All I need is for you to keep showing up. To keep believing. We’re not going to be at the back of the grid forever.”

Lando stood, walked over, and looked down at the designs for a long moment. “It’s beautiful,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

“Why are you showing us now?”

“Because,” she said, glancing between them, “I can’t ask you to keep suffering through this season unless you have a reason. A future. This is your future. You’ll win races in this car.”

Oscar laughed, breathless and stunned. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah,” Amelia said, finally smiling. “Holy shit.”

Lando slid down onto the floor beside her, shoulder brushing hers. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Us. This team. This sport.”

“Thanks,” she said.

Oscar pointed at the iPad again. “Can I name it?”

“No.” She said.

“Can I drive it now?” He asked.

“It doesn’t exist yet.” She told him.

“Then can I keep being your ducky?”

She looked at him, bemused. “You want to be ducky now?”

“I’m reconsidering my argument,” he muttered. “Out of loyalty…”

Lando was grinning. “We’re going to win championships, aren’t we?”

Amelia nodded. Smiled at her husband. Kissed him. “Yes. We are.”

—

They got back to Monaco well past midnight, Lando wordless beside her in the car. The race had been brutal. Another pointless race. Another weekend where the car hadn’t performed, and the looped back data had made her want to throw her laptop into the Red Sea.

But home was home.

Amelia dropped her bags in the entryway, kicked off her trainers, and walked straight to the kitchen, wordlessly opening the fridge. She fished out a can of Diet Coke and pressed it to her forehead.

Behind her, Lando wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder.

"You gonna fire me?” He asked quietly.

She laughed despite the burning itch under her skin. “No. You did your best.”

“Yeah.” He exhaled against her neck.

They stood like that for a beat. Amelia breathed in the scent of his hoodie and let the familiar weight of him soothe the static in her chest. He was solid. Warm. Hers.

Finally, she turned around and kissed his jaw. “It’ll get better.”

Lando nodded. “Good. Because I’m getting real tired of seeing you more frustrated than smug.”

She cracked a smile. “I’m always smug.”

“There she is.”

—

Amelia didn’t cook often, but when she did, it was loud, chaotic, and always somewhat efficient.

Oscar sat at the breakfast bar, watching her with mild horror as she chopped onions at a blinding speed.

“You’re a very violent chef,” he observed.

“The quicker it’s done, the better,” she said. “Now pass me the basil, ducky.”

He handed it over. “Still don’t particularly like being called that.”

“Don’t care.” She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Do you want red or white wine?”

—

The living room was littered with discarded Uno cards, an empty pizza box, and the remains of someone’s sprite can that Max Fewtrell had been using as a drum for the last ten minutes.

“You are cheating,” Pietra said flatly, accusing Lando with a pointed look.

“I’m just playing strategically.”

Amelia, half-asleep on the sofa with her feet in Lando’s lap, mumbled, “Strategically being a little shit, yeah.”

“Don’t hate the player,” Lando shot back, tugging her ankle gently. “Hate the wife.”

“You’ll sleep on the couch for that,” she muttered, eyes still closed.

Max Verstappen arrived late, as usual. Amelia opened one eye when he collapsed beside her on the sofa and started picking at the leftover cold garlic bread.

“Missed you.” She told him sleepily.

“Missed you too, zusje.” He said.

She leaned her head briefly against his shoulder.

—

The Spanish GP had been marginally better than the ones that’d come before. Still not good. But better.

Back at the airport, Oscar sat cross-legged on the floor, headphones in, while Amelia reviewed strategy notes and Lando bought three Snickers and two iced teas.

Lando dropped next to her with a huff, his arm winding around her waist, hand flexing before squeezing her hip. “I’m considering sabotage.”

“Of?”

“The car. I’m gonna drive it into a lake or something.”

Oscar pulled one headphone off. “Wouldn’t it sink?”

Lando stared at him. “That’s your concern?”

“Hydrodynamics are important.” Oscar smirked.

Amelia sighed. “You’re both ridiculous.”

Lando grinned. “You love it.”

She didn’t reply, just leaned closer, then passed him a highlighter. “Help me mark the wind tunnel data.”

—

They’d flown into Spielberg a little early to prep and decompress. Amelia had her notes. Lando had brought five pairs of sunglasses and absolutely no socks. Oscar was, predictably, already on his fifth stretch of the legs down the paddock.

The three of them walked the track together at sunset, shoes crunching against the gravel.

“You know,” Amelia said, glancing between the two drivers, “if either of you crashes this weekend, I won’t be happy.”

“Would you leave me for dead?” Oscar asked, deadpan.

“Yes.” She lied.

“She wouldn’t,” Lando said.

Amelia looked ahead, wind tugging at her hair, then back at the boys; her husband and her ducky.

This job was hell. The car was beyond flawed. The season wasn’t what they’d hoped.

But this, this team, this family, this effort, felt like something worth holding onto.

—

Silverstone came, and there was a shift.

It wasn’t everything. But it was something.

Amelia stood just outside the McLaren garage, arms crossed over her chest, watching the mechanics finish prepping the car for FP1.

The upgraded floor. The reshaped side-pods. The altered rear suspension geometry she’d argued over for weeks.

It was all here. On track. Real.

It wasn’t perfect — of course it wasn’t. The budget cap had demanded compromises. She hadn’t been able to implement the full package she’d thrown together back in March. That version of the MCL60 was meaner, leaner, cleverer — a little monster of a thing. A title fighter.

But this was the one they could afford. And she’d made it the best it could be.

Oscar stepped beside her, helmet tucked under his arm, race suit halfway unzipped. “Doesn’t look like a paper towel on wheels anymore.”

She hummed. “No. More like... a reinforced napkin. Maybe a placemat.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “How confident are you?”

She exhaled slowly. “Seventy percent we’re in the points. Fifty percent one of you surprises me. Zero percent we DNF. I’ve triple-checked the aero modelling. You’re safe.”

He nodded, quiet for a moment. Then, “I know it’s not what you wanted.”

“No,” she said honestly. “It’s not. But it’s what we’ve got. And it’s good enough to fight for points rather than the chequered flag.”

Oscar squeezed her shoulder. Tight. “I trust you.”

There was something boyish in the way he said it. Uncomplicated. She smiled and nudged him toward the car. “Go, ducky.”

“Still don’t like that.”

“Don’t care.”

—

By Sunday, the paddock was electric.

The buzz was real. The performance gains were visible. And people were talking.

After qualifying, someone from Sky asked Lando if he felt like McLaren were back in the fight for ‘best of the rest’.

He didn’t even hesitate. “Yes. We’ve got Amelia Norris to thank for that.”

That one made her throat pinch.

Later, back in the garage, she caught Andrea’s eye as he leaned over the pit wall screens. He grinned, then gave her a thumbs-up.

Even her dad, who’d spent the last several months managing expectations to sponsors and shareholders, gave her a bear hug that nearly knocked her clipboard out of her hands.

“You’ve made believers out of us again, kiddo,” he said into her ear. “They’re already asking about 2024.”

Amelia stepped back and smiled tightly. “Let us get through this race first.”

—

Lando was flying. Oscar was right on his gearbox. And Amelia was vibrating in her seat, headset digging into her ears.

The car wasn’t just competitive; it was racy. Bold. Alive.

She and Will traded glances as they watched Lando chase down Lewis.

“This is all you,” Will said.

She didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Her heart was somewhere near her throat.

Oscar’s voice crackled in her ear. “Is this what driving a real car feels like?”

Amelia couldn’t help it, she laughed. “Keep it clean, ducky. Still a few laps to go.”

“Is my wife crying tears of joy right now?” Lando asked over his radio. “I bet she is.”

“She is.” Will said.

“Liar.” Amelia laughed, and okay, maybe she did sound a bit choked up.

—

The crowd was still roaring and Amelia was frozen beside the pit wall, headset hair sticking out from under her cap, breathing like she’d just done the full length of the race herself.

It wasn’t a win.

But it was enough.

Lando ran up behind her and flung his arms around her shoulders, lifting her slightly off the ground as she shrieked.

“Put me down, you sweaty idiot—!”

“We did it!”

“You did it.”

“No,” Lando said, spinning her once before finally setting her down. “You did.”

He kissed her, quick and messy, and the cameras were definitely watching, but she didn’t care. She’d earned this moment.

Oscar wandered over and offered her a half-hearted fist bump.

“Better than a placemat,” he grinned lopsidedly.

“Almost a dinner plate,” she agreed.

He laughed, and then he took her to watch the podium.

Max on top. Lewis next. And then her Lando.

Her husband.

Beaming right at her.

She made Oscar hug her. Needed the deep-pressure to cut through the overwhelming joy coursing through her veins. Somebody took a picture and posted it on Twitter with the tag ‘Best racer/engineer duo EVER’.

—

Amelia was sitting cross-legged on their hotel bed, notebook open in her lap, notes scribbled in every margin.

Lando walked out of the shower, towel around his waist, hair damp.

“You’re still working?”

She looked up. “I’m trying to figure out how to sneak in another mini upgrade before Qatar.”

Lando crossed the room and kissed the top of her head. “You’re mad, you know.”

Amelia frowned. “I’m not.”

He slid into bed beside her. “C’mere. Work can wait till tomorrow.”

She paused, then closed the notebook and handed it to him. “Don’t lose it,” she warned. “That’s the future in your hands.”

He looked at the cover, scuffed, dented, covered in papaya and coffee stains, and held it like it was a sacred text.

“We’re going to have podium celebration sex now.” She told him. “I bought chequered flag lingerie.”

His eyes went wide. “Oh—Holy shit. You did?”

She smiled. 

NEXT CHAPTER

[randlemartin]

What was something particularly rewarding for you on this project? One of the sticking points in the sequence was: “How do we reveal the live action, while moving away from the drawings?” and, “How do we create a subtle type of animation?” The intention was that these were sketches by war artists in the field, so there was a roughness to them which hopefully related the idea that these were ordinary guys stuck in a horrible situation. For me, it was just really nice to get back to drawing – it’s one of the things that we don’t get to do very often. It took a lot of drawing to create something that had that sense of immediacy to it but at the same time, we also had to consider how we could do it. - Ahmet Ahmet, on The Pacific opening titles

[theabstruseone]

I slept in and just woke up, so here's what I've been able to figure out while sipping coffee:

Twitter has officially rebranded to X just a day or two after the move was announced.

The official branding is that a tweet is now called "an X", for which there are too many jokes to make.

The official account is still @twitter because someone else owns @X and they didn't reclaim the username first.

The logo is 𝕏 which is the Unicode character Unicode U+1D54F so the logo cannot be copyrighted and it is highly likely that it cannot be protected as a trademark.

Outside the visual logo, the trademark for the use of the name "X" in social media is held by Meta/Facebook, while the trademark for "X" in finance/commerce is owned by Microsoft.

The rebranding has been stopped in Japan as the term "X Japan" is trademarked by the band X JAPAN.

Elon had workers taking down the "Twitter" name from the side of the building. He did not have any permits to do this. The building owner called the cops who stopped the crew midway through so the sign just says "er".

He still plans to call his streaming and media hosting branch of the company as "Xvideo". Nobody tell him.

This man wants you to give him control over all of your financial information.

Edit to add further developments:

Yes, this is all real. Check the notes and people have pictures. I understand the skepticism because it feels like a joke, but to the best of my knowledge, everything in the above is accurate.

Microsoft also owns the trademark on X for chatting and gaming because, y'know, X-box.

The logo came from a random podcaster who tweeted it at Musk.

The act of sending a tweet is now known as "Xeet". They even added a guide for how to Xeet.

The branding change is inconsistent. Some icons have changed, some have not, and the words "tweet" and "Twitter" are still all over the place on the site.

TweetDeck is currently unaffected and I hope it's because they forgot that it exists again. The complete negligence toward that tool and just leaving it the hell alone is the only thing that makes the site usable (and some of us are stuck on there for work).

This is likely because Musk was forced out of PayPal due to a failed credit line project and because he wanted to rename the site to "X-Paypal" and eventually just to "X".

This became a big deal behind the scenes as Musk paid over $1 million for the domain X.com and wanted to rebrand the company that already had the brand awareness people were using it as a verb to "pay online" (as in "I'll paypal you the money")

X.com is not currently owned by Musk. It is held by a domain registrar (I believe GoDaddy but I'm not entirely sure). Meaning as long as he's hung onto this idea of making X Corp a thing, he couldn't be arsed to pay the $15/year domain renewal.

Bloomberg estimates the rebranding wiped between $4 to $20 billion from the valuation of Twitter due to the loss of brand awareness.

The company was already worth less than half of the $44 billion Musk paid for it in the first place, meaning this may end up a worse deal than when Yahoo bought Tumblr.

One estimation (though this is with a grain of salt) said that Twitter is three months from defaulting on its loans taken out to buy the site. Those loans were secured with Tesla stock. Meaning the bank will seize that stock and, since it won't be enough to pay the debt (since it's worth around 50-75% of what it was at the time of the loan), they can start seizing personal assets of Elon Musk including the Twitter company itself and his interest in SpaceX.

Sesame Street's official accounts mocked the rebranding.

[motorsportbarbie13]

A Package Deal - Part 3

In which things are made official.

Warnings: smut in the middle. lando being jealous. Pairing: Lando x SingleMom!Reader Word Count: 4.6k words

(a note: happy new year loves!!! hope you enjoy part three!!)

- A Package Deal - A Package Deal - Part 2 - Master List

yourusername (private) posted

yourusername testing testing... BFFSarah so jealous! >>>yourusername miss you! ❤️ landonorris stalker >>>yourusername 😘 >>>BFFSarah 👀

"I'm funnier than Greg, right?" Lando grumbles, not even bothering to take his eyes off of you.

"Mate, what?" Oscar replies, eyes narrowed, totally mystified as to what the hell his teammate is talking about. "Like, Greg, the guy on the strategy team Greg?"

"Yeah, him." Lando raises his chin towards where you stand opposite of said strategy Greg, laughing (even louder this time) at something he's said. Lando knuckles go white on the counter he's standing when Greg leans in just a bit too close for his comfort.

It was the first day of testing in Bahrain and Lando had just come in from his first test stint of the 2025 season. When he'd walked into the garage a few minutes earlier, he'd instantly clocked where you stood near the back of the garage staring up at a few computer monitors beside his newest nemesis, Greg. At first he hadn't thought anything of it but then he heard you laugh, a sound that was quickly becoming one of his favorite things, and he had stopped what he was doing to stare.

"I don't think I know Greg's sense of humor well enough to be the judge of that." Oscar responds, still confused as to why Lando was asking him such a random question. When Oscar follows Lando's line of sight though, everything clicks into place and starts to make a lot more sense.

"Oh..." He mutters, unable to quell the smirk that surfaces.

"'Oh' what?" Lando snaps, still attempting to assassinate Greg with a glare.

"You're jealous." Oscar practically giggles. He might be the quieter one of the driver duo, but that quiet demeanor meant that he noticed a lot more than other people gave him credit for and Oscar had caught onto Lando's crush after the first time he had stumbled into your office and disappeared on him for hours.

Lando finally tears his eyes away from where you're standing, still staring up in rapt attention to Greg. "I most certainly am not." He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest in a move that is very reminiscent of a Stella temper tantrum.

"You two aren't even together, are you?" Oscar reasons, doing next to nothing to reassure Lando that he has nothing to be worried about.

Lando narrows his eyes at the Australian as he fights a pout. "I mean, no. Not technically, I guess."

And that was the problem, wasn't it? You two had been on a few dates and he'd been coming over to your house to hang with you and Stella more and more but a serious discussion of what was happening? He'd been too scared to have that kind of talk with you so quick. You made him nervous but being rejected by you sounded even worse.

"Maybe you should like, talk to her about it then? If that's what you want? I mean, I've never seen the sight of a girl talking to someone else send you into orbit like this before. You really like her, don't you?"

Oscar had worked hard to keep his opinion of you and Lando together to himself. He hated when people commented on his relationship with Lily, which was a big reason why they were so quiet together, so he had made it a point not to press when it came to you. He'd spent most of the morning with you though, while Lando was in the car and he could see why Lando was so attached to you already. You were wicked smart and the program that you had been writing for the team was impressive. He knew there were other people in Lando's life that didn't think the driver could handle being with someone like you but the more Oscar got to know you, the more he could see why you two got on so well.

Lando's gaze slides back to you then. "I do, yeah." He murmurs, a sudden sense of determination settling over him. Before he has the chance to chicken out once again, he pats Oscar on the back and starts off towards where you and Greg are still huddled together in front of a computer screen.

"Greg, can I steal her away from you real quick?" Lando says by way of greeting, his tone needlessly possessive. "Will and I wanted to go through last sessions data with you before lunch." He lies.

You hadn't noticed the way Lando had been staring daggers at you and Greg up until that very moment but the feral look he's giving you takes you by surprise. Greg had approached you as Lando's session had wound down and your new program was stretching its legs on your laptop. He wanted to talk about the inputs you were adding in for this year and give you some feedback on the initial data capture of this morning's session. It was totally innocent and when Lando had slid up next to you practically breathing fire, you had been a bit caught off guard.

"I'll see you at the cocktail party later tonight, Greg." You give him a smile before turning back to Lando. "Where do you want to go, the debrief room?"

"Sure." Lando huffs, giving Greg a fake smile before grabbing your elbow and leading you towards an empty conference room. Like hell you were going to see Gregory at any point for the rest of the day.

You're totally confused at the way he's practically dragging you down the hallway and even more perplexed when Lando nearly slams the door closed behind him and you find the debrief room completely empty. "Where's Will?"

"What?" Lando frowns.

"You said you and Will wanted to go over some data after your session." Annoyance moves through you. What in the world was going on?

"Oh, yeah no. I lied." Lando glares at you like you're the insane one, frown deepening.

"Lando!" You sputter, resisting the urge to chuck the nearest laptop at his head. "I was in the middle of a conversation with Greg."

When he rolls his eyes, you swear you see red. "Yeah, I know. We all saw how endlessly entertaining the conversation was."

The pout that finds it's way onto his face is what unlocks everything for you though. Sudden understanding washes over you as it all finally clicks.

"You're jealous!" You gasp, desperately trying not to burst into a fit of giggles.

Lando at least as the decency to look a bit ashamed of his behavior but attempts to deny it. "I am not."

You arch an eyebrow at the man standing across from you as if he's not the easiest book in the world to read. "Lando Norris, you were jealous of a man who was telling me all about how his boyfriend took him on a trip to the Bahamas over the holidays and got bitten by a wild swimming pig."

The way Lando's cheeks go scarlet as he crosses his arms over his chest nearly has you doubled over with laughter.

"Oh."

"Oh is right, you muppet." You chuckle, using the term of endearment he's become famous for. In a few strides, your within arms length of him, tugging at the waist of his half unzipped race suit. Lando takes a step forward as you pull him closer.

"Jealously looks good on you, Norris." You smirk before giving him a quick peck on the cheek, mindful of the fact that you're still at work.

Lando settles his hands on your hips, drawing you even closer to him, seemingly forgetting that he's still at work. He grins down at you, a flirty glint sparking in his eyes.

"Yeah, well. What can I say? The sight of some idiot flirting with my girlfriend kind of set me off."

Your hands slip around Lando's waist. Heart hammering so fast you're amazed Lando can't hear it, you beam up at him. You'd never experienced the kind of contentment and safety you felt whenever you were with Lando before. He frequently caught you off balance like this and had you feeling like you were a teenager again, still believing in fairy tales and happy endings.

"Girlfriend, huh?"

"That's right." He whispers. The rasp in his voice has you pressing your hips into his, seeking friction from his body.

"Well, since I'm your girlfriend then I guess you’ll be needing this for later tonight." Reaching into the back pocket of your jeans, your fingers find the thin plastic card you'd stashed there to slip into Lando's hand sometime this afternoon.

Anticipation sparks between your bodies as Lando figures out what you've just pressed into his palm. All this time he'd been building up this big conversation that he thought had to be had and nervously putting so much pressure on himself to do this all the right way. It had only taken a matter of seconds though and you had reminded him that it like most everything that happened between you and him, this was easy too. There's a silent understanding that passes between you two then that maybe this was how it was supposed to be from the beginning and that sometimes wires get crossed and we meet people later than the universe intended.

"I have to get back to work and you should really find Will and actually debrief but I think I'd like to skip tonights cocktail hour if that's okay with you."

Lando reluctantly lets go and nods, swallowing around the thick lump of emotion stuck in his throat.

"Yeah." He croaks before reaching back out to bring your face to his, kissing you so intensely your knees buckle. "I'll see you tonight."

Not even five minutes after Lando responds to your text, you hear the beeping of the lock to your hotel room door and it swings open moments later. Anxiety flows through you despite the flirty text you'd just sent. This kind of thing was totally out of your wheel house, with most of your adult life spent focusing on your daughter and not dating. It had been Sarah's suggestion to send that risky text but after your conversation with Lando earlier, you were briefly confident that it would be well received. And judging by his response, you were right. That didn't do much to calm your nerves though so the knock on your door sends the butterflies in your belly flying around in what feels like a category five tornado.

