#it’s supposed to be the other way around

[tonycries]

Hot Nerd Summer - G.S.

Synopsis. The best way to beat your tall, nerdy, hot academic rival during finals? Fúck him!

Pairing. Gojo x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, nerd!Gojo, academic-rivals-to-Iovers, first times (Gojo), unprotected, hándjobs, semi-public (library), exhíbitíonism, he goes FÉRAL, coming back for more, slight switch!Gojo, face-sítting (fem rec.), 69, PÚSSYDRÚNK Gojo, size kínk, he’s BIG, rough s, running from it, creampíes, making him cúm dry, cúmplay, toys, punk!Geto cameo, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 11.2k

A/N. Happy Vesak to anyone that celebrates!!

“That jerkwad got 0.4% higher than me again, Suguru.” You’re fighting the urge to wallow your face on top of the café’s cluttered table, instead shaking a weary Geto Suguru by his broad shoulders. “Again! I’ll never make the top of Yaga’s Dean’s List now.”

Geto wonders whether this would be a good time to slip away- no. He shudders, thinking about the way said ‘jerkwad’ was probably skulking around, looking to lament about the very same thing. 

Honestly, if this was a romcom it would be almost cute. Almost. 

“Gojo’s just too- too smart.” You’re rubbing your aching temples, as if the words pained you to utter. “And infuriating, of course. And cocky and a try-hard and-”

“Honestly, you two should just duke things out in the bedroom.” He takes a looong sip of his milkshake, letting the silence drag on as you gape. 

“Suguru that’s…” Bracing himself for yet another monologue on your supposed rival. Damn valedictorians- finals season was getting to you. “-that’s genius.”

He frowns. 

Okay, finals season was really getting to you. 

Taking a confused second to check his drink - strawberry milkshake, low sugar, as usual - he concludes that he definitely wasn’t spiked in any way and was definitely hearing you wrong. Of course, an understandable mistake. And so he’s clearing his gruff throat, “…what the fuck?”

Your long-time friend watches from across the table as you nod your head, a satisfied sort of smile plastering across your face - the very same one you often bore whenever you beat Gojo on a test, or a quiz, or a group project. 

Or anything, really.

“That’s exactly it- I should fuck him.”

Yeah, he sets down the cup he was holding, he was definitely spiked. Or, maybe he was dead and this was his own personal hell.

“Ooookay, that’s enough all-nighters.” Geto’s plastering one of his ringed hands across your forehead, searching for a high temperature. “How about we get you to Shoko for some examination-”

“No no, listen.”

“I’m scared.”

Swatting away his well-meaning palms, you’re leaning towards him, so close that your lips waft the silver piercings decorating his ear. “If I fuck him—” Geto shivers, one of his ripped arms settling on top of the table in conspiring unison. “-he won’t have time to study. And if he doesn’t have time to study…”

The snake bites lining his rosy lips glint as they formulate a smirk, sleazy. “Oh, you dirty girl.”

DING-DING–!

And it’s as if the universe was having a good laugh at your expense. 

Because right at that very moment, the cute lil’ bell on top of the café doorway sings as it swings open - and with it, ducks inside Gojo Satoru. 

In all his refined, cranky glory - wiry-framed glasses nestled high on his nosebridge, strong, sweater-covered arms straining with the weight of damn near half the library stacked in a column, snowy bangs doing very little to hide the withering glare he was immediately firing your way.

The spitting image of the other valedictorian you’d been fighting both tooth and nail against since the start of freshman year. 

You remember how it all started like it was just yesterday; you’d been sitting eagerly at the very front row of Professor Gakuganji’s lecture hall. Your sheer buzzing energy only matched by the white-haired boy seated next to you - perhaps a kindred spirit, maybe you’d even become friends, you naively thought.

That is, until Gakuganji had asked for a volunteer to start off ice-breakers that the both of you had shot up in your seat. Racing to be first. 

Faces snapping to each other in shock, mouths tightening. An invisible war - which had, very famously, turned into a palpable war over the last few semesters. One that you’re sure nearly every student on campus had heard about (and bet on, you remember Shoko tittering about some betting pool.)

It didn’t help that you two had practically the same classes each year - and it really didn’t help that Gojo put all he had into one-upping you any time since that fateful meeting.  

Always clamoring out of his seat to answer questions first, always trailing after teachers if he caught you sucking up to them, too, always checking out the same books after you did.

Hell, at one point you’d been convinced that he genuinely lived in the library.

“You’re staring~” Geto sing-songs, resting his grinning face on one hand as he watches the bee-line of your eyesight. 

“Ugh- I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Flashing, cerulean eyes narrow as you rip your own gaze away, and Gojo’s sauntering over to a cosy seat near the back with an audible ‘hmpf!’ 

Bastard- that was your second-favorite seat. You should sit there next time…

“Look at him.” You’re spitting, feeling only slightly ridiculous at the raw vitriol in that sentence until Gojo physically turns around in his chair to flip you off. Haughtily, he swivels back to shift through his countless textbooks, surely studying for the upcoming final exam in a few days. “Bet he cuddles those books to sleep and that’s how he beat me today.”

Rays of sunlight dappling his pale hair, the straps of his backpack make his shoulder muscles ripple. For a nerd, he sure did take care to make everyone on campus secretly swoon.

…except for you, of course. 

Crossing your arms, you roll your eyes - more to tear them away from the way that Gojo’s glasses made his eyes twinkle in the daytime.

“Not for long. Mark my words, Suguru, I’ll fuck him-” Murmuring, you pointedly ignore the gawking looks from the customers surrounding your table. “-I’ll fuck his brains out.”

Eyelids twitching slightly, Geto makes sure to graciously bow his head in an apology towards the older lady seated at the beside you two - clutching her chest as if she was about to have a cardiac arrest. “And you realize that by fucking him…he fucks you, too?”

“Oh.” Honestly, for someone so smart you could be so stupid sometimes. You ignore the heat that runs through your veins at the notion, and stuff your face into your long-cold coffee. Sputtering, “I-It’ll be fine.”

Famous last words. 

.

.

.

“A-are you following me or just obsessed?”

“Nothing to be obsessed about here.”

“Then why are you following-”

“Maybe you’re following me, bast- I mean, Gojo.”

BANG!

