#if i’m thinking of something it’s probably her

[verstappenverse]

Waiting Game

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: You’ve been in love with Max for years, silently watching him date the wrong girl, until walking away makes him finally realise you were the one all along. (Requested)

3.9k words / Masterlist

The first time you met Max Verstappen you knew you were doomed.

Not in a he’s-going-to-ruin-my-life kind of way. No, it was quieter than that. Deeper. It was the kind of knowing that settled into your bones and never left. The kind that whispered, I will love him for the rest of my existence, even if he never loves me back.

And you had. Hopelessly. Silently. Faithfully.

You’ve never known a world without Max.

From sandbox castles to celebratory podium hugs, you’ve always been there. When you think of home, it’s not really a place, it’s him. The way he throws popcorn at you during movie nights, the way he remembers how you take your tea, the way he always texts “landed” the moment the wheels hit the tarmac.

You were inseparable. The kind of closeness that made people tilt their heads and ask, Are you sure you’re just friends? You brushed it off with a laugh, a shrug, a carefully rehearsed, Yeah, just friends. But you knew better. You felt it every time your hand brushed his and he didn’t pull away. Every time he called you at 2 a.m. because something was heavy on his mind and you were the only person he trusted enough to hold it with him.

There was never a clear moment when friendship turned into something more for you, it was just a slow unraveling. A shift in the way you watched him. The way your heart stuttered when his name lit up your phone. The way everything softened when he looked at you, even if he didn’t know what it meant. The time he flew across three countries just to bring you soup when you had the flu. You’d laughed, voice hoarse, swaddled in blankets and tissues.

“You’re insane,” you said, but your heart was already halfway gone.

You memorised him like a religion. The furrow between his brows when he was focused. The way his voice softened when he talked about things that scared him, the future, family, not doing enough. You traveled the world with him, race weekends blurred into hotel rooms and midnight drives and laughter spilling out of overpriced restaurants.

And at night, when you’re apart, FaceTime is your safety net. You fall asleep more times than you can count, with his voice crackling through your phone, tucked on your pillow. Sometimes it’s quiet, just the sound of his breath syncing with yours. Sometimes it’s laughter, or whispers about things he’d never say out loud during the day.

Still, you said nothing, because Max was Max. He had dreams to chase and tracks to conquer and a world to carry on his shoulders. And you? You were his best friend. The keeper of secrets. The one he called when everything else fell apart.

It’s always him.

Always.

And that was enough you thought.

That’s probably why it hurts so badly when he chose her.

It was one night, when you were sitting on the couch with him, legs folded, laughing about something dumb. And then, just as the moment quitened, he said it.

“I’ve been seeing someone by the way.”

So casual and unbothered, and you smiled like it didn’t split you open.

“Oh,” you said. “That’s nice, I’m happy for you.”

She wasn’t outright awful.

Not in a way you could call out directly. Not in a way that gave you permission to hate her.

She was sleek and polished and knew exactly how to pose for the cameras. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, but it looked good on magazine covers. She knew how to charm a crowd, how to toss her hair just right, how to smile for the cameras and nod politely at press events.

She never reacted to his frustrations, because she didn’t care enough to be affected by it. She didn’t ask about his bad days. Didn’t know the way his fingers twitched when he was nervous or the sound he made in his sleep when he was too exhausted to dream.

You wanted to believe she loved him for his sake. But it felt like she loved the image more, the icon, the podiums, the press, the power. Not the boy who forgot to eat when he was stressed. Not the man who kept every letter from his mother in a shoebox under his bed.

You watched from the sidelines, clapping the loudest, smiling the widest, standing just close enough. Pretending that your heart didn’t fracture a little more each time she showed up wearing his jacket. Each time he kissed her forehead. Each time he introduced you as his best friend, like that word wasn’t slowly bleeding you dry.

You didn’t ask for more. You never had. Because loving Max wasn’t a choice, it was an inevitability. And you knew, deep down, he was never really yours to lose.

But God, it still felt like he was.

The longer she stuck around, the more cracks you began to see. Not gaping ones, just tiny fractures only someone who truly knew Max could notice. Subtle, quiet things that dug under your skin until they bruised.

It was in the way she watched his races, when she even bothered to show up. Sometimes she��d arrive midway through, sunglasses still on indoors, distractedly scrolling through her phone while his car kissed the barriers. She never flinched. Never held her breath when he went wheel-to-wheel.

That was the thing, her indifference wasn’t malicious. It wasn’t loud. It was just careless. Passive. It came out in the small things, the way she dismissed his nerves before qualifying with a flat, “You’ll be fine, babe.” The way she laughed when fans screamed his name, muttering, “They’re obsessed with you. It’s creepy.”

Max didn’t see it.

Or maybe he did. Maybe he caught glimpses of her disinterest and shoved them deep enough that they wouldn’t threaten the stability he’d convinced himself he needed. Maybe he stayed because it was easier to be with someone who never demanded the truth.

And you?

You smiled through it.

You were polite. Friendly, even. Because Max was your best friend, and the last thing you wanted was to be the reason for a wedge between him and someone he cared about. So you bit your tongue when she interrupted him. You offered her a drink when she showed up late to the paddock. You complimented her shoes. Let her lean on your shoulder for a group photo you didn’t want to be in.

You did it for him.

And still, people noticed.

The fans weren’t blind. If anything, they saw it more clearly than he did.

@maxarmy33: I don’t care what anyone says, Max’s gf is just NOT it. It’s actually wild how Max can’t see that Y/N has always been the one. She’s been by his side through everything. That kind of loyalty isn’t fake.

@redbullfan1: Max doesn’t just smile around Y/N LOOK at how he lights up around her.. You can’t fake that kind of connection. They’re meant to be, and everyone sees it but him.

@dutchlion26: The fact that Max still isn’t dating Y/N despite their perfect chemistry is a crime.

@maxy4stappen Y/N has been in Max’s corner since day one. She knows him better than anyone, and he’s out here dating someone who barely even watches his races?? Be serious.

You knew they weren’t kind comments. Fans never know the full story, they only saw what was on the surface. Still… you’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel a little vindicating.

You thought maybe, maybe, one day he’d see what everyone else did.

But he didn’t. He chose her.

Things changed slowly after that.

He called less. You didn’t always answer. You made excuses when he asked to hang out, not because you didn’t want to, but because every mention of her name was like pressing on a bruise that wouldn’t heal.

You watched him wrap his arm around her waist at events, post pictures with captions you assumed she wrote. You watched him smile at her like she might be everything.

You told yourself it was fine. That it was enough to love him quietly, from the background. That your place, constant and steady, just a little to the left of center, was still better than not being in his orbit at all.

But deep down, you hoped. Hoped that the weight of your love, quiet and unconditional, would finally register. That maybe one day he’d turn around and realise you’d been there all along.

The intervention happened after Monaco.

You’d watched from your usual place, tucked into the Red Bull hospitality suite, just close enough to feel like part of the chaos, just far enough to know you never really would be. The routine was muscle memory by now. Headphones looped around your neck, heart thrumming in sync with every lap. You could trace the corners of the circuit with your eyes closed, every turn etched into your bloodstream from years of watching him fly through them.

Max had been brilliant. Fierce and unrelenting. He’d carved through the streets of Monte Carlo like the track had been built for him, like it was always meant to be his. You felt every gear shift like a jolt in your ribs, every overtake like a breath you couldn’t quite finish.

His girlfriend had sat two chairs down from you, legs crossed, thumb lazily scrolling through her phone. She hadn’t flinched once. Hadn’t looked up when the entire suite held its breath. You’d barely heard her speak.

You stood in the paddock afterwards, soaked in golden light and champagne mist, your ears ringing with celebration. Cameras flashed. People screamed his name. He threw his arms around his team, his smile wide and breathless. She kissed his cheek and he didn’t even glance your way.

You should’ve felt proud. Happy. Triumphant, even. But instead, you just felt… hollow. Like you were watching the best moment of his life from behind glass.

That was when your friends stepped in.

You didn’t even notice them closing in until you felt a firm hand wrap gently around your wrist.

“You need to stop.”

“Stop what?” you asked, forcing your voice to sound casual, light. The kind of tone that might fool someone who didn’t know better.

“This.” She gestured vaguely, helplessly. “Hanging around like this… waiting for Max to finally wake up and realise you’re the love of his life.”

“I’m not—” you started, but your voice cracked and gave you away.

“You are,” she said quietly, cutting you off. “You have been. For years. And it’s killing you.”

You opened your mouth, closed it again.

She stepped closer. “You think we don’t see it? The way you look at him? The way you never say no when he needs something? You would rip yourself in half to make his life easier.”

Your throat ached. Your chest felt too tight to breathe in.

“I just want him to be happy,” you whispered, and it was the closest thing to the truth you could say out loud without completely breaking.

“Yeah?” Her eyes softened, but her voice stayed firm. “And what about your happiness? When’s the last time you even thought about that?”

You didn’t answer.

Because you didn’t know.

It started small. Innocent. A slow, gentle push toward something else, something that wasn’t him. Saying yes when someone asked for your number. Letting a date buy you coffee. Letting someone else ask you questions and actually listen to the answers.

The first date was forgettable. The second, slightly better. You started saying yes more often.

And suddenly, Max was paying attention. Longer glances. A missed text here, a delayed reply there and he started asking more questions, Where were you last night? Who were you with? when you posted a photo of a drink across from you at a candlelit restaurant. Did you not fly out this weekend? when he didn’t spot you in the paddock.

His voice stayed easy, but there was something sharp beneath it. Something unsettled.

One night your phone buzzed with a message from him.

Max: Who’s the guy in your story?

You stared at the screen, pulse skipping. Your photo had only shown two hands over dinner, one of them yours.

You: Just a guy I met. Does it matter?

It took him five minutes to respond.

Max: No. Just curious.

You didn’t reply.

For the first time in a long time, Max is the one feeling left behind.

He calls on a Thursday night.

You’re halfway through applying mascara when the screen lights up with his name.

“Hey,” you answer, brushing your lashes carefully.

He sounds tired. “You free to talk tonight? Facetime like always? I can’t sleep.”

You hesitate.

There’s a silence you’ve never had with him before.

“I have a date,” you say softly.

“Oh.” He sounds surprised. “You didn’t tell me.”

“Did I have to?” you replied, and instantly felt bad about it.

Max is quiet. Then, “Right. I guess not. Sorry.”

You hesitate. Then add, “Maybe this is something your girlfriend should be doing anyway.”

He doesn’t say anything.

You don’t say goodbye. Just end the call gently, then stare at your reflection in the mirror until the ache in your chest settles into something bitter and familiar.

Max doesn’t sleep that night.

Not because of the race, not because of jet lag, but because your voice won’t leave his head.

Maybe this is something your girlfriend should be doing.

You’d sounded tired. Guarded. Like you were hiding yourself from him.

And for the first time in his life, Max realises he has no idea what’s going on in your head.

It’s terrifying.

He calls the next morning.

You ignore it.

He opens his camera roll without thinking. Starts scrolling through old photos. Ones he’s probably passed a hundred times before without thinking. You in hotel lobbies, laughing at something he said. You wrapped in scarves on cold race weekends, clutching a takeaway hot chocolate. You curled up on his couch at 1 a.m. after some terrible horror movie, half-asleep, legs tangled in his.

And suddenly, it hits him how constant you’ve been.

Not loud. Not demanding. Just there. Always.

You never asked for anything. Never made him choose. You just showed up. When he was exhausted, when his dad said something that cut too deep, when the media turned cruel or the pressure felt suffocating, whether he won or lost, you were there. Not trying to fix it. Just holding space for him in a way no one else ever had.

How had he not seen it?

How his apartment feels colder without your socks drying on the radiator. How he still buys your favourite cereal without thinking, even though you haven’t been over in two weeks. How he used to FaceTime you after races if you couldn’t be there, win or lose, just to hear your voice while he fell asleep. He never does that with his girlfriend.

It’s never been the same.

He thinks about the last thing you said.

Maybe this is something your girlfriend should be doing.

And it lands like a punch to the gut.

Because she’s not the one he wants to call at night.

You are.

You were trying. Trying to mean it when you smiled at someone else. Trying to accept that Max had chosen someone who wasn’t you.

Which is why you brought Jake to the next race.

He wasn’t serious. Just kind. Simple. He asked about your day, laughed at your dumb jokes, and held your hand like he meant it. He didn’t know much about racing, but he tried.

You entered the paddock with his fingers laced in yours and felt the storm hit before you even made it to hospitality.

Max was standing by the Red Bull garage mid-conversation, but he went still the second he saw you. His eyes locked on Jake’s hand in yours like it was a threat. Like it didn’t belong there. His jaw clenched. Shoulders squared. A barely visible storm gathering behind his eyes.

You smiled like you didn’t notice, but your pulse fluttered in your throat all the same.

After the race, another podium, another photo-op, he found you.

Cornered you, really.

It was quieter outside the motorhome, the hum of the paddock fading behind you, tension heavy in the air.

“What’s going on with you?” he asked. His voice wasn’t soft, it was guarded. Accusing.

You turned to face him slowly. “What do you mean?”

“This.” He gestured in the general direction Jake had gone. “You and what’s his name? James? Jason?”

You blinked. “Jake.”

He scoffed under his breath. “Right. Jake.”

You folded your arms. “I don’t see why it matters.”

Max’s eyes narrowed. “Of course it matters.”

“Why?” you asked, harsher than you meant to. “Because you don’t like him? Or because you don’t like the idea of me moving on?”

He flinched, actually flinched. That small, involuntary pull of guilt across his features.

“That’s not—” he started, but you cut him off.

The words came spilling out before you could stop them. “Don’t you dare say that this isn’t fair. You don’t get to tell me what’s fair. I spent years waiting for you, Max.” Your voice shook, the truth finally cracking through the surface. “I waited while you ran to me for everything and still gave your heart to someone else.”

You took a breath. Swallowed the lump rising in your throat.

“I was your best friend. Your person. And I thought… maybe one day you’d finally see me.”

Max opened his mouth, barely, but nothing came out. His expression twisted, like your words physically hurt. Like they were the truth he’d buried too deep to admit.

“But you never did,” you whispered.

He looked lost. Like he didn’t know how to hold onto anything without holding onto you.

“I’m done waiting,” you said, voice steadier now. Stronger. “I deserve someone who actually chooses me. Who doesn’t need to lose me to realise I was there all along.”

He swallowed hard. The kind of swallow that hurts going down. His jaw clenched. His fists curled like he didn’t know what else to do with his hands.

And for once, he had nothing to say.

You come home the next day to flowers on your doorstep, express delivery.

White tulips your favourite. No note. But you know who they’re from.

You stare at them for a moment too long, heart thudding unevenly, before finally unlocking your phone.

Thanks for the flowers, you text, hitting send before you can overthink it.

His reply is instant. Like he’s been waiting.

Can I see you?

You hesitate, thumb hovering, nerves buzzing just beneath your skin.

Okay.

He comes straight to your place. Baseball cap pulled low, hoodie drawn up, not to hide from paparazzi, you suspect, but to hide from you. Or maybe from whatever truth he’s only just beginning to face.

There’s a hesitation when you open the door, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to be here anymore.

Once he’s inside he finally speaks. “I didn’t know,” he says, voice hoarse.

You frown. “Didn’t know what?”

Max exhales, slow and heavy, like dragging the truth to the surface is painful. “I didn’t know it was you.”

Your brows draw together, confused, lips parting, but he keeps going.

“I’ve been chasing all these things, titles, wins, people, and I didn’t realise I already had the most important one right in front of me.”

You blink, caught between disbelief and the ache of wanting to believe it.

He steps closer, carefully. “You’re the one I want to talk to at 2 a.m. You’re the one I want next to me when I fall asleep. You always have been. I just didn’t see it. Not until I thought I’d lost you.”

Your chest tightens, breath catching. “Max…”

“I think…” he cuts in, voice raw, “I think I’ve been in love with you this whole time.”

You freeze.

“What?” you ask, stunned. The word barely escapes.

“I didn’t know what it was,” he says, his hands shaking slightly as he rakes them through his hair. “I know I’ve been an idiot, but you have to know I never meant to do anything to hurt you, I was just blind. I thought… fuck, I thought it was just how we are. I thought everyone had a best friend like you. I didn’t realise it until I saw you with someone else, and it felt like the air got ripped out of my lungs. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t stand it.”

You step back on instinct, the pain too fresh, too tangled with old wounds. “Max… don’t do this. Not because you’re jealous.”

“I’m not,” he says quickly. “I mean, I am, obviously, but that’s not why I’m here. I’m here because I can’t keep pretending I’m not in love with you.”

The words hit you like a punch to the chest, so longed for, so impossible, and yet, somehow, not enough to steady the storm inside you

His voice breaks on the next part. “I ended things. I don’t love her. I don’t think I ever did. She was easy and safe. But she’s not you. No one is.”

And God, the way that splits you open. The way it taps into something buried but still bleeding.

He watches you, eyes wide and full of fear. “I know I’ve hurt you. I know I don’t deserve a second chance. But tell me…”

He swallows hard.

“Tell me it’s not too late.”

You stare at him.

Really stare.

You see it. The boy who once held your hand under a table because you were nervous. The one who stayed on FaceTime with you for hours after a race just to hear your voice. The boy who didn’t know how to love you the right way until he almost lost the chance to try.

And there’s a part of you, raw and wounded, that wants to say no. That wants to tell him it’s too little, too late. That it’s not fair it took you walking away, took someone else’s hands on your waist, for him to finally look up and see what had been in front of him all along.

But the love runs too deep. Deeper than pride. Deeper than reason.

“I love you,” you whisper, before you can think about stopping yourself.

Max goes completely still.

“I have for a long time,” you add, voice trembling. “I just didn’t think you’d ever feel it back.”

For a beat, he’s stunned. And then he laughs, a quiet, breathy sound, and crosses the space between you, pulling you into his arms like he never wants to let go.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs into your hair. “I love you.”

You smile, eyes burning, burying your face in the soft cotton of his hoodie, heart pounding loud enough to echo in your ribs. When he pulls back, his hands linger at your jaw, brushing your cheek with a kind of reverence. And then, finally, finally, he kisses you.

It’s soft at first. Careful. As if he’s still not sure he deserves it. But when you sigh into it, arms tightening around his neck, he deepens the kiss with a low, shaky breath.

When he eventually pulls away, he’s grinning, eyes soft and voice rough.

“No more falling asleep on FaceTime okay?”

You tilt your head, confused. “Why not?”

Max squeezes your hand.

“Because I want you next to me for real.”

Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @ymrereads @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @brokenvines-wiltingflowers @leo-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @treatallwithkindness @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 32: September 2024 - Part 3

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Victoria Verstappen

Emilie: So I’ve decided i’m planning Belle’s baby shower. You in?

Victoria: YES god yes i thought you’d never ask

Emilie: i knew you were my people

Emilie: we are going to destroy her with love

Victoria: as it should be

Emilie:Belle said the nursery will be jungle-themed But like classy jungle. not neon animal prints. think: baby Tarzan but with better lighting

Victoria:So tasteful jungle. Earth tones? Greens? Wood accents?

Emilie: YES. I was thinking “woodland safari” vibes like if Paddington Bear took a gap year in Tanzania

Victoria:I know exactly what you mean

Emilie:We do green and gold

maybe some dried eucalyptus and baby’s breath??

wooden signs?? one that says “A little wild one is on the way” and makes me cry in public???

Victoria: That’s actually adorable. Okay: green, gold, maybe ivory or beige accents. Nothing with leopard print unless it’s ironic.

Emilie:Sent

 also we are getting little elephant sugar cookies

and a cake topper that’s a baby lion wearing a crown

and we’re doing a “write a wish for baby” station or i riot

Victoria: You know Belle’s going to sob, right?

Emilie: that’s the GOAL she deserves the most beloved jungle baby shower in history

Victoria:No jungle noises sound machine. I draw the line at simulated monkey shrieks.

Emilie: coward.

Victoria: Okay, next item: guest list. How big are we going?

Emilie: Small enough to keep it personal. Big enough to make Belle cry at the sheer volume of love.

Victoria: So like… emotionally intimate but logistically bold.

Emilie: Exactly. Also: I vote no gender rules. Men are absolutely allowed. Max is not escaping this with a handshake and a gift bag.

Victoria: Agreed. If she carried the baby, he can carry a platter of mini quiches.

Emilie: Yes. It’s 2025. Equal opportunity baby shower sobbing.

Guest List: First of all, Belle and Max. Obviously. 

Victoria: Obviously. Me, you.

Emilie: Oscar’s Lily? She will cry and also judge the dessert table with me.

Victoria: Oscar too. 

Emilie: oh definitely he and Belle have a weird soft sibling vibe.  Also he’ll bring snacks and quiet competence. I’m counting on him to make Lando behave.

Victoria: Speaking of: Lando?

Emilie: I don’t care if he pretends to be cool and unfazed. He’s coming and he’s writing a wish for the baby. But he must be emotionally supervised.

Victoria: GP + wife?

Emilie: 

He brings emotional calm. And probably good wine. But he has to promise not to bring team merch as a gift. This is not a Red Bull onboarding event.

Victoria: So… the Leclercs?

Emilie:

😬

Emilie:

I’ll message Alexandra and Charlotte and say they’re absolutely welcome—if they can keep their boyfriends leashed and emotionally housebroken for the duration of the event. 

Arthur is easy. He’s scared of me. 

Victoria: Reasonable.

Emilie: If Charles tries to do a grand gesture apology in the middle of Belle unwrapping a swaddle set, I will throw him into the dessert table.

Next name on the landmine list: Pascale.

Victoria: 

Easy. I’ll just have my mom deal with her. She’ll smile, say something cutting, and suddenly Pascale will be quietly eating a macaron in the corner reflecting on her parenting choices.

Alternatively:  And we’ll simply seat my dad near her.

Jos won’t say much. He’ll just… exist.

Stoic. Imposing. 

Any Leclerc who tries to stir up drama will get one look and remember their mortality.

Emilie: Jos Verstappen as emotional bouncer. I want that printed on a T-shirt.

Victoria: Exactly. You want passive-aggressive guilt spirals? Not with Jos around. He has no time for emotional mess unless it involves lap times or tire degradation.

Emilie: He’ll stand there like a wall of paternal disapproval and every problematic relative will instinctively behave.

Victoria: Perfect. Now back to the important question: Do we get little wooden animals as name cards or is that too cute?

Emilie: I’m literally crying. She’s going to feel so loved.

Victoria: That’s the point. This is her village. And it’s feral, organized, and absolutely ready.

Victoria: I’ll draft the invites. Do we want them printed or digital?

Emilie: Printed. On seeded paper. That turns into wildflowers. Because I’m an emotional menace and Belle will cry.

Victoria: You’re unwell and I love it. Okay, I’ll message the stationery girl I used for a friend’s baby shower. Prepare to be impressed.

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie, Alexandra Saint Mleux & Charlotte Di Pietro

Emilie:

Ladies 💚

so: I’m planning belle’s baby shower

You’re both invited

But

If you want to bring your boyfriends, please keep them on emotional leashes

Charlotte: Oh my god

Alexandra: Understood short leash or retractable?

Emilie:

I don’t want belle opening tiny socks while Lorenzo gazes into the distance like he just read a tragic poem, Charles makes it all about himself and if Arthur even thinks about giving an unsolicited speech, i swear—

Charlotte:

we’ll drug arthur with complimentary cupcakes

Alexandra:

I’ll sit next to him and kick him under the table if he starts twitching

Emilie:

Thank you. you’re doing the lord’s work.

Charlotte:

Where is the shower, btw?

Emilie:

Scouting locations

But probably… the restaurant where she and max had their first date

And also had their wedding reception 

Charlotte:

NO

Alexandra:

wait

ACTUALLY?

Emilie:

Iconic, right??

She won’t expect it

It’s sentimental, it’s beautiful, and Max won’t get lost trying to park

Charlotte:

You’re such a menace

I love it

Emilie:

Thank you

Now go warn your men.

This is not the time for family therapy. this is the time for jungle plushies and emotional overwhelm.

Alexandra:

Copy that.

I’ll handle charles.

May god help us all.

Charlotte:

I’ll handle Lorenzo. 

Arthur will be given a cupcake and a babysitter.

I’ve got this.

Emilie:

You two are the real MVPs

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Lily Zneimer

Emilie:

tell your boyfriend he’s babysitting Lando at Belle’s baby shower

Lily:

Excuse me???

Babysit Lando yourself.

He’s your boyfriend, Emilie.

Emilie:

He’s not my boyfriend. 

I’m on belle-duty

Full emotional concierge service. I don’t have time to stop Lando from stealing baby cookies or making jungle noises

Lily:

Honestly fair

But Oscar’s not a zookeeper

Emilie:

He’s calm. He’s emotionally balanced. He’s got that soothing energy that makes toddlers and unstable drivers relax

Lily:

You make my boyfriend sound like a sentient weighted blanket

Emilie:

am i wrong?

Lily:

No. Which is the annoying part.

Fine. I’ll let him know he’s on Lando-watch.

He’s going to ask if that includes snacks

Emilie:

it absolutely includes snacks.

preferably ones he can throw at Lando if needed

Lily:

God help us all

Let me know if you need any help. I am surprisingly good at calligraphy. 

***

Text Messages: Oscar Piastri & Emilie Abadie

Oscar:

So.

Apparently I’m your boyfriend’s designated babysitter at the baby shower?

Emilie:

Not my boyfriend. But yes. You are Lando’s designated babysitter. 

Level 3 supervision.

You may use snacks and Max glares as reinforcement tools.

Oscar:

Why me

Emilie:

Because he listens to you.

And you’re calm.

And I trust you not to join him if he tries to tape a “future world champion” sign to Belle’s bump.

Oscar:

You’re assuming I won’t be too busy hiding behind a fern.

Emilie:

You have won two Grand Prixs. You can handle one emotional jungle-themed social gathering.

