#i need one person to ask me to finish this and i will

[jungwnies]

f1 grid (1/2) | orange theory

୨ৎ : featuring : max verstappen, lewis hamilton, george russell, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri (click here for part two) ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by @holycastles) : quiet moments where love is tested through the smallest acts because sometimes, peeling an orange says more than 'i love you.'

୨ৎ : genre : fluff & romance ୨ৎ : word count : 1214

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : i love love love writing things based off of tik-tok trends, it's so sweet and cute >.< also i know these are super short but i think that it reallyyy captures their personalities :)

ʚ・max verstappen

you toss an orange at max during downtime and go, “peel this for me?”

he catches it mid-air, looks at you, deadpan. “what am i? your personal chef?”

you snort and walk away, not expecting anything. max doesn’t do sweet, right? not like that.

but a few minutes later, you find the orange sitting on the counter, peeled perfectly — skin discarded, slices arranged in a neat spiral.

you eye him across the room, arms folded. “did you peel this?” he shrugs without looking up from his phone. “was bored.”

you know better. max verstappen doesn’t get bored. he gets intentional.

the next day, he grabs one for himself — and another for you. doesn’t say a word. just peels both and hands one over like it’s routine.

when you try to thank him, he waves it off. “don’t get soft on me now.”

but when he catches you smiling, he smirks.

because of course he peeled it. of course he cares.

he just needs you to understand that his love isn’t loud — it’s in the quiet things. like protecting you from citrus juice and acting like it means nothing.

ʚ・lewis hamilton

you barely get the words out, “can you peel this for me?”

and lewis is already taking the orange from your hand.

“no problem, babe.”

he sits beside you, cross-legged on the couch, and starts peeling it with careful fingers, chatting about his day while he removes the white pith piece by piece.

then he gets up, walks to the kitchen, and returns with it sliced.

“i thought we’d elevate the citrus experience.”

you stare at him, wide-eyed. “lewis, it’s an orange.”

“exactly,” he grins. “you deserve your fruit with style.”

he kisses your forehead, then curls up beside you as if he didn’t just turn a tiktok test into an act of service so soft it made your heart melt.

he never calls attention to it, but he always peels your oranges after that. leaves them in little containers when you’re busy. packs them in your bag before flights.

you never have to ask again. and you know why.

because lewis isn’t just your boyfriend — he’s the kind of person who peels oranges like he’s caring for your soul.

ʚ・george russell

george blinks down at the orange you placed in his lap like it’s a bomb. “…you want me to peel this?”

“yup,” you grin. “no knife allowed.”

he stares at it, then at you. “this is a trick, isn’t it?”

“nope. just love language stuff.”

he huffs but you can see the gears turning. within two minutes, he’s looked up the most efficient orange peeling methods on his phone and begins carefully creating what can only be described as citrus origami.

“george, you’re taking this too seriously.”

“incorrect. i’m taking you seriously.”

he finishes with a perfectly spiraled peel, hands you the orange like a gift, and raises his brows. “well? did i pass your little test?”

you bite into a slice and nod, stunned. “you aced it. definitely best in class.”

he beams and mutters something about how he’d like that on the record.

you find out later that he’s now obsessed with fruit prep. pineapples. mangoes. grapefruits. the works.

all because you handed him a single orange.

and george russell doesn’t do anything halfway, especially not love.

ʚ・carlos sainz

you hand carlos an orange and say, “can you peel this for me?”

he blinks. “are your hands broken?”

you give him a look. he gives you one back.

he sighs. “you’re doing one of your tiktok psychology things again, aren’t you?”

you say nothing. just smile sweetly and leave the room.

a few minutes later, you hear him mumbling in spanish, something like “why do i always fall for this nonsense…”

but sure enough, the orange is peeled. slices separated. a napkin even folded beside it.

you grin. “i knew you loved me.”

he points a finger. “i only did it because i didn’t want you making a mess.”

“sure,” you say, popping a slice in your mouth. “that’s the reason.”

the next day, you find two oranges in your lunch bag. peeled. packed. one labeled “for mi amor” with a heart.

carlos acts like he has no idea how they got there.

but when you thank him with a kiss on the cheek, he just hums and goes, “well… i do spoil you.”

and you both know the truth: he always will.

ʚ・charles leclerc

when you ask charles to peel an orange for you, he doesn’t even blink. “okay.”

you expected teasing. maybe a confused “why?” or at least a sarcastic comment.

but no, he just quietly takes it and starts peeling like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

halfway through, he looks up. “…wait. is this a test?”

you nearly choke laughing.

“oh my god. it’s one of those tiktoks, isn’t it?”

you nod. “so? did you pass?”

he pauses, holding out the perfectly peeled fruit. “i mean… it’s in one piece. that’s worth at least a b+.”

you take a slice and smile. “a+ for effort.”

charles keeps stealing glances at you the rest of the day.

that night, he casually places another peeled orange on your nightstand before bed.

no words. just soft fingers brushing yours as he hands it over.

and in the quiet, you realize this man would do anything for you.

even pass little love tests without realizing he was taking them.

ʚ・lando norris

“peel it yourself,” lando says immediately when you hand him the orange.

you pout. “fine. i just thought you loved me.”

he groans like you just kicked his puppy. “oh come on.”

you walk away.

ten minutes later, you hear him cursing softly in the kitchen.

“why is this so hard?! this peel is evil.”

he returns with a mangled, chaotic-looking orange and dramatically sets it in front of you.

“it’s done. don’t say i never do anything for you.”

you try to bite into a slice and get hit with the bitterness of leftover peel.

“you suck at this,” you laugh.

he grins and kisses your temple. “yeah, but i tried. and that counts.”

the next day, he hands you a pre-peeled orange in a ziploc bag like he’s been training for it.

he also printed a label that says “from your emotionally available boyfriend.”

progress.

ʚ・oscar piastri

when you hand oscar an orange and ask him to peel it, he gives you the driest look imaginable. “…why?”

“just do it,” you say, kicking your feet on the couch. “please?”

he doesn’t ask questions. just takes the orange and gets to work.

two minutes later, he hands it back, peeled clean, slices stacked neatly like a pinterest tutorial.

you raise a brow. “…that was suspiciously fast.”

he shrugs. “it’s not that hard.”

“you didn’t even ask why i wanted it peeled.”

“didn’t need to. you wanted it, i did it. simple.”

your heart actually stumbles.

later that night, he places another orange in your hands, already peeled, in a container, lid snapped on.

he doesn’t say anything. just walks off like it’s no big deal.

but you’re left there holding the container like he just proposed.

because when oscar piastri quietly decides to care about you he really means it.

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[writingjourney]

For Reasons Wretched & Divine

In a desperate attempt to seek out the third Papa’s counsel on an intimate matter a Sister of Sin slips into the confessional one night – only to be met by the voice of Papa Emeritus II instead. Or: Secondo teaches his favourite Sister how to pleasure the man she is infatuated with – unaware that he is exactly who she wants.

content: 19.6k words, pov third person, sexual inexperience, finger sucking, dry humping, gloves & hands, oral sex (both receiving), mild spit kink, choking/sensitive gag reflex, emotional hurt/comfort, praise, sex toys, power imbalance, dom/sub dynamic, soft dom!secondo, p in v, confessions

➽ This is by far the most self-indulgent story I have ever written, also the first one that I ever drew my own banner for. For easier reading I recommend using Ao3 where I split it into three parts of equal length! enjoy ♡

Masterlist – Ao3 link – RATED E – 18+ only

Prelude

He leaves through the list she left on his desk, wets his thumb as he makes his way over to where he hears her getting ready, a small office space he had arranged specifically for her in his basement area. A click as she closes her black leather briefcase and he leans against the doorframe, watching as she slings it over her shoulder, caving in under the heavy weight before she adjusts the painful strap.

“Are you carrying around stones, hm?” he asks.

She turns, mouth parting, her features tensing for a fraction of a second as they always do when he comes close. A static feeling, the room charged with unspoken tension. But then her eyes flicker to his bare forearms, to the open collar of his shirt, the evidence that it is not discomfort that has her body reacting like that. Amused, he focuses back on the list at hand.

“I checked out some books from the library earlier,” she says by way of explanation.

“Are you done for the day, then, sorella?”

“I’m done unless you need me, Papa. I have finished my work.”

“I always have need of you, cara, you are the only one I trust with this task.” He glances up again over the rim of his reading glasses, a mild smile tugging at his lips. “But you have earned your free evening.”

“Perhaps Sister can give me a few more hours down here,” she suggests and the thought alone seems to bring more colour to her face, her fingers shaking as they fiddle with her bag. “I would love to, anyway.”

“Would you, hm?” He cocks his head. “I admit that is not something I am used to hearing.”

No, many Siblings don’t get along with his temperament, the fact that he is rather particular about how he expects things to be done, giving up fast instead of rising to the challenge. Not her, though, no, determined as she is, eager to learn from him, eager to please. For months she’s been down here now, two days a week, cataloguing his vast collection of art, books, and relics, many long afternoons spent in idle conversation as they take notes, more at his probing than hers, though she has a habit of getting him to talk more freely than he is used to.

They are entirely too familiar with each other. He knows the names of her parents, where she grew up, how she takes her coffee and the brand of her perfume, what take out food she likes to order, the books she’s been reading. It would be easy enough to carry their conversations outside of this place, to deepen that bond over a nicely cooked meal. And yet something is holding her back, a flicker of hesitation he can see whenever he tries to go further, when his touches aren’t quite as accidental, when his flirting becomes a little more daring. Or perhaps it is fear, the heat of shame that she is attracted to him of all people. It fascinates him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Papa,” she says, the heavy bag propped against her hip.

Before she can walk by his arm reaches to block her path, a teasing smile on his lips, one he can’t resist. “Sorella, you are forgetting.”

Heat springs to her face, he thinks he can feel it when she leans in to press her soft cheek to his, a practiced ritual. He gives a quick peck but it comes with that Italian intensity, a kiss that lingers long after, the scratching of his cheek, the wet mark of eager lips, and he hopes she can feel it as he does. Her gaze darkens and for a second he expects her to drop to her knees in front of him, confess every single dirty thought she ever had. He would indulge her, naturally. Give her even more ideas.

“Good night,” she whispers, voice nothing more than an exhale.

He nods, satisfied enough with her reaction, his arm falling back down to let her pass. It takes her a moment to notice, before she can break away from his gaze, and his amused chuckle follows her out of the basement. A puzzle he will solve – in due time, and sooner than he expects.

─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───

I – Confession Pt. 1

The only sound in the chapel is the slow rustle of his book as he turns the page.

A slow, solitary night. His official duties have been scarce since entering retirement – though, this is a word he would not use for himself. Retiring, the implication that he can now rest, that his life’s work is over and he gets to be idle. It is not something he wants and though he enjoys the added freedoms he hasn’t been making much use of them. Reduced to confession duty, taking over shifts for his busy younger brother, filling the vacant spots for weekday masses where only few Siblings attend, the view from the pulpit barely reminding him of who he once was. Papa, entertainer, showman, womaniser. Now, it suits him best when he is holed up in his basement all day, restoring flaky artworks, rebinding old tomes he’s been collecting over the years, old school heavy metal blasting from his speakers to drown out any thoughts that could slip into his head. Old school, yes, that is what he is as well now. Rocked down, used, waiting to be discarded.

Confession duty makes him feel useful, at least. It is an irregular night, Terzo nursing an ailment of his vocal chords, urged not to speak unless absolutely necessary. Secondo does not mind taking over. His nights have been quieter, the company he used to keep reduced to the fulfilment of basic needs, the odd overnight stay, a dinner in town here and there. Being stripped of the Papal title came with the added sting of losing the appeal to many. No more grandiose performances.

Purpose, company. It is what he is missing.

He tries not to be offended by how many Siblings show up expecting Terzo and being not quite as enthusiastic once they realise he’s not there. Secondo has his own regulars during the nights he’s on duty, it is the way of things. Discussing such private matters, it requires trust. As the night progresses, however, his breaks stretch out longer. He gets his reading done, a worn copy of The Divine Comedy, read many times over.

When he hears footsteps he pauses, listens whether they carry over or if someone came for a late night prayer. Secondo softly closes his book, pockets it in his black cassock. They approach, sit down behind the lattice on that slippery, worn-down wooden plank, and he readies himself for the well-practiced speech of encouragement he is so used to delivering at any such occasion that a Sibling seeks him out. It is late, his duties almost over, and it is not a rare thing for someone to purposely arrive at this hour, usually when the matter they seek to discuss is of an especially delicate nature. Before he can speak, however, the Sister on the other of the lattice already falls into her confession.

“Forgive me Papa, I know the hour is late and you have lent your ear to many Siblings already but I must–” A deep breath and he sits up straighter as he realises who is talking on the other side. “I must confess that your kind words a few days ago have encouraged me to ask for your counsel in a matter that has been giving me many sleepless nights as of late.”

With no small amount of confusion he realises that she too must mean his brother. He is unaware of such an incident as the one she is describing and last he saw her – this very evening when she left her office with that heavy bag slung over her shoulder – she did not give a hint at being weighed down by something else.

Before he can make himself known, she is already continuing, the words flowing out of her so fast that he can sense the nervousness in her speech. “Perhaps I should start by telling you that I know, as you said, that there is no shame in inexperience and I am aware I am far from the only one who might be insecure about these things. However, the fact of the matter is… there is someone rather experienced who I have become infatuated with. A man, to be precise.” Another deep breath. “He doesn’t know about any of this and he might not even feel the same way about me but still I fear that he might be sorely disappointed if he… if he ever did decide to be intimate with me and found out how very… lacking I am. And I am not talking about sex, per se, the issue is rather… The issue is rather that I have never performed a specific act during my past encounters and I know that I will struggle with it.”

“And what act would that be?” he asks, without thinking.

She audibly startles, though she is trying to hide her gasp. For a second she says nothing, then she stammers out, “Oh, this is– Papa– I don’t–”

“Mi dispiace, sorella, you may have expected my brother to be here tonight. I can assure you, however, that you can confide in me just the same.”

Hurried breathing, he fights off an amused smile at her reaction. “But– because we work together–”

“I assure you of my discretion,” he replies. “I have done this for many decades, sorella. None of what we speak about in here will leave the confines of the confessional.”

She takes a moment to consider, perhaps feeling trapped now which is not his intent. He gives her time, the quiet settling once again. After spending so much time together he can’t shake the hint of disappointment that she’d go to his brother of all people, that she still seems too wary to confide in him.

“It’s just–” She takes a deep breath and he fights the urge to take a look at her through the lattice. “Will you be disappointed in me that I feel ashamed of my own inexperience?”

Ah. Is that what kept her from confiding in him? The fear that his good opinion of her might change? “I will never be disappointed by something like this, sorella,” he assures her. “I am only disappointed that you still distrust me so.”

“I trust you,” she stresses. “I do trust you. I think you’re the person who knows me best in this ministry but I do not want things to change between us. You’re… you’re the closest I have to a real friend.”

He cocks his head, surprised by this admission. “I promise you this will not change. I am here, cara. Take your time.”

For a second, she does not speak, shifts around on the bench. He hears her take a few shaky breaths and while this is not out of the ordinary it is unusual for her. Secondo did not take her reluctance for insecurity before tonight, confident as she is in her work, in dealing so well with him of all people. It is endearing to him, makes his heart ache inside his hollow chest in a way he doesn’t quite understand.

“I have been with people,” she says, then, “but it wasn’t… it wasn’t ever anything special. Some… some fumbling, kisses that escalated and ultimately just a sort of disappointingly quick conclusion. I’ve not been very adventurous, it is hard for me to trust people so intimately with my body.”

“And there is nothing wrong with that,” he assures her, glued to her every word.

“Thank you for saying that.” Another pause. “It is just, now that… there is this man, I realised that I am lacking the skills that… that he might be used to. He is experienced and he knows what he wants which is something I find very attractive. And yes, this should not change his feelings for me, if he has any feelings for me, but if he does not want to take things beyond a physical nature then this might put a quick end to whatever is between us. Before I have a chance to convince him.”

“I see.” Secondo tries not to be vexed by this, the idea of helping her to please another man. “Sorella, dolce ragazza, will you tell me what it is that you are so intimidated by? Is it an usual thing this man wants from you?”

“No, that’s the thing, Papa. It is not unusual at all, it is… Satan, this is pitiful.” She groans into her hands, a pained, muffled sound. “It’s the fact that I have never pleased a man with… with my mouth.”

“Ah.”

“I know this is… it is such a basic thing,” she rambles on. “I am embarrassed, I should not be so worried about it but it’s that I… I am sort of sensitive if you understand what I mean and I’m afraid if I tried… it’d just end in a pathetic performance and he’d decide that he can do better.”

He can feel the blood draining from his face, pooling lower into his body. Only briefly is he irritated by this, being aroused by the mere fraction of the idea of feeling her gagging on his cock. But he can’t indulge this now, not when she is this upset about it. “Sorella, I do not have to tell you that he is not worth your time if this is his reaction.”

“I know and he might not– this might not happen. But with this fear, I’m sure my nerves will make it even worse. I just don’t want to get hurt.”

Secondo takes a deep breath and shifts to sit more upright, leaning towards the lattice now. “As I see it, there are two ways to soothe your worries, sorella. You must confess to him when the time arrives and you wish to please him – and you must tell him truthfully. If he is a man deserving of you he will neither laugh nor judge but guide you with patience. But you must want it, sorella. Remember that every act of sin in Lucifer’s name is one of great enthusiasm, not one of pressure or a sense of duty. If you never wish to perform this act for discomfort or any other reason then he must be understanding of this as well and respect your wishes.”

“But what if he isn’t, Papa? What if he doesn’t want to be with me when he finds out?”

“Then he is not a man that should ever be allowed to touch another person, let alone you. If this should happen, sorella, or if he forces you to do things you do not want, then you will come to me, yes? Promise me.”

She seems taken aback by his vehemence, quiet for a while, but then he sees the shadow of her nodding her head. “I promise.” He hears a sniffle, one that tears right through him. He hasn’t noticed her crying. “But… but what is the other way, Papa?”

Closing his eyes, he fights off the urge to step out of this booth and comfort her. He has ulterior motives, of course, biting at him like tiny parasites, not necessarily a bad conscience, he does mean to help her, but the urges underneath are anything but good.

“If you truly wish to learn, then they key is practice – with your hands, with a safe tool or perhaps… an experienced guide.”

He waits for her reaction now, hoping he did not overstep, that he has been reading her right and despite her feelings for another man she still harbours this attraction to him that he’s sensed when they work. He should not be toying with her in such a vulnerable moment, no, but if it would help guide her into the arms of someone he knows will keep her safe?

“A guide?” she asks.

He fights off a satisfied smile, curious as ever. “Someone you trust, sorella. Someone with experience and patience to show you how it is done.”

“I could not ask anyone of such a thing, Papa. They’d think I’ve lost my mind.”

“Would they?” he replies, then, unable to hold it back, “Who would you ask, sorella? My brother?”

“No!” Her voice rises. “It’s not like that, Papa. I did not– I just wanted reassurance from him, not to– I don’t think about him like that. And I don’t imagine anyone would voluntarily offer to be subjected to shitty blowjobs for a few weeks, least of all Papa.”

“Sorella, you trust me?”

This time, she does not hesitate. “I do, Papa.”

“Then will you come over?”

“Come ov– right now?”

“Yes.”

He hears the wood creaking when she gets up, the soft opening and closing of the door to her booth. In front of his door she hesitates and he almost thinks this is the moment she’ll run away but then, with a visibly shaking hand, she opens. Moonlight streams in, illuminating her face that is still streaked with silent tears. He holds out a hand, and although it is a tight space she fits perfectly into his lap when he drags her there. If she notices that he’s already half-hard she does not comment, secured with a hand around his shoulder.

“Sorella,” he whispers, wiping at her cheeks. “It pains me to see you like this. You should have come to me a long time ago.”

“I know, Papa.”

“Will you let me help you now?”

She glances away, tensing. “I– Would you truly want to?”

“Yes.”

“And not out of pity?”

“No pity, cara.”

She eases in his grasp, allows him to cradle her face in his warm leather gloves. He knows they feel good on the skin, smell of the woodsy oil he uses to keep them soft. It tugs at him, that she is so distressed because of a man who is most likely not even worthy of her. No one is, though, that he knows. And he’d keep her alone if he could, their days spent down in the basement, sorting through his collection between bouts of frantic sex and good food. He’d show her everything, patiently, make her feel so good she’d never think about another man’s cock ever again.

“I’m scared to disappoint,” she admits, then, unusually small.

“I know,” he says. “You want to be good at everything you do, hm? I have noticed this with your work. But we cannot be good at everything right away. I was not, I assure you.”

“You’ve done it before?”

He nods, thumbs stroking over her soft cheeks. “I have done many things, some of which I was good at some of which were just not as good as in my head, hm? It does not matter if you are the best at it, ragazza mia, it matters that you enjoy it just as much as the man who receives it. Or at the very least that you do not mind doing it for someone you like.”

She smiles and he can see her finding back to herself, her gaze stronger, her hands on him firmer, assuring him that she does want to be here, do this with him. Shifting his weight a little he leans back so that she can rest more comfortably in his lap, leaning against the wooden side of the booth. His fingers stroke along her  jaw now, one hand moving to her hip while the other traces the curve below her ear, then forward to her chin, over to the other side. He does it until she’s relaxed, used to his touch.

Then he toys with her mouth. She tenses only shortly, allows him to part her lips, completely enraptured by his ministrations. It’s how he’s seen her look at him during mass, one of the few Siblings who never misses any of those he leads. A smile spreads on his lips, pride that she does indeed trust him, perhaps even longs for him, the intimacy he offers, his company. Slow movements, a finger tracing her bottom lip, feeling her teeth against the tip of it.

More daring, he pushes his thumb inside, makes her spread her mouth open wider. She shivers but allows it, her eyes never leaving his. The muscles in her jaw are tense. After a moment he removes his hand, tugs at his glove until it comes off. Perhaps tasting skin will make it more familiar and he has to admit that the thought of feeling her warm mouth on his finger makes his own heart speed up, that heat in his lower belly now simmering on a steady flame.

“Is this good?” he asks.

She nods.

“Words, my dove, I need to hear it.”

“It’s okay, Papa.”

“Brava.”

He begins by tracing her lips again. This time, he inserts his index finger, longer, pushing further inside. When he sees that she tolerates it he adds his middle finger, a little deeper once again. He does not let it deter him when she gags right away, just retreats a little before going back to where she was comfortable. His fingers are big, he is aware of it, and she has never taken anyone into her mouth, something that thrills him more than he wants to admit to her face. If it takes him a long time to get her to take all of him then it only means that whatever man she was talking about will slip further and further from her mind.

“Not everyone is comfortable taking things in their mouth,” he explains. “It is only natural for the body to fight off the intrusion when unused to it, hm? It is for survival, sorella, it wants to protect you and you cannot blame it for that. But if you wish it so then we can practice and it will be easier with time. Do you want that?”

She nods, mumbling an affirmative around his digits. He smiles, lifts his other hand to pet her jaw encouragingly. Once again he presses down a little harder, goes a little deeper, and this time she is prepared.

“Breathe through your nose,” he instructs. “Relax your muscles, it makes it easier.”

She tries, he sees it, feels her breath against his knuckles. But it only lasts for a short time before she gags again, sensitive just like she’d said, perhaps even more so than he’s expected. But it is good, he thinks, this is perfect. He can show her, the ideal excuse to be close to her like this.

“Shhh,” he coos when she struggles to breathe, removing his fingers to the tips of her lips. “We will get you there, my dove. Do not worry any longer, your Papa will help you. You only have to trust me and you do, do you not?”

Another nod. At his raised brow she speaks, “I trust you, Papa. More than anyone.”

“Good. We will not go any further now. I want you to think about it, sorella, make sure this is what you want, yes? The next time I see you we will try again and perhaps we will try more if you are ready. We can go as slow as you need, but now you need some rest. I do not want to hear about sleepless nights again, at least not if I am not the cause of it.”

She nods, smiles at his jest and shifts in his lap, the arousal sitting uncomfortable between her legs. He knows he mirrors this discomfort, unable to keep his hips completely still. It is not for tonight, however, too much for her to work through already. But she looks grateful, he thinks, her eyes stay dry and the relief is palpable as her body finally relaxes.

This time, she does not forget. “Goodnight, Papa,” she whispers and leans in, pressing her face to his to exchange those wet cheek kisses. He holds still, waits for her to kiss his first, loudly, before he reciprocates. When she breaks away a hint of mischief is laced into her smile. “And thank you.”

His hands tighten on her hips for a second, keeping her there in his lap and holding her gaze with all that he wants to promise. Satisfied that she returns it without as much as a flinch he releases her and she slides off his lap, leaving the booth without another sound.

“Goodnight, indeed,” he whispers, adjusting the bulge in his pants underneath his cassock. When he picks up his book the words swim on the page. He still has another hour.

─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───

II – Lesson Plans

It won’t let go of him.

When he tries to sleep, when he prepares his breakfast, when he sits through a three hour clergy meeting, when he writes Friday’s sermon. His fingers in her mouth, his cock already hard at the mere feeling of her tongue on his skin, that shaky admission of fear and the trust that followed, a festering shame in her eyes that he desperately wants to free her from. Perhaps it is presumptuous, that he thinks it should be him who helps her.

Not that he lacks conviction.

Secondo knows he can show her how to embrace the exploration of her needs better than anyone, the novelty of giving pleasure, a new world he can open up for her. Yes, he can do right by her, encouragement and patience and his guiding hand, protect her from the pain of a lesser man. That she would have him baptise her, it is a gift, or he considers it as such. A thing of beauty, that Lucifer brought her into his care.

His thoughts have been straying to her before that night, that nagging curiosity of why she’s holding back from him, the tingle of lust that has become rarer with age but that she stokes so easily with her presence. Secondo is not in the habit of overthinking, no. Instead he’s pushing uncomfortable thoughts as far away as possible, stuffed into that dark ugly corner in his mind that he has decided to black out, lest they get a chance to hurt him. This is an entirely different matter, an added layer he did not consider before, one that is harder to push away.

There is someone she likes. Someone whose cock she’s been thinking about having in her mouth.

That someone might or might not be him.

Ink drops splatter out of his fountain pen as he realises he subconsciously increased the pressure. He’s beyond cursing, sits back in his office chair instead, identifying his jealousy for what it is. It does not bode well for him, a risk he’d avert if it were anyone else, entanglement, serious feelings. Would she have gone to Terzo of all people to talk about her attraction to him? Terzo would not have known, of course, unless she’d told him, but he is too perceptive for his own good, probably knows she’s been spending hours down here. He can see his brother laughing, telling her to stay as far away from his stronzo brother as possible, semi-serious, perhaps, but Terzo has a way of caring too deeply about his flock and he knows Secondo is not in the habit of reciprocating crushes, rare as they are these days.

Almost a week passes before he sees her again. He makes a note in his calendar to ask Sister to send her here more often, already dreading that conversation. It’s quickly forgotten when he hears her coming down the stairs. She greets him the same way they say goodbye, a kiss to the cheek, a routine he established in one of his slow attempts to take things further. He notes that she is inching a little closer to his mouth, the imprint of her lips lingering in the lines of his jaw.

At first, he does not say anything. They get to work, she catalogues, he wastes some time sorting through a few boxes of books he had recently delivered from Florence where he was a resident Cardinal a few years before his Papacy. Even so, he can’t help but observe her, the diligence, the care with which she treats his belongings, no matter how sturdy or delicate. More importantly, she does not once look at her phone all day. Whoever this other man is can’t be that important.

You’re the closest I have to a real friend, she said in the confessional and he wonders if it is what drives her down here and, in the same breath, whether it is what he feels underneath as well, why he keeps her here, that need for company. Perhaps age has softened him, so much so that he suddenly thinks about a permanent companion for the decade or two that the world has left for him. He doesn’t want to be her friend, no. But is it not how many people start out? Trust, company, friendship, then more. If he can eliminate whoever else is in the equation–

“Papa, I–” She stops when he jumps, cutting his thumb on the cardboard box. “I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, please go on, sorella.”

Her face is tense, as if he’d startled her instead. She stops wringing her hands, steels her gaze, and he ignores that throbbing in his finger. “I was wondering when we would start our… training.”

It’s late into the afternoon, not that the artificial light in the basement would give any indication. He was waiting for her to be done, call her into his office, see how she’d feel about getting on her knees for him today, but he is too pleased with this progression, her seeking him out. “I take it you have thought about my offer and decided to accept?”

“I have,” she says, not quite so insecure anymore. “And I want to. I am eager to learn and I trust you to teach me.”

“Good,” he says, the books in the boxes long forgotten. At times, she is an enigma to him. It is hard to console the crying sister in the confessional with the woman stood before him, the woman who tolerates his moods, his outward aloofness, tugs at those strings deep inside of him that he doesn’t let anyone else touch. He feels like she is playing him as much as he’s trying to play her and it’s that thrill that makes him reckless with his feelings.

In the end, he leads her to that battered old leather sofa he’s more or less discarded in the back corner, once stood in his own quarters, now exchanged for a firmer model to help with his back pains. It does the job, envelops him when he sits down, comfortable, as relaxed as he’ll ever be at the prospect of a beautiful Sister using her mouth on him. He doesn’t bother with the paint outside of mass anymore and he’s omitted the cassock as well, like most days down here. Just in his slacks and a black button-down he knows he makes quite a compelling sight, even at his age, and she does eye him a little longer than appropriate.

“Right here?” she asks, though it does not really matter. Hardly anyone strays down here, into his domain, and he’s never been one to hide away. She knows this, and when he nods she doesn’t fight him.

“Come here,” he orders, much to her confusion. “Into my lap,” he clarifies.

“But–”

“Sorella, you are beautiful and I am eager to see you on your knees but not even I am ready on command.”

He didn’t mean it as a joke but she laughs, genuinely, and he is way too pleased with himself. Still, her body is rigid when she places her thighs on either side of him, hesitant to fully rest her weight. Secondo is not. His hands settle on her hips and he drags her over his crotch, bunching her habit up enough to feel bare skin and her panties barely hiding the outline of her cunt.

No, this was not part of the deal, not really. He doesn’t care.

“Sorella, tell me again that this is what you want.”

“I do– I,” her voice gives way to a moan, his cock twitching unasked against her core. “Papa–”

“It is not just your mouth that is sensitive, hm?”

His teasing brings heat to her cheeks, suddenly bashful again, and he feels it when he runs his thumb over her skin, making sure to lift her jaw, have her look at him when she feels his size for the first time. She’s pretty like that, aching, overwhelmed by the barest of touches.

“Tell me,” he repeats.

“I want this,” she says.

It’s good enough for him and he has her grinding a few more times, just for his own enjoyment, to see her fight against the need to have him inside of her. Which is not why they are here, no, but he wouldn’t mind getting her to think about it, to yearn for it every time they see each other.

“Now get on your knees for me,” he whispers, eyes still on her, and there is not a hint of defiance in those pupils. She does exactly as he says, slides off his lap and gets between his now spread thighs. He hands her a pillow and she pushes it under her knees, hands carefully grasping at his pants, hesitant but not uncomfortable. The sight overwhelms him. If he hadn’t been hard from her grinding alone he surely would be now.

“I don’t know–” she starts but trails off when he guides her hands to his belt. The front of his pants is already damp but not from him, no. She looks ashamed when she notices and, displeased, he presses her hand to the wet patch.

“I do not want to see this expression, sorella,” he says. “In here, there is no shame, do you understand?” She nods and he reaches for her jaw, lifting her gaze. “Words, my dove.”

“No shame,” she echos. “I understand.”

“Brava ragazza. Now open.”

Her fingers shake but she’s deft enough to be done within seconds, flinching when her hands meet the velvety skin of his dick. With a slight wriggle of his hips he’s slid his pants down far enough for more comfort and she looks up at him, wide-eyed.

He has to fight the urge to laugh. “You will not be taking it all,” he says. “Only as much as you can.”

His words do not seem to calm her, though her eyes linger and he wonders how long it’s been since those disappointing encounters she’s been speaking of. He’s prepared to form more words of reassurance, however many it takes, but then she gets over her fear and cradles him in her hand, curling her fingers around him with some fascination. For some reason, it is not what he expected, that softness, the affection in her touch. His arousal pearls from his slit and she thumbs at him, still gentle, and he tries not to bite his fist. It’s not enough, though.

“Use your spit,” he says, mesmerised by the sight of her.

She looks up, a line of worry deep in her forehead. Secondo takes her hand and, meeting her eyes, lifts it up to his mouth. His tongue works against his cheek until he’s ready to spit into her palm, just enough to help her out. A whimper and her hips shift uncomfortably, another thing he saves for later. But he can’t think about how wet she must be by now if he wants to last for more than a minute.

When her hand next wraps around his length it perfectly slides over his skin. She is not bad at this, he notes, a good soft pressure that firms when she twists towards his tip. Her eyes shift between his cock and his face, taking in every little change in his expression, attentive, already working her mind to learn and improve, not from books or his words this time, and he feels oddly exposed, the mirror suddenly held back at him.

“You are doing well,” he says. “Can you take the tip, cara? Keep your hands on the rest.”

She does, closing both of her hands around him. Then her lips wrap around his tip for the first time and he thinks perhaps he’s the one who will embarrass himself today. His hips buck and he tries to hide it by reaching for her head, fiddling with her hair to keep it out of her face. She looks up at him, mildly confused, but she keeps going without question, rotating her hands and licking at his slit, pillowy lips covering her teeth which tells him she knows the basics. It is a kiss, nothing more, and yet the pleasure in his core is undeniable.

“Very good,” he praises, revelling in the way every little compliment has her eyes sparkling, her confidence growing. “It is good, my dove, you are doing well. A little more, hm?”

She takes him so deep that he can feel his cock resting in the centre of her tongue, right where it flexes on the underside of him, his tip at the hollow of her hard palate. It will be enough for today, he thinks, for him and for her. Her gaze alone could be enough, those insecure, hopeful eyes, wide as they gaze up at him. He pets her head, strokes through the silk of her hair, allowing her to go as slow as she wants. It occurs to him, then, that he does not want this to end, that he’s perfectly content just taking her in for a while.

“Your mouth is perfect,” he whispers. “Have you been thinking about this, hm? Having a cock on your tongue?”

She nods, moving her mouth over his tip, deliciously slow, and when she pulls his foreskin back a little he’s starting to see stars.

“My cock?” he can’t help but ask and once again she nods. He fights back a growl, feels that tightness in his abdomen, all the way down to his balls. He can’t be close already, not from this, and yet– “Come up here.”

She jumps, lets go with a pop. He doesn’t care, pulls her back up into his lap and forward, her panties soaked, dripping onto his cock when he places her just so. With a startled whimper she holds onto his shoulders but he’s already dragging her across his lap, back and forth, until finally she begins grinding on her own again, only that flimsy damp layer between them. Within moments he empties himself into the mess between them and at first she doesn’t notice, not until she’s clenching and shaking and he carefully stops her, begins to ache from the friction.

They breathe for a while, that ebb and flow of pleasure slowly fading, electric pulses between their bodies. Secondo lifts her head from his shoulder to see her and she’s practically glowing, a sight that calms him, satisfied that he managed to pull her there with him.

“When will we do this again?” she asks, breathless, frowning when he laughs at her eagerness.

“Tomorrow,” he says, “and every night when we are here, if you want it.”

She nods, that excited clench of her jaw. He reaches out, wipes a sheen of sweat from her brow. This is the sight, he thinks, the sight he could get used to for years to come. But he is getting ahead of himself, not thinking with the right organ.

“Your homework is to practice by yourself whenever we do not see each other,” he says. “Can you do that?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Good.”

He bends them both forward, working his pants closed with a full view of her ruined panties. She leans in, damp cheek to damp cheek, pressing a kiss to his skin that is so soft he has to stop himself from keeping her down here until she can’t walk anymore. He can hardly reciprocate, trying to reign himself in, waits until she’s slipped from his lap before he allows himself to move again.  He doesn’t remember the last time his body has betrayed him like that. Nor does he understand why he is not mad about it.

─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───

III – Dried Tears

He adjusts his schedule. Over the next week Secondo’s days revolve around finding ways to see her. Twice a week is insufficient, though he still only lets her touch him in the basement, makes sure not to go much further than that first time. Security, a safe routine. He won’t let her make him come with her mouth, not quite yet. Everything else is for him, observing her during mass, finding her in the gardens where she helps out two days a week, not exactly following her around but letting his curiosity get the better of him.

There is no other man.

He is sure of it now, or as sure as he can be. She never visits anyone else, sees a handful of friends, all of which decidedly aren’t men, not to his knowledge, and that’s the word she used. There is someone rather experienced who I have become infatuated with. A man, to be precise. If there is a man like that who is not Secondo then he is not here in the abbey.

After two weeks of this sluggish routine he’s had enough. He’s toyed with the idea, surprising her in her quarters on a night she’s not with him, to see what she would do, but it takes him a week to finally follow through. He knows where they are, naturally, though he never usually steps foot inside the dorms. It is an exception, he tells himself, freshly showered, neatly shaved, an extra spritz of cologne, he even used that damned moisturiser Terzo keeps pushing into his hands, made sure his cheeks aren’t dry when she kisses them.

She opens and he thinks she’ll slam the door back into his face. He’s assertive, doesn’t let her surprise affect him, though for a moment he wonders if he did overstep, the other man suddenly not so fake anymore, that short flash of fear that he’s with her right now. But no, she recovers and lets him in, and he surveys her small bedroom with a quick glance when he leans in to press that much desired kiss to her cheek. Empty, no signs of a male presence, and she still smells like shower gel and shampoo, wearing sweats under a plain white shirt, no bra.

“I didn’t expect you, Papa,” she says, picking up items from the countertops of her kitchenette, “or I would have prepared something. A drink or–”

“No need,” he interrupts, noting that she is nervous for nothing. Her small accommodation is tidy enough, that same order she so easily brings into his collection, a logic that somehow works for them both, and he thinks it suits her, a comfortable bed with a plethora of differently textured pillows, a bookshelf that despite some overflow is neatly sorted. “It is best if we are sober. For now, at least. I am not intruding?”

“No, not at all. I was about to settle in for the evening, nothing special.” She eyes him and he knows he must look out of place in his usual black slacks and button-down, the black leather gloves, an overdressed man in her safe, comfortable space like an alien presence. “Would you like anything else? A glass of water?”

He nods, though all he wants is to stall, take a better look at her environments. A small television with a handful of old DVDs, a table she seems to use both as a desk and to eat at. The closed door to her small bathroom, a wardrobe. Then, a stack of library books on her nightstand. He remembers her shouldering that heavy briefcase a few weeks ago. The secrets to pleasure. Sexual practices and their history. The art of oral. Yes, she is eager to learn, no half-hearted efforts.

“Have you been practicing, my dove?” he asks with a smug grin, tracing the image of a man and woman nakedly intertwined on the cover of one of the books.

When she joins him she’s back to her bashful self, as though she hasn’t had his cock in her mouth multiple times by now. “I have tried.”

“That is all I ask,” he reassures. “How have you been doing it? With your fingers?”

