#i have a soft spot for these kinds of people

[pbaz7]

SOFT SPOT: CHAPTER 11

paige x azzi

word count: 12k

a/n: once again i'm sorry this took so long i had a rough week so finding time to write took a little extra effort than usual. i know everyone was freaking out because i said I teared up but it's not that bad i swear lol. i rushed through the proof reading because i know it's late for some people so let me know if you see any mistakes please :) like always let me know what you think if you can 🫶🏼

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The ticking of the clock in the hallway was the loudest sound in her house and it made Paige want to claw her eyes out. Who the hell even made her get that clock? Why did she need a clock in her damn house? Paige thought about it for a second before getting pissed at Cam when she remembered she was the one that practically forced Paige to have it delivered to her house when she was moving in. 

It wasn’t even just the clock that was annoying Paige. The sunlight that was filtering in through the large windows were casting harsh beams across the hardwood floor and Paige swore it felt like it was turning her living room into a sauna. Who the fuck convinced her to get a house with floor to ceiling windows and why didn’t she close the blinds before she sat down?

Paige was leaned back on the couch with her legs spread and her fingers laced in her lap. She had a blank look on her face as the psychiatrist sat across from her with a small notepad resting on her knee.

“Do you want me to call you Paige, or something else?” the woman asked to break the silence that had lingered for longer than she wanted to.

“Paige’s fine,” she offered plainly.

The psychiatrist nodded. “Alright, Paige. I like to start simple. I’m not here to push you into anything you don’t want to talk about. We can take our time.”

Paige gave her a slow blink before realizing she should probably respond. “Okay.”

The woman studied her for a second, then asked, “So, what does a typical morning look like? You know when there’s no hiccups in your routine?”

Paige shrugged, her eyes locked somewhere past the edge of the coffee table. “Wake up. Stretch. Train.”

“Every day?”

“Every day.”

The psychiatrist smiled faintly. “That kind of routine takes discipline.”

Paige didn’t have a response.

“And what about after training?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“If I feel like being around people.”

The air between them was still; had been still since they sat down. It was from a heaviness that radiated off of Paige, but it wasn’t necessarily hostile. The psychiatrist tilted her head as she studied her body language. “What kind of people do you let in when you do feel like it?”

Paige’s jaw tensed at what she felt was an unnecessary conversation. Her fingers curled so she could push her nails into her palm, distract herself with a feeling other than uncomfortableness. “My sister’s teammates usually. People who don’t expect anything from me.”

The psychiatrist nodded again, still not writing anything on the notepad. Just listening, trying to get a feel for Paige. “Is that how you would describe yourself too?” she asked. “Someone who doesn’t expect anything?”

Paige let out the softest scoff, the corner of her mouth twitching like she wanted to say something but decided against it. “Expectations for certain people just cause disappointment.”

“Have you been disappointed lately?”

“No.”

The psychiatrist sighed. It was more of a thoughtful sign than one out of frustration as she clicked her pen once to tuck the nib down, then set it along with the notepad on the armrest next to her.

“Paige, you’re…” she paused, glancing around the room to find the right words. “You’re one hell of an athlete. A fighter. You live in a—” she gestured subtly around them to Paige’s house, “—pretty large house at the top of the hill in L.A. with two very expensive cars parked in the garage.”

Paige didn’t move, just stared at her.

“But you’re clearly not materialistic,” the woman added. “This place…it’s warm. Lived-in and comfortable. It’s not showy and you’re not showy even though you’re somebody who could probably afford whatever they wanted. Going off of what meets the eye, this is picture perfect.”

“Is there a question?” Paige asked flatly.

The psychiatrist held her gaze, then said very plainly, “Why are you paying for me to be here?”

The silence stretched as they looked at one another until Paige blinked once and looked away. Her jaw flexed a few times, the blonde clenching and unclenching her teeth before she spoke up. “I dissociated.”

The psychiatrist waited for her to say more.

Paige kept her eyes trained on the floor to keep going. “During my last fight. I don’t remember anything about it. Don’t remember walking from the room, don’t remember hearing the crowd, the bell to start the fight, throwing hits…Nothing. I just remember looking down and seeing blood on my gloves and some girl with her eyes rolled back.”

The psychiatrist nodded, deciding not to reach for her pen but to just listen. “Has that ever happened before?”

Paige shook her head. “No.”

“Okay,” the psychiatrist said softly. “Let’s step back, then. You weren’t in the cage with your body that night. So where were you? Where was your mind?”

Paige didn’t answer.

The psychiatrist knew better than to push. So she shifted slightly in her chair, crossing one leg over the other before changing the subject. “Can I ask about your childhood Paige?”

Paige gave her a suspicious look. “What about it?”

“Well,” the psychiatrist said, “when someone dissociates, it’s usually not just a one off thing and it’s not about just one moment. Their brain is protecting itself from something deeper. Sometimes it can be something old.”

Paige was quiet again.

“You don’t have to share everything,” the woman added gently. “Just whatever comes up first when you think about your childhood.”

Paige leaned back slightly, taking a breath as she leaned her head back to rest against the couch and look at the ceiling. “My mom left when I was fourteen or fifteen. I don’t know for sure.”

The psychiatrist nodded once, silently telling her to keep going.

“One day she just packed her stuff when my dad was at work and never came back. There was no note for him or anything.” Paige paused, swallowing a little unevenly. “I remember her walking down the steps, kissing me on the head, mumbling something about it not being my fault and that she loves me more than anything.”

“Did you understand what was happening?”

“I knew it was permanent. That’s what I understood.” When she spoke Paige’s voice was quiet, almost like she was talking to herself.

The psychiatrist gave her space to process her own words, then asked her, “And your dad?”

Paige exhaled through her nose but instead of answering the question she changed the subject. “You know I used to play basketball?”

The psychiatrist didn’t react to the change in subject. She just nodded, following Paige’s lead.

“I grew up playing with my God sister. I was good, we both were…great actually. Everybody thought we could actually make something out of playing. They loved watching us play.” Paige’s voice changed. “I loved it, too. The sound the ball made hitting the court when no one else was there. That swish when it went through the net. I could stay at the gym for hours and be happy. It was kind of like therapy in a way, relaxing.”

The psychiatrist offered a small smile. “So what happened?”

Paige didn’t answer once again. Her eyes drifted to the side, almost like she didn’t process the question. When she did speak, her voice was distant and she changed the subject again. “Parents don’t even realize how mean they’re being when they’re hurt. Not mean with their words necessarily, or physically. Just mean in how they show up as parents.”

The psychiatrist didn’t say anything, letting Paige unravel whatever was going on in her head in her own way.

“He stops cooking for you after practice, so you learn how to cook for yourself, mostly protein cause you know that’s important for athletes even at fourteen. Starts leaving beer bottles around the house, so you gotta clean them up before somebody fucks their face up tripping over one and that becomes a whole nother thing. You gotta start driving yourself to basketball practice as soon as you get your permit because he forgot, or maybe just didn’t feel like it.”

Her jaw flexed.

“Then he just stops coming to your games altogether. So you stop looking for him in the stands.” She shrugged, trying to seem casual about it. “And eventually you just get angry at everybody who blinks at you the wrong way or looks at you too long. Because you’re a kid, and you’re doing it all yourself, and nobody’s showing up and everything feels like too much but not enough at the same time.

Paige exhaled through her nose as she blinked away the wetness in her eyes. She looked at the psychiatrist like nothing happened and said, “I think you asked me a question?”

The psychiatrist studies her for a few moments, organizing her thoughts on what she’s seeing. “I asked how your dad was,” she confirms.

Paige looks at her blankly, almost like she’s not processing the question but then she says, “He was my dad, but he was different after that. Angry, but not the loud kind that people expect.”

“Was he ever angry at you?”

Paige shook her head. “No. Or at least he tried not to be but I wasn’t easy though.” She pauses and adds, “I made it hard for him not to be,” almost like she was trying to rationalize his anger. “I got in fights a lot, acted out so teachers were always calling him.”

“And how did he handle that?”

“He grounded me at first, took me out of basketball as punishment, but that just pissed me off. He didn’t want me getting in trouble, so he threw me in a gym with one of his friends anytime he couldn’t be at home to watch me. Said if I wanted to hit something, I should at least learn how to do it right so I didn’t look like an idiot doing it.”

There was a faint smile at the corner of her mouth, like she was trying to make the memory positive but it didn’t last.

“So that’s when you started fighting?”

Paige nodded. “I was fifteen the first time I felt in control of anything.”

The psychiatrist tilted her head slightly. “Controls important to you?”

“When everything feels like it can get ripped away?” as Paige said this her voice was void of any emotion. “Yeah.”

“What do you remember about your parents before your mom left?”

Paige’s expression changed for a second before reverting back to the blankness, something behind her eyes pulling at the lightness in them tightly trying to dim it. “They fought a lot. Over stupid shit. They always thought I was asleep, but I never was. She’d yell and he’d get quiet, then she’d slam a door for him not listening and her doing that would piss him off so he’d follow her to the next room. They’d repeat that until there were no more doors to hide behind. Until whatever stupid ass thing they were arguing about had to just be out in the open.”

“How did that make you feel, back then?”

Paige opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She tightened her jaw, then gave a half-shrug. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know, or you don’t want to say?”

“Maybe both. Like I said, I don't know.”

The woman nodded. “That’s fair.” She let a few seconds pass before asking, “Do you ever feel that way now?”

Paige didn’t respond again.

“Like you don’t know how you feel or you don’t want to think about it?”

Still nothing as Paige just stared ahead.

After some time the psychiatrist sat back in the chair noting how long the moment stretched as Paige blankly ahead. “When you dissociated during the fight…you said you don’t remember anything. Has anything like that ever happened before? Any other moments where you lost time?”

Paige finally stirred as she scratched her knuckles with her thumb. “I don’t usually lose time,” she said. “I just zone out.”

“Tell me more about the zoning out.”

“I don’t know. I’ll just be in a room, people are talking, and it’s like my body’s still there, but I’m not listening. I just shut off.”

“Does it happen often?”

Paige nodded once to confirm.

“Has anyone noticed?”

“People just say I don’t pay attention. That I’m distracted.” There's a brief pause before she opens and closes her mouth to end the statement there.

“Do you think there’s a specific reason you’re zoning out?”

Paige stays quiet.

“Is it always when someone’s talking?” the woman asked. “Or can it happen even when you’re alone?”

“Both,” Paige said. “Worse when I’m upset or in my head.”

“In your head how?”

Paige wet her lips, as her eyes started to trace the lines of her bookshelf. “Thinking about something I can’t control. Mad at myself for not being in control. Something I said or didn’t say; did or didn’t do. When I feel like I’m just fucking up. Not being good enough for the women in my life.”

“Do you remember the first time you felt that way?”

There was a long silence.

Then Paige once again randomly changed the subject, “There was this one time a few years ago. Some guy at a club put his hands on Cam. Just like around her waist or something.” She paused as she thought about it. “I told him to stop then he just started jawing at me, wouldn’t shut up for Ion know how long. Next thing I remember, I was outside, with my hands all scraped up, knuckles split.”

The psychiatrist stayed still as she listened.

“I don’t even remember hitting him. Don’t remember leaving. Just kinda blinked and I was out back with my friends yelling at me to get in the car.”

“Did it scare you?”

Paige hesitated before she said, “No,” honestly. 

The psychiatrist made a quiet note on her pad, then looked up. “Are you known to have a temper, Paige?”

“Depends who you ask.”

“Okay…If I was asking you?”

Paige sits in silence for a few seconds before answering. “Yeah. Sometimes I can lose it.”

“And when you do, do you always remember what you said or did?”

Paige looks down at her hands as she answers, “Not all the time.”

The psychiatrist’s voice was even as she asked her next question. “How’s your memory overall?”

Paige let out a breath, almost a laugh. “Not great.”

“In what way?”

“I forget simple things, conversations, dates. Whole weeks blur together sometimes if I’m getting ready for a fight. Cam says I repeat myself, she used to call me Dory when we were teenagers.”

“Do you? Repeat yourself I mean?”

“I don’t know, maybe. Like I said, I forget conversations.”

The psychiatrist tapped her pen against her knee gently a few times before she stopped and looked at Paige carefully.

“Have you been formally diagnosed with anything recently?”

Paige shook her head no.

“Well,” the woman said, keeping her voice calm but being clear, “based on the few things you’ve described: losing chunks of memory, zoning out under stress, feeling disconnected from your body and surroundings at times it seems like you’re experiencing symptoms of a dissociative disorder. We’d have to do a comprehensive assessment to be sure but I think that’s what we’re looking at here.”

Paige’s jaw flexed as her eyes dropped again.

“This disorder can include depersonalization—you feeling like you’re experiencing moments from outside of your body—and derealization—where things around you feel foggy, distorted, or unreal.”

Paige didn’t speak so the psychologist kept going, explaining it softly knowing how jarringly some people take this sort of information.

“You mentioned you zone out more when you’re emotional. When you’re upset or overstimulated, your mind pulls away as a form of protection. But that form of protection can start to hurt you and those around you if it happens at the wrong time.”

She paused to let Paige grasp what she was saying, then she asked, “Have you ever been diagnosed with depression or anxiety at any point in your life?”

“No.”

“But do you feel low sometimes? Tense? On edge?”

“Who doesn’t,” she mumbled.

“Have you ever had a panic attack?”

Paige shifted in her seat. “I’ve had...moments. Where I feel like I can’t breathe. Where everything feels too loud. But I don’t like calling it that, seems dramatic.”

“Okay,” the psychiatrist nodded. “That’s fair.”

The psychiatrist let a moment pass before continuing her line of questioning as she probed for a little more information. “Have you ever had thoughts about hurting yourself?”

Paige looked up for the first time in a while, seeming to be a little insulted at the question. “No. Never.”

The therapist nodded once, accepting that answer without pushing further. “I’m glad.”

They sat in silence for a few seconds.

“Paige I want you to understand that this isn’t about labeling you. It’s about giving you the tools to stay present in your life. What you’re experiencing isn’t a weakness you need to beat out of yourself.” She corrects herself saying, “You can’t beat it out of yourself. It’s trauma that’s been misfiled and ignored long enough that it’s started running its own course.”

Paige exhaled deeply and rubbed the side of her jaw as she listened.

“There are options,” the psychiatrist said. “Continued psychotherapy, of course. We could also talk about medication for any possible anxiety or depression symptoms…if you have trouble sleeping. There’s EMDR or somatic therapy which is something that gets into the body as much as the mind. Whatever route you choose will take time and effort but this isn’t something that you have to deal with for the rest of your life Paige.”

Paige let out a long breath. “I don’t know,” she mumbled. “I gotta talk to Azzi.”

The psychiatrist paused at the name, her head tilting slightly as she looked at Paige. “You haven’t mentioned that name today.”

Paige blinked slowly, then smiled softly. “She’s my girlfriend.” As she said that the psychiatrist noticed there was a warmth in her voice for the first time since they’ve started speaking. Almost like she was relieved to mention her.

“She sounds important to you. How long have you two been together?”

Paige leaned back against the couch cushion. “Officially? Like two and a half months.” She scratched her eyebrow before adding, “But she’d been trying to get me to talk to her before that. Kept showing up, kept...bothering me.” The corner of her mouth curved up at the memory. “We were seeing each other for a few months before we made it official.”

The psychiatrist nodded, as her pen hovered over the notepad even though she wasn’t writing. “Tell me about her.”

Paige narrowed her eyes a little. “Why?”

“If she’s important,” the psychiatrist said plainly, “it’s worth understanding what role she plays in your life.”

Paige hesitated, not wanting to offer up information about Azzi to a stranger.

The psychiatrist tilted her head when she noticed her reluctance. “Why didn’t you mention her earlier?”

Paige stared at the floor for a moment. “Because I don’t know she’s—she’s the only one I don’t feel any of this around. The zoning out, the urge to disconnect.” She pulled her eyes from the floor to add, “She’s the only thing that feels real for me all the time.”

The psychiatrist set her notepad on the arm of her chair. “Can you explain that a little more for me? What does she do that helps?”

“I don’t think she purposefully does anything, she doesn’t have to try,” Paige said. “She just pulls me out of my head without even realizing it. Her voice, the way she touches me, her laugh. It’s like—” she stopped herself, embarrassed by how much she wanted to say.

Paige swallowed, her eyes tracking something invisible. “It’s like, she’ll notice something’s off and just sit next to me. Put a hand on my leg. Say something stupid to make me laugh.”

“You feel grounded around her.”

“Yeah,” Paige nodded slowly. “Like my head goes quiet when I’m with her.”

The psychiatrist gave a small nod. “And does she know about the dissociating? The memory gaps?”

Paige hesitated, biting her bottom lip. “Yeah she does now.”

“What changed?”

Paige shifted in her seat. “We had a fight about a month before my last fight.”

“The one you can’t remember?” 

Paige nods in confirmation.

“What happened?”

Paige takes her time explaining some of the backstory of the fight, not going fully into detail but giving the psychiatrist enough to understand the situation.

“Then it just spiraled and she was worked up and I tried to grab her face, like to calm her down to get us both to take a moment but then she flinched.”

The psychiatrist’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes softened as she processed the implications of that .

“She looked scared for a second,” Paige said, her voice changing just a bit as she talked about it. “Seeing that messed me up a little bit and I just had to leave. I told her to stay even though it was my place but I just couldn’t—I couldn’t look at her after that.”

The psychiatrist waited a second before asking, “Do you think you scared her?”

“I know I did, not physically but—” Paige stops herself not wanting to talk about the intricate parts of her relationship. “We’ve talked about it and we're good now.” Paige clarifies. “But after that I just didn’t want to fight. I thought she’d look at me differently after our argument, and be more weary.”

“Did she?”

Paige shook her head. “No. She was there after the fight. When I realized I didn’t remember any of it, I freaked out a little, I was shaking and I threw up in the locker room. Just felt like I couldn’t breathe, like my nerves we’re firing in every direction. She didn’t even say anything, she just opened her arms and sat with me. Made everything seem less loud, less chaotic.”

“And that helped?”

Paige nodded.

The psychiatrist sat quietly for a moment before speaking. “It sounds like she’s a soft spot for you.”

Paige’s eyes lifted, a little guarded again.

“I don’t mean that in a bad way,” the psychiatrist clarified. “We all have them. People or places where our nervous system feels safe, where our brain allows us to finally just exhale without being in fight or flight. That’s important for someone to have, it’s a form of healing. It’s healthy.”

Paige looked down, something about the words tugging at her chest.

“But,” the psychiatrist added gently, “it can also be unhealthy, if she becomes the only place you know how to go to when you need to feel okay.”

Paige’s jaw tightened.

“Because then,” the psychiatrist went on carefully, “if things are ever rocky between you, if you’re in a disagreement or disconnected, like last time then you’re more vulnerable to slipping. Into dissociation, into memory loss, anxiousness, etcetera, without even realizing it.”

Paige frowned, becoming a little defensive. “So what, you’re saying she’s a problem now too? I can’t have anything?”

“No,” the psychiatrist said quickly but plainly, not allowing that thought to settle in Paige’s psyche. “I’m not saying she’s bad for you. From everything you’ve said, she sounds amazing for you.”

Paige sat back, the tension still sitting on her shoulders as she tried to take a few deep breaths to stop herself from getting upset.

“She seems to ground you,” the psychiatrist said. “She shows up when you’re unraveling. She doesn’t try to fix you, she’s accepting you for who you are without asking for anything other than that. You’ve been living with this for years, Paige. Years…and she’s only been in your life for a few months, and yet somehow, she’s the reason you’re finally sitting here in front of me.”

Paige blinked, her throat suddenly feeling dry.

“That says a lot about her,” the psychiatrist continued her thought process, “but it also says a lot about you. You want to be better for yourself and for her, for your relationship. And that's the first real step.”

Paige nodded a few times as she let the words settle in her brain.

After spending some time speaking with one another the air in the room was softer than when they started. Paige was leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, and her fingers were loosely laced. “I just don’t like waking up and the first thing on my mind is about what’s going wrong instead of what’s going right. I try to live in a state of gratitude but waking up like that everyday makes it harder.”

The psychiatrist nodded, as she listened, her notepad lines now filled with notes for herself. They had passed the hour mark a while ago, but she opted to not say anything when she noticed Paige starting to open up. Not when her voice cracked describing the club fight in detail that left her in Azzi in a weird spot and not now, with the sheen of tears glinting in her eyes.

They both looked up at the sound of the front door opening and laughter echoing from the foyer. First it was Dijonai’s, then Azzi’s voice trailing close behind her, teasing each other about something neither of them caught from the living room.

Azzi walked in the room first and she clocked the scene instantly. The notebook still on the table, the faint wetness Paige was blinking away. Azzi stopped in her tracks. “Oh I’m so sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t realize you were still going.”

Paige looked away blinking a few times as she swallowed. The psychiatrist stood quietly, smoothing down her skirt as she offered a reassuring smile to Azzi.

“It’s alright,” she said gently, gathering her things. “We were just finishing up.”

Paige still hadn’t moved so the psychiatrist lingered for a moment, looking at her, then said her name warmly, “Paige.”

When Paige glanced up, her eyes were red but she still looked composed.

“We’ll find a time to meet again?” the psychiatrist asked.

Paige offered her a nod before looking away again.

The psychiatrist gave a final look between the two of them, smiling at Azzi kindly before heading toward the door.

As the door clicked shut behind the psychiatrist, Paige stood up and moved around the room without saying anything. She started off with picking up a glass off the table and taking it to the kitchen before coming back and adjusting the throw blanket. She shifted coasters that didn’t need to be moved and it was obvious to anyone tha looked that the session had her off kilter. Like she needed to do something with her hands before her thoughts swallowed her.

Dijonai caught Azzi’s eye from the hallway, and nodded toward the stairs. “Imma be in the guest room,” and she disappeared down the hall without waiting for Azzi to reply.

Azzi stayed where she was standing for a few more seconds, watching Paige adjust a candle that was already straight. Then, softly, she said, “Hey, beautiful.”

Paige didn’t stop moving at the sound of Azzi’s voice, she crossed the room, reaching to fix one of her small lego sets that sat on the table just outside of the living room. “I need to get rid of that clock in the front,” she mumbled, not looking at her. “It’s annoying. The ticking, every time it’s quiet, it’s just there and it drives me crazy sometimes.”

Azzi nodded slowly, moving toward the couch and sitting down. “Okay. That’s fine,” she said gently. “You wanna come sit with me? Talk to me?”

“I’m fine,” Paige responded quickly, still not facing her. She shifted the lego in her hands wiping some of the dust off then bent down to tuck something under the table, moving like she had a list of things to do, like something would fall apart if she stopped.

Azzi stood up again and walked over to where Paige was standing to come up behind her. Carefully, she reached out and took the lego’s from Paige’s hands, setting it down on the nearby shelf. She circled her arms around Paige’s waist from behind and just held her for a second.

Paige’s first reaction was to tense up. Her body going a little rigid under the familiar touch that was too gentle for all the thoughts swirling inside of her.

Azzi leaned in despite this, resting her chin against Paige’s shoulder and whispered, “You don’t have to hold it all by yourself, baby. I’m right here. Just let me be here.”

A shaky breath slipped from Paige’s chest as she heard these words as a single tear slipped down her cheek and dropped soundlessly on the floor. Her shoulders jerked slightly as she took another sharp breath, almost like she was surprised by the tear coming out without permission.

Azzi held her, keeping her chest pressed gently against Paige’s back, before slowly turning her around. She kept one hand on Paige’s waist, and used the other to move up to her jaw, guiding her to look at her.

Paige’s eyes met Azzi’s for the first time since the front door opened and they were glassy, another tear having already gathered at the bottom of her lash line. Before it could fall, Azzi reached up and wiped it away with her thumb.

“I promise you don’t have to be okay.”

Paige blinked again, her mouth twitching like she wanted to argue but she decided against it.

Azzi took her hand to interlace their fingers before stepping back toward the couch, gently pulling her. Paige let herself be led without saying anything. Each step for her seemed to be heavy, like her body was finally starting to physically feel the weight of what her mind had been carrying for so many years.

Azzi sat down first, guiding Paige between her legs. Paige hesitated for a second before sinking down so her back was resting against Azzi’s chest. Her body curled slightly into her like she didn’t know how to soften herself, but she was trying. Azzi wrapped her arms around her as soon as she got settled, one sliding across Paige’s torso while the other traced circles over her thigh.

Paige closed her eyes and let her head rest back on Azzi’s shoulder.

They didn’t speak for a while, the only sound filling the space was their quiet breathing and the ticking of the clock that didn’t seem so annoying anymore, Paige’s hand had found Azzi’s at one point and she held it tightly, using it to ground herself in the moment.

Eventually, Paige whispered with her eyes still closed, “I love basketball Az.”

Azzi smiled softly and nodded, her chin resting against the top of Paige’s head. “I know you do baby.”

“And I think…” Paige swallowed, “I think I hated my dad more than I hated my mom sometimes.”

Azzi’s arms tightened around her to keep her present while she talked. “That’s okay.”

Paige kept her eyes shut, but her voice got quieter with each confession, like each one took a little weight off her chest.

“Sometimes I used to sit on the floor in my room and hope they’d both disappear. I felt like life would be easier that way.”

Azzi nodded as she started to trace circles into Paige’s arm. “That’s okay.”

“I hated myself for being mad at them, for feeling that way even when I had a right to be.”

Azzi just nodded as she placed a kiss to the top of Paige’s head.

“I used to wish every night that I was someone else. Anyone else and I felt so ungrateful.”

Azzi pressed another soft kiss to her temple whispering, “That’s okay baby.”

Paige’s voice cracked slightly. “I thought something was wrong with me. That I was broken.”

Azzi didn’t say anything at first. She just held her tighter, letting her feel it before she whispered, “That’s okay too. We aren’t perfect.”

Paige exhaled as tears slipped down her face again. This time they felt a little more freeing, like she was letting herself accept her thoughts for the first time instead of burying them.

At some point, they shifted on the couch and now Paige lay stretched out between Azzi’s legs, with her head resting in the soft space between Azzi’s thighs. Azzi still sat back against the couch cushions and her fingers were gently weaving through Paige’s hair over and over, like she was memorizing every strand.

The room had gone silent and Paige dozed off for maybe twenty minutes, easily lulled by Azzi’s fingers in her hair and the softness of her presence.

When she felt Paige stir and tighten her arms around her waist Azzi looked down and whispered, “You back?”

Paige hummed, but kept her eyes closed. “Think so.”

Azzi smiled down at her, brushing her fingers along Paige’s temple. “Good. You were twitching. I thought you were fighting someone in your dream.”

A huff escaped from Paige’s nose as she chuckled. “Probably my dad. Not his biggest fan right now.”

Azzi’s smile grew a little. “Hope you knocked him out.”

Paige cracked one eye open to look up at Azzi. “That’s crazy to say.”

“Just supportive,” Azzi argued as her thumb traced a slow line across Paige’s cheek. “I’m Team Paige all day no matter who's on the other side.”

Paige turned her head, nuzzling her cheek into Azzi’s thigh. “You’re annoying.”

“I’ll be annoying all day if that means you’ll smile.”

A small snort echoed from Paige, and she tightened her arms around Azzi’s waist, pressing herself closer into the space between her thighs.

Azzi glanced down, raising her eyebrow. “Alright now…”

Paige smirked, already knowing exactly what Azzi was talking about. She leaned in and placed a wet kiss on the inside of Azzi’s thigh causing her eyes to flutter shut.  Without thinking, Azzi’s legs shifted, opening slightly.

Paige could only smile wider at this. “You such a good girl for me.”

Azzi rolled her eyes hard and pushed Paige’s forehead, laughing despite herself. “Get off me, big head, go find some business.”

Paige laughed, letting herself be pushed back as she swatted at Azzi’s ass to the best of her ability. Of course, that’s when Dijonai came walking into the room.

She stopped and raised her eyebrow before she just shook her head and pretended not to have seen anything. “You know what I don’t even want to know.”

Azzi’s eyes widened. “We’re not—”

“I said I don’t want to know!” Dijonai repeated, her voice echoing a little. “I was just trying to see if y’all wanted to go out tonight. I’m in L.A. and haven’t been out yet, feels real grimy.”

Azzi laughed, her fingers starting to brush through Paige’s hair again as the blonde adjusted herself, fluttering her eyes closed and tucking herself back into the space between Azzi’s thighs.

“Where you wanna go?” Azzi asked, looking over.

DiJonai shrugged. “You tell me. You live here.”

Azzi snorted. “You gotta ask Cam and them. I just go where they tell me.”

“But you’re down to go out?”

Azzi looked down at Paige, clearly about to ask when Dijonai cut her off. “She’s going.”

“No m’not,” Paige mumbled into Azzi’s thigh.

Dijonai grabbed the closest throw pillow and lobbed it at Paige’s back.

Paige groaned dramatically when it bounced off her and looked up at Azzi with her lower lip jutted out in a pout, fully expecting her girlfriend to defend her.

Azzi looked down, trying to hide her grin, while Dijonai burst out laughing. “The irony of a whole MMA fighter pouting up at her girlfriend for backup is insane Paige.”

Paige groaned again and buried her head deeper into Azzi like she was trying to disappear.

“I’m thinking we head out at like ten,” Dijonai yelled over her shoulder, already halfway up the stairs. “So start getting ready soon, or I’m dragging your dramatic ass out in whatever you’re wearing now.”

Paige just mumbled out, “Whatever.”

Azzi laughed quietly, her hands returning to Paige’s hair, as she smiled at her. “You okay with going out?” she asked softly. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Paige hummed when Azzi’s thumb brushed against her temple. “I’ll be okay, baby. Least I can do for her.”

Azzi’s smile grew as she nodded, leaning down to kiss Paige's forehead. “If you wanna go home at any point just say the word. I got you.”

Paige nodded and then tugged on her arm with her eyes still closed. “Mmm ok, now come take a nap wimme real quick.”

Azzi laughed as she shifted and slid down onto the couch, letting Paige maneuver her until they were tangled up, Paige spooning her from behind with one leg draped lazily over Azzi’s hip.

“Better?” Azzi whispered.

“Mmhmm,” Paige said, grinning with her eyes still shut. She kissed the back of Azzi’s neck, then the spot just below her ear, holding her tighter. “You so perfect,” she whispered.

Azzi reached down to squeeze Paige’s hand where it rested on her stomach. “You make it real easy to be.”

…

Later that night, the three of them were ready to leave Paige’s house, the buzz of city nightlife already wild at the bottom of the hill.

Azzi had her braids and loose goddess curls swooped to one side. She wore a black halter top that accentuated her chest and showed off her stomach and back with a black embellished mini skirt that shimmered when she walked past a light. Paige had definitely stared a little too long when Azzi first walked out of the bathroom wearing it; long enough for Azzi to smile and ask, “You good, baby?” like she didn’t already know the answer.

Paige was more laid back with her outfit. A black tank top paired with lilac Nike sweats that sat perfectly on her hips. Her hair was down in its natural waves, just like Azzi asked and around her neck was one of her flashier cuban diamond chains, catching and throwing off every bit of light it met.

When Paige reached for her car keys near the door, Dijonai held a hand out in front of her. “Nope,” she said plainly. “I’m getting you fucked up tonight. I already called the Uber.”

Paige blinked. “What? I’m not—”

“Nope,” Dijoni cut her off again, turning to Azzi. “You ever seen her drunk at the club?”

Azzi tilted her head like she had to think about it, not counting that one time they got drunk in the house by themselves. “Now that I think about it, no.”

Dijonai raised her eyebrows, looking back at Paige and easily resting her case. “Exactly.”

Paige sighed dramatically, sliding her phone in her pocket as she opened the door for them. “You’re a pain in my ass.”

