#it’s on the back on his head since his eyes are so big

[holeforzenin]

⟣ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐍𝐀𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇

⟣ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 — Toji x reader, Kento x reader, Satoru x reader, Choso x reader, Ichiji x reader, Yuki x reader

⟣ 𝐓𝐰 — Degradation + dumbification. blow job in Toji’s, backshots in Nanami’s, pussy eating in Gojo’s, Breast play in ichiji’s, breeding in choso’s, face sitting in Yuki’s. They’re prob a lot of grammar errors.

⟣ 𝐀/𝐍 — First multiply character fic in honor of my birthday, what do we think!!? :333

⟣ 𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎

Toji’s grumbling could be heard from the hallway as you padded into the bathroom, catching him zipping up his pants, a lazy yawn stretching across his face. You glanced at the toilet seat, then back at him with a deadpan expression. “Are you serious right now?”

He raised a brow in confusion while looking over his shoulder. “What?”

You stepped past him and pointed accusingly at the droplets scattered on the seat. “You really can’t just wipe the seat? It’s not that hard, Toji”.

Toji huffed, crossing his big arms over his broad chest as he leaned against the doorframe. “You’re really gonna whine about that?”

“Yeah,” you shot back, hands on your hips. “I live here too, you know. It’s gross”.

His eyes dragged over you, amusement flickering in the green depths. “Didn’t know you were so prissy, sweetheart”.

“Didn’t know you were so lazy,” you quipped, grabbing a wad of toilet paper and wiping it yourself with a dramatic flourish. “See? Easy”.

Toji’s jaw ticked, but the smirk was still there. “You wanna be a brat about it?”

“Maybe,” you chirped, tossing the tissue into the bowl and flushing with a pointed look his way. “Maybe if you actually cleaned up after yourself, I wouldn’t have to nag you like I’m your mom”.

He clicked his tongue, stepping forward until your back hit the sink, his hands bracing on either side of you as he towered over you. “That right?”

Your breath hitched as he leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Guess I should shut that mouth up for you, huh?”

The smugness was gone, replaced with a flicker of thrill as you tilted your chin up defiantly as if you were challenging him. “You could try”.

Toji didn’t waste another second. His large hand cupped the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as he forcefully pushed you down to your knees, the cool tiles biting against your skin. His belt clattered as he quickly unbuckled it, gaze locked on you with a feral sort of glint.

“Open up, sweetheart,” he rasped, voice dropping to a deep whisper. You obeyed, mouth parting as he tapped the angry tip of his cock against your tongue, the weight of it heavy and demanding as pre-cum smeared under your nose and lips.

His grip on your hair tightened as he rammed his cock in, stretching your lips around him and feeding his cock to you inch by inch, groaning low in his chest as you hollowed your cheeks to take him in. “There you go…knew you were good for something other than bitchin’, he grunted, hips thrusting shallowly as you wrapped your hands around his thick thighs for support.

The sound of his breathing roughened, and his eyes stayed locked on the way your pretty lips latched to his shaft as you sucked him, a big spit and pre-cum mixture leaking down your chin as he fucked your mouth deeper, his hips rolling with a much rough rhythm that’s causing you to lose your breath. “Look at that,” he drawled, thumb grazing the corner of your mouth to catch the saliva pooling there. “So messy—Got no fucking room to talk except for taking this cock”.

You moaned around him, nails digging into his pants as he picked up the pace, groaning your name as your tongue flattened along the underside of his dick. His hips snapped harder, the blunt head nudging the back of your throat, forcing tears to prick the corners of your eyes.

His hand cradled your jaw, rough thumb brushing the bulge of his cock through your cheek. “Gonna make you clean up every time,” he rasped, voice deep and raspy. “Since you like it so much, fuckin’ slut”.

⟣ 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎 ����𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈

You stood in the doorway of Kento’s office, arms crossed as you surveyed the stacks of papers cluttering his usually wooden desk. “You seriously just gonna leave them like this?”

Kento barely glanced up from his monitor, adjusting his glasses with a sigh. “Darling, they’re already organized,” he replied simply.

“Organized?” you scoffed, stepping further in to pluck a random sheet from the mess. “There’s three different client names on here. What kind of system is this?”

He paused, fingers halting over his keyboard. “A working one”.

You rolled your eyes at his sassiness, shaking the paper for emphasis. “It’s chaos, Kento. I don’t know how you can even find anything in this mess”.

His jaw flexed, gaze finally flicking up to meet yours. “I find everything just fine,” he replied calmly, though the subtle edge in his voice wasn’t lost on you.

“Clearly,” you taunted sarcastically, flipping through another pile. “This is why you can never find your keys. Or your wallet. Or—”

Before you could finish, Kento stood up—his chair scraping back with an annoying sound as he approached you with measured steps, the kind that made your heart thud a little harder because of how calm his demeanor was. He stopped in front of you, gaze sharp behind his glasses. “If you’re going to waste your time nagging me,” he began, his voice low and serious, “I think you should be put to better use”.

You barely had time to respond before he's manhandling you around with his strong hands and pressing your front against the desk, papers crinkling beneath you as his hand splayed across your back to keep you pinned there. “Maybe a little distraction will shut you up,” he murmured.

Heat pooled in your stomach as his warm palm slid down, nudging your legs apart. “Kento!”

“Shh,” he soothed, lips brushing your ear. “You wanted my attention. Now you’ve got it”.

His hands were deft, hiking up your skirt and yanking your panties down to your knees. The loud drag of his belt coming undone had you shivering, anticipation coiling tightly in your stomach. “Think you’ll remember this next time you feel like running your fucking mouth?”

A shiver ran up your spine as you nodded. He chuckled at your obedience, fingers brushing over your slit and spreading the pre-cum dribbling out of his tip between your folds. “Good girl. Don't worry, I'll make sure of it”.

And with that, he was ramming his cock all the way in, stretching your poor pussy around him inch by inch over the cluttered surface, papers sliding to the floor and making everything even messier as he sloppily pounded his cock into your cunt, fingers gripping your waist with the kind of authority that left you shaking and whimpering. “Maybe I’ll mess this desk up more often,” he rasped. “Gives me an excuse to disrespect this pussy and shut you up like this”.

Kento squeezed your hips tighter like he was doing it on purpose, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he slammed into you like you were nothing but a warm hole to fuck, his breath hot and heavy against your neck, giving you goosebumps. “Fucking look at you,” he sneered, one hand sliding up to fist in your hair, tugging your head back just enough for his lips to brush your ear. “So mouthy until you’re bent over my desk like a little slut. Still think I’m disorganized, darling?” His hips snapped forward, the sharp slap of skin against skin punctuating his question, making your eyes roll back.

Your hands scrambled for purchase amidst the scattered papers, crumpling documents beneath your fingertips as his cock bullied its way deeper into your cervix, splitting you open with each unforgiving thrust that's ruining your poor pussy. “Bet you won’t be nagging me anymore, huh?” he growled, yanking your hair a little harder when you only moaned in response.

“Can barely think, can you? Fucked you so dumb already that you forgot how to run that pretty mouth of yours”. His hand left your hip to smack your rippling ass, the sting sharp and sudden, making you jolt against the desk. “I should leave you like this—bent over my chaos so you remember exactly where your place is”.

⟣ 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎

You stood in the middle of the living room, running your hands over your face as you analyzed the mess. Candy wrappers were strewn across the coffee table, littering the couch cushions and even dotting the floor like he’d just flung them around for fun. Gojo was lying on the couch, unbothered with his legs manspreading and almost taking up the whole couch, a lollipop dangling from his mouth as he scrolled through his phone.

“Satoru,” you called, voice sharp enough to cut through his blissful ignorance. He raised his head lazily, pushing his sunglasses up to peer at you with that usual cheeky grin.

“Mm? What’s up, sweetheart?”

You gestured around the room. “This. All of this. You’re gonna pick up your candy wrappers or what?”

He tilted his head, sucking obnoxiously on the lollipop with a loud pop. “I was going to…eventually”.

You scoffed, bending down to snatch a few wrappers off the floor. “Eventually? Satoru, it looks like Halloween exploded in here. You can’t just live in your own trash”.

He chuckled, tossing his phone aside and standing up with a dramatic stretch. “I dunno, I think it adds character. Like, ‘Welcome to Gojo’s Candy Kingdom!’ You want a tour?”

You rolled your eyes, chucking the wrappers into the trash bin with a huff. “If this is a kingdom, I’m moving out”.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” he teased, stepping up behind you and wrapping his long arms around your waist, chin propped on your shoulder. “You’re really this mad about some wrappers?”

“It’s disgusting,” you shot back, but your voice wavered when his hands slipped to your hips, thumbs rubbing gentle, teasing circles.

“Mm…you’re right,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “I should really clean up my messes”. Before you could respond, you were spun around, and in one swift movement, he had you bent over the arm of the couch, your hips up and your tits smushed into the cushions.

“Satoru!” you squealed, squirming and struggling against his grip, but he just laughed, pushing your skirt up over your hips and exposing your ass with zero shame.

“See? Cleaning up,” he cooed mockingly, hands squeezing your ass with a playful slap. “Starting with you, sweets”.

You barely had time to protest before his eager mouth was on you, tongue quickly lapping between your folds with a kind of greed that had your knees trembling within the first second. “S-Satoruuu” you gasped, hands clawing at the couch cushions at your clit twitches on his tongue.

He chuckled against your skin, the vibrations making you whimper. “What?” he purred, tongue swirling around your clit before sucking harshly like it was a piece of flavorful candy. “Thought you wanted me to stop eating candy. Figured I’d switch to something sweeter”.

Your face burned, hands fisting into the cushions as he licked into you with unrestrained enthusiasm, slurping sounds echoing obnoxiously through the room, it was so embarassing. “Much better than chocolate,” he teased, voice muffled as he nipped at your inner thigh. “I think I’m addicted to this sweet pussy”.

You moaned, back arching as he buried his face deeper into your wet cunt, hands gripping your thighs to keep you spread for him as he slides his tongue back and forth on your folds and collecting your wetness and tasting it on his tongue. “Think you could get mad at me more often?” he murmured, voice all bright and playful, even as his tongue dipped at the entrance of your soaking pussy. “I’m loving this version of clean-up duty”.

⟣ 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐎 𝐊𝐀𝐌𝐎

The living room was a battlefield of toys—plastic cars, action figures, and stuffed animals scattered like remnants of some toddler rampage. You carefully stepped over a pile of building blocks, hands on your hips as you watched Choso lean against the wall, arms crossed and eyes half-lidded. He looked completely unfazed by the chaos, gaze drifting lazily over the room like it didn’t even register.

“Choso,” you called, voice sharp enough to break his trance. He blinked, head tilting as he looked at you, brows raised in mild surprise.

“Yes?” he drawled, voice soft and calm like the mess around him wasn’t something he should be responsible for. You gestured around the room. “You gonna pick up after your brothers, or are you just gonna let them turn this place into a war zone?”

He shrugged, pushing off the wall and stepping closer, his towering frame casting a shadow over you. “They’re kids,” he murmured, eyes flickering to yours with that familiar, sleepy smile. “Not that big of a deal”.

“Not that big of a—” you started, but he cut you off, hands slipping around your waist and pulling you in close. His touch was gentle, but his grip was sturdy, holding you in place as he dipped his head to brush his lips over your neck.

“You’re so uptight,” he whispered, breath warm against your skin. “Always scolding me but I like it”. His hands squeezed your hips, pulling you against him with a low, rumbling sigh. “Maybe I do want you to keep me in line”.

Your breath hitched, hands bracing against his chest as he pressed forward, guiding you back until your legs hit the arm of the couch. He eased you down, eyes locked on yours with that predatorial look. “You wanna boss me around?” he asked, his voice low and teasing. “Make me clean up, take responsibility?”

Your cheeks burned, hands fisting in his shirt as he hovered above you, his heavyweight pressing you into the couch cushions. “Maybe I do,” you shot back, your voice stronger than you felt.

He chuckled. “Good,” he murmured, hands slipping beneath your skirt to squeeze the plush of your thighs. “Then make me, please”.

You barely had time to process his words before he hooked your legs over his shoulders, his mouth finding yours in a desperate, heated kiss. His hands were everywhere—gripping, squeezing any flesh from your body he could touch, and pulling you closer as if he couldn’t get enough of your body. “Been thinking about it,” he breathed against your lips. “How cute you’d look all round and full—stuffed up with my child”.

Your eyes went wide because of how sudden what he’s saying was, a shiver running down your spine as his grip tightened. “Choso—”

“Yeah,” he groaned, cutting you off, his warm forehead pressed to yours, eyes glimmering with something dark and desperate. “Bet you’d look so good carrying it for me—wanna see you swollen. Wanna everyone to know that I did that to you, baby”.

His hands slipped down, grabbing your thighs and yanking you closer, his hips grinding against yours with shameless need as he humped his clothed cock against your panties, the bumpy outline of him creating friction and making your cunt leak against the material. “You gonna let me?” he whispered, his voice desperation as he awaited your consent. “Gonna let me fill you up? Make you mine for real?”

You swallowed hard, nodding before you could stop yourself, and that was all the permission he needed. He quickly pulled his cock out and slid your panties to the side before his hands grabbed at your waist, easily pulling you down onto him in one rough motion, the sudden stretch stealing the breath from your lungs.

Choso moaned loudly, his eyes fluttering shut as he bottomed out and felt your pussy clenching around him already, his hands gripping you tight enough to bruise. “F–Fuck! You feel that?” he rasped, his voice cracking. “Feel how deep I am?”

He starts pounding into you, every thrust pushing you deeper into the couch, his teeth grazing your neck as he speaks. “Gonna put a little baby in you—m’gonna keep you all full of my children”.

You clutched at his broad shoulders, your nails digging in as he set a brutal rhythm, his thrusts rougher than usual like he was on the verge of losing control. He’s panting against your neck, whispering filthy promises about how you'd be a wonderful mother and how beautiful you’d look carrying his child, how he’d keep you that way—barefoot and pregnant, marked and stuffed up by him.

His pace quickened, hips stuttering a bit and you could already tell he was close. The desperation in his movements mounting and he babbles into your neck. “Gonna stuff you,” he groaned, voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Over and over until it’s overflowing out of your pretty little pussy—gonna make sure you’re mine”.

Your back arched, your body shivering under his broken pace but Choso’s hands held you steady, keeping you right where he wanted you as he used you but with love, of course. His breath was ragged, his eyes fluttering as he hammers himself deeper, pressing his sweaty forehead to yours. “You gonna take it for me?” he murmured, almost pleading. “Gonna—fuck!—let me breed you?”

You instantly nodded, too fucked out to speak or think, and his expression shattered, his hips bucking wildly as he buried himself to the hilt, warmth flooding you in heavy, throbbing beats but his grip didn’t loosen, hands still holding you tight against him like he was making sure none of his seed would escape.

When it was over, he stayed there, panting against your skin, his hands still possessive on your hips. “Guess that means I gotta clean up the toys now,” he whispered. “Wouldn’t want you tripping with my baby in you”.

⟣ 𝐊𝐈𝐘𝐎𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐀 𝐈𝐉𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐈

The office was dimly lit, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across Ichiji’s cluttered desk. Papers were stacked in uneven piles, data sheets scattered, and a half-empty cup of coffee sat dangerously close to the edge. You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed as you watched him pinch the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut in clear frustration. You felt so bad for him.

“You’ve been at it for hours,” you said gently, your voice cutting through the tense silence. His head snapped up, eyes heavy with exhaustion as he met your gaze. “Maybe take a break?”

Ichiji sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I can’t,” he muttered, eyes drifting back to the towering stack of reports. “There’s too much to do. It’s not going to finish itself”.

You stepped inside, moving behind his chair and placing your hands on his shoulders. His muscles were taut beneath your touch, tension coiled up tight that’s its aching. “You’re going to burn out if you keep this up,” you whispered, fingers kneading gently at the knots in his shoulders. “Just ten minutes, okay?”

His eyes fluttered shut at your touch, a shaky sigh slipping past his lips. “I don’t have ten minutes,” he replied, voice rough with fatigue.

“Five, then,” you coaxed, leaning down so your lips brushed the shell of his ear. “You can spare five”.

Before he could argue, your hands slipped lower, fingers tracing slow circles against his chest through the fabric of his uniform. He stiffened beneath your touch, eyes snapping open as you pressed yourself closer, your hands dipping to his collarbones. “You’re so tense, baby,” you murmured, lips grazing his temple.

Ichiji groaned, head tipping back as his hands found your hips, squeezing it almost desperately. “You make it so impossible to think,” he whispered with his voice strained.

“Good,” you shot back, voice lilting with mischief. “Stop thinking for a bit”.

He didn’t need any more encouragement. His grip tightened, and before you could blink, you were pulled down onto his lap, his hands rougher than usual as they squeezed your waist. His head dipped lower, lips grazing the exposed skin of your collarbone before he suddenly surged forward, calloused hands cupping your breasts with a desperate kind of urgency.

“Ichiji,” you gasped, fingers threading through his black strands as his mouth latched onto the curve of your exposed chest, sucking hot, open-mouthed kisses against your soft skin. His hands fondled with them, thumbs brushing over your nipples through your shirt, sending shocks of pleasure down your spine.

But it wasn’t enough for him. With a low groan, he tugged your top up, baring you to him before his mouth returned—hot and fucking eager, his tongue dragging across your skin with feverish need. His hands held you firmly in place on his lap, keeping you pressed against him as his mouth moved, licking and sucking at every inch of bare flesh he could reach.

His breathing was ragged, eyes heavy-lidded with need as he buried his face between the swell of your breasts, mouthing hungrily at the soft skin there. “You smell so good,” he murmured, voice muffled, his tongue flicking out to trace the curve of your sternum before dipping lower, pressing desperate kisses along the underside.

You shivered, your nails scraping gently against his scalp as he continued, mouth working furiously like he couldn’t get enough. His hands squeezed your breasts, thumbs brushing your hardened nipples in teasing circles that made your breath stutter. “You taste even better,” he rasped, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze, lips swollen and slick.

“Feel a little better now?” you teased, breathless and grinning as you cupped his cheek.

Ichiji just chuckled, his hands sliding back to your hips as he pulled you closer to his chest. “Not even close,” he whispered, eyes glimmering with intent. “I think I need another break”.

⟣ 𝐘𝐔𝐊𝐈 𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐌𝐎

The living room was a mess of unfolded laundry—shirts, socks, and lacy panties scattered across the couch like an afterthought. You stared at the chaos, eyebrows raised as you picked up one of Yuki’s crumpled t-shirts. “You call this folding?” you asked, voice laced with disbelief.

Yuki was sitting on the couch as she scrolled through her phone. She glanced up lazily at you, eyes twinkling with amusement. “It’s folded enough,” she replied, stretching like she hadn’t a care in the world.

“Folded enough?” you repeated, holding up one of her wadded-up hoodies like it was evidence of a crime. “Yuki, it looks like you just balled everything up and chucked it in the basket!”

Yuki just smirked, tucking her phone into her pocket and patting her lap. “You got a lot of opinions today,” she drawled, voice dripping with playful arrogance. “Why don’t you come over here and say it to my face?”

You hesitated, eyes narrowing. “What are you planning?”

“Nothing,” she replied, leaning back with a lazy grin. “Just wanna hear you complain up close”.

Against your better judgment, you stepped forward, and she caught your wrist, tugging you closer until you stumbled over her lap. Her hands were commanding as she adjusted you, making sure you were positioned just right.

“You know,” she mused, her fingers tracing slow circles along your hips. “You do talk a lot of crap for someone who’s about to get sat on”.

Your eyes widened, mouth parting to protest, but Yuki was already shifting beneath you, lifting her hips to slide her sweatpants and panties down her thighs in one fluid motion. The casual confidence in the way she kicked them off sent a thrill straight through you, and you barely had time to process before she grabbed your shoulders, pushing you back onto the couch cushions.