She hands him the glass and he takes a performative sip, then sets it down, thinks that she might need it later. Her crouching down in front of her nightstand is more interesting, the drawer she opens revealing a handful of toys. Nothing he hasn’t seen before – two different size dildos, a suction vibrator, a bottle of lube, a disinfectant – but he is pleased to see that she is taking her pleasure seriously.

When she takes out a simple black silicone dildo, ergonomically shaped, he notes that it is not quite as big as his cock. “I used this.”

“Show me.”

Her eyes widen. “Papa–”

Secondo ignores it, sits down on her bed, perhaps a little impolitely leaning back, making himself comfortable amongst her pillows, shoes still on the floor. She stands there, stares at him, and her expression alone is enough to have him raise his brows, begging her to disobey. She won’t, he knows she won’t, she is so eager to please. And she doesn’t, kneels down, placing the dildo upright on the mattress, both hands around the silicone. He has to fight off an amused smile, the way she sits there, like a little girl praying to her Lord before bedtime.

When her lips finally wrap around the toy she averts her gaze, as if to get it over with. But his goal is not to humiliate her, though she might feel differently about it. He wants to reassure her once again that she does not need to be ashamed in front of him, that her trust is not misplaced.

“Look at me, cara,” he orders. “I want to see your eyes.”

She blinks, slowly bobbing her head, leaving a glistening trail on the black silicone. He doesn’t bother to observe her technique, it’s not about that. When their eyes meet he reaches for her hair, angles her head to make sure she sees him palming at his cock through his pants. He pretends not to see her hard swallow at the visible bulge already there, the way her hips move in aroused discomfort.

“You are doing well,“ he says. “I am very pleased with you. But you can take more, hm?”

She always soaks up his praise, his soft reassurances, like a flower raising her head towards the sun, unfolding in its light. It is rare, for someone to react this strongly to so little, almost innocently, though he knows she is not truly a clueless little lamb, that she is aware of their game and participates with purpose. It is enjoyable, for once doesn’t feel like he is taking on a role, no, she willingly submits to him the moment their interaction becomes sexually charged, as though it’s the nature of things. Otherwise, their relationship hasn’t changed, not when they work, not when he sees her around the abbey. He is glad of it, that she treats him like she did before.

She takes the dildo deeper into her mouth, then, cautiously, and he opens his belt, the button of his slacks, unzips them. Her eyes never leave his hand where it’s fisting his cock, getting himself ready for her, that phantom feeling of her lips around him ever present.

“Eyes on me,” he says and she blinks up at his face. “Have you been thinking about my cock when you took this into your mouth, hm? Did you want it to be me?”

She nods, a moan low in her throat. There is no room for anyone else in the way she looks at him, the way she reacts. He’s not sure why, even now, he still feels that simmering jealousy, that urge to erase anyone else from her mind, even when that someone might not even exist.

“I think it is my turn now,” he decides, aching to feel her mouth.

It is amusing how fast she discards the dildo, crawls over between his legs, resting her cheek against his thigh. He’d feel flattered but he’s too distracted by the way her breasts move underneath her flimsy shirt, the outline of her hard nipples pressing against the fabric. It is getting harder and harder to stick to their routine, to limit their lessons to this one simple thing. But he’s not sure if he can allow himself to go further yet, not when he just crossed another bridge of her safety, encroaching on her space. Her comfort sits above all else, especially above his own whims.

“Will you take off my shoes before we start?” he asks, stroking over her cheek with a gloved finger. She is all bare-faced, her hair still a little damp, beautiful and so trusting, letting him see her like this. He can allow himself to feel tender for her but only when he pretends that he is the man she spoke of in the confessional. How else would he be here, with her eyes staring at him all adoringly? Him, of all people?

And she does move down to his feet, no question. When her fingers fiddle with the laces he notices how shaky she is. So far, he blamed it on the novelty of their setting, the way she seems to crave reassurance even more than usual, but now he is not certain anymore.

Even so she is gentle when she removes his black leather shoes, sets them neatly aside. Her hands come to rest on his ankles, stroking up his socks until she meets bare skin, looking up to await further instruction. He can’t hide the shiver that runs through him at her touch, subconscious as it might be, goosebumps creeping up his whole body, and for a moment they just stare at each other while he tries to find his bearings.

“Papa?”

“You can start, cara,” he says, swallowing over a lump in his throat.

Her hands travel up his legs, over his slacks this time, and when they reach his crotch she pulls them down a little more, making space. She begins by massaging around his base, fingers running through the dark hair there, kissing him wherever she can reach before she makes her way up his length and to his tip. Perhaps she has learned that in one of her books, he thinks with some humour.

This time, she keeps anxiously glancing up at him, mouthing at him with a tight jaw. He reaches out to help her relax, stroking along that soft skin underneath her chin. Her hands still tremble, even as she uses them to stroke him, lubed with her own spit tonight.

“You feel good, my dove,” he praises. “You take me so well, no need to be nervous.”

An agitated breath. She unwraps one of her hands, takes him deeper, tongue flat against his underside, wet and hot and firm. Pulling back his hood she licks along his slit, gently sucking at the tip. He moans, unable to hide the sound, and she sucks harder in response, sinking down further. It’s good, he is about to tell her as much, but then it goes too deep and she gags, pulls back, breathing through her nose just like he showed her.

“Slow,” he says. “We are in no hurry, my dove. You were doing so well. Molto, molto bene.”

She nods, takes him back in, not quite as far this time. Her second hand returns, slow stimulation, not that he minds. She is gentle with him and it has a whole different appeal, not like the messy throaty blowjobs he is used to, no, and he does not want it to be over fast, doesn’t need it to be perfect. Not when she touches him like this, like she wants to, like he’s worthy of such softness.

“Good, brava ragazza,” he whispers. “Keep going, just like that. You can take a bit more.”

She tries again, swallows him deeper until he can feel the soft roof of her mouth, but she has to gag again, her eyes watering, sucking in air through her nose. Secondo gathers her hair, tips her head up, looking at her as he mimics how he wants her to breathe. Doing her best to follow the rhythm, she steadily calms down.

When she seems alright, he allows her to continue but she is too ambitious tonight. Her teeth grace his skin when she swallows him too fast and he winces, more in surprise than in pain. When she looks up at him with some shock she gags again, harder this time, fully pulls away to breathe, sitting back on her heels. He watches, ready to move her in case she does have to throw up, but instead she begins to tremble, thick tears rolling down her nose. A sob and she curls in on herself, crying harder.

“Come here,” he says, which she ignores, at first.

He grabs her arms, pulls her up and she doesn’t fight it. When he tucks her against his chest she wraps herself around him and then she’s buried her face against him as if to hide away.

“I told you, I’m useless,” she whispers.

“Shhh, I will hear no such thing.”

She’s quiet then, still shaking, still crying, but silently now. He has an idea of what’s going through her head, only now she won’t share it, not after he cut her off like that. With some regret, he begins to caress her, soothing, trying to convey that he is not angry with her.

“Talk to me,” he says.

She hiccups. “I won’t be able to do it.”

“You were doing it, my dove,” he assures her. “You are impatient.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He coos, presses soft kisses to her hair. She tried to prove herself to him, he realises, still worried that she’s not good enough, impatient, wanting to be perfect for him already. And he knows she is a fast learner, usually, used to improving quickly, to showing her worth, but she hasn’t understood yet that this is not about perfection, not about skill but trust, intimacy, affection and care.

He doesn’t mind, no, he will show her, teach her what he truly wants. It registers to him in that moment, how rewarding it feels to hold her, to comfort her, and not just to prove to her that he can, no, though it is important that she understands. Secondo has always been a man who enjoys providing care for others, often to the neglect of his own well-being, though not always all that selflessly. For his brothers, spiritual guidance in the ranks of the church, then to care for his lovers, emotional release through physical outlets in the way he was shown as a young man. The truth is he enjoys being needed, being admired, just like she does, and perhaps it is the one thing he misses about the Papacy, as hollow as these connections were. It is not often that someone like her seeks him out, someone who offers such tenderness in return, who seems to care for him in equal amounts, who wants him to want her, no transaction.

Someone who might choose to stay.

That is what he truly wants.

“We will stop for today,” he decides. “No more until you have recovered.”

“No,” she says, sitting up to look at him with wide eyes. “No, I can keep going.”

He wipes at her tear-streaked cheeks, cradles her head. “No more tonight. We have time.”

More tears gather at her waterline and she averts her gaze, stares at her shaking hands. “Please… I promise I can do better. Just… don’t give up on me.”

“Shhh,” he whispers, a flash of pain at her broken voice, draws her back against his chest, tightly wrapped up in his arms. He’s not sure why exactly she is so tense tonight but he can tell when the head is not in it. He should have realised it sooner but it has been a while since he had to steer against uncertain winds. “You are not in the right state of mind for this tonight, cara. I should not have overwhelmed you. It is my fault and I promise will do better.”

“It’s not your fault,” she disagrees.

He sits up a little straighter. “Ragazza mia, listen to your Papa. In this room, when we meet like this, it is my task to make sure that you are comfortable, that you feel safe and taken care of and if you are scared or unhappy, then I have failed you. So let me take this blame, hm? It will not happen again.”

Her sniffles tug at his heart and he makes sure to look at her, to convey how very serious he is. Her slow nod is as much of a concession as he’ll ever get from her stubborn little head but it is good enough for him for now. For a long time after he just holds her like that, ignoring his discomfort, how hard he still is, the buckle of his belt digging into his thigh under her weight.

“I really wanted to make you come today,” she whispers, fiddling with the button below his collar. “I’ve never managed before, I thought– if I showed you–”

He draws a deep breath both in arousal and at the realisation that this is the source of her insecurities, of her impatience. “Do you not realise that this was by design?” He lifts her chin, makes sure to meet her eyes. “I did not allow you to.”

”But– why?”

Secondo sighs, unsure what to tell her. That he did not want to give away what her mouth does to him, no matter how clumsy? That he is so fatally drawn to her that he does not want this arrangement to end? That he wants to stay in control of it, can’t hand himself over just like that? The painful vulnerability he feels when she touches him with her soft hands, soft lips, soft tongue?

“It was not about that,” he says instead. “This is not for me, my dove, it is for you. I do not have to as long as you have learned a thing or two, no? It is not always the result that matters. Tell me, why do you want to learn this? Who is he to you that you care more about his enjoyment than yourself?”

“I don’t,” she says, some defensiveness in her tone. “I just– is that not what you want?”

“What I want?”

“To come.”

He chuckles. “Yes, but it is not all of it. I could do that to myself, no? With another person, it is about trust and care, my dove. Why are you intimate with someone?”

She sighs, pondering his words, sinks back down and presses herself to his chest. His hands roam her body, making use of the unexpected closeness, and he realises how he has been aching for her. He continues on when she doesn’t show any signs of discomfort and he can’t help but toy with the hem of her shirt, goes so far as to take off his gloves just to feel her skin against his fingertips. A pleased shiver runs through her body, a tiny whimper from her lips. He goes on, traces her spine up and down.

Perhaps teaching is not so much about instruction, he thinks, perhaps he has to make her understand.

When she doesn’t protest he presses his hand flat to her ribs, following the soft curve down to her waist, to her hip, back up until he can feel the swell of her breast against his finger. She gasps when he presses against it, the softest brush of his thumb over her flesh.

“Papa,” she whispers, drawing a deep breath and shivering all over. “Please–”

“Please what?”

“Touch me.”

He smiles, palms at her breast, generously, kneading, stroking, flicking his thumb over her nipple. She is a mess within seconds, writhing, whimpering, pressing herself against him. He throbs painfully against her leg that is slung over him, fighting the urge to just fuck her into the mattress until they’re both spent for the night. Secondo is a patient man, yes, but he can feel himself reaching his limit.

“Do you want more?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“You mean yes, Papa.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Good.” He grabs her hips, adjusts her backwards until she is fully on the mattress and he can tower over her. Her face is flushed, hair a mess, her nipples straining against her shirt with every ragged breath. “You trust me, my dove?”

“I trust you, Papa.”

“Then will you let me return the favour?”

She furrows her brow. “But I didn’t even–”

“No arguing,” he decides. “Yes or no?”

“Yes, Papa.”

A smug grin. “Brava ragazza. Hold up your shirt, I want to see you.”

As he climbs off the bed she obeys, gathering the hem and bunching it up until her belly and chest are exposed to him. Pleased, he takes in the state of her, her cheeks still stained with tears but glowing all the same. He adjusts his erection, removes his belt but closes the button again, feeling her eyes on him in what he assumes is anticipation, no more fear, no pressure. He puts his gloves back on, slowly, making her watch. Then, with one swift motion, he grabs the waistband of her sweats and underwear and drags them both down, ignores her mild protest. Not that he’s surprised that she’s pressing her legs together while he folds her clothes, but he makes it a point to draw out the moment nonetheless.

“Let me see you,” he says, placing the bundle of soft fabric on a nearby chair. He can’t help but pick the still damp panties up, bring them to his face, inhale deeply through his nose. The scent of her arousal is so strong that he finds himself unable to set them back down, bunches them up and stuffs them into his pocket instead.

When he turns back around, she doesn’t say anything. Her knees are drawn up, still hiding, even though her whole chest is exposed. Secondo approaches, a pointed look. She is not much of a brat, none of this is to rile him up, but that doesn’t mean he’ll let it slide in the future. Tonight, though, it is reassurance that she needs and he wants to build up her confidence again, a confidence he knows she has, if not for this particular thing.

He changes strategy, gently sitting down on the edge of the bed with a hand on her knee. “You do not have to be shy, cara. Not now.”

“What if you don’t like it?”

A laugh he can’t hold back. “I can assure you I will.”

She allows it, his hand pushing between her thighs, spreading her open for him. For now he keeps his eyes on her face, looking for any signs of discomfort, for even the tiniest indication that she is faking her consent to please him. But he finds none, intrigue and a hint of arousal already, and when he lets his gloved fingers glide down her inner thigh he can watch the goosebumps spreading all over her body.

“You are beautiful, my dove,” he says, taking her in from head to toe.

Under his gaze she fidgets but he can see her confidence growing. He makes a show to lick his lips, to stroke her skin appreciatively, sighing with pleasure at even the subtlest of touches, show her how wanted and desired she is. For months he has been waiting to see all of her but no picture of his imagination would ever live up to her now. Soft. Pliant. Perfect. His.

“Won’t you undress?” she asks after a moment.

“No.”

She furrows her brow. He won’t explain. It is a power play, of course, and she will understand on her own once she feels it. Her discomfort is fleeting, those first encounters, getting to know what he is all about, how he enjoys playing, providing what he does so well, his method, the ins and outs of where they can go. It is about trust, it is about forgetting inhibitions or restrictions or the shame that weighs her down.

“Do you enjoy this?” he asks. “When I take charge?”

He speaks those words as he moves to lean over her, settling between her legs, his face right above hers. She holds his gaze like the perfect girl she is, as though she has already understood what it is he values, what matters to him.

“I do,” she says, allowing him to bend down, mouth at her neck to which she gasps. “It is… it is a bit new to me.”

“I know, my dove, but I can tell that you are leaning into it, that you like it,” he says. “And I am proud of you for how well you are doing. That you are allowing me to show you what I can do for you, that you trust me with your mind and body.”

He kisses her cheek, then down to her jaw, tongue out to lick a stripe up below her chin. She whimpers, her hands at his shoulders now, holding on for dear life. She is sensitive and it thrills him, so much so that he can’t stop kissing her neck and jaw, nibbling, licking, for once careful not to leave any marks on her yet. At some point one of her hands comes to cradle his head and he closes his eyes, leans into the gentle massage she presses into his scalp. When he looks at her, she leans up as if to try and kiss him, but she doesn’t dare to go high enough.

For a long moment he is tempted, feels that draw, the need to devour her so fully that his lips leave a lasting imprint on hers. But he can’t, not if he wants to keep going slow, not when he doesn’t know what his heart would do if he truly felt the tender emotions that stare up at him in her wide eyes.

He makes do with another kiss to her cheek, lingering, wet, hummed into her skin, then he finally makes his way down to her breasts. At first he only blows on them, watches her nipples contract even more, gooseflesh spread over her areola, tempting him to circle one with his thumb. Her breasts feel soft agains this lips when he finally takes one into his mouth, leisurely flicking his tongue over her nipple, sucking ever so gently. Again, her body reacts strongly to his touch, her hips bucking wildly against his belly, her hand pushing his head harder against her. But it is her sounds that affect him the most, those whimpers, breathy and higher than usual, her chest moving underneath him with urgency.

“Do you want it?” he asks. “My mouth on you?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Have you been thinking about this too?”

He looks up at her flustered face and she is so embarrassed that he has to laugh. “Yes, Papa.”

“My mouth?”

“Yes, Papa. Yours, your–” Another whimper. “Your mouth, your hands, the gloves.”

“The gloves? Do you want me to keep them on?”

“Yes, please. Please–”

Her hips buck again and he shows mercy, moving over the curve of her stomach with a few peppered kisses and then down to her mound. He blows on her pubic hair, admires how she is glistening for him, so wet so fast, as though her whole body is just waiting for a morsel of his attention.

Secondo uses his hands to spread her open further, making sure she sees the imprints of his gloved fingers in her flesh, the leather too soft to creak but moving elegantly nonetheless. He is eager to taste her, has been for weeks, perhaps even months, but now that she is laid bare before him he does not want to hurry through it. If he wants to teach her patience and care then he must demonstrate it himself.

Which is unusually hard, especially when he sees her cunt twitching for him.

“Papa–” she whines, throbbing, hands shaking as they reach for the sheets. “Please, I need it.”

“I know,” he says. “I know, my dove, but you will let me admire you.”

She bites her lips and he would not mind having her beg for him but he does not want to tease her too much tonight, those are all games for another time. Instead he kisses along her inner thigh, making his way down to her core. He blows on it again, making sure she can feel her own wetness, lose her embarrassment for her very natural reactions. A look up at her face tells him she is doing better, that she is waiting with bated breath for his tongue.

He gives in, licking a flat stripe along the wetness and parting her folds to make room for him in the process. Her taste floods his senses like the first piece of a sweet summer fruit, so uniquely her that he has to close his eyes, savour it, hum out his appreciation. Once he starts he can’t get enough, it is not something he ever bothered to hide before, but for her he tries to be slow, to ease her into every new sensation, licking and sucking and moving from side to side, sounds and vibrations.

As he goes he keeps his eyes on her, drinking in every reaction, every gasp and mewl, the way her jaw falls open, stomach caving in as her muscles contract upwards into his face. He allows her a few moments in which to close her eyes, though he would usually correct her. But it is her first time, so many impressions that she needs to process, and he thinks she would not handle criticism well tonight, even if playful. No, he wants her to feel good, wants her to get addicted to the feeling of his tongue inside of her, drunk on the pleasure he provides. The rest can come later.

She moans, her fingers cramping in the sheets, and he can tell she is getting close already. He hums once more, sucks at her clit as hard as he can. A high sob breaks from her throat and her hand shoots to her mouth, covering up any further sounds.

Now that he won’t allow.

He stops, bites into her thigh to which she gasps, and when she meets his eyes he grabs her elbow and withdraws her arm from her face, linking their hands together and pressing down on her abdomen.

“But–”

“Let them hear,” he says, thinking let everyone hear, let them know you’re mine.

She follows, the other hand still buried in the sheets. He did not plan to edge her like that but he will not deprive himself of the memory of her sounds, the way they go straight to his cock and will sustain him for a few days at least. No, he wants to see her unfiltered reaction, that raw deep and awkward honesty that will help her ease up when it is her turn again.

“Papa,” she whispers when he starts again, slowly building her back up, too slowly if the urgency in her voice is any indication.

Secondo wants to draw out these moments, every quiver of her legs, every desperate grasp and throb and jitter and whimper and gasp. He feeds on it like a starving man and if she can understand this, if she can see it in his eyes how every movement of his tongue, every press of his lips, is a way to learn about her, care for her, be close to her, then he may not have failed her after all.

When she inches close again, her fingers tightening between his, he shamelessly moans against her, moving from side to side with her clit between his lips, eating, devouring her to the very best of his abilities, and she unfurls so beautifully, her voice thinning out into a scream while her legs shake on either side of his face, her hips helplessly bucking up into his mouth. He can taste her, too, her essence on his chin, his lips, his tongue, and he greedily licks it all up, keeping his face buried deep in her cunt.

He does not plan on stopping just yet. He hasn’t even been inside of her.

When he continues she makes a confused sound that he ignores. A hand on his head, pushing without any real effort. ”Papa– I can’t–“

“You can,” he mumbles into her wetness.

She doesn’t fight him, not when she knows he’s right. This time, he pushes his tongue inside of her and the way she clenches immediately tells him that she enjoys it. In a similar fashion, he tests out different movements, different intensities, sucking, licking, fucking her as best he can with his mouth. He makes her come like that thrice more, though her sounds have become hoarse and her body is a mess of jitters and quakes. It is a sight he enjoys, when the muscles turn into jelly, when the brain forgets how to work. Once he decides that he is done with her every word out of her mouth is but a babbled mess and even though he had planned to use his hands on her as well he decides to be content for tonight. No use for the gloves when she is beyond noticing.

Even as he crawls back up to her it hardly registers, her eyes already closed and her body limp, tingling, flinching at every overstimulation. He cleans off his mouth with his tongue, watches her wrecked form relax properly for the first time since he’s known her.

“Have you eaten dinner, my dove?” he asks, a kiss to her damp forehead.

She shakes her head, turns sideways to where he came to rest by her side. He leaves her there, dozing, recovering, pulls a blanket over her exposed body and uses her bathroom to clean up. He debates, making himself come just to ease the pressure, but it doesn’t feel right. Instead he takes a whiff of her perfume, her shower gel, inspects her toiletries.

When he is all done, more in tune with himself again, he lets his gaze roam over her room once more. It is not much, small like most single apartments here. It would be easy to pack it all up, though he might need another bookshelf to house her collection. His bed is devoid of any more pillows than necessary but he can see that changing as he adjusts to her. Then the image of her body amongst his soft sheets with the high-thread count, not as rough as hers, much nicer on her sensitive skin, and his dove dozing in the warm light of his black candles as he gives thanks to his Lord.

The inhumane size of the kitchenette would frustrate him if it weren’t for her nice selection of products. Good tomatoes, a high quality olive oil, a decent pan. Though her fridge is half-empty he finds a slice of supermarket parmesan, not quite living up to what he’d choose but he can work with it. If she likes Italian food he is confident that he can feed her well. It goes hand in hand for him, sex and good food, nourishing the mind and the body, and tonight she needs both.

He cuts up half of an onion she still has in her fridge, adds a clove of garlic, roasting both in a pan with a generous amount of olive oil, then cuts the tomatoes, throws them in as well and lets it all simmer. After some rummaging he finds frozen herbs in the tiny ice compartment that seem edible enough, though it pains him to add them to the sauce. Pasta boils in a pot behind the pan, barely all fitting onto that tiny stove.

While he waits he watches her sleep, pleased with himself to have worn her out so thoroughly with just his mouth. Perhaps he can repeat this evening, an extra night a week to see her, or two, if she lets him, use the privacy to take his time with her as well, slowly stretch out their arrangement until she forgets the specifics.

She stirs right when the pasta is al dente. Secondo is happy with the tomato sugo and he adds the pasta, then some pasta water, some more salt and pepper, stirs until it is creamy, the juice of the tomatoes giving the dish a subtle red colour. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her getting dressed again, making no mention of the missing panties.

“I didn’t think you’d make dinner,” she says.

“I enjoy it,” he replies. “You like Italian food?”

“I love it, yes.”

He smiles, lets her pick the plates and then shoos her off so he can serve. The table stays abandoned and it is not how he’d prefer it, not as sensual, not as perfect, but he joins her in her bed, watches her eat more so than indulging himself. Would he let her eat in his bed? Perhaps, on occasion, if he was as pleased with her as he is now. Something about her disheveled state, cross-legged, the pleasure still visible on her face. A sliver of domesticity, the vague dream of a future.

“It’s so good,” she says, mouth wrapping around another forkful.

Yes, he thinks. He would let her. He would let her do anything.

─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───

He did not plan on staying as long as he does.

They finish their meal, he has her emptying the glass of water from earlier and then he has to fight her off when she tries to wash the dishes, insists that he do it, a little selfishly prolonging their time. She starts an old black and white movie that he hasn’t heard of before and he wonders if this is her way of inviting him to stay longer. He plans on leaving either way, to give her space, but when he sits down on the bed for her goodbye kiss she slips into his laps and then he doesn’t have the heart to push her away.

They settle in her bed, though he’s sure she’s not actually watching the movie, and it’s not like he is overly comfortable in his tight clothes. But he holds her regardless, chuckling when she inhales the smell of his cologne at his neck, when her hand toys at the hem of his shirt until she’s succeeded in removing it from his pants, two fingers stroking along the newly-revealed sliver of skin. He knows she wants him, she’d let him fuck her right now if he asked, have him stay the night, and he would if she were anyone else, file this night away alongside all the other short-lived encounters he’s had in the past.

But it feels wrong to fuck her now, not just because it is decidedly not a short-lived encounter but because he enjoys her too much and if he moved ahead now it would change, would feel different, and he does not want it to end like all the other times he’s done this. She doesn’t push for anything, successfully bribed him into staying because she wanted him to, not for sex but for his company, and when has that ever happened? Secondo has touched gold, fingertips coated in her richness, and it would be foolish to stick his greedy hand in too fast and burn himself.

No, he will have her but it will be in his own bed, on his own terms, when this charade is over and he knows she’s there to stay.

“Can I ask you a question?” she says after a while.

He’s surprised to hear her voice, so quiet she’s been for the past hour. “What is it, my dove?”

“What should I do if– What should I do if I can never use my mouth like that?”

A displeased hum. “Are you still thinking about this? Did I not distract you enough?”

“I just– I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to go all the way.”

“Then you won’t.”

She sits up, looking down at his face. “What do you mean?”

“There are things you can do without taking him into your throat.”

“But what if he only enjoys the real thing?”

“There is no real thing,” he says. “This is not porn, hm? It is all real.”

She rolls her eyes and he grabs her chin, eyes narrowing. Her mouth opens but she doesn’t protest.

“Some men like when you speak to them,” he explains, not letting go of her. “Tell them what you want to do, that you are enjoying it, that you want to feel them come in your mouth. You can use whatever you can reach, massage his skin, his thighs, his balls, lick them, kiss them, bite even, if he is not a coward. You stimulate him with your hand during that time, just like you do with me. You can try touching more of him as well, his back, his taint, use your nails on his ass, anywhere he reacts and when you do it right you won’t need to swallow more than his tip, hm? Everyone enjoys different things, there is not a law you have to follow.”

She stares at him during his speech, his mouth, her hand moving to cup his jaw and stroking so tenderly that he almost feels the urge to pull away. “So, what **do you enjoy?”

His brain short-circuits at her emphasis and she is faster than he recovers, crawling down his body and fiddling with his pants.

“I want to try again,” she decides and he didn’t realise how hard he is. “Will you tell me what you like, Papa?”

“You don’t have to, my dove, I told you I am perfectly content.”

“But I want to. I feel better.”

She unzips him, pulling his pants down further for better access and he is still stuck on her words, what do you enjoy? But then she palms him and he snaps back into himself, grabs her wrist, holding her in place.

“No.” She looks up, taken aback. He swallows. “Before you try we will need a signal. When it is too much you will pinch my leg three times, yes?”

“Okay.” She shows him the gesture, looks at him, still a little startled, and he tries to relax, tries to allow himself to feel what he feels. It is too much at once, this evening, and yet he is unwilling to stop.

“Go slow in the beginning,” he says. “I like to take my time. You can explore and I will let you know what is good. You do not have to speak, I prefer different sounds.”

She does as he said, stroking him wherever she can reach, his hips, his abdomen, carding through his dark hair with gentle fingertips, then grabbing harder at his sides, scratching at the curve of his ass where it meets her mattress. Her mouth follows her trail with kisses, soft, a little too soft after a while.

“More,” he says. “Suck and bite, scratch.”

Her lips press firmer, nibbling on the curve of his lower belly, biting with some hesitation until he encourages her with a hand on the back of her head and she actually bites. It is good, this is what he knows, and he finds back to his outward self, his mind less clouded by emotion. Her lips reach the base of his cock and she looks up at him when her hand closes around his balls, cradling them, slow and careful movements, licking at his length as she does. He has to hold back a moan. This is what he was talking about, the way she is not even aware of what each little touch does to him.

“Good,” he says. “Brava ragazza, just like that. Do you see? It is not about deep and intense, hm?”

Her nod makes him smile, the way she closes her eyes when she properly tastes him, mouthing at his shaft, licking and sucking from the side, one hand fisting his tip, spreading his precome all over him. Yes, he could come like that, if she kept it up. It is her growing confidence that really gets him, her moans, the way she seems to finally allow herself to enjoy the process. Despite her overwhelm she did pay attention to what he did to her earlier, using it to her advantage now.

“You learn fast, cara. Very good.” Secondo pets her head to which she opens her eyes. “Your mouth is divine, my dove. Just like that, yes.”

The flustered tensing of her jaw and she is moving her hips, subconsciously searching for him, some relief for her own needs. He lets his hand roam her back, almost wishing she’d be closer so he could feel how wet she is. But this position is more comfortable for her so he lets her continue, increasing the pressure more and more, one hand dipping lower to his taint, massaging, pressing down exactly where he enjoys, and he clenches hard, not holding back any reactions now. She notices, looks at him with some awe which seems to encourage her to finally take his tip between her lips.

“Brava ragazza, you like how my cock tastes, hm?” he asks, watching her nod, comfortably taking him deeper now that her whole jaw and mouth are more relaxed. She doesn’t gag this time, breathes well through her nose, one hand wrapped around him and the other one still fondling with further down. “You can take more but you do not have to, my dove. You look beautiful like this, an unholy sight. Just keep going like this.”

She does take more, just a little, testing her own limits. He is proud, cannot help it, the way she responds to his guidance, learns, explores, understands. Her mouth is hot, her tongue active around him, sucking, licking, bobbing her head lightly, just enough to give the impression of friction, and her hands work on him with precision.

He feels it, then, that building pleasure, the tension in his lower body, heat and want and– no, higher up in his chest, his affection for her, burning through his shirt, into the mattress, up to his face. Everything feels hot, his hands sweating, and she looks up at him so fondly that he loses all control over himself.

“My dove,” he breathes, a desperate moan breaking from his lips when she sucks on his exposed tip, her tongue pressed to his frenulum. “I’m close. If you do not– do not want me to come in your mouth you need to– to let go.”

She beams, there is no other word, and he doesn’t bother to compose himself. Her face lights up, her confidence more pronounced than ever, ambition behind those pretty eyes. But she does not let go, keeps working him up, hand twisting around his base, covered in spit and his own arousal, slick and deft. His hand, still in her hair, grabs it tighter now, holding on for dear life, trying not to shove himself in deeper. She moans so beautifully around him while she sucks him off that he can’t hold back any longer. When he comes it is with a strangled, helpless groan, his balls tightening in her gentle grasp until he empties himself in her mouth. She obediently looks up at him throughout, taking him a little deeper as if to feel him quivering inside of her. After everything he held back tonight it is more intense than expected and he fills her until his come is dripping from the corners of her mouth.

She swallows. A proud smile on her swollen lips, still stained with his come.

He lets his head fall back, spent, staring at the ceiling for a moment while stars dance in front of his eyes and the pleasure slowly fades. He’s barely noticing how she licks him clean, tucks him back into his pants, closes the button, wiping at her mouth.

“I did it,” she says and he laughs, a full body laugh, a little incredulous that he just let this all happen. “Papa?”

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, it was good, my dove. You were perfect, my perfect girl.”

She straddles him with a smile and he indulges her when her hands slip underneath his shirt, press into his soft belly. Gathering his wits he sits up until they are face to face. He’d kiss her, he wants to kiss her, but if he did he would not leave this room tonight.

“Bella, bella ragazza,” he whispers. “Do you see? It is not about taking it as deep as it goes.”

“So you liked it?”

He wipes at her lips, smoothes down her hair and huffs a laugh. “I think I did, hm? Look at you, all wrecked for me. What a sight.”

Even now she flusters and he can’t shake the smile that seems to stick to his lips. He moves his other hand to her head as well, cradling her jaw, and begins to massage her tense muscles. She moans in relief, leaning into his touch with closed eyes. Thumbs pressing below her jaw, his other fingers sweep over her cheeks and jawbone, then down her neck.

“You are not used to it yet,” he observes. “It will get better.”

“It’s okay,” she says.

“Hm, you say this now but wait until you are sore tomorrow.”

“Then you just have to come back and do this again.”

He scoffs, thinking that he would, that he will, if she asks him. She seems happy now, relieved, back to her usual self, and he enjoys it. This is how he wants her, not crying at his feet.

“Will you stay over?” she asks and he winces, lets his hands rest on her shoulders.

“No, my dove,” he says. “But I can stay until you are asleep.”

She doesn’t seem as disappointed as he’d feared and the smile she gifts him seems genuine. Once he is satisfied with the state of her jaw muscles he lets her recline, sink back into the pillows. The film has ended and he turns off the television, rests on his side with her for a while. She is tired, worn out, and though he feels a similar exhaustion his departure doesn’t feel very urgent, not even when her eyes close and she drifts off.

He waits a little longer, watching her so calm and relaxed. His belt is somewhere on the floor, as are his shoes, and he slowly gets dressed, gathers himself back together and stands on heavy legs.

“Wait,” she grumbles, not quite asleep after all, and crawls up to him on her knees. “Papa, you’re forgetting.”

He gives a rumbled laugh and sits back down, leans towards her. Her lips press to his face, not on his cheek where he expects them, no, but hitting the corners of his mouth with purpose. She lingers, kissing him slowly, his face in her hand, and when she retreats he is filled with regret that he did not turn his face after all.

─── ⛧ ✦ ⛧ ───

IV – Stay

Over the next few weeks they make a lot of progress. A lot of progress – and a lot of exceptions.

Secondo is blurring the lines between guiding and indulging and something more, allowing the tenderness between them to bloom. He is aware that he’s lying to himself, not that he really cares. Telling himself that it is all part of his promise to help her is easier, that she needs it and he is merely providing it for her. Assessing risks is something he is good at, knowing where the fun of the gamble ends, but now he is powering with his heart – and he’s gone all in.

But she is improving, getting more and more comfortable with her mouth, taking him deeper, working more confidently through her gag reflex with focused breathing and short breaks, enjoying their time together, initiating it all on her own. This is the agreement, yes, but he has been selfish, getting his mouth on her almost every time, using his fingers, seeing her response to whatever new idea he has to make her come without actually taking her. Perhaps worst, he has been staying over longer and longer, aching when he has to let her go, when she bemoans the loss of him, when he watches her fall asleep alone as he closes the door to her rooms.

Then he is gone for almost a week.

It is a trip he planned months ago to retrieve two Renaissance paintings from Urbino, a private collector who offered him first access should he want them. Secondo traverses the arcaded courtyard of the Palazzo Ducale, marvelling at the architecture, his business concluded, the paintings ready to be shipped, his last day spent taking in the city’s sights before he leaves. She will enjoy them, if her taste regarding his existing collection is any indication, and he is looking forward to showing her his newest acquisitions once they arrive. In his absence he allowed her to proceed without him, finally cataloguing the latest arrival of books, and all week he kept imagining her alone in the basement.

Secondo does not miss. He has missed people in the past, of course, he misses his late mother, his nonna, he even misses his brothers when they’re away, but the last time he missed a woman it did not end well for him. His youth was spent in such daydreams, with the experiments of love, travelling around for the clergy, emotional as well as physical distances his relationships never survived, a broken heart he stitched together so many times that the scars have left it numb.

The late evening sun shines down on him as he walks back to his hotel over cobbled streets, ready to take a light dinner and pack his belongings. His heart, not so numb anymore, cries out for one person in particular and suddenly he does miss again. He’s been thinking of calling her but discarded the idea just as often as it arrived. Secondo knows he is not an innocent man, that he made mistakes, alienated people who might have loved him had he lowered his walls. A loneliness decades in the making, now fractured by this woman who is too lovely for him, who cried at his feet, who asked him not to give up on her.

He knows he is being stubborn, doesn’t care about that either. He can get what he wants, he has done all he was willing to do, but now he doesn’t want to sway anymore, doesn’t want to impose, doesn't want to beg. She has to say it, ask him, tell him, or he will not go any further. He has shown his intentions but he won’t expose his heart. If there ever was another man he’s certain that he’s forgotten by now but she has not corrected him about that night, hasn’t told him, hasn’t made any implications, and he will not be the fool to ask for more than anyone thinks he’s worth. Not again.

Yes, he wants her in his bed, wants her in his life, but not for the arrangement.

The arrangement be damned.

After seeing her kitchen it is easy to think of a gift, a bottle of expensive olive oil, a generous wedge of real parmigiano reggiano, and he can’t help it, old romantic sap that he is, and stops for a bouquet of red roses before he arrives at home. The thought of visiting her is quickly forgotten when he enters his own apartments, feels the raging emptiness. He wants her here, for the rest of his life.

She’s knocking an hour later, one short message sent to her door, conjuring her at his will. He tries not to let it go to his head, unsuccessfully, tells himself that she must have been waiting for him. And maybe she did because then he sees her, a little dressed up, lipstick, her hair done nicely, and she hugs him like she always hugs him, only somehow tighter, a full body effort, pressing herself to him until she can go no further, her face buried in his neck and her nose inhaling his scent. Secondo cannot deny that he loves these moments. He holds her equally tight, breathing into her hair that smells like flowers. Today, she greets him with multiple kisses to his cheek, covering every inch of it, then she stills, sighs, clings to him with clenched fingers.

“I missed you,” she whispers, like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to say it.

“I have missed you as well, my dove,” he admits, his heart jumping. “And I brought you a gift.”

“A gift?”

He leads her over to his open kitchen, the flowers throning over the other items and her expression is everything he had hoped for, everything he ever hoped for. Smiles, a happy laugh, her nose in the roses. More kisses to his cheek, more of her, thanking him, touching him, reassuring him. Then he shows her his apartment, watching with rapt attention how she likes it, letting her explore on her own to prepare a light meal in his kitchen. As always he brought more food from Italy than he had planned to, but at least now he has someone to share.

“I own a lot of books but there is always room,” he says when he sees her eyes on his shelves.

“Room?” She scans the titles, a big chunk of his collection, as yet uncatalogued. Many volumes she has never seen before, some particularly impressive ones, and he enjoys watching her browsing with such interest.

“Room for more,” he explains. “Not necessarily mine.”

Her eyes move to him, curious but not averse. “I never thought there was much room in your life. You seem… comfortable, on your own.”

Secondo scoffs, cutting up some fresh bread. Is this how he comes across? Well, he should not be surprised, and yet it stings to hear it from her. Did he not allow her closer than anyone else?

“There is room,” he just says, if you want it.

She joins him, popping an olive into her mouth, a hand snaking around his waist. “Did your work all go to plan?”

“It did, I acquired two rare paintings for a reasonable price. You will see them as soon as they arrive.”