…

When they walked in the club, the bass, and heat radiating off of the sea of bodies hit them all at once. The place was packed wall to wall, sweat and perfume in the air as they eased their way through the crowd.

Heads turned as the three of them moved through the crowd. A trio of tall women, each at least 5'10", commanding attention in their own way. Azzi, with her bare collarbones and gleaming skin under the club lights, had heads swiveling and Dijonai walked in the front like she wasn’t in a rush to be anywhere but everyone should move anyway. Paige who had a sleepy eyed indifference about everything as she let Azzi walk in front of her with one of their hands laced drew attention like gravity.

Men and women glanced over their shoulders at Azzi and Dijonai. While women openly ogled Paige, some of them were already drunk enough to be bold. One woman brushed her fingers down Paige’s arm as they passed, leaning in close to be heard over the music. “You here with somebody?” she slurred.

Paige kept walking but she leaned down to whisper something to Azzi, her mouth brushing the shell of Azzi’s ear. Azzi let out a laugh, shaking her head as she looked over her shoulder at the woman Paige was talking about.

By the time they made it to the section in the back, the heat from the crowd had them all glistening. Rae, Rickea, and Cam were already there with drinks in their hands.

“Took y’all long enough,” Rickea said.

Before they could even fully settle into the couch, Dijonai was already passing Azzi a shot and pushing two towards Paige

Paige raised her eyebrow, one corner of her mouth lifting. “Two?”

Dijonai shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “Let’s not act like your tolerance isn’t high as hell.��

From the other side of the couch Cam leaned in, catching the tail end of the exchange. “We getting Paige drunk tonight?” DiJonai nodded and Cam’s smile spread across her whole face.

Paige shook her head as she grabbed both shots and threw them back like water before leaning back into the couch. She looked over at Azzi and caught her mid shot with a lime wedge pinched between her lips, her eyes squinting a little from the burn of the tequila. Paige couldn’t help but smile as she watched her.

Azzi looked at her, still sucking lightly on the lime, and raised an eyebrow silently asking ‘what’ with soft eyes.

Paige just shook her head, continuing to smile as her gaze lingered on Azzi before drifting across the club, soaking in the energy.

The lights were flashing white and blue above them, pulsing in tandem with the beat. Their section was dimly lit, giving them just enough separation from the dance floor to feel like they had their own corner carved out.

A bottle girl in a glittery two-piece stepped into their section a few minutes later, balancing a glowing tray of drinks, placing them down one by one. “Let me know if y’all need anything else.”

Rickea handed everybody a drink and once Azzi had hers she settled deeper into the couch cushions, crossing one leg over the other and letting her calf rest in the space between Paige’s open legs. 

A few drinks in, the group had started to relax into the setting more. Dijonai was cracking jokes and Rae and Rickea were halfway through a story about something that happened when they were shopping the other day when a fan made her way over tentatively.

“Excuse me,” she called, raising her voice over the music. “Sorry, I just—are y’all Sparks players?”

Cam nodded. “Guilty.”

“Oh my God, I knew it,” the girl gushed, her eyes darting between all of them “Y’all are amazing. I’m a huge fan. Is it okay if I get a picture?”

“Of course,” Rickea said, already getting up.

One by one, the players posed with her, Azzi perching herself on Paige’s knees for the group picture, not wanting to bend over fully in her mini skirt. 

When the fan left Azzi sat back down, keeping her leg thrown on top of Paige’s thigh. Paige moved her hand to rest on top of Azzi’s thigh, her fingers tracing light shapes.

“You good?” Azzi asked her softly, leaning closer to her ear so she could hear.

Paige nodded. “Mmhmm. You look good.”

Azzi gave her a knowing look over the rim of her glass as she took another sip. “You do too.”

…

After a few more drinks the booth was buzzing. Voices had gotten a little louder, laughs a little messier and eyes glassier than they’d been an hour and a half ago. The bottle girl had made a few rounds, each one welcomed with louder cheers and heavier pours.

Dijonai raised another shot glass toward the middle of the group and everyone raised their glasses. When they were done Paige picked hers up and tossed it back in sync with everyone else, the liquid burning in a way that didn’t faze her anymore, indicating how tipsy she was. Still, she looked relaxed. Her eyes were heavy but her limbs were looser as her body started to buzz with the alcohol.

After a few minutes, Cam signaled the bottle girl again. “Let’s keep it going,” she said with a tipsy grin, already pulling three more glasses toward herself, two of which she slid in front of Paige.

Paige shook her head. “I just had one.”

“So did everybody,” Cam said, putting her chin in her palm as she grinned. “We’re balancing the scales.”

Paige narrowed her eyes, at the flawed logic. “I feel like y’all plotting.”

Dijonai was already pouring herself another one too. “We are,” she said. “Let us live.”

Without saying anything else Paige knocked both back, barely blinking.

It wasn’t immediate, but with each extra drink that was snuck her way, Paige’s laugh got a little looser, and her posture relaxed more. She shifted deeper into the cushions, spreading her legs comfortably as she lounged and listened to everyone around her.

Paige’s hand found Azzi’s calf absently at first, resting there to keep her leg from slipping off her thigh but after a minute or two, her fingers started to move. Slow strokes up and down, almost in rhythm with the music.

Azzi glanced at her.

“Wassup?” Paige asked, pretending not to notice.

Azzi gave her a look. “I know what you’re doing.”

“You don’t know anything,” Paige said, grinning more than usual.

Her fingers slid higher up Azzi’s leg, her thumb rubbing softly at the inside of her knee. Azzi exhaled through her nose, trying to stop herself from smiling at Paige’s obvious horniness.

Cam clocked the moment and pointed across the table. “That’s how you know Paige is officially drunk.”

“Shut up,” Paige said, grinning without looking away from Azzi. “I’m chillin’.”

“Mmhm,” Dijonai hummed, pouring another shot and handing it to Azzi. “You’re gonna need this.”

Azzi rolled her eyes but took it, clinking glasses with Rae before downing it.

Another thirty minutes passed in a blur. Everyone in the group was definitely on the far end of tipsy or drunk. Paige was drunk in the best way. She wasn’t a messy or sloppy drunk; just loose and her cheeks flushed, that specific kind of buzz where she felt untouchable, her guard completely lowered.

“Alright, I need to dance,” Rickea announced suddenly, standing up with Cam already rising next to her.

“You read my mind,” Cam said, adjusting her dress. “Nai, you coming?”

“Hell yeah,” Dijonai grinned, finishing the rest of her drink before following them out of the section and into the packed crowd.

Azzi leaned in closer to Paige, smiling against her ear. “You gonna be okay if I go for a minute?”

Paige’s hand came up, her fingertips tracing Azzi’s jaw lightly, and then her lips brushed against Azzi’s ear like she was about to whisper something but before she could respond Rae stepped over.  “Come dance with me, pretty,” she said, tugging Azzi by her wrist.

Azzi glanced at Paige for permission. Paige just gave her a small nod, still smiling up at her like she hung the stars before Rae was pulling her toward the dance floor.

Left alone in the section, Paige sank deeper into the plush couch. Her legs were spread wide with her arms thrown on the back of the couch. She was sitting in the way where if a man did it a woman might be disgusted, but because it was her it was attractive and it drew eyes. 

The lights shifted over the crowd, catching the shimmer in Azzi’s skirt as she walked hand in hand with Rae until they reached everyone else. Her braids swung down one shoulder as she danced, laughing at something Rickea said. She looked amazing in any element and Paige felt the flutter in her chest deepen, settling comfortably beneath her ribs.

Paige didn’t smile with her mouth, but her eyes were completely soft in adoration, tracking every move Azzi made. Paige was the textbook definition of a woman watching the love of her life from across the room.

Two songs passed before a slower track came on, smoother and a little sultrier in tone. Azzi turned with everyone else back toward the section, clearly about to walk back but she took a step before Paige stopped her with her eyes.

Azzi tilted her head slightly asking a silent question.

Paige didn’t move much,  just lifted her hips in her seat, in the eyes of, ‘adjusting,’ but her smirk and her legs spreading wider as she sat back carried an entirely different message.

Azzi caught it and she chewed her bottom lip for a second, thinking about it, before gently wrapping her fingers around Rae’s wrist just as she started to follow Cam, Rickea, and Dijonai back toward the section. Rae paused, lifting her eyebrows curiously, but Azzi didn’t say anything, she just gave her a subtle tug towards herself, and Rae followed her pull.

The bass slowed into something heavier, the synths melting into the background while the low beat pulled bodies into a new rhythm. Azzi moved first, stepping back until her back was against Rae’s chest, her arms lifting to rearrange her braids down one shoulder as she started to roll her hips.

Rae caught the rhythm easily, hovering her hands over Azzi’s waist without gripping them, letting her lead the tempo. Their bodies rocked together fluidly, skin gleaming faintly in the soft sheen of sweat that caught the flashing blue and purple lights. Every few seconds, the strobes would hit them just right, illuminating the shimmer of Azzi’s skirt, the soft flex in Rae’s thighs, the movements between them made visible for a flash before it was swallowed again by the darkness of the club.

Across the room, still in the same spot, Paige hadn’t moved. She looked calm as her gaze raked shamelessly over Azzi’s body. She watched the way Azzi rolled her hips, the slight arch of her back, the way her hands lifted above her head for a moment before they came down to rest on top of Rae’s. Paige’s eyes dragged over every inch of her exposed skin, down to the valley of Azzi’s chest where the halter dipped.

Azzi smiled as she watched Paige’s reaction, sliding down Rae’s body with the same controlled grace she carried on the court. She moved slowly, her back arching as her hands grazed down Rae’s sides before she rose again.

Paige’s jaw tensed as she watched, tapping her fingers against the leather cushion behind her. Her diamond necklace flashed every time the lights hit it, but it didn’t compare to the look in her blue eyes.

Azzi tilted her head slightly at her silently asking ‘you still good, baby?’

Paige smirked, nodding her head just a little bit, approving what Azzi was doing.

Azzi wasn’t trying to make Paige feel jealous. She just wanted to remind her of what she could do to her without touching her, what she could make her feel. That while no Paige’s body didn’t belong to her, but her control over it. Her ability to unravel her, to seduce her, to fuck up her composure with just looking at her from across the room.

That was all Azzi and Paige knew.

Paige didn’t blink when Azzi grabbed Rae’s hands and guided them down her body. Trailing them over her stomach, then down the curve of her thighs as she rolled her hips deeper into Rae. Paige’s fingers curled tighter around the edge of the couch as she followed their hands, the leather creaking faintly beneath her grip.

Another strobe of light came fast and it lit up the small shine of sweat along Rae’s collarbone as she leaned down, her mouth hovering near Azzi’s shoulder as she leaned into her. The glow hit the inside of Azzi’s thigh where her skirt had ridden up, exposing the strong line of her quad, a soft glisten tracing along her skin where Rae’s hand rested.

As Paige watched this Cam appeared next to her, laughing breathlessly at something that Paige couldn’t hear and handed Paige a shot. Paige took it while keeping her eyes glued to Azzi. She tossed it back smoothly, her throat bobbing slightly as she swallowed it, the strobe catching on her collarbone, her arms, the diamonds dancing on her chain, the ridges of her toned abdomen beneath her black tank top.

Azzi saw every flash of light catching the controlled tension in Paige’s frame the way her muscles flexed when she threw the shot back and couldn’t help but bite her lip as she rolled her hips. 

She didn’t have to tell Paige to come, the blonde stood slowly and stepped down from the section like she’d been waiting for the cue. She moved fluidly through the sea of bodies, cutting through the crowd easily as the bass pulsed around her.

Azzi stood a little straighter when she saw her coming out of satisfaction of winning whatever silent game they had been playing. She couldn’t help but smile because this was what she wanted, Paige being pulled forward by nothing but her desire to touch Azzi, already a puddle for her before she even got near her.

Azzi’s eyes tracked Paige’s steps until she was right in front of her. Without saying anything she reached out and hooked two fingers underneath the thick chain resting against Paige’s collarbone, tugging her forward.

Paige stepped into Azzi’s gravity willingly, her expression unreadable but her eyes saying everything like usual.

Azzi smiled as she slipped her arms around Paige’s neck, her wrists resting loosely behind her. Her body didn’t stop moving as she kept her hips rolling in sync with the beat, her back still pressed against Rae, who hadn’t stepped away. Azzi stood between them, caged in by the warmth radiating off of both of them, by their hands, by Paige’s attention.

Paige’s palms settled against Azzi’s waist, like she was silently claiming her space. “Don’t stop,” Paige whispered as her lips brushed against Azzi’s jaw.

Azzi’s smile grew, her mouth close enough to brush the shell of Paige’s ear. “Wasn’t planning to.”

Rae chuckled behind Azzi, her hands briefly grazing Azzi’s hips before she backed off with a smirk, giving them space as she slipped away.

“You come all the way over here just to stand still?”

Paige licked her lips, as she tightened her hands around Azzi’s waist. “I came over here ‘cause you were showing out.”

Azzi laughed, her forehead almost touching Paige’s. “You liked it.”

Paige’s mouth curved up, not quite a smile yet, but close. “Didn’t say I didn’t.”

Their bodies swayed in sync now, not dancing so much as moving together, lost in the tension that lived between them. The music continued around them, lights flashing hot against Azzi’s glistening skin and making the diamonds at Paige’s neck glitter.

Azzi leaned in, her breath warm against Paige’s ear. “You wanna go home?”

Paige shook her head, her nose brushing Azzi’s cheek. “Not yet beautiful.”

The beat changed and something slower took its place. The unmistakable sound of “Lovers and Friends” echoing through the club speakers like a slow exhale, as the energy in the room changed. Around them, people softened as hips started to move slower, touches growing more intimate and loudness giving way to soft whispers as people’s flushed skin pressed against one another.

And in the middle of it all, was Azzi and Paige.

Without needing to be told and without breaking their rhythm, Azzi turned in Paige’s arms. Her back met Paige’s chest, and for a second, they just stood there to be close to one another. 

Then Azzi reached for Paige’s hands, guiding them around her waist. She let out the softest sigh, something just barely audible, as Paige’s arms wrapped around her and pulled her back. The way she did it wasn’t possessive. It was like Paige was just letting herself feel Azzi in this moment, letting herself fully realize that Azzi was real and hers.

They started to move as Azzi rolled her hips slowly, letting her body guide their movement, letting the beat dictate how she pressed into Paige. 

Paige followed her without thinking, without needing to really. She just swayed with her, melting against her back, their bodies moving like they’d done this a hundred times before.

But they hadn’t or at least not like this in public.

Not in the open where flashing strobe lights caught every one of their movements. As they let themselves be pulled into the haze of the club, the low ceiling of smoke and perfume and bass that made the world feel blurred, like they were underwater. 

Paige exhaled against the back of Azzi’s neck before dipping her head down and pressing a lingering kiss just beneath her ear. Azzi swallowed and she tilted her head to the side, giving Paige space, silently inviting more. So Paige kissed her again. Then again a little messier.

Still wrapped tightly around Azzi, Paige’s palms started to move. Azzi took one of them and put her hand palm on top of Paige’s, intertwining their fingers before sliding Paige’s hand upward, dragging it across the front of her own body.

She guided Paige’s hand to her chest, letting Paige settle there and palm her breast as her back pressed harder into her. Paige’s other hand followed suit, dragging down to Azzi’s stomach where Azzi’s fingers pressed on top of hers, applying just enough pressure to encourage her to explore.

Paige’s palms glided across every part of Azzi’s bare skin and Azzi breathed deeply through it all, her body responding to every touch. When Paige’s fingers ghosted over the curve of her hip and slid lower, Azzi’s legs spread subtly, letting her press against her thighs, giving silent permission in everything she did.

Azzi leaned her head back, resting it against Paige’s shoulder as her lips parted. For a moment Paige let herself close her eyes. She let herself fully relax and let her guard down to be in this moment with Azzi in a room full of people. She breathed Azzi in, felt every inch of Azzi’s skin pressing against her own and just let her feel.

She realized that right now, in this version of her life this was all she needed.

The song played on and Paige and Azzi danced like no one else in the room existed.

From the section tucked off to the side, Rae let out a whistle and Rickea gasped before laughing, clutching her chest while she playfully fanned her hand like the scene in front of them had her hot. While Cam grabbed DiJonai’s arm and pointed toward the dance floor.

Paige’s body was flush with Azzi’s back, her hands now confidently roaming, fingers splayed over Azzi’s abdomen, moving slowly as they followed the arc of each of her ribs down to her hips. Azzi’s breath hitched when Paige’s thumb dragged beneath the edge of her skirt to tease the soft skin there. She caught her own lip between her teeth, her fingers gripping Paige’s at the wrist to hold her there.

There were a few times where Azzi had to whisper something to herself. To remind herself to not grab Paige’s hand and slide it between her legs. Her thighs clenching a few times with thoughts of doing it. The ache she was feeling had been building all night, a buzzing heat that pressed into her everytime she rolled her hips, every time Paige dragged her lips along her neck.

It didn’t help that she could feel Paige’s restraint, too. The tension in her arms or the way her jaw flexed. How her hands would hesitate for too long in certain places, like she was barely holding herself back from touching Azzi in the middle of the club.

Azzi leaned back harder into her, pressing their bodies together. She felt like every inch of her needed Paige. Her back burned from the heat radiating off of Paige, her skin practically humming for her. Paige dipped her head down again, her lips grazing Azzi’s shoulder, dragging across the curve of her neck with a kiss that barely connected.

Azzi’s breath stuttered and her knees almost buckled, so she turned in Paige’s arms to keep herself upright. Her hands slid up Paige’s arms as she turned, dragging her palms over the muscles she’d admired a hundred times but could never get enough of. Paige looked fucked up in the most beautiful way. Her hair was slightly tousled from the heat of the club and all their dancing, waves tumbling messily around her face. Her pale skin shimmered under the lights, accentuated by sweat and the liquor in her system.

The lilac sweats were lower on her hips from dancing and her black tank top stuck to her body in a way that made Azzi want to pull it off. She still smelled like her luxury cologne, having that soft bite of the vanilla Valentino that clung to her no matter how many hours they’d been out.

Azzi exhaled, shakily as she closed her eyes for a second.

“Wassup, beautiful,” Paige whispered, like she already knew Azzi was hers to have whenever she wanted.

Azzi didn’t say anything, she just stepped closer until her braids were brushing against Paige’s collarbones. Then she leaned up, brushing her lips against Paige’s ear. “You look so fucking good it hurts.”

Then, without warning, Azzi took Paige’s earlobe between her lips, she bit it before soothing it with her tongue and sucking on it gently.

Paige’s hands flexed at Azzi’s hips.

Azzi let go and smiled against Paige’s cheek as she leaned back far enough to see the reaction on Paige’s face. The look in Paige’s eyes made her thighs press together again to search for friction involuntarily.

Her breath hitched when Paige’s hand slid to the back of her thigh, her fingertips grazing her skin deliberately. Even as the hem of her skirt was adjusted back into place, Azzi felt so much in such a simple touch. It was possessive in the softest way. Then Paige’s hand was at her jaw, her thumb and index finger guiding her chin up with a softness that made Azzi’s heart stutter.

It always did. For all the strength in Paige’s arms, all the bite in her personality, she never handled Azzi with anything less than gentleness. Even now, completely drunk off liquor, with heat pulsing between their bodies and sweat slicking their skin, Paige still touched her like she was something she needed to be gentle with. 

Paige leaned in close, her breath feathering across Azzi’s lips. “I can feel you dripping down your thighs for me.”

Azzi’s eyes fluttered shut for the briefest second at the words before Paige’s lips brushed hers to tease her before Azzi forced the space between them to vanish.

The kiss started slowly. Like they hadn’t been eye fucking each other from across the room. Like they weren’t on the verge of losing themselves in the middle of a packed club.

Paige’s lips moved against Azzi’s mouth with precision, coaxing a low moan from Azzi’s throat as their mouths opened wider. Their tongues met in soft, deliberate swipes, both of them tasting the night on each other: the drinks, the sweat, everything.

Azzi bit down on Paige’s bottom lip, just hard enough to make her groan into the kiss, and Paige returned the favor moments later, tugging on Azzi’s with her teeth before licking into her mouth again. Their tongues tangled making the kiss wet as they kept the pace slow.

Azzi let her lips close around Paige’s tongue, sucking it into her mouth gently, her fingers curling into the sides of Paige’s tank top. She could feel the subtle flex of Paige’s abs under her fingers.

Eventually, Azzi pulled back, and the sound that came when their lips parted was almost as obscene as the kiss itself. Paige’s mouth was swollen, the glossy sheen of Azzi’s lipgloss smeared across her lips.

Azzi caught her breath, and with a smirk, she raised her thumb to Paige’s mouth. Gently wiping the smudged lip color from her lips, dragging her thumb slowly across the bottom one on purpose. Paige’s jaw was slightly parted, her eyes soft and locked on Azzi like she was seeing the stars for the first time.

At that moment, she looked completely in love.

Azzi had seen every version of Paige. The secretly cocky one, the closed-off one, the one who could barely breathe through panic; but this version, the tender version who looked at her like the world disappeared around them? That version broke something open in Azzi every single time.

Paige opened her mouth like she was about to speak, her voice catching in her throat. “Azzi baby…”

Azzi tilted her head, keeping her hand on Paige’s face. “Yes?”

Paige hesitated for half a second, her throat working as she swallowed down words she wasn’t sure she was brave enough to say out loud yet and replaced them with something else as she whispered over the bass of the music, “Lemme take you home. I needa taste you before I lose my mind, baby.”

Azzi smiled faintly at this, her lashes fluttering as she tilted her head to the side. “I want another drink first.”

Paige couldn’t help but shake her head and chuckle a little, already clocking the look Azzi gave her when she was being a brat on purpose. Still even though she noticed, with a soft exhale, Paige reached into her pocket and pulled out a fifty. She held it between her index and middle fingers, letting it dangle as she said, “One more.”

Azzi pouted, pursing her lips as she leaned closer. “Maybe two?” As she said this she traced her finger over the waistline of Paige’s boxers.

Paige just looked at her, dropping her eyes to Azzi’s hand before looking back up and saying, “I’ll think about it.”

Azzi smiles as she kisses Paige’s lips before walking away knowing Paige was watching as she swapped her hips making the hem of her skirt shift with every step she took. Paige had to blink a few times just to ground herself, resisting the urge to follow her before going toward the section.

When she got there, Paige pulled out a small stack of cash and counted out more than enough to cover the night. She handed it to Dijonai. “Use that when y’all ready.”

Dijonai raised an eyebrow, her gaze moving between the money and the flush that still lingered on Paige’s cheeks and neck. She took the bills without saying anything. “Say less. See y’all at home.”

When Paige turned back around, she saw exactly what she expected, somebody had slid up next to Azzi at the bar. Some girl in a denim button-up and a chain that was definitely fake. She was saying something that might have sounded nice in her head, but Azzi didn’t bother hiding her disinterest. Her body language couldn’t have been clearer and Paige liked that.

Paige made a quick stop on the way, grabbing a shot off a server’s tray and tossing it back, the liquor burning down her throat as she handed her a twenty.

As Paige walked across the floor, the bass from the speakers seemed to sync with the heat rushing through her bloodstream. That last shot hit fast, like it bypassed everything else and went straight to her chest, igniting a fresh wave of warmth that spread outward. Her cheeks flushed deeper, her eyes becoming more hooded, like each blink was slower than the last.

Azzi was perched on the edge of the barstool, with one leg crossed over the other, her black mini skirt riding high enough that Paige groaned on sight, her boxers getting warmer. Azzi’s braids were still swept to one side causing her neck to be exposed and glowing underneath the club lights. Paige’s gaze raked over the soft curve of her thighs, the glint of sweat that caught under the flashing strobes, the shape of her features even from behind.

Azzi felt Paige before she heard her. Felt the heat radiating off of her, smelled her cologne that was distinctly Paige in her brain so without hesitating, she leaned back into the body behind her with a grin like she’d been waiting.

Paige leaned in, keeping her eyes locked on the woman next to Azzi like she wasn’t worth real attention. “Why can’t I ever leave you alone for two seconds?”

Azzi tilted her head smiling back at Paige. “It’s cause I’m pretty baby.”

Before Paige could respond, the woman next to Azzi, the one still trying to linger in a conversation that never started, spoke up. “Damn she didn’t seem taken a minute ago. That’s you? ”

A few months ago, Paige would’ve had something to say back to that. Her jaw would’ve tightened and she would’ve said something that caused an unnecessary scene.”

But today Paige just leaned lower, letting her hand slide around Azzi’s neck to angle her face toward her, guiding her like she should’ve been looking at her in the first place.

When she was satisfied with the angle Paige kissed her. It was a messy kiss, as her lips parted lazily as she tasted Azzi like she’d been starving all night. Azzi opened her mouth for her, sucking her tongue into her mouth before biting her bottom lip and pulling it back into her mouth with a quiet moan that Paige swallowed. Paige hummed into it, tightening her hand slightly as she bit Azzi’s lip right back.

Azzi smirked against her mouth before pulling away, a thin spit line stretching between them as her head stayed tipped back in Paige’s hand.. Paige brought her thumb to Azzi’s mouth and wiped away the glisten of spit delicately.

“Finish your drink so we can go,” Paige said plainly.

Azzi nodded up at her, obediently and that quiet submission made something in Paige tighten.

She swallowed around it, her throat moving visibly as her eyes lingered on Azzi’s face. She looked so soft, so ready to do whatever Paige wanted. Paige didn’t know which version of Azzi messed her up more. The one who talked back and tested her on purpose, or the one who looked up at her like this, pliant and completely trusting, like she was already halfway home.

It was a dumb comparison, really. A pointless one because Paige loved every version of her girlfriend. Every look. Every mood. Every part of Azzi Fudd made her ache in a way she’d never known she could feel.

Instead of blurting out something too big, something that had been sitting on the edge of her tongue for what felt like months she stepped forward.

Paige wrapped her arms around Azzi from behind, tucking her face into the crook of Azzi’s neck. She pressed her lips softly against warm skin, then another. One was beneath her ear, the other one lower, just above her collarbone.

“You smell so fucking good,” she whispered, brushing her nose against Azzi’s neck. “So beautiful. Every time I look at you I forget how to breathe, I swear you’re the most perfect woman I ever met.”

Azzi let out a soft hum, sipping her drink while Paige’s voice curled around her.

Paige didn’t rush her to finish her drink, she just held her. Kissed her softly. Spent time whispering the softest compliments she could fathom instead of whispering what she couldn’t say out loud for the first time in a club in LA. She knew the moment was coming but not here.

[purplereina11]

Part 2

You spent your childhood drifting through foster homes, with nothing but a worn photo of two little girls and a note on the back: Your sisters, Alexia and Alba. You never imagined that at 25, after starting a new job, you'd meet them, through your boss who was your sister's girlfriend.

Word count: 11k

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The office is still when you arrive, early sunlight filtering through the blinds, casting soft gold stripes across the floor. You set your bag down, plug in your laptop, and sit for a moment in the silence just breathing.

You’re not sure what today will bring, you’re halfway through replying to an email when you hear the click of the front door.

Olga’s balancing two coffees and a paper bag from that little place she knows you love but never ask for. She glances at you, eyes scanning your face for something she’s clearly already read in your posture. She sets everything down at your desk before heading to her own without a word.

You blink at the coffee then the croissant and spot the note under the napkin.

Eat. I know you probably haven’t yet. — O x

Your throat tightens, she’s typing already, a headphone in one ear, hair still a little damp from the shower, clearly focused on her task, but she glances at you just once over the rim of her screen, a soft kind of check-in that doesn’t require words.

You tear off a bit of croissant, begin to chew. “Thanks.”

She doesn’t look up, just murmurs, “You don’t have to thank me.” A beat passes. “You look rested.”

You smile a little. “I laughed a lot last night.”

That gets her attention, she looks up, really looks at you. There’s warmth there but more than that, a calm relief “With them?” she asks and you simply nod. Olga’s mouth curves into a quiet smile. “Good.”

You take a sip of coffee. Then ask, “You okay?”

She pauses before answering, “I am now.” Olga smiles softly. “I like when you laugh,” she says, like it’s not a big deal, like it hasn’t just quietly set your whole morning aglow.

You look down, cheeks warm. “I like when you don’t pretend to be scary.”

She laughs under her breath. “I’m terrifying, don’t ruin the brand.”

You laugh too and just like that, everything’s a little easier.

There’s so much behind that, and you both know it but neither of you push. You both work, emails, graphics, campaign planning it's ordinary, comforting and through it all, there’s a thread of something stronger than routine. A kind of bond forged in chaos and kept alive by every moment like this.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

Wednesday mornings always carry a certain energy. Alexia’s energy.

She arrives like a breeze that leaves the door open behind her, a reusable cup in one hand and her gym bag slung over one shoulder. She’s already halfway into a story about training before she even rounds the corner into the main office. “—and then Mapi slipped, blamed the floor, but literally no one else had fallen all morning,” she grins. “She’s going to be unbearable about it all week.”

Olga’s smile is soft, automatic. “Tell her I said to be careful. I’m not designing another injury post.”

Alexia chuckles, then her eyes find you. “Hey, you.” She gives you that now familiar smile, something warm, tentative, like a thread trying to strengthen itself between two people still learning how to be.

“Hey,” you manage your voice doesn’t match hers, not quite. You’re smiling, but your hands twist your pen a little tighter than they need to.

Alexia drops into one of the spare chairs near Olga’s desk, bouncing slightly with excitement. “So, mamá’s doing dinner Friday. Proper dinner tablecloth and all and no one’s allowed to cancel, I’ve decided.”

Olga smiles again, but it flickers. She’s looking at you now. You nod faintly. “That’s… nice.”

“Yeah,” Alexia says brightly. “It’ll be all of us. You, me, Alba, Mamá. Maybe even a little cava if we behave.”

You laugh softly, but it’s quiet, your eyes drop to your notebook. Olga catches it. Sees the way your shoulders don’t quite settle, the nervous twitch at the corner of your mouth. So she jumps in ever so gently.

“Y/N,” she says, casually, like she’s only just remembered. “Didn’t you say you had plans with Patri that night?”

Your head snaps up, eyes flicking to her. Olga’s face is calm and neutral, but her eyes are soft and searching. You pause long enough that Alexia notices. She looks between the two of you, something cautious knitting behind her eyes. "Erm..." You swallow. “I… might. I don’t know yet.”

Alexia’s smile falters just a fraction. “Oh. Okay. Well, if you can make it, it would be… good.”

There’s so much in her voice that you can’t carry today. You nod. “I’ll let you know?”

Alexia nods too, just once. “Yeah. Sure.”

She rises again with that same energy she walked in with, but it doesn’t quite bounce the same. She kisses Olga on the lips, waves to you, and disappears in a rustle of fabric and keys. In the silence you let out a breath you hadn’t meant to hold, Olga doesn’t look at you right away. She starts typing, deliberate, before saying gently, “You don’t have to go if it’s too much.”

You nod, then shake your head. “I want to.” She looks at you, turning her chair to face you, “I’m just scared.”

Olga’s voice is soft. “I know.” She's up from her chair mug in hand, you go back to work, but not before she reaches over just briefly as she passes and gives your wrist the gentlest squeeze.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

Patri’s cart has only three things in it, and you’ve already done two laps of the supermarket. “I swear we passed the tortillas like five times,” you mumble, toeing along behind her as she backtracks, again.

“That’s because I wasn’t sure if I wanted soft or crunchy,” she says, barely glancing at you over her shoulder, then adds with a grin, “And now I’m sure I want both.”

You shake your head, watching her compare packets like she’s making a life-altering decision.

The cart squeaks when you push it after she abandoned it in the middle of the aisle. She doesn’t notice, or maybe she does and has no regard for anyone else to engrossed in her tortilla choosing.