"Are you trying to kill me?" Lando groans when he sees you kneeling on the bed waiting for him. Every thought tumbles straight out of his head at the sight of you waiting for him in nothing but black bits of lace. If he had known this was what had been waiting for him all night, he certainly wouldn't have gone to dinner with some of the team.

"You like it then?" You ask, barely resisting the urge to dive under the covers you feel so exposed under his gaze. Lando can't stop staring and it's starting to make you nervous, the way he's dragging his eyes up and down your body without making an attempt to move from where he stands just inside your hotel room.

"Like it? Baby, are you fucking kidding me? I don't think I've ever seen a prettier sight in my entire life." The rasp in his voice drags down your skin like sandpaper.

"Then stop staring and get over here."

Lando obeys immediately, toeing off his shoes before joining you on the bed. His hands find your hips and before you can make a sound, he's pulling you into his lap and attaching his lips to your neck.

"I think everyone got the impression I was about to be sick or something, I got up from that table so fucking fast." He mumbles against you. "Also, give me some warning next time you're going to send me that kind of thing, Osc nearly got an eye full of something that is for my eyes only."

Lando had been attempting to show Oscar something on his phone when your text had come through and the moment he'd swapped over to his iMessage app he was glad that Andrea had picked that exact second to call Oscar's name. He had shut down the message app so fast, all of his blood rushing straight from his head to below his belt.

"Oops." You giggle. "Sorry."

"You're not one bit sorry, don't lie."

All you do is shrug as you preen under his attention. He eyes drag lazy lines up and down your body, stalling when they fall on the black lace barely hiding your most intimate parts. The heat of his gaze has fire stoking deep in your belly and for the first time in years, you feel desired and wanted. It's an unfamiliar feeling that you're still getting used to but with Lando, it feels safe. You feel cared for and it's unlike anything you've ever experienced with anyone you've slept with before. Which, to be totally honest, wasn't a lot. You haven't been in a serious relationship since Stella's dad, the only dates you've gone on in the last six years usually ending in casual flings that don't end up meaning much outside of the bedroom.

This though? This feels different and you know Lando feels the same.

Lando's hands grip at your hips as he moves you off his lap briefly and stands up. Your eyes nearly roll back into your head when he unbuckles his belt with one hand, tugging it off in one smooth motion, the leather slapping against itself and echoing throughout the otherwise silent room. 

“Jesus.” You breathe and desperately try to catch your breath as he reaches for the hem of his shirt. You've known that Lando has a sinfully good body for a while, his entire career is centered around his body afterall so naturally, he is in amazing shape. There’s a reason that women will do next to anything to get any of the drivers in their bed. Nothing prepared you for the hard planes of his chest and the insane cut of his abs though. The way his waist nips in to show off a deep V cut of his torso makes your mouth water. With both his jeans and shirt now discarded, he stands in front of you in just a pair of gray boxers that do absolutely nothing to hide how rock hard he is.

Fuck. 

Before you can stop yourself, you rise up on your knees and move towards him, needing to get your hands on his body. On your knees before him while he’s standing, you only come up to his collar bones but that’s enough. You drop kisses on his heated flesh and relish the way his breath hitches in his throat when your lips make contact. He allows you to continue kissing him for several moments, his hands roaming all over your body. You don’t know how long it is but after his hands have taken full a full tour of your skin, he pulls back and looks at you with a primal glint in his eyes. “Lay down." He orders "I need my tongue on you. Now.” 

You obey and crawl back, watching him prowl after you. Your head rests on the pile of pillows as he covers you with his body and suddenly, the insecurity and anxiety from earlier flashes through your mind. You've never been with anyone who seemed to want to do anything but fuck you and then be done with it. This reverence for your body is completely foreign and the reality of what is about to happen crashes through the haze of lust that clouds your mind.

You must stiffen a bit because a frown appears on Lando's face as his arms cage you in and he hovers over you. “Baby?” 

You shake your head, refusing to let your insecurity ruin the night. Your eyes close and you take a deep breath to steady yourself.

“I’m fine.” You whisper but Lando doesn’t believe you. He drops back onto his knees and straddles you, drawing back so he can see your entire face. 

“What’s wrong? We don’t have to do this tonight if you’re not ready.” 

Your face heats, but from embarrassment this time. Fuck. You do not want to ruin this.

“No. It’s okay. I just…I’m just not used to this kind of attention.” You don’t tell him how your're used to being used for your body, for whatever pleasure your partner can get out of me and nothing more. You don’t tell him how insecure it makes you to think that he could do the same thing to you too, despite how safe and good he makes you feel no matter what. Sometimes, habits are hard to break. Especially habits that are born out of trauma. You can't tell him any of that though because you think it might break his heart. 

Lando tilts his head and seemingly understands what you're saying. “I don’t know what the fuck the guys in your life were thinking, having you in their bed and not treating you properly, but baby, I am not them. This is not about me, this is about you.” His fingers trace long, lazy lines from your shoulder down over your bra and continue down your body as you shudder with pleasure.

“That’s it." He coos. "I know you’re scared but I swear to you, you are safe with me.” His voice is barely a whisper but you can hear the sincerity in it. Your heart thunders in your chest as you hover between wanting to stop and throwing every bit of caution away and allowing him to do whatever he wants to you. 

“I know I am. I always have been.” You hum.

“Do you want to stop? You just have to say the word and we will. This is yours to control.” 

Your eyes search his for any trace of anger and when you find nothing but honesty in his face, you shake your head. “Please don’t stop.”

You desperately do not want him to stop. 

Once he’s sure you're okay, he crashes his mouth on yours once again and you melt into him. His body is so heavy on top of you but it feels oh so good. You never want it to end. You never want tonight to end. Lando presses kisses into your skin all down your body, starting at your jaw, moving slowly downwards. Kisses on that dip between your neck and shoulders, lower to your sternum, even lower to just above where your bra still sits. He stops then and snakes a hand behind you, lifting you up momentarily, and unclasps the back with surprising ease.

“Okay, that was way too easy for you.” You accuse, laughter bubbling up as he tosses the bra across the room. 

His eyes find yours and he shrugs casually, “What?” He feigns innocence, “Lucky first try?” 

“Oh, whatever. Get back to work.” You order, laughter teasing at the edge of your voice. 

Lando shakes his head again, dropping his head back where he had left off and turns his attention to one of your nipples, taking it fully in his mouth. You inhale a sharp breath at the sensation coursing through you. It feels like your skin is on fire, all leading down to a single throb between your legs. He hums in satisfaction when your back arches off the bed. A moan escapes your lips when he scrapes his teeth against the sensitive skin, the pain sends a jolt of electricity straight to your core. After what feels like an eternity, he turns his attention to the other nipple, already pebbled and hard, aching for the same attention. Your mind goes blank as you focus on the jolts of electricity coursing through your body. Your hands tangle in his curls, gripping at the tangles of brown hair, needing something to latch onto. 

“Lan.” His name is a whispered prayer on your lips. 

“Fuck. Baby.” He comes up for air briefly to look at you again and you almost can’t stand to look at him, he looks so good. His lips are swollen from kissing you for so long and he's got this heavy lidded, lustful hazy gaze in his eyes that you've never seen from him before.

“You taste so good.” He rasps before shifting back up to land kisses on your lips. You're so focused on what his lips are doing that you completely miss his fingers digging into your hips. You let out a startled cry when the sound of ripping fabric cuts through the breathy sighs that have filled the room. 

“Lando!” You whine, “I liked those!” You look at the torn bits of black lace that he’s dropped next to him on the bed and sigh dramatically.

“They were in my way. I’ll buy you fifty more tomorrow.” Without waiting for a response, his hand dips down towards your pussy and anticipation climbs in you. You gasp when he sinks not one, but two fingers into the heat between your legs.  Your entire body aches off the bed towards his hand. “Christ. Baby. You are fucking soaked for me, aren’t you?” 

It’s all you can do to just nod an affirmation as he swirls his fingers in achingly slow circles. His thick fingers inch closer to your clit but manage to avoid it and you know he’s doing it on purpose. You wiggle your hips in search of that friction you crave so badly but every time you get close, he moves his fingers out of the way. By the fourth time this happens, you're a whimpering mess underneath him and Lando is clearly enjoying it. “Lando.” You whimper. “Touch me.” 

“I am touching you.” He drops another hot kiss on your jaw and traces his tongue down your neck. You swear you're going to explode from the sensations coursing through your body. 

“You know exactly what I fucking mean.” You snap and move your hips again, only to find his fingers just short of the destination you want them in yet again. 

An evil chuckle tickles your skin. “I like you like this. A pretty little mess underneath me. My girl is so wet for me, isn’t she?” 

His girl. The emotions crash through you at his words and every other thought beyond those two words leaves your brain. 

His girl. 

His girl. 

Your brain chants the all consuming phrase. 

Just when you think you can’t take it any more and you feel that familiar tug at the base of your spine and Lando finally gives you what you've been aching for. The pad of his thumb brushes against your clit and your hips fly off the bed towards his fingers. A cry escapes your lips as you claw at his back. He keeps up the same pace and you can feel yourself barreling towards a delicious release.

“Please. Don’t. Stop.” You pant, breath coming in short gasps as you rock your hips against his hand. Thankfully, he keeps his hand exactly where it is and allows you to grind against it, knowing that this is exactly what you need from him. His lips come down on yours again and when he sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, you fly over the cliff.

Sweet release shatters your entire body and you stiffen against him. Your nails dig into his back, leaving little half moons embedded in his flesh. He’ll have red welts there for days and he couldn’t be happier about it. You don’t know how many times you cry out his name but he keeps completely still, allowing you to get the relief that you desperately need against him. 

When your orgasm subsides, you practically melt into the bed, mind too muddled with pleasure to talk. You open your eyes and grin lazily at Lando, who has shifted so he’s lying next to you on the bed. He’s grinning right back and tracing shiver-inducing lines up and down your naked skin.

“Fuck. Lando. That…” You are completely lost for words so it takes you a moment to form a complete sentence, “That was the first time anyones been able to make me come with just their fingers.” 

“Well, I’m glad I could be your first.” He smirks, dropping a kiss on your temple as he pulls you closer to him.

You turn to face him and you're struck at how handsome he is. His curly hair is messy from when you pulled at it while he was getting you off, his eyes glassy with satisfaction even though he hasn’t even come himself yet. He seems to get off just watching you and that is a completely foreign concept.

You reach out and feel the light stubble that covers his jaw, enjoying the rough feel against your fingers. You idly wonder what that stubble would feel like against your thighs and decide that you're just going to have to find out exactly what it feels like soon. That one single thought sends heat flooding through your veins once again and you're surprised. You've never considered myself to be one of those girls that could go several rounds. Usually you were finished after one orgasm, most of the time it was faked anyway. But with Lando laying next to you, you feel like you could do this for the rest of the night. A mischievous grin slips across your face as you reach over and push him back into the pillows.

Before you allow yourself to think about what you're doing, you straddle him and relish in the feeling of his dick that is now nudging against your ass. “I think I need you inside me now.” You tell him and squeal when his pupils blow and he flips you onto your back without warning. 

Hours later, you fall into such a deep sleep you don't notice Lando slip out of bed to get a drink of water from the bathroom. You'd spent the better part of the evening underneath him as he gradually worked you over so good you had lost count of how many times he had made you come.

The mattress dips when he joins you back in bed and Lando is surprised to find that he doesn't want to leave you. Up until meeting you, Lando had been more of a one night stand, never sleep over, kind of person when it came to sex. Getting back into bed with you and pulling you close so he could fall asleep with you tucked next to him was something he never thought he'd want but now that he had it, he knew he'd never be able to live without it again.

When Lando pulls you towards him, you stir a bit, enjoying the way the heat of his body warms your naked skin. You're so fucked out from everything Lando did to your body, your brain is a little sluggish but you turn into him, burying your head deep into his chest.

"You left me." You whine sleepily.

Lando slots his leg between yours, hitching your top leg up over his waist. "I'm sorry, baby." He whispers against your hair. "I needed a drink but I'm not going anywhere."

"I thought you left." In your sleepy haze, the words you probably would've tamped down slip out. "Please don't leave me."

Lando knows you're more than half asleep and probably don't realize what you're saying but something in your words has him feeling you don't just mean for the night. "I'm not going anywhere, sweet girl. Not ever." He whispers, listening to the soft cooing sound you make in response before you drift right back off to sleep.

Tag list: @shelbyteller @formulaal @martygraciesversion381 @longhairkoo @samantha-chicago @stelena-klayley @dark-night-sky-99 @luckylampzonkland @chlmtfilms @aykxz98 @forensicheart @cheer-bear-go-vroom @lieutenantchaos @willowsnook @linnygirl09 @meglouise00 @mixedstyles @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies @mrosales16 @charlesgirl16 @leclercdream @daemyratwst @dramaticpiratellamas @mochimommy2002 @llando4norris @chelseyyouraverageluigi @iamaunknownsecret @maxivstappen @imlonelydontsendhelp @nina-or-anna-or-nora @a1leexxa @littlegrapejuice @sunflowervol18 @freyathehuntress @finn-dot-com @swiftie-4-lifes-stuff @chirasama @lauralarsen @dr3wstarkey @saskiaalonso @rbv3rstappen @ilovechickenwings @guaaafiiburg @mcmuppet @glitteryturtledeer @mindless-rock @piastei-fvx

[cuntyji]

higuruma hiromi had always been a man of justice, fairness, and… questionable life decisions, according to his colleagues. so when the entire firm spent a week complaining about a mangy, scrappy little cat that kept loitering outside their building, digging through trash cans and glaring at interns like they personally wronged her, he did the only logical thing: he adopted her.

"this is melody," he announced the next morning, standing in the middle of the office with a very unimpressed, half-bald cat perched on his shoulder like a pirate’s parrot. "she's a lawyer now."

there was a long silence.

"hiromi," his assistant said carefully. "she's… a cat."

"and so much more," higuruma replied solemnly, adjusting his grip as melody dug her claws into his suit. "she has the heart of an advocate, the soul of a warrior, and the temper of a senior partner during billable hours."

"she looks like she crawled out of hell," someone whispered.

it was true. melody had one torn ear, a permanent scowl, and a coat that looked like it had survived at least three natural disasters. she stared down at the room, tail flicking, already judging everyone’s life choices.

"we're a professional law firm," the managing partner, mr. tokuda, said, rubbing his temples. "we cannot have a cat on payroll."

"she doesn't need payroll," higuruma countered. "she works pro bono."

someone in the back choked on their coffee.

melody, to her credit, fit in seamlessly. she spent most of her days lounging on case files, knocking over stacks of legal briefs, and terrorizing junior associates. if a client walked in and she didn't like their energy, she’d hiss at them until they reconsidered their lawsuit.

"your cat just swiped at a client!" his assistant whisper-yelled one afternoon.

"ah," higuruma mused, watching melody bat at the man's tie with mild hostility. "an excellent judge of character."

weeks passed. melody claimed a corner office. interns started referring to her as "ms. melody" in hushed tones, as if she was some high-ranking partner who held the power to make or break their careers. someone made her a tiny nameplate for her desk: melody, esq.

by the end of the month, she had an email.

melody@higurumalaw.com

her signature line? "i find you in contempt."

a/n: neva written for hot lawyer man before....slay!!!

[be4chywritez]

love and basketball | quinn hughes

quinn hughes x fem!reader

rec:  If possible, can you write something about Quinn and his girlfriend playing basketball against each other during the summer, where she's beating him badly but in a humorous way?

recs are open + prompt list

beachy’s masterlist🐚

The sun was starting to dip behind the trees, casting long streaks of amber across the driveway beside the lake house. The basketball hoop stood a little crooked on its base, backboard faded from years of lake summers. You wiped the sweat off your brow with the back of your arm and adjusted your grip on the ball.

Quinn was bent slightly at the waist, resting his hands on his knees and breathing heavier than he’d probably like to admit.

“You okay?” you asked, spinning the ball against your palm. “You’re looking a little winded.”

He stood up slowly and squinted at you. “I’m fine.”

“Sure. You just look like you aged ten years between possessions.”

“Maybe because someone,” he pointed at you, “keeps crossing me up like it’s the Finals.”

You snorted. “It’s not my fault your defense is mostly just… existing in my general area.”

“That’s how defense works!”

“Not when your feet are glued to the ground, babe.”

Quinn sighed and held his hands out, finally settling into a defensive stance. “Alright. Ball in.”

You didn’t say anything. Just took a breath, dribbled once, then blew past him on the left.

He shuffled to follow you, but his reaction time was half a beat too slow. You stopped short at the elbow, pump-faked—he jumped—and you casually stepped around him for a soft layup off the glass.

The ball hit the backboard and dropped through the hoop like it was rehearsed.

You turned and jogged backwards, a smug smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “That’s nineteen to six, by the way.”

Quinn walked in a slow circle and raked a hand through his hair. “There’s no way it’s that bad.”

You raised your brows. “You want to dispute the score now? Okay. Let’s call it eighteen to six. That better?”

He just stared at you. “I thought this was gonna be fun.”

You grinned. “It is. I’m having a great time.”

Quinn grabbed the ball, gave it a quick bounce, and walked it up. “One more possession.”

You crossed your arms. “What’s that, like a mercy possession?”

“It’s a redemption arc.”

“You’re not exactly giving main character energy right now.”

He shot you a look but tried to keep a straight face. You saw it twitch the moment he smiled, and you knew he wasn’t mad. A little salty, sure. But mostly amused.

Quinn made his move—head fake, spin, jumper from the free-throw line—and to his credit, it actually dropped.

“Look at that,” he muttered as it swished through. “Still got it.”

You clapped slowly, stepping in to take the ball. “Congrats. You’ll always have that one shot from game seven of ‘Me Getting Cooked at the Lake House.’”

He followed you toward the top of the driveway, still catching his breath. “You realize I’m gonna be sore for three days.”

You glanced back at him. “You say that like it’s my fault.”

“It is your fault!”

“Not really. You challenged me. All I did was win.”

Quinn opened his mouth to respond, then stopped short when you sank the game-winner with a clean, quiet jumper from the corner.

Twenty-one.

He stared at the hoop for a second, then looked at you, chest still rising and falling.

You shrugged. “Want me to carry you inside?”

“I want a rematch,” he said flatly.

“You want Advil and a long nap.”

“Also true.”

He walked toward you, shaking his head with a reluctant smile as you held your hand out for a high five. When he slapped it, you interlaced your fingers with his instead.

You leaned into him, cheek against his shoulder. “Still love me?”

“Even more. Unfortunately.”

It was just after ten the next morning when Quinn finally wandered into the kitchen. You were already on the couch with your coffee, legs tucked up under you, the lake glinting outside the wide windows. He moved slower than usual—carefully, like every step was being calculated.

You looked up from your mug. “Oh no.”

He didn’t answer, just eased himself into a chair like he was 85 years old and had slept on concrete.

“You alright there, Grandpa?”

Quinn glared at you from under his messy hair. “I can’t feel my quads.”

You tried not to laugh, but it didn’t last. “You’re not serious.”

“I feel like I got hit by a car.”

“Technically,” you said, sipping your coffee, “you got crossed over by your girlfriend.”

“That’s worse,” he muttered. “My dignity is in the lake.”

You set your mug down and padded over to him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders from behind. “Would it help if I told you I was genuinely impressed with that one jumper you hit?”

“Are you trying to be nice or is this just more of your psychological warfare?”

“Little of both.”

He let out a long, slow sigh as you leaned your chin against his head. “I’m not doing that again.”

“Playing with me or attempting to defend me?”

“Yes.”

Before you could reply, Luke came into the kitchen, digging through the pantry. “Hey, you guys wanna hit the water after lunch or—”

He stopped mid-sentence, turned to look at Quinn, then squinted. “Why are you walking like that?”

Jack followed right behind him. “Did you sleep weird or something? You look wrecked.”

You stepped away from Quinn, grabbed your coffee again, and stayed quiet.

Quinn groaned. “We played basketball yesterday.”

Jack blinked. “Okay. And?”

“She destroyed me.”

Luke laughed immediately, loud and abrupt. “Oh my god, you’re serious.”

Jack leaned against the counter. “Wait, like... she beat you or like—”

“Dropped me,” Quinn said. “Over and over. My legs are gone.”

You took a long, slow sip and looked out the window. “It was a good game.”

Luke shook his head in disbelief. “I thought you were gonna cry when I beat you at pool last summer. How are you coping with this?”

Quinn tilted his head back with a groan. “Not well.”

Jack grinned. “Hey, it’s fine. At least she didn’t dunk on you.”

You looked over. “We didn’t have time. Maybe next game.”

Luke chortled. “You are terrifying.”

Quinn closed his eyes. “I know.”

You walked over and kissed the top of his head. “You’ll bounce back.”

He looked up at you, eyes a little narrowed. “I’m never playing you one-on-one again.”

You smiled. “That’s fair.”

-

The sound of clinking ice echoed off the bathroom walls.