”Secondo–“

It is the first time she uses this name for him and he stops cutting up his tomatoes, looks at her. “Yes?”

“I really did miss you. I feel like– perhaps I should–” She stops, looking away. “I suppose I just want you to know.”

“Did something happen?” he asks, alarmed by the change in her voice. “Did that man hurt you?”

“No! No, nothing like that.”

A pause and he wills her to say it, to admit that he doesn’t exist or that he exists but does not matter anymore. The thought passes and the longer he looks at her the less he cares about anything else. She is beautiful tonight, every night, but something about her wanting to impress this upon him makes it harder to resist.

He stops his preparations, mentally postponing the meal, and pulls her out of the kitchen. His record player is over by the bookshelf she just inspected and he picks a slow tune, some soft rock compilation from the 70s. At first he simply reaches for her hands, pulls them to his chest, swaying with her. She smiles, leans into him. The music is slow enough for them to continue like this, though he needs her closer soon, reaches for her hips, and she obediently wraps her arms around his neck.

This could be their life, he thinks as he looks down at her mellow expression. This could be their future.

“I really like your apartment,” she says after a moment. “It’s not huge but– you use the space well.”

“You would not mind spending more time here?”

“I would not mind at all.”

A kiss to her forehead. “Good.”

She rests her head against his shoulder and they stop moving, listening to the rest of the song. A lot goes through his head then, how he’d take her to Italy with him the next time he goes, how her books would fit into his shelves, her pillows onto the sofa, how he’d like to hear her slow footsteps every morning before she joins him in the kitchen, how he’ll ruin the life of anyone who dares to lay a hand on her.

“You have lipstick on your cheek,” she says, reaching up to wipe at his skin.

She never finishes. He cradles her face in both hands, angling her so that he can look right into her confused eyes. Her arm limply falls away, dangling at her side. Secondo leans down, pressing his lips to her cheek, to the corner of her mouth, to her nose, to her chin, then repeats it on the other side.

“It’s not time for our goodbye kiss yet,” she whispers.

“This is not a goodbye kiss.”

When he captures her lips she falls against him, her hands grasping at his shirt. Even though he plans to go slow her eagerness is catching and he presses in firmer, his thumbs at her jaw, controlling how she moves, swallowing every little whimper. She gives up control within seconds, allowing him to kiss her as he pleases, slow, deep, opening her up for him until he can get his first taste.

A part of him gets lost, a heaviness that dissipates, an invisible hand around his neck that loosens its grasp until he can breathe again, sees his own reflection in the mirror of his mind. It is not the same bitter old man staring back at him, no hard lines, no scowl, no narrowed eyes, but a young man with hopes and dreams and a smile. Who finally has what he’s been longing for.

Secondo breaks way, not far, just enough to clear his head.

“I missed you,” she says against his lips. “I missed eating with you, I missed you in my bed. I missed your company in the basement and I missed you during mass. I missed touching you, feeling you, tasting you. I missed having you in my mouth. I missed it so much.”

He swallows, his throat suddenly tight, and he decides to steer them back into familiar territory. “Do you wish to remedy that, my dove?”

“Please.”

He leads her into his bedroom, not to the bed, not yet, no, but he lowers himself into the brown leather armchair in the corner. It feels grotesque, almost, to have her here, a place that is filled with memories of so many carnal nights that she might cry, could she see them, knowing her fear of inferiority. But looking up at her now, he realises that her confidence isn’t wavering, and perhaps this is the sign he needed that their lessons are over.

“Papa?” She motions to his shirt. “I would like to undress you, this time.”

“You may open the buttons,” he says. “Take off my shoes and slacks. Nothing else.”

She doesn’t fight him, starts with his slacks, then unbuttons the shirt, and he realises what her plan is, the journey given as much attention as the destination itself. Secondo smiles when her hands don’t seem to leave his chest, carding through thick hair like an insistent brush, back and forth, scratching just enough to leave a few red marks. She goes as slow as she has learned he enjoys, a similar path but never the same, a few surprises, like her tongue pressed to his balls or her teeth on the inside of his thigh. He relaxes, the leather soft on his skin, the world returning to normal.

“I thought you missed my cock,” he says after a while, teasing, and she laughs with her lips on his balls until his cock jumps in her hand.

“I did,” she whispers. “But I missed the rest of you, too, Papa.”

He smiles, pleased with her, gently petting her hair. “I do not have to tell you anymore, hm? You know just what I like to hear.”

He feels another laugh, at the base of his cock this time, and she sinks down on him with a long sigh, licking as if to greet his taste, taking him as deep as he knows she can comfortably do now. It is enough to make him feel how wet and tight her mouth is and there is nothing he would miss, no matter how she took him. And yet this time she swallows him deeper, ever deeper, and he wonders if she has been practicing without him.

“My dove,” he says, breathless, his whole body attuned to the heat of her.

“Hm?”

“Cazzo,” he exhales and then his hips buck and he hits the back of her throat, the sensation more than he expected, the word followed by a deep moan and the sound of her gagging. She’s not pulling away, breathing perfectly, waiting it out. His body must have missed her, betraying him once more with the intensity of each little shock that goes through him.

She has to let to go to breathe, then, tears rolling down her face from the sudden movement and mixing in with the drool around her mouth and chin. Secondo pats her cheek for a moment but once he sees she has recovered he pushes her head down again, forcing his cock back into her mouth. She immediately gags as he hits her throat once more but he won’t let her get off completely again.

“You look so pretty when you choke on your Papa’s cock,” he says. “Breathe, my dove. Very good.”

She inhales deeply through her nose, following along with his rhythm and soon she swivels her tongue around him again, doing so well tonight. His fingers are still on her head and he lets them glide over her cheek as tenderly as he can muster, aroused as he is, wiping some of the drool away. She looks up at him, batting her eyelashes, and slowly drags her mouth over him, using the few precious seconds he spends taking her in to recuperate.

“Hmm, mia brava ragazza, taking me so well, molto bene,” he mumbles and she beams at the praise, speeding up slightly as if to prove to him just how good she is. “I do not think you have anything more to learn. Una ragazza perfetta con una bocca perfetta.”

She whimpers at those words, sucking him deep until she can swallow around him, every little gag in her throat gripping him tight. Secondo doesn’t have much left, he knows it, not tonight, not with how she’s moving. And she is a mess, spit and his arousal coating her mouth, running down her hand where it works at his base.

“Stop,” he says, feeling his lower body tighten. “Stop, my dove. Come here.”

A displeased look washes over her face that he doesn’t let her finish but she obeys, as she always does, letting go of him and crawling into his lap. She is breathing heavily, wiping at her mouth, and he pulls off his gloves.

“Come here, let your Papa help you.”

He uses his thumb to clean the mess on her chin only to push it into her mouth. She obediently licks off the fluids, sucking a little longer than necessary. Secondo hums in appreciation, watching with an affectionate, blissful expression he can’t be bothered to hide. His cock is throbbing, waiting to be inside of her, but he can’t just yet.

“We are done,” he says. “I will not teach you how to use your mouth anymore.”

”But–“ Her face falls, her lips quivering. “Papa– I’m sure there’s more–”

“You know what do now,” he continues. “You do not have to worry any longer.”

“But Papa– Secondo–” Her eyes begin to water, not from overstimulation this time. “I don’t want to stop.”

“Then tell me,” he says, trying not to sound as desperate as he feels. “Tell me you do not want anyone else. Tell me you only want me.”

“I don’t want anyone else. I only want you.”

“Swear it, my dove. Swear it, right now, before Lucifer.”

“I swear it. I swear it.”

It is enough. It has to be enough. He inhales a shaky breath, his own eyes stinging as he looks up at her wet cheeks. Without hesitation his hands reach for her, holding her face between his palms, and she doesn’t once glance away. “Stay.”

“What?”

“Stay, tonight. Every night.”

Her eyes widen but she nods a moment later, leans in, and he kisses her with a bruising force that neither of them see coming. Her gasps go straight to his cock and he can feel how wet she is when she grinds down on him, her thighs shaking and tensing. With a tight grasp he holds her hips still, his tongue pushing into her mouth, feeling her, tasting himself on her. It is enough, he thinks again. This is enough.

Even though his knees are weak he manages to grab her hips and get up, dragging her over to the bed and dropping her onto the mattress. It is everything and nothing like he imagined, the image of a divine creature spread out amidst his soft sheets. He hates that he is impatient now, after months and months of waiting, praying, hoping for this, and yet his hunger is that of a starving vulture, waiting to devour.

He undresses her just enough to feel some of her skin, to be able to touch her breasts, her legs.

“Say it,” he whispers. “Say it again.”

“I want you,” she chokes out. “I only want you, Papa.”

It draws a moan from him, the absolute conviction in her voice, her gaze never straying from his, her hands on him, roaming his body, desperate, his fingers fully sheathed inside of her, his tongue on her throat, his teeth in her skin. She’s whimpering, clawing, waiting, and he’s had enough.

“I will fuck you now,” he says, a hoarse whisper against her ear. “But there is one condition.”

“Wh-what condition?”

He lines himself up, his tip pressed to her heat but going no further. She cries out in despair like he’s physically hurt her, more cries and sobs. When he looks at her she’s clenching every muscle, her face streaked with tears and ruined make-up.

“You have something to confess to me, ragazza mia,” he says, taking some pity. “Tomorrow night, you will be in the chapel and I expect you to be honest.”

She nods, feverishly grasping at him, a whimpered yes falling from her lips as he finally sinks into her. Deep, slow, perfect. Another tear rolls down her cheek and he kisses it away, holding her face in his hand.

“Promise me,” he breathes, his voice soft now, barely audible.

“I promise,” she whispers and he slowly begins to fuck her. “I promise, Papa. I would do anything.”

He nods, groans, and then the world blurs around him.

V – Confession, Pt. 2

The calming rustle of paper. Secondo turns the page of his book, a paperback copy of –– which he only recently started on her recommendation. The chapel is quiet, the last Sibling left half an hour prior and he has been waiting ever since. He can’t say that he’s nervous, not after last night, and yet a heaviness sits in his stomach like a stone sunk deep into the ocean, the weight of this commitment, equal parts a comfort and intimidating.

When he notices the steps he can tell right away that it’s her, familiar as he has become with her rhythm. The door to the booth opens to a shaky breath and she sits, as she sat all these months ago, shifting around on the worn-down wooden plank that is separated from him by nothing more than a thin latticed wall.

“Sorella,” he says in greeting.

“Good evening, Papa. There is… there is something I wish to confess to you.” The wood creaks, her face closer to the lattice when she continues. “It has been weighing on me ever since I came to you for the first time but I have been a coward. I wasn’t truthful with you and I want to remedy that tonight.”

“I see.” He closes his book, sets it aside. “And have you been repenting for your transgression?”

”To be honest, I thought perhaps you might assist me with that.”

He smiles at the hint of teasing in her voice. “Join me over here, sorella.”

He listens as she steps out of her booth, opening the door to his without hesitation this time. Secondo can’t help the pride he feels at the way she carries herself now, confident in her submission to him, not hesitating to demand what she wants and needs. He’ll take her home with him after this, worship the very essence of her.

“Come here,” he says, patting his cassocked knee.

She sits down, already losing her concentration, her eyes on his mouth, her hands fiddling with his collar. It is just as well, he wasn’t planning on having a fair conversation anyway. His hands work themselves up her legs, dragging the hem of her habit with them, the gloves she so loves toying at her stockings. As expected she whimpers at the slightest of touches, her cunt clenching.

“I know what you want to confess to me,” he says. “You are not a good liar, sorella.”

She smiles at that, biting her lower lip to hide it. “I never said I was, Papa.”

Secondo drags his hands up her body now, groping at her flesh, sighing when he feels her breasts underneath the fabric. She leans into his touch, grinding not quite so subtle on his thigh. His eyes move up to her face and he lets one of his hands follow, tracing the line of her jaw before he grabs it between two fingers, forces their gazes to meet.

“When you came to me, sorella, you told me there was someone,” he elaborates. “A man, to be precise. Now tell me, and do not lie again, did you think of me when you went to confess to my brother? Was it my cock you imagined in your mouth, when you wished to learn how to please a man? Were you shocked when you heard my voice instead? The very man you were speaking of?”

“Yes. Yes. It’s all true.”

His grasp tightens, his eyes narrowed. “Why did you not tell me that night?”

“I was so embarrassed, Papa, I– I didn’t know how.”

“And later, why did you never admit it?”

“I wanted to keep seeing you,” she says, her voice shaking a little, as though she’s not sure if he’s truly upset with her. “I was worried you’d stop if you knew– if you knew how I felt about you. I didn’t think you’d feel the same.”

He lets go of her chin, cradles her cheek instead with his thumb toying at her lips. She relaxes and he strokes her for a moment, unclenching his features, softening his gaze. “That night you called me your friend, sorella. Am I a friend to you still?”

“No,” she says, visible swallowing. “You are still a friend, in– in some ways. But also more. A lot more. I can’t imagine a life without you, Papa.”

He pushes his thumb into her mouth, then, and she greedily sucks it in deeper, her cheek safe in the curve of his palm. “There is no life without me, my dove. You swore it before Lucifer. There is no one else.”

She nods, closing her eyes when he begins to stroke her hair with his other hand, moving down her  jaw, her neck, holding her there, though not squeezing, his thumb against her windpipe to feel every swallow at his fingertip.

“You are mine,” he says. “And I am yours.”

At that she lets go, bringing one hand from his neck to his face, mirroring the way he’s holding her. Her gaze is serious, her eyes staring down at him with an intensity that chills him.

“Will you swear it?” she asks. “Before Lucifer?”

“I swear it.”

She smiles, big, bright and honest, and he breaks the game, returns it, pulling her face down to his until he can feel her breath on his skin.

“This is not a goodbye kiss,” she mimics from the night before.

He scoffs, stopping just before their lips touch. “There will be no more goodbye kisses, my dove. This is forever.”

thank you for reading <3 i know this was long, if you made it hear then kudos to you! as always, likes, kudos, comments and reblogs are appreciated but most of all i hope you had fun reading this story!

Masterlist – my Ao3 – Join my tag list

[kiwriteswords]

Something's Blooming [Aaron Hotchner x Florist!Reader]

Florist!Reader Masterlist|| Main Masterlist [I need to update this, sorry!]|| Ao3||Word Count: 4k|| AN:  Requests are very much open for florist!reader <3 Tags/Warnings: Female!Reader, Florist!Reader, Non-BAU!Reader, pre-relationship, Sassy!Reader, Flirty!Reader, flirting, Jack Hotchner, Shy!Hotch (kinda), pining!hotch, yearning!Hotch, Hotch's POV, 5+1 Summary: 5 times Aaron Hotchner visits your flower shop and the 1 time you visit Quantico.

I.

It was almost 11 p.m. when Hotch found himself driving down that side street.

He told himself it was on the way home.

It wasn’t.

But still--

After thirty-six hours straight of blood, concrete, and case files, he needed something...different. 

Something quiet. 

Something warm. 

And as he turned the corner, eyes scanning out of habit more than purpose, he saw it.

The flower shop.

Your flower shop.

Lights still on.

Even now.

He slowed at the curb. Blinked.

No one else was on the street. The windows glowed golden from the inside, soft and warm and alive in a way the rest of the world didn’t feel right now. He could make out movement--

Just a flicker. 

You, probably. 

Maybe closing up. 

Maybe still working.

Maybe completely unaware that you were the only thing in a four-block radius keeping him from drowning in the aftermath of the case he just closed.

And then he was parking.

Just a wellness check, he told himself.

He stepped out of the car, loosened his tie slightly, and approached the door, knocking lightly against the glass.

It opened before he even pulled his hand back.

You stood there barefoot, in black leggings and a paint-stained tank top with a cardigan slipping off one shoulder, surrounded by chaos: buckets of blooms, a half-finished arrangement on the counter, shears tucked behind your ear, and glitter--glitter--on your cheekbone.

And still, somehow, you looked like a daydream.

Your eyes lit up the second you saw him.

“Well, well,” you said, arms folding playfully as you leaned against the doorframe. “Didn’t expect the FBI at my door tonight. Should I be worried?”

Hotch almost smiled. “Just a…friendly check-in.”

You looked up at the clock on the wall, “At eleven o’clock?”

“I was in the area.”

You raised a brow. “Doing what, profiling the after-hours produce aisle at Trader Joe’s?”

His lips twitched.

You stepped aside. “Come on in, Agent. If you’re going to pretend this is a normal social visit, you might as well stay long enough to commit to the bit.”

He followed you in, taking in the scent of fresh lavender and eucalyptus, the low hum of music playing from somewhere in the back.

“You always work this late?” he asked, glancing at the scattered flowers, the open order book, a cup of tea gone cold on the counter.

You twirled one of the stems between your fingers. “Weddings. Receptions. One very demanding bridezilla with opinions about peony symmetry.” You looked up at him. “But it’s good work. Soulful. Messy. Honest.”

Hotch watched the way you moved--

Fluid, easy, magnetic in a way he hadn’t realized he’d been craving until he stood in front of you again. Like you were the kind of person who knew exactly who you were, and didn’t apologize for it.

“Long case?” you asked, noticing the lines around his eyes, the fatigue in his posture.

He nodded. “Long everything.”

“Yikes,” you said softly. “Want to touch a flower? It might heal your soul.”

He raised a brow.

You grinned and held out a single bloom--

White scabiosa, delicate and strange and stunning. 

“No pressure. But I highly recommend it.”

He took it without hesitation.

You looked at him for a beat--

Really looked, like you were reading something behind his eyes.

“I’m glad you stopped by,” you said, quieter now. “Even if you’re pretending you didn’t mean to.”

Hotch met your gaze, feeling that flutter of something unfamiliar and unshakable lodge itself under his ribs.

“Yeah,” he said, fingers grazing the edge of the flower. “Me too.”

You turned away then, humming as you returned to your arrangement.

And as he stood there, still holding the soft white bloom, surrounded by half-lit petals and the faint scent of jasmine in the air…

Aaron Hotchner realized he was in very real danger of falling for a free-spirited florist who wore glitter after dark and made the whole world feel softer just by existing in it.

II.

Hotch hadn’t stopped thinking about you.

Not since that late-night “wellness check.”

 Not since the scabiosa in his cup holder.

Not since you smiled at him like he was more than a man in a suit with blood on his hands.

He thought about your shop--

Warm light spilling onto the sidewalk, jazz humming faintly from the back room, your bare feet dodging rose stems like it was just another Tuesday. He thought about your laugh. Your voice. The way you said, "pretend you're not pretending."

So when Jack looked up from his math worksheet two nights later and said, “Teacher Appreciation Day is coming up--we’re supposed to bring something nice,” Hotch paused mid-sip of his coffee and said, very casually:

“What about flowers?”

Jack perked up. “Like, real ones? Not drawings?”

“Real ones,” Hotch said, already pulling out his phone. “I know a place.”

So that’s where they went the following morning before school drop off. 

Your shop looked different in morning’s daylight.

Still charming. Still cluttered with artfully organized chaos. But now it felt more alive--

Sunlight dancing through the front windows, making the dust in the air shimmer like magic. 

The door jingled as Hotch pushed it open, his hand gently resting on Jack’s shoulder as they stepped inside.

You appeared from the back, clipboard in hand, hair piled on your head in that same effortless twist, a pencil behind your ear and--of course--a tiny smear of dirt across your cheekbone.

“Back so soon?” you asked with a grin, catching sight of him. “And this time, you brought reinforcements.”

Jack looked up at you, a little wide-eyed. “Hi.”

You crouched slightly, lowering the clipboard. “Hey there. I’m guessing you’re the brains of this operation?”

Jack blinked. Then grinned. “Probably.”

You laughed--warm and bright--and extended your hand. “I’m the flower boss. But don’t worry, I’m a fun boss.”

Jack shook your hand, completely charmed.

Hotch watched the exchange with something heavy and light all at once sitting in his chest.

“So,” you said, straightening again and turning your attention back to the pair of them, “what’s the occasion? Hot FBI dad and his small, charming accomplice?”

“Teacher Appreciation Day,” Jack said. “I want to get something for Ms. Wyatt. She likes purple.”

You nodded solemnly, tapping your chin. “Purple’s a bold move. I like it. Let me show you what we’ve got.”

You beckoned them to follow you through the shop, your voice trailing behind like music.

Hotch didn’t say much at first. He watched.

Watched as you crouched beside Jack in front of a bucket of lisianthus, letting him smell them. Watched as you explained the difference between lavender and lilac with actual enthusiasm. Watched as Jack started to talk to you--really talk--and you listened like every word he said mattered.

And then Jack asked, “Do you like working with flowers?”

You tilted your head. “I do. They’re soft, but they’re not weak. Some of them grow wild and stubborn and beautiful--just how I like ‘em.”

You looked up--just for a second--and met Hotch’s eyes.

Your smile deepened.

Jack chose a small, vibrant bouquet of lavender lisianthus, white veronica, and soft mint-scented geranium leaves. You wrapped it in craft paper with a piece of twine and a tiny card, and handed it over like it was a treasure.

Jack beamed. “Ms. Wyatt’s gonna cry.”

“She better,” you said. “Or I want it back.”

As you walked them to the door, you reached out and brushed a tiny leaf from Jack’s sleeve.

“Thanks again,” he said, pausing in the doorway. “For being so kind to him.”

You shrugged one shoulder, a little mischievous. “Well, you keep showing up at my shop like some tall, broody plot twist…figured I should be nice to the supporting cast.”

You winked at Jack. “No offense.”

Jack whispered, “What’s a plot twist?”

“Ask your dad in the car,” you grinned. “It’s probably a very long answer.”

Hotch opened the door, hand resting on the small of Jack’s back, and turned back just once to look at you.

You were already heading back to the workbench, one hand reaching for a bloom, your hair bouncing slightly as you moved--

Completely yourself.

And it hit him again:

You were a wildflower.

Unruly. Gorgeous. Rooted in chaos and beauty.

And he could not, for the life of him, get you out of his head.

III.

The meeting was already dragging.

A mid-morning bureaucratic roundtable with Erin Strauss and two other higher-ups, including the Director himself, all droning on about funding optics, interdepartmental appearances, and the upcoming annual FBI charity fundraiser.

Hotch sat with his hands folded on the table, posture perfect, expression unreadable. On the inside, he was timing how long it would take to break out a window and escape.

“…It would reflect well to have full attendance from the Behavioral Analysis Unit this year,” Strauss was saying, flipping through her folder with a sigh. “High-profile. Press-worthy. Symbolic.” She couldn’t even hide the distaste for Hotch’s team, “After the year you’ve had…”

“And tasteful,” the Director added. “No nonsense. We're still recovering from that guest speaker mishap in ‘09.”

Strauss didn’t even look up from her agenda. “And someone needs to arrange centerpieces. Something understated. Professional. Neutral. Nothing weird.” She waved her hands in the air, practically rolling her eyes as if finding a florist was below her. 

She said the word with disdain, as though a rogue sunflower arrangement had personally insulted her.

One of the admin staff in the back reached for a notepad. “We can place an order with one of the vendors we used last year--”

Hotch cleared his throat.

Everyone looked at him.

Strauss blinked, looking at him over her glasses. “Yes, Agent Hotchner?”

“I’d recommend not using the vendor from last year,” he said, calm and precise. “Half the table arrangements were wilted by dinner service.”

The room blinked again.

He looked toward the Director. “If I may--I know a florist. Small business, local. She’s talented. Professional. Excellent attention to detail.”

There was a brief silence. Strauss lifted one eyebrow in that way she did when trying to find the hidden trap.

“A florist?” she repeated.

Hotch nodded. “She owns her own shop. I’ve worked with her before.”

Technically true. 

So did stopping in three times in two weeks under vague excuses.

“She’s efficient,” he added. “Creative without overcomplicating things. And reliable.”

The Director nodded thoughtfully. “Send her business info to the event planning team.”

Strauss sighed and made a note, clearly having run out of energy for caring. “Fine. As long as no one puts glitter on the tablecloths.”

Later, when Hotch was back in his office, wading through a backlog of paperwork with the lights low and his tie already loosened his desk phone rang.

Unfamiliar number.

He answered anyway. “Hotchner.”

Silence for half a beat.

Then:

“Aaron. Hotchner.”

His brow lifted. 

Your voice. 

Dramatic. Breathless. Accusatory. Entertaining.

He leaned back in his chair, a smirk tugging at his lips before he could stop it. “Speaking.”

“You ambushed me.”

He blinked. “Ambushed?”

“Do you know what it’s like to have two men in suits--full-on Men in Black suits--walk into your flower shop at 10:12 a.m. on a Thursday morning and ask to speak with the proprietor?”

His smirk widened. “I might have an idea.”

“They had folders,” you went on, faux-horrified. “Clipboards. Credentials. They used the words ‘logistics’ and ‘event security’ in the same sentence. Do you know what my barista neighbor across the street thinks is happening right now? He thinks I’m laundering money. Through roses.”

Hotch chuckled, low and soft. “I’d say that’s your own fault for making illegal arrangements look so good.”

“You’re enjoying this.”

He didn’t deny it.

You exhaled loudly on the other end of the line. “Tell me the truth. Did you set me up?”

“I made a professional recommendation,” he said smoothly, eyes flicking back to the invoice he’d been signing. “What happens after that is out of my hands.”

“They said the order could be significant,” you said, your voice shifting into something almost uncertain now. “Like…dozens of centerpieces. Greenery. Floral structures. Possibly multi-room staging.”

Hotch leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on the desk. “Will it be a big purchase?”

“…Yes,” you admitted. “Very. Like…I’m going to have to move things around in the walk-in cooler just to hold it all. Which, I mean, fine. I’ve been saying I’d reorganize that thing since Valentine's Day. But still.”

He could hear it--

That hint of hesitation behind your normally easy, free-spirited tone. That flicker of is this too much?

“You’ll be perfect,” he said, firm but soft.

You paused.

“Yeah?”

He nodded, voice low. Certain. “I’ve seen what you do. And I know how seriously you take it. This is a good thing. You deserve it.”

You were quiet on the other end for a second. Then:

“Damn it.”

Hotch raised a brow. “What?”

“I wanted to find a reason to be annoyed with you. You know, hold it over your head a little. But you’re being supportive and kind and--ugh--encouraging, so now I’m just grateful. And weirdly flustered.”

Hotch leaned back again, smile hidden in the way he exhaled through his nose.

“You’ll live,” he said.

“Barely.”

He picked up his pen again, still smiling. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“I need a budget allowance to hide flowers with symbolic meanings that subtly insult all your supervisors.”

“You’ll have to call up the phone number they left for that one.”

You sighed dramatically. “Fine. But I’m absolutely putting glitter in at least one arrangement.”

He let out a quiet, real laugh at that. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” you said, your voice warm now--flirty and fond, like a grin against the receiver--“you keep coming back.”

Hotch paused.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”

IV. 

The fundraiser had come and gone without him.

He’d been pulled into a case two states over--

Something fast-moving and grisly, the kind of thing that swallowed days and nights whole. Strauss hadn’t been pleased when he told her he couldn’t make the event, but he hadn’t had time to care.

The case wrapped late the night before, and by the time he made it back to D.C., there was a buzz in his inbox--

Emails floating around the Bureau, some from higher-ups, some from administrative staff, and one very surprised message from the Director himself.

“These arrangements--where did you find this florist?”

“Elegant but understated.”

Even Rossi patting him on the back, as he always heard everything through the grapevine, “Nice recommendation. Even Erin approved.” 

​​Which was a feat. A miracle, really.

Hotch hadn’t even seen them in person. But he didn’t need to. He could picture it clearly: your touch in every detail. Your precision. Your charm. Your little flourishes that somehow made even the most rigid Bureau decor look alive.

So on the drive home, exhausted and a little frayed, he found himself turning off his usual route.

And pulling up to your shop.

The bell over the door jingled softly.

It was late--not closed-late, but near it. 

Golden-hour light stretched long across the floor, casting a honeyed glow across scattered petals and buckets of green. A soft indie song played somewhere in the back, low and melodic, wrapped in the scent of eucalyptus and something faintly citrus.

You appeared from behind the workroom curtain, an empty vase in one hand and your hair pinned up messily, like you’d been too busy to care but somehow still managed to look painfully good.

The second you saw him, your lips curved up.

“Well, well. The missing man of the hour.”

Hotch stepped in, letting the door swing shut behind him. “I heard you made quite the impression.”

You raised a brow. “Oh? Did your boss weep openly at the sight of hydrangeas?”

“No reports of tears,” he said. “But there was definite approval. Which, for her, is practically euphoric praise.”

You chuckled and walked toward the counter, setting the vase down and dusting off your hands. “So you came to confirm the rumors in person?”

“I came,” he said, slow and measured, “to thank you.”

Your smile softened--

Just a little. 

“Well, that’s very gentlemanly of you.”

He stepped closer to the counter.

You leaned against it.

The space between you crackled with something unsaid--

Something that had been brewing for weeks now, layered in between teasing glances and “accidental” run-ins, masked by professionalism and distance and goddamn restraint.

“I missed seeing them,” he said, voice quiet now. “The flowers. What you created.”

You tilted your head. “You came all this way after a case…to see my leftovers?”

“I came,” he said again, eyes fixed on yours, “because I wanted to see you.”

That stopped you.

For a second, your cool, breezy exterior faltered. Not in a panicked way. Not in fear. Just…surprise.

Something warm slid behind your ribs.

“You could’ve just called,” you offered, voice teasing--

But not deflecting.

“I thought about it.”

“And?”

He gave a small, amused breath. “Didn’t feel like enough.”

You leaned forward slightly on your elbows, your bracelets clinking softly against the wood. “You always this charming when you’re sleep-deprived?”

“Only when I’m talking to someone who makes Bureau directors write glowing reviews.”

You grinned. “So you’re here to woo me with flattery.”

“No,” he said simply. “I’m here because I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

There. 

A card on the table.

You blinked, lips parting.

Hotch didn’t move any closer. He didn’t have to.

“I don’t usually do this,” he said, his tone lower now, more deliberate. “But there’s something about you.”

You exhaled, slow. “Dangerous words from a man who deals with unsub psychology.”

“And yet,” he said, mirroring your words from before, “I keep coming back.”

You laughed softly, but your voice dropped too. “Yeah. Me too.”

And there it ws.

A beat.

A stretch of quiet.

Neither of you moved to close the gap--

But you didn’t have to.

It pulsed between you, just enough to make your fingers twitch, and you heart race and your breath catch in a way that said: not tonight…but soon.

“I should close up,” you said, voice gentle.

Hotch nodded, eyes lingering. “I should let you.”

But neither of you moved right away.

He looked at you like he was memorizing something.

And when he turned to leave, you called out behind him, light but deliberate:

“Next time, don’t wait for a Bureau-level excuse.”

He paused in the doorway, one hand on the frame.

“I won’t.”

V.

It wasn’t anything official.

At first.

Hotch had just…stopped by once after work. 

No excuse, no case. 

Just that same warm shop light pulling him in off the street and the way your voice lifted ever so slightly when you saw him.

Then it happened again.

And again.

Sometimes at night--

When your hair was messier, your apron slung loose, music playing faintly in the background. He'd lean against the counter, coffee in hand, and listen to you talk about blooms like they were people, alive and moody and magical. Or your customers like they were long-lost friends in the story of your life. All of these colors that made up you.

Sometimes, it was early.

Just after opening.

He’d bring coffee--

Your coffee, specifically. 

Nonfat milk, one pump of mocha, a touch of cinnamon. He’d noticed it once, scribbled on the side of a cup near your register. Ordered it without asking.

He never stayed long in the morning. Just long enough for you to tease him about his tie or the furrow in his brow or how unnaturally good he looked in a suit before 8 a.m.

And every time he left, you’d call after him, voice flirty and sing-song:

“Thanks for the caffeine, Agent. Come back when you miss me.”

He always did.

Three weeks into this…whatever it was, he thought he was subtle.

Until the evening that Rossi caught him in the Quantico parking garage.

Hotch had just slid behind the wheel, engine rumbling when he saw Rossi standing at the edge of the exit lane, arms folded across his chest.

Hotch narrowed his eyes.

Rossi raised a brow. “You do know your house is to the right, yeah?”

Hotch blinked. “What?”

“At the light,” Rossi said, stepping closer. “You keep turning left.”

Hotch stared. “You’re tracking my turns?”

“I’m a profiler,” Rossi said with a shrug. “I notice patterns. You’ve been turning left out of the Bureau at the same time nearly every night for the past couple of weeks.”

Hotch’s jaw tightened, just slightly. “Maybe I’m taking a different route.”

“You’re not,” Rossi said, far too casually. “You’re making a detour.”

Hotch didn’t respond.

Rossi’s eyes narrowed. “Wait a second. Left puts you on 608. Which goes right through Old Town. Which means--”

Hotch turned away, reaching for his sunglasses.

“Oh my God,” Rossi said, the realization hitting him like a freight train. “It’s the florist.”

Hotch said nothing.

“You’ve been visiting the florist.”

Hotch sipped his coffee. Slowly. “She makes good coffee.”

“She doesn’t make the coffee, Aaron.”

Silence.

Silence.

Rossi’s grin widened, wolfish and deeply entertained.

“This whole time, I thought you were being cryptic about a new case, but no. You’ve been...what? Casually haunting her flower shop like a silent romantic ghost?”

Hotch glanced at him flatly. “Are you done?”

“Not even close. What’s her name? No--don’t tell me. Let me guess. Something stunning. Unique. One of those names that belongs in a book.”

Hotch rolled his eyes and pulled out of the parking space.

Rossi watched the car ease toward the exit, windows down.

“She’s got you bad, Hotch!” he called after him. “Next thing I know, you’ll be showing up in a boutonnière!”

Hotch didn’t even flinch.

Just turned left.

Again.

+1

Hotch didn’t expect you to stroll into Quantico like you owned the place.

But you did.

He was halfway through reviewing a case file, pen tapping absently against the margin, when a knock sounded once against his office door--

And then it opened before he could answer.

And there you were.

Waltzing in like you’d done it a hundred times, clipboard in one hand, sunglasses perched on your head, a little smudge of pollen on your forearm, and that same damn smile that always made his thoughts scatter.

You looked at him like he was exactly the person you’d come to find.

His brow lifted, slow and deliberate. “You know most people wait for permission.”

You shrugged, leaning against the inside of the door with a grin. “Where’s the fun in that?”

He stood, a mix of amusement and surprise tugging at his mouth. “What are you doing here?”

“Apparently,” you said, glancing around his office like you were appraising it, “I’m the Bureau’s favorite florist now.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh yes. I’m doing weekly arrangements for half your departments. Including your very charming, very…emotionally distant boss.”

Hotch huffed under his breath. “Strauss.”

“Mmhmm.” You wandered further in, crossing the room like you owned the air between you. “I walked past her office earlier. She nodded at me. It was almost a smile. I think that counts as federal-level affection.”

Hotch gave the faintest smile. “She is rather fond of a well-composed bouquet.”

You tilted your head. “Or maybe she’s just jealous of my access to her most brooding agent.”

That earned a pause.

Hotch stared at you for half a second too long.

And then, “You came all the way up here just to flirt?”

“Oh, Agent,” you purred, tapping your fingers on the edge of his desk. “If I made a stop every time I wanted to flirt with you, I’d need a badge.”

Hotch stepped around the desk slowly, leaning his hand on the edge near yours.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said, voice low.

You smiled wider. “And yet…you’re not asking me to leave.”

He said nothing.

Didn’t move.

Just let the air thicken, let the pause stretch between you.

The tension pulsed like electricity.

“You planning on behaving today?” he asked quietly.

You leaned in just slightly. “What gave you the impression that I ever behave?”

He exhaled through his nose--

One of those barely held-in laughs.

You glanced down at the file on his desk. “Is this one of those murder-y cases, or are you free for coffee?”

“I have ten minutes,” he said, voice raspier now.

“Perfect,” you said, already spinning on your heel. “Meet me in the lobby. I’ll buy. FBI discount, you know. One wink at the front desk, and they practically roll out a red carpet.”

“Of course they do,” he murmured as you reached the door.

You paused before leaving, glancing over your shoulder.

“Oh--and Aaron?”

“Yeah?”

You let your eyes rake over him with unmistakable heat. “This whole authority figure, stern jaw, badge and brooding thing? Works waaayyy too well on me.”

You were gone before he could answer.

And when he looked down, he realized you’d left a single bloom on his desk--

A blush-pink carnation tucked beside the file.

Yearning, he remembered distantly from one of your flower lessons.

Of course.

Of course you did.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry @Sweethotchlogy @softtdaisy @stilestotherescue @midnghtprentiss @thebestqueenoftheworld @superlegend216

[overadores]

unexpected hello, unwanted goodbye

── .✦ 𝐒ophia 𝐋aforteza

"Hindi tayo pwede"

༉‧₊˚.pairing: sophia laforteza x reader ༉‧₊˚.genre: heavy angst. no comfort. ༉‧₊˚.cw: homophobic and misogynist parents. right person, wrong time. unlabeled relationship. violence. homophobia. ༉‧₊˚.wc: 11.6k ༉‧₊˚.author's note: okay, please do not portray the characters’ personalities as reflections of real people — especially Sophia's parents. For the love of God, it's just part of the story. so I repeat: DO NOT and this might stung a little. not proofread. also some dialogues of Sophia is in Tagalog. i really dragged this out so please excuse that lol, anw i hope you guys enjoy reading!!

"Pinagtagpo pero 'di tinadhana"

Sophia Laforteza. 

She’s the well-known daughter of a famous chef and a retired actress. The only daughter out of three siblings, and her mother’s expected— successor in the limelight. Ever since she could remember, Sophia was always the center of attention. Not in a sparkly, look-at-me kind of way—but in a way that felt…heavy. Like she was carrying something that was never really hers to begin with.

Her older and younger brothers? They were just there. Background characters. Her parents never really paid them much attention. Her dad would always say with a soft chuckle, “You’re a girl, darling—you’re too emotional and fragile to handle the real world like your brothers can. We need to take care of you.”

And that’s what Sophia always kept in mind whenever her parents dictated what she could or couldn’t do. She never thought of them as strict—just overprotective. She thought, maybe they just love me too much. Maybe all that control was their way of showing care.

When Sophia reached elementary, she started noticing things. Her friends had parents who let them go out, who said “yes” to playdates, sleepovers, and mall trips. Meanwhile, Sophia was always told “Hala, you might get lost and never come back to us,” or “May masasamang loob diyan, anak. They might take you and we’ll never see you again.”

She never protested. Never questioned. She just nodded, returned to her room, and played with her toys like nothing was wrong. She didn’t ask her friends why their parents were so...chill. Why no one watched their every move. Why did they seem free? Sophia thought, “Siguro, my parents just love me more.

High school went by in a blur. Halfway through 10th grade, she found herself transferring schools—not just to another city, but to the States. It came out of nowhere. One minute, she was settling into her old school, the next, she was dealing with new faces, unfamiliar routines, and time zones her body refused to adjust to. But she made it through. She finished with grades good enough to please her parents.

Then came college.

Sophia started her freshman year as the shy, quiet type. The kind of student professors liked because she never caused a scene. She barely spoke unless called on. She had no friends, no distractions. Her routine was strict—get home early, no hanging out, no dilly-dallying. So she just focused her way on the top and never cared for any social interactions not until one of the popular girls “befriended” her. 