And Gojo really should’ve been worried about ruining his squeaky-clean record with the campus librarian, slamming a few thickset books down on his usual studying spot was very unlike her model helper, of course. 

But right now he couldn’t bring himself to care. 

Not when you - campus princess, top pick for valedictorian, pain-in-his-ass - were face-to-face with him and standing the closest you ever had amidst that time you’d sat together on your first day. 

And calling him by his name.

Jaw clenched, he steps towards his familiar chair by the shadowed corner - and you do, too.

Long legs maneuvering to claim his seat - and you do, too, right next to him.

Pushing his glasses-clad face into the first textbook he picks up, he doesn’t even notice that it’s upside down - not until you’re tapping your finger on the gilded corner of it and Gojo flinches. “You’re reading that the wrong way, y’know?”

“…it’s a form of studying.”

“I’m sure.”

“And- and what are you doing? Miss valedictorian has given up on being valedictorian so she’s here to bother me?” He seethes, finally taking a good look at you since you’d randomly ambushed him on his daily trip to the library. Tracking him around like a lost puppy and oh- oh, Gojo almost regrets it.

Because he might wear glasses, but he wasn’t blind.

Fuck, did you really have to wear a cutesy top so low-cut? And a skirt so tight, he hated how your thighs were so pretty - ones he’d only seen in his imagination- nightmares. His nightmares, for sure. 

It’s no wonder that half the student body in your department would kill to be in this position, and the other half would kill him for daring to sit his gloomy, unpopular self next to you.

Gojo gulps as he inadvertently memorizes the lacy black shade of your bra strap, barely catching onto your humming response. 

“Studying.” You casually raise your own book, something related to the content covered on the test tomorrow, surely. 

“B-but- here-”

“And here I was under the impression that the library was public to all.” You’re cutting off his rambling by creeping an inch forwards. So close that you’re wafted with a cloud of his homey, ink n’ vanilla scent. Purring, “Is it not?”

“No! I know you- you just wanna steal my super secret Satoru studying tips.” He points at you, accusatorial. 

Scoffing- why did you want to subject yourself to this nonsense again? Oh, right, that coveted spot at the forefront of Yaga’s Dean’s List, that’s why. “‘Studying tips’ my ass, you’re just scared I’ll beat you on the exam tomorrow.”

“You couldn’t beat me if Yaga stripped naked and danced with the answers in front of you.”

“Hmm–” You pretend to take down notes, “So is that what you think about before a final?”

“N-no- even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

Raising a brow, “Right…” And by the way that Gojo trembled at your tone of voice, shifting his glasses higher into his unruly bangs, you knew you had him in the palm of your hand. “Because you’re scared.”

“Am not.”

“Am too.”

“Am not-”

“Am too. It’s alright, scaredy-cat-” You’re making a big show of letting the library chair screeeech against the polished hardwood floors as you stand up, fingers itching for your bag. “-I’ll just take my leave then, since you’re so sca-”

“Sit.”

And it wasn’t a plea, it wasn’t even a request.

Gojo had his warm, engulfing palm surrounding your wrist and all but dragging you back to sit back down with an unceremonious plop! 

Hard and rough. 

Before you’d even registered it - before you’d finished blinking - in an instant, he was back to his normally grouchy self. Grimacing face darted back between his pages, hulking body hunched low as he washed himself of the memory of your (unfairly) pretty self seated right next to him. 

This was all a bad dream, he repeated to himself, as if a mantra. But then why was he feeling so…hot? Maybe this was one of those annoying side quests in video games- if he doesn’t interact, he won’t react. 

Yeah, that sounded about right. He just won’t interact.

He will not–

“Your pen’s too loud.”

“Your breathing’s too loud.” 

“So you want me to die-”

“Yes, please.” You’re sniping back on autopilot, your exceptionally silent pen scribbling along one of your flashcards. This really wasn’t how you saw your masterplan going - but it was too late to back out now. If there was anything that was revealed during this lengthy rivalry, it was that you weren’t a quitter. Huffing, “Do you always talk so much when you study?”

“Oh- I’m sorry, princess, want me to kiss your feet while I’m at it?”

“Didn’t think you were one for a foot fetish.”

“H-huh? No! What are you-” 

And that slight waver in his voice makes you pause- it makes you snap your head up, just in time to catch the scorching red blush breezing down the back of Gojo’s neck. Visibly peeking through the edge of his creamy vest even as he buries his face into his upside-down book. 

“Awww- what’s that?” Snickering, you take your chance to nudge your chair closer to his. Teasing. Until thighs met shaky thighs, shoulders bumped sculptured shoulders, and your syrupy breath made the tips of his ears flush. Voice low, “Can’t handle a lil’ sex talk, Satoru?”

Saying his first name- fuck!

He’s slamming his left arm where the heat of your sighs had burned his sensitive earlobe, grumpy baritone cracking– “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Are you a virgin?” You blink, your scheme giving way to genuine curiosity. 

The way that Gojo’s mouth gapes is more than enough of an answer to you. Glasses slipping down his clammy skin, meaty legs shivering as you experimentally brush your palm to feel the flex of his outer thigh. He was…chiseled. 

Blinking, “Really? Not even a handjob?”

And fuck- were you glad that he’d chosen a slightly distant corner of the library. 

Because your hands might be rovering sensually underneath the table, but the tightness in Gojo’s slacks was obvious. 

And it’s not that you spent a lot of time thinking about how big your mortal enemy might be underneath all his formal, upright outfits - but you just didn’t think he’d be this staggering. Perhaps average, at best. 

But one slight glimpse through your peripheral vision left your greedy mouth parting - he was long. So, so long from the end of his body to way past halfway down his thick thigh. 

And so massively girthy that you’re half-counting each jolting throb from the edges of your eyesight. 

Your mouth waters something slick at the primal heat radiating from between his legs. Trying your very hardest not to let your jaw drop as your pupils dare to snake down, down, down—

“Wanna change that?” The words spill out of your mouth before you can even think of stopping them- and Gojo looks ruined at the very idea.

Eyes glittering, cherry-pink lips falling into a soft oh! “Wh-what are you…”

You hesitate, this was Gojo after all. And you might feel your panties getting damper by the minute but he… Finger balling into a fist as you start to pull away, “Want me to stop-”

“Backing out, miss valedictorian?” 