"You’re not serious," Quinn said flatly, standing in the doorway with a suspicious squint.

You were hunched over the tub, dumping the third tray of ice cubes into the cold water. “Dead serious.”

“That’s like... too much ice.”

“There’s no such thing,” you said, rinsing your hands in the water with a smug grin. “You said your legs feel like they’ve been through a woodchipper. I’m just being supportive.”

Quinn gave you a long, slow look. “This is revenge.”

“Revenge implies I didn’t earn the win fair and square.”

He didn’t move, arms crossed over his chest, still in his hoodie and sweatpants like he wasn’t two seconds from being bullied into freezing.

You stood up, wiped your wet hands on a towel, and patted his cheek lightly. “Come on, champ. Time to chill those old man knees.”

“I’m twenty-five.”

“You’re walking like you’re seventy-two.”

He groaned dramatically but finally shuffled into the room and started peeling off his sweats. “If I die, I’m haunting you.”

“You’ll be the first hockey ghost with joint pain.”

Quinn shot you a tired glare but climbed into the tub anyway, wincing the second his legs hit the water. “Oh my God—why is it so cold?!”

“It’s ice, babe.”

“You said like ten minutes!”

“I said until your legs stop screaming. So… twenty.”

He looked up at you with pure betrayal. “You’re evil.”

You plopped down on the bathmat beside him and handed him a towel to rest on the edge. “No, I’m nurturing. This is what love looks like.”

Quinn shivered violently. “I thought love looked more like warm blankets and back rubs.”

“Love sometimes looks like suffering for your own good.”

He reached down to flick a few floating cubes away from his knees. “I’m gonna have hypothermia.”

“Dramatic,” you muttered, handing him a mug of tea you’d brought in earlier. “Here. Hydrate and suffer in silence.”

He took it begrudgingly, holding it like it was a precious heat source, shoulders hunched up and eyes narrowed at you over the rim. “You’re never playing basketball again.”

By the time Quinn finally thawed out and got himself into bed, he was still pouting. He slid under the covers with the weight of a man who’d survived war, groaning like it took actual effort to lie down.

You didn’t even glance up from your book. “You’re not limping anymore.”

“Because my soul left my body in that bathtub.”

You snorted and dog-eared the page, then set your book aside. “You are so dramatic.”

He turned onto his side with a little huff, blanket pulled all the way up to his chin. “I was in the trenches.”

You rolled your eyes and turned off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into a warm, sleepy glow from the hallway light outside the cracked door.

You felt Quinn shift again—this time scooting closer. Then closer. Then a full dramatic sigh as his cold toes definitely on purpose touched your calves.

You jerked away. “QUINN. Are you serious?”

“Body heat,” he said, all innocent. “This is survival.”

“You’re literally warm now!”

“I could relapse.”

“Relapse? Babe, you took an ice bath, you’re not coming down with pneumonia in July.”

He didn’t answer. Just continued to press himself closer until his entire body was curved along your back, arm winding around your waist like he was clinging to a life raft.

You sighed, but didn’t fight it. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You’re warm,” he murmured into your shoulder. “And mean, but mostly warm.”

“You chirped me the entire game, called me ‘Steph with a grudge,’ and said I was lucky you weren’t ‘going full NBA.’”

He hummed. “You were lucky. If I wasn’t sore, I would’ve dunked on you.”

You turned your head, giving him a look over your shoulder. “You tried to do a layup and hit the rim.”

“That was the wind.”

“It was NOT windy.”

He broke, snickering against your skin before hiding his face in the back of your neck. “Okay, okay. I deserved the ice.”

“Thank you.”

“But you know what I don’t deserve?”

You tilted your head, curious. “What?”

He tightened his hold on you, pressing his cold nose behind your ear. “Being this sore and losing to someone who was talking trash with perfect mascara on.”

You laughed, your whole body shaking with it. “I told you I don’t play around.”

“You didn’t tell me you were gonna destroy me and look hot doing it.”

You turned to face him, pillow squished between you. “Would it have helped if I’d been ugly during it?”

He gave you a sleepy little smile. “Honestly? No. That would’ve been worse. At least this way I know I got wrecked by the love of my life.”

You blinked at him.

“You’re delirious,” you teased, but you couldn’t fight the smile spreading across your face.

“Deliriously in love,” he whispered dramatically, then immediately yelped when you flicked his forehead.

“Go to sleep, Hallmark boy.”

“Only if you promise not to do a post-game breakdown in your dreams.”

“No promises.”

He settled in with a content sigh, already half-asleep and still tangled around you.

And just before sleep really took him, he mumbled one last thing into your collarbone:

“Still calling a rematch.”

You smiled, eyes closed. “Keep dreaming, Quinner.”

[a-very-tired-jew]

The forensic analysis for the Bibas children has been completed and according to news outlets Yarden himself wants people to know how they died.

Now, if you're not someone who can handle this type of stuff I strongly suggest you do not read further. Edit: The Bibas family has asked that the details of Shiri and the boys' deaths not be discussed. They want the world to know they have been murdered, but not in extreme detail. While Hagari has stated that Yarden told him to tell the world, it is likely that Yarden and the rest of the family did not understand what that entailed. I've run into this problem when having to do press releases myself where we go into what we believe is a proper amount of detail regarding a victim(s)'s murder, what was done, and what the public should know. This is not always in line with the family's intent and that can change after the information is already out there.

For their sake I am reducing the amount of detail in this post and removing the article. However, the information is already out there and if you so desire you can find articles about it on many news sites.

They were killed and then mutilated post mortem in an attempt to cover up what had been done. The mutilation was done to simulate a building collapse to try and falsify that they'd be killed in an airstrike.

This is what forensic science does. It can determine peri and post mortem injuries and provide us a timeline of what likely occurred due to the evidence, rather than listening to the terrorists who have lied repeatedly.

Post mortem mutilation typically falls into three general categories; One is done to obfuscate forensics and hide what was done to the victim(s). Another is done in crime of passion scenarios where the perpetrator is not completely unaware of what they are doing and simply go above and beyond the act of killing. And the third is done to cause psychological distress to the victim(s), victim families, and community.

Regardless, it is one of the few things that will get you the death penalty here in the USA and I have been part of a number of cases where the accused will vehemently deny the mutilation and openly confess to the killing because it is such a heinous thing to do. Forensic pathology can determine what wounds were caused peri and post mortem, and determine how much time likely passed in the interim.

This means that even if the crime itself was one of passion there can be a cool down period before post mortem mutilation occurs. Meaning that regardless of emotional highs during the initial crime, the secondary act was done with one of the other two intentions. For all we know it could likely be that it was done to obfuscate and cause psychological distress.

Consider that Hamas has previously stated that the Bibas children were killed in Israeli airstrikes, I don't think either intention is out of the picture. Furthermore, there are a number of "anti-Zionist" accounts on here that range from neo-Bundists, to tankies, to Jew fakers who repeated the Hamas lie that Israel killed the children during an airstrike. They are going to goalpost, and actually are right now as I am typing this, that Israel is now lying about the forensic science.

Repeatedly these accounts and persons have had to goalpost and mental gymnastic their positions in order to maintain that Israel and (((Zionists))) are the worst thing ever and Hamas and its affiliates are just innocent freedom fighters.

This is conspiracy thinking. We saw this with Sandy Hook Truthers and, I guess, you can label these accounts/persons as Bibas Family Truthers. Another person on jumblr said we were going to see this behavior and it hasn't even been 24 hours before the usual suspects started.

And I give credit where credit is due to Israel because they knew this type of conspiracy thinking would come out about their forensics, so they've shared their results and evidence with international labs. While it may be some time before it gets further verified, we will likely see these same accounts move the goalpost again to try and blame Israel for the death of the Bibas children, take the onus of responsibility off of Hamas and affiliates, and accuse Zionists of being Nazis once again. And remember, if you're doing any one of these things (or a combination of them) then you're not a good person.

You're an antisemitic bigot (even if you're one of us, and especially if you're pretending to be).

[pukefactory]

•☽────✧˖°˖ TROPICA FOOD COURT ˖°˖✧────☾•

★ Summary: A Compilation Of Headcanons Featuring Salesperson ENA X Reader You Both Find A Vending Machine Full Of Strange Drinks

★ Character(s): Salesperson ENA (ENA: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ You spotted it first: an ancient, flickering vending machine tucked behind a crooked lamp post, buzzing suspiciously. The buttons were labeled with things like “Quantum Slush,” “Elixir of Partial Success,” and “Liquidated Memories.” ENA immediately stiffened at the sight, her Meanie side scoffing, “What kind of idiot puts a death trap in a box and sells it for three fake quarters?!” Her Salesperson side, chipper and delighted, started patting down her pockets. “If we play our cards right, we could unlock a fantastic business opportunity here!” she beamed, completely missing the point. You were halfway between concern and excitement yourself.

☆ ENA insisted on letting you pick the first drink, citing it as “user testing.” She even pulled out a fake clipboard, nodding sagely. “This is most categorically doable. Your liver is simply a business expense.” When you hesitated, she leaned down, smiling crookedly, and whispered, “What’s the worst that could happen? Ha ha. Don’t answer that.”

☆ You chose something relatively tame-sounding: “Mildly Unpredictable Tea.” The can hissed open and a bunch of multicolored bubbles floated out instead of liquid. ENA immediately leaned in, trying to “capture the aromas for professional analysis,” only to accidentally inhale one. It popped inside her nose, making her entire left side turn a luminous blue for thirty seconds while she shrieked, “I AM TRANSCENDING STUPIDITY!!”

☆ Her Salesperson side tried to play it cool. “Ahem, minor cosmetic rebranding is normal after product testing.” Her Meanie side immediately clapped her hands over her face and shouted, “MY CELLS ARE COMMITTING TAX FRAUD!”

☆ When it was ENA’s turn to pick, she deliberately chose the most ominous can: “Hot Chocolate, but Worse.” You begged her to reconsider. She did not. The can exploded the second she cracked it open, spraying both of you with a gooey, magma-thick brown liquid that smelled faintly of despair and burnt toast. “THIS IS HELL’S FLAVORED SLUDGE!” she barked, staggering backward. “I’d call it… an acquired taste,” Her Salesperson side added, wiping her eyes and giving you a sticky thumbs-up.

☆ At one point, you noticed that some of the cans had strange little “effects” icons printed on the sides — wings, hourglasses, melting clocks. ENA, squinting at one of the labels, whispered like it was a state secret, “If we drink the wrong one, I might turn into a pyramid scheme.” You deadpanned, “You already act like one.” Meanie screamed, “HEY! MULTILEVEL MARKETING IS A SYMPHONY OF SUCKERS!!!”

☆ You and ENA sat cross-legged in the grass, lining up a few more “experimental beverages” in a row like a tasting event. She made you swirl the cans, smell them dramatically, and describe the “bouquet.” When you hesitated or said they smelled like “wet sidewalk,” Salesperson would encourage you with a very businesslike, “Wonderful, let’s put that in the customer review section!” Meanwhile, Meanie muttered darkly about how “the sidewalk smells better than this rotgut slop.”

☆ At some point, ENA drank a “Lemonade of Emotional Honesty” and instantly folded in half, grabbing her face. “I hate meetings! I hate empty promises! I hate soup that’s too hot!!” she wailed in a confession avalanche. You gently patted her back while she continued shrieking into the dirt about grievances you hadn’t even known she had, like the way clowns tie their shoes.

☆ One drink (“Essence of Charisma”) actually worked. After a few sips, ENA stood taller, glowed slightly, and started rattling off the most absurd sales pitches you’d ever heard — effortlessly persuasive. “Have you ever considered investing in the cyclical futility of your own desires?” she asked an old mailbox. You had to physically drag her away before she sold it a timeshare in the afterlife.

☆ Eventually, you both collapsed under the vending machine’s neon haze, surrounded by half-drunk cans, sticky clothes, and the faint suspicion you were no longer in the same dimension you started in. ENA, lying beside you, lazily spun a can in the air and murmured, “Maybe tomorrow we’ll sell drinks like these ourselves.” Then, Meanie immediately snapped upright to yell, “AND WE’LL PUT A HUGE WARNING LABEL THAT SAYS ‘YOU WILL BECOME STUPIDER’ BECAUSE IT’S TRUE!!” You laughed so hard you almost choked on your own unfinished “Liquidated Memories” soda.

[hamletthedane]

I know I’m joking about how Wicked Part 2 is going to be insane compared to Part 1, but it actually is so interesting when viewed as separate second part of the story -

Because hear me out - imo, the end of Act 1 sets up where the lines in the sand are for the three key characters:

Elphaba chooses to follow her morals and reject the system, even to her own isolation and destruction. Her line is her dedication to “making good.”

Glinda, her foil, openly admits that she cannot turn down the allure of the system’s power and stability, even at the sacrifice of her morals and her closest friendship. Her line is her power and popularity.

Fiyero, further foiling Glinda, is the person who would have blindly said yes to Elphaba’s offer. He is completely, unquestioningly devoted to Elphaba - even to a fault - believing that she will always be good and choose the right thing (as she “doesn’t care what others think”).* His line is his unwavering loyalty to Elphaba.

*admittedly, this is less evident at the end of Act 1, but it’s made VERY clear within the first 5min of Act 2 so I’m counting it as an Act 1 arc

But then Act 2 forces them to respect the line they’ve decided to draw in increasingly devastating ways, and eventually forces them to violate their lines or have the lines destroy them:

Elphaba’s sacrifices turn her into a complete pariah, forcing her to lose everything she had and worked for in an instant. She fights every day for what she believes in, even though she sees it’s fruitless and only leading to the destruction of everything she loves. But Elphaba stands strong even against the Wizard’s temptation of leaving behind her failing cause. However, she’s finally pushed over her edge when one of the two people who still believed in her “goodness” dies for that belief. And it drives her to throw away every good intention and dive head-first into a pursuit of power and control. She must ultimately be influenced by Glinda to once again choose self-sacrifice for the greater good, giving up her power and dreams of normality in Oz. “Now it’s up to you, for both of us”

Glinda builds great political capital and becomes one of the most important, beloved characters in the nation. But nothing is real: she’s engaged to a man who clearly doesn’t love her, she’s openly decrying a woman who she clearly still loves herself, and the system she operates in troubles her even as she benefits from it. Elphaba again tempts her to leave, and Fiyero’s clear willingness to jump ship should be an even greater temptation, but she can’t leave it behind. Not until the very end of the story does she finally recreate the Ozdust dance: acting against her own self-interest to save Elphaba and take up the fire of her cause

Fiyero, to his credit, is the only person who cannot be pushed from his line. The very first chance he gets, he follows Elphaba blindly, despite hearing all these terrible things about her. Then he willingly sacrifices himself for her and her cause, and they torture him to (a fate worse than) death for it. And even when Elphaba really does go evil, he still believes that she will ultimately choose good. His loyalty to her is not well rewarded (see: fate worse than death), but he makes his sacrifice willingly. His belief destroyed him.

What I really like about the play’s story is that from all these different starting goals and motivations, every character is forced to give up everything that is dear to them - including their fundamental selves - by the end of the story. Yet, they all three still continue to overlap and influence each other in ways that lead them all to a choice of “making good” in the end. SO excited to see that played out on screen.

[giuseppe-yuki]

come over, baby!

rancher!oscar piastri x city girl!reader

w.c.: 4.3k

warnings: curse words, heavy allusions to sex, a little bit of ooc!oscar

summary: oscar sneaks you onto his family's ranch. it doesn't go as smoothly as he planned.

a/n: merry christmas to those who celebrate! :) i know i haven't uploaded a real fic in a hot sec so i decided to whip this up real quick!

picture credits from pinterest :)

your trusty mini cooper gives a sharp beep as it locks behind you. its taillights flashes bright, causing the branches of the surrounding eucalyptus trees to cast a looming shadow over you and the dusty road. once the lights dim into nothing, you glance around the dark dirt driveway that was apparently the entrance to your boyfriend’s family’s ranch, according to the text from him on your phone.

you let out a sigh- you could have easily been snuggled up in your bed in your college dorm, facetiming him on your phone, but no- he decided that you should become a top secret spy and drive two hours to his conveniently “close” family ranch at 9pm on a tuesday evening and sneak into his bedroom on the first floor because he felt clingy and wanted to see you “in-person.” 

it honestly only took a few “no one will knowwww!” and a sprinkle of “come on, baby, pleaseeeeee i want to see youuu!” until you found yourself tiptoeing down the pitch black driveway towards the looming two story family ranch house that was seemingly where your boyfriend was located for fall break. anything for love, you suppose.

you squint your eyes at your phone’s bright screen depicting a lengthy message depicting exactly where to “break in” under the contact name “osc 💕” . park underneath the line of trees outside the metal gates- check. sneak through the broken fence three posts next to the main gates- check. walk down the dirt road towards the main house- currently doing so. 

the ranch house is stunningly pretty, with a big patio that housed a few well-worn rocking chairs, a spattering of wildflowers all around, and a big oak tree with a tire swing framing the whole thing. if you weren’t currently on a mission to break into the house itself to see your boyfriend, you would have stayed to admire for awhile.

you locate the window that your boyfriend mentioned further down in the text- the second one on the left side of the house without a window screen (he broke it playing cricket when he was 12, he said). bingo. it honestly wasn’t that hard to find, considering it was only one with the lights on on the first floor. 

sliding your phone, the only light source that you had, into your pocket, you curve your fingers underneath the window pane and slowly slide it up, making sure to make zero noise. 

the first thing you see when you maneuver yourself all sneakily through the window of the quaint little ranch house’s first-floor bedroom is decidedly not your boyfriend, with his swoopy brown-gold hair and polite-cat smile. instead, a pretty young woman with brown shoulder length hair, cowboy boots, and a silver belt in one hand stops and gapes at you on her way to exit the room. 

shit. 

“w-w-who are you?” she asks shakily, shuffling around the bed in the middle of the room and extending the silver belt in front of her like a weapon. she gives the air a few experimental slashes as if telling you- back off, i have a weapon.

you start to rethink your decisions. this was oscar’s house…right?

scrambling out of your awkward position sprawled halfway the window, you scoot nervously away from the rather dangerous-looking belt before speaking. 

“er, hi,” you say in the most non-threatening tone you can muster up after breaking and entering what you assume is this random lady’s house at an inappropriate time of night. 

she doesn’t even give you a chance to explain that this was all a misunderstanding before she yanks the door next to her open and gets ready to, most likely, call the police on you. 

however, before she is able to bolt out the door, a familiar boy steps into view in the doorway. 

oscar.

he takes a second to take in the situation- you standing awkwardly like that meme of robert pattinson in the kitchen, and the woman holding out the silver belt towards you in a menacing way- before he jumps into action. 

“okay…hattie- i can explain,” he exclaims to the woman, slamming the door closed behind him. oscar runs up between you and the still-stunned hattie, which you assume is his sister. 

“do not tell mom, but it’s just my girlfriend, okay?” he pleads. then, looking at the belt in hattie’s hand, he wrinkles his brow. “-and is that my belt?”

hattie hides the belt behind her. 

“um…no?”

with a single eyebrow raise from oscar, hattie sighs exasperatedly. 

“fine, yes, it is. i came into your room to get it for my outfit tomorrow when i caught your-” she peers around oscar,  “‘girlfriend’ literally breaking into our house!” 

“okay, pause!” your boyfriend says, scooting over to the left a little bit to block hattie’s view of you next to the wide-open window. “first of all, why would you take my belt without asking? second of all, she is not breaking into the house if i invited her in first, and third, again, please don’t tell mum.” 

hattie stares at her brother for a second, then peers over his shoulder to look at you, before crossing her arms. “al-right. i won’t tell- only if you do my night duty stuff for the ranch and i get to keep the belt.” 

your boyfriend doesn’t even hesitate before spitting a quick “okay, fine” before shoving his sister out of the room. 

“fuck. you. i. am. never. doing. that. again!” you whisper-shout at oscar, repeatedly smacking him with the hoodie you stripped off moments ago. screw his puppy-dog eyes and his oddly cute bunny-rabbit smile- you were never trusting him again. 

he laughs between the soft smacks from your college-logoed hoodie and pulls you towards him on the bed, effectively halting your attacks.  

“come on, baby!” he drawls, wrapping his arms around you. “it’s fine!”

your hoodie is abandoned on the side as he slides you towards him. your head automatically slots into the crook of his neck like it was made to be there, and you practically melt into his warm body, effectively dissolving the bigger part of your embarrassment and anger away. 

even when you purposefully cross your arms and face away from him after the hug, oscar knows he has already won the way from the fact that you still crawl underneath his blankets with him like you both always did in your dorm back at college. 

he prods you with a finger when you both are snuggled half-way in the blankets and you know that you can’t turn around to face him or else he’s going to press kisses to your face and then your “i’m a bit pissed” facade will surely be broken. you stay back-towards him, but then, he pulls out the ultimate weaponized piece of knowledge that he knows: your ticklish spots. oscar jams his fingers into your side, giggling, and pokes you until you have no choice to squirm back towards him. 

the way you wriggle around the bed ends up with you slotted underneath him. oscar gazes down at you, head tilted. you blink back at him slowly, watching how his brown eyes follow your tongue as you lick your chapped lips.