“Yuki, wait—” you started, but she just chuckled darkly, swinging one leg over your face and straddling you, her pushy thighs bracketing your head.

“Wait?” she mocked, hands settling on the back of the couch for balance. “You don’t wanna keep nagging me? Maybe list off my chores while you’re down there?” Her grin was wicked, eyes sparkling with mischief as she hovered above your face, she spreads her ass cheeks—letting you feel the warmth of her pussy on your face, so close your breath ghosted over her skin.

Her bare cunt was practically soaking—like she was waiting for this, sticky slick smearing across your lips the second she lowered herself, her folds warm and wet on your mouth. The taste of her was dizzying, all salt and sweetness as she ground her hips down, rubbing her pussy on you back and forth like she was trying to mark you with it. Her wetness smeared across your chin and cheeks as she rolled her hips in harsh circles, moaning softly above you as she used your facial features to get herself off.

“Look at that,” she purred, her voice sweet and sultry. “Already making such a mess of you.” Her fingers threaded through your hair, gripping tight as she rocked forward, her cunt dragging flat across your tongue with every roll of her hips. “Keep talking about how I don’t clean up—now you can clean this up instead,” she taunted, pressing her ass down harder like she was actually sitting on you instead of just hovering.

Your hands flew to her thighs, nails digging into her skin as you tried to catch your breath, but she wasn’t letting up. Her thighs squeezed your head, holding you still as she ground her soaked cunt in your mouth, the wetness spreading everywhere with every needy movement and her sweet scent filling your nostrils. “That’s it,” she cooed, voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Lick it up. Make it nice and clean for me”.

Her juices were everywhere—your tongue, your cheeks, your chin—and she was so persistent, hips circling with purpose, smearing more of her arousal across your face like she was marking her territory. Her hand found the back of your head, pressing you even closer until your nose brushed against the tight ring of her ass, and she let out a shuddering breath when she feels it tickling her.

“Not so mouthy now, huh?” she murmured. “Bet you’re too busy drowning down there to complain”.

She rocked her ass harder, your tongue slipping through her folds, tasting every bit of arousal she rubbed against you. She moaned sweetly above you, the sound shameless and greedy as she kept grinding like a bitch in heat, wetness leaking down your chin and soaking the poor couch cushions beneath you.

“Maybe I’ll make this a habit,” she mused, eyes half-lidded with pleasure as she looks down at you—even though she couldn’t really see your face because her ass was trapping you. “Every time you wanna nag me, I’ll just shut you up like this—smother that attitude right out of you”.

You didn’t even try to argue—your tongue was too busy lapping up everything she gave, your mouth coated with her cream as she rode your face with lazy confidence, grinding herself against you and using you for her pleasure like that’s what you were made for.

[wonfaery]

I SNUCK INTO YOUR ROOM – L.HS

THINKING ABOUT STEPDAD!HEESEUNG WHO IS AN INSATIABLE FREAK AND USES YOU WHENEVER HE WANTS.

CW — STEPCEST, DADDY KINK, UNSPECIFIED AGE GAP, CHEATING, UNPROTECTED SEX, CREAMPIE. MDNI

You’re not sure how it all started. Somewhere along the lines of your mom’s third marriage, her sweet husband revealed his true nature to you. Since then, you took pleasure in being his toy; in letting him use you because your mother wasn’t enough for him. The thing about your stepdad is that he never cares when or where. If he wants your pussy, he’ll take it.

And you’re always too happy to give it to him because you’re addicted to his cock.

That’s why you find yourself face down with your ass up on your bed, moaning into your pillows as he thrusts his thick cock into your tight hole. It doesn’t matter to either of you that your mom is sleeping down the hall in the other room. What daddy wants, daddy gets.

“Fuck, daddy!” You cry, arching your back so he can fuck you deeper.

“Shh, baby,” Heeseung shushes you through a deep groan, smacking your ass as a reprimand. “You have to stay quiet.”

Your juices paint your stepdad’s dick as he rubs your ass to soothe it. The petulant whine you let out makes his dick throb, and he starts to fuck you harder for being such a nasty girl. Your room reeks of sex and filthiness as he drills his cock into your sopping pussy. Heeseung’s been fucking you for a long time now, and you can no longer stay quiet.

Not that he actually cares. You knows he secretly loves how you can’t ever stay quiet when he fucks you.

Heeseung briefly thinks that maybe he shouldn’t be taking such a big risk and fucking you while his wife is sleeping in their shared room, but the thought doesn’t even cross your mind. Not when his big cock stretches you out just right. You can feel his thick veins slide against your velvety walls as his every thrust becomes rougher than the last.

“Sorry,” you mewl pathetically, not really meaning the apology. “Y-You’re just so deep, daddy.”

Your cunt squeezes him tightly, eliciting a deep groan that’s like music to your ears.

“Yeah?” He laughs, drinking in the way you’ve already gone dumb on his cock. “You like having daddy all up in your guts, baby?”

He revels in the way your fucked out yes! mixes in with the sound of your ass bouncing back on his pelvis. Your stepdad’s hips don’t stop, especially when he sees you bury your face in your pillow to try and muffle the filthy cries you’re letting out. He grins deviously, loving how you’re always trying to be such a good girl for him.

“Shit. This pretty little pussy was made for my cock, huh, baby?” Heeseung grunts, thrusts getting more aggressive when he feels you clenching around him.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as the feeling in your stomach starts to tighten. His long fingers dig into your hips to help you meet his thrusts. Your whimpers are getting louder which makes your stepdad grin sleazily.

“I’m gonna cum, daddy!” You moan into your pillow.

“I know, baby girl,” he coos at you sweetly, eyes locked on the cream you’re leaving on his dick. “Let go for me. Cum on daddy’s cock.”

It just takes a few more deep thrusts for you to gush all over your daddy’s dick. You cry out loudly as Heeseung just keeps fucking you relentlessly through your orgasm. He can feel his own release approaching quicker just seeing you cream on his cock.

“That's it, baby,” Heeseung groans, slapping your ass again. “Such a good girl for daddy.”

Your legs start to shake when your stepdad grinds his cock deeper into your pussy. His weeping tip kisses your cervix in a way that makes your cunt gush with more arousal. Pleasure shoots up your spine when his hand reaches around to pinch your clit. Heeseung grins when you pull your head up from your pillow to let out a loud squeal. His hands move to your ass, squeezing and kneading the soft skin harshly.

A choked moan leaves your lips. The squelching from his dick pistoning into your cunt sounds loud and salacious in your room. His rough thrusts grind your clit against your sheets, sending molten heat to pool in your belly. At this point, you don't try to be quiet anymore—not that either of you care.

“Filthy little girl,” Heeseung groans, the sound of you falling apart on his cock for the second time pushing him closer to the edge. “Your mom could walk in at any time and see me pounding your little pussy. What would you do then, hm?”

His cock brushes against your g-spot, making you squeal and clamp down on him. “Daddy!” You cry out. “Please cum in my pussy!”

Heeseung coos lovingly. “Since you’re asking so nicely, I'll pump you full of my cum, but only on one condition.”

You mewl desperately, hips moving back to get him to give you what you want.

“Cream on my cock again, and I'll breed your sweet little pussy until you’re dripping with my cum.”

You shudder and moan out his name, hips moving wildly to meet his harsh thrusts. Quicker than either of you expect, your orgasm hits. Your warm walls clamp and pulse around his thick cock as Heeseung fucks you harder and harder. He moans out your name deeply, burying his cock deep inside your hole, cum spurting from his tip as his balls empty into your pussy.

Your eyes roll to the back of your skull as he fucks his cum deeper into you until neither of you can handle the sensitivity. Heeseung is breathing heavily, loving that he can feel your mixed cum slowly drip down to his heavy sack. He licks his lips, caressing your ass while making no move to slip his dick out of you.

“Such a good girl,” Heeseung’s voice is sweet and satiated. For now.

He quickly shifts you onto your back and gives you a sloppy, nasty kiss. You moan into each other’s mouths when he slowly starts rocking his hips, twitching cock still eager to be milked again.

“My sweet girl’s earned a reward,” Heeseung groans against your lips. “Daddy’s gonna fill you with cum all night for being so good.”

You clench around your stepdad’s cock, eager and ready to be stuffed to the brim.

[itzpookiepooh]

Who?

Mentioning a random name to him

You came home walking past Raf, who is sketching, kissing his cheek. He hums leaning into it his eyes closing, taking it in. You put a bag on the counter making him turn around to you.

“How was your day?” He asked with hazy eyes. You smile almost feeling bad for what you’re about to do to him. Almost.

“I went to training with Enzo and then we went to get lunch.” You explained putting away what you bought. Rafayel cocks his head back as you said the name so effortlessly.

“I’m sorry, who?” He asked crossing his arms and leaning on the counter.

“Enzo?” You question as if it were nothing. Rafayel blinks harshly at you like you had 3 heads.

“I’m sorry I’m just confused.” He says cocking his head to the side. “You come home talking about an Enzo who I never heard of or met! Then he takes you to lunch?” He asks in shock making you shrug.

“Absolutely not.” He stands up leading you to the door. He makes you put your shoes on and you turn to him.

“What are you doing?” You ask with your arms crossed. Rafayel gawks at you before mimicking you.

“We’re going out to lunch. I won’t be outdone by some random man you met at work.” He explains making you laugh.

“You’re pranking me aren’t you?” He deflates making you snort and nod. You both still go out to lunch and he complains to you how you’re giving him heart problems.

You and Xavier were spending the evening together. You were going to have dinner and catch a movie. He had been looking forward to this all day that he’s well rested. You both were walking down the street hand in hand, finger intertwined when he asked you about your day. You smiled brightly at him.

“It was good! I’m tired though, I went to the bookstore with Alexander and we chatted there for a bit.” You explained your day to him. He quirked his eyebrow at you. Who is Alexander?

“Who?” He asked looking over at you. You look at him with an innocent smile. “Alexander! He’s my friend.” You say cheerfully.

Xavier was confused since he’s never heard you speak about him. He was also upset that you spoke so cheerfully about him. He started to pout thinking about how ‘Alexander’ was able to make you smile like this.

“I’ve never heard of him.” He mumbles, his footsteps slowing down.

You chuckle watching him obviously become glum about the situation. You sigh, “We don’t get to hang out much.”

Your sigh sounded sad to him as if you were missing Alexander. You turn to catch a glimpse of his face when you froze and saw how sad he looked. You pouted feeling bad for your bunny before you stopped walking. He faced you his big eyes filled with sadness and confusion.

“I feel bad. I was just joking you don’t have to pout.” You say sadly as you hold his face. His body relaxes into your hands.

“I’m glad. I thought you rather be with Alexander instead of me right now.” He explained holding your hand that was on his face.

“I’d never want to be with anyone more than you Xavier.” You coo as you kiss his nose. The blush creeps up his neck and to the tips of his ears as he lets you hold him there.

Zayne was off today and wanted to treat you to an afternoon together. He missed you considering he worked overtime all week. As soon as he got home Friday he slept for over 12 hours. Today he was refreshed and ready to be with you. He asked how yesterday was for you as you both walked to the destined area for your date.

“It was fine. I went to get a sweet treat with Cassian so that was fun.” Zayne wasn’t usually the jealous type but sometimes he couldn’t help it. He tensed up slightly squeezing your hand.

“Did you now?” He tried to sound intrigued. You nodded softly. He decided to bite the bullet and ask.

“Who’s Cassian?” His voice not wavering. You turn to him and smile softly.

“My friend. I’ve known him for a while.” You explain to him as the walk turn silent once more.

You’ve known him for a while? How long is a while? He couldn’t be friends with you since adolescence because there’s only been Zayne and Caleb. The gears were turning in his head until he came up with the conclusion that Cassian is someone you met through your other friends or work.

“I can hear your gears turning Zayne.” You tell him. He looks at you waiting for you to continue.

“I’ve never heard of him so I suppose I’m worried.” He tells you making you quirk your eyebrow. “Worried?”

“Yes, I don’t particularly like sharing your affection. I also worry about your safety.” He says not looking at you as his ears turn red. You almost squeal at him.

“No one can take my attention away from you.” You tell him squeezing his hand in reassurance. You kiss his cheek softly as he melts into you.

You were visiting Caleb in Skyhaven this weekend and you decided why not trick him a little? He was out doing his training with the fleet today so what’s a more perfect time. Don’t get it twisted you had friends in Skyhaven however, making up a story sounded better considering you didn’t want to leave the house today. Caleb came home and he was still in his workout attire. He smiled seeing you as he asked how your day was.

“It was good! I hung out with Adrian today. We’ve been trying to reconnect forever.” You tell him as you laugh. Caleb’s smile falters as he stares at you.

“Adrian?” He asks moving closer to you. He’s never heard of this dude before and Caleb knew all your friends. “I’ve never heard of him.” He leans on the back of the couch behind you. You tilt your neck up to look at him as he looks down at you.

“He’s a friend I met through Simone.” You explain making him nod his head slowly. He licks his lips thinking to himself.

“What else did you guys do?” He asks his pointer finger tapping the back of the couch. You glanced at it before looking back at him.

“Had lunch but then he had to go so we’re doing a rain check for…” You check your watch, “Next week.” You smile at Caleb. He felt this nagging irritation.

“That’s nice.” His smile is tight lipped as he stepped away. “Maybe I’ll meet him next time.” His voice low as he walks to the fridge.

You were scared to tell him you were joking. Maybe this wasn’t the best person to play a prank on considering how he gets.

“Where did you meet him? Work or?” He asks fiddling with something in a drawer.

“Caleb.” You call to him as he hums in return not looking at you at all. “It’s a joke.” You say calmly, he turns to you as if he wasn’t just acting menacing.

“You’re not funny, pips.” He tells you shaking his head. You stare at him like he was crazy when he sits next to you pulling you in.

“You do know you can’t just kill people right?” You tell him as you eye him suspiciously.

“Who said he’d die?” He tells you as he snickers. You hit him with a pillow a few times to teach him a lesson.

“Okay! Okay! I’m sorry!” He yells shielding himself from your fluffy attacks.

Sylus usually doesn’t fall for your pranks. He can see right through you except for this one time. You made sure your prank was in line and perfectly executed. You came home from a mission and walked straight into Sylus’ bedroom. Sylus usually woke up when you came home from work so this was more than a perfect time. He was sleeping on his back, hands on his stomach, breathing softly.

You glided onto his chest peppering kisses on his face. He groans before stretching as you hear cracking beneath you. His red eyes flutter open and catch yours making him smirk. His hands fall on your waist as he chuckles. This was the best way to wake up a sleeping dragon. He half expected you to be late today so this was a great surprise.

“Hi sweetie. How was your day?” He asks his voice groggy from sleep. You were so close to calling the prank off but where was the fun in that?

“It was fine. I did so well today I got Damien to buy me lunch.” You smile innocently as you put your chin on the backs of your hands that lay on Sylus’ chest. His eyebrow quirks at your statement.

“Lunch?” He questioned almost as if he didn’t hear you say ‘Damien’. He lifts up slightly waiting for you to continue.

“Yeah. I was starving.” You whine to him. He blinks at you before replying.

“Are you still hungry?” He asks making you lift up off of him. You shake your head softly.

“Damien fed you well? Then should I do the same to Damien?” He asked you as if this were a loving question but you knew those eyes like no other. That tone had an underlying meaning to it.

“Uh—“ You stutter, Sylus chuckles before leaning closer, whispering in your ear, “I can make him disappear. Like that.” He snaps his fingers with a spark of his evol.

“I don’t think that’s necessary.” You laugh nervously as you push at his chest. He gets close to your ear again before whispering, “Next time you try to prank me make sure you’re not being watched.” His gaze shifts to the mechanical crow.

“Wait til I catch you.” You point at Mephisto and narrow your eyes. Sylus chuckles holding you close.

[idontactuallywrite]

+18 mdni one night stand!simon riley x reader (reader and simon are avoidants lol)

you've been out of a toxic relationship for a year or two, haven't seen anyone since. not that you were stuck on your ex, you just couldn't be bothered with the whole relationship shit. a few flirts, some half-assed texting, a date or two where you ordered the cheapest drink just to get out faster. nothing stuck. serious isn’t your thing.

it wasn't his either.

he hadn't come out for anything. just a quiet pint or two to take the edge off.

then you walked in.

not loud, not flashy. a dress that skimmed your thighs but didn’t cling. laughter soft with your friends. a pretty bird that didn't belong in a pub full of older men nursing their big pints watching football.

and then your eyes met his. brief, but deliberate.

your friend leaned in, whispered something. you just shrugged, glanced back at the bar. at him. you were here on holiday, might as well indulge a little bit.

he noticed the glances. the way you lingered near the bar like you wanted him to see you, but weren’t desperate for attention.

the subtle lean closer when you ordered another drink. the way your spine arched just so his eyes could wander.

the smile you gave the bartender, held just long enough before you turned to meet his eyes across the room. how you swayed your hips walking away with the repeated rounds of drinks he knew you and your friends couldn't finish.

and some time later you sat near the bar after your friends left.

coincidentally. open—a quiet invitation for him.

in his field of work he's been there long enough to know when something wasn’t quite a coincidence. knew how to read people. situations. signals.

then here you were, back in his hotel room. your heel lay by the door, the other stubbornly half-on as you tried to peel it off between kisses, both of you fumbling just enough to feel alive. his hands slid down the dip of your waist, tracing the flare of your hips before tugging gently at the hem of your dress, pulling it over your head in one swift motion.

everything else fell away and finally what felt like forever you were sprawled under him, his strong forearm pressing hard into the back of your thigh, forcing you open as he drove deep into you.

your half-lidded eyes raked down to where his abdomen flexed, every brutal thrust sending muscles tightening and releasing. glimpse of scars, pale lines etched to his skin.

you remembered asking what he did. he muttered something about his work being military-adjacent. no rank, no details, just a shrug and a swig of his pint. you didn't press further.

"oh...fuckkk." your head fell back, lips part when he hit that sweet spot. the moan crawled up slow, rumbling in your throat before spilling out. soft and wrecked, half a sigh, half a sob.

"that's it..." he murmured, voice low and rough with that thick accent you found so hot. the filthy slap of skin against skin echoed through the room as he fucked into your sopping heat.

"good girl." his coo made you clamp down on him like a vice.

he shifted forward, pressing in deeper with a grunt. the forearm braced behind the back of your thigh now pushing up against your chest. a moan tore from your throat, breath hitching. he had you bent, and folded into a mating press. his breath, hot and sharp with whiskey, fanned against your lips.

he fucked you like he knew you, he fucked you like you weren't just some stranger from the pub he gave into entertaining tonight. he fucked you like he wanted to forget and remember all at once. like he needed it. like he needed you.

his cock had you drunk, more than you can say about the shit drinks you forced yourself to order, just for an excuse to hang around the bar and be near him.

his forearm pressed tighter into your thigh, pinning you as he fucked you hard, fierce, raw, urgent. then his calloused hand curled at your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his before he pulled you up for a bruising kiss. the kiss was raw and real. like he needed to claim you, to remember you.

the kind of intimacy that clawed at something inside you, that usually made you pull away, that leave you feeling exposed and vulnerable.

for him, the kiss held a quiet frustration, an ache buried beneath the surface. the sting of knowing this was only one night, impossible to be more.

everything you both always walked away from, laid bare in that moment.

and when the wave of pleasure hit, it hit hard.

your walls spasmed around his cock. eyes fluttering, lips parted. his name—no, the fake name he gave you, spilled from your pretty lips in a broken moan. and for a moment, he wished he'd told you the real one. just so he could hear it.

a guttural grunt deep in his chest as he buried himself to the hilt, a bruising grip at your waist. you arched into him, one hand clawing at the bicep flexed beside your head, the other caught awkwardly between your bodies, pinned between your ribs and the press of his shoulder blades, as if you weren't ready to let go yet. his breath burned against your neck, hot and uneven, the weight of him all around you.

when you both came down from your high, he slid beside. chest rising and falling, heavy breaths, the smell of sex thick in the room.

part of you wanted to tell him your flight wasn't actually tomorrow, but the night after. that maybe there was time—just a little for something. but the words caught in your throat, you swallowed them down.

you slipped out of the sheets, moved slowly. he watched as you got dressed. quiet. didn't ask, didn't reach. just breathed.

he called the cab for you. not in a trying to discard you kind of way, but like someone who understood you both got what you came for. but also, who knew if he let you linger even a minute longer, it might start meaning more than it was supposed to.

might open a door to something dangerous, something neither of you were ready for.

no numbers exchanged. no kiss goodbye. just left it at that.

that night stuck with you more than it should've. you caught yourself thinking about it often. mentioned it offhand to friends. at first, they listened—attentive. but their responses dulled over time, less curious, less amused. like they'd heard it one too many times, you didn't even realize.

a part of you wondered if it stuck with him too.

it did.

