#how do y’all feel about that for chapter 3?

[hereforuconnwbb]

The Study of Us - CHAPTER 3

paige x azzi (pazzi)

au fic!

word count: 5.2k

warning: language

firstly i js wanted to say that yall NEED to check out @pazzispizookies series !! its genuinely soooo so so good and deserves all the love 🫶🏽

heres chap 3 for yall !!! i tried to follow ur guys suggestions so i hope its alr 😭 idk if its good but um yur hopefully u guys like it 🤞🏽

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“Yo, let’s go,” Aubrey called, tugging her hoodie on as she stepped into the hallway of their dorm. “Class isn’t gonna wait for your little daydream.”

Paige looked up from her phone, blinking like she’d been caught red-handed. “I’m coming,” she said, stuffing the phone in her pocket even though she hadn’t actually been doing anything on it. Just… staring at the home screen.

Aubrey eyed her suspiciously but said nothing.

The morning was crisp as they stepped outside, the sun still low enough to cast long shadows across campus. They walked side by side, feet crunching over gravel and dead leaves, the quiet broken only by the occasional chirp of birds or the distant hum of early lectures starting.

“So,” Aubrey said casually, kicking at a small rock on the path. “You gonna tell me how yesterday went?”

Paige frowned. “Yesterday?”

Aubrey gave her a look. “Don’t play dumb. Azzi. Tutoring. Ringing any bells?”

“Oh,” Paige said quickly. “That.”

“Yes, that. You had a whole session with your little brainiac crush and didn’t text me once after. I was starting to think you died mid-equation or something.”

Paige rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the small grin that tugged at her lips. “It was fine.”

Aubrey laughed. “Fine? That’s the best you’ve got? C’mon, spill. You were losing your shit about it before you left. I need a play-by-play.”

Paige let out a breath, hands shoved deep in her pockets. “Okay. It actually wasn’t terrible. She’s really good at explaining stuff. Like, not just smart-smart, well she is, but actually patient. Broke things down in a way that made sense. We ran through some practice questions, and I didn’t feel like a complete idiot for once.”

Aubrey gave her a small nudge with her elbow. “Proud of you, mathlete.”

“I’m serious,” Paige said. “It was… kinda nice. I got one of the problems right without help, and she seemed genuinely impressed.”

Aubrey grinned. “You sound like you just got a gold star.”

Paige ignored the teasing. “She even said I was improving.”

“Well damn,” Aubrey said, mockingly putting a hand over her heart. “Growth.”

Paige chuckled under her breath, eyes on the path. “But yeah, it wasn’t awkward. Which I was worried about.”

“So you two talked?”

“A bit,” Paige admitted. “Nothing crazy. I asked her when she wanted to meet again for our next session and she said tomorrow works but I forgot when, so… um yeah that’s the plan.”

Aubrey smirked. “Look at you already booking the sequel.”

Paige groaned. “It’s tutoring, not a date.”

“Sure,” Aubrey said, clearly unconvinced.

Paige shook her head but didn’t argue. Not out loud, at least.

Aubrey gave her a side glance. “So… did you find out anything interesting about her? Or were y’all just buried in notebooks the whole time?”

Paige hesitated. “Actually… she told me she used to play basketball.”

That made Aubrey blink. “Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah,” Paige nodded. “Said she played in high school but stopped after losing love and motivation for the game. Didn’t go into too much detail, but she mentioned it when we took a little mental break. She gets what it’s like to balance stuff.”

“Damn. That’s kinda wild,” Aubrey said. “No wonder she seems like she’scool under pressure. Probably used to high-stakes shit.”

Paige smiled a little at that. “Yeah. It was unexpected, though. I don’t know why, but I didn’t picture her as the athlete type.”

“Well,” Aubrey said, throwing an arm loosely over Paige’s shoulder as they kept walking, “you also didn’t picture her being pretty until she was sitting three feet from you helping you solve for equations.”

Paige groaned again, louder this time. “Can we not do this right now?”

Aubrey just laughed. “Hey, I'm not even judging. I’m just saying, it’s cute. You like her brain and her face. Classic.”

“I barely know her,” Paige muttered.

“And yet you were smiling like an idiot just now thinking about her.”

Paige elbowed her. “Shut up.”

They kept walking, but Aubrey glanced over, her voice quieter. “You really do like her, huh?”

Paige didn’t answer right away. She just shrugged, eyes on the concrete.

“I dunno,” she finally said. “She’s cool. She’s smart. And she… I don’t know. She’s just different. In a good way. She’s not weird about me being on the team or whatever. Doesn’t treat me like I’m some—”

“Celebrity?”

Paige nodded. “Yeah. I had a moment with some fans yesterday and she just stood back and watched. Didn’t look annoyed or anything. Just… kinda curious.”

Aubrey raised an eyebrow. “Curious how?”

Paige’s cheeks flushed slightly. “She said I surprised her. Said I wasn’t like she expected.”

Aubrey looked smug now. “Oh? And how exactly did she expect you to be?”

“Apparently like a stuck-up diva,” Paige said dryly. “Big-time athlete energy.”

Aubrey burst out laughing. “Oh my. She thought you were gonna be one of those ‘don’t-look-me-in-the-eye’ types?”

Paige grinned reluctantly. “Something like that.”

“Well,” Aubrey said, nudging her. “At least she thinks you’re better than you look.”

“Oh well, thanks.”

“I’m just saying. Sounds like you’re making a decent impression.”

Paige exhaled slowly. “I don’t think she sees me like that, though.”

Aubrey was quiet for a moment. “How do you mean?”

“I dunno. She’s nice. And I think we’re getting along. But she’s… I don’t know. Neutral. In a good way. Like, focused. She’s not flirty or anything.”

“Well, you’ve known her what? 2 days?”

“Exactly,” Paige said. “It’s not like I’m trying to rush anything.”

Aubrey bumped her shoulder. “Still. Don’t count yourself out. You’re a catch.”

Paige gave her a look. “You’re so annoying.”

“You love me.”

Unfortunately, she wasn’t wrong.

They reached the building just as the first bell rang in the distance. Paige reached for the door, then paused.

“Thanks, though,” she said. “For listening.”

Aubrey smiled. “Anytime. You better keep me posted after your next session.”

Paige opened the door and held it for her. “No promises.”

“You mean yes, then.”

“Shut up.”

They both stepped inside, laughter echoing down the hallway.

—----------------------

“I’m still waiting,” Caroline said, sliding into her seat next to Azzi with the casual confidence of someone who knew she’d get answers eventually.

Azzi blinked, startled out of her thoughts as she adjusted her hoodie sleeve and sat up straighter. “For what?”

Caroline gave her a look. “Don’t play dumb. The session. You and Paige. Yesterday. How’d it go?”

Azzi hesitated, eyes flicking toward the front of the room where the professor was still getting the slides set up. “It was fine.”

“Fine?” Caroline scoffed. “Cmon, you know I’m not accepting a dry little ‘fine’ when you were tutoring Paige Bueckers. The girl who usually ghosts help like it’s contagious? She showed up for tutoring. With you. Spill.”

Azzi smiled a little despite herself, glancing down at her open notebook, though she hadn’t written anything yet. “I mean, she showed up. On time. Sat across from me and listened.”

Caroline raised a brow. “And?”

“And she was… not what I expected.”

Caroline leaned in, grinning now. “How so?”

Azzi let out a small breath and tried to find the words. “She wasn’t super talkative. Kind of quiet, actually. But like, in a sweet way. She didn’t pretend to understand everything like I thought she would. She was just… really present. Asked questions, paid attention.”

“Hmm,” Caroline said, nodding thoughtfully. “Yeah, that tracks.”

Azzi tilted her head. “How so?”

“That’s what I meant the other day,” Caroline said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Paige usually has this… front. All confident and cocky and loud. But around certain people, she’s different. Calmer. Like she’s letting her guard down a bit.”

Azzi blinked, thinking back. “She definitely wasn’t cocky. I mean, she joked a little at the start, but mostly she was just focused. Or, at least she tried to be.”

“Tried?” Caroline asked.

Azzi hesitated again. “There were a few moments where… I caught her staring.”

Caroline’s brows shot up. “Staring?”

“Not like—” Azzi shook her head quickly. “Not in a weird way. Just… I’d be explaining something, and I’d pause to check if she was following, and she’d already be looking at me. Kinda like she forgot she was supposed to be paying attention to the material.”

Caroline smirked. “Okayyyy.”

Azzi rolled her eyes. “It’s probably nothing. Maybe she was zoning out. People do that all the time.”

“Paige doesn’t zone out when someone’s talking to her face,” Caroline said. “Unless that person’s, you know… distracting.”

Azzi gave her a dry look. “You’re impossible.”

Caroline held up her hands. “I’m just saying. Besides, you don’t seem bothered.”

“I wasn’t,” Azzi said honestly, twirling her pen between her fingers. “It was just… surprising. She’s sweet. More than I expected.”

There was a brief pause before Caroline asked, “Did she seem nervous?”

Azzi thought about it. “A little. But I couldn’t tell if it was about the subject or just… the situation.”

Caroline grinned. “Probably both.”

Azzi smiled faintly, but her mind was already slipping back to that part when Jace had walked up near the end of their session.

“Oh,” she added suddenly. “And there was this moment Jace came by.”

Caroline groaned immediately. “Ugh. That idiot. Let me guess. Trying to ‘schedule’ another session?”

Azzi snorted. “Yeah. I tutor him too.”

Caroline rolled her eyes. “He’s the worst. If he’s not hitting on someone, he’s talking about himself.”

“Well…” Azzi shrugged. “He’s not that bad… Well, so far.”

Caroline looked at her like she was delusional. “Az, he once asked me if I thought he could ‘go pro in looks alone.’ That wasn’t a joke. Be for real.”

Azzi laughed under her breath. “Fair.”

“What happened when he came over?”

Azzi hesitated. “Paige got kind of… stiff? I don’t know. At first I thought she just didn’t like him, oh well I mean she doesn't but then when he asked about our next session, she got a little defensive.”

Caroline blinked. “Defensive how?”

“She was just short with him. Told me he’s a ‘walking ego’ and a ‘player’ and that I should be careful.”

Caroline sat back slowly, eyebrows high. “Oooooo. Ok, Miss Protective Energy.”

Azzi glanced down, thoughtful. “I don’t think she meant it to come off so strong. She apologized after, kind of awkwardly. Said it came out weird.”

“But you noticed it,” Caroline said, nudging her lightly.

“I did,” Azzi admitted. “It just caught me off guard. I wasn’t expecting her to care that much.”

“She probably doesn’t even know why she cares that much yet,” Caroline murmured, like she was mostly talking to herself.

Azzi didn’t respond. She wasn’t about to overanalyze someone she��d only just started getting to know. She wasn’t crushing on Paige, and Paige hadn’t exactly been flirting—at least not directly. It was all so new and tentative. Still in that weird space between strangers and something else.

But she could admit this much to herself, Paige Bueckers was sweet. A little awkward. And maybe, just maybe, there was something about the way she looked at Azzi that didn’t feel entirely academic.

Azzi tapped her pen against her notebook and finally wrote a heading at the top of the page as the lecture began. It didn’t mean anything. Not yet.

It was just tutoring.

—----------------------

The library was warm and quiet, sunlight slicing through the tall windows and falling across the long tables. Azzi sat curled in a small booth tucked near the back, one leg folded underneath her and a textbook open in front of her, though she hadn’t read the same paragraph three times already.

Caroline plopped down across from her, chin in her hand, no book or laptop in sight.

“You don’t have to wait with me,” Azzi said, glancing up.

“Yeah, well, I’m not about to let you sit here alone while Jace ‘Mr. I Bench More Than I Read’ McCallister slides in with his axe smell and stupid smirk,” Caroline replied. “I’m providing moral support.”

Azzi laughed softly, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. They sat in silence for a few seconds before Caroline perked up and leaned forward, eyes narrowing toward the open space on the other side of the library. “Hey. Look who’s here.”

Azzi followed her gaze and immediately spotted Paige—sitting at a big round table with KK, Ice, and Aubrey, all of them surrounded by a few classmates. Paige was laughing about something, one leg stretched out, gesturing wildly with her hands while she told a story. Her voice carried that familiar rasp lifting over the quiet library hum.

“Is she always like that?” Azzi asked, watching as Paige bumped shoulders with Ice and tossed her head back laughing.

“That,” Caroline said, pointing with her eyes, “is what I meant. That’s Paige in her default mode. Loud, confident, knows she’s hot shit and plays into it.”

Azzi frowned slightly, watching her. “She wasn’t like that with me.”

“Exactly,” Caroline said, voice low but knowing. “Two days ago, when you met her? She could barely make eye contact. Yesterday from what you told me? Nervous. Kinda flustered. Sat still and actually listened. That version?” She nodded toward the table “That's classic Paige.”

Azzi blinked, studying the difference. “It’s like… two different people.”

“Not two different people,” Caroline corrected. “Just two sides of her. One’s the mask. The other comes out around people who get under her skin.”

Azzi hummed quietly and looked down at her book. She didn’t know what it meant, or if it even meant anything. But it was noticeable. Paige was easy and loud over there, commanding the space. With Azzi, she’d been soft. Still funny, but careful. A little unsure.

“You think she does that around anyone else?” Azzi asked quietly.

“Nope,” Caroline said instantly. “Not like that.”

Before Azzi could respond, a sudden weight dropped next to her in the booth, and an all-too-familiar voice chimed in, entirely too close to her ear.

“Hope I didn’t keep you waiting, star student.”

Azzi nearly jumped, turning to see Jace sliding in like he owned the damn seat, pressing up against her like there weren’t several feet of empty space. His stupid, cocky smile was already in place. Worse, his arm flopped casually around the back of the booth, his hand barely brushing her shoulder.

“Geez, Jace,” Azzi muttered, inching slightly away, but there was nowhere to go.

Caroline, across the booth, didn’t even try to hide her disgust.

“Could you not?” she said flatly, eyes locking onto Jace like she was ready to start swinging. “Get your nasty ass arm off her.”

Jace blinked, grinning, clearly thinking it was a joke.

Caroline didn’t smile. “I’m not fucking around, either. You smell like a Hollister clearance bin and desperation.”

Azzi smothered a laugh behind her hand as Jace chuckled awkwardly and finally removed his arm.

“Alright, damn,” he muttered. “Didn’t know I needed permission to sit.”

“You don’t,” Caroline said, standing. “You just need manners. Something you clearly skipped in whatever athlete orientation you fumbled through.”

She grabbed her water bottle and gave Azzi a look. “Text me when you’re done. Don’t let him breathe on you too long. Might lower your IQ.”

“Thanks for the support,” Azzi said with a small smile as Caroline walked off.

Jace looked after her and scoffed. “What’s her problem?”

Azzi turned back to her notebook and flipped to a fresh page. “You, mostly.”

He laughed again like he wasn’t offended, leaning back as he stretched his legs under the table. “You ready to work?”

Azzi didn’t respond, instead just clicked her pen and looked at him with a tired expression.

“Let’s just start with this bit.”

—----------------------

The session had been going for maybe 20 minutes, but it felt like an hour.

Azzi kept her eyes on her notebook, trying to focus on equations and numbers, but it was hard when Jace kept leaning in like she was whispering secrets instead of solving problems.

“I don’t get it,” he muttered, squinting at the paper in front of him. “You sure this is right? I swear you’re making this up.”

Azzi didn’t look up. “It’s literally the textbook example.”

Jace huffed. “Yeah, but you didn’t even check a calculator. You just… knew it.” He leaned a little closer, lowering his voice like it was some compliment. “Kinda hot how smart you are.”

Azzi’s grip on her pen tightened. She forced a polite smile. “It’s basic algebra.”

“Mmm,” he said, still too close. “You make it look good.”

She shifted, sliding her notebook slightly to the left to put more space between them. “Let’s move on to the next one.”

Meanwhile, across the library, Paige had just caught sight of them.

She froze mid-sentence, eyes narrowing slightly as she watched Jace lean closer again, like Azzi had said something hilarious. She didn’t even realize she’d stopped talking until Ice nudged her leg under the table.

“You good?” Ice asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, what?” Paige blinked, tearing her eyes away.

KK turned around and followed her gaze instantly. “Ugh,” she muttered. “Is that Jace over there?”

Aubrey leaned across the table. “Yeah. With Azzi.” Her voice dipped slightly. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Paige said quickly. Too quickly.

KK snorted. “He’s so gross.”

“Right?” Ice added. “Why does he talk like he’s in a bad teen romcom?”

“I’m pretty sure he actually told someone last week that he’s ‘a beast at math’ and then failed a pop quiz,” Aubrey said, rolling her eyes.

Paige tried to look unbothered, but her jaw was tight.

“Seriously though,” Aubrey said, softer now. “You look like you’re gonna launch a textbook across the room.”

Paige forced a laugh. “I’m not jealous, ok? She’s just tutoring him.”

“No one said anything about being jealous,” Aubrey replied with a sly smile. “But now that you brought it up…”

“I said I’m not,” Paige muttered, shifting in her seat.

KK leaned in, grinning. “It’s giving jealousy in denial. Just saying.”

“Guys,” Paige groaned.

“She’s tutoring him and he’s being a creep,” Ice said plainly. “I’d be annoyed too.”

“I’m not annoyed,” Paige insisted, but her eyes drifted back to the table again just in time to see Jace make some exaggerated arm stretch that “accidentally” brushed Azzi’s shoulder again.

Paige’s nostrils flared. “I hate him.”

“Ah,” KK said with a grin. “There it is.”

Meanwhile, back at Azzi’s table, the vibe had not improved.

Jace leaned back, arms spread across the booth like he was chilling in a hot tub. “So like, what do you even do for fun when you’re not crunching numbers?”

Azzi didn’t look up. “Read. Study. Watch movies.”

“You should come to one of my parties sometime,” he said, flashing a grin. “Bet you’d loosen up after a drink or two.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “I don’t drink.”

Jace chuckled like she was joking. “Cmon, you’re not that much of a nerd, are you?”

Azzi’s mouth opened slightly, ready to respond, but she was interrupted by a familiar voice approaching from behind.

“Thank god I came back.”

Caroline dropped into the booth beside Jace, her face a picture of calm disdain. “My class got canceled. But it looks like I’m just in time to keep you from spontaneously combusting from secondhand stupidity.”

Jace blinked at her. “You’re back? Damn, I was just getting into a rhythm.”

Caroline smiled sweetly. “Yeah, and that rhythm’s offbeat and annoying.”

Azzi coughed to hide her laugh.

Jace looked between them, confused but still trying. “Alright, alright, let’s get back to it. What’s this one?” He tapped a question Azzi had written down. “Why the hell are there letters in this?”

“It’s variables,” Azzi said. “You’ve done this before.”

“Yeah, but it’s like—when do you even use this in real life?”

Caroline didn’t miss a beat. “Hopefully never. Especially if you’re behind the wheel of a moving vehicle.”

He shot her a look. “You’re hilarious.”

“I know,” she smiled. “And not failing algebra.”

Azzi couldn’t help it, she snorted, finally meeting Caroline’s eyes for a second, grateful.

Jace leaned over again, and Caroline immediately pointed a pen at him like a weapon. “Back up. She’s trying to teach you, not catch your whatever axe spray fumes.”

“Geez,” Jace muttered, finally leaning away, sulking a bit.

Paige, still watching from the other side of the library, cracked a small grin as she saw Caroline push Jace’s textbook closer to him and reposition the notebook so Azzi didn’t have to keep shifting away. She didn’t even care if it looked obvious anymore. She was watching with her chin on her hand, eyes fixed on the little booth in the back like it was playing out in slow motion.

“She’s fine,” Aubrey said gently. “She’s got backup now.”

“Yeah,” Paige said, sitting up again. “I know.”

But her knee was still bouncing under the table.

And even though she kept telling herself it was just tutoring… that didn’t stop the annoying little heat crawling up her spine whenever Jace smiled at Azzi like she was some prize to win.

—----------------------

The bounce in Paige’s knee hadn’t stopped. She tried to stay chill, to tune back into whatever Ice was rambling about across the table, but her attention was magnetized to the back of the library like it had its own damn gravity. And Jace’s face? It made her want to commit minor crimes.

“I’ll be back,” she muttered suddenly, pushing back from her seat.

Aubrey looked up. “Where you going?”

“Bathroom,” Paige said, already moving.

The hallway to the restrooms wasn’t far, unfortunately for her blood pressure tt curved past the quiet study booths in the back, which meant she had to walk right by Azzi, Caroline, and Captain Walking Red Flag. She kept her gaze forward the whole way in, ignoring the flare of irritation in her chest when Jace laughed too loudly at something Azzi clearly hadn’t found funny.

Inside the bathroom, Paige splashed cold water on her face. You’re chill. You’re fine. You’re not mad. You’re not jealous. She stared at herself in the mirror and muttered, “You’re just normal. Totally normal.”

By the time she stepped out, she had composed herself or so she thought.

Caroline spotted her first. “Hey, Bueckers.”

Azzi’s head popped up, her face lighting up just a little. “Hi.”

Paige smiled—real, maybe a little shy, but real. “Hey,” she said back, eyes flicking to Azzi, then Caroline… and very pointedly skipping over Jace entirely.

That silence didn’t go unnoticed.

“Well hello to you too, Bueckers,” Jace drawled, leaning on the edge of the booth like he thought he was in a GQ shoot. “Don’t strain yourself or anything.”

Without missing a beat, Caroline deadpanned, “Shut the fuck up, Jace.”

Azzi tried, but failed to hide her smile behind her water bottle.

Paige smirked. “Didn’t even see you there,” she said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Guess you really are forgettable.”

Jace’s grin faltered. Caroline snorted.

Paige turned slightly toward Azzi, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Uh, are we still good for our session tomorrow?”

Azzi nodded, already pulling out her planner. “Yeah, definitely.”

“What time works for you? I’m not too sure if we worked on one yesterday.” Paige asked, and if her voice cracked the tiniest bit, she hoped no one noticed. “I’ve got practice in the afternoon, so I’ll be wiped by like, 3.”

Azzi smiled thoughtfully, pen tapping her page. “Want to do it early in the evening? Cause I know you have a game the following day. So like, 7?”

“Yeah,” Paige nodded quickly. “Yeah, that’s perfect.”

Azzi hesitated a second, then added, “If you’re okay with it… we could do it at my dorm this time? Cause you know… It'll be too late for the library.”

“Sure,” Paige said, a little too fast. Then she caught herself and coughed lightly. “I mean, yeah. That sounds chill.”

Jace perked up again. “Damn, why didn’t I get the dorm invite? Could’ve made it a fun time.”

Caroline and Paige without even glancing at each other both said at the exact same time

“Because no one wants to catch secondhand brain rot.”

There was a pause.

And then they both cracked.

Paige wheezed. Caroline slapped the table and leaned back laughing. They reached over and dapped each other up like it was the easiest alley-oop in the world.

Azzi looked between them, eyes wide with amusement, and then glanced at Caroline who was now giving her that look. The one she gave earlier, the one that screamed: See what I meant? She’s different around you.

Azzi raised an eyebrow slightly, and Paige, still chuckling, looked back and forth between them.

“What?” she asked, a little breathless.

“Nothing,” Caroline said, drawing out the word with a grin.

Azzi just shrugged innocently. “Nothing,” she echoed, but her lips twitched.

Paige squinted. “You guys are pre’ weird.”

Before either of them could respond, Jace scoffed from the corner. “Yo, Bueckers, you done with your stand-up set or…?”

Paige didn’t even blink.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot you were still here. You blend in so well with all the other mistakes.”

Caroline howled.

Even Azzi had to press her lips together to keep from laughing out loud.

Jace blinked, clearly flustered now. “Damn, you got jokes, huh?”

Paige gave him a deadpan look. “Nah, I’ve got patience. And it’s running out.”

Caroline slammed her hand on the table, cackling now. “She’s killing you, bro. Stop talking before she ends your bloodline.”

“Yall wild,” Jace muttered, clearly retreating now.

Paige just smirked. “See you tomorrow, Azzi,” she said, her voice softening a little as she glanced at her.

Azzi nodded, still half-smiling. “See you.”

“Bye, Caroline,” Paige added, already walking away.

Caroline shot finger guns in response. “Keep roasting creeps, Bueckers.”

And as Paige made her way back around the corner, the bounce in her step had returned but this time, it wasn’t frustration keeping her moving.

It was satisfaction. And maybe just a tiny bit of butterflies.

As soon as Paige rounded the corner and slid back into her seat, Aubrey’s eyebrows shot up. She had her arms crossed, chin resting on her fist like she was watching a live episode of Library Drama: Bueckers Edition.

“So…” Aubrey dragged the word out, voice way too casual. “What the hell was that?”

Paige blinked, all fake innocence. “What was what?”

“That little stand-up routine you just dropped back there,” Aubrey said, eyes narrowing. “The way you and Caroline just mind-melded into synchronized murder mode? You were cackling, bro. Like, full-body shaking. I thought someone was dying.”

KK looked up from her phone across the table. “Wait, what happened?”

“Yeah,” Ice chimed in, scooting her chair in closer. “You disappeared and came back grinning like the Grinch. Spill it.”

Paige tried to play it cool, slouching in her chair. “Nothing. Jace was just being Jace.”

“Ohhhh,” Ice said knowingly, dragging out the word like she already knew where this was headed. “Was he tryna talking to her?”

Paige didn’t respond fast enough. That was all the confirmation they needed.

Aubrey leaned forward, grinning. “So he was flirting again?”

“More like… delusional,” Paige muttered, picking at a tear in the knee of her jeans. “Said some dumb shit. Caroline shut him down first. I just followed her lead.”

“Followed her lead, my ass,” KK snorted. “Caroline’s probably still wheezing. What’d you say?”

Paige rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the smirk. “I told him he blends in with other mistakes.”

“OH MY GOD YOU LEGEND BUECKERS,” Ice shouted, slapping the table so hard the girl at the next table flinched so hard. “You did not!”

“I did,” Paige said proudly. “And before that? Caroline and I said the exact same insult at the exact same time.”

KK whistled. “You tag-teamed his ass.”

“Azzi looked like she was trying not to laugh,” Aubrey added with a sly glance. “Don’t think I didn’t see that.”

Paige’s expression tightened, but she played it off. “I mean, it was funny.”

Aubrey smirked. “It was you.”

Meanwhile, back at the booth in the far corner of the library, Jace was still planted at the edge of the table like he hadn’t just gotten cooked in front of half the library. But his smile was more forced now, his swagger cracked around the edges.

Caroline glanced at Azzi, who had gone quiet, eyes locked on her notes but clearly not seeing a damn thing.

“Can we go over that thing from earlier again?” Jace asked, sliding his chair an inch closer. “The part about… um, the coefficients?”

Azzi blinked and looked up. “We covered that ten minutes ago.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t paying attention,” he said with a grin that he probably thought was charming.

Caroline groaned audibly. “You’re not supposed to admit that.”

Azzi forced a small smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Okay… so you take the coefficient—”

Jace wasn’t listening. He was watching her mouth, leaning in just a little too close.

Caroline noticed immediately. “You good, Az?”

Azzi didn’t answer right away. She tried to refocus, pointing at a formula. “So here, this number is distributed—”

“Damn, you must tutor a lot of people,” Jace interrupted, his voice lower now. “Bet you’ve got a line.”

Azzi blinked. “What?”

“Like, I get it,” he said, smirking. “Smart, cute, helpful. That’s a whole fantasy package.”

Azzi sat back slightly, her expression turning colder. “We’re studying. I’m tutoring you”

“I know,” Jace said, hands up like he was innocent. “I’m just saying, you’re probably breaking hearts all over campus.”

Caroline narrowed her eyes. “Seriously, dude?”

“What?” he said, like he hadn’t just turned a tutoring session into a bad pickup attempt. “I’m just being friendly.”

Azzi looked down at her notebook, then slowly closed it.

Jace blinked. “Wait, are we done?”

“Yeah,” Azzi said, her voice sharp but polite. “We’ve covered what we needed to, and you’re clearly not here to learn.”

Caroline crossed her arms with a smirk. “Took the words right outta my mouth.”

Jace sat back, scoffing like he was the one being wronged. “Damn. You girls are cold.”

“No,” Azzi said, standing and sliding her bag onto her shoulder. “We’re just not here for you.”

Jace opened his mouth to say something else, but Caroline stood up too, cutting him off just by sheer vibe.

“You should probably go,” she said. “Before you embarrass yourself any harder.”

Jace muttered something under his breath, but grabbed his bag and stalked off, ego limping behind him.

As soon as he was gone, Azzi exhaled like she’d been holding it in.

“Fucking finally,” Caroline muttered. “I was 2 seconds away from pouring my water on him.”

Azzi laughed—tired, but real. “He just wouldn’t let up.”

“I know,” Caroline said, glancing toward the front of the table where Paige was at with Aubrey, KK and Ice. “And someone was definitely not chill about it.”

Azzi followed her gaze and frowned a little. “Paige?”

“Mhmmmm,” Caroline hummed. “You didn’t notice?”

Azzi looked away, lips pursed, thinking. “She was funny.”

“She’s always funny,” Caroline said. “But not always like that.”

Azzi didn’t say anything to that. She just zipped up her bag and shook her head, her expression unreadable.

Caroline didn’t push. But as they walked out of the library together, she tucked a knowing smirk into her back pocket for later.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[almostempty]

Look at this photograph

(joel miller x f!reader)

The second installment of Never made it as a wise man

WC: 3.5k | Part 1 | Part 3| Other fics | Rating: 18+ 

Summary: you open Joel’s dick pic and (after examination) decide to give him a call

Note: it’s me ya boi (gn), back with more divorceddadrockdilf!joel bc you guys get me. i know y’all want them to fuck, and I want them to fuck too. unfortunately, this flowed through me first, and I am merely a vessel for the spirit of buttrock joel. 

so, until they get their freak nasty on, please enjoy this as a chapter 1.5, with gratuitous dick pic art critique and crankin’ it over the phone <3 don’t worry, he’s still a lil pathetic. mistakes and bad jokes are all on me. 

Tags: au no outbreak modern joel, divorced dad rock dilf joel x f!reader, picks up right where ch.1 ended, dick pic descriptions, alternating pov, dirty talk, phone sex, masturbation, it’s all just phone sex, but edge yourself through it with fond memories of ch. 1, still crackish, but i am still dead serious about it being hot so idc

inspo playlist i found on spotify: Divorced Dad Rock: BANGERZ

thanks: to @hellishjoel for hosting the #hotdilfsummerchallenge and to everyone who enjoyed part 1 

@gothcsz i promise fuckboy!joel is cookin, he’s just in the crockpot rn. he’s gotta tenderize like a white lady’s pinterest recipe for pulled pork. 

* i tried to tag everyone who wanted more, but if you don’t wanna be here i’ll remove it <3 or if i missed you and you want to be tagged next time pls let me know

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” you blurt out after opening the message from Joel. The vulgar dick pic sends a prickly worm of arousal slithering down your spine. 

Without thinking, you tilt the phone down toward your chest, and your eyes shoot up like you’ve got to make sure nobody saw your naughty message. Warmth blooms on your cheeks as the flash of embarrassment starts to dissolve. You don’t need to hide. 

You’re in your bed, in your apartment, wearing Joel’s grubby Creed t-shirt. The one that smells like Degree Sport and a Jiffy Lube break room. You're free to look at all the dick pics your heart desires. And that’s what you’re going to do. 

The wiggle of bashful energy turns into a squirm as you shift your hips, seeking a comfy position in bed. The t-shirt bunches up under your back and you wonder if the unique Joel scent of it will linger on your pillow beneath your shoulders. You knew pilfering the shirt on the way out the door was a good move, and now you get to enjoy your trophy. It makes it feel like the broad-as-a-barn-door DILF himself was still close enough to touch you. 

It gives you another bright shudder when you think about the noises he made when he came in your hand earlier. The disappointed grunts of “fuck, wait” and how he tried to choke down the throaty groan that came from deep in his chest. Fuck. The perverted gremlins that have a permanent residence in your mind have been roused by the digital dick, and now they chitter and squawk at you. More! More! More!  

You reopen the message, and seeing it gives you another rush. You save the picture to your phone storage. For your personal collection. Mine now, big boy. Your chin starts to dip towards your chest. It’s like you’re giving your phone the Kubrick stare with the ghost of a smirk. You’re free to take your time with this one. And you can be as much of a creep as you want. That makes you sigh softly and sink deeper against your pillows. 

Before this afternoon, it was titillating when Joel would pop up in your mind's eye with his slutty slo-mo scenes. The one where he was bent over your car's engine like Megan Fox in that Transformers movie. Or, that damn happy trail tease with the t-shirt-sweat-rag move. You had just enough imagery to let your dirty thoughts take the wheel. 

And, god, you had a good production team in your mind for projects starring Joel. Adding this will give the team a whole lot more to work with. You can hear them crashing around your conscious like the Animaniacs on the Warner Brothers lot. Horny chaos goblin mode activated. 

Now that you have time to study the image, from the luxury of your microfiber sheets and lamplit bedroom, you let it get pervy. It’s your first real, lingering look–earlier today, you were so busy trying to rile him up in his jeans that you didn’t even pull it out.

It had somehow been even more delicious that way. Having him all needy and unable to stop himself from making a mess in your hand. And not just the noises, but the erratic thrusts into your tight fist? The heat of his pulsing length as he forgot himself? Yeah, you’re gonna remember that one. 

But now? Now you need the visual. If the devil is in the details, you have a new neighbor with horns and a tail. 

You zoom in on everything. Holding your phone closer to your face than necessary, like how do we enhance this bitch? 

And holy shit. 

Drool pools in your mouth and between your legs. You have the knee-jerk reaction to lick your phone. 

You can hear Joel’s voice from earlier today. All husky and grumbly, arguing that you really were a slut for him, like, “You are, aren’t you, though? You came all this way in this excuse for a shirt just to see me?”  He might be touch-starved enough to cream his jeans, but you just know he’s got a nasty mouth in bed, and you’ve got to find out firsthand. Soon. There’s no reason not to, right? 

You pause when a flicker of reasoning tickles the back of your neck. 

You’re back to looking in your review mirror in Joel’s driveway. The last-ditch attempt at checking your ego before you marched to his front door like a Halloween hoe bag version of Betty Crocker. 

You had told yourself you weren’t trying to fuck your (almost) friend’s (sort of) dad. Told yourself there was nothing to pursue, and even if there was, you wouldn’t bite. 

You like Ellie. She’s been (mostly) welcoming to you. You told yourself not to fuck anything up with the only person that’s got a single one of your jokes at your new job. 

You were just bringing some food as a friendly gesture. The fresh visuals to add to your spank bank reel were supposed to be a harmless bonus. Okay, maybe it was a stretch to say you had rolled up to Joel’s driveway with pure intentions. 

And it was an even bigger stretch–when he added that third finger while he finger fucked you on the kitchen counter—wait, no. It was an even bigger stretch when you had told yourself you probably weren’t his type anyway. 

Like, that guy? With the fridge full of Coors Banquet? With those ugly Oakley sunglasses that you know are featured in his only picture on social media that isn’t a car or truck? The guy with all the words to Buckcherry’s “Crazy Bitch” and Puddle of Mudd’s “She Hates Me” memorized? 

Nah, deep down, you knew. You knew there was no way that middle-aged bachelor would turn down any action. But you hadn’t planned on actually making a move, especially not a handjob in the middle of the kitchen. 

That’s on Joel for leaving the door open while trying to rub one out to some bimbo on Brazzers. And for barking at you in that sexy, angry voice. And for teasing you with the bulge in his oil-stained jeans. What were you supposed to do? 

Something must be really rotting in the logic department of your brain. 

Hey! The gremlin voice in your head is still shouting at you. Hey!! Why are we not tasting that dick yet?!! You’re back from your daydream and the excuses you crafted for your behavior, back to laying in your bed with Joel’s dick pic emitting a bright glow in your hand. 

You still do want to lick the screen. 

Fortunately for your immune system, you control your tongue. The critical part of you expels a sigh when you zoom out and take in the picture. 

It’s undoubtedly a nice cock, but the image as a whole? Yikes. 

Why do men have to be so fucking thick? And blunt? Wait, now you’re just describing the slightly blurry boner lighting up your face. Thick as in dense. How can men be so dense? 

No imagination or creativity. No patience. 

You shake your head slightly, scoffing. No wonder you caught him hunched over his cracked phone screen. It was probably the first video loaded on the only site he had saved. 

No sweet, sweet, buildup, setting the mood, or getting cozy. Just whippin’ it out midday or snapping a photo in some ratty sweats. 

Like you’ve never been that touch-starved or down bad?

You ignore that voice to continue your art critique. 

The photo you sent is… sexy. 

Sultry. A flirty tease. It says, “Look who has your shirt? Am I wearing it in bed? Do you think I'm wearing anything else?” 

It’s all implied in the look in your eye and the picture's composition. The tease of the soft curves on the underside of your breasts, asking if he remembers what they felt like. Your hand bunching up the shirt, asking if he remembers the slide of that fist around his cock. If he remembers those fingers, the ones you sucked his sticky spend off of. 

Such delicately crafted imagery. Personalized erotic fine art.  

But men are so crude about it. He sees your tasteful, sexy pic, and immediately, the best his caveman brain can come up with is: send her ur dick! STAT!! Hard cock! Now!!

And, of course, he did. Taken in the dark with the flash on, making ominous shadows in the background. His old charcoal gray sweats are pulled down just enough to expose everything he’s offering. 

The color is slightly blown out from the flash, and it’s a touch blurry where his phone didn’t autofocus quickly enough. His hand looks like it’s straight up, just choking the base of his cock. It’s jarring. 

But that’s really the “man” of it all, right? Nothing subtle or demure about a rock-hard erection jutting towards you, reaching like it could get to you on its own if it just could get a little bit harder. No, there’s nothing coy about the raw thoughts of a man with no blood left in his brain who’s just aching to get inside you, either. 

And fuck if that doesn’t start to override your critical analysis. 

The glare from the flash reflects in the beads of precome rolling down his rosy tip. Mouth wateringly delicious. Your blood rushes to your pussy, filling your tender sex with heat and a deep, needy itch. It makes you dopey and silly. Not cock drunk, but like, dick pic buzzed. 

You know it felt sizeable in your hand earlier, but you aren’t an expert at estimating size from a through-the-pants handjob. You try to recreate your own grip around nothing to estimate the size. 

You giggle to yourself when you realize you're just a woman in her bed staring at her hand, jerking an invisible cock. The horny goblins aren’t amused, though. They’re sick of the daydreaming and distractions. They’re picking fights with the rest of your mind. Throwing rocks and sticks, shrieking and hissing. 

The part of your brain that was griping about how men used to write love letters and respect the art of romance is getting quieter and further from your faculty for caring. You can hear its muffled shouts, and you assure that voice that you won’t give it all up this easily. Then, you completely tune it out. 

The last brain cell with a complaint has you rolling your eyes. You have to be ovulating or something because it’s wholly debased the way this guy is doing it for you. 

He’s just shameless with it. 

You sent him tasteful underboob, and he gives you jumpscare dick-in-the-dark! How is this supposed to escalate? He gave it all up immediately! You send another picture, and he sends you his money shot? What’s he gonna do to give you more? Send you an asshole shot? That one makes you snort. You bet he would do it, too, if you asked. 

Oh, that gives you a better idea. He’s not getting another picture from you at all. You tap on his name and tap the call icon. Of course, this horny motherfucker answers immediately. You aren’t sure it even rang before you’re connected to his porny bedroom voice. 

“What are you wearing, dollface?” 

“I already showed you. Call me dollface again, and I’m hanging up.” 

You can hear his breathing like he’s got the mic on his phone in his mouth. That would typically drive you fucking nuts, but right now, you wanna hear his heavy breath against your ear and feel it hot against your skin.

“All right,” he speaks slowly, distracted. You know why. “You wanna be my slut, instead?” 

Fuck. That has you throbbing between your legs, but he doesn’t get to know that yet. 

“I already told you,” you keep your voice low and soft, “you don’t get to call me a slut for you, not with your behavior.” You strain, trying to hear any other noises, but his mic is probably clogged with dust from his shop or lint from the pocket of his sweats. You can just hear his fucking breathing. 

“What behavior, baby?” he rasps.

“You always jump straight to sending a picture of your cock?” 