Fuck- it happens like a flash of lightining. 

In a nanosecond you’re thinking you should pull away, and the next Gojo has his slender fingers gripping your wrist. Tugging your palm to creep right down the bulging cylindrical length twitching between his legs as if you were weightless. 

He was desperate. He was shifting, lurching his hips up off the rickety chair completely so that your soft fingers brush further down his fat, weeping clothed cock. 

An uncharacteristically dark drawl seeping into his voice, “Couldn’t score on the exam and now you can’t score- ngh.”

But, of course, this Gojo Satoru was all talk - his spit-glossed lips wobbling with a whimper the very moment you slip your hands to skim the hem of his pants. 

Pop. 

There goes one of his polished buttons, all sensible. Anything but the way that Gojo’s sexily slouching his toned body into the library desk, a heady gasp departing his lips. “Finish what you- hah! started.”

Pop. 

And you knew that those dexterous digits of his could easily wander down his complicated buttons- but right now Gojo was fumbling. 

He was gnawing on the bubblegum insides of his cheek and keening as he struggled to remove his trousers. 

Pop.

Pop! 

One of the silvery buttons end up clattering down on the wooden floors. Finally - finally - freeing his aching, bloated cock. 

And you’re not just seeing it first - you’re hearing it. The very crown of his reddened tip hitting halfway up his cotton vest with a wettened splat! Eyeing the darkening patch of cloth with a gulp.

Gojo’s long lashes flap— hissing at the strike of cold air where he was most sensitive. “Wh-who’s the scaredy-cat now?”

But how could you not be spellbound?

Mentally, you’re counting nine - maybe even near ten - entire inches of his thick, vein-covered shaft. 

The mushroomed edge of his cockhead blushing the prettiest shade of strawberry pink, and he was just as needily swollen. Spraying out a few glistening trails of pre that puddle up cutely near the curly tufts of white lining his v-line. He was just aching for your touch.

Ruining. 

Jolting like he was zapped with a thousand bolts of electricity the moment your thumb smears the pearly bubble of precum that’d started to leak out of him. Breathless, “Who’s a scaredy-cat?”

“You-hngh!” He’s gritting down on his lower lip as a groan erupts from his throat, teary eyelids wrenching shut at the blissful sensation.

Your hand was so soft- so heavenly. 

Just the slightest trace of your fingerpads gliding down Gojo’s puffy pink veins sends him heaving, the heated figure of his body leaning into your touch. “W-wait-” He spits out through snarling pearly whites as the length of your fingers squeezes the fattened base of his cock sensually. “Fuh-fuck! What the fuck- s-sexual pleasure. Shared sexual pleasure feels like this?”

Just lightly pumping up to press the mountains of your palm into his tender underside. Gojo was so rock-hard that your skin’s memorizing every zig-zagging line of his pulsing veins. “Hmm–?”

“This- how-” Azure eyes pleading up at you, “Hck! How-”

And you’re unsure whether he was babbling at the simplest drag of your hand or yearning for actual responses - but you never did leave a question unanswered. “Mmm– yeah? Like it, Satoru?”

“L-lov-” That little confession almost dribbles from his lips just from the way you’re cooing his first name. Ethereal ivory strands plastering to his forehead as he hastily shakes the thought free, voice breaking. In disbelief. 

He’s tugging his slightly-fogged glasses up his nosebridge, “How does it feel like this- why- fuuuuck– should be…illegal.”

You’re fighting back a moan yourself, the dainty ends of your fingernails fluttering all the way from his drenched happy trail up, up, up, up to kiss his coral-pink slit. 

Glittering a webbed wad of pre that drips down to your wrist as you’re caressing his sensitive outline. Just loooong, lazy traces that feel so good he’s sweating bullets from the sides of his temples. 

“The arteries on the dorsal- Don’t stop–”

“So bossy.”

Gojo finds himself jerking impatiently. He finds himself flinching when you choose that very moment to lean your puckered lips over and plant a wet smack! of spit right down his bulbous, bulging tip. Starting up a sultry pace, “Think I like you better when you’re hah- like this, Satoru.”

“Shut up- fuck- mmm, right there-”

With two palms white-knuckled on the chair’s armrests, he’s stooping his muddled head over and rutting- animalistically. Milking himself on every drag of your plush hands, “Please- please.”

Oh, you really liked it when he begged. 

And you’re pacing your hand even slower, squeezing the pointed globe of his ruby-red tip with a resounding squeeelch! “H-haaaah! There? There? I-if you touch me there…”

“Say that for me again- that ‘pretty please.’” When he can only lower his head deeper and wetly mumble- “Again- oh.”

You shouldn’t have underestimated him - you really shouldn’t have underestimated him. 

Because the moment your wrist strains with the warning signs of slowing your tempo even more- Gojo’s snaps his right hand to hold your hand still and thrusts. 

The weeping thickness of his cocktip mazes between your fingers like a searchlight, he’s fountaining out a warm ribbon of pre that froths down your hand once his long length emerges. 

“F-for the distal end of the glans, the primary source of sexual pleasure- your hand’s fucking h-heaven…oh.” He’s letting rip a guttural grunt, the muscles on his neck ticking. Half-lidded, drunken eyes circling around dizzily until they finally fall upon your shocked oh! face. “Too bad I c-can’t say the same for your mouth-”

“Hey!” 

And you would’ve said something further - you should’ve. You were trying to, yet that very moment Gojo fucks his slenderly toned hips up in such a hard thrust that it makes your pinky nearly bruise at the thwack! of his heavy balls hitting yours. 

He was so fucking hard that the spank of his sagged balls make your skin sting, oh-so-tight that it leaves him standing uprightly erect even when you’re cupping his hilt. 

“Nghhhh f-fuck. Yeah- yeahhh take it- take it just like that, princess.” Gojo’s voice drops into a carnal growl as he’s hooding his eyes over and staring right at where he was using your hand. The thickened digits of his fingers squeezing your own righter ‘round the gummy tip, looser to pound his base. “No one’s ever touched me like this.”

Your hands were so much smaller than his own - than his cock, too.

Damn near dwarfing your touch, he’s throbbing his girth so much fucking fatter that every jolt makes your own wrist shiver with intensity. Faster. 