[gyeomsweetgyeom]

[11:08 pm]

(cw: f!reader, alcohol consumption)

Honestly, fratboy!Jeno wasn't even sure why he'd joined a frat in the first place. He'd been told by one of his friends that it was good for networking once he entered the workforce, so he decided to join. He just had to constantly remind himself that putting up with his idiot frat brothers would pay off in the future when he was job hunting.

As a rule of thumb, he interacted with his frat brothers as little as he could. He didn't live in the frat house, he didn't really hang out at the house in general, he only attended mandatory meetings and fundraisers. Why? Well, besides the fact that he felt he lost brain cells around the brothers, he'd just much rather spend his time with you, his girlfriend.

The two of you had started dating back in middle school and he hadn't laid his eyes on anyone since. He didn't want to. He was so madly in love with you and you alone. You two had spent so long together, that now both of you were just two peas in a pod, mirror images of each other. Maybe both of you were more reclusive because you preferred each other's company over any one else's.

There were, however, a few times when the two of you would break out of your shells and let loose. At least once a semester. Nights like tonight, for example. The two of you had decided to leave the comfort of your shared apartment and join the frat for a... fourth Friday of the month party. Whatever that was. These were the nights when you and Jeno let loose, these smaller parties where the house wasn't packed with people no one had ever seen before. There was room to move around, plenty of alcohol to spare, and the music tended to be just a smidge more quiet so people could actually talk.

You had a plastic cup in your hand, making conversation with one of the guys' girlfriends when suddenly, one of your favorite songs came on. You squealed excitedly, setting your cup down before dragging Jeno to the designated dance floor area.

Jeno gripped your hips but not tight enough to to hinder your dancing. With the alcohol making you feel more loose and your favorite song blasting so loud it rattled your brain, you felt good. Your hands cupped the back of Jeno's neck as you loudly sang along to the song. Jeno laughed softly, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he mumbled along with the lyrics.

The song came to an end, but you and Jeno didn't leave the dance floor. No, now the two of you were once again lost in your own little world, no attention paid to anyone else. Just the two of you having a good time and leaving all inhibitions behind.

"Where's Jeno? I remembered that professor he was asking me about," Doyoung asked the group of his shocked frat brothers.

"I've never seen him dance. What planet are we on right now?" He heard Haechan mumble.

"The dancing is new, but bro, I've never even seen him laugh, let alone smile! Who is that?" Mark replied.

Doyoung squinted his eyes, looking in the direction where everyone was looking to fall on the sight of you and Jeno pressed chest to chest and smiling at one another. You said something and Jeno tossed his head back with an unrestrained laugh.

Doyoung smiled at the sweet sight. Even though he rarely saw Jeno, it was pretty safe to say that he was one of his favorite frat brothers. In fact, Doyoung was Jeno's Big. He thought that Jeno was smart, had a good head on his shoulders, and was a nice breath of fresh air from all the stereotypical dude behavior that constantly went down in Nu Chi Theta.

"That's Jeno's girlfriend," Doyoung answered.

Immediately Mark and Haechan whipped their heads back to look at Doyoung while shouting, "girlfriend?!"

"Oh yeah. Jeno told me that they were childhood best friends, their moms knew each other, and they were neighbors growing up. I think he said they've been together since they were 12," Doyoung replies.

"12?!" The two reply in unison.

"Is that a problem?" Comes Jeno's monotonous voice which makes everyone jump and turn in his direction. He stands beside you with his arm around your shoulders while yours is wound around his waist. Your head lays against his chest, eyes sparkling with humor as you look at the shocked faces staring back at you.

Haechan opens and closes his mouth in shock, finally sputtering, "you choose a girl over us?!"

Mark slaps his shoulder and Jeno sends him a grateful nod before turning his attention to Haechan with a blank stare, "no shit I choose her over you. Dude, you're annoying and this house is gross. I get to share a space with the love of my life and have my own bathroom that I share with one other person, not over 10 guys."

"That sounds kid of nice actually. When can we come visit?" Haechan asks.

Jeno pretends to think it over, "hmmm, how about never?"

[luvyeni]

[ req? yes / no ]

𝗦𝗖𝗘𝗡𝗘 ──── plumber! anton coming over to fix your drain …

( 対 ) lee chanyoung + fem. reader wc. 0.7k genre smut · contains! kitchen sex , oral ( f ) , unprotected sex mature content. / back to library

you were pissed , the damn plumber had been taking so long and the sink had been damn near overflowing — and the plumber? nowhere in sight. that was until you knocked on the door , you stomped over opening the door. “you’re late.” the tall boy stood in front of you. “you aren’t the normal person.” you said confused.

“he retired last week and they hired a new one.” he said. “me.” you nodded , damn he was cute. “are you gonna let me in?” he questioned , looking down at you. “oh yeah , come in.” you opened the door wider , letting him in. “it’s been stopped up for a few days , it won’t even go down.” you said , guiding him to the kitchen where the problem was. he was listening, but his eyes were also trained on your ass. “can you tell me what’s wrong with it?”

“hm?” he said, quickly remembering why he was here. “oh yeah , it’s probably food stuck in the drain , just let me have a look.” he said, putting his toolbox down , getting down on the floor to open the cabinet. normally with the other guy you would’ve let him be , but you decided to stick around a bit , and you were glad you did , watching his muscles flex as he moved around in the small space, sweat dripping down his forehead — he looked good.

“yeah there was a ton of food stuck in there , you need a garbage disposal,” he said. “they’re easy to install , i’ll have to call it in.” he said , grunting as he stood up , hovering over you , your lustful glare not going unnoticed by him. “it’s gonna take about two weeks to get here.” he said , you were not about to wait two weeks to see this man again , especially when he was standing so damn close to you right at that moment — and it seemed like he was feeling the same way. “but from the way you’re staring at me i don’t think you have it in you to wait that long for me to return.” he was now getting closer , backing you against the counter. “fuck.” he said under his breath upon feeling you pressed against him.

his hands were on your waist fast; but his lips were on yours even quicker. his hands traveling down to below your ass , lifting you up on the counter. “you’ve been eyeing me since i walked through your door.” he grabbed the waistband of your shorts , pulling them down , getting down on his knees. “such a pretty pussy.” kissing the inside of your thighs , his nose brushing against your clit. “oh fuck.” your hands tangled up into his hair as he licked your folds , it felt like he was eating like a starved man. “shit , you feel so good.”

your feet were perched on his shoulders , his big hands holding your legs open. “fuck i’m gonna cum.” he pulled away , his thumb moving to your clit , rubbing circles. “cum for me.” curling his fingers up inside you as he stood up , your legs shaking as you came around his fingers. “that’s it , good girl , cum for me.” you gasped, grabbing his wrist to stop him from moving , he smirked. “i want you to cum again.” he said. “fuck you look good , cum on my fingers again.” watching with hunger in his eyes as your eyes rolled to the back of your head as you came for the second time. “shit i need to fuck you.”

his cock stood hard; his tip red and leaking with precum. “touch it.” your hand stroking him, he hissed. “fuck.” his forehead was pressed against yours as he guided himself inside of you. “fuck you’re so tight.” he groaned as he stretched you out. “sw-swallowing my cock like this.” he moved his hips , softly pushing you down fully on the counter , lifting your shirt up. “such pretty titties.” holding your waist as he began to pound into you , watch your boobs bounce. “fuck !” you screamed , already feeling the overstimulation. “i’m gonna cum!”

“fu-fuck hold it.” he grunted , moving much faster , desperately trying to reach his release. “fuck i’m cumming , fuckin gonna cum.” both of you a moaning mess as your reached your peaks. “fuck!” he pulled out , finishing on your stomach. “fuck i’m sorry.” he apologized. “i got too carried away.” he said outta breath. “fuck i want you to do that again.” pulling at his tank top. “please fuck me again.” he took the tank top off , throwing it on the kitchen floor. “fuck you’re driving me crazy.”

you were gonna get your fill , this time and next time too.

©️LUVYENI

[onlyquinns]

hi! since it was jack’s birthday. what do you think about reader giving jack his favourite flowers (if he has one) as a gift and he’s all flustered because it’s his first time actually receiving one? aaaccckkk

jack lounges on the couch, feet kicked up on the coffee table. he giggles to himself as he watches instagram reels, tucking his chin into the collar of his dark red t-shirt.

you slowly shut the front door behind you, cringing as the hinges squeak, but he doesn’t look up. you shift the trader joe bouquet of flowers from one arm to the other, biting your lip as the brown paper wrapping crinkles. jack looks up immediately, and you tuck the flowers quickly behind your back. jack cocks his head, clocking the movement in an instant.

“what’re you hiding?” he asks, sliding his socked feet off the coffee table. he pushes himself up off the couch, and walks over to you.

“nothing!” you say, laughing. jack tries to grab behind you, but you twist out of his reach and leave his grasping at air. “jack, i promise! there’s nothing!”

jack doesn’t look convinced, a crooked smile blossoming across his face. “uh huh… for some reason, i don’t believe that.” he lunges again and you twist around, bouquet moving to your front. “c’mere!”

you squeal as you run away, circling the couch until jack freezes and goes the opposite way. the two of you end up facing off, one of you on either side of the couch. jack stands crouched slightly behind the couch, arms raised as you pretend to go left and right, flowers pressed to your back.

the two of you circle again, running through the apartment. eventually, you end up in the bedroom, back of your knees pressed to the bed and the flowers behind you. jack cackles and launches himself at you and you move the bouquet to the side, raising it high above his back so he doesn’t crush you into them.

“i got you!” he says triumphantly. “now, let’s see what you got.” jack rolls off of you and you turn to him, tender smile on your face as you present him the bouquet of flowers.

his outstretched hand stops mid air, a soft pouty frown pulling at his lips. “what… what is this?” he whispers.

you hand them to him and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, “i saw them in my way home,” you lie, knowing you’d deliberately gone to trader joe’s in search of flowers. “they remind me of you.”

jack looks down at the gentle petals, the smooth color of the peonies in his hands. he looks up at you with big doe eyes, “thank you…” he murmurs. he brings the flowers up to his nose and smiles into the soft petals, eyes fluttering briefly. “i’ve never gotten flowers before.”

you lean into him and jack pulls the bouquet away from him, preserving the flowers from being smushed between the two of you. you wrap your arms around him and he holds you back, immediately reciprocating the touch and tucking his face into your shoulder.

“happy birthday, jacky,” you whisper, and he squeezes you tighter. “my peony boy.”

[enwoso]

full circle | alessia russo x teen!reader

-> based on this prompt

grumpy masterlist

the final whistle blew, the roar of the crowd at wembley was deafening. but you couldn't hear any of it as you looked out at the crowd. england had won, the game was over.

but for you at just 18 years old, the moment was just starting. your heart was still racing, as adrenaline flooded your veins.

you could barely even begin to process what had just happened: one minute on the pitch, one perfect strike and you had scored on your debut for the senior team.

you stood in the middle of the field, your teammates swarming around you, patting you on the back as they ruffled your hair walking past congratulating you but it fell on deaf ears as you let your body go numb.

you had only been called up because of an injury to another key player within the squad. you'd been playing with the under-19s just at the weekend and now, tuesday you were here, with the senior team. you'd hadn't even expected to step onto the grass in the ninety let alone score.

the stadium lights dazzled above you as your teammates cheered. the applause and chants of your name starting to fade into a hum as your mind raced. you were still trying to make sense of what you'd just done when you heard a voice calling your name.

you were being called over for a media appearance. "y/n russo! the superstar of the game!" the anchor beamed as you approached being handed a microphone as you stood in front of the camera still in your kit, cheeks flushed with exertion and disbelief.

you just gave a shy smile, the bright lights of the camera shining in your eyes as you voice was still a little breathless, "hi"

"you look a little stunned," another one of the analyst laughed gently, "have you had second to take it all in yet?"

"oh um not really," you admitted with a nervous laugh as you tucked a stray hair behind your ear, "it still feels.. a bit like i'm dreamin’ if i'm being honest. i didn't even think i'd get to play on the pitch, just wanted to be ready if i was needed."

"and then you score a goal of that class within a minute of coming on," the anchor said shaking their head with awe, "talk us through the goal."

you smiled, eyes flicking towards the stands where your family had been, "it just sort of.. happened, i guess. the ball came through and i didn't think, i just hit it. but my mum can tell you for one that i've dreamt of that moment since i was a kid."

"well, you've given us a highlight reel moment," one of the analyst said, "and as you mention, your family what a moment this must be for them. we know your mums alessia and leah are both here in the stands tonight."

you smiled, as you nodded. "they've always been my biggest supporters, they've both been my rock and i'm glad i could repay all those years back to them with the goal."

"well," the anchor grinned glancing towards someone just off-camera. "before we let you go, y/n.. we have one more surprise for you."

you blinked, confused and then the camera panned slightly and from the shadowed your mum stepped out dressed in her usual effortless style holding a velvet box in her hand.

your breath caught as your mum walked towards you, you could tell she's been crying her mascara slightly smudged and she smiled trembling with emotion and the crowd in the stadium - many who were still in their seats erupted into a fresh cheer as they watched from the big screen.

the post-match team stepping back slightly as your mum was given a microphone of her own. the lights hitting alessia's face, eyes already glossy.

"mum?" you whispered, completely caught off guard. alessia took your hand, and for a second, it was just the two of them — no cameras, no stadium, just a mother and daughter standing in a moment they had both dreamed of.

"my lovie," alessia said, her voice carrying just enough to reach the mic, "on behalf of the england women team — and as your mum — i'm so proud to present you with your first senior cap."

alessia opened the box, revealing the red cap embroidered with gold thread. your legacy number gleaming beneath the stadium lights.

the crowd roared again as your hands covered your mouth. the team clapping on the sidelines with big grins and the camera catching leah wiping her eyes and ella with both hands on her heart with the proudest look on her face.

"this is real," your mum whispered, handing the cap to her. "you did this. and i couldn't be prouder."

you took it carefully, your fingers trembling. you didn't speak — just stepped forward and hugged your mum as tightly as you could a silent way of saying thank you.

"i love you," you whispered into your mum's shoulder. alessia kissed the top of your head. "i love you more."

the reporter, still misty-eyed themselves, gave the pair a second before returning to the mic.

"well, folks, you've just witnessed a truly unforgettable moment — the passing of the torch from one russo to another. what a debut. what a family. what a night for england."

you turned back to the camera, the cap cradled in your arms, and gave a soft smile.

"i think this might actually be the best day of my life."

—

you'd thanked the fans, waved at those cheering your names, been hyped up by your teammates and now you were heading down the tunnel. you had no idea where you family had gone but you knew they wouldn't be too far away.

"lovie!"

you turned, there was only one person who called you that still and got away with it — your mum walking towards you with the biggest and most proudest look in her face.

tears were already welling up in your mums eyes, her face radiating with pride. alessia's while she was your mum wasn't just that: she was a legend of the game and now, it was her turn to pass the torch onto you, her daughter.

"you were.. just incredible." alessia said as if it was all settling in, her voice trembling as she pulled you into a tight hug. "i knew you could do it, but you—" she broke off, her voice thick with emotion, as if she said another word she would just breakdown.

you laughed softly, pulling back from the hug, "i don't even remember what happened." you said shaking your head in disbelief the moment still not sunk in. noticing leah coming

"you've just scored for england, you've put you name in the history books!" alessia said wiping away a tear as she looked at you, then came a chorus of cheers.

the rest of you people coming down the tunnel. your grandparents, leah's family, your uncles and of course ella.

"y/n russo, no 19, debut goal scorer," leah said, her voice full of love and admiration as she carefully wrapped you in a tight hug, kissing the top of your head. "i'm so proud of you angel."

you sunk into the familiarity of it as the rest of your people came and hugged you ruffling the hair you on the head. you laughed, wiping the tears you hadn't even realised were building in your eyes as you looked around at their smiling faces. "i can't believe it," you said. "i just... i can't believe it."

near you, your grandparents were stood with such proud looks, your nonna carol the next one to wrap you into a hug. "you've always had it in you" your nonno mario proudly said as he held his arms out. "we've watched you kick a ball and reck your mums grass in the backyard but look at you now!"

"do you know how proud we are?" carol whispered, pulling you into a hug. "this is everything."

luca and giorgio were close behind, their voices louder, full of excitement. "i bagsy that no. 19 shirt! i want it framed," luca said, grinning. "this is a memory."

and from the other side of the room, ella toone appeared, giving you a dramatic hug. "how do you do that on your first game?" ella exclaimed. "you made it look too easy!"

you laughed, wiping your tears away. "i swear you scored on your debut too?"

"not a banger like that was!"

the rest of your team surrounded you, all of them smiling and clapping her on the back. the love and pride from everyone in the room was palpable. everyone had witnessed something incredible tonight—a new chapter in a legendary family's story.

you looked at her mum, your eyes full of gratitude. "mum, this... this is everything."

alessia smiled, her voice soft. "this is your moment. you've earned it."

just as you was about to say something in response, you caught sight of the cap again. the date, your legacy number embroidered in gold, it was real. and for the first time that evening, the weight of what you'd just done hit her. a wave of emotions crashing over you.

"i still can't believe it," you whispered, your voice full of awe as if you were about to wake up from a dream any moment now.

"you better believe it, kiddo," alessia said softly. "you're only just getting started."

—

after the celebrations died down, after the family and team had all trickled out of the stadium, you found yourself back in home standing outside on the back patio of your childhood home, your legs a little unsteady as the adrenaline wore off.

the night was cool, and the stars shimmered overhead. your england cap rested in your lap as you stared at it, lost in thought.

alessia stepped outside and joined you on the step, wrapping her daughter in the warmth of a fluffy blanket she'd grabbed from the back of the couch.

"can't sleep?" your mum asked, a small smile on her face.

you shook your head, your eyes still on the cap. "i keep thinking about the goal. like it wasn't even me. like it was some other version of me out there."

your mum chuckled softly. "that's called the rush. and it's the best feeling in the world."

you leaned against your mum's shoulder, finally relaxing a bit. "do you think i'll make it, mum? like... really make it?"

alessia turned to her, her eyes full of confidence. "you've already made it, lovie. you've always made it. you don't need to prove anything to anyone, especially not to me."

you smiled, the weight of the world finally lifting off your shoulders. you leaned your head on your mum's shoulder, feeling a sense of peace.

"thanks, mum... for everything."

alessia kissed the top of your head, her voice soft. "it's just the beginning. and me and mama will be there every step of the way."

and for that moment, with the world quiet around them, it was just the two of them, alessia and you, sitting together in the stillness, the weight of a new chapter in your lives settling gently around the two of you.

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

Chapter 3: Steps

Pairing: Jackson Joel Miller x Doctor Female Reader Chapter Rating: T. Chapter Summary: You've been preparing him for this moment for weeks. The exercises you help him through, strengthening his legs, rebuilding his muscles that had begun to weaken during his bedridden days. He’s been determined to regain what was taken from him, no matter how much it hurts. Chapter Warnings: HEAVY SPOILERS FOR S2E2, FIX IT FIC, pov switching, joel survives abby's encounter, injuries, healing, domesticity in the apocalypse, joel teaches you wood carving, first steps, maria seeing things before everyone else, beard trimming, so much pining and yearning (promise it pays off next chapter) Words: 4,030

A/N: It's been SO HARD staying away from smut, but the slow burn has been so fun. Though, I'm not giving too much away for next chapter.... the rating WILL turn to E. Thank you to @mothandpidgeon, @schnarfer, and @for-a-longlongtime for all of their help and plotting.