You hear the soft snort through the phone. Followed by a deeper, throatier noise. A noise that makes you go cross-eyed and has you running a hand down to your naked lower half to tease yourself. 

“You always steal a man’s clothes after you come on his fingers?” 

You don’t really care what he asked. His voice makes your tongue go numb. Your mind goes blank. You start slowly, coating your own fingers in your slick arousal and drawing circles with a light touch. 

You hum a noncommittal response into the phone. 

“You look good in my shirt, baby, fuck,” he trails off breathlessly. The idea of you in his clothes gets him too close. 

You don’t answer, and he’s too far gone to wait and tease. 

He’s been wound up since you took off this afternoon, and it doesn’t feel like a coincidence that you sent him that pic when he had just gotten into bed.

It had taken ages to get his brother out of the shop this afternoon, and then Joel completely fucked up when he mentioned you and the lasagna. He had to begrudgingly host Tommy for dinner when he couldn’t come up with a better excuse than saying, “I’m gonna need you to fuck off so I can deal with the aching balls I’ve got from your surprise visit scaring away the woman I had my fingers knuckle deep inside.”

But when he was finally alone, it was like fate; your text came through right after he flopped onto his bed. His semi-stiff cock had sprung to full mast at the sight of you. The shirt he knew he didn’t fuckin’ lose, your soft curves, and the expression on your face. Like a vixen. Your PG-13 tease would do more for him than any X-rated video. 

Knowing you were thinking about him and that you wanted him to know? That had him throbbing. He already knew from the desire in your eyes earlier today that you wanted more.

He could swear his fingers still hold the lingering flavor of your wet cunt. The visceral memory of you has him on edge. When he wraps his hand around the base of his cock, he has to pause, holding firmly in place. His body screams and aches for release, but he’s determined to keep it in check. He doesn’t want to blow his load until he gets a response from you. 

He fights his urges, trying not to fuck his own fist in a frantic race to come. 

But, fuck, it’s difficult when he can imagine the sounds you’d make as you sank onto his cock for the first time. The face you’d make. Your tight, wet walls hugging him just right. Like, he’s where he’s meant to be. 

And the way you would look, bouncing on top of him. Your tits, your blissed-out face, the way your soft lips would part when you called out his name and cried for more. 

Those lips. 

The way he’d love to see them swollen and slobbering around the base of his cock. Fuck. His hips buck reflexively, and he hisses out a breath through his clenched teeth. When his phone lights up with your name, he answers before it can make a sound. You’re so bold. He likes that. It plasters a saucy grin on his face. 

And now, with your breathy voice crackling through his janky phone speaker, he’s not gonna last long. You've got him losing his composure for the second time in one day. His whole body is rigid. His toes flex and snap unconsciously, and his jaw tenses. He hears your soft moan, and his thoughts are overflowing. He has no filter left. 

“Yeah, baby? You moaning for me?” His hips punch up into his fist, and he gives in, allowing himself firm, severe strokes. “You’ve got me so hard. You moaning for my cock?” 

You are so not gonna answer that one. If the next words out his mouth are, “Yeah, you like that?” you’re gonna block him for that. But it is undeniably hot to hear him already so worked up. You just know he’s gonna be coming all over himself again for you, and that really does make you moan just for him.

Your noises earn you another growly groan from Joel that you’d kill to hear again. The more uninhibited his noises are, the louder you get in response.

“You using your fingers, or you have a toy?” his question is punctuated with a grunt. 

“Mm, just fingers,” you purr, finally granting him an actual response as you roll your hips. Having Joel on the line gives you a heady sense of satisfaction. Wondering what’s going to come out of his filthy mouth next gives you a shiver of anticipation. 

“I know that sweet pussy is just achin’ to be filled again.” Correct. 

“Yes.” 

“S’right, baby, I know.” 

Joel whimpering on the phone for you is absolutely going to get you off. Your hips chase your own fingers. You switch your phone audio to speakerphone and drop it on your pillow so you can use both hands. Pinching at your own nipples as if it were Joel’s big hand under your smuggled shirt. 

“Tell me,” he pants, “who do you need to fill it for you?” 

“You, Joel.” 

“Fuck,” he chokes out, “you wanna ride this cock, huh baby?” 

“Mhmm.” Bingo. Right again. You wish you could feel the pressure of him inside of you, massaging and soothing away the agony. The weight of his body atop of yours, so solid and secure. You can just about feel the pressure of his pelvis grinding into you. The friction from the coarse curls at the base of his cock getting you closer and closer. 

“Know you’d do so good,” he cuts himself off with a low noise, “so damn sexy.” 

“What else would you do with me?” You wanna hear it. For your own fantasy and to know what he’s into.  

“I’d have you taking me down your throat til you’re crying on it for me, fuck,” a primal noise erupts from him.

Face fucking. Of course. You can’t deny that when he says it, your body responds instantaneously. Your pussy floods eagerly at the idea, and your cheeks burn hot from the visual he gives you. You swallow down your moans, and you can imagine the weight of him on your tongue and the strain of trying to swallow around his cock. 

“You wanna come down my throat?” As if that isn’t a fucking siren song that would make him steer a fleet of ships into a cliff? Your salacious words are too much. 

“Shit. Yeah, baby, wanna watch you swallow for me.” You let all your moans and gasps flow freely for him to hear. “I’m so fuckin’ close,” he can’t stop the words from spilling out his mouth, “let me hear it, baby,” he can’t stop his pending bliss either. “Please, baby, I can’t, oh f-fuck,” he cuts himself off with another primitive grunt, and that’s precisely what your cavewoman cunt wanted to hear. 

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” The horny goblins chant out loud this time. You can envision sweaty, pleading Joel lurching toward a reckless, full-body climax. 

You’re far from grace when the crude sounds he lets out turn you into an uncivilized beast. You hear him gasping, growling, and whining for you. It plunges you into a staggering orgasm. Rolling waves of ecstasy leave you panting and sweating.  

You lie in bed, chest rising and falling beneath the Creed logo. You’re left stunned at the intensity. A dreamy smile spreads across your face, and warm contentment, like honey, pours slowly over your muscles. Relaxing you as your tension softens and you turn to pick your phone back up.

Why was it so wholly consuming just to listen to him? Imagining the mess he made again,

because of you. 

Maybe you’re just made for each other. 

You and Joel. 

Oh, god. You should start listening to Alanis Morissette and Evanescence and trade your car for a 1990s-era Toyota 4runner and a pack of Marlboro Smooths. Really lean into matching his freak and the divorced alt-rock vibes.

You laugh softly into your phone before a deep sigh possesses you, and you nearly fall asleep. You stretch and smile, letting your heavy eyelids rest. 

He’s muttering something at you, catching his breath from the stress of being that fucking horned up for you all evening. And the overexertion of lasting long enough to hear your sweet cries of release. 

“You’re unreal,” his smoky voice rings with awe. “Got me shooting loads like a fucking teenager.”

You snort at the juxtaposition of his tender voice and crude comment before ending the call with a whispered, “Goodnight.” 

It shouldn’t make you smile. 

But he’s somehow such an enticing disaster. A cliche lonely bachelor, a cocksure idiot who knows he’s got a big dick and a generous guy who was willing to fix a stranger's car. 

You shouldn’t be trying to justify it, but you know he had you figured out earlier. 

You may be sated tonight, but you won’t be able to rest.

Not until you get your hands on that DILF – or rather, your pussy on that dick. 

-> Part 3

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[writesvani]

coming down | 05

collegestudent! gojo x collegestudent! reader

SUMMARY: You and Gojo Satoru were once everything to each other, but now, the space between you is filled with nothing but silence and resentment. College is just a reminder of how far you’ve drifted apart, and every encounter only adds fuel to the fire.

You avoid him like the plague, but it doesn’t matter. You can still feel him in the shadows, always there, always watching, as if the past was never really gone. So what do you do? You (try to) keep your distance, pretending it’s easy to forget the history that’s weighed you down for so long.

But deep down, neither of you can let go. And as the tension between you grows, you’re forced to confront the truth: some things are never truly buried, no matter how hard you try.

best friends-to-friends with benefits-to-enemies-to- enemies with benefits-to?

TWs (for this chapter): alcohol use, vomiting, intoxication, emotional manipulation, jealousy, unspoken tension, toxic relationships, self-doubt, unrequited love, discomfort, arguments, heated exchanges, unresolved sexual tension, drug use, self-destructive behavior, unhealthy coping mechanisms, physical discomfort, past trauma references, explicit language

comment HERE for Coming Down taglist;

SERIES M. LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter

wc: 7,2k // date: 20th of March 2025

CHAPTER FIVE - House of Balloons; proceed with caution...

AN (IMPORTANT, PLEASE DON'T SKIP):

hey gummies, it’s vani.

before you dive into ch 5, we need to have a little heart-to-heart: so, my taglist is growing like weed, but y’all are as silent as a library at midnight. how do i know you’re reading if no one’s making noise? comment, like, reblog, send me a carrier pigeon, give me your opinions on my writing, my characters, your life, your dog—just talk to me. seriously—just DO SOMETHING.

here’s the deal: next chapter drops ONLY AFTER we hit 150 kudos. yes, 150. i know some of you will cry about it, but honestly, 150 is my average kudo count. so no excuses. this is a public reaction test, okay? i laughed 70 times writing this chapter and i expect the same energy from you.

let’s see how many people are actually reading. hit 150 and chapter 6 will be here faster than a pizza delivery at 3 am. go wild.

love, vani

It feels natural talking to Geto, like slipping into a familiar rhythm you didn’t realize you missed. There’s an effortless flow between you, a quiet understanding laced into every exchanged glance, every syllable that leaves his lips like a slow-burning shot you can’t help but take. His eyes are heavy-lidded, tinged with a lazy rosiness, half-lost in the moment.

He’s perched on the edge of Aiko’s bed, shoulders hunched forward, his presence somehow both relaxed and consuming. He insisted on escaping the overcrowded living room—too loud, too messy. Instead, he wanted to go somewhere quieter, more private. Somewhere just for the two of you.

His gaze traces over you, unhurried, mapping out the contours of your form like he’s reading between the lines of a story he’s desperate to understand. There’s something in his eyes—a glimmer of curiosity, of wanting to know you. Not just the surface version of you, but the real thing. It’s a look you haven’t seen in a long time. Not since Ren. Maybe Yumi. Or even… Gojo.

Your throat runs dry as the thought of Gojo flickers through your mind—he’s still off fetching drinks, you presume. A rational part of you knows there are some lines that should never be crossed, some weapons too cruel to wield. Especially if that weapon is Ren.

But seeing it—the pain, the betrayal simmering just beneath Gojo’s nonchalant exterior, barely concealed behind the gleam of his blue irises—it was satisfying. A twisted kind of victory. It made your blood run cold and set it ablaze all at once.

Yeah. It was worth it.

You know you aren’t fully immersed in your conversation with the black-haired, god-sculpted man sitting beside you, but the thoughts clouding your mind are relentless. You think about how you left the living room without a word to Ren, how, once he's done devouring that guy in the corner, he’ll be looking for you.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips—they feel too dry. Everything feels too dry. The air, your throat, the pit forming in your stomach. With rushed movements, you rummage through your little lavender-painted purse, fingers desperately searching for a lip balm, a lip gloss—anything. Your hands move with a frantic urgency, as if coating your lips in something will somehow soothe the dull ache stretching through your chest like a tightening net.

And even though you don't want to—God, you don’t—you think about the fact that Gojo will be back soon. With drinks. Probably just for himself and Geto, because the absolute menace he is, he’ll take one look at you and decide you don’t deserve the satisfaction of numbing yourself with alcohol.

Geto notices. Of course, he does. His gaze lingers on you, his brows furrowing slightly as he takes in the shift, the sudden stiffness in your frame. He rolls his shoulders, making a point to look away, like he’s trying not to dwell on whatever the hell just flickered through you. But he feels it. Just like you do.

So even though the unspoken familiarity of talking to him is begging you to slip into the conversation, your tongue feels heavy, locked in place by the weight pressing against your chest. There’s a strange uncertainty hanging in the air, curling around your posture, making your shoulders hunch ever so slightly.

Geto pulls out his phone, the movement swift, almost too sharp. His fingers tap against the screen in a rhythmic melody, the soft sound filling the silence between you.

“You wanna watch some reels?” he asks, throwing you a glance, one brow quirked in quiet amusement. His lips press into a thin line—like he doesn’t know what else to say, like this is the only lifeline he can offer.

It’s strange, how the easy flow of conversation from earlier has withered into something fragile. How the air between you feels thick, charged with something you can’t name.

Without thinking, you shift closer, the warmth of his body pulling you in like gravity. Your shoulder presses firmly against his, and you swear you can feel the slow, steady rhythm of his pulse thrumming beneath his skin. Heat licks up your thighs where they press together, and when you rest your head lightly against his shoulder, he doesn’t move away.

For the next few minutes, silence settles over you—not the suffocating kind from before, but something softer. Something that feels almost safe. The only sounds are the occasional bursts of laughter shared between you when a particularly ridiculous video pops up on his screen.

And maybe you aren’t talking, maybe there are still things lingering in the spaces between you, but at least this silence doesn’t feel quite so lonely. It’s warm, like a cup of tea on a dreary afternoon. Like an anchor in the middle of a storm.

“I’m so back, besties.”

The voice slices through the room like a blade, sharp enough to make your body stiffen before you even register the interruption. Instinct takes over—your head snaps toward the intruder, a reflex you wish you could unlearn. But of course, it’s him. It’s always him.

Gojo Satoru stands in the doorway, one shoulder pressed lazily against the frame, like he’s been there for a while. Watching. Waiting. His gaze flickers between you and Geto, his expression a masterclass in indifference. Empty. Detached. But his lips—those damn lips—are curved into that signature smirk, the one that makes people go stupid. Three white plastic cups dangle from his left hand, the liquid inside them sloshing with every shift of his weight.

Your eyes roll so hard it’s a wonder they don’t get stuck in the back of your head.

“Gee, we were just getting worried,” you deadpan, dripping in sugar-coated sarcasm, because if he’s going to be unbearable, then so are you.

Gojo scoffs, the sound lazy, dismissive. His footsteps are slow, measured. Predatory. He takes his time approaching, each step dragging out the inevitable.

“Well, I told you not to miss me too much,” he murmurs, plopping onto the mattress beside Geto like he owns the place. Like this moment belongs to him.

You groan, shifting away slightly. “Didn’t you notice that we literally ran away from you? Why the hell did you follow us?”

His eyes latch onto yours, piercing, hungry in a way you can’t decipher. It’s infuriating, the way he just exists—so effortlessly, so maddeningly.

Gojo tilts his head, grin widening like he’s savoring your irritation. “Well, sweetheart, I was just being courteous, bringing the drinks my oh-so-great friend here,” he gestures lazily at Geto, “asked me to bring.”

Your teeth grind together as you bite down the urge to lunge across the bed and slap that smirk clean off his face.

Ugh. Why doesn’t he just go fuck off somewhere else?

“Fine,” you scoff, already feeling your patience thinning like an overstretched rubber band. If this is how the rest of your night is going to be—at least until Ren finishes his business—then you might as well spend it getting drunk. Maybe the numbing warmth of alcohol will smooth over the weirdness of the night. Because, hell, you made out with Geto, and you can’t even begin to process it. Not when Gojo’s eyes are burning holes into your skull. Not when he somehow feels closer than the man actually sitting beside you.

You stretch your arm out, palm flat and expectant, right in front of Gojo.

“Gimme the drink,” you say, lips pressing into a thin line.

The boy next to you practically vibrates with amusement. His grin widens, sharp as a blade, his fingers curling around the plastic cups like they’re a prize you need to earn.

“Nuh-uh.”

He twists a single finger in the air, slow and deliberate, as if wagging it at a disobedient child.

Your brows furrow. “What?”

“Not yet.”

“The fuck?”

Frustration spikes in your chest, hot and insistent. Without thinking, you lunge, half-sitting, half-sprawled over Geto in an attempt to snatch a cup from Gojo’s grasp. The action is desperate, ridiculous—and so are you—and it only makes Gojo’s smirk deepen, his amusement damn near suffocating.

“You’ll have to beg for it,” he whispers, voice just low enough to be a secret shared between the two of you. Each word is slow, deliberate, rolling off his tongue like he’s savoring the taste. Like he wants you to hear him.

A sharp laugh escapes you before you can stop it. Because—what the fuck?

Does he seriously think this is funny?

"The audacity," you bite out, yanking the cup from his grasp. But before you can retreat back to your comfortable position, something warm envelops your skin—firm, unyielding.

His fingers curl around your wrist, trapping you in place.

"Not that one," he says quickly, almost too quickly, his eyes flickering between the cup and your face with something close to panic.

Your brows furrow. "What, did you lace it or something?"

"No," he snaps, but there's a hesitation in his voice. A beat of silence, thick enough to choke on.

Geto shifts beneath you, the movement subtle, but you can feel it. When you glance at him, expecting discomfort, all you see is—interest. His dark eyes are sharp, locked onto the unfolding situation, his lips pressed into something unreadable. He isn’t intervening. He’s watching. Observing.

But before you can dwell on it, Gojo speaks again.

"It's vodka."

You squint at him, a grimace pulling at your features. "...So?"

His grip doesn't loosen. If anything, it tightens. Steady. Familiar. Too much like before.

"You hate vodka" he says, as if it's fact.

Your jaw tightens. "No, I don’t—"

"Yes, you do."

"No, I don't."

"C'mon, sweetheart, you do."

"First of all, stop calling me that," you snap, irritation flaring in your chest. "And second of all, I literally don’t."

"Really?" His head tilts, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "‘Cause last time I remember you drinking vodka, you were sixteen, throwing up your soul, crying out that you’d never drink it again after it rearranged your guts."

Your fingers tighten around the cup, knuckles whitening.

His voice is laced with something mocking, something goading—but beneath it, there’s something else. Something real.

And the worst part?

He remembers.

"Jesus," you scoff, your gaze flickering to Geto, who’s still a little too invested in what’s unfolding between you and Gojo. Your chest tightens, a storm brewing behind your eyes. "I grew out of it."

Your words come out sharp, clipped, as your eyes snap to Gojo, your face flushed with annoyance. He doesn’t know what it was like. He doesn’t get it. You can’t believe he's dredging up your past like this.

You don’t need him to remember.

You don’t need any of it.

And you definitely don’t need more reminders of him. Of you.

And yet, there’s his voice, sliding under your skin like a cold knife. He knows you. Too well.

Your throat tightens, and your pulse runs cold. You yank your hand back, the motion jerky, and as your fingers slip from his grip, some of the drink splashes onto Geto’s shirt.

"Oh, shit." You curse under your breath, your heart racing as you frantically try to dab at the stain.

"I’m so sorry," you mutter, your words tumbling out in a rush, your fingers moving quickly to clean the mess.

"It’s just a few drops, hun. Relax," Geto responds, a bemused smile playing on his lips as he settles into a more comfortable position, now that you’ve moved away from the awkward entanglement. He pauses, looking between the two of you, the air thick with tension.

"There's really some bad blood between y’all," Geto notes casually, his hands darting to sweep the hair on his forehead back, the night’s chaos taking its toll on his usually composed appearance.

You can hear Gojo scoff softly, his lips curling into that trademark grin that you hate, but know all too well. You try to ignore it, but the sound makes something in your chest tighten.

"Please," Gojo mutters under his breath, eyes glinting with something that borders on amusement and annoyance.

“There isn't. This asshole just won’t leave me alone,” you snap, the words spilling out faster than you intend. They feel bitter on your tongue, too sharp, too telling. Gojo watches you closely, his eyes dancing over every flicker of emotion on your face like he’s dissecting you, waiting for you to slip. The corner of his mouth twitches—not quite a smirk, but something more insufferable. Something different.

So you do the only thing you can—you take a sip of your drink. Slowly. Purposefully. Just to spite him. His gaze doesn’t waver, locking onto your face as if he’s counting the seconds it takes for you to react. You know what he wants. He wants you to gag, to grimace, to prove him right. He wants Gojo Satoru Wins printed in bold letters across your forehead. So you let the vodka sear your throat, let it claw its way down, your expression unreadable as you swallow the fire.

Geto stretches beside you, his back arching slightly, muscles shifting beneath his shirt as he rolls out the tension in his neck. “Gee, now that you two have spent five minutes bickering about vodka, I just realized… doesn’t everyone have a near-death experience with it at some point?” His voice is casual, but there’s a teasing glint in his eye as he watches the silent war unfolding between you and Gojo.

Gojo scoffs dramatically, tipping his head back as if the memory physically pains him. “Yeah, well, she was puking all over my room. Not funny.” His voice drips with mock offense, and he pointedly addresses Geto like you aren’t sitting right there.

You huff, crossing your arms over your chest, but before you can fire back, Geto perks up, his lips twitching like he’s suppressing a grin. “Oh shit. That reminds me—once, I drank like ten shots of clear vodka on a school trip,” he says, his fingers lazily running through the loose strands of his hair before tying them back into a neater bun. “And I puked inside my roommate’s backpack. And the backpack was filled with his clothes.”

You nearly choke on your drink, a laugh bursting out of you before you can help it. Even Gojo, for all his theatrics, lets out a chuckle.

“No way,” you gasp between laughs, eyes wide as you turn to face Geto fully. “You vomited in his bag? Like, all his clothes were just—”

“—coated in it,” Geto confirms with a slow, amused nod. His shoulders shake slightly as he laughs at the memory. “It wasn’t even intentional. I passed out, woke up, and there he was, flipping the bag inside out like he was inspecting a crime scene. Poor guy was horrified.”

Your laughter only grows, shoulders trembling as you picture it. “Oh my god, Geto—”

Gojo clicks his tongue, shaking his head with faux disappointment. “Tsk, tsk, Suguru. And here I thought you had class.”

Geto lets out a low chuckle, stretching his long legs out in front of him, completely unfazed. “C’mon, like you’ve never had a drunk horror story.”

Gojo places a hand on his chest, gasping dramatically. “Me? I am a respectable, responsible young man.”

“Oh, please.” You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck. “I distinctly remember you breaking into a vending machine with a baseball bat at fifteen because it ‘refused to give you your damn twix’.”

Geto hums, tilting his head. “Now that’s what I'm talking about.”

Gojo grins, stretching his arms behind his head like he’s perfectly at ease. “Okay, first of all, that vending machine deserved it. It stole my money. Second of all, what does this have to do with anything?”

You scoff, leaning back onto your palms, your body angled slightly toward Geto. “The point is, you are not respectable or responsible. You are, in fact, insane.”

Gojo feigns offense, but his grin only widens. He shifts closer to Geto, his hand accidentally knocking against yours, forcing you to acknowledge his presence in that unbearable way of his. “And yet, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice laced with amusement, “you still can’t seem to stay away from me.”

Your breath catches, but you school your expression into something unimpressed, tilting your chin up in defiance. “Maybe I just enjoy the suffering. Watching you exist is like witnessing a live car crash—horrible, tragic, but I just can’t look away.”

Geto snorts, barely containing his laughter as Gojo places a hand over his heart like you just mortally wounded him. “Wow. The betrayal. I’ll remember this, you know.”

“Good,” you quip, taking another sip of your drink, letting the burn replace the unexpected warmth rising in your chest. “I hope it haunts you.”

Gojo smirks, eyes flickering down to your lips before meeting your gaze again, sharp and playful. “Oh,” he murmurs, voice dipping into something lower, something dangerous, “wouldn’t you like to.”

And just like that, the game shifts. The air thickens. Geto exhales a quiet breath, sensing the shift in energy between you two, but he doesn’t comment. He simply watches, eyes gleaming with amusement.

You don’t look away. You refuse to look away. Because looking away means losing. Looking away means admitting that, despite everything—despite the venom, despite the years—you still can’t shake Gojo Satoru from your skin.

And then you hear your name being yelled through the apartment—so loud, it rattles your bones, and for a split second, you swear the walls might just collapse under the weight of it.

“Aiko’s bedroom!” you shout, barely able to catch the surprise that’s rising in your chest. You don’t even have time to brace yourself before Ren, like some sort of comic book character, pops into view.

His hair’s a mess, clearly a product of the shenanigans he was up to earlier. His cheeks are flushed, and his lips? Swollen, the aftermath of two hours of very enthusiastic kissing. His eyes are a little too dazed, that signature look of “oh shit, here we go again” in full force. He’s probably falling in love again. But that’s Ren for you—he falls in love once a month, like clockwork. And honestly, who could blame him?

But despite his usual charm, Ren just stands there in the doorway. His posture is rigid, and his body frozen in place, as if he's trying to process what he’s just walked into. He blinks. Rapidly. Over and over, like he’s trying to shake off the image before him, but it’s still there. Staring right at him. Gojo. The unknown guy he recognizes from that shirtless profile pic—Geto. You. And now, him too.

The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable, before Ren finally blinks a few more times. His gaze darts between the three of you, his expression shifting subtly. You can catch it before he even speaks.

Confusion.

It's written all over his face—the slight furrow of his brow, the hesitation in his step as he takes in the scene. His eyes linger just a little too long on Gojo and Geto, the realization dawning on him as he tries to piece everything together. But he doesn’t say a word—not yet. He just stands there, rooted to the spot like a deer in headlights.

And in that instant, you know—Ren’s caught between figuring out what’s really going on and wrestling with the strange sense of displacement that’s clinging to him like a second skin.

“Damn… Y’all having a threesome or something?” Ren bites out, his voice carrying that playful edge you know too well. You can’t help but crack a laugh under his gaze. His eyes, sharp and observant, are fixed on you now—analyzing every little shift in your posture, the subtle way you breathe, like he’s trying to read you, trying to figure out what the hell just went down while he was gone.

It’s typical Ren—always looking to lighten the mood, to ease whatever tension lingers in the air. And, as always, he succeeds.

You smirk, not missing a beat. “You really think I’d indulge in anything polyamorous without you?” you snark back, the words coming out with that familiar bite, the playful sarcasm that’s been your go-to with Ren for years.

Ren’s eyes widen in mock horror, his lips parting as he gasps dramatically. “Well I certainly hope not,” he exclaims, his hand flying to his chest as if you’ve just stabbed him in the heart.

You roll your eyes, still chuckling at his antics, but there's a subtle warmth in the way he reacts, the way he pulls you back to a sense of normalcy, even after everything that’s just unfolded in the room. You know, deep down, that Ren’s got your back. Even in the weirdest of situations.

Ren steps further into the room, his eyes still flicking from you to Gojo and Geto, his lips pulling into that mischievous grin you know too well. His fingers brush through his messy hair, still looking like he just stepped out of a whirlwind. "So, what's the deal with this... reunion?" Ren asks, his tone dripping with mock sweetness, his eyes narrowing on Gojo.

Gojo tilts his head slightly, giving Ren an assessing look, his usual cocky grin slipping into something a little more neutral. It’s clear the two haven’t exchanged more than a couple of awkward glances in years. “Ren,” Gojo mutters, his voice flat, like he’s still trying to figure out how to approach this. “Still making an entrance, I see.”

Ren shrugs, unbothered, but there’s something more guarded about him now. "Could say the same about you, Gojo," he replies coolly, not backing down. His gaze flickers between Gojo and Geto, the tension palpable, but he doesn't seem phased by it. “Guess some things never change."

“Like you being a pain in the ass?” Gojo shoots back with a smirk, clearly trying to keep the conversation light despite the underlying awkwardness.

Ren’s lips curl into a grin. "Oh, I’m pretty sure you were the one who made being a pain in the ass an art form," he shoots back, his voice dripping with playful venom. "But you wouldn’t know anything about that, huh?"

Gojo's expression falters for a second, the history between the three of you briefly surfacing. There’s a brief flicker in his eyes before he looks away. "Yeah, well, I’ve had other things to focus on," he mutters, half to himself. There's a lot unsaid in those words.

Ren laughs, his voice slightly more genuine this time. "Sure, whatever you say," he teases, his gaze softening as he looks at you for a brief moment before shifting his focus back to Gojo.

Geto, who has been silently observing the exchange, finally speaks up, his voice calm but laced with quiet amusement. “You two really never got past high school, huh?” His words hang in the air, cutting through the tension like a sharp knife. He leans back against the bed, his arms crossed, taking in the spectacle with a bemused smirk.

Ren snorts, rolling his eyes. "Guess some things are just too fun to let go of," he quips, turning his attention back to you, the familiarity of his banter making you feel a little more at ease despite everything that’s been happening.

You watch the back-and-forth with a mixture of amusement and disbelief, the strange energy between Ren and Gojo palpable. They used to be inseparable, best friends who could finish each other’s sentences, but now it’s like there’s an invisible wall between them—a history of unspoken words and unresolved tension that neither one is ready to address.

“Why does it feel like I’m witnessing a reunion of two exes who haven’t spoken in years?” You can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all, shaking your head.

Ren raises an eyebrow, his grin widening. “I’d say it’s more like an awkward ex-friends meet-up, but I’m not sure even that would explain the way Gojo’s looking at me,” he says, his voice teasing, but there’s a flicker of something else—something more guarded—underneath.

Gojo’s gaze flicks to Ren, sharp and calculating. "Don't flatter yourself. You were never that memorable," Gojo shoots back, but his words lack the bite they used to have. Instead, they feel more like a test—something he's unsure of himself.

Ren’s eyes narrow, a brief flash of something flickering in them before he forces a smile. "Right, just another part of your long list of things that don’t matter."

For a split second, the room feels like it’s holding its breath, the years between them heavier than any of the light-hearted jokes they try to make.

Finally, Geto clears his throat, breaking the silence. “Alright, enough with the weird tension. We’re not teenagers anymore,” he says, voice smooth but with a touch of authority. His eyes flick over to you, and then back to the two of them. “Can we all just be civil? For once?”

You look between all of them, feeling the weight of the moment. It’s been a long time since you were in the same room together and you know the real issue is far deeper than few words or an old grudge.

Ren shrugs, his casual demeanor returning. “I’m fine as long as the drinks keep coming,” he quips, his earlier tension dissipating a little. He looks at you with that familiar glint in his eyes, the one that reminds you he’s still your Ren—no matter what’s changed.

You smile back at him, trying to shake off the awkwardness.

You only now notice a bottle he’s been holding the entire time dangling from his fingers like he’s just found the Holy Grail. “Mhm, honey. Jack Daniel’s,” he hums, presenting the bottle with an exaggerated flourish, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

“Thank God,” you groan, snatching it from his hands and taking a deep swig straight from the bottle. The burn is immediate, spreading through your chest like a slow-moving fire. This. This is the real shit.

Ren’s eyes flicker to the plastic cup still in your grip, squinting at it like it personally offended him. “Wait. What the fuck is that?”

“Vodka.”

His entire expression morphs into disgust. “But, babe, you hate vodka,” he says, crossing his arms like a disapproving mother catching her child doing something dumb.

“HA, I told you—” Gojo starts, the smuggest look imaginable on his face, but Geto lazily lifts a hand to cut him off.

“Who cares?” Geto groans, throwing his head back against the wall. “I swear to god, if I have to hear one more thing about vodka, I’m leaving this room.”

You see the flicker of realization cross Ren’s face. He’s thinking—reading the tension in the room, feeling the weird undercurrent of something unspoken. But he doesn’t say anything. Lets the vodka talk stay mystery.

“Let’s just get obliterated,” Geto declares, reaching for the bottle.

And so you do.

Ren plops onto the floor, limbs sprawled out dramatically as the four of you pass the bottle around like a sacred ritual. But between the four of you, it’s Ren who’s truly on the fast track to blackout city. A few gulps in and his mouth hangs open like a fish gasping for air.

“And,” Ren slurs, words tumbling out too fast, “he’s so hot, guys. I can’t explain. He literally ate my throat with his tongue.”

You groan, gripping the bottle like it can save you from this conversation. “Jesus Christ, Ren.”

Gojo snorts, eyes half-lidded from alcohol but still sharp enough to be insufferable. “Now, that,” he drawls, amusement curling at his lips, “just sounds like he doesn’t know how to kiss.”

“THANK you,” you exclaim, gesturing at Gojo like he just solved world hunger.

“No, no, I’m telling you,” Ren insists, his hands moving wildly as he tries to physically reenact the experience. His fingers dance in the air like he’s molding the memory into existence. “It was hot. Like really hot.”

Gojo shakes his head, grinning. “Rookie mistake. If someone’s eating your face, it’s not hot. It’s a cry for help.”

Ren glares at him, or tries to, but he’s too drunk for it to be anything but vaguely cross-eyed. “You wouldn’t know, Satoru. I heard all about the way you kiss.”

Gojo narrows his eyes. “Oh?”

You can see it now—Ren’s gearing up for a drunk argument, and Gojo’s drunk enough to entertain it. And you don’t really want to hear about Gojo and you kissing.

Geto, ever the wise one, exhales deeply. “I swear to god,” he mutters, rubbing a hand down his face. “Every time I drink with people, I lose a little more faith in humanity.”

Ren points at him like he just remembered he exists. “Wait. You.”

Geto blinks, clearly caught off guard. “Me?”

“You. You’re like, cool or whatever.”

“…Thanks?”

Ren tilts his head, processing something in real-time. “Wait, who are you?”

Geto laughs, genuinely amused. “Geto Suguru.”

Ren nods as if that means anything to him. He has a tendency to forget familiar faces as soon as alcohol enters his system.

“Cool. You’re not ugly.”

“I appreciate that?”

You snort, handing the bottle back to Ren as you lean into the bed, feeling the night settle into that warm, buzzing state of intoxication.

Gojo, meanwhile, is staring at Ren like he’s trying to solve a particularly annoying puzzle. They haven’t spoken in years. Haven’t even acknowledged each other’s existence until tonight.

Ren notices and immediately squints back at him. “Dude, you’re creepy.”

Gojo doesn’t answer immediately. Just holds eye contact for a beat too long before finally saying, deadpan, “You’re still annoying.”

Ren bursts into laughter, so violently it makes you start laughing. “And you’re still a bitch.”

Geto chokes on his drink.

You cackle.

Ren’s cackling is still echoing in the room when you, already a few gulps too deep into the whiskey, prop yourself up dramatically. Your head flops back, and you sigh dreamily, voice slurred but mischievous.

“You know,” you drawl, gaze flickering toward Geto, who’s nursing the bottle now, “Geto kisses reeeaaally well.”

Geto nearly spits out his drink. Gojo’s eyebrows shoot up so fast it’s like they’re trying to escape his face.

Ren, on the other hand, gasps so dramatically you’re convinced he just found out a life-altering secret. His hands slap against the floor as he drags himself closer to you like a scandalized reality TV star. “EXCUSE ME?”

You blink at him lazily, lips curling. “What?”

Ren is still sprawled on the floor like a starfish, eyes wide with scandal as he processes what you just said. “You kissed him?” His voice goes up an octave, like you just confessed to murder.

Gojo’s grip tightens around his cup, but his expression stays maddeningly unreadable. He scoffs, leaning back against the bed like this is so beneath him. “Damn. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

“You literally interrupted us dumbfuck. Don’t act so surprised now.”

Geto raises a lazy eyebrow, swirling the bottle in his hand. “Wow. Just announcing it like that, huh?”

You ignore them, too busy focusing on Ren, who suddenly sits up like a detective cracking a case. His hands slap the floor as if he’s in pain. “WAIT. Did he like that story you posted for him?” He narrows his eyes, leaning in, looking entirely too nosy. “HMM?”

Your drunk brain takes a second to catch up. And then it clicks.

“Oh my god, shut up,” you lunge for him, but Ren dodges, rolling away in an exaggerated move, cackling like a maniac.

“HE DIDN’T, DID HE?” he yells, laughing so hard he’s practically wheezing.

You throw a pillow at him, but he just lets it hit him in the face, unbothered. “Oh my god. That’s so embarrassing.”

You groan. “He didn’t even see it, okay? It’s not that deep.”

Geto takes a slow sip of whiskey, unbothered. “Wait. What story?”

You glare at Ren. “Nothing.”

Ren gasps. “Ohhh, you really thought he’d like it or at least see it, didn’t you? Oh my god, that’s so much worse—”

You grab the bottle out of Geto’s hand and take a long, long sip. “I hate you.”

Gojo, who had been suspiciously silent for the last few minutes, finally speaks up. “Wait. Back up.” He clicks his tongue, his jaw a little too tight. “So you’re telling me you posted some pathetic thirst trap for Geto, and he didn’t even notice?” His voice is all mockery, but his fingers are drumming against the plastic cup like he’s irritated.

Geto just shrugs. “Didn’t see it.”

Ren turns to you with an expression that can only be described as suffering. “Oh my god, that’s so tragic.”

“Tragic,” Gojo echoes dryly, drinking you with his eyes. His tone is biting, but you catch the way his fingers twitch. “You really thought Suguru was gonna—what? Fall to his knees? Write you a love letter?” He lets out a short laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “That’s adorable.”

You roll your eyes, feeling the whiskey settle warm in your stomach. “I don’t recall asking for your input, Satoru.”

Gojo clicks his tongue, tilting his head at you, and for a second, his eyes flicker with something unreadable. “I just think it’s funny,” he hums, slow and deliberate, “how suddenly you’re all over Suguru. Like you’re trying to prove a point or something.”

Your breath hitches, but you refuse to let him see it. “Or maybe,” you shoot back, “He’s just hot and kisses really well.”

Ren lets out a dramatic gasp, clutching his chest like you just hit him. “Oh my god, you really went there.”

Gojo goes dead silent. His jaw clenches.

Geto, on the other hand, just chuckles, amused. “Appreciate it,” he says simply, taking another sip.

Gojo leans forward suddenly, his knuckle brushing against yours, his lips curling into something almost smug—but there’s something tight in his expression, something sharp behind his words. “Huh. That’s crazy.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What?”

Gojo smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Just thinking about all the times you used to say I was the best you’d ever had.”

Silence.

Ren screeches. “OH MY GOD—”

You launch yourself at him, but Gojo is already laughing, leaning back before you can hit him, his grin widening as you sputter.

Geto sighs, shaking his head. “Here we go.”

Ren is on the floor howling.

You stare at him, feeling your face heat up. “Ren, I hate you.”

Gojo, still smirking, raises his cup. “To being unforgettable.”

You throw a pillow at him next.

Conversation shifts after that but the room feels smaller, the air heavier. Or maybe it’s just the alcohol catching up to you. But no matter how much you try to focus on Ren passionately defending the Slytherin agenda while Geto just smirks and plays devil’s advocate, purposely sliding with Gryffindor to spite Ren, your skin prickles under Gojo’s gaze. It’s like he’s physically pressing into you, eyes burning into the side of your face.

You don’t want to look.

You shouldn’t look.

But you do.

And fuck, it’s a mistake.

Because the moment your eyes meet his, you know you’re done for.

His expression is unreadable—lazy, casual, lips barely curled in amusement. But his eyes tell a different story. They’re sharp, too sharp, darkened at the edges, flickering with something you can’t name. Something that makes your stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol.

The way he’s looking at you—punishing is the only word that comes to mind.

Like he wants to undo you.

Like he wants you to remember something you’ve spent years trying to forget.

Your grip tightens around the whiskey bottle, nails digging into the glass.

Ren’s voice is distant, blurred. “—Okay but Slytherins are literally—hello? Earth to you, hun?”

You snap your head toward him, almost too quickly, feeling your pulse thunder in your ears. “Huh?”

Ren frowns, tilting his head. “Are you even listening? I swear to god, if you’re mentally making out with someone right now, I’ll—”

“I’m not,” you cut him off, voice coming out too forcefully. You force a smirk, lifting the bottle to your lips. “I just zoned out. Keep yelling about Hogwarts, it’s entertaining.”

Ren narrows his eyes, suspicious, but he lets it slide, turning back to Geto. “Anyway. As I was saying—”

You try to focus. You really do. But you can still feel Gojo watching you, that same insufferable, unreadable expression lingering on his face.

And when you finally glance back at him—just for a second—he tilts his head, slow and deliberate.

Then he smirks.

And fuck, you know he knows.

Ren, still sprawled dramatically on the floor, waves his arms in the air like he’s conducting a symphony. “No, no, no, listen. Slytherins aren’t evil—”

“They just happen to have, what? A monopoly on war crimes?” Geto cuts in smoothly, swirling his drink in one hand.

Ren gasps like Geto just slapped his mother. “EXCUSE ME?”

You choke on your whiskey, the sudden shriek piercing through your drunken haze. “Oh my god.”