A few speckles of syrupy drool dribbling down the side of his curling lips, “Should’ve told me if- haaah-” And just then, you’re fingering your thumb to tease the flared ridge of his mushroom crownhead. Making Gojo shudder his pecs and droop his face to mouth down your neck. 

Red hot. Your poor nerdy rival was blushing so hard that wherever he made contact with your throat made your flesh sizzle. “-if this was what you wanted s-so badly—”

“Fuck, Satoru-”

“You guys?!” 

The sudden interruption of an upbeat voice is so abrupt that Gojo can’t do anything less incriminating than pushin’ his moaning, twisting face further into the crook of your neck. Hips subtly shifting on the chair to hide your sinfulness from view, it makes the pads of your fingers snag on one of Gojo’s prominent lightning bolted veins- and leaves him biting down on your throat to muddle a whimper. 

“H-Haibara?” Your voice breaks once you’re lifting your head to stare up at the beaming smile of your fellow classmate. “What umm– brings you here?”

Innocently oblivious to the mess Gojo was drooling from the orifice at his cock as your pace gets sloppier. Faster. You’re coughing lightly to mask the repeated fwop! emanating when the back of your fisted hand hits the front of his toned pelvis. 

“Same as you, of course.” Your audience replies, enunciating his point with a nod towards the papers and textbooks scattered about you two. Clapping his hands, “How wonderful it is to see the two of you studying together- I always did tell Kento you two would end up friends.”

And of course it wasn’t abnormal for Gojo Satoru to ignore anyone and everyone except his books. 

Of course it wasn’t strange- but Haibara sweetly asks, anyway. Tone dripping in concern, “Is he alright, though?”

Gojo’s bucking up to your touch when he’s addressed, one that he’s masking as a flinch. Using that as lewd leverage to squeeze and squeeze the delicate line of his tip, up n’ down. 

Forcing out a slight chuckle, “O-oh, he’s alright. Just resting.” Pointedly pumping your wrist until it was aching, all the way from the bloated bottom of his cock to thumb up his dripping crownhead that Gojo has to mask with shivers. Sneakily, you chance a grope of your free hand to tenderly squeeze his achy balls. “He can’t keep up with my…flashcards, y’know how it is.”

Haibara nods, “Right of course, of course- it’s so sweet how supportive the two of you are with each other’s studies.”

And underneath his panting, cloudy breath, you’re making out Gojo scoffing. The frigid rim of his glasses cratering against the pulse on the side of your neck as he throb-throb-throbs in your hand. 

Twitching. Slobbering. Rutting- everything he could possibly do to milk his fat, swollen cock on your hands without anyone else here noticing. Punishingly, he sinks his honed canines into your skin— “C-cum- gonna–”

Urgently, your cadence turns nearly frantic. Furious, tugging pulls that leave the mahogany chair creaking with slight rickets. 

“Y-yeah– Satoru- deserves it. He’s been working so hard.” You breathe, unsure who it was for. 

But it makes the man melting at your touch hiss— the candy-pink divot homed right on the top of his barreling length so hot with slippery cobwebs of pre. Drooling out more. Jolting even more. Glasses sliding down. 

Your classmate only grins, “Awww–” Taking the slightest step closer and your warm hand tightens in panic. “You two would make the cutest couple!”

And that’s just about when Gojo cums–

Hot, hard. 

So, so heavy with the sheer volume of buttery, sappy white cum he was spilling into your lap. You fight to keep your smile from widening at the way his heated pink shaft drizzles with streaming streaks of seed that stains the skin of your outer thighs.

Gojo lets out a soft gasp of breath once he’s twitching his lusty cock to slap down on your flesh and chase the heat of your cunt. 

Right where he feels himself slip n’ slide across the slick outer sheen dampening from your core— right where he needed to fuck you. Just the darkened edge of his dilated pupil peeks out from the crook of your neck to stare at your audience dead-on. In front of him, if he had to.

And you could sense it, too.

Which is why you’re hastily waving off Haibara’s comment– “Ahh– well, it’s too soon for that.”

“You never know~” Casually scratching the back of his neck, not a thing was amiss in the way that Haibara’s perking up. “I should leave you two to it, then. And I have to tell Kento about this new development and I haven’t studied and-”

You don’t dare let your sigh of relief escape until after he’d walked away with an eager wave. 

Gojo himself was letting go of the area he’d been gnawing on your neck with a soppy pwah! Unsteadily lifting his head just to inch forwards and teeter-

Oh, he looked absolutely fucked-out. 

All heavily-lidded eyes that blinked slowly, and a mouth now shiny with a fresh coating of transparent spittle. Spectacles askew, hair rumpled, collar hauled to the side as if he was undressing himself. 

Greedy slobber bubbles up by the side of his flushed lips and trickles when he catches sight of your hands still wrapped around his softening cock. 

Not looking ‘round you two - not even caring if anyone sees, he’s gently lifting your dominant wrist over to hover near his gulping maw. “Made me make s-such a mess, princess.”

Your fingers trembly at the sheer scorching gusts of his humid breath, Gojo bores right into your eyes as he unfastens his jaw and lets his pinkish tongue liiiiick right up your cream-coated fingers. And the only thing hotter than his ropes of seed were the slimy edges of his tongue. 

Weaving between your pinky, takin’ extra care on your ring finger. 

Each and every one. One by one, he’s sapping down wet slurps with his mouth as he sucks on each glob of white decorating your digits like his favorite lollies. 

“W-we’re–” Gojo starts, his glittering lips still speckled with a bead of frosting. Of cum as he cleans you off. Dry Adam’s apple bobbing, “We’re never– hah.” Before strangling his words with a pained grunt and salivating the ridges of his tastebuds down your fingers in a final French kiss. 

Then another. And another. And another- like he couldn’t fucking get enough. 

And it viscerally ached him somewhere deeply primal inside to curl his rugged palm around your wrist and wrench himself away with a moistened pop! that resonates like music in the empty library air. 

Mouth curling as he pushes up his glasses for the nth time, “We’re never studying together again.”

Speechless, it’s just then that you’re noticing that- oh. Gojo Satoru has dimples. 

.

.

.

Gojo Satoru failed that test.

He totally, totally failed that test. 