Sophia didn’t want to be with this certain circle of friends, she knew their reputation around the school. She had heard things—rumors, whispers about the kind of stuff they did after school. Parties, alcohol, hooking up with seniors. Which was not her scene, but of course her people pleasing skills betrayed her. 

She didn’t know how to say no.

At first it was just a friendly interaction—hello’s in the hallway, turned into eating with them during lunch, then into being groups with them in every project. She tried her best to keep their friendship at that level, no hangouts at each other's houses, no invites, just a purely casual friendship. 

Then one night—it was already quiet, everyone was asleep except for one person. Sophia’s still chatting at their group chat (their “project” group chat), they were telling her to go to this party with them. They want to celebrate. Sophia was hesitant with this decision, telling them that she was about to sleep and she can’t go because her parents would be mad, but they suggested that Sophia should sneak out of her bedroom window and they’ll see her outside of her front porch. 

At first, she laughed it off. But deep down, a part of her wanted to say yes. Just this once. Just to feel something that was hers. With one last push of her “friends”, she got up and quietly picked out what she would wear and told them to meet her at the front porch. Sophia was no good at sneaking out since this was her first time doing it. Her so-called friends told her every move to what to do when to sneak out, she built a body fort of herself, she quietly opened her window—she was thankful that her bedroom floor was on the second floor near a tree. Her hands trembled as she climbed down, careful to avoid the house’s security cameras.

When she hit the ground, she didn’t even look back. She hurriedly went to her friends who were waiting for her at the said location. For the first time, she felt...free. Nervous but free. As she reached the party, everything became overwhelming—the flashing lights, the strong smell of cheap beer and sweat could be smelled outside. Before she could protest, The group dragged her inside the house, laughing. 

She was handed a cup of beer, the person that handed her encouraged her into drinking by bringing the cup onto Sophia’s lips. “Cheers, Laforteza,” she said. Both of them drank—one with a satisfied expression and the other disgusted. That person elbowed Sophia following a laugh, “C’mon you’ll warm up with the taste once you always get the taste of it”. So Cup after cup. Her head spun. Her cheeks burned.

Sophia didn’t know how many she drank, but she knew that it was enough to knock her down. She brought the cup down on a table and found herself a room or even a couch to sit herself down. She was not feeling well, everything was feeling too hot, too dizzy, too blurry. One of her friends sat down beside her “See? This isn’t so bad, you just need to trust us and have fun along the way” they groggily said and passed out right after. 

Sophia couldn’t even respond.

She blacked out.

The morning after was no good—a ton of missed calls from her parents, her friends were still knocked out, and she has no idea where she is and how she’ll go home. Sophia was in a state of panic, and didn't know what to do. She wanted to call her parents first, thinking of a lie that they’ll believe. As they picked up the call Sophia’s heart rate was picking up too. 

Sophia didn’t get to defend herself or even tell her where she’s at; when she heard her mom’s voice yelling, telling her to go home or she’ll get punished. Sophia stood up from the couch she was sitting on and gathered her things. She was about to wake up one of her friends, but when she looked around these were not the people she arrived with last night. Her friends were nowhere in sight, the living room was just full of strangers. 

She sat there, panic crawling up her throat.

They left her there. 

A room full of strangers. 

A place she doesn’t know. 

She sighed out in defeat, thinking that she might as well tell her parents where she’s at and just accept their punishment. Before she could think of ringing them again, her phone buzzed. Kuya. She jumped out of the couch quickly when her brother said that he was outside at her location. She looked out the window and there’s her savior—inside the black mustang and gesturing to her to come hurriedly. Sophia ran to the door and ran towards the parked car. 

The car ride to their home was her keep on ranting about what happened. 

Of course, her brother scolded her. He didn’t yell. Not yet. He just ran the whole way back.

Told you so. Drop them. They’re a bad influence. Don’t you see what they did to you?

She barely listened. She was too busy replaying everything in her head.

When they arrived home, Sophia prepared herself. She took a deep breath. Steeled her nerves.

But nothing could prepare her for the way her mother looked at her. Fire in her eyes. Disappointment. Rage. Fear. All of it rolled into one.

“Where were you?!” her mom yelled. Sophia bowed her head down, trying her best not to get affected by how her mother screamed at her. “Alalang-alala kami, Sophia!” her father shouted, his voice louder than she’d ever heard it.

Sophia knew that she cannot defend herself in this situation. She either lies or tells them the truth and accepts whatever punishment they are going to give her. She was about to say it, tell them that she sneaked out of the house, and went to a party without their permission. She was gonna tell the truth, but that wasn’t the words she said to them. Lies spewed out of her mouth, telling them that ““I was tutoring... I fell asleep at her house.”

Her mom looked at her brother for confirmation, searching his eyes. He nodded, silently backing her lie. Sophia looked at him, eyes filled with gratitude and guilt.Sophia’s parents dismissed her brother, but let her stay there, so now she was left with them in their living room. Sophia’s mom sat down on the couch rubbing her temples as an attempt to calm her nerves down while her dad sighed out and looked at her daughter. 

“Sophia. Pack your bags. You’re transferring to a new school. Somewhere private. Secluded. You are already being a rebel. We already told you disobeying us can cause you a punishment” her father said. 

Her mouth fell open. “What? Just because I snuck out?!”

Her mom stood up, “you sneaked out, you barely keep your grades up, and now you’re yelling and talking back? This isn’t the Sophia we raised. You need proper discipline. Pack your bags now. Your brother will take you tomorrow” she said in the most calm way.

She stormed to her room, furious and heartbroken, she flopped to her bed and rethought what’s happening to her. She’s not the person she is right now. The Sophia she knew doesn’t sneak out, doesn’t involve herself into peer pressure, and especially doesn’t lie to her parents. 

She screamed into her pillow. 

She doesn’t want a new school. She doesn’t want to start all over again. 

But she had no choice  so she got up and went to her closet started packing her belongings, 

The next day.

The ride to her new school was too quiet for her liking. Her older brother was driving and the younger one is clinging to her and feels like won’t let go anytime soon. Sophia thought it would be another school in a city where she could refresh her life all over again, thinking that her parents agreed for her to have her own space and dorm room, but when she opened her eyes, she saw trees. mountains. barely any buildings.

The car came to a halt indicating that they’ve reached the school. Sophia looked out the car window—the school looked old enough, minimal students were only to be seen, and nuns were all over the school grounds. 

They got out of the car—Sophia being hesitant

A Catholic school.

She felt like the air got sucked out of her lungs.

She had never been in a place like this.

Strict didn’t even begin to describe it.

She stepped out of the car slowly, got her things and looked at her brothers one last time. Her younger brother ran to her “Ate, i’ll miss you po.” he cried while hugging her. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back before the break” she said reassuring him while hugging him tightly. 

Her older brother ruffled her hair.

“Soph, try to pick your friends right this time, ha. Don’t let them influence you into bad things” Her older brother advised. She nodded, swallowing back her tears. “I’ll miss you both. Take care of bunso for me, ha.”

And with that, Sophia turned to face her new beginning.

She headed to her dorm room, suitcase in one hand and exhaustion weighing down the other. Her first day at this new, secluded Catholic school had already drained her—mentally and emotionally. She just wanted to lie down and forget the world existed. But when she pushed the door open, she didn’t expect to see anyone yet—let alone someone standing in the middle of the room with smudged black ink all over their uniform, fingers, and even a streak on their cheek.

You turned to face her, grinning as if you weren’t an absolute mess.

“Hi, roomie! I’m Y/N L/N,” you chirped, voice bright and welcoming. “I’d hug you, but... I’m kind of in a situation right now, so your hug will be arriving later!”

Your energy caught her off guard.

Sophia blinked. For a split second, she fought a smirk, but it never fully formed. Instead, she shook her head lightly, walked to the nearest bed, and started setting her things down without a word.

You disappeared into the shared bathroom shortly after, changing out of your ink-stained clothes and washing your hands.When you stepped back out, you spotted her unpacking, moving around in quiet, efficient motions. Her silence filled every corner of the room, like it had weight.

You cleared your throat, trying to ease the weird tension lingering between the two of you.

“I didn’t get your name, roomie,” you said, casually cleaning your desk. 

She didn’t even pause what she was doing.  

Sophia sighed out, thinking that you won’t stop bothering her unless she gave you a name. “Sophia” she said shortly—barely sparing you a glance. There was a little hint of annoyance in her tone, like she was already done with this conversation before it even started.

But you nodded at her short response, unfazed. You had a feeling she was the guarded type—and those were always the most interesting. 

So, being you, you kept on asking her some questions. Not in an annoying way, but with real curiosity. Something about her just pulled at you—the way she moved, the way she didn’t meet your eyes, the way she seemed like she wanted to disappear.

You started simple: her age, where she was from, what school she went to before. She answered all of them, clipped and cold, but you didn’t mind. As long as she answered, that was good enough for you.

Then your curiosity got the best of you. "so…what made you transfer here so suddenly?” you questioned her, not realizing how that one question would shift everything.

Her hands stilled on the edge of her drawer.

She didn’t look up.

You could feel the energy change.

Her walls came up before she even opened her mouth.

“What’s with the interrogation?” she snapped, her voice sharp and defensive. “Do you ask everyone that, or just me?”

You froze, surprised by the bite in her words.

You raised your hands slightly in surrender. “Hey—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I was just curious. I’ll give you some space. You didn’t wait for her response. Instead, you grabbed your phone and slipped out of the dorm room, gently closing the door behind you.

Back inside, Sophia stood frozen for a moment, staring at the door. Then she slowly walked to her bed and collapsed onto it.

Why did I snap like that?

Sophia didn’t know want came over. It wasn’t like her to just snap at someone with just a simple question. She didn’t even know you, and yet she reacted like you were trying to hurt her. It wasn’t a hard question. It wasn’t meant to cut deep. But still, her chest felt tight, like her past was a wound that hasn't healed yet—and you just touched it without knowing.

She didn’t mean to drive you away. But she didn’t know how to be close to anyone anymore. Not after what happened.

Not after what it cost her.

The night grew quiet. Hours passed. The other dorms dimmed their lights. Sophia remained on her bed, back turned toward your empty one. She figured you’d decided to crash at a friend’s room—or maybe you decided to ask for a room reassignment already.

But then the door creaked open.

It was soft—barely a sound.

She heard the light shuffle of shoes across the wooden floor. Someone tiptoeing. Trying not to be noticed.

“You know I’m still awake, right?” Sophia said into the dim light.

You froze mid-step and chuckled awkwardly, turning toward her bed.

“Of course I know that,” you said, giving her a sheepish smile.

Sophia reached over and switched on her side lamp. The room glowed a warm yellow, and she finally got a good look at you—your clothes were all wrinkled and dirtied up, Sweat beaded on your forehead, and your breathing was a little off. 

She blinked. “Where were you? And why the hell do you look like that?”

You gave her a crooked grin, clearly trying not to laugh.

“Well... I might’ve pulled a prank on one of the teachers. And then I ran for my life. So, you know—standard Wednesday.” you said. 

Sophia stared at you.

Yup.

Troublemaker.

Just her luck.

Even if it’s Sophia’s first day here she knew you were a trouble maker. Exactly the kind of person she didn’t want to be near—not anymore. Not after what that kind of recklessness cost her. The room fell into another silence. You stood awkwardly near your bed, sensing the tension again.

Sophia wanted to say something. To apologize. To tell you she didn’t mean to be so cold earlier. 

But the words caught in her throat.

So before things got weirder, you broke the moment and quietly headed to the bathroom to shower and change. Sophia watched you walk away, her eyes lingering on the empty space you left behind.

She shook her head, turned off her lamp, and laid down again.

This was going to be a long year.

Sophia’s first day at her new school was…a disaster.

From the moment she stepped outside the dorms, she felt like she’d been thrown into a maze with no map, no clue, and no escape. The hallways all looked the same—endless rows of classrooms with strange numbering systems. She clutched her schedule tightly, her knuckles pale, trying to make sense of where she was supposed to be.

Room 3C-205.

Where on earth was that?

She turned another corner, only to end up back where she started. Again. She wandered aimlessly through the school hallways, clutching her crumpled schedule in one hand, eyes darting from one door to the next. Her steps grew faster, more frantic. Everything felt too big, too wide, too overwhelming. The buildings stretched endlessly, and every hallway looked the same. She kept circling back to where she started, like some cruel joke the school was playing on her. Her frustration simmered in her chest, threatening to spill over.

Hindi ko na ‘to kaya. (i can’t do this anymore)

She wanted to ask someone for directions, but the halls were empty. Not a single soul in sight. Just the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the echo of her own footsteps. Her chest tightened. She was lost. Late. And already exhausted—and it wasn’t even noon.

Eventually, she gave up and dragged herself outside. She found a shady spot under one of the large trees near the campus center and sat down heavily, hugging her bag to her chest. The breeze offered a little comfort, but not enough to wash away the growing frustration in her chest. She stared at her room assignments again, but the list may as well have been in another language. Nothing made sense.

She was on the verge of giving up when a familiar voice cut through the silence.

"Are you cutting classes on your first day, Ms. Laforteza?"

It was you.

There you were—Wearing the same uniform, with your shirt slightly untucked like you didn’t really care, your backpack carelessly slung over one shoulder, grinning like the universe decided Sophia needed just one more thing to deal with. She let out an annoyed huff, not even trying to hide the exasperation on her face.

Of course, it had to be you.

She narrowed her eyes on you. “You have too much free time.”

“You’re not happy to see me, roomie?” you asked, tilting your head and giving her that mock-sad expression. She rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath, refusing to meet your gaze. Her eyes stayed glued to her schedule, as if staring at it long enough would suddenly reveal the answer she needed.

 "You know," you said, peering over her shoulder, "with that attitude, I might just leave you here."

"I’m not stopping you."

"Oof. Ice cold, Laforteza."

She sighed again and looked down at her schedule. The letters swam in front of her eyes. Maybe she was stupid for thinking she could handle this on her own.

You leaned in a little, reading her paper. “Ahh. 3C-205. That’s on the other side of campus.”

She groaned. “Of course it is.”

“But lucky for you…” you said, standing up and brushing imaginary dust off your pants, “I know a shortcut.”

She side-eyed you. "Are you seriously gonna help me, or are you just planning to lead me to some broom closet as a prank?" 

You clutched your chest in mock offense. “Wow. I do not do that to my fellow schoolmates. I’m offended.”  

Sophia gave you a suspicious look and didn’t answer, then sighed—long and deep. She already knew she was absent for her first class, and now she was stuck talking to you. What a great start.

You gasped, mock-offended. “Wow. Is that what you think of me?” 

She didn’t answer, just stared at you, clearly unconvinced.

"Okay, fair. But I promise this time I’m actually being helpful," you said, grinning.

You held out your hand to her. She looked at your hand, then up at your face. For a second, she hesitated. Her pride whispered don’t—but eventually, she took it. Your fingers were warm against hers, steady. Solid. Something she really needed right now.

“C’mon. I’ll take you there.” you told her. 

Sophia looked at you with hopeful eyes. She slung her bag over her shoulder and followed you, her steps small and unsure. Like a lost puppy, trailing behind the one person who seemed to know where to go.

The walk was long, winding through corners and stairwells she wouldn’t have dared explore alone. You walked ahead but always looked back, slowing down when she lagged behind, throwing in jokes every now and then to try and get a reaction out of her. Finally, you both arrived at her classroom. She peeked inside, ready for the worst—but to her relief, she was excused for being late.

You turned to her with a lopsided grin. “I’ll wait for you here later, okay? I’ll walk you to your next class.”

She blinked, surprised. “Seriously?”

You nodded. “Seriously.”

For the first time that day, she smiled—just a little—and gave you a quiet “thank you.”

As she slid into her seat and watched you walk away, she let out a small sigh, her shoulders finally relaxing.

Maybe…you weren’t so bad after all.

It had been like that for the past few weeks—an unspoken routine forming between you and Sophia. Every day after class, you’d walk her to her assigned room before dashing off to yours. You didn’t mind being late. Not if it meant making sure she got there safely. Not if it meant giving her a small sense of comfort in a place that once felt just as suffocating to you.

You weren’t trying to be a hero. You just didn’t want her to feel what you did on your first few days here—alone, overwhelmed, and quietly drowning in the noise of unfamiliar walls. You weren’t just a troublemaker. You weren’t just some nosy roommate. You wanted her to know that she wasn’t invisible. Not to you.

When the bell rang, the hallways flooded with students. You stood outside her classroom, eyes darting left and right, searching for the Filipina and once you saw her your whole face lit up, 

“Soph!” You called out, eyes lighting up like they always did when you saw her. You waved like a maniac, grinning so wide your cheeks ached. 

Sophia let out a long-suffering sigh and rolled her eyes, clearly mortified. “Grabe ka,” she muttered, especially when she noticed a few students turning to look at her with amused expressions and questioning looks. 

She stalked over to you, arms crossed. “What do you want?”

You smirked, hands in your pockets like you weren’t dying to see her all day. “Thought you needed some company on the way to the dorms. You know, in case you get lost again.”

She scoffed, smacking your shoulder lightly with a rolled-up test paper. “You’re so funny, no?” she said dryly. “And it was one time, okay?”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you at the memory.

That “one time” had been right before the midterm  quizzes. the two of you went on separate ways to review for the upcoming  quizzes–you were in the dorm and she was in the library. It was currently 9pm, lights-out approaching fast, but Sophia still hadn’t come back. Concerned, you grabbed a hoodie and headed out to find her. 

First, you checked the library. Nothing. Then under the big tree near the garden. Still no sign. Just when you were about to give up and report her missing to the dorm head, you spotted someone speed walking around the hallway, books clutched tight against their chest, hair messed up, And there it was—that familiar keychain dangling from a backpack.

‘Sophia!” you yelled, relief washing over you like a wave.

She turned, eyes wide and dazed. “Oh my God,” she whispered, jogging up to you. Her voice was groggy, like she’d just woken up.

“Where the fuck are you going?” you asked, grabbing her books before they tumbled from her hands.

“I-I actually don’t know. I feel like I’m still asleep,” she mumbled, and you let out a soft laugh, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and steering her back.

“Stupid,” you teased, bumping your shoulder against hers. “You probably just drooled on your notes and passed out.”

“Excuse me!” she protested, pinching your side as you both laughed. “I reviewed, okay? I just… maybe fell asleep after,” she grumbled, cheeks pink.

You teased her the entire walk back, and she rolled her eyes so much you swore they’d get stuck. But you noticed it—that tiny smile she tried to hide. The way her footsteps fell in sync with yours. The way her voice softened just a little when she said your name.

Since then, Sophia had started opening up, piece by piece. She still had walls, of course. Tall ones. But there were cracks now, and you were careful with every step, not wanting to push too hard. She wasn’t as snappy as she used to be, though she still threw in an eye-roll or sarcastic jab now and then—like muscle memory.

You didn’t mind. That was her way of saying she was comfortable. That she trusted you enough to be herself.

Sometimes, she’d lean against your shoulder when you both sat on the dorm hallway floor, eating snacks you smuggled from the cafeteria. Sometimes, she’d quietly slip you a candy bar in class when she noticed you skipping breakfast again. Sometimes, she’d just be there—without needing to say anything.

And those moments? Those moments meant everything.

She was still guarded. Still afraid to go through what she went through in her last school. You didn’t ask what happened—you figured she’d tell you when she was ready. But you could see it in her eyes, in the way she hesitated to let people in.

So you waited. You stayed. And you walked her to her room every day like it was your religion.

Because she wasn’t just a roommate anymore.

She was Sophia.

And you were starting to care more than you were ready to admit.

The next day brought heavy rain, the kind that drowned out every other sound, like the world was trying to quiet itself down. You and Sophia had Botany together—same class, same schedule. That’s why the two of you found yourselves in the greenhouse earlier than usual, the warm scent of soil and leaves wrapping around you like a blanket.

It wasn’t raining when you first got there. The sky was overcast, sure, but calm. You were both flipping through your notebooks, talking about anything but Botany. Then the rain started. First, just a soft drizzle tapping on the glass above you. Then it turned angry—loud, relentless, with thunder rolling in like a war drum.

The first crack of lightning didn’t faze you. But Sophia? She flinched. You saw it out of the corner of your eye—how her shoulders jumped, how her grip on her pen tightened.

You snorted. “Seriously? You’re scared of lightning?”

Another rumble followed, louder this time, and Sophia slowly stepped closer. Without saying anything, she grabbed your arm.

“Really? And You’re scared of thunder?” you teased, a grin playing on your lips.

She pinched your side in response. “Oh shut up, it’s a scary sound,” she muttered, just before another flash lit up the sky. She ducked again, covering her ears tightly, her eyes squeezing shut like it would make the noise go away.

You couldn’t help but soften. She looked so out of place—this composed, intimidating Laforteza, suddenly reduced to a girl hiding from the storm.

Rain started to pour heavier, the kind that seeps into your bones and drenches you no matter where you stand. “Let’s go, we’ll get sick if we don’t retreat,” you said, pulling her towards a covered part of the greenhouse.

She didn’t argue, just grabbed her things and followed you. But it was too late—your clothes were soaked through, notebooks dripping, your shoes squelching with every step. Even your phones weren't spared.

You spotted a small lost and found box near an old bookshelf, and rummaged through it like it held treasure. Jackpot: a used sweater, some pants, and a worn-out shirt. You tossed the shirt at her first.

“Dry yourself off first. Then change into these,” you said, holding out the sweater and pants.

She gave you a look. A very unimpressed one. “I’m not wearing used pants and a sweater that probably smells like a stranger,” she said, eyebrows raised.

You rolled your eyes. “Well, would you rather get sick and miss your perfect attendance award?” you replied with mock seriousness.

She glared but snatched the clothes from your hand anyway, muttering under her breath. Luckily, the greenhouse had foggy windows and was far enough from campus. She turned her back, started changing, and after a minute said, “Okay na.”

You turned—and instantly burst into a laugh. The sweater was way too big, the pants comically short.

“Don’t laugh at me,” she grumbled, scratching at the sweater's collar.

“I’m not,” you said, lifting your phone and snapping a quick photo when she wasn’t looking. You tucked it away with a grin. You’d keep that one forever.

It took a couple of hours before the rain finally stopped. You both ran back toward the dorms, feet splashing in puddles, laughing in between shivers. Your teeth were already chattering when you reached your room.

“You’re already shivering. You should’ve used the sweater,” she said, helping you onto your bed, concerning replacing her usual smug expression.

Sophia, now back in her usual uniform, grabbed a warm towel, a bottle of water, and some medicine from your drawer. She moved like she’d done this before, like taking care of someone came naturally.

“If I knew you get sick this easily, I would’ve let you take the damn clothes,” she said, handing you the medicine with a frown.

You gave her a cheeky grin. “If I told you, you wouldn’t have taken the clothes,” you said, then coughed right after.

She rolled her eyes at you, but you could see the smile she was fighting at the corners of her lips.

She glanced at the time, then looked back at you. “Go to your next class,” you told her, waving her off weakly. “I can take care of myself.”

But she just shook her head. “I'm not going anywhere,” she said softly, sitting down at the edge of your bed. Then, without warning, she slipped under the covers beside you.

“I know you wouldn’t leave me either if I got sick,” she added, her voice even quieter this time.

And that was it. The rest of the night passed in warmth, in quiet coughs and soft laughter. You teased her about the sweater again. She told you to shut up—again—but didn't stop smiling.

It wasn’t much. Just a storm, just wet clothes and shared medicine. But somehow, it felt like a shift. Like something between you two had quietly changed, and neither of you wanted to name it yet.

It was Saturday Night, No Homeworks. No Projects. 

It was a quiet night for the two of you—or at least, it should’ve been quiet. For Sophia, it was. But not for you, not when your ears were full of sound—random OPM tracks playing one after another, all from the playlist Sophia made and swore you’d love if you just gave it a chance. You had your headphones on, slightly bobbing your head as your fingers danced through your playlist, cleaning it up and curating a new one at the same time.

Beside you, Sophia sat with her legs curled up, her attention focused on a book you lent her. Something you swore she’d like the same way she swore you’d like the songs. Every now and then, her eyes would skim the words, but you—unknowingly—were stealing some of that focus away. You were beside her, completely in your own world, your fingers lightly tapping the air like you were playing invisible drums, caught up in the beat. No care in the world. Just you and the music.

At first, Sophia didn’t mind. She barely noticed. But when your air-drumming got a little more enthusiastic, she finally glanced your way—and what she saw made her softly laugh under her breath. You didn’t hear it. You were too far gone in whatever song was playing. She shook her head a little, amused. You looked ridiculous.

And yet…adorable.

She couldn’t believe you were actually into the songs. I mean, you of all people? The same person who said, “What’s this? I won’t even understand the song, so what's the point?” The same person who swore she wouldn’t even last a single track. But then Sophia gave you that look—those soft, half-pleading eyes that were impossible to say no to—and you sighed, giving in with a grumbled, "Fine. One song only."

But one song became two. Then three. Then an entire night of scrolling, downloading, organizing. Somehow, the lyrics—even the ones you didn’t understand—still found a way to hit you somewhere deep. It was weird, but in a good way. You didn’t question it too much. You just… felt it.

From her side of the bed, Sophia watched you, head tilted slightly, book forgotten on her lap. You looked absolutely ridiculous with the air drumming and the small, almost imperceptible smile on your face, but there was something about you—something—that made her heart feel like it was flipping over and over in her chest.

Ano ba ‘to? she thought to herself, her brows furrowing slightly. She had never felt this before. This strange, giddy, stupidly warm feeling in her chest. And maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was that shallow.

But maybe it wasn’t.

She didn’t realize she’d been staring too long until you turned, pulled your headphones off, and raised your eyebrows at her.

“What?” you asked, your voice slightly louder than usual, still half in that echoing world of music.

Sophia blinked, caught red-handed, and immediately looked back down at the book. “Wala,” she muttered, flipping a page she hadn’t read. “You looked like a crazy person kanina.”

She said it casually, but the way her cheeks turned this soft, subtle shade of pink betrayed her completely.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at her. And maybe, just maybe, you smiled a little too.

Sophia thought she was finally free. She really believed she had escaped the eyes that were always watching. The eyes that followed her every move, judged her every choice, and kept her from living the way she wanted to. To the outside world, she had everything—status, a name, a life people admired. But no one really understood how suffocating it was to live under that kind of pressure.

When she transferred to this school, she thought things would be different. That the weight she carried would finally lift. That she could finally just… exist. No one criticizing her. No one controlling her. For the first time, she hoped she could live without tiptoeing around expectations.

But she thought wrong.

Every move she made. Every breath she took. Every word she said—still found its way back to her parents. As if the walls could talk. As if even the trees were whispering about her.

Sophia knew she had to be careful. Especially when she got that text message from her mom. It was just a short one, sent while the two of you were laughing about something silly out in the courtyard. A warning, hidden beneath the usual “we’re just concerned.” A subtle reminder to watch who she was spending time with. You glanced at her and teased, “What’s that? Your boyfriend?” And she just laughed, shaking her head, putting her phone back into her pocket. She didn’t even reply.

She thought it was the same old thing again. Her mom being protective. A little paranoid. Maybe it was about what had happened before—something Sophia didn’t like talking about. But this time felt different. This time, it felt like someone really was watching.

Another message came later, when the two of you were lying under the old tree near the gym. The breeze rustled softly through the branches above, everything felt still. Peaceful. She opened her phone, and there it was—cold, sharp, and unapologetic: “You’re there to be a proper young lady, not to run around with girls who act like boys and confuse friendship with something else.”

She stared at the screen for a long time.

Confused. Hurt. A little angry.

Her eyes swept over the area, suddenly aware of every corner. Her heart started to race. Was someone watching them? Reporting back to her parents? She scanned the hallways, the benches, the windows—anyone. Anything. But all she saw was you, looking at her with worry, your hand reaching for her arm gently.

“Are you okay?” you asked quietly.

She nodded, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. There was worry written all over her face, no matter how hard she tried to hide it.

Still, she didn’t reply to the message.

She turned her phone on Do Not Disturb and shoved it deep into her bag. She didn’t want to deal with it. Not now. Not when she was finally starting to feel safe. Not when she was finally starting to feel something real.

She told herself it was just her mom’s instincts again. The same overprotective habits that had kept her locked up for so long. Always controlling. Always expecting the worst.

But deep down, something tugged at her.

Because what if it wasn’t just instinct this time? What if someone really was watching?

It was a week before midterms, and Sophia had been tearing herself apart trying to keep up. Every time you saw her, she either had her head buried in a book or was passed out from exhaustion. She’s not resting anymore. You couldn’t even remember the last time you saw her smile, much less eat at the cafeteria with everyone else.

Lately, you only saw her during class or in your shared dorm room, and even then, her presence felt like a ghost passing through. She barely spoke, barely looked up. The Sophia you knew—soft-spoken but warm, sharp but gentle—was slipping through the cracks.

You were worried. And more than that, you missed her.

So you came up with a plan.

Something simple, something quiet. Something that felt like her.

You set up a picnic blanket in one of the school’s hidden spots—an old greenhouse behind the art building that hardly anyone went to anymore. It was where you always went when everything started feeling too loud. A place that reminded you to breathe.

You brought her favorite snacks, those little sweet things she liked to sneak during study sessions. You set up your portable speaker with a playlist she once said made her feel like the world paused for a moment. A few small fairy lights too, just enough to soften the shadows.

Everything was ready.

You waited in your dorm room, pacing just a bit. It was close to lights out, and you were hoping no one would notice the two of you slipping away. It wasn’t a big deal, but if someone found out, you knew Sophia’s parents would hear about it.

The door creaked open.

Sophia walked in, looking like she was about to fall apart. Her eyes were rimmed with fatigue, dark circles beneath them, and her skin was pale under the dorm's dull lighting. Her arms were full of books, heavy like the weight she carried on her shoulders.

You stood up quickly, walking over to help her unload her things onto her desk. You saw the way her lips barely moved, how her body swayed like she might collapse if she stopped moving.

You hesitated.

Maybe she needed rest more than anything. Maybe you were being selfish. What if all she wanted was to sleep?

You stood there for a second too long, unsure of what to say.

Sophia tilted her head, concern in her eyes. “Hey? You okay there? I kinda lost you for a second.”

You hadn’t even realized she was talking. She was telling you how drained she was—how she already felt defeated before the exams even started. You nodded slowly, steadying your voice.

“Soph,” you started, careful, quiet. “Do you want to go somewhere? Just… a place to breathe for a bit?”

She blinked at you, confused. “What? Where exactly?”

You explained softly—that it was a spot you found during your first week, when everything was overwhelming and nothing felt safe. You told her it became your haven, the one place that didn’t feel like the walls were closing in.

She looked at you for a moment, her eyes softening, until she glanced at the clock.

“How are we even going to get there? It’s already lights out,” she said.

“We have to sneak out.”

That’s when something shifted.

You didn’t know what changed, but you felt it. The air in the room got heavier, like a storm waiting to break. Sophia stepped back slightly, her expression faltering.

Her voice was lower now. “I…I don’t think I can do that again.”

You didn’t push. You waited.

She sat down on the edge of her bed, staring at her hands. “The last time I snuck out, things got bad. I got caught. I got in trouble. And worse…I was left alone. They left me. I don’t want to be left again.”

Her voice cracked on the last word.

You crouched down in front of her, gently placing your hand over hers. “You won’t be,” you said, quietly but firmly. “I’m not going to leave you, Sophia. And I’m not going to get you in trouble. We’ll be careful. I promise.”

There was silence for a while.

And then—she nodded.

The two of you slipped out of the dorms, careful with your steps and breathless with the quiet thrill of it all. You led her through the school grounds, down the path you knew by heart. When you reached the spot, you watched her eyes take in everything.

The picnic blanket spread out with soft pillows. The warm glow of fairy lights. A few potted plants lining the edges. The stars above, clearly visible through the glass ceiling of the old greenhouse, glittering like they were waiting for the two of you.

Sophia stepped into the space slowly, as if afraid it would disappear if she moved too fast.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, almost in a whisper.

You sat down beside her, offering her food, and for the first time in days, you heard her laugh. It was quiet and tired, but real.

You didn’t talk about exams. Not once.

Eventually, when the silence settled between you comfortably, you found yourself speaking.

You told her how you ended up in this school—how you had your own past you didn’t like to revisit. How being left alone wasn’t just something you hated, it was something that haunted you. That sometimes, even when people said goodbye, the echo of their absence stayed louder than anything else.

She looked at you, eyes soft and a little glassy. “I’m sorry,” she said, taking a deep breath. “For what happened to you.”

Then she told you her story—not all of it, not yet, but enough. Enough to understand the girl behind the silence. The pressure. The rules. The fear of being seen and punished for simply trying to live.

The quiet stretched between you again, not heavy, but calm.

After a while, you stood up and reached out your hand to her, smiling just a little. “Dance with me?”

Sophia looked up at you, a little caught off guard. “Now?”

“I’ve never gotten to dance with someone at prom,” you said. “And you look like you owe yourself a moment like this.”

As cliché as it was, she took your hand. And under the stars, with music playing low and the world stripped of its noise, the two of you danced. No big moves, no twirls, just quiet steps and held gazes. Just closeness.

Just presence.

The test results were finally out, and Sophia felt like she was drowning in her own thoughts. Her chest was tight, her palms cold, and her stomach in knots. Anxiety clung to her like a second skin, and no matter how much she tried to focus, her mind kept spiraling. What if I failed? What if I messed this up? What if they make me transfer schools again because of one stupid score?

When the paper was handed to her, she couldn’t bring herself to open it at first. Her fingers trembled slightly as she held onto the folded test sheet like it held her fate. She inhaled deeply, a silent prayer running through her mind—please, please don’t let it be bad.

And then, with hesitant hands, she opened it.

90%.

A breath escaped her lips. Relief washed over her like a wave, and for a moment, she felt the weight lift. It was the score she hoped for—enough to make herself proud. Maybe even enough to show her parents she was trying.

With a flicker of hope, Sophia decided she’d call them. She wanted to share this moment, to tell them she was doing fine, maybe even hear them say they were proud of her. As the bell rang and the halls flooded with chatter, she made her way quickly back to the dorm.

The room was empty. You weren’t there. Perfect timing.

She sat on her bed and dialed, her heart still fluttering with a mix of nerves and excitement. The phone rang once… twice… then someone picked up.

“Hi, Ma! Hi, Pa!” she greeted, her voice bright, her tone warm and upbeat.

Her parents, sensing the joy in her tone, matched her energy—or at least tried to.  “I just wanted to update you… things are going okay. My roommate’s actually really cool, and I got a 90 on my midterm—”

A long pause. Her mother’s voice cut through, sharp and cold.

“A 90?”

Sophia blinked. “Yeah. I know it’s not perfect, but I’ve been studying really hard and—”

Her mother didn’t let her finish.

“Ninety? That’s it? You call that improvement? You’re in college now, Sophia. Bakit parang high school level parin ang mga grades mo?”

Sophia’s smile faltered. Her hand clenched the phone tighter.

“If you keep getting scores like that, don’t bother coming home. Do you hear me?” her mother snapped. “We will disown you. I didn’t raise you for this kind of mediocrity.”

Sophia tried to respond, her lips parting to explain, to say something, anything— “And your roommate,” her mother added, her tone laced with disgust. “Stay away from her.”

“What?”

“She’s not someone you should be around. I don’t care if she’s nice or if she helps you study. She’s a bad influence. Do you even know what kind of person she is? Don’t you know she’s a sinner? You think that’s someone you should trust?”

Sophia’s heart stopped. She couldn't find her voice.

“You're so easily swayed. This is why you're falling behind. Focus on your future, not... her.”

Before she could respond, the line went dead.

Sophia sat there, staring into nothing, phone still to her ear, the silence on the other end louder than anything. Her throat burned. Her hands were cold. The silence in the room grew heavier with each passing second. Her chest tightened again, but this time, not from anxiety—this was hurt. A deep, twisting hurt that made her feel so small.

They didn’t even ask if she was okay.

Tears welled up in her eyes before she could even try to stop them. She curled up on her bed and cried into the pillow, trying to smother the sound of her sobs. She was supposed to meet you for lunch—but now she didn’t even want to leave the room.

The ache in her chest was too much. Her appetite was gone. She stayed curled up under the blanket, her mind replaying the words over and over again. Not enough. Disown. Sinner.

She cried—quiet at first, then louder as everything she had buried started to surface.

She didn’t hear the door open.

“Sophia?”

Her heart skipped. She quickly wiped her tears, sat up, and tried to compose herself, but it was too late.

There you were, standing at the doorway with a tray full of snacks and drinks, grinning—until you saw her face.

Your smile disappeared. You rushed over, leaving the tray on your bed.

“Hey… hey, what happened?” you asked, kneeling beside her.

Sophia just shook her head, eyes cast down. Her lips trembled. She didn’t want to cry in front of you. She never did. She was supposed to be composed, in control. Crying felt like weakness—and weakness was never allowed in her house growing up.

You glanced at her bed: messy books, a crumpled test paper, used tissues, her phone.

“Mahal…” you said softly, reaching for her hand and brushing her hair away from her damp cheeks. “Tell me what happened.”

She tried to hold it in, but the moment you touched her, the dam broke.

“M-my mom… she said my grades weren’t enough,” she whispered, voice cracking, eyes filled with shame.

You nodded gently, encouraging her to let it out, your fingers weaving through her hair as you pulled her close. Her head rested on your chest, and she clung to you like she might fall apart if she let go.

“She said I was useless,” she sobbed, “and if I ever get grades like this again…they’ll disown me.”

Her whole body shook as the words left her mouth. Her tears soaked through your shirt, and her voice—raw, trembling, barely a whisper—was filled with years of hurt she never allowed herself to speak aloud.

You held her tighter.

“Y/n… I don’t want to be disowned,” she said between sobs. “I don’t want to be alone…”

You cupped her face gently, wiping away her tears with your thumbs. “Ssshh… look at me, mahal.” She did, eyes red and swollen. “No one will disown you. And no one—no one—will ever leave you. Not on my watch, okay?”

Sophia leaned back into your arms, letting you wrap her in warmth. You kissed the top of her head softly, your hand rubbing gentle circles on her back.

She never knew comfort like this—only from her younger brother, and even that felt like a secret she wasn’t allowed to need. But here, in your arms, the world was quiet. The pressure, the expectations, the fear… all of it faded.

And for the first time, Sophia felt like she wasn’t just surviving—she was seen.

She didn’t say anything more after that. She didn’t have to. Her head stayed against your chest, your heartbeat grounding her, anchoring her to the present. You stayed like that for a long time, letting the silence be soft and healing.

Then, almost hesitantly, her fingers reached out for the snack tray you brought. She sniffled.

“What… what did you get?” she asked, her voice hoarse but trying to sound normal again.

You smiled, relieved. “Chocolate cake. Milk tea. Your favorites. I had to bribe the vending machine and practically threaten the lady at the bakery to get the last slice.”

A tired laugh slipped out of her—small and shaky, but real. “You’re too nice to me.”

“I’d fight the world for you,” you whispered, serious now. “And your mom, if she keeps talking like that.”