You trail her into the next aisle, a row of cereals on one side and a wall of jams and spreads on the other. You lean your elbows on the cart, watching her scan labels. “I’m supposed to go to dinner with them Friday.”

She turns halfway, a box of oats in her hand. “Your sisters?”

You nod. “Alexia invited me like it’s the most normal thing in the world.” You pause. “It probably is.”

Patri doesn’t say anything right away. Just gives you a soft look and sets the oats into the cart like they’re breakable. “You going?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. I want to.”

“You don’t sound like you want to.”

“I do. I just—” You blow out a breath and push the cart forward a little. “It feels like if I sit at that table, I’m saying yes to something I’m not sure I know how to be part of.”

Patri turns, leaning on the handle in front of you, her expression gentle. “You’re not saying yes to knowing how to do it. You’re just saying yes to trying.” You meet her eyes, uncertain, she smiles, softer now. “That’s all they’re asking of you.”

You blink fast and look down. “I’m scared I won’t be what they want me to be.”

Patri steps closer, brushing your hand with hers. “Maybe try being what you want to be. Let them figure the rest out.” You nod slowly, the weight of it still heavy but less suffocating in her presence. She pulls you forward by the cart, just enough to make you walk again. “Now help me pick salsa. I’ve been burned before.”

You smirk. “You mean that time you cried over a medium?”

She gasps. “It lied to me!”

You laugh and somehow the aisle feels a little lighter, like maybe you’re already figuring out how to do this. You cuddle up beside her, "What about extra mild for the sensitive midfielder?"

"You're pushing your luck"

You tap her ass as you move away back to the cart, "You love it"

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

Your phone buzzes on the kitchen counter, screen lighting up as you close the fridge door with your foot. You almost ignore it, assuming it’s Patri asking if you want to come over after training, but it isn’t.

The notification makes you stop.

New Group: Hermanitas 💜

You stare at the name for a second before opening it and there’s a wave of messages already waiting.

Alexia: i was talking to alba earlier 💬

Alexia: we were thinking…

Alexia: if it helps you feel more comfortable maybe you could bring Patri to dinner? and i’ll bring Olga too?

Alba: only if it’s not weird tho

Alba: like if it makes it worse then ignore us 😅

Alexia: but also you know

Alexia: less pressure maybe

Alexia: more wine

Alexia: more distractions

Alexia: less weird staring from our mamá 👀

Your hand rests on the counter, reading the messages once, then again. You know what Alexia’s doing. You can feel it in every word the careful way she’s reaching, the way she’s making it about options and comfort and not forcing anything. It’s not subtle, but it’s kind, even if it's clearly been orchestrated by Olga.

You thumb out a reply before you can think too much:

You: i think that sounds… actually really nice, thank you 🫂

Alba: ok but like

Alba: not weird couple stuff in front of me

Alba: i’m still adjusting 😭

Alba: I now know how Alexia felt with me

Alexia: you’re the worst

You: 😂 no promises

You surprise yourself… you're not dreading dinner. You’re looking forward to it, even if it is just a little bit.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

Patri’s apartment is a mess of hair tools, half-dried laundry, and open drawers by the time you settle in front of her mirror again. She stands behind you, toothbrush in her mouth, watching you fuss with your hair for the fourth time. “You look fine,” she says, the words muffled through foam.

You glance at her reflection. “You’re saying that while you’re foaming like a rabid dog. I can’t take you seriously.”

She smirks, rolls her eyes, and disappears back into the bathroom. You breathe out, reaching for your earring the second one shakes in your hand. You're not even sure why you’re this nervous, it’s not your first dinner with them, but it’s the first where you’re walking into a place that didn't feel neutral ground. You’re walking in with Patri, with someone who knows you, there's something terrifying about being known by two different parts of your life at once.

Patri returns a moment later, drying her hands, already dressed loose black trousers, simple white tee, chain necklace. No fuss, just her, effortlessly cool, your comfort zone. She steps up behind you again and rests her hands on your shoulders, you meet her eyes in the mirror.

“You okay?” she asks, quieter now.

You nod. Then shrug. “Mostly. Just… don’t want to mess it up.”

She leans in, presses her lips to your cheek. “You won’t.” You turn your face just a little, catching her mouth halfway, and kiss her back, slow and gentle. She smiles into it, “Besides,” she murmurs, lips brushing yours, “if anyone’s going to embarrass you, it’s definitely going to be me.”

You laugh. “I don’t doubt it.”

She grins and grabs your jacket from the bed, holding it up for you. “Come on then, baby sister. Let’s go meet the wolves.”

You narrow your eyes as you slip your arms in. “Don’t call them that. They’re already protective enough.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” she winks.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The house smells like garlic and roasted peppers. There’s music playing low from a speaker in the kitchen, and Alba’s already poured a glass of wine you’re not sure you’re ready for.

You and Patri arrive five minutes early, but somehow the house is already loud with conversation and laughter. Olga greets you first with a soft smile and a one-armed hug. She’s calm tonight, tucked close to Alexia like always, her presence grounding. Alexia, on the other hand, has her game face on smirk locked in place, eyes full of mischief.

She sees Patri step in behind you, and with all the dramatic flair of a footballer taking the pitch, she plants her feet, throws her shoulders back, and juts out her chest. “So,” she says, voice teasing, “you’re the girl dating my little sister.”

Patri just rolls her eyes, already used to her long-time teammate’s antics. “Do I need to give a what are my intentions speech before or after dinner?” she fires back.

Alexia lets out a laugh and drapes her arm around Olga, grinning. “Just know if you break her heart, you’re benched for life.”

Alba mutters from the kitchen, “I said I’d do worse.”

You make a strangled noise in your throat. “You’re all terrifying.”

“We’re family,” Olga says sweetly. “It’s basically the same thing.”

Everyone laughs even you and somehow that breaks the tension enough for the dinner to feel real. You sit beside Patri who, despite herself, leans her shoulder into yours once the food’s been passed around. Alexia takes the opposite end of the table, but you catch her watching you sometimes not suspiciously, not protectively, just curiously.

Patri reaches for your hand under the table once you squeeze back, “You okay?” she whispers, leaning close.

You nod. “Actually… yeah.”

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

Plates are nearly clean, and a third bottle of wine has been opened. The room is buzzing with a warmth not just from the alcohol, but from the laughter, the low music, the way things feel possible tonight.

Alba leans back in her chair, eyeing you over the rim of her glass, “So…” she begins, drawing out the word like she’s testing the water. “You and Patri.”

You feel your cheeks warm before she even asks anything else. Patri quirks a brow and gives her a mock warning look. “Don’t start.”

Alba ignores it completely. “No, seriously. I’m just curious. Like, how did that even happen? You’re so quiet, and Patri’s…” She waves a vague hand. “...Patri.”

Patri pretends to be offended. “What does that mean?”

“Loud,” Alexia offers from across the table, grinning.

“Fearless,” Eli adds, smiling into her wine.

“Annoying,” Alba finishes, smirking as she looks back to you.

You laugh softly, your fingers brushing against Patri’s on your lap beneath the table. “We met in a bar, actually.”

Alba’s eyes widen. “Seriously?”

Patri nods, shrugging casually. “She spilled her drink on me.”

You cringe. “It was one drink.”

“She was so awkward about it I had to buy her a replacement.” Patri nudges your shoulder. “I didn’t even know your name, but you blushed so hard I thought your face would combust.”

Olga grins. “That tracks.”

Alexia sips her wine. “Did you know who she was?”

You shake your head. “No. I mean, I knew the name Patri Guijarro because a friend of mine goes your games, but not her face. Not in the moment though, I was too busy apologising to death.”

Alba laughs, then tilts her head, suddenly more sincere. “So… is it serious?”

You look at Patri, Patri looks at you and she’s the one who says it. “Yeah. It is.”

The table goes quiet for a moment, but not tense just still Alba smiles then, a bit softer. “Good. Because if you hurt her, I will absolutely ruin your life.”

Everyone laughs even Patri, even Alexia, even you but there's a weight to it too. A sincerity beneath the humour. You glance at Alba. “I don't doubt that.”

Alba meets your eyes and nods. “Yeah. I can tell.”

Alexia’s talking football with Olga at the other end who looks bored to death, and clearly she’s only half-listening, her eyes flicking over to your side of the table every so often.

Patri’s watching you, her cheek propped on her knuckles, eyes soft and full. Then she says it, casual but laced with a kind of wonder, "It’s funny, you know… I saw you every week in that bar for weeks and couldn’t build up the courage to speak to you."

You turn to her, a smile already pulling at your lips, the kind that happens without trying the kind only she gets from you. "I know," you say softly, amused. "Your friend Salma told me. Weeks before I spilled that drink on you."

Patri’s eyes widen. "Wait — what?"

You laugh and lean in a little, like it’s a secret meant just for her, "Salma told me you’d been coming in just to see if I was there… but that you didn’t have the guts to talk to me." You lick your lip, "We had a bet going"

"A bet?" Patri sat up

You nodded, "How long it would take you to make a move, I won"

"How much?"

"100 euro"

Patri nodded seemingly impressed, "Nice"

"I bought that jacket of mine you think I haven't noticed you've stole"

"Can we rewind" Olga waves her hand about, "Patri, you were nervous of Y/N?"

Alba snorts into her wine. Alexia, clearly now fully listening, makes a loud, mock gasp. "Patri Guijarro, nervous?!"

Patri groans, sliding down in her chair as she mutters, "I’m never going to live this down."

You nudge her knee with yours, still grinning. "Hey, at least I spilled a drink on the right girl."

Olga, watching the way you look at each other, murmurs just loud enough, “You really did.”

Patri smiles like she doesn’t quite know what to do with herself. You can tell by the way her fingers brush yours again featherlight, like a question she's already sure of the answer to.

Alba looks between you two, then sighs dramatically. "Gross. I want it. But gross."

Alexia raises her glass. "To nice jackets, accidents, and overly dramatic footballers."

You raise yours, laughing, the glasses clink.

You notice Eli had made her exit part way through the conversation, as you moved through the home after excusing yourself, the laughter softened into background noise, the sound of wine being poured replaced by the scrape of cutlery being cleared and stacked. You slip into the kitchen without really thinking about it, drawn by the clink of plates and the low hum of the tap running.

Eli’s at the sink, alone, she doesn’t look up when you step in but you see the way her shoulders tense, the slight hesitation in her hands as she rinses a dish and places it gently in the rack.

You hover for a moment, "Do you want some help?"

She glances sideways, caught off guard, but nods, "If you don’t mind drying."

You grab a clean towel and take your place beside her. The silence is thick but not heavy, just careful. You dry slowly, matching her pace.

"Dinner was really good," you say. "The potatoes especially. Who made them?"

Eli lets out a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh. "That was me. It’s Alexia’s favorite. She always insists I make them whenever we do family dinners."

You smile, placing a plate down gently. "I get it. They were incredible. Comfort food."

She nods, focusing on the next dish. "She used to help me peel them when she was little. Always ended up with more potato on the floor than in the pot."

You glance at her hands older now, but steady. You wonder if they were the same hands that once buttoned your baby clothes, even for just a few short moments. You want to ask her everything. Why she didn’t try to keep you. Why she never tried to find you. Why it feels like she’s afraid to look directly at you now, but you don’t. "I do that too. Fidget when I’m anxious. You were doing it at the table your hands, they kind of… circle each other." She pauses and looks at you. "I thought it was something I picked up at the children’s home. But now I wonder if it’s just... you."

Her eyes shine not quite tears, not yet, but there's weight behind them. Emotion pressed down, for now. She swallows, "You noticed that?"

You nod, "I notice a lot of things. Especially things that feel familiar."

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, just places the mug down, steadies herself, "Thank you for helping."

"Anytime," you say and mean it.

"Would you, would you maybe be open to us spending time together, just you and I?"

You nod, "I would"

Eli nods just the once, "Ok" You don't plan anything with her in that moment but its seems it was enough for her in that moment.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The night air is cooler than you expected, brushing against your skin as you and Patri walk side by side, hands almost but not quite touching. She’s quiet, too quiet, you glance over at her a few times, but she keeps her eyes ahead, jaw tight, her pace just a bit too quick for it to be casual.

Finally, you say it. "You okay?"

She stops, not dramatically, just stops.

You turn to face her, brows furrowing, the quiet suddenly louder between you. "What’s going on?"

She shifts her weight, runs a hand through her hair, "Alexia and Alba talked to me."

You freeze. "Okay...?"

She looks at you now, finally but her expression is unreadable. "About us. About… how we haven’t slept together."

Your stomach drops, "What—how did that even—"

"You told them," she cuts in. "You told them something private. Something personal. About me. About us."

"It wasn’t like that," you say quickly, voice shaky. "It just came up. They were being, sisters. Asking questions. I didn’t mean to—"

"But you did," she says, voice rising. "You’ve known them five fucking minutes and you're already telling them things that are really fucking personal?!"

Your eyes sting, you take a step back, "It wasn’t malicious. I was just… trying to connect. Everything’s moving so fast and I—"

She laughs once, bitter and breathless. "Yeah, well, I feel like an idiot now. Standing here, finding out from your sisters that you’re apparently frustrated with how slow I’ve been.

You wince. "That’s not what I said. Patri, I care about you. I wasn’t complaining—"

"You embarrassed me." Her voice breaks a little. Not loud. Just raw. "You made me feel small." Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out, she shakes her head. "I thought I was being respectful. Thought I was giving you space. Turns out I was just giving you something to joke about with your new family. She's my friend man, I've known her years, she's my fucking captain!"

You feel the tears hit before you even realise they’re falling. "That’s not fair," you whisper. "You’re twisting this. I didn’t mock you. I’ve never mocked you."

But Patri is already turning away, "I need to go."

"Patri—" She doesn’t look back. You’re left standing under a flickering streetlight, your breath catching in your throat, the sound of her footsteps fading fast into the dark.

You don’t know how long you’ve been walking not really. The air stings your face now, dried tear tracks tight against your skin, footsteps slow and aimless.

You’re still trying to catch your breath when headlights glide up behind you, soft and golden. A car slows and a window rolls down.

"Hey!" It’s Alexia, her voice is too casual, too cheerful like she doesn’t know the world just came crashing down on top of you. You glance over. She’s in the driver’s seat, Olga sits beside her in the front, and Alba peers out from the backseat, concern etched into all their faces. "Thought Patri was walking you home?" Alexia calls.

You stop walking, you feel everything in your body lock into place, your jaw, your spine, your fists. "She was" You give them a look turn and start walking again.

You heard her car start up again and she pulled back along side you, "Y/N Stop, talk to-"

"Are you serious right now?" you snap, your voice slicing through the night. "You thought this was a good time for a chat?"

Alexia blinks. "Wait, what—"

"Of course you thought it was fine!" you yell. "Because everything is always fine for you, isn’t it? You get to be the golden girl the football star, the daughter Eli kept, the sister everyone loves."

Olga opens her mouth like she might say something, but one glance from you silences her.

"You and your whole perfect family keep blowing my life apart. You just waltz in like I should be grateful. Like I should fall to my knees because I finally have a family who want me now that I’m not an inconvenience anymore."

You see Alba flinch in the back seat, her eyes wide, but you’re not done. You take a shaking breath, stepping closer to the window, to Alexia.

"Do you even know what it’s like to spend your whole life wondering why no one came back for you? To look in the mirror and not know a single damn thing about who you are?"

Alexia looks dumbfounded, "What have I done?"

“Don’t play dumb,” you snap, your voice rising fast. “You told her what I said. About us not sleeping together. That was private, Alexia. That was between me you and Alba.”

You shake your head, stepping closer.

“You embarrassed her. You humiliated me. And for what? A laugh? Some bonding moment with your actual sister at our expense?”

She opens her mouth guilt written all over her face but you’re not interested in apologies.

“How am I supposed to trust you after that? You don’t get it, do you?” you say, eyes blazing. “I’ve never had people. Never had someone to protect my secrets, my heart and I let you in. I let all of you in and in five minutes, you’ve already broken something that meant something to me.”

No one says a word, even Alba who usually has something snarky or sharp on hand is silent. Olga’s lips part, but you look at her, and she falls quiet too.

“You and your perfect, shiny family come crashing into my life like you’re doing me a favour,” you go on, voice cracking now. “Like you saving me from loneliness excuses the fact that I was abandoned in the first place.”

You suck in a breath, barely holding it together.

���Do you even understand what it’s like to grow up not knowing why you weren’t wanted? To find out years later that the people you needed weren’t dead, or missing they were just living their lives without you? Cast aside, not spoken of again like you didn't matter”

Alexia flinches and then you deliver the final blow.

“I wish I never found out you were my sister because the reality of knowing you is worse than not.”

You see her shoulders drop, like the air’s been pulled out of her, Olga’s hand subtly reaches for hers, grounding her but you’re already walking.

Toward the alley just ahead dark, narrow, the kind of space a car couldn’t follow through.

“Y/N—” Alexia calls behind you, voice softer now, please in her tone, but you don’t stop.

“Just leave me alone.” And then you’re gone.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The locker room hums with pre-training chatter. Boots clatter against tile, lockers slam, and the familiar sounds of music and laughter bounce off the walls. Alexia sits on the bench, tugging her boots on, her mind only half in the room. Her phone buzzes against the metal beside her, she glances down at the screen.

Olga 💬 Incoming Call

She frowns and quickly answers. "Hey, what’s up?"

Olga’s voice is tight. "Has Y/N texted you? Called? Anything?"

Alexia straightens. "No. Why?"

"She didn’t show up to work this morning," Olga says, voice quiet but tense. "I figured maybe she needed space, after… everything last night, but she’s not answering her phone. I’ve text, called and getting nothing."

That gets Alexia’s full attention, she stands, moving toward the corner of the locker room for privacy. "You’re serious?"

"Dead serious," Olga says. "I’ve never known her to just… not show. And after how upset she was"

Alexia bites her lip, eyes scanning the room instinctively. She spots Patri sitting on the far bench, quietly tying her laces, her shoulders a little stiffer than usual. "I’ll ask Patri," Alexia says quickly, she lowers the phone slightly and steps over. "Hey," she says gently. Patri looks up, wary, "Have you heard from Y/N today? Olga says she’s missing work and not answering."

Patri’s expression doesn’t change much, but something flickers behind her eyes. She shakes her head. "No. Haven’t spoken to her."

Alexia waits, but it’s clear she won’t say more. "You sure?"

Patri doesn’t flinch, but she’s quiet, measured, "Yeah. I'm sure."

Alexia nods slowly, uneasy. She steps back toward the corner and lifts the phone again. "Nothing to Patri either," she tells Olga. "She’s not getting involved, though. I think they argued."

Olga sighs through the line. "I should’ve gone after her last night. I should’ve made her come in the car. She looked… broken."

Alexia closes her eyes. "She told me she wished she’d never found out I was her sister."

There’s a pause, "We need to find her, Ale. I'm worried."

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The sun has dropped behind a massive rain cloud by the time training finishes, casting a golden haze over the city.

Alexia’s untying her boots when she hears Patri behind her “Heard from Y/N?”

Alexia turns, heart lurching with the same dread that hasn’t left her chest all day. She shakes her head. “No. Nothing. I keep checking my phone, Olga's been sat outside her apartment door all afternoon waiting for her to come home with Alba”

Patri nods slowly. Then quietly, without ego or drama, “I know where she’ll be.”

Alexia’s brows pull together. “Where?”

“Come on. I’ll take you,” Patri says. “We can grab dumb and dumber on the way.”

The car is silent as it snakes through the city. Patri’s at the wheel, Alexia riding shotgun, and Olga and Alba sit in the back, Olga clutching her bag like it’s holding her together.

No one really speaks. The weight of it all, the fear, the guilt, the silence between people who care too much and said too little fills the space.

They pull up outside the aquarium. The lights inside still glow faintly as the storm draws in, and it’s quiet, save for the gentle sound of the sea nearby.

Olga leans forward from the back seat. “Why here?”

Patri shuts off the engine. “She comes here when she’s overwhelmed. Told me once that the jellyfish calm her down. She used to sneak into the computer room after hours at the children’s home. She'd watch videos of them, said the water made her feel like she wasn’t trapped anymore.”

Alexia’s heart twists, of course she’d run to the sea when everything on land felt too heavy.

Inside, the space is quiet just the soft hum of filtered water and the rhythmic pulse of ocean light refracted through glass.

They walk slowly. Past reef tanks and luminous tunnels. It’s Olga who spots you first.

You’re seated on the floor in front of the jellyfish exhibit. Legs crossed, arms hugged around your knees, face illuminated in shifting blue light. The world has been too loud, too confusing and here, it's just water, movement, breath.

You don’t hear their footsteps at first, but something in the air shifts that makes you look over your shoulder, Alexia is already walking toward you.

She doesn’t say a word, doesn’t ask if she can, she simply lowers herself to the floor beside you, close but not touching.

You're both quietly watching the tank, then she says softly, eyes on the jellyfish “Papa liked the jellyfish too.”

You blink. She doesn’t look at you.

“He used to bring us here when we were little. Me and Alba. He said they looked like they were dreaming, like they floated between worlds.”

Her voice wavers a little. Still calm, but deep with memory.

“After he died… I couldn’t see a jellyfish without thinking of him”

You say nothing, but your shoulders relax just a fraction, your fingers uncurl slightly on your knee Alexia finally turns her head toward you.

“I’m sorry.”

You glance at her. She holds your gaze now.

“I shouldn’t have told Patri what you said. That was yours and I shouldn't have brought that up with her, it was out of line, I want to treat you as what you are, my sister, but I need to remember how overwhelming it is for you, I don't know how to make this ok”

A long pause, then, you murmur, “Neither do I.”

Alexia breathes in slowly as she nodded, her voice is quieter still, “But I want to try. If you'll let me.”

You barely register there was someone behind you until she speaks, “Can I… have a minute with her?” Patri asks, glancing briefly at Alexia, who nods and quietly gets up, giving you space.

You’re not sure why, but your stomach twists as Patri kneels in front of you slowly, like you might shatter if she moves too quickly. Gently and without asking she reaches for your wrists. You flinch, pulling back sharply. “I didn’t do anything.”

Your voice is more defensive than you meant it to be more ashamed that she needed to check. Patri exhales, sitting back on her heels. She doesn’t say anything right away, just watches you. Not accusing, not angry just worried. “Okay,” she says softly. “Okay. I just… had to check.”

You wrap your arms around yourself and look away. You feel small again, like every bad part of you is suddenly visible, impossible to hide. “You should go,” you whisper.

She blinks. “What?”

You look at her then, voice cracking just enough to betray what’s underneath. “You should go. You deserve better than this than me.”

Patri frowns, confused, hurt. “Y/N—”

“You do,” you cut in, firmer this time. “You deserve someone better. Someone more… I don’t know. Attractive. Confident. Normal. Not this boring, broken mess.”

The silence that follows is painful, but Patri doesn’t storm off. She doesn’t argue or try to fix you with some perfect line. She just swallows, eyes glistening slightly, and whispers, “You don’t get to decide what I deserve.”

You can’t look at her, you stare at your hands. The sting of your words still hanging between you both.

Then, more quietly, she says, “Can I ask you something?” You nod, not looking at her, “Did it really bother you that much… that we haven’t had sex?”

You pause, then shrug, not because you don’t care, but because you don’t know how to explain it not properly. Patri waits. She always gives you space like that, but this time, she deserves an answer. “It’s not you,” you say quietly. “I know it’s not you.”

She turns toward you slightly. You can feel her attention on you, even as you keep your eyes on the shifting water.

“It’s me. It’s how I see myself. How I feel in my own skin.” You take a breath, then another. You hate the sound of your voice when it’s this vulnerable. “I know you’re being respectful and I love that about you, I do, but sometimes it makes me feel like… like somethings wrong with me, like I’m not good enough. Not sexy enough. Like you’re waiting for something better to come along.”

You finally turn your head to look at her, your voice barely a whisper:

“I want to feel wanted too.” There’s a long, deep quiet, "you didn't always make me feel like that"

Then Patri shifts a little closer, her eyes gentle but burning with conviction.

“You have no idea how wanted you are,” she says. “You think I’m holding back because I don’t want you?” She shakes her head. “I’m holding back because I do. So much it scares me.”

You blink fast. Her hand reaches for yours slowly, letting you be the one to close the space. You do.

“Don’t ever think for a second it’s because I don’t want you. I do. All of you. Exactly as you are.”

You lower your head placing with the laces on your shoes to keep you busy, then, Patri speaks again, her voice low but honest.

“I haven’t… initiated anything because when we do spend the night together…”

She hesitates, not out of shame, but to be careful with her words.

“…you wouldn't even get changed in front of me.”

You feel your cheeks burn, gaze dropping again. She’s not being cruel it’s not judgment. Just truth.

“So I figured…” she continues softly, “…maybe you weren’t confident in yourself yet and I didn’t want to push you or make you feel like you had to do anything just because I wanted to.” She swallows “I wanted you to want it and the only way I’d really know that… is if you were the one who started it.”

You nod slowly, the sting behind your eyes returning again, "You were right to be mad" You raise your eyes, "But I don't want you to forgive me because you think something happened to me, you need to go be mad"

"Y/N" She watches you stare back into the tank for a moment, before getting to her feet and leaving you behind.

"Well?" Olga asks

Patri sighed, "I think she just broke up with me"

"What?"

Patri shrugs holding her car keys to Alexia, "I'll walk home, take care of her make sure she gets home ok" and just like that the best thing you'd had in years walked right by you like you weren't even there.

The jellyfish glowing and silence holding the weight of everything said and unsaid clogs your mind, until the faint echo of footsteps draws your attention. You glance over as Alexia, Olga, and Alba approach slowly, uncertainly, as if afraid to disturb something fragile.

No one speaks at first, they just stand there, the soft glow of the tank casting bluish light over all of you, reflecting in eyes that still hold exhaustion and unsaid things.

Then, Alba breaks the silence. "They're funny-looking little things, aren't they?"

She squints at the jellyfish drifting behind the glass, her voice casual, even light, but you can hear the intent beneath it she's trying. You blink at her, then turn your gaze to the tank again.

"They don’t even have brains," she adds, frowning. "Just… float around bumping into stuff, somehow still alive."

"Sounds familiar," you murmur, standing up and leaving them behind, you know they're following you, but you've always been good at switching people off to you.

You move slowly toward the massive shark tank, the water dark and swirling with sleek shapes gliding silently through it.

Olga stops beside you, her eyes wide with awe. “I never realised sharks were so... graceful,” she says, watching the shadows move.

You smile softly, stepping closer to the glass. “They’re incredible creatures,” you begin, your voice steady and sure now. “Most people think they’re just mindless killers, but sharks have been around for over 400 million years. They’re apex predators, but they play a vital role in keeping the ocean’s ecosystem balanced.”

Olga leans in, clearly impressed, “Wow, I had no idea. You really know your stuff.”

You shrug, a little shy but pleased. “I’ve always been fascinated by them, their senses, how they detect electrical signals in the water, their social behaviours. It’s like they have this whole world we barely understand.”

Olga's gaze lingers on you for a moment longer, her smile soft, "You broke up with Patri?"

"I don't want to talk about it"

"Ok" Olga nodded, "Do you want us to take you home?"

"Only if you drive and I can sit in the front"

You caught the smile Olga tried to hide, you were aware how childish you sounded but she didn't need to find it funny.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The market buzzes around you the sounds of bargaining, the rustle of paper bags, the scent of spices and fresh herbs hanging in the warm air. You spot Eli before she sees you, carefully choosing tomatoes with the same quiet intensity you’ve seen in the mirror when you’re trying to steady yourself.

You walk up slowly, offering a soft, “Hi.”

She looks over seemingly genuinely pleased to see you, “Mi niña,” she says gently, setting down a tomato and reaching out to give your arm a squeeze. “I’m glad you came.”

You fall into step beside her, letting the noise of the market fill the silences between you. It’s not awkward just tentative, like you’re both learning a rhythm neither of you ever expected to need.

A few stalls in, while she’s weighing peaches, Eli glances at you “Alexia told me what happened,” she says quietly. “About what she and Alba said to Patri.”

You swallow, suddenly fascinated by the uneven cobblestones beneath your shoes. “I didn’t mean to hurt Alexia's feelings,” you murmur.

“I know you didn’t.” Eli’s voice is steady but carries that tired weight, the one that lingers after sleepless nights. “And I want to say this to you, they were wrong for telling her. That was your story, your trust you put in them and they didn’t protect it, they want you to be their sister but they need to act like one towards you to.”

You blink at her, taken aback by the unexpected validation. She picks through some herbs as she speaks, almost absentmindedly.

“It's a hard situation, we're all trying to learn and navigate through something we have no idea how to deal with.”

You nod, throat tight Eli gives your hand a gentle squeeze.

"It just needs some communication and boundary setting I think"

The conversation dips back into quiet as you both drift toward a stall selling fresh pastries. Eli eyes a tray of cinnamon-coated ensaimadas, then glances at you with a little conspiratorial smirk.

“They say the calories don’t count if you’re with company,” she says.

You chuckle. “Who says that?”

“Me. Just now.” She shrugs like she’s daring the universe to disagree.

You both laugh, and it’s real light, unforced. A moment you never imagined having with her, and yet here it is, folded in between fruit stalls and spice jars.

Eli hands you a warm pastry and takes one for herself, nodding toward a bench shaded by a canvas awning. You both sit, elbows brushing, the market humming around you like background music.

After a beat, Eli speaks again, softer this time, “I want you to know something.” You glance sideways at her, she doesn’t look at you yet just picks gently at a bit of sugar on her pastry. “I’m not trying to be the mami I gave up the right to be. I know I don’t get to come back into your life and just… pick up where we didn’t even start.”

You look at her then properly. She finally turns to meet your gaze.

“I just want to get to know you, as you, not the baby I lost. Not the girl I couldn’t raise. Just… the person you are now.”

Your chest tightens, but not painfully more like something protective inside you loosening, just a little.

She adds, quietly, “I want to be your friend. If you'll let me.”

You nod, swallowing past the lump in your throat. “I’d like that,” you say. “I think I would really like that.”

She smiles this time with her whole face, eyes shining just a little and two strangers who were never meant to be strangers sit and share sweet pastries in the quiet. After you finish your pastries, Eli doesn’t rush to stand, instead, she stretches her legs a little, brushing crumbs from her lap.

“Do you like flowers?” she asks casually.

You blink, then nod. “Yeah. I mean, I don’t know a lot about them, but… yeah.”

She smiles and tilts her head toward a nearby corner where a small flower stall is almost bursting with colour. “Come on then.”

You follow her, and she walks with purpose not fast, but steady, as though she knows this exact route by heart. When she reaches the stall, she speaks easily with the older man running it, switching from warm Catalan to Spanish as needed. It’s clear she comes here often.

She gestures to a cluster of sunflowers. “These were your father’s favourite,” she says, almost casually but you notice the tremor in her voice.

You glance over, heart quietly thudding. “He had good taste.”

She chuckles softly. “He really did.” Then she looks at you, eyes soft. “You have his eyes, not the colour, in the way they move. Always watching people, thinking.” You feel yourself blush faintly and look away, unsure how to respond. She buys a small bunch sunflowers and white carnations and pays before you can even consider offering, “Come on,” she says gently. “There’s a little bench up by the fountain I used to take the girls to after shopping.”

You follow her again, the bouquet tucked gently under her arm, and as you both sit again, Eli pulls out a little plastic water bottle from her bag and carefully places the flowers inside.

You watch her quietly, something twisting deep in your chest. A strange feeling. Not pain exactly just the ache of unfamiliar comfort.

After a beat, you ask, softly without looking at her, “Do you miss him?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Every day.”

You pause. “Me too. And I didn’t even know him.”

There’s silence. But it’s full rich and sad and okay, eventually, she reaches over and gently touches your hand. “I’m proud of the woman you’ve become,” she says, voice trembling slightly. “Even if I had no part in making you her.”