Healed Masterlist AO3 Link Masterlist

Previous Chapter

—-

He wonders how it happened. Why he survived. Why he was saved.

How, out of all the people in the apocalypse, you were the one fate chose to pull him back from the dead.

How you’ve become more than just his doctor.

How the lines between caretaker and something else have begun to blur beyond recognition.

The questions circle endlessly through his mind. Questions too large for him to hold.

He settles himself the only way he knows how to now. By looking at you.

You’re sleeping in the recliner, the same chair he used to rock alone in and wonder just how silent his life could stay, once Ellie moved to the garage. He tries to look away from you, but you look too peaceful to ignore. Your breaths come out in small puffs between your slightly parted lips, your features softened as you’re unburdened now by the weight of keeping him alive.

He thinks he’s only here because of you.

Because you never gave up.

Because you heal him every day, piece by piece.

—-

Everything feels more alive as Joel’s health improves. The days seem brighter, the sunlight shining in through the windows stretches farther across the floors, as if the beams are following his progress.

You’re learning more about him every day, as he gets better. He’s a contradiction. His gruff, sometimes intimidating exterior is a shell that holds in his gentle ways. 

There’s been a constant low thrum of tenseness since the bathing incident, neither of you have mentioned it—but there is a new kind of awareness between you.

There’s now a familiar sound of Joel’s wheelchair gliding across the hardwood as he masters navigating his home with it.

As expected, there are hiccups.

You’re in the kitchen, peeling potatoes for dinner, when a loud crash of ceramic shattering across the floor makes you jump.

“God damnit,” Joel growls from the living room.

He’s there, gritting his teeth and shaking his head as he surveys the broken lamp on the floor.

You immediately spring into action, doing what you’ve been doing for the last few months, fixing his problems. The broken lamp is quickly swept up as you reassure Joel it’s not a big deal, things like this are going to happen.

He gives you a look of understanding and acceptance, before telling you “thank you” in a low voice that sends goosebumps across your body.

Soon, Joel spends all evening in the dining room where Tommy has set up a small workshop for him to pass the time. Tiny animal figures line the tabletop, some as small as a few inches.

He sits in his wheelchair at the table, leaning forward and focused, holding a small knife, his large hands guiding the blade over a piece of pine. Wood shavings pile on the tabletop. His brows are furrowed in concentration, eyes narrowed and focused behind his reading glasses as he turns the small block of wood.

You've been watching him from your chair in the living room, too fascinated by this side of him to look away. You find yourself watching him a lot, not just to make sure he’s doing okay, but because you can’t help yourself. There’s something that mesmerizes you… The way his calloused hands move with such confidence and precision despite their size.

"What are you making?" you finally ask, getting up and moving closer to see the small sculpture taking shape in his hands.

Joel looks up his glasses perched on the end of his nose, as he turns the wood over in his palm, examining it.

"Bear," he rumbles.

“He’s so tiny. You’re really good at that.”

Joel shrugs, thumbing away a splinter. "Used to do it a lot. Before..." He doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't need to. Before. Before the attack. Before you saved his life. Before everything changed.

"Can I watch?" you ask.

He nods, gesturing to the chair beside him. You pull it closer, sitting close enough to feel the heat radiating off of his body, to smell the scent of pine and cinnamon, and something distinctly Joel.

You lean even closer and watch as Joel's hands move, the knife peeling away thin layers of wood to reveal the features of the bear.

His eyes flick up to yours, then back to his work. His knife pauses mid-stroke. "Want to try?"

The offer catches you off guard. Joel Miller, who bristles at help, who growls at vulnerability, is offering to teach you something.

"Sure.”

He pulls out another piece of wood and a small knife from a storage box next to him. Tommy must have brought his entire collection down from upstairs. Joel places them on the table, sliding them toward you.

"Here. Start with something simple. Maybe a duck."

“Oookay,” you sigh, turning the wood in your hand, unsure where to begin.

"Think of the shape, and just start. Like this," Joel instructs, demonstrating on his bear. "Always cut with the grain and keep your fingers clear of the blade."

Your blade catches the wood on your first cut. You try again, cutting against the grain, your knife skidding across the wood.

Joel watches, letting you try and fail a few times before he sets his bear down. "Here," he says, leaning a bit closer. "Let me show you."

His hand covers yours. He’s so warm. You can feel the strength in his fingers as he positions your hands on the knife.

"Hold it like this," he says. He’s so close you can feel his breath against your ear. "Thumb here, against the handle for control."

You have to tell yourself to breathe as Joel adjusts your grip. His other hand covers yours on the wood, angling it for you.

“Be gentle," he guides your hand, helping you make a smooth cut along the block of wood. "See? Let the knife do the work."

You nod, finding it difficult to speak. His hand guides yours in a slow, smooth motion, and a curl of wood peels away.

"Good," he praises when you make a particularly nice cut. "You're getting it."

He doesn't pull away. He leans in closer, watching you work. Your whole body is heating under his attention and closeness, but you focus on carving, holding the wood tight with as steady of hands as you can muster.

“Now,” he rumbles next to you, removing his hands from yours. “Try on your own.”

Curled and thin wood shavings gather on the table. Joel leans back, watching you with the almost-smile of his you’ve been seeing more often.

Soon, a shape resembling a duck begins to take shape thanks to Joel's occasional instructions.

He hums an approving noise. "Took me months to get cuts that clean. You're good with your hands.”

“I’d hope so,” you reply, without looking up from your duck. “I have to be. I'm a surgeon, remember?"

The sound that comes from Joel startles you—a chuckle. It’s the first time you’ve actually heard him laugh.

"Keep going," he says softly, nodding toward your carving. "You're doing good."

A comfortable silence settles between you and Joel as you both work together. Occasionally, he glances over, giving you a nod of approval. When you’re all done, something resembling a duck sits on the table amongst his lineup of carved animals.

"Not bad for your first try,” he admires.

You snort, trying to keep your smile at bay. “You don’t have to be so nice.”

“No, really,” he says. “Pretty good for your first try.” 

“I guess I owe you, I’ll have to teach you knitting now.”

He turns and looks at you, his brown eyes staring into yours. “You’ve already done enough for me.”

Not nearly enough you think to yourself, as you feel the tension settle heavily between you.

—-

As the cherry blossom tree outside trades its petals for leaves, Joel’s ready to walk again.

You've been preparing him for this moment for weeks. The exercises you help him through, strengthening his legs, rebuilding his muscles that had begun to weaken during his bedridden days. He’s been determined to regain what was taken from him, no matter how much it hurts.

All for these first real steps.

"Remember," you say, handing him the cane. "We're not rushing this. If it’s too much, we stop and try again tomorrow."

To hell with that.

He’s tired of not being able to help, of not being able to shoulder some of the burden of his injuries.

He’s ready.

Now, he sits on the edge of his recliner, knuckles white around the handle of the cane.

Joel grips the cane tightly. Too tightly. He lifts himself from the chair, fighting a rough sound tearing from his throat, his body trembling as he balances on his good leg.

He hates this. Hates the struggle, hates the slow progress, hates the way you hover in case he falls. Most of all, he hates the weakness. But you, he looks at you, your eyes wide, a proud smile lifting your lips. He wants to make you proud. He wants all of your efforts to be worth it. He wants to be worthy of your pride.

He takes a deep breath, his chest rising with the effort of it, then forces his left foot to move. It barely moves, but it’s just enough to send a spike of pain through his leg. His whole body protests. His knees almost buckle under the stress, making him stumble.

You’re there instantly, reaching out and helping him stabilize himself before he falls. He’s grateful for your help, but the embarrassment and frustration escape before he can stop it.

“Don’t need help,” he grunts.

You ignore him, like you always do.

"Again," he says, shrugging off your hands as soon as he's stable.

"Maybe rest a minute—"

"Again," he repeats, more firmly this time. "I've had months of rest."

His second attempt goes better. He manages three steps before needing to rest. You stay beside him, hands hovering just inches from his back, ready to support but not interfere.

"Good," you encourage. "That's it."

He’s going to make you proud, he’s going to prove to you that all of your care and dedication have paid off. It’s what gets him halfway across the room before his strength dissipates. When his balance begins to falter again, he reaches for you on his own this time, his hand gripping your forearm as he steadies himself.

“I got you,” you comfort. He doesn’t know why his heart is racing, if it’s from moving so much for the first time in months, or the way your hand runs up and down his back soothing him.

And then, he pushes off and moves again, all the way across the living room, your voice cooing soft words of encouragement to him, giving him the strength he needs.

With only five steps, he can be at the kitchen table. He pauses, breathing heavily. He’s exhausted and sweaty, but his eyes remain fixed on his destination. With a final surge of determination, he covers the remaining distance.

His free hand grips the back of a kitchen chair. Made it.

He sways slightly, catching his breath before collapsing into the chair with a deep exhale.

“Joel,” you say, a huge grin lighting your face, "you did amazing.”

He knows now why his heart is shattering against his chest… it’s all because of you. He’s made you proud, he wants to make you prouder.

"Tomorrow,” he says. “We go further.”

—-

Joel keeps his word, and he goes further every day. He moves, then rests. Moves, then rests. And so it goes.

With each new day, he adds a few more steps to his count. Always, you’re there with him, ready to help if he stumbles, yet still allowing him the dignity of trying on his own.

He struggles some days, breathing hard, stopping and resting his weight against the wall or a chair. Sometimes you notice him glancing towards you, taking in your reaction, his breathing evening whenever he sees your encouraging smile.

You fall into a familiar routine.

In the morning, you stretch his tired limbs, helping him build his muscles.

During the day, he moves as much as he can before it’s too much for him to stand. You help him settle into his bed, rubbing salve all over his aching limbs, trying hard to ignore the sound of his soft grunts before he takes a nap, letting his body and mind recover.

Lonesome Dove sits unfinished on the table next to the recliner you sleep in. Now, your evenings are spent together differently, both of you in the dining room at the table across from each other as you knit and he whittles. 

You look forward to it. The companionship. Sometimes you talk, other times it’s silent, save for the sound of his knife against the wood and your needles clicking against one another.

It’s all so domestic, so comforting.

It’s all beginning to feel like Joel’s more than just your patient.

—-

“So,” Maria begins, combing through Joel’s hair with gentle fingers, “how are things going with you and your doctor?”

He shifts uncomfortably in the dining chair she’s placed in the center of the living room. A towel drapes his shoulders, snippets of his hair falling onto it with each clip of her scissors.

“Hm?” he grunts, trying to calm his racing heart at the thought of you being called his. 

“Tommy says you’re getting stronger every day. My guess is she can move out soon.”

He tries to hide the tenseness that overcomes him.

"Move out?" The words come out sharper than he intended.

Maria's hands pause in his hair. "I mean, she's been here for months. I figured once you're mobile enough..."

Joel swallows, his throat suddenly dry. "Right."

He hadn't considered it. Hadn't let himself think about what happens after he heals. About an empty house again. About waking up without the sound of your soft humming from the kitchen, or evenings without you sitting across the table from him.

Maria resumes cutting, her voice careful. "Unless you want her to stay?"

He doesn't answer; his silence says enough.

“Joel,” she sighs. “You’re allowed to want things. To have things.”

Before he can even respond, the front door swings open, you’re lit by the bright afternoon light shining in, holding a small tote with a wide smile across your face.

“I traded a scarf for a steak!” you exclaim proudly as you make your way to the kitchen. “Biscuits and steak for dinner tonight?”

A scarf. You created something, and here you are trading it for a steak—something he can’t remember having in ages. All just for him. He wants to tell you that you didn’t have to do that, but he knows the look you’d give him. He knows you’d insist, because that’s the type of person you are.

Joel nods. “That sounds great,” his voice cracks at the end, torn between gratitude and guilt.

“Good,” you pause. “I’ll go tell Ellie, and we’ll celebrate you getting all cleaned up. Leave the chair there, I’ll trim your beard once I get the biscuit dough made.”

The smile you send him makes his heart race even faster.

He can feel Maria’s shrewd, knowing eyes flicking between him and you before she goes back to cutting his hair.

“Or she can just stay here with you,” she murmurs just loud enough for him to hear.

—-

"Comfortable?" you ask, draping the towel around Joel’s shoulders.

He nods, his brown eyes following you as you pick up the scissors. Maria’s haircut has already done wonders for him, his dark, salt and peppered waves now sit just above the collar of his cream colored button up.

“Ready?”

Joel nods. His long, scraggly beard with wiry white hairs has become unruly. Despite your combing and applying oil, it's grown into too much of a tangled mess during his recovery.

"Going to trim it first. Then shave. How do you want it?"

"Used to keep it trimmed. Not this wild."

"Like in Ellie's drawing?” you ask, tilting your head towards the fireplace.

His face softens when he looks over at the paper propped up on the mantle. "Yeah. Like that."

You nod and step closer, positioning yourself between his spread knees. All of a sudden, the living room feels too small and intimate, as you quickly realize just how close you are to Joel. You've been this close to him countless times during his recovery—changing bandages, helping him bathe, supporting him as he gained his strength—but this time it feels different. More deliberate.

"Tilt your head back.” Your fingers gently tilt his chin, positioning his head before you make your first cut.

Dark brown and silver clippings fall onto the towel and floor as you work the scissors around his face, slowly revealing his handsome face beneath the tangled wilderness of his beard.

Soon, his beard is trimmed to just a few inches long. You step back, trying not to let Joel see the way your breath catches as you take in just how handsome he is beneath all that hair.

“How’s it look?” he asks.

"G-good,” you say so low it’s almost to yourself. “I mean, a lot better. I can actually see you now.”

His brown eyes darken as they stare into yours. You clear your throat and reach for the small bowl of shaving soap you made earlier.

“I made this soap to help your skin,” you say, trying to focus on anything else besides the intensity of his gaze. “It’s made from aloe and yarrow.”

“You didn’t have to do that, I don’t need anything fancy like that.” “Your skin does,” you counter, dipping your fingers into the soap. “It’s been through enough.”

You try to hide your trembling fingers as you begin to lather the soap over his face.

Alive and vital. His pulse beats steadily against your fingertips as they glide across his warm skin. It still amazes you after seeing him so close to death.

Joel's eyes flutter closed as your fingers move through what’s left of his beard, massaging the soap against his skin.

“Feel good?” you ask.

"Hmm," is his only response, a low rumble you feel more than hear.

You rub the soap into his skin slowly, stretching out your time to be able to touch him so freely while also letting Joel melt under your touch.

“I’m going to shave you now, okay?” you say quietly as you wipe your hands on the towel.

"Hmm," he hums again, fluttering his eyes open and sitting up straighter.

You reach for the straight razor Tommy sharpened for you on the side table.

“You’re going to need to hold very still for me,” you say, your voice soft. “I don’t want to nick you.”

“Right.”

You work carefully, gently pulling the skin taut with one hand while the other guides the blade in short strokes.

You’re so focused on the razor scraping through the soap and hair, that you don’t notice how close you’re leaning in. You don’t notice the way Joel’s openly watching you, studying you, and the way you’re biting your lip as you concentrate. 

The sharp line of his jaw is slowly revealed to you. God, he’s handsome.

As you work, Joel remains perfectly still, following every instruction you lowly tell him to do.

"Almost done," you tell him, wiping excess soap from his cheek with a damp cloth.

Just a couple more swipes of the razor against his skin, and the Joel Miller from before the attack is revealed to you. The neatly trimmed beard now frames his face perfectly, lining his strong jaw. You knew he was good-looking, but he truly is otherworldly. He might just be the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen.

You swipe away the last remnants of the soap with your thumb, wanting to feel his skin against your fingertips for just a little while more.

"There," you whisper, still closely hovering over him. "Much better."

For a moment, you both remain perfectly still. His eyes lock with yours, before they drop to your lips, then back up to meet your gaze. “Thank you,” he says. His mouth is so close to your skin, you can feel his words.

You nod. "You're welcome," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. The tension is too much for you to take, finally, you pull away, and hand Joel his cane. “Why don’t you go take a look in the mirror and rinse your face off while I clean up?”

—-

He swears you can do it all. You’re a marvel. He can’t stop feeling his smooth skin. Sure, there are now a couple ridges from the new scars that lay across his face, but he’s almost forgotten what his skin felt like underneath everything. He feels so much lighter.

Once again, you’ve helped unburden him.

You’re in the kitchen, humming while you prepare dinner. Sometimes you’ll peek your head out to check on him, as he rests in the recliner with a book in his hand. Honestly, he hasn’t read a word. He’s far too busy remembering the feel of your touch against his skin, the way you bit your lip as you concentrated, how low your voice would get as you’d tell him how to move.

Seems these days all he can think of is you.

He’s so deep in thought that he nearly jumps when the front door swings open, breaking him from his reverie. Ellie breezes in, throwing her jacket haphazardly against the coat rack before she even looks at Joel.

When she does, her eyes go wide, her mouth falls open as she takes in his freshly shaved face and haircut.

“Oh shit,” she breathes. “You almost look like you.”

“Thanks, I reckon,” he replies.

You step into the living room, wiping your hands with a towel. The whole house smells delicious, he can tell you’ve been hard at work in the kitchen.

“Oh good, Ellie, you’re here just in time,” you greet. “Dinner’s almost ready. Why don’t you set the table for us?”

Ellie follows you into the kitchen without a word. 

From his chair, he can hear the two of you laughing and talking. A warmth spreads through his heart at how you’re slowly making parts of his life a part of yours. It’s a feeling he never thought he’d allow himself to want, and yet, here he is, smiling to himself as he hears Ellie’s indisputable giggle floating through the house.

“Joel!” Ellie calls out from the kitchen, "Dinner’s ready!”

He stands, running a hand through his hair that he’s taken the time to slick back before he grabs his cane, pushing himself up before moving to the kitchen. He’s getting better and better every day with it.

When he walks into the kitchen, you glance over your shoulder at him, checking to see if he needs any help, but he doesn’t. It’s hard to focus on each step as he watches you do such a simple act as brushing butter on top of biscuits. He can’t imagine not having you share this home with him.

He takes a seat at the table, resting the cane against the wall. His mouth is watering, he’s not sure if it’s from the food or watching you move around the kitchen.

Ellie plops down in the chair next to him, her eyes surveying the steak, peas, and mashed potatoes on the table.

He can’t keep his eyes off of you as you bring over a basket filled with golden biscuits. You give him a shy smile as you sit across from him.

He looks at Ellie and then back at you, realizing just how much at home he feels right now, right here.

The thought hits him then, as he sits with the two people who make him feel the most at home.

He wants you to stay… especially when you pick up a biscuit, breaking it open with your delicate fingers that he just felt against his skin. He tries hard to look away, but he can’t. You bring it to your lips, eyes fluttering closed when you take the first bite.

“Mmm,” you sigh, humming with satisfaction.

His posture stiffens as you enjoy such a simple pleasure—a biscuit. He swallows hard at the thought of making you moan like that.

He needs you to stay. 

—-

A/N: My taglist has grown too large. Please follow @whocaresposted and turn on notifications to be alerted about new chapters!

My perma tags: @forspringcleaning, @schnarfer, @mothandpidgeon

[nanamisgirly]

༊࿐ ͎. Tell me what to do, Mr(s). General ft. husband!Caleb

୨୧ — SYN. if I say that I have no idea for synopsis is that wrong? if I say it's just Caleb being a total whimpering mess under his wife during a dry humping session IS THAT WRONG????