Oscar:

Lando has already texted me a design for baby-sized racing boots. They have wings on them, Emilie

Emilie:

Do NOT let him give those to Max. Max will use them

Oscar:

He also wants to “casually mention” naming the baby after Senna. I told him to stop texting and go hydrate

Emilie: 

You see? This is why you’re perfect for this job

Oscar:

I hate how right you are

Emilie:

You love it. You love being the responsible one. you love keeping all of us feral little gremlins alive

Oscar:

I tolerate it.

Because I love Belle.

And because if Lando breaks something during a baby shower I will never emotionally recover

Emilie:

This entire event is going to be a mascara massacre and we are going to LOVE it.

Oscar:

I’ll bring tissues. And a tranquilizer dart. For Lando, not Belle.

Emilie:

I’m putting you on the spreadsheet as “handler: Norris, L.”

Oscar:

Add hazard pay.

Oscar:

Also, you should maybe tell Lando that he isn’t your “boyfriend” because he sure acts like you are his girlfriend. 

***

The Singapore humidity clung to everything like a second skin. Belle had given up on pretending her hair wasn’t frizzing and was now sitting with her feet up on a second chair, aggressively sipping her iced bubble tea and watching Lando Norris spiral.

“I swear to god,” she muttered, “if he sighs one more time like the ghost of heartbreak past, I’m going to throw this at him.” She held up the tapioca pearls at the bottom of her cup as evidence.

Lily looking far too put-together for how disgustingly warm it was, raised a single brow and followed Belle’s gaze.

“Oh. He’s doing the walk again.”

It was the third time Lando had passed the hospitality tent in the last twenty minutes. No pit stop. No purpose. Just dragging his feet like a heartbroken protagonist in an indie film. Sunglasses on. 

Hoodie in this weather. Hands in pockets. Pout firmly in place.

Belle deadpanned, “This is the emotional equivalent of when he lost that podium.”

“He’s not even trying to hide it,” Lily added, stirring her drink. “Oscar told me he’s been playing Emilie’s old voice notes like he’s crafting a scrapbook of despair.”

Belle just sighed. “He’s been like this since after Baku. He asked Max yesterday if emotional scurvy is a real thing.”

“I—what?”

“Apparently he thinks he’s developing ‘separation-related vitamin deficiencies.’” Belle mimed air quotes, then rolled her eyes. “Max offered him a banana. He said it wasn’t the same.”

Lily cackled. “That’s so dramatic.”

“He stared out at the water this morning like he expected Emilie to emerge from the mist on a gondola,” Belle muttered. “I can’t keep doing this. Max is getting secondhand annoyed.”

“Should we… check on him?”

“No,” Belle said flatly, pulling out her phone. “We’re escalating.”

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: I’m saying this with love. But your boyfriend is wilting.

Emilie: ??? What are you on about

Belle: Lando. He’s stomping around the paddock like someone took away his favourite toy. Or like he hasn’t been hugged in a week. Which, coincidentally, tracks.

Emilie: It’s been 8 days, actually. Not that I’m counting.

Belle: Well he is. By sulking in the motorhome and making Oscar fetch him snacks like a Victorian child in mourning.

Emilie: I’m— 😭😭😭 Not the Victorian child

Belle: He told Oscar he had a phantom pain in his chest when he saw a girl with blonde hair at breakfast.

Emilie: NO

Belle: Yes. Oscar nearly choked on his toast. Then offered to print you out and tape you to the door of Lando’s driver room.

Emilie: I hate this paddock so much 💀

Belle: Anyway. Come to Singapore. Save us from the sadness. And I want bubble tea.

Emilie: This feels manipulative.

Belle: It is manipulative. I learned from the best. Also I’m hormonal and pregnant and will cry if you say no.

Emilie: You weaponized your unborn child. Wow. I knew you’d be dramatic.

Belle: I prefer theatrical. You in?

Emilie: ...Send me your hotel info. I’ll book the flight.

***

Belle knew exactly what she was doing.

She sipped her mocktail with the air of someone completely innocent, despite the look Max kept shooting her over the rim of his glass. It wasn’t her fault Emilie’s flight had landed early. It also wasn’t her fault that Lando had spent the last week moping around the paddock like a Victorian poet with a tragic case of unrequited love. Honestly, Belle was doing the world a favour.

Max leaned a little closer, voice low and teasing. “You’re very pleased with yourself.”

She smiled, eyes following the familiar silhouette weaving through the crowd just outside the McLaren hospitality. “Maybe.”

Max chuckled. “Should I be worried you’re this good at scheming?”

“You should have been worried ages ago,” she said sweetly.

From across the terrace, Lando appeared — animated, arms waving in some exaggerated retelling of his qualifying lap to Oscar and a few mechanics. His curls were damp with sweat, his cap backwards, his smile wide. But Belle noticed the way it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Not like it used to.

Max caught the shift too, the smile slipping into something softer. “He misses her.”

“I know,” Belle murmured. “So I fixed it.”

Max huffed a laugh. “You really are dangerous.”

“Only when I care.”

Then, like clockwork, the front entrance of the hospitality tent shifted open — and there she was.

Emilie.

Hair pulled back into a low bun, sunglasses perched on her head, wearing a linen jumpsuit that somehow made airport fatigue look chic. She scanned the terrace quickly — eyes darting past engineers and drivers and sponsors — and then landed on them.

Belle gave her the world’s smallest nod.

And Emilie moved.

Belle barely contained her grin as Lando caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, turned—

And froze.

His whole body stiffened. Like seeing a ghost. Or a miracle.

“Holy—” Lando started, voice strangled.

Emilie reached him in a few strides and before he could say anything else, she threw her arms around him.

Belle watched as his whole frame seemed to melt. As if someone had taken the tension and twisted it loose. His arms went around her, one hand cradling the back of her head like he didn’t quite believe she was real.

“Hey, idiot,” Emilie murmured. “You didn’t think I was missing night race dumplings, did you?”

Lando made a sound that could only be described as emotionally overwhelmed baby giraffe. Belle saw Oscar smirk in the background, muttering something to a nearby PR rep that made them both laugh.

Max looked down at Belle, his voice warm. “That was very kind of you.”

Belle rested a hand on her bump, heart full. “They needed a win.”

“And what about you?” he asked, gently nudging her side.

She tilted her head up at him. “I’ve already got mine.”

Max’s smile softened, eyes flicking to her belly, then back. “You’re going to be a terrifying mother.”

Belle grinned. “I can only hope.”

Across the terrace, Lando and Emilie stood wrapped in each other, oblivious to the world. And Belle allowed herself a rare, smug moment of satisfaction.

Mission: Get Lando to Stop Sulking – complete.

***

It was the kind of heat that stuck to your skin like honey. The kind that lingered long after the engines had gone quiet and the fireworks had faded.

Singapore at night always felt like a fever dream. And tonight — with Lando Norris standing on the top step the podium for the third time this season, champagne-soaked and shining under the floodlights — it felt almost mythic.

Belle watched from the edge of the paddock chaos, tucked just behind the barriers near Parc Fermé, her hand resting on the curve of her belly. Max had pulled off a brilliant second place — not a win, not what he always wanted, but tonight it hadn’t mattered. Because Lando had driven like a man possessed. Like a man who had something — or maybe someone — to fight for.

And Belle had seen it happen in real time.

The checkered flag. The scream over the radio. The disbelieving, almost frantic way Lando had leapt from the car and paced like he didn’t know what to do with the adrenaline. Then — like gravity had found him again — he turned.

Emilie was already there.

She’d made her way down with the mechanics, badge flashing, heart in her throat. Belle didn’t know if someone had told her to go or if she’d just known. But the second Lando spotted her, the world shrunk.

No PR officials. No cameras. No team principals. Just her.

He didn’t hesitate. Not for a second.

One stride. Two. And then he was in front of her, grabbing her face like a man starved of touch, of home, of her. And kissed her.

Right there. In Parc Fermé. Helmet off, fireproofs half-zipped, shaking with emotion — he kissed her like she was the trophy. Like the whole damn weekend had led to this.

The crowd exploded. Screaming, cheering, wolf-whistling. Someone from McLaren hooted so loud Belle actually jumped.

And Belle?

Belle smiled.

Because Max had just pulled himself out of the RB20, sweat-slick and grinning like a man with no regrets. He walked toward her slowly, soaking it all in — the cheers, the chaos, the way Lando and Emilie were still wrapped around each other like teenagers in a romcom.

He reached her, pulled his cap off, and kissed her forehead.

He slid his hand over hers, resting it gently on the swell of her belly. “Think he felt that?”

“The baby?” Belle asked. “I think he just learned about true love and strategic PR in one go.”

Max chuckled. “Good. He’s ahead of schedule.”

Lando was still laughing, still breathless as he lifted Emilie off her feet and spun her once, like he didn’t care who was watching. And maybe for the first time all year, Belle thought he didn’t.

Because this wasn’t just a win.

It was his win.

And maybe — just maybe — it was the beginning of something more.

Belle looked at Max, his face glowing in the floodlights, proud and unbothered, hand still holding hers like he’d never let go.

Yeah. She thought, not for the first time that season, this is a good life.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/F1TeaDaily 🚨 BREAKING: Lando Norris WINS the Singapore Grand Prix!!! 🧡 Also Lando Norris KISSES A WOMAN IN PARC FERMÉ AND IT’S NOT HIS MUM OR HIS DOG?! More at 11.

@/gridgossipgirl lando norris just kissed someone in parc fermé. I repeat. HE KISSED HER. ON THE MOUTH. this is not a drill.

@/dannyricssmile lando norris kissing someone in parc fermé with the confidence of a man who has been Wifed™ someone check if she’s wearing a ring I’m begging

@/padockcryptid don’t get me wrong I’m happy he won but WHO THE HELL IS THAT GIRL AND HOW DO I BECOME HER

@/emiliesarchive hi yes the girl lando kissed is named emilie and she’s been seen around the paddock Spain, and she hangs out with Lily and Belle and once max verstappen handed her a juice box while glaring at lando. I knew something was up.

@/mrsoscarpiastri lando: wins a race lando: immediately turns into a fanfic boyfriend honestly it’s disgusting. i’m obsessed.

@/alexdoesmemes lando norris kissing his gf like they’re at the climax of a 2000s romcom while max just chills in p2 like a supportive older brother who knew the whole time cinema

@/BelleLeclercUpdates the way belle verstappen SMILED when she saw them kiss 😭 mother knows mother approves

@/sunshinef1girl i don’t want a boyfriend. i want a lando norris singapore gp 2024 parc fermé kiss.

@/quadrantclown lando: “I don’t talk about my private life” also lando: plants a cinematic kiss in front of three thousand cameras and god himself 🧍‍♂️

@/F1FictionReal so you’re telling me:

he wins

he kisses the girl

she wore a sundress

belle verstappen plotted this

max just smirked like he knew all along this isn’t a race. it’s the finale of season 3 of a netflix romance.

@/F1Girlie999 Lando Norris winning Singapore and then KISSING HIS GIRL like he's in a damn romance movie? Yes. Inject that into my veins.

💥💥💥💥💥

@/padDOCKwives every time i think f1 can't get more cinematic... lando wins. the lights. the heat. the sweat. the kiss. and in parc fermé?? someone call netflix.

@/F1StatManiac i don’t know what’s more impressive — Lando’s racecraft under pressure — or the grip he had on his girlfriend’s waist post-race 👏👏👏

@/bitchyforboveralls that was not a kiss that was a statement that was a thesis that was a roman empire

@/mclarenmediaarchive i will be studying the footage of that kiss like it's the zapruder film frame by frame. hand placement analysis. full body language breakdown.

@/f1fanatic89 lando. norris. won. and then kissed a girl like he’s the lead in a wattpad fic. is this growth???

@/gridgossip THE WAY HE JUST— HE JUST— DROPPED THE HELMET AND WALKED STRAIGHT TO HER THIS IS A ROM-COM I AM NOT OKAY

@/softverstappen someone said he kissed her like a man unburdened by poor strategy and I haven’t stopped laughing

@/wheelsemotions lando norris. won a race. kissed the girl. looked like a movie. and you want me to act normal about it????

@/gridwivesanonymous is this the lando norris arc where he finally gets the girl and the trophy?? oscar and max fewtrell better be flower girl and ring bearer

@mclarencultleader I just know Max looked at Lando and said “about damn time” and Belle clapped like it was the season finale someone confirm pls

***

The city outside still buzzed with post-race energy — horns in the distance, neon lights flickering against the windows. But inside their room, it was quiet.

Belle sat on the bed, one hand resting on her belly, her other tracing the condensation down a glass of water. Max was sitting at the edge, still in a t-shirt, hair damp from the shower, staring at nothing in particular.

“They said it on the broadcast,” Belle said softly. “That this might really be it for Daniel.”

Max didn’t respond at first.

He just nodded, slowly.

Then: “Yeah.”

Silence stretched again.

Belle watched him, her thumb brushing slow circles on the curve of her stomach. “Are you okay?”

Max exhaled through his nose. “He was my favourite teammate.”

There wasn’t any hesitation in the way he said it.

Not the kind of fondness people say in hindsight. But the honest kind — the kind with real warmth, buried under everything else that had changed since 2018.

Belle tilted her head. “Why?”

Max’s lips curved slightly, a quiet little thing. “Because he made the team feel lighter. Like… we could actually have fun. Even when the car was bad. Even when the pressure was worse.”

He paused. “He used to laugh in the briefing room just to make the engineers smile.”

Belle smiled too, just a little. “That sounds like him.”

“He was fast,” Max added, almost defensively. “Like really fast. People forget that. But he made it look easy because he was always joking. Like it wasn’t costing him anything.”

“And was it?” Belle asked.

Max hesitated. “Yeah. I think it was. But he never let it show.”

The baby shifted under Belle’s hand — a tiny kick, gentle but certain.

“Do you think he’ll be okay?” she asked.

Max looked over at her. “I think he’ll be loved. And I think that’s better.”

He reached across the space between them, hand warm over hers, where their son stirred.

“He made F1 better,” Max said quietly. “For all of us. And I don’t think people say that enough.”

Belle leaned her head against his shoulder. “Maybe it’s your turn to be that person now.”

Max snorted softly. “I don’t think I’m the new Ricciardo.”

“No,” she said. “But you’re someone else’s favourite now.”

He looked down at her — at her hand over his, the baby beneath — and let the silence settle again.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess I am.”

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Daniel Ricciardo

Belle: Hey. I just wanted to say — thank you.

For everything.

For being kind to Max when he was 19 and furious at the world. For making him laugh when no one else could. For being a teammate, but also a real friend — the kind that sticks.

I don’t know if you realise how much of an impact you had on him. But I see it every day.

(Also: thanks for not killing him when he was an arrogant teenager with a death wish. I know it was close sometimes.)

He’s really going to miss you. We both are.

Belle: Also. Don’t disappear off the face of the earth. You’re not allowed.

You still owe this baby hundreds of Max Verstappen stories that will one day horrify him. Preferably with impressions and questionable accents.

The baby needs to know the full lore of 2017 Max, and I feel like only you can deliver it properly.

Belle: You’re family. You always have a place with us.

Daniel: 😭😭😭 Mate you’re actually gonna make me cry right now. I love you guys. So much. Tell Max I’m not gone. Just… onto the next corner.

And tell the little Verstappen I’ll bring the snacks and the stories. Even the embarrassing ones. Especially the embarrassing ones. 😎

***

[wbbfannnnnn13]

Motion Sick // Chapter 12

A/N: Slow burn has entered the chat. For those waiting for the angst to be over, it's safe for you to read now, I promise (at least I think...).

WC: 5.7K+

**** Chapter 12 ****

The room was too quiet. That was the first problem. No music, no teammates, no background noise to drown out the chaos currently setting up camp in her brain. Just the low hum of the dorm heater and the blue glow of her phone screen—bright, offensive, and utterly unhelpful.

She stared at the screen like it had personally wronged her.

Paige: she said she heard you last night moaning my name??

“Oh my God,” Azzi groaned, dragging both hands over her face as her phone slid down her chest and onto the comforter. “I’m going to kill Caroline.”

Not just kill. Maim. She was dead.

Because apparently privacy no longer existed in this cursed dorm suite. And apparently she’d been loud enough to be quoted. Moaning Paige’s name like they were still—

Still tangled up in late-night sheets and low whispers. Still hers. Still something.

And now there was no taking it back.

She sank deeper into the pillows, limbs heavy, stomach tight with something she refused to name. Heat pooled low in her spine just thinking about the fact that Paige knew now. And not because she said anything. Paige had brought it up. Paige, who could’ve easily left it alone, chalked it up to hearsay or ignored it completely.

But she didn’t.

She kept going.

Her phone buzzed again.

Paige (fourth text): if you're gonna scream my name at least give me the chance to earn it next time

Azzi blinked. Blinked again.

Oh. So that’s the game we’re playing now.

Okay.

Cool cool cool. Totally normal. Not at all on the verge of spontaneous combustion. Definitely not gripping her phone like it held the key to her entire nervous system. Nope. Fine.

She tried to suppress the grin climbing its way across her face, but it was already there—curling at the edges of her mouth, working its way into her pulse like muscle memory. This was them. Or at least, it had been. Teasing. Pushing. Always toeing the line between friendly and something else entirely. The kind of tension that made silence feel louder than any words.

And God, it felt easy to fall right back into it. Too easy. Like muscle memory in her fingertips. Like her body had been waiting months for an excuse to remember what it felt like to want something this badly and actually be allowed to reach for it.

Because Paige was flirting. Boldly. Brazenly. No hesitation. No safety net. She was cracking the door open and throwing away the lock in the same breath—and Azzi had missed this in a way she hadn’t realized until now. Missed Paige like this. Not just the jokes or the late-night texts or the way she looked in a hoodie that didn’t belong to her. But the way she leaned in when she wanted something. The way she dared you to catch her looking.

Paige wasn’t hinting. She was daring her. And Azzi was already halfway to falling again—reckless, thrilled, absolutely doomed.

But this wasn’t a memory. It wasn’t some blurry leftover from the before. It was now. It was real. And this time, if Azzi jumped… she wanted to land somewhere that could actually hold her.

And it was her move.

She hesitated for a second, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

Should she? Should she really?

Her stomach flipped. Then twisted. Then did that weird rollercoaster-drop thing it always did around Paige. Like gravity got confused. Like her body couldn’t tell if it was falling or flying—or both. There were a dozen reasons not to. Lexi. Timing. The fact that this was probably, objectively, a terrible idea.

But that was the thing about Paige.

She made Azzi feel everything all at once. Excited. Terrified. Weightless. Like she was moving too fast in too many directions and calling it love.

It was stupid.

It was reckless.

Azzi exhaled.

“Fuck it.”

And started typing.

Azzi: Not my fault you make such a lasting impression.

Pause. One beat. Two.

Azzi: But next time, huh? You volunteering… or begging?

Okay. That one made her blush.

Like, full-body flush. Heat creeping all the way up her neck and settling in her ears. She immediately regretted not sending it with a sarcasm disclaimer. Or maybe a parachute. Because there was no recovering from that one if Paige actually answered.

What the hell was she even doing? This was not the plan. This was so not the plan. And yet, she couldn't stop rereading the message like it was a prayer and a curse wrapped in one.

Please text back. But also maybe don’t.

God, she was so screwed.

She dropped the phone onto her chest like it was suddenly radioactive. Which, honestly, wasn’t far off. Her heart was pounding hard enough to be classified as a health concern, and she was way too aware of every inch of her skin. Like it had woken up, all at once, buzzing with memory and anticipation and a touch of sheer panic.

This wasn’t just banter. Not anymore.

It was charged. Like that very specific kind of electricity you only feel around someone who’s seen you at your most undone and still looks at you like they want more.

And yeah, sure—maybe she was spiraling. But in a cute, college-girl-who’s-accidentally-flirting-with-her-best-friend-again kind of way.

Totally fine.

Totally normal.

Nothing to unpack here at all.

Another buzz.

Paige: Azzi.

Just her name. Nothing else. But somehow it hit like a full-body shiver.

Azzi grinned, half-nervous, half-freaking-out-in-a-good-way.

She could almost hear it—Paige’s voice saying her name in that half-wrecked, half-teasing tone she used to get when Azzi had her right on the edge of something dangerous. It lived rent-free in her brain. Every syllable thick with want, like it wasn’t just a name, but a dare.

And maybe that’s why she didn’t try to top it. Didn’t escalate. Didn’t flirt back with another double entendre or push the line any further just yet.

Because sometimes the softest thing said the most. Because sometimes you answered a match with a spark, not a fire. Because saying Paige’s name back felt like lighting a candle in a room that already smelled like smoke.

Azzi: Paige.

No response.

Three minutes passed.

Then four.

Then—

Ping.

Her phone lit up again.

Cue immediate heart chaos.

She stared at the screen like it might explode, which honestly felt fair considering the way her pulse was currently breakdancing in her throat. This was the part in every bad decision montage where the music swells and someone does something they definitely can’t take back.

She reached for the phone like it might bite her.

Please be flirty, she begged. Please don’t ruin the vibe. Please don’t let this be one of those soul-crushing “lol” responses that make you question everything.

Her thumb hovered over the screen, heart thudding loud enough to drown out common sense.

Whatever this was turning into, she wanted more of it.

Not Paige.

Lexi.

Azzi’s chest dropped, the moment evaporating into smoke.

It was a group picture—Lexi and a few teammates lined up in front of a Hawaii sunset, all glowing skin and wind-blown ponytails and tan lines and beachy vibes. Lexi was in the middle, throwing up a peace sign, grinning like life was good and easy and golden.

The message underneath read: “Wish you could see this in person. Miss you.”

Her stomach flipped—this time not in the good way. Not the Paige way. This flip was sharp, cold, edged with guilt. Like being snapped back into a version of herself she wasn’t proud of. One where Lexi was still waiting in the wings, kind and unaware.

Azzi sighed. Out loud. Dramatically. “Of course.”

Not because she was mad, exactly. More like the universe had a flair for comedic timing.

The text sat there like it was mocking her—sunset, ocean, Lexi front and center with that easy, radiant smile. It was the kind of photo you double-tapped without thinking, the kind that made you ache for something simple. Something that didn’t come with history or hesitation or Paige Bueckers lodged so deep in her brain she wasn’t moaning her name in her sleep—she was wide awake, hand between her legs, and knew exactly who she was thinking about.

Just remembering it made the temperature in the room spike ten degrees. Or maybe that was just her shame setting itself on fire.

She fell back onto the bed dramatically, like the moment deserved its own soundtrack and slow-motion camera pan.

“Of course,” she repeated, this time to the ceiling.

Lexi Reyes had an uncanny ability to pop up at exactly the worst (or best?) moment. It was a talent. Like a sixth sense for when Azzi’s heart was about to short-circuit. And she always did it so casually—a text, a photo, a perfectly-timed “miss you” that felt warm and innocent until Azzi was left staring at her screen like it had personally betrayed her.

And that was the thing—Lexi wasn’t a villain. She was sweet. Thoughtful. The kind of person who bought your favorite gum without asking and remembered your mom’s name after hearing it once. Made her laugh without trying. She always smelled like sunscreen and something citrusy. She sent Spotify links with captions like “this reminded me of you” and let Azzi steal her fries without protest.

It was good.

It should’ve been enough.

But it never lit her up. Never left her spinning. Never made her feel like she was half a second from saying too much or touching too long or doing something reckless just to stay in the moment a little longer.

Lexi made her feel safe. Paige made her feel alive.

And that was the difference.

Azzi felt it in her chest like a truth she’d been dodging for weeks. If even a part of her was still tangled up in something else—something she hadn’t truly let go of—it wasn’t fair to keep Lexi waiting in the wings. Not when Lexi had no idea she was standing behind a closed curtain, listening to a love story that hadn’t finished yet.

Even if they’d never labeled it. Even if things had been slow and uneven and a little bit messy. Even if it was all soft smiles and shared playlists and not-quite-promises. Even if part of her wanted to be the kind of person who could choose Lexi—and mean it.

But she wasn’t. Not when Paige still lived in every what-if and almost and maybe if things had gone differently.

She had to end it.

Properly. In person. Lexi deserved that. She wasn’t going to do this through a phone call or text message. Not when she'd already waited this long to figure herself out.

Her thumbs hovered over a reply, then stopped.

No. She couldn’t answer it right now.

The guilt came anyway—sharp and quick and loud.

And that’s when the knock came.

Soft. Hesitant.

Azzi bolted upright, every nerve suddenly electric. 

She knew. Somehow—before she even stood up—she knew. It was Paige. Of course it was Paige.

Her heart was already sprinting ahead of her, pounding loud and ridiculous in her chest. She crossed the room barefoot, each step like walking into a scene she wasn’t sure she was ready for. Her fingers hovered over the doorknob, useless and trembling.

Should she fix her hair? Was her face blotchy? Should she change her shirt? (Too late.)

She took a breath. Then another. Then opened the door.

Paige.

She was standing there like something out of a dream Azzi didn’t know she’d been having—gray hoodie swallowed half her frame, hood down, hair pulled back like she’d been pacing the hallway trying to convince herself not to knock. Her cheeks were pink, flushed in that way that had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with nerves. Or adrenaline. Or hope.

One hand stayed stuffed in her pocket, the other fidgeting at her side—clenching, unclenching, like she didn’t know what to do with herself. Like maybe she’d practiced five different versions of what to say and forgot all of them the second Azzi opened the door.

She looked like someone who was still catching her breath. Like someone who’d been holding back for too long.

Azzi’s breath caught.

Neither of them said anything.

Then Paige stepped in.

No words. No hesitation. Just movement—gentle but certain.

Azzi didn’t even think. Her body moved before her brain caught up, arms wrapping around Paige like she’d been waiting months for this exact second. Maybe she had.

The door clicked shut behind them, forgotten.