You don’t cry not exactly, but the tears sting a little, and when she opens her arms, you don’t even hesitate.

You lean into her and, it feels like maybe something broken got stitched back together, even just a little.

After the fountain, after the tears, and after your arms had finally let go of each other, Eli tilted her head and smiled at you gently.

“We should do something completely superficial now,” she said, swiping at her cheek with a tissue and handing you one too. “Let’s go buy something neither of us needs.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the suggestion. “Clothes?” you ask, half-laughing.

“Clothes,” she confirms, already rising and adjusting the bouquet in her bag like it’s simply a companion now.

You both end up walking to a quieter side street, tucked away from the usual tourist mess, into a little boutique that’s airy and bright and smells like lavender and fresh linen. It’s the kind of place you wouldn’t usually step into too polished, too elegant, but Eli seems at home, offering a polite wave to the woman behind the counter, who beams at her like they’re old friends.

“You really know everyone, don’t you?” you say under your breath.

“It’s a gift,” she replies, grinning.

She doesn’t rush you. Instead, she browses lightly, then subtly starts holding things up against you. A pale green sundress. A deep blue blouse. A soft cream cardigan.

You roll your eyes but secretly it’s nice, someone seeing you like this.

“What about this?” she says eventually, holding up a long wrap dress, black with little embroidered constellations scattered across it.

You pause. “It’s pretty.”

“It’s you,” she says simply, then adds with a little wink, “And it would drive Patri mad.”

You flush, laughing. “Okay, now it’s weird you're trying to dress me up for a woman didn't show any interest in me like that”

“I’m observant and I have daughters who gossip like they’re paid to do it.”

You turned back to the mirror to look at yourself in the mirror as you held the dress against you, "Then you probably heard me and her are over because of it"

"I heard. Surprisingly from Olga, not like her to gossip," Eli adjusts the fabric on your dress fussing like any mother would making sure you were holding up correctly, "It's a shame"

You hold your eyes in the mirror on her, "Is it?"

She hums, "I saw the way she looked at you, she cared for you"

"She didn't fancy me, she didn't want to-"

"Sex is not everything my dear, you want to find a woman who is your best friend who makes you laugh without trying because if you marry a dull woman who is great in bed, its not going to be great when you're bed bound with them and unable to" She stopped fiddling, "And you can have a lot of fun before you get to that part teaching them how to do it with your best friend"

You genuinely laughed, "Since you put it that way"

"Plus since my daughters love to gossip with there friends in my ear shot, from what i've heard, you wouldn't need to teach Patri a thing"

"Oh really?"

Eli nodded with a hum, "Really"

Eventually, you try on a few more things. She waits just outside the curtain, tossing in little comments now and then that are actually kind

When you finally step out in the constellation dress, she stills.

Her face shifts proud and quiet and a little sad all at once, “You look beautiful,” she says, not trying to oversell it. Just honest.

"You sure?"

She nods, "It's a little long but I can hem that no problem"

You look at yourself in the mirror. It's been a long time since you agreed. “Okay,” you say softly. “Let’s get it.”

As you change back, she pays for it, despite your protests, and when you step back out, she hands you the paper bag with a little smile.

“Everyone deserves to feel lovely in something once in a while. You especially.”

You leave the shop arm in arm, the sun warming the cobblestones, the weight in your chest just a little lighter.

You don’t talk about the past anymore that afternoon. Instead, you get iced coffees, walk back to her home, and people-watch. You tease her about how nosy she is. She tells you you’re too guarded.

You don’t correct her.

🧑‍🧑‍🧒‍🧒

The door creaks as you push it open with your hip, a to go caffeine free coffee in one hand and the weight of a not quite healed argument still clinging to your shoulders. The office is quiet, too early for the usual hum of conversation or clatter of keys, but as you turn the corner, that hush is cut by the unmistakable sound of Olga’s sigh echoing dramatically through the space.

You glance up to find her seated at her desk, legs swinging slightly, head tilted back like she’s been trapped in the worst kind of purgatory, early morning admin with nothing to entertain her.

Beside her, slumped far less dramatically, is Alexia. One foot propped on a chair, hair tied in a messy low bun, her face is unreadable as she scrolls idly through something on her phone. She doesn’t even look up.

Your eyes linger on her a second too long before you catch yourself.

“Morning,” you say cordial but clipped.

Olga perks up immediately, flashing you a grin that feels about five percent mischief and ninety five percent cautious optimism. “There she is. Look at you, up early, looking fresh,”

You don’t answer that. You just give a polite smile, one corner of your mouth barely twitching up, and move past them to your desk.

Alexia finally looks over, her gaze lingers. She opens her mouth like she might say something but then shuts it again.

You pull out your chair, setting down your bag, then your drink, then the stack of papers you’d been meaning to sort through since last week. You focus on that, not on how still Alexia has gone, not on how the silence between you stretches taut like a wire.

“You two still not talking?” Olga asks with a huff, clearly talking to you but looking at Alexia.

You don’t respond, Alexia does, her tone dry. “Apparently not.”

You look up at that, sharp, eyes meeting hers, she doesn’t flinch, she never does. “It’s not about talking,” you say simply. “It’s about trusting.”

Alexia’s mouth tugs into something like a grimace, but she doesn’t push it further. Olga watches you both like a spectator at a tennis match, sensing she’s stepped into the tension without a helmet.

“Right. Cool. Love this vibe,” she mutters, sliding off her chair. “Think I’m gonna go make a very strong coffee and pretend this office isn’t emotionally suffocating.”

She wanders off, muttering under her breath, you and Alexia are left in the silence. You shuffle some papers, she crosses her arms and still she doesn't say she's sorry. You don’t ask her to and maybe that’s what’s worse than yelling. The not knowing if the bridge will be rebuilt or just left to rot quietly, unspoken between you.

The tension in the office doesn’t fade as the morning drags on. If anything, it lingers. You keep your head down, earbuds in, pretending to focus on an old training report that doesn’t need reviewing. But every so often, your eyes flick across the office, watching Alexia pacing back and forth like a caged animal.

She’s been restless since you got here, more than usual, it would be comical, her muttering under her breath, grumbling about the chair being too low, the air conditioning being too cold, and her phone battery mysteriously disappearing even though she’d definitely charged it last night, if it wasn’t so deeply, pointedly irritating.

Olga clearly thinks so. “Ale,” Olga finally groans from her chair, chin on her folded arms on the desk, “if you sigh one more time, I swear to god I’m going to glue your mouth shut with glue.”

Alexia, perched by the window with her injured ankle propped up on a small chair, whips her head around. “I’m just bored, okay? I’m meant to be training. This sitting around doing nothing shit is torture.”

“Oh, I hadn’t noticed.” Olga drags out the sarcasm like it physically pains her not to be dramatic. “You’ve only rearranged the pens on my desk three times.”

You fight the small smile that tugs at the corner of your mouth. You don’t want to find this funny, you don’t want to enjoy anything about Alexia right now, but her pout is so real and so unintentionally childish that you can’t help it.

Alexia glares at Olga, then sighs, again, deliberately and leans back in the chair like she’s being punished.

“I just feel useless,” she mutters. “Everyone’s training, everyone’s doing something, and I’m… sitting here. Waiting to heal.”

That flicker of guilt stings in your chest. You know the feeling stalled, stuck, waiting for something inside you to stop aching. Olga speaks “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before deciding to take on a five a side match against literal children.”

“They were talking shit,” Alexia mumbles defensively.

“They were nine, Alexia.” That earns a short, begrudging chuckle even from you, there’s a pause and then Olga, not bothering to lower her voice, says, “You know, this would all be more tolerable if you weren’t also in your feelings about the whole Y/N thing.”

You freeze, Alexia doesn’t, she just exhales sharply and glares at Olga. “Can you not?”

“What? It’s the truth.” Olga props herself up on one elbow, expression flattened with that all too familiar tone of blunt affection. “You’re moping. It’s annoying and Y/N is literally right there trying to work while you do it.”

You don’t look up, you click something at random on your screen ad you hear Alexia shift. “I’m not moping,” she says too quickly.

“You are and you screwed up and I know you know that and I know you want to fix it, but you don’t know how to do that without being defensive or emotionally constipated.”

You finally glance up, just in time to catch Alexia looking completely murderous, but she doesn’t deny it.

Olga shrugs. “Look, I’m team you two work it out. I am, but either do something about it or stop because I swear to god if you reorganise those pens one more time, I’m going to scream.” You stifle a laugh behind your hand, Alexia throws a stress ball at her, it bounces off Olga’s head with a dull thud. “You throw like you injured your arm not your ankle,” she mutters, catching it lazily.

Alexia doesn’t respond. You keep your eyes on the screen even though you’ve reread the same sentence four times and absorbed none of it.

Then, finally, she moves tentative steps with her good leg, crutch under one arm as she hobbles the short distance across the office toward you.

Olga mutters something under her breath probably a sarcastic prayer or warning but neither of you acknowledge it.

Alexia stops just short of your desk, eyes soft but cautious. Like someone approaching a skittish animal. Like she knows one wrong word and you’ll bolt. “Can I talk to you for a sec?” she asks, voice quiet.

You don't look up right away, you feel her hesitate, but she doesn't walk away. She waits, like Patri used to, but less sure of herself. You sigh when she doesn't give up, close your laptop lid, and glance up expression blank, but not cold.

She shifts her weight awkwardly, adjusting the crutch. “I know you’re still upset with me,” she says, with no forced emotion. “And I deserve that. I do.”

You stare at her a beat longer than necessary. Then finally, you exhale and softly, almost without thinking you ask, “How long are you out for?”

It’s not forgiveness, but it’s not nothing either. Alexia blinks at you, surprised. Then her shoulders loosen a bit. “Three weeks, maybe four. Depends how it heals. Sprained it playing five-a-side with the neighbours' kids,” she adds, half-smiling, a little self-deprecating.

You hum, barely amused. “Heard they were nine.”

“One of them did a roulette nutmeg and called me abuela. I panicked.” You don’t laugh, but the corner of your mouth twitches, she notices but she doesn’t push. “I’m sorry, Y/N,” she says quietly, no speech, no excuse, just that. “What I said to Patri… it wasn’t mine to share. I know that now.”

You nod. Just once. It's small, but it's acknowledgment, “You didn’t mean to hurt me,” you say, your voice calm but not warm.

Alexia shakes her head, eyes a little sad. “No, but I did.”

That hangs between you both for a second, it isn’t a full olive branch accepted but you didn’t break it either and that’s something.

“So…” she starts, way too casual for someone who knows she’s about to prod at something delicate. “You and Patri. Still broken up?”

You keep your gaze forward, flipping aimlessly through your paperwork, even though nothing on it matters. “Yeah. Seems it”

She nods like she expected that. Then, “Because you didn’t have sex?”

You close your eyes for a second, then nod slowly and you were still not looking at her.

Alexia doesn’t miss a beat, “Why did you not just sleep with her then?”

You blink and blink again, then turn to her with the slow, painful precision of someone trying not to yell in a hospital zone. “Oh wow, Alexia,” you say, voice dry as desert air, “that never occurred to me at all.”

She has the decency to wince a little but doesn’t back off. Classic Putellas. “I just meant—”

“What? That I should’ve sucked it up and gone for it? Pretended I’m not completely terrified every time someone sees me without clothes on?”

She pauses and you keep going, not angry exactly, just exposed.

“I didn’t not sleep with her because I just didn't feel like it. I didn’t because I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror, Alexia. I didn’t because I was scared she’d look at me and change her mind”

Alexia is quiet now. The kind of quiet that means she’s finally listening instead of trying to fix it with a one-liner and a shrug.

You sigh, shaking your head, rubbing at your temple. “I didn’t need someone to sleep with me. I needed someone to make me feel like I could be seen and still be wanted. She barely showed she wanted me clothed so you can only imagine how I thought she would be when I wasn't”

There’s a beat and then, gently quiet in a way she rarely is, “She did want you. She does want you.”

Alexia stares at you like she’s genuinely baffled, her brow furrowed in that intense, earnest way she reserves for both Champions League finals and your emotional wellbeing.

“You’re beautiful,” she says, like it’s fact, like it's obvious, like it physically pains her that you don’t agree. “Why do you not see that?”

You blink at her, deadpan, then gesture vaguely at her elevated leg, wrapped in ice, her sock rolled halfway down and a grimace still lingering from earlier. “You have an ankle,” you reply, dry as ever. “Why don’t you just use it?”

Her mouth opens slightly, stunned into silence for a second before she bursts into a begrudging laugh, head dropping back against the wall behind her. “Okay, fine,” she mutters, smiling despite herself. “Point taken.”

You allow yourself the smallest smirk before glancing back at your notes, the moment settling between you, you look up just in time to see Alexia limping over, dragging the chair beside your desk.

She plops down beside you with a sigh, resting her ankle on another chair, and then fixes you with a look that already makes you brace yourself. “Okay,” she says, “this is going to be an awkward conversation, considering you're my little sister…”

You immediately groan, putting your pen down. “Do we have to”

“Let me finish,” she insists, holding up a hand like she’s the adult in this sibling dynamic, which somehow makes it worse. You cringe, already regretting whatever impulse let her get within ten feet of you, “Patri thought you were sexy.”

You squeeze your eyes shut like it’ll block out her voice. “Stop it.”

“No, no, listen, before we even knew who you were, she used to go on about you all the time. Always bragging about how attractive you were. Like, stupid obsessed.”

You peek at her, horrified, “Are you done?”

“Not even close,” she says brightly. “She showed you off like a proud dog mami, Y/N. I mean, full-on ‘look at her, isn’t she perfect’ vibes. She’d find any excuse to bring you up and not just about your face either, which, yes, she liked, weirdly.”

You groan again, sinking into your seat.

“She loved that you were funny when you let yourself be. Said you had this dry, clever kind of humour that made her feel like she had to earn your laugh.”

There’s a silence then, not heavy, but not nothing either.

Alexia shrugs, “I’m just saying, it was never about you not being enough. If anything, I think she thought you were too good for her"

You don’t say anything for a second, then, quieter, “She still left.”

Alexia nods, softer now, “Yeah, but maybe she was just doing what you asked her to do”

You glance down at your hands, the silence stretches a little further this time, then Alexia clears her throat and leans back.

“Okay, I’m done being the emotionally available big sister. This ankle is killing me and I’m bored again.”

You huff out a small laugh despite yourself. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the best,” she corrects, kicking her good foot up onto your desk. “And I deserve snacks for this emotional labour.”

You slide a granola bar across the desk toward her without looking. “Take it and never speak again.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, grinning.

Alexia starts absently fiddling with your pens, spinning one between her fingers before clicking it three times in rapid succession like she’s testing the exact frequency that will break your brain. Then she lines them up not straight, of course, but just off enough to trigger every urge you have to fix them.

You stare at her, “Can you not?”

She grins, “I’m stimulating the creative environment.”

You reach out and unceremoniously shove her foot off your desk, “Stimulate a job. Somewhere else.”

"Can we stop saying stimulate" Olga muttered as she shuddered at the word

She dramatically recoils like you’ve just committed a war crime. “Violence against the injured? Disgusting.”

You glare. “It’s no wonder Alba’s always angry. Growing up with you? I’d be furious every day of my life to.”

Alexia smirks, unfazed. “She is and she still texts me first every time she needs to vent. That’s the power of charm.”

You roll your eyes and start fixing your pens back into their proper place, muttering under your breath. “More like the power of shared trauma.”

“Tomato, tomahto,” she sings, now tapping out a rhythm on the edge of your desk with another pen like a toddler who’s discovered percussion.

You shoot her a look that promises death, “You’re lucky you’re injured.”

“I know,” she grins. “It’s the only thing keeping me interesting this week.” You sigh, long suffering, and reach for your headphones the only line of defence you still have. “I’ll tell Alba you said she’s angry, by the way.”

“I said always angry, not just angry. There’s a difference.”

She laughs like she’s won something, and somehow, you suspect she kind of has.

[uhuhmaries]

The Tension Between Us

Summary: You approach Harry Styles as a fan while in Tokyo on a girls trip just for a moment, but Harry doesn’t let it stay innocent. There’s something about the way he says your name, like he already knew it—he’s not done with you.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

Word Count: I honestly have no idea. +/- 2k???

Warnings: smut (18+), unprotected sex mention (condom removed mid), breeding kink, size kink, age gap tension, dirty talk, mild degradation, power imbalance, emotional cheating (reader has a situationship), public setting lead-up, alcohol mention (light), reader is a fan, emotionally confusing hookup.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

He’s right there.

A few tables away, in a dim-lit Tokyo bar tucked inside a luxury hotel your group definitely wasn’t meant to find. But your friend spotted his bodyguard first, whispered his name like it was a spell, and now… here you are.

He’s got his curls pushed back, a silk shirt unbuttoned far enough to make you forget how to blink, and a drink in one hand that’s barely touched. He’s laughing at something a friend said, but it’s casual, like he’s used to people noticing. Like he knows you’re watching.

“Go say hi,” one of your friends dares, nudging you with her elbow.

“No way,” you say—but your feet are already moving.

You don’t plan to say much… Just “Hi,” maybe “Big fan,” maybe “Can I get a picture?” and then you’ll disappear back into the crowd and let your friends scream about how close you got. You tell yourself it’s harmless. You have someone back home anyway… whatever that means lately.

You’re halfway through your polite smile when he looks up.

And you freeze. Because Harry Styles doesn’t just glance… he sees. Eyes trailing down, then back up, like he’s tasting the air around you.

“Hi,” you say. Voice too soft.

He leans forward slightly, lips quirking. “Hi.”

“I—I didn’t wanna interrupt. Just wanted to say I love your music. Big fan.”

He smiles, slow and wicked. “You sure that’s all you wanted to say?”

Your throat tightens. He says it like you came for something else. Like he’s already undressing the idea of you in his head.

You laugh awkwardly. “I should get back to my friends—”

“Wait,” he says quickly. “What’s your name?”

You hesitate.

“…(Y/N).”

He repeats it. Testing it. Letting it roll off his tongue like it’s something sacred. “(Y/N)… That’s nice.”

“I really should—”

“You can leave,” he says, tilting his head. “But if you do, I’ll spend the rest of the night wondering what your voice sounds like when you’re not being polite.”

Your breath hitches. You hadn’t expected him to say something so direct—so honest. Especially not to you. A fan. A stranger in a city far from home.

“I really shouldn’t. I have… a relationship—well, situationship, back home.”

You offer a small, unsure smile. “Still, it’s surreal meeting you. Thank you for being so kind.”

His gaze softens. That crooked smile doesn’t fade.

“I respect that. And if I came off too strong, I apologize.” He shrugs. “You’re just… stunning. He’s lucky. Hopefully he knows it.”

He offers his hand. You take it, briefly, then you walk back toward your booth.

By the time you’re on your fourth drink, you’re staring into the glass and thinking about how unlucky your situationship really is. How he never really listens. How he rolls his eyes at your passions. Never once hyped you up, supported your ideas, or made you feel fully seen.

Harry did all of that with a single conversation.

You glance toward where he’s still sitting, now talking to someone else, but his gaze flicks toward you anyway. Brief. Charged.

You feel it in your chest.

And just like that…

You never make it back to your friends.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

The hotel elevator ride is short but sinful. He stands behind you, close enough that your back almost touches his chest, and his voice slides against your ear like silk dipped in heat.

“Thought you were just a fan with a situationship, sweetheart,” he teases.

“I thought this is the benefit of being one, isn’t it? Your ego is probably so big right now,” you reply coyly. That earns you a tight grip on your waist by the one and only, Mr. Harry Styles.

“You’re cute. You’re lucky I’m feeling generous tonight.” He murmurs, lips grazing your neck as he inhales your perfume like it’s a drug he’s just discovered.

When the door opens, he doesn’t ask. Just leads you by walking in while his hand still sits on your waist while caressing it.

His hotel suite feels like it doesn’t belong on this planet.

Neither do his hands as he starts unbuttoning your dress from behind while kissing the curve of your neck, murmuring filth that makes your knees threaten to give out.

“You nervous?” he asks, palm skimming your thigh.

You nod slowly.

“You were pretty bold a minute ago,” he murmurs, voice low and amused as he walks you backward to the bed. He sits first, spreading his legs, then tugs you between them, guiding you down onto his thigh.

The pressure of him under you is already making your mind static. “Yes, Harry. I am nervous,” you admit, fingertips gliding up the back of his neck, playing with his necklace chain resting against his collarbones. “But also… I’ve dreamt about this for a long time.”

That earns you a low groan.

His hands settle on your hips, grounding you. “You’re trouble. You know that, right?” he mutters against your throat. “I hope you realize I’m gonna make you forget every name but mine.”

And he does.

You’re naked and under him in minutes.

Your legs are already trembling and he hasn’t even given you his cock yet. His mouth traces a path down your chest, your stomach, lower… slow, unhurried. Fingers slide into your panties, then inside you, and he groans at how wet you already are.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmurs, looking up from between your thighs. “You get this needy just from a few kisses? Don’t know how that boy back home’s been surviving.”

Your hips twitch. Your breath stutters. You’re not sure what to say. You don’t want to say his name. You don’t want to think about anything but Harry’s mouth.

Your legs fall open wider for him instinctively, but Harry isn’t satisfied until he’s got them hooked over his shoulders—mouth locked on your clit like he owns it. His tongue works you over with slow, punishing precision, lips wrapped around you as if he’s starved for it.

You barely register the moment he pulls away, breathless and glistening with you, only to strip his shirt off in one swift motion, then his pants, slow like he wants you to watch. You do. You can’t look away. Your eyes trail across every tattoo inked into his skin, each one telling its own story, each one only making the ache between your legs worse.

He catches your stare and smirks.

“Like what you see?”

You only manage a breathy nod, already reaching for him.

“I want the whole city to hear you,” he growls, sliding a finger in deeper. “Let them know who’s making you feel this good.”

Your moan breaks the silence like glass.

He talks you through it.

“You’re so small,” he mutters, tearing off a condom and sliding it on his cock, then quickly lining himself up after you’ve begged for it.

“Gonna take me so well, though. You’re made for this.” You whimper when he presses in slowly—stretching you, filling you with an ache that borders on unbearable. He hushes you through it, mouth at your ear, hands guiding your thighs higher.

“That’s it, baby,” he coos. “There you go. Good fucking girl. So tight. So fuckin’ tight for me.” The stretch makes your vision blur. He’s thick, bigger than anyone you’ve had before. And of course, he knows it. Using it so well.

You wrap your legs around him instinctively and he pauses, breath sharp against your cheek. You try to stay quiet. Civilized. But neither of you were built for restraint.

Not when he starts thrusting slow and deep. Not when he kisses your throat and moans into your skin, “This pussy’s too good. Gonna ruin me.”

And especially not when he groans:

“Fuck, I could fill you up so deep. Get you so full of me and I will be cleaning you up afterwards.”

You moan—loud and desperate as your body clenches around him involuntarily, and Harry groans through gritted teeth. He stills, then pulls out just enough to slide the condom off with shaking hands, tossing it aside like it’s the last thing on his mind.

“Harry—” you breathe out, voice barely a whisper, heart pounding against your ribs so hard it hurts. You’re not sure if it’s adrenaline, fear, or the heat of finally having him like this.

“I know,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to yours. “It’s not right. I know.”

But his voice drops lower, filthier. “Still… fuck, if you could see how pretty you’d look dripping with me.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

And then he’s pushing in—slow, deliberate. Watching the way he disappears inside you like he wants to burn the image into his brain. His fingers tighten on your waist, eyes flickering between your face and the stretch.

You’re too full. Too overwhelmed. But you don’t dare stop him.

Not now.

Not when every second of it feels like sin you never want to be forgiven for.

Your walls flutter around him like your body’s answering back.

It’s almost too much.

He presses your thighs up, holding you open like you’re something fragile and filthy at once. His thrusts go deeper. Rougher. Your cries spill out freely now.

“Taking it so well, baby,” he pants. “Such a good girl. Letting me stretch this sweet cunt like it’s mine.”

You’re already unraveling when he says, “You feel that? That’s how deep I am. Fuck. I should stop before I make a mess inside you.”

“… Come inside me, Styles,” you gasp out, wrecked and breathless, your body trembling as you try to hold off your release, even while he pounds into you harder, deeper each thrust making you cry out louder than the last.

“Fuck, (Y/N)!” he snarls, head thrown back. “You can’t just say shit like that—”

But it’s too late. The second those words leave your lips, he loses it.

You both do.

You break first—legs shaking, walls fluttering around him as your orgasm hits like a wave crashing through you. He follows a split second later with a broken groan, hips slamming into yours one last time as he spills inside you, deep and heavy and unrelenting.

Even through the haze, you feel him twitch, feel every thick pulse of it.

And neither of you can bring yourselves to move.

Not yet.

Not when it feels this good to fall apart together.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

You’re both quiet after. Tangled in the sheets, soaked in sweat and something too real.

His hand lazily strokes your hip as you stare at the ceiling.

“Harry?”

“Yeah?”

You turn your head, meeting his eyes. “What now? Like… how do I do this?”

He exhales a laugh—low, breathless, bittersweet.

“Don’t worry, love. We’ll figure it out.”

But his thumb keeps drawing circles into your skin like he already knows it’s not over.

Not by a long shot.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

📝 Author’s Note:

……. This got way too long and wild than what I had in mind. This was supposed to be a one-night fan fantasy. a tokyo slip-up but I definitely can see a few more chapters of this or just leave it as is. Let me know if you want part two. I kinda already know what harry does the morning after 😵‍💫💌

Ps. This is actually my first time writing again after more or less 8 years!!!! Wild. (I’m jobless now so I got more time).

Second Part: https://www.tumblr.com/uhuhmaries/785944844429361152/if-it-lingers-why-leave

[codnasties]

pretty please could we get some links of ghost or soap with a plus size/fat girl? as a bigger girly I would love it sm 😭 i love ur work <3

ghost x chubby reader 👻 (🌽 link)

there are men out there that work out to get muscles just for the sake of looking pretty, but then those same people, packed with muscles, can't even oven a jar. looking good is of no use if you don't have even an ounce of real strength.

but not ghost, he doesn't have that problem. that build he has comes from those from hard arduous work. real work and not weight training. a set of stapping arms and legs that get put to good use every so often.

and the biggest bit of proof of it is that even if you are chubby, he can easily lift you up. one hand on aroud your thigh, fingers digging into the plush of it and the other one around your waist, palm flushed against your soft stomach, as he's standing up.

easily moving you up and down his cock without breaking a sweat. the angle making the bulbous tip os his angry red and hard cock hit the spongy spot inside of you. his ministrations only keep going until you squirt all over his dick. getting it all slick and even more lubed for round two.

he kind of enjoys flexing how stong he is ;)

[psformybss]

idk if this is exactly what you wanted but i saw you wanted drew fluff ideas so here! (sorry if its bad lols)

you should write a story about drew and his love interest's actor on obx and how they instantly click when they first meet and decide to move in together while filming is going on, and they become like really really close best friends and fans and the rest of the cast are always shipping them but they tell everyone they are "just friends" even when they fall asleep cuddling sometimes, and reader wears drews clothes all the time (and stuff like that) and then they slowly start to realize they have fallen for eachother. drew takes her on one of their late night drives and confesses his feelings for her and she tells him that she feels the same

again idk if this is bad but its just an idea :) feel free to ignore!

More Than Just Friends

drew starkey x co!star!reader

a/n: i'm back y'all. i loved this idea so much cause i love slow burn/friends to lovers trope. idk if this is my best work tho not writing for a week really made me rusty lol

The conference room door lets out a soft creak as you push it open, just loud enough to cut through the hum of conversation. The noise inside doesn’t vanish—just dips, like a ripple across the surface of still water. Not silence. Not drama. Just that fleeting, collective pause when a new presence is clocked and measured.

Still, you smile. Like your heart isn’t pressing against your ribs, like your palms aren’t a little too warm. You step inside with practiced ease, letting the door fall shut behind you.

The air is thick with the scent of burnt coffee and freshly printed paper. The room is bigger than you expected, sunlit and echoey, the kind of bright that makes your eyes adjust. Floor-to-ceiling windows cast long streaks of light across the polished table that stretches through the center of the space, already cluttered with highlighters, half-empty water bottles, branded OBX pens, and a chaos of cords and chargers that look like territorial markers.

You spot your name card at the far end and start the awkward dance of slipping between chairs and elbows, offering polite nods as you go.

“Look who finally made it,” Madison calls out, her voice lilting with amusement. She’s sprawled in her seat like a queen surveying her court, sunglasses pushed into her hair, iced coffee in hand, one leg crossed elegantly over the other. Smug, radiant.

“I’m right on time,” you reply, lifting a brow. “Bet you ten bucks I’m still earlier than JD.”

“Wrong,” JD announces from behind her, voice theatrical. “Already here. Already disappointed.”

You glance over to find him lounging with full commitment—legs spread, chair tipped slightly back, Gatorade in hand, script unopened like it personally offended him.

“Alright, alright,” Chase mumbles from the far end, flipping pages without looking up. “Let her breathe before you scare her off.”

“You think I scare people?” JD feigns innocence, widening his eyes.

“You terrify me,” Madison deadpans, drawing out a round of quiet laughter.

You finally reach your seat—and pause.

He’s already there.

Drew.

He’s settled into the chair beside yours, legs stretched out, ankle resting on one knee. His script is open across his lap, pen between his teeth as he skims the page with a relaxed kind of focus. When he senses you, his eyes lift.

He grins. Not a stranger’s grin. Not polite or obligatory. It’s the kind that tugs at something inside you. Familiar. Knowing.

“There she is,” he says, voice warm, edged with teasing. “Guess I’m stuck with you now.”

You slide into your seat, dropping your bag at your feet. “Was that a compliment or a complaint?”

He leans an inch closer, the kind of lean that makes the space between you hum. “Depends how today goes.”

You shouldn’t feel this at ease. You’ve only met him once—during your chemistry read two weeks ago—but it stuck. The way your lines had synced without trying. The way he’d texted after like you were already mid-conversation. Not flirty. Just...attentive. Like he was curious about you in a quiet, persistent way.

You open your script and try not to notice how close his elbow is to yours.

“Nice of you to show up,” Madelyn says from across the table, nudging a bag of pretzels in your direction. “We were about to start placing bets.”

“I already placed mine,” Rudy adds. “Said she’d be late but would style it out like a pro.”

You shoot him a look. “And?”

He shrugs. “You were cool about it.”

The door swings open again. Austin strolls in, hair messy like he just rolled out of bed, coffee clutched in one hand, hoodie halfway on. “Did we start?”

“Do we ever start on time?” Chase doesn’t even look up.

“Touché,” Austin mutters, dropping into the seat beside Rudy.

The door opens once more and this time it’s the director, followed closely by the showrunner and a handful of writers. The shift is immediate. Spines straighten. Phones are pocketed. Scripts snap open.

“Alright, everyone,” the director calls out, clapping his hands once. “Episode One. Let’s dive in.”

Voices layer together as the read begins. A stumble here, a laugh there. JD plays his part with extra dramatics, earning snorts. Madison’s delivery is razor-sharp without breaking a sweat. Chase barely glances at the script, like it’s already been carved into his brain.

You ease into your role with steady confidence. No fireworks. Just setting the rhythm.

Until they call it—your first scene with Drew.

Your name. His. Episode Two, Scene Four.

You glance at him. He’s already looking at you.

No smirk this time. Just a subtle nod, the kind that says, we’ve got this.

The air shifts.

The dialogue between your characters is electric—sharp, flirt-heavy, a verbal chess match where no one really wants to win. You toss your lines like punches, and he parries every one with practiced ease.

“You always talk this much?” you say, tone dry, eyebrow lifted.