୨୧ — cw. please is used a looot, sub Caleb, crying Caleb, dom wife, possessive wife, praising and degrading Caleb, dry humping, cumming in pants, Caleb in uniform, needy Caleb, orgasm denial (ig), hint kink for voyeurism, pussy drunk caleeeeb

୨୧ — wc. 1.9k (I enjoyed this sooo much)

˖ 𑣲 comments and reblogs are always appreciated ma girliees <333

walking like a predator toward where your pretty husband caleb is sat—on a chair you previously put in the center of your shared room, ordering him to sit the moment he came home from his shift.

you trail a slow circle around him in heels and nothing else but the outfit you mischievously picked : sheer purple mesh that hugs your waist like a vice, a deep purple thong with a satin bow that barely covers anything, and a strappy harness that cups your tits. 

sinful.

“look at you, sitting so pretty for me,” you murmur, stopping in front of him, standing in between his strong, spread legs. caleb is still in his uniform, medals catching the low light, posture straight and big round puppy eyes looking at you like you hug the stars.

that big, terrifying colonel everyone salutes is just your sloppy little husband.

you take his hat, putting in your head as you settle onto his lap, “you're going to repeat after me,” you purr, voice husky and cruel. “only listen to my general,” you drag the hat lower over your brow, covering fully your eyes so he can only focus on your mouth and the smirk curving your lips. “tell me what to do, Mrs. General.” your face leans closer to his, noses brushing, your fingers curl around the back of his neck.

caleb hesitates—just a beat—and you feel his cock twitch beneath you, thick and already straining. his fingers dig into the side of the chair, trembling with restraint since you told him not to touch.

“only—only listen to my General…” his voice cracked, needy. “tell me what to do, Mrs. General.”

“gooood boy,” you coo against his lips—hips rolling against his cock through the layers of fabric. you're practycally naked and he's wrapped in stiff military fabric, but you've never felt this powerful. and he's never looked so vulnerable.

“you wear all these stripes and stars,” you whisper into his ear, grinding down slow, torturous. you create nothing but friction between your slick cunt and the thick ridge of him under those perfect, rigid military lines. “you snap at your subordinates like you've got bite…little do they know you're pathetic for your wife.”

he gasps through gritted teeth, muscles tensing, whole body locked up under the unrelenting drag of your hips. you smirk as his cock twitches, again, and again, and again. you grind down harder—rubbing your soaked panties over his shaft, smearing everything—until his lashes flutter and his head tips back slightly until his cheeks are flushed with the prettiest shade of red. 

he chokes on your name and says, “i-i know…i'm—ngh, pathetic. . .”

he bucks up helplessly, jaw slack, hair sticking to his forehead from how hard he’s sweating. your hands push him back down by the shoulders like you’re disciplining a misbehaved pet.

“god, you’re such a slut for it,” you sneer, dragging your soaked pussy over his cock slowly. “all that bark with everyone else—but me? you’d let me ride your face in front of the whole damn base if i snapped my fingers.”

caleb's eyes fly open at your words, pupils blown wide—you're probably fucking his mind upside down right now too. because he actually wouldn't mind drop to his knees in front of his whole bigrade—tongue out, begging for a taste—just to make you moan, to let them see who really owns him.

and you notice how his whimpers just grew louder from this idea, “oh, caleb… you're dirty. y'know that?” you grind harder, slower, meaner, your slick soaking through the lace of your panties and bleeding into the fabric of his pants—his cock an angry, twitching bulge pinned between you. “you're so desperate you'd let everyone see you losing your mind over your wife's pussy, letting them see how embarassing you can get..” you bite his earlobe hard enough to let him moan. “you're just a good little toy in uniform after all, a cock that leaks and cries ridiculously.”

and he nods. he nods.

his eyes are glassy, his warm purple had been swallowed by his pupils, his lips are parted and his knuckles are white from how hard he's holding onto the edge of the chair, still not touching you because you haven't let him. even his cheeks are streaked with real tears—shame and heat knotting his gut. 

“you gonna ruin your stupid pants while i hump you like a pillow?” you taunt, licking the salt from his cheek.

“please—fuck, fuck—please, p-please—i can't…please, fuck—please..” his head lolls back, he can't align two words together—he physically and mentally can't— not when he can feel your clit deliciously dragging over his swollen tip trough both layers, the texture unbearable. his thighs keep jolting up, poor boy thinks he might accidentally fuck you through his pants if he bucks just right.

and with his head throwing back, he give you a full view on that poor vulnerable throat—his Adam's apple bobbing helpless so you lean in and bite—the hat tumbles from your head, falling to the floor as your mouth seals over his neck, sucking hard, tongue swirling around it, lips locked around the bob like it's candy.

he chokes on the noise he makes—he's so easy.

you pull off with a lewd pop, spit shining on his neck, and you grin right into his glassy-eyed face. “do you like this, caleb? like being my little cockdoll in uniform?” you grind harder, and his eyes roll back— for a second he thinks he's gonna pass out.

you tilt your head, feigning sweetness as you watch him gasping. “that's okay, baby. you don't need thoughts after all." you kiss with fake gentleness his lips. “you just need to sit there and take it like the good little pillow fuck you are.”

“god—please—please, i'm…oh fuck, please—l-lemme touch y-you, fuck—please?” caleb's whole boyd is twitching, he's trying so hard not to rut up in case you might pull back. he's waiting for you to tell him what to do. he's sure if you ever decide to pull his pants and boxers down, you'd find so much precum soaked into them it'd look like he already came :(

his dick is so painfully stiff now there's no room left inside his boxer. it's straining against his waistband, trapped and pulsing, soaking through with pre that won't stop leaking.

“you're truly pathetic..” you say calmly, almost bored. “you're panting and soaking through your uniform like a teenager…caleb, did you wear those to work? your dump little cock all strained up in your pants to the idea of my pussy?”

“n-no, i—i didn't—” he's blinking fast, trying to focus, but his vision blurs.

“oh. so you didn't think about me while you were out playing hero? or the villain?” your hips grind down again—meaner, heavier. “not even once, pretty? not once while you were out flashing your badge, big man, that you imagined crawling home just to hump yourself stupid under me?” your voice drops, “you didn't think about how good it would fell to rub that needy, swollen cock against your wife's cunt?”

“fuck—fuck i did…” he chokes, “i did, i swear—just—it won't stop—i c-can't stop it—” his whole body's coiled tight, begging for release. his cock pulses again and again, fat and rigid. and it hurts so bad now it’s almost unbearable. his boxers are soaked through, sticking to him, wet and hot and suffocating.

“gonna blow in your fucking boxers just from me grinding on you. not even touching your cock. not even letting you inside.” you snarl, leaning close. “put your hands on my hips, now.”

no matter how much you were trying to play rude, you were just as desperate as him, and you also couldn't finish if he wasn't touching you. caleb doesn't need you to repeat twice, his hands are flying to your hips—gripping hard, his face is burning, tears watering his cheeks, tongue pressed to the back of his teeth like he's trying to hold onto the last scrap of dignity he has left, muffling all the pornographic moans he's making.

“you’re gonna make a mess right in your little cop costume,” you whisper against his mouth, not kissing, just hovering. “and for what? a few strokes of my pussy on your clothed cock?” you pant, sweat dripping down your neck and caleb's gaze is locked there—tongue almost stinging out, in wants to lick it, taste every inch of you, bury himself in your skin.

“please,” he gasps, hips jolting again, “please—I don’t care, I don’t—just let me, let me cum, i’ll do anything, i’ll ruin these pants, i’ll say thank you while i’m fucking leaking, i don’t care—please—” you raise an eyebrow, mocking as he continues. “i need—fuck, i need it…i'll clean it, all of it. . i swear—mghn, just—please, please let me cum…”

your breath hitches. 

you like it.

you like him like this—shaking under you, begging like something desperate and yours. it hits you in a wave, just like always : feral, possessive, overwhelming. you need him to break underneath you, to be a mess and only for you, only because it's you.

your hips stutter. just a friction. he moans, high, and it shreds through you.

“you feel that?” you snap, grabbing his jaw and tilting his head back, your own voice shaking now. “you feel how wet i am? what you're doing to me only by sitting there and whimpering for me?” his mouth drops open in a silent cry and just as you insert your thumb in his mouth, his hips snap up with a sharp, helpless jerk. 

he's so close, he swears he can taste it.

the fabric between you is completely soaked, clinging to every inch of him—your slick and his precum smeared into one hot, humiliating mess. his purple eyes disappear behind fluttering lids, his lips sucking greedily on your thumb, his moans vibrating through your whole body. “go on,” you hiss against his cheeks, nuzzling it, “cum in your pants for me. make a mess, ruin yourself like a good boy. pour so much cum that i can feel it through my panties.”

his hands are definitely going to leave bruises on your hips from how tightly he's groping you. his hips are having a mind of their own now, rubbing onto your clit, “fuck—fuck, oh god, fuck, ‘s too good, i’m—babe, fuck—”

his whole body convulses, once, twice—and he breaks.

his cock pulses hard against you, unloading into his boxers in hot, thick spurts, so much he actually whimpers from the pressure, from the pure relief. his thighs are trembling, his stomach twitching with every wave of release, and he’s gasping through it like he doesn’t even know what’s happening to him.

his forehead drops to your chest, breath hitching, and he’s sobbing. quiet, frantic little gasps. “thank you—thank you—oh my god—thank you—” he babbles, his words melting into your skin.

you’re still grinding, just enough to keep him oversensitive, to let him feel how wet he’s made you too. your fingers slide into his damp hair pulling his head back. his cheeks are flushed and wet, his eyes swollen. “you did so good, pretty boy.” 

you press your mouth to his, just a soft peck. “so so good for me, my dear.” you let your tongue glide out, slowly, lazily tracing his bottom lip—a question.

and he parts for you immediately, no hesitation in sight—he's just open and eager to obey you. your tongue slip into his mouth, claiming him all over again—sucking his tongue between your lips in a messy rhythm. your mouths mold onto each other, wet and rough, spit glistening down your chin. 

your brows pinch together, tight with something deeper than lust and all he can do is kiss you back, sloppy and dazed, hands still gripping your hips like you're anchoring him down to reality. 

(or heaven he doesn't know at this point)

  ˶‾᷄ ⁻̫ ‾᷅˵ 

[nadvs]

ok so yk how in power play they’re gonna be apart for a while or atleast not see eachother everyday… phone sex blurb??🫠🫠🫠

like he initiates it and she doesn’t understand at first and then he guides her thru urgghhh i love them sm😭

ohhh you ATE with this idea 😌 blurb set in the power play series. FILTHY smut and lots of dirty talk. 18+!

Rafe’s deep voice buzzes through your phone as your head rests on your pillow, your bedroom plunged in darkness.

He’s telling you about his day as you play with a loose string on your pillowcase. You talk to your boyfriend every night, but no amount of calls can fill the emptiness sitting in your chest from how much you miss him.

It’s been a couple of weeks since the school year ended, and it’s been surprisingly hard to schedule time to see each other in person. You’re glad that at least you can talk like this.

“So, you had fun today, huh?” he murmurs. “I liked those pictures.”

You think back to all the photos you’d sent him from your day at the beach with your friends, mostly scenery, some shots of you in the car and on the sand.

“Wasn’t that sunset so pretty?” you say.

You hear Rafe breathe a chuckle on the other end.

“What?” you laugh. “It was.”

“Yeah, sure,” he replies. “I wasn’t really looking at that.”

“What do you mean?”

He chuckles again, staring up at the ceiling from his bedroom two hundred miles away, able to clearly picture the curious look he knows is on your face.

“I was looking at you.”

You smile to yourself in the dark.

“Really?”

“I don’t get you,” he says with a resigned sigh. “You still don’t see how fucking hot you are.”

His words make your muscles loosen, warmth filling you.

“You think I looked hot?” you say.

“Baby,” he breathes. “That one of you by the water? I got so hard just lookin’ at it.”

The warmth grows hotter and you bite your lip as you imagine how big and strong and good he looks naked, how much it spurs you on to feel his growing cock pressed against you when all you’ve done is share a couple of innocent kisses.

Thinking about it, about him being turned on from so far away with no chance of doing something about it makes the sexual frustration you’ve been feeling even worse.

“I really, really wish you were here,” you tell him, your voice dripping with longing.

Rafe smirks. After your first time together, you two were at it nonstop, the knowledge that soon you’d both be moving off of campus hanging over you.

As expected, it wasn’t enough. He craves you every hour, minute, second.

Heat pools deep in his stomach as he thinks yet again about how you looked in your photos, how much skin you were showing, how if he was there with you, he would last seconds before rushing to find a place to get you alone.

“Pretend I am,” he rasps.

“What?”

Rafe veins tighten with anticipation.

“What would happen if I was in your bed right now?”

Your core coils, breath hitching as you feel the tone of the conversation sink into something deeper, more intense.

“You know what would happen,” you say with a soft, shy chuckle, enticement and arousal tangling together deep within you.

“You nervous, baby?” Rafe teases, the smile in his voice apparent.

“I don’t know how to do this.”

“You want me to tell you how?”

“Yeah,” you breathe.

“Put your hand under your shirt,” he instructs. “You wearing a bra?”

“No.”

The simple, monosyllabic answer makes his cock press against his boxers, already so hard it hurts.

“Damn,” he exhales, strained. “Alright. Tell me how it feels.”

You palm at your chest, squeezing and pinching, shutting your eyes as you imagine him with you, doing it instead.

“Soft. Warm,” you say quietly. You swallow before you speak again. “My nipples are hard.”

Rafe can’t control himself. He lowers his hand, palming himself over his shorts, thinking about how much he loves to get your chest wet with his kisses.

“I miss sucking them so much,” he rasps.

Every inch of you tenses up with arousal, but your mind loosens, sinking into comfort as you slowly buck your hips.

“You’d be doing that if you were here,” you say, then let out a groan of frustration. “Your hands are so much bigger than mine. I can’t even pretend it’s you. I can’t touch myself the way you can.”

“That’s so fucking hot,” he breathes. “You like it when I play with your tits?”

“Yeah,” you whisper.

“You like when I get rough?” he provokes you. “Squeeze hard. The way I do.”

He can tell by the way your breath hitches that you obey.

“Good girl,” slips out of his mouth, and it makes your head spin with euphoria. “That feel nice?”

“Yes.” You swallow, your throat dry, picturing him in his bed, touching himself. “Is your hand…”

“Is my hand where?” Rafe teases, wanting to hear you say it. “Don’t be shy.”

“On your cock,” you finish your sentence, nerves radiating through you.

“Fuck, I love hearing you talk like that.”

It spurs confidence in you, a reminder of how much you get to him, of how much power you have over him.

“Answer me,” you whisper. “Is it?”

“Over my shorts,” he replies. “I’d do anything to be inside you right now. Tell me how wet you are.”

Your hand drags down your body, into your panties, your fingers pressing over your heat.

“I want you here so bad,” you shudder. “I feel like I’m dripping.”

He groans and scrambles to finally push his hand into his boxers, gripping the head of his cock, precome already dribbled out.

“I’d look at you while I do it,” he murmurs. “Like I always do.”

You picture it, his habit of locking eyes with you right as he’s pushing into you. Your heart is pounding in your ears as you trace circles over your clit, letting out soft moans that start to slowly get breathier.

“You getting close?”

“Yes,” you say, your grip growing harder. “I’m so wet my hand is slipping.”

Rafe rolls his eyes back in need, in anguish, in such painful desire. He strokes himself faster, imagining how hard he’d be pounding into you if he could.

“Fuck, baby, you’re good at this,” he whispers.

The praise makes you feel like you’re floating as the knot in your stomach tightens.

“Say my name when you come,” he tells you, drunk on the idea of being responsible for the orgasm that’s about to rush through you.

You listen to Rafe’s instructions, your voice shuddering and breathy as you whisper his name, pleasure zipping through every nerve.

He comes seconds later, the groan on the other end of the phone making goosebumps prick your skin.

His hot come covers his hand, rubbing until he’s too stimulated, eyes squeezed shut as he listens to the sound of your heavy, relieved breaths.

It takes a moment to tumble down from the high, both of you gasping, elated.

“I miss you so damn much,” he tells you, sweat glistening over his skin, his hair sticking to his forehead.

“Me, too,” you whisper through your shallow breaths. “What am I supposed to do? Cuddle myself now?”

Rafe chuckles tiredly, the lack of you cutting through him.

“Fall asleep on the phone with me,” he tells you. “It’s the closest we can get.”

And you do, satisfied, telling yourself every sleep is one day closer to seeing him again.

[postredevainilla]

Dilf!satoru getting more and more controlling of the reader and getting extremely possessive

summary: after a rare day off spent with a college friend, reader returns home to face satoru’s quiet, simmering jealousy. tension boils over when she lets it slip the friend was a guy, prompting satoru to guilt her about “abandoning” yuuji and reminding her who she really belongs to.

cw: dubcon undertones, age/power imbalance, coercion, lots of emotional manipulation, oral (m receiving), degradation, objectification, possessiveness, jealousy, parental substitution, implied loss of autonomy, reader is 20 and is called "kid", satoru is a gross dirtbag in his mid-thirties PLS read at your own discretion

summer break is supposed to feel free. weightless. but in the gojo house, with yuuji curled into your side every morning and satoru always somewhere nearby, that freedom starts to feel… conditional.

you hadn’t even planned anything big—just a quiet afternoon out with an old college friend you hadn’t seen since finals. you texted them first, made plans for coffee and maybe thrifting, then mentioned it to satoru during breakfast, careful, casual.

he said yes.

but it’s the way he said it that hangs in your chest like something heavy.

“sure,” he’d muttered, eyes fixed on his coffee, his usual teasing smile nowhere in sight. “you deserve a little break.”

he didn’t look at you. didn’t crack a joke. didn’t ask questions. and that silence said more than any sarcastic remark could.

the rest of the day, he didn’t hover like usual. he barely spoke, barely looked up from his phone. but you could feel the tension crawling along your skin—thick, possessive, quiet.

when you mentioned needing to get ready before heading out, he just nodded, slow, like he was calculating something behind those bright, unreadable eyes.

“you look nice,” he said as you slipped on your shoes by the door.

but it didn’t sound like a compliment. it sounded like a warning.

the ride to the train station was silent. you offered small talk—he gave short answers. when you reached your stop and reached for the door, his hand shot out to catch your wrist. gentle, but firm.

“be safe,” he said, finally looking at you. “text me when you get there. and when you’re coming home.”

home. that word again.

you nodded, forcing a smile. but as you stepped onto the platform and felt the breeze hit your skin, you realized something had shifted. not in the moment itself—but in the fact that, deep down, you felt guilty for leaving.

and worse?

you knew he wanted you to.

…

you come back buzzing a little after dinner time.

sunlight still barely clings to your skin, the last bits of golden hour trailing behind you as you let yourself in. the house smells like the same warm, cozy blur it always does—fabric softener, cinnamon, and a faint trace of satoru’s cologne.

you call out a soft greeting and head to the kitchen, where you find him already leaning against the counter, arms crossed, a glass of whiskey at his side.

“i’m back,” you say lightly, tossing your bag on the chair.

“how was it?”

you smile, stretching your arms above your head. “so good. it felt nice to just talk and hang out for a bit, y’know? i haven’t seen ren since we pulled that all-nighter before finals.”

the name slips before you even realize what you’ve said.

there’s a pause. heavy. cold. like the air itself holds its breath.

satoru straightens. “ren?” he repeats, too calmly.

you blink. “yeah, my friend from campus. we were in stats together. he—”

“oh. he.” that’s all it takes. the shift in his tone is instant—no sarcasm this time, no teasing. just a quiet, simmering fury that crackles behind his words.

you barely manage a breath before he’s closing the distance, his voice low and sharp.

“so, while i stayed here and took care of our son, you went out and caught up with some college guy?”

you reel back a step. “your son. and i was just gone for a few hours.”

“yeah? and what if he needed you?” he snaps. “what if he asked for his mommy and she wasn’t there?”

you freeze. “don’t—don’t call me that. i’m not—”

“you’re not- you’re not what?” he interrupts, his voice turning mocking now. “you’re not the one who brushes his hair, tucks him in, kisses his scraped knees? feeds him when he refuses to eat unless it’s you? tell me again how you’re not his mother.”

you fold your arms, suddenly defensive. “i’m his babysitter. that’s what i agreed to. that’s the job.”