“No, because listen—” Ren scrambles up to sit cross-legged, hands flailing wildly. “Slytherins are just misunderstood.”

“Oh, sure.” Geto nods, voice dripping with amusement. “I’m sure Voldemort was just looking for a hug.”

Ren points an accusing finger at him. “See, that is a stereotype.”

“Oh, I’m the problem?” Geto raises an eyebrow, the smirk tugging at his lips sending Ren into a spiral.

“Yes, Suguru,” Ren drags out his name dramatically. “You and your blatant anti-Slytherin agenda—”

Meanwhile, Gojo is still staring at you. Like he’s enjoying this entire mess but not quite participating. Like he’s content watching you squirm.

And you hate that it’s working.

So you snap toward him, leveling him with a glare. “What?”

He tilts his head, that infuriating smirk never leaving his face. “What, what?”

“You’re staring.”

He blinks, mock innocence all over his face. “Am I?”

You clench your jaw. “Yes.”

Gojo hums, dragging his gaze over your face like he’s memorizing it. “Huh. Guess you’re just fun to look at.”

And then, as if the universe decided to ruin the moment in one swift punch, two unfortunate events unfold.

First—Geto’s phone buzzes on the table, the screen lighting up with an incoming call. A girl’s name. A girl’s picture. Of course. Your stomach churns, irritation bubbling under your skin. He’s kissed you, gotten high with you, shared whiskey straight from the bottle, and now he’s slinking away from the room to answer some other girl’s call like a pathetic, obedient little puppy. Disgusting.

And then—Ren explodes.

Like, quite literally. One second, he’s swaying where he sits, eyes unfocused. The next—he’s projectile vomiting all over the floor.

“FUCK—” you scramble, instinctively dropping down beside him, hand rubbing circles on his back. “Oh my god, Ren—breathe—”

But he can’t breathe.

Because he’s too busy dying.

Gojo, in a surprising act of heroism, curses under his breath and runs to the bathroom, emerging seconds later with whatever he could grab to clean up the disaster zone that is now Ren’s life.

And then, through his tears and the unrelenting flow of puke, Ren practically begs you to take him home.

So you do. Or at least, you try.

You’re struggling. Ren is practically melting in your arms, his legs all but giving out, and you’re using every ounce of strength to keep him upright. He’s mumbling incoherently against your shoulder, completely useless in his drunken state.

Gojo is still standing there, watching. Holding a piece of crumpled toilet paper. Unhelpful. Smug. Annoying.

“I can help, y’know.” His voice is as lazy as ever, but you can hear the undercurrent of amusement. He’s enjoying this.

“I don’t,” you grunt, adjusting your grip on Ren, “need your help.”

Gojo lets out a low whistle. “Yeah? ‘Cause from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re about to collapse under him like a poorly built Jenga tower.”

You glare at him, breath heavy. “I’ve got this.”

“Oh, sure. Super convincing,” Gojo drawls, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “You’re wobbling more than he is, and he’s literally unconscious.”

“Shut up,” you snap, shifting Ren’s weight again. “Just stand there and be useless like always.”

Gojo rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay. Because I’m the one making this harder than it needs to be.” He takes a step closer, and you can feel his presence now, heat radiating off him despite the cool night air. His voice drops, softer but sharper. “It’s not about you, sweetheart. It’s about him. If you love him, you’ll let me help.”

Your jaw tightens. Your pride screams at you to tell him to fuck off.

But you do love Ren. And Ren needs help.

So you exhale sharply and let your grip loosen, stepping back. “Fine.”

Gojo doesn’t gloat, doesn’t smirk—just smoothly moves in, slinging Ren’s arm over his shoulder like it’s effortless. And just like that, the weight is gone.

You blink at him, suddenly aware of how much easier things just got.

Gojo raises an eyebrow. “Was that so hard?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he smirks, adjusting Ren against him. “Let’s get this dumbass home.”

And together, the three of you stumble out of Aiko's apartment, into the humid night air.

The moment the Uber pulls up, Gojo shoves Ren inside and then—without a word—climbs in right after him.

The car feels like it’s swallowing you whole. It’s cramped, the air thick with the smell of alcohol and stale air freshener, and you can’t shake the feeling that something is off. The only sounds are Ren’s weak mutterings and the soft, almost rhythmic hum of the radio in the background. It’s just the three of you (and the driver) now, moving through the streets as the night rolls on, heavy with unspoken tension.

You absently twirl a lock of your hair, eyes flicking between Ren’s pale face and the darkness outside the window. You can feel Gojo’s gaze on you—like he’s right there, even if you’re not looking. You keep your eyes trained on Ren’s sickly form, avoiding him as best as you can. But it’s impossible to ignore the weight of his presence.

“Yeah, it probably did suit you better,” Gojo’s voice breaks the silence, low and slurred.

You blink, confused, eyes narrowing as you turn toward him. “What?”

“Nothing. Forget it,” he mutters quickly, looking out the window as if the words he’d just dropped didn’t matter at all. But the flicker of something dark in his eyes tells you otherwise.

The rest of the ride is eerily quiet. It’s just you, Gojo, and Ren, floating in this weird, suffocating space of unresolved tension. You can feel it between you and Gojo, this crackling electricity that’s too familiar and too sharp, like it could cut through the silence any moment. But neither of you says a word.

And so, the city passes by, the lights blurring into streaks of yellow and white, until you’re left with nothing but the sound of Ren’s breathing, the faint hum of the cab’s engine, and the unsaid words hanging in the air.

taglist :@zeunys @charmstarr @ovela @kur0mii3 @dabisdolly @17362939 @krispywhisperswhispers @mintcheery @kazupop @heh123321 @hanakotateyama @choppersworlds-blog @eneiyri @suniloli @44ina. @s4ikooo1 @blushedcheri @dishs0pe @rhea-sylvea @eolivy @gojoprincesss @decadentcoffeecandy @4thansstuff

[eroselless]

───────────────────somebody else // 3

series summary: you just work in hospitality for McLaren and he’s their star driver. what happens when your paths cross and you find yourself questioning your feelings for each other? [3.1k]

[lando norris x reader]

masterlist | previously

warnings: angst, insecure reader, unprotected smut (don’t be silly, wrap that willy!)

note: Magui is mentioned in this chapter and will be mentioned going forward and I know there’s lots of conversations on the internet about her. I honestly just used her in this story to avoid having to come with an original character. I don’t like to comment or get into driver’s actual personal lives so please if there’s any comments y’all want to make of her that doesn’t have to do with this story, please take it elsewhere. 

The morning inevitably comes, the early light filtering through the blinds, gently pulling you from your slumber. You blink slowly, discarding sleep from your eyes. Taking a deep breath, you suddenly remember where you are. Lando's arm tightens around your waist, and his face burrows deeper into your back, still deeply asleep. Carefully, you try to slip out from under his arm without disturbing him. His hold loosens reluctantly as you rise, and you begin gathering your things in silence. 

You catch a glance of yourself in the full length mirror he has sitting in the corner of the room. What you see is almost something pulled straight from a dream. Your hair is disheveled but in a way that only shows how deeply you had slept the night before. Lando’s shirt clings to your body, falling to the tops of your thighs. As you stand there, you can see him breathing deeply behind you. His arm is outstretched, reaching over your now empty spot on the bed. He’s almost lost in the clouds that are the blankets of his bed. 

You swell with emotion, the domestically of this moment proving to weigh too much on your chest. You swiftly pull the shirt off, fold it and leave it on a chair before putting on your clothes from last night. Moving towards the door, you feel your foot nudge something hard on the floor. Your eyes flicker down, seeing what you only assume is Lando’s phone resting there, almost dead. Picking it up, instinctively, you plug it into the charger by the bedside table, eyes catching a 12 hour's old message illuminating the screen. 

Your stomach twists when you see the name on the message. Magui. You’d see her linked to him, seeing him around Monaco with her things, driving her around in his cars. You peer over the phone, eyes reading over the words on the phone. 

The knot in your chest tightens as you read the text:

already missing you, when are you coming over again? last night was fun ;)

Every letter seems to twist in your chest like a knife. The implication was clear-–whatever happened last night, before your tryst under the dancefloor lights, was anything but friendly. Your breath hitches, and you set the phone down carefully, it feels too hot in your hand now. It's almost as if it’s trying to mock you with the memory of last night’s events. It was too good to be true, you think, the thrill of last night fading into the cruel light of reality. Maybe you happened to just be in the right place at the right time, a convenient substitute for something he had been craving. 

Your footsteps are light as you make your way out, taking one last glance at Lando’s sleeping form before closing the door behind you.

:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The sun is already high in the sky by the time you arrive at the track. The same excited buzz that lingers in the air feels different today, it causes your stomach to turn and every step you take feels heavier the further in you go. Your heart pounds as you step into the paddock, nerves running high as you anticipate Lando’s visit, a pavlovian reaction you’ve developed. But you’re assigned to the Ferrari garage for today, something about the overwhelming influx of guests and reporters.  

You’re grateful for the distractions, being away from the McLaren suite is a welcome relief–-you don’t think you could handle facing Lando just yet. You keep reminding yourself that it was a drunken kiss, a mess of touches that happened in the heat of the moment, a memory Lando might not even remember. The glow of the text message on his phone only reinforces that idea. It might as well be left off as a memory, you think. After all, it seemed to imply that he already had someone to occupy his time. You were just … there. 

You’re pouring a drink when you hear a familiar voice greet you from behind. Turning, you find Carlos leaning casually against a table, an easy smile hanging from his lips as you hand him a bottle of water.

“Looks like you’ve been promoted, working for the red team today,” he teased lightly.

You chuckled, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I guess they needed someone with my impressive drink-carting skills,” you joked, catching his eye.

Carlos grins, taking a long sip before lowering the bottle. “Well, at least you’re making this garage look better,” he adds, giving you a playful once-over.

You laugh again, this time a little more naturally, but as your eyes meet his, you see something shift in Carlos’s expression—his gaze briefly darting past you.

You turn just in time to see Lando making his way over, his strides purposeful. Carlos straightens, the easygoing look still on his face but a hint of something else lurking beneath it. The tension between the three of you is almost palpable. There’s that twist in your gut, the face you’d been dreading to see again. There was that voice that lingers in the back of your mind, once again reminding you that it told you so. 

“Hey, you,” Lando greets casually, his voice steady but lower than usual. He doesn’t hesitate pulling you into a tight embrace, his arms wrapping around you in a way that feels almost possessive. His lips brush your cheek in a fleeting kiss, the scent of his cologne enveloping you. It’s warm, familiar, but it only makes the tension inside you grow. It makes your head spin. 

“Hi,” you manage to say, feeling breathless as you return the hug. Your voice feels quiet, fragile. Almost like if you spoke too loudly, it would shatter in your voicebox. You try your best to keep up the smile that had been painted on your face just a minute later. You can feel Carlos’s eyes still on you, watching the interaction closely. You can’t place Lando’s expression, unsure of what could be going on in his head. 

As you step back from Lando’s embrace, you give Carlos an apologetic smile before excusing yourself to attend to the guests nearby. With a quick smile, you excuse yourself, leaving Lando standing there, watching as you disappear into the crowd. The moment you’re out of earshot, the air between the two drivers shifts. 

Carlos arches an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

Lando narrows his eyes slightly. “Just making sure everything’s in check.”

Carlos smirks, clearly picking up on the unspoken tension. “Yeah? Everything in check, huh?” He pauses, and then with a more pointed tone, he adds, “Including Magui?”

Lando stiffens slightly, but doesn’t take the bait. “That’s got nothing to do with this.”

“Hasn’t it?” Carlos tilts his head. “You know, mate, maybe it’s time you figure out what you actually want before someone else makes that decision for you.”

Lando frowns, not answering immediately. His gaze flickers to where you’re standing, deep in conversation with a group of guests. There’s a carefree look on your face as you interact with them, a genuine smile he can’t help but adore. Carlos, seeing the hesitation, claps a hand on Lando’s shoulder.

“Look, if you’re serious, don’t just sit around waiting for it to blow over,” Carlos says, his tone shifting from teasing to genuine. “Otherwise, someone else might step in. And who knows,” he adds with a smirk, “maybe I will.”

Lando gives him a look, but Carlos just laughs it off, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Relax, man. You’ve got enough to deal with, but you’re playing with fire.”

Before Lando can respond, a team member calls him away, and with a final look between them, Carlos steps back, watching Lando go with a knowing smile.

:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

The day passes in a haze, the roar of the engines filling the air and drowning the chatter in your head. You do your best to focus on your duties in the Ferrari garage, but the weight of Lando’s gaze bears heavy on you whenever you catch a glimpse of his car zooming past you on the track. It's like a tether—one that pulls tighter and tighter with every passing moment. 

The race finally comes to a close, the sun having fallen through the sky, dipping below the horizon. The energy in the paddock becomes electric as he comes in second, right on Carlos’s tail. The cheers and celebrations blur around you as the drivers finish their interviews, spraying champagne and basking in the excitement. You can feel Lando’s eyes on you, even as he stands among the flashing cameras and jubilant crowds of journalists. He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as move around the paddock, eventually returning to the equally bustling McLaren suite. 

As the crowd thins, you don’t get far before you feel a hand wrap around your wrist that tugs you away from the crowd. It weaves you through the paddock, past the media, past the throngs of people, until you find yourselves alone in the privacy of his driver’s room. 

The door clicks behind you, the noise now muffled by the walls around you. The tension between you hangs heavy in the air as you stand nervously at the door, it's thick and suffocating. 

“Lando–”

He doesn’t let you finish. In one swift motion, he pulls you against him, mouth encapsulating yours with a fervor that catches you off guard. It's not unlike how he kissed you at the club but this time you have the reassurance that you’re both stone cold sober.

His kiss is heated, desperate, as if he’s trying to pour every ounce of feeling into that moment. The taste of champagne lingers on his lips, and you feel the raw energy coursing through him, a mixture of adrenaline and something deeper—something possessive.

Your body betrays you as you respond to his kiss, the want, the need of him too strong to resist. His hands roam your body, pulling a whine from your lips as he presses his hips to yours. He anchors you to him but it’s more than just a physical desire now. There’s something else in the way he touches you, as though he’s afraid to let go. 

It's dizzying, the way he holds you, his fingers digging into your skin. You respond just as eagerly, hands tangling in his curls, feeling the way his hair slips through your fingers, unruly and messy after being trapped under his helmet. He deeps the kiss, his tongue slipping past your lips. Just like he did in the dimly lit bathroom, he seems to take your breath away, setting a fire in your chest.

You feel his body against yours, solid and warm, heat radiating from him like a furnace. His hands slide down your sides, gripping your hips firmly as he walks you backward toward the small bed. Your legs hit the edge, and you stumble slightly, but Lando doesn’t break the kiss, his mouth still moving with fervor against yours as he lowers you onto the bed.

He hovers over you, not yet ready to press his full body weight on top of yours. You whimper as his lips trail down your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there. It makes you arch your back into him, hands taking purchase of the thick muscle of his back. 

“Lando…” you breathe, the sound barely audible over the pounding of your heart. He responds with a low, guttural hum, his lips moving lower, his teeth grazing along your collarbone before his hands begin to tug at the hem of your shirt. You help him, lifting your arms as he pulls it over your head in one swift motion, leaving you exposed beneath him.

His eyes darken as he looks down at you, his breathing heavy. There’s something primal in the way he stares, as if he’s trying to commit every inch of you to memory. His hands find your skin again, exploring, caressing, his touch both gentle and possessive as his fingers trace patterns across your stomach, your sides, your breasts.

You feel your pulse quickening with every sleight of his hand, every kiss he places along your exposed chest. He takes his time moving over the vast plains of your skin, counting every freckle, every mole. He’s savoring you, trying engrave in his mind the way you taste, the way you feel against him, the way your whines echo through the room. You bite your lip to stifle a moan as his lips wrap around your nipple, his tongue flicking over the sensitive bud, sending shivers down your spine.

His hands are everywhere, stroking teasing, setting your skin aflame as he worships every inch of you. His lips trail lower, leaving a hot trail behind them as he moves closer to waistband.

Your lustful trans in interupted as you see his phone light up silently where it's thrown carelessly on the table nearby. He doesn’t notice it as he moves to unbutton your pants. You want to pull away, tell him to stop. Tell him you don’t want this, that you don’t crave this—the closeness, the intensity of his touch. But you don’t. 

It’s the same part that wanted him back in the club, under those neon lights. But now, even with him so close, the doubt lingers in the back of your mind. Magui’s name feels like a ghost between you, hovering in the room, even though you don’t dare utter it aloud.

You reach for him again, the feeling of his lips on the tops of your thighs bringing you back. You pull him up, pressing your lips to his once again. You tug at his fireproofs, pulling it over his head, revealing the toned lines of his body, muscles softly rippling beneath his skin. The rush of the moment stills for a second and now it's your turn to try to memorize what he looks like. 

Your fingers dance delicately over the taut skin, dragging them down his sternum, counting every mole and feeling each valley you come across. Your eyes flicker up briefly, catching a glint in his eyes you hadn’t quite seen before. But before you can mull over it too much, his lips find yours in a kiss that’s just as intense as before. 

His hands slide into the waistband of your underwear, pulling them down, leaving you bare beneath him. The cool air hits your skin and you suck in a breath, the coolness being replaced by his warmth. His body is pressed against yours and hard as you might try, you can’t bring yourself to stop the sinking feeling you begin to feel in your chest. 

His kisses grow more frantic, more needy, and you can feel his desire for you in every movement, every touch. You respond in kind, your own need for him matching his as your hands roam his back, his chest, pulling him closer. The world outside the room fades away, and for a brief moment, it’s just you and him, tangled together in a mess of limbs, breathless kisses, and heated skin.

When he finally moves between your legs, you gasp, your body arching into him, craving the contact, the connection. His eyes lock with yours, and there’s a moment of stillness as he hovers over you, the weight of everything unspoken between you pressing down on your chest.

Each touch, each breath shared between you only makes that nagging voice in the back of your mind grow louder. Does he feel this way with her too? Is this just another moment, another temporary high, easily forgotten once the race weekend is over? Will he be quick to forget you as he’s forgetting her—quickly falling into her embrace as he is falling into yours?

The questions fail to reach your lips, dissolving on your tongue as he licks into your mouth. He pushes into you with a groan, his forehead resting against yours, and you gasp, your fingers digging into his shoulders as the sensation overwhelms you.

The rhythm between starts off slow, tender, as if he’s trying to say a million words with every thrust, every kiss, every movement. But it’s not enough. Doubt still lingers in the forefront of your mind and even though your body responds to his ministrations, your heart remains guarded, wary. 

His pace quickens, his breathing ragged as he moves faster, deeper, and you cling to him, your own breath coming in short gasps as the pleasure builds. He cries your name, lips finding yours in a desperate, hungry kiss. It’s overwhelming, the feeling of him inside you, the way his hands grip your hips, the way he looms over you. 

Your body reaches its peak, but as the waves of pleasure crash over you, the doubt remains. You can almost imagine her in this same position, writhing beneath him as he gives himself to you. Her face haunts you, the image of them together, his hands over her, holding her just as tight. 

But you don't bring it up, you don’t ask the questions that repeat over and over in your mind. You're afraid of what the answer will be. Afraid that this moment will merely be a chapter in the novel of time, lost in the frayed pages of a book long hidden away. 

When it's over, he lies on your chest. It's terribly domestic as he draws circles on your exposed belly and chest, lips tracing over the skin tenderly. He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you. The words are there, waiting to be spoken—questions, doubts, confessions—but neither of you has the courage to break the silence. Maybe it’s easier this way, not confronting whatever this is. Maybe it’s safer to pretend it’s just the high from his victory, that this moment will pass, leaving no lasting trace.

His phone lights up again and you see his eyes flicker to it briefly before you both begin to rise from your temporary bliss. That's when you realize it. You don’t have the heart to keep doing this. The uncertainty, the doubt, that cry in the back of your mind. It’s all too much. You can’t be part of something where the lines are so blurred, where neither of you is willing to admit the truth.

So, you walk away.

tags: @sltwins @sarx164 @f1fantasys @obxstiles @moonvr @spideylovin @lipstickstateofmind

a/n: hi everyone, thank you much if you've gotten to this point! i was honestly so excited and surprisingly had lots of fun while writing this rather emotional chapter. let me know what you guys think of it, i always love to see what you guys have to say!

[imaginespazzi]

Part 8: The Toxic In Intoxication

Masterlist - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14

Your mouth is poison (your mouth is wine)

(In which an all over the place writer, writes something that's a little bit all over the place)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd

Themes: Angst, Fluff, Jealousy,

Words: 9.0K

TW: Swearing, a little bit of violence, mentions of blood, men being men

A/N: Hi lovelies :) Unfortunately, as I've been warning y'all for a while, the deadline did finally slip through my fingers. However I'm hoping y'all will forgive me for it because I am only one day late and this chapter is quite long. I do wanna warn y'all in advance that there won't be a chapter next week because I am going on vacation and my laptop is staying very, very far away from me. There's a lot going on in this chapter and I'm not sure how I feel about the whole thing but I'm hoping y'all will enjoy it anyways. I did actually edit this time but who knows how successful that was, so please let me know about typos/mistakes. As always, feel free to tell me about what you liked, what you disliked and anything you'd like to see going forward. Have a lovely rest of your weeks my loves <3

August 2025

Azzi Fudd is a spectacular liar. She excels at keeping up a façade of yes everything is perfectly fine in front of her friends and family. She’s quite good at tricking people she can barely stand into thinking oh yes i’m totally enjoying this conversation. But the person Azzi lies the most to, is without a doubt herself. As she steps out of the car into the hot Indiana air, bustling with noises from the growing crowd inside, Azzi internally repeats a lie to herself again: she did not show up to all-star weekend for a glimpse of her ex girlfriend. She’s here, as per Colleen’s managerial advice, to build connections, to further her career and to expand on opportunities in the basketball world. The fact that Paige Bueckers, who Azzi hasn’t seen in three months -the longest period of time they’d spent apart since she’d started at UConn- is definitely also going to be attending tonight’s party, is merely a happenstance. 

Taking a deep breath, Azzi puts one kitten heeled foot in front of the other, trying to ignore her heightened nerves. This isn’t her preferred scene by any means. She’d much rather be back in her hotel room, curled on her couch with a book and a pint of ice cream. It’s not that Azzi doesn’t like parties; she has her fair share of fun at Ted’s, but it’s the unfamiliarity of the environment and the lack of that once ever present comforting hand that used to tap out i’m here for you against the back of her own at big events like these, that has her yearning to crawl back into the car and hide away. 

“Azzi?” a familiar voice calls from behind her and Azzi lets out a sigh of relief as she sees Aaliyah walking towards her with a large welcoming grin, “Azeray!”

“Li-Li. Thank god you’re here,” Azzi reaches up to hug her former teammate, mentally thanking whatever god was looking out for her. She’d dreaded walking in by herself and now she wouldn’t have to. Really she probably should probably send Coach a ‘thank you’ text for having so many alumni in the league that there was bound to be a Husky she could attach herself to for the night. 

“I’m glad to see you too Az,” Aaliyah says, pulling away and looking at Azzi with a semi-concerned look, “but you seem a little extra relieved to see me? You good dude?”

“Just- just a little nervous,” Azzi admits, shuffling her feet uneasily. 

Realization dawns on Aaliyah’s face, “cause of Paige?”

“No you know I don’t like big unfamiliar places,” Azzi sighs when Aaliayh gives her a pointed look, “but I guess maybe- maybe a little cause of Paige.”

The Mystics forward shakes her head before linking her arms through Azzi’s, “I swear, I leave y’all for one year and everything implodes-," she bites her tongue, "shit was that insensitive?”

“No,” Azzi grimaces, “that’s pretty much exactly what happened.”

Something hard coils in her stomach at Aaliyah’s words. The truth is they’d been fine. Better than fine even. And then suddenly Azzi was lighting a box of matches she hadn’t even known she was holding and her whole world was on fire; an implosion of everything Azzi had once thought inflammable. She’d burned her hands trying to rescue them and all she has to show for it are invisible red hot pustules that refuse to heal. But perhaps, she thinks, that’s what a pyromaniac like her had deserved. 

Azzi cowers under the flashing lights of the cameras, clinging tighter to Aaliyah’s arm as the two of them make their way onto the orange carpet, the cameramen immediately swinging their devices to capture the college basketball player more than likely to be the number one pick in next year’s WNBA draft. She feels herself tense under their piercing gaze, anchored only by Aaliyah's strong and steady presence next to her. And as they pose for the cameras, she’s thankful for her former teammate’s company but she can’t shake the feeling that it should have been someone else. 

“And look who we have here,” Lexie Brown says excitedly as the two of them approach the interviewer, “y’all Huskies clean up nice.”

“We try, we try,” Aaliyah answers charismatically, doing a little hair flip to match her tone. 

“Aaliyah, it's your first all-star nod, how are you feeling?” 

“I feel great, you know it’s always good to see yourself being acknowledged and being an all-star has always been a goal of mine. So, I hope it’s the first of many and I’m just hoping my team gets the W tomorrow,” Aaliyah answers diplomatically.

Lexie turns to Azzi, “I bet you’re really proud of her. I mean you’ve got a couple of teammates who are first-time all stars between Aaliyah and Paige. You’ve gotta be feeling pretty proud of them”

“Y-yeah I mean,” Azzi clears her throat, trying not to flinch at the mention of Paige’s name, “It’s been- it’s been really exciting to watch them and I’m extremely proud-”

She’s cut off by the sound of excited chatter filling up the air and Azzi doesn’t have to turn around to know who’s just entered the premises. Not when she has a whole separate sensory system that flares up just for her. Azzi’s skin prickles as she registers the sound of familiar peals of laughter echoing from the orange carpet. She digs her nails into the palm of her hand, forcing herself not to turn around. 

“Speak of the devil,” Lexie says goodnaturedly, getting her hand ready to beckon the blonde over and Azzi feels panic suffocate her lungs, not quite ready to face Paige yet. 

“Oh I don’t think-” Aaliyah tries to cut in, glancing worriedly at her friend but it’s too late. 

“Paige,” Lexie calls out, beaming over Azzi’s head at the Dallas Wings’ newest star point guard. 

The world seems to move in slow motion as Azzi feels Paige getting closer and closer to her. She smells the faint scent of fresh mint weaved with a hint of citrus first. Then she hears the sound of Paige’s breathing, perfectly even to anybody else but Azzi can hear the staggered harshness hidden beneath it. And as the blonde passes over her to settle on Lexi’s other side, she feels Paige’s arm brush against her own and it hurts to breathe. The contact lasts for a second but Azzi swears it’ll last forever, tattooing itself on her bicep as a wretched reminder of a touch she’s no longer allowed to crave. 

It’s funny, there’s a hurricane swirling between them and Paige can barely look at Azzi, keeping her eyes firmly on Lexie and Aaliyah as she greets the trio. And yet, there’s a sense of calm -of peace- that seems to wash over Azzi just by having Paige near her again. The older woman seems to possess some sort of magical power that weaves itself into Azzi’s nervous system, soothing away her frazzled nerves with an unspoken promise of and if you give me the chance i’ll make it all okay. 

Despite the hectic transition from a full college season to a frantic W season, Paige looks ethereal as always. Her two piece cropped vest top and straight fitted pants match the color of her eyes and a silver chain dangles across her chest. Two strands of blonde hair hide her signature diamond studs, the rest of it pulled back into a slightly messy bun. Azzi gulps at the way the vest top parts right above her midriff, Paige’s toned abs playing peek-a-boo behind it. She lets her eyes roam over Paige’s exposed arms, trying to ignore memories of how they used to go taut under her touch, down to the blonde’s bare fingers and she feels her heart constrict. No rings. It feels wrong. But then again, nothing has felt right for three months. 

“Azzi,” Aaliyah hisses and Azzi snaps out of her thoughts, realizing she’d been asked a question. 

“Sorry,” she laughs nervously, moving a strand of her hair out of her face; Paige’s eyes intently following the movement, “what was the question.”

Lexie smiles, “I was just asking about your thoughts on Paige’s amazing rookie year so far?”

“Oh um-” Azzi hesitates, shivers inching up her spine as she feels Paige drinking in the sight of the her body like she's a woman parched, “I’m just-” their eyes lock with each other’s and everything else seems to vanish until it feels like it’s just the two of them floating in between remnants of what they used to be, “I’m just really proud of her. I always knew she’d be amazing. She’s just doing what she always does. Being the best player she can be. So yeah I’m just- I’m just really proud of her.”

And Azzi doesn’t know how they got to this point where Paige seems almost shocked that Azzi could be proud of her, to this point where there’s droplets threatening to spill over both of their water lines and they no longer have the right to wipe each other’s tears away. 

“Aww,” Lexie coos, oblivious to the tension, “well on that sweet note, off y’all go and we’ll see y’all later.”

The walk into the party is kept alive with Aaliyah’s attempt at keeping a conversation going. While Paige tries to at least entertain some of, Azzi finds herself completely zoning out until they finally make their way inside into the cacophony of music and laughter. 

“Y’all wanna get-” Aaliyah begins.

“I see Jewell and Téa,” Paige cuts her off immediately, her legs already moving in a rush, “I’ll see y’all later.”

She gives Aaliyah a tentative grin but barely looks at Azzi as she practically trips over her pant-sleeves trying to get away. It feels like something’s biting against her skin, sharp teeth indenting you did this to yourself as Azzi watches Paige walk away. She watches as the tension slowly leaves the blonde’s muscles as she’s pulled into a hug by Jewell and then by Téa. The fake smile that she’d politely kept on her face the last couple of minutes for the sake of the cameras and reporters is replaced by something far more genuine. Azzi watches as Paige is absorbed into the warmth of the growing crowd, embraced by a league that adores her, and she feels the ice cold pinch of she belongs somewhere without you now start to freeze her own heart. 

***

Azzi’s doing fine. She’s gotten through the night with Aaliyah by her side, making small talk with a bunch of different players and she’s managed to keep a friendly smile the whole time. She’d even danced for a little bit, letting loose with some of the other college basketball players that had made the trip to Indianapolis. Sure, she’d occasionally been distracted by her eyes flickering over to the bar and finding a new pretty influencer batting their fake eyelashes at Paige but really she’s doing fine. Her head’s a little dizzy and maybe the third shot of tequila, influenced by a one leggy brunette that had gotten a little too handsy, wasn’t her brightest decision of the night but really, Azzi’s doing fine. 

Until she’s not. 

And it’s Paige's fault. She had to know that it would be Azzi’s last straw. She had to know that Azzi could live with watching a thousand girls flirt with Paige as long as the blonde in question stood rigidly by the bar doing nothing but smiling politely at them. She had to know that Azzi, after having spent most of their college life watching girls fawn over her girlfriend, could deal with the flirty hands that lingered just a little too long on Paige’s bicep. But it’s when Paige leans into this one girl -whose dark curls and tanned caramel skin are just a little too reminiscent of her own- when Paige’s lips graze just a little to close this one girl’s ear, that Azzi realizes she’s decidedly not fine. 

“I need some air,” she manages to bite out, ignoring Aaliyah’s concerned look as she marches out the back door, heading towards the deck. 

Azzi buries her face in her hands as she leans back against the brick wall. She knows she’s being unfair; knows she has absolutely no right to feel this way but something burns within her anyways and the light breeze does nothing to cool it down. 

“I’m not cheating on you,” a harsh voice interrupts her pity party and Azzi sucks in a sharp breath, “We’re not together and I can flirt or kiss or fuck-” she flinches, “anyone if I want to.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Paige’s voice is laced with accusation, “because the way you just stormed out says otherwise.”

Azzi continues to keep her head in her palms, refusing to look at the blonde, “it’s hot and stuffy in there. I just needed some fresh air.”

“Don’t you ever get tired of lying,” Paige spits out. 

“Well what do you want me to say instead?” Azzi finally looks up, her even cadence in stark contrast to Paige’s fiery tone, “I know we’re not together-”

“Because that’s what you wanted-”

“I know,” Azzi yells, and then quieter, “I know. I know I- I know I did this. But that- that doesn’t make it any easier to see you with someone else,” she swallows, “doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. Doesn’t mean I don’t miss you.”

Paige scoffs, rubbing her face as she begins to pace, “you miss me? I was at Mohegan when y’all had summer camp. The whole team showed up to the game except for you and you want me to believe that you miss me?”

“I didn’t think you’d want me there,” Azzi confesses in a whisper, “you were so mad at me after-after everything- and I just- I didn’t want to ruin coming back to Connecticut for you.”

“For me,” Paige lets out a laugh devoid of any emotion, “god Azzi there you go again with this fake ‘selfless’ bullshit.”

A thousand and one retorts die on the tip of Azzi’s tongue as she shakes her head and pushes herself off the wall. She can smell the alcohol on Paige, can tell the blonde is itching for an argument but all she feels is pure exhaustion. 

 “I don’t wanna fight Paige. I’m tired and I just-” she bites her lip, fighting the urge to caress Paige’s cheek, “believe it or don’t but- I really do miss you.”

Sparks of electricity dance their way through Azzi’s veins when Paige curls a hand around her wrist, stopping her in her tracks from going inside. And suddenly she doesn’t feel so cold anymore. 

“Dance with me,” Paige whispers. 

“What?” 

Paige shrugs, tugging on Azzi’s hand to pull her closer, “you said you don’t wanna fight and I- I don’t want you to go,” the confession hangs between them as Paige’s hands fall to Azzi’s waist, “so- let’s just- let’s pretend.”

“What are we pretending?” Azzi asks quietly and despite the warnings ringing in her head, she wraps her arms around Paige’s neck. It feels like coming home. 

“We’re pretending that we’re okay,” Paige says softly, holding Azzi’s hips as she begins to sway them gently, “we’re pretending that three months ago you said yes.”

“Paige-”

“Close your eyes Azzi,” the blond waves her hand gently across Azzi’s face, willing both of their eyelids to flutter shut, “we’re pretending that we’re not here- we’re in Minnesota or DC or I don’t know just- anywhere. And our families are here, laughing and talking and some sappy romantic song is playing. It's the best day of our lives and we’re both- we're both dressed in white-”

“Paige,” Azzi lets out a sob, as she begins to understand the picture Paige is painting for them; a picture drawn on a canvas that Azzi had torn up before any color could touch it

“Sshhhh just- let me have this okay,” Paige’s voice trembles as she leans her forehead against Azzi’s, “if I can’t have it for real, please just let me pretend.”

If they were both just a little bit more sober, maybe Azzi would fight Paige’s tightening grip. If they were both just a little bit more sober, maybe Paige would let go. Instead Azzi lets Paige play pretend, lets them keep their bodies pressed against each other, moving from side to side in rhythm with the wind. 

It isn’t until she hears footsteps approaching them that Azzi hurriedly moves away first and she can see the betrayal of if only you’d just let me hold you in front of the world written all over Paige’s face. They’re both quick to swap their tears for smiles that don’t reach their eyes as they turn to face the intruders. And Azzi wonders if Paige wishes she’d drank a little bit more too. Because maybe if they were both just a little more drunk, then tomorrow they wouldn’t have to remember just how right it had felt to play pretend tonight. 

April 2033 

“You look so pretty Mama,” Stephie gushes from where she’s perched on the bed as she watches Azzi put the finishing touches to her makeup

“Thanks baby,” Azzi smiles, blowing a kiss in the mirror. 

“Miss Buecks,” Stephie flips the running facetime call, skipping over to her mother with the phone in her hand, “doesn’t Mama look beautiful?”

Sixteen years later, and maybe it’s because of all the time they’d missed in between, but Azzi can’t help the bout of shyness that flushes across her features when Stephie places the phone, Paige’s face illuminated all over it, against the mirror so the blonde can get a proper look at Azzi’s outfit.

“You look-” Paige clears her throat, eyes dilated as they rake over Azzi’s whole body, “you look phenomenal.”

“Big word Bueckers,” Azzi teases, trying to disguise her blush, “did you just learn it?”

Paige rolls her eyes, “can’t even give you a compliment without an insult Fudd.”

“You guys argue too much,” Stephie says exasperatedly, shaking her head at the two adults who laugh. The younger girl sometimes seems far wise beyond her age. 

“We’re not arguing Stephie, we’re just-” Azzi struggles to think of a word. 

“Foreplaying,” Paige mutters under her breath and Azzi immediately glares at her. 

“Paige!”

Stephie scrunches up her nose at the screen, “what does that mean?”

“Nothing,” Azzi says shrilly, “Miss Buecks is just making up words.”

“Why would Miss Buecks do that?” Stephie asks, looking back and forth between her mother and the screen. 

“Why does Miss Buecks do anything,” Azzi babbles, as she begins to usher Stephie out of her room, “go grab your things Stephie-bean. Mama’s almost ready to drop you off at Nana and Pop’s house.”

Stephie pouts, “I wanna go to the party with you and Miss Buecks. It’s no fair you both get to go and I don’t,” she picks up the phone, looking at Paige with wide guilt-tripping eyes, “don’t you love me Miss Buecks?”

Azzi has to hand it to her daughter. She’s a smart one to choose Paige as the victim of her emotional blackmail, knowing her wiles had long stopped working on her mother. 

“You know I’d take you with me if I could Stephie,” Paige says, “but I’ll make it up to you tomorrow I swear.”

Stephie smiles and Azzi shakes her head at how quickly the five-year old’s plan had worked, “you’ll take me to the park and then we’ll get fries and then get ice cream?”

“That’s a lot of junk food Steph-”

“Ssshh Mama,” Stephie chides, “this is between me and Miss Buecks.”

“The park, then fries, then ice cream it is,” Paige concedes and Azzi rolls her eyes. 

Stephie grins brightly, puckering her lips to kiss Paige through the phone and eliciting a laugh from the older woman when she cheers, “you’re the best-est-est Miss Buecks. See you in a little bit. Don’t hang up without saying goodnight.”

“I promise I won’t,” Paige calls out after the little girl as Stepehie hands the phone back to Azzi and starts skipping towards her room. 

Azzi gives the blonde a look, “we have got to have a conversation about you learning to say no to her.”

Paige shrugs unhelpfully, “I don’t want to learn how to say no to her.”

“You’re a lost cause,” Azzi remarks, hands on hips, “and foreplay? Seriously? Us bickering is not foreplay.”

“Well it could be if you’d just let me fuck you after,” Paige grumbles and Azzi’s mouth falls open at the bluntness of it. 

“You say the most romantic things to me Paige Bueckers.”

They’re both quiet for a second as Azzi moves around her room, collecting her wallet and keys and to put into her purse. 

“You know there’s still time for me to come pick you up,” Paige says finally.

“Paige,” Azzi sighs, not wanting a rerun of the same argument they’ve been having for the last week. She knows it’s a touchy subject for Paige; that it veers a little too close to insecurities that stem from their past but she’s not quite ready to take this step yet. There isn’t quite any rhyme or reason to her logic except well, she’s haunted by memories of the last time they’d let the personal mix with the professional. Her phone still holds invitations to countless team reunions that she’d actively avoided and a group chat that she’s long muted. Azzi hasn’t stepped foot in the state of Connecticut since she’d entered the draft; she refuses to lose California too. 

“Teammates can carpool,” Paige explains vehemently, “it’s easily explainable.’

“I know-”

“Is this about Clémence?” bitterness tinges the edge of Paige’s voice as she chews her bottom lip. And there it is, the other subject they’d been tip-toeing around since it had been brought up at breakfast a week ago. Paige and Azzi are both excellent at avoiding talking about the harder topics but they’ve never quite managed to let anything go forever. 

“Why would this be about Clémence?” 

Paige narrows her eyes, sitting up from where she’d previously been lounging against her pillow, “maybe you don’t want her to see us together? Maybe you’re trying to spare her feelings I don’t know.”

“Paige-”

“You know what it’s fine,” Paige huffs, “I’ll see you at the bar Azzi.”

She hangs up before Azzi can say anything and the brunette lets out a litany of curses under her breath, annoyed with Paige’s ability to go from A to Z by skipping everything in between. There’s a part of her that knows Paige deserves an explanation about Clémence, a chance to have her lingering doubts confirmed or denied, but amidst the egoistic thoughts of well she married someone else and the self preservationist urge to prevent a potential fight, she hadn’t been brave enough to approach the topic just quite yet. Azzi’s about to step out of the room, when her phone pings with a facetime call from Paige again. 

“Are you calling to apologize for hanging up?” Azzi asks with a frown. 