Paige stepped in without a word—just a soft breath, a flicker of hesitation—and then wrapped her arms around Azzi like she’d been holding that need in for weeks.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t dramatic.

Just... real.

And suddenly, it was just them.

It was instant. Familiar. Like a favorite song you hadn’t heard in forever but still knew every note of. Like this—this exact arrangement of limbs and closeness and heartbeats pressed together—had always been there in the background, just waiting to resume.

Paige melted into her. Head tucked in the crook of Azzi’s neck, arms cinched tight around her waist like she was afraid to let go. Like she might dissolve if she loosened her grip.

Azzi’s breath caught.

She wasn’t ready for how good it felt. How right it felt. The warmth of Paige’s body pressed against hers. The faint scent of her shampoo—something soft and clean and stupidly comforting. The way their chests rose and fell in sync without even trying.

And just like that, everything else dropped away.

The texts. The tension. The guilt. Lexi. All of it.

It was just Paige. Solid and real and holding her like she still mattered.

The hug was long. Quiet. Almost sacred. Azzi didn’t move. Didn’t speak. She didn’t dare.

Because how do you talk over something that says everything on its own?

How do you say, I missed you without sounding like a cliché?

How do you admit your entire body remembers a person before your brain gives you permission?

She just closed her eyes and held on. Let herself memorize the moment—the weight of it, the steadiness of it, the quiet proof that they still fit.

She felt Paige shift just slightly, breath warm against her skin.

Then, barely above a whisper, Paige murmured into the curve of her neck, “You’re killing me with these texts.”

Of course she did. That was the thing with Paige—she always said the thing Azzi was still trying to work up the nerve to feel. Her stomach flipped, flipped again. They stood there, close. Closer than made sense. Closer than what either of them should’ve let happen again.

Azzi let out a small laugh—soft and almost shy. “You started it.”

Paige pulled back just enough to look at her, gaze steady, voice lower. “You kissed me first.”

“I know I did,” Azzi said, not flinching.

The words sat between them like truth.

Paige shifted just enough to meet her eyes again. There was a flicker of something behind her expression—like hesitation, but also resolve. Her voice was quieter now. Careful, but not unsure.

“We should probably talk about things,” she said.

Azzi nodded before the sentence was even done.

“I know,” she said. “I want to.”

She could feel her own heartbeat picking up speed, too loud in her ears. Like she was strapped into the front row of a rollercoaster and the slow climb had already started—too far up to back out now, too soon to know how hard the drop was going to hit.

Everything about this—about Paige—made her feel like that.

Paige nodded once, but didn’t jump in yet. Just looked at her, like she was waiting. Like she wanted to give Azzi the space to catch up.

And of course Paige had to go and ruin the moment with that smile. The one that meant danger. The one Azzi should’ve been legally protected from.

“You weren’t exactly subtle the rest of the night either,” Paige said, eyes glinting.

Azzi narrowed hers. “Seriously?”

Paige leaned in, smug as hell. “You moaned my name. Like… loudly.”

Azzi groaned and dragged a hand over her face. “I’m going to kill Caroline.”

“Oh, I should definitely send her a thank-you card,” Paige said, grinning. “Maybe a fruit basket.”

Azzi dropped her hands, cheeks on fire, heart doing somersaults. “God, I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Paige said, too smug for someone who was absolutely correct.

And the worst part? Azzi didn’t even feel that exposed. Or maybe she did. But it didn’t feel scary. Not the way it used to.

It felt… okay. Like being wrecked on purpose.

She let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding and met Paige’s eyes again.

“Okay,” she said, quieter now. “Let’s talk.”

And Paige’s expression shifted—just slightly—but enough. Like maybe she hadn’t expected Azzi to actually say it. Like maybe, deep down, she thought Azzi would still run.

But she didn’t.

Because she was done running.

Azzi took a breath.

“This,” she said, eyes flicking to Paige’s. “I want it.”

She could feel the weight of the words as they left her mouth—like they’d been sitting on her tongue for months, waiting for the right moment to stop choking her.

“I want you,” she clarified, softer now. “Not in secret. Not in half-truths or excuses or whatever the hell we’ve been doing.”

She swallowed hard. Her palms were sweating. Typical.

“I know I’ve been confusing. Like… painfully confusing,” she added, a weak laugh escaping before she could stop it. “I told myself I was protecting us or protecting me, but mostly I was just scared. And slow. And maybe kind of a coward.”

She looked down at their hands, still loosely connected.

“I wasn’t trying to string you along,” Azi said, quieter now. “But I get why it probably felt that way. And I’m really sorry.”

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp. It was soft. So full of weight it almost hurt.

“And by the time I was close to figuring it out,” she added, “you looked like you were already gone. Like I missed my shot.”

Paige’s voice came gently. “I was never gone.”

Azzi’s chest squeezed.

Of course she wasn’t.

Because that’s the thing about Paige—she stayed. Even when it hurt. Even when Azzi didn’t deserve it.

“It took me forever,” Azzi whispered, more to herself than anyone. “To say it out loud. To stop pretending it wasn’t real.”

Her eyes met Paige’s again.

“But it is. It’s real. And I want it. I want you. Only you.”

And for once, saying it didn’t feel like falling. It felt like finally landing.

The air changed. Grew warm and still and close again.

Paige stepped forward—slow, deliberate, like she was walking into something she already knew by heart.

Her hands brushed Azzi’s waist, warm and careful, fingers slipping under the hem of her sweatshirt like they’d been there before. Like they belonged there. Like they were just picking up where they left off.

Azzi’s breath caught in her throat. Her body answered before her brain could—hands sliding to Paige’s hips, fingers curling into the fabric of her hoodie like she needed something to hold onto.

The space between them narrowed to nothing.

Their foreheads nearly touched.

Paige’s breath hit her cheek—shaky, shallow. Azzi could smell her shampoo, feel the heat rolling off her in waves.

Azzi’s eyes dropped to her mouth. Once. Again. And again.

Her lips parted. Just barely.

She swore Paige leaned in.

Not rushed. Not hungry. Just aching. Like she wanted to memorize the moment before it slipped away.

Azzi’s pulse was in her ears now. Her skin was buzzing. Every inch of her felt like it was leaning forward—even the parts still pretending to hold back.

She wanted this.

Wanted her.

But—

Her fingers twitched.

And slowly, gently, Azzi stepped back. Just enough to breathe.

“I can’t. Not yet,” she said, voice low, almost apologetic.

Paige didn’t move, but Azzi felt the shift in her. That quick flash of something behind her eyes—hurt, maybe, or just understanding trying not to look like disappointment.

Azzi’s heart knocked hard against her ribs.

“I haven’t ended things with Lexi,” she said. “Not fully. Not in person. Not the way I should.”

She rubbed the back of her neck, suddenly hyper-aware of how warm the room felt. Or maybe that was just her guilt, flushing out in real time.

“I just… I need to do that first,” she added.

Azzi swallowed. Her throat burned.

“I want this to be different,” she said. “I want to be all the way in. But I can’t start something new when there’s still something unfinished waiting in the background.”

Paige nodded once. It wasn’t angry or cold. Just… patient.

“You’ll tell me?” she asked.

Azzi met her eyes. “You’ll be the first to know.”

They stood there, still and close but not touching now. And yet, somehow, Azzi felt steadier than she had in weeks.

Like her heart had finally caught up to her mouth.

Paige 

Because it wasn’t just about timing or logistics. It was the way Azzi had said it. Soft but certain. Eyes steady. Like it wasn’t just a feeling—it was a choice. I want this. I want you.

Not I miss you. Not I want you for now. But I choose you.

And she said it like she meant it. Like she wasn’t planning to take it back. Like she knew exactly what she was signing up for—and still wanted in.

Paige hadn’t realized how badly she’d needed to hear it until the words were already out there, floating between them like something sacred. It hit her somewhere low in her chest—this slow unraveling, this quiet release of tension she didn’t even know she’d been carrying. Because Azzi had always been good at holding things in. On the court, off it. Measured. Controlled. The kind of girl who played it safe until she was sure.

But when she was sure? God, it was like standing in the sun after months of clouds. Warm. Blinding. A little overwhelming. But real. So real.

So yeah—Paige was waiting. But for once, she wasn’t spiraling. She wasn’t wondering. She knew.

Azzi wanted her.

And that changed everything.

The wait still sucked. Don’t get it twisted. But at least now it sucked with purpose. Because two weeks wasn’t forever. And Paige could be patient.

Sort of. Probably. Okay—she was already losing her mind, but whatever.

Because Azzi hadn’t disappeared. Not even close.

The flirting? Back. The looks? Borderline criminal. The banter? Somewhere between emotionally dangerous and medically inadvisable.

They were toeing the line. Shamelessly. Deliberately. Like two people pretending the fire wasn’t real while casually holding lit matches behind their backs.

And then there was rehab. Their shared punishment. Their daily purgatory. Their glorified excuse to be in the same room for hours at a time, sweating through glute bridges and quad sets and the kind of physical therapy exercises that really shouldn’t be this hot.

Between Paige’s torn ACL and Azzi’s still-healing knee from the Notre Dame game, they were co-presidents of the Never-Ending Injury Club. The universe had jokes.

Because of course they’d end up here—side by side on yoga mats, trading smirks while icing their knees, trying not to combust in front of the athletic trainer.

Which, technically, should’ve been fine. It was rehab. Not romance. But tell that to Paige’s nervous system, which apparently hadn’t gotten the memo.

Day One

It was just lateral band walks. Simple. Straightforward. Mechanically boring. Paige had done them a thousand times since surgery—step wide, stay low, don’t let your knees cave in.

But apparently, Azzi’s version came with a bonus challenge: emotional restraint.

Her shirt kept riding up. Her sports bra kept making unexpected guest appearances. And every time she turned, the muscles in her legs—her already-perfect, freshly-rehabbing legs—caught the light in a way that made Paige want to fail every functional movement test on purpose, just so she’d never be cleared to leave this room.

It was ridiculous. Rude, even. Rehab wasn’t supposed to be hot.

She was supposed to be focusing on her own progress.

Instead, she was barely hanging onto her last three brain cells, hoping no one noticed the way she kept stretching things that didn’t need to be stretched, just to give herself an excuse to look.

Day Two

Paige was on the yoga mat, halfway through her second round of core stability work, when Azzi dropped down beside her like it was no big deal.

No greeting. No warning. Just a casual plop on the mat, like they did this every day. Like it wasn’t a threat to Paige’s central nervous system.

They weren’t even doing the same exercises—Azzi was technically supposed to be foam rolling, or icing, or literally anywhere that didn’t involve sitting close enough to brush elbows. Close enough that Paige could feel the heat of her through her sleeves. 

Was this what death by slow burn looked like? Because honestly, there were worse ways to go.

Close enough that her brain did that thing where it stopped supplying helpful thoughts and started looping Azzi. Azzi. Azzi. like background music.

But she stayed.

Their pinkies touched once.

Then again.

Paige didn’t move hers. Neither did Azzi.

And maybe it was an accident. Maybe it wasn’t. Either way, Paige’s core wasn’t the only thing shaking.

They didn’t talk about it.

They just kept doing hollow holds and bird dogs and pretending like Paige wasn’t hyper-aware of every breath Azzi took next to her. Every time her exhale lined up with Paige’s. Every subtle lean in her direction, like gravity itself had a preference.

Azzi’s knee might’ve been injured, but her timing?

Fully operational. Weaponized, even.

And Paige?

Paige was barely holding it together with two fingers and a prayer.

Day Three

It was the shorts. That was the beginning of the end.

Azzi strolled in wearing a pair of loose black Nike shorts and an oversized hoodie that hit just above mid-thigh. Totally normal outfit. Innocent, even—if Paige were, like, legally blind.

But Paige wasn’t blind. Paige had 20/20 vision (with her contacts of course) and a lifelong weakness for long legs and unbothered confidence and, apparently, girls who looked like sin in basketball shorts.

And Azzi? Looked like sin’s favorite child.

She bent over to adjust the BOSU ball—slow, distracted, zero awareness of the nuclear-level effect she was currently having on Paige’s body. The hoodie rode up as she reached forward, revealing the full length of her legs—strong, sculpted, still taped at the knee—and just a hint of tan line that Paige absolutely should not have noticed.

Her eyes dropped lower. The hem of Azzi’s shorts shifted with the movement, flashing the curve of her ass and the very clear, very intentional waistband of a black Calvin Klein thong.

Not boyshorts. Not briefs.

A thong. Thin. Unforgivable. Life-ruining.

Paige’s heart launched itself against her ribcage like it was trying to escape. Her jaw slackened. Her knee throbbed—probably unrelated, but who could say anymore.

She should look away. Should redirect her eyes toward literally anything less dangerous.

She did not.

Instead, she catalogued every impossible detail like it was a scouting report. Azzi’s calves flexing as she shifted. The dip of her waist. The slight imprint of the thong strap where it hugged her hips like it belonged there. And then, as if the universe wanted her dead, Azzi’s head turned—just enough for her to catch Paige still staring.

Still locked in place. Still dying slowly.

Azzi blinked once, like she knew. Like maybe this had been the plan all along.

“You good?” she asked, too innocent to be trusted.

Paige coughed. Possibly choked on air. Definitely blacked out for half a second.

“I’m fine,” she lied.

Azzi just smirked and turned back around.

Paige sat there, reeling.

No, she was not fine. She was clinically unwell.

Day Four

At this point, Paige was convinced the treatment room had a heat setting that only activated when Azzi walked in.

It was honestly a public health hazard. The second Azzi crossed the threshold, the air got heavier. Her shorts would be criminally short. Her knee wrapped just tight enough to show off the muscle underneath. And her smirk—God, her smirk—could melt PVC.

Because it wasn’t just the flirting anymore. It was how Azzi hovered. How her eyes flicked down when she thought Paige wasn’t looking. How her hands always found a way to touch—“adjusting form” or “helping stretch” or “grabbing ice”—like Paige was a science experiment she needed to get her hands on.

Today, though? Today should’ve been illegal.

Paige was already face-down on the floor, forehead resting on her folded arms, quad stretched to the edge of burning, when she heard it—the voice.

Low. Familiar. Slightly amused.

Azzi.

“You want me to grab the Theragun?”

Innocent. Friendly. Weaponized.

Absolutely not. And also yes. And also please use it irresponsibly.

“Sure,” Paige said, casual—like her insides weren’t already sparking.

A minute later, Azzi was seated beside her. Cross-legged. Thigh pressed lightly against Paige’s hip. She clicked the gun on low and started at the top of her hamstring, just under her glute, guiding it in slow, even strokes down the back of her thigh.

Paige’s breath caught. Holy God.

It wasn’t even the Theragun—it was Azzi’s other hand. The one bracing her leg, warm and steady and way too close to the edge of her compression shorts. And the way her thumb pressed, not too hard but not gentle either—it wasn’t fair.

“You’re tense,” Azzi murmured.

“You think?” Paige managed, barely above a whisper.

Azzi didn’t stop. Just kept working the muscle, up and down, moving slightly higher each time. Her palm grazed the bottom curve of Paige’s ass, feather-light. Paige’s body jolted.

“Too much?” Azzi asked, lips way too close to her ear now.

“No,” Paige breathed. “Not enough.”

And fuck, she couldn’t believe she’d said that out loud.

But Azzi didn’t flinch. Didn’t shy away or laugh it off. She just kept going—slower, deeper—the Theragun gliding up the back of her thigh like it had no intention of stopping anytime soon.

“You sure?” Azzi asked, voice soft but laced with mischief. “You’re squirming.”

“I’m fine,” Paige lied, face flushed against the table.

Azzi leaned a little closer, the heat of her body brushing Paige’s side. “Should I move higher?”

Paige stopped breathing.

Azzi paused just long enough to let the suggestion settle in—let it sting—before dragging the gun one inch lower instead. “Relax. I’m just doing my job.”

“You’re evil,” Paige muttered.

“Certified,” Azzi said brightly. “You want the calves next or are you maxed out on emotional damage for the day?”

Paige groaned into the padding. Her heart was racing. Her core was shot. Her brain? Fully fried.

And Azzi?

Azzi was still smiling behind her like she hadn’t just reset the bar for every future physical interaction Paige would ever experience.

She was two seconds from blacking out and doing something unspeakably stupid. Like launching into a monologue about how she was one Theragun press away from needing CPR.

She had no idea how her voice even worked when she said, “You give all your teammates this kind of special treatment?”

Azzi’s laugh was low. Dangerous. “Why? That jealousy kicking in?”

Paige smirked, cocky. “I’m not worried.”

Azzi stepped a little closer. “No?”

Paige let the pause stretch—just long enough to burn. “I don’t hear you moaning anyone else’s name at night.”

Azzi blinked once. Then leaned in—closer, until her lips brushed the shell of Paige’s ear.

“Maybe that’s because no one else makes me come like you do.”

Game over.

Paige turned her face into the crook of her elbow to hide the sound she made. It didn’t help.

She was not okay. She was clinically, medically, biblically not okay.

Her whole body flushed—hot and tight and coiled with tension that had nothing to do with rehab. Muscles she wasn’t even supposed to be engaging were on fire. Her brain had fully checked out, gone somewhere dark and dangerous where rules didn’t matter and consequences were just rumors.

She was seconds from grabbing Azzi’s wrist and flipping her over right then and there. Screw the line. Screw the training room. Screw literally everything except the way Azzi said things like that, like a promise and a threat and a dare all at once.

Her pulse was sprinting. Her thoughts weren’t even words anymore—just colors and heat and Azzi. All Azzi. The glint in her eye. The pressure of her hands. The smug tilt of her mouth like she knew exactly what she was doing. Paige could barely breathe. Could barely think.

One more touch, one more look, and she was going to black out or black in—do something bold and reckless and unhinged and so worth getting banned from the training room for life.

She wanted her. Right now. Against the wall, on the floor, didn’t matter. Just Azzi, flushed and close and saying shit like that with that voice that belonged in a locked room.

Paige gripped the edge of the mat like it could anchor her. It didn’t.

At this point, if Azzi so much as breathed in her direction tomorrow, Paige was fully prepared to fake a hamstring pull—just for the excuse to crawl into her lap and stay there.

God, she was going to combust. Already motion sick—spinning, breathless, off-balance in the best kind of way. And somehow, it only made her want more.

Azzi must’ve known, because she eased up just enough to leave Paige breathing heavy and absolutely ruined.

She gave one final glide down her hamstring, squeezed her thigh gently, and said, ““Cool down, superstar. Pretty sure ‘hot and bothered’ isn’t on the recovery checklist.”

Then she stood. Just like that.

Paige didn’t move for a full thirty seconds.

She wasn’t even sure she could.

This wasn’t physical therapy. This was foreplay.

And if Azzi didn’t end things with Lexi soon, Paige was going to combust—quietly, dramatically, and with zero regrets.

[deimosphilic]

mdni! can’t stop thinkin ab how pervy bob is

bob was such an obvious man—it didn’t take much for you to catch onto his feelings. you noticed the flush that would creep up his cheeks whenever you spoke to him, the way he nervously twisted his fingers around his sleeve a little more than usual, or how his words would falter slightly when you looked up at him through your lashes—all on purpose, just to get a reaction.

he was probably trying his best to hide it, but hell, every single member of the team could see right through him. yelena would pull you aside after one of those interactions—the ones that left him stumbling over his words—just to tease you.

"god, he’s so obvious. even i’m embarrassed for him," she’d say, always with a smirk stretched across her face.

to which you’d reply with something like, "no, stop it. it’s cute—he’s trying."

your only problem was he never actually said anything. bob was always the kind of person to put everyone else’s feelings before his own, so you figured he was pushing his feelings down, too afraid of making you uncomfortable.

if only he knew you felt the exact opposite of uncomfortable.

eventually, you realised you’d have to push him, gently nudge him into showing you just how much he needed you. so you started slow—well, your idea of slow.

you suggested the two of you watch a movie in your room. he’d flushed red and tried—and failed— not to sound too eager when he agreed. so you had told him to come into your room later that day, and you'd be there waiting for him.

so there he was, outside your room, hesitating to knock before he tapped the door three times. when you didn't return an answer, he called out your name in hopes of then getting a response.

when you didn't reply again, he began to weigh his options; he could go looking for you around the watchtower or wait in your room. his usual response to situations like these was to go looking for you, not wanting to intrude on your space. but in a moment of pure impulse, he opened the door, small enough to poke his head in.

he could hear the shower running in your en-suite and decided then to wait in the common area until he noticed something—you'd left the door slightly ajar. so, there he stood, staring at the gap in the door as he imagined what you look like in there. how silky your skin looked as it was being enveloped by the droplets coming from the shower head. how your back arched slightly to rinse the shampoo out of your hair. how your tits looked as they were dripping with soap suds.

he didn't even realise he was walking towards the door until he could see through the gap. the room was engulfed in steam, but he could still make you out. through the glass of the shower door, he could make out your naked frame. how you did, in fact, arch your back ever so slightly to rinse out your shampoo or when you ran your hands down your figure to rinse off the soap.

he could feel how painfully hard he was behind his sweatpants— god, he felt like a teenage boy. beginning to palm himself all because he saw a pair of tits, thinking you were none the wiser.

of course, you knew he's there— you could just manage to see his hand gripping his cock above the unfortunate barrier of clothing through your peripheral. you were going to leave it like that, act oblivious to his presence and continue on with your shower when an idea popped into your head.

you leaned against one of the tiled walls and brought your hand down your body, brushing against one of your perky nipples as it continued down your body until it reached its destination. you swiped your hand through your folds and began toying with your clit, a small gasp escaping your mouth at the jolt of pleasure.

and bob— oh my god, bob thought his heart had stopped. he watched as your hand slithered down to your pussy, and he had to bring his other hand to his mouth to muffle the groan that escaped him. his hand moved more aggressively against his cock when you slipped your fingers in, and a whimper escaped your mouth.

you milked the sounds at first— going slightly overboard just to get a reaction out of him. but at one point, the act had dropped, and the melodies that left you were raw and downright pornographic. you brought the other hand up to one of your nipples, toying with it as you did your clit earlier, and bob was convinced he was going to cum right there and then.

he stood in the gap, face flushed, hand covering his mouth as a plethora of groans and whimpers left him. his hand had now moved into his sweatpants as he palmed himself through his boxers, hoping to get more friction. he stared at where your hand met your pussy, how your fingers so effortlessly pumped in and out of you, pretending they were his instead.

"g— fuck— gon' cum," he stutters out to no one in particular (okay, maybe you), voice muffled.

you were still watching him in your peripheral, and oh, how beautiful he looked. his eyes were closed, curls clung to his forehead, and his face was contorted— a clear indicator he was close. and so were you.

your crude moans increased in pitch as the familiar knot snapped within you. you had closed your eyes when you came, your head knocking back against the shower wall as the peak of pleasure washed over you. your fingers continued pumping, but slower, to help you ride out your high.

what you didn’t realise was that the moment bob saw you unravel, his own release followed almost instantly. the sight was nothing short of divine—your brows drawn tight, lips parted as soft, desperate whines spilled out, your back arching to meet your fingers. to him, it was transcendental. in that moment, he was certain he’d seen god—and he would’ve worshipped you like one.

as he came down from his high, he quickly realised the situation he was in. he was standing in your room, hand down his pants that now had a very obvious wet patch on them, watching you finger yourself.

he was absolutely mortified. but for some reason, he couldn't find it within himself to move.

[elryuse]

So, What Are We?

H1-Key Yel X Male Reader

Tags : Romance, Complex Feelings, Childhood Friends Yel, Drama, Vanilla, Sweaty, Kissing, Cogwirl, Creampies, Pussy Eating Words : 7,543 Words

The ping of a notification on my phone pulled me out of my work haze. I glanced down, expecting another email, but instead, I saw a name I hadn’t seen in months: Yel. My heart skipped a beat. She hadn’t reached out since… well, since everything happened.

I hesitated before opening the message. What could she possibly want now? The last time we’d spoken, she’d been distant, caught up in her new college life, her new boyfriend, her new everything. I’d faded into the background, like an old piece of furniture she no longer needed.

The message was simple: “Hey! It’s been a while. How have you been?”

It felt casual, but I could sense the weight behind the words. Yel wasn’t one to reach out just to chat. Not anymore.

I typed back, trying to keep it light. “Hey, Yel! I’m good. Busy with work. How about you?”

Her reply came almost instantly. “Not great, honestly. Can we meet up? I need to talk.”

I stared at the screen, my mind racing. What could’ve happened? The last I’d heard, she was still with that guy—the one who’d taken her away from me. But something in her tone felt off, like she was holding back tears even through text.

“Sure,” I replied. “Where and when?”

We met at a quiet café tucked away from the bustling city streets. I arrived first, nerves twisting in my stomach. When she walked in, my breath caught.

Yel looked… different. The usual spark in her eyes was dimmed, replaced by a hollow sadness. She spotted me and forced a small smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She slid into the seat across from me, her hands fidgeting with the edge of her sweater.

“Hey,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Hey,” I replied, trying to keep my tone neutral. “It’s been a while.”

She nodded, her gaze dropping to the table. “Yeah… I’m sorry I haven’t reached out sooner. Things have been… complicated.”

I leaned back in my chair, studying her. “What’s going on, Yel?”

She took a deep breath, her hands trembling slightly. “You’ve probably heard about… the pictures.”

I froze. The pictures. The ones that had been leaked online, spreading like wildfire. I’d seen them, of course—how could I not? But I’d avoided thinking about them, avoided thinking about her.

“I did,” I admitted, my voice gentle. “I’m sorry, Yel.”

Her eyes welled with tears, and she quickly wiped them away with the back of her hand. “It’s been… awful. Everyone turned on me. My friends, my classmates… even him.”

Her voice broke on the last word, and I felt a pang of anger. Her boyfriend. The guy who’d been supposed to protect her, to stand by her side. Instead, he’d thrown her to the wolves.