Which wouldn’t have been as completely soul-crushing to watch his streak of constant A++ grades be torn down before his very eyes had that final actually been difficult. But Yaga had, mercifully, decided to go easy on them this time - and Gojo should have been able to ace this exam in his sleep.

Which was quite difficult for him to pull off such a feat when he found himself unable to think about anything but you.

Well, given, that wasn’t exactly an outlandish state-of-mind for him. 

Though, usually it’s more along the lines of how ridiculous it was that you thought you’d top Yaga’s Dean’s List instead of him, how your essay wasn’t even that great (okay, maybe it was- but his was better!), or wondering whether it was part of your strategy to look so gorgeous that you distract the entire department into failing.

But today - even right now - all he could wonder about was how ah, question number five- you’d wrapped all five of your pretty lil’ fingers around his cock. 

How soft they were, how perfect they looked pumping his painfully hard girth and fuck- soon enough he was blessed with a half-chubbed dick tightening his pants, and a muddled brain that’d already started writing his answer about you, your damn hands, and you. 

Fuck, he could feel his skin flaring at the mere memory again. 

“Goddammit-” He’s grinding the backs of his molars until he’s tasting metal, staring at the empty lined paper that would usually have been filled and stapled to the backs of his final. “Goddammit.”

And then Gojo stands- so abruptly that several blissfully ignorant students recoil at the sudden movement from their stoic classmate. Papers flying, usual backpack left behind. 

It’s as if a storm, the steps leading him the row or two further up the lecture hall groan and protest at Gojo’s stomping. Closer to where you were - with your face in your hands, and your expression harrowed as if you’d just seen a ghost. 

“You.” He’s starting, rumbling voice low. 

You wince at the sound, as if only just noticing the man towering up to you. Settling your widened eyes off of your…curiously blank sheets of extra paper, only to stare up at Gojo and grimace again. “You.”

And any and all irritation regarding the little predicament you’d put him in vanishes as he realizes. 

You failed that test, too.

SLAM!

Two roughened hands of his strike down on your table to lean in so close, the rows surrounding you two hushing so quiet that you could hear every single one of Gojo’s ragged breaths. Close. 

So, so close. 

You’re counting every single white lash of his, every spike of pale blue in his sapphire irises, every glint in his snarl. So close that your nose tingles with the perfume of that familiar sultry vanilla. 

He watches, expressionless, as your thighs squeeze together beneath you. Shit. 

“Y-you.” Gojo’s voice was rough, as hoarse as if he was trying to keep something deep and dark out of it. “Tonight. My dorm.” Risking a glance around the nosy rest of the hall, his face burns at the unsuccessful way they were pretending not to be listening. “For…studying.”

A wolf whistle rings through the tense air— “Get a room!”

“They’re about to~”

“I knew this would happen.”

“Please keep talking to a minimum, some students are taking extra time on the test.” Yaga’s bored drone shatters the mirth - only to heighten it by twofold just as soon as Gojo feels the slightest hint of relief. “Please keep flirting to a minimum, too.”

And then he turns back to you and you wink.

Oh. 

Oh, fuck.

.

.

.

“Oh-ohhh mm, Gojo–” Your head throws back against the carpet of Gojo’s stifling bedroom, your lips gluing together with strands of spit as soon as he kisses your inner thigh and salivates. Mouth churning with wads of spit ready to devour you-

“Satoru.”

“Wh-what?” It takes you every ounce of strength in your sprawled-out body to question in response. 

Head lurching just the slightest few degrees to gaze upon the way he was stuffed nose-deep between your legs - glasses, cocky grin and all. 

Gojo takes the lecherous time to perk his flared nostrils over and sniiiiff–! the aroma of your wetness, his overeager maw spilling a thin trail of spittle at the saccharine-sweet scent of your dripping pussy. “Call me- hah! Satoru.”

Shit- how did you even get here?

Skirt and blouse off, needy.

It’s as if one second you’re explaining (quite ashamedly, mind you) how your plan had backfired and you’d bombed that test, sputtering as Gojo rolls his eyes knowingly. And the next…

Spank! You don’t have to look down to already feel the twisted curl of Gojo’s smirk against your thighs, one of his hands soothing across where he’d oh-so-rudely spanked the right of your ass cheek. 

“Zoning out already? Your Bartholin gland is working overtime to lubricate.” He hums, the frigid metal frames leaving your hips squirming. Tilting his head, “You’re wet.”

“Y-you wish-” You’re huffing and puffing despite the way you’re smearing your legs even more widely agape with primal need. Just begging him for something, anything, with each squelching wave of slick pouring from between your pussylips. 

Gojo leaves one kiss near your cute belly button, another on the hemline of your clingy panties. 

Mwah, mwah– soft, puckered lips trace allll over except where you were aching for him the most. He’s snickering at through a hot gasp once the sharp edges of his teeth snag on the forefront of your underwear and let it snap! back.

“Think you’re soooo fuckin’ smart, huh?”  Gojo spits, furiously. “Always so intelligent- so smug.” Dragging the crescent nubs of his fingernails down the sides of your body– 

Tearing down your panties, flopping through the crevice of your folds to give you just a singular push of his miry tongue. Just a singular kiss, a singular snog of his flattened muscle slapping down on your entrance. “Let’s see how s-smart you really are, then, miss valedictorian.”

And despite the way he’s running his mouth, his tongue sings a different tune. Just like jelly- shyly wobbling on the puffy outside of your pussylips and lapping up gulp after gulp of your sap. 

He was parched- and couldn’t help but tickle your cunt like a man thirsting for years. Thirsting for years, and yet, he couldn’t help the way he’s slouching back slightly on his knees with a burning blush–

“Y-you’re only saying that because-” He jolts at the sudden rut of your hips, sending a slobbering stroooke straightly down your slit. “-because you can’t handle anything else.”

Gojo quirks a cloudy brow, “Anything…oh.”

And though it pained a carnal part of you to - though your pussy was quivering in protest - you find your arm reaching out to grab the prim collar of Gojo’s white sweater and traaawl him all the way up. “Wan’ you in my hah- mouth, Satoru.”

“Ngh–” He’s nibbling his plush bottom lip to bite back a fucking whine– and the moment that slight smirk starts twitching your lips, Gojo scoops your legs up in a surprisingly strong hold. 