“No,” Paige replies stubbornly, “I called because I hung up without saying goodnight to Stephie and just because I’m mad at you doesn’t mean I’m gonna miss saying goodnight to her.”

Something wonderful and warm blooms in Azzi’s chest as she silently walks over to Stephie’s room. This is a new chapter in Paige’s storybook that she’s slowly beginning to read; one scribbled with the blonde’s devotion to Azzi’s baby girl. Azzi still has every other chapter memorized; had thought nothing could be more beautiful than the words within the one that had been dedicated to her. But she’d been wrong. Because every day that she watches Paige and Stephie fall more and more in love with each other, she finds herself falling in love with how much they love each other. 

“Miss Buecks,” Stephie squeals, practically snatching the phone from her mother’s hand as she goofily grins at the screen, “you didn’t hang up.”

“I promised I wouldn’t,” Paige says, the hardness that had existed in her voice while talking to Azzi, dissolving into adulation, “you be good for Nana and Pops okay?”

“I’m always good,” Stephie says matter-of-factly, “can you come over really, really, early tomorrow?”

Paige laughs, “I’ll be there as soon as I wake up.”

“Good,” Stephie claps contentedly as she grabs Azzi’s hand to start walking towards the car, “good night Miss Buecks.”

“Good night Stephie-bean,” Paige echoes, blowing a kiss through the screen. 

“Paige,” Azzi says urgently, trying to stop the older woman from hanging up, “can you just hold on a second while I buckle Stephie in.”

“Az-”

“Please.”

“Fine,” Paige says, averting Azzi’s gaze as she sulks. 

Azzi lifts Stephie onto the car seat, fastening her seatbelt and pressing a kiss to her daughter’s cheek, before she closes the car door and uses it as a stabilizing structure to lean on as she pulls her phone back in front of her. 

“Hey,” she whispers. 

“Hi,” Paige says back begrudgingly, “you wanted to say something?”

“I-” Azzi swallows, “don’t go the bar-”

“Oh fantastic,” Paige cuts her off, her voice furious as she glares daggers at Azzi through the phone, “not only do you not want to go to the bar together, you don’t want me to go at all. Fine. Okay. Whatever. I won’t go. You have the time of your life with fucking Clementine or whatever-”

“Yet,” Azzi says loudly, trying to speak over Paige’s angry rant, “don’t go to the bar yet.”

“What?” 

Azzi licks her lips, “don’t go yet. I’m gonna drop Stephie off at my parents-”

“What does that have to-”

“Will you just let me fucking finish?” Azzi almost bangs her fist on the car in frustration and she’s glad to see that it makes Paige look just a little bit sheepish, “as I was saying. I’m gonna drop Stephie off at my parents and uh- your house- it’s um- it’s on the way to the bar so I thought,” she shrugs with fake nonchalance, the edge of her mouth turning upwards, “I thought maybe- maybe I could pick you up on the way.”

Paige stares blankly at the screen, eyes blinking as Azzi’s words slowly register, “you- you wanna go to the bar together?”

“I didn’t say that,” Azzi teases, eyes twinkling as she basks in the thrill of eliciting that Azzi smile from Paige’s lips, “teammates carpool right?”

“Teammates definitely carpool.”

April 2029 

“You invited Clémence to our movie night?” Jana asks in a whisper, as she walks into the kitchen where Azzi’s making popcorn. Her Saturday nights have gotten rather boring since she’s had Stephie, consisting of alternating between movie nights with Jana and dinner with her parents. It wasn’t the most thrilling of times but she looked forward to them all week, excited to not have to spend a night in solitude.

“She asked what I was doing tonight and I told her we were having a movie night and then she asked if she could join and well I couldn’t just say no,” Azzi explains, sticking the bag into the microwave. 

Jana cocks an eyebrow, “do you want me to leave?”

“Why would I want you to leave?” Azzi asks, crinkling her nose as she juts out an ear just in case the baby monitor goes off. 

“C’mon Az,” Jana says pointedly, leaning on her elbows against the kitchen counter, “you’re telling me there’s nothing going on between the two of you?”

Azzi grimaces uneasily, not quite wanting to answer the question, “nothing that would require you to leave.”

“If that’s the way you want to play it,” Jana relents, grabbing a soda from the fridge on her way back to the living room, before she pauses in the doorway to look back at Azzi, “but I know what it looks like when somebody’s in love with you. And that girl out there,” she nods her head towards where Clémence is daintily sitting on the couch, “she’s definitely getting there.”

Jana’s a rather observant person but Azzi knows that she’s at least a little bit wrong this time. Because Clémence might be a little bit in love with -even if that’s not a fact Azzi particularly wants to acknowledge- but it's impossible for her to look at Azzi the way Jana remembers someone else looking at her. That had been something completely different; a gaze that saw all the little chinks in her armor, all the imperfections carved against her walls and loved her inspite of them, maybe even because of them. Clémence might love her, but Azzi doesn’t think anyone can be in love with her the way the person she’d been hopelessly in love with, had. 

When she walks back into the living room with the popcorn in hand, still plagued by her younger teammate’s words, Azzi’s deliberate to sit on the couch next to Jana instead of the open space next to the francophone. The flash of hurt in Clémence’s eye causes guilt to trickle down her spine but Azzi thinks a flash is better than the tsunami of pain she could cause if she doesn’t start to ease herself out of this right now. There’s a selfish part of her that doesn’t want to, that’s going to miss having somebody who hangs onto her every word. Azzi likes this feeling of being wanted, even if it’s not by the person she wants. But that person isn’t hers to want anymore and she won’t torture Clémence by barricading her in the same jail that has held Azzi’s soul captive for the last four years. 

They’re about half way through the movie, awkward tension eased by Jana’s incessant chatter, when Azzi’s phone buzzes. Already confused at the timing of the call, she’s even more perplexed to see Ice’s name flashing on the screen. 

“Oooh Iceyyy,” Jana’s eyes light up when she catches a glimpse of the CallerID, “put her on speaker. Ice is one of our UConn teammates,” she explains, turning to Clémence who nods in recognition, “she probably did something dumb as fuck and need Azzi’s advice.”

“Don’t be mean,” Azzi scolds with a grin, knowing that Jana’s probably right as she picks up the call, “hello-”

“I hate you,” Azzi freezes at the sound of the familiar voice, laced with unfamiliar malice. Next to her Jana stiffens immediately while Clémence observes the scene in front of her with a guarded frown. 

“Paige who the fuck are you calling?” Ice’s voice is muffled in the background, “oh shit, Paige give me back my phone.”

“No. She needs to hear this,” Paige grits out, her pitch wavering with the effects of alcohol, “she needs to hear how much I fucking hate her. Azzi do you hear me? I can hear you breathing. I know you’re there. Did you hear what I said?”

“Paige,” Ice hisses again. 

Azzi swallows the lump in her throat, fingers digging into her bare thighs as she grips her phone so hard, she half-expects it to break into pieces in a reflection of her heart, “I heard you Paige.”

“Good. Because I do. I really fucking hate you,” Paige repeats again and Azzi flinches, “you ruined me Azzi. And now you’re ruining my marriage. My wife is perfect. She loves me. She loves being seen with me. She loves being known as my wife. Everything I ever wanted from you, she’s willing to give me. But she saw that damn hug at the Olympics and she- she’s upset with me. She thinks- she thinks I’m not over you.”

“Az maybe you should-” Jana says softly but Azzi immediately raises a hand to stop her. Maybe she’s a masochist but she can hear the hurt laced underneath the anger in Paige's voice. And if what Paige needs to get rid of her pain is a target to aim all her arrows at, then Azzi’s willing to sacrifice her heart, or at least what little is still left of it. 

“And the worst thing about it,” Paige’s voice breaks, “is that she's probably right. I have the perfect fucking woman at home and I can’t seem to get over the one who broke my heart and never looked back. Isn’t that pathetic?”

“Paige,” Ice pleads again and Azzi can hear her former teammate trying her best to wrangle the phone out of Paige’s firm grasp. 

“I’m not done yet Ice. I need to talk to her and I need to talk to her now because if I don’t, I’ll never get the courage to say any of this again,” Paige is sobbing now, and her broken whimpers pierce Azzi’s heart deeper than any words could,  “why couldn’t you just have said yes Az? I know- I know your reasons but why- why couldn’t you have just loved me enough to look past them? How do you do it Azzi? How do you live without me because it’s been four years and I- I still don’t think I know how to live without you and I hate you, I hate you because you do.”

No, Azzi thinks, I really don’t. But she doesn’t say anything, rapidly blinking back tears as she avoids both Jana’s concerned look and Clémence’s more thoughtful gaze. 

“I wish I could just feel nothing towards you Azzi,” Paige confesses, heaving as she struggles to breathe through her tears, “I don’t want to hate you. I don’t want to miss you and I really- I really, really don’t want to love you. Please just make it stop. I’m so tired of this Azzi. I’m so tired of hurting. How do I make it go away? Please tell me how I make it go away? How did you make it go away?”

“I didn’t,” Azzi whispers, so soft she’s not sure Paige heard it; she’s not sure if she wants Paige to have heard it. It’s the kind of pain, she thinks, she’s destined to feel forever. It’s weaved itself into every crevice of body and now it exists as just another innate part of her. Paige thinks Azzi’s learned to live without her but really all Azzi’s learned is how to live with these permanent scars of i think i’ll miss you forever. 

“That’s enough Paige,” Ice’s voice is clearer now, having finally snatched the phone out of her teammate’s grip, “Azzi-” she begins apologetically, “she’s just drunk. She didn’t mean-”

“She did,” Azzi clears her throat, sinking into the way Jana's arms wrap around her, “she’s um- she’s gonna be really hungover in the morning. Make sure she- make sure you give her water but don’t- don’t give her coffee. She’ll want it but it’ll only make it worse because she uh- she- when she drinks too much, her stomach hurts and the caffeine- it just- it makes it worse so- don’t let her drink coffee tomorrow morning okay? And make sure- make sure she eats something before she takes painkillers. And Ice?’

“Yeah Azzi.”

“If she doesn’t remember any of this tomorrow morning, please don’t remind her.”

***

April 2033

The bar is buzzing with noise by the time Paige and Azzi finally arrive. It’s an exclusive enough place that they won’t be too bothered by fans asking for pictures and autographs but the size of the crowd still puts Azzi a little bit on edge. She can’t help the small smile that flitters across her face when she feels Paige’s hand resting on her lower back as the blonde guides the two of them through the crowd in search of their teammates. For the last eight years, Azzi has been her own protector and she’s learned to guard herself but it’s nice -it feels right- to have someone else ready to be her shield too. 

“You know Bueckers,” Joyce says as the two of them finally approach the table that had been reserved for the Valkyries, “some might say that one should be on time when meeting their new teammates. Just a thought.”

“And some might say Edwards that being fashionably late is being on time,” Paige quips back. 

Joyce grins, “alright time for introductions.”

“I’m pretty sure I know-”

“Shut up,” Joyce reprimands, throwing an arm around Paige’s shoulders, “let me introduce these brand new people to you.”

“They’re not-”

“Sssshhh. Let me have my fun. We’ll start over here with Westbeld and Booker. You might know them, their teams kicked your ass during the 23-24 season,” Joyce says with a smirk. 

“Oh I do remember that,” Paige says thoughtfully, eyes twinkling with mirth, “what happened the season after?”

“Don’t be cocky Bueckers. It’s unbecoming,” Madison chides as she rises from the table to give Paige a hug. 

“Yeah I try not to remember that Elite Eight game thanks,” Laila says, making a disgusted face. 

Joyce glares at her, “did I introduce you yet Miss Phelia?”

Laila raises her hands in surrender as Joyce continues to give Paige a tour of the Valkyrie team. Azzi had known that Paige would fit in well with her teammate -really the blonde had the uncanny ability to fit in anywhere- but seeing it realized in front of her, it seems even clearer. Paige feels like the last mosaic piece, slotting in right where she belongs. 

“Those two over there are our babies,” Joyce points to Haylen and Jayla, “they’re like five years old but we love them anyways.”

“I’m almost 25,” Haylen protests. 

“See,” Joyce remarks, “literally children. And that one,” she points to Jana who beams at Paige, “well you already know her even if you sometimes wish you didn’t probably-”

“Hey!”

“Oh shush Jana,” Joyce says airily, “and I supposed there’s no point in introducing Azzi to you since y’all came together,” she pauses to look between them, “y’all don’t live that close to each other. Why didn’t you just carpool with Jana? I’m pretty sure she lives closer to you.”

Paige opens and closes her mouth a couple of times as Azzi feels her own cheeks heat up at the innocent enough question, “we um- well it's just- you see- my house is on the way from her parents and she had to drop off Stephie so it just- it just made sense you know? For efficiency’s sake.”

“Oh yeah for efficiency’s sake. They’re both very efficient,” Jana smirks, “makes a lot of sense.”

Joyce gives all three of them a weird look, “y’all Huskies are strange. It was just a question but anyways,” she grins as she finally steers Paige towards the blonde in the corner and Azzi stiffens at the way Paige’s body immediately tenses, “a couple of our teammates aren’t here but we do have a former teammate. Paige meet Clémence.”

“We’ve met,” Paige says, attempting to school her features to resemble anything but the discomfort she’s feeling within, “during the Olympics that is. We’ve beat France a couple of times.”

It’s a purposeful word choice, beat instead of played and Azzi's fingers fidget with the hem of her top as she tries to avoid looking at either of the two women. 

“Yes. It is good to see you again,” Clémence says tersely, her French accent stronger than the last time Azzi had spoken to her. She shakes Paige’s hand rather formally before her eyes focus on Azzi and she determinedly walks towards the brunette, “and it is really good to see you Azzi. I have missed you.”

“I-” Azzi stutters at the French woman pulls her into a hug; over her shoulder she can practically see steam coming out of Paige’s ears as she hyper focuses on how Clémence makes it a point rub her thumb down Azzi’s back, “it’s um- it’s good to see you too.”

She pulls away and she can feel the disappointment reverberating from Clémence’s body as Azzi practically flings herself on the chair next to Jana, wondering what she’d done to deserve this moment as a punishment for her sins. 

“Save me,” she pleads as Clémence and Paige sit as far away from each other as possible, occasionally shooting glares when they think the other isn’t looking. 

“Save you from having two hot women fighting over you?” the center teases, “you truly have such first world problems Azzi Fudd.”

“They’re not fighting over me-”

“Azzi you will have your usual rum and coke no?” Clémence asks and Azzi looks over to where the francophone is intently staring at her, “I will go-”

“Oh there’s no need,” Paige says immediately, “you sit Clémence. You already have a drink. I was gonna go get one for myself and I’ll get Azzi’s too. Besides, Azzi's more of a fruity drink girl. Az I’ll get you a piña colada-”

Clémence narrows her eyes, “maybe she liked that when she was in college but Azzi likes something different now.”

“She might like something different now,” Paige counters, standing up aggressively so she towers over the table, “but she’s always gonna love a piña colada right Azzi?”

All eyes turn to look at Azzi who wants nothing more than to cower under the table- or hit Jana who seems to find this very unamusinging situation rather entertaining, “I um-” she swallows, “I think tonight calls for something stronger. Round of shots for the table? On me?”

It placates the situation for a while as the rest of the team cheers on the idea, beckoning over one of the bartenders to orders a round of tequila shots for the table. For a moment, Azzi tricks herself into thinking maybe that’ll be the end of ridiculous situations for the night as the team downs shots to Jana yelling “to the Valkyries” but she should have known it was wishful thinking.

Half the team ends up on the dance floor, swaying to the mixed rhythm of the music and the newly minted alcohol coursing through their bloodstreams. Azzi watches with a smile as despite her protests, Joyce manages to drag Paige onto the dance floor with her, engaging her in some eccentric dance moves as they try to outdo each other on who can look the silliest. And as the rest of the girls cheer the blonde on, it feels like Paige is chiseling out a place for herself in another part of Azzi’s world. 

“She is easy to love,” Clémence’s hot breath fans Azzi’s ear as the francophone takes Jana’s empty seat next to the brunette. 

“Clém-” Azzi sighs. 

“She fits in well with the team,” Clémence continues, something wistful in her voice, “I have seen her play. She will fit in well on the court with you guys as well. She will fit in well next to you.”

“That’s the hope,” Azzi says softly as she tilts her head to look at the other woman, “you fit in well too. I mean it Clém. We’ll miss you at GSV.”

Clémence smiles bitterly, “I would have liked to stay but they needed the cap space so they could sign her. She- she’s quite expensive. I mean considering she is casually wearing swarovski crystals on her neck in a bar on a random Saturday night, I am not surprised.”

The two of them laugh despite the gravity that looms heavily over them. Azzi and Clémence haven’t been anything in a long time but she’d never quite shut the possibility of a potential future done. She can hear the lock ready to click now. It’s bittersweet doing the right thing but as Paige glances over from the dancefloor, eyes darting cautiously between the two of them, Azzi knows that she doesn’t want to keep any other doors open. Not when the one with Paige’s name etched on the door handle, leads to home. 

“One last dance?” Clémence asks softly, holding out her hand. 

Azzi hesitates, knowing that it would irritate Paige but she thinks she probably owes Clémence this and so she smiles and takes the francophone’s outstretched hand as they join their other teammates. It’s nothing beyond friendly and they both keep their hands to themselves as they sway to the music, but Azzi can feel the annoyance radiating off of Paige from across the dancefloor. She would never admit it, perhaps it’s a little toxic of her, but there’s a certain thrill to making Paige jealous. There’s something about the way the blonde’s blue eyes flare with ice cold envy, the way her jaw hardens as she grinds her teeth. The way she looks at Azzi like if she had her way she’d drag the brunette out of the bar and mark her with a possessive you’re mine you’re mine youre mine. It makes Azzi clench her thighs together as she tries to focus on Clémence. 

“I understand now,” the francophone says thoughtfully as Azzi’s peers up at her in confusion, “when you told me that you could not be with me. I get it.”

“I don’t-”

“You are here with me but you aren’t actually. You will always be with her,” Clémence tilts her head towards Paige, “you always have been. I understand now,” she says again simply before her face hardens, “even after all those words she said to you on the phone that night.”

Azzi’s stomach curls at the reminder. She knows exactly what night Clémence is referring to. Sometimes when she closes her eyes, it’s those words, coated in anger and malice, that shower around her like acid rain, seeping into her skin and infecting her bloodstream.

“I told you, you deserved better,” Clémence says and Azzi gulps, “but you said- you said you deserved worse. I hope you don’t believe that anymore Azzi. Just because you hurt her doesn’t mean you need to let her hurt you too.”

“I-” Azzi’s cut off by a hard body ramming into her own and she feels herself going stumbling back into the unwanted arms of a random man, “I’m sorry,” she says tersely, struggling to get out his grip. 

“No worries pretty girl,” he says toothily, the heavy stench of alcohol in his breath making Azzi feel nauseous, “but now that you’re here, how about I buy you a drink.”

“No thank you,” Azzi says sternly, trying to push the man away but he’s relentless. 

“Aw c’mon don’t be like that sweetheart,” the term of endearment sounds like an insult falling from his lips and Azzi loses her patience, stomping her heel into the man’s foot to finally free herself from his grip and he yelps in surprise.

“I said no thank you.”

“What the fuck,” the man spits out, standing up as Azzi takes a step back. He’s got some muscle and although, despite his bravado, she knows she’s strong enough to take him, she’d rather not create a scene. Her plan is to walk away. Paige seems to have other ideas, suddenly materializing in between Azzi and the man, a furious look on her face as she squares him up. 

“Do we have a problem?” the blonde asks menacingly. 

“Nothing other than your little friend here being a fucking bitch.”

Paige’s eyes darken as she takes a threatening step towards him, prevented from going further only by the way Azzi immediately laces a hand around her wrist, “what the fuck did you call her?”

“I called her a-”

“It doesn’t matter,” Azzi cuts in, stepping in between a glaring Paige and a man who’s clearly underestimating her strength, “let it go Paige.”

“Yeah,” the man mocks, “let it go Paige.”

“You fucking-” Paige tries to lunge at him but Azzi’s quick to shove her back gently. 

“Don’t cause a scene,” she warns. 

“Azzi-”

“Paige please.”

“Holy shit,” the man wolf-whistles, “y’all play for the Valks. You’re Azzi Fudd. I know you.”

“Good for you,” Azzi spits out at him before turning her attention back to Paige, who looks like she could kill the man if given the chance, “c’mon let's go back to our tab-”

“It’s funny you’re acting like such a fucking prude when you have a bastard chi-”

An unmistakable crunch rings out through the bar as the man goes flying backwards. Azzi’s knuckles are bleeding as her breath comes out in ragged huffs. She hadn’t wanted to cause a scene; could have walked away from a man being a drunken idiot, could have walked away from being called a bitch or hell, even something worse. But the man had attacked the one part of her that she’d always be ready to go to war for. He’d brought up Stephie and she’d seen red. Her fist had moved of it's own accord.

Paige doesn’t say anything and Azzi can feel the anger still vibrating from the older woman’s body as she roughly grabs Azzi’s unhurt hand.

“Let’s go,” the blonde’s voice is eerily low, “we’re going home.”

***

It’s a subconscious choice to let Paige drive Azzi’s car even though they’ve both sobered up considerably, not that one shot had done much in the first place. It’s a subconscious choice that Azzi reaches over to lace her fingers through Paige’s free hand, resting it on her lap, as the blonde use her other hand to grip the steering wheel. It’s a subconscious choice that they end up driving to Azzi’s house in complete silence. She’s not sure who’s mad at who, if they’re even mad at each other or that man or just the world but she can feel the fury suffocating the air. 

“Where’s your first-aid kit?” Paige says gruffly as Azzi unlocks the door. 

“Bathroom,” Azzi says quietly and Paige is off towards it before the word has even fully left the brunette’s mouth. Azzi scrambles after her, pausing in the doorway as Paige rummages through drawers, knowing better than to interrupt to help when Paige looks livid like this.

“Sit,” Paige points to the sink once she’s finally found the sanitizer and gauze to clean up dried up blood staining Azzi’s knuckles. 

“I can do it my-”

Paige glares at her, “just sit on the fucking sink Azzi.”

Putting away her own irritation at being told what to do, Azzi lifts herself onto the flat surface of the sink, opening her legs slightly so that Paige can stand between them. Despite still quivering with barely concealed rage, Paige’s touch is gentle as she dabs at the remnants of red liquid on Azzi’s hand. 

“You should’ve just let me punch him when I wanted to,” she says finally. 

“So you could be the one bleeding?” Azzi raises an eyebrow. 

“No because he would’ve never gotten the courage to say shit about Stephie if you’d just let me kill him when he called you a bitch,” Paige bites out venomously. 

“And let you go to jail? I couldn’t do that to Stephie,” Azzi tries to lighten the tension in the room, “she’d miss you too much. 

“This isn’t funny, Azzi,” Paige seethes as she begins to wrap the white gauze around the wound. 

“I know,” the younger woman says, trailing her other hand down Paige’s arms trying to soothe her anger, “but it’s fine-”

“It’s not fucking fine,” Paige yells. 

“Baby-” the word slips out from Azzi’s lips before she can catch it. She hasn’t used it for someone other than Stephie in so long that it feels foreign on her lips and yet, it fits exactly right. 

“Did you call Clémence that too?” and there it is, the real reason behind the volcano erupting as Paige decidedly looks away from Azzi. 

Azzi narrows her eyes, “I don’t know Paige. Did you call Olivia that?”

“That’s different,” Paige grits out, “Olivia was my wife.”

Azzi flinches at the word; hates that somebody else had ever had the honor of being called that even if she knows it’s unfair of her to feel that way when she’s the one that had turned it down first. 

“Exactly,” she says slowly, “you married someone else-” she holds up a hand when Paige protests, “I know. I know I said no but you married someone else Paige. So you don’t get to be mad at me for having something with someone else too.”

Paige is quiet for a moment and Azzi sees the exact moment the fight leaves her body as she lets out a sigh, leaning her head against Azzi’s shoulder. 

“You’re right,” Paige whispers into Azzi’s neck, hands moving to rest against the brunette’s thighs. 

Azzi runs her hand through Paige’s hair, brushing it in tandem with the harmony of her breathing, “we can’t keep throwing the past in each other’s face, Paige.”

“I know,” Paige breath tickles against Azzi’s skin and she shivers in spite of the tense moment,“I just-” the blonde lifts her head to look at Azzi, “I need to know who Clémence was to you. You- you know what Olivia was to me and I- I just need to know the same about Clémence.”

“She-” Azzi hesitates, “we hooked up a couple of times,” she squeezes Paige’s hand when the blonde flinches, “but then she- she wanted more but I couldn’t- I couldn’t do that. Partly because I didn’t- I didn’t feel the same- don’t look so smug,” Azzi chides when a small grin forms on Paige’s face, “and partly because we were on the same team. I didn’t want to complicate things, not like last time. Feel like I should probably have a rule not to date teammates.”

“Right.”

Azzi watches the cogs turning in Paige’s brain and she reaches out a hand to ease the creases forming on her forehead, “what are you thinking Bueckers?”

“I just-” Paige bites her lip, “what about me?”

“What about you?”

“I mean we’re gonna be- I mean we are- we’re on the same team too,” Paige says and Azzi can hear the insecurity of will you leave me again weaved through her voice. 

“You don’t get it yet do you,” Azzi whispers, reaching up to cup Paige’s face, “baby you are the exception to all of my rules.”

[physalian]

Pacing your Story (Or, How to Avoid the "Suddenly...!")

Arguably *the* most important lesson all writers need to learn, even for those who don’t give a damn about themes and motifs and a moral soap box: How your story is paced, whether it’s a comic book, a children’s chapter book, a doorstopper, a mini series, a movie, or a full-length season of TV (old school style), pacing is everything.

Pacing determines how long the story *feels* regardless of how long it actually is. It can make a 2 hour movie feel like 90 mins or double the time you’re trapped in your seat.

There’s very little I can say about pacing that hasn’t been said before, but I’m here to condense all that’s out there into a less intimidating mouthful to chew.

So: What is pacing?

Pacing is how a story flows, how quickly or slowly the creator moves through and between scenes, how long they spend on setting, narration, conversation, arguments, internal monologues, fight scenes, journey scenes. It’s also how smoothly tone transitions throughout the story. A fantasy adventure jumping around sporadically between meandering boredom, high-octane combat, humor, grief, and romance is exhausting to read, no matter how much effort you put into your characters.

Anyone who says the following is wrong:

Good pacing is always fast/bad pacing is always slow

Pacing means you are 100% consistent throughout the entire story

It doesn’t matter as much so long as you have a compelling story/characters/lore/etc

Now let me explain why in conveniently numbered points:

1. Pacing is not about consistency, it’s about giving the right amount of time to the right pieces of your story

This is not intuitive and it takes a long time to learn. So let’s look at some examples:

Lord of the Rings: The movies trimmed a *lot* from the books that just weren’t adaptable to screen, namely all the tedious details and quite a bit of the worldbuilding that wasn’t critical to the journey of the Fellowship. That said, with some exceptions, the battles are as long as they need to be, along with every monologue, every battle speech. When Helm’s Deep is raging on, we cut away to Merry and Pippin with the Ents to let ourselves breathe, then dive right back in just before it gets boring.

The Hobbit Trilogy: The exact opposite from LotR, stretching one kids book into 3 massive films, stuffing it full of filler, meandering side quests, pointless exposition, drawing out battles and conflicts to silly extremes, then rushing through the actual desolation of Smaug for… some reason.

Die Hard (cause it’s the Holidays y’all!): The actiony-est of action movies with lots of fisticuffs and guns and explosions still leaves time for our hero to breathe, lick his wounds, and build a relationship with the cop on the ground. We constantly cut between the hero and the villains, all sharing the same radio frequency, constantly antsy about what they know and when they’ll find out the rest, and when they’ll discover the hero’s kryptonite.

2. Make every scene you write do at least two things at once

This is also tricky. Making every scene pull double duty should be left to after you’ve written the first draft, otherwise you’ll never write that first draft. Pulling double duty means that if you’re giving exposition, the scene should also reveal something about the character saying it. If you absolutely must write the boring trip from A to B, give some foreshadowing, some thoughtful insight from one of your characters, a little anecdote along the way.

Develop at least two of the following:

The plot

The backstory

The romance/friendships

The lore

The exposition

The setting

The goals of the cast

Doing this extremely well means your readers won’t have any idea you’re doing it until they go back and read it again. If you have two characters sitting and talking exposition at a table, and then those same two characters doing some important task with filler dialogue to break up the narrative… try combining those two scenes and see what happens.

**This is going to be incredibly difficult if you struggle with making your stories longer. I do not. I constantly need to compress my stories. **

3. Not every scene needs to be crucial to the plot, but every scene must say something

I distinguish plot from story like a square vs a rectangle. Plot is just a piece of the tale you want to tell, and some scenes exist just to be funny, or romantic, or mysterious, plot be damned.

What if you’re writing a character study with very little plot? How do you make sure your story isn’t too slow if 60% of the narrative is introspection?

Avoid repeating information the audience already has, unless a reminder is crucial to understanding the scene

This isn’t 1860 anymore. Every detail must serve a purpose. Keep character and setting descriptions down to absolute need-to-know and spread it out like icing on a cake – enough to coat, but not give you a mouthful of whipped sugar and zero cake.

Avoid describing generic daily routines, unless the existence of said routine is out of ordinary for the character, or will be rudely interrupted by chaos. No one cares about them brushing their teeth and doing their hair.

Make sure your characters move, but not too much. E.g. two characters sitting and talking – do humans just stare at each other with their arms lifeless and bodies utterly motionless during conversation? No? Then neither should your characters. Make them gesture, wave, frown, laugh, cross their legs, their arms, shift around to get comfortable, pound the table, roll their eyes, point, shrug, touch their face, their hair, wring their hands, pick at their nails, yawn, stretch, pout, sneer, smirk, click their tongue, clear their throat, sniff/sniffle, tap their fingers/drum, bounce their feet, doodle, fiddle with buttons or jewelry, scratch an itch, touch their weapons/gadgets/phones, check the time, get up and sit back down, move from chair to table top – the list goes on. Bonus points if these are tics that serve to develop your character, like a nervous fiddler, or if one moves a lot and the other doesn’t – what does that say about the both of them? This is where “show don’t tell” really comes into play.

4. Your entire work should not be paced exactly the same

Just like a paragraph should not be filled with sentences of all the same length and syntax. Some beats deserve more or less time than others. Unfortunately, this is unique to every single story and there is no one size fits all.

General guidelines are as follows:

Action scenes should have short paragraphs and lots of movement. Cut all setting details and descriptors, internal monologues, and the like, unless they service the scene.

Journey/travel scenes must pull double or even triple duty. There’s a reason very few movies are marketed as “single take” and those that are don’t waste time on stuff that doesn’t matter. See 1917.

Romantic scenes are entirely up to you. Make it a thousand words, make it ten thousand, but you must advance either the romantic tension, actual movement of the characters, conversation, or intimacy of the relationship.

Don’t let your conversations run wild. If they start to veer off course, stop, boil it down to its essentials, and cut the rest.

When transitioning between slow to faster pacing and back again, it’s also not one size fits all. Maybe it being jarring is the point – it’s as sudden for the characters as it is for the reader. With that said, try to keep the “suddenly”s to a minimum.

5. Pacing and tone go hand in hand

This means that, generally speaking, the tone of your scene changes with the speed of the narrative. As stated above, a jarring tonal shift usually brings with it a jarring pacing shift.

A character might get in a car crash while speeding away from an abusive relationship. A character who thinks they’re safe from a pursuer might be rudely and terrifyingly proven wrong. An exhausting chase might finally relent when sanctuary is found. A quiet dinner might quickly turn romantic with a look, or confession. Someone casually cleaning up might discover evidence of a lie, a theft, an intruder and begin to panic.

--

Whatever the case may be, a narrative that is all action all the time suffers from lack of meaningful character moments. A narrative that meanders through the character drama often forgets there is a plot they’re supposed to be following.

[moonbaetarot]

Pick a pile

What people think of you and your future spouse as a couple

1. 2. 3.

Pile 1

You and your future spouse are seeing as like “oh they’re just playing around” like they’re not really going to be in a relationship and settle down. You and your future spouse may both be like commitment shy. You or your future spouse may go to other people to get advice on this relationship. There may be a lot of people iffy about the relationship at First but after a while they are going to see that you were made to be together. I feel Iike people are a little too invested into you and your future spouse’s relationship than they should be. There are going to be many people really excited for you, you deserve and reward this love in your life you have so much love to give and you finally found the one. This connection is very soft, loving and sweet. You may not really show pda so the assumptions are just assumptions like people reaching for something people don’t have much to talk about. You may resonate with pile 2.

Thank you for reading loves! 🤍

Pile 2

People see you and your future spouse as like “getting out of the dark” you or your future spouse or both may have been sad or lonely single for a while and you Two have finally met. People are just excited and happy that you’re starting a new chapter in your life and moving on from whatever happened in the past. People see y’all as helping each other succeed and finds life’s purposes. You both love to spoil and buy each other gifts so everyone sees all the nice things you two have given each other. people can see the love yall share in general. People may have very random thoughts about this connection. You and your future spouse are seeing as laid back and chill yall definitely are very much alike. For some you have an ex that will realizes what they lost when you start dating your future spouse. You may resonate with pile 1.

Thank you for reading loves! 🤍

Pile 3

People see y’all as in love and loyal to each other so much compassion and love for one another very much “ride or die”. People may see your future spouse as a little possessive and protective over you. People see you as someone who would be an amazing mom you may give off motherly vibes. The feminine energy is looked at way more than the male energy. One of you has a huge family and the other comes from a small family. People view you as so beautiful like “wow how did they end up with this person”. I feel like a lot of people ask about your relationship people wanna know what yall are doing all the time. This connection could also bring back an old or distant friend. People will also think this connection will last forever and grow old together. You and your future spouse may go out a lot or go drinking or dates a lot.

Thank you for reading loves! 🤍

[unacknowledgeable]

I LOVE UR SK READER SO MUCH!! they're so fascinating, i totally picture them as this charming lovely old thing who's barely holding it together omggg... the NV!love interest is so cool too,, i'd love to see if and how the reader's tolerance for NV increases. i do wonder though, cass is pretty observant, wouldn't she see atleast a little through y/n? like a short glance at least?

“Charming lovely old thing” is a perfect way to describe readers' general demeanor for their day to day life. I mean, for most of your formative years you were raised by a 60 year old man and until high school the closest thing to a friend was a man 3 times your age, who was also friends with your father… yeah you definitely don't have enough fingers to count how many times you’ve been called an “old soul” by cheek pinching grandmothers in chunky jewelry, smothered in the heaviest of perfumes. (At least, you don't have enough of your own fingers)

Your idea of “casual” wear is probably more akin to business casual, half because you wouldn't let yourself be caught dead not looking perfectly put together for Gothams tabloids and because Alfred really hammered his sense of proper style into you at a young age. You reek of old money lmao. 

 As for Cass, you actually moved out before she came to the manor, so you honestly never had a formal introduction, despite being the same age. The both of you are hardly ever at the manor at the same time (mostly by your design, you have access to Bruce's trackers) so the chances for her to get the drop on you are slim. She’s never seen when you're actually relaxed, you’re always on guard when you visit the manor, (you can only ignore Alfreds requests so often before he starts to get worried) 

So while she’d be able to see through most people, she's never been in a room with you long enough for your mask to slip. Basically, If you don't act suspicious, then she won’t be suspicious. (it also doesn’t hurt if you don't feel guilty about your activities either) it's a very thin line you're treading. But, you have years of practice evading calculated eyes by blending in with the wallpaper and sinking into the background of your family's chaos, and the risk just adds to the game.

Of course, with the family's sudden shift of attention towards you, and your facade of calm crumbles more and more with each passing day, she’ll notice that she was definitely reading your demeanor wrong, which will fuel her own obsession as to how you were able to hide from her in the first place. Her first instinct will be to be worried FOR you, not wary of you, because at this point, you being up to any majorly dangerous or illegal activities hasn't crossed any of their minds. Yet. 

Unrelated to the ask, but y’know how most serial killers have a name given to them by the public, like the zodiac killer, jack the ripper, etc? 

Yeah… so I wanna give the SK!Reader one, sense I’m getting more indepth with this and for when I finally start writing full chapters.

I have a few lined up and I'll probably make a separate post listing them, but if anyone has any ideas let me know, lol. Otherwise y’all are stuck with my lackluster naming skills.

~Masterlist~

[keeryhours]

the needle and the damage done - chapter four

Older! Rockstar! Eddie Munson x female! reader

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

Eddie Munson Masterlist

Summary:

Eddie graduates from rehab and comes home.

Warnings:

(18+), smut, unprotected p in v, Eddie has a breeding kink, pregnancy, detailed depictions of drug use/abuse, childhood trauma, description of an overdose

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N:

This is a heavy one y’all. I hope you enjoy the chapter <3

Things went downhill fast.

It started with a pill snuck here or there, just when the cravings got especially bad. That was easier to hide. No one suspected anything, it just gave him a slight high, enough to get through his days. Rehab was boring, after all. He missed you. He missed his girls.

At least he had his guitar. He wrote songs all day, songs about heroin that sounded more like love songs than anything else. God, how he missed it.

But the past week, things had escalated. Jake was sneaking him heroin, and Eddie was shooting up in his en suite bathroom again.

When Eddie graduated from his rehab program, he had been back on drugs for weeks. He had no idea how no one noticed, but he wasn’t complaining or pushing the subject.

He felt like the biggest loser in the world, and he had no idea how he was supposed to face you and the band now.

You and the guys, who had been so proud of him. The girls, who were eagerly awaiting their dad’s return. That was the worst part - the knowledge that he had let his girls down. He couldn’t live with it, and it only pushed him towards the drugs even more.

He figured he could hide it a little longer - maybe he could go home and keep using, as long as he was careful. He could keep sneaking away to get high in the bathroom, acting as normal as possible when around you and the girls or the band. He could do this - he could go home and live his life and have the drugs, too.

Right?

Eddie looked at himself in the mirror. He didn’t look as good as he had at the last visit, that was certain. He had lost weight again, the dark circles under his eyes had come back. Fuck, you would know there was something up for sure.

He wore a dress shirt and slacks, his hair combed and facial hair neatly trimmed. It was his rehab graduation ceremony, a day he should have been proud of. Instead, he felt like a fraud.

Eddie slipped into his bathroom, attempting to calm himself before the ceremony began. He couldn’t exactly shoot up before going out there and seeing you all, but he could have a little something to take the edge off, right? He popped open his mini “first aid kit” and took 2 Oxys, placing them right on his tongue. There.

It didn’t take too long for the pills to kick in. By the time he was ready to go, he was feeling pretty damn good, blissed out and relaxed. A couple nurses, including Jake, escorted him down the hall towards the room where the ceremony would be held. He wondered if they had any idea how fucked up he was right now. Well, Jake might have had a pretty good idea.

In the room his eyes went to you first, smiling and giving him a small wave. You wore a dress that accentuated your growing bump, now 22 weeks. You’d had the appointment to find out what you were having a couple of weeks ago, but had the results in an envelope for you and Eddie to experience together.

Evie, Rhiannon, and Ivy stood next to you, each in matching red dresses. They looked nervous, clutching each other’s hands. Roz stood on the other side of the girls, followed by Gareth, Jeff, and Grant. They all looked so proud of him, it made him sick.

He went through the graduation ceremony, pretending like he wasn’t currently high and hadn’t been for the past 6 weeks. He couldn’t even meet your eyes. Afterwards you wanted to take pictures, where he faked his smile and pretended he wasn’t the absolute scum of the earth.

Eddie was happy to be home. The girls were all over him, wanting him to play, but he covered up the fact he was too high by saying he was just tired. You believed him - “Come on girls, give Daddy a break.”

“Daddy, are you better?” Rhiannon asked. “You’re not sick anymore?”

Eddie felt sick. “I’m better, baby girl. Not sick anymore.”

After he’d been home for a few hours, you couldn’t take the anticipation anymore. You brought out a white box from the fridge, setting it on the counter. “Are we ready to find out if we’re getting a little brother or sister?”

“Yes!” The girls yelled in unison, skipping into the kitchen and jumping up and down with excitement as they waited. You opened the box, revealing a white cake. Eddie joined you, looking over it to see if there was a glimpse of what lay inside.