“the job,” satoru repeats with a bitter laugh, like the word physically disgusts him. “right. and what, you think you can just clock out? leave for a day, come back with some guy’s scent still clinging to your shirt and act like everything’s normal?”

“i didn’t do anything wrong.”

“you left. that’s all it takes,” he says, stepping in closer. “and maybe you forgot, but i don’t like being forgotten. especially not by the girl who sleeps under my roof and takes care of my kid like she was meant to.”

there’s silence. thick. tense.

his next words cut straight through you.

“you live here. you take care of our son. you eat my food and sleep in my bed. you don’t get to run off and play pretend. this is your life now.”

you swallow hard, your heart hammering against your ribs.

and deep down, as much as it terrifies you—part of you knows he’s right.

but you should say something. push back. reassert the line between you—babysitter, employer. but the words won’t come.

because he’s looking at you like you already belong to him. like you’ve never belonged anywhere else.

he steps closer, and your back hits the edge of the counter. his hands plant themselves on either side of you, caging you in—not rough, but not gentle either. his breath ghosts across your cheek, and the air shifts, thick and electric.

“you gonna run off again?” he asks, voice low, taunting. “or did you get that out of your system?”

you swallow hard, eyes flicking to the floor. “i didn’t run.”

he tips your chin up with two fingers, forcing you to look at him. “no? you sure about that, sweetheart? ‘cause you’re standing here in my kitchen, wearing my shirt, smelling like outside.”

that teasing glint is back in his eyes, but it’s sharper now. possessive. dangerous.

your breath hitches as he leans in, his lips brushing your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth—not quite kissing, just claiming. his hand slips under the hem of your tee, fingertips skimming your bare stomach, igniting sparks beneath your skin.

“this is mine,” he murmurs, voice dark and reverent. “all of you. doesn’t matter how you try to play pretend.”

the tension between you and satoru crackles in the air like electricity, the silence heavy with unspoken words. he leans back against the counter, arms crossed, his gaze burning into you with a intensity that makes your skin prickle.

"i'm sorry," you start, the apology feeling foreign on your tongue. "i shouldn't have gone out without...without considering how it might make you feel."

satoru's eyes narrow, his jaw clenching.

he leans in to your ear, his breath hot against your cheek. "tell me, kid...did you miss me while you were gone? did you think about me at all?"

you try to move away, but his grip is too firm. his eyes bore into yours, searching, demanding.

"of course i did," you whisper, your voice trembling. "i...i missed you."

a slow, satisfied smirk spreads across satoru's face. "good," he purrs, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. "you're sorry for making me feel neglected," he continues, his voice taking on a darker edge. "so now you're going to make it up to me. get on your knees."

you hesitate for a moment, your eyes widening. but the look in satoru's eyes leaves no room for argument. with shaking hands, you lower yourself to the floor, kneeling before him.

he smirks down at you, his hand moving to the waistband of his pants. "beg for it," he commands, his voice rough with desire. "beg me to forgive you, to let you worship my cock like the good little slut you are."

you can feel the heat rising to your cheeks, the shame and arousal clashing within you. but the need to please him, to appease him, overrides everything else.

"please, ‘toru," you whimper, eyes wet, your hands gripping his thighs. "i'm sorry for leaving you, for giving you any reason to doubt my loyalty. please let me make it up to you. please let me show you how much i need you, how much i crave your touch."

satoru's smirk widens, his eyes darkening with lust. "that's more like it," he growls, undoing his belt with one hand. "now open wide and take what's yours."

you part your lips, your tongue darting out to wet them in anticipation. the first glimpse of his cock makes your mouth water, your pussy clenching with need.

he takes himself in hand, rubbing the swollen head against your lips, coating them with his precum. "this is what you needed all day, isn't it?" he taunts, his voice low and mocking. "this thick cock splitting you open, filling you up until you're drowning in me."

you moan in agreement, your eyes fluttering shut as he pushes past your lips, into the warm cavern of your mouth. he groans at the sensation, his hand fisting in your hair.

"that's it, kid," he praises, starting a slow, steady rhythm. "take every inch like a good girl. show me how sorry you really are."

you do your best to obey, your lips stretching around his girth as he thrusts deeper, hitting the back of your throat. tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you don't pull away, determined to please him.

he sets a brutal pace, fucking your face with abandon. the sounds of his pleasure fill the kitchen, mingling with your muffled moans and the obscene slurping noises.

"fuck, i'm close," he grunts, his grip tightening in your hair. "gonna fill this little mouth with my cum. gonna mark you as mine in every way possible."

you whimper around his cock, the thought of tasting him, of being owned so thoroughly, sending a rush of heat between your legs. you double your efforts, sucking harder, taking him deeper.

with a final, brutal thrust, satoru buries himself down your throat and comes with a howwl. his hot seed floods your mouth, spilling down your chin as you struggle to swallow it all.

he holds you in place, his cock twitching and pulsing as he rides out his orgasm. when he finally pulls out, you gasp for air, your chest heaving.

satoru grins down at you, a satisfied glint in his eyes. "good girl," he praises, wiping a smear of cum from your cheek. "you've proven yourself worthy of my forgiveness."

he helps you to your feet, pulling you into a fierce kiss. his tongue plunders your mouth, tasting himself on your lips.

"now," he murmurs against your lips, his hand sliding down to grope your ass. "let's go say goodnight to yuuji and go to bed. i'm not done with you yet."and as he leads you towards the stairs, you can't help but shiver in anticipation, knowing that the night is far from over.

but your independence? yeah, that's definitely over.

a/n: i feel like he would absolutely keep u from seeing ur parents.. u wanna visit ur family who live maybe a few towns over or even across the country and satorus just like. "nah. we're not doing that." he doesn't need them poking into your guys' business :/

[daeniradraconis]

can i req a auston matthews x reader where they are in a like semi-secret relationship and the whole team is at a bar dancing after a big win and they are just in their own world dancing together

Sorry darling, this took me way too long, but I hope you’re going to like this🫶

Warm and Sneaky

You’re warm from the drinks — flushed cheeks, heavy limbs, a soft buzz spreading through your chest — but your fingers are still cold. Not frozen, just that stubborn kind of chill that clings after a long night out. The bar isn’t technically cold, but the music’s too loud, your legs are aching, and it’s the kind of late where everything starts to feel dreamlike — a little loose around the edges.

And then there’s Auston.

Just standing a few feet away like it's nothing — hoodie slung over his broad shoulders, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, tattoos winding lazily over the muscle of his forearms. One hand curls around a half-finished drink, the other tucked into his pocket, like he’s settled in for the night with nowhere better to be.

He radiates warmth. Not just because of the fleece hoodie — though that oversized thing practically begs to be stolen — but because he is warmth. The kind that settles deep, that lingers. The kind of heat that feels like it was made just for you.

His skin holds the soft gold of a late July afternoon, still sun-kissed even in the dead of winter. His eyes are brown and slow-burning — the kind that melt like caramel or whiskey left too long on your tongue. His black hair is a little messy, falling over his forehead in a way that softens him further, especially when he leans in and looks at you like you’re the only person in the room.

And then there’s his body — broad, steady, the kind that makes you feel small just by proximity. Protective without trying. He’s a human furnace you want to curl up against. And you don’t even question the need to be near him — it feels natural. Instinctual. Like gravity.

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the hour.

Or maybe it’s just him.

Because even though he’s doing nothing special — just standing there, hoodie loose around his frame, that easy look on his face — your body’s already moving. Pulled toward him.

You don’t stop to overthink it.

Your fingers twitch.

And then you reach for the hem of his hoodie.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t step back. Just arches a brow as your cold hands catch the edge of the fabric.

“What are you doing?” he asks, entirely without protest.

“Getting warm,” you say, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Don’t move.”

There’s a flicker in his eyes — amusement, maybe surprise — but no resistance. If anything, he’s just waiting to see what you’ll do next. And he loves this — loves when you take what’s already yours.

So you slide your arms around his waist and duck under the hoodie from below like you own the place. It hikes up a little, your face emerging just beneath the neckline, eyes bright as you glance up at him.

The scent of him hits you all at once — clean laundry, cedar, something sharper from his cologne, and something else that’s just him. Familiar. Warm in the way memories are.

He laughs, startled and soft, his chest rising under your cheek as his arms instinctively lift to give you space.

“Jesus,” he mutters, his voice vibrating through your whole body. “You’re insane.”

“I’m freezing!”

“Your nose is freezing,” he says, incredulous. “I can feel it on my skin.”

“That’s literally the point.” You tilt your head, peeking up at him again, chin resting lightly against his sternum. The hoodie’s all bunched around you both now, like a tent. “You’re big. I like it.”

You nuzzle your cheek against him, chasing the heat, and feel the deep breath he draws in response. He’s still got that half-amused smile — the lazy one that says he’s mildly annoyed but completely gone for you.

“I’ll get you a new one,” you mumble, smug and cozy. “Since I’m clearly stealing this one in broad daylight.”

That earns a real laugh — sharp, involuntary — one of those ones that bursts out of him before he can help it.

“Absolutely not,” he says. “This is my favorite Patagonia hoodie.”

“What? Why not?” you grin, poking his chest. “I’ll get you something better.”

“You have terrible taste in hoodies.”

“I do not.”

“You do,” he insists, dipping his chin so his face is closer to yours. “You bought Willy that one that said ‘Chill Daddy’ in glitter letters.”

“It was ironic!”

“It was traumatizing.”

You laugh into his chest, the hoodie slipping further over your head as you burrow in. His hands settle against your back, anchoring you there as the two of you sway slightly where you stand.

“I’m serious,” you say, voice muffled against his shirt. “I’ll get you one from that pretentious LA store you like. With the stupid long sleeves and the tags that itch.”

“You mean Balenciaga,” he deadpans.

“Exactly! See? I know your taste.”

“I don’t want a pity hoodie from someone who wore cowboy boots with a silk skirt last week.”

“They were cute!”

“They were a cry for help.”

“Oh please — I’m not taking fashion advice from a man who wears a paperclip as an earring.”

“Right. Coming from Miss Socks-with-Sandals. Are you sure you wanna start this conversation?”

You gasp, all mock outrage, and give him a dramatic thump on the chest. He catches your hand mid-swing, lacing your fingers together without even thinking. Your hand ends up sandwiched between his and the heat of his chest, and you fall quiet for a moment.

Still tucked under the hoodie, you look up at him, eyes soft.

“You’re really not gonna let me replace it?”

“Nope.”

“Even though I’m literally inside it like a human backpack right now?”

“Especially because of that.”

There’s a pause. A long, slow beat of shared breath, close space, and that look he gives you when he thinks you’re not paying attention — the one that’s so full of quiet affection it makes your stomach flip.

“I don’t want a new one,” he says, voice low. “I like this one. With you in it.”

You break into the stupidest, softest grin, your whole face lighting up before you can stop it. You press a gentle kiss against his chest, right over where his heart beats steady and strong.

“I love you, Papi.”

“I love you too, Mami.”

---

From across the bar, the new guys are watching.

It’s not exactly intentional — more like inevitable. Because how do you not look when someone is crawling inside the team captain’s hoodie like it’s their own personal shelter?

Scott Laughton narrows his eyes, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. “Okay, am I drunk,” he mutters to Brandon Carlo, “or is she literally... inside his hoodie?”

Carlo doesn’t respond right away. He’s too busy staring. Auston’s just standing there — big and steady, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other loosely resting on your back like it belongs there. You’re fully bundled up inside his clothes, face peeking out from the neckline like this is the most obvious, casual thing in the world.

“I thought they weren’t a thing,” Carlo says finally, brows furrowed. “She’s Nylander’s sister, right?”

“Yeah,” Scott says. “Yeah, she is.”

They both slowly turn to look at the booth behind them, where the rest of the Leafs are hanging out like this is just another Tuesday. Mitch is scrolling TikTok. Morgan’s sipping his beer. William — your older brother — is chewing his dinner slowly, completely unbothered.

“Hey,” Scott says, gesturing toward the scene across the bar. “Do you guys see that?”

Mitch glances up lazily. “Yeah?”

“That’s not weird to you?” Carlo asks. “She’s practically in his hoodie.”

Willie doesn’t even look. “She’s probably just cold.”

“She’s always cold,” Morgan adds, smirking into his drink.

“No, like—” Scott waves a hand. “That’s not just cold. That’s...that’s domestic. Like I’m watching a Hallmark movie in real time.”

“They’re like this all the time,” Mitch shrugs. “Nothing new.”

Carlo stares. Auston shifts his stance slightly, adjusting to your weight like he’s done it a thousand times. Your head’s resting just under his chin now, and you look… safe. Like you’re home.

“She’s in his clothes,” Scott emphasizes. “That’s not a casual-friend move.”

“Oh no,” Morgan agrees, “they’re definitely in love.”

“But they say they’re not,” Mitch says, grinning.

“And they’re extremely bad at lying,” adds Jarnkrok, like it’s a known fact. “But they’re committed to it.”

“Wait,” Carlo says, glancing again at Willie, “you’re just... okay with it? That’s your sister, man.”

Willie finally looks up, shrugs. “She’s happy. He’s good to her.”

Scott looks back at you and Auston. Auston’s rubbing slow, lazy circles against your back now, eyes half-lidded, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. You’re tucked under his chin, arms locked around his middle, completely still — not speaking, not even moving — like the entire world has narrowed down to just this one, quiet space.

And it’s silent. Just stolen glances, the occasional flicker of a smile, and the way you sway slightly like music’s still playing just for you.

“This is crazy,” Carlo whispers, like he’s witnessing a miracle. “They really think they’re being subtle?”

Willie pops another fry into his mouth. “Oh yeah. Total stealth mode.”

“They’re not even talking,” Scott says. “They’re just... standing there. Together.”

“They do that a lot,” Mitch replies, casually reaching over to steal a piece of meat off William’s plate. “No words. Just cuddling.”

“Nobody even care anymore” Morgan adds, nodding in agreement.

“They never say anything,” Mitch says, rolling his eyes. “Ask them and it’s always—” he lifts his fingers to make exaggerated air quotes, “—‘good friends.’”

Carlo rubs a hand down his face. “This is like watching two golden retrievers try to keep a secret.”

“You should see them on road trips,” Jarnkrok jumps in again. “She joined the physio team last year, and since then, they’ve been inseparable. On the plane, she’s always the first to curl up on his shoulder or lap, headphones shared, totally knocked out while he zones out or watches game footage. When Auston’s stressed before a big game, she’s the only one who can calm him down — a quick forehead kiss or a few quiet words, and he’s ready to focus again. They grab meals together in the team hotel, swapping bites and teasing each other about their routines. She knows exactly how he likes his pre-game coffee and when he needs a break. And don’t even get me started on their hoodie exchange — it’s basically a running joke that half his merch ends up on her.”

Scott is still staring. “And you’re all just... fine with this?”

Willie shrugs again. “Auston doesn’t mess around. If it wasn’t real, he wouldn’t be touching her like that.”

Across the bar, Auston leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. You don’t even react — like it’s muscle memory. Like it’s happened a hundred times.

“Alright, this is starting to be a little too much,” Mitch grumbles, squinting like the sheer force of his disgust might shatter you two apart. “There’s cute, and then there’s I might barf cute—and we’ve definitely crossed that line.”

“Isn’t that just called love, Mitchell?” Morgan drawls, not looking up from his drink.

“It’s called unfair,” Mitch mutters. “Steph’s back in Toronto with the baby and I’m stuck here watching them make eyes at each other like nobody else exists. I feel abandoned.”

“You trying to stop them with dirty looks and it won’t work,” Mo adds. “You’ve tried, like a hundred times. They’re in too deep. It’s a lost cause.”

Willie lifts his glass, the corner of his mouth twitching with a barely-there smile. “Let them be.”

Across the bar, Auston shifts slightly, one hand resting low on your back, the other tucking more of his hoodie around your shoulders like it’s his full-time job to keep you warm. You tilt your head against his chest without thinking, lips curved faintly, eyes shut.

“I miss Steph,” Mitch groans. “She’d be gagging with me right now.”

“She’d also be filming it,” Morgan adds, “and sending it to your mom. They made some bet on when Y/N and Auston are gonna break the news.”

“How do you even know that, man?” Mitch mutters.

“Tessa’s in on the bet too,” Morgan replies, a loving smile playing on his lips as he mentions his wife.

They all glance over again.

You’re practically asleep on your feet now, swaying slightly in Auston’s arms as he rubs lazy circles into your back. His chin rests on your head. You breathe in sync.

William smiles at the sight of you. His chest swells with a quiet, proud love watching you being so safe and so loved. After all, this is all a big brother could wish for. Auston looks up from holding you and catches William’s eye. His soft smile twists into a cocky, playful grin — like he’s silently saying, Yeah, I’m lucky, and I know it. William shakes his head with a quiet laugh, the kind that holds respect and a little bit of fond amusement. No words are needed — just a shared understanding and the unspoken bond they both have for you.

[autrytonic]

big strong cowboy arthur can't get enough of his little wife?

It's so overdone but I cannot stop reading and writing this trope over and over again.

Content below the cut (18+/MDNI)

The Exception

Arthur is a big man.

You’ve known it since the moment he first stood over you with those storm-colored eyes and that low, gravel-scraped voice.

But being his wife? That’s when you truly start to feel the weight of it.

The way his broad chest wraps around your back at night, how his hands span your waist like you’re something delicate and warm he don’t ever want to let go of.

Sometimes, while you’re just going about your day—folding shirts, sweeping the floor, tending to stew—and next thing you know, he’s sliding up behind you, palms already spread over your hips, voice thick with heat as he says, “Ain’t a damn thing in this world as pretty as the sight of you just bein’ mine.”

He’s addicted to how petite you are against him. The way your head fits right under his chin when he pulls you in close. How your thighs fall apart with the slightest nudge from his knee.

He teases you sometimes; pulls you up off the floor like you weigh nothing, tosses you over his shoulder just to hear you squeal, but there’s nothing mean in it. It’s reverent. You’re his, and Arthur don’t take that lightly.

When you sit in his lap, he wraps his arms around you like he’s shielding you from the whole goddamn world. He kisses your temple, your neck, your shoulder, even the tips of your fingers if he’s feeling tender. “Ain’t never get tired of this,” he mumbles into your skin. “You feel too good, darlin’. Too goddamn sweet.”

In the quiet hours, when it’s just you and him and the rustle of canvas around your tent, Arthur becomes a man of fewer words, but a hell of a lot more feeling.

He strips you soft and slow, calloused hands glidin’ over your curves like he’s afraid you might vanish if he’s too rough. Not that he always holds back. Not when he’s buried deep and groaning your name against your throat, saying how tight you are, how good you take him.

He’ll press your wrists into the mattress, kiss the corner of your mouth, then look you straight in the eye and murmur, “You were made for me, weren’t you, pretty thing?”

He’s not shy about how much he wants you, either. Sometimes he’ll come back from a job dirty and bruised, still pull you into his lap like you’re the only thing that’ll make the ache go away. You’ll straddle him, lips barely grazing, and he’ll say it with a growl, “Don’t care how tired I am. I need you. Just like this.”

And when you give in, when you start to grind, when you whisper his name and tug his shirt off over that broad back; he’ll lift you up and carry you to bed without so much as a breath between. Like having you is as natural as drawing breath.

Arthur don’t worship nothin’. Not money, not a god, not Dutch Van der Linde’s dream. But you? You, his sweet, fierce, little wife? You’re the exception.

[heartsforjh]

𝕗𝕣𝕖𝕖𝕕𝕒𝕪

pairings: jack hughes x fem!reader

warnings: pretty much just pure fluff and the fact that it’s my writing 🥀 not proof read! i wrote this so late last night, and i’m incredibly sick rn so it might not be the best. i just wanted to put smth out there!

word count: 1.4k

summary: reader has an idea to make jack’s birthday a little more interesting.

a/n: i think y’all knew this was coming. this is a post for jack’s birthday! i’m aware it’s may 16th rn, but who am i if not posting things late?