Sophia didn’t respond. She just tucked her head back into your chest, like maybe if she stayed there long enough, the rest of the world would fade.

And for now, that was enough.

Sophia didn’t listen to her mother—not this time. She didn’t stay away from you, and honestly? She didn’t want to. You had already become her safe place, her calm in the chaos that surrounded her every day. For the second time in her life, she defied the rules her parents raised her on. She knew the risks—especially with the eyes her parents kept planted in the school halls—but she didn’t care. Not when it came to you.

The two of you hadn’t even defined what you were to each other. No labels. No promises. Just this unspoken understanding that your feelings were real and blooming quietly in stolen glances and whispered conversations. You were both in no rush to name it—whatever it was. You simply existed together in a kind of sacred secrecy.

Because this school, this Catholic school, didn’t allow space for love like yours.

So everything you did was hidden. Holding hands beneath the cafeteria table. Kissing softly behind the chapel when no one was looking. Cuddling in quiet corners of the library. Every touch had to be calculated. Every look had to be careful.

At first, you didn’t mind the secrecy. You were here because of that again. Your parents had sent you off to this place hoping to “fix” you. Turn you into the perfect straight daughter with impeccable discipline and proper behavior. But somehow, they thought an all-girls school was the answer—which only confirmed how little they actually knew you.

You didn’t expect to find someone like Sophia. Honestly, you thought she was going to be one of those girls—too proper, too soft-spoken, probably a little too perfect. Her family was known, her life looked polished from the outside, and her vibe screamed stay away. Everything about her felt opposite to you. Her clothes, her posture, her carefully measured smiles. And still, she drew you in.

It started small. That first day, she was totally lost, clutching a schedule and scanning the hallway numbers like they were a puzzle. You spotted her from down the hall, looking hilariously confused, and you could’ve helped right away—but you didn’t. Not yet. You pretended you had a different class just to peel off and loop back around later so it looked more casual. You wanted to help, but you didn’t want to seem like you cared. Not too much.

Then there was the cafeteria. She sat alone at lunch, stiff and guarded, picking at her food like it was some chore. Most girls avoided her—maybe it was her resting don’t talk to me face, or maybe they were just intimidated by the last name she carried. But you didn’t care. You sat across from her anyway, not asking for anything, just existing there until she realized you weren’t a threat.

From then on, it built slowly—like music with no beat drop, just a gradual rise in volume until you realized it was surrounding you.

You learned about her little by little. Her favorite snacks. Her weird pet peeves. The way she liked her books organized by color instead of author. How her parents expected her to be this picture-perfect daughter, and how she never really got the chance to feel things on her own terms. You saw the weight she carried—how exhausting it must be to be so controlled, to be so watched all the time. She wasn’t just some rich girl with rules. She was someone who never got to breathe without someone else telling her how.

And God, did you want to protect her from all of it.

You didn’t realize you were falling until it was already happening. It wasn’t some movie moment with swelling violins and fireworks. It was a Tuesday. She was wearing your oversized hoodie, curled up in your bed with the book you recommended, and between her soft humming and the occasional Tagalog lessons she mumbled into your arm, you felt it—the quiet click of something inside you shifting.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even loud.

It was just real.

You started noticing the way she’d lean into you when you were alone, how she’d blush a little whenever you called her something stupidly sweet like sunshine or cutie. She never asked you to stop, even when her cheeks turned red. And when you hung out in secret spots around campus, she’d sit closer. Her fingers would linger. Her eyes would stay on you a little longer than before.

But the moment everything changed?

It was that night in the library.

You found her sitting cross-legged on the floor between two shelves, lost in a novel, lips slightly parted as her eyes scanned the pages like they were secrets. You sat beside her quietly, pretending to read your own book. It was quiet, almost too quiet, so you nudged her. She barely looked up, and when she did, it was only for a second before she returned to her pages.

So you did what anyone would do—you stole her book. She gasped, playful fire in her eyes, and tried to snatch it back. You grinned and told her to follow you to the back where the bean bags were, promising it’d be more comfortable.

She followed.

You both sank into the cushions, backs to the wall, legs stretched out. She slid down until her head was resting on your thigh, your fingers casually playing with the ends of her hair while you read aloud a line or two just to annoy her. Eventually, she gave up on reading and just watched you instead.

You didn’t notice until she sighed—soft and tired.

You looked down, and there she was, her dark brown eyes fixed on you. You set the book aside.

“What?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

She shrugged.

You rolled your eyes. “Use your words, Laforteza.”

But she didn’t answer. Instead, her fingers reached up to trace the faint scar on your eyebrow. Her touch was featherlight, sending chills down your spine.

“It was a stupid accident,” you said, not wanting to get into the whole story about the nuns and your endless list of detentions.

She didn’t laugh. Just kept tracing.

The air felt thick. Too heavy. Too still. You both leaned in, instinctively. Slow, cautious, breath held between the inches of space.

And then—buzz buzz buzz. Her phone.

You both flinched.

She answered it, reluctantly, standing up with a quiet “Sorry.”

But after that night, it was like something shifted.

You didn’t talk about it. Not exactly. But everything between you got... softer. Closer. Sweeter.

She’d rest her head on your shoulder during study hours. You’d sneak snacks into her room on bad days. She started wearing your clothes more often. You started leaving little sticky notes in her books with dumb doodles and inside jokes. You called her mi amore just to see her blush, and she called you makulit like it was the most affectionate word in the world.

And maybe you weren’t officially anything yet. Maybe you were still hiding in quiet corners and exchanging secret smiles in crowded halls.

But you knew.

She was yours.

And you were hers.

Even if the world wasn’t ready.

The next day, you woke up earlier than usual. You didn’t even bother fixing your hair or ironing your uniform perfectly—your focus was set. Today was Sophia’s birthday. You wanted to make it special. Even if the school didn’t allow celebrations, even if it meant breaking the rules again, you didn’t care. You had snuck in a small cupcake the night before, tucked away in your drawer, along with a candle you stole from the chapel's supply room. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Today was also the day you planned to ask her—to finally ask Sophia to be your girlfriend. You rehearsed what to say in your head a hundred times over. You were going to tell her you loved her. You were ready.

But before anything could happen, your name echoed through the entire school from the PA system.

“Y/N, to the directress' office. Immediately.”

The cupcake in your hands felt heavier all of a sudden. You looked at it one last time before placing it gently on the desk. You didn’t want to get into more trouble than you already were, so you took a deep breath and headed to the office.

When you stepped inside, the air changed.

Nuns surrounded the room like shadows, silent and still, their eyes sharp and unreadable. And there, in the middle, stood Reverend Mother. Her face was stone. No one said a word. Not until she slowly walked up to you.

You opened your mouth to ask what was going on, but you didn’t even get the chance.

Smack!

Your head snapped to the side. A sting bloomed on your cheek, and your knees buckled from shock more than the pain. Before you could react, her hand raised again—

Smack!

Another blow. And another. You didn’t know how many. You didn’t even know why. You just found yourself on the floor, trembling, hands pressed against the cold tiles, the copper taste of blood blooming on your lip. Your cheek throbbed. The nuns remained still, judgmental eyes digging into your skin.

“You are a disgrace!” the Reverend Mother shouted. “Do you even know how many sins you’ve committed?”

You looked up at her through tears. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t even understand what exactly you were being punished for—at least not out loud.

“You turned a pure, innocent girl into a sinner. You are a disgrace to humanity.”

“I love her,” you choked out. “I did not turn her into a sinner, because i don’t think it was a sin”

Your voice trembled, but you kept going. “It’s not wrong to love someone—even if they’re the same gender. So i-i don’t think it was a sin, because it didn’t feel like a sin. it felt like it was too supposed to be feel” They just stared at you like you were crazy.

Then another slap.

“You don’t speak that way,” she said coldly. “You will be punished for your actions. But for now, you are dismissed.”

She paused at the door and added, “And as for Ms. Laforteza… don’t even think about contacting her. I have a separate punishment in store for that girl.”

You ran back to the dorms with blood on your lip and shame pooling in your chest. You cleaned yourself up the best you could, dabbing at your swollen cheek with a damp towel. You avoided your reflection. You didn’t want to see what they did to you. You didn’t want to see yourself right now.

You lit the candle on the cupcake just in time. When you heard the door open, you stood up fast, trying to hold it all together. Sophia stepped inside—and froze.

You sang anyway, voice shaky, but soft.

Happy birthday to you...

She blew out the candle, and you walked up to her. You saw her glance at your face, about to ask what happened—but then her phone rang.

She tensed. You caught a glimpse of the caller ID.

“Mama.”

She hesitated. Then stepped outside to take the call. You stood there alone, hands still warm from the candle. Heart already cold.

A few minutes passed.

Then you followed her.

The hallway was completely silent—the kind of silence that echoed with every breath. You didn’t know where she went. You didn’t know what you were expecting. But then you heard your footsteps fall down the stairs, fast and heavy.

And there she was.

Sophia Laforteza. Leaning against the wall, phone still glowing in her hand. Like she hadn’t moved in minutes. Her eyes met yours, and—God—you hated that she was crying again. Always crying because of her.

You ran to her and pulled her into a hug. You held her close, your bruised cheek brushing hers.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “I’m here. We’ll get through this. Together.”

But she didn’t hug you back.

You pulled away slightly. “What happened? What did she say?”

Sophia looked down, her voice small. “She said… she’s giving me one last warning. If I don’t stay away from you, she’s pulling me out. Right away.”

You waited.

You waited for her to say she told her mom that she didn’t care. That she loved you. That she was going to fight for you.

But she didn’t.

“I told her I’d stay away.”

And just like that, something cracked inside you.

“I don’t want to transfer schools again. I can’t.”

You stared at her.

“I fought for us,” you said, your voice barely a whisper. “I got dragged into the directress’s office. I got slapped. Humiliated. I bled. I told them I loved you.”

She didn’t move. Her tears betrayed her, but she didn’t speak.

“And you—you just accepted what your mother said? Just like that? Without even thinking? Like a coward?”

Her tears fell faster, but still—silence.

“You do have a choice, Laforteza. You could’ve shown them that I matter to you. That this,” you gestured between you two, “means something. That loving each other isn’t wrong.”

You took a shaky breath. “But I guess… I was the only one who thought this was worth fighting for.”

Sophia tried to speak. Her lips parted. Her thoughts raced. She wanted to tell you she loved you too—but the words wouldn’t come out. They stuck in her throat like broken glass.

“So that’s it?” your voice broke. “I just told you I love you… and you have nothing to say?”

She opened her mouth.

Nothing.

You shook your head, laughing bitterly. “Alright. I’ll see you in the dorm room then.”

You turned around, walking away, your footsteps echoing through the hallway. Leaving Sophia frozen in place. All alone. With nothing but silence and everything she should have said.

The next day, the sun rose like it always did—quiet and indifferent.

But something felt wrong. Off.

You blinked away the sleep in your eyes and rolled over to check on the other side of the room. That side. Her side.

But Sophia’s bed was empty.

Perfectly made, as if no one had ever touched it. As if she had never been there.

You sat up slowly, the ache in your chest growing heavier with every second. You looked around the room—her books weren’t stacked on the table anymore. Her clothes, usually slung messily over the chair or hanging by the window to dry, were nowhere to be seen. The corner where she kept her favorite lotion, her hairbrush, the half-used bottle of perfume you always teased her about—gone. All of it.

It was like someone had come in during the night and erased her.

No trace of Sophia Laforteza. Not even a note. Not even a goodbye.

You dragged your feet across the cold floor and stood in front of her bed. Your hand hesitated over the blanket, your fingers curling just above the place where she used to sit, where she used to laugh, where she used to fall asleep while talking to you mid-sentence.

And all you could think about was the last time you spoke.

The last time her voice filled this room—it was shaking. She was crying. You were crying. And it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. You were fighting. You were begging. For her to fight back. For her to choose you.

But she didn’t.

And now she was gone.

Just like that.

Pulled out of the school like it was nothing. Like everything that happened between the two of you didn’t even matter. Like you didn’t matter.

You sat down on the edge of her mattress, swallowing hard. The silence felt louder than it should. There were no soft giggles, no sarcastic remarks, no whispered conversations after lights out. Just you. And the echo of a goodbye that never came.

Your throat tightened as you stared blankly at the wall. You wanted to be angry. You wanted to scream. But more than anything—you just wanted one last moment. One last glance. One last word. Something.

Anything.

But all you had left was the memory of her tears, the weight of your own words hanging heavy between you, and a bed that wasn’t hers anymore.

And outside, the world just kept going. Like she was never even there.

gonna leave you guys with a quote lol: “Some people are just passing chapters, no matter how much you want them to be your whole story. The laughter, the promises, the late-night dreams of forever—they dissolve into silence. And the what-ifs? They haunt. But never regret the love that blossomed between the two of you. It lived, even if it died quietly.”

how'd i do :D??? i hope it stung like i hope it would haha

[missimaginx]

CELEBRITY CRUSH | KM12

pairing: kimi antonelli x f!brazilian!tennis player!reader

plot: where kimi needs to introduce the paddock to you, his celebrity crush.

warnings: narrated in first person (kimi's pov); female reader; italian-brazilian female reader (but you can just ignore that); female tennis player reader; kimi being a nervous and lovesick mess around the reader; possible grammatical errors; english is not my first language :).

a/n: images taken from pinterest. this is my first time writing a one shot 🥹, hope you like it (wc: 3k)

remembering that this is just fiction, all the people portrayed here have their own personalities and their own relationships.

MIAMI GRAN PRIX — 2025

I’m sweating.

Like, a lot.

And I’m not even wearing the race suit yet.

“…and it would be great if you could show her around the paddock, Kimi. She’s Mercedes’ special guest because of the shared Adidas sponsorship, so be nice. Engaged. Natural.” The Mercedes PR finishes with that professional smile that, at this point, feels like the devil’s grin.

I nod. That’s all I can do. Because, honestly? I’m speechless. In shock.

Y/N L/N is going to be here.

THE Y/N L/N.

The girl who lives in my head like she pays rent. The tennis prodigy. The one I watched playing at the Australian Open when I was sixteen and became absolutely certain she’s the love of my life—even though she doesn’t even know I exist.

I’ve seen her on TV. On Instagram. On TikTok. In interview replays. I’ve read articles from Brazilian sites in Brazilian Portuguese and tossed them into Google Translate. I know what brand of racket she uses. I know she likes passion fruit juice and has a superstition about a red hair tie.

And now she’s going to be here.

With me.

Getting a paddock tour.

And I HAVE TO BE NATURAL.

“You’re pacing.” Ollie says, sitting on the press room couch with the most bored expression in the world. “Again. You’ve literally circled the table three times.”

“I’M SHOWING HER AROUND THE PADDOCK, OLLIE.”

“Yeah, you said that. Three times. In different volumes.”

“She’s going to look at me and think ‘who is this idiot?’ And then I’ll stutter and trip over myself and maybe even throw up! Ollie, I MIGHT PUKE IN FRONT OF HER!”

“You’ve raced in torrential rain with zero visibility. You can handle a girl.”

“She’s not just any girl! She’s Y/N L/N!”

“Right. The love of your life you’ve never said ‘hi’ to. Got it.”

“You don’t get it! She’s incredible. She’s focused, determined, elegant, funny—she laughs with her head tilted to the side, and when she’s concentrating on a match she wrinkles her nose in this way that—”

“Okay. That’s it.” Ollie throws his head back, laughing. “Kimi, for the love of God, breathe. You’re just going to show her around, and if it all goes terribly wrong, you’ll never see her again.”

“NOT HELPING!”

“But… what if it goes right?”

I freeze. What would ‘going right’ even mean? She noticing me? Laughing with me? Following me back on Instagram? Calling me ‘Kimi’ with that cute Italian-Brazilian accent?

“You should ask her out,” Ollie says.

I turn to him like he just suggested I break into the FIA president’s office.

“Are you insane?”

“Why not? You’re the same age. She’s an athlete, you’re an athlete. She’s Italian, you’re Italian. You’re both young, rich, good-looking… basically an Adidas commercial couple.”

“I won’t even be able to say ‘hi’! You want me to ask her out?”

“Get ice cream. Ask her out for ice cream.”

“I’M NOT ASKING Y/N L/N OUT FOR ICE CREAM!”

“Why not?” he crosses his arms, laughing. “You think she’ll say no? That she’ll laugh in your face?”

“Yes! No! I don’t know!”

The door opens and Gabriel walks in, energy drink in hand and looking like he was dragged out of bed.

“Good morning to you too,” he says, flopping into the chair next to me. “Everything okay? Kimi looks like he’s seen a ghost.”

“He has,” Ollie replies before I can defend myself. “Or, well, he’s about to. The love of his life.”

Gabi frowns. “Huh?”

“Kimi’s had a crush on a girl for like three years and just found out she’s gonna be here today. In the paddock. As a Mercedes guest. And he has to give her the tour.”

Gabriel blinks, processing. “For real?”

“Totally. He’s already planning his escape through the Williams garage.”

“Who is it?”

“Y/N L/N,” Ollie says.

“Y/N?”

My stomach drops.

“You know her?” I ask, trying to sound casual. (Failing completely.)

“Of course. We’ve known each other since we were twelve. Her parents are friends with my uncles. And she’s INSANE on the court. Just won the Miami Open, did you see?”

“I DID,” I answer with something close to religious fervor. “I watched the whole match. Twice.”

My world tilts.

Gabriel Bortoleto knows Y/N L/N.

GABRIEL. KNOWS. HER.

“What’s she like?” I ask before I can stop myself. “I mean, off the court. Does she like music? Movies? What’s her favorite ice cream flavor? Is she talkative? Quiet? What’s her favorite color? Has she ever dated? Does she—”

“Mate,” Gabi laughs, slow. “Breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

“Doesn’t seem like it.”

Ollie laughs out loud. “Told you it was serious. He’s had a dossier on her since 2022.”

“I just want to be prepared!” I protest.

Gabi looks at me like he’s finally getting the full picture.

“Mate. You’re in love with her, even though you’ve never met?”

“Not in love in love. Just… maybe. A lot. Since forever.”

Ollie grins, the smug smile of someone enjoying someone else’s drama way too much.

“And you still think you shouldn’t ask her out?”

I sink into the chair.

“This is going to be a disaster.”

And Ollie, beside me, pats my shoulder. “Or it’s going to be the beginning of a story we’ll laugh about at your wedding.”

“Not helping.”

“But it’s true.”

And, for the first time, I let that wild thought creep into my brain.

What if… it’s not a disaster?

I’ve only been waiting for two minutes.

But it feels like forty-seven years.

The Mercedes hospitality is quieter now… or maybe it just feels that way. There are still people around. An engineer leaving a meeting room, a kitchen staff member switching trays at the buffet, a couple of marketing folks talking quietly on a corner sofa. But to me, everything seems in slow motion. Like the whole world has faded into background noise while my thoughts race faster than my W16.

I’ve done all the interviews. Talked to more journalists than I can count, answered the same questions so many times the words lost all meaning, and even smiled genuinely when asked about the race. Now there’s just one thing left…

Her. Y/N L/N.

I shift in my seat for the fifth time in two minutes. Run my hand through my hair. Zip and unzip my jacket. Try not to sweat. Fail miserably.

The PR said she’d go get her and bring her here. Told me I just need to be polite. “Natural.” As if that’s possible when I’m about to meet the girl who’s lived rent-free in 90% of my brain since I was sixteen.

I rest my elbow on the armrest, trying to look casual, but my knee’s bouncing. I force myself to breathe—and that’s when I hear it.

A laugh.

Light, crystal clear. With an accent. That kind of laugh someone gives when they’re being polite but genuinely kind.

And I know it’s her.

It’s ridiculous, but I know. The sound hits different. Like the universe has been waiting for her to show up so it could finally be in color.

I hear the PR’s voice along with hers, getting closer every second, and something inside me switches on. I straighten up. Run my hand through my hair again. Try to remember how to say “hi.”

And then she walks in.

And nothing—absolutely nothing—could’ve prepared me for it.

She steps in beside the PR, eyes wandering curiously around the room, and my brain shuts down. Like, literally. Total blackout. Blue screen.

Y/N L/N walks through the door like the universe hit pause so she could have time to exist. The mint green dress—yes, mint green, because she once said in an interview that it’s her favorite shade of green—looks like it was made for this soft lighting. It matches her white sneakers and the dark green lanyard hanging around her neck. It brings out the warm tone of her skin, the insane green of her eyes, the waves of dark brown hair I’ve seen in so many videos—but live, it’s different. It’s better. Everything is better. Every detail.

She smiles, a bit shyly, and glances around like she’s still adjusting to the new environment.

And me? I’m frozen.

She’s… smaller than I imagined. For some reason, in pictures and videos, she looked taller. But now, standing a few steps away from me, her shoulders slightly hunched like she’s shielding herself from the attention, she looks… real. Human. Beautiful in an almost unreal way.

“Y/N, this is Kimi Antonelli. Our driver, and your official tour guide today,” says the PR, lightheartedly. “Kimi, this is Y/N L/N, who you probably already know, but just to remind everyone—she just won the Miami Open.”

But I don’t hear any of that. Or, I do, but it’s all background noise behind her image. I’m too busy… existing in a trance.

She extends her hand, smiling.

“Hi,” she says, with that adorable Italian-Brazilian accent that makes me want to write poetry. “Nice to meet you. And thank you for having me here.”

I look at her hand. Then her face. Then her hand again. Then—

Do something, Kimi.

I shake her hand like it’s made of porcelain. The touch is light, but it feels like a shock. Not the bad kind. The kind that wakes you up.

“It’s… it’s a pleasure,” I say, voice slightly higher than usual. “Like. Really. A lot. I mean—welcome.”

Y/N smiles. God help me, she smiles.

“Thank you,” she says again, with a tiny laugh that makes her nose scrunch up. Just like I love. “I’m a little nervous, to be honest. I’ve never been in a paddock before. Everything looks so… serious.”

“It’s… yeah. It is. But not always. I mean, yes. But also no. It’s fun. Sometimes.”

STOP TALKING, KIMI.

She laughs again, and by some miracle, she doesn’t seem to think I’m completely insane.

The PR chimes in, all cheerful:

“I’ll leave you two to walk around and get familiar with the place. Y/N, anything you want to know or see, Kimi can show you. He knows every corner of this paddock with his eyes closed.”

I nod. Maybe too quickly. Y/N smiles again. And for one whole second, there’s just this.

Her.

And me.

And the suicidal mission of not falling even harder.

The PR leaves us there and vanishes before I can beg her to teach me how to be a functional human being.

Y/N looks at me expectantly, a slight smile on her lips, like she’s silently asking, “So… what now?” I try to remember what the PR said. Show her around the paddock. Right. Easy. I know this place like the back of my hand. I’ve walked through here half-asleep thanks to jet lag more times than I can count. But now, with Y/N by my side, everything feels different. Bigger. Brighter. More… paralyzing.

“So… uh, welcome to the paddock,” I begin, trying to sound casual while gesturing like a school trip tour guide. “This is the Mercedes hospitality. It’s where we eat, have meetings, drink bad coffee, and try to pretend we’ve got our lives under control.”

She laughs. She laughs. And I feel like I’ve gained +10 confidence points… and -15 coordination points because I almost trip over one of the couches.

“It’s a lot calmer than I expected,” she says, looking around. “I thought it’d be, like… chaos. Loud. People running around with tires on fire.”

“Oh, that’s more outside, in the garages. In here we only lose it mentally.”

She giggles again, and I decide I could listen to that sound on loop for the rest of my life.

We start walking slowly, and I steer the tour toward the one place where I feel safer: the team garage. My territory. Maybe here I’ll seem less like a clumsy idiot.

“This is the team’s garage,” I explain, pointing like I’m showing her a sacred temple. “That’s where the cars are, over there’s the tires, back there’s the engineers’ station, and in the far back is where I pretend to understand everything Toto says when he starts throwing quantum physics terms around.”

Y/N watches everything with genuine curiosity. Not the polite kind of interest people fake just to be nice — she actually wants to understand. It’s real. And that somehow makes her even more perfect… and me even more in love.

“Wow… so this is where it all happens,” she says, almost reverently.

“Yeah. And also where it all goes wrong sometimes,” I add with a crooked smile.

“What’s the top speed again?”

“Depends on the track… but in Monza, for example, we can hit 350 km/h.”

“Three hundred and…?” She blinks, stunned. “You’re kidding.”

“I swear.”

“What’s it like?” she asks, her big green eyes—bright, locked on my very average brown ones.

The question catches me off guard — not because it’s rare, but because of the way she asks it. Like it’s magic. Like, for a second, I’m not just the Mercedes driver… but someone she truly admires. Someone she wants to understand.

“It’s…” I take a breath, searching for words that do it justice. “It’s like flying, but with the ground really close. Everything becomes instinct. You feel every movement of the car, every curve in your body. The adrenaline is insane, but at the same time… there’s a weird calm in the middle of the madness. Like time slows down for a few seconds.”

She stares at me, fascinated. A small smile forming.

“That’s… beautiful. And kinda crazy.”

I shrug, unsure what to do with the heat rising in my ears. She thinks it’s beautiful. This. Me. Help.

We keep walking, passing behind the garages. Some teams are organizing equipment, others just killing time. The sounds of tools and conversations blend into a kind of soundtrack.

At one point, we turn a corner and — of course, obviously — we run straight into them. Ollie and Gabriel, standing by the dividing wall between the Haas and Sauber garages, chatting, until their attention shifts to us.

“Look who finally showed up,” Ollie says, flashing that smug teen villain smile. “Our very own Romeo.”

Gabriel takes a bite of the sandwich he’s holding and raises his eyebrows when he sees Y/N.

“Y/N!” he says casually. “Long time! You good?”

She smiles—warmly. “Hey, Gabi! I’m good. You? Still cheating at Uno?”

Gabriel gasps in mock outrage. “I never cheated!”

Ollie laughs. “He cheats at rock-paper-scissors too, Y/N. Watch your back.”

Y/N bursts out laughing, and I smile… but there’s that tiny twist in my stomach. That annoying little reminder: they’re friends. She and Gabi have a kind of closeness I don’t have. Yet.

“Well, we don’t wanna interrupt the date,” Ollie throws out, raising an eyebrow.

“It’s not a date,” I say—way too fast.

“Of course not,” Gabriel says, smiling. “But if it were, you’d be killing it.”

Y/N glances sideways at me with that knowing smirk that makes me trip over my own thoughts.

We keep walking.

“Sorry about them,” I mutter, slightly embarrassed.

“Don’t be. They’re funny.”

“They’re insufferable.”

She laughs again. And this time, it’s freer. Unrestrained. That’s when I realize: she’s relaxed. The Y/N who was tense and reserved when she got here isn’t here anymore. Now it’s just her — and me, desperately trying to look functional next to the girl of my dreams.

We reach a more open part of the paddock, with a side view of the track. The sounds of drivers rushing between interviews, photographers clicking away — it all hums in the background, a reminder that the world out there keeps spinning.

“Tired?” I ask.

“No. I’m enjoying this.” She looks ahead, then at me. “It’s cooler than I expected.”

“You seem more relaxed now.”

“I am. You made it feel… lighter.”

And that’s when the moment shifts. It turns quiet. Intense—in a good way. In a way I’ll remember forever.

We stop near a low wall. The wind plays with her hair, and she tucks a few strands behind her ear, absentmindedly.

“Sometimes I feel kind of lost,” she says softly. “Like… everything happens so fast I forget I’m still just an eighteen-year-old girl.”

I get it. More than I should.

“Yeah… I feel like that too. Like I have to be a grown-up all the time. Responsible. Flawless. Representing the team, Italy… and deep down, I just want to be playing video games. Or… having time to figure out what I feel. To fall in love. Without it feeling like weakness.”

She turns to me. Her green eyes — beautiful in a way that doesn’t feel real — lock onto mine with something careful. Something interested. Something I don’t want to name yet, because maybe it’ll hurt if it’s not real.

And that’s when it hits me: this? This walk, this moment, this smile?

It might be the only chance I get to be like this with her.

I remember what Ollie said earlier. Ask her out.

It’s crazy… but what if?

If it’s a disaster, at least I’ll have a reason to drive like a maniac on Sunday and forget this ever happened.

Y/N’s phone buzzes. She checks the screen.

“My agent. I’ve got to go shoot with Adidas.”

No. Wait. I still—

“Ice cream,” I blurt out, stumbling over the words. “I mean, like… maybe… you… get ice cream with me, I mean, go out— we could— if you want, of course…”

She blinks. Then laughs. Tilting her head slightly, just like I’ve seen her do a thousand times on my phone screen. And for a second I consider quitting F1 and becoming a stand-up comedian if it means making her laugh like that more often.

“Are you asking me out or ordering dessert?” she teases.

“Asking you out,” I manage to say, finally like a functioning human being. “With me. Ice cream. Later. Someday.”

Her smile grows. Slowly. Beautifully.

“I’d love to.”

My brain reboots. Three times.

When my soul finally stops spinning at the speed of my heartbeat, I realize Y/N is pulling a pen out of her purse—one of those permanent markers fans bring for autographs.

“You got any paper?” she asks, uncapping the pen, looking at me.

I get lost in her eyes for a second. Here, in the golden light of sunset, they look more hazel than green. Gorgeous.

“I…” I blink a few times, trying to return to the realm of functional humans, patting my jeans for paper. “No… but…”

Her phone buzzes again, and from the way she groans, I know it’s her agent texting again.

“You can write it here,” I say quickly, holding out my hand.

Y/N blinks, looking at me. I blink back, looking at her. I feel the tips of my ears burning—and I see her cheeks turn pink.

She blinks once more and smiles before stepping closer and touching my hand. The lightness of her touch is already familiar since I shook her hand earlier. And it sends the same electric shiver up my arm, straight to my heart, making it pound even faster.

I watch as Y/N writes her number on my palm with the black permanent marker. And this is one of the rare times I thank the universe for my good memory—because I know I’ll remember how the wind kept tousling her hair, how the orange sunset lit up her focused face, and how her brows furrowed slightly as she tried to make the numbers as clear as possible.

When she finishes writing, I don’t know if it’s my lovesick mind playing tricks on me, but I swear her fingers linger on mine a little longer than necessary before letting go.

“Text me,” she says, smiling and blushing again. “And don’t take forever.”

Before I can come up with a reply, she leans in and presses a quick, warm, perfect kiss to my cheek.

“I honestly thought you weren’t gonna ask me,” she whispers, like it’s a secret.

Then she turns with a soft “see you soon” and disappears down the corridor.

And I just stand there. Frozen. Dazed. Touching the spot where her kiss landed like I’m trying to save it forever.

And for the first time all day, I think:

Maybe Ollie was right.

Because this… definitely wasn’t a disaster.

[shan-yee]

𝙹𝚊𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚗𝚜𝚏𝚠 𝚊𝚕𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚝

𖦹𝙁𝙚𝙢𝙖𝙡𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

𖦹𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 = use of reader, partner, girlfriend, sex.

𖦹𝙒𝙤𝙧𝙙𝙨 = 1876

𝘼/𝙉 = English is not my first language, please let me know if you see any mistakes ! Enjoy ✨

Aftercare (What they’re like after sex)

⇰ Jason has never really had a serious relationship, maybe one or two one-night stands and a little crush there, but revenge has always been his main goal, so he doesn't really have any experience with aftercare and gentleness.

⇰ He'll probably be a little ashamed of it, but he'll be willing to listen and learn what his partner likes.

⇰ After a good educational lesson, Jason will be the kind of partner who forbids his girlfriend from moving and will have no trouble lifting her no matter how heavy she is, thank you Bruce, and he'll take care of her with little gestures.

Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

⇰ Jason loves his hands, even if they're calloused and damaged, or even if he often finds himself with a little dirt under his nails, which he'll rush to clean off before touching the body of the one he loves. Because that's why he loves his hands so much ; they allow him to caress every of her curve and hollow.

⇰ For the reader, I hesitated a lot between the buttocks and the hips. In front of others, he'd prefer to pass for a man who loves hips. He'll often rest his warm palms on them, but in private ? He'd most of the time have his hands on his girlfriend's buttchecks. He doesn't care about size ; everything suits him !

Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person)

⇰ Jason doesn't REALLY have a favorite place to finish. He's the type to respect his partner's choice and will always prioritize her choice over his own.

⇰ But if she asked his opinion, he'd ask for permission to cum on her stomach or inside her--if she’s on birth control.

⇰ Yes, Jason is pretty classic. Also he usually never forgets to protect himself, clearly not being ready to have offspring.

Dirty secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

⇰ Go figure why, but I see Jason as the kind of man who would discreetly steal his girlfriend's underwear and slip it into his pocket. Jason is a very good thief, he'll never get caught and will be able to walk home as if nothing happened with an unusual smile.

Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?)

⇰ As mentioned above, Jason will likely have had a few one-night stands, but nothing serious, so he will be quite knowledgeable on the subject but he will still need guidance.

⇰ Not that he's bad, quite the opposite, but for all these years, Jason will have seriously neglected the female pleasure of his one-night stands, so he'll be a little rusty at first.

Favourite position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual)

⇰ At first, Jason will prefer to keep things simple, exploring his partner's limits as well as his own. He'll enjoy classic positions like missionary, doggy style, and cowgirl. And after a while, he'll accept to add little twists to these positions, such as using toys.

⇰ Then, he'll be willing to try more experimental positions like leaning-back reverse cowgirl, 69, or even the bicycle/ballet dancer.

Goofy (Are they more serious at the moment, or are they humorous, etc.)

⇰ Jason is definitely the serious type; sex is a very intimate and precious moment for him, so he finds it's not really the time to joke around.

⇰ However, if his partner does, he won't take it personally and might even let slip a little smile, but don't expect him to joke even after you did.

Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.)

⇰ I think Jason is the type of man with a good amount of hair, but he takes care of it, especially his pubic area.

⇰ He'll occasionally have a slight start of a beard, but he'll tend to shave it off right away, preferring to keep his face hairless.

⇰ It's probably not canon, but I like to imagine his pubic hair being black with a hint of white after he took a dip in the Lazarus Pit.

Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…)

⇰ Jason is surprisingly gentle, or at least he tries to be, especially at the beginning of the relationship. He's quite afraid of his strength and will touch the reader with great delicacy, taking into account each of her reactions.

⇰ He will occasionally be rough, but this will likely be after a trying mission and only after checking with his partner that she's okay with it.

Jack off (Masturbation headcanon)

⇰ Before getting into a relationship, Jason masturbated very rarely, only out of habit, and honestly, he didn't feel much and didn't have many fantasies.

⇰ When he got into a relationship, it didn't really change, but he did discover the pleasure of being jacked off by his girlfriend, and what he once found a chore became a very enjoyable experience.

⇰ He finds the sensation of the reader's hands very different from his own.

Kink (One or more of their kinks)

⇰ I'm kind of stuck on this one, maybe a praise kink ? Even if he tends to not assume and grumble under his breath.

⇰ Honestly, I've thought hard but can't find anything, and yet I'm sure he has some that he hides pretty well.

Location (Favourite places to do the do)

⇰ Jason is a classic guy ; he likes the comfort and serenity of his bedroom and sometimes the excitement of the shower or the kitchen.

⇰ I don't think he'd really be keen on adding spice or risk with other places because he's quite paranoid and would be too guarded, which would prevent him from enjoying himself.

Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going)

⇰ Honestly, he doesn't need much, but Jason has a bit of trouble with subtlety. He tends to think he's imagining/seeing things, so it's better to be direct with him.

NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

⇰ Jason will never lay a hand on his girlfriend, whether in a sexual context or not. He fears his instability and his outbursts of anger, and if by some misfortune he hurts the one he loves, he will never forgive himself.

⇰ Also, anything involving exhibitionism or threesomes is out of the question. Jason is possessive and will never accept another man's gaze on what is his.

Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc)

⇰ Jason would have never really give cunnilingus since he's never been interested in his partners, but with his girlfriend, he agrees to try it and even ends up enjoying giving head.

⇰ He's quite slow and pays attention to his partner's every reaction to know what she likes and therefore do it again. He doesn't hesitate to explore and use his fingers.

⇰ He particularly enjoys receiving but will never force the reader to give him a blow job and of course, he'll never refuse.

Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.)

⇰ A little bit of everything, it depends on his mood, his mood, or what his partner prefers.

⇰ Generally, I see him as quite gentle, out of fear of hurting the reader because of his brute strength, but with precise movements that can become quite abrupt as he gets closer to orgasm.

Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.)

⇰ Jason tends to take his time and have his evening to make sure he fully satisfies his partner.

⇰ I don't think he'd really mind, especially when he's in a hurry, but he still wants to have skin-to-skin contact with her. But it's definitely not what he prefers.

⇰ I'd say maybe three or four times a month, or even a little more depending on his availability.

Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.)

⇰ As mentioned above, Jason is clearly not the type to take stupid risks that could endanger his partner.

⇰ However, depending on the topic, he'd be more than willing to try new things as long as they're safe and don't push his limits.

Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…)

⇰ Thanks to his many hours of training and his nightly performances, Jason has a pretty good stamina.

⇰ He'll need to take short breaks and a large glass of water from time to time, but generally, he'll be up for a long night of pleasure.

⇰ He can last about ten minutes of penetration, and sometimes he'll suddenly stop to last a little longer before orgasm.

Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?)

⇰ Before getting into a relationship, he didn't own any, and once with his partner, he won't be the one to make the first move to introduce one into their intimacy.

⇰ At first, he might take it a little badly, his « alpha male » ego not understanding the point, but after a conversation, he'll be willing to try it, although he might grumble when choosing.

⇰ Ultimately, he'll quite appreciate this little touch of fantasy, but he won't buy one for himself.

Unfair (how much they like to tease)

⇰ It depends on the day and especially the context. For example, after a physically and emotionally exhausting day, he won't have the desire or the energy to tease his partner. Of course, he'll take the time to prepare her, but you shouldn't ask too much of him.

⇰ When he has the time, especially the energy, he can take his time and loves to keep his girlfriend waiting and tormenting her.

Vocals (How loud they are, what sounds they make)

⇰ Jason usually doesn't make a lot of noise, either because he's embarrassed or because it just doesn't come out. He'd actually be quite embarrassed if his partner made a comment.

⇰ He usually sighs and grunts, and very rarely, he might let out one or two low, deep moans.

Wild Care (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice)

⇰ Go figure, but I clearly see him in his underwear, on the bed, candles lit and a rose in his mouth, waiting for his girlfriend, hand on his hip. It's up to you to decide when and why.

X-ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words)

⇰ Jason is definitely slightly above the norm, around 17/18 in length and 13 in girth.

⇰ I've mentioned this before, but I like to think his pubic hair has white streaks, just like his hair.

Yearning (How high is their sex drive?)

⇰ I'm a bit conflicted about this one. On one hand, I want to say that he hasn't been interested in sex for a very long time, so he doesn't really need it, even though he enjoys it immensely.

⇰ But on the other hand, I see him craving the feeling of his girlfriend's skin against his and being inside her.

Zzz (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

⇰ Usually about ten minutes after the reader, Jason is the type who can't fall asleep if she doesn't. He would spend a sleepless night if she does, just to make sure she doesn't get bored or do something stupid like go out into the streets of Gotham in the middle of the night.