“How do we know?” Rhiannon asked, standing on her tippy toes to peer at the cake.

“If it’s blue inside it’s a boy,” you explained with a smile. “And if it’s pink, it’s a girl.”

“I want a girl!” Evie said, which made you laugh.

“You don’t have enough sisters?” You teased your oldest.

“Boys are gross,” she said, making a face. “I like having sisters.”

“I want a brother!” Rhiannon said. “Daddy’s outnumbered.”

Eddie laughed at that - it was woefully true. “I’m okay with it. I love my girls. Could be fun to have a boy, though.”

“What about you, Ivy?” You asked your 3 year old. “Do you want a little brother or a little sister?” You knew this was big for her, she wouldn’t be the baby anymore. She’d never gone through the new sibling thing before, unlike her older sisters. Evie was a pro at this point.

Ivy thought for a moment. “Sister,” she answered finally, a tiny shy grin on her face.

“Eddie?”

“A boy,” he answered. “But I’m happy with another girl, too.”

“Okay, is everyone ready?” You asked, grabbing a large knife from the block and holding it over the cake. Eddie placed his hand on the handle next to yours.

“Yes!” The chorus came from all three girls again.

You and Eddie cut into the cake, the anticipation buzzing in your stomach. You cut the slice and pulled it out - revealing blue filling. You, Eddie, and Rhiannon cheered, Evie letting out a groan.

“It’s a baby brother!” You announced, tears falling from your eyes. Eddie pulled you into a tight hug and you buried your face in his chest as he rubbed your back.

“Wow,” Eddie whispered, only loud enough for you to hear. “A son.”

That night Eddie climbed into bed with you, wrapping his arms around you. He kissed all along your back and shoulders, his hands roaming under your top.

“Baby,” he moaned against your skin, leaving sloppy kisses as he went. “I haven’t had sex in 8 weeks. I’m desperate for you.”

You could feel just how desperate he was pressed up against your ass, his cock painfully hard and throbbing. You wanted to help him, and you needed it, too. You turned over so you were facing him, reaching a hand between your bodies and stroking him over his boxers. He crashed his lips into yours, kissing you deeply.

“Do you want to be on top?” He asked you breathlessly as he pulled away. “I don’t know if you’re uncomfortable on your back yet, we can do it however-“

“I’ll be on top,” you answered him, straddling his lap as he laid flat on his back. His hands moved to your hips, rocking you against his erection. You had on one of his t-shirts and a pair of shorts, Eddie in only his boxers. He lifted your shirt up and off as you stood up on your knees, pulling his boxers down. Eddie hooked his fingers in your shorts and panties, pulling them down as much as he could before you had to help out. He put a hand on your belly to help keep your balance as you got them off.

You could feel his hard cock pressing insistently against your entrance, Eddie reached between you to line himself up properly. You slowly sunk down on his cock, both of you moaning as you took him inch by inch.

“Fuck, Eds,” you moaned, slowly starting to rock your hips on top of him. “It’s been so long. You feel so good.”

“Yeah, too fuckin’ long,” Eddie said gruffly, thrusting his hips up into you. “Feel so good, baby, you’re so tight and hot, gonna make me fill you up.”

You whined, bouncing a little faster on him. You could feel the tip of his cock pressed against your bundle of nerves deep inside, and when he began rubbing circles on your clit, you were even more lost in the pleasure. Your head was thrown back, body on full display for Eddie’s eyes as you rode him. He was in heaven.

“Fuck, yeah, so good baby, keep riding me like that. You’re taking my cock so good. Shit, if you weren’t already pregnant I’d put another baby in you.”

You laughed breathlessly at that. “I think we’ve got enough of those.”

“I can never knock you up enough times,” Eddie grunted, his hands roaming over your body. “Love filling you up with my cum. I love seeing you pregnant with my babies.”

“Yeah?” You moved faster. Eddie was falling apart beneath you, it had been so long since he’d gotten to fuck you, he wasn’t lasting long. You also weren’t aware that he was pretty damn high. “Wanna cum inside and fill me up, Eds?”

“God yes,” Eddie groaned. “I want you, baby. Need you to cum on this cock first, though.”

You whined, your orgasm close. Eddie kept up his movements on your clit - “Fuck, wish I could taste you-“ until you were seeing stars, pussy throbbing around his dick, moaning his name over and over again as you came. “Eddie! Eddie! Eddie!”

Eddie gripped your waist tightly in his hands as he fucked up into you hard a few times, until he was throwing his head back and groaning while he came inside of you. You raked your nails down his tattooed chest, driving him crazy.

You collapsed on the bed next to him and he wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your neck. “I love you so fuckin’ much, baby.”

“I love you too, Eddie.” You smiled to yourself - Eddie was home. Your family was together. Things were going to be okay.

Rhiannon had her big dance recital that weekend.

You got the other girls all dolled up, dressed in matching dresses. Eddie wore a suit, his curls smoothed and pulled back in a ponytail. He couldn’t help but notice the perfect roundness of your belly now beneath your red dress. He placed a hand on it, and you turned to him and smiled.

“How’s Ozzy?” He asked, rubbing the bump over the soft material of your dress.

“First of all, his name is not going to be Ozzy-“

“Hey, I still have 18 weeks to change your mind.” It was hard to disagree with him when he was giving you that gorgeous smile, the all encompassing one that spread across his whole face. It was moments like these that it struck you, you loved this man.

“And second,” you continued, “he’s laying directly on my bladder, so maybe ask your son if he could be a little more considerate.”

Eddie dropped to his knees in front of you. “Ozzy-“

“Not his name.”

“-I need you to be good for your mama, okay?” He rubbed your stomach, and your son moved beneath his hand, like he was acknowledging his father speaking to him. Eddie’s face lit up with another grin. “Stop giving her trouble, young man. She works hard, growing you into a fully-formed human.”

You giggled as Eddie stood back up. Somehow, the baby had moved out of his uncomfortable position.

“Mommy!” A frustrated voice came from the doorway. Rhiannon stood there, halfway stuck in her costume. “I need help.”

“Oh!” You hurried over to her, ushering her back into her room. You untangled her from her costume and got it on her properly, smoothing the skirt of her tutu. Next, you tied up her ballet flats. “There we go.”

“I’m ready to go!” She yelled, jumping around in circles and spinning her pirouettes. Eddie peered in the door, leaning against it and smiling at you both.

“Let’s hit the road, girls,” he said, twirling his car keys around his finger. “We’ve got a show to get to.”

Rhiannon danced her heart out. She had a real talent for ballet, and you could definitely see her sticking with it and becoming a real ballerina. She took it seriously, as she didn’t do much.

Eddie teared up as he watched her. He felt so proud. These were the things he’d been missing to get high instead. It hit him then, hard. You reached over and took his hand, giving it a squeeze and a small smile that he returned. He placed one hand on your belly and the other around Ivy on his lap. Evie leaned against his shoulder on his left.

He felt content.

Eddie was fine with just the pills for a while, but eventually they stopped doing it for him. He needed more. He wanted to shoot up again, his veins itched for it.

He really had intended to be a better man. He wanted to be. But he just wasn’t.

He was texting his dealer before he could think better of it. He couldn’t shake that sinking feeling of guilt in his stomach that had been there since the first time he dialed Jake’s number.

The next thing he knew, he was sitting in his dealer’s living room.

“I got this new shit,” Jeremy said as he weighed and divided his product into small baggies. Eddie watched closely, his body itching for the high.

“Yeah?” Eddie was bouncing his leg, his hands restlessly playing together. “It’s good?”

“Like nothing you’ve ever experienced, man,” Jeremy laughed. “How much you want?”

There was something about the fact that Jeremy didn’t even have to ask if he wanted some that made Eddie feel like an even bigger loser. “The usual.”

When Eddie left, the drugs in his pocket begging to be taken, he debated getting rid of them. He debated going through the withdrawals again, maybe going to a different rehab and doing it for real this time. But he made a different decision.

He drove home, the guilt eating him alive. He longed to get home and inject the drugs into his veins, to stop thinking, to stop feeling. He was relieved when he got home and the house was dark. It was past the girls’ bedtime and you’d been so tired from the pregnancy lately that you’d been going to bed at the same time.

Eddie snuck into the house quietly, slipping into the large bathroom attached to your bedroom. He sat on the floor, pulling out his kit and the drugs he’d gotten. He measured the same dose he always took - it had been a while, so he knew it would hit hard. He heated up the drugs in the spoon, placing the cotton in it then collected the shot in his syringe. He tied the tourniquet around his upper arm, finding his vein. It was getting harder to do, but he eventually found it, injecting the needle into his arm. He untied the tourniquet and pushed off, the euphoria washing over him in a wave.

He felt incredible. His limbs gave out, arms flopping down at his sides. He let the feeling take him, not a care in his mind - until it suddenly felt harder to breathe, and his eyes started to close. He fought it as panic rose in his chest, attempting to crawl to the door with the last bit of fight left in his body before he lost consciousness.

You weren’t surprised when you woke up for the 50th time that night having to pee. This was your life every time you were pregnant - interrupted sleep and a million trips to the bathroom. Eddie still wasn’t in bed, but it wasn’t that late yet.

You rubbed your eyes as you held your stomach, sleepily waddling to the en suite bathroom. The light was already on, which was strange. You opened the door slowly. “Ed?”

The sight before you had you screaming, nearly getting sick on the spot. Eddie was passed out on the floor, his skin pale, needle and supplies on the floor next to him. He looked dead. Tears immediately started falling and you panicked for only a moment before you turned and ran for your purse, grabbing your phone and the Narcan nasal spray you started carrying on you the first time you caught Eddie with hard drugs.

“Mommy?”

Your heart sunk as you heard Rhiannon’s terrified voice from the doorway. You turned to see your 6 year old, her wide eyes locked on her father’s lifeless body. “Is he dead?” Her voice came out as a squeak, and your heart broke.

“Rhi, go get your sisters and stay in Evie’s room, okay?” You told her, trying to calm your voice. “I’ll come get you.”

Rhiannon didn’t move. “Is he dead?” She asked again.

You clenched your eyes shut, big fat tears falling down your cheeks. Because you didn’t know how to answer her question. “Go get your sisters and stay in Evie’s room!”

Finally she moved, turning and sprinting down the hall. You dialed 911 as you ran into the bathroom, pulling the cap off the Narcan and spraying it in his nose.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“I think- My husband is overdosing.” Your voice shook, but you tried to keep it as steady as possible.

“What’s the address?”

You told her quickly, touching Eddie’s cold face, wondering if you’d ever see his smile again.

“An ambulance is on the way. Name and age?”

“Edward Munson, 37.”

“Do you know what he’s taken?”

“I…” You looked around, but you weren’t exactly knowledgeable about what you were looking at. “Heroin, probably. I gave him a dose of Narcan about a minute ago.”

“Is he breathing?”

You took a shuddering breath. “I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like it.”

“Heartbeat?”

You placed two of your fingers on his neck. Your own heart stopped in your chest as you didn’t feel anything at first, but finally - a faint, slow thumping. “Yes, it’s soft and slow, but yes.”

There was a knocking at the front door before you heard it open. “In here!” You called, and a crew of paramedics hurried in and surrounded Eddie. You watched in horror as they quickly strapped him to a stretcher, the way they moved telling you that this was not good and filling you with the fear you may never see your husband again.

As they urgently took him away, some of the paramedics spoke to you, but all you could hear was the rushing in your own ears. Finally someone got through to you - “Do you want to follow us?”

“I…my girls…”

The paramedic nodded in understanding. “You figure out what you need to. Just come into the emergency department and they’ll bring you to him.”

You watched the body of your husband disappear, wondering if you’d ever see him alive again.

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[formulakracing]

iii. objects in the mirror - t.w. + m.v.

pairing -> reserve fem driver!reader x toto wolff x max verstappen

word count -> 2.8k

warnings -> morally gray individuals, slow burn, sexual content (intercourse), allusions to sexual content, cursing, lots of power imbalance, questionable boss x employee dynamics, light toxicity, slight controlling tendencies from toto, miscommunication trope (only for this chapter!!!)

a/n -> she’s baaaaaacckkkk! i hope y’all enjoy the messiness that is about to unfold! i missed you all so much! <3 p.s., give objects in the mirror by mac miller a listen while reading this chapter!

prev. | next.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

he stands at the barriers, fingers curling around the cool surface. his jaw clenches as the press begins to cluster around, their cameras poised, eager to capture every word. every movement.

the blinking red lights are beady and unforgiving as the reporters raise their phones and mics, nearly shoving them toward his face.

"max, what did you make of qualifying?"

"max! over here! how does it feel to be outperformed by a reserve driver?"

"max! max! is she a threat to your pursuit of a perfect start?"

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

the dutch driver shakes his head, suppressing the chuckle rumbling in the base of his throat.

what kinds of questions were these? how was he supposed to answer of them? who hired these people to represent the press?

yet, he knew he had to answer their burning questions. it was a requirement set forth by the fia. a term and condition in his contract. a duty of the job.

"well," max coughs, shifting slightly as all eyes fall on him, "i-i didn't perform to the best of my abilities. the car is good, the strategy was good, and we had a great game plan. i was the one who didn't do my part. i could have done some things differently, especially on some of the turns.

but this is only the first race. we have so much ahead this season, it's difficult to really tell how it will all play out. we will just have to take it weekend by weekend. session by session. race by race. that's about all i can really say right now. did that answer your questions?"

"all but one," a journalist waves her hand, "you avoided the question regarding the reserve driver. how did it feel to be outperformed by someone who has not competed in a single formula one race? she was a second and a half faster than you on the track. is that sort of concerning to you or red bull? or do you believe that it was the car that won her pole?"

the dutch driver puckers his lips, tongue gliding along his teeth a pause settles over the crowd, consuming them with silence. his gaze scans over the reporters, taking in how they glance uneasily at one another, cautious not to speak any further.

he was well aware of why they were nervous.

well, rather who they were wary of.

mad max.

he cocks his head, lips curling into a smug smirk, "you all witness one subpar performance and think that--"

however, something moves in his peripheral, the words trailing off as he's pulled away.

not something, but someone.

her.

absolutely and uttered swarmed by other outlets, their journalists hounding her like some damn dogs. the lights from the cameras are almost blinding, his eyes squinting from the harsh light. on her face, sweat lingers, illuminating her skin with a soft, dewy glow. she's still in her suit but it's half unzipped, the material bunching perfectly around her hips, almost hugging them.

there's an itching sensation in his fingers and toes, almost like his body was urging him to move. almost as if he needed to be in close proximity to her.

to orbit around her like a planet, just so that he could be in her space.

he can't make out what they're asking, but it's clear that she's visibly uncomfortable. her eyes dart back and forth, unable to maintain steady eye contact with a single reporter. she's swaying slightly, a desperate attempt to self-soothe as all of their voices blend together.

fuck, did she execute a brilliant drive. the pace she held on the car was incredible, every turn and chicane flawless. somehow, she was able to push that w15 to its full potential.

she was like lighting. if you blinked, you would have missed her soaring down that track.

it was almost like she was destined for formula one. like she belonged in one of those twenty seats from the very beginning. if only he could have talked some sense into christian.

if only.

the image of her on top of the car, pumping her fists in the air would forever be engrained in his memory. the way strands of hair clung to her forehead as she pulled that balaclava off. the way her grin was brighter than the lights of the grandstands. the way stars shone in her eyes, the adrenaline pumping through her veins as the team swept her up into their arms.

god, he had never seen her so happy. so full of life. so ethereal in that moment, radiating nothing but pure, holy light.

a goddess walking the earth, brightening the world with her angelic presence.

not any world, but his world.

there was that feeling creeping in. that stinging sensation.

the one feeling that always lingered, no matter how desperately he pushed it away.

that one fucking feeling.

"max," a voice cuts in, "are you going to answer?"

"u-uhm," the dutch driver blinks, a hand instinctively cupping the base of his neck, "i have no comment, really. we will just have to see how tomorrow unfolds. as far as the rest of the season, we will just have to wait and see. that's all i have to say."

forming a tight-lipped smile, max gives a final nod, swiveling on his heel. the journalists call out his name, in vain attempts to flag him down. to capture one last statement. to get one more clip.

they wouldn't though.

not when his mind was clouded.

clouded by her.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

"i'm so proud of you."

the words are quiet, laced with a softness you couldn't quite put your finger on.

your chin tilts upward, a giggle bubbling up in your throat, "oh yeah?"

he nods fervently, fingers drifting to your face. they roam along your cheekbone, tracing down your jawline, "baby, i'm so proud of you. so fucking proud."

"i didn't really know what was happening until i heard them over the radio," heat billows into your cheeks as max's mouth curves into a quaint smile, a glimmer in his gaze as you continue, "i was just in the zone, you know?"

"mhmmm," he hums, carefully brushing a loose strand from your forehead, "i know exactly what you're talking about."

a hazy bliss hangs in the air, your bodies intertwined, shrouded by the warmth of the comforter. heated skin presses against yours, your head nuzzled against his collarbone. an arm hangs lazily around your waist, thumb massaging along your hip.

if only you could just stay here. cozied up with max verstappen, high off the thrill of racing and oxytocin. basking in his affection and admiration, kisses peppering your forehead and temple.

"are you ready to get your ass kicked tomorrow?"

max arches a brow, and you catch a flicker in his eye.

the flicker of fire.

"you sure about that one, love?"

"i think it'll be a good race," propping yourself up with your elbow, you lean in, the tip of your nose brushing against his, "you know what i think we should do?"

you inch closer, a rosy pink hue tinging his cheeks, "what's that?"

"i think that whoever loses tomorrow, has to give the winner head."

"oh?" the corners of max's mouth curve, forming a wide smile, "you know what i think? i think that's simply lovely."

shaking your head, you roll your eyes as max bursts into a fit of laughter, his chest vibrating against yours. you huff, rolling away from him. the laugh is hearty, deep from his diaphragm. it's a rare laugh, one reserved for those closest to him.

a sound only heard by the people he loved.

"come here," his breath fans against your ear as his forearm tightens around your waist, "don't hide from me."

the words are breathy, almost needy.

as if he couldn't bear a second longer without you in his arms.

you shift, puckering your lips as a shiver runs down your spine, "where did this max come from?"

"he's always been here," a hand glides along your neck, grasping it oh so slightly as his mouth ghosts over yours, "d-do you have any idea of what you do to me?"

your lashes flutter as your heart skips a beat, "i-i don't know if i--"

a shrill noise floods the space, earning a flinch from you as max exhales, turning over. he reaches for the nightstand, squinting from the brightness of his phone. your lower lip juts out, forming a pout as his focus on you completely crumbles.

as he types away, there's this gnawing in your gut, the temperature of the room dropping a few degrees. when it came to you, max provided nothing but his complete and utter attention. he never answered his phone unless it was a call. and usually, it wasn't anyone other than his mom, gianpiero, checo, or christian calling.

he always affirmed to you that texts, emails, and other notifications could wait.

so, what suddenly captivated his attention?

or rather, who?

peering over his shoulder, your eyes narrow.

he's on instagram, scrolling through a conversation thread in his direct messages. at first, it looks like a fan, which was not uncommon. max received all sorts of messages from fans, from all ages and genders. more than half of the time, they were women, but it didn't bother you.

if you were his fan, you would dm him too.

however, as you make out the username, your heart sinks.

it was none other than kelly piquet. daughter of nelson piquet. a name well-known in the world of motorsports.

a name that left an awful, putrid taste in your mouth.

you did a great job this weekend! i can't wait to watch you race tomorrow! you're gonna win, i just know it. 😘

your lower lip trembles, your chest tightening as you notice more and more messages. photos too. anything from seflies to photos of her in workout sets or bikinis. tons and tons of emojis, ranging from hearts to kissy faces.

tears well up, the initial disbelief dissolving into fiery rage.

"w-when did you start talking to kelly piquet?"

your voice is so low max can't pick out the words. hitting the lock screen button, he rolls back, facing you. two hands cup your cheeks, eyes locking with yours.

"baby, i'm not talking to her."

"obviously you are!" a sob escapes your throat, the tears trickling down, "why are you fucking entertaining that? you were responding to her message! i saw it!"

"do you want to see my phone?" max pleads, "i'll let you look at my phone. you can go through everything--"

"i don't want to see any more," you jaw clenches, "just get the fuck out. please."

"don't make me go," his voice falters, "please, just let me explain."

carefully, you begin to sit up. wiping away your tears, you raise your arm, pointing at the door, "j-just go. i don't want to hear another word from you. just get the fuck out of here."

"baby, let me just fucking tell you what's going on--"

squeezing your eyes shut, your shoulders shake as the cries erupt, spilling out, "i-i think i have a g-good idea of w-what's--"

"i love you. do you hear me? i fucking love you. i would rather lose everything. my fucking career. my awards and accolades. everything that i own. i would lose it all if it meant i could have you."

"you d-don't," you spit out, the despair withering away to fury, "if you loved me, you wouldn't be fucking and entertaining other women. get out of my fucking room, max. get the fuck out. i don't want to hear from you or speak to you ever again. get out of my fucking life."

in that moment, you sense his defeat.

max couldn't argue with you any longer. if that's what you wanted, then he would obey. as much as his mind screamed at him to stay, to just hold and comfort you, he knew you were stubborn.

he couldn't blame you, not one bit.

after all, things did look pretty bad. you caught him responding to a woman who was consistently messaging him. and not just any woman.

a woman he had a brief fling with, several years before he met you.

a woman that you knew about, simply because max couldn't help but share the details. not because he wanted you to know, but because he was comfortable with you.

you knew things about him that no one else did. you knew what his favorite toy was when he was only a six year-old boy. you knew what song he listened to before every race, how he liked his tomato soup, and the darkness surrounding his upbringing.

you knew max verstappen in ways no one else did.

which, is why he loved you. he loved that he could be vulnerable with you. you were his safe haven. the sun to his moon. the woman who placed the stars in the sky.

the one person he was completely and utterly himself with.

and now, you were sitting here, dried tears sticking to your heated cheeks, ordering him to go. forcing him out of your life.

he wouldn't blame you for acting this way.

he knew your temper. he was well aware that it would only be a couple of hours before you were calling him, desperate to hear his voice because it was the only way you could fall asleep. you would beg for him to sing that one lullaby, in his native tongue. the one he wanted to sing for you every night until you dozed off in his arms.

yet, if you wanted him gone, then that's what he would do.

after all, max was patient.

he would wait.

even if it took months, he would wait until you were ready to forgive him.

shoving an arm through his coat, he crossed the room, finding the door. glancing over his shoulder, he looked at you one last time.

you were curled up in the bed, wrapped underneath the comforter. your sobs were muffled, but he could hear them. it felt almost as if there was a dagger, tearing his chest open and driving into his heart.

but he had to leave. it was what you wanted.

it's what you needed, as much as it pained him to leave you.

as max verstappen slipped out from the front door of your motorhome, a figure lingered in the shadows, their curiosity piquing as max shouts and curses about, his voice carrying across the night.

toto wolff, team principal of mercedes folds his arms across his chest, clicking his tongue.

"oh sweet girl, what did you get yourself into?"

cautiously, the team principal flicks his head back and forth, ensuring there max was out of sight. after all, it was approximately 1:06 a.m. surely he wouldn't be noticed.

see, it wasn't like toto intended to witness what he just did. he just happened to be taking an evening stroll. and well, part of his stroll just happened to be in front of your motorhome. it was simply part of the route that he took every race weekend.

sucking in a breath, the team principal made his way toward your door.

he knew he shouldn't. he knew the risks involved. he knew how messy this could get.

but toto wolff wanted to build a champion.

and that's what he would do.

no matter what it took.

licking his lips, the team principal raises his hand, gently rapping his knuckles against the door. it only takes about a minute before the door opens. at first, it's merely a crack, your head barely poking out.

there's an uneasy feeling that seeps into his chest as he notices the crimson hue tinging your eyes, the lids puffy from tears. your hair is a little messier than usual, a loose t-shirt hanging from your frame.

when you recognize who it is, you straighten a little, clearing your throat.

"u-uh, hi toto. you know it's late right?"

"i know," he nods, "but i was taking a stroll to clear my head and noticed someone around your motorhome. is everything okay?"

"oh?" your brow furrows, and he picks up the way you shrink slightly, "i didn't know that. i've been asleep."

"oh really?" toto cocks his head, sensing your demeanor shift as he catches you right where he wants you, right in the middle of your lie, "are you telling the truth?"

your sniff, feeling your palms clam up as he studies you, picking you apart, "i-i don't know what you're talking about."

the team principal takes a step forward, a hand darting out. it caresses your cheek, the pad of his thumb catching a tear as it falls.

"tell me, hase. are you having boy troubles?"

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

taglist: @sweetjellyfishland @ts1m1kas @bxuzi @racecardilfs @bblouifford @justacornerofmybrain @irishmanwhore @sleutherclaw @marknolee @jeannealicette @allyisalright-blog @omgsuperstarg @okdokeygryssel63 @noooway555

[paxaz535]

Brothers Best Friend

♡pairing ♡

paige x black!oc

chapter i

chapter ii , chapter iii , chapter iv ,

summery : daveli has been crushing on her brothers best friend since she was in 8th grade. Finally the two attends the same college and many things happen.

———————————

“So, P. How do you feel about finally going to college?” David asked his best friend as they both sat on the couch. They were currently gaming, being obnoxiously loud. Paige chuckled, “It feels weird but I’m ready to play ball.” She replied as she made 2K Steph Curry make a 3. “Let’s fucking go!”

David just rolled his eyes, planning on distracting her but he knew how crazy she gets over this game so he decided against it. “That was nothing, man.” David spoke as he looked back at the screen. “Nah, you’re just trash.” Paige teased as she grabbed a grape from the fruit bowl in front of them.

Daveli sat on the stairs, listening into the two conversation, she smiled widely every time she heard the older’s girl voice, her crush growing each day. Now, Daveli has been crushing on Paige since she was 13 and Paige was 14.

She could never do anything about it because of her stupid brother, but she’s an adult now- well, almost. She turns 18 in two days. You’d think she’d grow out of the crush but it only grew stronger. Even when Paige had her relationships throughout high school, Daveli never stopped liking her.

Now she’s about to be a senior while Paige would be a Freshman in College in a few weeks. Daveli was proud of her but then again a part of her was upset that the girl would be leaving. She wouldn’t see her for her while. “Eli? what are you doing sweetie?” Her mom asked as she began to walk down the stairs. Daveli jumped, the voice catching her off guard.

“Nothing, momma.” She replied as she took a glance at Paige. She had on an all black outfit with white air forces and her hair was in a low bun, out of her face while she played the game. Daveli cheesed some more, seeing Paige like this made her giddy inside. “Well, come help me with the food.” Her mom spoke as she continued down the stairs.

“Hi, sweeties.” Angelica spoke as she walked up the two gamers. David groaned, “Ma, I told you to stop calling us that.” He spoke as the woman came and kissed the two on their heads. Paige blushed, finding their mom so sweet and caring. She thought of Angelica as her second mom. “Boy, hush. It’s almost dinner, what y’all want?” She asked as she picked up the empty fruit bowl from the coffee table. Paige looked at her phone, it was 5:49. “Oh, thank you but I should probably head home, my dad-” David shook his head.

“You should stay, dude. We can sleep out here and shit.” Daveli inwardly smirked, Paige sleeping over? Oh fuck yea. “I mean, if it’s no bother, Ms. Robertson.” Angelica glared at her son, “Language. And yes, you’re more than welcome to stay.” Paige smiled and texted her dad, letting him know she wont be coming home tonight.

Daveli then made her way towards everyone. She had sleep shorts with a tank on. “Uh, ma. You said earlier that I could pick dinner.” David scoffed, “No? All you do is pick pasta 24/7.” Daveli smacked her lip, “So? All you do is eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches 24/7.” Paige sat back, watching the scene with amusement. “This what we not finna do. Since y’all can’t pick, our guest can choose what we eat. What you want, baby?” Angelica spoke. Daveli rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. Paige smiled innocently, “You still got seafood?” Angelica smiled, nodding her head. David dapped her up, he been wanting seafood for the longest.

Daveli eyes went wide and her mouth dropped as she watched her mother walk towards the kitchen. “Bro, y’all know I don’t fuck wit seafood.” David laughed, “I’m sorry eli, but that’s what I got a taste for.” Paige spoke as she chuckled. “Go make yo pasta.” David teased as he grabbed his game controller and continued playing 2K.

The younger girl just groaned, making her way back upstairs to her room. “Where you going, lili?” Angelica yelled from the kitchen. “To wing stop!” She spoke as she came back down with her keys.

-

Daveli came back to the house smelling like seafood and it messed with her stomach. She noticed the two best friends still playing the game and just went back upstairs. She turnt on coryxkenshin and got comfortable in her bed. She couldn’t even take a bite of her wing before she heard the door slam open. She saw the two best friends standing in the doorway, looking at her.

she paused before going back to her laptop. “Elii.” She groaned and paused the video. “you know I love you right?” David spoke as he and paige crept in, daveli knew this game. he’s trying to sweet talk her into letting him get some, what a loser.

“no. get out.” she spoke before biting into the wing. david groaned, “come on sis. let me get one wing.” david spoke as he sat in front of her bed. she shook her head, “no, i only got six. there’s a seafood boil waiting downstairs for you.” paige chuckled, she didn’t want any but why pass up the opportunity to mess with the younger girl?

“i can get one wing.” david pushed as he eyed her food. “no, but what you can do is get out.” she was already on her second one, the girl haven’t ate all day so she was hungry. david rolled his eyes, “you’re stingy.” he got up. “No, just hungry. now, bye.” the girl dipped a wing into the ranch and took a bite. David mean mugged her, he closed her laptop and walked towards the door. “David! you’re so irritating.” daveli yelled as she heard him laughing. paige smirked at the girl, “oh shut up, p.” paige put her hands up in surrender. “the food could be poisoned, what if he just wanted to see?” she asked.

“I would already be dead.” daveli spoke as she finished her third one. paige just chuckled and walked out, closing the door behind her. daveli just smiled to herself, talking to paige was always gonna put a smile on her face. she went back to her laptop and continued to eat.

-

It was 8:37 when daveli went downstairs to throw away her trash. She noticed her mom in slight a rush. she had on her scrubs and was looking for something. “hey, sweetheart. you seen my pin?” daveli threw away the bag, “uh.. i think it was in your car. you always leave it in there.” daveli answered as she sat at the island. angelica sighed in relief, “you’re right. thank you, beautiful.” she came over and kissed her cheek. the daughter smiled.

“alright, as you can see I have a night shift so I won’t be back until tomorrow. Please keep those two in check.” daveli laughed, “like they’ll listen to me,” she spoke sarcastically as she watched her mother pick up her purse. angelica smiled, “make them.” daveli followed her out the kitchen and walked her to the door. “I’ll be back tomorrow, you two behave. i put eli in charge.” david and paige looked over at the woman, nodding. “okay, love you ma.” david spoke, paige waved sweetly and angelica was off.

“you’re funny if you think you’re in charge, daveli.” david laughed as he continued to play the game. paige was on her phone. daveli closed the door and locked it. “just don’t bother me, please.” daveli went up to her room, it was time for a shower.

-

when she got out, she heard music coming from downstairs. it was entirely too loud and it was only 9 pm. she quickly got dressed, did her night routine and walked down the steps. she automatically noticed voices coming from the living room but it wasn’t paige’s or david.

‘no way this dude got people over’

“david!” she had to yell over the music. everyone stopped talking and noticed the girl standing by the bottom step. daveli noticed it was 3 extra bodies with them, one of them being a girl. and that girl was next to paige. all over her. daveli’s heart stopped for a second, seeing them threw her so off guard that she didn’t even hear david calling her name. “daveli, what do you want?” he asked.

the girl attention was pulled away from the scene and onto her brother. “dude, you know momma don’t like when people over if she not here.” the girl exclaimed as she crossed her arms. her eyes kept going over to paige and the random girl that was practically sitting on her lap. she slightly shuddered, seeing it made her body feel weird.

“chill out, they gon be here for another hour or two and then they’ll leave. you’re not gonna snitch, are you?” he asked as he looked at her. she just sighed and shook her head. “can you at least turn the music down?” she asked as she took one more glance at the two girls, paige chuckled at something she said. daveli couldn’t help it as she gave them a look, “fix your face.” david spoke. daveli just rolled her eyes and went back upstairs, at least they turned the music down.

when she reached her room, she let out a big sigh. seeing paige with that girl messed her up a bit. she needed to get her mind off the girl so she decided to put on some headphones and read. reading was one of her favorite things to do, it always calmed her when she was feeling uneasy.

-

two hours went by and the girl noticed the house was quiet again. she already finished her book and was just laying down, thinking. she hummed to the song playing and then she heard a knock. she quickly paused her music, she knew it was paige. david never knocks. she went to the door and opened it. “hi.”

paige smiled softly. “hey. i know you said not to bother you but do you have anything i can sleep in?” Daveli smiled as well, opening the door more. “yea, of course.” paige stepped inside and closed the door. “i have joggers, shorts, anything in particular?” the younger girl asked as she looked through her drawers. “joggers and a tee is fine.” paige replied softly as she stood by the door.

daveli just nodded and gave her the clothes. she wanted so badly to ask about the girl that was all over her but it really wasn’t her place to. “you can change in the bathroom.” daveli pointed towards the door. paige nodded and went inside, she thought daveli’s room was big but the bathroom inside of it was something else. she quickly changed and stepped out, the clothes were slightly on the big side due to the fact paige was skinner than daveli but she didn’t mind, if anything she liked them a bit baggie.

“thank you, eli.” paige spoke as she stood by the door. daveli just nodded, “yea.” she then had thought. “hey, uh i know how wild david could get so if you want your more than welcome to sleep in here.” paige heart warmed, daveli was always so sweet to her. “i’ll keep that in mind.” paige nodded as she opened the bedroom door. daveli nodded and smiled, she decided to keep the door slightly cracked just in case paige does decide to come. she turned off her lights and got comfortable under the covers, falling into a deep sleep.

-

paige couldn’t sleep. she couldn’t sleep at all, it was messing with her head. david kept snoring loudly and he is indeed a wild sleeper. paige was getting annoyed, she loved her best friend, but sometimes he does things to remind her that he’s a boy. The pull out couch was too small for the both of them as it is so she was slightly cramped. as she was trying to get comfortable, the boy had the audacity to blow one back. she couldn’t take it anymore. “oh, hell nah bro.” She quietly but quickly got up. she then remembered what daveli offered. she’s probably asleep. but it wouldn’t hurt to try, right?

she quietly went up the stairs, noticing the door cracked a bit. she smiled as she walked closer to the room. she peeked inside, seeing daveli sound a sleep. she noticed how daveli slept on one side of the bed, like she knew paige was gonna come. it made paige heart warm, the younger girl was always so thoughtful and paige loved that about her. she quietly closed the door and walked to the bed.

she got in and got under the covers, the bed was soft and warm, making her sigh in relief. “at least you don’t snore.” paige whispered as she got comfortable. needless to say, paige quickly fell asleep and didn’t worry about waking up anytime soon.

excited to see how this goes..

i have some ideas in mind.

taglist - @melpthatsme more if wanted

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 6 - I've Been Searching for a Fortified Defense

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: As we begin our first 5-digit word count chapter (I can’t be stopped, someone take away my keyboard) and I find a stride of about two chapters per week, I want to say that: A) I fully intend on finishing this story. I plotted out the whole thing before I started, have made a few adjustments given the pacing I’ve done so far, and with how it’s broken down right now we’ll reach the end in 2-3 months. B) Thank y’all from the bottom of my heart for reading! If you have theories or thoughts or feedback please don’t hesitate to share them! I love hearing what you think of the plot and the characters, and every interaction means the world to me. Whether you’re only reading or leaving comments as well, thank you so damn much. I’ll see you next chapter (it’s gonna be a doozy) <3

Chapter Title from Bells in Santa Fe by Halsey.

Word Count: 11.2k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You throw a punch, and Phase One: Operation Quick and Bald goes. Not well, but it goes. Contains usual warnings.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, fluff, angst

Read on A03!

Chapter 5 - Chapter 7

Taglist: @lordofthunderthr @kritara

Want to be tagged? Just ask!

Ben dodged the third punch in a row, grinning widely right up until the fourth one landed on his face.

“Ha!” She yelled, drawing back to shake her first out. “Take that, you weirdly fast man.”

Ben rolled his eyes, rubbing his face lightly. It hadn’t hurt—he’d barely even felt it—but She was being real fucking smug for someone who’d only just landed a hit after a damn week of attempting to do so.

“Yeah, sure, Sunshine. Keep it the fuck up, and at this rate it’ll only take you another couple thousand years to surpass Muhammad Ali.”

She raised her brows at Ben, pausing with a tilt of her head. “You were a fan of Muhammad Ali?”

He nodded, giving her a scrunched look of annoyance. “I’m a fucking American, and there ain’t nothing more red-blooded American than punching commies like that son of a bitch did.”

“What?”

“When he fought the Russian, and won. That’s fucking American.”

“Ben, you’re thinking of the plot of Rocky IV.”

“No, Muhammad Ali fought that Russian pussy and kicked his fucking ass.”

“No, Sylvester Stallone fought the Russian pussy and kicked his fucking ass. In a movie.” She laughed to herself. “I’m shocked you even saw Rocky IV, let alone were so impacted by it to let the plot override your knowledge of a real life person.”

“Shut up,” Ben grunted, moving his hands back to a defensive stance. She fucking always won these stupid arguments, and Ben couldn’t actually prove it, but he knew She was changing the fucking internet she loved so damn much to match her claims. “Go again.”

“Someone missed nap time.” She muttered under her breath, even though she knew Ben could fucking hear her, but put her fists up anyways. “Can this be the last one? I’m hungry.”

Instead of answering, Ben just launched himself at her, and She jumped to the side with a yelp.

“What the fuck, Ben!”

He turned and threw another punch, feeling pleased at the smooth way she ducked away and met it with a punch of her own. Her face had lost the pissy shock, laser-sharp concentration replacing it. Her eyes were narrowed, darting across Ben as he moved, her bobbing and weaving wasn’t entirely shit, and her heart was controlled with her breathing. She landed her second punch, this one on his shoulder, and Ben laughed, delivering one of his own.

“Christ, Sunshine, you’re fucking weak.” He laughed, examining Her carefully for any loss of control.

“I’ll kill you with my bare hands, Bitch.” She growled, lunging forward and grunting in frustration as Ben dodged with ease.

“That’s my line.” He taunted. “And you couldn’t even kill a man with an assault rifle if he was a fucking foot away from you.”

“Blow me.”

“I’ve been fucking trying- Fuck!” She landed her third punch, and it burned. Ben reached to touch where she’d hit and felt the skin mending across his jaw.

She was grinning in a wide, toothy, satisfied way. “Suck on that, cunt.”

“Bitch,” he muttered, looking down at his hand to see it raw and red from the contact with his face, with some of his fucking hair stuck to it.

“Did you burn off my fucking beard!” His head shot up to see a half-sheepish, half-amused look on her face, lips curled and eyes wide.

“Oops.”

He yelled her name, and she had the fucking nerve to giggle. “We said no fucking powers!”

“I forgot.” She said lamely, her face less and less apologetic by the second, giggling again as she offered some of the most insincere comfort Ben had ever heard. “It’s not even that noticeable! You look just as good as before!”

His anger faded, and he gave Her a cocky smirk, raising his brows. “You think I look good, Sunshine?”

“I’m being nice. Don’t ruin it.” She muttered, her face adorably flushed, and Ben didn’t miss the skip of her heart.

“Whatever keeps you up at night.”

“That’s not the phrase.”

He winked. “I know.”

She scoffed and turned away, but not before Ben could see the slight smile on her lips. “I’m going to shower, I’ll meet you in the living room in fifteen. If you’re not there, with food, I’m eating the TV.”

Ben frowned, calling after Her figure moving down the hall. “Has the TV been edible this whole fucking time and you didn’t fucking tell me?!”

Her laughter echoed back down the hall. "You're real fucking gullible, grampa!"

“You know I can’t fucking tell when you’re joking about that shit, you bitch!”

“Fourteen minutes, cunt!”

“How the fuck am I supposed to make food in fourteen minutes?!”

“You’re a big boy, you’ll figure it out!”