“He’s an asshole,” I said firmly. “You didn’t deserve any of this.”

She looked up at me, her eyes searching mine. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” I replied without hesitation.

For a moment, she just stared at me, as if she couldn’t believe someone was actually on her side. Then, to my surprise, she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around me in a tight hug.

I froze, unsure of how to react. Her body was warm against mine, her chest pressing into me with a softness that made my heart race. Yel. The girl I’d had a crush on for as long as I could remember. The girl I’d thought I’d lost forever.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I’ve been so alone… but you’re here.”

I hesitated for a moment before wrapping my arms around her, holding her close. “I’m here,” I said softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She pulled back slightly, her eyes glistening with tears. “Promise?”

“Promise,” I said, my voice steady.

She smiled—a real, genuine smile this time—and iIt felt like the sun breaking through the clouds. But beneath the warmth, there was something else—a tension, a pull between us that I couldn’t ignore.

“I missed you,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “You were always so kind to me, even when I didn’t deserve it.”

“You always deserved it,” I said, my voice firm.

Her gaze softened, and for a moment, it felt like we were kids again—inseparable, carefree. But then she pulled back, breaking the moment, and I felt a pang of disappointment.

“We should hang out more,” she said, her tone lighter now. “Like we used to.”

“I’d like that,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady.

She smiled again, and this time, there was a glint of something in her eyes—something that made my heart race.

“Good,” she said, her voice teasing. “Because I’m not letting you go again.”

I felt a flush creep up my neck, and I quickly looked away, trying to hide my reaction.

“So,” she continued, her tone playful now, “what have you been up to since I’ve been gone?”

I hesitated, unsure of how much to share. But then I looked at her—the girl who’d always been my biggest weakness—and I knew I couldn’t lie.

“Not much,” I admitted. “Just… waiting for you to come back.”

Her smile faltered for a moment, and I thought I saw a flicker of guilt in her eyes. But then it was gone, replaced by that teasing glint.

“Well, I’m here now,” she said, her voice soft. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

We lapsed into silence, the tension between us thickening with each passing second. But before I could say anything, she stood up, her movements graceful.

“I should go,” she said, her tone regretful. “But… we’ll talk soon?”

“Definitely,” I replied, standing as well.

She hesitated for a moment before stepping closer, her body inches from mine. I could feel the warmth radiating off her, could smell the faint scent of her perfume. It was intoxicating.

“Thank you,” she said softly, her eyes meeting mine. “For everything.”

And then, before I could react, she leaned in and pressed a kiss to my cheek. It was quick, almost chaste, but it sent a jolt of electricity through me.

She pulled back, her cheeks flushed, and I saw something in her eyes—something that made my heart race.

“See you soon,” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

And then she was gone, leaving me standing there, my heart pounding in my chest.

This… this changes everything.

The café was dimly lit, the kind of place where the soft hum of conversations and the clinking of cups created a cocoon of intimacy. Yel was already there when I arrived, sitting in a corner booth with a cup of coffee cupped between her hands. Her hair was draped over one shoulder, and she looked up as I approached, a tentative smile playing on her lips.

“Hey,” she said softly, her voice carrying a warmth that made my chest tighten.

“Hey,” I replied, sliding into the seat across from her. The air between us felt charged, like the quiet before a storm. “How are you holding up?”

She sighed, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. “Better, I think. Thanks for asking. It’s… nice to have someone to talk to.”

I nodded, letting the silence hang for a moment before I spoke again. “You said you wanted to talk about our shared past. What’s on your mind?”

Yel hesitated, her gaze dropping to the table. “I’ve been thinking a lot about us. About how close we used to be. How different things were back then.”

Her words tugged at something deep inside me, a memory of childhood summers and stolen glances. “Yeah,” I murmured. “We were inseparable.”

She looked up, her eyes searching mine. “Do you ever wonder what happened? To us, I mean?”

I leaned back, considering her question. “I think life just… got in the way. We grew up, went to different schools, met new people.”

Yel’s expression softened, but there was a flicker of sadness in her eyes. “I guess. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? I feel like… I let something slip away. Something I didn’t realize I had until it was gone.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I stayed quiet, letting her fill the silence.

“Do you remember that time we went to the beach?” she asked suddenly, a small smile tugging at her lips. “When we were, what, twelve?”

I chuckled, the memory instantly flooding back. “How could I forget? You dared me to jump off that cliff, and I ended up scraping my knee on the rocks.”

Her laugh was soft, almost nostalgic. “You were so brave back then. Always doing whatever I asked, no matter how crazy.”

I shrugged, feeling a warmth spread through me at her words. “Anything for you, Yel.”

Her smile wavered, and she looked away, her fingers tightening around her cup. “I miss that,” she whispered. “I miss you.”

The air between us grew heavier, and I felt a pang of something I couldn’t quite name. “I’m still here,” I said quietly. “I’ve always been here.”

She met my gaze again, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “I know. And that’s why I’m so grateful. You’re the only one who’s stuck by me through all of this.”

I reached across the table, gently placing my hand over hers. “You don’t have to thank me, Yel. That’s what friends are for.”

She studied our hands, her thumb brushing against mine in a way that sent a jolt through my veins. “But what if… what if I want more than that?”

My breath caught, and I felt my pulse quicken. “Yel—”

She cut me off, her voice trembling. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I just… I feel like I don’t even know you anymore. The real you. And it scares me.”

I tightened my grip on her hand, my mind racing. “You do know me. Better than anyone else.”

She shook her head, her tears spilling over. “I don’t. Not really. I was so caught up in my own world, in him, that I didn’t even notice what I was losing. And now… now I’m afraid it’s too late.”

“It’s not,” I said firmly, my voice low and steady. “It’s never too late, Yel.”

She looked up at me, her eyes wide and searching. “Then tell me,” she whispered. “Tell me who you are. Really.”

I hesitated, feeling the weight of her words settle over me. “I’m the same person I’ve always been,” I said finally. “The one who’d do anything for you.”

Her lips parted, and I could see the conflict in her eyes—the fear, the hope, the longing. “Even now?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

“Especially now.”

She stared at me for a long moment, her breath shallow, and then she pulled her hand away, wiping at her tears. “I don’t deserve you,” she murmured, her voice breaking.

“Don’t say that,” I said firmly, leaning forward. “You deserve everything, Yel. And if I can be a part of that, then I’m here. No matter what.”

She looked at me, her eyes filled with a vulnerability that made my chest ache. “What if I mess it up again? What if I lose you?”

“You won’t,” I promised, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside me. “I’m not going anywhere.”

She bit her lip, her gaze dropping to the table again. “I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted. “How to… be close to someone without ruining it.”

“We’ll figure it out,” I said softly. “Together.”

Her eyes met mine, and for the first time that evening, I saw a glimmer of hope. “Together,” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.

We sat there in silence for a while, the weight of our conversation hanging in the air. But it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence—it was the kind that felt like the first step toward something new, something fragile and beautiful.

Eventually, Yel spoke again, her voice soft but steady. “Can I tell you something? About… him?”

I nodded, feeling a pang of unease but pushing it aside. “Of course.”

She took a deep breath, her fingers tracing patterns on the table. “He was… charming, at first. Funny, confident, the kind of guy who made you feel like you were the only person in the room. But after a while, I started to notice things. Little things, at first. The way he’d get jealous if I talked to other guys. The way he’d make me feel guilty for spending time with my friends.”

Her voice was calm, but I could see the pain in her eyes, and it made my chest tighten.

“And then, it got worse,” she continued, her voice trembling. “He started to control everything—what I wore, who I talked to, where I went. And when I tried to stand up to him, he’d just… twist it around, make it seem like it was my fault.”

I clenched my fists under the table, but I kept my voice steady. “He was an asshole, Yel. You didn’t deserve that.”

She nodded, her tears spilling over again. “I know… now. But back then, I just wanted him to love me. I thought if I could just be enough, he’d treat me the way he used to. But he never did.”

I reached across the table again, gently taking her hand in mine. “You are enough. You always have been.”

She looked up at me, her eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and sorrow. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For saying that. For… everything.”

I squeezed her hand, feeling a surge of protectiveness. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m just glad you’re here. With me.”

Her lips curved into a small smile, and for a moment, it felt like the world had stopped spinning. “Me too,” she murmured.

The tension between us was palpable, a quiet hum of something waiting to be acknowledged. But neither of us spoke, neither of us moved. We just sat there, our hands intertwined, our breaths syncing in the quiet stillness of the café.

And then, slowly, tentatively, Yel leaned forward, her eyes searching mine. “Do you think…” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “Do you think we could ever…?”

Her words trailed off, but I knew what she was asking. And the answer was there, in the way my heart raced, in the way my gaze lingered on her lips.

But before I could respond, before I could even think, she pulled back slightly, her cheeks flushing. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, her voice trembling. “I shouldn’t have—”

I cut her off, my hand tightening around hers. “Don’t apologize, Yel,” I said softly. “Not for this.”

She looked at me, her eyes wide and uncertain, and I felt a surge of something I couldn’t quite name—something that made me want to close the distance between us, to erase the pain in her eyes.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I leaned back, giving her the space she needed, even as my heart screamed for more.

And in that moment, I knew one thing for certain: this wasn’t the end. It was only the beginning.

The café was quiet, the soft hum of a distant espresso machine the only sound that broke the silence between us. Yel’s fingers traced the edge of her coffee cup, her eyes downcast, but there was something in the way she looked at me—something that made my heart skip a beat. The air between us felt charged, electric, as though we were on the brink of something neither of us had the courage to name.

“You’re the only one who’s stayed,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. “Everyone else just… left.” Her eyes met mine, and I could see the vulnerability there, the raw need for connection that she’d buried so deep for so long.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said firmly, reaching across the table to take her hand in mine. Her fingers were warm, and she didn’t pull away. Instead, she intertwined them with mine, her grip tight, as though she was afraid I might disappear if she let go.

“You always were too good to me,” she said softly, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

“You’ve always deserved it,” I replied, my voice steady even as my heart raced. “You just… forgot that for a while.”

She looked at me then, her gaze searching, as though she was trying to see past the words, past the surface, to the truth beneath. I felt exposed, vulnerable, but I didn’t look away. I couldn’t. Not when she was looking at me like that.

“What if…” she started, then hesitated, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. “What if I want more than just friendship?”

The question hung in the air between us, heavy, loaded. My breath caught in my throat, and for a moment, I couldn’t speak. I could only stare at her, at the way her cheeks flushed pink, at the way her eyes darted away, then back to mine, searching for an answer I wasn’t sure I could give.

“More?” I finally managed, my voice barely a whisper.

She nodded, her hand tightening around mine. “I don’t want to lose you again. Not like before. Not… not like everyone else.”

I could feel the heat of her gaze, the intensity of her words, and it was all I could do to keep my composure. But there was something else, too—something that made my stomach twist, my chest tighten. Something that made me want to pull her close, to kiss her until she forgot all the pain, all the heartache.

But I didn’t. Not yet.

Instead, I leaned forward, our faces inches apart, the warmth of her breath ghosting over my skin. “You’re not going to lose me,” I said, my voice low, steady. “Not now. Not ever.”

Her eyes widened, and for a moment, I thought she might pull away. But then she leaned in, her lips brushing against mine, soft, tentative, as though she was testing the waters. It was a kiss, but it wasn’t just a kiss. It was a question, a promise, a plea all rolled into one.

And then she deepened it.

Her hands slid up to my neck, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of my neck as she pulled me closer. Her lips moved against mine with a hunger that sent a shiver down my spine, her tongue teasing, coaxing, begging for more. I could feel the heat of her body pressed against mine, the curve of her breasts brushing against my chest, and it took every ounce of self-control I had not to give in, not to let myself get lost in the moment.

But I couldn’t. Not here. Not like this.

Reluctantly, I pulled back, my breath ragged, my heart pounding in my chest. Yel’s eyes were dark, her lips swollen, and I could see the confusion, the hurt, in her gaze.

“I—” she started, but I cut her off, my voice soft but firm.

“Not here,” I said, my hand reaching up to cup her cheek. “Not like this.”

She stared at me for a moment, her brows furrowed, and then she nodded, her shoulders slumping in resignation. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I just… I don’t want to lose you.”

“You’re not going to lose me,” I repeated, my thumb brushing lightly over her cheek. “But this… this isn’t just about us. It’s about you. About what you need. What you’re ready for.”

She looked at me then, her eyes searching, and I could see the vulnerability, the fear, the hope, all swirling together in her gaze. “And what if I’m ready?” she asked, her voice trembling. “What if I’m ready for more?”

I hesitated, my mind racing, my heart pounding. Because the truth was, I didn’t know. I didn’t know if she was ready, if I was ready, if this was the right thing to do. But I knew one thing for certain: I couldn’t hurt her. Not again. Not like before.

“Then we’ll figure it out,” I said finally, my voice steady even as my heart raced. “Together.”

She nodded, her eyes never leaving mine, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I saw a flicker of hope, of happiness, in her gaze. And in that moment, I knew one thing for certain: this wasn’t the end. It was only the beginning.

The air between us was electric as we stood in the dimly lit hallway of my apartment. Yel’s back was pressed against the wall, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Her eyes, wide and vulnerable, locked onto mine, searching for something—reassurance, permission, desire? I wasn’t entirely sure. But the tension was unbearable, and the way she looked at me—soft lips parted, cheeks flushed—made it impossible to think clearly.

My hand found its way to her waist, fingers grazing the curve of her hip as I stepped closer. Her breath hitched, a small, almost imperceptible sound that sent a shiver down my spine. I could feel the heat radiating from her body, the way she trembled slightly under my touch. My other hand lifted to her face, cupping her cheek gently. Her skin was warm, and she leaned into my palm, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment before opening again.

“Yel,” I murmured, my voice low and rough, “are you sure about this?”

She hesitated, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Then, slowly, she nodded. “I need this,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I need you.”

That was all the confirmation I needed. My hand slid from her waist to the back of her thigh, lifting her leg gently as I pressed myself against her. Her breath escaped in a soft gasp, fingers gripping the fabric of my shirt as if anchoring herself to the moment. My lips brushed against hers, tentative at first, testing the waters. Her response was immediate—she kissed me back with a hunger that took my breath away, her hands tangling in my hair as she pulled me closer.

The kiss deepened, our lips moving together in a rhythm that felt both familiar and entirely new. Her body molded against mine, and I could feel the heat building between us, the way her heart raced in time with mine. My hand traveled higher up her thigh, fingers teasing the hem of her skirt before dipping beneath it. Her breath caught again, and she broke the kiss, her eyes wide and searching.

“Wait,” she breathed, her voice barely audible. “I… I want to show you something.”

I pulled back slightly, giving her space, even though every fiber of my being ached to close the distance again. “Whatever you need,” I said softly, my hand still resting on her thigh.

Yel looked down, her cheeks flushing a deeper shade of red. With trembling fingers, she reached for the hem of her sweater and began to pull it up. My breath caught as she revealed her soft, pale skin inch by inch, until the sweater was completely off, discarded on the floor beside us. She stood before me in nothing but her bra and skirt, her hands instinctively moving to cover herself as she looked up at me, unsure.

“You’re gorgeous,” I whispered, my voice filled with awe. I couldn’t take my eyes off her—the curve of her waist, the soft swell of her breasts, the way her skin seemed to glow in the dim light. She blushed furiously at my words, her hands still shielding herself, but I could see the small, shy smile tugging at her lips.

“You really think so?” she asked, her voice small and unsure.

“I know so,” I replied, stepping closer. My hands gently reached for hers, pulling them away from her chest. “Don’t hide from me, Yel. You’re beautiful.”

Her breath hitched as my hands brushed against her skin, and she slowly let her arms fall to her sides, revealing herself completely. I couldn’t help the small gasp that escaped my lips as I took in the sight of her. Her bra clung to her curves, accentuating her full breasts, and my fingers itched to touch her, to feel her skin beneath my hands.

“You’re so stunning,” I murmured, my voice thick with desire. My hands moved to her hips, pulling her closer as my lips found hers again. This kiss was deeper, more urgent, our bodies pressing together as if trying to erase any space between us. Her hands slid up my chest, fingers fumbling with the buttons of my shirt until it was open and discarded beside her sweater.

The heat between us was almost unbearable, every touch sending sparks through my body. My hands roamed her back, tracing the curve of her spine before stopping at the clasp of her bra. I hesitated, pulling back slightly to look into her eyes. “Can I?” I asked, my voice husky.

She nodded, her breath coming in shallow gasps. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

With trembling fingers, I undid the clasp, letting the fabric fall away. Her breasts were even more beautiful than I had imagined—full and soft, her nipples hard and pebbled under the cool air of the room. I couldn’t resist the urge to touch her, my hands cupping her breasts gently, my thumbs brushing over her nipples. She let out a soft moan, her eyes fluttering shut as she leaned into my touch.

“You’re so perfect,” I murmured, my lips trailing down her neck, across her collarbone, until they found the softness of her breast. She gasped, her hands tangling in my hair as I kissed and teased her sensitive skin, her moans growing louder with each touch.

“I… I’ve never felt like this before,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “It’s like… I can’t think, I just… I need more.”

My lips returned to hers, silencing her words with a kiss that was both tender and desperate. Her hands roamed my chest, exploring every inch of my skin as if trying to memorize the feel of me. Our bodies pressed together, the heat between us growing with every touch, every breath.

“Tell me what you want,” I murmured against her lips, my hands trailing down her sides to the waistband of her skirt. “Tell me, Yel.”

Her eyes met mine, dark with desire and something else—something deeper. “I want you,” she breathed, her voice filled with need. “All of you.”

Her voice lingered in the air, trembling with a raw vulnerability that made my chest ache. “I want you,” she had said, and those three words echoed in my mind like a mantra. I knelt before her, my hands resting on her hips as I looked up at her. Her eyes were wide, filled with a mix of anticipation and nervousness, and I could see the way her chest rose and fell with each breath.

“Are you sure?” I asked, my voice low, my hands sliding down to the hem of her skirt.

She nodded, her lips parting slightly as she whispered, “Yes.”

Slowly, I hooked my fingers under the fabric of her skirt, pulling it down her legs. The sound of the fabric brushing against her skin was soft, almost muffled by the pounding of my heart in my ears. Her thighs were warm beneath my palms, and I could feel the faint tremor in them as I leaned in closer, my breath hot against her skin.

Yel let out a small gasp as I pressed my lips to her inner thigh, my hands squeezing gently. “Oh God,” she breathed, her fingers tangling in my hair.

I moved slowly, savoring the taste of her skin, the way her body responded to every touch. My lips trailed higher, and I could feel the heat radiating from her, the way her legs trembled as I got closer. When I finally reached the delicate lace of her panties, I paused, looking up at her.

Her face was flushed, her lips slightly parted, and her eyes were half-lidded with desire. “Please,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

I didn’t need any more encouragement. I hooked my fingers into the waistband of her panties, pulling them down her legs. The air between us was electric, and I could feel the tension building as I leaned in closer, my breath hot against her.

The first touch of my tongue against her made her gasp, her fingers tightening in my hair. “Yes,” she moaned, her hips arching slightly towards me.

I took my time, exploring her with my tongue, savoring the taste of her. Her moans grew louder, more insistent, and I could feel the way her thighs trembled against my shoulders. Her hands pressed down on my head, urging me closer, and I obliged, deepening my strokes.

“Oh God,” she cried, her voice trembling. “Just like that.”

Her breathing grew ragged, her moans more desperate, and I could feel the tension building in her body. She was close, so close, and I wanted to push her over the edge. I wrapped my arms around her thighs, holding her steady as I continued to stroke her with my tongue.

“Please,” she begged, her voice breaking. “Don’t stop.”

I didn’t. I kept going, my tongue moving faster, more insistently, until I felt her body tense, her thighs tightening around me. She let out a loud, desperate moan, her nails digging into my scalp as she came undone.

For a moment, she was still, her body trembling with the aftershocks of her orgasm. Then she looked down at me, her eyes dark with desire. “Come here,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

I stood, my body pressed against hers, and she reached up, pulling me into a deep, passionate kiss. Her lips were soft, her tongue hot against mine, and I could taste the remnants of her on my lips. Her hands roamed my body, desperate and needy, and I could feel the way she pressed herself against me, her body still humming with the aftershocks of her release.

“I need you,” she breathed against my lips, her hands fumbling with the buttons on my shirt. “All of you.”

I didn’t stop her as she pushed my shirt off my shoulders, her hands immediately going to my chest. Her touch was electric, sending shivers down my spine, and I could feel the way she trembled as she kissed me, her body pressed tightly against mine.

Her hands slid down to the waistband of my pants, and I could feel the way she hesitated, her fingers trembling slightly. “Is this okay?” she asked, her voice soft, uncertain.

I nodded, my hands resting on her hips. “Yes,” I whispered, my voice hoarse.

She slid her hands under the fabric, her fingers brushing against the hard length of me, and I let out a low groan. Her touch was tentative, almost shy, but it was enough to send a jolt of pleasure through me.

“You’re so hard,” she whispered, her fingers wrapping around me.

I let out a low groan, my head falling back as she stroked me. Her touch was light, almost teasing, but it was enough to make my knees weak.

“Yel,” I groaned, my hands tightening on her hips.

She looked up at me, her eyes dark with desire. “Tell me what you want,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

I didn’t know how to answer her. I wanted so much, more than I could put into words. But I also knew that we had already crossed a line, that this moment was fragile, delicate.

Before I could respond, she leaned in, pressing her lips to mine in a deep, desperate kiss. Her body pressed against mine, her hands still wrapped around me, and I could feel the way she trembled with need.

“I want you,” she whispered against my lips, her voice breaking. “All of you.”

Her lips were still pressed to mine, her breath hot and ragged, when she suddenly broke the kiss, her eyes locking onto mine with a wild, almost feral intensity. Before I could even process what was happening, Yel’s hands were on my shoulders, and with a surprising strength, she pushed me backward. I stumbled slightly, my legs hitting the edge of the bed, and then I was falling, the soft mattress catching me as she followed, her body landing on top of mine in a tangle of limbs.

Her hair was a mess, strands sticking to her flushed cheeks, and her skin glistened with a thin sheen of sweat. She was breathing hard, her chest rising and falling as she straddled me, her warmth pressing into me in a way that made my head spin. My hands instinctively found her hips, anchoring myself to her as she began to move, grinding against me with a urgency that sent sparks racing through my body.

“Fuck,” I muttered, the word escaping my lips in a breathless gasp. Her name followed, “Yel….”_

She didn’t respond with words, only a low, throaty moan that vibrated through her chest and into mine. Her hands moved from my shoulders to my chest, her fingers splaying as if she wanted to feel every inch of me. Her eyes were half-lidded, dark with desire, and her lips were parted, her breath coming in short, shallow bursts. She was completely lost in the moment, and I was right there with her.

Her hips moved again, slower this time, but with a deliberate rhythm that had me gripping her tighter, my fingers digging into her soft skin. She bit her lip, her gaze dropping to where our bodies were pressed together, and then her hands were on mine, guiding them upward.

“Touch me,” she whispered, her voice husky and raw. “Please.”_

Her hands brought mine to her breasts, and I didn’t hesitate. My palms cupped them, the weight of them filling my hands, and I could feel the way her heartbeat quickened under my touch. She let out a shuddering sigh, her head tipping back slightly as I began to knead them gently, her skin warm and impossibly soft beneath my fingers.

“More,” she breathed, her hips still moving against me, the friction maddening. “Don’t stop.”_

I didn’t. I couldn’t. My hands roamed over her, exploring every curve, every dip, every inch of her that I could reach. Her moans grew louder, more desperate, and her movements became less controlled, more frantic. She was everywhere—her scent, her warmth, her sounds—and I was drowning in her, completely consumed.

Her lips found mine again, the kiss deep and hungry, her tongue sliding against mine in a way that had me groaning into her mouth. Her hands tangled in my hair, pulling slightly, and I could feel the way her body trembled above mine. She was so close, teetering on the edge, and I wanted her to fall.

“Yel…” I managed to whisper against her lips, my voice strained with the effort of speaking through the haze of desire. “You’re so beautiful…”_

She pulled back slightly, her eyes meeting mine, and for a moment, she just stared at me, her chest heaving. Then she smiled, a small, almost shy smile that was so unlike anything I’d seen from her before. It was pure, unguarded, and it took my breath away.

“I need you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I need all of you.”_

Her words sent a jolt through me, and my hands tightened on her hips, pulling her closer still. She gasped, her body arching into mine, and I could feel the way she was unraveling, her control slipping away. Her nails dug into my shoulders, and her lips found my neck, biting down gently as she moaned against my skin.

“Don’t stop,” she begged, her voice breaking. “Please… don’t stop.”_

I didn’t. I couldn’t. My hands moved to her thighs, squeezing gently as I urged her to keep moving, to keep grinding against me. Her moans grew louder, more urgent, and her breaths came in short, shallow gasps. She was so close, so close, and I could feel the way her body was tensing, the way she was holding herself back.

“Yel…” I whispered again, my voice rough with need. “Come for me…”_

Her hips stuttered, and then she was falling, her body going rigid as a loud, desperate cry tore from her lips. Her hands gripped me tightly, her nails leaving crescent-shaped marks on my skin, but I didn’t care. All I cared about was her, about the way she was coming undone in my arms, about the way her body trembled and shook with the force of her release.

Her breathing was ragged, her chest heaving as she collapsed against me, her forehead resting on my shoulder. Her body was still trembling, her skin slick with sweat, and I could feel the way her heart was racing against mine. She didn’t speak, didn’t move, just stayed there, pressed against me, her breath warm against my skin.

I didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to even begin to process what had just happened. But I didn’t need words. Not right now. All I needed was her, and the way she was holding onto me, like I was the only thing keeping her grounded.

“Yel…” I started, my voice soft, tentative.