Big, beefy arms lifting you in midair and throwing you down on the bed. You yelp as you bounce- he’s careless, desperate, the only thing he needs right now is to have you on his bed. On his mouth-

“Th-think I can’t handle a b-blow- fellatio, huh?” 

He’s grumbling as he lays himself flatly on the cushy mattress, letting those navy sheets be rumpled once he’s sitting back sexily. And you’re almost wishing you could turn yourself around and ogle that handsome vision settling right between your legs. 

“Oh- oh.” Gojo mouths gapes as he really - really takes in the sight of you. All sopping wet and needy for him. Shuddering steadily in and out to regain his breath in some way, “Oh my god- fuck, what a prettyyy pussy.”

“H-hnghh, fuck–” Your mouth drops once large palms spread-spread-spreeead your cheeks apart and let your dewdropped slick drip! down into his throat. 

Shivering, every time his claggy breath stroked your pried-open entrance. Leaving a wide, hot open-mouthed kiss right where Gojo could spy your glistening hole winking. 

You were just a three-course meal sitting above him. And he was ready to crane his neck and diiive–

ZIIIIIIP–!

“Shit- princess, what are you- fuck!”

Your grin grows when you stagger off Gojo’s plaid pants and let his reddened, swollen cock hit your chin with a plap! “Whaaat–?” 

He was standing tall, proud. 

Soooo many swollen, throbbing inches standing up rock-hard n’ straight just from the mere idea of having your saccharine pussy on his mouth.

Thighs trembling where you were straddling his head, fuck, if Gojo was in any better state of mind he’d have registered the way your syrupy pussy grows wetter. “Scared?”

He blushes- he keens, mindlessly bucking his hips to chase the heat of your mouth. “N-no. It’s a perfectly normal reaction to sexual stimulation-”

“You talk too much.”

“Then…”

You’re whimpering, your spine bowing into the perfect curvature once Gojo claws a firm handful of your ass and pulls you to him to kiss your pretty pussy. “Get up here.” Letting the thickened air ring with the smack of his glossy lips gluing to your outer folds, “Get up- get up here so that I can fucking show you, miss valedictorian.”

And he might have absolutely zero experience - but that didn’t mean that Gojo wasn’t hungry. 

He’s not waiting around for you to tease him to death with your sweet, puckered lips. No- he’s tugging you down his lengthy body and latching ‘round the nub of your clit first. 

“She- she’s the clit, huh?”

“Sh-shit…oh my ngh- Satoru!”

Tittering, “Course she is- located at the top of the vulva and responsible f-for connecting the network of erectile tissue. And she has you alll stupid.”

Your treacly cunt was giving him the cutest lil’ welcome by pouring a wave of sticky slick right down his chin, he’s sliding the wetness against the innards of your squeezing thighs and pushing himself nose-deep.

Glasses cluttering, vein-decorated forearms flexing. “How’s that–?” Endlessly listing off the three-hundred different ways to toy with your sensitive clit, he’s swervin’ the glazed point of his tongue in cute hearts. Groaning into your pussy, “Mmmm– your turn- o-oh fuck!”

And you weren’t just teasing him, you were simply waiting for the perfect moment to plop your saturated mouth in a clammy smooch over Gojo’s round, smooth cockhead.

Lapping the narrowed margin of your tongue to rim that split-end on his tip, your tastebuds scorch with the warm cream of his pre. Buttering up your flat muscles as you jerk your head and draaaag a long, languid lick. “What’s that?”

Letting out the cutest pitched ‘fuck!’, Gojo bucks his hips to plunge between your hot maw with a wet fwop! 

Hissing, “I was mistaken, your mouth is heaven.” 

Gulping him deeper-

“Haaaah- wait.” It’s like he’s easing and then back- too much for his sensitive, inexperienced cock. “Stimulating my c-cock with a tongue so good. Now that’s- that’s just fucking- unfair-” 

Spanking your cunt with a splatter of wadded saliva before teething his canines along your clit and pinching. Groaning right into that mess, “Unfair- th-that’s unfair- fuck! Shit, how do you make everything feel so good- You always do hafta ch-cheat, huh?”

He has to battle with himself not to cum right then and there. 

But he wasn’t going down without a fight.

You’re just starting to lavish your silky tongue over the sensitive veins snaking along his meaty base, chin tickling with curly white hairs- when Gojo wraps an arm around your waist and pulls—

“Wh-who’s cheating now?”

“And who do ya think you are?” Gojo pleads- he strains. Your body being slightly bumped up n’ down like a rollercoaster after each heave of his broad pectorals. 

And just playing with your clit wasn’t enough, he needed to use his inhuman strength to make you rest your entire weight. “Just- sit–” Throat hatching with lilting groans once your mouth is sliiiding sensually down his pink shaft. Gojo’s speaking between French kisses to your cunt, grunting like it hurt him to break off. 

And even though he’s practically still closed, you swear you could count every one of his eight, ladder-like abs.

“But I could ngh- suffocate-”

Rutting- deep back into your mouth till his bawling mushroom tip swabs the very back of your throat. “So? Then it’ll be my ngh- first and last time. Respiration is overrated, just- fucking- sit.”

Yelping, it’s all you can do to claw your nails down each of Gojo’s thick, milky thighs once he grabs onto your body and slams you down on his readily awaiting mouth. 

“Fuck- fuck!” Eyes widened, tone crazed. He doesn’t know where to look when he’s slobbering his heated mouth in dragging licks up and down between your puffed-up folds, occasionally peeking inside your fluttering hole and giving your ring of muscle a sloooow stretched-out circle. 

Gojo slaps the velvety underside of his tongue down on your sensitive entrance and watches as your syrupy slick pooours. “Don’t know how long I-I’ve dreamt of this, princess-”

“Y-you have?”

Though, it comes out gurgled and half-moaned around the fattened circumference of Gojo’s pulsating, long cock. He was just so big that you’d barely even slid his heavy shaft down halfway until he’s probing your throat thoroughly. 

Fattened balls tightened once he speaks, “You- have- nooooo fucking idea-” Punctuated with heavy, slashing strokes of his tongue. 