Grumbling a string of cusses Ben hoped She could fucking feel, Ben grabbed a cup of instant noodles and threw them in the microwave, wondering if She would notice if he spit in hers. After pulling them out, grabbing two spoons from the counter that he almost immediately bent, spilling one of the cups as he noticed the damaged utensils, spilling the other when he noticed the first spill, and having to start the whole damned fucking thing over, Ben made his way to drop on the couch next to where She sat, wet hair clinging to her pretty face.

“Heard a lot of swearing, Pretty Boy, everything ok?”

He grunted, shoving Her noodles against her chest and letting go, not giving a fuck if she had a grip on them. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Just asking a question,” he could hear her shit-eating grin. “Thought it was a free country. Thought a patriot like you would appreciate me exercising my first amendment right.”

“That protects you from the government, not me.” Ben parroted back the words She had yelled at him after he’d made the apparently fucking fatal mistake of saying “first amendment right” in her presence.

She chuckled, her voice teasing. “Didn’t know you were capable of retaining information about something other than yourself.”

“Well, your tits were looking great while you were bitching. It helped.” He grabbed the remote, raising it to the TV. “I made food. I’m picking what we watch.”

“If you pick Game of Thrones so you can watch the sex scenes again, I’m figuring out a way to kill myself and doing it on your bed.”

“Whatever gets you in my bed, Sunshine.” He winked. “And I’m invested in the fucking plot, it’s not just the sex scenes.”

“It’s mostly the sex scenes.” She said, not even flinching at his flirtation. “Just go watch porn. See how fast you can break the fleshlights. If you do all three in ten minutes, Butcher owes me twenty dollars.”

Ben scowled, not enjoying that She’d apparently been making fucking bets with Butcher about his masturbation. “I can last longer than ten fucking minutes, I’m not a fucking pussy.”

“Prove it.”

He grinned widely at Her as her face flushed adorably, her own phrasing catching up with her head. “I’d be honored, Sunshine.”

“You’re like a fucking rabbit in heat.” She muttered. “And if you do last longer than ten, Hughie gets the money, so keep that in mind when you’re jerking it to dragon boobs after I go to bed.”

“The dragons don’t have any fucking boobs, dumbass, the fucking hot lady queens do.” Ben said smugly, ignoring her eye roll. “And I would ‘jerk it’ in the privacy of my room, but someone won’t give me a fucking phone.”

“Yeah, the CIA. I’d actually back you up with Mallory, Pretty Boy. I think giving you a phone would be really entertaining.”

“I don’t need your fucking help.” He snapped, and she laughed.

“Can’t rely on just a handsome face to convince her that you somehow deserve the internet.”

“Handsome face?” He grinned at her, and only the slight stutter of her heart told Ben she heard him.

She made a mock face of thought. “Maybe if we suggested parental controls…”

“I’ll kill you, bitch.”

“I’ll make you the most useless and sad eunuch to ever grace this sorry planet, cunt.”

Ben glared at Her, and she reached over his arm to press play on the remote.

Most of the days since the failed Sister Sage mission had been like this. She and Ben got up, trained, ate, trained more, and then watched TV with dinner until She retreated to her room and Ben fought sleep for the rest of the night, alone. Neither of them mentioned how he’d saved her, or how She had started a habit of slapping Ben awake—he was pretty fucking certain that at this point she had figured out another way to break through the nightmares but was purposely choosing to fucking hit him instead—before she’d sit next to him for an hour or two after. Ben liked this unspoken arrangement, and liked even more how She had silently agreed to it. Just because he didn’t actively hate Her right now didn’t mean he was about become a sniveling pussy mess about feelings. Even if the lack of active hatred had morphed into something pulsing in his chest that he didn’t understand, and didn't fucking want to. Making Her instant noodles and not killing her when she lied to him for fun or called him “Pretty Boy” was as far as Ben would bend.

It had been mostly radio silence from the Boys, though Butcher and Cocksucker had visited two days after they’d dropped Her and Ben back at the safe house, as Cocksucker had managed to break his arm. There had been a long, incredibly boring and poorly told story as to how the injury had occurred, involving a supe, Nikola Tesla and something called a Cybertruck, but Ben had pretty much tuned out the entire fucking conversation once he realized they weren’t here for him at all. The only thing that had kept him from retreating to his room for the duration of the visit was the small falter in Her heart when she touched Cocksucker, her jaw clenched as Ben and Butcher watched Cocksucker’s arm heal into place in a fucking disgusting manner.

When She’d let go, she’d given Ben a weird fucking look with tight lips and sad eyes that he'd only seen before on Cocksucker. It had passed quickly, her face returning to apathetic and bored, her eyes regaining the sharp amusement they usually held, but fuck it had confused him. She and Butcher had started talking about missions and planning and other mind-numbing shit, Cocksucker shaking out his arm as if he didn’t trust that it was healed, and Ben had needed to piss and gone to do just that. Before he’d left, he’d caught Her a look of where the hell are you’d going, he’d grinned back with a wink of why, you want to join me?, and she’d rolled her eyes and returned her attention to Butcher. When he’d returned, Butcher and Cocksucker had left and She was glaring at him, arms across her chest.

“Are you an idiot, or just a dick?” She’d snapped.

He’d frowned at Her, trying to figure out what had made her all fucking bitchy. As far as Ben was concerned, he’d been fucking amazing, only calling Butcher a pussy twice and managing to refrain from talking to Cocksucker at all. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Butcher told me we’re moving on operation Quick and Bald soon. He told me you knew. Why didn’t you fucking tell me?!”

“Oh,” Ben had rolled his eyes. “I forgot.”

“You forgot?”

He’d shrugged. “Well, you fucking know now, so get over it. And what kind of fucking shit codename is Quick and Bald?”

“Fuck you, it’s an accurate and descriptive name.”

“How the fuck could that be ‘accurate and descriptive’?”

“Because two key factors of this phase of my plan are the quick and the bald.”

“Your plan?”

“Yeah, my fucking plan. That I fucking deserved to know the status of.” She’d scowled. “Butcher says it’s almost ready. He’ll get us in two days once it’s in place.”

That had been five days ago. Starlight and Cocksucker had dropped in after two days, full of apologies and updates that Ben didn’t give a fuck about, and when he’d asked Her for more information about the plan, she’d told him to “suck her dick and shove his questions up his ass until they reached his brain.”

So Ben still had no fucking clue what Quick and Bald was about.

Aside from Her lingering anger at him for apparently having the fucking nerve to ask questions about the jobs he had to do—an opinion he had made the mistake of voicing, leading the unwelcome lesson on the first amendment—She was being impossibly easy to talk to, and Ben was getting dangerously close to not only enjoying her company, but finding her comfortable. Part of him was hoping she’d say something very, very soon that would allow him to grip onto hatred, or at least indifference, for the rest of his time in this stupid fucking situation.

Instead, in a way that made Ben think God himself was out to fucking get him, he’d started to tell her things. Fucking voluntarily.

One of those nights where sleep had gripped his head and pulled him under, struggling and roaring, he’d woken up once more from only the force and sting of her hand across his face. She’d sat next to him again, and he’d asked her more questions about before, all of which she’d answered with a faraway, insufferably sad look in her eyes.

“How many siblings did you fucking have again?” He’d pressed once.

“Four,” She’d responded, a wistful smile on her face. “Two brothers, two sisters. All younger.”

“Your parents had four more kids after you? What, were you that fucking annoying they needed to try again four fucking times?”

“No, I was just so adorable they needed to try and recreate my perfection. Once they realized that was impossible, they gave up.” She’d smirked, and Ben hated that somehow he didn’t doubt her words. “Well,” she’d mused to herself. “That and they fell violently out of love with each other.”

“Violently?” He’d made a face, and she’d nodded solemnly.

“I shielded my siblings from a lot of flying plates.”

Ben found another thing to hate. Her parents, and how fucking sad she looked. “You miss them?”

“My parents?” She’d snorted. “I miss my dad. I hope my mom gets her head popped.”

He’d coughed to cover a laugh. “No, you fucking smartass. Your siblings.”

Her answer was quick and soft. “Every fucking day.”

Ben had grunted, watching the distance return to her face, and before he could stop himself, he was talking. “I didn’t have any siblings.”

Before he could curse himself out and try to distract Her with something else, she had been looking back at him with wide, focused eyes. “Do you wish you did?”

“I never thought about it,” he’d muttered. “My father was such a fucking dick I’m surprised he even got my mother to marry him, let alone fucking have one kid. I think he hated me enough to never fucking risk it again.”

“Risk it?” She’d kept her voice impossibly gentle as she’d asked, and it made his skin crawl all weird.

“I was the biggest fucking regret of his life. If he could go back and stop me from happening in the first place, make my mother flush me out, he wouldn’t have fucking hesitated.”

She’d paused, and a very fucking stupid part of Ben had thought she was going to let the conversation go. Of course, he should’ve fucking known by now that She damn well wouldn’t.

“What was your mom like?”

He hadn’t fucking expected that, and it had shocked him enough to answer. “Kind. Too kind for my father, he saw it as fucking weakness and told her all the fucking time. But she was so fucking kind.” He took a heavy breath. “She was full of love, and I have no fucking clue how. It was fucking stupid, all her love, even for my piece of shit father. He’d yell at her and threaten her and mock her, but she still fucking loved him. She fucking loved everything.”

Her voice was still gentle from beside him. “Like what?”

“Animals. Cats specifically. My father had all these fucking hunting dogs he loved more than anything, certainly more than me, and the only good thing he ever fucking did was trade one to get her a cat. It was massive, fluffy and gray, and it was a fucking asshole to everyone but her. It ate like a fucking elephant, shed like a whore in summer, but she loved it so fucking much.” At this point Ben had really wished he would shut the fuck up, but he couldn’t, and he was going to have to figure out a way to blame Her for that later. “She loved art. Painting. She tried to get me to love it too, even though I could barely draw a fucking worm. But I’d try, and she’d frame all my stupid, shitty drawings and hang them around the house until my father saw them and threw them in the trash. She loved music but couldn’t carry a tune if her life fucking depended on it. They’d go to the opera because my father would donate a ton for the publicity, and she’d come back all damn giddy. I’d wait up, just because she was fucking contagious when she was that happy. Even my father felt it, enough to just go straight to bed and not kick my ass for still being awake. She was fucking smart, too. Real fucking smart. My father would joke he wished she was a man, because then her brain would be useful. She would’ve fucking jumped for joy if she saw the world now. Met a fucking woman doctor.” He paused, looking back down at Her beside him. She hadn’t looked away from him, and there was none of the pity he’d expected to see on her face. It was just open, listening intently to his words with no malice or trickery behind her eyes.

“She sounds amazing.” She’d said softly, a small smile he didn’t understand on her face. “And your dad sounds like a fucking cunt.”

Ben had chuckled in surprise. “Fucking understatement of the damn year, Sunshine. That pussy would’ve tried to pry your degree from your fucking hands.”

“Let him try, I’d burn his fucking face off and laugh while I did it.”

“What were you even going to fucking do with a PhD in archeology?" He’d asked, and she’d huffed a small laugh.

“Anthropology, Pretty Boy. But nice guess.” She corrected. “And I’m honestly not sure. I’d quite literarily only just actually received the degree before everything… changed.” She’d sighed. “I had a few job offers, but mostly in academia and business. What I wanted was to work with nonprofits to help people.”

“Help people?” He’d given her a disbelieving stare. “With a prissy fucking degree?”

“Yeah, dickwad. Help people. I was a cultural anthropologist. I specialized in the evolution of cultures and ways to combat systemic cultural oppression.”

He’d stared at Her blankly. “You’re going to have to take down the fucking fancy talk by seven, Sunshine.”

“I studied how the government and culture is mean to people on purpose, and how to make them stop being mean.” She’d said flatly.

“Oh.” He’d rolled his eyes at the dirty look she was giving him. “Oh, fuck off. It wasn’t that painful to say.”

“Yes, it was.” She’d mumbled, narrowing her eyes at him. “You’re not going to argue with me?”

“What’s there to fucking argue about?”

“I just called your beloved country an ‘oppressive system’.” She’d watched him wearily, but her heart remained steady. “Doesn’t it mar your refined American nationalism?”

“Do you fucking want me to be mad?” Ben had asked, raising his brows at her. “I can definitely find it in me, that’s not a fucking issue. But usually when we fight about this shit, you get all bitchy and don’t talk to me for way too fucking long.”

“I mean, no, I don’t want you to get mad…” She’d frowned, examining him with yet another fucking confusing look. “Does it really bother you when I ignore you?”

“No.” He’d snapped quickly. “It’s just annoying, and I don’t like having to fucking deal with it.”

She’d hummed with an amused smile on her face, and the conversation had moved on to something else. Ben had shoved down the way it had been so easy to talk about his mother with her, until it was somewhere in his gut and he didn’t have to think about the way the feeling rolled around inside him.

And he refused to even acknowledge how when She would smile now, he’d have to fight himself to not do the same.

———-

It had been a week since the Sage incident, a week since Ben had saved your life—you'd locked everything about that particular action from what you thought of it to how it made you feel somewhere deep in your chest—and you were starting to lose your mind a little bit. When Annie and Hughie had stopped by with nervous words about delays in your meticulously prepared and incredibly well-detailed plan, you’d been willing to wait another day, maybe two, before executing operation Quick and Bald. Now it had been three days, burgeoning on four, and you were worryingly close to leaving the safe house just to yell at Butcher. Ben could stay here, or follow you and help you beat Butcher up for all you cared. Which was, admittedly, worrying within itself. Especially because the whole point of operation Quick and Bald was to take preventative measures against Ben’s needless brutality.

Over a month ago, right after you’d moved into the safe house and when you had been ready to throttle Ben’s neck every waking moment—an urge that hadn’t entirely waned, but was now undercut with a weirder, stronger urge to be near him without any murderous intent—you’d spent the hours quarantined in your room perfecting your plan to get Ryan Butcher the fuck out of dodge. When they’d come to pick you and Ben up for the whole Neuman test, you’d left it in the van for Butcher to find, and had been waiting since for him to set up the dominoes so you could knock them over.

At this point, you’d be happy with not even “dominos to knock over” and just “one singular domino to throw at someone." You had begun to develop a habit of staring down the hall from the living room, trying to will someone to appear with at least a fucking update. So far this strategy was not working, and had apparently started to garner attention.

Sitting on the couch, the TV white noise in the background and noodles in your hand cold and forgotten, you felt a foreign rush of oddly tight concern run through your body. You frowned, heard your name from next to you, and turned to find that Ben had been poking your arm.

“Are you fucking alive?” He grunted, watching you with a frown.

“Literally? Yes.” You answered with a tight smile. “You have noodles on your face.”

He reached up to feel for them, not looking away from you. “What the fuck do you mean literally? How can you be fucking metaphorically alive?”

“Mind-body problem, Pretty Boy. And it’s not metaphorically, it’s philosophically.” You lean back, grinning.

“You’re a real fucking pretentious bitch sometimes.” He grumbled, still trying to find the food stuck to his beard.

“If you made me a shirt that said that, I’d wear it.”

“I’m not going to fucking make you a shirt, Sunshine. You couldn’t make me learn to fucking sow with a gun to my head.”

“Because the gun wouldn’t affect you at all?” You pointed to your own chin, mirroring where the noodle was caught.

He sneered. “Because I’m not a pussy.” His hand found the stray piece of his dinner, and he pulled it from his jaw.

“Big words from the man who took two tries to make me instant ramen- hey!” A wet noodle hits you in the face.

“Ramen your ungrateful ass didn’t even fucking eat.” Ben gave a pointed look at the abandoned cup in your hands, the food inside having long lost any heat. “Don’t fucking test me, or I’ll actually spit in your food next time.”

“Drama queen,” you muttered, peeking back at the door. “Like you don’t already do that.”

“I fight the urge to be a fucking bitch, unlike certain women.”

You nod absentmindedly. “Butcher.”

Ben snorted behind you, and a smile you hoped he didn’t see crept onto your face.

“Yeah, sure Sunshine.” His attention returned to the TV, and you did your best to not stare down the hall, trying to ignore the hope that the door now shrouded in darkness would open.

A successful effort that made you jump out of your seat when it did just that with an aggressive bang.

Ben was faster than you, practically launching himself over the sofa and bolting down the hall, a dangerous look of alarm the last thing you saw on his face before he was gone from the room.

“Shit, no! It’s me!” You heard a high-pitched shout from the shadows of the entrance. “It’s Hughie!”

“What the fuck are you doing here?!” You heard Ben’s growl of a response.

Butcher’s voice drawled from the shadows. “Oi, take a deep fucking breath and put the bloody kid down.” 

“Someone fucking answer me first.”

“Put him down, Soldier Boy, before we knock your ancient ass the fuck out.” The impatient, clipped words of MM responded, almost drowned out by Frenchie's shout.

“Can someone turn on the fucking lights? It is as dark as Monsieur Butcher’s heart and asshole!” 

“I- I don’t feel good.” Hughie’s voice stuttered.

“Ben!” You flicked on the hallway sconces, illuminating a scene of Ben’s full body weight pressing Hughie to the wall, Butcher and MM trying with practically negative success to pry him off, and Kimiko gripping one of Frenchie’s arms as his other groped around for direction. You let out a very long, very loud sigh. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“It’s fucking late,” he snapped, not letting Hughie go. “They shouldn’t be here so fucking late.”

“This ain’t your real house, Mate.” Butcher grunted, still trying to move Ben. “We can be here whenever we bloody well please.”

Hughie wheezed out your name in a pleading tone. “Your plan is ready. We’re here to- fuck- we’re here to get you.”

That got you moving, crossing to the end of the hall in quick, frantic steps. “It’s ready? Are you sure?” Hughie gave a weak nod, and you rolled your eyes, shoving Ben shoulder. “Put him down, dumbass. He’s not a threat, and honestly, probably the worst one to have gone after. Just, like, strategically.”

Ben glared at you, but let go. He glanced at where MM and Butcher were still grabbing him, and gave them a venomous look that got them both to let go and take hasty steps back. He shot a glowering look of they could’ve fucking waited until the morning in your direction.

You wrinkled your nose at him. No. Shut the fuck up. You turned to Hughie, not even bothering to hide the desperation you felt in your imploring stare. “It’s all ready? All of it? A-Train agreed to help? We’re sure Ashley has the information? We’re sure neither one is going to tell Homelander, and we’re not about to walk into a fucking trap?”

“Yes, yes, yes, kind of, and yes.” Butcher counted off on his fingers as he answered. “But we’ve got to go right fucking now.”

“Kind of?” Anxious energy rushed through you—that still-strange feeling lighting under your skin—and you ignored the weird look Ben shot you as it did. “What do you mean, kind of? If you fucked this up, Butcher, I swear to God-"

“Calm the fuck down, Love.” Butcher snapped. “It’s going to be fine, we’ll explain on the way. But we need to go fucking now if you want this to work.”

You gave a sharp nod, starting to pull on your boot, glancing up with a pause when you heard Hughie say your name behind you.

“Do you, uh, do you want to get dressed first?” His voice was still slightly weak as he recovered from Ben’s force.

You glanced down at your body, and decided that the oversized shirt and cloth shorts would be fine. They were from the CIA spring fire-proof collection, and that was more than enough. “Nope. Let’s fucking move.”

You were halfway to the door when a crash sounded behind you, and you whirled around to see MM firmly blocking Ben’s path, the crash seeming to have been Hughie stumbling into the wall in an attempt to get away from the standoff.

“You’re not coming, Soldier Boy. This is a goddamn delicate operation, and you’re the fucking reason we have to do it in the first place. We can’t afford you throwing a tantrum and screwing us.”

“I’m fucking coming, and it’s not up for fucking debate.”

Off to the side, Frenchie snickered as Kimiko signed how many times do you think he’s said that before?

Ben shot them an annoyed look, his fists clenching. “What’s so fucking funny?”

“Nothing,” Frenchie snickered, and his tone was so remarkably unconvincing that even if you hadn’t understood Kimiko, you wouldn’t have believed him.

Ben grunted and tried to move past MM, again to no avail.

He glared down at the firmly planted man, a familiar violent glint in his eyes. “You better fucking move now, before I make you.”

“Do your fucking worst, we’ll put you right back in the box. You’re not coming with us.”

“MM,” you said firmly, watching Ben's fists clench as the dangerous glint returns to his eyes. “We need to go.”

MM looks back at you, but remains in his place. “Are you fucking serious? You’re siding with him?”

“I’m not siding with him.” You keep your voice level, ignoring Ben’s smug face and grin. “We can’t leave him. The I go where he goes thing unfortunately goes both ways.”

“The safe house will hold him for five hours.” MM pushed, and before you could even shake your head, Ben cut in.=

"No, it won’t.”

You shoot him a look that says you’re being unhelpful, and he just returns it with his own of fuck off, you know you fucking want me there.

“Please, MM. He’ll stay quiet in the background, or I’ll burn his dick off. Right?” You direct your last words at Ben, giving him a pointed agree with me or I’m knocking you out and leaving you here look.

“Yeah, whatever. But I’m not staying in the fucking van like a pussy. And you’d better explain what the fuck is happening on the way, Sunshine.”

“Deal. But first they,” You narrowed your eyes at Butcher. “Have some explaining of their own to do.”

“Don’t lose your bloody mind, Love, it’s all in order.” Butcher said breezily, shoving past you to open the door. He gave a dramatic wave of his arm for you to exit, and with a look of doubt, you did.

The car ride was already poised to be uncomfortable. Butcher’s car was not equipped for seven people, let alone seven people where three were very large men, three were supes, and nobody wanted to have physical contact with two. As such, Butcher drove, MM sat in the front, you found yourself squished against one window with Ben between you and a remarkably uncomfortable Hughie, as Kimiko sat, slightly elevated onto their laps, between Frenchie at the other window, and Hughie. It was overall an unideal situation, made worse as your own frustration was amplified by Ben’s, and by Hughie revealing that it was, in fact, not all in order.

Your phase one, the original operation Quick and Bald had called for Ashley Barrett’s complete cooperation. You’d even painstakingly outlined all the potential ways to flip her—most involving something along the lines of hey, wouldn’t a job that didn’t make you so stressed you rip out all your hair and have to buy a bunch of wigs be nice?—and different ways to keep Homelander from finding out about her betrayal—Spain was lovely this time of year, and had a thriving BDSM community Ashley would love. While MM had managed to take care of your instructions for A-Train, the half of the plan you’d incorrectly anticipated to be more difficult, the Ashley situation was, in Butcher’s words, very fucking delicate, but we’ve adapted and everything will be bloody fine, so trust me and don’t be a fucking cunt about it.

You did not trust him. I didn’t help that you’d asked for any other possible details, and he’d pretended he couldn’t hear you. This suspicion was confirmed when, despite your incredible clarity that you would never step foot there again, Butcher seemed to be driving right to Vought Tower.

Your eyes had been steadily widening, panic starting to run through you the closer and closer you got, and you flinched when you felt Ben’s roughly shoulder nudge your own.

“What’s fucking wrong with you?” He’d asked in a low voice, barely audible over Hughie’s rambling explanation.

“You should listen,” you mutter back, trying to shut out the confusing concern he always seemed to feel at you, how it felt remarkably genuine, but was laced with anger that felt like it was trying to push out of your body. “Hughie’s explaining the plan.”

“Yeah, but all I have to fucking do is stay quiet, and I get to keep my dick. You’re being fucking twitchy and silent, and your heart is beating faster than it has all damn day, so don’t even try to fucking lie and tell me it’s fine.”

“It is fine, I’m fine-“ You paused as his words sank in. “Wait, what do you mean my heart-“

“Alright, here we go.” Butcher cut off both you and Hughie with a clap of his hands. “Everyone bloody out, let’s get this shitshow on the road.”

“Butcher,” you said, looking around to see you’d parked directly across from the tower entrance. “What the fuck are we doing here?”

“We’re meeting them right there.” MM answered for Butcher, pointing out of his window to something you couldn’t see. “It’s almost midnight, and Annie’s been making sure nobody gets inside but us.”

“But why?” You protest, even as MM leaves the car. “This,” you give a wide, general wave that hits Ben in the nose. “Cannot be the only option.”

“Both of them still have their trackers,” Hughie leans forward with an apologetic look as Frenchie and Kimiko exit the car. “This will look like they’re just getting a midnight snack, and hopefully Homelander won’t get suspicious.”

“Hopefully?!” You feel a rush of anger—not yours—and a twist of fear deep within your gut—absolutely yours. “Hopefully fucking Homelander won’t get suspicious?!”

Hughie gave an uncertain nod before very quickly scrambling to get out of the car. You take a long, deep breath, trying to steel yourself. A rush of what was becoming a familiar fuming and brittle concern ran through you. You look at Ben, to find his eyes locked firmly onto yours.

“Sorry about hitting-“

“I know how to hot-wire a car.”

You blink at him, taken aback by the firmness of his voice. “What?”

His hand moved to grip your thigh, his gaze not wavering. “I know how to hot-wire a car.”

You give him a flat look. “Yeah, I heard you the first time. Why are you telling me that?”

His frustration leaked into you. “Because say the word, I’ll steal Butcher’s car, and we’ll fucking leave.”

“What? Are you insane?”

“You look like you’re either going to start fucking crying or burst into flames, and this is a stupid fucking idea.”

“This was my plan.” You snap. “And I’m not stealing Butcher’s car. Why do you even know how to hot-wire a car anyway?”

Ben’s grip tightened. “No, your plan was stupidly well fucking thought out.”

“That’s an oxymoron.” You mutter, and he ignores you.

“And even if they haven’t completely fucking blown the execution, they completely squashed any chance of safety.”

“It’ll be fine,” you say, the words sounding fake even as you say them. “It’s late. He’s probably asleep.”

“What if he’s not?” His concern was starting to move to your throat, and there was something else, something sitting far deeper in your chest, beating and beating against you. Against you.

“Ben.” You place your hand over his. “I’ve worked too hard on this. This is the only way, and it will be fine.” You say the last words firmly and clearly, trying to make them sink into you. “Now take your fucking hand off of me, and get out of the damn car.”

He pulls himself from you, and even as his touch leaves, the concern and beat linger until he’s gone from the car. You drag yourself across the seats and ignore Hughie’s offer of a hand as you duck out of the car and onto the curb. You notice the 24 hour diner MM must have been pointing out almost immediately, half because—aside from an incredibly sketchy looking deli a few doors down—it’s the only building with its lights still on, and half because two very flustered teenagers are sulking away from the entrance, where Annie stands with her arms crossed. She’s already spotted your group, and has angeled her head in a signal to join her.

“You’re late.” She chides as you approach.

“Well, Starlight, I’d apologize, but it was those two fuckheads,” Ben and MM both receive a jabbed thumb over Butcher’s shoulder. “Who decided to draw out the bloody carpool process.”

“I told you not to call me Starlight anymore, Butcher.” Annie snaps, not giving him a chance to respond before she turns to you. “A-Train is, somehow, running behind as well. Hopefully Ashley’s just being resistant to getting food with him, but they’ll be here.”

“Isn’t running that pussy’s whole fucking thing?” Ben muttered, quiet enough for only you to hear. You step as hard as you can on his foot.

“Shut it, Pretty Boy.” You whisper over his grunt of what probably is more emotional pain than physical.

“Bitch.” He hisses back.

“Cunt.” You raise your voice so the others can hear you. “We should go inside, it’s risky to just… stand here.”

With nervous looks around and stuttered agreements, you all make your way into the diner. The lights are flickering, and it’s eerily empty with only a very nervous-looking blonde waitress at the counter. She makes a very big show of asking how many are in your party, leading you to a large, round table, and laying out the menus with shaky hands. Kimiko, Hughie, Annie, and MM try and offer her comforting smiles, though MM’s is strained as he keeps a vigilant glare on Ben. The waitress is staring at Ben herself, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, glacing back as she leaves to get your and Butcher’s coffee, Annie and MM’s tea, Kimiko and Hughie’s milkshakes, and Ben and Frenchie’s orders of “the strongest alcohol you’ve fucking got.” Your personal bet was it was going to just be very old beer.

“Why is she fucking staring at me?” Ben muttered to you, watching the waitress as she walked away. “Did you fuck up my beard that bad?”

“Your beard looks literally the same.” You dismiss. “And it’s because, as far as the public knows, Maeve killed you in a heroic act of self-sacrifice to stop your evil, anti-American attacks. That, or she wants to fuck you.”

“Hm,” he looks back at you, settling down into his seat. “Am I allowed to bring guests into the safe house?”

“No.” You say, a little more curtly than you intended. Seeing his wide, cocky grin, you clairfy. “It’s a breach of security. She would need to pass a CIA vetting and be approved by, like, twenty people. I don’t think she’d do that just to fuck you.”

Ben shrugs, his smirk only growing. “You did.”

“I’m going to cut off your balls and feed them to you-“

“Hey,” MM cuts you off, saying your name in a brisk, hard tone from across the table. “They’re here.”

You snap your head to the door, where A-Train is practically pushing Ashley into the diner.

You hear her voice clearly over the recession pop humming from the speakers. “Why can’t we just go to the fucking deli? They make these amazing meatball subs and supes eat free, so you could order for both of us- oh fuck no.”

“Oh, shit.” MM mutters, jumping to his feet with Butcher and Annie as Ashley notices them, and promptly tries to dash for the exit.

You don’t entirely blame her. You’d probably do the same. You had done the same, an unhelpful voice reminds you.

“I- Am- Not-“ Ashley is trying to get past A-Train, who hasn’t given up trying to herd her further into the diner. “Fuck- this-“

“Ashley, just listen to them, I fucking swear-“

“Why should I trust you?!” Ashley doubles over, out of breath. “You fucking tricked me! Midnight snack my fucking ass- Fuck no!” She raises a crooked finger at Annie, who has stopped in front of her. “Get the fuck away from me, you bitch.”

“Ashley, please listen to A-Train-“

“No! Just leave me the fuck alone! I don’t want to be a part of your weird fucking eye for an eye justice shit-“

“You kind of already are.” MM says as he locks the door behind her. “You work for Vought, your it’s motherfucking CEO. That makes you a part of this, like it or not.”

“Not!” Ashley shouts. “I don’t care what you have to say! Homelander’s going to fucking kill me, oh my god.” She starts to hyperventilate. “If he finds out I was here, he’ll kill you-“ She points a shaky finger at A-Train. “And then make me go on fucking TV to explain why you’re missing, and then fucking kill me-“

Butcher scoffs. “Bloody hell, lady. Calm the fuck down, Homelander ain’t gonna find out.”

“You don’t know that!” She shrieked. “He knows fucking everything! Especially since fucking Sage joined!” She spins around frantically, and her wild eyes lock onto yours. “He knows about them!” A shaking finger jumps between you and Ben. “Fuck! He’s supposed to be fucking asleep and now he’s fucking not! And he was so fucking angry about her, I’ve never seen him so fucking angry-“

Whatever else Ashley stutters about Homelander’s anger is lost to you as the world freezes. The feeling isn’t just under your skin, it’s up your spine, in your blood, circling around your brain. It’s fucking everywhere and you can’t fucking breathe, her words looping around you.

He knows. He’s angry. He fucking knows. He’s fucking angry. He fucking knows and he’s fucking angry and he fucking knows and he’s fucking angry and-

A white hot, impossibly calm feeling crashes over you. It’s angry, hungry and angry, but it’s grounding, sharpening everything around you. Suddenly the world is back in complete focus, Ashley’s shrill rambling scraping at your ears, and in the distance that weird fucking rhythm is sounding. As the feeling in your body returns fully, you realize Ben’s hand is back on your thigh. You bounce it, looking up to give him a glare, and find he’s not even looking at you. Instead, his eyes are trained on Ashley, narrowed and cold. You give a small cough, and when he glances down at you, the feeling of anger stutters with something lighter, though only for a second.

You give another bounce of your leg, a look of move your damn hand or lose it taking over your face.

No, not until you calm the fuck down his scowl responds.

You huff, standing abruptly, and his hand falls off at the force of your movement. Suddenly you feel a lot less solid, but reason that your legs are shaky from the Homelander of it all, and if any situation calls for fractured nerves, it’s this one.

“Ashley.” You call across the diner, trying not to stutter or chew off your lip as her protests falters and attention turns to you. “If you know who I am, you know I wouldn’t be anywhere near here if we weren’t certain it was safe. Just have some food with us, listen, and then you can go.”

Ashley gives you a scowl that might surpass Ben’s but nods tightly, yanking her arm from where A-Train had been trying to hold her in place. You sit back down as the group at the door returns to their seats, the poor waitress pressing herself against the bar as they pass. Letting out a shaky, unsteady breath, you try and still yourself as you look out the diner window. City lights. Music.

City lights.

Music.

It was safe. He knows and he’s angry but was safe and there were city lights and music.

Your breathing was no longer coming in short, distressed bursts, but getting air in and out of yourself still felt like an act of labor, and you needed to get it the fuck together before Ashley sat down.

City lights. Music.

You can’t hear the song the diner is playing, instead letting your whole mind turn inward, allowing the ghost of music you can no longer sing to wash over you.

Ashley sits across from you right when you regain control, and from the corner of your eye, you see Ben pulling his hand from where it had been inching towards yours.

Her eyes flit, nerves poorly hidden, from you to Ben to Butcher to Annie and back to you, and her voice is high and shaky when she speaks. “Well?”

“Ashley, we need your help.” Annie leans forward, palms flat on the table.

“Well, then we’re done. I can’t help you. They don’t tell me anything, not really.” Ashley tries to stand, but her arm is caught by A-Train. “Really?” A-Train hisses as he pulls her back into her seat beside him. “They don’t tell you anything my ass, we sit in on all the same meetings. And I pulled these files-“ He pulls out a thumb drive from absolutely nowhere and drops it on the table. “Using your name, so you clearly have access to them.”

“What?!” Ashley looks at the thumb drive like it’s going to either explode or start jizzing on her blouse. “Why would you fucking do that?”

“Insurance.” A-Train answers smugly, the thumbdrive clearly having his intended. “I can’t open it, so you’re going to tell them how, and then I’ll erase the records of you taking the files from the system.”

Ashley looks around at your group, shaking her head. “No.”

“Sorry, Mate. We ain’t really asking.” Butcher leans across A-Train, shoving the thumb drive closer to Ashley. “Do us this solid, and A-Train won’t go right up to Homelander and tell him about how he saw you also cuddly and tight with me, Soldier Boy, and his favorite missing person.”

Your heart jumps right into your throat. City lights. Music.

Suddenly, Ben’s elbow is planted against yours, and you’re pulled back down to earth just in time to hear Ashley yell, “This is fucking blackmail! I’ll fucking sue!”

“You cannot sue government officials, madame.” Frenchie says smugly, and Hughie shakes his head.

“That’s- Frenchie, that’s not even kind of true.”

“You’re also not a government official.” Annie adds.

Frenchie looks genuinely perplexed at this and gives Kimiko a confused frown, receiving a shrug in return.

“But,” you pipe up, your voice somehow bored and casual. “I’m legally dead. He’s-“ You jab Ben in the chest, and Ashley’s eyes widen. “Legally dead and an enemy of the state. You can’t sue either of us, not without admitting some Vought secrets that will be very bad PR.” You give her a twisted smile, leering across the table. “Help us, or, even if Homelander believes you, which we both know he won’t, you’ll get fired. And I’m sure they’ll be very understanding and normal about how they do it.”

You feel a flash of weird pride and realize you can see Ben fighting a smile in your periphery.

Ashley has a fearful expression, looking at where your elbow is still connected with Ben’s. “What- what's even on it?”

“Becca Butcher files.” You say, not taking your gaze from her, but you didn’t need to look around to see the sudden, rigidness with which everyone sat. You even felt Ben’s own shock run through you.

You’d be lying if you said hiding the exact contents of the file hadn’t been a very purposeful choice that you and Butcher had made. He’d cornered you, demanding to know what you planned on doing should Soldier Boy go after Ryan, and you’d told him that it wouldn’t be an issue. Ryan looked up to Homelander, that was why he stayed. He’d lost his mother, he didn’t trust Butcher, all the poor kid had was his insane, sociopathic father. Some part of you—small and sad and tired, still sitting on a staircase in Boston—understood that. But with Becca gone, gone forever, Ryan didn’t have a place to run like you’d had. Homelander was the default, and just kind enough to his son that Ryan could force himself to forgive Homelander again and again. Homelander was safe for Ryan.

You were going to make sure Ryan never saw Homelander as safe again. And that started with Becca Butcher and would end with you. So you and Butcher had agreed with a tight handshaked that he'd ripped his hand from right after, everyone was only going to know what they needed to. That was the only way it would work.

“Becca Butcher files?” MM repeats in a slow, incredulous tone. “You,” he turns with a look of shock to Butcher. “You knew about this? You’re fuckin okay with this?”

“I’m doing what has to be done, Mate.” Butcher answers flatly, then says your name. “Tell ‘em the plan, Love.”

“We need to get Ryan away from Homelander. Ryan needs to know about his mother.”

“No,” Ashley was emerging from the shock to try and stand from the table, but A-Train’s arm shot out, pulling her back down once more. “No,” she says again, looking around desperately. “Ryan, Ryan is all he has. All he cares about. You take Ryan he’ll lose his mind-“

“He’s already lost his mind.” Something snaps in your chest—a cruel feeling waking up as you watch Ashley fret about Homelander. “And I couldn’t give less fucks about what he cares about.” The feeling is crawling across your skin. “If this hurts him, good. It could never hurt him enough to make it right.” You hear drums and still can’t place where they’re coming from. “Now listen to the last fucking strand of your morality on your scalp and fucking help us.”

Ashley shakes her head again, this time with less certainty. “It’s- no- He-“ she pulls in a deep, unsteady breath. “He won’t stop until he gets Ryan back. He already is going insane about you and him and how he needs to get you back safe and put him back down, and if Ryan goes to then nothing will stop him-“

The drums are loud now, and something that’s usually there on Ben’s face is missing. Your own body doesn’t feel entirely normal anymore, but it’s not paralyzed or running. You can feel something in Ben caving, falling inward in a growing rhythm, moving in time as something in you grows. It's not in you now, it’s across you, coating your skin and singing with glee.

“Ashley,” the sound of your voice is a little far away, but you can hear it echo through you. It’s wired, hot, a warning.

“I- I can’t.”

“Yes, you fucking can.” You sneer. “You’re just too much of a pussy to do it.” Ben coughs in the way that you know means he wants to laugh, just as the drums stutter and move farther away.

“Please, I don’t-“

“Do not make me stab you.”

Ashley falters, looking you up and down. “You won’t.”

“Trust me, she will.” Ben smirks, giving you a nudge. “She’s surprisingly violent.”

“I, I won’t. I can’t. He’ll kill me-“

“You think we won’t?” Ben growls, any amusement in him gone as you feel something unbreakable and resolved through your body.

Ashley tries to run again, this time actually managing to get up from the table, but is knocked flat on her ass by A-Train before she can take two steps. You stand and give the itch, now under your tongue and your nails, a small scratch.

“Oh, fuck no.” You hear scrambling as you walk around the table and stop, staring down at Ashley.

She’s crawling back from you, back from the fire curling from your whole body, and disgust curls in your gut. For the first time you feel anger—insatiable and gory anger—all of your own. No city lights flash around you, no hollow music dances around your head. You don’t fear Ashley. She’s weak and spineless. She’s willing to cover her hands in Ryan’s blood, in your blood, to keep herself safe from Homelander. She’s staring at you, terrified, and you don’t need to touch her to know it isn’t even a fraction of all the fear you felt in that white room. That white room she knows about, may have seen, and is still trying to keep Homelander happy.

You bend down, letting all your hatred for Vought, for her, cover your features. When you speak, your words are clear and low.

“You are going to tell Butcher how to access the thumbdrive. A-Train and you are going to take some food with you, and walk back to the tower. You aren’t going to tell Homelander about this, and if he asks, offer him some leftovers. A-Train will erase your activity from the files, and you’re going to pretend the whole night never happened. If you tell Homelander about either me or Be-“ You correct yourself smoothly. “Soldier Boy, the last thing I will do before he locks me away again is kill you. Do I make myself clear?”

Ashley nods frantically, flinching when you raise your hand.

“Say it. Say that I made myself clear.”

“You-“ Ashley stutters, hiccuping. “You made yourself clear.”

You draw yourself back up. “Good. Butcher, I’m leaving. You can drive me and come back, or Ben can steal your car, but I’m leaving.”