Drew doesn’t miss a beat. “Only when I like the company.”

The table goes still for half a breath, then laughter bubbles under the surface, but it doesn’t break the moment. You’re in it. Fully. The rhythm comes easy, like the words aren’t from the page but from your own lips. He plays with the cadence of one line, and it hits different—enough that your smile almost slips in.

He watches you, even when it isn’t his turn to speak. Not intensely. Not in a way that feels staged. Just...like he’s listening. Really listening.

When the scene ends, the silence stretches longer than usual.

Someone exhales. Probably Chase.

“Well, damn,” Rudy mutters. “Guess we don’t have to worry about chemistry.”

“I thought you two were already sleeping together,” JD blurts out.

Madison swats his arm. “Shut up. But, yeah. That was good.”

The director grins. “Alright, let’s take five. Hydrate. Shake it out.”

You stand slowly, your hands still buzzing. Madison appears at your side before you’ve even stepped away.

She leans in. “You two read like you’re already in love.”

You keep your voice casual. “He’s just good at what he does.”

She smirks. “Uh-huh.”

Across the room, Drew catches your eye again. He’s still in his seat, still holding that pen, spinning it between his fingers. He smiles, slower this time.

You look away last.

It’s just a scene. Just a read.

But something lingers.

The scent of smoke and salt rides the breeze, mingling with the faint sweetness of sunscreen and something vaguely citrus—maybe someone’s drink. The sand crunches beneath your sneakers as you step onto the beach, drawn toward the flicker of the bonfire glowing in the distance like a beacon.

Someone had floated the idea earlier—JD, most likely. Maybe Rudy. A night off, no call sheets, no early reports, and the first of shooting finally over. Just fire and sky and a chance to be young and loud under the stars.

You spot the group before they spot you. The fire throws warm light across their faces—Chase waving smoke away from his hair, Madison curled up on a blanket with marshmallows in her lap, JD strumming a ukulele like it wronged him personally.

And then there’s Drew.

He’s sitting with his back to the fire, beer bottle loose in his grip, legs stretched out in the sand. He’s laughing at something Madelyn’s saying, head tilted, flannel shirt half-buttoned, sleeves rolled up, hair tousled from the wind.

It hits you—how easy this all feels. Like it’s always been this way.

Madelyn sees you and waves, her smile wide. “Hey! You made it!”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you call, making your way across the sand.

You settle near the edge of the group, close enough for the warmth, far enough to avoid the smoke’s path.

Drew turns, and the moment he sees you, something shifts behind his expression. Softer. Brighter.

“There she is,” he says. “You almost missed JD’s ukulele rendition of ‘Wonderwall.’”

You raise a brow. “Tragic.”

Madelyn snorts. “Don’t worry, he’s got a whole encore planned.”

“I do not,” JD protests, plucking a dramatically sour note.

The night blurs into motion—laughter, marshmallows catching fire, drinks passed hand to hand, the hum of acoustic music weaving in and out of conversation.

When a chill skims over your skin, you shiver before you can stop it.

Drew notices.

Without a word, he shrugs off his flannel and hands it to you. You hesitate, but he just lifts a brow like don’t argue. So you pull it on.

It’s warm. Smells like bonfire and soap and something faintly musky that might be his cologne. You let yourself sink into it.

“You do this for all your co-stars?” you ask.

“Only the ones pretending they’re fine.”

He settles beside you, elbows resting on his knees, shoulder brushing yours.

The fire cracks. The ocean rolls quietly behind the noise. And the two of you—without meaning to—find a bubble of silence between it all.

He tilts his head toward you. “What’d you want to be when you were little?”

You blink. “Random.”

“Go.”

“Broadway set designer,” you say. “You?”

“Astronaut.”

You laugh. “You’re kidding.”

“Wanted the helmet.”

The questions keep coming. Silly ones. Real ones. You talk about movies and fears and favorite snacks. He listens like every answer matters. And when he talks, it’s unguarded, honest.

At some point, he leans back, eyes on the sky. “You feel like someone I’ve known longer than a week.”

You glance at him. “Yeah. You too.”

Madelyn walks past with a smug grin. “Just friends, huh?”

“Of course,” Drew says smoothly.

You just smile. Because no one says otherwise. But the flannel stays on your shoulders. And his shoulder stays right there beside yours.

The night settles around you, soft and endless. And whatever this is—it feels like the start of something. Quiet. Unspoken.

But real.

A few days later, the afternoon clings to your skin, thick with humidity. The air on set is heavy, as if the ocean breeze gave up trying to reach you. Sunlight glints off metal light rigs and bleaches the world into a palette of soft golds and heatwaves. You're perched on the edge of a weathered crate, script limp in your lap, words blurring in the warmth. Your focus is fractured — eyes skimming dialogue while your thoughts drift elsewhere.

Your phone buzzes in your hand. Instinctive. Quick. You check it.

It’s the plumber.

You press it to your ear, already bracing.

His voice is apologetic, laced with static and something far more frustrating — uncertainty. The plumbing in the Airbnb is worse than expected. The repairs will take longer than they thought. No promises, no estimates. Just a vague “could take a while.”

Your stomach clenches. You nod even though he can’t see it and murmur your thanks before hanging up. You drop the phone into your lap like it’s burned you.

That’s when Drew walks by. He’s headed toward the craft services table, a bottle of water dangling from one hand, his other swiping at the back of his neck like he’s trying to shake off the heat. His gaze lands on you — instinctive, precise — and he changes course without hesitation.

He drops down beside you, thigh brushing yours, and just like that, the air feels easier to breathe.

“You alright?” he asks, voice low enough that it doesn’t ripple past the two of you.

You hesitate, eyes still fixed on the gravel at your feet. “The plumbing at my place. It’s a mess. No idea when it’ll be fixed.”

He watches you for a moment, brows pulling together. “You’re still staying at the Airbnb?”

“Yeah.” You exhale. “It’s… not ideal.”

There’s a pause, the kind that stretches just long enough to make you glance over. Drew runs a hand through his hair, already ruffled from the heat, then turns to you with a kind of simple certainty that catches you off guard.

“You don’t have to do that by yourself.”

You blink. “What?”

“I’ve got space. A whole extra room I’m not using.” He shrugs, like it’s the most obvious solution in the world. “Move in. Just until it’s fixed. I mean, if you want.”

He says it casually, but there's something solid underneath it — like the offer comes from somewhere deeper than convenience.

You search his face, and for once, don’t find anything but sincerity.

“You’re serious?”

“Yeah.” He grins, that crooked one that always makes your chest feel a little lighter. “You’d be closer to set. And, selfishly, I wouldn’t mind the company.”

For a second, the weight you’ve been carrying lifts. Just a bit.

You nod slowly. “Okay. Yeah. I think I’d like that.”

“Good,” he says, nudging your knee gently with his. “You’ll fit right in.”

Drew pushes open the door and gestures you in with a dramatic flourish. “Welcome home.”

Inside, the apartment is an organized mess — the kind that’s lived in, not neglected. Sand-dusted sneakers line the entryway. A pile of half-folded laundry claims one end of the couch. On the coffee table, a jigsaw puzzle sprawls between empty mugs and dog-eared scripts. The air smells like sea salt and cinnamon candles, like home that doesn’t try too hard.

You drop your bag by the door and let it all wash over you.

That night, you end up on the couch with Drew, a half-watched movie flickering across the screen. The throw blanket slides from your shoulders and before you even reach for it, he tucks it gently around you. His arm brushes yours, and neither of you moves away.

Your feet find his beneath the blanket. He doesn’t flinch.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” he says, soft enough to be missed if you weren’t already listening for him.

You tug his hoodie tighter, the scent of his laundry detergent warm against your skin. “Me too.”

The days begin to blur, soft edges folding into something warm and familiar.

Mornings start with shared coffee and overlapping playlists. Grocery runs turn into minor battles — you reach for spinach, he tosses in Oreos. You call him dramatic for choosing the worst cereal, he accuses you of being a health nut. The checkout clerk smiles like she’s seen this a hundred times.

Nights belong to movies and stolen fries and blankets that never quite stay in place. You curl closer without thinking. He never pulls away.

His hoodie becomes yours — unofficially at first. It spends more time on your frame than in his closet, the sleeves always too long, the neckline soft from wear. You tell yourself it’s because the AC is too cold, but even you don’t believe that.

The apartment pulses with cast energy — Rudy’s storytelling echoing down the hallway, Madelyn’s laughter spilling from the kitchen, JD’s endless commentary on whatever game is on. It’s chaotic, imperfect, and somehow… right.

In between the noise and routine, there’s this quiet thread that winds between you and Drew — unspoken but steady.

Weeks have blurred together, and by now, the trailer feels like a second skin. When you step inside, both hands wrapped around a to-go cup like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, everything is just as it’s been for days. The early morning sunlight slips through the narrow windows, catching the same gold flecks in the mirrors, casting that familiar hazy glow across the space. The air carries the usual mix of hairspray and coffee — a scent that’s settled into the walls — and the soft playlist humming in the background might as well be on an endless loop, queued up long before the sun even thought about rising.

You collapse into your usual chair with a yawn and nod at the makeup artist, who greets you with a knowing smile.

“Rough morning?”

“Does it show?” you mumble, taking another sip.

She laughs. “Natural today?”

You nod, already zoning out as the brush glides across your cheek.

Madison lounges on the bench behind you, still half-asleep, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands as she scrolls through her phone. She glances up.

“Did you seriously walk out in his hoodie again?”

You glance down — the familiar grey fabric is draped across you, soft and oversized. You hadn’t even thought about it. It had been slung over the stool from last night, right where Drew left it after your terrible Netflix shark movie marathon.

You sip your coffee again, hoping the heat hides the way your cheeks flush.

Madison smirks. “That’s what I thought.”

Before you can reply, the trailer door swings open and lets in a blast of voices. JD and Chase barrel in mid-debate, the kind only they could be this passionate about at seven a.m.

“Ketchup on eggs should be illegal,” JD announces dramatically.

Chase barely glances up. “You’re wrong and uncultured.”

You lift your coffee cup. “Morning to you too.”

JD points at you like he’s just remembered something vital. “You and Drew playing house again?”

You roll your eyes, digging for your foundation sponge. “We watched a movie. That’s it.”

Madelyn drifts over, sipping tea. “A movie that required your feet to be in his lap?”

Chase spits out his drink. “Wait, what?”

“Rudy told me.”

You snort. “Rudy wasn’t there.”

Madelyn just shrugs. “Rudy knows things.”

The trailer door opens again, and in steps Drew — hoodie half-zipped, curls a mess, smoothie in hand. He pauses just inside as the air shifts, the teasing still fresh on everyone’s faces.

His eyes find yours instantly. There’s a subtle softening in his expression — like the chaos doesn’t matter, not when you’re here.

“You left without me this morning,” he says, moving to the chair beside you.

“You were passed out with a cereal box on your chest,” you reply, grinning. “Didn’t want to disturb art.”

Laughter bubbles around the trailer.

“You two are disgusting,” Chase groans.

“Right?” Madison adds. “They have a fruit bowl. A fruit bowl.”

You laugh. “It’s barely a bowl. It’s chipped and was five bucks at the antique shop.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that you argued about cereal for twenty minutes,” JD points out.

Drew sips his smoothie, unbothered. “And I was right.”

You smirk. “It’s just sugar and regret.”

“You love it,” he murmurs, and you feel it — that shift. That pulse in the air that always tightens your chest a little too much.

Chase pokes your arm. “You’re wearing his shirt again.”

Drew answers before you can. “Her shirt now.”

Madelyn gasps. “I’m begging you — just kiss already.”

“If you two fall asleep on the couch again, I’m charging rent,” JD adds.

You laugh — but it comes out soft. Tentative.

You glance at Drew.

He’s already looking at you. And beneath the usual teasing spark in his eyes, there’s something quieter. Something that stays with you even when you look away.

“We’re just friends,” he says.

But the words feel like a stone tossed into still water — quiet, but rippling outward.

“They’re just messing around,” you say to him under your breath later, as everyone scatters for rehearsal.

“I know.” He hesitates. “But I don’t care what they say.”

You glance up.

“I like this,” he says. “I like us. You make this feel easier.”

Your throat tightens. You nod, barely whispering: “Me too.”

And then you’re swept into the current again — called to set, scripts in hand, pretending to be someone else. But somewhere between lines and takes, you find his eyes across the room.

And it still feels like home.

Time moves differently now — days folding into each other, marked only by small, quiet rituals. Hours ago, the trailer buzzed with the hum of early morning. Now, the apartment is thick with the scent of cinnamon and browned butter, warm and heady, curling through the air like a promise.

Sunlight, deeper now, spills through the kitchen window in rich, honeyed beams, cutting through the steam rising off the griddle and painting the countertops gold. The rush of earlier hours has faded. This moment feels suspended — still, glowing, unrushed — as if the day itself is taking a long breath.

You stand barefoot on cool tile, hair twisted up in a loose knot that’s barely holding on, sleeves pushed to your elbows. There’s a smudge of flour on your cheekbone that you don’t know about, and batter stains the hem of the oversized t-shirt you’re wearing—his t-shirt. The fabric brushes against your thighs when you move, clinging slightly from the kitchen’s warmth.

From Drew’s phone on the counter, a lazy Sunday playlist hums along—soulful, smooth, a little ridiculous. “Return of the Mack” starts up, and like clockwork, he’s sliding across the floor in socks, shoulders rolling dramatically as he dances his way back into the kitchen.

You don’t turn. Just flip a pancake with practiced ease. “Don’t quit your day job.”

Behind you, he gasps. “Rude. This is elite choreography. You’re witnessing greatness.”

You bite back a grin. “It’s a health hazard.”

“No,” he says, coming up behind you, “it’s joy.”

He’s close now. Close enough that you can feel the ghost of his body heat brushing your back. He bumps your hip with his as he reaches around to grab a banana slice off the cutting board, snickering when you elbow him lightly in protest.

“Back off. This is a sacred space.”

“I’m assisting,” he says, as if holding a title. “Sous-chef.”

“You assisting means I’ll be cleaning banana off the ceiling in twenty minutes.”

“I bring the vibes,” he says proudly, grabbing a plate from the cabinet.

“You bring chaos.”

He smirks, unbothered. The music’s louder now, and the morning has a pulse to it—warm and bright and just a little bit unsteady.

You flip another pancake, lean down to grab a clean plate from the lower cabinet—and forget, for one stupid second, how close your hand is to the edge of the hot pan.

The hiss comes first.

Then the sting.

“Shit—ow. Shit.”

Before the pain even fully registers, Drew’s beside you. His easygoing rhythm halts completely, brows drawn tight as he catches your wrist. “What happened?”

“It’s fine,” you say quickly, trying to wave it off, but he doesn’t listen. He gently, but firmly, guides your hand under the faucet and turns the water on cold.

The stream rushes over your finger, and you hiss again, this time more from surprise than pain. His hand covers yours, thumb resting lightly on your wrist to keep it steady.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice lower now, the music behind you fading into a background hum. The air’s changed. Still, but charged.

You nod, blinking. “Yeah. I’ve done worse. Just a dumb mistake.”

“It’s not dumb.”

The way he says it makes you pause. And before you can respond, he lifts your hand—slowly, gently—and presses a kiss to the tip of your burned finger.

It’s feather-light. Barely there.

But it might as well be a lightning strike.

Your breath stalls. Eyes catch. And for a beat too long, you’re both completely still.

His hand stays on yours.

Neither of you speak.

The moment hovers, thick and quiet, like the breath before a confession.

And you can’t take it.

You laugh—too loud, too fast—and turn away, pretending the bloom of heat under your skin isn’t from him.

“I’m retiring from the kitchen,” you joke, shaking off the silence. “Clearly, I can’t be trusted near appliances.”

Drew smiles, but it lingers slower this time, a little softer. “Guess that makes me head chef. Hope you like cereal.”

You smile back, letting the moment dissolve like sugar in tea.

But when he passes you the syrup, your fingers graze—and neither of you pulls away right away.

The weeks blend together after that. Routines settle in quietly, like they were always meant to be there. Shared mugs in the cabinet. His hoodies folded into your laundry. Your shampoo in the shower next to his, your snacks hidden behind the cereal boxes he swears are sacred.

You stop counting the days. And so does he.

The cast still teases you both—but now it’s gentle, like they’ve decided this thing, whatever it is, doesn’t need labeling. Like maybe it’s obvious.

Tonight, the apartment smells like sandalwood and yesterday’s pizza. Filming ran late. Your limbs ache from sun and repetition and adrenaline. You’d both crashed on the couch, limbs draped over each other without thought.

His arm is wrapped low around your waist, steady, grounding.

Your head rests on his chest, listening to the even rhythm of his breathing, soft against the static of the TV. His sweatshirt smells like detergent and skin. His legs are tangled with yours beneath the blanket.

The movie’s long over. The credits have faded. Outside, the sky is bleeding pale pink through the curtains.

You should move. You know you should.

But the shape of you against him feels too easy. Too much like home.

You open your eyes slowly, adjusting to the light. His jaw is the first thing you see—clean lines, soft in sleep. Lashes fanned against his cheek. One hand still rests at your hip, fingers curved gently like they belong there.

You trace him with your eyes, careful not to move. Every breath deepens the ache in your chest, that quiet, persistent pull you’ve stopped pretending not to feel.

Then—he shifts.

Just a little. Barely conscious. His hand tightens at your waist. A slow exhale warms your forehead.

His voice, when it comes, is scratchy and half-asleep.

“This is nice.”

You freeze. Then nod, your cheek brushing his chest. “Yeah,” you whisper. “It is.”

Neither of you moves.

Not for a long time.

The sun climbs higher. And when you finally drift off again, curled tighter into his side, there are no dreams.

You don’t need them.

You’re already there.

The day is hot, the kind of southern heat that clings to your skin like humidity and sunburn. The set is between takes, the crew scattered like lazy shadows across grass and folding chairs. Someone’s blasting a speaker. Chase and Rudy toss a football like they haven’t been sweating for hours in full costume.

You’re half-asleep on a picnic blanket, legs outstretched, head tucked against Drew’s shoulder. You don’t remember when it happened—just that he was next to you, and then you were there, leaning into him like your body remembered what your mind hadn’t admitted yet.

His arm is around you. Protective. Unmoving.

He’s asleep too.

You’re both still when JD walks by with his camera. He never stops taking pictures. You’re used to it now. You barely register the click.

It isn’t until hours later—after the scene is wrapped, your wardrobe changed, and your phone vibrates five times in a row—that you notice.

The post.

JD’s photo.

“The cutest nap I’ve ever seen.”

You and Drew, tangled in sleep. Your head tucked into his shoulder, his hand on your arm. Golden hour casting everything soft and slow and tender.

The internet explodes.

“THEY’RE DATING I KNEW IT.”

“Roommates?? Yeah right.”

“This is the slow burn I’ve been waiting for.”

Your breath stutters in your chest.

Your phone buzzes again. And again.

And then—Drew’s voice. Low. Calm.

“You good?”

He crouches in front of you, brows drawn as you hold your phone out in silence.

He reads. Scrolls. Grins.

“They think we’re dating now,” you murmur, pulse racing.

He tilts his head. “They’ll think what they want.”

You wait for him to say more.

He doesn’t.

You could clarify. Say we’re just friends.

But you don’t.

Because what you felt when you saw that photo—what you’re still feeling now—isn’t panic. It’s a quiet thrum of recognition. Like the world saw something true before you had the words for it.

Drew watches you with an unreadable expression, somewhere between fondness and something more.

And this time, when someone teases you about it, you laugh.

But you don’t deny it.

Not anymore.

The party’s already alive by the time you arrive, tucked into the backyard of a rented beach house where the salty breeze tangles through citronella smoke and laughter. The night air hums with energy — music pulses from a half-open sliding door, drifting through the glow of string lights draped between palm trees like glowing constellations lazily flung across the sky. The faint crash of waves in the distance is a constant hush beneath it all.

Someone’s cranked up a speaker — almost definitely Rudy — loud enough to rattle the fence and earn a few glares from neighboring porches. The whole place feels like a breathless kind of summer, suspended in that golden blur between sunset and too late.

You step into the rhythm of it easily.

A half-dozen voices call your name, familiar faces grinning over red cups and half-empty seltzer cans. Madison finds you first, practically bouncing in her sandals as she throws an arm around your shoulders and presses a cold can into your hand.

“There she is,” she says, squeezing you with dramatic flair. “I was about two minutes away from sending a search party.”

You grin, the knot in your chest loosening slightly. “You know I wouldn’t miss this.”

She pulls you toward the fire pit, where JD and Austin are halfway through a heated argument about whether karaoke should be mandatory at every wrap party. You laugh at something Chase mutters under his breath, dodge Rudy dancing with a drink in each hand like a walking hazard, and let the scene fold around you — warm, bright, familiar.

It should feel easy.

It does, until it doesn’t.

You’re halfway through your second drink when you see him — Drew — across the yard, leaned casually against the edge of the deck. He’s framed by the spill of porch light and shadows, tall and unmistakable even in the half-dark. A drink dangles from his fingers, condensation sliding down the glass. He’s smiling.

Talking to a girl.

She’s tall, tan, hair spilling down her back like sun-bleached silk. Pretty in that effortless, sunkissed way. Her laugh rings high and sweet, and she tilts into him like he’s gravity. Her fingers brush his arm — light, teasing.

He doesn’t step back.

Your heart stutters, then twists. A slow, sinking feeling starts in your stomach, unfamiliar but sharp.

You look away too late.

Madison, beside you, catches your shift in focus and lifts a brow. “You good?” she asks, not unkindly — but there’s an edge to her voice, enough to snap you out of it.

“Yeah,” you lie, mouth pulling into a smile that feels flimsy. “Just zoning out.”

She follows your gaze, hums under her breath. “Ah. That kind of zoning.”

You glance at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” she says too fast. “Just… interesting view.”

You roll your eyes and pretend to laugh, turning back toward the fire. But the flicker of heat on your skin doesn’t quite reach your chest. Not where it’s tight. Not where the image of Drew leaning toward someone else keeps replaying like a scene you didn’t want to see.

You know you shouldn’t care.

You really do.

But you can’t stop the way your fingers curl a little tighter around your can, like gripping something will keep you steady.

Later, inside the house, you sink into the edge of the couch, shoulders curled in, the room moving around you in a soft blur of music and muffled conversation. Your drink’s long gone, forgotten somewhere near the fire pit, and your hands are wrapped around a throw blanket like it might hold you together.

You’re trying — really trying — not to replay the moment in your head. But it plays anyway, over and over. Her laugh. His smile.

The couch shifts beside you.

You don’t have to look to know it’s him.

Drew drops down with a low sigh, the kind that says he’s done pretending the party is still fun. You feel the warmth of him instantly, the heat that rolls off his skin, the way his knee nearly brushes yours.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

You keep your eyes forward. “Hey.”

He hands you a bottle of water, the condensation cold against your palm. You take it, sip without speaking.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod, too fast. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t say anything at first, but you feel it — the way he’s watching you, his arm draped across the back of the couch, not touching but close. Too close for you to keep pretending nothing’s wrong.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says after a beat. “That’s not like you.”

You force a shrug. “Just tired.”

His brow lifts. “Tired, huh.”

You glance sideways, catching the faintest curve of a smirk — soft, not teasing. But when you don’t answer, it fades into something more serious.

“Is this about earlier?”

You freeze.

“What?”

“The girl,” he says. “From outside.”

You hesitate, trying to sound casual. “Why would it be?”

He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “Because you haven’t looked at me since.”

Your cheeks heat. “It’s not a big deal.”

“She was someone the sound guy brought. Visiting from Wilmington. Thought I was one of the producers or something. I don’t even think she knew my name.”

You glance at him, jaw tense. “You didn’t exactly push her away.”

He meets your eyes now, and there’s something steady there. “Did I need to?”

The question lands between you, quiet and loaded.

You set the bottle down slowly. “I didn’t like it,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

Not a confession, but close.

Drew doesn’t move for a long moment. Then, just as softly, he says, “I know.”

You turn toward him. “Then why pretend there’s nothing here?”

He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling like he’s been holding this in for days. “Because I don’t know what this is yet.”

Your heart kicks up. “Neither do I.”

“But it’s something, right?” he says.

You nod. “Yeah. It is.”

His knee brushes yours, this time on purpose.

“Then maybe we stop pretending it’s not,” he murmurs.

You meet his gaze, everything else fading — the music, the voices, the party.

But you don’t kiss.

Not yet.

You just whisper, “Okay.”

His fingers graze yours, light and deliberate, a silent promise made in the hush between words.

And somehow, that feels like enough. For now.

The set was hushed, golden light pouring through the windows like honey as the late afternoon slid toward evening. Equipment clinked in the background, the soft shuffle of crew adjusting camera angles, murmured direction just out of earshot.

You stood across from Drew in the center of the room, script limp in your hand — mostly forgotten. The scene was simple. A kiss. One line, one beat, one cue.

But the air was thick with everything unspoken.

Drew was already looking at you — not like a co-star, not like a scene partner. Like he was watching for something he wasn’t sure you’d give. There was a flicker of nerves in his eyes, buried under the calm, and it mirrored the way your stomach twisted.

“Ready?” the director called.

You nodded, barely trusting your voice.

He stepped in.

The distance between you vanished, dissolved into the warmth of his palms as they settled gently on your waist. Your breath caught. He smelled like clean cotton and something faintly citrus, familiar and grounding. His fingers flexed once.

“Action.”

The kiss started soft — almost tentative, like he was afraid to startle you. Then it deepened, slow and intentional. His hand moved, thumb brushing your side. The rest of the world — the cameras, the lights, the people — dropped away.

There was only this.

When the director called cut, it felt like waking up from something too sweet to last.

You pulled back, breath shaky, heart pounding in your chest like a drum.

“That was perfect,” someone said, but it barely registered.

Drew was still looking at you. “You okay?” His voice was rough, lower than usual.

You nodded. “Yeah. You?”

He hesitated, then smiled. “Yeah.”

But it didn’t feel like acting.

Your fingers brushed when you reached for your things. He didn’t move away.

Something had changed.

And it wasn’t just the scene.

The hilltop clearing was quiet beneath a canopy of stars, the kind that only came out full after the rain — sharp and endless. The air was cool, clean, and carried the scent of wet earth and pine. Drew’s truck rumbled to a stop at the top of the path, headlights casting long shadows across the open field.

Neither of you spoke as you climbed out. The world around you felt too sacred, like even whispering might break it.

He laid the blanket down in a practiced motion, and you sank onto it beside him, shoulders brushing. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was full — stretched wide like the sky, heavy with possibility.

Finally, he turned toward you.

“Can I tell you something?” he asked, eyes shining even in the dark.

You nodded.

He exhaled, like this had been sitting on his chest for a long, long time.

“I’m in love with you.”

The words didn’t echo. They settled.

“I didn’t plan it,” he continued. “It just… happened. Somewhere between late-night drives and the way you always know what I need. And maybe I tried not to let it show, but I can’t keep pretending this is just friendship anymore.”

You didn’t say anything right away — because you felt it. All of it.

Then you leaned in.

The kiss wasn’t fireworks. It was a slow exhale. A door opening. His hand found your jaw. Yours slid into his hair. It was soft, real, built from a thousand little moments that had always been leading here.

“I’m in love with you too,” you whispered, forehead resting against his.

And just like that — with stars above and hearts finally bare — everything felt different.

Not uncertain.

Just right.

taglist: @kieeslove, @wuluhwuhmaster

[threegoldfish]

When Steven finally lets Harrow get a word in - pauses long enough for the man to manage to do so - he thinks he can spot some discomfort there, pulsing through the doctor's very being; Unsure what exactly it is, but Steven takes that moment of non-rambling to take a closer look at the other sitting there, as he always does, just...

---More stiff, maybe, yeah. He appears more stiff. More sore, in a way that's hard to describe, as Steven obviously cannot feel whether some soreness really is going on there. Harrow's expression tells that he must've had a day, someting taxing happened, pulled on his nerves, left him tired and a bit exhausted.

Well, Steven's never been really good at such things. He could be entirely wrong, definitely, but... it pokes at him, in a way, and ist causes brows to lift again as that excited expression softens a bit, followed by what is clear empathy appearing within dark brown irises.

"Had a day, yeah?" A gentle inquiry, all soft-spoken and kind, with Steven shifting a bit forward in his seat as he folds his hands onto his lap, blinking once while a few seconds of silence pass. "I, erm, I'm not saying that you look--- bad, or something, no, not at all! Just... a bit tired, maybe? Tense - around the, uhm, jaw-area. Shoulders. ...Something like that."

Mentioning all this sure as hell is a great way to make friends, huh? Steven cringes a bit - internally, that is - before he clears his throat, then allows another smile to tug on his lips again, head tilting a bit, nostrils flaring as he exhales a breath. That previously mentioned empathy continues to exist, however, because it is genuine in nature, sincere; Steven's not one who likes to see other people suffering, and he wants everyone to be okay - which is stupid, honestly, because life is shit sometimes and there's no way for a man like him to make everyone's day be a bit better.

But he cares, still. Has a heart made of gold - which he himself does not really see, not at all.

"Y'know, it might sound stupid to some, but... whenever I feel a certain way, I like to have a cup of tea. It's a warm beverage, therefore makes one feel more relaxed, and it smells - and tastes - very nice. ---Depending on the kind of tea, of course, and whether someone's able to make it the proper way." A slight jab at the psych ward's canteen? Definitely. Steven clears his throat for a second time.

"...What I wanna say with that is, that, uhm... maybe have a cup of tea, yeah? I'm sure it will help you deal with whatever caused you trouble today. --- I mean, yeah, People keep saying that it isn't the case, but I think that tea can help to fix everything!" A true Brit he is, but he might also cling on some childhood memories there, who knows? Steven might not even be aware of it - he just believes in it, the magic powers of a good cup of tea, and he thinks that others can profit from it as well.

Another soft gaze, another kind smile, and Steven inhales deeply, then exhales - looks at the succulent again, being very much fond of it, before his attention is back on Harrow.

"To answer your question - sorry, I just... y'know..." A hand moves, gestures at the doctor, then drops back onto his lap as Steven nods, shrugs, then clears his throat once more. "...Uhm, yes, things have been good for me! ... As far as they can be good, since I'm here and not at home, but!" A finger is lifted, accompanied by a nod, brows rising along the shape of that forehead - so expressive, always. "I did finish an entire puzzle yesterday! No one really wanted to join me, unfortunately... but that's okay. I also went for a stroll in the garden; That lovely caretaker named Abby joined me, and we talked about birds! Very interesting. ---I kinda hoped to find another letter this morning, but... yeah, Marc probably takes his time, huh? ... I hope he's okay and doing well, all things considered. ...I have to admit, I found it rather endearing that he must've made his way over to my room in the early morning just to slide the letter under the door without me noticing, and then probably hurried back to his own room; Wished he would've knocked or stayed for a chat, but... I guess he's shy. That's okay! I can wait."

The day started with a limp. Not unusual, not severe, but just off; tightness in his thigh that hadn’t stretched out like it normally did. Then the heatwave hit, turning the ride on the bus into a sauna, making certain that his head was already aching before he’d even made it to the first patient of the day. 

Khonshu had thrown up on the rug. Ammit was nowhere to be found - the vet didn’t have an opening until Thursday, and his only reassurance had been that he should ‘only be concerned if Khonshu gets lethargic’; as if he were home to be able to watch for that. As if Ammit might not already be lethargic, and he didn’t know because he didn’t have the time to see where she was hiding. 

After that, the coffee was wrong. He didn’t realize it at first, too distracted and stiff in the leg to notice, but it was wrong. Wrong milk, wrong temperature, wrong order. Not even a second later came the zap; a burning strike of pain that lanced up his cheekbone, across his eyes, through the side of his skull like he’d been hit with a live wire from the inside. 