“Gosh. I’m so old now,” your boyfriend groans, rubbing the side of his face.

He’s just woken up on his twenty-fourth birthday! He’s not even out of bed yet before complaining about the new age he’s been saddled with. 

You giggle, reaching down from where you’re sitting up in the bed, and grabbing his hand off of his face. “Right?!” 

“Hey! What? You’re not supposed to agree,” he frowns, gently caressing the back of your hand with his thumb. 

You press a soft kiss to his knuckles. “Well, I am… unc.” 

“Alright. See, that’s what we’re definitely not gonna do,” he chuckles, pulling you back down to lay on him. 

You quickly pick your head back up. “It’s okay to be old, honey. Embrace it.” 

“Oh, you’re so funny, aren’t you?” he lteases. 

You smile, proud of your quips. “I like to think so. Besides, I’ve got an idea to cheer my old man up while he’s coming to terms with this horrible realization.” 

“Yeah? What’s your idea, baby?” he asks, yawning as he finishes his sentence. 

You yawn immediately after, shooting him a glare. He just laughs and you decide to move on peacefully this time. You’re actually quite excited for this idea you’ve thought up. 

“You know how restaurants offer free items for birthdays?” you start, making sure he’s paying attention. When he nods, confirming that he’s not too tired to follow along, you continue. “You could try to just… survive off of that for the day.” 

“That sounds fun. That’s a lot of fast food though, no?” he asks, raising his eyebrows at you. 

You knew he’d say something about that. “Well… sure, babe, but it’s summer time! Plus, it’s just for one day! I think you’ll live!” 

“You’re right. Let’s do it,” he says, sitting up. 

Your face lights up, and you swiftly get off of the bed. “Yes! Thank you! I can’t wait!” 

“IHOP, baby. This stuff is so good. You can get free birthday pancakes,” you tell Jack, holding your phone with the directions pulled up. “Okay, make a left and then you should see it.” 

Jack smiles at your excitement, and soon you’re pulling into the restaurant. The two of you enter, hand in hand, and the waitress sits you in a booth. 

“What are you gonna get, baby? You won’t be able to get free pancakes,” Jack looks at you curiously. 

You smile at him being so considerate, but you’ve been planning this out for a while. “Don’t worry about me. I know exactly what I want.” 

When the waitress comes back, you place your orders of drinks and food. The majority of the wait for it to come out is you just rambling while Jack is tiredly listening. 

The food comes out in a decent amount of time. Jack’s eyes widen, seeing the large pancake stack being set in front of him. 

“Wow, babe! Look at this! It’s huge!” he laughs, cutting into it. 

You eat your own meal while watching him excitedly tear into his pancakes. You don’t think you’ve seen him this pumped in a while. Who knew a fun, free breakfast would do this for the birthday boy? 

You and Jack have since gone home with full bellies. You took an incredible nap together, and are now just chilling in bed, watching a movie. Your head is laid on his chest as he gently rubs his hand up and down your arm. 

“So, babe… what’s for lunch?” Jack breaks the silence. 

You smile, glancing up at him. “You’re hungry again?” 

“Hey. Don’t judge. I’ve got a big appetite,” he pouts. 

“I’m not judging!” you sit up, looking down at him. “How hungry are you?” 

He thinks for a moment. “Kind of just want a snack, but I don’t think there’s a way to just get something little, is there?” 

“No, we can! We could go to the Auntie Anne’s that's in the mall and get a pretzel. They offer that on birthdays,” you suggest. 

Jack’s eyes light up. “Oh! Yeah! Pretzels are my favorite. Let’s go do that.” 

You and Jack arrive at the mall, entering hand in hand. You get to the food court, and you guys order. 

Once your food comes out, you suggest another idea to Jack. “Do you want to shop around?” 

“Good idea. Let’s go see if they have hockey cards,” he says, already having taken several bites from his pretzel. 

While the mall did have hockey cards, Jack was not satisfied with the ones he got. He’s pretty much been sulking the entire time since you got home over his three Quinn Hughes pulls.

“I’m sorry you got no cards of yourself, honey, but maybe dinner will cheer you up,” you offer, trying to lighten the mood after a good chunk of time has passed. 

He looks over at you from where he’s standing at the kitchen island, messing with all of the gifts he just opened from you. “Yeah, maybe. Where are we gonna go?” 

“Red Robin gives birthday people a free burger!” you smile. 

Jack looks up, and immediately smiles when he sees yours. “Okay. I’m down. Let’s do it.” 

The two of you arrive at the restaurant and find a booth, sliding in across from each other. The day is starting to end so you really want to make sure Jack has had a good one. 

Again, you place your orders and wait. “So, J… have you had fun?” 

“What? Like today?” he asks, but doesn’t give you the chance to answer before he’s moving on. “Yeah, of course. It’s been great. I got to hang with my pretty girl, and eat all kinds of different food. Every guy’s dream, yaknow?” 

“I actually didn’t know, but that is good to hear. I’m glad,” you laugh. 

Jack chuckles with you. “Thank you so much for this day, babe. You made it special. I guess it’s not so bad getting this old.” 

You playfully roll your eyes at his dramatics. “Mind you, you just turned twenty-four.” 

“Ouch. Why would you rub it in?” he says, feigning hurt. He’s even got his hand on his chest, clutching his pearls. This guy. 

Although corny, you can’t help but laugh at his stupid jokes. 

“You’re fine,” you shake your head. “No grey hairs yet!” 

He does that cheeky little smirk to himself, and you just know he’s got something to say. “Key word—yet. It won’t be like that for long if I keep you around.” 

“Oh! If you keep me around?!” you point out, eyes wide. 

“No, no. Not what I meant!” he panics a little, but when he notices your silent giggling at his expression, he relaxes. “You’re so mean to me.” 

“I’m mean, but you’re the one implying that I’m not even a permanent part of your life,” you counter, raising your eyebrows at him. 

He frowns. “Okay, okay. Let’s stop. I don’t like these jokes. I love you. You’re stuck with me forever. I promise, I am not letting you go anywhere.” 

“I’m not gonna lie, that sounds a little crazy. I love you too, though!” you say, patting his hand. 

Your gesture makes Jack laugh… again. “I’m glad you're willing to look past the crazy, cause I meant it. You’ve got no choice but to stick around.” 

You shoot your boyfriend a look, completely amused at his word choice. Soon, the food arrives at your table and the both of you dig in. 

When you’re all done eating, you opt to drive on the way back home. After a lot of disagreement, Jack does eventually comply. However, he’s clearly been moping since the very second he reluctantly handed you the keys. He claims it’s his “job” to drive you everywhere. Nevertheless, he’s got to deal with it. You have one last place to stop. 

“Why are we here?” Jack asks, looking out the car window at the big Baskin Robbins sign. 

You look at him with a small smile. “Free ice cream.” 

“Oh, no way! They do that?!” he asks, his face telling you that he’s thrilled. 

You just nod, shutting off the car. “Mhm.” 

“Ah… this is so unhealthy, though, isn’t it? Pancakes, pretzels, burgers, and now ice cream,” he goes down the list of foods you’ve treated yourselves to today. 

You lean back in your seat, watching as you can see the gears turning in his mind, trying to think this through. “Kind of, but you probably need to bulk up anyways. It won’t hurt nothing.” 

“I’m just saying, I’ve got a diet to maintain here,” he quips. 

You look at him, dumbfounded at his sass, and ability to argue about anything. “It’s the offseason! Do you want cool birthday dessert or not?!” 

“Good point,” he grins, unbuckling his seatbelt.

tags: @beenucks @nic0-hischier @puckmedude @joesnumerouno @alex-wotton @puckfics @editzcp @r0wdymaize86 @macklin-celebrini-71 @quillycrow @rainyvalentines @alwaysclassyeagle @ruinix @greensnakegobblep @whitegirlsworld @dancerbailey3 @cheesecakeinahole @hwalllllllelujah @alexxavicry @minhaimaginacao @chaoticallymessy13 @puckinghockeygirl @camillyb @sweetophillia @kell9rs @jooniezstarz @bunbunbl0gs @macka @voidvannie

join the taglist here! :)

[bucketgetter535]

No Margin for Error: Chapter Ten

CW: Mild-ish sexual content?

WC: 6.1k

Notes: if only Ferrari was really this good…

Baku had come and gone.

The street circuit under lights had delivered all the chaos it was known for, and still somehow, it had settled into something nearly predictable. McLaren had been fast. Too fast, if Azzi was honest with herself. Their top-end pace on the straights made overtaking miserable, and their tire degradation had somehow improved overnight. Still, she’d salvaged third. Paige fourth, less than a second behind. Neither of them thrilled, but no damage done. Ferrari still led the constructors’ standings comfortably, and Paige still had a grip on the Drivers’ Championship.

It wasn’t a bad weekend. Just a loud one.

Now they were thirty thousand feet above the ground, somewhere over Central Asia, heading toward the relentless humidity of Singapore. And Azzi, feet tucked under her on the cream leather couch of her jet, was deeply regretting letting Luka and Mateo talk her into this.

Well, not really. She’d offered.

“You’ve never flown private?” she’d asked them after the race, eyes wide with genuine disbelief.

Luka had shrugged like it wasn’t that big of a deal. “Never needed to.”

Mateo had grinned. “We’re team players. We suffer with the staff.”

Azzi had rolled her eyes, already texting her flight manager.

Now they were here. Luka was sitting backward in his chair, ankles crossed on the armrest like he owned the place. Mateo was three snacks in and holding a banana like it was a mic.

And Paige was seated across from Azzi, legs stretched out, hoodie sleeves pushed up to her elbows, looking more relaxed than she had since Baku qualifying. At least until Luka started squinting at her.

“So,” Luka said, his voice filled with the kind of faux-innocence that immediately made Azzi want to groan. “How was New York?”

Azzi looked up from her phone slowly. “Fine.”

“Fine,” Mateo echoed, like a parrot with a PhD in sarcasm. “Totally random dinner in the same restaurant, same table, same neighborhood, at the same time.”

“Wild coincidence,” Luka added, flipping his phone around to show a photo. “This viral shot disagrees.”

It was the picture from dinner. Dimly lit but sharp enough to see how close Azzi had leaned in. How Paige’s hand had been on the back of her chair. It had hit TikTok mid-week and was still racking up edits with soft piano music and increasingly romantic captions.

“Okay,” Paige said, trying not to smile. “People eat.”

“In the same city?” Mateo asked. “On the same night?”

“We’re coworkers,” Azzi said, deadpan.

“Who fly private together,” Luka offered. “And also disappear at parties together, according to this thread.”

He flipped to another screen. Azzi caught a flash of Dirk’s smug face in one of the photos and looked away before her mood could turn.

“It’s not that deep,” Paige muttered, but the back of her neck was pink.

“No, no,” Mateo said, holding up his banana-mic. “We’re just engineers asking questions.”

Azzi cracked then, covering her face with one hand and laughing despite herself. Paige leaned back with a groan, pulling her hood over her eyes like it might protect her from the onslaught.

They weren’t mad about it. Not really. Just caught. Sort of. Not that there was anything to catch.

Sort of.

“So,” Mateo said after a beat, tossing the banana peel into the trash bin behind him. “Big weekend coming up, huh?”

Azzi nodded. “Singapore’s a good track for us. Hot. Technical. Tight corners.”

Luka tilted his head. “And after that?”

Azzi smiled, folding her hands behind her head. “Austin.”

Her mood shifted warmer at the thought. “My family’s flying in. Parents, Jon, José… even the baby cousins might show if my uncle can figure out how a plane works.”

“Serious crew,” Luka said.

Azzi nodded. “Haven’t seen them since Miami. They’re loud and sweet and will eat like twelve thousand funnel cakes.”

“You hyped?” Mateo asked.

Azzi looked at Paige, who peeked out from under her hood.

“Yeah,” Azzi said. “We both are.”

Paige nodded. “I love the U.S. GP. And I think my dad and Drew are coming to Vegas in November.”

Azzi smiled. “Tell your dad he owes me a rematch in cornhole.”

“I won’t,” Paige said. “He’s still pretending it never happened.”

Luka leaned over and stage-whispered, “So we’re going to pretend this whole flight isn’t basically a Ferrari honeymoon?”

Azzi picked up a pillow and chucked it at him.

–

Singapore was a furnace.

Not the dry, blistering heat of southern Spain or the sunbaked stretches of Silverstone. This was suffocating. Dense. Sticky. Every step outdoors felt like walking through a pot of simmering soup. Even indoors, with air conditioners on full blast, it seeped into the walls, the floorboards, the threads of your clothes.

Azzi hated it.

Or…she didn’t. The city was beautiful. Flashy. Clean in the way ultra-rich cities were. She and Paige had landed a few days early, with Ferrari’s blessing. The travel time back to Italy or the States just didn’t make sense. Too many flights, too many layovers. Too much stress on their bodies, their heads, their sleep cycles.

Better to just land and wait.

So they waited. Spent mornings at the pool and afternoons slipping between meetings and film review. Nights were quiet. Or they were supposed to be.

It was just after 2 a.m. when Azzi gave up on sleep.

The ceiling fan wasn’t helping. The hotel AC unit might as well have been wheezing its last breath. Her sheets clung to her legs like plastic wrap. Her hair stuck to the back of her neck. She turned, then turned again, then flipped her pillow over like that would make a difference.

It didn’t.

And her thoughts—well, they weren’t helping either.

They never did when Paige was two floors below her.

Eventually she sat up, kicked off the sheets, and pressed her bare feet to the cool tile. She pulled on a pair of loose shorts and a tank top. Nothing crazy. Just… Singapore clothes. Weather-appropriate.

It was only when she stood in front of Paige’s hotel door, barefoot and sweaty and half sure she was about to get laughed back to bed, that she hesitated. But her knuckles knocked before her brain could stop her.

She heard movement. Then a click. The door cracked open, revealing Paige, eyes shadowed, hair messy, and very much not asleep.

She blinked at Azzi once. “What are you doing here?”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Why are you awake?”

Paige leaned against the doorframe, one hand braced overhead. She was in a black racerback tank and boxers, the fabric darkening slightly with sweat along her collarbone and under her ribs. Her skin glowed, dewy from heat and maybe something else.

Azzi’s mouth went dry.

“I was watching race film,” Paige said, casual, like she wasn’t standing there looking exactly like a Nike photoshoot for trouble.

“At two in the morning?”

Paige gave a small shrug. “It’s hot. Couldn’t sleep.”

Azzi crossed her arms and shifted her weight. “Same.”

A moment passed. Not tense, exactly. But… loaded. Paige was still in the doorway, still sweaty and barefoot, and looking at Azzi like she could read every reason she’d come down here that had nothing to do with heat.

“Wanna come in?” Paige asked, stepping back.

Azzi followed, brushing past her, skin sparking at the near contact. The room was dim. Cool, by comparison. Paige had one of those portable fans humming near the bed, and the curtains were drawn to trap the dark.

Azzi flopped onto the edge of the bed like she belonged there. Paige sat back down in the chair she’d pulled up near the window. Her laptop was open, paused on a corner-speed breakdown from Baku.

“I wasn’t lying,” Paige said, tapping the spacebar and letting the screen go black. “I really was watching film.”

Azzi let her head fall back against the pillow. “I didn’t say you were lying.”

Paige stretched her arms over her head, slow and long. Her tank shifted with the movement, revealing a flash of toned stomach, the low swoop of her hip. Azzi looked away. Tried to, anyway.

“You want water or something?” Paige asked.

“Water would make it worse,” Azzi said. “I’d just sweat it out.”

Paige smirked. “True.”

Another pause. The fan whirred.

Azzi rolled to her side and studied her. “You really couldn’t sleep either?”

Paige glanced over. “I’ve been thinking a lot.”

Azzi’s stomach flipped.

“About?”

Paige tilted her head. “Life.”

Azzi snorted. “You’re gonna get all vague now?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Paige’s mouth, but it didn’t fully land. “You ever feel like the heat makes you think too hard?”

Azzi nodded. “Too much sweat, not enough oxygen.”

“Exactly.”

She stood again, walked over, and grabbed the second pillow off the other side of the bed. Tossed it to Azzi without asking.

Azzi caught it. “I’m staying?”

Paige met her eyes. “Do you want to?”

Azzi didn’t look away. “Yes.”

Silence again.

The tension, sticky like the air, settled in again between them. Thicker now. Not new, but no longer brushed off as nothing. Not in this room. Not after New York. Not after the jet rides and the teasing and the way Paige had said her name during comms last race like it meant something more than just race craft.

Paige sat on the other side of the bed. Not touching. But close.

Too close.

Azzi exhaled. “I didn’t come down here to start anything.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

She turned her head. Paige was already looking at her. Hair sticking to her temple. A faint glow across her chest where sweat caught the moonlight.

Azzi wanted to look away.

She didn’t.

“Still hot,” Paige murmured.

Azzi nodded. “Yeah.”

Paige reached for the remote and clicked the fan up a notch. The air shifted slightly, not enough to matter.

Azzi laid back again, one arm thrown over her eyes.

“If I sleepwalk into your lap it’s because you’re cold,” she muttered.

“I’m not cold.”

Azzi peeked out from under her arm.

Paige’s eyes were still on her. Unmoving. Unapologetic.

Azzi swallowed, pulse loud in her ears.

“Well,” she said softly, “you’re cooler than me.”

Paige didn’t respond.

But she didn’t move away either.

Paige knew what Azzi was here for at 2 in the morning. Though, Azzi had been feeling it for a while at this point.

It had started hours ago, maybe even before she knocked on Paige’s door, when she sat restless in her bed, pretending it was the heat that had her peeling off layers and twisting in the sheets. Now, in the dim quiet of Paige’s hotel room, with the fan kicking up warm air and the curtains drawn tight against the city glow, Azzi could feel that low, pulsing certainty settle in her chest:

She hadn’t come here to cool off.

Paige knew it too.

She lay next to Azzi now, close but still not touching. The kind of distance that a deep breath could erase. Azzi turned her head, slowly, and found Paige already watching her. No hesitation. No teasing smile. Just that steady, quiet focus that always made Azzi feel like she was under a microscope. As if Paige was learning her in real time, one heartbeat at a time.

Paige reached out first. Just a hand, brushing soft along the edge of Azzi’s wrist. Barely a touch.

Azzi let out a slow exhale. “So much for staying cool.”

A hint of a smile tugged at Paige’s mouth. “I said I wasn’t cold.”

Her voice was lower now, sleep rough in it. Or maybe not sleep.

Azzi shifted closer, until her thigh brushed Paige’s. Her skin buzzed at the contact. Paige’s breath caught, and Azzi felt it, that tiny shift in air between them, like gravity had tilted in their direction.

They’d done this before.

But not like this.

Not with something real and fragile humming underneath. Not with a promise quietly blooming between touches.

Azzi rolled onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow. “You gonna let me kiss you, or are we still pretending this is about sleep?”

Paige’s eyes flicked to her mouth. “I’m not pretending anything.”

Azzi kissed her.

It wasn’t rushed. It didn’t need to be. There was no urgency, no scramble. Just warmth, and closeness, and the soft hum of a fan cutting through the heat. Paige’s hand found Azzi’s hip, steady and sure, and pulled her closer.

She fit there like she always had.

Azzi felt Paige’s fingers trace along her spine, slow and deliberate. Her skin prickled in response. She deepened the kiss, let herself settle into it, let herself feel everything. The softness of Paige’s lips, the low sound she made in the back of her throat when Azzi kissed her jaw, the way her hands didn’t rush but held like she meant it.

This wasn’t a secret, not here.

Azzi felt safe in this room. Hidden. Honest. She didn’t need to perform, didn’t need to hold back.