When you turn, when you see the looks on your team’s face, all the anger is gone, and suddenly there is a crushing, painful weight of shame on your chest. They’re looking at you like Ashley had been, like you’re no better than Homelander. Like maybe you should go back in the room, it would be safer for them, it would be safer for everyone if you were far, far away-

“You heard the lady.” Ben is standing, walking around to your side. “It’s late. We’re leaving. Sunshine?” He offers you his arm, and you stare between it and your own, still covered in flame. Looking up, his face looks bored, as if this is just another Tuesday, and he offers his arm to women who are actively ablaze on a regular basis.

Your face feels slack, and all you can manage is to blink at him. I’ll burn you, Pretty Boy. It’ll hurt.

His brows subtly knit, and he doesn’t move. I’ll live, Sunshine. Don’t let them see you break. We’re going home.

You look back at your team, a wide circle of berth having formed around you and Ben. Butcher is looking between the two of you, and you recognize that glint in his eyes. You’d seen it before, but it’s only been really, truly directed at you once. In a graveyard in Boston, gravestones and bushes around you burning in the dead of winter, holding a bucket of ice that steamed off your skin. Under it, fear begins to creep back into you, exhaustion pushing it forward. Butcher reaches behind him, and your knees feel weak.

But you don’t fall. Zealous anger, strong and raw, spreads through you and Butcher’s movements still. You look down and find Ben’s arm unflinchingly looped through yours, his body at its full height as his eyes rake coldly over Butcher.

The silence hangs in the air, cut through only by Ashley’s quick, sobbed breaths. For a second you think the smoke seeping from you will overtake the room before anyone moves, but Butcher slowly reaches into his pockets, eyes not leaving Ben’s, and throws the keys at Hughie.

“Drop them off, Mate, then come right back. No bloody detours.”

Hughie stares at the keys, looking like he’s going to protest, but Kimiko grabs them before he can.

She turns to you, completely composed, no fear wavering as she locks your eyes with hers. I’ll take you.

Before you can thank her, Frenchie steps forward, signing as he speaks. “Mon Coeur, you cannot drive.”

She frowns. Yes I can.

“No, Mon Coeur, not legally.” Frenchie says, exasperated, and you have a feeling this is not first time they've had this debate.

Kimiko rolls her eyes at you. Fine. She signs back at Frenchie, throwing the keys at him. You’ll do it.

Frenchie stumbles as he catches them, giving Kimiko a shocked look, which she pretends not to see as she walks to the door, signing at you as she passes.

Let’s go before Butcher’s brain starts working.

A small smile threatens your face, and you move, tugging Ben’s arm only once before he falls into pace with you, Frenchie scrambling behind you both.

The car ride back feels longer. The moment you’d stepped out of the diner, your body had extinguished, and you had a worrying sense that the only thing keeping you from collapsing on the sidewalk was Ben’s arm firm through yours. No words were said for the entirety of the drive, you and Ben in the backseat as Frenchie drove and Kimiko lounged in shotgun, and your brain raced. Ben hadn’t let go, and the drums were fading in and out of your chest as he stared ahead into the night.

You arrived at the safe house, only a street lamp casting a dull glow across the street. The chill of the wind cutting against you as Kimiko walked you to the door, Frenchie mumbling something about keeping the car safe from Hooligans. Ben made to step inside, but halted, still not releasing your arm, as you stayed at the doorstep.

At his questioning glare, you tried to wiggle his arm from yours. “Go inside, Ben. I’ll be right there.”

He looked down at where he was still connected with you, and you felt reluctance in time with the drums, but he let go with a scowl. “Be fast,” he grunted, and stomped into the house.

You watched until he’d disappeared fully down the hall, turning to Kimiko only once his back was shrouded in the darkness of the house.

“Thank you,” you give her a soft smile, signing as you speak. “I- I don’t know what happened, I just-“

She shakes her head, and you trail off. I understand. I get angry too. She pauses, hands hovering for only a second. We are not like them. She points down the street, in the direction of the tower, and then past you, into the house. We get to be angry.

“I don’t want to be angry.” You say softly. “He wins when I get angry.”

Kimiko gives you a sad look, placing a hand on your arm. Her own frustration, her fear of Homelander, all the anger at the world, sinks into you. She holds your gaze for a second before drawing back to sign once more. He doesn’t win when you’re angry. He wins when you’re scared. You’re not Soldier Boy. Your anger is good.

You glance back into the house. “I think he- Ben- Soldier Boy- is scared. Or something. His emotions are really fucking confusing.”

You let him touch you. She signs. Does he know?

“He said he didn’t care, because he’s, and I quote, ‘not a pussy with something to hide’.”

But he’s scared? She gives you a questioning frown. Do you think it’s because of Russia? Could you fix it, like you offered for me?

“I’m not sure, but-“ you’re cut off as Frenchie honks the horn, leaning out the window.

“Mon Coeur!” His odd position makes his signing almost unintelligible, which he seems to realize, and raises his voice. “Monsieur Butcher says to get back ‘like a hare with a bomb up it’s arse'.”

Kimiko rolls her eyes at you, but signs a goodbye, giving your hand a small squeeze before returning to the car. As the engine rumbles, Frenchie pulling out the driveway, Kimiko’s calm faith lingers in you, and you walk back into the house, shutting the door behind you.

Almost all the lamps and ceiling lights of the house are off, the TV glowing from where you had abandoned it several hours ago. From the bottom of the stairs, you can see the upstairs hall is washed in a soft yellow, and when you reach the top Ben’s door is open, the light from within filling the hall. You stop at the entrance to his room, his back to you as he pulls a cotton shirt over his head.

You let out a small cough in a weak attempt to alert him to your presence.

“You’re allowed to just come in, Sunshine.” He grunts, still facing away. “I’m not a shy little virgin you need to pussyfoot around.”

You let out a small hum, walking over the threshold and stopping a few feet behind him. “Thank you.” You say softly, and he turns around to look at you.

His eyes are tired. Pained. Something looks like it’s pulling at him and it scares you. You’ve seen that expression before, when you’d woken him up that first day, at the Neuman mission, when you pulled him from nightmares with sharp hits, but never just there. It was always with something. This was like an island, just him and you, nothing pulling it out of him.

“Don’t thank me.” He says gruffly. Even his voice is drained. “You mostly held your own.”

“But-“

“And stop feeling bad about that Ashley bitch. She fucking deserved it.”

You stare at him. “You really believe that?”

He lets out a hollow laugh. “She was fucking pathetic. A fucking pussy. Fucking eating out Homelander’s fucking hand, brown-nosing him until he fucking cums and pays her, letting him take you-“ His jaw clenches. “I fucking meant it when I said we’re not going back Sunshine. I’m not a goddamn pussy liar.”

“I didn’t think you were. But, you…” Your voice fades as you try to find the words. “I could feel you. At the diner.”

“I fucking know, that was the goddamn point. I wasn’t going to let you start crying in front of those self-righteous pussies.”

“No, Ben.” You shake your head. “I could feel you. I could feel it.” You place a hand over your chest. “It was building. There was something beating against you, inside you. And you looked…” You watch him carefully. “Scared.”

“Fucking watch it.” He growls. “I don’t get fucking scared. I’m not-“

“A fucking pussy. I know.” You sigh. “I don’t want to, I can’t, fight right now. I’m so fucking tired. You can scream at me in the morning, but not right now, please.”

He stares at you, and just when you think he’s going to start yelling, he nods. “You’re…” He sounds strange. “You’re ok.”

Just like the last time he said it, the words aren’t phrased like a question. They don’t feel like a question. It feels like he’s just telling you again. But there’s something under it this time, something that makes his words almost unsure. Something that makes up your mind faster than you thought you would.

“Are you?” You ask quietly.

“Of course I fucking am.”

“Ben.” You tilt your head at him. “I’m going to tell you something, and I don’t want you to respond now.”

“You’re being fucking weird, Sunshine.”

“Please.”

He relents with a grunt. “Fucking fine. What.”

“I can fix it.” It’s so hard to keep his gaze as you speak. “It will take time, but I can fix it.”

“Fix what.” He scowls. “There’s nothing to fucking fix.”

“Your PTSD.”

“I don’t fucking have-“

“Ben, I could feel it. It’s dangerous. I could fix it.” You take a deep breath. “I can fix internal injuries as well. I offered to fix Kimiko’s muteness, but she didn’t want me to do it.”

“Then what fucking makes you think-“

“Muteness isn’t dangerous. And it would’ve been harder for me, I might have ended up mute myself. You’re dangerous like this. You can’t fucking control it, and don’t try and lie and say it’s under control. Ashley mentioned putting you back under, and you looked like someone was drowning you.”

“Shut the fuck up, Sunshine.” He leers at you. “You don’t fucking know me, know what it was like-“

“I do. You know I do.” You whisper, and the anger on his face breaks. “More than anyone else, I know. I can fix it, but you’ll have to let me. Just-“ You search his eyes, not sure what you’re looking for. “Just think about it. I won’t mention it again, I won’t even touch you, but my offer will stay on the table. Please, just think about it.”

Before you can leave, he grabs your hand. A rush of painful exhaustion runs through you, and there’s anger, but it’s not full of the fervor you’ve come to expect from him. It’s not even at you. It’s wide and almost consuming, leaving room for only a small kernel of something fragile and warm.

“I don’t care if you keep touching me, Sunshine. I've go nothing to hide from you, and that’s not going to change. But there’s nothing in me you need to fucking fix, so don’t fucking bother.”

“I’m not trying to fix you, Ben,” You murmur. "But remember, you burn, I burn. Please don't burn." Your last words are soft, and the kernel pulses.

“Good,” he grunts, releasing your arm. A small smirk crawls onto his face. “Now I don’t care if it’s here or in your room, Sunshine, but you need to go the fuck to bed. You look like shit.”

Just as he says it, the full weight of your fatigue hits you. You give a mumbled acknowledgement of his words, and try to leave the room, but all the adrenaline is gone from your system and nothing is left to stop the failure of your legs or droop of your eyes. The last thing you feel is something pulling you up before your knees hit the carpet, the last thing you see is green eyes on your own, and you hear an amused snort from above you.

“Goodnight, Sunshine. Try not to dream about me.”

You try to object, but sleep pulls you under before you can even remember why you need to.