He managed to swallow. Managed to smile, even, as he walked past the front desk. 

The rest of the day was unkind. 

A young woman sobbed as she realized her abuser had finally died, and Arthur had sat with her, carefully not reacting as she threw one of his chairs. Another had a panic attack so violent that he clocked Arthur in the side of the head; by accident, but it still rattled him. 

He was already exhausted by the time he’d met with one of his newer patients; a woman in her mid-thirties. She didn’t sit down. She didn’t look at him; her file was thin, and she refused to answer questions. The only thing she had bothered to do was threaten him; talking through the last doctor she’d had, one who she’d broken the jaw of. 

I’ll see you next week, she’d said as she walked out. Unless someone else gets to you first. 

Overkill, certainly, and not very frightening, but it had been a frustrating way to end their first conversation. His head was resting against his hand when the door opened; he almost didn’t have the energy for it. Not after the morning, the threats, the flare in his jaw that hadn’t stopped pounding since he’d gotten up. But when he heard that voice — Steven, not Marc — he blinked, looking up. 

It hit like sunlight on a rainy day. Arthur looked up just in time to watch Steven fall into the chair like it had been waiting all day just for him. His eyes were wide, his face open; Arthur didn’t interrupt. He just… watched. 

The words flooded in. Excited, warm, spilling over each other like they couldn’t be fast enough. It filled the room in a way that nothing physical ever could; Steven was grinning, talking so rapidly, updating Arthur on all of the good things going on in his world. 

Arthur let out a breath that might have been a laugh. Just a soft puff of air through his nose, but it was more than he’d managed in hours; he nodded gently, faintly, just… listening. The plant had grown on him, yes. He was happy that Marc had written the letter, happy that Steven had received it; the man was glowing. 

Only a few minutes, and Arthur’s chest ached in an entirely different way, his eyes more relaxed than they had been only moments before. 

“I’m glad he replied,” Arthur answered, his voice quiet as he gently shifted to open to a new page in his notebook. “And I’m glad you wrote back. That connection is very important, I think you deserve to be heard.” 

He leaned back slightly in his chair. His body still ached, his jaw still bothered him, but it was already easier. 

“Marc can be… the type of man who takes his time,” he agreed, with a little nod. “But he was very happy, when getting your first letter - I’m sure he’s going to write something back very soon. I assume that things have been going well for you, here?” 

[rosie-posie1313]

Robert 'Bob' Reynolds Fic Recs

06/09/2025

⭒ The ghost I left behind by @brookghaib-blog

Y/N and Bob had a life before he disappear, full of love, hope, and a lot of chaos, but they managed each other, she was the only one who truly could make him avoid the void inside his mind. How could he turn his only light into a shadow in his mind ?

⭒ The ghost I left behind - II by @/brookghaib-blog

⭒ Accident by @upl0aded

you and bob had always been perfect, you kept him happy and he kept you satisfied. but what happens when a buried memory accidentally gets revived?

⭒ going out by @mallory524

shing to defend him when he gets overwhelmed and people aren’t kind to him.

⭒ 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐃. By @bloodybreakupscene

although he isn't aware it's even a thing, you're bob's comfort person, his safe space.

⭒ maybe one day  by @fireinmoonshot

Every time you wake up from a nightmare, Bob is there to help you get back to sleep. This time, however, is a little different.

⭒ Something for you by @layla4567

Y/n doesn't know that Bob likes her, but she wonders why he acts weird when she's being nice, maybe she has a sneaky suspicion

⭒ Back To You by @callsign-swan

Valentina finds a way to control Bob and The Sentry: His wife

⭒ Sneaking Around by @/callsign-swan

Bob doesn't mean to be sneaking around. But he can't help it. He's got a secret, and he wants to keep it that way. Too bad he's best friends with Yelena Belova.

⭒ Catalyst I by @shadowbriar

For once, he actually let himself grow comfortable in the gentleness of another.

⭒ ❝ 𝐨𝐡, 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬. ❞ by @swordgrace

plagued by nightmares, bob takes comfort in the one person who’s pulled him from the shadows time and time again — you.

⭒ archives room by @owastie

you’re tasked with searching through the archives room to find some information on a new threat

⭒ Here Now  by @countlessimagines

The past seems to always haunt you.

⭒ Threads of Memory by @pink-petal-horns

⭒ Only you by @woantohae

Bob's dark, evil entity, The Void, appears when you least expect it. The rest of the team must be prepared to confront him and his prevailing malice. However, there is only one person on the team with whom he has a soft spot. And it's her

⭒ Nothing’s gonna stop us now by @/woantohae

Y/N is pulled into the Void by the dark entity that takes over Bob. The team prepares to go after her, while Y/N and Void seem to get a little closer. But at the same time, the past and traumas can be revived.

⭒ Thunderbolts by @/woantohae

What happens when a group of "bad people" needs to assemble to fight something bigger than them?

⭒ In my arms by @/woantohae

The Thunderbolts are constantly on missions, busy trying to do good and save whoever they can. One of them was Bob Reynolds, the defenseless yet powerful man who is part of this team and family. However, he doesn't participate in these missions so he can continue practicing controlling his powers.

⭒ dating headcnaons by @gay-dorito-dust

⭒ relationship headcanons by @/gay-dorito-dust

⭒ soft moments Void has with sunshine reader by @/gay-dorito-dust

⭒ Void by @trainer-from-unova

they were getting used to bob and void. most of the time they dealt with bob, who was shy and respectful — and on the other side was void, who thought he was superior to everyone (or almost everyone) and could get on their nerves a lot of the time, but they had learned that, for some reason, most of the time he only showed up when the former was alone with _______, so they tried not to let those situations happen.

⭒ a second by @/trainer-from-unova

void started feeling something about you, and when he discovered that bob was your boyfriend he felt frustrated.  wanting to live what he lived every day he convinced you that kissing him or having sex with him wasn't being unfaithful since they both share the same body.

⭒ muscle memory by @/trainer-from-unova

on the few occasions that void was present he couldn't help but turn his neck in the direction ______ was facing, fix his eyes on her, prick up his ears when he heard her voice, and even felt the urge to take her hand. those were things, or rather according to him, distractions that got on his nerves.

⭒ told you I’ll be waiting, hiding from the rainfall by @fallenprophets

he left you in Malaysia, volunteering for a study he promised would make him “better”. You’ve almost come to terms with the fact that he’s gone, when you see him again.

⭒ Peace and Quiet by @scarletmika

Sometimes the tower is too loud, and Bob can feel himself getting overwhelmed. He’s always found comfort with you, in your room, where he can find peace and quiet whenever he needs it. And you’ll never turn him away, finding the same comfort in him.

⭒ Stay With Me by @/scarletmika

Bob wants to feel useful, to truly be part of the team, but the others don’t think he’s ready. You take it upon yourself to teach him control, to guide him through. But mistakes will be made, and it might not be possible to keep the darkness from creeping back in once more.

⭒ Always by @/scarletmika

Bob stayed with you, just as you asked, and life couldn’t be better. But the past always has a way of catching up with you, no matter how hard you try and push it away and leave it behind. Now, it’s Bob’s turn to save you.

⭒ xerox Part one by @ichorai

you had one last job before you were free. no more splitting, no more deaths. unfortunately, that job seemed to rope in four other assassins and a… a man in hospital-wear?

⭒ 𝐇𝐂: 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐑 by @wynnerwynner

⭒ “𝐔𝐧𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫 𝐅𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠”  by @ang3ltine

Bob was asleep for God knows how long, now that he has the chance at a better life. Who better to show him than you?

⭒ So High School by @pagesfromthevoid

⭒ how robert reynolds quietly shows you that he’s in love with you by @attalew

⭒ Dating Bob Headcanons by @sacredsorceress

⭒ Reconnection by @jaesvelvet

You’ve been longing for Robert Reynolds for seven years now. No matter how hard you try to let him go, your heart refuse to do so but after a weird moment of being trapped in your own nightmare, you finally found Robert. On a local news along side with the new Avengers.

⭒ A little bit of jam by @violetrainbow412-blog

[astrakim]

Just Because I Love You

Pairing: Jay (enhypen) x Reader

Genre: Fluff, Domestic, Romance

Length: ~2.4k

Warnings: None — just comfort, affection, and love

summary: Jay doesn’t need a special occasion to spoil you—breakfast in bed, soft kisses, warm hoodies, and all the little things that say I love you without ever saying a word. But when you remind him that love goes both ways, he realizes being cared for feels just as good as giving it.

Reblogs and Likes are really appreciated!

You woke up to the smell of cinnamon.

Still half-asleep, you blinked at the ceiling and reached across the bed—your hand met empty sheets. Jay’s side was cold.

That was weird. He never left before you did. Especially on a Sunday.

Dragging the blanket off you, you padded into the hallway in one of his hoodies, your hair probably a mess, socks mismatched. The music playing from the kitchen was soft—something jazzy—and the smell of whatever he was making was enough to make your stomach growl.

And there he was. Jay. Standing in front of the stove with a pan in one hand and a spatula in the other, looking unfairly attractive for someone who’d clearly been up for a while. Hair a bit messy, sleeves rolled up, and focused like he was on some cooking show. Flour dusted the counter. Maybe his cheek too.

You just leaned against the wall and watched him for a second. This was the kind of moment people wrote about. The kind of moment you didn’t want to mess up by talking too soon.

“I can feel you staring,” he said, not even turning around.

You smiled. “You weren’t in bed.”

Jay turned to you, that familiar soft grin already on his face. “I didn’t wanna wake you. You looked peaceful.”

“You made breakfast?”

“I made your favorite French toast,” he said, walking over and kissing your forehead like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Extra cinnamon. Whipped cream on top. The good kind.”

You tried not to melt on the spot. “Jay…”

“Sit. I’ll get your coffee too. With that cinnamon sprinkle you like.”

You sat. What else could you do? There was something about the way Jay moved, how he took care of things without making a big deal of it. He didn’t treat you like a princess—but he did treat you like someone who mattered. Like someone he was proud to love.

He placed the mug in front of you and gave you that look again—the one where his eyes softened just slightly, as if even seeing you like this, sleepy and barefoot, was enough for him.

“You’re spoiling me,” you said, biting into the toast and almost groaning at how good it was. “Seriously.”

“I like taking care of you,” he said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. “It makes me happy.”

You couldn’t help but look at him for a second too long. “You make it really hard for me not to fall in love with you over and over.”

He smiled without saying anything, just sat beside you and reached for your hand under the table, lacing his fingers with yours.

---

The rest of the day was just... soft.

You didn’t have plans to go out, and Jay made it clear that today was “a stay-in-and-do-nothing” kind of day. Except he had clearly planned things anyway.

Like when you went back to the room and realized he’d set it up for a mini movie night—blankets layered on the floor, pillows everywhere, fairy lights glowing along the curtains. And your favorite snacks in a basket beside the couch.

“You did all this for me?” you asked, trying to hide the way your heart squeezed in your chest.

Jay just rubbed the back of his neck. “I just thought... you’ve had a rough week. I wanted to make today easy.”

He even let you pick the movie—The Proposal, your guilty-pleasure rom-com. And he didn’t tease you when you cried near the end. Just pulled you closer and kissed the top of your head.

“I love how big your heart is,” he whispered against your hair.

You turned to him. “Jay, you’re literally the dream boyfriend people wish for.”

He chuckled. “I don’t know about that.”

“No, I’m serious. You remember the things I like without me asking. You check in on me even when you’re busy. You show up. You’re soft with me. You make me feel safe without even trying.”

Jay blinked at you for a second, like he was taking that in.

“I don’t want you to think you have to do any of that to keep me, you know,” you added quickly. “I’d still love you if you didn’t do all these things.”

“I know,” he said, pulling you into him until your head rested against his chest again. “That’s the best part. You never ask me to do any of this. You just let me love you the way I want to.”

You stayed like that for a long time, the movie still playing in the background, his heartbeat steady under your cheek. You liked this part of the relationship the most—not the gifts or the surprises, but the quiet things. The way he let you exist beside him and still made it feel like you were the center of his world.

After the movie ended, he turned to you. “Hey. I have one more thing.”

You groaned. “Jay.”

“No, no—this one’s small. Promise.”

He handed you a gift bag from under the couch. Inside was a cream hoodie you’d tried on ages ago and decided against because it was “too pricey for something so simple.”

You looked up at him, stunned. “How do you remember everything?”

He shrugged again, sheepish. “You looked really happy in it. That stuck with me.”

You set the bag aside and pulled him into a hug, your arms wrapping tight around his waist. “Thank you.”

“For the hoodie?” he asked.

“No. For everything.”

---

That night, you curled up in bed beside him, wearing the hoodie and one of his T-shirts underneath. He pulled you close, one arm tucked under your head, the other around your waist.

You could feel him playing with the hem of your hoodie absentmindedly.

“I know I’m a little extra sometimes,” he said quietly. “I just… I never want you to forget how much I love you. How grateful I am.”

You tilted your head up and kissed him, slow and warm.

“You don’t have to try so hard, Jay. But you still do. And that means more than anything.”

His smile was a little shy. “So... does this mean you’re gonna let me cook you breakfast again tomorrow?”

“No,” you said, pulling the blanket over the two of you. “Tomorrow I’m cooking. You’re the one getting spoiled.”

“Oh god,” he teased. “I should be scared, shouldn’t I?”

“Terrified.”

Jay laughed, arms tightening around you. “As long as I get to spend the day with you, I’ll risk it.”

_________________♡♡♡♡♡♡♡_________________

©astrakim

[blufblucake]

⋆ 𐙚 ̊.𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐌𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄

ᴘᴀʀɪɴɢ: Optimus Prime x Human!Reader

sᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: After three months of an incredible yet frustratingly chaste relationship with the leader of the Autobots, you find yourself at the edge of desire. Between tender displays of affection and promises of protection, Optimus holds back from taking things to the next level, afraid of hurting you. But when you finally lay bare all your frustration and longing, he decides it’s time to show you he can be much more than just careful.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: NSFW, mass displaced mech, size kink (kind of?), AFAB reader (no gender specified), public place masturbation.

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 3,5k

❝ Ride it, slide it, bite it, get inside it Come on, touch my body I know that you like it, you can't hide it Come on, touch my body Harder, bigger, faster, longer, thicker Come on, touch my body Treat me like a slut ❞

Author’s Notes: Before we get into the story, I kindly ask that if you’re underage, please do not interact with this post. This content is adult, explicit, and definitely not meant for you. Keep in mind that everything has its time, and now is not the time for this. I’d also like to clarify that english is not my first language, so if you spot any mistakes, feel free to let me know! It’s also been a loooong time since I last wrote smut, so I might be a bit rusty, but I’ll get better with practice. Without further ado, enjoy the read! :)

⋆ 𐙚 ̊. 𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓

The soft afternoon breeze gently caresses your face, and you let out a sigh as you close your eyes, letting the sun warm your skin. The sky, painted a deep, cloudless blue, serves as a stage for birds to fly joyfully as they sing. On the sidewalks, people walk without hurry — a rare sight — chatting cheerfully as they head toward their respective destinations to continue their day. Everything feels so peaceful, as if the torrential storm from the night before had never passed through the city.

A storm your boyfriend had chosen to face rather than spend the night with you. Optimus was incredible as a partner: affectionate, kind, attentive, and surprisingly romantic for the leader of a faction at war. But, as nothing is perfect, he had to be overly careful. Always worried about you, always making sure not to hurt you by accident, carrying you close to his chassis at the base so no one would accidentally “step” on you. And you liked that, of course you did, it was amazing to have such an incredibly protective boyfriend. But the problem was that Optimus carried that concern into your intimate life as well.

The day before, you had celebrated three months of dating. A short time, you knew, but in that time you hadn't gotten past heated kisses and wandering hands. Every time you tried to take things further, to start something more, he rejected you, saying he wouldn’t forgive himself if he ever hurt you during the act. And that hurt your ego. You understood his reasons, but the bitter taste of rejection still lingered in your mouth.

Everything had been perfect that night. You had taken extra time to get ready, using your most expensive bath products and wearing your best outfit. Your expensive perfume, reserved only for special occasions, was perfect for the evening, and you made sure to practically bathe in it.

You had planned everything. You invited Optimus to celebrate your anniversary, saying it was important to you, a human tradition. Everything had gone just as planned. You were exchanging hot kisses on the living room floor, the room lit by candles since the storm had knocked the power out. You were grinding in Optimus’s lap, still fully clothed, teasing both of you while his large servos lightly squeezed your ass. In that moment, you thought he would finally give in, abandon all that excessive caution. But when your hands moved down to his modesty plate, he pulled away, stopped the kisses and touches, sat you on the floor, and stood up quickly, saying he couldn’t do it — he was afraid of losing control. Then he left, driving off into the storm and leaving you alone on the floor, incredibly turned on.

The memory makes you shut your eyes tight and want to scream. Damn that fear, damn that overprotection. You just wanted to have sex with your boyfriend without him spiraling into a moral crisis every time things got too heated. Suddenly feeling hot from your thoughts, you glance at the watch on your wrist and realize there are still twenty minutes left of your lunch break. Perfect, that would be enough time.

You head back into the company building and press the elevator button impatiently. No one would be in the office at this hour. The elevator ride is brief, no more than a minute or two, but for you it feels like an eternity. When it finally stops at your floor, you step out and walk quickly to the bathroom, entering one of the stalls and making sure to lock the door.

You lower the toilet seat, pull down your pants, and hang them on one of the bag hooks. You sit down and spread your legs, planting your feet on either side of the stall door. You didn't need much, just thinking about your boyfriend made your pussy soak. Your fingers play with your entrance, using your own arousal to coat them, then move up to your clit, rubbing it in slow, circular motions. Your eyes close and your mind returns to Optimus. His huge servos and that beautiful face, those metal lips that, no matter how different they were, were the most delicious thing to you.

Two of your fingers slide back to your entrance and slip inside, pumping quickly. Your other hand keeps teasing your clit. You bite your lower lip to hold back the moans and speed up the movement of your fingers. The obscene wet sounds can’t be silenced, and you’re thankful no one is around.

A few more thrusts and you finally cum, sighing heavily, your toes curling. You pull your fingers out and look at them, wet and glistening, wishing it were Optimus’s spike instead. You grab some toilet paper and clean yourself up quickly, trying to erase any trace of the obscene act you just committed. You put your pants back on and leave the stall, walking over to the sink and turning on the tap to wash your hands.

Aside from your heavy breathing, nothing seemed wrong. But the shame begins to burn your cheeks, you had to get off in the office bathroom because you couldn’t sleep with your own boyfriend. You take a few deep breaths and finally leave, seeing the hallway still empty. Soon the others would return from lunch, so you decide to go back to work and pretend nothing happened, trying to forget about Optimus and focus on your job.

-`♡´-

The trip back home had been a nightmare. As if spending long hours stuck in the office wasn’t enough, you also got stuck in traffic. When you finally park your car in the garage and walk into the house, your backpack almost slips off your shoulder. There was Optimus, standing in the dark, already mass displaced, his bright blue optics glowing intensely. “My love, please don’t ever do that again…” you say as you turn on the lights and walk toward him. Even in his reduced size, Optimus was still infinitely larger than you. As you approach, he leans down and retracts his mask, allowing you to give him a quick kiss “How was work?”

“Nothing special, same as always,” you reply, disheartened, placing your backpack on one of the chairs near the table. Optimus kept his servos behind his back, as if hiding something, and you frown before asking, “What do you have there, big guy?” He then reveals a bouquet of beautiful peonies and a heart-shaped box of your favorite chocolates. A genuine smile forms on your lips, and you walk closer to take the gifts, not wanting to think too hard about how or where he’d managed to get them. “I know I upset you last night. I’m so sorry-”

You interrupt him by placing your index finger on his lips. “We need to talk about that. But first, I’m going to take a shower.” You place the gifts on the table and head upstairs, quickly climbing to the second floor. In your bedroom, you shed your tight clothes and toss them into the laundry basket before stepping into the shower, turning the water to the hottest temperature you could handle. The hot water soothes your tense muscles from the stressful day. Even though you’d love to stay there longer, you knew you needed to talk to Optimus, he had to understand how frustrated his rejections had made you feel.

When you’re done, you step out wrapped in a fluffy towel and return to your room. You choose to wear nothing but your soft, red robe. Back downstairs, Optimus looks tense. His expression is worried, and his servos rest behind his back again. You walk over and stop a few feet in front of him, leaning against the wooden table, arms crossed. For a few seconds, you both just stare at each other. You could tell he wanted to move closer, but he waited for you to call him.

Letting out a heavy sigh, you begin. “Optimus, I love you, and you know that. Our relationship is amazing, but I can’t ignore the fact that I’m extremely sexually frustrated.” your voice sounds sad, and he looks at you with optics that shine like a kicked puppy “I know you care about me, I understand we’re different, and I understand that you only want to protect me, but... It hurts when you run from me like that. It makes me feel unwanted, like you’re disgusted to touch me. And that’s awful!”

He shakes his helm side to side, vehemently denying your words. Then he moves closer and kneels in front of you, looking up at you with those glowing optics. “My love, never!” his tone is firm and serious “You are my sunshine, the light that illuminates my darkness. You are the peace in the middle of my chaos, the calm dawn after a night of nightmares. You are a divine gift, by Primus… You are the reason my spark pulses, what keeps me standing, what brings me back from every battle just so I can feel you in my arms.” He takes one of your hands while you rest the other on his cheek, smiling softly as he leans into your touch.

“You are perfect. Absolutely perfect. No star can compare to you, not even the infinite galaxies. The sun of your solar system pales in shame, because your smile shines so much brighter. And I want you so badly, oh, how I want you. I want to touch you, to hold you in my arms, to caress every inch of your body. I want to worship every part of you because I am devoted to you.” his words warm your heart, and you gently stroke his handsome face with your thumb “Forgive me for making you feel unattractive or unwanted. That was never my intention. I only worry I’ll hurt you in my excitement, I could never forgive myself for that.” He kisses the palm of your hand and looks at you with expectation and hope in his optics “Tell me, my life… please. How can I make this right?”

You smile at him and caress his face once more, tracing his beautiful features until your fingers rest under his chin. Then you grip his chin gently and pull him a little closer. He lets himself be guided without protest. “Treat me like a slut.” your voice comes out soft and calm. You see his optics widen in surprise before he responds in a confused tone. “I beg your pardon… What?”

"Optimus, I want you to treat me like a slut..." you release his face and rest your hands on the table behind you "I want you to fuck me hard, I want you to eat me like it's your last meal, I want to feel your spike slamming deep inside my pussy, hear the sound of your pelvic plating hitting my ass, making me cum, and then I want to feel your hot transfluid dripping out of me. I want you to slap your spike against my face and make me suck you until I gag, until my mouth goes numb, and then I want you to overload all over my face. I want you to pull my hair and grip my waist hard, I want you to fuck me in every position that exists, and then I want to create new ones with you. That’s what I want, Optimus."

Optimus opens and closes his intake a few times before letting out a low chuckle, and keeping his gaze locked with yours, he leans down further, gripping your ankle with extreme care. He lifts your leg and presses his lips to your soft skin, placing slow, wet kisses. “I promise I’ll do my best to satisfy you, my light.” His firm lips trace sensual kisses up your inner thigh where he gives a gentle bite, pulling a soft gasp from you. His large servos slide under your robe and move up to your hips, and he nearly growls when he realizes you’re wearing nothing underneath.

He unties your robe with practiced ease and lets the fabric fall open, revealing your naked body. His lips immediately move to your hip, kissing your warm skin with reverence. His servos squeeze your ass firmly, caressing in slow, circular motions, and your left hand reaches the back of Optimus' helm. He kisses downward, closer to your folds while keeping eye contact, and once you nod repeatedly, he finally runs his glossa along your slit, savoring your taste. His optics close in pleasure and he moans before using two digits to part your lips and suck on you slowly.

You grab his helm and let out a loud moan at the sensation. You could hear the mech’s cooling fans working overtime. His skilled glossa moved through your pussy, exploring every corner slowly and thoroughly. He alternated between sucking your clit and fucking you with his glossa, truly devouring you like a starving mech. You close your eyes and cry out his name loudly in pleasure. He quickly grabs one of your legs and props it up on his shoulder, then grips your waist firmly as he rises to his pedes, pulling a surprised squeak from you, followed by giggles.

You let your robe fall to the floor, now completely naked, and grab his helm with both hands, grinding your hips against him to increase the friction. “Fuck, yes Optimus... Keep going...” your heavy breathing gives away your state as you grind harder “Fuck, fuck, fuck... Almost there...” When your orgasm hits, your eyes roll back in pleasure and a long moan escapes your lips. Optimus drinks up every drop of you, not wasting a single bit, moaning with pleasure as his spike is fully pressurized, still hidden behind his modesty plate.

“You’re delicious, better than any energon,” he says while licking his lips and staring at you hungrily, and you smile at the sight “Now I want to suck you.” Without a second thought, Optimus releases his spike and grips your waist firmly before flipping you upside down in a careful motion. You laugh loudly when you realize what he wants, but the sound is soon muffled by a moan as he returns to eating your pussy with his glossa.

Wasting no time, you grab the mech’s thick, heavy spike with one hand and stroke it a few times, your thumb brushing the tip where a translucent pink drop is dripping. Your lips wrap around the head and you suck slowly, your tongue teasing the slit while the mech lets out a muffled moan. Biolights pulsing for you, you trail kisses down the shaft before licking from base to tip. You open your mouth wide and take as much of Optimus’ spike as you can, sucking eagerly. Your head bobs with the movements as you relax your throat, trying to take more of him. What didn’t fit in your mouth, you stroked with both hands, twisting your wrists and alternating the rhythm.

Optimus moaned loudly but was muffled by your delicious pussy. Even before you started dating, he had fantasized about interfacing with you. He’d lost count of how many nights he stayed up, jerking off over and over again, using his battle mask to muffle the sounds. Sometimes he would stop mid-day and retreat to his habsuite just to get himself off, imagining what it would be like to frag you. And now, finally, you were here — and you tasted even better than anything his processor had ever conjured up. His spike buried deep in your warm mouth was easily one of the best sensations he’d ever had, but he urgently needed to be buried inside you. Reluctantly, he pulled away from your pussy “I need to frag you,” he growled, voice hoarse. You quickly released his spike, allowing him to flip you upright again, giving you a few seconds to adjust.

Once you’d caught your breath, he stepped up to the table and bent you over it, keeping your hips raised. One of his thick digits slid inside you, making you moan, and then he began to move it slowly. After a few seconds, he added another digit, and you gripped the edge of the table. Two of Optimus’ digits were about the girth of a human cock. He was carefully prepping you to take his spike, and you knew you'd be ruined for your own species after this. He spread his digits inside you, stretching and loosening you, drawing more moans and sighs. Impatiently, you gasped, “Optimus, I need you, I’m ready… Fuck me!” He leaned over your body and kissed your back tenderly. His digits slid out of your warm core, and he brought them to his lips, licking them clean slowly to savor your taste.

His servo gripped his spike and aligned it with your entrance, pushing in slowly. You felt a delicious stretch as the head of his spike finally entered your pussy, making you bite your lip and close your eyes. You were so tight and warm that Optimus nearly overloaded right then and there. He wasn’t inexperienced, he had his fair share of fun over the long years, even during the war. But nothing compared to the feeling of being inside you. No valve had ever been this tight. He felt intoxicated as he placed a servo on your back and took in the size difference between you.

Gradually, he kept pressing in until he was fully sheathed, his pelvic plating flush against your ass. He let you adjust for a few minutes, and once you moved your hips back toward him, he knew he could start. Optimus began thrusting at a calm, almost shy pace, but slowly increased speed and force. Your loud moans mingled with his, and the lewd sound of your pussy taking his strong thrusts echoed as his plating slammed into your ass. Optimus brought a servo to your hair, threading his digits into it and giving it a gentle tug, pulling a loud moan from you. You turned your head slightly and looked at him over your shoulder, flashing him a mischievous smile.

While fragging you, the mech watched your ass bounce hypnotically. Instinctively, he brought his servos to each cheek and spread them, exposing your anus. He watched the tight hole contract around nothing and felt an urge to kiss it, suck it like he had your pussy. Still mesmerized, he pressed the tip of one digit into your ass, pulling a heavy sigh from you as you moved your hips to meet his thrusts. He sped up again and leaned over you once more, pressing his chassis to your back but careful not to let all his weight rest on you. His lips kissed your neck softly, and he whispered in your ear, “Next time, I want to frag this hole. Actually, I want both. I want to fill every hole you have with my transfluid.”

You moaned loudly at his filthy words and reached up to caress his helm. “I’m so close, don’t stop…” your voice came out broken, and you shut your eyes tight, giving yourself fully to the moment. Optimus returned to position and kept thrusting, letting go of your ass to grip your hips firmly. His helm fell back and he closed his optics in pure bliss, soaking in your cry of pleasure as you finally came. You clenched around his spike, and with a few more deep thrusts, he overloaded, his voice box glitching with intensity. He kept moving slowly, letting his transfluid fill your pussy, then pushed his hips tight to your ass, sealing it in. “That was… Incredible…” you said in a trembling voice, and he let out a soft chuckle, leaning down to kiss the top of your head.

“You’re incredible,” he replied lovingly, trailing kisses along your neck. “I love you, my ray of light.” You smiled like a fool at his confession and rested your head on your arm, replying sweetly, “I love you too, big guy.” Then he finally slipped out of you, drawing moans from both of you. The sight of his transfluid dripping from your hole and pooling on the floor was enough to pressurize his spike all over again. He slipped two digits inside and pushed the pinkish liquid back in. Then he knelt down and gripped your ass cheeks, spreading them. Without hesitation, he leaned in and ran his glossa over your anus, then down to your pussy, slurping up your mixed fluids with vigor as if it were the most delicious thing in the world. You let out a loud moan at the sensation and couldn’t hold back a laugh, thinking how not long ago he was too shy to even touch you — And now, you knew this night with him would be long.

Author’s Notes: Hey again! Just a quick heads-up that I’ve got a few asks in my inbox and I’m working on all of them. If you requested something, know that I’ve seen it and I’m already on it. XOXO! ❀❤

[wandasaura]

WEST HOLLYWOOD

summary — casey novak isn’t the stereotypical god loving catholic girl with a diamond cross necklace to prove it, but the presence of religion in her upbringing has kept her from fully accepting who she wants to share a bed with since college; a woman

warning(s) — established friendships, religious guilt, slight internalized homophobia, prior hookups, threesome, implied polyamory, dom/sub dynamics, inexperienced casey, dom alexandra cabot, switch casey novak, lesbian bar, alcohol consumption, sexual tension, teasing, choking, hair pulling, slight corruption kink, praise kink, pet names, degradation, light condescension, finger sucking, oral fixation, bratty reader, public encounters, making out, dirty talk, consent is hot, condescension, light public/verbal humiliation, biting, marking, fingering (c!receiving), makeshift gag, oral (r!receiving), face riding (a!receiving), begging, crying, check-ins, mention of bondage, light face slapping (once), aftercare, men/minors dni

authors note— happy pride, babies !! a request i’ve been holding onto since may. dream eiffel towel variant 7. enjoy :)

“I still can’t believe you never slept with Ally.” Alex’s voice is smoother than the whiskey she sips slowly, hunched over the ledge of a sticky Midtown bar top as Casey waits for her martini.

The air is electric, a dangerous combination of adrenaline and alcohol priming your veins as you stand between the two of them, sipping a cocktail only complete because of the pink umbrella balancing on the rim. It’s a cheesy detail, one that contributes to unnecessary waste and pollution, but it gets you in that soft spot every time its advertised on any menu. Alex knows to anticipate some kind of fruity drink floating into your hand; Casey still holds out hope that you’ll develop a taste for something stronger.