She lifted her head slightly, her eyes meeting mine, and there was something in her gaze—something raw, something vulnerable—that made my chest ache. She didn’t say anything, just reached up, her fingers brushing against my cheek, her touch so gentle it almost hurt.

“Don’t let go,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Please… don’t let go.”_

I didn’t. I couldn’t. My arms tightened around her, pulling her closer, and I pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. She sighed, her body relaxing against mine, and for a moment, everything was still, quiet. It was just us, just this moment, and I never wanted it to end.

But then she shifted slightly against me, her body moving in a way that sent a fresh wave of heat through me. She looked up at me again, her eyes dark, her lips parted, and I could see the desire still burning in her gaze, even now, even after everything.

“More…” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I need more.”

Her breath hitched as she whispered, “More…” and her voice trembled with a need that mirrored my own. I could feel her body trembling against mine, her warmth pressing into me, begging for something neither of us could deny anymore. My hands slid down her back, fingers tracing the curve of her spine, and she let out a soft gasp as I pulled her closer. Her lips found mine again, hot and desperate, and I kissed her with a hunger that surprised even me.

Her hands moved to my chest, pushing me back gently until I was lying flat on the bed. She straddled me, her thighs pressing against my sides, and I could feel the heat of her core against my stomach. She leaned down, her lips trailing kisses along my jawline, down my neck, and across my chest. Her tongue flicked over my nipple, teasing it until it hardened under her touch, and I groaned, my hands gripping her hips tightly.

“Yel,” I breathed, my voice rough with desire. She looked up at me, her eyes dark and filled with a need that sent a shiver down my spine. She smiled, a wicked, knowing smile, and then her lips continued their descent. She kissed her way down my stomach, her hands sliding over my hips as she moved lower. My heart raced as I realized where she was going, and I could feel the anticipation building inside me like a wildfire.

Her lips brushed against the inside of my thigh, and I tensed, my breath catching in my throat. She looked up at me, her eyes locking onto mine, and then her tongue darted out, teasing me, tasting me. I moaned, my hips lifting off the bed as her tongue circled my aching core, slow and deliberate. She took her time, exploring every inch of me, her hands gripping my thighs to keep me from squirming away.

But I didn’t want to move. I wanted to stay right here, lost in the pleasure she was giving me. Her tongue flicked over my sensitive bud, and I cried out, my hands tangling in her hair. She moaned against me, the vibrations sending shocks of pleasure through my body, and I could feel myself getting closer and closer to the edge.

“Please,” I begged, my voice shaking. “Yel, please…”

She didn’t respond, at least not with words. Instead, she intensified her movements, her tongue circling me faster, harder. Her fingers joined in, sliding inside me with ease, and I gasped, my back arching off the bed. She curled her fingers, hitting that spot inside me that made me see stars, and I screamed her name as I came undone, my body trembling with the force of my release.

She didn’t stop, though. She kept going, her tongue and fingers working in perfect harmony to drag another orgasm out of me. I was panting, my body shaking, but she didn’t slow down. It was too much, and yet I didn’t want her to stop. My hands fisted the sheets, and I clawed at the mattress as she brought me to the brink again and again.

Finally, she pulled away, her lips glistening, and she looked up at me with a look of pure satisfaction. I was boneless, my body still trembling, and she crawled up my body, her breasts brushing against my skin as she moved. She kissed me, her lips soft against mine, and I could taste myself on her tongue. It was intoxicating.

She pulled back just enough to look into my eyes, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. “Your turn,” she whispered, her voice husky with desire.

I didn’t need to be told twice. I flipped her over onto her back, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand. She gasped, her eyes widening, and I smiled, lowering myself to kiss her deeply. My free hand slid down her body, teasing her breasts, her stomach, and finally finding her core. I slipped two fingers inside her, and she moaned, her hips lifting off the bed to meet my hand.

I moved my fingers inside her, curling them just the way I knew she liked, and she cried out, her nails digging into my arm. Her body jerked with pleasure, and I watched her face as she came undone, her mouth opened in a silent scream.

I didn’t stop there. I wanted to push her further, to make her feel as good as she had made me feel. I pulled my fingers out of her and positioned myself between her legs, my hardness pressing against her entrance. She looked up at me, her eyes pleading, and I thrust into her, burying myself to the hilt in one smooth motion.

She gasped, her legs wrapping around my waist, and I began to move, slow and steady at first, but quickly building into a frantic pace. Her nails raked down my back, and I groaned, the pleasure-pain only driving me on. Her moans filled the room, growing louder and more desperate with every thrust, and I could feel her walls tightening around me as she got closer to the edge.

I reached between us, my thumb circling her clit, and she cried out, her body jerking with pleasure as she came. Her walls clenched around me, and I couldn’t hold back any longer. I buried myself deep inside her, my own release washing over me in waves as I filled her.

We collapsed together, our bodies tangled and sweaty, and for a moment, there was nothing but the sound of our breathing filling the room. Then she turned to me, her eyes soft and filled with something I couldn’t quite name.

“Again,” she whispered, her voice a plea, and I knew I couldn’t say no.

I rolled her onto her stomach, her hips lifting instinctively, and I entered her from behind, my hands gripping her waist tightly. She moaned, her back arching, and I set a punishing pace, my hips slamming into hers with enough force to make the bed creak. Her moans turned into screams, and I could feel her orgasm building again, her walls tightening around me as she came.

I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. We moved together, our bodies connected in the most intimate way possible, and I lost count of how many times we came together. All I knew was the feeling of her, the sounds she made, and the way she clung to me as if I were the only thing keeping her grounded.

Hours later, we were still tangled together, our bodies spent but our desire far from sated. She looked up at me, her eyes half-lidded and filled with a hunger that matched my own.

“So what are We"?

[sevsevteen]

Hi I'm a huge fan of your fics🤩! Can you please write a Svt × 14th member where the reader has a crush on one of the oldest members (preferably joshua) and is afraid to confess because of their age gap (5 or 6 years) and during an incident joshua realises that he likes the reader too and reacts emotionally and ends up kissing her in front of the members. SCoups is worried that it is too early for the reader to enter a relationship

helloo :9 this actually took a while because i was debating how to write this - please note i didn't include the kissing scene! i don't write for apparent romance between members, so this came in a way that's more of a quiet, caring joshua. i tried my best to fulfil your request ~ and i hope you still enjoy reading <3

-- જ⁀➴°⋆

It was the little things that made you double-take.

The way Joshua always reached for the mic closest to him and handed it over to you without a word. The way he lingered just a second longer when patting your shoulder after a long practice. The way his eyes sometimes scanned the room before quietly landing on you, and then flicking away just as fast.

You weren’t supposed to think anything of it.

He was Joshua.

Gentleman. Calm, composed, soft-spoken even within your own group. You were years apart - born into different generations of humor, playlists, and levels of self-awareness even if you did grow up together.

And you were careful. Too careful.

So you turned your feelings into something fleeting. A harmless fondness tucked between syllables when saying his name. A warmth that curled into your hoodie when he passed you a hot pack in winter without even looking up from his phone.

Like now.

You sat curled on the edge of the photoshoot set couch, arms wrapped around your knees, still catching your nerves. The shoor had run longer than expected, and everyone was sluggishly gathering their things to head out.

Joshua walked by with his water bottle, only to pause, backtrack, and gently press a folded jacket over your shoulders. Yours must have slipped off somewhere mid-film.

“Oh,” you blinked up at him. “Thanks.”

“You looked cold,” he replied simply. “You okay?”

You nodded - automatically. Smiled - barely.

Joshua looked at you for a moment longer than he needed to. Not with amusement or teasing, just that soft, unreadable gaze of his that always felt a bit too kind. And maybe that was what made your heart trip up in the first place. He was kind to everyone, but with you? It always felt quieter. Unspoken.

“It’s been a long week,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Joshua’s lips tugged into a small smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“It has,” he agreed. “You’re doing well.”

The words landed somewhere in your chest, catching you off guard.

You ducked your head, unsure how to answer.

But just when you wanted to make a quick escape - your ankle bumped the side of the coffee table, hard enough to sting. You winced.

“You okay?” Joshua leaned down slightly, eyes narrowing in concern.

“I’m fine. Just… clumsy.”

“Still,” he said, crouching so he could be eye-level, brushing your hand away to gently check the bump forming above your sock. “Be careful.”

You froze - every part of you begging not to overthink the way his fingers brushed against your ankle, not to replay the way he softly clicked his tongue like he cared more than he let on.

“Hyung,” someone called from the hallway, probably Mingyu. “We’re leaving.”

Joshua glanced toward the door, then back at you. You weren’t sure what he saw - maybe the flush rising to your ears, maybe the way you avoided eye contact, heart thudding.

He stood up. Hesitated.

Then, with a soft chuckle, he reached over and gently tapped your head. “If I send hot packs to your room later, it’s because I know you’re going to pretend you're not sore.”

Your eyes lifted to meet his, caught off guard. “You don’t have to do that…”

“I know,” he replied easily. “I want to.”

And just like that - he left.

No implication.

Just warmth left behind in the silence. Just a small kindness you weren’t sure meant more than it should.

But when you found the hot packs outside your door later that night - neatly stacked in a paper bag with a sticky note that read, “Don’t forget to rest” - your heart thumped in a way that scared you.

Because maybe you weren’t imagining it.

And maybe he wasn’t either.

Not quite love. Not quite nothing.

But something.

And for now - it was enough for you.

.

Dusk in the dorm was quiet.

You sat alone in the kitchen, legs swinging slightly off the edge of the stool, notebook on the kitchen island as your pencil skimmed across lyrics. Your jacket was still draped over your shoulders - Joshua’s, you realised later on, with a pang of heat rising to your cheeks.

You had meant to return it.

But now…you weren’t so sure you wanted to.

Your pencil stopped moving when you heard the door click open behind you.

“Can't sleep?” Came Seungcheol’s low voice.

You looked up with a small smile. “Hey, Cheol.”

He walked in slowly, not with his usual leader bounce, but something more thoughtful. His gaze swept across the room - at your notes, the mug beside you, the jacket still not yours - and then settled on you.

“Do you need anything?” you asked, trying to fill the silence.

“Just a few check-ins. I figured I’d stop by.”

You nodded, unsure where this was going.

He moved to sit beside you - close enough for comfort. And when he spoke, his voice was calm. Gentle. But deliberate.

“I noticed something lately,” he started. “Between you and... you know who.” His voice trailed off.

Your hand stilled.

You said nothing.

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Seungcheol added quickly. “You’re both adults. And it’s not like I’d try to control that.”

You let out a slow breath, still not looking at him. “So… why bring it up?”

“Because it’s my job to make sure both of you are okay,” he said simply. “And that things don’t get… complicated.”

Finally, you met his eyes. There was no judgment in them. Just care. Quiet concern. The kind that had carried the team since debut.

“I’m not acting on anything,” you said softly. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I know. But I also know you.” He tilted his head, eyes kind. “And I know Joshua.”

You swallowed.

He let a pause settle between the two of you before adding, “But even if no one says anything out loud, people feel things. Tensions shift. Rehearsals get awkward. Trust me - it happens.”

Your heart dipped, because he wasn’t wrong.

You thought of the jacket still on your shoulders. The way Joshua’s gaze lingered sometimes longer than it should. The hot packs. The quiet.

And the rollercoaster of emotions that came with it.

“I don’t want to mess up our dynamic. Or anything in fact,” you admitted, voice barely a whisper. “He means a lot to me. You all do.”

“I know you wouldn’t do anything to hurt the group,” Seungcheol said. “But sometimes, when you care about someone too quietly… it hurts more.”

You blinked.

He smiled faintly. “I’m not asking you to stop feeling. I’m just asking you to be honest with yourself. Because pretending you don’t feel anything can cause just as much trouble as acting too quickly.”

You sat in silence, letting his words settle.

And then - you gave a small nod.

Seungcheol stood up, ruffling your hair gently before heading to the door. “You’re doing well. Don’t forget that.”

Just as he opened the door, he turned back.

“Also,”

You looked up.

“if he ever gives you his jacket again… at least wash it before returning it. He’s going to start running out.”

You flushed red, and he chuckled all the way down the hallway.

And for the first time in a long while, you didn’t try to hide the smile on your face.

--

[mylovesstuffs]

learning to be loved after forgetting what it feels like to be safe.

🥕 bae-sically fake. yoon jeonghan

a mylovesstuffs production...

“one hundred days for what?” / “for me to woo you.”

synopsis. you swear when you made up your fake relationship, you didn't know that someone worked at the coffee shop with the same name or that your family would go to check it out. now everyone thinks you guys are actually together, and, well, pretending to be fake partners has never been so complicated. jeonghan plays along, and even offers you a deal—100 days to let him try and woo your closed-off heart.

pairing. yoon jeonghan x fem!reader

genre/s. fake dating au, modern au, bit of social media au (?), romance, comedy, slice of life, slow burn, emotional healing

status. upcoming [estimated: ~ 40k words]

content warnings. mentions of past emotional abuse/manipulation, toxic ex, grooming mentioned [non-graphic but explicit reference], cheating and infidelity [past, non-graphic], mentions of underage grooming [girls legal but barely, predatory behavior], emotional trauma and flashbacks, ptsd-like emotional responses, manipulation disguised as affection [past], reference to stalking/following for confirmation of infidelity, heartbreak and betrayal, gaslighting implications [in past relationship], alcohol consumption, mild cursing/swearing, themes of grief and emotional vulnerability, soft romantic tension, no smut [so far; not written yet], emotionally guarded reader, indirect trauma references, workplace sexism [called out], fluffy but with realistic emotional baggage

will probably contain. fake dating, post-breakup healing, unexpected kindness, strangers-to-partners dynamic, deal-making [100 days to woo], soft and lover man!jeonghan, smart man!jeonghan protective best friends [celeste, seungkwan], healthy family, intense ex-relationship trauma, food symbolism [carrots, broccoli, lunches], slow emotional thawing, nice gestures [flowers, notes, meals], respect and gentle persistence, found family warmth, strong parent-daughter bond, work-life struggles, empowering ceo, flirtation, unspoken yearning, realistic emotional pacing [will be updated as chapters go on]

navigation/chapters & more under the cut ⟡

✦ navigation.

|| chapter one

|| chapter two

last updated: dd.mm.yyyy

querencia (spanish) /keh-REN-syah/ n. a place where one feels most at home; a source of strength and calm; a person or space where the soul feels safe without needing validation — often found not in places, but in people. “that name wasn’t meant to be a turning point, but somehow, it became hers — and he, her place.”

✦ in fiction we trust. love, celeste ˶ᵔ⤙ᵔ˶ so this fic is probably gonna be a long one [lmao oops] so i decided to split it into chapters. i’ve been wanting to explore some heavier themes for a while now [i promise, i kept it light], and this fic kind of became that space for me. despite the emotional grooming, infidelity, gaslighting, workplace sexism, and all that heavy stuff this fic touches on — one of the things i love most is that the reader has a genuinely healthy family. like actual supportive, emotionally present parents. and that’s something we don’t get to write often, so it means a lot to me. also the contrast between the two men… yeah. we’re gonna talk about that. and of course, we’ve got found family energy with the besties, so please look forward to their scenes too. also yes... i may or may not have written myself into the fic. yes it was intentional. yes i’m having fun with it 🤭

anyway that’s it for now. this fic went through a lot with me—emotionally and creatively—so i really hope you enjoy it and give it some love 🤍

ⓒ ! masterlist banner + dividers made by me. edits = google doc ss. photos from pinterest (ctto), prompt from my how do you fake it series ♡

started: dd.mm.yyyy — completed: dd.mm.yyyy

[larkshark]

Question 20!!!

“If you tried to pickpocket them, what would they be carrying?”

I’m also adding “how hard would it be?” And “what would happen if you failed?” For extra fun.

Aria is mostly carrying knives, to be honest. Like a lot of small ones. Also some potions (invisibility/speed/fire resistance) andddd a fair amount of gold that was “totally not stolen”. All the other important things are held by people who aren’t liable to run around and then get arrested.

In terms of skill needed to pickpocket her, she is pretty observant (when paying attention), and has years of reflexes drilled into her. She is pretty distractable though, so it wouldn’t be the hardest thing ever, as long as you make sure she’s thinking about something else. If you get caught, you’ll probably be stabbed out of reflex, and then stabbed again on principle. She won’t stab kids for trying though, everyone needs to learn.

Darra doesn’t actually carry much. Hand wraps, some beer, a couple pieces of gold. It’s not that she can’t carry more, she just doesn’t really see the point.

She’s VERY hard to pickpocket, especially since she carries so little. She’s also on high alert all the time, which really doesn’t help the odds. If you fail at pickpocketing her, she’ll probably break your hand but that’s about it, unless you make yourself a real nuisance. It’s both more effort for her and kind of pointless in her eyes. Anyone stupid enough to pickpocket her and get caught isn’t worth putting in the effort to kill.

Sloan carries a LOT. Just about one of everything for the group. Mostly it’s potions and supplies, but also her own personal stuff, most of the gold, some trinkets, some miscellaneous items to trade, and some extra weapons and cleaning supplies.

She’s about medium in terms of skill needed to pickpocket her. She’s pretty wary and perceptive, but carrying all that stuff around does desensitize you a little. Also she’s often trying to wrangle the others, which means her attention is frequently split. If you fail at pickpocketing her, she usually won’t have the time to spare to really mess with you, but she will snatch her stuff back and warn you off somehow (usually a nice threatening glare). If she has the time, she will rant at you about how you should at the very least pick your target better.

20 Tav QOTDs

a compilation of questions i’ve seen on twitter + ones i’ve come up with myself <3 can be used as an ask game or as a daily game!

what do they smell like at their freshest? (and/or after a tenday. your choice)

what would their blood taste like to vampires?

how would they kiss their LI?

how do they sleep with their LI (what position, does one steal the blankets, is one too hot/cold, etc)?

what does their tent area look like? where do they prefer to pitch their tent (next to water, covered on three sides, etc)?

if they had a set of dnd dice, what would they look like?

do they collect anything (gems, bottles, keys, etc)?

if either, are they part of the astarion/gale book club (magic & literature) or the wyll/shadowheart book club (trashy romance novels)?

if they had to be put in a “get along shirt” with a companion, who would it be?

do they prefer speak with dead or speak with animals?

what are their thoughts on clowns?

their companions are gossiping about them behind their back! who is it and what are they saying?

what makes them laugh? what does their laugh sound like?

do they have any inside jokes among their companions?

what’s the description of their camp clothes in the inventory menu?

what’s the description of their underwear in the inventory menu?

how do they celebrate their birthday?

what modern day tv show would they binge over a weekend? do they get their LI to watch with them?

do you have a playlist for your tav? if so, what’s the title + description?

if you were to try pickpocketing them, what would they be carrying?

[elleaitch22]

Love on Fire

Chapter 2: This is How It Starts

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

A/N: Sorry! I’ve been gone all day. I had cooking class with my little brother! This will be a slow burn btw, probably slower than Terms of Endearment 😬 If you have requests for this story or suggestions, please let me know! I might just put them in 😊 Gotta go work on Chapter 15 now! Hope you love it! Love you, bye!! xx Elle

Warnings: Fertility treatment discussion, mentions of medical procedures and an injection

Word Count: 3.1k words

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

The car swerved a little.

“What do you mean you’re having a baby?” Paige questioned, getting control of her truck.

Azzi gripped the tray of cinnamon rolls in her lap. “Jesus, Paige.” She muttered.

“Don’t ‘Jesus, Paige’ me, Jazlyn. You didn’t even tell me you were dating anyone.” Paige huffed.

She knew Azzi would find someone else eventually. She’d been preparing herself for this moment since Azzi went on her first date junior year. But still, ten years of preparation and Paige still wasn’t ready.

“I’m not seeing anyone!” Azzi exclaimed. “We’re just getting old, P. I don’t want to be an old mom. I want to be the fun mom who races her kids, so I need to get started.”

Paige nodded, her whole body relaxing a little. “So, how’s this gonna work?”

“Well, my doctor already checked all my levels and stuff, so after I pick a donor, I have to take medicine for a couple days, then they’re gonna do an ultrasound, I’ll get a trigger shot the night before they shoot me up, then I’ll take some pill for a couple weeks, then take a test to see if it worked.”

The car swung into the parking spot, but neither woman moved to get out.

“You told Mom and Pops yet?” Paige asked, brow raised.

Tim and Katie Fudd were amazing parents. They supported Azzi in pretty much everything she did, but they never liked when she diverted from the plan. They hated it when she passed on basketball scholarships to pursue studies in culinary and baking arts. They lectured her when she decided to move thirty minutes away to open her bakery. She knew this wouldn’t be any different.

“Not yet. You know she’s gonna lecture me about doing this by myself.” Azzi sighed. “I know they’re going to be excited eventually, but I don’t want them to try to talk me out of it, especially because it might not even work.”

Paige cupped her knee, “You’re gonna be a mom, Az. Besides, you won’t be doing it by yourself. You know I’m always here.” She swallowed. “I’ll help you pick a donor if you want. You know how indecisive you are.”

The pair giggled.

“I’ll come with you to your appointments. I’ll go get your weird ass cravings in the middle of the night. And you know you can tell my dad and Katie, if you want.” Paige finished.

“You’re my favorite person, Paige Madison.” Azzi smiled.

She climbed out of the car, leaving her tray of baked goods. “Biscoff cinnamon rolls this time. Let me know what they think.”

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

Paige carried the warm tray of cinnamon rolls to the kitchen, seeing some of her crew sitting around the table.

“Bucky is here!” Cameron, the EMT called happily.

Her partner, Rickea scrambled over to the blonde, “Whatchu got for us today?”

“I don’t got shit for you, Kea. I’m still pissed.” Paige glared at the woman playfully.

“It was an accident! I didn’t know that was your pasta salad!” She whined, talking about Paige’s lunch she’d stolen the week before.

The tray of cinnamon rolls was plucked from Paige’s hands before she could respond. “What’d your wife make use today, Rook?”

The chief is already removing the foil from the top of the pan. “Biscoff cinnamon rolls today, D. Make sure Rickea gets nothing.” It’s pointless to correct Chief Taurasi; she’d been calling Paige and Azzi wives since Paige’s graduation from the fire academy.

Flau’jae and Ant reach into the pan and pull out rolls, while Steph, Phee, and Stewie pull plates from the cabinets.

“Yo, if you ain’t gonna marry that girl, say something. Because I’ll do whatever she wants if she keep making shit like this,” Anthony tossed to Paige, mouth full.

Jalen came behind him, smacking the back of his head. “Azzi’s a lesbian, Edwards. And even if she wasn’t you’re not her type.”

Paige chuckled at the truth in her best friend’s statement.

Until he opened his fatass mouth again. “Seriously though, P, when are you gonna stop playing with my sis?”

The blonde glared at the traitor. “Shut the fuck up, J.”

“I know you’re not talking, Suggs. Didn’t Hailey have to slide into your DMs?” Stewie questioned.

“Aye, bruh. We not talking about me right now. Besides, my girl got a ring on her finger.” Jalen finished with a smirk.

Paige just rolled her eyes, walking to gym. Maybe she’d be able to process whatever she just signed up for with Azzi while she lifted.

She was halfway through her third working set of bench presses when she heard the door open.

“You good, Paige?” A gentle voice called.

Phee.

Napheesa Collier was Engine 22’s engineer, and she’d worked very closely with Paige until the blonde was moved to Squad 5 last month. Paige loved working with Stewie, Jalen, and Ant on Squad, but she missed her mentor.

“Yeah. Azzi just said some shit today. It’s heavy on my mind.” She reracked her weight, and sat up, breath heavy.

“Wanna talk about it?” Phee questioned, sitting on another bench.

Paige shook her head, “Nah. I don’t know if I’m allowed to yet,” she laughed. “It’s personal, and I don’t know if I’m doing what’s best for her, or if I’m being selfish.”

Napheesa giggled, “Paige, my love,’ she started. “I’ve known you for eight years now. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you do anything selfish when Azzi’s involved. Your default setting is to make her happy.”

She hadn’t thought about it like that. Obviously, she wanted to be involved with whatever kid Azzi ended up having, but she couldn’t tell if it was to help Azzi or to fulfill her own fantasy of having a family with the brunette.

“You might be wrong this time, Phee. God, I wish I could talk to you about it. You and Stewie always know the right shit to do.” Paige groaned.

Phee laughed against, “Yeah. Because we’re grown ass women who know how to handle our emotions.” She patted Paige on the back, “Just talk to her about it. Whatever it is, I’m sure she’ll understand.”

Before she walked of the gym, Phee turned around again. “Let Azzi know those cinnamon rolls were bomb and ask her if she can do a cookies and cream ones next.”

Once Paige was left alone, her mind started racing. She was so happy for Azzi; she always knew the brunette would be the best mom. But she always assumed she would be the child’s other parent. She thought she would have already had the guts to tell Azzi how much she loved her. But she didn’t. And now, she would have to watch from the sidelines. She was going to miss out on the baby’s first ultrasound. First kick. First smile. First roll over. She was going to miss all of it. And she had no one to blame but herself.

But she couldn’t let Azzi go through all of that on her own.

Azzi didn’t deserve that.

She deserved the best.

And Paige was going to be the best for her, no matter what she was feeling for her best friend.

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

“I told Paige,” Azzi said, piping a shell border around the cake.

“That you’re in love with her?” Caroline spun around from the cupcakes she was dusting with edible glitter.

Azzi fixed her with a look.

“You can’t blame me for having hope that you might follow through. It’s a compliment!” Her co-owner muttered. “What did she say?”

Azzi giggled. “She looked like she was buffering at first. Thought someone had actually gotten me pregnant. But you know Paigey.” She smiled. “She volunteered to do it all with me.”

Caroline stopped mid-sprinkle, hand hovered in the air.

Fingers with pink fingertips shot out over the cake. “I told you, you idiot. Now you owe me twenty bucks.”

“After I finish decorating this cake.” Azzi rolled her eyes. “Who’s out front?”