[downbad4sylus]

“What the Birthday Boy Says, Goes.”

synopsis: It’s Sylus’s birthday!

content: sylus x afab!reader; use of Y/N; established relationship; god awful amount of fluff; twins cameo; nsfw bonus so read at your discretion; mostly proofread

word count: ~1.9k

a/n: happy early birthday to our favorite crow <3 (cries in NA server) here’s a cute little something to celebrate :)

Sylus knew something was up the second Luke and Kieran waltzed into his bedroom insisting he come with them to handle a problem.

“Can’t you two do it yourselves?” he asked, barely lifting his head from where he lay beside you, holding you in his arms.

“Sorry, Boss,” Kieran said, shaking his head.

“We really need you on this one,” finished Luke.

Sylus sighed. “Fine.”

Though he was loath to do so, Sylus slipped out of bed and went to the closet, emerging moments later dressed impeccably as usual. Before leaving with the twins, Sylus pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, promising to be back soon.

“This better be worth my time,” he warned as the three exited the bedroom.

As soon as the door snicked shut, you threw off the covers and sprung out of bed, bolting to the closet to change into the cute outfit you’d prepared.

Today was Sylus’s birthday, the first you’d be spending together, and you wanted to make it special.

Luke and Kieran were tasked with getting him out of the base so you could decorate the living room. You had the aforethought to put together the decorations beforehand with them, knowing they wouldn’t be able to keep Sylus distracted for long.

You ran to the living room, digging the decorations out from the inconspicuous corner you’d hid them in, and with help from Mephisto, began transforming the room into a birthday celebration.

As you flitted about, your phone vibrated with updates from the twins chronicling the rapid decline of Sylus’s patience and the steady increase of his irritation. Your decorating window was dwindling with every passing second.

You wanted to keep it simple, elegant to match your boyfriend’s preferred aesthetic. A golden banner spelling out Happy Birthday. Red, black, and gold balloons to scatter across the floor and furniture. Red bouquets of flowers to be placed atop the tables.

But of course, you had to add your own personal touches, like a crow plushie, a tiny crown for Mephisto, some window markers to draw cute designs.

Surveying your work, you couldn’t help but feel proud of what you’d accomplished. It was perfect. Perfect for Sylus, but also perfect for this little found family you’d created with him, the twins, and a mechanical crow.

A warning text from Kieran sent you flying back into motion, beelining it for the kitchen to get the birthday cake you’d asked the chef to help you make. He was more than happy to offer his expertise, seeming almost excited to be making something so special for his boss.

The timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

Just as you placed the cake atop the coffee table, Sylus walked in ahead of the twins.

“SURPRISE!” the three of you shouted.

“Happy birthday, boss!” the twins exclaimed in unison.

But Sylus’s eyes were locked on you.

No one in the N109 Zone knew the leader of Onychinus’s birthday. Except…that wasn’t so true anymore. A few select people knew now, one of which—the only one he’d ever told—happened to be the keeper of his very heart.

He strode forward, steps purposeful as he crossed the space between the two of you. His hand slid from your waist to your lower back once he reached you, pulling you flush against him. The warmth of his body radiated through your own as you beamed up at him.

“Did you plan this for me, kitten?” he murmured. There was no mistaking the happiness in his eyes as he peered down at you, his gaze full of love and adoration. Of gratitude.

“Of course I did, Sy,” you said, placing your palms against his broad chest. His heartbeat thrummed beneath your fingers. “I wanted to celebrate this special day.”

“Yeah, us too boss!” Luke exclaimed from where he and Kieran had sidled up beside you both. “Miss Hunter, can we start with gifts?”

Your smile widened. “I don’t know, what do you think, Sy? Gifts or cake first?”

Sylus’s eyes flashed with mischief. “Did you make the cake, sweetie?”

The softest blush tinged your cheeks. “The chef helped, but yes.”

“Then, I want to eat the cake first,” Sylus declared.

“Aw, Boss, come on,” Luke groaned.

You laughed. “Sorry guys, what the birthday boy says, goes.”

“You heard her,” Sylus teased. “Go get plates and silverware from the kitchen.”

“Come on Luke,” said Kieran, steering his brother by the shoulders, “the faster we eat, the faster boss-man opens our presents.”

You shifted your attention back to Sylus, whose own had never strayed from you. “Did you know?”

His lips quirked. “Of course I knew.”

You pouted. “Okay but are the decorations at least a surprise?”

Sylus glanced around the room. “Yeah,” he breathed. “It’s very…cute.”

“Just cute?!” You tried to pry yourself from his arms, intent on pointing out every elegant details of your hard work, but his hold was steadfast.

Sylus chuckled. “I love them.” He snuck a kiss against your lips. “Thank you.”

Your expression softened. “Happy birthday, Sy.”

—

The twins scarfed down the cake, practically vibrating in their seats as they waited for you and Sylus to finish your pieces.

Sylus, of course, ate at the most languid pace you’d ever seen, purposely drawing out the time for which the twins had to wait.

When he finally finished, the twins bolted up from the couch and retrieved their respective gifts. Before handing them over though, they explained the competition born out of searching for the perfect birthday gift: whoever found the rarest weapon, wins. Clearly they were more excited to see each other’s gifts than Sylus was to open them but he was kind enough to humor them, making a big show of opening them at the same time with his Evol.

Only to reveal the exact same gun.

“Wha—?”

“The seller told me this was the only gun of its kind,” Kieran murmured in disbelief.

“The seller told me this was the only gun of its kind,” Luke insisted.

You bit your lip to stifle your laughter.

“Sounds like you both got scammed,” said Sylus, doing nothing to hide his own amusement. One of the guns floated into his waiting hand on a cloud of black-red mist. He scrutinized it briefly before saying, “It’s not bad quality though.” He held our the gun to you. “And having two means we can match, sweetie.”

The excitement returned to the twins’ postures and you knew they were beaming behind their masks. It was the most praise they’d get from Sylus, but praise nonetheless.

Kieran wrapped an arm around Luke’s shoulders. “Well, glad you like your gifts boss-man, we’ve got some super important business to go take care of.”

“We do?” Luke questioned.

Kieran elbowed him.

“I mean—uh, yeah we do!” He allowed Kieran to lead him from the room. “Thanks for the cake Miss Hunter!”

“Thanks Miss Hunter!” Kieran called as they exited altogether.

“They really aren’t subtle,” you commented, staring at the empty doorway.

“Subtly has never been their style,” said Sylus. He swiftly pulled you onto his lap, his finger tracing lightly up and down your neck. “Did my precious treasure get me something for my birthday?”

You giggled, cheeks tinging pink. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” he echoed with a lift of a brow.

“You have to let me up so I can grab it.”

Sylus did, albeit somewhat reluctantly, and you hurried toward the drawer where you’d stashed his gift. You settled back into his lap before offering the rather large gift box.

His brow raised, curiosity dancing in his red eyes. “What could this be?”

You grinned. “Why don’t you open it and find out?”

Sylus set the box on your lap and carefully unwrapped it, lifting the lid to reveal an obvious photo album. A single picture in the window on the cover greeted him. It was of the two of you facing each other with your hand on his cheek, his own around your wrist, the matching rings he’d gifted you on full display.

You nudged his shoulder. “Keep going.”

His gaze flicked to you briefly before returning to the album where he opened to the first page.

You stayed up countless nights putting together this album, wanting to give the man who had everything something meaningful for his birthday. You printed out couple photos, photos you’d sneakily taken of him, photos he’d sneakily taken then shared with you, photos of the twins, of Mephisto, anything to encapsulate the life you’d made together. Stickers, cheesy captions, and silly drawings littered the spaces between pictures, showing how much time and effort you’d spent making this for him.

Sylus was overcome with emotion as he flipped through the pages, reliving his happiest memories with you. It was by far the best gift he had ever received.

He swallowed against the lump in his throat. “Thank you, Y/N.”

“Do you like it?”

His gaze met yours, filled with nothing but pure devotion and gratitude. “I love it.”

You cupped his cheek and he nuzzled into your palm. “Happy birthday, Sy.”

His hand slid up your spine to the back of your neck where he pulled you into a searing kiss. He didn’t know what to expect when celebrating this day, it had meant nothing to him until you came along. But sitting here with an album full of memories and his lips on yours, Sylus finally understood the importance of celebrating one’s birthday, and he was looking forward to spending both his and yours for years to come.

NSFW Bonus—MDNI:

With your legs wrapped around his waist and his fingers laced through yours, Sylus was exactly where he wanted to be, buried inside your cunt.

His thrusts were slow and deep, your walls clenching so deliciously around his cock. He was taking his time, savoring every intimate moment.

“You’re doing so good for me, sweetie,” he purred in your ear, lips quirking at your responding whine. “Taking me so well.”

“Sylus,” you breathed, lifting your hips to meet his thrusts. “Faster, please.”

Sylus hummed as though contemplating your request. “But it’s my birthday, kitten, and I want to go nice.” Thrust. “And.” Thrust. “Slow.”

You threw your head back onto the pillows, your body arching with the overwhelming pleasure coursing through you.

He captured your lips with his, devouring your moans as he released one of your hands, his own traveling down until his fingers slowly circled your clit.

You cried out, burying your hand in his hair, release tingling along your spine.

“Such a good girl,” Sylus whispered. “Are you going to come for me?”

You nodded emphatically. “Yes, yes, Sy, please.”

He placed open mouthed kisses up and down your neck, his thrusts finally increasing in speed as he too neared his release. Your nails scratched the back of his head as your cries grew louder, more desperate.

Your walls clamped around his cock as your climax slammed into you, white-hot pleasure searing your veins. Sylus’s hips stuttered, his pace faltering as he fell off that cliff edge with you.

After a moment of catching your breaths, Sylus rolled you over so you were on top of him.

You pushed into a sitting position, hands flat against his abdomen.

He smiled dangerously up at you. “You didn’t think we were done did you? It’s my birthday sweetie, and I want to go all night long.”

[elixirfromthestars]

I know you put angst three times in the warnings, but damn was I so woefully unprepared. 💔

More under the cut ᯓᡣ𐭩

“You had no right,” you began, but he cut you off with a scoff.

^ No you listen here Henry, you let my girl speak 🗣️

You had never been so vexed by a single person in your life, and you had certainly never been as bold as you were when you were near him. No one had ever made you laugh or cry or your heart pound the way he did. No one had ever accepted, let alone embraced, the wild side of you. No one had ever been willing to change themselves for you.

^ That’s true love right there 😭🩷 Loving every part of you, the real you—they need to get married already 🤧❤️

“You must have a lot on your mind,” he pressed. You sighed. “Not really. Nothing of importance, anyway.” “You don’t think a proposal is important?”

^ wait he knows?? she told him?? 😳

“Do you think he’ll make you happy?” He asked you quietly. You stared at him. “I think Henry is able to provide a comfortable life to whomever his future wife may be,” you said finally. Jake frowned. “But does he make you happy, Scout?”

^ The fact that above all else, despite how he feels, all he cares about/whats most important to him is for Scout to be happy I— 😭💕💕💕

Jake stood up and walked with deliberate steps over to you, offering you his arm with a cheeeky grin. “May I escort you back to your room, miss?” You giggled, slipping your arm through his, allowing him to pull you to your feet. “You may, sir.”

^ THEY ARE SO CUTE!! 💖💖

It was a simple, white square that you had embroidered with wildflowers and a simple border to the corner. You had finished it before the trip, intending on bestowing it to Jake as a Christmas present long before he had even agreed to accompany you on the trip.

^ She embroidered something for him?? 🥹🩷🩷 Pleaseee tell me in the future she embroiders all of his things because that would be adorable 🥹

He opened his coat to pull out a tiny, crystal bottle with an attached pump. You recognized it instantly as one of the many expensive perfumes sitting in one of the department stores in the city. You took it from him gingerly, eyeing the bottle apprehensively.

^ throw it away. 🗑️ right in front of his face. 😌 I would live to see his reaction. I would pay to watch it go down. the serotonin in my body would double no TRIPLE!!!

It would be advantageous to accept his proposal, really you’d be a fool not to. You missed your friends and family desperately, and there was also the matter of what your father had wanted. You could go back to your old life, pretend that nothing had ever happened or changed. But still, there was a voice inside you that you hadn’t heard since you were a little girl. It called out to you, begging you to consider the alternative.

^ I completely understand Scout like I really do, but Jake is so right on focusing most on what makes her happy. And hey, if moving back there would make her happy then that’s fine, but she needs to really think through not just in people, but overall what brings her genuine happiness. Because she deserves to be happy beyond what others expect or want from her!!! 🩷

He watched the crowd, slyly linking his pinky with yours. The gesture filled you with a sense of ease, and you smiled gratefully up at him. He smirked down at you, a soft look in his eyes as he took you in.

^ THE PINKY 💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓

“Did you intend to match me, sir?” You teased him. He let out a low chuckle, bumping your shoulder slightly with his. “Your aunt insisted that I wear this tonight,” he smiled. “And now I know why.” “She does have a way of getting what she wants,” you mused. He hummed, still looking at you.

^ I am Aunt Jo’s #1 fan, I adore that woman!!! 🩷 She knows what’s she’s doing!! 🤭💕

“No,” his smirk turned flirtatious. There was a time when that same smirk would have had you screaming at him, but now it just made your skin feel like it was on fire. “Ravishing is for when you look like you’re going to tear my head off or when you shoot a bucket from fifty yards off.” You raised an eyebrow at him, and he continued. “Beautiful is for when you’re on the ranch, knees deep in the earth of your garden, dirt covering your face and dress. Or when you fall asleep on my shoulder, not a care in the world on that face of yours.”

^ Every time this man speaks he just sets the bar higher and higher and I’m afraid I will never find a man like this 😭🩷🩷 At this point, I’ll buy the ring for him like go wife her up already!!!! 😭💕 They truly invented love and I’m obsessed 🤧💖

“You’re under the mistletoe, dear,” an older woman giggled at you, pointing up. You looked up to see the tiny sprig of green and white hanging above your head. You glanced quickly back at Jake, who was still looking up at the plant.

^ Are they now?? 😏 well rules are rules 🤷🏻��♀️ guess you’ll have to kiss in front of everyone, what a shame 🤭💗

“We don’t want you to have any bad luck,” he murmured, his own eyes darting down to yours. “No,” you said with a shake of your head. “We wouldn’t.”

^ Exactly!! You wouldn’t want the bad luck 🙂‍↔️✨

Jake slowly lowered his head towards yours, stopping just shy of putting his lips on yours. You glanced up at him, and he watched you, waiting for you to close the distance. You reached up and placed a gentle, closed-mouth kiss to his. He hummed at the feel of you, and you relished in his familiar scent of clean linen and tobacco. You pulled away after a second, looking at him starry eyes. He gazed back at you with a dreamy expression, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

^ THEY’RE SO IN LOVE IT MAKES ME:

You glanced up to see Jake studying the white square in his hands, face unreadable. He lifted his green gaze to yours. “You made this?” He asked in a whisper. You nodded nervously, starting to fidget with your fingers. “It’s okay if you don’t like it,” you rushed out. “I know flowers aren’t the most manly thing, and a handkerchief is such a common thing to have. I should have-” “I love it,” he smiled at you, tracing his fingers over the square.

^ Jake is such a giver and has been a provider for his sister for quite some time, that I wonder when’s the last time he received anything? 🥺 From anyone besides family? 🥺 If I think about it too long I’ll cry lol

In your hands rested a wooden box. The top had been carved into the shape of different flowers, the details extending down into the base of the box. A simple, golden latch sat at the front, and you ran your hands over it as Lucy gawked behind you. “I know it’s not anything fancy like perfume or clothing,” Jake started, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I thought you could use something to keep your jewelry and trinkets in. It took me a while to find the right kind of wood I wanted to use, and then it took me a couple of weeks to carve-” “Wait,” you interrupted him, eyes shooting up to meet his startled gaze. “You made this?”

^ HE MADE HER A TRINKET BOX?? CARVED FLOWERS INTO IT TOO??? 😭🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷 No cause thinking about how he sat there for a couple of weeks to carve this and thinking of her!!! I’m so soft right now I cannot omg!!! 🥹💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕

You looked over at Jake who was still looking at you uncertainly. You sniffled, fighting back your tears as you smiled at him. “It was my father’s watch,” you whispered quietly. Understanding dawned on his face and he whipped around to look at your aunt and uncle. Aunt Jo turned her smile to his and Uncle Walter clapped him on the shoulder with a smile of his own.

^ HE WAS GIVEN HER FATHER’S WATCH?! 😳🩷🩷🩷🩷 Now I know for sure those two approve of him omggggg 😭💖💖💖 Liz, I can’t take it my heart is about to burst with all the sweet moments here 🥹💕💕

“That retched thing was yours, Scout?” He chuckled, and you saw Jake clench his jaw.

^ I need this man to shut up or I’m about to start throwing tomato’s at him 🍅🍅🍅

“It was a gift from Jake, one that I happen to adore. I wouldn’t expect you to understand the value of making something with your hands.” Henry’s smile wavered. “Whatever do you mean by that, dearest?” “I mean,” you continued, sitting up straighter, “that it takes a special kind of man to not see the value in someone else’s hard work. I don’t know if I could ever see myself marrying someone like that.”

^ YOU TELL HIM GIRL!! 🗣️✨

You turned to see the wooden horse you had forgotten that morning. You reached out to grab it, smiling at it fondly. “This,” you told them in a hushed tone like you were telling them a secret, their little bodies crowding in to hear you, “is a very special treasure that was given to me.”

^ whiskey jr my beloved 🥰, you are a very special treasure 🥹🐴💕

“Ridiculous,” he spat, tossing the horse into the fire. You let out a shocked cry, lurching forward as tears sprang to your eyes. The commotion had drawn the attention of the other party goers, but no one was prepared for what happened next.

^ So…I started crying…and words are evading me…so I’ll sum up my emotions in pictures 💔

R.I.P. my beloved little whiskey jr 💔🐴💔 you were there for me in the toughest times…chasing away all those nightmares…and now you get to chase whatever your little wooden horse desires were in the great beyond 🪦🤧💔 I promise you this though…the next funeral will be Henry’s 😡 cause next time it’s not tomato’s I’ll be throwing!!! 😤

In the blink of an eye, Jake was on his feet, slamming Henry into the mantle with such a force as to rattle the chandelier that hung from above.

^ THATS OUR MAN!!! GET HIM JAKE!!! 🥊😤

Jake didn’t take his eyes off of Henry, instead he leaned in closer, murder in his eyes. “If you ever come near her again, if you ever make her cry again?” He spat before giving a humorless chuckle, fixing Henry with a deadly serious look. “They won’t ever find your body.”

^ I KNOW THATS RIGHT!!!! YOU TELL HIM HONEY!! 👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼

“How dare you!” You hissed at him. Jake looked taken aback by your outburst before his brow furrowed in confusion.

^ wait…I’m confused too 😭

“I know you,” he said firmly, eyes running over you. “I know who you really are. They don’t. You don’t want this, honey girl.” You met his gaze steadily, feeling the words leave your lips before you could stop them. “Maybe this is exactly what I want.”

^ *gasps and clutches pearls* she did not just say that 😨💔

Silence surrounded you, and you wished you could take the words back as Jake stared at you like you just crushed his heart in your hands. You saw the greens of his eyes start to shine as he stared at you, the wind blowing his hair across his forehead. He pressed his lips into a firm line before nodding, turning to walk back into the house. Your tears came in droves as you clutched yourself, desperate to keep from falling apart in the cold, windy night. The wind howled, echoing the sound of your heart as you watched him walk away from you. For the first time in months, you felt truly alone.

^ devastating blow 💔 after devastating blow 💔 first whiskey and now Hangout? 😭 I can’t take two heartbreaks in one like my heart is not going to recover from this 😭💔💔 I should really listen to the warnings next time 💔💔💔

And then we have Aunt Jo coming in with clarification, reassurance, and wisdom!!! I love that woman so much!! 🥺🩷 And the way she was brushing Scout’s hair the whole time was such a soft and sweet moment between them 🫶🏼🫶🏼

“I think you would be the world’s biggest fool if you did that. Only the weak throw away their chances at happiness, you know, and you, my dear niece, are not weak. Just because things here are familiar, does not mean they’re right for you. You have become a more radiant version of yourself since you moved away. The west did that. Jake did that.” “So you’re telling me not to move back?” You asked her with a watery smile. She chuckled, hugging you close. “I’m telling you to choose happiness, Scout.”

^ The reoccurring theme of happiness 💕 I love that Scout is hearing it from those she holds dear most. She’s heard it from Lucy, from Jake, and now her Aunt Jo too 🩷 Hopefully this can really help Scout clear her mind and heart and choose what’s best for her 🩷

He seemed a little taken aback, but returned it, frowning in confusion at something she whispered to him. She pulled back with a smile as Uncle Walter stepped up to shake his hand.

^ I’m so nosey, I’m dying to know what she whispered 👀

Jake waved to your aunt and uncle, casting you a sideways glance as he hopped up to sit with the driver….Jake still refused to acknowledge you even after the two of you settled in for the train ride to St.Louis, and you were beginning to grow irritated.

^ Now Jake…I know you’re upset…and you have a right to be…but let’s not go down the silent treatment/avoidant route ☹️

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he said, looking back out the window. “We’re going to go back to Maverick, and you’re going to get ready to go back to your old life.”

^ 😧😧😧 since when??? That’s news to me!!!

“Isn’t that what you decided?” He scoffed with a roll of his eyes. You stared at him, biting your cheek to keep from snapping at him. “Well, if you would listen to what I have to say-” “Sorry, darlin’. I’m not really all that interested in hearing about your plans for the future at the moment,” he sneered.

^ Oh…he’s mad mad 🫢 I don’t think I ever remember a time where he sneered at her 😥

“When you’re ready to talk to me like an adult,” you hissed, “you can find me in my cabin. Until then, goodnight, Mr. Seresin.” Jake rolled his eyes, grumbling something under his breath. You felt your resolve start to crack, and without thinking you raised your foot, stamping it down on Jake’s. He cried out in pain before looking at you incredulously, hands gripping his foot. You glared at him before stomping down the aisle and out of the car. If he wanted to be childish, then two could play at that game.

^ Okay, both of you are being childish now? 🤨 after whiskey jr I’m not having this so I’m about to lock you both in a room until you talk!!! Or I’ll give you one of those getting along shirts because you two need to get it together for the sake of my heart 😤❤️‍🩹 (but I also lowkey snorted at the foot stomp soooo maybe I’m no better 🤷🏻‍♀️✨)

So much angst…so much heartbreak…I’m going to go to bed to process all that because wow 🤧💔 I also need a moment to process everything because so much happened in this chapter that I’m shocked it was only 5.4k words like I went through a rollercoaster of emotions throughout the entire thing 😨😭 Another amazing chapter as always, Liz!! 🩷

Don't Hang'em Til Noon: Chapter Eight

Don't Hang'em Til Noon: Chapter Eight

Pairing: Jake “Hangman” Seresin x Reader

Summary: Jake "Hangman" Seresin is a notorious leader within the Dagger Gang of the old western territories of the United States. You, a recently orphaned socialite from the eastern seaboard, find yourself swept off to live with your older brother who has set down roots in said western territory. Determined to to make the best of your situation, what will you do when said outlaw sets his sights on you?

Warnings: Swearing, ANGST, Violence, Derogatory terms towards reader, More Angst, Some Fluff, Jake Seresin, Even more angst.

Word Count: 5.4k

A/N: I warned y'all so many times this was going to be rough. But, anyway, we are officially halfway through the series!! As always, reboots, comments and likes are greatly appreciated!! 18+ ONLY!! Find me on AO3 under arcane_vagabond! If You're feeling kind, please consider donating to my ko-fi!

Masterlist || DGU Masterlist

The room was dark and and cold. You hadn’t bothered to light a fire or one of the lamps in the parlor. No, you found the silence comforting as you sat on the couch off to the side. Christmas morning was usually a happy time for you, but it had been a week since Henry’s impromptu proposal.

“You had no right,” you began, but he cut you off with a scoff.

“Please, Scout,” he scowled. “This was inevitable, and you know it. We make an excellent match, and I’m willing to overlook your little excursion out west with your brother.”

You made to say something, but he held up his hand to stop you. Sighing, he fixed you with a look.

“I know you love your brother, Scout, but it’s time to be realistic. You need someone who can take care of you and provide for you. I can be that. You’d never want for anything, and you’d never have to work a day in your life. What do you say?”

You stared down at him, saying nothing. Henry heaved another sigh as he got to his feet. He met your gaze, pocketing the ring, and running a hand through his dark hair.

“Just think about it, alright?” he grumbled, shooting a small glare your way. “I’ll expect an answer at the Christmas party next week.

And there you sat, holding the wooden horse in your hands. You smoothed your fingers over the grains, running them down to the carved initials. A year ago, you wouldn’t have had to think about your answer to Henry’s proposal. He was the obvious choice for your future at the time, making your heart jump every time you saw him and putting your thoughts at ease. But now?

Now it was the sight of this tiny, wooden horse in your hands that caused the emotions in your heart to swell. You had never been so vexed by a single person in your life, and you had certainly never been as bold as you were when you were near him. No one had ever made you laugh or cry or your heart pound the way he did. No one had ever accepted, let alone embraced, the wild side of you. No one had ever been willing to change themselves for you.

“You’re up early.”

You jumped, placing a hand on your chest to calm your thundering heart. The room was no longer drenched in darkness as the sun began to rise, casting a calm, blue glow into the room through the window. You looked up to see Jake standing in the doorway, an unreadable expression on his face. You hummed, setting the horse down on the table beside you.

“Yes,” you whispered, looking back at him, “I suppose I am.”

Jake walked over to sit down in the chair opposite you, green eyes boring into you as he studied you.

“You must have a lot on your mind,” he pressed.

You sighed. “Not really. Nothing of importance, anyway.”

“You don’t think a proposal is important?”

You stared at him, trying to gauge his emotions.

“A proposal is very important, Jake,” you murmured. “That’s why it deserves due consideration.”

“Do you think he’ll make you happy?” He asked you quietly. You stared at him.

“I think Henry is able to provide a comfortable life to whomever his future wife may be,” you said finally. Jake frowned.

“But does he make you happy, Scout?”

“I think,” you started slowly, “that there was a time in my life where I would have been content to have him as my husband.”

“And now?” He asked, green eyes shining in the morning light. Your breath caught in your throat as the sun peaked over the horizon, causing a halo to form around his figure. Your heart ached with an emotion that you didn’t quite understand, You had never felt this way before about anything, but while the thought would have frightened you about anything else, the sight of Jake in front of you filled you with a sense of ease, of acceptance.

“Now, I want other things,” you replied firmly. You saw a smile twitch on his lips, but the moment was interrupted when a maid scurried into the room. She stopped when she saw the two of you, clearly not expecting anyone to be up at that hour.

“My apologies, Miss, Sir,” she blushed, eyes darting between the two of you. You waved her off with a smile.

“No need to apologize, Lottie,” you told her, glancing at Jake from the corner of your eye. He was still watching you intently. “We were just finishing up here.”

Jake stood up and walked with deliberate steps over to you, offering you his arm with a cheeeky grin. “May I escort you back to your room, miss?”

You giggled, slipping your arm through his, allowing him to pull you to your feet. “You may, sir.”

The dress you wore brought a smile to your face, not only because it was lovely, but because the green of it reminded you of a certain someone. It was a soft, mossy green that draped down your figure, the ends of the skirt shimmering like starlight. You looked a vision, and you knew it, but that didn’t stop the bubble of nerves in the pit of your stomach. You ran your hands over the dress, smoothing out the nonexistent wrinkles as your eyes darted to the piece of cloth placed carefully at the foot of your bed. It was a simple, white square that you had embroidered with wildflowers and a simple border to the corner. You had finished it before the trip, intending on bestowing it to Jake as a Christmas present long before he had even agreed to accompany you on the trip.

You imagined it must be difficult for him to be so far away from home during this time, and you were forever grateful to him for choosing to come with you. You certainly didn’t want him to feel left out while everyone was exchanging gifts. So, you took a deep breath and grabbed the handkerchief off the bed before making your way out of the room.

You could already hear the murmur from the party below grow louder as you drew closer to the staircase. It seemed the party had been going for quite some time by the looks of the empty glasses of wine strewn about the different rooms. You greeted people politely as you made your way through the growing crowd, trying to spot anyone you would be willing to have a lengthy conversation with.

“Scout!”

You turned with a barely suppressed groan as you spotted Henry making his way to you. He wore a navy blue coat with white trousers and a dark blue bowtie. He smiled as he drew near and you answered it with a polite one.

“Henry,” you greeted him, hands clasped in front of you.

“You look ravishing tonight, Scout,” he beamed. “I brought you a little something.”

He opened his coat to pull out a tiny, crystal bottle with an attached pump. You recognized it instantly as one of the many expensive perfumes sitting in one of the department stores in the city. You took it from him gingerly, eyeing the bottle apprehensively.

“Merry Christmas, Scout,” Henry smiled, chest puffing up at what he thought was a job well done. “I wasn’t sure what you would like, so I asked the clerk which one was the most popular.”

You gave him a tight lipped smile, gesturing for one of the maids to come over. She did so promptly, and you handed her the bottle.

“Will you take this up to my room, please?” You asked her. She gave you a nod before scurrying off. You turned back to the man in front of you. “Thank you, Henry. That was such a kind gesture. I apologize for not getting you anything in return.”

“Well, I hope you’ll give me a bit of good news later tonight,” he smirks, causing a wave of ice to run over you. Henry shot you a wink before turning to go and mingle with some of the older guests. “I look forward to hearing it.”

You watched him walk away, a frown at your lips. It would be advantageous to accept his proposal, really you’d be a fool not to. You missed your friends and family desperately, and there was also the matter of what your father had wanted. You could go back to your old life, pretend that nothing had ever happened or changed. But still, there was a voice inside you that you hadn’t heard since you were a little girl. It called out to you, begging you to consider the alternative.

You chewed on your bottom lip, wrestling with the conflicting emotions inside of you. You startled when you felt a figure step up beside you, turning to see Jake standing next to you. He matched your dress with his frosty green vest and white shirt. A white ascot complimented his attire along with a beige set of trousers. He watched the crowd, slyly linking his pinky with yours. The gesture filled you with a sense of ease, and you smiled gratefully up at him. He smirked down at you, a soft look in his eyes as he took you in.

“Did you intend to match me, sir?” You teased him. He let out a low chuckle, bumping your shoulder slightly with his.

“Your aunt insisted that I wear this tonight,” he smiled. “And now I know why.”

“She does have a way of getting what she wants,” you mused. He hummed, still looking at you.

“You look really pretty tonight, Scout,” he murmured. You felt your cheeks heat up at the compliment, and you ducked your head down to hide your smile. You wondered how he managed to make you feel like a schoolgirl all over again with such a simple compliment.

“Just pretty?” You looked up at him, batting your eyelashes. “Not beautiful or ravishing?”

Jake let out a low chuckle, leaning into you as you pressed your back against the door jamb of the parlor.

“No,” his smirk turned flirtatious. There was a time when that same smirk would have had you screaming at him, but now it just made your skin feel like it was on fire. “Ravishing is for when you look like you’re going to tear my head off or when you shoot a bucket from fifty yards off.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, and he continued.

“Beautiful is for when you’re on the ranch, knees deep in the earth of your garden, dirt covering your face and dress. Or when you fall asleep on my shoulder, not a care in the world on that face of yours.”

Your blush came back with a vengeance, and you were sure you looked ridiculous. But Jake looked at you as if you were the sun itself, shining just for him.

“Oh,” you whispered, unable to think of anything to say in response. He continued to smile softly at you, and the both of you turned when someone tapped on your shoulder.

“You’re under the mistletoe, dear,” an older woman giggled at you, pointing up. You looked up to see the tiny sprig of green and white hanging above your head. You glanced quickly back at Jake, who was still looking up at the plant. You looked around at the few people who heard the exchange, spotting Lucy grinning widely from where she stood with her parents.

“It’s bad luck if you don’t!” She called, and the people around her agreed. You turned your attention back to Jake, his eyes now boring into you. You swallowed nervously, your eyes eyes fluttering to his lips.

“We don’t want you to have any bad luck,” he murmured, his own eyes darting down to yours.

“No,” you said with a shake of your head. “We wouldn’t.”

Jake slowly lowered his head towards yours, stopping just shy of putting his lips on yours. You glanced up at him, and he watched you, waiting for you to close the distance. You reached up and placed a gentle, closed-mouth kiss to his. He hummed at the feel of you, and you relished in his familiar scent of clean linen and tobacco. You pulled away after a second, looking at him starry eyes. He gazed back at you with a dreamy expression, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Scout!”

You turned to see Lucy bounding towards you, giggling excitedly as she pulled you away.

“Come!” She grinned, gesturing for Jake to follow as well. “I want to give you your present!”

You allowed your best friend to pull you further into the parlor and up to the tree where a smattering of packages laid out waiting to be distributed. Lucy plucked a small box off the top of a larger one, handing it to you excitedly.

“Open it!” She squealed. You smiled at her as you carefully tore the paper away from the box, opening it. Inside sat a beautiful copper hair pin fashioned into the shape of a rose and greenery around it. You gasped at it, smiling widely at the redhead in front of you.

“Lucy, this is beautiful!” You gushed, holding the pin close to you.

“I knew you’d love it! You always loved flowers,” she giggled at you. You set the box off to the side and plucked a small box you had set aside for her. She ripped the paper open and gasped as she held a gold hairpin with a ruby attached to the end.

“Great minds think alike, I suppose,” you teased. Lucy wrapped you in her arms, squeezing you tight.

“Oh, thank you, Scout!” She grinned, pulling back. You glanced at Jake who still stood beside you and felt the nerves begin to crawl up your spine.

“I have something for you too,” you told him quietly. He raised an eyebrow at you as you dug out the handkerchief you had tucked away. You handed it to him with both hands, not able to meet his eyes as he took it gently from your hands. “It’s nothing fancy, but I’ve never seen you use one. I thought you could use it while you work around the ranch.”

You glanced up to see Jake studying the white square in his hands, face unreadable. He lifted his green gaze to yours.

“You made this?” He asked in a whisper. You nodded nervously, starting to fidget with your fingers.

“It’s okay if you don’t like it,” you rushed out. “I know flowers aren’t the most manly thing, and a handkerchief is such a common thing to have. I should have-”

“I love it,” he smiled at you, tracing his fingers over the square. He tucked it into his pocket as you released a breath of relief. “I have something for you, actually.”

Jake reached down and picked up one of the larger boxes on the ground. Now it was his turn to look nervous as you took the parcel from him, gently unwrapping the paper covering. Your eyes widened and your breath caught in your throat at the sight before you.

In your hands rested a wooden box. The top had been carved into the shape of different flowers, the details extending down into the base of the box. A simple, golden latch sat at the front, and you ran your hands over it as Lucy gawked behind you.

“I know it’s not anything fancy like perfume or clothing,” Jake started, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I thought you could use something to keep your jewelry and trinkets in. It took me a while to find the right kind of wood I wanted to use, and then it took me a couple of weeks to carve-”

“Wait,” you interrupted him, eyes shooting up to meet his startled gaze. “You made this?”

A blush crept onto his cheeks as he nodded sheepishly at you.

“Jake,” you murmured, looking back down at the box, running your hand over it once again. “This is so beautiful, thank you.”

“I’m glad you like it,” he whispered, smiling. You gave the box to a maid, instructing her to place it carefully on your bed.

“It’s very important to me,” you told her, and she nodded solemnly as she went to put the gift in your room.

“Are we exchanging gifts?”

You turned to see Aunt Jo strolling into the parlor with Uncle Walter close behind her. She smiled at your tiny group in greeting before picking up her own little box amidst the rest of the presents. She gestured for you all to follow, and you did so, sitting down in the collection of sofas and chairs by the fireplace. You sat in the same spot as you had that morning, Jake sitting in a chair off to your right as Lucy took up residence on your left. Aunt Jo handed the package to Uncle Walter who then rose to hand it to Jake. The younger man blinked in surprise, looking at you for guidance. You nodded at him encouragingly, and he slowly began to tear at the paper.

“We found that just the other week,” Aunt Jo proclaimed, smiling as she watched Jake. “Walter and I discussed it, and we knew you had to have it.”

You peered over at Jake who had stilled in his seat. He reached down gingerly to lift up a silver pocket watch into the light. Your heart stopped as you stared at it. The outside was carved with intricate designs amongst different leaves. At the bottom right, a humble sparrow was paused in mid-flight.

“Where did you find this?” You asked Aunt Jo, tears welling in your eyes. Jake looked over at you, concern etched into his features at your apparent distress. Aunt Jo smiled warmly at you.

“We found it amongst some of your father’s old things,” she explained. “Benjamin was insistent on having his own, and it would be such a shame for that beautiful piece to just sit and gather dust. We can think of no one else we’d rather have it then Mr. Seresin here.”

You looked over at Jake who was still looking at you uncertainly. You sniffled, fighting back your tears as you smiled at him.

“It was my father’s watch,” you whispered quietly. Understanding dawned on his face and he whipped around to look at your aunt and uncle. Aunt Jo turned her smile to his and Uncle Walter clapped him on the shoulder with a smile of his own.

“I don’t know what to say,” the blond man murmured, eyes darting around the room.

“Say that you’ll accept it,” Aunt Jo told him. “Elias would have wanted you to have it.”

She gave you a pointed look at that, and you nodded with a smile.

“Yes,” you agreed. “My father would have been so happy for you to have it.”

“I believe I just saw a maid carrying a rather poor looking box upstairs.”

You all turned to see Henry making his way over to where you all sat. You frowned at him, already knowing what box he was talking about.

“It was a rather garish thing,” he continued, earning a glare from Lucy. “An eyesore really. No wonder it was given to the maid. I think it was handmade too.”

“It was handmade,” you bit out. “And it was given to the maid to put in my room for safekeeping.”

“That retched thing was yours, Scout?” He chuckled, and you saw Jake clench his jaw.

“Yes,” you hissed. “It was a gift from Jake, one that I happen to adore. I wouldn’t expect you to understand the value of making something with your hands.”

Henry’s smile wavered. “Whatever do you mean by that, dearest?”

“I mean,” you continued, sitting up straighter, “that it takes a special kind of man to not see the value in someone else’s hard work. I don’t know if I could ever see myself marrying someone like that.”

Henry’s smile was completely gone by the time you finished your sentence. He stared at you coldly before fixing a glare at Jake. Jake sat still, no discernable emotion on his face.

“Cousin Scout!”

All of you turned at the sound of your young cousins running up to you. The tension in the room was lifted slightly as you watched the young ones giggle up at you.

“Yes, my darlings?” You smiled down at them, grateful for a reprieve from all the drama.

Thomas, the oldest boy, pointed at the table next to you. “What’s that?”

You turned to see the wooden horse you had forgotten that morning. You reached out to grab it, smiling at it fondly.

“This,” you told them in a hushed tone like you were telling them a secret, their little bodies crowding in to hear you, “is a very special treasure that was given to me.”

“What does it do?” Asked Mary, eyes as big as saucers.