It’s ironic to think she’s the one pushing you to expand your boundaries, when this is the third time Alex has brought up a potential fling gone south for Casey this month. At least you have the balls to take a girl home at the end of the night, even if whiskey makes you shiver on any date — first or last.

“Do not bring her up.” Casey warns, but there’s hardly an edge to her tone when she goes up against Alex. Everything about her seems so soft when she tries to level the field between herself and the strong jawed blonde. You can’t imagine the sight of you facing off against either of them fares any better in the minds and wild imagination of onlookers, but you’re not the one giving a performance to scrutinize right now. “She tried to give me her number. I thought she was just trying to push her clients case. I’m an idiot.” She wallowed in embarrassment and self pity quite well for someone who never admitted to being in crisis, but you could only offer a smile of amusement as your eyes flickered to Alex’s.

“She’s finally catching on!” You cheer brightly, influenced by alcohol, encouraged by the thumping beat that you can feel in the soles of your feet.

It’s a lively little club in Manhattan, a discreet enough lesbian bar that only attracts the kind of people you’d expect to frequent a discreet lesbian bar in the higher established area of Midtown. You think you recognize a couple of faces throughout the room as your eyes sweep across the crowd, but you can’t specifically name any of them. They’re not important enough to steal your attention away from what’s happening with Casey right now.

Alex huffs over an amused laugh, her hands falling onto your hips as she guides you into her embrace protectively. Her arms curl around your waist, warming the exposed skin of your belly that shows between your crop-top and hem of your denim shorts. You hadn’t even realized that your sheen of sweat had dried down to a clammy cold feeling until her arms were bringing warmth back unconsciously.

“I still don’t understand how you can be here,” You gesture around clumsily, the orange liquid in your glass sloshing around, threatening to spill onto your toes that are exposed by your sandals; a rather bold shoe choice for conquering the New York streets and clubs. “but not have the balls to say yes when a pretty girl asks you out.”

“You don’t have the balls to ask a pretty girl out either.” Alex snorts, unable to help herself from sending a pointed quip down at you when you’d set the scene so perfectly for her contribution. Your eyes roll, your elbow digging into her belly in petulant retaliation.

“But I say yes. I’m here, aren’t I?” Your lips close around the baby blue straw cheekily, eyes sparkling as they trail up to taunt Alex’s with a seductive wink that will ever so slowly chip at her reserve. You’ve played this game a few handfuls of times. No invitation for drinks is ever purely platonic, especially not when it involves dragging Casey Novak, your designated baby gay in training (because she still has to accept she’s gay to officially enter the program), to a gay bar in the middle of Manhattan.

Half of your drink is gone before Alex can reply, or ignore you entirely and bring her attention back to Casey who's watching your lips with a thirst you’d recognize instantly if you stopped trying to get on Alex’s nerves before you’d even spent an hour at the club. You only pull away when it becomes unbearable to take another sip without easing the piercing cold on the roof of your mouth. Your thumb shoots to baby the frozen patch of skin, probably looking like a damn fool to anyone that glanced your way, but further enticing Casey to throw all of her concerns out the window.

“If I say yes… that makes it real.” Casey finally responded, a real, genuine answer falling off of her lips and making you feel the slightest bit bad for making light of her conflict. It was just so silly to you, though you’d never truly been burdened with the weight of religious rejection when considering the repercussions of coming out. Casey didn’t keep in very close contact with the family she had left, and everyone you associate yourself with between work and leisure was either swinging for the same rainbow team or very loudly an ally.

A giggle tingles your spine, the peach snapchat you’d explicitly requested a double on beginning to take irreversible effect against your consciousness. “Ally and ally…I think it was a sign, Case. I’m not drunk yet, I promise.” You continued to giggle, and both women smiled knowingly as your cheeks flushed.

“Oh, we know. Definitely tipsy though.” Alex can’t resist the urge to pinch the apples of your cheeks between her fingers, squeezing the flesh warm with blood. You whine, shuffling away from her grip, finding solace at Casey’s side when she wraps an arm around your waist welcomingly. You know she doesn’t even spare a second thought to this kind of affection, but somewhere between this and sex she can’t seem to fall in line.

Alex looks like she has something to say, something that’s genuine helpful to Casey’s situation and the dilemma of first learning how to navigate the process of learning anything about your sexuality at all, but you beat her to the punch, filled with social ambition. “What’s the worst thing that can happen if you try it and don’t like it?”

“I burn in hell for the rest of eternity.” Casey solemnly utters, dramatics tainting the sincerity of her fear even though you know that she’s not being entirely funny with you right now. Your heart pangs for her, because you know she’d never look at either you or Alex or determine you were going to hell because of who you slept with on your off hours.

“You’re not going to burn in hell.” You roll your eyes, looping an arm around her waist and leaning in closer, feeling the eyes of a woman burning into your back though you can’t tell if they’re attempting to unmake you, or read whatever situation is going on between you and Casey right now. “You just need to take it slow. Find someone you can trust. Don’t think about it like you’re committing to the life of a lesbian, or even a bisexual. Just…feel things out.”

“Yeah? I’d have to actually talk to any of the girls that ask me out to even try to get to that point.” Casey rolls her eyes, only taking her attention off of you because the bartender comes back with her martini, the salted rim catching beams of light from above and glittering enticingly.

Alex’s eyes are sharp as she takes in the sight of Casey so at ease for a single moment. She doesn’t seem to even consider that she’s being a tease or that her actions could be considered as leading as she pokes her tongue out sensually and licks a broad strike around the rim, humming at the explosion of salt on her tastebuds before she dives into a full sip.

“Well, who says you have to find anyone at all? All it takes is one word and we can spend the rest of the night showing you what its like to be loved by someone who knows your body, and your mind, and who you are.“ Alex’s tone drops, sultry and alluring as she draws you into her embrace like a predator. Casey’s at a loss for words when you pull away from her, inching toward Alex with eyes glassy with submission.

Casey knows that the both of you have fooled around before. Hell, she’s been in the same room as Alex has completely ruined you with only her fingers and her words, memories of college nights and vodka flashing before her eyes, but it’s suddenly so real as she notices how easily you fold to fit into Alex’s palm like you belong there.

“It’s not so bad being my girl for the night, now is it, sweetheart?” Alex knows what she’s doing and it infuriates you how easily she can turn your belly to butterflies that make you antsy and soft, eager for her praise and her attention and anything else she’ll give you to state the burning desire of passionate need.

It doesn’t strike your memory often that Alex had been born and raised in Texas before you’d met at Harvard as law students, but when she plays her cards just right on nights like tonight and stacks that accent on top of that intoxicating dominance, your mind goes blank with fireworks.

“No, it’s not so bad.” Alex likes when you use your words, she likes when she gets to hear your thoughts and your pleasure and your consent. You’ve never met another woman who goes as crazy for consent as Alex does; even before she’d been temporarily assigned permanent ADA with the Sex Crimes unit. You think its the knowledge that you’re willingly and knowingly giving yourself over to her that she finds so utterly addicting. “Kiss me.” Your words are whispered, your eyes hazed over and glassy. It had been a long time since you’d find yourself in this position with Alex. Most times that you met throughout the year were generally wholesome dinners or weekend hikes, it had been at least six months since you’d let yourselves take that bite of something more again.

“I may not have any expectations, but I do have expectations for you, and you know that.” Alex’s jaw locks, her eyes narrow. You think she’s going to cup your jaw, throw caution to the wind and squeeze your cheeks together until your lips are puckered like a fish, but instead a hand tangles into your head and tugs just sharply enough to have Casey gasping behind you.

Her small squeak, a little inflection of breath getting caught in her throat, sobers you enough to grin at Alex, sending a wink that Casey couldn’t see or expect you to throw around. Alex’s fingers twitch in your hair, and she pulls them again seconds later, attempting to confirm the suspicion that Casey’s bark in bite wasn’t actually followed by any bite. Her hooded eyes, flush cheeks, trembling hands were all indicative of one thing — Casey wanted to be in your place, not Alex’s. You’d placed money on the opposite, but it seems your ‘domdar’ isn’t as statistical as you tell Olivia it is. Even if Casey’s out of the running, you have your entire career on Olivia.

“Please.” You barter, not even having to consider what these alleged expectations that floated over your head were. Alex liked a polite girl, one that used her manners and asked nicely the first time, and you could be just that when you felt like it. Right now, you could be that for her if it meant luring Casey further into your trap.

“Good girl.” Alex sighed, melting into you like she’d been hoping the night would end like this. It usually did, any night out on the town with Casey in tow usually ended with pent up sexual tension being released in one of your apartments after she stumbled back home. She loved the closest to the bustling city life, which was rather ironic considering she was the hardest to coax into a night out.

Alex tastes like whiskey, and at first, it’s a taste so stark you can't fathom ever adjusting to it, but then her tongue sweeps across your bottom lip and she doesn’t allow you the pleasure of denying her entrance even if you wanted to — you didn’t. A whimper climbs up your throat as your hands tangle into the light fabric of her top, nothing overtly feminine, but soft enough to compliment the fairy like sheen to her complexion without any makeup.

When she pulls away, it feels entirely too soon, but it must’ve felt like an eternity to Casey because when you turn back to face her, your eyes gleaming, your lips swollen and moist, she’s three shades redder than she was before and her martini is gone, sucked dry.

“Okay.” She nods, not even giving Alex the chance to pose the question again. It makes you laugh, but it doesn’t satisfy Alex, whose lips curve upwards into a truly sadistic grin as she pushed Casey farther.

“That’s not the word I want to hear.” She doesn’t tease, but she’s not harsh with her corrections either. There’s no name for the tone she takes when she speaks to you like that, and you can tell that nobody’s ever taken a tone even remotely similar to Casey before because her chest catches and her eyes go wide in dazed confusion. “What’s the magic word?” Alex coaxes, and Casey nods like her brain is working again, licking her lips as she thick’s on her toes.

“Please.” It comes out eventually, and Alex rewards that small step with a soft hand leading her forward until Casey’s chest is flush with Alex’s and you're sandwiched between them to a whole new level of closeness.

“We’re gonna take this slow, okay?“ Alex assures, not wanting to scare Casey or go any further than she’s willing to try. It seems to ease the remnants of nerves that were holding her back, because Casey leans forward, wrapping her arms around Alex’s neck until your suffocating between warm, exposed chests. It’s paradise for sure, but equally suffocating as their warmth becomes a blanket you can’t throw off.

“This isn’t nearly as sexy as romance books makes it sound.” You whine, eventually shoving your way out from between their buzzing bodies. Alex laughs, corralling you back in by the loops on your shorts while Casey finishes her martini, already looking to flag down the bartender that's pouring out shots of something clear.

“You okay with this? Still the same limits?” Alex keeps her voice quiet, not wanting this moment to reach the ears of anyone standing nearby, also waiting for the bartenders to return and continue dishing out alcohol until every impulse is natural and easy.

“Yeah, yeah I’m still good with everything.” You nodded, flattered by her ever considerate sweetness that bloomed like delicate flower petals. “I’ve missed you. I’ve been meaning to call, but campaign season and all… you know how it gets for me.” You sigh, trailing your fingers along the dip in the neckline of her top, the rough black fabric suiting the darker highlights in her hair nicely.

“That’s alright. Got all night to make up for lost time.” Alex grins, teeth digging into her bottom lip as you get trapped in her eyes, giggling only when Casey’s voice reaches your ears as she requests another Sex on the Beach from the bartender wearing a nametag that says ‘Jenny’. You grin at the drink ordered specifically for you, leaning away from Alex but not separating yourself from her touch entirely to crane your body over the bar.

“Can I have a green umbrella?” You call over the music, and Jenny laughs, giving you a salute of confirmation as she turns away to complete the order Casey put on her tab. You hadn’t even gotten a chance to start one yet, the first tab being put beneath Alex’s name as she flaunted a cocky smile over her shoulder at the both of you in satisfaction. “Thank you!” You yelled after her, smiling until you were pulled back into Alex’s chest, taken into a kiss that had your world ending and fading into blackness.

“If you keep kissing me like that I’m gonna make you take me home right now.” You muttered when she pulled away, only because you both needed to breathe despite attempting to share air back and forth. Her lips glistened with your saliva, the taste of peach on her lips as she lets her tongue clean up what you’d left before in a daze.

“Oh, did you forget that you don’t make the rules here, Senator?” Alex questioned, a single eyebrow raised. Her palm ghosted around the base of your neck, so faint you almost considered you were imaging it, but when her fingers pressed into the column of your throat in one teasing squeeze you knew it was happening. Heat flamed your cheeks as your eyes darted around the club, a gleam of arousal glittering in your eyes that dismantled any fear in Alex’s mind that she’d gone too far. A whimper fell off your lips when you realized that Casey had been watching, and that Jenny had been too, a knowing smirk on her lips as she came over with your Sex on the Beach and another martini for Casey.

“I think she asked you a question, babe.” Jenny grinned, a mischievous spark in her eyes as she took in the bulging muscle in Alex’s exposed bicep, the way she held your waist forcing definition to be easily seen.

A beat of humiliation washes over you, arousal pooling in your belly and leaking into the panties that you’ve hidden beneath your shorts, but then it gets a bit too heavy, and Casey looks a little too intimidated by the easy jesting that’s happening between you, Alex, and the bartender, and you bustle with a laugh. “I’ve still got a law degree, babe. It’s Senator to you.” You grin, sending Jenny a cheeky wink that has Alex exploding with laughter, pulling you away from the bar before you let your hormones take over and distract you from the plan of going home with her.

Between the alcohol in your drink and the teasing touches that Alex leaves on your skin when she’s not preoccupied with feeling Casey up beneath the strobe lights, there’s a fire burning in your belly, twisting all of your sensitive parts and turning them to jelly.

Alex can tell she’s undoing you slowly, but you bc an tell that every time you grind your hips into hers or fix your hair over your shoulder in that sultry way that exposes just a shadow of your clavicle that you’re undoing her too. Her touches on Casey’s waist are getting desperate. Her little kisses and sharp nips are getting sloppy, not so concealed by the dim lights overhead and all around.

Casey’s not much better, practically eating Alex’s face off as she finally gives into her desires freely and eagerly. Casey had kissed a few handfuls of men, she’d kissed you a time or two too, but she was kissing Alex like she’d never felt anything so enticing, chasing pleasure that wouldn’t led to where she wanted unless something more was initiated, but that wasn’t happening anywhere near this club or these people.

“Come here.” She demands, turning to look at you, to admire your flushed cheeks and your hands that are empty now, no longer curled around the cold brim of a glass. It takes you by surprise when she hooks her fingers into the belt loops of your shorts, pulling you into her until she can kiss you as feverishly as she’d kissed Alex. You hadn’t expected the passion and unabashed desire for control. You hadn’t expected her to hold the back of your head in her hand, one palm on your cheek, her lips sucking bruises into your lips as they slotted together like a perfect fit.

When she let you go, standing with her shoulders squared until she towered over you in her ‘going out’ heels, you traced every move she made, letting out the softest whimper when her fingers trailed across her bottom lip. She pulled her glistening digits back, and your face flamed when she seemed to inspect them beneath the flashing lights, only showing any indication of satisfaction when she dipped those two fingers past her lips and let her tongue lap them skillfully, like she’d done a lot more than just suck a couple of dicks in her life.

Alex groaned, evidently just as captured by Casey’s theatrics as you. “You sure you’ve never eaten a pretty girl out before?” Alex rasped, taking claim of your belt loops now and tugging you into her, deciding you were too far from her body in the crowded room.

Casey flushed, like she suddenly remembered her inexperience and inhibitions. Alex smiled, catching the slight regression of her outward confidence. You were still blinded, riding a glorious wave of pleasure that filled your mind with only whispers of how to get these women into a bed and fast.

“Is this still okay?” Alex checked in, and it brought you back to the moment, your eyes finding Casey’s with an understanding softness that you hoped would convey the encouragement she needed. “We can slow down if you need a minute to breathe. Your lips are pretty swollen.” Alex laughed, reaching forward to drag a finger across Casey’s lips, raising her eyebrows when the redhead's tongue sought to chase the digit instinctively, the tide of desire still swaying Casey’s self-control even if bible verses were floating through her head like ships right now.

“No, I’m okay. That was just… that was just vulgar.” Casey flushed, not accustomed to feeling so exposed even if it was just you and Alex, the two people she’d somehow known since that first year of law school at Harvard. If she was going to take this step with anyone, it was going to be you both, but the earth still seemed to rattle beneath her feet as she fought every basic principle she’d unconsciously lived by. It never dawned on her before that she had such a hard time committing to a relationship because she was ignoring what she actually wanted for what her religion had told her she needed to find. She’d been happy to play the role as a non practicing catholic who happened to align with the teachings she’d absorbed, she’d never realized that it suffocated her more than she recognized.

“Yeah? But did it make you wet?” Alex rebutted and Casey’s eyes darkened, her thighs pressing together as she shifted on her heels, just a hair taller than Alex as their heels differed by an inch.

Your own mouth went dry at her question, your eyes batting, thighs quivering as you looked between Casey and Alex. “Oh my god you’re going to kill her.” You retort, and Alex rolls her eyes at your utterance, pulling you into her side and slinking an arm around your waist until the weight of her hand on your hip silences you obediently.

“Ignore her. She’s a politician; she likes to hear herself talk. I’ll deal with that later.” Alex dismissed you, and your stomach turned at her careless acknowledgment of you. Casey seemed to take that note, her head nodding as her jaw clenched and a look you’d never seen her wear before fell over her expression.

“Yeah? I wanna deal with her too.” Casey nodded, right back into that headspace of desire that you and Alex so meticulously protected.

“Careful, sweetheart. Wouldn’t want to bite off more than you could chew, would you?” It’s not hard to imagine Alex in a courtroom saying that exact sentence, though without the pet name dripping condensation as she tried to level Casey, remind her that she’d agree to let Alex take the reins on this introduction, but Casey proved stronger-willed than you, evidentially not the quiet pillow princess you’d thought of her when she was rolling around with pathetic men not with half of her time let alone body.

“I know what I can chew. And she’s no problem.” You huffed at Casey’s bold assessment of your attitude, playing right into the palm of her hand and you hated it. You hated how someone with no experience could get you where she wanted you with only an hour of practice beneath her belt. Alex found it beyond amusing, finally revealing a smile beneath her expression of stoic dominance when Casey didn’t waver beneath her intimidation attempt.

“I take it you’ve made a few grown men cry?” Alex teased, quirking an eyebrow at Casey as she began to put together a picture of the ginger's sexual experiences. Entirely inexperienced? Absolutely not. Inexperienced with women? Alex certainly still had that assessment going for her as Casey’s eyes bobbed between her lips and eyes, like she’d never truly seen a woman in this light before. Odds are she never had.

“Baby, I made them weep.” She sneered cynically, leaning in until her breath fanned across Alex’s neck. Her teeth nipped at delicate pale earlobes, naked of any jewelry even though Alex owned a handful of gold hoops and studs. It was a tactical effort to remove all choking hazards, one that reminds you she’s a sensitive sweetheart beneath all of her bossing around and demanding.

“If one of you doesn’t take me home right now, I’m going to go find Jenny.” You declared, your eyes glancing over Alex’s shoulder to find the bar. It’s swarmed with warm bodies, some of them practically half naked as they’d dressed for the sweltering interior of the club.

Alex didn’t object to your bossing around this time, dragging you and Casey out of the bar by your clammy hands trembling with arousal that was bubbling to the surface beneath your skin, threatening to explode out of you in anyway that it could manage if it wasn’t probably tended to and quenched soon.

You didn’t discuss where you were going, you just let her lead you there blindly, your covers forgotten about until the morning when you woke up to an inbox and a fee. Or, Casey and Alex woke up to inbox messages and fees, you were still in the clear.

Alex’s apartment hadn’t changed much since the last time you’d seen it in this exact same way, but she’d added pictures to the mantle in the living room from the last trip she’d taken back to Texas, and her smile caught your eye as Casey hung her purse by the door and Alex kicked off her shoes.

It was a shower of garments for a couple of minutes. Three pairs of heels being kicked against the wall, dresses being thrown away shamelessly like the hundreds of times you’d gotten undressed before, but when it was just a bra and panties that remained on Casey’s toned body, she faltered, the reality of the situation catching up to her again as Casey guided her backwards into the bed with a bruising kiss that had her panting and trembling.

The bedroom was tidy, but details weren’t important as she climbed onto the bed, kneeling beside Casey as she tangled your fingers into her hair and analyzed her features in a way you’d only ever thought about throughout your decade of friendship.

“Are you okay?” Alex asked after she caught her breath, her face hovering over Casey’s as she trailed a finger between the valley of the younger prosecutor's breasts, tracing over the cups of her black lace bra that hardly hides anything from the naked eye and dim lighting in the room. When all Casey managed was a weak nod, her hands scrambling to grab at Alex’s shoulders and pull her back down into another kiss, Alex tsks, capturing her hands in a reprimanding hold and pining them above her head. “Don’t make me tie you up, too. Answer my question.”

“Yes.” Casey breathed, her eyes fanning closed as Alex leaned in closer to her face, her breath washing across Casey’s lips as she hovered just out of reach.

“Yes, what?” Alex sang teasingly, her grip on Casey’s wrists loosening before she dragged her fingers up naked arms, letting her digits curl around the thin bra strap tantalizingly.

“Yes, I’m okay. Please, just keep going. I don’t want to deal with teasing tonight, you’ve already done enough.” Casey pants, and typically that’s not enough to sway Alex, but she smiles at the admission and leans down to peck Casey three times before her lips progress downward and she leaves wet patches in her slow wake.

“Good girl.” Alex mused, slowly coaxing Casey to spread her legs until both of you could peer between them, an obvious patch of arousal on the pale material. “You’re so wet.” Alex stated the obvious, probing Casey’s center with an incessant finger as she hummed thoughtfully. “Do you like this, Casey? Do you like when a woman takes her time with you? Kisses you, tastes you… makes you whine.”

Alex sold her point by pulling the fabric of Casey’s panties away from her core, sinking a single digit into her velvety walls until she couldn’t plunge any farther without inserting another finger. Casey gasped, her back arching off the bed as she attempted to writhe into Alex’s palm, chasing pleasure she wasn’t allowed to have just yet. “Answer me, Casey. We’re not going to keep going over these expectations. I know you’re not dumb, so why don’t you use your brain like the prosecutor I watched you become and answer the simple question I just laid out for you.” It’s so many words, too many for Casey to really grab onto with a single finger remaining painfully still on her core, but that’s the intention. Alex doesn’t want clarity, she wants broken down and babbling.

“Yes! Yes, I like this! Please, Alex. Move, do something!” Casey covers her face with her hands, sobbing in frustration as her hips jump. Alex doesn’t waste a second, adding another finger into the warm walls that squeeze her tight and jackhammering them into Casey until there’s squelching sounds to fill the room and partner with her moans and cries.

“Don’t cover your face. Don’t hide from us.” You frown, prying Casey’s hands away from her face, pulling them away until you could see her tear stained face, flushness on her cheeks that’s not just a result of pleasure. It’s the final barrier breaking down. That last twinge of avoidance falling away and leaving her just the sensitive center of herself with no protective outer shell. There’s no going back for her now, but she hadn’t been truly alive until this moment regardless. “Does it feel good? Has anyone ever hit those spots before? Right here?” Your hand falls onto her belly, pressing down right above where you know Alex’s fingers are digging into.

Casey jerks on the bed, sobbing pathetically as her hands grapple to hold onto the comforter that Alex hadn’t bothered fixing when she climbed out of bed that morning. It’s bunched up beneath your calves and Casey’s back, probably an uncomfortable lump beneath her shoulder blades when she wriggles enough to shift down on the bed and bring her hips closer to Alex, forcing those two, now three fingers deeper into her walls that haven’t accommodated a stretch this thick in years.

“Yes.” She whines, her head craning, her muscles tensing. You lean down to capture the sound of her explosion as Alex thumbs at her clit, rubbing practiced circles around the engorged bundle until Casey was thrashing wildly, sucking at your lips to find a way to manage the explosion of sensations through her body.

You grin when you pull away, crawling on your knees to Alex until your straddling Casey’s thighs, the warmth of your core through the thin white panties making Casey moan as she tensed her thigh, muscles spasming against your clit just right.

You don’t focus on the sensations, don’t give her any indication that she’s making having any kind of composure increasingly hard for you, instead you give Alex your undivided attention, prior bratty comments haunting you now that her attention is pinned to only your desperate eyes.

“Been running that damn mouth all night.” She noted, playing with the arousal that clung to her fingers, pulling them apart to watch the stringy evidence stretch before she gave into the tension of the string, letting her fingers close to save the structure of the evidence. You watch the movement desperately, your jaw hanging slack as you anticipated getting a taste of Casey.

Your jaw snapped shut when Alex raised her fingers to her own mouth, sucking off the juices that she’d let you believe you were getting a taste of. The disappointment was amusing, and even Casey laughed at your saddened whine as you climbed off of her thighs, sitting by the pillows.

“Does pouting usually get you your way?” Casey asked, finally collecting herself enough to sit up and strip the panties off of her lower half, a grimace of discomfort brushing her features when the fabric caught on her sensitive clit.

“No, it doesn’t.” Alex answered for you, taking the lace garment from Casey before she could discard them on the floor. The prosecutor's face flamed with embarrassment as Casey’s finger traced the patch of wetness that had expanded to cover practically the entire patch of fabric after the leg-quivering explosion of pressure. She hummed at the sticky residue on her fingers, wasting not a second more before she tapped your jaw with firm fingers, guiding you to open your mouth.

Casey inhaled sharply when Alex shoved the panties into your mouth, assuring that the patch of arousal was directly against your tongue. “Maybe that’ll shut you up for a while. Stay there and stay still. Don’t make me tie you up too.”

Alex turned her attention back to Casey when you offered a meek nod, your pupils blown and full submission in your eyes. Casey marveled at the sight of you so pliant and willing to give your pleasure over to Alex, something she’d held herself and knew how delicate it was, but this felt different than any one night stand she’d ever had with a curious minded man. There hadn’t ever been any tears, any tender check-ins, any soft smiles derived of fondness and affection between harsh and heated moments. She hadn’t realized she’d been missing out on so much character in sex until she was watching Alex undress, her body still being studied though left untouched.

“Still okay?” Alex asked again, waiting for a nod before she pulled her bra off of her body, revealing her pebbled buds and b-cup breasts for the both of you to shamelessly ogle. “Do you want a glass of water?”

Casey ran her fingers through her hair, drawing in a deep breath, but eventually she shook her head, trailing her gaze over to you with a burning stare that held just enough softness to ground you in the reminder that all of this was new to her.

“I want to make her feel good.” The way she speaks about you like you’re not even in the room is so humiliatingly addictive, and the way your thighs squeeze together further seals the belief that you get off on this behavior. She’d followed blindly in the footsteps Alex had left behind all night, gathering small tidbits and pieces of information to use against you when it mattered, and it had found its way into the open air as she sat on the edge of the bed pliantly but unwilling to break completely.

“Think she deserves it?” Alex teased, glancing back at you with an expression twinged with fondness and desire. She’s been waiting to ravish your body since you showed up at the bar in tight little shorts and that top, but she’d kept her composure, played the long game, she was bursting at the seams to get her hands on you and her own pleasure.

“Regardless, I do.” Casey turned her attention back to Alex, and you whined wantonly in the middle of the bed, kicking your foot out until you could strike Casey’s side. You didn’t utter a single plea, but the wide frame of your eyes said everything you wouldn’t. “What do I do?” She asked softly, looking at Casey for all the answers to your body.

“Eat her out.” Alex hummed thoughtfully. She’d worked you up too much to send Casey in with her fingers, knowing that what you needed she couldn’t give without coaxing and coaching, and there was no way she was letting the newbie loose on her strap and harness when Casey would probably run for the hills before she could even step into it, but she knew that you went crazy for a warm tongue on your cunt, that if all else failed, she could have you falling apart on her mouth in mere minutes. After Casey’s show at the bar, Alex has no question on whether she can deliver the needed pleasure. “I’m gonna ride her face.”

You whined, your head falling back onto the pillows as you fought against every urge to rip the panties from your mouth and beg for one of them to make a move. The taste of Casey on your tongue was heavy, but the promise of adding Alex was beyond enticing as you squirmed on the mattress.

“Are you ready to behave now?” Alex questioned, looking directly at you with such power and conviction that you forgot all about the gag in your mouth and tried to answer her obediently. She smiled softly at you, and Casey did too, both of them momentarily swayed by your visible softness as you sank into the mattress, threatening to implode. “Good girl. That’s all you really want to be, huh? That mouth just gets you in trouble sometimes.”

Alex crawls onto the bed, over your thighs, your torso, your shoulders until she’s hovering over your mouth, her folds glistened with arousal that threatens to drip down onto your awaiting lips. She pries the panties from your mouth, the only thing keeping her upright determination and thigh strength.

“Do you want to taste me?” Alex asked and Casey groaned at the edge of the bed, crawling forward until she could slot her body between your legs, looking straight at your weeping core. “Pretty, isn’t she? All wet and puffy and nobody’s even touched her yet. She’s a little slut, a greedy little thing, but she knows how to treat you right. Isn’t that right, princess?” Alex glanced down at you, and you nodded, drunk on the sight of her body just out of reach. Your hands twitch to pull her down, but you don’t want to end up tied to the headboard, and you know she’ll carry through with that promise if you don’t keep your hands still until she folds.

“Please, Al.” You moaned breathlessly, batting your lashes up at her unintentionally, though it only helped your case as she finally lowered her core to your lips, sighing in relief as your tongue lapped at her clit dutifully, easing the ache that had been throbbing there for hours now.

“Oh fuck, there you go. There, there, oh fuck!” Alex grabbed fistfuls of your hair, barring only as much of her weight on you that she knew you could take.

Casey took your abrupt start as her own encouragement to dive in, her fingers pulling your lips apart before she licked a broad stripe up from your entrance to your clit, moaning unabashedly into your cunt when your taste exploded on her tongue for the first time. She was like a feign after that, her tongue bobbing in and out of your entrance, her lips creating a loose suction around your clit when she wandered away from your weeping hole, but never enough to send you tumbling over the edge, though you figure she doesn’t know that as she gets lost in the act of eating you out at Alex’s direction.

Your hips are wild as they buck upwards and sideways, attempting to grind into her face and the teasing pressure she applies the same way Alex does. She slickens your face with arousal, her core dragging over your lips until her clit bumps your nose and the texture on your tongue scraps against that sensitive part of her walls. Your fingers could get so much deeper, hit that spot so much harder with more ambition, but Alex is content with using you to her own benefit, grinding and gyrating her hips however she feels so inclined.

“Pay attention to her clit, Case.” Alex gasps, her head thrown back as she rocks harder against your mouth. “Don’t be afraid of it. She’ll let you know if it hurts and trust me, she likes it.”

Casey moaned into your core as her efforts to make you cum doubled, her lips creating a tighter suction that had you seeing stars and flattening your tongue beneath Alex, giving her a textured surface to use to her own advantage as you got lost in the pleasure Casey sparked.

“Oh god, I’m going to cum. Fuck, just like that. Keep your tongue like that. Don’t move, don’t move, don’t mo- Fuck!” Alex exploded and the onslaught of moisture hitting your tongue propelled you into your own glorious orgasm that Casey handled like a champ, perhaps too well because after Alex crawled off of you, panting and smiling cheekily as she wiped your cheek with her thumb, feeling you the evidence of her pleasure with a satisfied hum, Casey continued on working, her tongue plunging into you, slurping all of the juices that leaked onto Alex’s comforter.