“KK and Ice, but Sarah’s out there to keep them in line.”

Azzi loved her surrogate sisters, but they (KK) could be a handful at times.

“So, are you going to let her help you?” Caroline asked after a beat.

Azzi still hadn’t made up her mind. “I want to, I really do. But I’m scared it’s gonna make me love her even more than I already do.” She paused, placing the piping bag down and brushing powdered sugar off her apron. Her voice lowered. “I don’t know if I can handle all that, especially when my hormones are going crazy.”

“I know you won’t believe me, but I’ve been around you guys for years. She’s in love with you too; let her help you, sis.” Caroline urged.

Azzi looked up. “But what if you’re wrong, Carol?” Her voice cracked. “It’ll break me; I love her more than anything. I won’t make it if she doesn’t want to stay.”

Caroline didn’t say anything at first. She just picked up one of the extra cupcakes, handed it over, and said, “Eat sugar. Breathe. Everything will fall into place.”

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

The next morning, Paige gets off work, showers, and knocks out. They had six calls over the last 24 hours, and she was exhausted.

On the other side of town, Azzi was waiting on a patient table at Caldwell Fertility.

“Okay, Azzi, you’re going to take Letrozole for the next four days. You might experience some moodiness, headaches, and hot flashes. If you feel like you’re experiencing something out of the normal, go to the emergency room.” Dr. Caldwell stated plainly.

Azzi nodded, cataloging the information in her head.

The doctor droned on. “We will see you back in one week and three days to do an ultrasound to measure the follicle and your uterine lining. If all goes well, you will do your trigger shot the next night, which will be cycle day 12. The next morning, we will inseminate you. You will start progesterone twice daily and test weeks later. Do you have any questions?”

Dr. Caldwell didn’t really give Azzi any time to ask questions. In thirty seconds, she was being ushered to the front to set up her next appointment.

The receptionist gave her a thick notebook. “We’ll see you on Wednesday, July 9 at 10:30. These are the donor profiles. Please make sure your donor is selected by the date of your next appointment.”

Four hours later, Azzi was sitting on the couch, fifty sperm donor profiles spread out around the living room when the front door opened. A tall blonde peeked around the corner, hands toting bags of takeout.

“I brought Hana Hibachi.” She said, raising the bags. “We didn’t really get to finish talking earlier.”

Azzi moved some of the papers off the couch. “Come on. You can help me pick my baby daddy.”

“Woah,” Paige coughed, moving towards the sofa. “I didn’t know you were already that far in the process.”

Azzi picked up the plate that had steak and vegetables, knowing that couldn’t be Paige’s food.

“Yeah, next Wednesday they’re gonna ultrasound me. If everything’s right, I’ll give myself the shot on Thursday night, and they’ll shoot up the club on Friday morning.”

Paige nodded, brows almost touching her hairline. “Okay!” She looked like she was rebooting. “Let’s do it. Have you made any decisions yet?”

“I think I have it narrowed down to ten,” She replied, nodding to the pieces of paper spread out on her coffee table.

“Hmm.” Paige hummed, lowly.

“What?”

“I don’t know, Az.” The tips of her ears reddened. “I just thought…I thought when we had a baby, I’d be more involved.”

Azzi’s breath hitched. “We?”

“You know what I mean,” Paige laughed it off. “Hand me one of those.”

They argue for the next forty five minutes.

“Yeah, he wears glasses, but have you seen toddlers in glasses? They’re so fucking cute!”

“He has a tattoo of his dog, doesn’t seem like he makes the best life choices.”

“And this one has a PhD in astrophysics!”

“Az, he’s 5’4. And you’d probably die if your kid was that much smarter than you.”

“I can’t have a lactose intolerant child, ice cream’s my favorite food, Paige.”

“Yeah, but he has a degree in biochem, his sperm’s probably smart as shit.”

“They can’t have asthma on both sides of the family. The kid’s lungs are gonna be fucked!”

“We can’t have a redheaded baby, Azzi. Can you image your skin tone with red hair?”

After a while, they’d narrowed it down to two.

Donor #53502, or the Golden Retriever as they called him, was a soccer coach with a degree in kinesiology. He was athletic, energetic, and loyal. He was tall, blond, blue eyed, but he had allergies and wore glasses.

Donor #20985, or the Quiet Genius, was going to be a doctor, but he was still in med school. He was also athletic, but he was a thrill seeker. He was soft spoken and gentle. His parents were from India; he had dark hair and eyes.

“I’m thinking the Golden Retriever,” Azzi started. “He just seems right, I guess. What do you think?” She turned to Paige.

Paige read the his profile again and something sour twisted in her gut. He sounded perfect. And completely wrong. He wasn’t her.

Her brows were raised again. “I was thinking the Quiet Genius. He’s quiet; you probably don’t want a child that’s gonna be bouncing off the walls. And he’s really smart, so that can’t hurt.” She paused, “Honestly, I don’t think you can go wrong with either option.”

“Rock, paper, scissors?” Azzi’s fist was already laying on top of her other hand.

Rock and scissors.

“I win,” Azzi said with a grin, leaning her head on Paige’s shoulder. ��Thank you, Paige, thank you for everything.”

“Of course, Princess.” She replied, kissing her forehead.

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

The next week passed quickly.

Paige called every morning to make sure Azzi had taken her medicine, apparently, she made a calendar for the month of July and all the fertility-related things.

She went to Azzi’s appointment the afternoon before to make check her uterine lining. Held her hand through all of the discomfort, smile and squeezed her hand when Dr. Caldwell said everything looked great.

“So tonight between 8 and 9, you’ll have to do your trigger shot. You want to aim for an inch or two below your belly button.” Dr. Caldwell said. “Then on Friday morning, you’ll come in a 9 for the insemination.”

“Okay,” Azzi’s voice was high with anxiety. She hated needles. It would definitely be worth it, but she still didn’t want to get a shot.

As they walked out, Azzi’s lips were still turned down.

“Okay, so you’ll come to the firehouse tomorrow night, since I’ll be on shift?” Paige asked, starting her truck.

Azzi turned to her, shocked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I can’t take the rest of the day off; Stewie hardly let me come for the appointment.” She smiled.

Azzi was still confused. “Yeah, I get that. So why am I coming to the station tonight? Are y’all having a dinner or something?”

Paige turned to her, brow raised. “Azzi. You hate getting shots. You’re going to come to the station, and I’ll give it to you.”

Azzi stared at the blonde. The sun was shining behind her head, and she looked exactly like the angel she was.

“You’re the best person I know, P.” She said, cheeks flushed.

Azzi was floaty for the rest of the day. She didn’t even yell at Sarah when she accidentally dropped a tray of cupcakes that she just finished decorating. Not even Carol’s teasing about Paige could bring her mood down.

After the bakery closed and everything was wiped down and mopped, she took the ten-minute walk to the fire station. She smiled, seeing Flau’jae, Anthony, Shai, and Rickea playing basketball out front.

“Bueckers, your girl’s here!” Flau’jae called, as Azzi walked up.

She was met with cool air as she opened the door. “Azzi Ray!” Cam exclaimed. “Come on, I’ll bring you to Paigey.”

“So, have you and Ben finally set a date?” Azzi asked while Cameron dragged her through the firehouse.

“November 22; the Saturday before Thanksgiving. It’ll be cool, but not too cool.” Cam smiled.

The brunette’s smile widened, “I’m so excited for you guys!” She squeezed her friend.

“And here we are!”

Paige was in the weight room doing hammer curls. Azzi giggled. There was a time Paige hated lifting, preferring to play basketball or go running instead.

“I’m here for a shot?” Azzi started. “I prefer vodka or tequila, but I’ll take Pregnyl tonight.”

Paige turned to her beaming. She grabbed the medicine the brunette was holding out to her.

“Let’s go pretty girl.” Paige took her hand, leading her away from the workout space.

They wound up in one of the dorms. Paige dropped to her knees and pushed Azzi’s shirt up. “Hold.”

It wasn’t a request, and Azzi obeyed quickly.

The blonde rolled her leggings down a bit.

She’d held countless needles in her life. On the job, they were just tools.

But tonight?

Her hands shook.

She swallowed, forcing herself to calm down. Azzi was already nervous enough.

She took a deep breath and cleared her mind.

“Okay, I’m gonna wipe and then give the shot. It’s probably gonna burn a little, but remember what you’re getting out of this, okay?” Paige said, looking up at her best friend.

The wipe was cold, and Azzi wasn’t prepared for it.

Paige blew on the spot, drying it.

Azzi’s pulse skittered beneath her skin.

Paige's breath was cool.

Azzi’s hands clenched into fists.

That did irreparable damage to her.

Paige was on her knees.

Paige was looking up through hooded eyes.

Paige blowing just a few inches above her panty line.

Azzi’s thighs clenched involuntarily.

“Okay, on three, alright baby?” Her voice low.

“One. Two.”

“OW!” Azzi gritted through clenched teeth. “You said three!” She whined.

Paige giggled. “It hurts less when you don’t see it coming.”

She bowed her head and whispered into Azzi’s belly.

God, let it work.

Let her be happy.

Let her need me—just enough that I don’t fall apart wanting more.

“Amen.”

A prayer, she was praying.

Tears filled brown eyes.

Caroline was right.

Azzi pulled her shirt back down and stared at the closed dorm door after Paige left.

She wasn’t sure what hurt more — the pinch of the needle or the fact that she wanted to pull Paige back in and ask her to stay. To lie beside her. To press her forehead to her belly again and promise they were a team.

She looked down at her flat stomach, rubbed it softly.

"Please, please work."

[itneverendshere]

How about rafe defending bitchy!pogue!reader when one of his kooks friends talks badly behind her back

brusing knuckles for you - r.c

pairing: bitchy!pogue x rafe warnings: violence; blood.

Before you, Rafe did this shit every other night.

Kook parties. Boat decks. Someone’s expensive beach house with the same recycled playlist and overpriced liquor that their parents overlooked was gone. Rafe showed up, dapped hands, passed joints, handed off baggies, and stayed just long enough to flex before fucking off somewhere darker.

Since you, since your eyes rolled at his first nasty comment and your mouth bit harder than any line he’d ever fed, Rafe started seeing it all for what it was.

Pathetic. Hollow. Fucked.

He used to laugh with them, now he counted the minutes 'til he could leave. The only reason he even showed up tonight was to sell, get rid of the stash, in and out.

It’s always the same type, over-gelled hair, boat shoes, too much confidence for someone who’s never been punched in the mouth. They buy from Rafe, and like to think that gives them some pass, just because he hasn’t decked them yet.

You aren’t there, and that’s why they feel bold. You cracked him open, ruined him for anyone else — and they hated you for it. So when one of them made the mistake, letting your name slip between his teeth, laced with that sleezy disrespect, Rafe didn’t think.

“She’s got a mouth on her,” one of them says, tossing a beer can toward the fire. “Wouldn’t last two seconds on this side if she didn’t have your dick in her throat.”

The laugh that followed was nervous.

Because everyone saw Rafe, back turned, shoulders stiff, head cocked like he needed confirmation.

Maybe he didn’t hear—wrong.

Rafe turned.

“What the fuck did you say?”

Heads turned, conversations died mid-laugh. He didn’t repeat himself or give the guy a chance to explain.

One second, beer bottle in hand, still listening to whatever bullshit story was being told — the next, Rafe had the guy by the collar, slammed into the side of a teakwood bar, knocking a crystal decanter off with a crash.

He’d been waiting for this exact moment to come loose. His fist connected before anyone could blink. Knuckle to cheekbone. The dude dropped like a stone, knees folding in. He let out a groan and rolled, blood already smearing across his lips, but Rafe didn’t stop.

Rafe straddled him and swung again. “You think you can talk about her?”

Blood was on his ring before it hit the floor. No one rushed to help, they never did when it was Rafe. 

Crack.

He was somewhere deep and dark and loud in his head, where all he could hear was your name said in that tone, like you were something dirty. Like they hadn’t seen you break boys twice their size with a single look.

Another hit.

The guy’s arms came up to shield his face, but it was too late for that. One eye already swelling shut, nose crooked, mouth full of blood and teeth — if they were still intact.

“You think you’re untouchable?” Rafe spat, gripping his collar and slamming his head back into the dirt.

“RAFE!”

That was Topper. Panicked.

But Rafe didn’t stop.

“You talk about her again,” He growled, savage, “You breathe about her again, and I swear to God—”

Another punch, this one landed with a sickening crunch.

“I will drag you behind my fucking boat and watch you drown.”

“Get him off!” Kelce barked. “Now, now—fucking now, man, someone’s calling the cops!”

Topper didn’t wait. He grabbed Rafe from behind, arms around his chest in a full-on chokehold. Kelce dove for his legs, dragging him away from the bloodied guy who was now twitching in the grass, barely conscious.

He thrashed. Snarled. “Let me go!” He kicked and elbowed. “I’m not fucking done!”

“You are, man!” Topper grunted, struggling to hold him. “You're done. You hear me?”

“Someone’s on the phone, bro,” Kelce added, panting. “Sheriff. Fucking Ward’s probably gonna hear about this by morning.”

The name snapped something in Rafe.

He stilled, chest heaving. Blood on his hands, knuckles split to hell. Shirt stained, hair sticking to his forehead; eyes still locked on the guy crumpled in the dirt.

He wasn’t moving much anymore, only groaning. 

Topper slowly let him go. Kelce stepped back like Rafe might lunge again, he didn’t.

The others—the ones who’d been watching, pretended not to stare. All their smug little grins were gone now. They looked terrified.

Good.

Rafe spit onto the ground, turned on his heel, and started walking.

“Where the hell are you going?” Topper called.

Rafe didn’t answer.

He pulled his phone out, blood smeared across the screen.

Your Contact: Baby 🖕🏽

He hit cal and when you picked up, he just said: “Come get me.”

Twenty minutes later, you pulled up to the old church parking lot — not bothering to park straight — and spotted him immediately.

Slouched on the curb, head tilted back like he was catching his breath, shirt ripped at the collar.

“You better be dying,” you snapped. “Rafe—”

You slammed your door and jogged over, irritation draining out of you with every step.

There was blood everywhere. His hands, his neck, and speckled down his jaw like paint splatter. Dried across his shirt in big, smeared patches. His knuckles were busted open, raw and red.

“Oh my God,” you breathed, already dropping to your knees in front of him. “Baby?! What the fuck happened?”

Your hands were all over him — under his chin, across his cheeks, brushing back his hair to check for cuts. He didn’t move, only looked down at you with that crooked, stupid grin.

“‘S not mine,” he murmured, lips twitching.

You blinked. “What?”

“The blood. It’s not mine.”

You narrowed your eyes at him.

“Then whose—wait. What did you do?”

Rafe shrugged, as if he hadn’t just called you out of bed covered in someone else’s blood. 

“You absolute maniac,” you hissed, still checking him over, hands pressed to his sides, his chest. “I swear to God, if you broke your ribs again—”

“Didn’t,” he muttered. “Promise.”

You grabbed his chin and forced him to look at you.

He looked like he'd crawled out of a bar fight in hell and he was grinning. You ran a hand through your hair, heart pounding now that the adrenaline had caught up.

“Who the fuck did you hit?”

He didn’t answer, only leaned forward until his forehead bumped yours, nose brushing your cheek, breath still fast.

You pulled back, eyes narrowing. “Rafe.”

He sighed, gaze dropping to your mouth. “‘S not important.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He paused, licked the blood off his bottom lip, then looked up at you again.

“I told you not to get into more fights.”

“He talked about you.”

Your spine straightened. “Said what, exactly?”

“Some stupid shit,” Rafe continued. “Didn’t even look nervous when he said it.” He tilted his head, lip curling. “That’s what got me.”

“Rafe…”

“I warned them. You’re the one thing I don’t fuckin’ play about.”

You exhaled hard, knowing you should’ve been madder, screaming at him for being reckless, for catching a case over a bunch of privileged, weak-ass dickheads.

“If the cops show up, if Ward hears about it, if—”

“I don’t care.” he cut in.

You stood, swearing under your breath, pacing for half a second before spinning back to him. “You can’t do shit like this, Rafe." 

You met his gaze again.

“I don’t care,” Rafe repeated. “I’m not losin’ sleep over this shit. The way he said it? The tone—”

His voice broke off, jaw working, biting the rest of it back.

You stopped in front of him again. He was already reaching for you, smearing a little blood on your hoodie, when his fingers curled into the fabric at your waist.

“C’mere.”

You sighed — loud, dramatic — pretending you were still mad, moving anyway, sliding into his lap, knees on either side of him, your hands coming up to hold his face.

It was hard to tell if you were furious or flattered.

“Fucking menace,” you whispered, “Aren’t you Country Club?”

“Yeah.” Rafe���s hands gripped your thighs. “Yours, though.”

Your mouths met full of breathy curses, and so fucking stupid—because you could still taste the iron on his lips, feel the dried grit on his skin—but neither of you cared.

Rafe groaned into it, hands sliding under the hem of your jacket, gripping your waist.

“God,” he muttered against your mouth, biting softly at your lower lip. “Missed you.”

You laughed through your nose. “You left two hours ago.”

"I'm aware."

Your fingers ghosted down his chest, his breath hitched when you dragged your nails against his ribs, that sick little part of you finding it incredibly attractive that he nearly pummeled a guy into unconsciousness because of you.

Rafe’s head dropped back against the car behind him, lips parted, lashes low. His chest was rising, and fuck, he loved the way you looked at him like this.

Possessive. Wild, knowing you’d ruin a man the same way he just did.

“You’re such a psycho,” you breathed, pressing kisses along his jaw.

“Mmm,” he hummed, grinning. “Perfect match, then.”

You were dragging your mouth down his throat, licking over a spot that made him jolt when headlights swept across the lot.

You barely had time to lift your head before:

“Are you—oh my fucking God.”

Topper’s voice cracked. Kelce followed a second later, stumbling out of his truck, wishing he hadn’t seen what he just saw.

“Bro!” Kelce pointed, horrified. “You’re still covered in blood, and you’re—what is happening?!”

You blinked, still straddling Rafe, breathless.

“Hi,” you said flatly.

“Hi?” Topper screeched. “You could’ve gotten arrested again, and you’re out here sucking face!”

“I was checking for a concussion, asshat.”

Rafe snorted under you, not planning to let you go. 

“You’re fucking insane,” Kelce hissed, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re stained with someone’s blood. Is it still warm? I feel like it’s still warm.”

He looked between the two of you, then the red smeared down Rafe’s clothes.

“None of that’s yours.”

You rolled your eyes, wiping another streak from his jaw with your thumb.

“I’ve been asking him that for fifteen minutes.”

“Guy didn’t touch me. I told you.”

 “You bathed in him.”

Rafe smirked up at them, unbothered. “Handled it.”

You shrugged. “He deserved it.”

Topper whipped his head toward you.

“You’re not helping.”

You leaned down again, brushing your nose against Rafe’s.

“Told you you didn’t need to fight over me.”

He snorted, his hands sliding lower on your waist.

“Told you I was gonna do it anyway.”

The two of you were back at it again in seconds—his mouth on yours. He wished he could feel your fingers in his hair again, how you checked him like your life depended on it. At least, he can taste you, all sleepy and sugar-laced from the gum you popped in the car. 

“Okay, okay,” Topper barked, throwing his hands in the air. “We get it. You’re in love and sick in the head. Can we please go before the cops show up?"

You sighed dramatically and turned your head to look at them, still perched in Rafe’s lap like the most unbothered girlfriend on earth.

“Is the guy dead?”

“No,” Topper said, clearly trying not to scream. “But the cops are looking. Someone called it in.”

You tensed slightly. Rafe didn’t.

“Ward?”

Topper nodded grimly.

“Yeah. He’s gonna lose it, dude. You think he’s gonna clean up another mess like this?”

Rafe sighed. “He will.”

You gave him a look, reading the bitterness behind that smugness, that wasn’t confidence, only detachment.

The kind of fuck-it-all attitude only rich boys who hate their fathers get to wear.

You ran your fingers over his split knuckles.

“You need to get this cleaned before it scars.”

Rafe caught your hand and brought it to his mouth, lips brushing your pulse. “You like my scars.”

You sighed and reluctantly pulled back from your boyfriend, who looked about two seconds from dragging you into the backseat.

“You driving?” you asked him.

Rafe, very seriously, pointed to his bloody hands.

“Probably shouldn’t touch the steering wheel.”

Kelce muttered, “No shit, Hannibal.”

You sighed and dragging your sleeve across Rafe’s jaw to wipe another streak of blood away. You rolled your eyes and stood up, tugging him by the hoodie sleeve.

“Let’s go, Country Club."

Rafe followed, all long limbs and smug grins, draping his arm around your shoulder like he hadn't just left a kid with a shattered face and a probable concussion.

Topper groaned as he unlocked his car.

“This is why I drink.”

You opened your own car door, pausing long enough to toss over your shoulder.

“Don’t be mad he didn’t crawl in your lap.”

Rafe snorted so hard he nearly tripped.

God, he fucking loved you.

Your hair swung over your shoulder as you slid into the driver’s seat, he loved you looked over your shoulder with that shit eating smirk and no apology. His shit didn’t faze you, you knew exactly who he was — mess, mood swings and all — and still handed him the aux cord, choosing him every time.

He took the passenger’s seat and you reached across to buckle him in because his fingers were too busted up to do it himself.

It should’ve felt embarrassing.

It didn’t.

You were the only one he let do this shit. Baby him. Touch him like he wasn’t a walking red flag. Call him out and call him yours in the same breath.

He didn’t realize how fucked he was over you until moments like this.

It wasn’t the jealousy that scared him — he welcomed that.

Rafe enjoyed knowing he’d bleed for you, that someone breathing your name wrong made something feral snap inside him. When you cleaned him up and cursed at him under your breath like you’d rather die than admit you were worried sick.

You made him feel safe, even from himself.

He cracked an eye open and turned to look at you, the dashboard lights casting a glow across your face, that annoyed little pout you always wore when you were pretending not to be scared for him.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice scratchy.

You didn’t glance over.

“If you ask for road head right now, I swear to God.”

Rafe chuckled.

“No..." He leaned over and kissed your shoulder. “Thanks for coming.”

You flicked your turn signal. “You act like I had a choice.”

You finally looked at him and in that second — in the corner of your eye, in the curve of your frown softening — he felt it. That wrecked, awful, beautiful love that kept him coming undone over and over.

Rafe Cameron wasn’t sure he believed in God. But if he did, she was driving a beat-up Jeep and threatening to beat his ass.

[cameronsbabydoll]

pasta & paparazzi ⋆˙⟡♡

drew starkey x younger!dizty!reader

cw: paparazzi, public attention, internet scrutiny, gossip, light insecurity, self doubt, possessiveness, kissing, one ass slap, protective!drew

italy looks good on you.

that’s what drew keeps saying. under his breath, half-grinning, like it’s a secret only he gets to have.

you’re in lake como, wrapped around his arm like a designer tote bag, wearing a tiny white skirt that rides up when the wind catches it and a pink halter top with little cherry appliqués on the bust. your phone case is hello kitty. your heels are definitely not made for cobblestone. and your gloss is strawberry-scented. of course.

the paps spotted you two as soon as you landed. now they’re everywhere—at the dock, outside the café, behind the gelato stand where you made drew try three different flavors before ordering plain vanilla.

you’re oblivious to most of it. too busy twirling in front of the lake and taking blurry selfies and asking if ferraris are normal here. drew’s less chill. always hovering a little too close, always angling his body to block the camera flashes from catching anything they shouldn’t.

like your skirt riding up. or your gloss smeared on his jaw. or the moment you kissed his neck on the boat and almost flashed the entire shoreline.

“they’re gonna post that one,” you hum, cheeks warm, clinging to his shoulders.

“don’t care,” he mutters. his hand's splayed over your bare thigh, possessive. “let them.”

—

you go viral that night.

deuxmoi post

✉️ anonymous

drew starkey and the baby gf are in lake como rn. she’s wearing literal stripper heels on a dock. and almost flashed the whole lake. he looks like he’s eating it up tho.

the comments are brutal.

“is she 12 or just dresses like it?”

“how is she always in a mini skirt.”

“how did HE pull HER??”

“no way they even have sex. she probably thinks calvin klein is a type of pasta.”

you read them out loud while lounging on his hotel bed, legs in the air, toes wiggling.

“wait… what is calvin klein?”

“you’re not serious,” drew says.

you pout. “i thought it was like. a french brand or something?”

he’s trying not to laugh, hand covering his mouth. you keep scrolling, giggling when someone says “he looks so in love, it’s gross.” you show him the screen with your gloss-smeared smile.

“LOOK!!! they said you look obsessed.”

“because i am,” he says simply. pulling you into his lap. pressing a kiss behind your ear.

—

the next day, you post a little video of yourself on a boat. in the caption, you write:

“ciao from the prettiest place ever!! the pasta is sooo good omg. ciao means food, right?”

you don’t notice the quote tweets until hours later.

“not her thinking ciao means food 💀💀💀”

“somebody help that poor man.”

“he is dating a decorative lampshade with lipgloss.”

you feel your face heat up.

“babe…” you whisper, holding your phone up. “was that… dumb?”

he looks up from his espresso. “what?”

“the ciao thing. everyone’s making fun of me.”

he puts his cup down. stands up. crosses the kitchen in two steps.

“baby,” he says, crouching in front of you, “i like that you didn’t know. you’re cute. you’re soft. you’re not jaded like everyone else.”

you blink at him, lip trembling.

“but people think you deserve someone smarter.”

“fuck people,” he says. “i don’t need smart. i need sweet. i need you.”

—

that night, you go to dinner in a low-cut dress and kitten heels.

paparazzi swarm the street. drew shields you the entire way in, one hand on your back, the other tugging your skirt down when it rides up.

when someone calls out “what does ciao mean, baby?”, he turns around.