You’re damn near sobbing at the sheer surprisingly strength of his - the pleasure. Gojo was technical in his approach, a snagging lil’ circle to make your hole stretch cutely- before gifting himself a looong lick from the base of your pussy right up to your clit. 

“Every time before a test- e-every time after. Ngh- every time someone would l-look at you in those pretty skirts and- fuuuuck! wanted to fuck that damn mouth shut every time you’d insult me. Every time- made you wanna scream.”

Swiping his simmering tastebuds down with circles. Hearts. Something that felt like an S–

“Tha’s right- goood girl, you got that one right.” He’s piping up from between your dampened inner thighs. Fucking you with his tongue just the way his weighty cock was bawling and begging to fuck you.

And it takes you one more sweltering kiss, two more until you’re lifting your mouth back off of Gojo’s fat cock in realization- did you just say that out loud? 

“Mhmm—” Gojo answers, voice breaking with a slight whine at the loss of heat. Promptly, you’re pushing your hips back to ride his mouth shut and gawking at the way it makes his shaft twitch wildly. Like a madman, he’s rutting up to capture your sweet, sweet lips once more- 

“Th-think I like it better when you- ngh-” You somehow manage to get out through sappy wet bobs of your mouth, every squelch! drawn out by the suction of your hollowed lips deafening in his cozy bedroom. You start to feverishly pump the solid inches of his you couldn’t fit inside, holding onto one side of his muscular glutes for balance. “-when you shut up.”

“N’ you’re better when you have- my-” It was even worse with every buzzzzing vibration of his voice tingling your clit. The bed rickets in unison with your whines as he drills up into your slickened mouth maddeningly, plummy tip scouring your inner cheeks. “-biiig fucking cock in y-your mouth.”

And then Gojo wasn’t just making out with your cunt till he’s pussydrunk- he’s slithering one of his slender, pale fingers until it’s all glazed with a satiny layer of sap and caressing your entrance. 

Tenderly, he slips just the thick first pad of it past the tight muscle before you’re clenching- being dragged even further up his face. 

“C’mon- c’mon c’mon c’mon please-” Pushing and pushing, he couldn’t handle the singlest bit of resistance unless he wanted to tear up. 

The size of his digit is just so looong and nimble enough that Gojo finds himself in awe at the way your snug hole opens up to swallow him eagerly. Crying out bulbous tears of sap, you’re just arching your back and taking every one thrust. Two. Three. Four–

Swatting your clit with the pointed fringe of his chin, he’s flopping his tongue over in a textured pattern on top of your perky clit. One that makes you gasp— “A? A?”

“Mhmm—” Teething your swollen folds at the grooving tickle of his prominent middle veins on the roof of your mouth, the way you’re announcing everything he spells is just so hot that Gojo bucks until you choke. “Next-”

Struggling, flowing so much damper at the muscles of his front. God- he was sooo fucking fit. Using every ounce to push– “Mmpf- ngh-” Mouth so full that your cheeks bulge, “J?”

“What’s that? Wha’s that?” Gojo almost throws his head back into the bedsprings and chuckles. “Miss vale-hah! valedictorian can’t even spell-” Toying the mushy tip of his tongue over your clit again, “What’s that?”

“T- please. Not gonna last-”

“Mmmm–” He’s so close now that you could feel the cold press of his glasses, all drenched at this point. Even more so when Gojo adds in a third finger and lets it just graze the splotchy area of your g-spot.

“Sa-toru, your glasses-”

He didn’t even care. He didn’t even need them at this point. 

“Use the momentum of your hips. Move. Ride.” 

In three different ways. Riding him exactly how he wanted you to in languid, slobbering drags and he’s never been more in heaven. The nubs of your hardened nipples rubbin’ all sensitive through your bra where Gojo manhandles you to glissade down his tensed core. 

His throbbing shaft twitching and striking the roof of your mouth, he’s getting fervent. Burning hot. “Aww- pretty princess is all dumb. What’s- that?”

His tongue’s so dexterous that even your hazed mind can make out each syllable, each letter. Faster. Harder. “O- ngh! S’an O-” Trembling palms cupping his balls, “R- M’so fucking close.”

And you could already guess the next looping drag of his tongue. The precise syllable on your tongue once you’re throwing your head back and shattering– “U- You- fuck! Satoru–!” You didn’t even have to try to open your mouth and let the wadded ribbon of saliva dangle off from it. 

Striking Gojo’s veiny shaft and making him buck-

“That’s it- nghhh- c’mon, princess, scream my name.”

“Saaa–toru. C-cummin- ngh.” You don’t even have the privilege of finishing your damn sentence before he’s plopping in four of his prolonged fingers and making your wave of euphoria burst. 

So hard that your vision dots with pure white. You’re leaking from both your maw and your fluttering eyelids now, “P-please.” Mouth flooded with so many whimpers and torrents of slobber. You’re so far thrust into your blissful high that you don’t even realize you’ve stuck the first few inches of Gojo’s spit-glazed cock inside your watered mouth. 

“Yeah- yeahhh what do ya want?”

“C-cum.”

“Hmm–?”

Shoveling right inside like your favorite pinkish ice cream once you’re peeking over your shoulder and mumbling– “C-cum, Toru–”

And there it was - that did it.

You, saying his first name. Like that.

The only thing more it takes before creeps his sweaty palm over the crown of your skull and pushes- straight down. Straight full of his lengthy, rummaging fat cock, until your nose nuzzles the slight fuzz of silky white at the base. 

Eyes sprinting to the back of your head, your throat gets all clogged-up with his throbbing inches before he fills it up even further.

Oh, oh- you never thought you could ever be so damn full. 

It’s as if he’s torn apart your throat and was probin’ the curve of his bulging mushroom tip right into the base of your lungs. Flooding it up with sploshing wires of stringy cum, pumping and pumping each ribbon until it’d formulated a buttery frosting everywhere he could reach.

“O-ohhh fuck- nghhhh fuck-” Bottomed-out, yet pushing down even further. “Y-you…”

With a splattering bubble of drool that trickles from the rosy corner of his lips- Gojo couldn’t even clearly see from his tear-shattered vision, and yet, he was staring dead-on at your relaxed throat. 

Mindlessly, the sensory tip of his index traces that bulging cylindrical outline being fucked against the underside of your neck. Dooown all nine inches. Gojo jostles your weakened knees apart and lets his overspilling cock dab the corners and crevices of your hot mouth.