“Too much, too much.” You whine, your hands batting at Casey’s head, trying desperately to push her away and find reprieve from the sharp sensations shooting through you. “Case, I’m done. I’m good.” You panted finally separating her from your cunt. She grinned with wild eyes, her face a mess of arousal that she didn’t even both wiping away.

“I’m going to go get new sheets and blankets. You two just… stay there.” Alex micromanaged the situation, always unable to help the restless feelings that overcame her after a night together until she was certain you weren’t leaving her place disoriented and feeling used. Her attempts to level friends with benefits with genuine platonic care was cute, but you were too tired to tell her that as she slipped out of the room.

“How are you feeling?” You turned your head toward Casey who came to lay on the pillows with you, her red hair fanning around her head like a halo. “You didn’t burn alive, so I think that’s a step in the right direction.”

“My whole life, I’ve felt like there was this impossible weight looming over me anytime I really entertained the possibility of… of being gay. It was never drilled into me that it was bad, or wrong, or not what God wanted for me, but somewhere along the way I picked that up. But it feels… It feels good to not have that hanging over me anymore. Like I can breathe. It feels better to know it was you and Alex too.” Casey nodded, and you hummed thoughtfully, glad that at least a fraction of her questioning was handled appropriately. “I didn’t think Alex would hold all the cards between you too. In college you always seemed so… uncontrollable.” Casey laughs, recalling the first time she’d walked in on the two of you together sometime during freshman year finals at Harvard.

Your eyes roll, a fond expression hanging over your features. Sometimes you wonder what could’ve been of your lives if you’d stuck with prosecuting, not verged off into politics on a whim, but those choices were already made, nothing would rewrite the years you’d lost with Alex and Casey to independent passion. “I took the lead the first time, believe it or not.”

“After tonight? Definitely or not.” Casey teased, letting her head rest on your shoulder as you both stared at the ceiling waiting for Alex to return. “I had a crush on you, you know.”

“Oh I know, honey. We all knew.”

[dymphnas]

a fragile game you play (with the ghosts of yesterday)

pairing: Guide!Wanderer x Traveler!Reader

wc: 1.5k

synopsis: While trying to locate elusive Aranara, Wanderer is trying to make sense of his feelings after remembering someone long forgotten. You are there beside him, witnessing his struggle with himself.

warnings: wanderer's POV, minor character death, mention of illness, (almost) panic attack, wanderer is emotionally constipated, abandonment issues, maybe spoilers for some part of the Sumeru Archon quest.

notes: This is from a random thought I had where wanderer is like paimon to the traveler, so basically like their guide throughout teyvat. they are on their way to do the aranara quest here. this post was inspired by a tag on this post that was like "unedited we ball" and I thought, why tf not post this, it has been rotting in my drafts for long enough. the header is from an old-ass genshin event with aranara like 2 years ago or something, it was the only screenshot of him and aranara that I had in my camera roll. lowkey hope this finds the discerning audience of awesome authors I admire. title is from the song Mark the Graves by Linkin Park. Dividers are by @uzmacchiato enjoy, my beloveds.

There seems to be a pain in his heart when he breathes, and the sensation catches Wanderer like a net ensnares unsuspecting fish. He has no heart, just as he has no breath. Puppets have no need for either. He glances ahead at the women holding their children and walking away, back to their homes. The children had been giggling around him just a few moments ago and, spotting his anemo vision, bid him to draw up a wind to make the leaves and flower petals dance. He obliged. Their tiny hands and trusting smiles brought back something deep from the recesses of his mind and he sees a face he wishes he could forget. The swirls of his (controlled) wind made them laugh, and their laughter made him smile in turn. He can allow himself this much. Reminiscing can't hurt people, he thinks, closing his eyes. That's why the humans do it so often.

It can't hurt to remember a child's delicate face, peals of laughter and deep set kind eyes, but, they're not deep set, are they? They're sunken in, with bruise-like dark circles around wet eyelashes that were just too long for a boy. The cheekbones are sharp with a diseased pallor, the eyes open, empty.

In an instant, he is standing in the house of his nightmares and a waifish child corpse greets him, clutching a doll with a feeble grip. The pale faced corpse looks at him, or perhaps at nothing at all and the memory burns behind his eyelids like the sting of betrayals and broken promises.

His hand comes up to his chest as his grief makes him breathless. His clothes feel like sandpaper. What's the use of a stupid muscle in his body when there is no blood in his veins or lungs when there is no need for him to breathe. Why make him touch divinity to be powerless? Why give him life if he was just going to be thrown—

"You have a teeny tiny soft spot for kids it seems," a voice interrupts his pain.

He schools his face into indifference, blinks the tears away. He's on the outskirts of Sumeru (not Inazuma, not anymore) and the children are gone now, not even pinpricks in the distance. It's sunset, and the hues of orange paint everything in the delicate shade of memory. The Traveler stands beside him, a soft smile on their face.

"Unnecessary animosity towards feeble things is a waste of time," he stands up and dusts off his garments, "Have you bought everything you need or did you get sidetracked by something inane again?"

"No, I got everything we need. And I do not get sidetracked by—"

"Then I suggest we keep moving. I think I saw an Aranara there." He grabs the pack and slings it over his shoulders. He takes a few steps too quickly and the Traveler struggles to keep up.

"I can carry my things, you know." They come up right next to him and make to grab the pack from his shoulders.

"I'm giving you permission to make good use of my kindness. You have only this opportunity."

"Hey! Wait up! You're walking too fast! HEY!"

He keeps walking and they follow, mumbling about strength and unnecessary endurance training. The soft scrunches of grass trailing behind affirm they're following close behind. It's not an unwelcome sound, but his mind is still a tangle of emotions and everything feels like it's trying to suffocate him.

There are things he'd like to say. That he should say. The Traveler is perhaps the only one who wants to befriend him in this world, at least. Wandering about Teyvat and exploring hidden corners of the realm had its appeal a few hundred years ago, but not anymore. He wants to thank them, especially for putting up with his shitty mood after facing his—his Maker.

Sumeru is a welcome change of scenery. The verdant plains lifted his spirits, and perhaps sensing his better mood, the Traveler wants to ask him some things. He can't have that conversation now, not right now, but maybe sometime later, he'd tell them of how he came into being, how he truly feels, and maybe even… how he's grateful for them in his life.

"The pack is heavy, you know. I know you're like, some kind of immortal being, or something, but you really don't have to carry it the whole journey. I'll feel bad." They tug at the strap on his shoulder, and his hands move to grab at their hand.

"Don't bother. I don't feel anything."

Oh, what a lie. That is not what he was trying to say at all. He was trying to go for something eloquent like: The burden is of next to no consequence. They look a bit startled at his sharp tone, did he overdo it?

He has stopped walking and, he realizes belatedly, he still has their hand in his. He lets go like he touched lightning, but their warmth still lingers. The Traveler does not recoil at his sudden movement. He sees himself in their eyes, and his face looks like he's in some kind of pain.

They take his hand in theirs. "What is it?" The whisper is petal soft, but it cuts into him all the same.

He wants to say, 'My creator made me with sparring in mind, you know? To spar against the most exalted and brilliant form of lightning. You don't need to worry about your measly backpack, it'll take more than that to crack my spine. I know exactly what it would take.'

It's not just about the backpack, he knows this. It's all a tangle in his heart, but he wants to say...something, and wills his mouth to form some words, but his lips remain as they are. Set in a thin line, a wretched mirror of the face in Tenshukaku.

He does not possess the ease with which to speak in soft words, without the bite of sarcasm. Looking into their inquisitive eyes, however, he finds the words come to mind easily enough, 'I do not mind doing this for you,' and 'I have been used all my life by people I did not want for a purpose I couldn't fulfill', or more wretchedly, 'It is not a burden to me, you are not a burden to me, let me do this for you willingly, let me be of use to you.'

The words come up to his throat and die there. Perhaps this reticence is also a gift from his Maker.

He snatches his hand away and keeps walking. The Traveler catches up, and he feels a pair of eyes bore into his face. When he turns to look at them, their expression is a bit…pinched? Or is it they look a bit… concerned? That must be it. Far be it from his companion to be pained on his behalf. They're just concerned…about his abilities as a guide. Yes, that's it. Maybe his distraction this afternoon made them think he is not serious about their journey. That must be it. He hopes it's not anything else. They start to speak, and it feels he's like walking straight into a landslide of feelings he has been actively avoiding, and no, no, no, just no—not today. He walks a bit faster and silently wills the Traveler not to say a word.

"Are we continuing this scenic hike in meaningful silence till we find that Aranara?"

"You will find, Traveler, that speaking is often silver, but silence is always gold." His heart is beating too fast, and did he seem too pathetic earlier? Archons, did he look like he was crying?

He walks faster and the Traveler catches up. They look like they're going to say something. He feels breathless once again, and for entirely different reasons, now. This conversation is veering towards a dangerous route, and he does not have the stomach or vocabulary for it. Besides, it is now nighttime, and the aesthetic view for exchanges of emotional depth has long since passed.

To his relief, they shrug. "Fine by me. You can keep that mysterious brooding thing going. It's charming, really." They run a hand through their hair, and stare off into the path ahead. "Why are we headed to Mawtiyima?"

"You've got a chance to stock up for yourself. It's time for me to gather my provisions."

"Thought you said you don't need to eat."

"I don't. But some things are not pursued out of necessity."

He bends down and picks up a rukkhashava mushroom and puts it in his own satchel. He can hear the vague thump, thump, thump, of an approaching slime. Ah, there's also fungi floating around. Lovely.

"Well then, shall we go and see what else we can collect while farming for these mushrooms?"

"What do you mean, what else we can collect-oh no no no these are—"

The slime chucks a smaller pyro slime at them, and they both get to their fighting stances. The Traveller laughs in glee as his elements hit the slime, while his anemo swirls the element to hit their airborne enemies.

The hard conversations could wait until after they've dealt with this. Maybe, just maybe, they will move on from today like it never happened.

[petvlss]

Boy Next Door Episode 1: Childhood

You were seven—small, quiet, and afraid of just about everything. Life was soft and safe inside your little world until a knock on the door shattered the silence. Enter two boys: kind-eyed. Suddenly, fear wasn’t the loudest thing in your chest anymore. It was laughter, peanut butter, and movie nights. This isn’t a love story. Not yet. It’s a story about found family, about the boys who became your brothers, and the summer that changed everything.

pairing: Lee Felix x Reader, a lil Bangchan x Reader (nothing romantic,,,,yet)

warnings: EVERYONE ARE CHILDREN AND ARE TO BE TREATED AS SUCH

word count: 2.0k

a/n: Goodness gracious. I have never spent a literal MONTH PLANNING a story, let alone restless nights doing nothing but writing it. I am genuinely so proud of this small chapter and can't wait for you guys to read the next part WHENEVER I POST IT HAHA. (I also used this story as an excuse to learn how to use Tumblr to its full content and am proud of how far I've come.)

BND Masterlist

You could never imagine talking to someone who wasn't your own mom or a close friend. It wasn't a part of you—the social butterfly bit that a lot of kids had until that day.

It was one of those slow, golden mornings where the light splayed across the room, basking you in safety and warmth. You sat cross-legged in your Cookie Monster pajamas, blue cotton pilled at the knees, eyes glued to some random educational TV show that only ever aired before the world woke up. Your fingers toyed with the fraying edge of the soft rug. The house smelled like toast and lemon cleaner– your mom’s way of making the world feel clean, like a reset button pressed every Saturday morning.

Then your mom came down the stairs, her slippers whispering against the hardwood. Voice soft but sure. “Y/N,” she started, brushing a stray hair from your forehead, “there’s a new family that moved in next door. We’re going to meet them.” You shifted from your warm spot on the carpet to the couch, hugging your knees, and peeking out the window with wary eyes. A single U-Haul truck sat parked by the curb, the sun bouncing off its metal like a flashbulb. Beside it, a gray sedan and a scattering of moving boxes– probably filled to the brim with toys, books, clothes, and old memories. All packaged away in that brown cardboard. This sight was the quiet chaos of a new beginning. Your mom kept talking–something about kindness and “warm welcomes”, but the words barely registered in your tiny head. Your thoughts were spiraling. New people. Unknown voices. Stranger's eyes.

Even your breathing felt too loud.

She handed you a clean T-shirt to change into. “Just for a little while, sweetheart,” she said. You nodded like it was a chore, like brushing your teeth or saying thank you. But you never made it out the door. Because before you could, there were three knocks.

Gentle.

Rhythmic. Like the start of a song.

Your head snapped toward the door. Your mom moved toward the sound, you trailing behind her, clutching the fabric of her sweatpants like they were armor. Peeking out from behind her leg, you saw him: a boy just a little taller than you. Brown hair tousled like he’d just escaped a whirlwind. Brown eyes that glinted like melted chocolate. And a smile–wide, easy, and completely unafraid. He held out a plate of cookies wrapped in wax paper.

Behind him stood another boy, taller, older, also brown-haired, but with quieter eyes. Thoughtful eyes. The kind that had seen a bit more.

“Hi!” the younger one said brightly. “I’m Felix, and this is Chris. We just moved in next door!” He lifted the plate like it was an offering to the gods. “We made you cookies!” Your mom beamed like someone had turned the sun back on.

“How sweet! I’m Ms. Y/LN, and this,” she said, giving your hand a small tug, exposing you to the two sets of brown eyes, “is Y/N.”

You made a sound. It wasn’t a word–just a startled squeak that broke into a whimper as you bolted, legs carrying you like a scared animal, straight to your room. You dove under the familiar wood of your bed like it was a foxhole in a war zone.

The cookie truce would have to wait.

Dust clung to your pajamas. The underside of your bed smelled like old wood and forgotten socks. You hugged Poncho to your chest, heart thudding like a trapped bird. Minutes passed. Maybe twenty. Maybe more.

The sound of your mom’s voice filtered through the floorboards, low and distant. Then–footsteps. Heavier than your mom’s. Careful. Measured. A presence.

A shadow appeared.

Then a hand.

Then a cookie. Just dangling there. Like a peace treaty. You froze. Then, with one quick grab, you snatched it, because even fear couldn’t beat sugar.

The bed creaked. The mattress shifted. And suddenly, there was someone under the bed with you. “Y/N, right?” You nodded. “I’m Chris.” Another nod, slower this time, crumbs clinging to your lips. He talked. Not loud, not fast. Just–steady. About your favorite show. About your pet fish named Bluey. About how long the plane ride was from Australia and how Felix almost cried when his Game Boy battery died mid-flight.

You giggled.

Eventually, you crawled out from your hiding place like a baby rabbit, blinking at the world. You showed him Bluey’s tank. He told you Felix was eight and liked dinosaurs and always got peanut butter on the remote. You liked peanut butter, too.

Time softened. Hours folded in on themselves like paper cranes. When the streetlights blinked on, your mom walked in and smiled at the sight of the two of you. “Chris, honey, it’s time for you to go home.” Chris stood up, dusting his knees off.

“I had a good time with you, Y/N,” he said. The night curled behind him like a ribbon as he walked back home.

That night, over tacos, your mom smiled. “They seem nice.” You nodded, chewing.

“He gave me a cookie,” you mumbled, mouth full.

“Y/N,” she warned, “chew your food.” You rolled your eyes, but the smile didn’t leave your face.

“I think I’m making a friend.” Which was rare. Being afraid, you didn’t have many.

Later, warm from the bath and wrapped in your softest pajamas, you curled beneath your blanket. Just as sleep tugged at your eyelids, a soft glow spilled across your room. You lifted your head.

Felix. Sitting cross-legged on his bed, lit by the blue screen of a Nintendo. His window faced yours like it was always meant to.

He looked up.

Saw you.

Smiled.

You dropped like a rock, your face burning.

Your stomach twisted in a way you didn’t recognize.

He wasn’t Chris.

You didn’t know who he was—and honestly, you didn’t want to. Not now. Maybe not ever. But curiosity was itching your brain. What was he like?

The next morning was beautiful. The sky was clean as a blank page. Sunlight stretched like gold taffy over the lawns. Naturally, your mom shoved you outside to “get some fresh air.” At least you had Poncho.

You sat beneath the tall tree in the front yard, whispering made-up stories to your gray rabbit, spinning tales about moon creatures and kitty-shaped aliens. Poncho listened without judgment. He always did.

This neighborhood was nice—familiar. The older boys always grouped up and everyone else ran around. You were in your own little world. Alone.

Then came the shadows. The group of older boys swaggered across the street, loud and careless, all knees and elbows and sharp laughter.

One of them pointed. “Hey! This weirdo still plays with dolls.” You blinked. Confused. Poncho wasn’t a doll. He was everything.

He was safe.

“Seven and still acting like a baby.” You hugged Poncho tighter. But it was too late. A blonde boy snatched him from your arms.

“Give him back!” you squeaked, your tiny voice trembling. They laughed. Tossed Poncho between them like a cruel game. Your throat tightened. Eyes welled. Then–clunk. One boy fell. Hard. Groaning. You turned. Chris. Standing there like a storm in human skin.

“Pick on someone your own size.” He dusted off Poncho like he was a fragile treasure, then slipped one hand into yours and the other around your rabbit. He didn’t say much. He didn’t need to. Inside his house, he settled you onto the couch and tucked Poncho into your lap. “What do you wanna watch, cookie?” he asked, flipping through DVDs.

You watched movies. Three of them. Maybe four. Popcorn, juice boxes, and laughter in between. You looked up at some point during the second movie and saw Felix on the stairs. He seemed to just be watching, but the moment your eyes latched onto his, he rushed back upstairs. Almost as if mimicking what you had done to him the night prior.

“He’s curious about you,” Chris says. “He saw you outside the day we moved in, and he wanted to be your friend.”

“He does?” you ask quietly.

“Yeah,” he snickers. “He’s just not the best with words—unless it involves his Nintendo.”

“I like video games.”

Chris nodded his head toward the stairs.

“Please. Enlighten him.”

You slowly got up, making your way toward the stairs, each step growing darker than the last.

At the top, there were three doors—one just to the left of the bathroom, one to the right, and one directly across the hall. The door to the left of the bathroom was slightly cracked open, so you peeked in.

The walls were a soft grey, and a bed sat in front of a window dressed in blue bedding. Boxes were scattered everywhere—except for one thing: a guitar propped neatly in the corner. Chris had told you about his guitar lessons back in Australia.

You stepped out and gently closed the door behind you.

You reached for the door on the right, but before your fingers touched the handle, you heard the low hum of a TV and the warm chuckle of someone older. You pulled your hand back. That must be their parents’ room.

That left only one door.

You walked up and gave it a soft knock. You heard the creak of a bed and the shuffle of small feet before the door slowly opened. His eyes met yours, wide and surprised.

“Uh…” your voice trailed off. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he responded simply.

You scrambled for something to say. Anything.

“You like peanut butter?” you blurted, remembering something Chris had mentioned the day before.

“Yeah,” he said, glancing down. “Do you want some?”

You nodded, and the two of you walked downstairs to the kitchen. He grabbed the jar from the pantry and hopped up on the counter, leaving just enough space for you.

“You have spoons?” you asked.

He pointed to one of the open boxes labeled Kitchen. You reached in and grabbed two, then climbed onto the counter beside him. When you handed him a spoon, the smallest smile crept across his face.

There you sat, on the counter, side by side, digging into a jar of peanut butter. Small stories. Quiet laughter. It echoed in the space between boxes and warm light.

Outside, the sky was starting to melt into dusk.

And you knew how your mom was.

“I should probably go,” you said, hopping off the counter.

“Awwh,” he whined, “could you sleep over?”

You never thought you’d hear those words come out of his mouth. Or anyone’s mouth, to be honest.

“Let me go ask my mom.” You made your way toward the front door, but he followed close behind.

“Wanna race across the lawn?”

You could never back down from a challenge.

The two of you lined up on his porch and then booked it across the yard. And for once—everything negative faded away. The world had shifted, if only slightly. Breathless, you both landed on your porch, grinning.

“Mom?” you called as you stepped inside. Then, turning to Felix, “Stay here for a sec.”

He nodded and stood by the couch obediently.

You jogged up the stairs to the small office your mom used. She was hunched over her computer, deep in something.

“Mom?”

She looked up, eyes tired but warm. “Yes, hon?”

“Can I stay the night at Felix and Chris’s?”

She paused, considering. “If it’s okay with their mom and dad,” she nodded.

“Thanks!” you beamed, then dashed back down the stairs. Felix met you at the bottom, hopeful.

“She said yes, as long as it’s okay with your parents!”

“Let’s race back to my place!”

You sprinted across the lawn again, breathless and laughing. His parents gave the green light, and that was all it took.

That night was full of giggles and video games—mostly him nerding out about his favorites, and you listening, charmed. You finished off the peanut butter jar together and, eventually, both crashed on his small bed.

That was the night everything changed.

That was the night you and Felix became inseparable.

TAGLIST (OPEN STILL): @lixies-favorite-cookie @skzfangirl143 @trippoverrt @maddy24207 @felixsonlyrealwife

[corvusblackk]

Abt your Hogwarts question post :

1. how do you not get tangled up what happened in your drs ?

2. is it trippy to know that you‘ve been multiple times at Hogwarts , going through the same study materials but with different people around you , different teachers and a whole different atmosphere? ( not sure if you have Voldemort stuff in your golden trio dr )

3. your favorite thing about your Hogwarts drs

4. is there a song that reminds you of your time with the golden trio ?

how hogwarts speaks to me

sometimes I do get tangled up in what happened in my drs, but I’ve developed little internal markers, like emotional cues or sensory details that help me sort the threads. let’s say that each dr has a texture, almost like a color palette or emotional frequency. one dr might feel warm and candlelit and fulll of friendship, while another feels misty, quieter, more introspective. I anchor memories based on who I was in that dr. like, who were my close people? what did the common room smell like? was the air tense with war or soft with autumn?

sometiems memories bleed together. like I’ll remember practicing patronus spells with Harry in a dr, then also remember doing the exact same spell years later with a totally different friend and a completely different emotional context. it’s not unlike dejavu, but stretched out and with a new light I guess.

also journaling helps. I keep magical journals in each dr, some with locking spells, some that only open under moonlight or by saying a phrase only I know. it helps keep the experiences sorted.

but it is kind of trippy. though i enjoy it, honextly.

like, I’ve sat in the same exact astronoym tower, doing the same star chart assignment, but one time it was during the height of the second wizarding war. and another time, it was peaceful and quiet, with the stars and Sirius beside me sketching constellations on his arm in ink.

the castle feels different depending on the era. there’s first this tension everywhere, even before voldemort returns, the atmosphere is charged (?) and teachers are more watchful and some students are paranoid. and then in a more “peaceful” hogwarts, like after the war, or where something never existed, the school feels almost sleepy and safe, a place for just learning again.

so same hallways, same subjects, but with completely different lives. it’s like having dreams of the same house but the furniture rearranges itself each night, and the people in it change, yet you are always somehow yourself.

my favourite thing about my hogwarts drs, if I had to choose just one thing, it would be the quiet moments that make magic feel real. for example the first snowfall on the windows of the common room while I sip hot pumpkin cider. or yhe way the candles float just slightly when someone walks under them in the great hall. sitting on the roof of the owlery, watching owls fly under a dark sky, whispering a spell I made up on the spot and feeling it bloom in the air around me.

it’s not the classes (because I forget everything, but I somehow still get decent grades) or the duels or even the magical creatures (though I love thestrals). it’s those liminal, little soul soaking moments where it feels like the world has paused just for me to breathe magic in.

I also miss my friends, of course. they make such a big difference there and I cannot explain in just a few lines how much they mean to me in my drs (maybe I’ll make a whole other post).

but yeah, that’s the part I miss most when I’m back here. not the drama, not the chaos, just the quiet wonder.

[annaviste]

Vampire Hunter D Headcanons

D x Human Reader

Please be kind, these are my first headcanons that I’m posting, and I want to clarify again that English is not my native language, but French is ! So I’m using a translator sometimes 😭 too make sure I’m not making too much mistakes :)

Also, this is just my personal interpretation, so I’m sorry if you don’t agree with my vision, I just hope I’m not talking complete nonsense here !

Btw I also want to clarify that I’m mainly talking about Bloodlust D here! Because in another post, I shared my thoughts that this D is way different from his other versions (novels, manga, 1985, etc…)

And, I apologize in advance if I have trouble expressing myself clearly…

Soooo let’s begin 🫦

First of all, I would say that Bloodlust D doesn’t have any real physical preference (unlike what’s said in his fandom about curves, etc). Honestly, I think D is someone who focuses more on the soul of the person (yes, I’m probably dreaming). BUT, personally, I see him having a slight preference for a chubby person, but I think that’s where it would stop.

I think that, given his age, D has seen and known all kinds of people, but he would have a soft spot for someone who doesn’t fear him like a monster, who doesn’t see him as one—because we can understand, spending your life being called a monster without recognition for what you do must be hard. But overall, I think D doesn’t have real “preferences,” except for a strong deep soul connection with the chosen one of his heart. I think it’s something very spiritual.

He’s also very open minded.

Loyalty, oh God. Honestly, I think D is a man of deep and unbreakable loyalty. No matter who or what tries anything with him, they will gain nothing. You can notice that D is indeed insensitive to flirting, but even more so if he’s in a relationship with someone. No matter when or how, on a mission or whatever, he lets no one approach him. His eyes rest nowhere but on you. He will push away without hesitation anyone who is not you, his lover. you are the only person who occupies his mind. But beware, he expects the same from his lover.

Speaking of which, jealousy. There’s a lot to say about that… Honestly, I think D would be the jealous type—not to make scenes, but maybe his heart twists inside seeing you laugh with someone else—after all, he who has become even more distant than he already was for YOU, why wouldn’t you do the same? I think that even if he wouldn’t show it clearly, a simple gesture too “affectionate” from you towards someone else would hurt him, make him think about it over and over, endlessly—what did it mean? Why him/her? Why don’t you laugh like that with him?Basically, overthinker final boss.

So, he’s a possessive lover, not necessarily to the point of stopping you from living, but this poor man is simply afraid of losing you. He has lost so many people over his life that the idea of losing the only being he decided to surrender to terrifies him in silence.

Also, I think D would be the overprotective type, wanting to hide you from all threats, which would even include leaving you in a warm house in a village while he goes on a mission, sometimes for weeks—but don’t worry, he always makes sure to come back quickly to see that smile he loves so much.

D is definitely cold, distant, and unapproachable to the whole world, but… for you, he’s a true silent clingy shadow. Imagine, in a warm inn he paid for the two of you, while you go about your business quietly in the room, he follows you everywhere. Literally. No matter where you go, bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, he’s there, behind you. Sometimes you even jump, about to call him, but you hear him answer immediately, right behind you, in your ear.

-"D-"

-"Yes ?" AND LIKE. He’s just standing her behind you, watching you. Creepy.

Also, this man spoils you rotten. Literally. You want something? Very well, even if he has to go to the other side of the world to bring it to you, he will. Of course, I’m not talking about a relationship based only on material things, not a all, but I truly believe this man is simply weak for your slightest whims. He always comes back to you with his hands full.

Speaking of that, I think D could say ‘I love you’, but never out of routine, no, not because he doesn’t feel it, but because to him, those words are powerful and should be spoken with deep intimacy. But mostly, he shows his love through actions

I also think D would help you a lot with everything, your tasks, your responsibilities… or whatever that is. Yeah, I really see him helping you at home, or again, WHATEVER, he help you. Always. This man never let you do anything by yourself…

He’s the type to listen to you for hours, really paying attention. He’s very attentive to you, analyzing you, remembering every little detail. And maybe, if you gently show him that he can open up too, little by little… it’ll happen. Just give him time…

I also think D is literally a gentleman to his core… it’s in him. He wants to take care of you, open the door, carry your bags, pay for everything without blinking… Not because he thinks you can’t do it, but because for him, love means devotion, not counting. He’s from another time, another world — he doesn’t keep score. If you try to split things with him, he’ll just quietly ignore it and do it anyway. I think he can be here to protect, to provide, to make you feel safe and treasured !

That’s why I also think he’d be kinda… old-school cheesy for you in the way he’s such a gentleman, like, gallant, polite, “let me open the door for you, my lady” type of energy. Very old-fashioned, very serious about it too. He doesn’t even realize it’s a little outdated or overly formal, (even tho the vhd "timeline" and universe are different from ours but anyway) it’s just how he is. And honestly ? It’s lowkey adorable

Left Hand… oh boy. The number of times D clenches his fist so tightly just to shut the parasite up when it starts talking too much about you, your eyes, your lips, your curves-

Also, I think, and I’m a bit hesitant about this, that if Bloodlust D loved his human lover more than anything, he would probably lose his mind over it. Maybe that would even lead him to make you an immortal creature too? Who knows? maybe he wouldn't be so different from Meier, maybe…

Okayy so, it’s my FIRST Headcanons post so I’m very nervous, but thanks you for reading me !❤️

[forrestxconrad]

“Zombies, sharks, and zombie sharks — what’s not to love?” He laughed. He had a real soft spot for those wacky, low budget movies — terrible as they could sometimes be, most of the time they were coming from a place of genuine love for filmmaking, often by an up-and-comer that was still finding their feet with the craft. It was hard not to feel some kind of way about that — some kind of proud, paternal instinct to support.

He couldn’t help but smile at the passion behind Amara’s words. “That’s amazing,” he said, genuinely meaning it. “That’s such a great internship opportunity! You’re braver than me — I don’t think I’d even get in a boat if I heard that there might be sharks nearby.”

Nodding, he listened carefully to Amara’s argument. This was more engagement than some of his students were willing to give him, so he was more than happy to carry on this discussion. “That’s a fair point — I don’t think anyone can be in love, genuinely in love, within just a few days of knowing each other. But teenagers — they feel everything so much deeper than the rest of us. They’re just learning how to live, really. Chances are, Romeo and Juliet had never really felt those feelings before…” He caught himself before he rambled on for much longer. Amara wasn’t one of his students — it was hardly fair to trap her in a conversation about Shakespeare when they were in her place of work, and having a nice conversation about sharks.

“I do love Shakespeare, but I think my real passions are either contemporary tragedies — like, Arthur Miller, Tennessee Williams, that kind of stuff — or Ancient Greek theatre. I mean, so much of modern western theatre and entertainment comes from the Ancient Greeks — some of my students don’t love it quite as much, but I find it fascinating to trace modern day entertainment all the way back to Ancient Greece. We’ve always loved to tell stories, to make people feel things, to investigate what it means to be human…” He cleared his throat, aware he was once again rambling. “Sorry.“

Conrad can’t help but laugh at the mention of ‘Santa Jaws.’ “I have a bit of a soft spot for Misty Talley’s directorial work,” he confessed. “Mostly because I really love the fact that almost everything she’s ever directed is all Louisiana shark SyFy originals. She’s found her passion and she’s stuck with it.” Then, “If you haven’t seen it, ‘Zombie Shark’ is a fun watch — it’s your classic ‘weekend getaway goes wrong’ story, but with zombies, sharks, and zombie sharks. I mean, what’s not to love?”

“How did that opportunity with the Great Whites come about?” He asks.” Are they as big as they seem in the films?”

He listens closely as Amara speaks. “I get that,” he says with a nod. “It’s definitely not to everyone’s tastes. But at least you still gave it a go — that’s pretty much the one thing I ask of my students, anyway. To me, as long as they’ve tried, that’s enough.”

He ponders for a moment upon her comments about ‘Romeo and Juliet.’ “Fair point,” he says in response. “I think maybe it’s down to the teaching? To me, I’ve always liked reading it as a warning about holding onto grudges and feuds, and the innocence of love. Though I can’t say I’ve ever considered Friar Laurence an… overly bright character. I feel like there were better ways to reunite Romeo and Juliet than the one he came up with.”

[keferon]

Don’t mind me I just like to see him go bananas about cartoonish Autobot rules

Maaan…..if Prowl was in tfp he would spontaneously combust at least once a day