Paige rolled them gently, shifting to hover above her. Her hair fell around her face, catching bits of light. She looked down at Azzi like she was studying a map, trying to remember all the familiar landmarks.

Azzi’s chest rose and fell, slow and even.

“You good?” Paige asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Azzi nodded. “You?”

“Of course.”

–

Azzi was not a morning person.

She could pretend, sometimes, when cameras were waiting or sponsors needed her bright-eyed and branded. But this morning (body humming and thighs still comfortably aching) she was no actress. She rolled out of Paige’s bed with a wince and a grin, the sheets warm and tangled, the air still heavy with Singapore heat and something softer. Something that lingered in the pit of her stomach like a secret.

Paige was already up, sitting at the edge of the bed with her long legs stretched out and a bottle of water tilted lazily toward her lips. She glanced over when Azzi groaned softly, twisting her torso with the ease of someone who knew exactly what she’d done last night and wasn’t sorry about any of it.

“Meeting in thirty,” Paige said, her voice dry but amused. “Fred.”

Azzi sighed. “God. Do you think he knows?”

Paige’s brow arched. “He’s French. He definitely knows.”

They arrived ten minutes late, hair still slightly damp from rushed showers, Azzi in a loose ribbed tank and oversized linen pants, Paige in a plain black tee and joggers, fresh-faced but unmistakably guilty of something. The meeting was already in motion when they slipped into the cool, air-conditioned conference room tucked into the back of the paddock hospitality suite. Fred sat at the head of the table, glasses pushed high on his nose, flanked by two PR officers and an assistant who looked entirely too caffeinated for the hour.

Fred didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at them. A long, pointed look.

Then: “Do I want to know why you’re late?”

Azzi blinked. Paige said, “Probably not.”

The younger PR rep cleared her throat. “So. As you both know, a photo surfaced earlier this week. From New York.”

Azzi fought the urge to smirk. The photo in question had gone viral within hours. Her leaning back in her chair at the candlelit restaurant, mid-laugh, Paige in a black button-down across from her, arm resting casually close, eyes on Azzi like she was the only person in the room. Which, for Paige, she probably had been.

It was a good photo. Too good.

The rumors had been relentless.

“Obviously, the speculation is getting traction,” the older PR manager added, flipping through a folder of printed tweets, headlines, and one particularly bold Instagram comment that read simply: “Hard launch when??”

Fred tapped the table. “We need a plan.”

“Plan for what, exactly?” Azzi asked, even though she already knew.

The younger rep tried to be gentle. “The public is making assumptions. And if you don’t control the narrative, they will.”

Paige leaned back in her chair. “What narrative are we supposed to offer?”

“A distraction,” the older one said. “Or a clarification. Or ideally both.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “So, what—lie?”

They both looked briefly uncomfortable before the younger one said, “Well… more like shape.”

Fred finally chimed in again, steepling his fingers. “We don’t need a scandal. We need focus. You’re one and two in the championship. Ferrari is winning. We cannot afford the headlines to be about dinner dates and who is or isn’t sleeping with whom.”

Azzi didn’t flinch. She’d known this was coming. She just hated that it was happening in a cold room with fluorescent lights and lukewarm espresso cups.

“So, what’s the best option?” Paige asked. Her voice was calm, but Azzi knew her well enough to catch the flicker in her tone. She was annoyed. Bracing.

The rep didn’t miss a beat. “Option one—one of you is seen with a guy. Someone safe. Familiar. Maybe even someone we’ve used before. Dirk van der Meer’s name came up—”

“No,” Paige said, sharply.

Fred raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not doing that again.”

Azzi stayed quiet, but her lips pressed into a thin line. Dirk had been a necessary evil once. A blurry summer and a PR contract and a few half-hearted smiles for the camera. Paige hadn’t spoken to him since. Didn’t want to.

“Option two,” the older rep continued, “we release a statement. Neutral, minimal. Just something to dispel the noise without denying or confirming anything.”

“So basically saying nothing,” Azzi said.

“It lets the moment pass,” Fred said. “Without adding gasoline.”

“And if we don’t do anything?” Paige asked, even though she knew the answer.

The rep’s silence was enough.

Azzi ran a hand through her hair. The AC was too cold. Her body still ached pleasantly from the night before, but now her stomach was twisting. Not with regret. Just frustration. She hadn’t done anything wrong. Neither had Paige. But the world they lived in, the one with contracts and sponsors and publicists who printed Instagram comments, wanted neatness. Stories they could sell.

“I’m not fake-dating Dirk again,” Paige repeated, quieter now. Firmer. “I’d rather the rumors keep flying.”

Fred nodded slowly. “Okay.”

That surprised both of them.

“But no stunts,” he added. “No more dinners in candlelight restaurants that look like Vogue covers.”

Azzi couldn’t help the smile. “So rooftop burgers it is.”

The older rep pinched the bridge of her nose.

Fred stood. “We’ll manage it. Just keep your heads down until Singapore’s over. We’ll reassess before Austin.”

Paige was already half out the door.

Azzi lingered for a beat, then glanced back at the table.

“Just for the record,” she said, tone light but words clipped, “I’d rather be caught kissing someone I actually like than pretending to be straight for a sponsor.”

Then she left, leaving the PR team in stiff silence and Fred wearing something almost like a grin.

–

Azzi found Paige later that night where she always went when things didn’t sit right—perched on the edge of the hotel’s rooftop terrace, eyes scanning the city below like she could read the skyline for answers.

Singapore at night was golden and electric. Air thick as syrup. Every surface radiated heat even long after sunset. But Paige was still in the same black tee from the meeting, legs folded up on the lounge chair, jaw tight and unreadable.

Azzi didn’t say anything at first. She sat down beside her, letting the silence settle between them like steam.

“It’s not like I didn’t expect it,” Paige said finally, without looking over. “The photo, the reaction, the PR scramble… it’s all part of the game.”

“But it still sucks,” Azzi offered.

Paige glanced at her then. Her expression wasn’t hurt exactly. Just tired. “It’s just not fair, you know?”

Azzi nodded. She did know.

They both sat with it for a moment—what it meant to be watched, packaged, speculated on. What it meant to choose someone in a world that kept asking you to pretend.

Then Azzi shifted, tucking one leg underneath her. “Can I ask you something?”

Paige shrugged. “Sure.”

Azzi hesitated. She hadn’t meant to bring this up tonight, but something about Paige’s quiet stillness made the moment feel right. Like this was a story that had been waiting for a quieter hour.

“Why’d you do another year of F3?” she asked. “You had F2 offers. Everyone knew that. Hell, I got pulled up halfway through my F3 season and dumped into F2 for six months, then almost straight into F1. But you did two full seasons.”

Paige’s brows lifted, caught off guard. “That’s what you’ve been wondering?”

Azzi smiled faintly. “Well, I thought maybe you were being strategic or something. But it always felt a little off.”

Paige was quiet for a long moment. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, fingers picking idly at the edge of the chair cushion.

“You probably already know this,” she said at last, not looking up. “But I didn’t finish the F3 season.”

Azzi blinked. “After I got moved up?”

Paige nodded. “Yeah. That was… sort of the beginning of the end.”

She let out a breath, more weight than air.

“I mean, on paper, I was still on the team. Still under contract. But I didn’t race again. I had this whole… thing. A moment, I guess. Or a breakdown, depending on who you ask.”

Azzi’s heart tightened. She hadn’t known the details. Not really.

“I was seventeen,” Paige said, voice low. “And I was so burnt out. I’d been pretending like I was fine, like I could handle all of it. But then you got pulled up to F2, and it was like… suddenly the bar changed. And I was still there, still grinding in the middle of the pack while they were talking about the next season like it was already decided.”

She swallowed.

“I called my mom. Thought I was calling her to vent. But I just lost it on the phone. I was crying or whatever about contracts and performance clauses and how I didn’t even know if I wanted any of it anymore. And she… did what moms do. She took the wheel. Called my manager. Froze the talks. Told them I was out for the rest of the year.”

Azzi stayed quiet. Her chest ached.

“I was so mad,” Paige continued. “Like, really mad. Felt like I was being punished for cracking under pressure. But now?” She finally looked over. “I’m glad. That break let let me breathe. Let me figure out if I really wanted this. Not just the career. But the life.”

Azzi exhaled, slow. “I had a bit of that too,” she said. “After F2.”

Paige blinked. “You?”

Azzi nodded. “After I signed with Ferrari, I was supposed to finish the rest of the F2 season. Just keep racing until F1 pre-season started. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t keep driving when my brain was already somewhere else, and my body was exhausted. So I told them I needed out. Needed a breather.”

She gave a wry smile. “Everyone thought it was strategic. That I was preserving myself. But honestly? I was just spent.”

Paige tilted her head, eyes soft. “And you never told anyone that.”

Azzi shook her head. “Didn’t feel like I could.”

The heat settled around them again, humid and heavy, but this time it wasn’t so uncomfortable. It was grounding. Real.

“I think that’s why I kept watching you,” Azzi said quietly. “Back then. Even after I got moved up. You weren’t trying to force it. You were just… doing it your way.”

Paige looked over, surprised. “I thought you were always too focused to notice me.”

Azzi laughed, low. “I noticed everything, P.”

Paige’s expression shifted then—somewhere between disbelief and something softer. Azzi reached over, took her hand. Their fingers curled together without resistance.

They stayed like that, side by side under the stars, traffic humming far below, the world too far away to interrupt.

“I like doing this with you,” Azzi said, barely above a whisper.

Paige squeezed her hand. “Me too.”

–

Azzi couldn’t sleep.

It wasn’t the heat, not this time. The AC in her room had finally won its battle against the Singapore humidity. Her sheets were cool, her body relaxed, but her brain was wide awake, lit up like the track on race night.

She lay on her back, one hand resting across her stomach, the other loosely curled near her head. Paige’s voice echoed softly in her ears, not in any exact sentence, but in that quiet, open way she had spoken earlier. Honest. Unfiltered. Trusting.

Azzi rolled over and checked the time—nearly midnight. Singapore time anyway. That made it late morning in D.C.

She reached for her phone and tapped on the contact saved as Mom before she could talk herself out of it.

Katie picked up on the second ring.

“Hi, baby,” came her warm voice, and just like that, Azzi’s chest loosened.

“Hi,” she said, sinking into the sound like it was home. “You busy?”

“Never too busy for you. What’s up?”

Azzi didn’t answer right away. She let the silence hold for a moment, then pressed the side of her face into her pillow.

“I just wanted to talk,” she murmured.

Katie waited, sensing something underneath.

Azzi let the words come slowly. “Paige is like… sort of my girlfriend now.”

There was no dramatic pause on the other end. No gasp. Just a quiet hum, like Katie had already guessed and was smiling softly to herself.

“Sort of?” Katie asked gently.

Azzi huffed out a small laugh. “We didn’t do the whole label thing. I think we’re both too stubborn for that. But… yeah. She’s mine. I’m hers. That kind of thing.”

Katie didn’t need more than that.

“Well, I’m happy if you’re happy,” she said simply.

Azzi’s throat tightened. “I am.”

She meant it. Even with the media storm building outside their hotel rooms, even with PR teams drafting fake-boyfriend talking points, even with everything still uncertain—she was happy.

“But it’s complicated,” she added. “With the photo, and the fans, and the… speculation. Fred called us in this morning. They’re all trying to figure out what to do. And it’s exhausting. Like, just pretending everything’s fine.”

There was a pause.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” Katie said softly.

“I know,” Azzi whispered. “That’s why I called.”

Katie didn’t fill the silence with advice. She waited, patient as ever.

Azzi sat up in bed, legs crossed under her, phone pressed to her ear. “I miss you guys,” she said quietly. “You and Dad. And the boys. I’ve been thinking about Austin every day.”

“We can’t wait to see you.”

Azzi smiled. “I promised I’d win for you.”

“We’re already proud of you, Az.”

Azzi let her eyes close for a moment, imagining the way her mom might be sitting right now—curled up on the family room couch, tea in hand, wearing one of her oversized sweaters. Her voice always sounded like calm.

“And I was thinking,” Azzi went on, her voice picking up a little, “maybe… maybe Paige and I should post about mental health. Like, in a real way. Not some sponsored one-liner. We’ve both been through stuff. We could make it honest. Not for damage control. Just… because it’s important.”

There was a smile in Katie’s voice now. “That sounds like a really good idea.”

Azzi’s heart swelled a little.

“I think it would help people,” she added. “And maybe it would help us too. To not feel like we’re hiding everything. Plus it’s great for PR…”

Another pause.

Then, lighter, Azzi said, “Also… I’m running a pink helmet this weekend.”

“Your bright pink?”

“The brightest,” Azzi said proudly. “Almost neon. I wanted something that felt like me again.”

Katie laughed gently. “I love that.”

Azzi leaned back against her headboard, smiling into the phone. “Paige’s helmet is lilac this weekend. Or lavender. Whatever you call it. It’s so pretty. I think it’s her favorite color.”

“Is it your favorite color too now?” Katie teased.

Azzi giggled, cheeks warming. “No. But it’s… her. It looks like her. All soft and shiny and—” She stopped. “She’s really pretty.”

Katie didn’t say anything for a second.

“You really like her,” she said.

Azzi’s smile faded into something quieter. “I do.”

They sat in that for a while—just breathing together across the distance.

Eventually, Katie said, “You should get some sleep, baby. You’ve got a race to win.”

Azzi nodded, even though her mom couldn’t see it. “I will. Thanks for picking up.”

“Always. Love you.”

“Love you more.”

Azzi ended the call and set the phone down on her nightstand. The room felt softer somehow. Less heavy.

She slid down under the covers, one hand resting on her stomach again, the other still tingling from holding the phone.

Sleep came easier after that.

–

The lights above the Marina Bay Street Circuit burned like white fire against the inky Singapore night, and even at 9 p.m., the air hung heavy and wet around them like a wool blanket soaked in steam. Race day in the tropics was never pleasant, but this—this was a different beast entirely.

Azzi was drenched in sweat before the formation lap.

The second she pulled down her visor, the air inside her helmet turned into a sauna. Her race suit clung to her like a second skin, heat radiating from every panel. Even her gloves were damp. She hadn’t even put the car into gear yet.

“Let’s keep it clean. Smart start. No drama into Turn One,” came Mateo's voice over the radio.

Azzi didn’t bother answering. She was saving her energy for what promised to be a long, miserable hour and forty-five minutes.

Next to her on the front row, Paige sat stone-still in P1, her lilac helmet glinting softly under the floodlights. She was good here—really good. Fast, smooth, patient in the technical sections, aggressive in the perfect places. Singapore was where Paige had made a name for herself in F3, and now, one year into F1, she looked every bit the future world champion.

Azzi had no plans to make that easy for her.

The lights went out, and chaos reigned.

Paige got away clean. Azzi tucked in behind her. For the first twenty laps, it looked like they might cruise to a textbook 1-2 finish, as planned. No mistakes. No drama. Just the Ferrari girls slicing through the city heat like blades.

Then came Lap 22.

A midfield collision brought out a full Safety Car, and that’s when things started to unravel. McLaren pitted both drivers at once and somehow still managed to gain track position. Red Bull gambled on hard tires, and Mercedes threw soft tires on one car just to see if the world would end. Paige’s restart was flawless—but a lunge from a McLaren into Turn Eight forced Azzi wide, and she had to fight tooth and nail just to avoid contact. She dropped to fourth.

Then it started.

Yellow flags. Debris. Another Safety Car. Virtual Safety Car. One car parked sideways in the tunnel section like it forgot how to exist. Someone lost power steering. Someone else lost a wing. Azzi lost count of how many times she nearly got rear-ended by a Haas.

It was hot. So hot. Her water bottle gave up somewhere around Lap 35. Her back felt like it was melting into the seat. Her hands ached from gripping the wheel so tight.

By Lap 47, she was back in second, chasing Paige down like it was the last lap of their lives. She caught glimpses of the lilac helmet under the streetlamps—Paige was driving like a woman possessed. Clean, relentless, perfect. And sweaty as hell, probably. They both were. Azzi could feel her sports bra plastered to her ribs, and she was almost certain the pink dye from her helmet had leaked onto her neck.

But god, it looked so good.

The hot pink shimmered under the lights, bold and defiant. She might’ve been half-dead from heatstroke, but at least she looked like a flaming dream barreling through Sector 3.

The final laps were survival. Paige held the lead. Azzi kept her distance, defending against Hamilton like her life depended on it. No risks. No unnecessary moves. Just bring it home.

And when the checkered flag finally waved, and Paige crossed the line first with Azzi right behind her, both girls screamed.

Azzi barely made it out of the car before collapsing onto a pit wall stool, yanking off her helmet with trembling fingers. Her ponytail was soaked, her suit stuck to her thighs like glue, her forearms aching from every snap of countersteer she’d needed in that ridiculous, ridiculous race.

She blinked sweat out of her eyes and laughed into the open air.

“What the actual hell was that?” she croaked to nobody in particular.

No one answered. Everyone was still trying to piece together how they survived.

Paige was hoisted onto shoulders by the team before Azzi even got her gloves off. She looked delirious with heat and joy and disbelief. Azzi couldn’t stop laughing. Or sweating.

They’d wanted a calm 1-2.

What they got was a three-act opera of disaster, heat, and brilliance—with a Ferrari double podium at the end.

Azzi leaned back against the garage wall, head tilted to the sky, lungs still burning.

She was going to need three light-years of vacation.

But at least the special helmets looked good.

–

The air was thick and loud and glittering—champagne mist floating in the heat, blinding camera flashes against dark sky, the scent of burned rubber mixing with sweat and something sweeter. Maybe adrenaline. Maybe awe.

Azzi stood on the second step of the Singapore Grand Prix podium, and she was staring. Unapologetically.

Paige was on the top step. Again.

The first time this happened, Jeddah, back in April, Azzi remembered looking at her like this too. Like the whole world had tilted slightly and Paige had ended up at the center of it, smiling, golden, the trophy in her hands an afterthought to the way she carried herself.

And now, here in Singapore, that feeling hadn’t dulled.

Paige stood in front of the massive LED screen, violet-and-orange lights bouncing off her damp skin, hair plastered to her forehead, her suit half unzipped to the waist. The way her chest rose and fell, the way the curve of her jaw caught the glint from the Rolex billboard behind her. It made Azzi dizzy, in the way you get dizzy from looking too long at something you’re not supposed to want in public.

And Azzi was staring. She knew it. So did every camera. She was going to be a slo-mo edit on TikTok in fifteen minutes.

She didn’t care.

Paige held the trophy in one hand, the neck of the champagne bottle in the other, grinning like she couldn’t believe she’d done it again. She looked down toward Azzi just once, eyes catching hers for the briefest second, soft and wild and shining.

Azzi exhaled through her nose and tried not to melt.

This girl had taken a win off her in the hardest, hottest race of the year. Sweated out a pole lap in a car that had no business being that fast through sector three. Danced through two Safety Cars, ten near-misses, and a pit stop that should’ve ruined the whole strategy. And she was standing there now like it had all been inevitable. Like it was just another Sunday.

Azzi wanted to say something. Something about how stupidly pretty she looked under the lights, or how she’d made this godforsaken night race feel like it was worth every aching muscle and ruined manicure. But her mouth stayed shut. There were microphones nearby. She remembered that much.

She was in public.

Damn.

Azzi blinked and looked away for a second too long, just to reset her thoughts. The crowd roared, drunk on chaos and confetti. The Ferrari anthem started to play. She closed her eyes, let the sweat slide down her neck, let the heat settle into her bones.

Her gaze drifted back. Just for one more second.

Paige Bueckers, victorious under a sky of light and noise, was grinning at something the third-place driver said. Probably nothing important. She turned her head slightly, and the shine on her cheekbone caught the edge of the camera flash.

Azzi felt her heart beat once, loud and low.

She was in love with a girl who looked like that under stadium lights. Who drove like that in a furnace. Who laughed like that even after forty-nine laps of hell. And the whole world could watch her look. She didn’t care.

There were worse things to be known for.

She was in love with Paige Bueckers.