[pazzispizookies]

~~~~~Dangerous Question~~~~~

Chapter 3:loud thoughts

hey y’all, im gonna keep this short and sweet. Since I dont really think anyone reads this little blurbs but if you do, hey cutie thanks. Again as always, inbox is wide open (and dry) so please send anything and everything. This is a shorter chapter, but just going through how Piage was feeling like during the dinner and stuff. I do have a pretty good idea what im gonna do next chapterrrr, not sure if its gonna be Azzi’s pov but we’ll see, enjoy and comment and rebolg! Thanks for da luv.

Pairing- Paige x Azzi freinds to lovers slow burn

Cw: some cursing and sad Paige lol :(((

September 13th, Paige’s pov.

“What the fuck is your issue Paige” Nika says while locking the bathroom door.

“I don’t know.” I reply,

But this is total bullshit, because in reality I do know what wrong, it’s that fact that ever since I helped my best friend last night shower, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her.

My issue is that I find my eyes wandering a little too much,

My issue is that last night, when I could only feel the warmth of her breath against my chest and the soft sound of her snoring, it felt unfriendly in a way I welcomed fully.

Nika huffs and leans back against the wall staring dagers at me.

“If you don’t have a problem why did I have to text you just to get your attention, you’re not looking at anyone tonight, much less talking.”

“I told you Nika, I don’t know,”

Nika rolls her eyes before locking onto mine, she takes a step forward and starts to talk,

“Is this about Azzi.”

That sentence makes me shift uncomfortably, she’s right of course, but I don’t know why she’s right to be exact,

“Why would you even say that, Why would any of this be about Azzi?” I ask pretending she isn’t completely right.

“I don’t know Paige, you two left last night and you didn’t get back until 4 in the morning, now your looking at her all flustered and storming off while she flirts with Marcos.”

“What are you implying Nika?”I ask, even though deep down, I know exactly why she’s saying this.

“Maybe something’s going on between you two?”

My heart stops at her comment, something going on between me, and Azzi. That’s ridiculous, I mean yeah Azzi’s pretty, and shes got that smile, and she always seems to know what to say to me…But that doesn’t matter, shes straight, and she’s my best friend.

“You don’t know what your talking about, i’d never be attracted to her, I mean do you see the way she’s throwing herself at that guy, cmon Nika.”

Nika rolls her eyes and throws her arms up,

“Watch it Paige, I don’t know why you’re acting out, but your shit talking your best friend, who’s done nothing wrong, along the way. And you know damn well Azzi’s just being nice to that guy, she’s a pleaser. All I know is right now your making a fool out of yourself at our first team dinner, suck it up and get back out there, or were leaving.”

without giving her a second to say anything more, I storm out of the bathroom.

I just, don’t know what’s happening.

Being honest with myself, Me and Azzi’s relationship has always been different then any others,

We practically lived together during covid, and I find myself wanting to be around her endlessly, But that’s just because she understands me like no one else does, shes my Best friend.

Best friend sound wrong even when its true, it doesn’t do justice to the way I feel about her,

But right now, I’m angry at her, at least, I think I am.

I just can’t stand to look at her right now, because whenever I do, I have a new feeling.

A stirring in my stomach that’s telling me, maybe there’s a new emotion I feel towards her.

But that’s stupid, I don’t even know what it means, and I don’t want to know what it means.

Because if I ever lost Azzi, I don’t think I could survive.

Walking out of the bathroom, I’m faced with the back of Azzi,

I have to go sit next to her, and pretend that my view of her isn’t changing by the second.

I sit back down next to her, The all too familiar scent of her consumes me.

Lavender and vanilla, it takes me back to last night; her depending on me to keep her upright, giving herself fully to me, she trusted me completely help her.

But she would do that with any of her other friends, right?

I’m mentally preparing myself to start being less of a bitch and talk a little when Azzi’s phone lights up.

Her phones face up on the table, open on contacts,

Just barely, I can see the top contact

“Marcos(Sever)”

Without thinking I pull out my wallet throwing whatever I grab first on the table, I only carry large bills so hopefully to enough to cover the table, because I need to get the fuck out of there.

I storm out of the building, hearing Nika chair slide back, but I can’t look back at her to check,

Because I can’t let these girls see me cry,

I get into the passenger seat and Nika quickly sits down in the drivers,

Without saying anything to each other she starts driving off,

I can’t fight it anymore, something’s happening with me.

I don’t want it to, but I feel nothing but a coursing feeling of pain, and a feeling I’m getting to know all too well, jealousy.

I can feel Nika eyes on me, tracking my movements.

I can barely to look at her, not when I’m so lost, I won’t have any answers to give her.

The only noise in the car is the soft buzz of the engine, and my uneven breathing, which seems to get harder to stable the more I try,

All I want is this car ride to be over, I need to get out of here.

“are we gonna talk about it?” Nika says while closing the door to our suite.

I don’t want to look at her, I don’t want to talk to her,

so without saying anything I leave to my room, not looking back.

I can hear her call out to me, but it’s drowned out by my own thoughts, that are wholly consuming me,

I slam the door to my dorm, moving towards my bed,

But I can’t reach it before my emotions attack me,

Sliding down to the floor,I can’t hold back my tears anymore,

I cry out everything, confusion, hurt and the stinging pain I have,

I can’t breathe normally but I don’t care, I just want to cry.

I run my hands to my hair, pulling out this bun that I only wore because azzi compliments me whenever I wear my hair up.

But how stupid is that?

How fucking dumb is that? That I care what she thinks of my appearance?

Because in the end it doesn’t fucking matter, I’m not a man.

I run my hands through my lose hair, which is still slightly scented like Azzi’s soap from last night,

This only makes everything worse.

I can’t stand it, I can’t stand whatever’s happening, I hate this. I need it to stop, I can’t think straight when a knock comes to my door.

I don’t know how long I was sitting crying but when I stand up, my legs give out, making It harder to the door,

“Hey you,”

The voice makes my heart skip a beat, but for some reason, relief courses through me at the sound of my best friends voice.

But that relief is quickly over shadowed by anger, Making me take a step back while she walks into my dorm, shutting the door behind her.

“What do you want Azzi.”

I say this coldly, I still don’t know why I’m so mad at her, but all I know is I can’t stand to look at her, especially while she looks so damn good.

I see the hurt flash behind her eyes at my cold words,but before I can protest, she walks towards me.

“What are you doing, —stop Az” I cry out, it coming out a lot more broken then I wanted it too,

Before I can react shes on me, taking me in forcefully to her chest, moving her hands around my head forcing me into a deep hug,

We stand there for minutes,

Her pressure is comforting in ways I can’t explain, her scent smells like home.

‘What’s happening P,” Azzi says barley above a whisper into the crook of my neck,

“I don’t know Az,” I say with my head resting on her shoulder,

That’s the truth, I couldn’t lie to her, even if I tried,

Azzi finally breaks out of the hug, pulling her face back just enough to meet my gaze,

As soon as she looks me in the eyes, shes reading me,

shes looking straight into my bloodshot eyes, with pure concern in her own gaze,

“sit.” She says gesturing toward my bed, not leaving any room for me to argue.

I take a seat on my bed, she follows quickly sitting right next to me.

“I need you to talk to me, even if you don’t want too.” she says taking my hand into hers.

No,

I can’t tell her anything,

especially since I’m not ready to think about what’s really happening with my thoughts.

I have to make up a lie, and I have too quickly.

“One of my old hookups, she said something untrue about me online, and it went a little viral.”

That’s a lie, I have no clue why I said that.

I don’t know why when I said this, Azzi tensed up,

“Oh,” Is all Azzi mumbles out.

“Yeah, sorry I made a little scene back there.”

“No really, did you? I couldn’t tell” Azzi teases nudging my shoulder,

I feel a little lighter hearing her voice, even though guilt is swirling in my stomach from lying to her.

“Shut up, Az,” I say while pulling her into a side hug.

“Yknow I love you P, right?” Azzi says

My stomach flips, Making it clear why im feeling this way towards her,

I know Azzi’s my everything, but I’ve never thought of her in a romantic way, and im not going to start now,

She’s straight Paige.

Get it in your head,

I mask my emotions and turn back to her,

“I love you too Az,”

The words feel so right coming off my tongue, even though I’ve said them countless times, but this feels different.

Azzi smiles at me, which causes my heart to stop a beat.

Her smile is everything anyone could ever want to look at,

her smile is the one consistent about her, even if shes after game sweaty, her smile is still as beautiful as it could ever be.

Even if shes dressed up like she is tonight, her smile is still as pretty as ever.

she’s straight Paige, shes not yours.

I think to myself before nudging her shoulder,

“Yknow you didn’t have to run here, dinner too boring without me there?” I tease back, it comes out a little shaky,

“No, dinner was boing even when you were there, you were a little too quiet for my liking.”

“Oh yeah? You just can’t stand not hearing my voice for 30 mintues?” I say back,

“Not what I said, P, just saying, it would’ve been nice if you talked a little tonight,” Azzi says sincerely,

“yeah, yeah, sure. You can just admit that you wanted my attention.”

“Mmm maybe a little,”

I look at Azzi, is she, blushing?

shes moving her foot side to side,

I know her well enough to know, shes…nervous?

I must be reading her wrong, there’s no reason why she would be nervous, unless shes not telling me something.

“So, I saw you got that sever number.” I say, even though the words feel like acid in my mouth,

“Oh, yeah, u-um I did, He asked me out to dinner, I don’t know if I’m going to say yes though, it’s a little random.”

My stomach drops,

I don’t know,

I just don’t know what I’m doing, why I’m reacting like this,

I need to get these feelings to stop,

Before I can think more, I’m blurting out,

“You should go.”

why did I say that? I don’t want her to go anywhere with him,. much less on a date.

“You think?” he says looking at me a little surprised,

“Yeah, yeah, just a warning though, he probably won’t clean up as good as I do.” I say, hoping my face isn’t showing all my thoughts.

“psh, maybe your right P, you look pretty good tonight, “ She says while running her hands through my hair.

It’s just a compliment, barely that, just a little comment, one I bet shes made before.

But it causes my breathe to catch,

She’s straight Paige.

Stop thinking like this Paige,

“You don’t look so bad yourself Az, he would’ve been crazy to not ask you out,”

Thats the first truth I’ve told her in a long time,

Because I’m not lying, shes stunning.

Azzi gives me a soft smile, which heats up my chest,

I push down that feeling, storing it where I won’t ever look.

Azzi pulls out her phone and types a message.

she hits send and takes a deep breath,

“Well, looks like i’m going on a date next weekend.” she says leaning back on my bed.

I hate that,

I hate everything about that,

I hate that its my fault,

I hate that I can’t tell her why I don’t want her to go, because I’m not entirely sure why myself.

I lean back onto my bed next to her, exhausted.

“Do you wanna sleep over tonight?” I say softly looking at her,

“Yeah, id like that.” azzi says while curling next to me.

Me and Azzi have slept in the same bed countless times, but I’ll never take it for granted.

I turn around and turn off my light, and place my hand around her waist.

Just two best friends cuddling, sleeping next to each other.

Thats normal, or at least it’s our normal.

I pull the blanket over me and her, and the warmth hits me.

Azzi almost immediately starts breathing softer,

Her eys close and she starts to drift off,

I feel safe like this, and I know she does too,

She’s my comfort, even though I think she’s also the reason for my pain right now,

I sit there thinking for a while, Azzi asleep next to me.

I glance over, studying her face

shes so beautiful,

Her features are soften by her sleep, and shes completely consumed by exhaustion,

Soon my door cracks open,

Nika standing there,

I try not to look at her or move, pretending to be asleep,

Nika stands in the door way with her hands crossed over her chest looking at me and Azzi,

She nods slowly and scoffs, closing the door.

I breath out, thankful she thought I was asleep.

Because whatever she thinks shes knows, shes wrong

She has to be.

[sasheemo]

Friday Thoughts

Chapter 3

Chapter Summary: Sharing dinner with Agatha and Nicholas shouldn't be too hard, right? But Saturday night at Agatha’s has other plans. As the evening unfolds, tensions escalate and desires ignite, promising anything but an ordinary end.

Chapter Tags: Mutual Pining, Power Dynamics, Gay Panic But Make It Domestic, The Tension Is Tensioning, Accidental Eavesdropping, Masturbation

Word Count: 7.4k

A/N: Chapter 3 is here! Spoiler alert: it’s long. Like, the longest chapter I’ve ever written for any multi-chapter fic, it took a lifetime because I wanted to pack in so much. Honestly, I don’t even want to think about how many times I wrote, re-read, and completely tore it apart because I hated it. It’s been through the wringer, y’all.

Am I 100% happy with it? No. Will I ever be? Also no. But if I keep tweaking it, it’ll never see the light of day, so… here it is, flaws and all!

Let’s just say things are heating up, and this chapter sets the stage for the spicy goodness that’s coming in Chapter 4.

As always, feedback is greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading, enjoy 💜

Chapter Index

Read on AO3

The clock creeps closer to seven as you sit on the floor with Nicholas, your hands idly stacking blocks while your thoughts wander to the kitchen. 

Agatha has been in there for a while now, the faint clinking of dishes and the soft rush of running water weaving through the quiet of the house.

At one point, unable to resist, you’d stood and smoothed your sweater nervously before edging toward the kitchen doorway. 

“Do you need a hand with anything?” you’d asked, your voice hesitant as you lingered just outside.

She’d glanced over her shoulder, a wisp of hair falling loose from behind her ear. Her lips curved into a faint, almost absentminded smile. 

“No need, hon.” she’d said lightly, returning to the cutting board without missing a beat. “After a day like today, this is how I unwind. Just keep Nicholas entertained, and make sure you’ve got an appetite.”

You’d nodded, retreating to the living room with a strange mix of relief and unease, unsure whether to feel dismissed or reassured.

Now, your gaze drifts toward the kitchen doorway again, catching fleeting glimpses of Agatha as she moves gracefully through the space. The subtle flicker of her silhouette, the fluid motion of her hands as she reaches for something on the counter, it’s almost hypnotic. 

You find it harder and harder to look away, your eyes drawn back to the doorway every few moments.

Then, the realization that you’re about to sit at the same table as her hits you like a brick wall, and your brain immediately kicks into overdrive. Where will you sit? What will you say? How will you stop yourself from staring at her like some starstruck idiot? The thought alone makes your chest feel tighter, and you let out a quiet, resigned sigh. 

Dinner hasn’t even started, and you’re already losing it.

Finally, her voice calls out from the kitchen, announcing that dinner’s ready.

Nicholas springs up instantly, his blocks forgotten as he rushes toward the kitchen. You follow more cautiously, your pulse quickening as you step into the room.

The table is set simply but elegantly, with the kind of care that feels distinctly Agatha. At the center, there’s a steaming dish of herb-roasted chicken rests on a platter, surrounded by golden baby potatoes and vibrant roasted vegetables. 

The scent of rosemary, garlic, and lemon fills the air, rich and inviting, but it only makes your stomach flip—not from hunger, but from the realization of where you are and who you’re sharing this moment with.

Agatha stands by the head of the table, placing the final plate in its spot, her expression is calm as she straightens and meets your gaze.

“Sit.” she says lightly, gesturing to the seat across from hers as though this is all perfectly normal.

You glance at Nicholas, who’s already climbing into his chair without hesitation. Taking a steadying breath, you lower yourself into the seat she’s indicated, trying not to think too much about how surreal this feels.

Agatha moves with her usual composure, taking her place at the table. She leans back slightly, one hand curling around the stem of her wineglass, her gaze drifting over the food before landing on you. It lingers just long enough to send a flicker of heat up your spine, your pulse quickening under the weight of her attention.

“Let’s eat before it gets cold.” she says, her voice warm but commanding, the kind of tone that makes it sound less like a suggestion and more like a quiet decree. 

“This is so good, Mom! Did you make the potatoes crispy on purpose?” Nicholas asks with a grin, already halfway through his first bite.

“Of course.” she replies, arching an eyebrow as her lips curve playfully. “Is there any other way to do them?”

Nicholas shakes his head vigorously, his mouth now too full to reply properly. You suppress a laugh and glance at Agatha, who catches your eye with an amused glint in her own.

“And what do you think?” she asks, her gaze settling on you like a spotlight. “Passable for a last-minute effort?”

You blink, caught off guard by her directness. 

“It’s delicious.” you say, and you mean it, though the compliment feels inadequate. “I think Nicholas might be right about the potatoes. They’re perfect.”

Agatha tilts her head slightly, as if weighing your response, before giving a soft hum of approval. 

“Good.” she says, her voice low and velvety. “I’d hate to disappoint.” 

Her eyes lock on yours, a spark of mischief flickering just beneath the surface, as if she’s gauging your reaction, or outright daring you to respond. 

Then, as if to twist the knife just a little deeper, she adds a slow, languid wink that sends a sharp jolt straight through you. 

You’re left speechless, grasping for a response that never comes. Agatha, of course, doesn’t wait for one. 

She shifts her attention back to Nicholas, asking about his latest castle design, her tone light and engaging as though she hasn’t just left you squirming in your seat. 

As they talk, you force yourself to focus on their conversation, chiming in occasionally, but your mind keeps wandering. Every so often, your gaze drifts back to her, trying—and failing—to reconcile the poised, commanding Agatha you’ve come to know with the one sitting at this table.

There’s a warmth to her, something relaxed and comfortingly domestic. It’s strange, watching her here, casually slicing into a piece of chicken and humoring Nicholas’ endless stream of questions.

And yet, as foreign as this moment feels, there’s something about it that tugs at you, a quiet sense of belonging you hadn’t anticipated.

As dinner ends, you rise from the table, stacking your empty wineglass atop your plate in an effort to make a smooth exit.

“Thanks again for dinner.” you say, keeping your tone light but sincere. “It was wonderful. I should probably let you two enjoy the rest of your evening—”

“Wait!” Nicholas bursts out, his chair scraping against the floor as he jumps to his feet. “You can’t go! We have to watch a movie!”

You gape at him, eyes wide, like he’s just suggested skydiving without a parachute or eating soup with a fork.

“Uh, a movie?” you repeat, glancing between him and Agatha. 

Surely, this is where she steps in to say it’s too late, that it’s time to wind down.

But to your surprise, Agatha simply raises an eyebrow, her expression amused. 

“A movie.” she echoes, swirling the last sip of wine in her glass. “Isn’t it a little late for that?”

“You always say that! Come on, mom. It’s Saturday!” Nicholas complains dramatically, his hands on his hips in a way that’s almost comical.

You open your mouth to help, to offer a dismissal Nicholas might accept—“Maybe next time” or “Your mom probably wants to relax.”—but before you can get a word out, Agatha’s gaze shifts to you.

“You did say your evening was wide open. So, what’s it going to be, hon? Care to join us?” she asks, leaning back slightly in her chair. 

Each syllable feels like a finger pressing to the one thought you’re trying desperately to bury: that not only do you have nowhere else to be, but if you’re honest with yourself, there’s nowhere you’d rather be.

Her lips curve into a knowing smile, the kind that suggests she’s already read your mind and is simply waiting for you to catch up.

“I—well, I don’t…” you start, your voice faltering as your mind scrambles for a coherent response. “I mean, I don’t want to intrude or—”

“Intrude?” she interrupts, her brows lifting in mock surprise. “On my son’s demands and my… oh-so-thrilling evening of cleaning up after dinner?” She leans forward slightly, her smile softening but never losing its edge. “Come now, you’ll have to try harder than that.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you scramble to find the right words, your tongue suddenly feeling two sizes too big. 

“I just thought—you know, maybe you’d rather spend the evening relaxing. Just the two of you. I wouldn’t want to… overstay.” you manage, your voice wavering as your face burns hotter by the second.

“I wouldn’t exactly call the cinematic torture Nicky usually puts me through my ideal way to relax. But if you stay, at least I won’t have to endure it alone.” she muses, the words landing with practiced subtlety, as though she’s tossing the suggestion into the air to see how it falls. 

It’s not quite an invitation, not explicitly—but the subtle curve of her lips and the way her eyes insist on finding yours tell a different story, one she keeps ambiguous enough to leave you guessing.

If you choose the professional route—thank her again, grab your things, and leave—would you ever forgive yourself? Could you really walk away now, knowing you’d just turned down the chance to sit in her orbit a little longer? 

But staying… staying feels like opening a whole other door. The kind of door that leads to a night even more absurd than this one already feels, where the lines between reality and your own impossible daydreams blur so completely, you’re not sure you’d know the difference.

You’re stuck in the tension of that choice, the possibilities pressing down on you, when Nicholas’ voice explodes through the moment, shattering it entirely.

“I’ll go pick a movie!” he announces, his excitement bubbling over as he bolts toward the living room, a blur of motion and enthusiasm. The spell is broken, and you exhale, blinking as reality floods back in.

You glance back at Agatha, half-expecting her to change her mind now that he’s out of earshot. Instead, she leans back in her chair again, her eyes glinting with that usual quiet amusement. 

“There you have it.” she quips lightly, gesturing toward the living room. “Looks like the decision’s been made for you.”

Her words land with a calm finality, and for a moment, you simply stand there, unsure of what to do next. Before your nerves can get the better of you, you decide to grasp at the first thing that feels remotely purposeful.

“I’ll help clear the table.” you offer, your voice quick, almost rushed. “It’s the least I can do.”

You reach for a plate before the words have fully left your mouth, but as you stack the dishes and carry them to the sink, you can feel her gaze trailing you, quiet and intent.

You roll up your sleeves, the simple motion grounding you as you turn on the faucet. The water’s warmth seeps into your skin, and the rhythmic clatter of dishes offers a fragile sort of focus. 

For a moment, you dare to think you’ve managed to steady yourself.

But then, the scrape of her chair against the floor echoes through the room. 

The steady rhythm you thought you’d found falters as you hear her footsteps closing the distance between you. She moves into the space beside you, her presence altering the air itself. 

The faint clink of glasses being placed on the counter pulls your focus for a second, but it’s the feeling of her hand brushing against your waist that makes your body freeze.

With the warmth of her palm burning through the fabric of your sweater, the plate in your hands slips through your grip. You fumble, the sharp sound of porcelain against the sink cutting through the quiet as you catch it just in time.

“Careful, hon.” she murmurs, her voice impossibly close, rich with that maddening calm. But there’s no hint of apology, just the smug confidence of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.

All of a sudden, the water streaming over your hands feels unbearably loud, each droplet amplified against your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the roaring in your ears. 

Each of your senses narrows, zeroing in on the spot where her hand rests against you. Her touch isn’t pressing, nor forceful, it’s just there, as if she’s delicately testing the boundaries of the moment.

Your cheeks burn, and you’re sure she can see it, but you can’t bring yourself to look at her, not when every nerve in your body feels like it’s caught fire. 

Before the moment stretches into something unbearable, Nicholas’ voice cuts through the stillness. 

“I found the movie!” he calls from the living room, his excitement palpable. “Come on, it’s starting!”

Agatha straightens, her hand leaving your waist, and the absence feels almost as intense as the touch itself. 

“Duty calls.” she says smoothly, her composure unshaken as she heads toward the living room without looking back.

You exhale shakily, gripping the edge of the sink for balance as you force yourself to calm down. With one last glance at the water, you shut it off and follow her, stubbornly pushing aside the ghost of her touch that refuses to fade from your body.

When you step into the living room, Nicholas is already curled up in one corner of the couch, wrapped in a blanket with the remote clutched triumphantly in his hands. His grin is so wide it’s almost glowing, radiating the pure victory of having secured his movie of choice.

It’s a scene of pure innocence, simple and easy, but your focus falters when your gaze shifts to Agatha.

She pauses at the edge of the couch, leaning down to unfasten her heels with graceful precision. The soft thud as they hit the rug feels somehow amplified in the quiet of the room. A low, contented sigh escapes her lips as she straightens, the sound carrying the unmistakable weight of a long day finally set aside.

Then, she sinks onto the central cushion of the couch, elegantly tucking one leg beneath her, folding into the space with casual confidence. One arm lifts to drape over the backrest, her fingers splayed idly.

You hesitate, your heart stuttering as the realization hits.

You weren’t prepared for this. You’d assumed Nicholas would sit between you, a natural, innocent buffer that would keep you at a safe, comfortable distance. But now, the couch looks impossibly small.

Panic rises even more when you realize you’ve been standing halfway between the kitchen and the couch for far too long, awkwardly frozen in place like prey caught in a snare.

For a fleeting moment, you genuinely consider sitting on the floor. But, as always, Agatha’s timing is impeccable. 

Her voice cuts through your inner turmoil like silk, laced with that signature teasing amusement that makes you want to both melt and scream.

“Are you planning to stand there all night?” she asks as her eyes lock onto yours. She tilts her head slightly, patting the cushion beside her. “Come, sit.”

Forcing your legs to cooperate, you move toward the couch, every step slower than the last. By the time you lower yourself onto the cushion, your body feels coiled, as if every muscle is bracing for impact.

You try to sit casually, like you’re perfectly at ease, teetering on the very edge of the cushion as if that extra inch might save you. 

But the effort is useless. The space between you is practically nonexistent, laughably small, and you’re acutely aware of every inch separating you.

She makes no effort to adjust her position or move her arm, leaving it draped lazily across the backrest, her fingers resting just shy of your shoulder. 

You clasp your hands tightly in your lap, fixing your gaze on the screen with a determination that borders on desperation.

Nicholas, oblivious as ever, starts the movie. The opening scene bursts to life on the screen, colorful and loud, his excitement spilling over as he narrates every detail. 

You nod along absently, keeping your eyes fixed ahead. But the truth is, you couldn’t explain a single thing happening in the movie if your life depended on it.

All of your attention is wrapped around Agatha, around her presence and the quiet weight of it. It’s nothing short of consuming, and every movement she makes feels seismic: the subtle shift of her posture, the barely audible rustle of her clothes as she settles deeper into the cushions, the gradual ease of her shoulders as though she’s letting the weight of the day melt away.

You feel like you’re about to lose your mind trying to understand how she can appear so perfectly composed while you sit there, silently coming apart at the seams.

And then, without warning, her knee brushes against yours.

Instinctively, you shift slightly to the side, leaning further into the backrest, but the movement only makes things worse. 

The arm that had been resting lazily behind you is now definitely touching your shoulder.

Your breath catches, your body locking up before you can stop it, every nerve screaming at the contact. 

Surely, she’ll move away. She has to.

But she doesn’t.

Neither her leg nor her arm budges, as if the contact is completely natural, as if she didn’t even notice. You, on the other hand, feel like you’re drowning in the sensation. 

Her proximity completely floods your senses. It feels as if the world has shrunk to the points were your bodies are touching, the faint pressure on your leg and shoulder anchoring you to the spot. 

And then, as if to seal your fate, you feel her gaze on you.

You don’t dare look at her, but from the corner of your eye you can see her head turned toward you. Her eyes are fixed on your face, and they might as well be burning holes through your head for how intensely she’s staring.

Everything begins to blur, the room fading as your thoughts swallow you whole. Once again, you find yourself grasp at rationality, trying to explain away her behavior and your own feelings, convincing yourself it’s all in your head. 

But the longer you sit there, the harder it is to believe that.

It’s been four months since you started working for her, four months of walking into this house, telling yourself you were foolish for even entertaining the thought that someone like Agatha Harkness could ever see you that way, as anything more than Nicky’s babysitter. 

During all this time, you’ve dismissed every fleeting glance, every teasing word, every ambiguous gesture, chalking it all up to her natural charm. You convinced yourself you were imagining things, creating meaning where there was none, deluding yourself into believing you could ever hold her attention.

But tonight? Tonight feels undeniably different. Especially after what she said last night. 

The tension has been simmering beneath the surface for this whole time, each moment building on the last, and now there’s no mistaking it: Agatha’s behavior is intentional, deliberate in a way that leaves no room for doubt.

These aren’t the actions of someone indulging in a meaningless game. Sure, Agatha has a very teasing nature, you know that. But she isn’t careless, she doesn’t do unprofessionalism. She wouldn’t risk making you uncomfortable—or worse, crossing a line—without a reason, especially when it involves someone so closely tied to Nicholas.

You wonder if you’ve been blind to something that’s been there all along, oblivious to what’s been right in front of you—if you’ve had an actual chance all this time and simply refused to see it.

Because at this point, no other explanation fits.

Your heart races, the possibility exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure, a mix of longing and fear swelling in your chest.

When the credits finally roll, Nicholas lets out a loud yawn, stretching his arms above his head before slumping back into the couch. His eyelids droop heavily, but there’s a satisfied smile on his face.

“That was the best movie night ever!” he declares with a sleepy grin, his voice softening as exhaustion starts to win. 

He turns toward you, pushes off the blanket and practically climbs over Agatha to crawl over and wrap his arms around your shoulders in a hug that’s warm and unexpected.

“Thanks for staying.” he murmurs, his voice muffled against your sweater. “It was really fun doing this with you and Mom.”

Your heart stutters in your chest, and you blink rapidly, taken aback by the tenderness of it all. 

Words fail you, any attempt at a response dissolving into nothing as an involuntary smile tugs at your lips. You feel yourself melt into the embrace, your hands settling lightly against his back as you return the hug gently.

Nicholas pulls back, his grin bright despite his sleepy eyes, and he turns toward Agatha, who’s already rising from the couch.

“Mom, can we do this again soon?” he asks, rubbing his eyes as he pushes himself to his feet.

“We’ll see.” Agatha replies smoothly, resting a hand on his back to steady him. “Now come on. Bedtime.”

Just before they step out of the living room to head upstairs, Agatha glances back over her shoulder. Her head tilts ever so slightly, the soft glow of the room catching the sharps curves of her profile. Her eyes find yours, holding them with an intensity that feels almost disarming, and for a moment, it feels like the air stills around her.

“Wait here, won’t you?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper laced with quiet insistence “I’ll be back in a minute.”

You don’t even think, your head nods instinctively, a reflex before your mind can catch up.

As she turns away, you catch a faint glint in her eyes, something unreadable that looks almost like… anticipation?

The quiet sound of their footsteps fades into the background, leaving the room steeped in silence. It’s just you now, alone in the living room, with nothing but the weight of her words and the echo of your own thoughts.

The thing is, the babysitter would have left already. 

You’d planned to leave the moment she was done working, when Nicholas no longer needed you and when Agatha was free to reclaim her evening. 

But then came dinner, a polite invitation you couldn’t bring yourself to decline. And later, when the plates were cleared and you’d readied yourself to go, the movie became yet another reason to stay.

But now it’s late. Nicholas is heading to bed. There’s no reason for you to be here. And yet… she wants you to. For the third time tonight, you’re faced with a choice, though deep down, you know the decision has already been made. 

You’ll wait. Because she asked you to. Because it’s her.

You lean back against the couch, exhaling shakily. Your mind spins, grasping at the threads of the evening, trying to weave them into something coherent.

Agatha descends the stairs a few minutes later, the faint sound of her steps barely registering over the buzz of your thoughts. She doesn’t spare you a glance, doesn’t say a word, moving with singular purpose as she crosses the living room and disappears into the kitchen. 

The faint clink of glass and the soft pop of a cork being pulled echo faintly, carrying with them a sense of inevitability that sets your heart racing.

Moments later, she reemerges with the bottle of wine from dinner in one hand and two glasses in the other. Her movements are smooth, practiced, as if this is all part of some unspoken ritual. 

She sets the glasses on the coffee table and pours the wine with precision before handing you one and taking the other for herself.

Then, despite the now ample space on the couch, she chooses the same spot as before, her knee brushing against yours once again when she crosses her legs.

“Cheers.” she says lightly, raising her glass in your direction.

“Cheers.” you reply, the word coming out softer than you intended as you lift your glass. 

The first sip settles warmly in your chest, cutting through some of the tension of the evening.

For a while, the two of you talk easily. She asks about Nicholas and your morning job, and you gladly share little stories about his antics and your shifts at the café. 

Agatha listens intently, her occasional hums and soft chuckles weaving seamlessly into the conversation.

You ask her about her work, though she keeps her answers vague, offering only the occasional quip about paperwork, tedious calls and demanding clients. It’s clear she’s deflecting, but her tone is so effortlessly charming that you don’t press further. 

Instead, you find yourself relaxing into the rhythm of the exchange, the wine loosening the edges of your nerves.

By the time the third glass is poured, the atmosphere feels incredibly comfortable, like the two of you have settled into a pocket of time removed from the rest of the world. 

You’re leaning back against the couch now, your own legs crossed on the cushion, and the soft hum of casual conversation filling the space between you.

But then, completely out of nowhere, the words spill out of your mouth with an abruptness that shifts the air immediately.

“Do you always drink this much with your babysitters?” you ask, your tone is light, almost playful, but there’s an edge of nervousness beneath it.

Agatha’s response comes slower than expected, but when it does, it lands like a deliberate blow.

“Only the ones worth breaking the rules for.” her voice is low, sultry, and laced with an edge of amusement that makes the room feel impossibly smaller.

Your throat goes completely dry on the spot, and you try to will your brain to keep up, to find something clever to say. A snarky remark, a witty comeback, an equally teasing reply, anything.

You fumble with your glass, taking a sip longer than necessary, the wine coursing through you like liquid fire. Each drop seems to stoke the embers in your chest, unfurling in waves, merging with the simmering frustration that has been tightening its grip on you all night.

Boldness—fueled by the wine, the smoldering tension, and the enigma that is Agatha—surges to the surface.  Before you can think, the words slip out.

“Why do you do this?” your voice is sharper than you intended, and it cuts through the air between you like a knife.

Agatha raises an eyebrow, her smirk deepening as she leans back against the couch. 

“Do what, exactly?” she asks, feigning innocence, though the glint in her eyes betrays her.

“This.” you gesture vaguely between the two of you, frustration bleeding into your tone. “The teasing, the looks, the… the way you—” you break off, exhaling sharply. “It’s like you enjoy watching me lose my mind.”

She chuckles darkly, the sound almost dangerous, and it sends a shiver down your spine. She sets her glass on the coffee table, her movements unhurried, calculated.

“Maybe I do.” she murmurs, her tone dropping into something quieter, more intimate. Her gaze locks onto yours, and she leans forward slightly, slowly closing the distance between you inch by inch.

Your pulse quickens, every nerve in your body on high alert. She’s close enough now that you can feel the faint warmth of her body.

But she doesn’t stop. She leans in further, her face now just a breath away from yours. Her eyes flick down to your lips for a fleeting moment, and your breath catches.

“You’re not the only one losing their mind tonight, you know.” her voice drops to a whisper, low and raw, and you’re pretty sure your pulse flatlines. 

The world around you fades, the only thing grounding you is the way her icy gaze holds you captive. Your heart pounds in your ears, and you think this is it—this is where the line between you finally blurs.

But then your eyes flicker down, catching sight of the glass still clutched in your hand, and reality slams into you like a freight train.

The wine—it’s been warming you, emboldening you, loosening you. And now, with her so close, you can’t shake the fear that it’s not just you under its influence. What if this moment isn’t real? What if it’s the wine, not her, driving the spark in her eyes, the closeness of her breath? The thought twists in your chest, sharp and painful. You don’t want this, her, to be something fleeting, something hazy and tainted by doubt.

You pull back, the movement abrupt and jarring, completely annihilating the moment. 

Agatha freezes, her body leaning back instinctively, confusion flickering in her eyes.

“I can’t.” you say quickly, your voice trembling slightly. “Not like this.”

Her brow furrows, and she tilts her head. 

“Not like what?” she asks, her tone still smooth but tinged with curiosity, fascination even.

“With… with the wine.” you stammer, struggling to find the right words. “I don’t want to— I mean, I don’t know if—” You let out a shaky exhale, setting your glass down beside hers. “I just… I can’t.”

You rise to your feet, your movements hurried and almost clumsy as you try to put some distance between the two of you. 

Agatha doesn’t stop you, but her gaze follows your every move, unreadable and heavy.

“I should go.” you mumble, your frustration bubbling to the surface. Even though you’re not sure if it’s directed at her, at yourself, or at the entire night.

You barely take a couple of steps toward the door when Agatha’s voice calls after you, firm and unyielding.

“You shouldn’t leave.” 

Her voice echoes through the room, and even though her words aren’t a real command, they sure feel like one.

You halt mid-step and slowly turn to face her, your chest tightening at the sight. She’s still seated on the couch, her posture casual but her gaze piercing, pinning you in place.

“It’s late.” she says, her tone measured, as if explaining something obvious. “You’ve had wine. The roads are dark. I’d rather not spend the rest of the night worrying about whether or not you made it home safely.”

Her words are practical, almost dismissive, as though the charged moment between you never happened. But there’s something beneath the surface—a subtle current in her voice that makes it impossible to tell if she’s truly unaffected or simply hiding it well.

“I’m fine.” your reply is automatic, defensive. But even as you say it, the shakiness in your voice betrays you.

“You don’t look fine, hon. You look like someone about to storm out into the night just to prove a point. Agatha says, her tone steady, though her expression softens just slightly. 

There’s still an edge of steel in her eyes, a quiet challenge buried beneath her words.

“I can handle myself.” you bite out, though the words sound hollow, even to you.

She exhales softly, the faintest flicker of something—annoyance? amusement?—crossing her features. 

Then, with a surprising grace for someone that just had three glasses of wine, she rises from the couch and closes the distance between you.

“I don’t doubt that. But tell me this: what exactly are you proving by leaving right now? And to whom?”

Her words hit their mark, and you feel the fight drain out of you. Because she’s right, you’re not leaving because it’s practical. You’re leaving because you’re overwhelmed, unsure, afraid of what staying might mean or lead to.

Agatha’s eyes stay locked on yours as she continues, her voice taking on a tone that’s almost… tender. 

“Stay.” she says simply, the single word carrying so much weight it feels like it might crush you. “It’s late. There’s no reason for you to go rushing out into the night when you don’t have to.”

You glance toward the door, then back at her, weighing your options.

The truth is, you are tired—tired of the emotions, of the push and pull of the evening that’s left you feeling completely unraveled. The idea of staying, of letting the night end on a quieter note, is far too tempting to resist.

“Fine.” you finally answer, your own tone colder than you expected.

“Good.” she says, stepping back to give you space. “The guest room is ready. It’s not much, but it’ll do for tonight.”

She turns and starts toward the stairs. You hesitate for a moment, your mind still spinning with the events of the past hours, before following her.

You sigh, exhaustion settling into your bones as you reach the top of the stairs. Right now, none of it matters—not the tension, not the confusion, not the endless spiraling questions that have chased you all night. All you want is to sleep, to let the haze of the wine fade away in the quiet refuge of a bed. Whether it’s your own or the one in Agatha’s guest room, it doesn’t seem to make a difference anymore.

You barely notice as Agatha pauses by a linen closet, pulling out a neatly folded towel and an oversized t-shirt.

“This should do.” she states, handing them to you. 

Her tone is neutral, almost too casual, as if nothing about the evening had been remotely unusual. Her gaze doesn’t linger as long as usual though, she doesn’t meet your eyes for more than a second before nodding toward the guest room door.

“That’s yours for the night.” she gestures briefly, indicating the room between the bathroom and Nicholas’ door at the far end of the hall. “Bathroom’s just here.” she continues, pointing to the door next to hers on the opposite end.

“Thanks.” you mutter, your voice barely above a whisper as you grip the towel and shirt tightly.

Agatha hums faintly, stepping back toward her room. For a second, you think she might say more, but instead, she simply glances over her shoulder.

“Goodnight.”, her tone is warm, yet the word feels strangely clipped. 

Before you can respond, she slips into her room and disappears in the ensuite bathroom.

You stand there for a few seconds, awkwardly rooted in place. Your own “Goodnight” comes out almost as an afterthought, mumbled into the silence as you step into the guest room and close the door behind you.

The room is elegant and cozy, a neatly made bed dominating the space and a single lamp casting a warm glow over the soft cream walls. 

You drop the towel onto the edge of the bed and hold up the shirt, its fabric soft and worn in a way that feels oddly intimate.

You undress and slip it over your head, only to be immediately engulfed by Agatha’s perfume. It clings to the fabric, potent and intoxicating, and for a moment, you allow the scent to wash over you and flood your senses.

Heat coils low in your stomach, and you shake your head quickly, brushing off whatever effect wearing something of hers seems to be having on you. 

With a steadying breath, you fold the towel over your arm and step back out into the hall, heading towards the bathroom.

The splash of cold water against your face is grounding, but even as you dry off and prepare to head back to your room, you can’t shake the way her scent fills you nostrils with every minuscule movement.

Stepping into the hallway, you’re greeted by darkness, broken only by a faint sliver of light seeping from beneath your door. 

You take a step toward the guest room, but a faint sound slices through the stillness.

It’s almost imperceptible, a noise so soft and muffled that, for a second, you wonder if you imagined it.

You hold your breath as your eyes flick toward the ajar door of Agatha’s room. You think about just brushing it off, receding to the relative safety of the guest room and pretending you heard nothing.

But then you hear it again. 

Your feet move before your brain can catch up, carrying you a step closer, as quietly as possible on the wooden floorboards.

And the closer you get, the clearer the sound becomes.

Another low, broken noise escapes, this time accompanied by a faint rustle of fabric. 

The realization dawns slowly, burning through you like wildfire. Your stomach twists, heat pooling low in your abdomen as the truth of what you’re hearing sinks in.

You consider retreating. You do. But your legs refuse to move. 

Something keeps you rooted in place, drawn forward as though compelled by a force beyond your control.

Your bare feet barely make a sound against the cool wood floor as you edge closer to Agatha’s door, muffled moans growing more vivid with every inch of space you gain. You can hear her breathing now, shallow and uneven, each exhale laced with pleasure that seems to echo in your own chest.

Your knees weaken as you reach the doorframe. And then you hear it.

“Yes… oh fuck, yes.”

Her rough voice rips through you like a physical force. The raw intimacy of it, the unguarded need, sends a sharp jolt straight down your spine. Your lips part on a shaky breath, your thighs pressing together instinctively against the unbearable ache building between them.

Every nerve in your body is on fire, wetness pools between your legs, and you feel a flush creeping up your neck, your skin hypersensitive to even the faintest brush of air.

Another broken moan follows, and it takes every ounce of restraint not to make a sound in return.

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to will yourself back to reality, to sanity. But all you can picture is her—Agatha, in the darkness of her room, her head tilted back, her lips parted as she whispers filthy, desperate things into the still air.

You can’t stop imagining what it would feel like to be the reason for those sounds.

The thought is intoxicating, dangerous, and far too tempting.

But you know you can’t let your mind go there. You know this is the moment to turn around, to leave, to escape before you lose yourself completely.

Pressing your back against the wall beside the doorframe, you focus on steadying your breath, though every nerve in your body feels alive, thrumming with a tension that leaves you trembling. Each sound she makes only tightens the coil in your stomach, the ache quickly approaching unbearable levels.

You take one last, shaky breath as she whispers another low curse that shoots straight through your core. Then, with every ounce of willpower you can muster, you step back, your movements shaky and reluctant. 

Each step toward the guest room feels like a battle, every fiber of your being screaming at you to turn back.

You step into the guest room and close the door behind you, leaning against it trying to steady yourself. Your heart still pounds, each beat reverberating through your chest, your entire body tingling in the wake of what you just experienced.

The room feels quiet, mercifully so, the sounds that had haunted you moments ago are now gone, silenced by the thick walls of Agatha’s home. You take a moment to reassure yourself—there’s no way Nicholas could hear anything, not from his room at the other end of the hallway. Agatha knows her house, knows its secrets. Of course, she’d be careful.

With that thought, you push yourself off the door and move toward the bed. You slip under the covers and reach for the lamp on the nightstand, turning it off. 

Darkness envelopes you, but it does nothing to quiet the sensations coursing through your body. The ache low in your stomach has only intensified since you left her door.

Your fingers tighten on the edge of the blanket, your breathing uneven as you squeeze your thighs together, desperate for even the smallest bit of relief.

But it’s no use. The ache is too insistent, too consuming. The memory of her moans, her breathy curses, fills your mind. You can still hear them, low and filthy, the rawness of her need reverberating throughout your whole body.

Your hand moves on its own, slipping beneath the fabric of her shirt. Your fingers trail over your stomach, climbing higher until they reach your breast. The moment your palm cups the soft flesh, a sharp jolt of pleasure shoots through you.

You suck in a breath, biting down hard on your lip to muffle the quiet whimper that escapes your throat. 

Your thumb brushes over your nipple, circling it slowly until it hardens beneath your touch. The sensation sends a wave of heat straight to your core, your hips shifting restlessly beneath the covers.

Your other hand moves lower, brushing over the waistband of your panties. There’s a moment of hesitation, but it’s brief. The heat pooling between your thighs is unbearable now, and you can’t deny yourself any longer. 

Your fingers slip beneath the fabric, sliding over the wetness that greets you. You gasp quietly, the slick evidence of your arousal coating your fingertips. 

“Fuck…” you whisper, the word slipping out unbidden, the sound barely audible but laced with desperation.

Your fingers glide over your clit, the swollen bundle of nerves already sensitive, and you bite back another moan. You begin to circle it slowly, the pressure just enough to stoke the fire burning in your stomach.

But you need more. You press your fingers lower, sliding one inside yourself, then another. The stretch is delicious, the rhythm instinctive as your hips buck against your hand. 

You curl your fingers, hitting just the right spot, and the pleasure that ripples through you makes your toes curl.

Your hand moves faster now, your palm grinding against your clit with each thrust of your fingers. The wet sounds of your movements would be obscene if they weren’t muffled by the covers, but instead of embarrassment, it only fuels your arousal.

And then, Agatha seizes complete control of your mind. You imagine her fingers instead of yours, the way they’d explore you, claim you. You picture her leaning over you, her voice condescending and commanding as she tells you how good you feel, how she can’t get enough of you.

Your back arches off the bed as your hand moves to your other breast, kneading it roughly. Your nipples are so sensitive now that each pinch, each roll between your fingers, leaves you wetter, the slickness between your thighs growing with each needy, breathless motion, soaking your fingers as you lose yourself completely to the sensation.

You imagine her lips replacing your hand, her tongue flicking over the hardened peak before she bites down, just enough to make you gasp. Your hips jerk involuntarily, the image too vivid, too real.

Her voice fills your mind, rough and low, the way she cursed earlier. But this time, it’s for you.

“That’s it, baby. Just like that. Let go for me.”

You can almost feel her breath against your skin, her weight pressing you into the mattress, her fingers fucking you with a precision that leaves you shaking.

Your fingers thrust deeper, harder, curling just right as your thumb flicks over your clit. The tension in your stomach coils tighter, impossibly tight, until you’re teetering on the edge.

“Agatha…” you whisper, her name tumbling from your lips like a prayer.

The sound of it, the feel of it on your tongue, pushes you over the edge. 

The tension snaps, pleasure exploding through you wave after wave, so intense it leaves you trembling.

Your thighs clamp around your hand, your hips grinding against your fingers as the aftershocks ripple through you. Your other hand grips the sheets tightly, your knuckles white as you ride out every last pulse of pleasure.

For a long moment, you lie there, your chest heaving, your body a trembling, oversensitive mess. Slowly, your hand slips away, the wetness on your fingers a reminder of just how badly you want her.

You don’t bother cleaning up, your limbs too heavy to move. Sleep tugs at you, irresistible in the aftermath of your release. 

As your eyes drift shut, her name rests on the edges of your consciousness, a soft echo you can’t help but chase.

[breezeflows]

The Long Road (Stanford Pines x Reader)

Chapter 3

WOOP WOOP CHAPTER 3 IS HERE AND BOY IS IT JUICY🫣 On a serious note though, we are finally getting into some of the exciting bits of the story!! I’m hoping by the next chapter we will finally be back in the present. No more sad flashbacks!! Also y’all writing Lizzy is genuinely my favorite. If this fic wasn’t about Ford I’d be wifing her up instead😔 Anyways- here’s chapter 3 you lovely souls!

Themes: Consumption of alcohol (reader lowkey gets wasted), major hangover, bill himself is a warning, suggestiveness kind of?? idk, heartache, lizzy is overall an amazing friend, alllll the angst and feelings, injuries, etc okay enjoy!

The drive to Lizzy’s place is quiet, the steady hum of the car engine and the sound of raindrops against the windshield the only background noise. You sit in the passenger seat, watching the trees pass by through the window as you fiddle with the wedding band around your finger. Lizzy glances at you occasionally, a small frown on her face as she senses your mood. She remains silent for most of the ride, giving you space to process your emotions if need be.

It's not long before the car rolls to a stop in front of her apartment building. You reach around to gather your belongings from the backseat and step out into the rainy afternoon. Lizzy follows suit, bright pink umbrella in hand as she leads you towards the entrance.

Once inside the building, she unlocks the door to her apartment building and the two of you usher inside. The soft yellow light of the living room envelopes you, creating a cozy atmosphere in stark contrast to the gloominess outside.

Lizzy begins to kick off her shoes, hanging her keys as she silently studies your face. She can see the turmoil in your eyes, and the uncertainty you’re trying to hide.

“So,” she says gently, breaking the silence. “You okay?”

Your eyes snap out of the daze they were in as you look over at Lizzy, giving her a weak smile.

“Oh, yeah I guess. Things went a lot better than I thought they would.”

Her expression relaxes at your response, a hint of relief showing on her face.

“That’s good,” she says as she walks over to the couch and plops down on it, gesturing for you to do the same. “I was half-expecting a tearful scene or something, honestly.”

You manage a light chuckle at her remark, plopping down on the couch next to her. You pull your knees to your chest as you grab a blanket draped across the back of it, wrapping it around you.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “Ford took it pretty well, actually. Better than I expected.”

Lizzy raises a brow as she leans against the back cushions, her arms crossing. “Girl, he better take it well after what he said to you. If it had been me, I would’ve dropped his ass on the spot.”

You can’t help but let out a small snort of laughter at her words, a genuine smile tugging at the corners of your lips for the first time in a while. It’s a relief to have Lizzy’s no-nonsense attitude around, her bluntness serving as a much-needed dose of honesty.

“Yeah, yeah Liz, I know.” you admit, the smile still lingering on your face. “I was a little tempted.”

Lizzy grins, satisfied with your response as she reaches over and pats your knee supportively.

“As you should,” she says with a nod. “You don’t deserve treatment like that of any kind, no matter how important his research is to him.”

You frown slightly at her words, opting to pick at the blanket below as a distraction.

“Yeah..”

Lizzy watches your expression carefully, sensing your discomfort. She tilts her head slightly, her gaze searching your face.

“But you don’t quite agree, do you?” she probes gently.

You let out a sigh, unsure how to articulate your feelings as you continue to fiddle with the fabric of the blanket.

“It’s just… complicated Liz,” you say, your voice tinged with guilt and frustration. “Yes, I’m hurt and angry with him, but I also understand where he’s coming from. We’ve been together almost our whole lives, and this is all he has ever worked towards. His research is important to him, and he’s under a lot of pressure.”

Lizzy nods slowly as she listens to your words, her expression a mix of understanding and concern. She reaches over and places a hand on top of yours, stopping your nervous fidgeting.

“I get that Y/N, I do,” she says quietly. “And I’m not saying he’s completely in the wrong. But you shouldn’t have to feel like an afterthought in his life either. That’s not fair to you.”

Your eyes brim with tears at her response, your hand twisting and taking hers tightly.

“I know,” you say, your voice threatening to break. “I just wish we could fix things..”

Lizzy squeezes your hand as your tear-filled eyes meet hers.

“And you will, Y/N. It’ll just take some time.”

A small, wobbly smile forms on your lips at her reassurance, a few tears slipping down your cheeks. The hope that you might be able to fix things with Ford, to find a way to bridge the gap that’s widened between you both, is a small but significant comfort.

“Thank you, Liz,” you murmur, your voice still shaky. “I really hope you’re right.”

Lizzy stands with a smile, her hand pulling away from yours and resting on your shoulder.

“I know I’m right chick, because you two love each other. I’ve seen it.”

Your heart warms at her confidence, a soft smile forming on your lips as you nod.

“Now, how about some pizza?”

The few weeks you spend with Lizzy fly by, days passing in a blur of movies, late-night conversations, and plenty of chocolate induced comfort eating. As the final night of your stay approaches, Lizzy turns to you with a sly grin on her face.

“Y/N, I know you’ve been pretty reclusive the past couple of weeks, but it’s your last night here and I refuse to let you spend it watching crappy movies in my living room.”

She places her hands on her hips and gives you a stern look.

“We’re going out for drinks and that’s final.”

You mope as you walk into her view from the bathroom, your voice annoyed and pleading as you speak.

“Liz, I don’t think this is a good idea. I’m a married woman, and this dress feels less than... modest.”

Lizzy rolls her eyes, her expression clearly unconvinced.

“Girl, you’re not here to pick up someone, you’re here to have fun. And as for the dress I picked out for you, it looks fantastic. Stop overthinking it.”

She gives you a onceover, inspecting your outfit.

“Besides, I’d like to see anyone who tries hitting on you tonight.”

You pout as you watch her, pulling down your dress so it covers your knees.

“I don’t know how Ford would feel about this..”

Lizzy scoffs, shaking her head.

“Ford’s not here, and we both know he should be the last person you’re trying to impress right now. You’re still young, and attractive Y/N, you deserve to enjoy yourself for one night without him on your mind. Not to mention you’ve got to live your life without kids while you can. I know the two of you have talked about it. ”

She grabs the hem of your dress and tugs it back up, flashing you a defiant look.

“And if he has a problem with you having fun, he can talk to me.”

You sigh as you give in, knowing Lizzy wouldn’t be changing her mind about your all’s plans for the night.

“Fine, fine. But we’re not staying out too late, okay?”

Lizzy grins, victorious.

“That’s more like it! And don’t worry, I promise we won’t be out until dawn,” she assures you. “Just a few drinks, maybe a little dancing, and then we’ll come back here. You trust me, right?”

“More than anything Liz.”

And that’s how you find yourself at the bar now, one too many drinks in and slumped against Lizzy’s shoulder.

She laughs at your state, her own cheeks flushed from drinking. She slings an arm around your shoulders, keeping you upright and steady in the booth the two of you occupied.

“Goodness chick, are you already trashed? We’ve barely been here an hour!” she teases, her voice lighthearted and amused.

You grumble something in response, your head spinning from the alcohol in your system. You take another sip from your glass, your tongue loose and inhibitions lowered.

“I blame you,” you slur, pointing an accusatory finger at Lizzy. “You’re a bad influence.”

Lizzy laughs loudly at your accusation, her eyes sparkling. “No one forced you to down those shots, Y/N,” she says, sliding out of the booth with ease. “I’m going to get you some water, alright? You stay right here in your seat.”

You nod lazily at her words, the idea of staying where you are very appealing. You watch groggily as she strides away, her bell bottoms and flare top in tow. She weaves through the crowd to make her way to the counter, your eyes becoming heavy.

Just as you’re starting to doze off from the alcohol, a presence suddenly sits down in the booth across from you. You blink in surprise, your vision clearing slightly as you focus on the newcomer.

Your eyes widen as you recognize your husband’s face, his features strangely serious and intense as he stares back at you. But there’s something off about him… Something otherworldly in his gaze that sends a chill down your spine.

“Well, well,” he says, his voice cool and calculated. “If it isn’t dear Y/N. You look a little worse for wear.”

Your vision blurs as you grip the side of the table, your words slurred as you speak.

“F.. Ford?”

Ford smiles widely, his eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. The expression is slightly unfamiliar, different from the familiar warmth you’re used to. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“In the flesh, honey,” he drawls, his voice smooth and flirtatious.

“But I see you’ve had quite a few drinks already. Feeling a little dazed? I wonder how Sixer would feel about me seeing you in this state and not him. Hilarious!”

Your arm trembles weakly as you hold yourself up, vision blurring in and out as you sway slightly in your seat.

“Wha.. What? Why are you.. here..?”

His lips curl into a smug smirk as he eyes your disheveled form, eyes lingering on your exposed skin, clearly enjoying your confusion and intoxication.

“Oh, I had a little chat with Fordsy earlier. He agreed to let me take the reins for a few hours…”

He gives a careless shrug. “You know how he is. All work and no play. Figured I’d take advantage of the situation, hell, I even got him a new tattoo!”

You sit there, dumbfounded and wavering in and out of consciousness as your mind tried to process what Ford was talking about.

Ford’s – or rather, Bill’s – eyes rake over you again, giving an exaggerated sigh before his lips turned into a sly grin.

“You really are a sight for sore eyes, I can see why Sixer married you.”

Your thoughts are still spinning from the alcohol, making it hard to focus on the conversation. You struggle to keep yourself upright, your body feeling heavy and numb.

Bill notices your dazed state, chuckling as he gives a mockingly sympathetic tone.

“You look a little out of it, darling. You really shouldn’t have had so much to drink. Especially considering how easy it’d be to trick you into a deal right now.”

Your mind races with confusion as you stand up weakly, your gut telling you something wasn’t right as you sway back and forth, (Or maybe it was the alcohol) your vision blurring as you scan the place in search of Lizzy.

“Going somewhere? Those human legs of yours don’t look very stable!”

You wobble forward, ignoring his protests as you keep moving.

“You really should listen to me if you want to avoid that nasty bruise tomorrow!”

He calls out, and before you know it you trip, and everything goes black.

Hours later… aka early morning.

You slowly open your eyes, your head pounding and your memories fuzzy. You realize you’re lying on a couch in Lizzy’s apartment, a cool cloth pressed over what you assume to be a large tender bruise on your forehead.

Lizzy is sitting perched on the edge of the coffee table in front of you, her expression a mix of worry and frustration. She notices your eyes flutter open and lets out a relieved sigh.

“Oh thank god,” she mutters. “You had me worried for a second there. I stayed up with you all night waiting for you to wake up.”

“Liz?” you mumble, head pounding. “What the hell happened? My head is killing me..”

Her expression softens at your groggy murmur, her hand reaching out instinctively to brush the hair away from your face.

“Hey, take it easy,” she says, voice low and soothing. “You took a pretty nasty fall back at the bar. Hit your head on a table on the way down.”

Your eyes widen as your memory jogs itself.

“What..? Wait, Ford.. Ford was there?”

Lizzy freezes, her expression guarded at the mention of Ford. She averts her gaze, focusing her attention on the cloth that she’s holding against your forehead.

“Uh, yeah,” she says, her voice hesitant. “He showed up towards the end of the night when I went to grab you a water… You don’t remember?”

You think to yourself for a moment, your memory patchy and vague.

“I mean, I kind of do. But it was weird? Did something happen?”

Lizzy is silent, her gaze still firmly averted from yours. She adjusts the cloth, pressing it against your head with a little more pressure than necessary.

“Nothing happened,” she finally says, her voice tight. “You just had a little too much to drink and tripped, that’s all.”

Her words are curt and dismissive, clearly trying to downplay the situation. But there’s something in her expression, a flicker of unease that betrays her true emotions.

She glances at you briefly, her eyes meeting yours for a split second before moving back to your injury.

“Lizzy..?” you say, silently pleading with her to tell you the full truth.

She exhales slowly, her shoulders slumping in resignation. She knows you’re not going to let this go, and she owes you the truth.

“Alright, fine,” she mutters avoiding your gaze. “When I got back to the booth, it was exactly when you had fell..”

You listen closely, sitting yourself up slightly.

“I had noticed Ford when I got there, sure, but when I went to go help you..”

Lizzy pauses, a frown forming on her face as she continues.

“Ford laughed,” she says as her eyes meet yours, full of concern and.. fear? “And not in a lighthearted way, in a cruel mocking way Y/N..”

Lizzy lowers the cloth from your head, placing it in her lap as you sit there, dumbfounded.

“He was just… enjoying the view, I guess,” She mutters bitterly. “Like you were some kind of joke, I don’t know Y/N. It was fucking weird, really fucking weird. I didn’t like it. He laughed as if he was the one who had done it.”

Lizzy trails off, brows furrowed as she clenches her fists. While you, on the other hand, are utterly speechless.

Your mind reels with this new information, struggling to reconcile the image of Ford – laughing coldly and mockingly at your predicament - with the caring, affectionate husband you’ve known him to be your whole life.

“I… I don’t understand,” you stutter, your voice small and confused.

“He wouldn’t… he wouldn’t do that. Not Ford.”

But as you say those words, you can’t help but recall the other strange things that had happened earlier that night. Ford’s detached demeanor, his unfamiliar choice of words, the way he seemed so cold and calculating. Your heart clenches in your chest at the thought, leaving a sour taste in your mouth. Had something happened over the few weeks you’ve been gone? Did Ford get too deep in his research? Something wasn’t right.

As you try to make sense of the situation, Lizzy watches you with a mix of compassion and concern. She knows this is incredibly tough for you to hear, but she also seems to have her own worries about the situation.

“I don’t know Y/N,” she says quietly, her hands twisting in her lap. “It was just… so not him. I don’t know what the hell happened. But I’ve never seen him act like that before. It’s like he was a different person.”

Her voice trails off, leaving the two of you in silence as you’re both lost in thought.

Eventually, Lizzy breaks the silence, her voice sympathetic as she places a hand on top of yours.

“How about this, you rest up today, and when you’re ready, I’ll take you to the cabin to get some answers from Ford? Only if you feel comfortable, of course.”

You take a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions inside of you.

“Alright,” you murmur. “I’m still feeling pretty rough, but I’d like to see him… tonight, if possible.”

Despite your confusion and worry, you know that facing your husband and talking with him is the only way to get answers. The answers that you crave so desperately in hopes that it’ll mend your breaking heart - and marriage.

Lizzy gives you a reassuring nod.

“Of course,” she says gently. “You rest up, and I’ll come get you when it’s time to go.”

She stands up, gently readjusting the cloth on your head.

“Try to get some sleep, okay?”

You nod, laying yourself back down.

You’re going to need it to cross the bridge that awaits you tonight.

READER AND BILL INTERACTION WOOP WOOP!! Also I’m not gonna lie, I feel like I messed up the timeline a little bit but I’m just gonna go for it. Thank you for reading! :)

Tag List: @artistic-gato @karmaisacatluzi @therottenheartofscum @violetvsworld @inquiit @catr4dora

[jyoongim]

~BLOOD & BLISS~

Human!Alastor x wife!Reader

Themes: 1930 based! Human!Alastor x wife!Reader, domestic life! fluff, smut, devotion, slight manipulation, mention of children, pregnancy,  blood, murder, secrets 

Chapter two chapter four

Chapter 3

Note: sooooo as y’all know Alastor and wife!reader have already been married for a few years (by the time they have their last child their marriage will be 16-20 years.) 

Since you had mentioned wanting children, Alastor has taken it upon himself to fuck you on very surface in the house. You had never seen your husband so riled up. When he returned from work, he would always somehow coax you upstairs to make a mess of you. You were often filled with his cum that you were sure you had to be pregnant by now, but you didn’t think about it too much, just letting nature do its thing.

You were prepping for lunch, as Alastor said he wanted to come home and eat.  You decided to keep it simple, opting to make salmon cakes and cabbages. The cabbages were boiling as you moved on to make the cakes. When you opened the can of fish, the smell made you queasy, making your stomach lurch and you quickly made yourself to the bathroom.

You had broken out in a cold sweat as you dry heaved into the toilet. You whimpered as your stomach twisted. You have never had such a reaction to fish before, so why did you feel so sick all of a sudden?

You splashed some cold water on your face and looked at your reflection.

Eyes scanning yourself in the mirror,  you couldn’t see what ailment had fallen over you. You looked a little pale but that could be from anything. Your eyes lingered on your midsection.

could you be…

You turned and pressed your hands against your stomach, smoothing out your dress to be flat. Heart beating out your chest, you caressed your stomach. Your stomach had a slight bump, something that you had chalked up from your indulgence in sweets. But it was rounder than how it usually looked.

Your eyes widened and quickly went downstairs to phone the doctor.

—————————————————————————————-

“Well ma’am congratulations! It would appear you are around 12 weeks.” 

The doctor smiled at you, waiting for your response.

You were stunned. 

Pregnant.

You were pregnant.

You cleared your throat nervously “w-what am i suppose to do?”

The question held uncertainty but you had no idea what or how to process this news.

A small part of you was happy, you finally were gonna have a baby with Alastor. The other part was nervous and scared, you didn’t have the slightest thought on how to raise a child.

The doctor chuckled “Its normal to be scared or nervous. This is your first time after all but don’t worry. I recommend attending mothering classes, to get the knowledge and familiar with baby terms, symptoms, and how to prepare. You’re a bit vitamin-deficient but more fruits and greens can help with that. You’ll experience morning sickness here and there so don’t push yourself. The important thing is that you get as must rest as possible. Stress isn’t good for you or the baby.”

You jotted down some notes as the doctor filled you with some information and thanked him for his time. He gave you your next appointment and answered any other health questions you had. You made a mental note to visit these mommy classes.

You sighed as you closed the door to your home. Your mind was reeling and you were filled with so many emotions.

You hadn’t thought you would get pregnant so soon but Alastor was very if not persistent when it came to keeping you filled.

You soon had a smile on your face as you thought of the little one growing within you. You knew Alastor didn’t mind having a baby, but you couldn’t help but wonder how he would react to the news. 

Would he be excited to be a Daddy? Would he want a boy or a girl?

You were sure he wouldn’t mind either way.

You couldn’t wait to tell him the good news.

————————————————————————————————-

Alastor let some jazz tunes play as he looked over some scripts and news for his next segment. He stole a glance at the clock and got up from his chair, grabbing his jacket.

 It was lunch time.

He was headed home to spend his break with his wife.

A pleasant shiver ran through him at the thought of taking his sweet wife over the meal she prepared for him.

He had been fucking his wife nonstop since she mentioned children and the thought of her swollen with his child always sent his cock swelling.

He placed his hat and jacket on the couch as he made his way to the kitchen. He was greeted with the sight of you dressed fairly comfortable, not in your usual polished attire. Your hair was pinned up and wrapped, you were dressed in your silk robe, which was dropping off your shoulders, exposing them. You were humming as you washed the dishes.

You looked ravishing.

He crept up behind you, making you jolt when his long arms wrapped around your midsection. He pressed his lips to the junction of your neck, littering your shoulder and neck in kisses. “Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes darlin” he drawled, nuzzling his nose into the underside of your jaw. You giggled as Alastor nipped at your skin, wiping your soapy hands on a towel you spun around to wrap your arms around his neck, leaning up to kiss his lips “Hello to you too dear. I hope you’re hungry. I made fish cakes. Dont want you too tired heavy with a full meal when you have to dazzle the masses”

A wide smile stretched across his face, eyes lidded “What if I just want dessert?” He jested as you swatted at his broad chest with a blush sprouting on your face.

“Oh shush! Sit down and eat” you huffed, shoving a plate into his chest.

Alastor chuckled and took the plate and moved to leaned over the kitchen island.

”Are you feeling ok my dear? Not that I mind, no, but you seem tired” he took a took a sip of tea, eyeing you.

You fidget with your fingers “I am feeling better, had a bit of a upset stomach this morning and paid the doctor a visit” you tried to hide your smile as his brows furrowed and dropped the cake to look you over like a worried hen.

His hands took yours as he frowned “you’re not coming down with anything are you? Why ain’t you page me at the studio i would have gladly took you.”

You leaned into his chest, smiling at him “weeelll i did come down with something and I fear i wont be rid of it anytime soon” oh you were torturing the poor man.

He had panic in his eyes as he was unaware of what it was. Wanting to remain strong and supportive for your sake.

”well whatever it is I will make sure to be there with you through it all” he declared.

Oh this was sweet.

”did the doctor tell you what it was at least?” He asked.

You smiled, catching him off guard, as you placed his hands on your stomach. Alastor was confused when you did so, his hands spanned along your stomach. You were a bit rounder but you did like sweets.

You watched as the realization dawned on his face. His jaw dropped and his brown eyes looked at your in shock. “A-are you…” you frantically nodded, unable to conceal your giggling as he wrapped his arms around you, squeezing you.

”Oh darling really? Youre..you’re really? Youre pregnant?” His voice grew excited.

”hehehe yes yes were having a baby! Alastor we are having a baby” your face was attacked in kisses. “Doc said im 12 weeks, looks like your resilience paid off” you giggled as your husband smoothed his hands over your stomach, crouching down as he laid his forehead against the bump.

”A-are you happy?” You couldn’t help but ask. He looked up at you, eyes shining and smile big “Oh baby you just don’t know.” He kissed your stomach, cooing, before kissing your lips. “You’ve made me the happiest. Almost like we got married all over again” he whispered against your lips.

He rested a hand on your stomach, caressing the bump. “Ooh I can’t wait to see how motherhood shapes you cher” he kissed your forehead, making you sigh lovingly.

Alastor had decided to page the studio to tell them something came up at home and the two of you spent the rest of the afternoon cuddled on the couch; Alastor had you tucked into his side as he stroked your stomach, already in love. The two of you had discussed what the next steps would be and how to move forward. 

All the sweetness and lovey-dovey led to the two of you giving into more sensual desires, really just enjoying each other and reestablishing the love between the two of you. 

You slipped your robe back on as you broke the heated kiss your husband had pulled you into. He groaned when you pulled away and went to get off his lap, hands kneading your hips. “Where you going sweetness” he purred as you giggled standing

”To freshen up. Since you’re home maybe we can really hunker down on what we gonna do for this baby mister” you said heading upstairs. Alastor pouted, listening to your footsteps move around. He got up and went to put up the lunch you made, he’ll take it with him when he’s out working late.

Speaking of which….he needed to spruce up a few loose ends he had been watching and would let to get those done before you needed all his attention.

He was confident in his ability to keep his sins away from your lives at home, after all he had crafted a beautiful reality here with you and he didn’t want that to be ruined by anything or anyone.

He whistled an old tune as he thought of you and a smile appeared on his face.

He was over the moon to find out you were pregnant. 

He couldn’t wait to see how motherhood treated you. 

To watch your body transform to provide for his child. How did he get so lucky to have a woman like you?

He wondered if you’ll have a boy or girl, he preferred a baby girl but he didn’t really care as long as you were happy.

After he cleaned up the kitchen he headed upstairs and Alastor swore his heart skipped a beat at the sight before him.

You were asleep on your side, one hand under your cheek and the other resting against the small baby bump, slowly stroking it. He threw a blanket over you and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. Satisfied that you were comfortable, he got his clothes from the other day from the closet and headed downstairs outback to wash his clothes.

It was gonna be a pain to get the stains out.

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Sooooo what do you guys think?? I hate im going so slow but i need to build up some plot lol. I promise Alastor gone slip up!!

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