“means ‘shut the fuck up,’ apparently.”

the next morning, that quote is everywhere.

—

later, you’re tangled in bed, your lip gloss smudged on his neck, your cheek pressed to his chest.

you murmur, “you think i’m dumb?”

he kisses the top of your head.

“i think you’re the smartest person i know for tricking me into falling this hard.”

you snort.

“what?” he grins.

“i still think calvin klein sounds like pasta.”

“...you’re lucky you’re hot.”

“i know,” you sing, curling closer. “it’s exhausting.”

[https-bobreynolds]

master of none

pairing: robert ‘bob’ reynolds x reader

summary: the several times bob fell in love with you (and the one time he said it)

warning: slow burn, curse word, reader smokes

author’s note: the lyrics in no way correlates with this fic, TRUST ME ITS A SLOW BURN FLUFF. am just extremely obsessed with this song and bob. hope this isn’t confusing to read!!

1. BERLIN LOBBY, 3:07 A.M.

you’re both running on nerves and vending machine coffee. the mission’s over, barely made it. your face is still smeared with dirt. his hands shake when he thinks you’re not looking.

you talk for hours, about nothing and everything, because the silence between you feels too loud. you ask him about childhood. he tells you about a dog that ran away in winter. you say your sister used to leave her window open and scream into the dark like a dare.

there’s a long pause where you just look at each other, not in any romantic way, not yet- just searching. he sees the kind of tired in your eyes that doesn’t go away with sleep.

you yawn and curl your legs up on the couch. “do you think we’ll ever be something else? outside this?”

bob wants to say, “i’d be anything if it meant being near you” but all he says is, “i... don’t know.”

you fall asleep moments later, your head slumping to one side. your hair brushes his shoulder. he stays completely still, coffee cooling in his hand.

that’s the first time.

2. AFTER THE MISSION

your fingers are steady. his ribs are bruised, the kind of hurt that makes every breath feel like a question. you kneel in front of him, rolling back the black tactical shirt, muttering under your breath about how he “never fucking ducks.”

“master of none…”

“sorry…” he says, voice low and dry.

“you always say that.” you reply.

he watches you dip cotton into antiseptic, dabbing it carefully against his skin. the sting makes him flinch, but he doesn’t move. your touch is gentle, but clinical- like you’ve done this a hundred times. maybe you have.

but then your fingers brush too long against his side. your knuckles linger at the edge of a scar. he looks down at you, and you glance up, eyes locking in the quiet hum of the infirmary.

the moment doesn’t break. it just folds.

he wonders if you notice his heartbeat stutter. he wonders if you hear how your name echoes in his mind when he’s not looking for it.

3. LAUGHTER IN THE MUD

you’re both soaked in rain and dirt and probably someone else’s blood. a botched extraction left the two of you running through the forest for miles. bob’s boots are ruined, yours are worse.

but then you see the way he slipped trying to climb into the evac van. a perfectly undignified, cartoon-level slip. and for some reason, it breaks you. you laugh. hard. gasping.

he hasn’t heard you laugh like that, not like this. not that belly-deep, wild, unguarded kind. he thinks he’d crawl through that forest again, barefoot, if it meant seeing you like this.

you wipe your eyes. “you looked like bambi on ice.”

“i’m six-foot-four!” he protests, grinning. “i’m not built for grace.”

and then your face softens, and you lean your head on his shoulder, rain still dripping from your hair.

bob doesn’t say anything. he just leans back.

“thanks for falling like a cartoon character.” you say, teasing, softer this time.

“anytime.” he says, a bit too quickly.

“we know the reasons but such and such”

he thinks you don’t realize it, how much space you take up in his world now. but maybe you do. maybe that’s why you don’t move.

4. THE VAN RIDE

you’re asleep on his shoulder. it’s not romantic. it’s not anything, really. just… survival.

but bob can’t move.

your face is tilted toward his neck, breath soft against his skin. your weight presses into him like trust.

he watches the streetlights pass, counting each flicker of gold across the van windows like time slipping through his fingers.

you stir once. your hand curls near his thigh. his heart jumps. and then… you murmur something.

his name.

not loud. not clear. but his.

and that’s the whole thing, isn’t it? you never mean to get this close. you just do.

5. ROOFTOP IN PRAGUE

you’re sitting on the edge of a building, knees tucked to your chest, cigarette burning down between your fingers. he joins you. doesn’t speak for a long time.

“do you think we ever get to be normal?” you ask eventually, not looking at him.

bob hesitates.

“i think normal’s overrated,” he says. but it’s not what he means. what he means is “i think i could find a version of it in you.”

you nod like that’s enough. but your lips are tight. your shoulders tense.

he looks at you, glowing in the cold, and wants to say something real.

but he doesn’t.

he just watches the smoke disappear into the sky and lets the moment pass.

6. THE ALMOST KISS

it happens after a mission. after drinks. after bruises and bad jokes and your hand lingering on his arm a little too long.

rain’s coming down. you’re laughing again. he’s standing close. so close.

then your eyes lock. the space between you thin like breath fogging glass. your hand lifts, maybe to touch his face. maybe just to hold on to something.

“you know it’s easy, the devil’s plan”

he leans in. so do you.

and then: your name, shouted across the compound. mission report needed. you blink, stepping back.

the moment breaks like a spell undone.

you look at him like you might say something.

but you don’t.

and neither does he.

7. WHEN YOU LEFT

you’re temporarily reassigned. weeks away. different ops, different time zones.

bob doesn’t show up to say goodbye. he tells himself it’s easier that way.

but then he finds himself watching security footage from the hangar. the way you turn one last time before you board. the way you look over your shoulder- just once.

he wonders if you were looking for him.

he wonders why he didn’t run to you.

he doesn’t eat right for three days. everything’s too quiet. even his powers feel muted.

“cry all the time, cause i’m not having fun”

8. WHEN YOU CAME BACK

you walk into the debrief room like you never left. same posture. same half-grin.

he’s frozen. for a second, everything around him blurs, and you’re the only sharp thing in the frame.

you hug him.

just a hug.

but he buries his face in your shoulder and breathes you in like air after a drowning.

“miss me?” you whisper.

he laughs, soft and cracked. “always.”

9. THE CONFESSION

you’re in the medbay again. this time, it’s worse.

you were nearly gone. he saw it, your body limp, your pulse faint.

he stayed by your side for 36 hours. didn’t sleep. barely blinked. the others offered to take shifts. he didn’t move.

when you finally open your eyes, your voice is a rasp.

“did we win?”

he laughs, breath catching.

then silence.

and then an “i love you.”

it’s not planned. it just falls out of him like gravity.

your eyes go wide, a little dazed. “you do?”

“since berlin. maybe longer.”

you reach for him, palm against his chest, grounding.

“yeah,” you say, “me too.”

you close your eyes again. and he just watches.

and that was the one time.

but every moment before it felt like a soft rehearsal for the truth.

like all the ways love grows in silence.

like all the things you never say until you have to.

like a song you finally hear after years of missing it.

and realizing, it’s always been about you.

tag list:

@lovetoalll

[cuzxai]

hold me under - sfw

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: basically S1 EP18 pool scene but VERY different circumstances

The case had been brutal—twelve days of desert heat, dead ends and staring at evidence boards until your eyes blurred. By the end, everyone was short-tempered and strung out. So when Hotch muttered something about “taking a few days off before heading back to Quantico” and Rossi offered up an Airbnb he “just happened to have points for,” the team had already started packing before Hotch even finished his sentence.

You don’t usually like to admit when you’re exhausted, but this time? You were wrecked. So the sight of the house—a sleek, modern thing carved into the California hills, all stone and glass and warm, flickering patio lights—hits you like a goddamn blessing.

“Okay, this is what I’m talking about,” Emily whistles, rolling her suitcase up the walkway. “Rossi, if this is what ‘retirement prep’ looks like then I volunteer to help you practice.”

“I’m practicing with whiskey and not being shot at,” he says. “The house is a bonus.”

Garcia is already filming with her phone, narrating like she’s on HGTV, and Morgan is arguing with JJ about who gets the room with the balcony. You wander inside, kicking your shoes off at the door. The floors are smooth wood, cool under your feet. The open kitchen gleams. The living room is sunken, with oversized couches and a fireplace you’re sure no one will use. The back doors open onto a deck that looks like a dream: soft white lights strung between posts, lounge chairs everywhere, an infinity-edge pool glowing soft blue under the darkening sky. You’re in the bathroom and out of your jeans in ten seconds flat, stripping down to your bikini and diving in with a laugh that feels like exhale.

For once, no blood, no briefing rooms. Just the sound of Emily’s music echoing off stone and water. You float, weightless, arms outstretched. Somewhere behind you, a screen door creaks open. And like fucking clockwork—Spencer Reid’s voice cuts through.

“I read a study once that found that water has a measurable psychological effect on the brain. Seeing it, being near it—it increases serotonin production and reduces cortisol. It’s called the Blue Mind theory.”

You smile with your eyes closed. “Are you telling me I’m scientifically happier right now?”

His voice gets closer. “Technically, yes.”

You open your eyes and squint toward the sound. Spencer stands barefoot on the edge of the deck, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his button-down rolled at the elbows. The light catches the curve of his jaw. He’s watching you, book tucked under his arm, like he’s thinking about joining you but doesn’t know how. “Come in,” you call, playful. “Doctor’s orders.”

He blinks. “I didn’t mean—”

“Spencer,” you cut him off with a grin. “Have you ever done something spontaneous?”

“I—I think so?”

“You think so.” You paddle closer, resting your arms on the edge of the pool. “Get in.”

His mouth opens. Closes. You watch him fluster—eyes darting to your shoulder, your collarbone, the drops of water sliding down your chest and then skyrocket right back to your face, red to the roots. He clears his throat. “I—I didn’t bring a swimsuit.”

You smirk. “Skinny dipping won’t hurt a soul.”

His eyes go huge and for a second, he actually looks like he might step out of his comfort zone and into the water. But then of course Derek comes crashing out of the house behind him, cracking a beer. “Reid! You actually thinking about swimming? Told you come pick your room man.” Spencer stiffens. You push back from the ledge with a small sigh. Another time, maybe later. You’re still dripping when you drop your bag in the last room at the end of the hall. No one claimed it, probably because it doesn’t have a balcony or a view. You don’t care. It’s private, sheets are soft and it’s right across from Spencer’s. You don’t plan that, obviously. That would be insane.

“Nice ink.” You twist to find Emily in the doorway, eyes locked on your back. You forgot you were still in your bikini top—the one that leaves the black inked linework of a bird across your shoulder blades on full display.

“That new?” she asks, stepping in and dropping onto your bed.

You shrug. “Around 4 months ago.”

“It’s hot.”

“Thank you, Em. I know you have some, too.”

“Just one,” she states with a grin. “It’s small.”

You pull on a T-shirt, ruffling your damp hair. Emily’s watching you with that look—half mischief, half knowing. “What,” you ask.

“You and Reid.”

You snort. “There is no ‘me and Reid.’”

“Right,” she says slowly. “Except for the part where you’ve been roomed together on the last four cases, you always steal his fries, always sit next to him on the jet, always actually listening whenever he goes on a tangent about something nobody knows about and get that look whenever he talks about statistics like it’s foreplay.”

You freeze. “I do not—”

Emily raises a brow.

“…Okay,” you admit, flopping down beside her. “I might have a tiny thing for him.”

“Babe,” she says, laughing, “it’s not tiny and it’s not one-sided.”

You turn your head. “What?”

“Please. He practically short-circuits every time you touch him. Did you see his face when you came out of the pool? I thought he was gonna combust.”

You smile then frown slightly. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not his type.”

Emily rolls onto her side, eyes narrowing. “You’re exactly what he needs.”

Later Garcia and Rossi are mixing margaritas like they’re on spring break. JJ and Morgan are talking about God knows what. Hotch is trying not to smile at something Emily just whispered. Spencer’s nose is in a book again but he’s not turning the page. He’s watching you. You know he is. You pretend not to notice. Let him look. Your towel’s wrapped loose around your waist. Your bikini top’s still damp. You toss your head back laughing at something Morgan says and watch Spencer flinch like the sound hit him in the ribs. Emily catches your eye across the patio.

The night had dulled to a hush. The pool glowed soft blue under string lights that hung like sleepy fireflies overhead. You sat alone at the edge, legs dangling into the water, hair still wet from earlier, bathing suit clinging lightly to your skin. Inside, the rest of the team had long since drifted upstairs—one by one, tapping out with yawns and stretches and wine-heavy smiles. The party had burned hot and fast. Late arrival, early exhaustion. Travel days were like that. But you stayed. Alone. Content in the hum of silence, in the warmth of the night on your skin, in the little flickering waves dancing around your calves.

“Didn’t think anyone would still be out here,” came a voice. Quiet. Familiar.

You turned. Spencer stood just past the patio door, barefoot, book in one hand, other tucked nervously into the pocket of his sleep pants. His curls were slightly messy—bedhead already threatening and his Henley clung delicately to his thin frame. Lit from behind, he looked softer than usual. Less clinical. Less BAU. More him.

You smiled, easy. “Didn’t think you would be.”

He shrugged and stepped closer, like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome. “It’s quieter now.”

“Exactly why I stayed.”

Spencer settled onto a lounge chair near you, long legs folding awkwardly beneath him. “I’m not great with… noise.”

You kicked gently at the water, ripples spreading out. “I am but only when it’s not pretending to be something it isn’t. Loud silence is worse.”

He glanced up from his book, brow furrowing in that thoughtful way he did when he was processing you. “What does that mean?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just watched the water, the stars, the long reflection of string lights over the pool like stretched pearls. “I think people misunderstand me a lot,” you finally said. “They hear my voice or see my tattoos or the way I talk and they think I’m a certain kind of girl.”

Spencer’s gaze didn’t leave you. His book remained untouched. “I’m loud,” you continued. “I flirt. I drink. I’m not ‘quietly mysterious’ or… composed like JJ or Emily. I get messy. I feel things too big. People think that means I’m not serious. Or not smart. Or that I couldn’t possibly be worth—” You stopped yourself. Laughed under your breath. “Anyway.”

His voice was low. “They’re wrong.”

You looked up. His expression was open, gentle in the way only he could be. No judgment. Just understanding, deep and vast and devastating. “They’ve always been wrong about me, too,” he added. “I talked too much. Or not enough. I knew too many things but none of the right ones. I didn’t know how to be normal.”

You tilted your head. “You ever wish you were?”

He hesitated. Then shook his head. “Not when I’m around people who actually see me.”

Your stomach flipped. You didn’t look away. “Do I?”

Spencer blinked. His lips parted, and for a heartbeat you swore he might say something dangerous. Then he quietly said, “You do.”

A silence settled. Not awkward. Not anymore. Just charged. You rolled your shoulders back. “Still haven’t seen you in the pool.”

He looked down at the water like it had personally offended him. “I’m not a great swimmer.”

“It’s not about swimming,” you teased. “It’s about experiencing.”

“Experiencing…?”

You kicked water at him. “Fun, Spence. Wet, spontaneous fun.”

He made a face. “That sounds terrifying.”

You laughed, standing slowly. The water dripped off your thighs, gliding over the glint of your belly button ring and the ink on your back. You swam to the center of the pool and flipped to float on your back, face to the stars. “You’re missing out,” you called, voice echoing in the quiet.

“I don’t have a suit,” he replied.

“I mean I barely do, mine is lingerie-adjacent at best.”

He paused, “I… noticed.”

You almost choked. “Dr. Reid. Did you just flirt with me?”

“I don’t—I wasn’t. I just—” He made a strangled sound. “It was an observation.”

You swam closer to the edge. He sat with his book on his lap now, red-faced, pretending to read. He looked so painfully kissable like that—knees tucked up, fingers curling the edge of the page, doing everything in his power to pretend he wasn’t watching your every move. You pulled yourself up a little, resting your arms on the edge, chin propped on your forearms. Water trickled down your cheeks. “Okay, well. You don’t have to get in. But will you help me out?”

He looked instantly concerned. “Did you hurt something?”

You grinned. “Just need a hand.”

He stood quickly, the book falling to the chair. His fingers reached out, tentative. And when he bent down to grab your hands you yanked. The splash was spectacular. He hit the water with a shout, arms flailing, legs scrambling. You backed away just in time to avoid the full brunt of the wave, but not enough to miss the way his shirt clung instantly to his chest, dark and dripping. He surfaced, gasping. “You pulled me in!”

You grinned. “You needed it.”

Spencer wiped his face, sputtering—but then he laughed. Really laughed. And it was beautiful. Sharp and unguarded and boyish in a way that made your chest ache. “You’re—” he started, but didn’t finish. Just floated for a second, blinking at you. And then something shifted. His laughter faded. His eyes fell to your mouth. You stood just inches away now. Chest to chest. Water slick between you. You didn’t speak. Neither did he. You leaned in. And kissed him. At first he froze. Not out of resistance but like someone who had dreamed of a moment so long he didn’t know what to do once it arrived. But then his hands were on you—shaky, reverent, sliding up your arms, then your neck. His mouth opened under yours, tentative at first, then hungry. Your fingers dove into his hair, soaking wet and soft as silk. He moaned and kissed you deeper, backing up until his spine hit the pool wall. Your body followed. Fit against him like you’d been carved to. He wasn’t smooth. He wasn’t practiced. He was real. All mouth and breath and aching honesty, hands gripping your waist like he thought you might vanish. You kissed him harder and let yourself melt against him. Let him have you here and now, just like this.

[isasweetie]

hii my love! can you please write something about assistant!reader x rafe sneaking off to the kitchen pantry (like the one in the show) and making out? maybe it starts with rafe calming her down because she forgot to do something for sofia and rafe reassures her—and somehow they start making out. i probably wrote alot, but thank you anyway, and even if you don't write, i love your work so much!

love u angel bby <3

rafe is such a kind man, the least he could do to calm you down was give you a kiss ♡ (sirens!au)

you were a mess of a girl when you stormed into the kitchen, the staff instantly leaving the room to give you space. mascara running, nose sniffling and twitching like a bunny, eyes wide and glossy like a fawn… all because you had forgotten to pick up sofia’s favourite napkins for the upcoming gala.

rafe cameron hears your gentle cries from upstairs, instantly stomping down to see what the commotion is about. his muscles are a bit tense, the billionaire on guard in case there’s any danger.

it’s a bit of a shock when his eyes land on you, holding onto the counter with trembling hands. why on earth was his wife’s assistant crying all alone in the kitchen?

his shoulders soften underneath his polo shirt as he hurriedly walks towards you, going to hold your shaky hands and pry you away from the marble counter. “hey— hey, what’s goin’ on, sweetie?” he asks, eyebrows furrowing in confusion and concern.

“sofia— she wanted polar bear white napkins for the gala and— and i forgot so now we’re stuck with the stupid cerulean blue napkins from last year!” you cry gently, squeezing his big hands back, too emotional to care that it’s rafe who’s comforting you. “she’s going to be so upset.. oh rafe, she’s already frustrated at me for not reminding the gardeners to water her tulips, she’s going to fire me!”

“woah, woah..” he sighs, trying to calm you down. “shh, don’t think she’s gonna give a shit, alright? i really don’t,” he assures gently.

it doesn’t seem to help, because you cry again and your eyes squeeze shut. “no, she’s going to fire me! cerulean blue is so last year, it’ll be so embarassing when her guests come and—“

he shuts your cries and complaints up with a gentle kiss to the lips, as if testing the waters. it seems to work, because when he pulls away, you’re quiet and confused. so he leans in again, giving you another, longer kiss. “better?” he asks gently after, minty breath kissing your face.

oh, how you love his kisses. you shake your head no, sniffling, possibly just wanting more. rafe is a gentleman and he senses your neediness, so he kisses you again. you’re brave enough to kiss back this time. he lifts you on the counter as you practically sit in your own tears, his lips not leaving yours.

one of your manicured hands goes to his bicep, the other on his scalp and scratchy buzz cut. his tongue pertrudes your lips, going to invade your mouth. every movement he does is slow, gentle … he knows you’re fragile right now, so he’s going to treat you as such.

when you pull away for breath and your wet lashes flutter as your eyes open, you ask, “didn’t you say we weren’t supposed to do this anymore?”

he displays a little half-smile, finding your question sweet. “yes, but when i see one of my workers upset, i’ll do whatever it takes to fix it. i’m a generous man, aren’t i?”

“yes sir,” you answer his question softly, confirming that he is generous. “but i’m not technically your worker, m’sofia’s,”

“y’get paid by me, though,” he explains simply, and you nod gently at his logic.

so when he leans in again, you don’t stop him. he’s just doing his job, after all.

[buckysleftbicep]

for better or for worse (1) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x reader (fake marriage au)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, sexual tension, one bed trope,

summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.

word count: 2.5k

author's note: hi my loves! this is one of my uncompleted series, and i'm posting in hopes i could be motivated to complete it! if you'd like for a chapter two, let me know! your support means a lot to me <333

“You can’t be serious.”

Your voice cut sharply through the room, echoing off the concrete walls of the team's briefing room. The table was scattered with dossiers, mission files, half-drunk coffee, and exactly zero logic as far as you were concerned.

Val didn’t even blink. She just sat there at the head of the table, calm as ever, the faintest glint of amusement betraying her otherwise impassive face. “Dead serious.”

You folded your arms, glaring. “Out of everyone here… him?”

“I’m flattered,” Bucky muttered beside you, tone flat as a dry desert. He didn’t even look your way, probably didn’t want to see the way your eyes narrowed like you were about to throw something sharp at him.

Val’s smirk deepened. She leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, fingers steepled under her chin like a cartoon villain with far too much power. “You two have unresolved issues, so congratulations. You’re married now.”

Yelena let out a full snort of laughter, clapping a hand over her mouth like she was watching a slow-motion car crash.

John gave a low, gleeful whistle. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”

“Why can’t you send Walker?” you snapped, jerking a thumb at him. “He already looks like he belongs on a honeymoon with his ego.”

“He have emotional capacity of wrecking ball,” Alexei chimed in, voice thick with his Russian accent, waving a hand dismissively. “Very destructive, not subtle.”

“No, I don’t—” John started to protest, indignant.

Yelena rolled her eyes. “You cried at Fast and Furious 7, and it wasn’t even the sad part.”

John scowled. “It had layers.”

She dropped a thick file onto the table. Glossy surveillance photos slid free, including a few charred, smoking blueprints and a shot of Raskovic toasting champagne in a cabana.

“His last shipment,” Val continued, “levelled half a research compound in Tunisia. I need charm, subtlety. Not testosterone."

You let out a disbelieving huff and gestured vaguely in Bucky’s direction without looking at him. “And you think this has charm?”

“I ooze charm,” Bucky said flatly.

You finally turned to glance at him. “Yeah, I can see that. Real honeymoon material.”

Yelena grinned wide, leaning across the table toward you like she was settling in for the drama. “This is going to be so entertaining.”

“Better than reality TV,” Ava added, her boots kicked up on the table, legs crossed lazily.

Alexei clapped his hands together, beaming like someone’s very drunk uncle at a wedding. “Marriage is beautiful thing, bond of love. Trust."

You turned your gaze back to Val, still hoping against reason that she would crack and admit this was some twisted, long-game prank. “There has to be another way.”

She gave you that look. The one that always meant: I could have you killed and get away with it. And then she smiled, teeth sharp and polished.

“Not unless you want to tell the weapons dealer you’re siblings who sometimes make out.”

You blinked, as John gagged audibly in the background.

“…Fine,” you muttered, jaw clenching.

Bucky didn’t even react. He just let out a grunt, pushing his chair back slightly. “Let’s get this over with.”

With a dramatic flourish, Val produced two small velvet boxes from her bag and slid them across the table. “Congratulations, Mr and Mrs Barnes. Honeymoon begins in twenty-four hours. And if either of you screw this up, if he suspects anything, you’re both done. There are no second chances with Raskovic. None.”

You flipped open your box. Inside, a slim platinum band gleamed under the overhead lights. It looked delicate, elegant, like something a real wife would wear, if she didn’t want to commit murder against her husband before check-in.

Val’s voice was cool as steel. “Play the part. Laugh. Kiss. Look like you can’t keep your hands off each other. Be convincing.”

“Oh, we’ll be convincing,” Bucky muttered as he slid the ring onto his finger, his voice almost too casual. “Won’t we, sweetheart?”

You didn’t answer.

You were too busy imagining what it would feel like to punch your fake husband in the face.

Six Hours Later

“Tell me again why I agreed to this,” you muttered, yanking your suitcase behind you as the team's transport SUV barrelled down a sun-drenched coastal road, the ocean stretching endlessly beside it like a taunt.

The scent of saltwater mixed with the heat of the asphalt, the resort town glinting in the distance like something out of a luxury magazine ad you would never willingly sign up for.

Bucky’s voice cut through the silence from the driver’s seat. “Because you have a hero complex,” he said, one hand firm on the wheel, the other draped lazily across the armrest like he wasn’t wearing a metaphorical wedding ring that made your eye twitch. “And you like pretending you don’t.”

You scoffed, adjusting your sunglasses as you shot him a glare. “Because I was assigned to this.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “Because you’re reckless and don’t listen to orders.”

Your head snapped toward him, the suitcase thudding into your shin as you turned in your seat. “Because you're a controlling jackass who never takes the stick out of his—”

“Children,” came John’s voice through the SUV’s overhead comms, the speaker crackling just enough to ruin the moment. “Behave. Uncle Walker’s listening in.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt.

“I’m placing bets,” Yelena chimed in, the sound of chewing echoing faintly behind her smug tone. “Three days before they fuck. Two before they kill each other.”

“Both, maybe same night,” Alexei added almost cheerfully in the background, as if he were discussing weather patterns.

You let out a long, exasperated breath and turned back to the road, jaw tight, sunglasses hiding the slow blink of disbelief at your life choices.

Bucky didn’t look at you, but you could feel the smugness radiating off him like heat from the dash.