“you know,” he whispers in that lilting australian accent of his, “this is more what i was thinking we could do when i told you to sneak over into my room.”

“yeah?” you say, teasingly. “well, i’ll be glad to recreate whatever you are thinking of.”

a shy grin spreads across his face, and he sits up to strip his old faded sleeping shirt off his body. 

you just about salivate, seeing the sight of what you have seen what seems to be hundreds of times- his slightly muscular chest dotted with a constellation of stars that you loved to trace- either during a soft night curled on your dorm room bed, or when you lay, spent, on his chest after a lust-filled night.

before you can stop yourself, you reach out on instinct to trace your fingernail down his torso.

just a millisecond before your finger makes contact with his skin, footsteps sound outside his shut door, and the doorknob rattles, resulting in both of you to snap your heads towards the sound.

with some unbelievable reaction time that should probably get him a seat in formula 1, oscar shoves you underneath his stupid blue bedspread, and throws a couple comforters over your covered body- just in case.

are. you. joking. 

you were never trusting oscar again. what the hell were you gonna say to his parents if they found you underneath his blankets? there’s no way in hell they were gonna be easily persuaded like his sister was with a simple belt. what were you going to say? 

oh, i’m sorry mrs. piastri, for  breaking into your son’s bedroom at 9pm on a tuesday night because your son was feeling a bit frisky. 

absolutely not. you would rather die. 

instead, you settle for freezing as still as you can underneath the pitch-black insides of oscar’s pile of blankets and wait for what just be your impending doom.

the door squeaks as it opens, and you hear the scuffling of house shoes, then a pause. 

the person entering the room speaks first. 

“oscar.” a pause. “who were you talking to? and what- what are you doing with your shirt off? why are you kind of sweaty?”

you clock it as a female parental-type voice, which confirms your suspicions that- fuck- it’s probably his mother. 

your boyfriend shuffles nervously above you.

“mum, what?? talking? i wasn’t talking to anyone- i was talking to myself! also, you can’t just, like, break into my bedroom!” he exclaims a little too quickly. “you have to, like, knock! that’s an invasion of privacy!”

“wow, okay, calm down, oscar!” the woman’s voice shoots back. “why are you so defensive? i just heard voices, and i thought- maybe someone had broke in?” 

another pause.

“were you having some…” she trails off. “some- special alone time? a bit of oscar’s happy time?”

oscar’s mother’s insinuations hit both you and your boyfriend at the same time, and you can’t help but clap your hand over your mouth to muffle the laugh that was bubbling up in your throat.

your boyfriend lightly kicks you underneath the covers, which you could directly translate to shut up right now.

“special alone..?!” oscar stutters out, outraged. “no, mum, i was not having some special alone time! please! mum, i’m fine!”

“alright, alright,” his mother remarks, defeatedly. 

the scuffling sound heads towards the door, but stills before you can hear the door open. 

“by the way, your sister said that you were going to do her nighttime chores for her. i don’t know what kind of silly deal you guys struck up, but i expect it to be done by tomorrow, okay?” she adds.

“okay, okay, i got it, mum,” oscar replies hastily. 

“okey-dokey. goodnight, oscar!” his mother says brightly, before you hear the tell-tale sound of the door squeaking shut.

after oscar makes sure the door is completely closed and his mother’s footsteps have disappeared from his bedroom, he yanks his blankets off of you. 

the cool air flows over you, and you take a breath of fresh air. even if you only spent three minutes, tops, inside the stuffy blankets, it really felt like forever. you are sure your clothes are all rumpled from being squished underneath all that weight. 

“sorry, sorry, sorry,” your boyfriend repeats, grasping you and pecking a kiss to your cheek each time. “that was not part of the plan.”

“mhm,” you mutter back. you didn’t mind, honestly, you were just glad mrs. piastri didn’t notice the suspiciously college-girl shaped lump on her son’s bed. 

when oscar pulls off of you, he flashes you a devious grin. 

“you wanna..?” 

he uses his head to gesture towards the bed.

under normal circumstances, you would have thrown oscar to the bed and done multiple inappropriate things to him, but alas, 1) his mom coming in kind of killed the mood, 2) how could you, when his poor sister was likely, like, down the hall? and most importantly, 3) oscar had promised to do his sister’s chores, and you weren’t about to get mama piastri angry the next morning.

“oscar…” you say, trailing off. “don’t you have to do your, you know, chores?”

the gleam of mischievousness in your boyfriend’s eyes immediately falls flat, and his lips turn into a slight frown. 

letting out a rather exaggerated sigh, he slumps forward for a second before slinking towards the door. 

“leave my own mother to cockblock me…” he mutters, throwing on a black hoodie and green cap. 

you are about to let out a giggle, and pull him back on the bed for looking so cute being forlorn, but then, you realize, no, you have to be the voice of reason. 

“come on, oscar, i may be a city girl, but it can’t be that bad, right? i’ll be here all night!”

you are met with your boyfriend’s classic blank stare. 

“o-okay…what if…i went with you?” you suggest, reveling in the way that his gaze lights up.

“sneak out of the window, and meet me at the front of the house in 5,” he remarks, giving you a soft smile. 

what you expect to see at the front of the house is oscar with a shovel or whatever ranchers use to do their nightly chores, but instead, oscar waves at you from inside an entire fucking glowing atv. it has two seats, and entire mini flatbed trunk area, and to top it off, a covered clear canopy over the entire thing. and you thought the usual ranchers’ method of transportation was a freaking horse?? oscar’s family must have really modernized. 

you whisper a quick what-the-fuck before launching yourself into the atv next to your boyfriend. he flashes his usual bunny-rabbit smile at you, before fiddling with a few knobs on the front of the control panel. to your surprise, an entire heating unit starts blasting warm air towards you out of absolutely nowhere. 

huh??? when did atvs have heaters?? 

you don’t even have chance to formulate your thoughts before oscar starts revving the atv like he’s a freaking formula car driver and takes off into the darkness. 

even if you knew close to zero about being a rancher, you trail behind oscar to make sure he doesn’t half-ass his chores. the first task is checking the lights, which doesn’t seem too hard. 

your boyfriend basically speedruns around the barn that you arrive at, flicking at seemingly random places to turn on floodlights that surround the area. 

“for ‘safety’ reasons,” he had said when you asked. 

you take the time to do a 360 around the barn, noting the goats that glance at you curiously from their fenced off area outside in the chill night air. 

when oscar finishes sprinting around, he grasps your hand and leads you back towards the atv. 

“alright, back to my room!” he gasps breathlessly, as he starts the atv back up. 

your mind drifts to the poor goats outside. 

“er, oscar- are the goats supposed to be outside? i would think they deserve to be inside the barn, warm and toasty, no?”

your boyfriend freezes, hand halfway to the wheel. it’s obvious the cogs in his mind are turning. you blink at him once, before he groans and twists the key into the ‘off’ position for the atv. 

typically, you knew your boyfriend as someone who was really hard to irritate, but god, this was really doing a number on him.

oscar bolts toward the gated area that you saw earlier, and easily jumps the fence into the goat’s area. you can’t help but watch in wonder as he herds all the stubborn animals towards the barn’s entrance. most of the goats bleat at him once in annoyance before charging into the warmth of indoors, but you see a few stragglers still in the outdoor pen. a giggle bubbles up in your throat as you see a goat purposefully wedge itself between the fence and the water trough- just enough so oscar couldn’t reach him easily- leading to your boyfriend exclaim in frustration. 

it was funny- if you saw the shy, introverted oscar that was typically shown to others at the college that you both went to together, you were sure that they would have never guessed he was the type to get pissy, curse at goats, and shake his fist at the sky like an old grampa in the dark of night. 

while he was busy with the stubborn goat, you take the chance to climb over metal rungs of the fence and venture into the barn. it was quite cozy looking, with a thin layer of straw-like bedding covering the floor, round bales of hay lining the walls, and, of course, bunches of goats milling around. sitting on an overturned bucket, you watch as the cute goats settle down for the night, bleating happily. 

all of the sudden, a baby goat, (a kid, you find out they are called, later) runs up to you and nibbles at your sleeve. it’s quite adorable, the way it shoves its head under your hand, urging you to pet it. you comply, of course. 

it kind of reminds you of the way oscar often shoves his head under your hands during a long night study session. when he was almost at his breaking point, too tired to shove any more vocab words and formulas into his head, he would lie on you and beg for you to thread your hands into his hair and massage his head. oscar would probably go mental if he saw you give the baby goat treatment that was typically reserved for him.

speaking of the devil, the second your hand lands on the baby goat’s head, oscar storms in with the stubborn goat from earlier squished to his chest. half of your boyfriend’s pant leg is soaking wet, and judging from the way his eyes are drawn to the spot where your hand was softly petting the goat’s head, he was not too happy. 

“are you…okay, osc?” you ask, already knowing the answer. 

after gently letting the offending goat back towards its mates, oscar stands like the standing man emoji in front of you.

“i would like to go.” he responds, face completely deadpan. 

although the goats were pretty cute, you would pick oscar every time. lightly scooching away from the baby goat, you stand up and brush off the pieces of straw and dirt that it knocked into your lap. the goat, probably slightly peeved at the fact that you were leaving, decides to do a gravity defying (?) leap at the shelf behind you, which contained a small square block of hay. 

much to your amazement, the goat jumps off your bucket, and lands nicely on the shelf a good meter above you. 

“don’t you fucking dare,” oscar warns behind you, apparently already guessing the goat’s next step. he runs towards underneath the shelf and pushes you behind him, all the while keeping a eye on the goat as it steps closer and closer to the bale of hay.

it bleats, and pushes the hay with its nose.

the block explodes in midair, completely covering oscar.

for the second time in the day night, you fight to cover your laugh. the poor hay-covered oscar was just about trembling in anger. you hurriedly drag him towards the exit, all the while thanking the gods that what you thought was a darling little goat didn’t just squish your boyfriend.

“come on, baby,” you comfort, parroting the words he had said to you earlier in the night back to him. “it’s fine.”

he huffs, twisting the key of the atv, allowing the heater to effectively blast half of the hay on him straight into your face.

“oh my god, baby, are you okay?” oscar says, eyes wide. he quickly turns the heater down and brushes a few strands of hay off of your head. 

you pretend that you didn’t just feel a strand of hay go down your throat. 

“y-yeah, no problem,” you cough out. “we can just um, head back if that’s what you’d like.”

“right,” he affirms, voice going back to monotone. 

the atv rumbles quietly as he navigates back to the house.

trying to lighten up the mood and fill the awkward silence in the small space of the vehicle, oscar attempts to crack the world’s worst joke using his lust-craved brain. 

“after all that fiasco, i think i deserve the world’s best hea-”

before he can finish (hehe get it?), you cut him off, pointing outside to a potentially dangerous situation for his ranch’s chickens. 

“oscar,” you say pointedly, “i don’t want to burst your bubble, but was bringing the chickens in one of your sister’s chores? ��cause they’re currently flapping around in an outdoor area, and i’m afraid there’s like foxes or something that are going to eat them.”

your boyfriend slams on the brake pedal, and peeks over your shoulder, confirming the worst news in his head right now- there was yet another job to be done. 

he just about flies out the vehicle, and before you know it, he has wedged himself into the chicken coop. if there is an award for the fastest time to shove like, 15 chickens inside the line of nesting boxes, he would definitely win first. it’s kind of an insane sight.  you even hear a few “get the fuck in,” which is decidedly out of character for oscar to ever say.

every chicken actually makes it indoors, and oscar doesn’t hesitate to slam the chicken coop door shut with a loud bang.

you wish you can say the actual ride back to the house isn’t tense, but then, you’d be lying. by the time oscar pulls up to the side of the house where the only window still has its lights on is the second one without a window screen, you can feel each breath that he takes thrumming its way into your core. 

he barely has a chance to shut off the atv before you cast a sly glance towards him. 

“do you wanna-” 

the way his brown eyes glaze over in want does all the answering for you.

all you know is that after spending an undisclosed amount of time inside of the atv fogging up the plastic cover of the vehicle, you both stumbled back through oscar’s stupid little window on the left side of the house, where you continued your little escapade within the confines of his bedroom. 

the first thing you realize when you wake up is oscar’s bare skin underneath yours. you’re tucked underneath his arm, and one of your legs is entwined with his. 

you shift in his arms, tilt your head, and use a little bit of force to launch yourself upwards to press a kiss on his cheek from your position wedged next to him. 

oscar mutters a “mmm,” with his eyes closed, but you can tell from the many times of waking up next to him that he’s obviously awake. 

poking his bare stomach with a finger, you giggle. 

“i know you’re awake, oscar.”

“nuh-uh,” he shoots back, eyes still closed, grasping your offending finger with his hand and holding your arm away from him.

you untuck your other hand from under the blanket, and move to boop his stomach again. 

however, before you are able to, the footsteps come to the door and the doorknob jiggles.

oh. my. fucking. god. not this again.

oscar, like the night before, strategically shoves you under his blankets roughly. 

this time, you wedge yourself in a way where you can see the doorway through a crack in the blankets before the door swings open.

a nice-looking woman with straight brown short hair and a white sweatshirt with big block letters that spell out, “y u k i” walks in. his mom, you suppose. behind her stands the girl you saw the day before, hattie, who has her hand clasped over her mouth, trying to stop her giggles from escaping. 

oscar’s mom speaks first, clasping her hands together. 

“good morning, oscar!” she exclaims, placing her hands on her hips. “did you want some breakfast?”

“er,” your boyfriend says, staying very still. 

then, you see oscar’s mom approaching you. 

she neatly pulls off the part of the blanket covering your head, effectively blinding you from the bright light from the window, while also turning you into the surface of the sun from the way your cheeks heat up from embarrassment of being exposed literally out of nowhere. 

“and maybe your girlfriend would like some breakfast too instead of being shoved underneath your dirty blankets?” 

when oscar doesn’t answer, his mother shakes her head and sighs. “wow, oscar, i thought i taught you better than treating guests this way.”

you wrap oscar’s blankets around you, thanking god that his mother had not decided to yank all the blankets off your entire body.

hattie decides this is the moment that she cannot hold her laugh anymore and flees the doorway. you can still hear her little giggles in the hallway.

your boyfriend stutters out angrily, “b-but hattie promised-”

“no, don’t ‘hattie’ me. she didn’t out you.” his mother states calmly. “i was a teen too, once. do you really think i wouldn’t see the footsteps in the mud? your giggling at 3am? the quite honestly- nasty- handprints on the fogged up atv plastic? also, the quite obvious lump that was on your bed-” 

she shakes her head, wagging a finger at her son.

turning to you, however, she brightens up significantly. “anyways, i don’t blame you a smidgen for oscar’s actions, darling. call me nicole. now, how would you like your toast and eggs?”

a/n: bonus points if you can recognize what movie + scene i referenced when mama piastri walks for the first time 🤭

[zeltqz]

it girl | sanzu h.

synopsis. you find sanzu after a fight at a party and end up introducing yourself and helping him patch up. turns out sanzu isn't as extroverted when it comes to speaking to girls, rindou finds out.

contains. smut, first time (sanzu's a virgin), nervous sanzu, bold reader, mentions of violence, busted lips, bruised knuckles, kantou!manji era, nude/explicit photos, oral (m), sanzu gets head for the first time, koko rindou and sanzu are best friends idc.

author's note. sanzu's so pretty but i just know that boy has never felt the touch of a woman, hence why i wrote this lmfao. call it a power move or whatever 🙄 (i wanna see more submissive sanzu honestly). fanart credits: caravaggist

“My head is fucking killing me,” Sanzu said with a pained groan. He began coughing until he started laughing, running purely on adrenaline. “I beat that fucker’s ass, didja see that?!”

“Shut up, stop being so loud.” Sanzu winced when Rindou smacked him upside the head. He looked down at his busted, bruised knuckles and cursed. “We’re so fucking dead.”

“Told you not to drink that much,” Koko sniped, gesturing with his chin over at Sanzu. “Got us into a goddamn fight.”

“Not my fault you guys are such wimps.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Koko doubled over to catch his breath, slumping against a car. 

“Are you guys okay?” you called out, steadily approaching the three boys. 

Your heart nearly stopped when they all turned to meet your eyes, but there was one you couldn’t take your eyes off of the most. He had green eyes and crazy pink hair tied up into a ponytail. You’d been eyeing him for the majority of the party, just small glances over at whichever end he was loudly talking at. The entire time you had been taking extra shots for courage to approach him but pussied out each time. When you were upstairs, there was loud shouting, chanting, and the sound of things breaking as a group of boys managed to get into a fight. You didn’t see the full thing, only coming down the stairs the exact moment you saw the three of them run outside, tearing down the street and around the block in record time. A quick scan of the party, you saw the pink haired guy was no longer there, so your feet went running before you could even think of what you were doing.

He was much prettier up close, an ethereal kind of beauty you rarely ever see. Not many people can rock long pink hair but he manages to make it work well.

You ran out, taking off after them. It was a miracle you found them, having guessed which direction they must’ve took off in. 

“Who are you?” Kokonoi asked, looking strangely at you.

“I was at the party,” you gestured down the street, “and saw everything. Are you guys okay?” you repeated, walking a little closer to the group. 

Kokonoi’s hostility dropped down a few notches and he nodded. Rindou shrugged and rolled his neck, trying to ease away the stiffness residing in his bones. Sanzu, on the other hand, just stared at you dumbfoundedly. He didn’t say a word, just stared at you with half wide eyes that only widened when you met his gaze. You held eye contact for a few seconds before looking down at his knuckles. Out of the three, Sanzu was probably the most roughed up, having done the most the entire fight and caught the most strays. His lip was busted and his knuckles were bruised.

“Oh that looks really bad. One second,” you said, pulling out a tissue from your pocket “Can I?” you asked, looking into his eyes. He doesn’t say yes or no, and Rindou isn’t even sure he’s breathing anymore. He doesn’t stop you as you hold his bruised hand and lift it up to your face for examination. 

You placed the tissue onto his knuckles. “I’m sorry that happened by the way. I don’t know how it started but I’m sure you guys didn’t deserve it.”

Kokonoi snorted and Rindou elbows him roughly. “Eh it’s whatever. Bottom line is we won, so.”

“You guys shouldn’t be fighting like that though. Especially in public. The police got called and are probably on their way here.”

“Wait seriously?!” Kokonoi whipped his head up at you and you nodded. He cursed under his breath. “We better get going again. Don’t wanna have to get bailed out again.”

Again?

“True that,” Rindou agreed, dusting off his pants. His head was pounding and he might probably have a concussion, but all that didn’t matter to him. He just needed to get out of here. “Call Ran, he’ll come pick us up.”

“He’s gonna fucking kill us,” Kokonoi replied.

“Better him than Mikey.”

“But—”

You tuned out the rest of their conversation and continued dabbing Sanzu’s knuckles, who still hadn’t said a single word since you approached. You blinked up at him and removed the bag from his hand. 

“Your lip is bleeding,” you announced, and he almost flinched away when your thumb rose to his lip. “Does it hurt?” He shook his head. “Can I put this on your lip?” You shook the tissue in your hand.

He nodded slowly and your smile nearly sent him straight to heaven. You pulled a water bottle from your purse and wet the tissue, pressing it on his lip and held onto his chin, tipping his head upright so you could see what you were doing better. Granted the tissue probably weren’t helping at all, but you had to work with what you had. 

“This looks really painful,” you murmured, fixated on the damages done to his face. He has these two pairs of twin scars on both sides of his mouth that you think are so cute. Without thinking, you let your thumb trace the diamond outline gently. You pull the tissue away from his lip and pocket it. “Does your lip hurt?”

Sanzu shook his head and you smiled. “That’s good.”

Rindou looked over at Sanzu weirdly, wondering why the loudest person in the group was suddenly so quiet. He didn’t have time to explore that train of thought deeper because Kokonoi spoke up.

“Rin, Sanzu. Ran’s on his way now. Let’s go.” He pocketed his phone and turned to you. “Thanks for the warning about the cops by the way. Really appreciate it.”

“It’s no problem.”

A black car pulled up to the curb and the window rolled down. “You three are so fucking dead,” Ran said exasperatedly. 

“As long as Mikey doesn’t find out we’re goo—” Kokonoi’s relief came crumbling down as his biggest fear came to light. The passenger seat window rolled down and Mikey’s face came into view. He didn’t look mad, honestly he didn’t look like anything. Just emotionless, but that was enough to scare the absolute shit out of Koko. “Boss, we can explain—”

“Get in the car.”

Kokonoi swallowed but obliged, his feet dragging behind him as he walked around the car to get in.

You looked back over at Sanzu who’s eyes hadn't left yours. “Guess this is goodbye. I’m (Name) by the way. What’s yours?”

Whatever reaction anyone was expecting, it wasn’t for Sanzu to completely stammer over his words, forgetting who he was, or how to form a literate sentence. “Me name? Who is—I—what, huh?”