“It drives away bad dreams,” you smiled at her, giving her the figurine to hold. She held it gently in her small hands, the other children staring at it in wonder.

“Who gave it to you?” Thomas asked you. Your gaze shifted over to Jake with a small smile. He watched you fondly, his own smile dancing on his lips.

“A dear friend made it for me some months ago,” you whispered, earning a scoff from across the way. Henry stalked over and ripped the horse out of Mary’s hands, earning a cry of protest from the young girl.

“You shouldn’t be filling their heads up with nonsense, Scout,” he tsked as he walked over to the fire place, examining the horse. “I thought you knew better than that.”

He frowned when he saw the initials on the belly of the horse, features turning into a sneer that you had never seen from him before.

“Ridiculous,” he spat, tossing the horse into the fire. You let out a shocked cry, lurching forward as tears sprang to your eyes. The commotion had drawn the attention of the other party goers, but no one was prepared for what happened next.

In the blink of an eye, Jake was on his feet, slamming Henry into the mantle with such a force as to rattle the chandelier that hung from above. Several people let out gasps at the scene, and you vaguely registered the tears that poured down your face. You had loved that horse, and now it was gone forever. Lucy shushed you as the scene continued to unfold. Cousin John ran forward just as Uncle Walter stood up, both making their way to where the two men stood.

Henry’s jaw was clenched as Jake glared at him, nostrils flaring.

“What is it?” Henry sneered. “Did I hurt your feelings? There’s no need to get so worked up over some trollop who will go around kissing and defending anything.”

Jake’s hands clenched around Henry’s suit even harder at his words. Uncle Walter placed a hand on Jake’s shoulder as Cousin John watched the two wearily, ready to step in should anything happen.

“Let him go, son,” Uncle Walter murmured, quietly enough that you could barely hear him. “He’s not worth it.”

Jake didn’t take his eyes off of Henry, instead he leaned in closer, murder in his eyes.

“If you ever come near her again, if you ever make her cry again?” He spat before giving a humorless chuckle, fixing Henry with a deadly serious look. “They won’t ever find your body.”

A flash of fear ran over Henry’s face at the words, eyes darting around to the crowd. Jake let go of Henry, dropping him from where he had been raised against the mantle. Jake sniffed, turning to look at you, his face softening considerably as he took you in. You watched as he walked over to kneel in front of you. He took your trembling hand in his, squeezing it gently.

“You okay, pretty girl?” He asked you, eyes trying to find the answer to his question. You nodded slowly, looking around at the room. All the guests were whispering to one another, eyes darting from Jake, to Henry, and then to your aunt and uncle. You felt your lips press into a thin line before standing abruptly.

“If you all will please excuse me,” you said with a polite smile before walking through the parting crowd and out into the garden. The night was cold, typical for December, and the snow crunched under your feet as you made your way further into the shadows.

“Scout!”

You kept walking.

“Scout, please.”

You stopped at the edge of the hedges, looking out into the hills.

“Dammit, Scout,” Jake pleaded, grabbing your hand. You yanked away, whirling around to fix him with a glare.

“How dare you!” You hissed at him. Jake looked taken aback by your outburst before his brow furrowed in confusion.

“What?”

“You just embarrassed my family with that little scene you caused,” you snapped, gesturing back towards the house. “What will people say now?”

“Who cares what a bunch of snobby, rich people say?” Jake scoffed, frowning at you.

“I care!” You shrieked. “Have you forgotten that I used to be one of them?”

Jake shook his head, taking a step forward. “You’re nothing like them, Scout. You don’t want the same things. ”

“Then maybe you don’t really know me,” you stated, causing Jake to reel back. “Maybe you don’t know what it is that I want.”

“I know you,” he said firmly, eyes running over you. “I know who you really are. They don’t. You don’t want this, honey girl.”

You met his gaze steadily, feeling the words leave your lips before you could stop them. “Maybe this is exactly what I want.”

Silence surrounded you, and you wished you could take the words back as Jake stared at you like you just crushed his heart in your hands. You saw the greens of his eyes start to shine as he stared at you, the wind blowing his hair across his forehead. He pressed his lips into a firm line before nodding, turning to walk back into the house.

Your tears came in droves as you clutched yourself, desperate to keep from falling apart in the cold, windy night. The wind howled, echoing the sound of your heart as you watched him walk away from you. For the first time in months, you felt truly alone.

It was late, and you had retired to your room hours ago. You sat at your vanity, absentmindedly running your brush through your hair when a knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” you croaked, your voice still hoarse from all the crying. The door opened slowly to reveal Aunt Jo. She gave you a small smile, closing the door behind her before walking over to where you sat. She took the brush from your hand and began slowly working it through your locks. Neither of you said anything for a few moments.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered quietly, and Aunt Jo looked at you in the mirror, brow furrowed.

“Whatever for, my dear?”

“For the scene earlier today,” you sighed. “I know that must have been so embarrassing for you and Uncle Walter. “Hopefully things will die down here once we leave in the morning.”

“Scout,” Aunt Jo frowned, “are you under the impression that your uncle and I are upset with you and Jake?”

“Yes?” You questioned her. “Why wouldn’t you be? He caused such a spectacle in front of everyone tonight.”

“My dear girl,” she chuckled, setting the brush down on the vanity. She pulled at your shoulders so that you turned around to face her. “If anyone should be ashamed and apologizing, it would be Henry Cargill.”

“What?” Your eyes widened at her.

“Henry is the one who caused the scene, Scout,” she continued. “Not Jake. As far as I’m concerned, Mr. Seresin was defending my niece’s honor and I made that perfectly clear to everyone here tonight. Henry is the one who made a fool of himself tonight.”

“I suppose I did as well,” you muttered, earning a questioning look from your aunt. ��Oh, Aunt Jo. I’m afraid I said such horrible things to Jake.”

“I’m sure it’s not anything that can’t be fixed,” she reassured you, but you shook your head.

“You didn’t see the look on his face,” you cried, bottom lip wobbling. “He was so hurt, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he never wanted anything to do with me ever again.”

“Somehow, I don’t think that’s the case,” she smiled, patting your head gently. “That boy is so smitten with you, sweetheart. Everyone can see it. Just talk to him, and I promise everything will work out.”

You sniffled. “Maybe I should just move back here. I keep managing to make a fool of myself. I know what I’m doing here.”

Aunt Jo wiped your tears away gently, resting her hands on either side of your face. She made sure your eyes were locked on hers before she continued. “I think you would be the world’s biggest fool if you did that. Only the weak throw away their chances at happiness, you know, and you, my dear niece, are not weak. Just because things here are familiar, does not mean they’re right for you. You have become a more radiant version of yourself since you moved away. The west did that. Jake did that.”

“So you’re telling me not to move back?” You asked her with a watery smile. She chuckled, hugging you close.

“I’m telling you to choose happiness, Scout.”

You sat in the carriage as Jake loaded the rest of your luggage onto the back of the carriage. Aunt Jo and Uncle Walter had already bid you goodbye and now waited for the blond to finish his task before Aunt Jo enveloped him in a tight hug. He seemed a little taken aback, but returned it, frowning in confusion at something she whispered to him. She pulled back with a smile as Uncle Walter stepped up to shake his hand.

You shifted in your seat eagerly, ready to apologize to him when he stepped up into the carriage with you. But that moment didn’t come.

Jake waved to your aunt and uncle, casting you a sideways glance as he hopped up to sit with the driver. You met your aunt’s gaze and she offered you a sympathetic smile before waving as the carriage began to move. You waved back at her, settling in for the ride.

Jake still refused to acknowledge you even after the two of you settled in for the train ride to St.Louis, and you were beginning to grow irritated. You heard the girls giggling over him from a few seats behind you, but Jake paid them no mind as he continued to stare out the window.

“Jake,” you said, leaning forward. He glanced at you with a hum. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he said, looking back out the window. “We’re going to go back to Maverick, and you’re going to get ready to go back to your old life.”

“What?” You asked him, eyes widening in shock.

“Isn’t that what you decided?” He scoffed with a roll of his eyes. You stared at him, biting your cheek to keep from snapping at him.

“Well, if you would listen to what I have to say-”

“Sorry, darlin’. I’m not really all that interested in hearing about your plans for the future at the moment,” he sneered. You felt your temper start to boil. To prevent yourself from creating a scene in the traincar, you stood up abruptly, causing Jake to look at you.

“Where are you going?” He grumbled, watching you.

“When you’re ready to talk to me like an adult,” you hissed, “you can find me in my cabin. Until then, goodnight, Mr. Seresin.”

Jake rolled his eyes, grumbling something under his breath. You felt your resolve start to crack, and without thinking you raised your foot, stamping it down on Jake’s. He cried out in pain before looking at you incredulously, hands gripping his foot. You glared at him before stomping down the aisle and out of the car.

If he wanted to be childish, then two could play at that game.

[livin4woso]

Embarrassingly painful- (teen!reader x barca femini)

Summary- during training a simple embarrassing moment for r that seems harmless turns out to be more serious than expected but r is too embarrassed to tell anyone however it slowly becomes obvious to some teamates that they're in pain.

It started off as nothing it was a simple mistake in training, a funny one at that. You were practicing 1v1s and lets say your attacking wasnt the best i mean you were a center back you weren't expected to know all the fancy footwork that was for the girls further up field. So that when it was your turn to attack against patri things just didn't go your way, you had managed to get past her slightly and you were on the edge of the goal waiting to shoot however she was blocking your angle to the goal so you tried to spin outwards so you would be past her but as your foot was on the ball instead of pulling your leg backwards you went forward instead causing you to be off balanced and your momentum flung you backwards straight to the astro.

It wasn't necessarily painful when you hit the floor i mean uncomfortable yes, slightly winded also yes but nothing serious that you couldn't get up from. Jona asked if you were okay as you lay on the floor "you good y/n" "yeah yeah im fine one sec" you said sitting up "can you finish the drill and defend" he said looking at you and the stubbornness in you wouldn't let you drop out so you stood back up and got set to defend against vicky.

When the drill finished all the girls came over and thought it was the funniest thing ever and you knew it wasn't going to be forgotten about. Then during a game you had the ball and you heard mapi tease you with "make sure to stay on your feet this time chica" and you just shake your head at her. After atleast a hundred comments and 5 retellings of the event by your friends you could go home, peace at last.

With you only being 18 and from England you were staying with mapi and ingrid, they had asked you to stay and you couldn't really say no they treat you well and while mapi was more like a sister to you ingrid had a few motherly tendancys when it comes to you. So when you got home ingrid had turned on full mother mode as she knew you didn't go to the team doctors or physio to check your back to see if anything was wrong "bebita how is your back" she said scanning you up and down "its fine ingrid it doesn't hurt its just sore I think of where I hit the floor" you replied honestly while the pain had subsided you still felt a twinge in your lower back. "Okay, but if that changed you tell me" she said sternly as she knew you weren't the person to admit when you are in pain "I will ing i just think I'll be sore the next few days then I'll be good" you said. Oh how wrong you were.

For the first week you were right you were just sore the few occasionally movements hurt but there was nothing concerning you expected it. However things drastically changed as week 2 approached you woke up in your bed and as you sat up a sharp shooting pain came from your lower back and not one you can ignore it was fierce and it stopped you in your tracks from moving. But you can't be bound to your bed when you have training and need to be ready for a champions league fixture so you pushed through the pain and used your desk as a support to help you stand while your back muscles felt like they were ripping of you spine. The pain was unbearable you couldn't even bend down to go grab your bag with your boots in.

You gritted your teeth to hide the pain when you were infront of ingrid and mapi and you certainly put on a good act as they didn't suspect anything from you. It was impressive your ability to hide pain through accentuated long breaths and random stretches attempting to either find the source of pain or to relieve some of it. Yet once you started running at training the pain in your back was non existent it was like your body flipped a switch so you thought maybe you had slept funny the night before. However this wasn't the case when you woke up the next morning in the same suitation again and again with nothing changing.

But as the time passed the pain only grew stronger and harder to hide from people especially ingrid and mapi. Surprisingly it was mapi to notice first like when you would hesitate to bend down to grab things or that you looked for something to support you when trying to stand up. She didn't think anything major of it but she thought to mention it to ingrid just incase. Once ingrid had found out she had become a secret medical spy trying to solve what was wrong with you and to give her the credit she was rather sneaky as you didn't notice the extra lingering eye contact or how she would wait for you to stand up and walk with her. But she,like mapi, had started to notice things were off and definitely weren't right with you.

As she sat there trying to plan a way to catch you out as she needed hard proof that you were in pain not something minor that you can easily lie your way out of because you were a good liar for one but also you wouldn't want to admit to be in pain. While she was thinking she just happened to catch you as your bedroom door was slightly ajar and as you stood up with clear signs of pain on your face while muttering curse words under your breath it was pretty obvious that something was wrong. "Y/n what's wrong you clearly seem to be in pain" ingrid said while pushing your door further open as you stand frozen in the middle of the room knowing you've been caught.

"Nothing im fine my back is just still a little sore" you said trying to down play it "i don't think sore means not being able to stand without being in pain" she said almost sarcastically knowing how stubborn you are. "This back issue really still shouldn't be hurting you after this long you need to go get it checked out" she said firmly walking towards you. "Its nothing ingrid im fine i dont need to visit the hospital or anything its okay" you say way to defensively knowing that you should go see a doctor and you know it would help. "You don't have a say in this we're going weather you want to or not because we both know it shouldn't still hurt, for God sake even mapi has noticed you're in pain" she said throwing her hands in the air due to frustration but with that last comment you knew you were going. "Fine we can go" you said groaning maybe out of stubbornness or maybe it was pain but you had given in trying to argue with the Norwegian.

The ride to the hospital was silent it was mapi and ingrid in the front seats while you were in the back. Mapis fingers gripped the steering wheel tighter than normal but not out of anger but more of im disappointed in you but also concern because while she acted like a sibling she loved and cared for you like a mother would. Ingrid on the other had was silent just scrolling through her phone and thats how you knew she was mad at you for not telling her. The doctor had told you that you had a slipped disc and that you would be out of football for atleast a month and you would need regular physio to try and place it back into the correct spot which would stop the pain when standing and bending down.

While it wasn't the greatest news you atleast knew what it was but missing a whole month of the season is a big hit as you were having a really good break through season. When you got back to the apartment the atmosphere had shifted the air was more tense than before "come on y/n sit down" ingrid said sighing and you knew you were in for it. "Why didn't you tell us bebita that you were in pain?" Mapi asked with genuine curiosity in her eyes "do you not trust us?" Ingrid added on. "No i do trust you but I don't.. I dont know i guess I was just embarrassed like to be injured of something that was my own fault I just felt stupid so I didn't mention it and I was fine the first week like genuinely was fine but then it just got worse." You said with pure honesty knowing you wouldn't be judged by the two older women.

"Im glad you told us but you can always tell us if you are in pain we aren't gonna judge you and yes you may think it's embarrassing but its not and you could have made yourself even more injured if I didn't catch you today" ingrid said to you with concern but care laced in her tone. "Im sorry guys but im glad you understand but I promise I won't do it again" you said back to them and in that moment you actually meant what you said and for the first time in your career you understood that being honest with injuries is much better than being stubborn when you have a good support system around you.

A.N- hi guys sorry for the inactivity this is just a quick one I thought of,well not really this genuinely happened to me a few weeks ago..even the way I got injured but yk hope you enjoyed

[yunazxxx]

kissin’ on my tattoos —

you were booked and busy all day, you couldn’t really find time to fit anyone else in during your business hours, but you did somehow find some time to fit one more person in just before you closed shop for the night.

now playing : kissin’ on my tattoos by august alsina

(📓) client!lara, tattoo artist!reader, fem!reader, gp!lara, masturbation, unprotected sex, teasing, edging, lara’s hella flirty, top!reader, body worshipping, subby!lara, creampie, slight degrading, etc possibly?

(💚) listen lara’s tattoos have me going FERAL. i need her biblically like this really isn’t a joke anymore…

(wc) 2k — prev katz works

—

“another late night” you sighed to yourself, your coworker looked at you from cleaning up their station, “i mean, you only have one client left, they may be fast”

you nodded as they spoke, “there’s no guarantee though, you know how things like this goes” — you said and they nodded.

to be honest, you were so unbelievably tired. you asked your client hours beforehand to send what she wanted so you could print out the stencil and have it ready for her.

it was multiple different tattoos so you just sighed to yourself, hoping that she didn’t want any color because, well you’d have to go in the back for that and find it.

as time slowly began to pass, the time for your next client to come, had as well. you were sitting on your phone, pretty much manspreading when you heard the front door chime, and a soft “hello?” come from the front.

you went up there and greeted her, “hi, i’m lara” and you nodded, “nice to meet you”, you took her over to her station and you two began to talk.

you weren’t sure if it was her aroma or scent, or hell anything in particular. something attracted her to you, while you two specified the area of her tattoo lara would look you up and down, bite her lip sometimes, giggle a lot. kind of, flirting? you tried to remain professional, of course, but it was kind of hard.

she wanted a tattoo on her waist, at first she asked if you all did them and you explained that you did as long as the client wanted that. — you asked lara to remove her jeans, and she did. you were surprised to see she had on boxers, but honestly, you saw the brand through her pants, which were low waisted.

you asked for permission before pulling her boxers off of her, and you covered her up with a towel, aside from the area you needed.

you again printed the stencil, this time making sure it was the right one before beginning the lining on lara’s waist, you had the indian woman sit at a specific angle to make sure you got it right.

she wanted it from her waist, down to her thigh, so it was a pretty long tattoo, especially for the first one, of many. she kind of twitched a little while you used the pencil to sketch out the start of the tattoo.

you held her hips down, and looked up at her, “are you okay? wanna start somewhere else?” you asked and she shook her head, “no no, go on” and you nodded. — you continued with your process, successfully finishing the lining of her tattoo.

now you had to get the ink ready in the pen, “do you want any color?” you casually asked, but you being faced the opposite direction and also being far away from her, lara didn’t really hear you.

“ma’am?” you called out to her, “hm?” — “did you want any color?”, and she thought for a bit, “give me the color you think suits me best” and you nodded, “okay”

you left to the back and came with a random color you felt would be the best fit, you held lara down in a specific angle, but you were gentle with her.

while you moved the pen on her body, you subconsciously cooed to her, saying she was doing good already and other little praises for not moving too much. — which in your head, meant nothing, but in lara’s head, it was much more.

you held her hand the further you went down, it wasn’t out of the ordinary for you to hold your clients hands during tattoos. — lara whined a bit the closer you got to finishing.

“hold still for me, okay beautiful? i’m almost done” you softly said, and squeezed her hand a bit to give her some reassurance while you finished up.

you wiped any access ink there was, and finished off that area. once you finished, lara let you go. “uhm, could i go to the restroom?” — “mhm, its all the way in the back towards the left” and she got up, grabbing her clothes then went towards the bathroom.

you moved back over to the couch you were just sitting in and sighed to yourself, trying to calm down and not think about anything else. — over in the restroom, the indian woman was fighting for her life.

she had a boner — she couldn’t even attempt to hide it if she wanted to, poor baby was so embarrassed she just sat in the bathroom and tried thinking about anything to take her mind off it.

each time she’d get to a certain thought, she’d think about you and how you cooed to her. the way you praised her, even for the simplest things.

lara put back on her boxers, hoping it wouldn’t be too bad, and also slipped back on her jeans. she looked in the mirror and decided to just wrap her jacket around her waist before walking back out.

“hi” she softly said, making you look back at her, “hey, are you ready for the next one?” you asked, smiling to her as she nodded.

“just here for now” she said, circling the area she wanted the next tattoo. you nodded. as she sent you the next tattoo she wanted. "you're actually doing bette than a lot of my other clients" you said casually, and it was true.

they'd either be a bit too scared to approach, get the tattoo done or they're not sure what they actualy want until after you've already sketched out on their body. — and let's not talk about the placement, because they always change it last minute. it drives you crazy.

the more you casually praised lara, the harder it was for her to just play it off. again, she excused herself to the bathroom, of course you’re not gonna say no, so she went. — you finished printing out the picture and began getting everything ready while she was there.

now what lara was experiencing was the last thing you’d expect. she had another boner, this time it wasn’t as easily avoidable. she had to do something about it because the longer it would just rub against the fabric of her boxers and jeans, just listening to the way you praised her, she’d cum in her pants.

the indian woman asked for about ten minutes and you said sure, because hell to be honest, you had no where else to go. she was your last client and despite how tired you previously felt, it’s all gone away now.

lara quickly removed her jeans, pulling her cock from her boxers and began slowly stroking herself. she tried thinking about literally anything that could rush this process, speeding up her hands.

her mind kept going back to you, and she would twitch each time she’d think about you. — you’d soon hear the whimpering coming from the bathroom, going back there to check on lara but, she never gave you a verbal answer.

you announced you were coming in, only to find lara jerking off while moaning your name, her vision was blurry due to how needy she was, and honestly. it was late, no one else was coming in, why not help her out?

you walked closer to lara, and you wrapped your hands around her cock, using your other hand and pulling her into a kiss. she was much louder now, her vision going in and out, noticing it was you touching her.

she removed her hands, poor loser trying to take your clothes off so she would feel you better, closer, and deeper.

you removed your bottoms (skirt, pants, shorts whatever you choose) and slid your panties to the side. you began to line yourself up with lara’s tip before lowering yourself down on her.

she grabbed at your hips, pushing you further down, immediately falling in love with how tight you were over her. she immediately began thrusting inside of your heat, pulling at your top, her eyes so soft and her lips were pouty :( — lara whined as you teased her, you made her slow down and slowly removed your top, but her eyes were so focused on yours and your lips.

once you finally removed your top and your bra, she grabbed at your breast, sucking on one while she played with the other. she even left a heart shaped hickey on one, while also marking up your neck.

lara was so desperate, the rhythm you were going drove her crazy, she was so needy and it was all caused by you. she barely even knew you but here she was getting slutted out by her tattoo artist.

“fuckk faster, please..” lara begged, her voice so cute and low </3 , almost like a whisper, you decided to tease her by making her beg you, saying little things like, “i didn’t hear you, puppy” and more.

lara began to whine, she couldn’t handle your teasing, you’d clench around her, basically choking her cock, your arousal would drip down her, touching her thighs, the way you moaned in her ear just made her squirm. — she craved you and all that is you.

she pulled your body close to hers, nipping at your skin, you sped yourself up, your back arching against lara’s slowly overheating body. — the indian woman slowly began to grown closer to her orgasm, so you got up.

she looked at and whined, her hands wanting to wrap around her shaft, wanting to touch you, feel you again. “you can’t cum this early, beautiful”

you held lara’s chin, while her eyes were hooded, struggling to look up at your face, her eyes staying steady on your breast. — when they finally moved up, she was focused on your lips.

she pulled you closer to her, you looked into her eyes while you stroke her, taking her lips into a lustful kiss. lara couldn’t help but moan into the kiss, grabbing at your waist to get you closer to her.

you once again pushed lara’s cock inside of you, watching the way she’s react. “such a fucking loser” you said in her ear, your breather going down her neck. you kissed and sucked at lara’s neck while you sped up.

she whined in your ear, saying she was gonna cum and you only sped up, you were whimpering as your own orgasm approached, lara began thrusting inside of your cunt, her fingers going to rub your clit to rush your orgasm. — which happened.

watching you cum on her cock only pushed lara closer to her orgasm, you continued to grind on her. she was twitching, begging you to let her cum, which you finally let her.

she desperately thrusted her cock inside of you until she shot her hot load deep inside your womb, her body slightly shook as she finished.

she sighed against your chest, then she sat back against the wall. she was trying to calm her breathing when her brain finally came back to reality.

she was still in the bathroom, covered in her own load. she hurried and fixed herself up, tying her hair back before washing her hands and walking out.

you looked at the black haired woman when she walked back in, “are you alright?” you softly asked, and she nodded. — you sat lara down back in her seat to get her final tattoo done.

“i heard you back there, i was gonna check but you seem to be alright” you calmly said while doing her tattoo, lara nodded, internally blushing at the fact you heard her getting off to you.

soon you finished her tattoo, and you were packing everything up when she walked up to you with the money. normally, you’d take it and send them on their way but, it was something about her that made you just have her pay your less and keep the rest. — and well that’s what happened.

[eightpackdiaz]

was listening to so high school and i got struck with a kingdon vision…an exes (to lovers) au

(there’s like 2k words under the cut, i dont know what came over me)

so mel and frank met in her first year of undergrad, he was already in his third year, and the way they met was…almost cliché, really, it’s the first day back from summer break, and half his classes already are swamping him with work so he walks his ass to the library because he wants to be a doctor, and he will do well in school, and he will prove his father wrong. except he gets there and the tables are full, because of course they are, it’s still summer and the library has AC so people are there and not even half of them are actively studying. But he looks for a table and there’s one little two person table right next to the back window and he can see a girl already sitting there. She has her back to him, so all he sees is a loose blonde french braid, the back of a pink tshirt, and a very neat pile of books to her right. He feels bad asking because he also doesn’t like sharing the table, but he really needs to start studying, so he walks up to her.

Once he’s in front of her, he forgets what he is going to say for a second. He can’t really see her face, but he can see glasses, and a face covered in sun-kissed freckles, and he thinks his heart is beating a little too fast, and oh fuck. she’s looking up at him with a tiny smile and, wow, okay, maybe that’s what it feels like to meet someone who is your type (even if he previously thought he didn’t have *a* type).

She says “can i help you with something?” and he white knuckles his backpack strap to keep himself from doing something stupid like reaching out and adjusting her glasses, he powers through

“Hi, sorry, do you mind if i sit here? i really need to get started on my papers, and people are here and they’re not even doing homework! how’s that okay? anyways, sorry, i know it can be annoying to share a table, but i promise i really just need to study” why is he rambling?!, he hasn’t been a rambler for years and now she’s looking at him funny but she doesn’t look put off yet, that’s good.

“of course you can! i understand, it can be upsetting that people don’t use the library for actual studying. my name is melissa, but everyone calls Mel, nice to meet you” she punctuates this last sentence with the cutest little wave he had ever seen anyone over the age of 5 make, and woah okay he’s staring, he needs to get a grip

“i’m frank! nice to meet you, are you new here? i don’t think i’ve seen you before, i would remember” okay why is he sounding flirty, he need to stop he said he was only gonna study and he really meant it, but she doesn’t seem to register it or simply chose to ignore it,

she gives him a bigger smile and says “i am! first year of undergrad, i take it you’ve been here longer?”

“i’m starting my third year of biochem, hoping to go to medical school after!”

“me too! not biochem, i mean, i want to go to medical school once i finish mine, i’m in biology!”

and so they start studying, he’s doing his best to not be fidgety and annoying, but he can’t help it and he finds himself stopping himself like four different times, until she very obviously catches him the last one.

“i understand if you need to fidget, it won’t bother me, and i’m sure it would help you focus more, i sometimes need to stim to really concentrate”

and he just looks at her, in awe, because this is the first time someone *isn’t* bothered by his fidgeting

And so they have little snippets of a conversation during their hours of study that day, at the end he tells her that he would like to do this again, and she smiles, and tells him she would too, and before he knows it they’ve exchanged numbers, with mel explicitly stating “i do prefer phone calls because i have a hard time deciphering people’s tones via text” and as he sees her walk away he gets a feeling deep in his bones that his life is never going to be the same again

during that first week they study together three times, he’s not ashamed to say he reached out the very next day after that first meeting, and actually, he’s not ashamed to say he reach out all three of those times, but every single time he called, he was met with a bright and warm “hi frank! how are you doing today?”, so all things considered he’s more than happy to keep doing it.

studying with mel is amazing, really. they’re a great team, he learns a lot from her, and tells her that. he has the wild thought that if they were to practice together, they would save s lot of patients.

they’ve been study buddies for about three weeks when for the very first time, they hang out without the pretense of homework, he invited her to go with him to try a new pizza place he heard about, and truly, he has no expectations.

he likes her, of course he does, shes so beautiful, and so smart, and her eyes are so bright, and even when he can tell that she’s missing her sister she never lets that affect the way she treats others, always so kind and patient. she’s in no uncertain terms someone who he knows he’s gonna fall inlove with, he just knows she doesn’t see him that way, and he’s okay with that.

mel is the funniest person he’s ever met. he spends half the dinner laughing and he thinks that maybe she doesn’t first get most jokes but my god her own sense of humour is amazing, and they have enough rapport now that she can appreciate some of his darker jokes, especially because since day one he now follows them immediately with “its a joke”, and it’s great, and god, he wishes this was a date.

he feels it important to note that whilst she does recoil to most people’s touch or proximity, after that very first day she has been okay with him standing or being near, he doesn’t touch her much, doesn’t want to test his luck, and also doesn’t think his heart could handle it. but he’s always near, always almost touching, and she lets him, and he feels like he has done something right.

so for about two weeks after that, they start hanging out more and more, yeah he has a friend group, and she’s making her own friends but they make time for each other. they meet for coffee on the way to campus, or meet in between classes just to talk about anything other than school, and little by little he can tell that this crush of his is becoming more.

they’ve known each other for about two months, when they’re in his apartment, his roomates aren’t there (yes he made sure of this, no not like *THAT*) and they’re watching a movie, and they’re sitting in the sofa and then she leans her head on his shoulder.

his heart is going a mile a minute, she initiated the contact and god, her hair smells like strawberries, and he can feel her breathing through his tshirt, and he feels her cheek move, so now he knows she’s smiling.

the movie ends, and she looks up, they hold eye contact for about 5 seconds before he blurts out “wouldyouliketogoonadatewithme” before he chickens out

she just blinks, and he sees her trying to process it, but he waits, he will always wait for her.

“yes, i would like to go on a date with you. i like you, and i could tell that you liked me too, but figured maybe i was confusing signals because you didn’t ask”

and so he explains, that no, he very much does like her but he is a coward. she just smiles and says “i would never call you a coward”

and so they go on a date, he’s had a handful of first dates in his life, but he has never felt this at peace in one before, there’s nerves of course there’s nerves, but it’s like his system knows, it’s like it’s saying “there you are, i’ve been waiting for you” and it lets him feel calm.

the date is amazing, he asks if he can hold her hand, and her answer is to take his hand and swing their joined hands between them and he thinks his heart will explode. at the end of the date, he walks her to her house. he asks if he can kiss her, and he sees her thinking about it, but he waits, he will always wait for her.

she nods, short and determined. he leans in, projecting his movements so she knows what to expect.

he swears he can see fireworks when he closes his eyes, he feels like floating, her hands are clutching the front of his shirt and he decides that it’s his favourite thing ever. they part, he bids her good night and takes a deep breath after she enters her house, he feels delirious to think it, but one day he’s going to marry that girl.

he meets becca after dating mel for six months. becca’s funny, and crazy smart. she tells him in no uncertain terms “i told mel to find someone to kiss at college, so you’re welcome” the responding blush in mel’s checks is what frank’s dreams are made of.

they have a lot of firsts, firsts for him, firsts for her, and firsts together.

they date for about two years. he knows this is it, he knows he’s never going to love anyone the way he loves her, he’s known it from the very first time he sat in front of her.

then he gets accepted to med school on the other side of the country, and he knows she won’t want a long distance relationship because they’ve talked about it, and she loved him but this was a boundary for her, and he applied there because his mom moved to pittsburgh last year after the divorce, and he misses her, and because he really likes their medical program, and because mel from the very beginning told him to stick to his life plan because as much as they love each other, they both have dreams, and those dreams might be similar but they’re not the same.

The day he gets the acceptance letter, they both know their relationship has an expiration date. They are officially together right until the morning he’s set to move away. They wanted to break up amicably, they still love each other so deeply, he thinks knows she will always be his one true love. They kiss goodbye, and they’re both crying, and as soon as they part she says “i love you, and i want you to be happy, so please. try to move on, we can be friends in a few months, but first, we need to try to move on”

the day they become friends again never comes. he loves her so much it aches, but he knows she’s right, and he also knows they might never see each other again, and he needs to focus on med school, and if he can do something is make his mom proud and prove his dad wrong, and…

goddamn it, its been two years and he still can feel the ghost of her touch, he can still hear the way he used to call her name, he can still….he needs to stop. he needs to get laid, he needs to move on. she probably has moved on already, he doesn’t know, because he’s been too much of a coward to check, and because she said to be friends when they move on, and he hasn’t moved on so why even try to reach out.

abby is the polar opposite of mel, she’s also clearly into him and he thinks she’s fun and attractive so he goes for it, he knows there’s a saying about getting under someone to get over someone, and he’s drunk enough that he doesn’t care that she’s not who he really wants her to be.

“i’m pregnant” abby says into the phone, it’s late, and he was studying for an exam, and he’s in the middle of his third year of med school. what the fuck is he going to do.

abby and him are friends, they like each other, they fuck sometimes, and she wants to keep the baby, and he likes her enough to think that he might convince himself one day that he loves her.

so life goes on, they get married because her parents want that, they have tanner and he loves his son, and there’s a pandemic, and he’s just starting his residency and the world is falling apart, but things get better, him and abby are still really good friends, he tells himself he’s not lying to her when he says he loves her, because he’s not, she’s the mother of his kids, and he does love her, she’s just not. well.

it’s just another random thursday, and he’s leaning on the desk in front of him because his back is killing him and he’s only been here like 20 minutes, but he’s trying to space out his pills so, he is doing his best, and then robby wants to introduce the….

he knows that braid. he hasn’t seen her face, and robby is talking but he knows that…

“…second year resident, dr melissa king, fresh from the VA” robby says, like this isn’t taking the air straight out of frank’s lungs. he blinks, looks away and at the computer because this can’t be happening, she’s here. his life is falling apart, his back is killing him, abby is angry at him for god knows why, but shes here, his mel is here.

“everyone calls me mel. i’m so happy to be here” he wonders if she hasn’t realized he’s right behind her. he’s looking at that braid, he’s standing behind her and he can’t stop staring, and he’s suddenly 20 years old again.

[camille-plumb]

𝐎𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐔𝐏𝐎𝐍 𝐀 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆|| ʙʟᴜᴇʟᴏᴄᴋᵒⁿᵉ ˢʰᵒᵗˢ

Ryusei Shidou x Female Reader

━━━━━═╬༻༻༺𝐒𝐎𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐃༻༻༻═╬━━━━━━

Song: Soaked x Shy Smith

Request: 🔞✅

Warning: Sexual content🔞, adult language

Tags: sex toys, vibrators, fetishes

••••••••⇆ㅤ◁ㅤ ❚❚ㅤ ▷↻••••••••

"Ten...nine...eight..." Beads of sweat glistened on her forehead. The people around her seemed oblivious to what was happening; only laughter and whispers in different languages ​​could be heard.

"Seven...six..." The black dress she was wearing was stinging, burning, ugh, she hated it, she wanted to tear it off.

"Five...four..." The makeup wouldn't last long, but she could do it... she...can handle it.

"Three...two...one...enough...please...ah~...Turn it off..." (Y/N) squeezed her legs shut, trying to fill her mind with anything other than the situation she was in. -"Shhh..., darling, if you keep moaning people will think I'm doing something to you"- the pink-haired boy looks at her disapprovingly, making a silence sign with his finger as he settles into his seat- "You need to control yourself baby, I know I'm an irresistible boyfriend but now is not the time, we're at the Ballon d'Or ceremony, more respect the place you dirty little baby"- despite saying it with supposed seriousness, the mocking smile on the pink-haired boy's face let her know that he was making fun of her.

"Ah…ah~….mgh… Idiot, I hate you," (Y/N) muttered, gripping the seat tightly. Beads of sweat dripped from her forehead, dripping relentlessly down her neck and reaching her cleavage. Her bubs felt wet and aching. Her nipples were erect, probably showing through her evening gown.

"Hey, hey, hey, what did we say about swearing, baby?" The sound of a "click" let her know she'd increased her speed. "You know you're only allowed to say them when you ask me not to stop…" She let out a short moan that sounded like an agonized wail. "And you did it in a public place like this, with all these people around, wrong… wrong… dirty baby. There's no other option for you, you spoiled little brat. I'll have to punish you."

Another "click", a new speed…

Oh shit…she was fucking wet.

(Y/N) loved her boyfriend. He was the most important person in her life. Funny, playful, unbearably annoying when he was bored, which was almost always, and sometimes even violent with others. All of the above was bearable, at least when they were out and about.

The unbearable thing was that he was a fucking fetish sex addict, and that would be fine if it weren't for the fact that she was just like him.

Their first encounter was a coincidence, almost a joke. They met at a popular coffee bar in the city. She went out with some friends to drink while he was off enjoying the night.

The confusing color of the bathroom doors and a few glasses of alcohol in his blood made (Y/N) enter the men's bathroom. He walked between the stalls without seeing anything strange around him. It was a regular bathroom, like all the others. The problem arose when he finished urinating. Well, not the problem, but him…appeared on the scene.

Ryusei Shidou

"Do you enjoy the view, or do you have a fetish for watching people urinate?" His mocking voice reached her mind late; she was already busy staring at the length of his cock brazenly. It was thick and long, all she could think about was that it wasn't fully erect. The mental image made her blush.

(Y/N) took the time to see its entire length with desire, time seeming to stand still as her mind flew to scenarios in which she was pleased by that cock. Oh fuck... Unintentionally, she began to get wet. She wanted to have him inside her to see if it would feel as good as it looked. She had to find out, all to satisfy her curiosity, all for science. While she didn't look away, she slowly processed the blond's words in her mind. After thinking about it, the answer appeared in her mind. Would it be wrong to tell him that she enjoyed both of them?

-I enjoy both, darling, their eyes were made to look at each other- barely finishing her sentence she saw the lustful shine of his pink eyes, those eyes that undressed her in an instant and made her shudder, "I love it" she thought without taking her eyes off him.

She still remembered how she'd worked up the courage to approach the pink-haired blond after that encounter in the bathroom, how they'd exchanged numbers after a few dances, caresses, and provocations; and how they'd finally ended up dating.

And there she was, months later, at the Ballon d'Or ceremony, the most important of her boyfriend's career, with a damn vibrator buried in her wet pussy. It wasn't necessary to specify who asked for it.

<<"It'll just be a moment,">> said the idiot as he pounded into her hard, pulling her hair in his fist after their afternoon shower.

<<"I'll get my award, and then we'll come celebrate, baby,">> he insisted, spanking her ass hard as punishment for cumming while he hadn't yet filled her.

<< "Don't you think it's fun to be wet all the time love? Imagine this, they give me my award for the best goal of the season, I go up to receive it while everyone applauds me, people focus their attention on me waiting for me to start talking, but before speaking, I increase the vibrator to the maximum power, while I thank everyone for congratulating me, I see your face of pleasure when you reach your orgasm and I can't help but think: are you tired from cumming? Will your vaginal juices run down your legs until they wet the floor? Should I get off the stage, spread your legs and fuck you in front of everyone? Oh just imagine this baby, we would be on the covers, you with your beautiful face excited by pleasure and me filling you until I leave a nice creampie in your pussy" >>

A shiver ran through her pussy at the memory of the afternoon. She was so wet, she couldn't move her legs anymore. She was afraid that if she did, she would wet the whole place and attract the attention of the people around her.

"Ah… I can't stand it anymore… I… have to…" (Y/N)'s words came out as a pitiful sound from her lips. She lowered her head, probably completely red.