“You should rest,” he said, casting a sidelong glance your way. “You’re crankier than usual.”

You crossed your arms, slumping just enough to make your annoyance known. “Maybe I’d be in a better mood if I wasn't married the most aggravating man on the planet.”

Bucky smirked like you’d handed him a trophy. “I didn’t realise I outranked Walker.”

“I’m flattered,” came John’s voice again, low and mildly wounded. “Thanks, guys. Warms the heart.”

Twenty Minutes Later – Resort Arrival

The second your foot hit the ground, you nearly choked on the air.

The resort was obscene—like someone gave a billionaire an unlimited budget and said, go nuts.

The entrance was framed with cascading white orchids, marble walkways that looked freshly polished gleamed under the golden tropical sun, and an honest-to-god quartet played soft jazz somewhere near a sculpted garden arch.

Fountains bubbled lazily with rose petals floating on the surface, and in the distance, gauzy white silk cabanas shimmered beside an infinity pool that looked like it led directly into the ocean. Uniformed staff moved like clockwork, trays of champagne glasses catching the light like diamonds.

Bucky stepped up beside you, duffel slung over his shoulder, and took it all in with an arched brow. “Great,” he muttered under his breath. “We’re in a Bond villain’s wet dream.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself. “Try not to glower too hard. We’re supposed to be happy newlyweds, remember?”

His gaze flicked to you, mouth twitching like he wanted to laugh or maybe bite. “Try not to stab anyone with your heels.”

You didn’t reply. Not because he was right, but because the stilettos Val made you pack could absolutely be used as a weapon. And likely would.

Inside, the air conditioning hit like a blessing. The check-in lobby was all white marble and gold accents, with soft lighting that made your skin glow unnaturally perfect.

A stunning concierge greeted you with the kind of practiced smile that made you want to start lying immediately.

“Welcome to El Alma Dorada, Mr. and Mrs. Barnes,” she said, hands clasped over a sleek tablet. “We’ve been expecting you.”

Before you could even fake a smile, Bucky’s hand slid into yours.

It was warm—calloused, solid, and entirely too steady. You blinked down at the contact just as he turned on a grin so smooth it knocked the wind out of you.

He leaned in a little, close enough that you could smell his cologne, feel the press of his thumb brushing slow, affectionate circles against your knuckles.

“Couldn’t wait to get here,” he said easily, voice pitched low and full of some fabricated warmth. “Isn’t that right, babe?”

Your mouth went a little dry.

“…Uh—yeah,” you stammered, smile slow to appear as you forced yourself to lean into his shoulder like it was second nature. “We’re just so excited to start our new life together.”

His hand squeezed yours—subtle, but firm. Reminding you.

Play the part.

You turned your head just enough to rest lightly against his bicep, stretching your grin until your cheeks ached. “So excited.”

The concierge giggled, clearly charmed. “Your honeymoon suite is ready, and the champagne has been chilled. You’ll find rose petals and—”

“Perfect,” Bucky cut in smoothly, his voice suddenly thick with something intimate, possessive. “Can’t keep my hands off her.”

Your stomach flipped so fast it made you dizzy.

There was a cough—stifled, but unmistakable through the comms. Someone was definitely listening.

Probably Yelena. Or John, trying not to laugh himself into an aneurysm.

“Aw,” Yelena cooed through the comms, voice syrup-sweet. “You two are so cute I’m gonna throw up.”

And told yourself not to murder your fake husband until at least after the complimentary breakfast.

The suite was ridiculous.

Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around half the space, bathing the room in warm, golden afternoon light. The ocean shimmered beyond the glass in postcard perfection, the view so breathtaking it too pristine to be real.

The ivory stone floors gleamed under your heels, each click echoing faintly as you stepped further inside. Silk-draped furniture was arranged like a magazine spread, and on the private balcony, a plunge pool glistened like a sapphire.

A bottle of vintage champagne waited on ice by the sitting area, and just past that, a trail of red rose petals led delicately toward—

“Oh, hell no.”

You stopped in your tracks, eyes locked ahead, body gone still.

Bucky stepped in behind you and raised a brow as he followed your line of sight. He didn’t say anything, just strolled past with calm and tossed your suitcase beside his own like the room didn’t feel like a honeymoon-themed fever dream.

The bed, if you could even call it that, was massive. King-sized, or maybe some custom size beyond your comprehension. It was piled with pristine white linens, oversized down pillows, and a tufted headboard that screamed expensive sin.

The rose petals continued onto the mattress like an arrow pointing straight to your worst nightmare.

Just one bed.

Of course.

You let out a slow, withering breath. “Real polite of you,” you muttered dryly as Bucky moved toward the closet like this was just another mission and not the set of some soft-core romance movie.

“I’m your husband, remember?” he shot back without looking at you, voice dripping with sarcastic charm that made your eye twitch.

You stepped further into the room, suitcase wheels clicking softly across the marble as your gaze remained stubbornly on the bed. “One bed,” you said, mostly to yourself. “Of course.”

“I’ll take the couch,” Bucky said immediately, nodding toward a chaise lounge in the corner.

It was upholstered in gold-tinged fabric, delicate and ornamental. Clearly decorative. Barely big enough for one leg, let alone a super soldier.

You turned and stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “What are we, five?”

His brow rose. “I just figured—”

“We can share the bed,” you cut in, voice quieter now, trying not to sound as reluctant as you felt. “It’s not like we haven’t been in worse situations.”

He paused. Something flickered in his eyes, too quick to name. Surprise, maybe. Something unreadable, something that made your stomach tighten for half a second.

But then it was gone, shuttered behind the same mask he always wore when things got a little too real.

“Sure,” he said, easy as anything. “Whatever you want, princess.”

You rolled your eyes and turned toward the vanity, focusing on unpacking anything just to keep your hands busy. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

The words came out smooth, sarcastic, like everything else from his mouth—but the undertone lingered. He moved toward the bathroom, muttering something under his breath about needing a shower.

And then—like he knew you were watching—he reached up and began undoing the top button of his shirt.

Your fingers froze on the zipper of your bag.

One button. Then the next. Then the next.

You watched—damn it, of course you watched. It wasn’t the first time you had seen Bucky shirtless, but this wasn’t mid-mission or after a fight.

There was no adrenaline. No distraction. Just him, standing in honeyed sunlight, undoing each button with casual ease like he wasn’t setting your pulse on fire.

He shrugged the shirt off one shoulder, then the other, folding it neatly before placing it at the edge of the bed. His left arm remained wrapped in a sleek black compression sleeve, but the shimmer of gold vibranium still peeked through.

His chest was broad and solid, scarred in places, inked in others. Each line of muscle moved with practiced grace, abs flexing slightly as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

You tried not to stare. You really tried.

And then, just to finish you off, the bastard looked at you.

“Want me to leave the door open while I shower?” he asked, tone light. Innocent. Too innocent.

Your mouth went dry. “Why the hell would I want that?”

He smirked, eyes glittering with amusement as he tilted his head. “Thought you might want to join me. Water pressure’s supposed to be incredible.”

You narrowed your eyes, but the heat rising up your neck betrayed you. “You wish.”

“I do, actually.”

You jerked your gaze to the minibar, to the flowers, anywhere that wasn’t his bare chest or that infuriating mouth. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He stepped closer as he passed—barefoot, because of course he was—his voice lowering to a near whisper. You could feel the warmth of him as he brushed by, feel the smugness radiating off every inch.

“Just say the word.”

Then he disappeared into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him with frustrating calm.

You stood there for a long beat, staring at the etched floral pattern on the wall. Your heart thumped uncomfortably, your skin too warm, your thoughts, well, they didn’t belong anywhere near a mission file.

This was going to be a problem.

Your earpiece crackled to life.

“Hey lovebirds,” Yelena said sweetly, voice soaked in amusement. “Remember the comms are still on, yes? We can hear everything.”

You groaned, ripped the tiny device from your ear, and tossed it onto the nightstand like it had personally betrayed you.

“What the hell have I gotten myself into?”

a/n: here is me hoping you enjoyed this chapter! love ya and stay safe out there!

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Just Pretend - A Babylon the Great Bonus Chapter

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Happy Thursday! I'm still on vacation, but just to keep y'all fed, here's a dream bonus chapter! I have. Many plans.

Chapter title from Wildest Dreams by Taylor Swift

Word Count: 3.4k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: You and Dean have some dreams. Takes place almost any time after Chapter 20. Usual warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff

Read on A03!

“Dean.” Bobby sighed, running a hand over his face. “I ain’t gonna tell your daddy. Nothin’ useful gonna happen if I do.”

“Awesome.” Dean grinned, starting to push up from his chair. “I’m gonna hit the-“

“Sit your ass back down, boy. We ain’t done.”

Dean swallowed, and dropped back down.

“You’re not stupid, Dean.” Bobby grunted, holding Dean’s gaze. “I know you’re not, no matter what you try to convince people with your stupid fuckin’ showboatin’. But that? That was the dumbest thing I’ve ever goddamn seen.”

Dean didn’t answer. It wasn’t his turn to answer yet.

And he was an idiot. Dad called him an idiot all the time, and his grades never proved anything otherwise. But it had stopped hurting after a while. Like a wound that goes numb if it was given enough time. Still festering, but the pain long gone. 

There were too many things that qualified Dean to be an idiot. Letting Dad lead a hunt without ‘contributing enough’. Coming up with his own plans for a hunt. Thinking about any life besides hunting, with a nice girl. Wanting anything beside that nice girl he wasn’t allowed to really want either. Drinking too much. Not drinking enough. Listening to music too loud. Listening to the wrong music. 

Sometimes, he had just wondered if Dad didn’t like him.

And in this moment, sitting across the table from Bobby, it had only been a thought. Not the horrible, rotten truth. 

“If I catch you doin’ that again, John’s gonna be the least of your worries.” Bobby muttered. “I might not be about to use you as bait on a hunt, but that don’t mean you can just fuckin’ walk all over me. I know how teenager brains work, Dean, and I know every goddamn exit outta this house. You ain’t gettin’ around me. Understood?”

“Yeah, but-“ Dean sighed. “It wasn’t even that bad, Bobby-“

“You stole a fuckin’ car, ya idjit. And you didn’t even do it right.”

“Huh. How can you steal a car wrong?” 

Dean started in his chair, but he needed to stop doing that. He should be expecting it by now. She was always there. With Dean. One way or another, She haunted him all the goddamn time. 

And now, She was standing behind him with a curious expression, Her fingers playing with his hair, and when he leaned back to grin at Her, she returned it without a thought. 

“You need to stop sneaking up on me, sweetheart. One day I’m gonna deck you on accident.”

She scoffed. “You wish, Winchester.” 

That was fair. If Dean ever did try to punch Her—though he’d rather eat acid than lay a single goddamn hand on Her—there was no way the hit would land. She was too quick, and hand to hand was Her specialty. He’d probably end up impaled on something, and deserving it.  

He’d hurt a lot of people. Done a lot of really shitty, stupid things. 

The worst would be trying to hurt Her. 

“Look.” She’d moved to stand behind Bobby as he continued his lecture—now only a dull sound floating around the air—and held up a strange looking clay sculpture on the counter with a wide, bright smile. “This is mine.”

Dean raised his brows. “Yours?”

“I made it,” She hummed, leaning forward to pass it into Dean’s hands. “Rufus bought me a bunch of clay. He’d been on this whole ‘makin’ something might help’ thing for a few months, and it sorta did. I mean, he’s ugly, but I liked him.”

“He?” Dean looked between Her and the sculpture—although it was more of a blob with a lot of Enochian carved into it, covered in patchy blue paint—with a small grin. “Did you name him?”

 “Jim.” She shrugged, returning to Dean’s side, and he gave Her a flat look.

“Jim.”

She nodded, Her fingers drifting back into Dean’s hair. “I blew him up by accident, when I failed the math test I gave myself. Then I cried for five days.”

Dean grinned, wrapped his arm up around Her waist, and tugged Her a little closer. “You gave yourself a math test, sweetheart?”

She flushed. “I was bored.”

“You’re such a fuckin’ nerd-“

“I- I didn’t have anything to do-“

“I know, Princess.” Dean rubbed his hold on Her hip, and She was looking at him with such open awe, he hated his brain a little bit. For letting him see that, when it couldn’t be real. 

“De-“

“Don’t worry,” He said Her name with a smirk, before She could push it. “I think it’s fucking hot. Never gonna lose bar trivia, long as I got my smart girl.”

“Oh.” Hitched breath. Parted lips. “I- Good. You- You’re hot too.”

He could feel the phantom heat on the back of his neck. She smelled so fucking good. “You think I’m hot, baby?”

Her mouth was almost hanging open, and Dean was sitting too tall in his chair. It was just a dream. He could grab Her jaw and kiss her, since it was just a dream-

She was leaning down. And he could see every color in Her eyes, and even in a dream, they were fucking blinding.

“Dean.” She hummed, Her voice still a little breathless, and their noses were almost bumping. “You didn’t tell me how you stole the car wrong.”

“Uh,” he blinked, trying to remember. He felt sort of drunk. “Not sure. I think it was something about the license plates. Didn’t swap them.”

“Yikes.” She shook Her head, fingers starting to play with his hair again.

He felt a little like a freaking dog. 

He never wanted it to stop. 

“Why’d you steal a car in the first place?”

“To hunt.” He muttered, watching Her brow furrow slightly. In concentration. She was okay. “I’d been hearing things about the woods all week. Animals missing. Trees falling. Someone guy at a bar said he tried to drink water and it ended up being blood.”

She hummed, glancing back up to Bobby. “How old are you right now?”

“Uh,” Dean glanced down at his hands. “I think I’m sixteen.”

“So I’m…” She paused, Her lip pouting out slight. “Thirteen? That might have been me.”

“That- What?”

“The trees and water.” She shrugged. “Not the animals. That was a wendigo I was trying to turn back.”

“Turn back?”

“I was starting to experiment with different rituals.” She mumbled. “I was in the woods a lot, and it found me but didn’t attack me, so I was keeping it in a cave. Trying to see if I could change it back. Bobby didn’t know, and it got out and started killed town pets.” She frowned. “I, uh- Had a freak out after a kitten died. Then the blood water thing happened, and I killed the wendigo by accident. But it- It could talk again, and-“

Dean muttered Her name, and She shook her head, those little lines deepening.

“I didn’t mean to. I just got upset, and then I lost it, and-“

She was about to start crying. Dean could hear it in Her voice. And She must have told him this story before and he’d just forgotten, so he didn’t need to hear it all over again if it made Her goddamn cry. Even in a dream, it made his own chest tighten. 

So Dean tugged Her around the car, right into his lap, and wrapped his arms around Her stomach. 

“Breathe, Princess.” He muttered, kissing the tip of Her nose, and She gave him a sad, pretty smile. “You know, I was only here cause Dad was hunting a wendigo up north. He can back pissed off that he couldn’t even find it.”

She sighed, Her face dropping into Dean’s neck. “Sorry.”

“Nah. Don’t be sorry for that. Be sorry for Bobby’s about to yell at me for thirty more freakin’ minutes after I tell him I was trying to hunt.”

She smiled against him. “That’s a you mistake, Deano.”

“Yeah.” He let out a slow breath, tangling his hand in Her hair. “If I had gone out, would I have found you?”

“No. I’m probably at Rufus’ right now.” She leaned back, Her eyes soft and bright on Dean’s. “Would you have wanted to find me?”

“I’d always want to find you,” he muttered, reaching up to trace his thumb over Her lower lip. “You’re the best thing that’s ever goddamn happened to me, Princess.”

“Thanks.” She whispered. “You- You too.”

“Me too?”

“I’d want to find you.” She dropped Her head back to his neck. “I’m not sure what would have happened. If you did find me before that moroi. But I still wish you had.”

“Ah.” Dean swallowed, pressing his face into Her hair. “Do you- Uh- You ever think about it? What mighta gone down if I hadn’t listened to my dad, and stayed?”

She shook Her head against him. “No. It’s- There’s no point in it. You left. And now we’re here.”

“Yeah, but we could be somewhere else.” He grumbled. “We coulda been on a beach having honeymoon sex.”

Hitched breath. “You- You think we would’ve been married?”

Dean snorted. “I think we would’ve had a little league baseball team by now.”

“A-“

“A family, Princess.” He grinned against Her. She smelled so fucking good. “You know, you’re really, uh- What’s the word for not seeing obvious things-“

“Oblivious.” She grumbled, leaning back with a glare. “And I am not-“

“Yeah, you are.” Dean kissed the tip of Her nose. Hitched breath and Flush. “It’s pretty fucking adorable.”

“Shut up.”

“Bossy-“

She whacked his arm and dropped Her face back down, and Dean just laughed.

There was a long moment of easy silence—only the smell of fruit and phantom feeling of Her in Dean’s arms—before She broke it.

“Maybe there’s a universe where we do have that.” She mumbled against him. “But I still like what we have.”

Dean frowned. “You believe in other universes?”

“Multiverse theory has some incredibly plausible science, Deano. I’m a scholar.”

“Of course you are, sweetheart. Freakin’ Nerd.” He chuckled, and forced out the question before he could stop himself. “You think that universe exists? Where we’re- y’know.”

“Yeah. I mean, I like to think so.” She sighed, Her arms tightening around him. “I like to think I find you every time, De. All the way down.”

He sighed, and pressed a kiss to the top of Her head. “All the way down.”

——————

This isn’t the best place to do stitches, but you don’t have anywhere else to go. You can’t do the whole eight-hour drive back to Bobby. Emergency rooms aren’t on the table. You don’t have any friends, or even friendly people to call. 

It’s just you, a stolen Lexus, and a stitch kit that doctors would probably call ‘abominable.’

But you’ll get through it. 

You always do.

And if Bobby notices, when you get back, you can say ‘I didn’t mean to’ and mean it. This won’t be another broken plate or burn situation. You’ll be able to explain that the guy wouldn’t leave you alone, and how when you told him that you weren’t legal it only seemed to spur him on. That he called you a pretty little girl, and didn’t belong in a dangerous place like this, then laughed when you told him you weren’t that worried about it.

You were the danger.

“That right, darling?” He moved closer, and you’d fixed your eyes on the counter as the Darkness started to turn in your body. “You think you got a big, mean bite?”

You hadn’t answered. It was never smart to answer.

“What, you think you’re too good to bark at me?” He’d grabbed your arm, and you’d bite your tongue until you tasted iron. “Think I won’t be able to put a collar on you, sweetheart? See how long it takes to break this pretty body in-“

His elbow hadn’t pushed your glass off the table. But it had certainly been close enough to look like it. And it was a lot easier for the bartenders to believe, rather than you knocking it over on purpose.

And you’d played the feral animal card. You weren’t afraid to. It wasn’t sacrificing your dignity or skill to brandish the largest shard of glass like and spit at the man to leave you alone, all while your blood dripped onto the floor.

You’d barely even winced. After, you’d cried, but mostly so people would stop trying to talk to you.

And you really hadn’t been intending for the shard to slice open your palm. But the Darkness had be shoved back down, and no one had gotten hurt but you.

It was right over your old scar, anyway. And considering the conditions—that’s either slime or semen on the wall, and the other bit is definitely blood, and this rubbing alcohol bottle has to be cut with something—you’d call these stitches quality. Bobby probably won’t even notice anything happened at all.

And if he does, you didn’t mean to.

You didn’t. 

“Why are we on the floor.”

You don’t bother to look over as you pull the next stitch through. “It’s private.”

“Uh,” You can hear the frown in Dean’s floor. “This kinda looks like a public bathroom, sweetheart-“

“It is. I locked the door.”

“And if people gotta go?”

“They can- Shit.” You fucked it, and the sting is faint and barely an echo of the actual pain, but there’s also blood running down your wrist, and you’d loved this jacket. “Fuck-“

Dean mutters your name, grabbing your wounded hand. “Son of a bitch, Princess- What the hell did you do?”

“Cut my hand,” You mumble, dropping your brow to his shoulder. “It was an accident.”

He only grunts, and you don’t fight when he takes over, resting your hand on his knee and letting you lean against his body as he works on the stitches.

“You’re good at this,” you mumble, and you’d already known that, but you don’t tell him good things enough. He deserves to hear them. “You’re good at everything.“

He chuckles. “No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are.” You prop your chin up, watching him frown at your hand. So pretty. Golden. And right now—when it’s not real—all yours. “You can read, and fight, and build cars-“

“I don’t build them, sweetheart. I fix them.”

“Same thing.”

“No, it’s not. And I don’t think reading is that big a thing to be good at. You’re better at it anyway.”

You shake your head. “No, I’m not-“

“Yeah, you are.” Dean glance over, his eyes locking onto yours, his voice dropping so low you can feel it in your chest. “You could probably take over the world, if you stopped trying to hurt yourself.”

He runs his thumb over your palm with a pointed look, and you roll your eyes.

“I told you, it was an accident-“

“And I don’t believe you.”

“Dean-“

“I know how you dealt with your shit,” Dean mutters your name, his attention dropping back to your palm. “And I’m not pissed. But you don’t do accidents.” 

You blink at him, but before you can ask what that means, he’s pushing on.

“This how you got your scar? No- Wait.” He glances back up, frowning slightly. “You’ve told me this before. It was your psycho family, right?”

“Yeah.” You whisper, and Dean nods to himself, moving back to your stitches.

“They better fucking pray I never get my hands on them.” He grumbles, pulling through the last stitch. “Would make them swim with the fucking fishes.”

You giggle. “Are you a 1920s Chicago mobster, Deano?”

“For you, baby?” He pulls your hand up, pressing a kiss over your palm. “I’m anything you want.”

You swallow, forcing yourself to hold his gaze as your voice grows breathy. “Oh.”

Dean nods, a small smirk on his face, and it takes a second to clear your head of Dean, Golden and pretty and looking at you like you pulled the sun out of your chest for him to hold. 

“I- Is this like your cowboy daydream?”

He scowls. “It’s not a daydream-“

“It’s a daydream, De.”

“No, it’s a fantasy. Daydream makes me sound like I’m a sweaty pre-teen with no goddamn creativity.” Dean scoffs, and suddenly you’re being pulled right into his lap. “It’s my fantasy, Princess. Respect the effort.”

“Right,” you hum, grabbing his hand to play with his fingers. “The effort. For your cowboy fantasy.”

“Shut up.” He grumbles. “You’d like it.”

“Would I?”

“Yeah. You would. I mean- I hope you would.” You glance up to see him frowning at the air, serious and deep in thought and downright adorable. “I’m a cowboy passing through town, and-“

“Sam’s a sheriff, and Bobby runs a bar, and you plant your roots in our town.” 

Dean blinks at you. “Uh- Yeah. That.”

“I listen to you, De.” You shrug, looking back to his hand. “You’ve told me before.”

“But I didn’t tell you about how I only stay cause we get together.”  He says that like it’s a challenge, and you still. “And how sometimes I’ll leave to go do outlaw stuff, but I always bring you something back. And we grow old together, and have two kids. Little girls that help you run the bar. And then you die on the porch, and I die five minutes after.”

You don’t remember how words work. And you really fucking hate that your brain does this. Takes all these small things you know about Dean—the real Dean, probably knocked out after a hunt a few states over—and turns them into this. How it makes his words sound so real. How you’re giving yourself too much, but still not nearly enough. 

“Why do I die first?” You whisper, because it’s all you can think to say. “Why not after you.”

“I already died first.” He shrugs, and you swallow a heavy lump in your throat. “Not fair that you gotta do it twice.”

No. That wouldn’t be fair. 

He’s such an idiot. A big, genius, Golden idiot who makes you die in his fantasy, so you never have to live without him, because the first time you tried it hurt more than anything and tore you to shreds. And it’s all in your head but you love him so much.

“Do you have any of those?”

You frown at him. “Any-“

“Fantasies.” He mumbles, his hand moving to trace over your face. “Like, I got another one where I win your hand in a tournament.”

“My hand?”

He nods. “You’re a princess, and the king holds a big contest to marry you, and I win.”

You snort. “How progressive of you, Deano-“

“No, it’s- Damn it, it’s not like that-“

“What’s it like, then?”

“I’m just like, a peasant.” He shrugs. “And you wander into town, and we meet at a tavern or on a hunt or something. Then I enter the contest cause I’ve already got your heart, but I wanna earn you.”

You hum, watching him carefully. “Earn me?”

“Yeah. I win the contest against all the pretty boy princes, and then I get to be your knight consort.”

“What the fuck is a knight consort-“

“It’s like, uh- A bodyguard that does sex.”

It’s pointless to try and fight your smile. “I don’t think that’s a thing, De.”

“Yeah, it is-“

“In what?”

“Movies.”

You giggle, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“C’mon, it’s a fantasy. I bet yours isn’t well researched and-“ Dean cuts himself off with a grin. “Do you research your fantasies, Princess?”

You shake your head. “I- I don’t have fantasies.”

That’s a lie.

You’ve gotten better at having fantasies. You have one where you’re treasure hunters, one where you all live in a beautiful garden where you’re never in need and Dean kisses you under a waterfall every night, and one where Dean’s a mechanic, you’re a librarian, and everything is normal.

But your rules. You can’t tell Dean you love him. If you tell him about the fantasies, you’ll tell him you love him. 

So you just settle for a half truth. Leaning into his hand on your cheek and giving him a wide, easy smile. 

He’s staring at you. With wide, blown out eyes. 

It would be nice if he never looked away. Or you woke up, and one of those fantasies was true. Because you mean your next words more than you’ll ever be able to properly explain.

“I just want you, Dean. I- I don’t really care how.”

His throat bobs, and his voice drops to a rasp. “Alright. I can get on board with that.”

“Can you?”

“Yeah,” Dean leans forward to kiss your brow, and you sigh. “I can.”

End Note: I love the dreams so much. They're my favorite way to show/explore their respective childhood, and it's a beautiful chance to make them be cute and fluffy.

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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