Rindou looked at him like he grew two heads, even Mikey raised a confused brow. You pressed your lips together in a thin line to stop yourself from laughing and Sanzu’s ears burnt with humiliation. Frankly he was mortified with those being the first words he’s said to you ever. Rindou thankfully saved him from more embarrassment by grabbing the back of his collar hard.

“His name is Sanzu by the way,” he told you before dragging him towards the car, kicking him into the backseat. The door slammed shut and you watched as Rindou entered the front next to his brother and then the car pulled off, recklessly rounding the corner.

You stayed there for a minute, blinking, then smiled giddily down at the floor before making your way back to your friends inside.

~*~

“Yeah they’ve definitely got a concussion,” the nurse said, snapping her gloves off. She stepped away from the three boys at the table and handed them each plastic cups of water. “Make sure you drink plenty of water and get plenty of rest.”

“Thanks doc.” Mikey wrote her a check and she nodded, thanking him before exiting the room. He looked at the three in them in disappointment. They each had an annoying habit of crashing random parties going on in the street and getting shit faced, then turning up to work and events hungover or too exhausted. Now they have hit the final nail in the coffin by getting in a physical altercation with strangers and the police are probably looking for their asses right now.

“I have nothing to say to you three. You heard the woman, get plenty of rest,” he scolded before leaving the room.

“Who wants to bet the medical bills are coming out of our paycheck?” Rindou asked, sliding off the table. He rubbed his head exhaustedly and yawned.

“I might just have a heart attack if I see that,” Kokonoi responded, shuddering.

“That girl…” Sanzu muttered under his breath, scratching his chin.

“What?”

“That girl,” he repeated louder as if he just came to a sudden realisation, “was a fucking angel!”

“Oh. Welcome back to earth Mr. Who me is name I what?” Rindou mocked, amusement written all over his face as Sanzu rolled his eyes.

Kokonoi laughed loudly. “Oh yeah! What the fuck was that all about?”

“Shut up,” Sanzu grumbled and closed his eyes, blocking their mockery out. He tried to picture your face again behind his closed lids but the concussion was slowly getting worse and your face was starting to fade from his memory. “I need to find this girl and redeem myself. What’s her name?” he said snipply, snapping his fingers at the two boys for them to hurry up.

“Stop being a weirdo. You probably blew your chances anyway,” Rindou stated.

“Nah uh! It wasn’t that bad!”

“Who me is name I what?” Kokonoi repeated and Sanzu groaned loudly.

“Keep making fun of me whatever! But when I find her and make her my future wife I don’t want to hear shit from any of you.”

“Wow,” Kokonoi fake gasped. “You can tell your future kids the story of how you met!”

“Future wife huh?” Rindou chuckled. “So we’re just skipping past girlfriend?”

“Gotta aim big.”

Kokonoi shook his head. “That girl wants nothing to do with you.”

“Yeah? Well why did she patch me up and not you two fucking idiots then? HUH?” Sanzu gestured to his busted lip. The two boys had nothing else to say and just rolled their eyes, muttering whatever under their breath. “Exactly, shut the fuck up.”

Sanzu traced his scars with his finger. He could still feel the gentle trail of your finger on his skin and closed his eyes once more, picturing you in front of him, staring up at him with such care in your eyes as you genuinely found yourself worried at his injuries. He looked down at his knuckles, still bruised, and pictured your hand in his. He regretted not saying more to you earlier, regretted not actually having a conversation with you and telling him his injuries looked worse than they actually felt.

Sanzu stood up and Rindou called out to him. “Oi. Where the hell are you going? We’re heading back to mines.”

“I’m going back to that party to redeem myself.”

“It’s been like an hour and it’s almost three am. She’s long gone. Let it go.”

Sanzu shook his head, condescendingly clicking his tongue in a way that ground Rindou’s gears. “Don’t be jealous Rin.”

“Jealous of?”

“I got a girl that wants me for me, not my dick.”

“That’s something only a virgin would say,” Kokonoi inputs, laughing when Sanzu instantly closes his mouth. “No way, are you actually a virgin?”

“No I’m not!”

“Yes you are!”

“I’m not!”

“Who’d you lose it to?”

Sanzu scoffs. “Like anyone remembers that,”

“Okay playboy.” Rindou laughs. “I remember mine.”

“So do I,” Kokonoi high fives Rindou. The two of them look at Sanzu. “Well? What’s her name?”

“I was high. Don’t remember,” Sanzu shrugs. Rindou looks over at Koko who both equally look unimpressed. “ANYWAY! It doesn’t matter because I’m going to find that girl and redeem myself tonight.”

Kakucho enters the room. “Find what girl?”

“Redeem yourself for what?” Kokonoi asks.

Rindou laughs even louder. “Redeem himself for “Oh friend who I am what?””

Sanzu’s ears burn when Koko joins in the laughter. “Alright so just forget my question. Cool,” Kakucho rolls his eyes.

“Sanzu got us into a fight tonight and some girl helped him with his busted lip and now he thinks he’s in love.”

“I don’t think—”

“We know,” Kokonoi interrupts.

Sanzu shoots him a glare. “If you’d let me finish,” he says snarkily. “I don’t think I'm in love. I know I am.”

“In love with a girl you don’t even know the name of?” Kakucho asks hesitantly. He should be used to this by now honestly, it's not the first time Sanzu got hyper fixated over something, except in this case it's someone. In actuality, he should be worried for this girl, knowing how obsessive Sanzu gets at times. Picturing the boy in a relationship was something Kakucho just could not do no matter how hard he tries.

“I’ll find her name. You forget who I am and what I do in this goddamn organisation?”

“Aside from dragging us to useless parties and getting us involved in unnecessary fights?” Rindou asked.

“You had fun tonight, stop acting like you hated it that bad,” Sanzu complained.

“What did this girl look like?” Kakucho asks.

Sanzu describes your appearance from your height all the way down to your eye colour, recounting to his friends every single detail he managed to observe about you the entire time he spent staring at you. They all looked at him with concern.  Sanzu noticed their glare and shrugged. “What?”

“Surprised you didn’t count every single lash of hers honestly,” Kokonoi rubbed his forehead exhaustedly when his head pounded again. “This headache is killing me. Gonna head home.”

They all said goodbye and waited for him to leave the room. 

“I think I know the girl,” Kakucho said, recounting the horrifying moment of Sanzu describing you in as much detail as possible. 

“WHAT?!” Sanzu exclaimed far too loudly for his head and Rindou’s to handle, a sharp pain shooting their heads. “Ah fuck,” he groaned, rubbing his head. 

“Are you serious?” Rindou asked, looking at Kakucho who nodded.

“Yeah. Someone like that lives on my floor. I see her leaving every morning.”

“To Kakucho’s we go!” Sanzu grinned, grabbing the younger boy's hand and dragging him outside. Rindou reluctantly follows behind them, wanting to see where this situation was heading. 

Kakucho ended up being right, and when they entered the lobby of his apartment, they saw you collecting your mail. Sanzu’s feet felt frozen to the floor as he just stared at your side profile. He almost had a stroke when you turned to face in his direction, and he swore you were looking directly at him when you broke out into a smile, waving your hand.

“Hey! Haven’t seen you in a while,” you said and Sanzu was confused. It’s only been a few hours, hasn’t it? 

You were walking and he stood up a little straight when it looked like you were heading towards his direction, only for his heart to do a complete 360 when you hugged Kakucho instead. It wasn’t an affectionate hug, both your hands barely lingered on each other’s body, just an awkward side hug that lasted barely 2 seconds.

“Yeah, you know. I’ve been busy with work and stuff.”

“Ah cool cool. I’ve been collecting your mail though.” You handed him his mail. He thanked you and held them under his arm. 

You looked at two boys next to them and then gasped. “Oh its you!” You pointed between Sanzu and Rindou, who only nodded, asking how you’ve been. Sanzu was frozen again as you and Rindou gave each other basic small talk, only breaking out of his stupor when Rindou elbowed him hard in the stomach. 

You bit down a laugh when you saw Sanzu clutch onto his stomach in pain. “Oh my god, are you alright?” Sanzu could hear the laugh in your voice, but didn’t feel offended the slightest.

“I’m good, yeah. Just distracted.”

“Oh. Am I boring you?”

He was too scared of the fact you thought that about him to notice the playful hint in your voice. “No! Not at all. I just have a concussion that's all.”

“No way. Does it hurt? Are you okay?” You hesitantly lift your hand up and press it on his forehead which is burning up. “You need to get some sleep right now.”

“It’s too late to drive right now.” Kakucho says. “You two can just sleep at mine.”

“Only if I get your bed,” Sanzu adds.

“Fuck that. Sleep on the couch.”

“But I’m concussed.”

“And who’s goddamn fault is that?”

Sanzu rolled his eyes. Kakucho sighed. “Fine. You can get the bed.”

“Let’s fucking go,” Sanzu grinned and started heading towards the elevator. The other two boys followed them and Kakucho looked behind at you. 

“You coming?”

Sanzu pressed the button and turned to look at you and Kakucho as you shook your head. “No, I'm heading back out.”

“Right now?” Kakucho says and looks at his watch, “It’s almost 4 am?”

“I know,” you sigh exhaustedly. “My friend, well kinda friend, I guess wants me to come to his house. Just got his text a few minutes ago.”

“At this hour?” Kaku says sceptically.

“So a booty call?” Rindou says and gets elbowed by Kakucho, telling him to mind his business.

You laugh. “I guess if that's what you want to call it. I don’t sleep with him, he just uses me to impress his friends it feels like.” Your eyes slide over to Sanzu who has a scowl on his face and looks away almost immediately after you make eye contact. “I don’t wanna do it but he scares me so I feel like I have to.”

“What’s his name?” Kakucho asks.

“Why? You gonna hurt him?” you ask back. Though you and Kakucho are only neighbours at best, you’re well aware of what he does and his reputation around town. The Brawler is his nickname, or was, back when he was in Tenjiku. But you didn’t know what his role or job entailed, all you knew he was in some shady shit and you wanted no part of it. 

“Depends if I know the guy or not.”

You roll your eyes. “His name is Osanai.”

“Wait a minute,” Rindou says, “Is he tall? Smokes all the time, blonde hair? Kinda tan?”

“Yeah…” you say slowly, sceptically, “how’d you know?”

“We’ve actually been kinda looking for that guy. Mikey wanted to see him, didn't he?” Rindou asks Kakucho who shrugs and points over to Sanzu who’s been awfully quiet the entire time. “Didn’t he?” Rindou asks Sanzu again.

“Oh. Yes he has.” He looks up and meets your gaze one more time before looking away. 

“Where’s he at?” Rindou asks, approaching you.

“I dunno probably his house?”

“Okay but where genius.”

You give him Osanai’s address and he starts heading outside. “Wait! Don’t kill him or something.”

“Why do you care what we do? Doesn’t he scare you?”

“I mean yes but that doesnt mean I want him dead…”

Kakucho sighs. “Sanzu wait here with (y/n), me and Rindou will sort this out.”

Sanzu instantly looks at Kakucho. “Wait—”

“Just do it,” Rindou snickers before the two of them leave. Sanzu watches them go with a betrayed look on his face, already thinking of 101 different ways to kill Rindou once he got back home.  You look up at Sanzu and smile at him.

“So…you can go home if you want. I don't need a babysitter.”

“No it's fine I'll uh wait here.”

“We can go back to mine?” you ask a little hopeful.

Sanzu opens his mouth to speak but the words can't seem to come out. He resorts to nodding and you smile, taking his hand in yours and walking up to your apartment. 

~*~

Three hours in and you’ve been binging shitty movies together, laughing at the bad plot and horribly written characters. When you first saw Sanzu at the party, he was outgoing and the life of the room honestly. Maybe your opinion is a bit biased because you were focused on nothing but him, but he had this energy that attracted you to him. Now, in front of you, he’s nothing like he was a few hours ago, he seems shy and reserved, keeping to himself but he’s still funny and cracks a few jokes that make you cackle every now and then.

“Wait you got a little, i’ll get it for you,” you say, cupping his chin and turning his face to you. He watches you with wide eyes as your thumb comes up to his lip and wipes some tomato sauce off. you make continuous eye contact with him as you bring your thumb to your mouth and lick the sauce off the tip. Then, you almost give the guy a heart attack when you go back in with your wet thumb and wipe the remnants of the sauce on the corner of his mouth. 

His pizza flops in his hand and something else rises in his pants as you pull back, sitting reasonably closer than you did before, resting your head on his shoulder, continuing to watch the movie. It’s hard for him to even focus on the TV with you sitting this close to him right now. He can smell your shampoo, your perfume, can feel your body heat warming him up and he’s actually going to pass out if you continue clinging to his arm like that. He clears his throat and shifts in his seat a little, hoping his boner goes down and praying you don’t see it. 

Just to be on the safe side, he nonchalantly grabs a couch cushion and places it on his lap, claiming he's cold. You don’t buy it one bit but only smirk at the hidden implications. You let out a fake yawn and shift even closer to him, bringing your feet onto the couch, shifting into a lying position. 

You look up at Sanzu and smile slightly. “Is this okay with you?” you ask, batting your eyes at him.

“Y-yea. It's fine. cool.” He swallows thickly and turns to look back at the TV.

The cushion gets in the way and you click your tongue, sitting upright and almost bashing him in the jaw with your head. You toss the cushion away and Sanzu's about to protest before you lay back down, your head only inches away from his crotch. His erection was going down slowly but now it might as well sprung back up. 

“Oh wait a second,” you said, sitting upright and Sanzu almost panicked when you pointed down at his crotch. “You okay?”

“I—sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, it's fine,” you laugh. “These things are uncontrollable, I know.” Sanzu sighs in relief. “Do you need any help?” you ask and he blinks at you.

“What?”

“Nevermind,” you clear your throat. “That was a dumb question.”

“No wait!” he says abruptly, making you jump. “I mean, yeah, if you don’t mind.”

“Really?” you perk up a little. 

“Yeah I guess.”

You move to sit next to him, your head only inches away from his. “This is gonna sound a bit creepy but,” your eyes drop to his lips, “I’ve been wanting to do this since I saw you tonight.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” you say absentmindedly, distracted as you ran your finger over his scars. “Thought you were so pretty.”

“Pretty…?”

“Yeah, you’re really pretty Sanzu.”

He bites his lip, fighting the urge to look away from your intense eyes in the dark. You’re leaning in closer and his eyes close and then he feels your lips pressing against his. It starts off with short pecks that linger a little too long before you're actively moving your lips against his. Your hand cups his face and you pull him closer, sucking on his lips and entering your tongue into his mouth. He moans softly when your fingers find their way to his hair, scratching gently at his scalp.

You pull away and plaster kisses to his neck, gently pushing him down onto the couch, your body basically straddling him as you kiss down his throat.

His body feels hot and he can't focus anywhere  but your lips going down his body. Your fingers grab the seam of his shirt and your lips tickle against his skin as you mutter, “Take this off.”

He obediently does as he’s told and lifts his arms up as you help him remove the shirt. You toss it on the other couch and sit upright to examine his chest. His abs were faint but visibly and you bit your lip, running your finger along his chest.

He stares up at you as you look distracted at the sight of his bare chest. You make eye contact and smirk a little before lifting your shirt up and over your head. His eyes go wide at the sight of you in your bra. You go back down and kiss down his stomach, fingers moving to unzip his jeans and pull them down.

“Wait wait wait!” You freeze and look up at the boy in front of you, tilting your head in confusion. He swallows thickly. “I haven't…done this before.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. “Really?”

“Shocking, I know.”

“Oh. It really is. I thought girls would be all over a guy like you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like I said before, you’re really pretty Sanzu.” He instantly looks away and you laugh. “You’re shyer than I expected Sanzu. At the party you were really loud and stuff, I didn't expect this. It’s cute.”

“I’m not shy.”

“You said less than 100 words to me tonight and we’ve been hanging out for almost four hours.”

“...”

You laugh and sit upright, leaning back in to kiss him. “Do you still want me to…” Your fingers trail down his body, rubbing the outline of his cock in his briefs.

“If you want to.”

“I obviously do, that's why I'm asking you.”

“Sure then.”

You give him one last kiss before settling back between his lips. His cock has never felt more sensitive than in this moment when your fingers wrap around his cock, pulling it free from his boxers. It stands tall against your face and you lick the tip, not ceasing eye contact. He feels obligated to watch you suck his cock and desperately wants to look away because he knows he will bust in less than ten seconds if you keep staring at him like that.

You take him in your mouth and he moans so loudly, the sound soft and heavenly. You smile around him and begin to suction your cheeks as you take him lower. Your tongue swirled around his shaft every time you bobbed. He was throbbing inside you, your heavy eye contact and warm mouth making him grow harder.

He finally broke the eye contact to throw his head back, a long groan of “fuccccckkkkkkk,” leaving his mouth as he placed his hand on your head, bobbing you up and down. You moaned when his hips bucked up into you.

You pull off his cock and jerk him off, his words dying in his throat when he feels your tongue lick his balls, sucking gently on them.

He sits up and holds the back of your head, his fingers digging into your scalp as he pants heavily. Your eyes squeeze shut as you focus on pleasuring him, putting your mouth back onto his cock and taking him deeper than you did before, your fingers gently massaging his balls.

“I’m gonna—fuck, i’m coming,” he groans and without warning holds the back of your head, pressing you down and came inside your throat. 

Honestly you were shocked he lasted this long. Your body felt so warm and hot hearing his pretty moans, and the sight of him with his mouth open, head thrown back was something you’d never forget. His grip on your head ceased and you pulled off his cock, eyes teary and watery and mouth full of cum.

“Oh shit,” he mutters, watching you take a minute before swallowing. His dick twitches again. Without thinking, his thumb comes up to the corner of your lip and wipes a stray drop of cum. Before he can remove his thumb, your head turns and you suck the tip of it. “You’re actually trying to kill me, aren’t you,” he groans and you giggle around his thumb.

“Are you a virgin too if you’d never gotten head before?” 

He nods shamefully and you can’t help but kiss him again. “Want me to take it?” you ask, forehead resting against his.

He blinks at you before not-so-subtly dropping his eyes down to your cleavage. “yeah.”

You grin and push him back down onto his back, slipping off the couch. He watches you strip down naked, your bra and panties are tossed to the opposite couch. Thanks to the help of the tv, your body is still a shadow but the outline of your body makes him instantly hard again. You climb back on top of him.

His hands migrate to your hips, and with absolutely zero confidence with what he’s doing, his hand slides towards your clit and you gasp when his thumb snakes its way to your folds. “You’re really wet.”

You squirm, slightly embarrassed but bite your lip, amusement in your voice as you say, “Yeah…that’s supposed to happen.”

“I know that,” he grumbles, still rubbing your clit in circles, wetting his fingers with your arousal. “I’m not an idiot.”

He pulls his hand away and you grab his wrist, guiding his finger into his mouth, watching him suck your juices off his fingers. “God that’s hot,” you pull his fingers out and lean back down to kiss him.

“I'm going to get condoms,” you say against his lips before pulling away. He nods and watches you head down the hallway when his phone buzzes. 

rindou: we found osanai so we’re heading back right now

sanzu: hell no just go home 

rindou: ???? walk home then tf

sanzu: don't think that's an issue honestly think i might be sleeping over if you know what i mean ;)

rindou: what? you’re getting laid? YEAH RIGHT

sanzu: IM NOT LYING

rindou: i never once ever in my entire life found you funny but you’re telling some good jokes right now

sanzu: 1) im always funny, 2) im serious.  i would send you proof but then you’d see my dick and thats gross

rindou: would rather bleach my eyeballs honestly. you could barely look this girl in the eye and you really expect me to believe you’re fucking her?

“I’m back!” you call out making sanzu jump. “What’re you doing on your phone?” you ask, snatching it from his hands and reading the messages. 

It’s a miracle it’s dark right now because Sanzu doesn’t know what he’ll do if you saw him blushing from embarrassment right now.

“He’s fucking rude. Why doesn’t he believe you?” you huff, handing him his phone back before your face lights up. “Wanna show him?”

“Show him what…” He hopes you’re not heading in the direction you’re so obviously going. 

“You know what I mean, c’mere.” You sit back against the couch and pull up the camera app on his phone. You hold the phone out in front of you, “Stick your tongue out.” 

He does so and you stick yours out also, just barely grazing his as you snap a bunch of pictures. You take a couple more in different poses, putting your lips in a kissy face and kissing his cheek, his lips and resting your forehead against his as you smile at the camera. 

You sit upright and scroll through the photos, smiling at each of them. “Send these to me after yeah.” You toss the phone behind you and rip open the condom. You reach behind you and slip it easily down his shaft before aligning it with your pussy. “Ready?”

“Yeah…” The tip nudges your clit before slipping inside, warm heat instantly engulfing the tip of his cock and his mouth falls open, panting breathily as you continue sinking downwards, watching the pleasured look on your face as your pussy squelches trying to accommodate his entire length.

“Oh fuck,” you whimper, fixing your hands onto his chest for support. You bounce experimentally, ripping another moan from your throat it sinks you a little lower. 