Announcer: And the goal of the season award goes to… Ryusei Shidou

Applause filled the room, her teammates patting her on the back as she walked up to the stage.

Oh no… The time had come…

She looked up only to see her boyfriend take the microphone as he'd told her he would. A lustful glow appeared on his face. She watched as he calmly placed his free hand in his pocket.

"I want to thank my team, the coach, and the club for believing in my talent. This goal is for my fans who replicate my goals around the world and share them on social media. You guys are really great. This is for you. Keep enjoying the night, I will too."

The thanks ended amid cheers and applause from the audience, but for (Y/N), it ended with a "Click."

Ahhh… shit… mgh…..- (Y/N) let out a painful moan of suppressed pleasure. She closed her eyes as the cloud of pleasure flooded her mind. She opened her legs, releasing all her frustration. She felt her pussy throb violently as it released spurts and spurts of juice that wet her dress and legs.

She sat recovering from her orgasm when she felt a dark garment cover her tired body.

"You're definitely fire, babe. You did all the theories I mentioned this afternoon," she could picture the blond's lustful smile in her mind despite her eyes closed. "Oh… Completely wet and ready for me," the blond murmured, touching her wet pussy with his fingers. "Okay, now we just need to be on tomorrow's front pages." The blond turned his head, searching for something. "But that can be fixed right now…" She could picture the blond's lustful smile in her mind despite her eyes closed.

She opened her eyes slowly, catching her breath, and almost screamed when she saw the pronounced bulge in her boyfriend's pants, and how he positioned himself on top of her, drawing the attention of the curious others watching the scene.

Would he not be able to fuck her in public, or would he?

—Bang bang, my love~—

Oh God~ now they'd be banned from every award show.

•••••━━━━━━━ •♬• ━━━━━━━••••••

•••••━━━━━━━ •♬• ━━━━━━━••••••

[f1daydreamer]

Just Here for Lance

---

Monza, Italy – September 3, 2023

---

You had never been to Italy before, but somehow, it felt like the right place to see your first Grand Prix in person.

Monza was fast, loud, and electric—everything Formula 1 promised to be, and yet, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were only half-interested in the race itself. Your eyes weren’t on Verstappen or Leclerc or Hamilton. They were on a different kind of presence. One that wasn’t always on the podium or leading the press conferences, but one you’d quietly rooted for since the moment you got into F1.

Lance Stroll.

Maybe it was the way he carried himself—lowkey, unbothered by the chaos. Or how he never gave dramatic interviews or sought attention. He didn’t need to. He just drove. And you liked that. Liked him.

You'd spent the night before the race hunched over a small hotel desk in Milan with a black Sharpie and an old white sheet from your suitcase. The words came easily:

“I’M JUST HERE FOR LANCE.”

The sign was simple, bold, and honest. You weren't trying to be ironic or funny. You meant it.

---

Race Day

The grandstands buzzed with energy. Fans screamed for Ferrari. Red flags and tifosi were everywhere, but you stood out—not in red, but in Aston Martin green, your sign held high as the national anthem played and the engines roared to life on the grid.

Lance was starting from the back—P20, due to a frustrating qualifying. The AMR23 hadn’t been kind to him lately, and Monza wasn’t a circuit that offered easy redemption. But you didn’t care about his grid position. You knew how strong he was mentally. He wasn’t someone who crumbled under pressure.

Every lap, you watched the timing screen with bated breath. He made small gains—then lost time. The car clearly wasn’t cooperating. But still, he pushed.

You screamed for every overtake. Cursed under your breath when he fell back again. It wasn’t a points finish. It wasn’t even close. He came in P16.

But as the cars rolled into parc fermé and the crowd thinned, you stayed in your seat, holding your sign a little lower now—not out of embarrassment, but out of empathy. You knew what that kind of race felt like from the outside. The ones that leave no glory and barely a headline.

---

You didn’t expect him to do much press. Lance didn’t usually speak much after frustrating races. But there he was, on the screen near the podium, still in his race suit, hands on his hips, eyes a little tired.

A Sky Sports reporter asked the usual questions—about tire degradation, straight-line speed, and setup issues.

He gave his usual short, honest replies. Calm. Professional.

And then, unprompted, he glanced off camera and grinned slightly.

> “Actually, I saw this sign in the crowd. Said, ‘I’m just here for Lance.’”

The reporter blinked. “Really?”

He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck, a little sheepish. “Yeah. Just… yeah. That was nice. After a day like this, that kind of thing... it means something.”

Your heart leapt. Your knees went weak.

He saw you. He noticed you. He remembered.

---

Later That Evening – Aston Martin Paddock

You thought it was a joke when a security guard came to find you in the fan zone, flashing a laminated paddock pass. “You’re the girl with the sign, right?”

You blinked, wide-eyed. “Um… yeah?”

He smiled. “Well, someone saw it. Wants to say thanks.”

The paddock was a world apart. Quiet. Professional. Controlled chaos. Everything gleamed—carbon fiber, chrome, and green uniforms. You felt out of place in your sneakers and sunburnt skin, but no one questioned you.

When you reached Aston Martin's hospitality area, your heart was pounding like a race engine.

Then he appeared.

Still in his race suit, the sleeves pushed up, his curls damp from a post-race shower. He looked down at his phone, then up—and smiled when he saw you.

> “There she is.”

You stood frozen. “Hi.”

He nodded toward the sign in your hands. “So… you really were just here for me?”

You laughed, a little breathless. “Yeah. I mean… I like racing. But yeah. Mostly for you.”

He ran a hand through his curls and let out a soft laugh, the kind you don’t usually hear on camera.

> “Well, sorry about the P16. Not exactly a performance worth the sign.”

You stepped forward. “I didn’t make it because of the results.”

That caught him off guard. His eyes met yours with curiosity. “No?”

You shook your head. “I made it because… I’ve been watching you for years. And I don’t think people give you enough credit. You’ve been through so much in this sport and you still show up and fight every weekend. That’s rare.”

He didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you—really looked.

> “That’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”

You shrugged, feeling the burn in your cheeks. “Well, it’s true.”

Lance gave a small, warm smile. “Most fans want selfies or merch signed. You brought… this.” He gestured to your sign. “It’s kinda awesome.”

“Thanks,” you said softly.

He nodded toward the motorhome behind him. “You hungry? The team always has leftovers after the debrief. And I feel like someone who brings that much positivity into the paddock deserves a decent pasta.”

You blinked. “Are you serious?”

He tilted his head with a teasing smile. “You said you were here for me, didn’t you?”

Your heart melted.

---

Later

You ended up sitting side by side at a small table behind the Aston motorhome, sharing a bowl of spaghetti and stories about how you got into racing. He listened, asked questions, and even laughed when you told him about the chaos of making the sign with hotel laundry.

At one point, he looked down at your hand resting near his and asked, almost shyly:

> “So… will you be at Suzuka too?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Should I be?”

He gave you that dry, boyish smile. “Well… I kind of like having someone here just for me.”

You leaned in a little closer. “Then maybe I will be.”

> “Bring the sign,” he said, almost whispering.

> “Bring me back a top ten,” you shot back.

He laughed, and this time, it wasn’t soft or self-conscious. It was loud and unfiltered.

> “Deal.”

---

To Be Continued…?👀

---

If you’ve made it to the end—thank you. Truly. This story was a little love letter not just to the idea of fandom and soft, unexpected romance, but also to someone in F1 who rarely gets the fair credit he deserves: Lance Stroll.

You might be wondering why I chose Monza 2023 as the backdrop. It wasn’t a big win or a media-highlighted weekend. In fact, Lance started at the very back and finished P16—a race where he barely got any screen time, and most people didn’t even remember where he placed. And that’s exactly why I picked it.

Because this fic isn’t about fanfare. It’s about the quiet weekends—the ones where the car isn’t performing, the critics are loud, and still, the driver shows up, puts in the work, and crosses the line. There’s something so human and humble about that. That’s the version of Lance that inspired this story: the one who keeps pushing, even when no one’s watching.

The girl in the stands with her handmade sign—“I’m just here for Lance”—she’s not just fictional. She represents a kind of fan who exists in real life. The quiet supporters. The loyal ones. The ones who stay even when everyone else walks away. And in this story, I wanted to imagine what it would mean for Lance to see one of those people. And how much it could matter.

Now, let’s address the narrative that always gets brought up when Lance’s name comes up:

“He’s only here because of his dad.”

There’s truth to the fact that privilege gave Lance opportunities others didn’t get. His father, Lawrence Stroll, is a billionaire and now owns the Aston Martin F1 team. Lance’s karting journey and junior career were heavily supported, and he entered F1 young, with significant resources behind him.

But here’s the thing: money can buy you a seat, not talent. Not skill. And definitely not longevity.

Formula 1 is the most competitive racing series in the world. Drivers get replaced all the time—even champions. Sponsors demand results. Teams make cutthroat decisions. If Lance truly didn’t belong, he would have been gone years ago. And yet, since 2017, he’s:

Earned three podiums, including as a 19-year-old rookie in Baku

Taken pole position at the 2020 Turkish Grand Prix—in a car that wasn’t even expected to fight for top spots, and in one of the most challenging wet races in years

Outqualified and outperformed experienced teammates on several occasions

Been especially strong in chaotic or wet conditions, showing real racecraft under pressure

Proven consistent pace in midfield machinery while maintaining a calm, team-first mentality

Is he flashy on social media? No.

Does he beg for attention? Also no.

That’s part of why people overlook him. But Lance Stroll is a serious athlete, and a driver who’s grown immensely, year after year.

What’s also important is how he handles all the criticism. Quietly. Without lashing out. Without playing victim. That resilience alone—staying in the game despite the constant noise—is something I respect deeply. And it’s what made me want to tell a story about someone choosing to support him out loud, even when the world isn’t clapping.

Because sometimes, even the strongest people need to be reminded they’re seen.

So, to those who are also just here for Lance—this was for you, too.

Thank you again for reading. If you want more moments—paddock passes, blushing interviews, Instagram thirst traps, maybe a jealous grid girl or two—I’m always happy to continue their story.

[annie-creates]

The greatest mistake | Part 3

Pairing: Dain Aetos x Riorson reader

Genre: angst

Words: 2915

Note: Be aware there is a detailed description of self-harm. Get ready to feel some feelings in this long part. Please be aware not every detail might be completely true to the canon source material. Let me know what you think and if you want to be reminded for the last one!

Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4

A month into the summer and everyone is still ignoring you. You’ve never seen Xaden hold a grudge this long, it would honestly almost impressed you, if his wrath wasn’t directed at you. The worst part was you were starting to see his point of view, and with the way he treated you, you started feeling like he’s right. Maybe you really weren’t worth even a glance to him. Maybe you weren’t worthy of your family’s name and role. Lucky for you you still had Violet and her friends, and your squad, but even surrounded by people you felt alone. You never knew how much you needed your family until you lost them all, only because of one stupid decision.

Things between you and Dain were strained. He tried to talk to you a few times, but you were adamant in not letting him back in. He hurt you beyond imagination and you didn’t know if you could ever forgive him. It was one thing to have the whole world hate you, but for your boyfriend, the one person who warmed their way into your guarded heart and you confided your deepest secrets and insecurities in them, to turn on you and twist a knife into your heart like the rest of them, that was a new level of pain you never wished to experience.

On one particularly hard evening, when you’re not spending the time with your squad, you pick up the switch blade with Tyrrendor emblems and your family’s crest engraved in the handle your father gave to you back when he started teaching you hunting. Would he even still want you to have it, or did you really tarnish his memory? You absentmindedly trace the relic lines on your forearm with the blade that leaves thin red line behind it, the pain taking over your psychological pain for a little bit. You breathed just a little bit clearer with the sting of the blade on your skin. Until there’s a harsh knock on your door and it swings open, showing Violet barging into your room without waiting for an invitation.

“Violet!” You shouted at her, hiding your arm and blade behind your back.

“What… are you doing?” She asks dumbfounded, her original reason for coming long forgotten as she watches you squirm, too embarrassed to meet her eyes.

“None of your business. What are you doing here.” You carefully fold your arms over your chest, hiding the droplets of blood into your shirt.

“You can’t do that. Let me see.” She demands, sitting on the bed in front of you.

You give her an annoyed look but reluctantly show her your arm, the relic having almost a perfect, angry red shadow on both sides of every line. It looked almost like a page in a coloring book, intricate design of dark black and bloody red. Violet examines your forearm before slowly letting it go, looking for a first aid kit instead. You lightly trace the lines with your fingers, imagining the scars that will accompany the already existing ones over the relic. You’ve learned it’s actually easier and less painful to cut the natural skin and not the tattoo in itself, as if the mark tried to fight back and hurt you for it at the same time.

“You can’t tell anyone.” You warn Violet as she starts to carefully clean and wrap your forearm. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone.”

 “Fine, but you have to stop doing this. I thought you were feeling better.” She sighs after a minute of contently watching you without a word.

“It’s hard.” You admit quietly.

“But you have friends, and…” You talk over her not letting her finish.

“They’re your friends. And even with people around, even the whole damn quadrant, I still feel alone.” You concede.

“Xaden should know you’re feeling like this.” She tries but shuts up at your angry look.

“Xaden doesn’t care. He hates me. I could die tomorrow and he wouldn’t even bet an eye, maybe would be even glad about it. Happy he doesn’t have to bother with me anymore.” You argue, tears stinging in your eyes.

“He doesn’t hate you. He’s just…” Violet clearly realizes that what she was about to say wouldn’t make the situation better, but it was too late to take it back.

“Disappointed? Ashamed? Let down? Pissed off? Yeah, I know.” You turn your sight down. “No need to irritate him further.”

You knew, even when he hated you right now, there was always a way to disappoint him further, and this was definitely something that would achieve just that. Xaden never believed in self-blaming, not for other people at least. He would hardly be able to sympathize with you, he wouldn’t pity you. He’d see it as another sign of your own weakness.

“You need to find a real friend of yours. Just one. And I won’t tell.” Violet promises.

You think about her counter for a minute, clearly unsure of it. You weren’t that interested to be establishing any personal relationships now to be honest, but if it meant Violet would keep her mouth shut in front of your brother and anybody else, it was worth a try, right? You give her a look of uncertainty.

“It could be Rhiannon?” She offers.

“Nah, she’s your best friend. And she’s a little too nosy.” You shake your head.

“What about Ridoc?” Violet guesses next.

“He makes fun of everything. I could never talk to him, really. Not about anything serious.” You ponder.

“What about Sawyer then? He’s smart, funny but serious, and can listen very well.” Her eyes sparkle as if she just found the perfect partner to talk to for you.

You try to come up with something wrong about him to reject that offer too, but you come up empty handed. He was actually smart and nice to be around, you suppose. He was a year older than the rest of Violet’s group, which gave him a certain level of maturity above them, but he wasn’t a dry prick. Sawyer did sound like a safe friend option, all things considered.

“Fine, I’ll make Sawyer my friend.” You finally agree.

“Great!” Violet celebrates as she finishes safely wrapping your hand and then points at her work and warns you. “And no more of this.”

You can practically feel Violet watching you like a hawk for the next couple days. You also know Xaden has noticed her doing so too, if the pissed look he has on every time she doesn’t pay attention to him but watches you instead is anything to go by. So you make a show of sitting directly next to Sawyer at lunch or in your study sessions, you always ask him about topics you don’t fully understand and you even spar with him on the mat sometimes. All the effort just to show Violet that you’re trying and she doesn’t have to tell on you to your brother.

Relationships are good for you. Your dragon reminds you, as if he didn’t tell you almost daily.

Yeah, the ones with the people I considered closest worked out great. You sass back, feeling lucky you were good enough at shielding to not let him know about your bad habits.

You had a feeling your dragon would flip out at you for harming yourself, and he’d definitely complain to Sgaeyl, and Sgaeyl would tell on you to Xaden and your hard work of hiding everything would go out the window. Honestly trying to be friends with Sawyer felt less and less like a chore, he was really a bright guy who you felt a real interest from. You started enjoying the late afternoon picnics where he told you stories about his family and home, and you were willing to share some of your own for the first time by the setting sun.

The transformation into the new school year was full of expectations and quiet hum of curiosity. Everyone was less stressed over the summer, but that would change with the arrival of new cadets, classes and challenges. You tried to be present in the conversations, pay attention to the jokes and light teasing, but there was always the little voice in your head telling you you’re not worthy of the group you surround yourself with.

In the second week of challenges you get paired with a particularly harsh opponent, a third year known for sending most of those who counter him into the healers wing. You hold your own, countering his strikes and attacks, but as he swings at you and you doge, you don’t notice him pick up his dagger until it’s swinging at your face and you feel the sting of the blade cutting your face and eyelid as you try to move away, holding the side of your face with a guttural scream that has everyone in the gym stopping in their tracks.

 You kick him in the chest, both of you on the ground now. You don’t register much after that other than the primal drive to survive until the match is deemed tied and you’re stumbling back, holding half of your face in pain, until your back connects with a stone pillar. You’re hyperventilating, a panic attack rising in your chest as you clutch your eye, blood quickly dripping through your fingers. You hear Garrick, then Bodhi, and then even Xaden trying to coax you into slowing your breathing, but their touches only stress you more. Maybe a few months ago they’d be your saviors, but now they were nothing more than another deadly threat.

You don’t scream, but you’re lost in the survival drive, until Dain’s face is the only thing that appears in your limited line of vision, your one eye working hard to focus on his moving lips. It’s like your brain is shut off from all the other functions of your body, unable to connect one thing to another. You can’t focus on anything, not even being alive, and not a single thought flies through your mind. Lucky for you, your dragon’s voice is able to break through the fog.

Breathe. Listen. Focus. They’re trying to help you, my stubborn child. He orders you, forcing your focus on the face in front of you.

“Stop. Breathe. Slowly. In… and out.” Dain orders you matter of factly and it’s a stark contrast to the babying words the others tried to calm you with.

You try to follow his orders, your fast lungs and heart coming back to almost a normal pace as they mirror his own. He takes your free hand timidly, placing it over his own chest so you can feel it and match it with your own. His heart beats faster than it should, but it’s nowhere near your skyrocketing pulse. Your lungs slow down, allowing you to become aware of your surroundings.

“Good. Now let me see.” He says more nicely, holding the hand that clutches your face but not forcing it away. He waits until you show him yourself, slowly peeling your blood-soaked hand off. His other hand gently holds your chin to angle your face so he can see better. “It’s not so bad. I need to take you to the healers.”

And before you can register the change, he’s holding you in his arms, speed walking to the other part of the college. You don’t even utter a word, still in shock but also feeling safe in the embrace you longed for for so long. You’re set on the edge of a hospital bed, a young healers student taking care of your fucked up face. She washed the blood away and rubbed a stingy antiseptic in, neither making much to settle you. You felt your eye pulsing with every breath, it’s swollen form about twice the normal size.

“It seems your eye wasn’t affected, only your eyelid. And your eye socket might be irritated. After you let it heal you should be able to see.” She tells you, a heavy stone falling off your chest. “Hopefully the scar will heal too, but we will have to wait and see about that one.”

She adds as she puts a balm over the scaring and covers your eye and face with a big cushion bandage. You can tell she’s trying to sound positive and supportive, but it’s not really picking up your mood right now. At least you won’t go blind, you suppose that would not do much for you in the riders quadrant.

No it wouldn’t. No dragon can carry a rider who can’t see for themselves. Your dragon confirms coldly, his voice snappy at you.

Jeez, thanks for reminding me, you really are a sunshine. You roll your healthy eye at him. What an indispensable support you are.

I’m not here to support you but make you stronger. And that fight wasn’t your brightest moment. Was he really being pissed at you for almost loosing right now?

“Show me your hands please?” The healer asks you politely, cutting of your silent conversation. You show your palms forward in confusion. “I’ll need to cut this off to give you inner antibiotics.”

She points at the dressing over your left arm you forgot you were even still wearing until this very moment. You clutch your arm back, holding it with the other. You weren’t willing to let anyone else see your scars, imaginative or literal, much less someone you didn’t even know. For all you knew she’d go blabbering about it to whoever later and you weren’t fond of your secrets being dragged out by other people.

“No.” You simply shake your head at her.

“You don’t want to get any infections in, do you?” She warns you sternly. “You’ll have to stay here for a few hours with it.”

You challenge her hardened gaze for a while but lose the silent fight and defeatedly let her cut the bandage off. Dain, who kept lurking around and you were so far successful in completely ignoring, audibly gulped for his breath as he saw the obvious pink scaring around your relic. Luckily the nurse doesn’t even look twice before she goes to snatch all the supplies she needs now.

“What is that?” Dain asks quietly, as if afraid if you’ll even answer.

“What does it look like?” You mumble coldly not meeting his eye.

Lucky for you the healer comes back before he can get too pushy and guides you to lay in the bed as she puts a needle in your arm. As the antibiotics drip in, she smudges a balm over your scars. You’re weirdly appreciative of the gesture, and even more that she’s not nosy about how you got them. She has an air of understanding and calmness about her.

“She’ll need to have this applied again in two hours. It’s a double working solution.” She informs Dain and turns to leave for the last time before looking at you. “You can take the rest with you.”

Dain sits in the chair by the bed, reaching out to hold your hand but flinches when you take it back. For once you were grateful the bandage on your face covered a big part of your sight and you weren’t necessarily forced to look at him. After the weeks of him trying to reach you, you still didn’t know what to tell him, or if you even wanted to speak with him.

“Why are you even still here. Last time I checked you didn’t want anything to do with me.” You challenge him, finally looking at his worried face.

“I’m so sorry Y/n. I never should have said that.” He starts apologizing.

“But you did. Saying sorry won’t fix that. It won’t fix the damage that’s already done.” Only if it was that easy to glue your broken heart back together.

“I…” His breath shakes. “I know, but I want to do everything I can, anything in my power to try and fix what I broke. I know you probably won’t believe me, but you’re my person Y/n. You’re the only one I care about, the only one I seek validation and comfort from.”

You shake your head, hiding the healthy part of your face in the pillow. You can’t look at him, you can’t think about all the things happening right now. You didn’t know what was hurting more, the deep cut on your face, the fact he left you, the fact he tried to come back with just a weak ass apology thinking it would fix things, or the fact he now knew about your deepest scars?

“That’s not what it looked like with your father.” You blame him quietly.

You didn’t realize you drifted off in his presence, but after a few hours you’re woken up by a calming cool sensation on your forearm. You open your one healthy eye to see Dain carefully applying the healing balm on your self harm scars, so focused on his task he didn’t perceive anything else. He gave you some gentle touches before, but he never touched you as tenderly as he did right now. As if you were a glass doll ready to fall apart if he grabbed you too hard. Like a delicate feather swept by the wind. Like he was afraid it’s going to carry you too far away from him and never give you back. But was there still anything to come back to?

Tags: @desprrssooo-espresssooooo @bellblake @lagrandeourse

[alexanderwales]

Movie Review: A Minecraft Movie

Full disclosure: I watched a pirated version of this movie that had unfinished VFX. It showed up on a Plex server run by a friend of ours, and I had asked my son, who is nine years old and a huge Minecraft fan, whether he'd watch it at home or at the theater, and we watched the unfinished version. It said "Story by TBD" in the credits, sometimes you'd see a halo of green in someone's hair where they hadn't finished laboriously keying out the green screen ... I'll be honest, I think this really enhanced my enjoyment of the movie, because every now and then you'd get a scene where, for example, the villagers are all dressed up extras without the heads on, just some motion tracking caps. It cracked me up. I have no idea how different the movie would be with full VFX, nor what changes and cuts ultimately ended up being made. Take this review with a grain of salt.

One of the things I was really curious about when watching this movie was what kind of humor it would have, and I think my takeaway is that it's kind of all over the place. It's at least partially written and directed by the same guy who did Napoleon Dynamite, a forgotten classic, and in a lot of places you can really tell. In other places ... much less so.

My favorite joke of the whole movie was when they've gotten ahold of the mystery orb and there's a note with it that says "don't put this in the shell" or whatever, and then on the back it says "even if you're a struggling businessman who really needs the money", which is exactly the situation they're in. Stupid and meta, that's my kind of joke.

But there's also a lot of slapstick humor, people falling down played for laughs, and there's awkward humor too, where the enjoyment comes from a slightly off person being put on display. In places very reminiscent of Napoleon Dynamite, but mostly only in the "real world" portion of the movie where the first third takes place. And then there's also some "lol random" humor mixed in there.

So on the humor front, something that I was paying attention to, it's a really mixed bag, and I would say that a lot of the humor just fails to come together because of that. I think good humor needs some kind of frame to it, because humor is about subversion of expectations, and with unclear expectations, the jokes are going to land worse. That's just my opinion though.

In terms of story, the main thing I was looking for was "what's the message of this movie". And here ... I guess I would say it's "be yourself", but if that's the thematic core of the movie, I think Jason Momoa's character is a problem. He's already going on his own path, mired in the past but definitely his own person, and his problem seems to be that other people just aren't that into it. And the solution to that is ... make a friend? He notably does not do much mining or crafting.

The actual ending message of the movie seemed to be "yeah, Minecraft is pretty great, but you can take that energy you're putting into the game out into the real world" or something like that, which is how everyone gets their unrealistically happy ending. It's overshadowed by Jack Black singing and dancing, but my son really liked that part, so I guess it's hitting the target audience.

I thought it was a pretty inconsistent movie, one that didn't know what it was trying to be or say, and you know, that's probably fine. The writing was pretty poor, and I'm not sure that the movie really "got" what Minecraft is, but I also don't think it needed to.

There was a pig that waddled onto screen and he was wearing a crown, and my son yelled "Technoblade!" He said it was overall "pretty good", which isn't exactly a roaring endorsement, but it seemed like he had a good time. We neglected to throw popcorn at the screen when the chicken jockey appeared, mostly because I would have had to be the one to clean it up. My son's one criticism was that they were mostly just not very good at Minecraft, and there were times he was yelling at the screen that of course the zombies are spawning, you need to put torches up.

Oh, one other thing: I've always been a Jack Black fan, having seen Nacho Libre in theaters, but I think this movie did some permanent damage to my enjoyment of him. There was something about the singing, and the kicking, and the mugging for the camera that was just too much for me. Like I hit my lifetime quota of Jack Black.

Maybe I'll feel differently if I see it with finished VFX.

[blushsturns]

✰ under one roof: housemate!chris x house!mate!reader ✰

part one ★ new roommate

master list ⋆ c.ai bot

word count: 2816

To be fair, this wasn’t something you wanted to agree to. You were totally against this— not sure how it would all play out, but here you were having a roommate you never even wanted to have in the first place. Even though you could be a little bitchy and rough around the edges, you knew you had a big heart, and you were doing your best friend a favor.

You looked around at the moving boxes scattered across the hardwood floor of your old vacant spare bedroom. The bedroom was practically collecting dust since moving into your brand-new apartment six months ago. Now the bedroom was being rented out by someone you used to have the biggest crush on in high school that you absolutely cannot stand now: Christopher Sturniolo. 

Four years have passed since you last saw him and the only thing you knew about him now was that he was a professional hockey player and your best friend’s fiancé’s brother. He was staying with them before moving in with you, sleeping on their couch, but apparently, he always felt like he was in the way. Reyna, your best friend, would never admit it to his face, but apparently it was getting hard to find time alone with her fiancé Matt when his brother was always around.

Now he’s apparently your problem. You were such a good friend, agreeing to let him move in. She would have to pay you back somehow because this was a big favor to ask.

“Come on, please.” Reyna had begged you one night on the phone, her whispered voice so close to the microphone because Chris was in the next room. “I can’t even be loud anymore because his damn brother is just making himself at home in our living room. Please think about it. He’s not the same jackass that he was in high school. He’d be able to fit right in with you.”

You remember groaning over the phone at her words that pulled at your heart strings. You understood completely. Chris had just gotten dumped from his ex-girlfriend and also had to move out of his apartment and needed a place to stay. Reyna and Matt were so gracious to let him stay with them, but after three months, they both needed him to leave the nest. Now he was your problem.

“Fine, but only because I love you and I’m such a nice person when I have to be.” You really tried your best to be a nice person to the people who deserve it, but you have been hurt so many times. After all the hurt, you had to start putting your walls up to protect yourself and your heart.

Here you are now, standing against the doorframe as you watch Christopher Sturniolo finish bringing in the last of his boxes, a soft huff of his lips, clearly exhausted from all of the shit he had. Most of it was in boxes, but some of his hockey gear was all in bags. 

You cleared your throat to get his attention; your arms crossed over your chest as you kept your eyes focused on him.

He looked up at you with a wicked grin on his lips, running his fingers through his tousled locks. “Oh, hey there roomie, didn’t even see you standing there.”

You roll your eyes at his words, a laugh emitting from your lips. “I’m just checking in to make sure you’re all good. Is that the last of your stuff?” Your eyes averted over to the last of his bags that filled his hockey gear.

Chris kept his eyes focused on you as he ran his fingers through his tousled locks. “Yeah, this is officially it.” He let out a deep huff, looking around at his brand-new room before back up at you, his ocean blue eyes gleaming. “Thanks for letting me move in, seriously. I appreciate it.”

You shrug your shoulders nonchalantly to his words. “I mean, I’m just doing Reyna and Matt a favor.” 

“And me.” He flashed you a playful wink at you, his lips curving up into a slight smirk. In all honesty, he was so much more attractive than he was in high school, if that were possible. You tried not to pay too much attention to it, considering you’ll be living with the guy. Sure, you had a crush on him in high school, but that’s all it was—a crush. Nothing came out of it and Chris was always so unserious half the time back then, you weren’t sure if he was the same way now.

He was right, though—you were doing him a favor and it’s not like he owes you his life or anything, but you were such a generous person for allowing him to move in when it wasn’t something you were practically on board for at first. 

“We need to set some ground rules, if that’s cool with you?” You looked over at him as your body leaned against the doorway, your arms crossed over your chest.

Chris nodded his head, his lips curved up into a more playful smirk. “I should’ve known there was going to be rules, but sure, hit me with them.”

You didn’t know what he meant by that, but you decided to ignore it. “Rule number one is absolutely no hookups. I don’t want to see or hear random bitches in here especially when I’m around. Is that a deal breaker or anything?” 

Chris’ lips curved into a wider smirk before pressing his lips together in a firm line. “Nope, not an issue. I guess I can handle that. That goes for you too, right? No random guys here?”

You furrow your eyebrows in confusion at his question. “I mean, it is my place, but since I now have a roomie, I guess not.” You didn’t tell him that you didn’t have random guys in your place before he even moved in, but you figured you would leave that part out and up to his imagination if that even happened or not.

“Our place now, sweet cheeks.” He flashed you a playful wink, that almost made your stomach flutter–almost.

‘Yeah, whatever.” You rolled your eyes at his words. At least he seemed fine with the first rule. He would have to be okay with the rules if he wanted to continue to live with you. “Okay, rule number two.” You could tell he was about to brace himself for the next rule you were about to announce to him. It was hard to keep your focus when he looked so damn good just standing there, staring at you so intently, almost like he was reading you and trying to get into your head. It made your cheeks feel warm and you hoped that he wasn’t able to tell how flustered you were getting just by having direct eye contact with him. 

Your body stayed pressed up against the doorway as you pressed your lips together in a firm line, before continuing your words. “Sometimes I walk around the house in just a t-shirt and panties. Yes, I own pants, and I don’t like wearing them sometimes when I’m lounging around in the comfort of my own home. Can you keep your eyes, and hands to yourself?”

His eyes widened at your words, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, his eyes already scanning down your body from head to toe which made your cheeks feel warm again. “Y-you, without pants?” He asked, stammering on his words. 

You knew Chris was a flirt and always had a thing going on with random girls and hooking up with them back in high school and in college. All the stories Reyna has told you that she’d heard from Matt made you secretly wonder how good he was in bed, but you decided to keep that thought buried in your brain. It was best to keep it there and not allow it to resurface. This was your high school crush, the pain in your ass, your new roommate. Things had to stay platonic so that there isn’t any negativity or weird tension. 

That was possible, right? To live with someone, you used to have the biggest crush on, who was now an extremely attractive, flirty hockey player? It was going to have to be possible to keep your cool. You’d just have to continue to be bitter, distant, and keep it strictly professional. Even if it would be hard, considering he’s staring at you right now like he was trying to envision what your body looked like underneath your clothing.

You only had a pair of leggings and an oversized shirt, your hair up in a ponytail. Today was apparently the only day that Chris was available to move in–a Sunday; your day off and the day you usually relax and consider yourself dead to the world. 

“Yeah, is that a problem, Chistopher?” You asked him, completely nonchalant even though you could tell the thought of you around the house in just panties made him flustered and it was kind of cute to see him like this. Maybe it made you evil, but it was just your personality, especially around him. 

“N-not at all.” He stammered, his cheeks reddened as he scanned your body up and down before his eyes averted back to yours. “So, it wouldn’t bother you if I did the same thing?”

You thought about it for a moment. He was playing with fire now. The thought of him in nothing but his briefs made your own cheeks warm, and you didn’t want him to notice you were even thinking of this, let alone be affected by it by any means. Sure, you had a huge crush on him in high school, but nothing came out of it. You had to hang around him sometimes because his brother was dating your best friend, but he ended up becoming nothing but a pest. 

“Nah.” You say simply, your lips curving up into a slight smirk. “It doesn’t bother me in the slightest.” 

His eyebrows furrowed as he stared at you like he was studying you, trying to read right through you. He stepped closer to you, his moving boxes and items still all over the ground. His lips curved into a slight smirk as he continued to keep his eyes solely focused on you.

You watched him come closer as you continued to lean against the door, your heart plummeting in your chest. He now stood before you, his eyes averting down to your lips before back up into your eyes, licking over his lips slowly. “Are you sure about that? You seem a little…nervous.”

Your cheeks turn a dark shade of pink at his words, pulling your gaze away from him. His words and the way his body moved closer to you made you feel nervous. You didn’t want him to know that you were nervous, but he could already tell. You tried to be strong, to keep your rough around the edge's demeanor. There was no way Christoper Sturniolo still had an effect on you. You were so much stronger than that.

“N-no.” You stammered, biting gently onto your bottom lip as you two were now inches apart from each other. You could feel his body heat radiating against you, your cheeks warm and your heart beating rapidly in your chest so fast that he could probably hear it and feel it too. “I’m not nervous.” You tried to speak your words as confidently as possible, but he was reading right through you. 

He let out a soft chuckle, moving his hand up to place a strand of your hair over your ear which instantly sent a shiver down your spine. He was so close to you that you could feel his hot and heavy breath lingering against your lips. “I’m sorry, but I don’t quite believe you.” His lips curved into a wider smirk, his hand resting onto the side of your face. “I think you’re thinking about me without clothes on and how hard that may be for you to handle. It’s okay to admit it, sweetheart.”

Was he right? Absolutely yes. Were you going to tell him that? Hell no you weren’t. Your heart was beating so fast it felt like the only thing that you could hear and feel at this point. You looked down at his lips before back up into his pretty ocean blue eyes. You always thought he was so fucking adorable with his silly laugh and sparkling blue eyes and flirty personality until you realized what a nuisance he was to be around. He’d always tease you, tell the corniest jokes, and would nonstop talk your ear off. 

Did it hurt you when he still asked the most popular girl in school to senior prom? Heck yeah it did. You ended up going with some guy in your grade that Reyna set you up with, but the whole night you kept making eye contact with Chris. Every time you looked up at him, there he was smirking at you as he danced with his date and eyeing you like he couldn’t quite take his eyes off you. You ignored him, rolling your eyes and trying to focus on your own date. You weren’t for sure if Chris ever liked you back then, but if he did, he had a shitty way of showing it.

Just when you were about to respond, Chris’ phone went off making you both jump in surprise and pull away from each other. You could tell the disappointment all over his face–you had to admit you were disappointed too, but it was probably a good thing to have the moment interrupted. This was your new roommate. You had to act professional. 

“It’s Matt.” He mounted his words to you as he picked up the phone and turned his back to begin talking to him. 

You exhaled deeply and fully, pulling away from the wall to look around at his bedroom that was filled with moving boxes, hockey gear and tons of bags that you assumed were filled with his clothes. 

After a couple more seconds, Chris hung up the phone and slipped his phone back into his pocket. “Sorry, Matt just wanted to make sure I was alive or if you had killed me already for being such a shitty roommate, but he said that I’m your problem now.”

You shook your head in disbelief, rolling your eyes playfully. “Well, we still have to go over some more ground rules to make sure this works for both of us.” Your voice was more professional, stern, focused.

He straightened up his posture, nodding his head at your words. He was obviously taking this seriously now too, despite the little moment you two just had. “Lay it on me, roomie.”

You cleared your throat now that you had the floor, trying to act like everything is normal even though your heart was still racing rapidly in your chest. Luckily, you were good at masking how you felt no matter what. “No drugs, no being loud late at night, clean up after yourself, make sure not to leave messes everywhere-”

He cut you off, a laugh erupting from his throat. “Are you saying I’m messy or some shit?”

You shrug your shoulders nonchalantly, pressing your lips together in a firm line before speaking, “I’m just trying to think of rules that are common sense among other roommates. Do you have any for me?”

His lips curved into a slight smirk at your question, instantly nodding his head. “Actually, I do.” His smirk widened as he walked up to you again, not as close as before, but close enough to make you a little flustered. “Why don’t we go out for pizza and drinks to talk more? Kind of a…celebratory dinner for your new roomie finally getting his own place and catch up a little more since we will be living together and it’s been quite a while since we went out and did anything.” 

To be fair, it was the first time you’d actually be spending time with him and only him, without your best friend and Matt to follow suite. You didn’t want to live with a complete stranger so getting to know him more and who he was today would be better than not knowing who you were living with exactly. 

“Fine.” You replied back with confidence filling your tone. “But only because pizza sounds fucking amazing and I’m starving.”

He let out a laugh, almost like he didn’t believe you. He shook his head in disbelief, the smirk on his face only widening as he kept his eyes solely focused on you. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s the only reason.”

This was going to be an interesting experience living together, wasn’t it?

notes: thanks for reading! sorry this took me so long to write. if you have any ideas for me, send them to my inbox! miss and love you guys. -n

taglist: @strangelife122 @rina3476 @chrissturnioloslvt @sturns-mermaid @matthewsturnsgf @rinahasspots @222wall876 @chris-hallelujah @izzylovesmatt @strniloslvts @sophand4n4 @xclusivedesires @mattsplaything @mattsbunnyxx @pair-of-pantaloons @slutformatt17 @sturnl0ve @pasteldreams @h3arts4harry @marrykisskilled @wh0remikasas @camzeecorner @alesturniolos @emely9274 @2muchofaslvt @sturnslux3 @bowsandsturniolos @moustacherryismyhusband @rcameronlova1 @ivysturnss @headzgonewest @il0vey0um0st @violetstxrniolo777 @bigbeefybitch @courta13 @sofieeeeex @tylerthecreatorsglazr @kittyyyyykats @sturniszn @estellesdoll @freshsturnzx @ivyyyyyysposts @sturnberries @harls-sturn @whore4chris @slvtf0rchr1s @tits4matt @ikyoudreamofme @sophsturns @sturniszn