“Shit, shit—wait,” He digs his nails into the fat of your ass cushioned against his thighs.

“Sanzu,” you moan, collapsing down onto his chest, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He can hear your breathy pants beside his ear, sending shivers down his spine.

“You feel so fucking good,” He huffs against your ear and you sit upright, pushing your arms behind you to his knees and start swiveling your hips in circles that turn to full on bouncing on his cock. 

His eyes are focused on your tits that swing in motion with your movements and he can’t help but lift you up and down on his cock. “Fuck,” He gropes and squeezes your cheeks as you whimper, clenching around his cock with every bounce.

“Touch me please,” you whimper, looking down at him, grabbing one of his hands and bringing them up to your tits. He squeezes it and runs his thumb along your nipple, sending ripples of pleasure through your body, giving you more motivation to continue bouncing.

“Wait, slow down— oh fuck.” His body was tense, and you were sure he was leaving fingernail shaped dent marks on your hip with how tight his grip was. His cock felt so good, having a slight tilt to it that hit that spot no other guy had been able to reach. You couldn’t stop bouncing, his words falling on deaf ears.

“Wait wait wait stop,” he gasped, his grip getting tighter, bringing you to a stop. Wasting no time, you lean back down and begin kissing along his jaw as he catches his breath, impatiently wiggling your hips just to feel something. “I just came,” he admitted.

You froze and shot up, looking down at him. “For real?” he nodded, wiping a shameful hand over his face. “That's so cute,” you giggle and kiss him. 

You lifted yourself up and off his cock and laid down on top of him. “Did you like it?” you ask, tracing your finger along his chest.

“Yeah, it felt so good.”

“Yay,” you smiled bashfully.

“You didn’t finish though.”

“Eh it's not a big deal. I wanted to make you feel good.”

“Still though…” he mutters, pouting at the fact he didn’t make you feel as good as he felt. 

His phone buzzed and he sat upright to grab it. 

rindou: having fun loverboy??? u busy humping her pillow to text me back? asshole

Sanzu scoffs and you lean your head against his shoulder and read the messages. “Send him the photos.”

He turns to look at you, your lips almost brushing against his in the process. “You sure? You’re kinda naked in them.”

“I don't really care. It’s just a boob. You can crop it out if you’re that worried.”

“Okay…” He crops your chest out of the photo and stares down at the photos once more. He's never deleting these. He sends three different photos to Rindou, not even bothering to caption them and turns his phone off, waiting for his response.

“Oh wait! Gimme your phone!” You hold your hand out as he hands it to you. 

“What’re you doing?”

“Adding my number,” you hum and add your number to his contacts, adding a heart after his name. You’re never usually this forward, but you knew you wanted Sanzu from the moment you saw him, and you weren’t going to let him slip away. “Call me when you get home. okay?” Your forehead brushes against his and your eyes dart down to his lips, fighting the urge to kiss them.

“Okay.”

You give into temptation and kiss him slowly. Your thumbs traced along his jawline as you hum, almost lazily enticing your tongue with his. His hands ran teasingly along your body, cupping your ass and pulling you back on top of him.

The doorbell rang and you sat upright, cursing under your breath. “I’ll get it.” You press one more kiss to his lips and slip off the couch to re-dress. Your shirt was backwards and your pants were inside out, but you didn’t care as you answered the door with a cheery, “yes?”

Kakucho rubbed his forehead with a world heavy sigh and you instantly felt all colour drain from your face. He was with Rindou and probably saw the photos. “How can I help you Kaku?”

“Just…just tell Sanzu to come on, let’s go.”

Sanzu appears behind you,redressed, and gives you a hug goodbye, his arms lingering around your form for much longer than Kakucho considered friendly. You pull away and whisper in his ear for him to call you when he gets home. He nods and you plant another kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Sanzu is about to deepen the kiss before Kakucho grabs him by the back of his shirt and tugs him out of your apartment. 

[gf2bellamy]

part three: prophetic synchronicity

— ★ in a dream shaped like a library, spencer finally sees that love was never sudden—instead it was breadcrumbed in the form of coffee dates, late-night chess games, and the scent of citrus on a borrowed sweater.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: mention of serial killers and working in the field

masterlist - part one ✦ part two ✦ part four

Time became measured in stolen touches and suppressed confessions.

Spencer had always been protective of you—perhaps to a fault—but now it bordered on obsession. Every field assignment left his nerves frayed, his focus splintered between the case and you. He hovered like a shadow, positioning himself between you and potential threats.

It escalated until Hotch pulled him aside, that familiar stern crease between his brows. "Reid, you’re distracted. More than usual."

The words were professional, but the look in his eyes said everything else: I know. And you need to get it together.

Spencer couldn’t even argue. He just nodded, guilty.

But even paperwork became an exercise in restraint.

He dragged out reports well past necessary, lingering in coffee shops just to watch you scribble notes with your tongue peeking between your teeth. He took you to Drip Drop Brew three times in one week, each visit punctuated by your delighted grip on his arm, your gasp of discovery as you scanned the menu. The way your entire face lit up could've powered entire cities. 

Spencer would’ve built you ten coffee shops if it meant seeing that expression again.

Then came the legs.

It started innocently enough—a brush of knees beneath the conference table, fleeting and accidental. But then he did it deliberately, hooking his ankle around yours during a briefing, pressing his calf to yours as if tethered by an invisible string.

You'd looked at him then, really looked, your pen freezing mid-sentence. But Spencer just kept working, his face the picture of academic detachment even as his pulse roared in his ears.

The need was unbearable.

To touch. To confirm. To claim.

Every casual contact burned like a brand, every moment apart felt like withdrawal. He was drowning in you, and the worst part? He didn't want to come up for air.

But the universe wasn't subtle tonight.

You'd fallen asleep somewhere between the opening credits and the first act of the movie, your head sliding onto his shoulder. Spencer froze, the remote clutched in his hand as your breathing evened out against his collarbone.

Carefully—so carefully—he paused the movie. The sudden silence made your sigh louder, your warmth more palpable.

His fingers moved on their own accord, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, his thumb tracing the arch of your cheekbone. When he tucked the strand behind your ear, you nuzzled closer in your sleep, your nose pressing into the hollow of his throat.

That's when he saw it.

Frozen on the screen, the subtitles screamed at him in stark white letters:

"Sometimes you don't see that the best thing that's ever happened to you is sitting there, right under your nose."

The irony wasn't lost on him.

Not when your shampoo—something vanilla and citrus—filled every breath. Not when your hair tickled his actual nose. Not when your heartbeat thrummed against his ribs like a second pulse.

Spencer's lips parted on a silent gasp before he pressed them into a firm line.

The universe had a cruel sense of humor.

But then—because he was only human, because he was so desperately in love—he let his head fall back against yours, his cheek resting against the crown of your hair. The subtitles blurred as his eyes stung.

He fell asleep like that: nose buried in your hair, the words burning behind his eyelids.

Dreams were rare for Spencer Reid.

When sleep came, it usually brought nightmares—his mother's fractured voice, crime scene photos that bled into each other, visions of you hurt in some alleyway he couldn't reach.

But tonight, curled around your warmth on the couch, his subconscious offered him something extraordinary.

A library materialized around him, the scent of old paper and lemon oil thick in the air. Mahogany shelves stretched endlessly in every direction, their contents glowing under soft golden light.

Spencer turned in his armchair, the leather creaking beneath him—

—just as you peeked around a shelf, grinning.

"You like it?" You were exactly you, yet not. 

You were wearing a soft pink sweater, the kind that he immediately recognized—because it was his. Well, sort of. It was like one of his favorite cardigans, but in a pale shade of pink.

The sight sent something warm and possessive curling through his chest.

"Like what?" He rose slowly, a little confused as he glanced around the library, taking in the shelves, the stacks of books.

The air hummed with static, the way it did before rain.

"The library." You gestured broadly, your nail polish chipped exactly as it had been yesterday. When he didn't respond, you pouted—that pout—and nudged a book toward him. "Check them out."

The volume had no title. When he opened it, the pages moved.And immediately, his breath caught. The pages weren’t filled with words.

They were filled with memories.

The first memory Spencer saw was of when you and he met. He recognized it instantly. It was so vivid, like it was happening all over again.

There you were: frozen in the BAU bullpen on your first day, all nervous energy and bright eyes, that ridiculous ladybug hairclip holding back your hair. He'd nearly knocked you over while muttering about fractal patterns, too distracted to notice the new profiler standing awkwardly with a box of files.

"You're... not Hotch," you'd said, and something in his chest had gone click.

In the dream, his throat tightened. He remembered everything: the way your laugh lines appeared before the sound left your lips, how you'd bitten your bottom raw that first month from stress, the shy smile that formed on your face when Garcia complimented your shoes.

The book trembled in his hands.

The You in the dream leaned against the shelf, watching him with tender amusement. "Keep going," you murmured. "The next one's better."

The book’s pages fluttered like a living thing, revealing another memory—the first case you’d worked together.

There you were on the jet, tucked into a corner with your bottom lip caught between your teeth, fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against your thigh. Younger Spencer had slid into the seat across from you without a word, unfolding his travel chess set.

“Do you know how to play?”

"Not even a little," you'd admitted with that self-deprecating laugh he'd later learn meant you were overwhelmed.

For two hours, he taught you—the way knights moved in L-shapes, how pawns could become queens, why the Sicilian Defense was his favorite opening. He remembered the exact moment your frown of concentration melted into triumph when you captured his bishop (he’d sacrificed it on purpose, though he’d never admit it). The way your laughter had bounced off the jet’s walls when you realized too late that he’d cornered your king.

Checkmate.

The memory shimmered as the pages turned again, this time to something more intimate—a museum date disguised as a casual outing. You’d researched every painting in advance, scribbling notes in the margins of the exhibit pamphlet like you were preparing for an exam. 

His exam.

He remembered how he had looked at you when you added something to what he’d just rambled on about—how proud he felt, how surprised he was that you not only listened but also wanted to engage with him.

Page after page, the memories unfolded—each one a revelation.

The late-night work sessions where you’d fallen asleep on his couch, your cheek smushed against his copy of Atonement. The way you always saved him the last bite of your dessert, even when it was your favorite. That time in New Orleans when you’d traded your umbrella for his soaked-through jacket because “You’ll get sick faster than I will, genius.”

The realization struck him like a physical blow:

There was no single moment he’d fallen in love with you.

It was every moment.

Every shared glance, every inside joke, every time you’d looked at him like he’d hung the moon—they were all threads in the same tapestry, woven so seamlessly he hadn’t noticed the pattern until now.

The warmth in his chest wasn’t new. It was just you—constant as gravity, steady as sunrise. And it had been there all along.

He turned another page, but this one was blank.

Spencer frowned, flipping faster—empty, empty, empty. The fancy pages mocked him, their whiteness glaring under the library's golden light.

"You have to fill those." 

Your voice, sudden and close, made him startle. You'd been watching him the whole time, leaning against the shelves with that knowing smile he'd never been able to decipher—until now.

You plucked the book from his trembling hands, your fingers brushing his as you traced the pages he had just looked at.

"These are the moments you liked me," you said, tapping a memory where his younger self stared at your ladybug hairclip. "And now that you've finally realized you're in love with me—"

Spencer choked on air.

"—these pages," you continued, pointing at the blank pages. "will be filled with all the ways you love me." You snapped the book shut and slid it back onto the shelf with care, your pink sweater riding up just enough to reveal the dip of your waist.

Before he could protest, you pressed a new volume into his hands, this one heavier, its cover embossed with golden gilded letters he couldn't quite read. You nestled against his arm, your cheek warm against his sweater sleeve as he opened it.

Blank again.

"This one," you murmured, your breath ghosting over his wrist, "gets filled once you admit it to me. Out loud."

Spencer's pulse roared in his ears. "Admit it to you?"

You tilted your head up, so close he could count your lashes. "Yeah," you said, like it was the simplest truth in the world. "That you love me."

The library held its breath.

Your voice was soft, but the words struck him like a lightning bolt—crackling through his ribs, scorching his lungs. He had to squeeze his eyes shut to ignore the fantasies his brain already started forming. The idea of this volume being filled with memories of you waking up in his arms, of you holding hands on actual dates, of you—

Spencer blinked down at the book in his hands.

Blank cover, blank pages, yet it weighed more than any tomb in the Library of Congress. It thrummed against his palms, a living thing starving for the confession lodged in his throat.

"I..." His voice cracked. For once, his brilliant mind offered no equations, no statistics—just static.

You smiled that smile—the one reserved for his darkest moments, the one that had pulled him back from countless edges.

"It's okay," you murmured, leaning forward to brush a stray curl from his forehead. Your fingers lingered, warm against his temple. "I know it's scary." you grimaced slightly, as if speaking from experience.

Spencer closed his eyes, exhaling a shaky laugh. The book creaked slightly under his tightening grip. "This is the weirdest dream I've ever had," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

You grinned, all mischief and moonlight. "But it feels real, doesn't it?"

He couldn't answer. 

Because it did.

The way your thumb traced absent circles against his skin. The way your lashes caught the golden library light. The way you smelled like home—like worn paper and that citrus shampoo you'd accidentally left at his apartment months ago and never reclaimed.

It felt more real than the waking world ever had.

"You can take your time," you said, pressing a kiss to his cheek—so casual, so certain. "I'm always going to be here."

And for the first time in his life, Spencer Reid believed something without evidence.

He believed you.

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

Threesome with Sam and Bucky??? 🤭

When Confessions Become Reality » Sam Wilson/Falcon/Captain America and Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings: Sam Wilson x Female Reader x Bucky Barnes

Summary: What happens when you confess to your two guy friends, Sam and Bucky, that you’ve always wanted to have a threesome? They make it become reality.

Warnings: Smut (18+), language, dirty talk, kissing, hickeys, kissing, female receiving, fingering, blowjob, hair pulling, unprotected sex, threesome, praise kink, Bucky’s vibranium arm vibrates, pet names

A/N: Thank you for requesting @marvelobsessed134 🩵

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buck-star

GIF IS NOT MINE! Gif credit goes to the creator.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!🔞

It all started one night when you, Sam, and Bucky were hanging out. You told them that you’ve always wanted to have a threesome. You don’t know why you said it. It just slipped out. It got Sam and Bucky to thinking. Friends help each other out, right? So they’re going to help your threesome confession become reality.

That’s what they’re doing today. They went to your house to hangout with you. Then one thing let to another and you three ended up in your bedroom, naked, and on your bed. Sam is in between your legs, eating you out and Bucky is behind you, playing with your breasts and kissed along your neck. Your mind is so clouded with lust that you couldn’t believe that this is actually happening. Sam was about to make your first orgasm come.

“You still with us, baby?” Sam asks.

You hummed and nodded. You squirmed against Bucky a little bit when Sam’s fingers fucked you a bit faster. Your jaw dropped and your eyes fluttered shut.

“You feeling good, doll?” Bucky asks softly in your ear.

“Yes! Oh god, yes!” You moaned.

Sam and Bucky exchanged looks, smirking at each other.

“Show her that setting on your arm.” Sam says to Bucky.

“What set- Holy shit!” You moaned loudly when Bucky put his vibranium fingers on your clit and it started vibrating.

You didn’t even know Bucky’s vibranium arm had a vibration setting. What you do know is that you like it.

“You like that, babydoll?” Bucky asks.

“Yes!” You moaned.

Bucky’s vibranium fingers vibrating against your clit and Sam’s fingers fucking you brought you even closer to coming any second. They could sense it.

“You gonna cum, sweetheart?” Sam asks.

“Mhmm.” You moaned, nodding your head.

“Cum for us, doll.” Bucky whispers in your ear.

Your eyes rolled back to the back of your head as you came, moaning their names loudly. They took their fingers away from your pussy and allowed you to catch your breath for a moment before doing anything else.

“You alright, baby?” Sam asks, rubbing his hands against your thighs.

“Yes.” You replied.

“Be a good girl and turn over.” He says.

Sam moved back just enough for you to turn over, getting on your hands and knees. You were face to face with Bucky’s hard cock while Sam positioned himself behind you. Sam rubbed his cock against your pussy, getting it wet with your slick before sliding in your pussy. Your jaw fell open and a soft moan left your lips.

As Sam started to fuck you, Bucky rubbed his thumb against your bottom lip. You parted your lips just enough for him to slide it in your mouth. You closed your lips around his thumb and swirled your tongue around it and sucked on it like you’re about to do with his cock in a few seconds. He strokes his cock with his free hand as you did so. He watches you intently. You softly moaned around his thumb before he slowly took it out of your mouth. You bit your bottom lip and grinned when he lined his cock at your lips, tapping his tip against your lips.

“Let’s put that pretty mouth to work, doll face.” Bucky says huskily.

You hummed in response. You wrapped your hand around his cock, replacing his hand. You stroked his cock while you kitten licked his tip. You then licked along the length of his cock, from the base to his tip.

“God damn…” Bucky moans softly.

You finally wrapped your lips around Bucky’s cock and started bobbing your head. Bucky gathered your hair into a makeshift ponytail, holding it in his hand as you sucked his cock. Your eyes flickered up at him, making eye contact with him.

“Fuck…” Bucky moans.

“Does her mouth feel as amazing as we thought?” Sam curiously asks.

“It’s better than amazing. Her mouth feels incredible!” Bucky tells him. “You should feel it.” He adds.

“Oh, I will.” Sam smirks, his hand patting your ass. “Isn’t that right, baby?” He asks.

You hummed around Bucky’s cock in response. Sam sped up his thrusts. Bucky’s vibranium hand pushed your head down for you to take more of his cock, making you choke on his cock. You didn’t mind it one bit.

“I’ve never seen her be this good.” Sam points out.

“Me neither.” Bucky said. “Are you being a good girl for us, babydoll?” He asks.

You moaned when you got called a good girl. It’s pretty obvious that you have a praise kink.

“Oh, you like being praised, don’t you, baby?” Sam says.

You hummed around Bucky’s cock in response, making him moan.

“You’re our good girl, aren’t you, doll?” Bucky asks.

You tried your best to nod your head whilst sucking Bucky’s cock.

“Use your words. We want to hear it.” Sam says, patting your ass cheek.

You took Bucky’s cock out of your mouth momentarily to answer them.

“I’m a good girl for you guys.” You tell them, almost sounding innocent.

You couldn’t help but bit your bottom lip as you looked over your shoulder at Sam and then looked up at Bucky, your hand stroking Bucky’s cock. Bucky’s hand left your hair and gently grasped onto your jaw. He gently pulled you up towards him and kissed you. After pulling away from the kiss, he pushed your head back down to his cock. You began sucking him off again. Bucky’s hand found its place in your hair again.

You moaned around Bucky’s cock when you felt Sam’s cock hit that one spot inside of you. Sam smirks to himself, knowing that he found that one spot inside of you. Sam then brought one of his hands down to your clit and began rubbing it in a circular motion. You moaned around Bucky’s cock again and curled your toes at the feeling. Sam could tell you were getting close by the way your pussy was squeezing around his cock.

“You gonna cum for me, baby girl?” Sam asks.

You hummed around Bucky’s cock in response.

“Cum for him, doll face.” Bucky says.

Sam was fucking you at the most perfect pace and his fingers continued to rub your clit. Your orgasm built up fast. The coil in your stomach felt like it was about to snap. A guy has never made an orgasm build up this fast for you, not that you mind Sam doing that.

A loud and muffled moan left your lips as you came on Sam’s cock. Sam fucked you through your orgasm. He gave your clit one last rub before focusing on his own orgasm. You bobbed your head faster on Bucky’s cock to help his orgasm build up as well.

With the way you’re making both of them feel right now, they’re going to cum any second. You decided to take Bucky’s cock out of your mouth and lick along the veins of his cock. That made Bucky throw his head back in pleasure. You grinned to yourself and did it again before putting his cock back in your mouth.

Sam’s thrusts sped up the closer he got to coming. He’s right there and then he finally came inside of you. Bucky came in your mouth a few seconds later. You took his cock out of your mouth and swallowed his cum, sticking your tongue out to show him.

“Good girl.” Bucky praises breathlessly.

You smiled at the praise. Sam pulled out of you and laid down on the bed. You laid down in between your two guy friends, laying on your stomach.

“Did you enjoy yourself, baby?” Sam asks.

“Mmm, I did.” You hummed softly.

You leaned up and kissed Sam before getting on top of Bucky, straddling him. Your pussy was touching his cock, which was beginning to harden again.

“Can we do it again?” You asked, biting your bottom lip.

“Hell yes.” Sam and Bucky answered in unison.

You thought you’d be embarrassed for confessing that you’ve always wanted to have a threesome, but you’re not. Having a threesome with your two guy friends made it fun and comfortable for you.

❤️🩵❤️🩵❤️🩵❤️🩵❤️🩵❤️🩵❤️🩵❤️🩵❤️

-Bucky’s Doll

[targaryenrealnessdarling]

Carpe Diem | Michael Gavey x fem!reader

Summary: After himself being ditched by Oliver, they meet once again. Both seemingly skirting around what happened in the Common Room when they last saw one another. | Word Count: 5.1k~ (oops) | Warnings below the cut!

Part One: Quid Pro Quo Part Three: Veni, Vidi, Vici

warnings: virgin michael, oral sex (f receiving), fingering

A/N: I feel...like the word count is overboard but FUCK IT it's my blog 😈

“Greek and Latin both belong to the Indo-European language family, which does not necessarily mean they are similar. The branches are totally different. Whereas Latin belongs to the Romance branch, Greek belongs to the…”

She half-listens to the lecture, caught between Professor Wardon’s monotone ramblings and scribbling whatever bits and pieces she can string together in swirly handwriting, trying to ignore Trevor two rows in front of her, typing loudly on his brand new Macbook that he no doubt got from his well-off parents for Christmas.

Pencil and paper for the peasants, she thinks bitterly.

The laptop she has back in her dorm is clunky, too thick for carrying in her bag, and any notes she makes now will have to be typed up meticulously later. She supposes it’s a good way of getting the information to be irreparably printed into her brain though. That’s the only thing keeping her from going insane.

Which is where she finds herself now, in the wee hours of the morning, her fingers so tired and eyes so strained she feels that all the letters and characters are beginning to merge together.

She's just about to close the damn thing when a notification blares in the bottom right corner of her screen.

‘m_gav_314159265359 is now online’

She presses her lips together to stifle a laugh at the username, it makes her giggle every time. Of course his username is fucking Pi.

After their little ‘happening’ in the Common Room, they'd talked for a bit over MSN, sometimes texting when she had enough credit and even more rarely meeting up at Trinity College campus. Their timetables never seemed to line up very often, so their meetings were quick and over before they could even get settled into really getting to know each other.

It felt strange to have done something so exciting and yet not really know someone.

The memory made her blush. She was never usually that impulsive and brazen. But she didn't regret it.

Everytime Michael saw her, his cheeks flushed almost without her even needing to try. And it felt nice to see someone act like that in her presence.

After lectures had started after Christmas into the New Year and then into Spring, she found herself somewhat self-conscious. Second guessing herself. Wondering if the freedom and calmness of the holiday period had given him a new sense of clarity.

After all, he'd not spoken to her once since lectures had started again.

A heaviness weighed in her chest, bitterly like rejection.

Maybe she was delirious from the time of night, but she felt a surge of courage, desperately wanting to just know if this was going to be more or not.

She felt her cheeks heat somewhat, rubbing the backs of her knuckles against her lips. There was no time to reply before he sent another.

And if what he'd said before didn't make her face burn, that certainly did. She nearly smirked when she thought to herself, 'you mean when I sucked you off in the Common Room?'

But she didn't type that. She decided to have mercy on him, if only a little.

His replies were so blunt and to the point that they were so quintessentially Michael. She found herself wondering if what he'd typed before had been for the intention of making her blush, but she doubted it. He seemed the type to be somewhat oblivious to how words could affect the opposite sex.

Or anything to do with the opposite sex for that matter.

Her stomach fluttered with excitement as she typed off a few quick goodbyes and with a soft, plastic tap, shut her laptop for the night.

“There are no fit guys in my class this semester, fucking livid,” Priya rolls her eyes, nursing a stale pint and a cigarette.

“Did you really expect Modern Languages to be teeming with attractive men?” She smirks in response.

“No. But I at least expected a good shag within the first three months.”

“Does they have to be within our course?”

“No, course not. I'm not lazy as fuck. Can’t be arsed to go off campus.”

She laughs, waving the smoke trail that's formed between their faces, the smell of cigarettes and damp, beer-soaked carpets fill her senses, nursing the only pint she's capable of downing.

“Don't shit where you eat, Priya.”

“Don't you fuckin’ start,” she grins with all her perfect teeth before checking her phone, “fuck, is that the time. Sorry mate you've got like half your pint left-”

“Don't be silly, just go. Whoever you're meeting is bound to have a bigger cock than me anyway.”

“You're a nasty bitch, you know that?” she smiles, standing and pulling her mini-skirt down, “see you later? Catch up?”

“Wouldn't miss it for the world. Have fun!”

“Oh I will!”

She smiles, sipping the stale beer as Priya rushes out the door excitedly tapping the keypads on her phone in reply to a guy no-doubt, nearly running right into a lamppost.

She pulled out her own phone, spotting a new message from the ex-boyfriend she hadn’t heard a peep out of since Freshers Week, groaning with a displeased expression at the first few lines of text that read as if he were desperate. Even over the crackling sound of the speakers and Daniel Powter’s ‘Bad Day’ lulling quietly through the pub, she was still sensitive to the sound of his voice.

“-get me another pint please, Oliver? Thanks.”

She had to crane her neck, half-swivelled on her chair, but it was undoubtedly him. Only one person had that hissy, direct way of speaking, had dirty, blonde hair that touched the nape of his neck and was likely to wear such an…interesting selection of clothes.

Her mouth was barely open before she realised it was Michael, and by then he was too far away to shout from across a busy pub. She found herself with a sort of stupid grin, watching him walk with such a lanky gait, as if walking were an inhuman thing for him to do. 

It took her a few moments to text back a reply to her ex before she looked up again, eyebrows furrowed when she saw that whoever Michael had been with, was now umming and ahhing about whether to join the popular lot, for which she recognised Felix Catton amongst them, shockingly ill-dressed in a ‘what happens in Kassiopi stays in Kassiopi’ t-shirt, with a cigarette between his lips that had been inhaled to a nub. 

She grimaced. Only rich people could dress so fucking shocking.

And then her heart leapt in a different way when she saw Michael look distantly at Oliver, his hand half-raised in an awkward wave, his face crumbling in a way where she knew he was disappointed and yet, not surprised in the slightest. 

It was when Michael pushed his glasses up his nose in a way she couldn’t help but find sweet and go for the door, that she slipped from the stool she was on, a quarter of her pint left, and took off after him.

“Michael!”

The late winter air nipped at her skin, cursing internally that his legs were so fucking long he could stride a hell of a lot further than her. 

“Michael!”

It wasn’t hard to see the glint of his glasses lenses off the streetlights once he’d turned to face her, his lips parted in surprise and a heat rising to his cheeks.

He swallowed visibly, “H-hey..”

She felt her own heart rattle in her chest at how easy it was to fluster him, “Hey, you alright?”

For a moment, the self-proclaimed mathematical genius seemed genuinely lost for words, his throat closing up on him like he was having a sort of allergic reaction to the opposite sex. So with all that, he simply nodded, his hands clenched as if not knowing what to do with them.

“Sorry about your mate, that was a shitty thing to do.”

“Oh, he’s…he’s not my mate.”

She nodded, rubbing her hands together to warm them from the chill, “d’you wanna go somewhere?”

Michael’s eyes behind his glasses widened, “like…together?”

“No, I’ll make you go off on your own,” she grinned, “yes together!”

He huffed an embarrassed but elated laugh, and only now her eyes studied his shirt, cocking her head in amusement at the ‘that’s how I roll’ shirt with what looked like a maths equation beneath it. The actual meaning was lost on her, but it was so dorky it made her smile.

“U-uh, my mum bought it me for Christmas...” he muttered quickly to which she cracked an even bigger smile, the two of them laughing quietly for a moment before he spoke up again. 

“Do you wanna come to mine?” he asked, and it was so direct it made her blink, her lungs feeling as if they were fluttering, “I mean-my dorm.”

She wet her lips from the dry cold, watching how nervous and twitchy he was. And how it reminded her of the last time they were alone together. 

“Like…catch up or something. I-I’ve got alcohol if you-”

“That’d be lovely, Michael.”

He at least seemed grateful that she’d actually replied to save him from rambling, and even cracked a thin-lipped smile himself, clearly and delightfully nervous. Thirty-minutes ago, he’d have never considered this to be the ending to his evening. 

Michael’s room is disturbingly tidy, she wonders if he actually even lives here. It’s like those university rooms that they take photos of to advertise the ‘spacious’ and ‘community-driven’ atmosphere of campus life. 

At least it was clean, she mused as Michael passed her a bottle of the only alcohol he had, which were lukewarm WKDs.

“Thanks,” she smiles, taking a sugary sip and looking about the room. Michael has since cracked open his own drink, but seems disinterested in it as it rests on his bouncing knee, looking up at her from where he’s sat on his desk chair from under his brow.

His laptop sits shut, pencils in a neat line next to it. His walls are bare, with what she can only assume are blue tack marks from the previous tenant’s last year. With the exception of a wall-mounted calendar next to his desk.

“No posters? Was hoping I could be nosy, see what you like.” 

When she turns back to Michael he quickly looks down as if not wanting to be caught staring, “It’d just be maths stuff.”

“And Carol Vorderman?” she teases mindlessly, not catching the way his cheeks go alight.

She hums an amused laugh behind the bottle at her lips, “It’s very tidy.”

When he just replies with a shrug, she scoots off the bed to have a roam about the place, needing only a few steps to cross the room to his bookcase, filled to the brim neatly with books. She runs her finger along some of the spines.

“You’re not going to mess anything up are you?”

She laughs, coming out more of a snort, which makes her cheeks warm, “Sorry. Just curious about your books. ‘Mathematics of Language. Sounds like a bit of me and you.”

There’s that flush again.

That deer in the headlights look.

“Uh…just sounded interesting.”

“And is it?”

“Is it what?”

She smirks, “interesting.”

There’s a silence that for a moment neither of them are able to shake. 

Michael swallows visibly, “don’t know yet..”

She sees something in his expression when a playful smile lifts across her face, suddenly the memories and implications of what they’d done before now weighing heavily on them. And all at once, he’s able to smell the body scrub she’d used in the shower that morning and eyes flitting to the glint of her stud earrings. He’d remembered brushing past them with his fingers when her mouth wrapped around his-

“And who says you’re not a languages man?” she presses with a teasing lilt to her voice. The tone and sing-songy nature of her voice has his heart doing backflips, feeling as if he could feel the erratic beating between his ribs. 

Michael seems stuck in the position he finds himself as she lazily crosses the room, slipping back on his bed, one hand brushing across his bedsheets and the other setting the drink on his bedside table. For a long moment, his eyes couldn’t leave her. The whole situation was suitably extraordinary. A girl who had come onto him (to say the least) was now in his room, sat on his bed, touching his things…all while wearing something he personally deemed unsuitable for the cold, a dress with black tights beneath.

She turns her head to him, smiling, “you seem nervous.”

He swallows, trying to claw at any sort of reply, “is that an accusation?”

It comes out a bit harsher than he probably expected, but instead of recoiling, she bites her lip as if to stifle a full-toothed grin, “an observation.”

He shrugs, “just never had a girl in here before.”

“Worried I’ll mess up your feng shui?”

“My what?”

She genuinely laughs at that, nearly smacking her head on the bed frame, but a hearty chuckle all the same. And Michael doesn’t know why his own cheeks start to heat up at that, taking this opportunity that her eyes are shut to look down at her legs. For some reason, making her laugh just makes him want to try more. 

He’s never had that feeling before. Wanting to make someone laugh.

“No, really, my what.”

She meets his eyes brightly with her own, “feng shui, it’s like…the vibe of a room, a space. Like,  how you place your furniture or whatever.”

Michael raises a brow, his lip quirking on one side, “sounds like bullshit.”

“It probably is.” she laughs.

“Can I ask you something?”

The quick u-turn and tone in conversation has her eyes meet his nervously, her interest and curiosity piqued. Her hands find themselves nervously stroking her legs, the texture of the tights providing some level of comfort, “yeah sure.”

She can't quite figure out what expression he's trying to put on. His brows are furrowed in judgement and a curious sense of guarding himself. And yet he's sat back in his seat, looking at her like he is trying to figure her out, and yet wants to know why she is the way she is.

“Why did you do that?”

She blinks at the accusatory and monotone rhythm of his way of speaking.

“Do what.”

“Don't play stupid. Doesn't suit you.”

She nearly scoffs at that, “what? Why have you gone all weird all of a sudden?”

“Why did you do…that at the Christmas party?”

She shrugs and shakes her head, as if the answer should be obvious, “because I wanted to? And you didn't seem to mind either.”

“I didn't-that's not the point!” he retorts, “are you genuinely taking the mick out of me?”

“You've asked that before and no.”

“Well why then?”

“Is it not enough to really think that I find you interesting? And nice to talk to?”

Of all the things she expected Michael Gavey to go quiet at, it certainly wasn't that. But she watches him all the same, the line between his brow slowly disappearing as his frown vanishes.

She cocks her head, “and not bad looking either.”

“Stop it.”

“I mean it!”

“Nobody wants the fucking maths virgin-”

“Michael. I don't give a fuck about that,” she says calmly, “Hell, I was a virgin not that long ago. You keep saying ‘nobody wants the virgin’ but you can't keep using that as an excuse just because you're embarrassed you haven't done anything.”

He sighs, like he doesn't want to believe her. And she can hardly believe how self-deprecating and yet direct this man can be in a single breath.

“Look, if you don't want to talk to me, I can always go-”

Almost as soon as she is stood, he is too, one large hand wrapped around her forearm, “No.”

They've been sat so long, she had almost forgotten how tall he was, and the difference between them briefly has her tummy doing back flips. From here, she is able to smell whatever body wash he uses, and if she had to guess, probably blue radox.

“No, I didn't say I wanted you to go. Stay…”

He doesn't say ‘please’ once, and yet she's able to hear the desperation.

When she doesn't move, his grip loosens, and she feels tingly all over when his hand slides up her arm.

“Can I kiss you again like last time?”

She almost smiles in adoration at how he asks it, but for the sake of saving him the embarrassment of thinking she's laughing at him, settles for a simple and gentle nod of her head. She is sure she's not really thought it through. Weighing up the pros and cons isn't exactly the first thing on her mind right now though as Michael has to bend significantly to crash his lips to hers.

Much like last time, he is a bit endearingly clumsy, his lips moving quickly on hers like he's running a race with his mouth. This time there is no pool table for him to cage her against, but all the same his legs take him forwards until her knees hit the edge of his bed.

By the time he is on top of her, she's managed to weave her fingers through his hair, her nose nudging against his glasses every now and then, and guiding him with her own movements to slow down and enjoy the moment, with no need to rush.

She knows that secretly he's probably just excited.

But this time, his hands are extremely active.

She's unable to help the breathy whimper between desperate kisses as he tentatively squeezes her thighs, not quite brave enough to go beneath the dress yet and drifting upwards to her breasts, touching and clutching fondly, as if any harsh grip or movement and she'll get up and leave.

He's still unsure, maybe even nervous, she can feel it.

It's here she realises that whether he is doing it subconsciously or not, she can feel the strained bulge at the front of his trousers rubbing up against the inside of her leg, probably chasing friction that feels too good for him to feel lucid.

“Can I see you…” he asks as his lips break away.

She doesn't even reply, she just complies, pulling the sleeves of her dress over her shoulders and the bra straps along with it. The position she's in making it near impossible to reach behind her.

If she could print his face in her mind as she pulled her dress down to her ribs, she would. He looks entirely mesmerised in adoration, and once the only thing covering her breasts is the thin material of her bra, Michael looks at her with an almost dream-like gaze. 

His hand moves before his mouth, or at least before he catches himself, “Is it oka-”

“Course..” she says far too quickly. 

All she can hear as Michael pulls the thin straps of her bra fully down her arms, exposing her breasts, is his breath, staggered and uneven. His hand easily covers one of her breasts, squeezing experimentally, his thumb gently drifting over her nipple and watching them stiffen to needy buds. 

She doesn’t need to look between them to see how hard he is, she can feel him against her thigh, where her dress has since ridden up to her hips. 

His glasses knock against her chest as he leans down, all-too-carefully covering her nipple with his tongue, like he is trying to print the taste of them to memory. 

There is an unconscious desire to press her thighs together, but she settles for rolling her hips, causing Michael’s voice to rumble against her chest where he mouths at her breasts. One hand forever stays at the one he isn’t paying lip service to, testing the weight and shape in his palms. 

It feels like all sensitivity has been turned up to 1000. He is so slow, so unsure, that every languid movement has every nerve feel as if it’s on fire. A selfish part of her wants him to go faster, so used to the fervent, almost rushing nature of who she’d been with before. It was never like this, borderline worshipping.

“Michael…” she breathes, rolling her hips against him experimentally, rewarded with a low whine from him.

She watched as her nipple slips from his lips in the most erotic manner she’d ever seen, before his clear eyes are on her again. 

“Is this okay? Am I doing something wr-”

“No,” she shakes her head quickly, “feels nice.”

Michael licks his lips, a sign of how nervous he is, “Can I do something else?”

He is so eager to please, to learn, that looking at his face as he asks she can hardly deny him. And her head moves without effort, nodding as she watches his hand disappear beneath the hem of her dress to pull her tights down her legs. 

It then becomes obvious what he wants to do. 

“Are you sure, I-”

“I’m sure.” he adds, rolling the black nylon down her legs until all that is left between Michael and her bare skin below her hips, is her underwear. A flush of embarrassment engulfs her face at the thought of how aroused she might be, knowing he has no experience, she doesn’t want to scare him off. The tender and yet needy way he’d mouthed at her breasts had her body all warm, and she can’t remember the last time she’d been this ready for anything.

“I just want to do the same for you as you did for me. Make you feel good.”

And that certainly doesn’t help that feeling either.

She’s not sure if she will get tired of the sight of his long, lithe fingers gripping her thighs apart, and for a moment she finds herself entranced by the view, until he is pressing sweet kisses to the inside of them. Open-mouthed, with an addictive cooling sensation when he pulls away, only to edge closer to the centre of her underwear.

Her breath remains stuck in her chest as she watches him navigate the female body, mapping it out in his head. She knows better than to say anything, knowing him as she does now, he is immensely competitive, and wants to get things right. It’s likely if she stepped in to instruct him, it would only embarrass him more. So she stays quiet, and lets him come to her.

His thumb dips beneath the leg hole of her underwear, “Can I?”

She swallows visibly, now for some reason it’s her being the nervous one. Possibly because the first time, it was her doing something for him. And now, it is very much the feeling of being studied, of being watched to see what made her tick. A feeling that has her desperate for some kind of fulfilment. Anything.

She lifts her hips to help him slide her underwear down her legs, her cheeks warming at being so utterly exposed to him herself for the first time. There is a finality to it that she just can’t quite put into words. A point of no return.

A full body shudder made its way through her when she felt his thumb trail across the spot where her leg met her hip, trailing the line there that led to her sensitive womanhood.

Michael looked as if he was being presented with an equation, she could practically hear the thoughts in his head. But beyond not entirely knowing what to do, it didn't dissuade his curiosity.

She could tell though, that he didn't know what to do.

Michael nearly flinched when she took his hand, encouraging his thumb to touch her bundle nerves hidden between her folds. 

She watched him as his thumb cautiously collected the wetness that had begun to come out of her and used it to gently apply pressure to her clit. Breath was hot in her chest  as he started slowly.

“Does that feel good?” He asked softly.

As soon as she nodded, confirming how pleasurable it was, Michael's first reaction was to go faster. And so he did. Like he was trying to light a fire.

“No, no, no, it's fine to go slow.”

“Shit, sorry…”

“It’s fine,” she smiled, “just more gentle.”

The panic on his face had been clear. But at her gentle instruction, she saw him relax, taking her words and applying gentle pressure in slower, tighter circles. And it seemed Michael was now fully aware of its intended effect, as his eyes were able to lift up to hers underneath the rim of his glasses to see her breathing had increased, and blood rushing to her cheeks. 

It felt incredible to watch his expressions, she thought. Seeing the little thoughts rattling around in his head, to be able to awaken something in him for the first time. But it also felt utterly exposing, and every time his thumb drew circles against her clit, she heard the soft click of her arousal that made the room feel as if she were inside an oven. 

Michael’s lips parted, his head moving as if pulled by an invisible string to her core.

“Can I…?” he asked again, but more uncertain this time. 

The anticipation gnaws so much at her skin, combined with the way he is taking his time that she has become somewhat impatient, so it’s completely involuntary when she nods her head and somehow manages a whispered ‘yes’.

She doesn't really, really know what's wrong with her. She's had head before. But when he dives between her thighs so quickly and eagerly, his thumbs almost pulling her skin gently to expose as much of her as he can, and swiping his tongue over the centre. From her entrance, all the way to her bundle of nerves.

It has her breath stuck in her chest, instinctively reaching down to run her fingers through his sandy hair. Even the slightest tug on it has a low groan vibrating through her where his mouth moves slowly against her.

“Michael…”

At first he is careful, taking the instruction she'd given him before and applying it to tasting her instead. But his eyes flit up to her when she breathes his name like that, so he redoubles his efforts, gripping the underside of her thighs to tug her towards him in a teasing rhythm.

She didn't really know what to expect, assuming he hadn't done anything like this before. But Michael seems eager to please, as he nudges between her sensitive folds to tease her entrance with his tongue, the sharp shape of his nose butting against her bud with every movement, as little as it is.

With one hand in his hair, her hips move against his face, the glasses perched on his face hanging askew. And all she can see is that his eyes are closed as he tastes her, every now and then he makes a noise between a whine and a moan, as if he didn't want the experience to end.

Dragging his tongue back up to her bud to focus his attention there, Michael experimentally slides one long, slender digit easily inside her, pleased at the breathy sound it seems to elicit from her. Two feelings at once, just as she'd given him before.

“Oh, shit-” 

He fights the urge to smirk when he hears that. She's so warm and wet, that it's easy to slide in the second, feeling her walls suck him in as they clamp around his fingers moving in and out of her. It's a feeling he couldn't describe if he tried, and he daren't think of what she'd feel like around his cock, or if she'd let him.

She can feel her stomach muscles tightening, an orgasm bubbling up to the surface when he gains confidence, flicking her swollen clit with his tongue and pistoning two fingers with a pornographically wet smack into her over and over. Brushing that sweet spot inside that he manages to find sometimes, seemingly without realising.

“Michael - fuck - I'm gonna-”

He groans as her fingers tug at his hair, her hips grinding herself against him and chasing that delicious friction as her high barrels through her, sparking pleasure down each notch of her spine until it fizzles out through her limbs.

She can feel Michael grinding himself against the bed, searching for his own, as he maintains his actions, lapping up everything she gives him with determination. When she dares to look down at him, as if he can sense it, his eyes open to watch her expression, the blue of his eyes nearly entirely eclipsed by black.

As if something had been awoken in him that even he couldn't recognise he'd wanted.

With one last swipe of his tongue over her centre, Michael withdraws his fingers, gripping her thigh with them and making the skin there glisten.

Her cheeks feel as if they're on fire when he rights himself to his knees before her, looking down at her with admiration at how she is still essentially half naked. The tightness at the front of his jeans makes it obvious how he felt about what he'd just done.

Engrossed by watching her breasts move as she breathes heavily, the slight shimmer of sweat on her collarbones, Michael raises his hand to his face, using his palm to wipe her slick from his lips and chin.

She breaks the silence with a tired laugh when he pushes his glasses back up his face, one half of the lenses completely fogged up. It prompts him to laugh too.

“Was I okay?”

This time she doesn't hold back her smile at the way he asks it. As if she hadn't just shaken with the force of her high all over his face.

She nods, “More than okay.”

He seems genuinely relieved.

She bites her lip as she looks at him, his cheeks all tinged pink, his mind reeling at what they'd just done.

He doesn't know what to say or do, and she can see it.

“Do you fancy having a girlfriend, Michael?” she asks.

“Uh…I've never had one, not properly anyway.”

“Yes, but would you like one?”

She watches the bob of his Adam's Apple as he swallows heavily, “Y-yeah…”

She pushes herself up to meet him where he's knelt, admiring his features for a moment, before leaning forward to kiss him, encouraging him to kiss her back. It takes a second for him to respond, but when he does, it's needy, teeth and tongues clashing as the musky taste of her is captured on him.

“Tell you what, after your exams, when you can relax, I'll be your proper girlfriend. In every way..”

His breath comes out shuddered against her lips, “what do you mean?..”

She wets her lips as she smirks, “I think you know exactly what I mean, Michael.”

She doesn't think she'll ever get tired of seeing him blushed and bothered.

And when they're both dressed, sharing awkward giggles and nervous kisses, she gives him a look with a cock of her head as he checks his wall-mounted Countdown-themed calendar.

“What you looking for?”

“My last exam is the 15th. There's exactly 12,246 minutes between now and then and all I'm going to be thinking about is whether you'll really be my girlfriend or not.”

She nearly smiles at the fact he does the maths so quickly. 8 days, 12 hours and 6 minutes until his last exam. And even though she's made it clear she wants him, he's still unsure.

She meets his gaze, unable to hide the grin off her face, “Better get studying then. You've only got 12,245 minutes left until you've got me.”

General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch @castellomargot @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian@randomdragonfires @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3 @theoneeyedprince @thetrueblackheart @tsujifreya@urmomsgirlfriend1 @valeskafics @valleyof-goldenlilies @virtualsweetsqueen @watercolorskyy

[001x456]

any 457 fic recs?

In-ho x Gi-hun fic recs

credits to the respective authors! ♡

*some of them are wholesome fluff, but some may contain topics that can be triggering, taboo and considered “dark theme” in nature; so after tapping the links, make sure you read the tags first (actually, since I'm a sucker for whump, spicy and fucked up stuff, most of them are 'dead dove do not eat', so be warned)

Overthrown

Seong Gi-hun isn't the only enemy the Front Man has. It takes him too long to realize that.  Or, Front Man's right hand man, the Officer, with the help of the Soldiers, plans to take him down. And In-ho has been too blind to see the betrayal coming.  (Ironic enough, it turns out the one who's too trusting isn't Gi-hun.)

Obedience and Oblivion (NSFW)

Dragged back into the shadows of the games, Gi-hun finds himself bound not just by chains but by the quiet, unnerving pull of the man who holds him captive. The Front Man offers him comfort wrapped in control, tenderness laced with possession. As lines blur between survival and submission, freedom and desire, Gi-hun must decide: will he rise above, or let himself fall deeper into the arms of the enemy?

and I found love where it wasn't supposed to be, right in front of me

"Young-il was a good person. He was my friend. And you killed him because all he wanted was to save his family."

"Gi-hun —" In-ho quickly stopped and shut his mouth when he realized he was letting it slip. He's Player 456 to you now, and you're not Young-il anymore, warned the voices in his head.

You're the Front Man and he's Player 456. Young-il and Gi-hun are no more. And that ache, the sudden surge of pain in In-ho's chest, In-ho could never seem to understand.

all I worship and adore (NSFW)

After the tenth year anniversary of his wife's death, In-ho decided it was time for him to feel something else that wasn't grief. He found himself in a shady brothel with a companion of an overly friendly, overly awkward sex worker named Seong Gi-hun. (It's fine, right? It's merely physical pleasure and nothing more. This does not mean you're betraying her, it does not mean you're moving on, or so In-ho told himself.)

loving you is a losing game

Gasping and gurgling and choking on his own blood, In-ho's eyes remain fixated on Gi-hun and Jun-ho.

Mister Right

“Hwang Inho,” His assailant introduced stiffly and rattled off a lengthy sequence of numbers. “Eh?” They’d given Gihun something for the pain and it was making him a little dizzy. “My name and badge number,” The man said, his jaw clenched tight as he advised, “you should lodge a formal complaint to the Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency when you are able to walk, sir.” “Oh…ok.” “Did you remember what I just said?” Gihun’s head lolled. He blinked groggily at the figure dressed in all black. “Are you my nurse? This needle in my arm hurts. Could you blow on it?” The man didn’t move. “Please?” He whined, blinking back tears.

One Way Ticket (NSFW)

Gi-hun arrives in a foreign land brimming with hope and dreams of starting a new life with the woman he’s convinced is his soulmate. But when things start to unravel, and the truth of his situation becomes painfully clear, he finds himself at the mercy of a stranger—Hwang In-ho, a man who sees opportunity in Gi-hun’s desperation.

Final Game

In which In-ho tries running away from his own self, his guilt, doubt and feelings. (Gi-hun is handcuffed to a bed, yet In-ho finds himself the one in chains, unable to run away.)

Material Girl

“I’m not a prostitute,” The man sitting in the small plastic chair opposite Junho’s work desk repeated. Junho glanced up from the arrest form he was filling out on his computer and studied him. Seong Gihun, age forty-three, resident of Ssangmun-dong. The system showed his only living relative to be his elderly mother. There were numerous citations on file for money issues mostly, but no prostitution. Oh, and today was his birthday. “Officer,” the man said, wringing his hands like an old woman and rocking in his seat, “I swear.” Junho took his fingers off the keyboard and crossed them over his desk. “Ajusshi, I have you on video without your pants in a popular love hotel.”

dead (for a little while) (NSFW)

Gi-hun loses the next game.

Strangely, they don't kill him.

like a good, good dog (NSFW)

"Come on," Thanos — Player 230 — said, "I see the way you look at him and the way he looks at you. A blind person could see you've been yearning for each other. Don't look at me like that, I'm just doing you both a favor here."

"What did you just say?" Gi-hun asked.

"You heard me. Fuck 001. Or die."

In a Truth or Dare game, Gi-hun landed himself with the most absurd dare. In-ho realized the price of his undercover mission may be higher than he thought when he was getting fucked at his own game. Figuratively and literally.

Alternative Universe where no one gets hurt.

Forgotten Vows (NSFW)

Gi-Hun wakes up with a wedding ring on his finger.

Dirty Business (NSFW)

Gi-hun sucks In-ho’s dick while he watches the chaos unfold.

Facilitated Karma

VIPs kind of get whatever they want, here- so when one of them orders to have Gi-hun for a night, In-ho has to comply.

Gi-hun doesn't get the memo.

All Your Pieces (NSFW)

After the failed rebellion, he dissociates on the Frontman's floor.

pick up your stitches (better than your riches) (NSFW)

Gi-hun just looks at him in silence for a moment, studying his frame intently. “How do you live with yourself?"

“I don’t know.”

When he leans in, it’s slow and deliberate. It’s like he’s showing his hands. Begging Gi-hun to squint and pretend they’re clean.

“You can tell me no,” he reminds him. Miraculously, Gi-hun just nods.

Or: Gi-hun and the Frontman meet after the games are through.

wrap my name across your mouth when i let my feelings down (NSFW)

“You haven’t eaten all day,” In-ho reminds him, a note of desperation in his voice. “Let me feed you, Gi-hun.”

Gi-hun’s eyes are unfocused and bloodshot, he notices. There are dark circles underneath them. In-ho chastises himself for not considering the fact that his companion might be sleep deprived.

“Uh, yeah,” Gi-hun awkwardly rubs at his neck with his right hand. “I could eat.”

in the flow of things

“That’s my fish,” Inho snaps, taking a step closer. His voice echoes through the narrow space, sharp with rage. The man chuckles softly. “I mean… define 'your' fish.” Inho blinks, momentarily stunned by the audacity. “Are you serious? You stole it. You've been stealing my fish.” “Borrowing,” the man corrects, raising his finger. “Relocating is the better word, actually. You keep buying more anyway, so I figured-” “Relocating? Are you serious right now?” Inho's voice rises, disbelief flooding his system. He stalks closer, fists clenched. “You’ve been breaking into my apartment and stealing my fish like it’s some kind of hobby?”

or Five times Inho came home to an empty fishbowl, and the one time he finally caught the culprit.

let's drift away in fits of pleasure (NSFW)

Fronting a secret killing game while also taking place in said game was difficult as expected, but the most unexpected inconvenience was that of sneaking out every night to return to In-ho's office. He resorted to excusing himself to the bathroom for long hours during lights out and hoping the others didn’t bother to ask in the haze of their exhaustion.

It was Gi-hun that pushed the boundaries, as he should have learned to expect these days.

Nightmares

Chapter 1: Gihun gets a nightmare and I Inho takes care of him Chapter 2: Inho gets a nightmare and trys to hide it from Gihun because he thinks he deserves to get them

TO YOUR SWEET NOTHING

"You’re up early,” came the dry, familiar voice of In-ho beside Gi-hun. “Early?” Gi-hun snorted, glancing at the clock on the bedside table. “It’s almost nine. You call that early?” In-ho grunted, shifting slightly but making no move to get up. “It is when you’ve spent years sleeping with one eye open,” he murmured, his voice muffled by the pillow.

Or, a soft lazy morning between Inho and Gihun

Would You Still Love Me?

In-ho turned back to his microscope, clearly done with the conversation, but his lips twitched into a smile. “Speaking of worms…” “Oh, please no,” Gi-hun groaned. Nothing sane or understandable ever followed that phrase. “Would you still love me if I were a worm?” “Why are you even asking this?” Gi-hun demanded. “Do you plan on turning into a worm?” His eyes widened in mock horror. “Oh my god, did you sign up for some kind of freaky experiment?”

Or, "Would you still love me if I was a worm?" fic featuring Gi-hun and In-ho!

[umikawa]

infatuated

a/n: listened to like four songs on repeat to write this haha (￣▽￣) I hope this is good!?? used penny and pete from tgm’s relationship as inspo lol <3

Stanley Snyder x gn!reader | 1.8k wc | warnings: on&off relationship (get it together!) alcohol consumption (ur in a bar, don’t waste it) smoking (it’s Stanley) maybe a bit ooc? I love yapping.

♫ infatuated / the royston club | flash in the pan / wallice | war / keshi | lullaby for you / greer

“Nice to see a familiar face here.” 

You chuckle at the voice, smooth and deep, with the slightest southern drawl, familiar and warm. The person slides into the barstool beside you, nodding to the other person beside you with a glare. 

Get away. Get lost. Don’t come back. The intention was obvious: to rid you of a flea you’d spend too much unnecessary time and attention on. He saved you the time, being in uniform, his purple lipstick painting a nasty (shit-eating) smirk on his lips. His appearance added to his intimidating personality. 

“Scaring away my dates as per usual.” You laugh, downing the rest of your drink and flagging the bartender for another. “A beer too, please– Pabst.”

Stanley grins at the remembrance of his drink of choice, crossing his arms across his chest. “Taking your dates to our bar, sitting in our seats— as per usual.” He mocks your words with a scoff, tipping his head towards the bartender when they slide the beer to him. “Don’t have any other place to show your collection of love interests?” 

“Don’t you have any other bar to go to?” 

“Actually,” he starts, quickly swigging his beer. “This is the closest one to where I’m stationed, but you knew that, didn't you?”

You shrug, tracing the rim of your glass as you refuse to look at him. “Maybe I’m just eternally trapped here,” you said quietly, laughing softly at your own words. “It’s my own personal hell. Limbo, maybe.”

Stanley looks down the spout of his bottle, eerily shifting into the barrel of a gun the longer he stares at it. Was that supposed to be an unrelated metaphor? “Why do you keep holding on?”

You turned to him for the first time since he walked in. Your expression was almost deadpan, but Stanley knew how to read you: longing, resignation, guilt. 

He didn’t understand the last one; you had no reason to be guilty. Your parting was solely because of him and his devotion to serve. He would lay down his life in war if he needed to, and you didn’t like that. 

“Why do you want to let go?” 

Stanley looks at you, really looks at you. Three key differences have changed since he last saw you. 

For one, the bags under your eyes. You’d kill him for pointing it out. You always gave him shit for saying it— he was just concerned and didn’t know how to show it. Though you did have some the last time he saw you, they seemed to have worsened, emphasizing the darkened skin underneath your eyes. Have you not been sleeping well?

Two, your hair was longer. It would look the same to a normal person; nothing more than a few inches had been added to the ends of your hair, but Stanley could tell. Were you letting it grow? Or were you refusing to cut it because it was the last thing he touched before he left you again? He shouldn’t give himself so much credit, but hair holds memories. 

Third, the lack of bite. Before, you’d shoot remark after remark with him, going on and on for hours on end until you were leaning against the counter with a defeated (sleepy) expression. But now, it was only blatant relinquishment: no fight, no argument, nothing. 

“You truly think I want to let go, or that I have?” He keeps his eyes forward, zoning in on the bottles lined up in rows behind the bar. “Do you think you’re the only one that comes to this bar and sits in these seats, hoping the other will show up or already be here?” 

Your hand comes up to your face with a quiet sigh, almost a whine, like you didn’t want this conversation to happen. “So you admit it, you feel the same… reluctancy as I do.”

Reluctance? To what? Let go? 

“That’s one of the reasons we didn’t work out back then.” You glance at him lazily, eyes darting to the somehow visible stain of purple lipstick on the rim of his bottle. “We always bottled our emotions to save face for the other.” 

“Couples therapists would’ve loved us.” He chuckles at your quick joke, taking a sip of his beer. “I guess somewhere along the lines, we got so used to bottling everything up that we started to hide our infatuation as well.” You pause momentarily, furrowing your brows while staring absentmindedly into your glass. “Even when we went to bed, we weren’t together. We were just…laying next to each other.”

Stanley hums, feeling his pocket for a cigarette—he really needs one right now. You spare him a glance but don’t say anything as he retracts his hand, silently waving to the bartender and sliding your card across the counter. 

He opens his mouth to protest, but he was already too late when you put your card on the bar. So he keeps quiet, muttering to himself about his marine salary that would have paid your tab. 

“It’s fine. Besides, I had a lot more than you did.” You reassured, slipping your card back into your wallet. “Let's go outside. You wanna smoke, don’t you?” He follows wordlessly as you walk out of the bar, taking the box of cigarettes from his coat the second he feels the cool air hit his skin. 

Nothing was said between you two for a while—just a silent exchange of glances. The only sound was the exhale of breath that flew past Stanley’s lips occasionally. He’d passed the cigarette to you when he caught you eyeing it, laughing softly at the disgusted face you made after inhaling it. 

“I’m glad I never picked up this habit from you.” Your voice strained as you held your coughs in. “How the hell did you pass the Marine inspection?” 

“Tobacco isn’t a stimulant.”

“Are you dumb? It is. It’s literally nicotine.” He looks off the side, blinking down at the dimly lit stick in his grasp. “Stanley, come on.” You burst into laughter at his reaction, nearly keeling over when he drops the cigarette to the ground and squashes it with his shoe. 

He freezes when he feels your hand holds the side of his face, fingers brushing against his buzzed sides. “What happened to that smart-ass brain of yours, huh?”

Why were you being so casual when moments ago you looked like you wanted a hole to open up beneath you and swallow you? So that you could avoid the prying question of what could’ve been?

“It got fried,” he says, a blank expression on his face. He couldn’t focus with your warm touch against his skin. “Being a marine isn’t easy, you know?” Your thumb starts to brush against his cheek, and Stanley has to fight every power within him not to shut his eyes in content. 

“I bet.” 

Silence looms over the two of you again. Your palm is still planted on his cheek, and his eyes fluttered shut a second ago—much to his dismay and to your amusement. But before he could continue to savor the feeling of your warmth properly, your hand starts to slip away slowly, and Stanley starts to feel… 

Reminiscent. 

He’s quick to latch his fingers around your wrist before you can pull away entirely, holding it near his head while you stare at him with wide eyes. He didn’t know what he was doing, nor did you, but Stanley didn’t stop himself when he began pulling you closer, and you didn’t make any effort to pull away when his face was inches from yours.

Just before his lips press against yours, he whispers out. “Do you want this?” A faint nod, almost like hesitation. Then another, firm and confident. Stanley would’ve preferred you use your words, but he dismisses it this time, not wasting another second before he presses his lips to yours. 

You sigh through your nose when he kisses you, hands traveling to his neck, holding his jaw delicately, bringing him closer to you with each passing second. 

Then, Stanley gets desperate. 

His movements become sloppy, uncharacteristic for a man as poised as him, who was ever the perfectionist. His mind was fuzzy, eyes screwed shut as he tried to compose himself before you could pull away. 

Stanley was terrified, and he didn’t know how to handle it.

His hand moved to your waist, gripping tightly like he was afraid to lose you again, and maybe he was right to feel that way— because it always ended like that. 

He’d have you in his grasp, and then he’d get dragged back to reality before you could indulge in the feeling. But Stanley never held tight enough to keep you bound to him. That was his fault. That’s why you never stayed. Because Stanley could never commit the way you wanted–  or hoped.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.” He whispers when he pulls away, resting his head against yours while clutching the fabric of your jacket tightly. “I won’t be here for a few months, but when I come back– will you let me come home to you?” 

When you look at him, there’s a clear emotion written on his face. One that he’d never shown much before, one that he kept bottled up in fear of judgment.

Vulnerability. 

“It always ends the same with us, Stanley.” His eyes shut as you spoke, saying the words he wished you hadn’t. “I don’t know if I can handle watching you leave again.”

“I won't.” He shakes his head, “I couldn’t let you go when I didn’t even have you. Your name is engraved in my heart and soul.”

A soft chuckle comes from you suddenly. Stanley doesn’t understand why. “I never knew you could be so romantic.”

“Let’s focus on the topic at hand, shall we?” He prompts with a light snort. “Will you wait for me?” 

A quiet hum follows his question. It's almost like you’re trying to torment him with your silence. “I’ll wait forever and a day, Stanley.” You answer, fixing his collar to occupy your hands. “Even if we break up two weeks in, you’re worth it.” 

He shakes his head. As if he was going to let you go again.“When I come back, I’m yours forever.” 

You sigh, filled with faux despair. “What a nightmare.” Stanley grins at your remark, holding your chin as he presses a long kiss to your lips. “Oh, I’m already dreading it.” He hums softly, lips curling into a smile when you bump your nose against his. 

“We’ll make it work.” He says suddenly, though it sounds more of a promise to himself than a declaration to you. 

You glance at him, an almost pained smile on your face. “I know.” 

“I love you.”

He’s met with wide eyes holding a glimmer of hope and a touch of love. But, Stanley nearly takes his words back and scoffs to himself at your response. 

“I know.”

a/n: I was watching sw… that explains the ending.. sorry… also no idea if Pabst is a good beer, just heard it in a song