The bloated, flaring ridge of his slit moving it all over. Breathlessly giggling, “You really- really t-took it ngh- all…you- oh.” Heavy, pink balls tightening as if he could cum again- “How’s that, little miss valedictorian?”

You swallowed.

“S’that…all you got?”

And he couldn’t get enough.

It was just too adorable how your snarky mouth was hoarse n’ all spellbound by the time Gojo slides his veined cock a few more vulgar times down your tongue and pulls out with a plop!

“Ngh- T-Toru-”

“Shiiit- don’t call me that- fuuuck don’t call me- oh.” He couldn’t even speak. The polished frames of his glasses nearly dangling off, Gojo manhandles your boneless body around to sit prettily on his manspread lap. 

To admire you properly.

And all it takes is that singular glimpse of you. 

That clouded vision of you above him - your eyes glassy with a film of lust, mouth sopping wet with milky wads of seed that drip! drip! drip! down between his toned pecs. 

Your fucked-out hips glissading back down the uprightly laid length of his girth - over every vein, every ridge - with a whine-

And the man damn near loses it.

He’s whining, bucking- his feet planting up to gyrate his hot cock against your skin like he was aching for more. “Need it.” You’re almost startled as two of Gojo’s palms latch onto your hips and make you push, “Please- I mean- fuck.” Shit, he couldn’t stop himself from babbling pussdrunkenly. 

That carnal urge pulsing from his bulging tip to push deeply inside you.

You’re feeling Gojo swell up even fatter - even harder - behind the cheeks of your ass and find yourself pushing back with a greedy pap! of skin-on-skin. “Don’t tell me…”

“Shut up.” Kissing you, he tastes salted caramel and nearly cums again.

Lecherous grin growing even wider, you break off. “Awww—” Your previous dazed state slowly fading with the last few tingles of your orgasm, “Wittle Toru’s first time?”

“Shut up.”

He’s straining his neck and snapping his jaw with a click! Honed canines threatening the fragile skin of your nipples, you’re pushing back on his feverish flesh. 

Gojo looked so pretty like this that you just couldn’t help it - all stinging, red cheeks, and your pussy slicking a gooey lustre that plasters from his dripping chin all the way to damn near the tips of his ears. 

Puddling. 

“No need to worry.” You shove on his blushing collarbones with a whimper, his cock was so hard that it hurt. “I’ll be ngh- gentle, Satoru, so oh- fuck!”

But Gojo Satoru didn’t wait this long to be fucking gentle. 

No- just like the way he’s longed to whenever you always got so close, so fiery shutting him up during arguments - Gojo thrusts the big, bulging tip of his cock between your swollen folds and pushes. 

His first. 

Finding his muscular thighs trembling, mouth parting, pupils rolling until all you could see was the pure white of his eyes. Something dark and primal breaks at the back of his ravaged throat, “O-oh.” And he’s gasping with the effort to compose himself- to say something snarky. 

But all Gojo can do is hold onto the girthy base of his shaft and let it drip with a glaze of syrupy pre. Mouth opening n’ closing, breath catching. 

“Wait- you’re so-” Bucking his hips just the slightest inch off the dampened sheets and letting it slide pointedly along your walls. “-y-you’re so soft- and warm. And ngh- nghhh fuck! Th-this is what the adventitia- what your pretty pussy feels like?”

Watery eyes widening once you nod, “Th-then m’neeever pulling out. Your lamina propria’s gonna mold to my cock, miss valedictorian.” 

Cooing, he hastily tugs off his cottony sweater, fumbling once the syrupy pool of slick you’d leaked all over his neckline makes it stick to his skin like an adhesive. And oh- fuck.

You’d felt every line and shapely curve of Gojo’s chiseled abs down your front. Hell, you could still feel the way your tummy was aching with the stinging ridges of him pressed up against you- and yet, it still doesn’t prepare you for just how sexily toned your smug rival was. 

All naturally muscular edges of his broad shoulders, and his ivory happy trail was wobbling with the bumps of his abs. All flexing. All tense. 

All heated against your naked thighs as he grips your ass cheeks and pushes you down, down, down–

“Ngh…oh– Toru!”

“S-soooo sweet.” Voice hitching, he’s squinting his eyes cutely in pleasure at that silken, soft hug of your walls. You’re shaping around his thickly barreling length so tight that he’s roughly handling you to lift up and down- up and down. Deeper. “So ngh- so much better than that…PocketPussy3000 I named after ya, princess.”

And you would be snarking back- teasing him, had it not been for the way that Gojo was so fucking big that he made your mind stupidly dizzy. 

“B-big?” Gojo croaks out from underneath you- oh, shit, you’d said that out loud. Again. “Am I…” Drifting his glassy eyes downwards to watch where your puffy pussylips were bulging whilst struggling to take him. “-really that big?”

Biting down on the insides of your cheek as you lie, “N-no.”

Experimentally, Gojo gives another feral rut. Watching as your pretty eyes nearly bulge out of your head, your maw falling ajar into a perfect ‘o’. 

He’s fucking up into you with his massive cock and barely even trying to dig the smooth, left-leaning curve of his achy girth into your every nook and cranny. Veins bloated up so wide that they carve a zig-zagged pattern against your tight channel after every ba-dump–!

Gojo really was that big. 

“H-heh.” Octaves higher, wild. He’s chuckling as if he still couldn’t even believe it when Gojo’s right hand creeps up the side of your hips to press down on your tummy. 

“Mmm– hck! If you’re gonna press there, Satoru-”

“Why? S’a biiig stretch for the poor stratified squamous epithelium isn’t it?” Feeling himself with the edges of his ravenous, long digits as he sliiiides in- rocking n’ rocking upwards against your snug resistance. Speaking over the creaky bedcoils, “Say it- tell me.”

Arms rested upon his flexing deltoids, you throw your head back after each solid inch he was blowing your cunt up with. Until it felt like your walls were being snagged on to the maximum, “B-big-”

“Nuh uh, princess- biiiig stretch. Say it w’me now-”

“Big- ngh!” You’re fighting against Gojo’s sloppy cadence from behind you to roll your hips back onto his trembling thighs. Deeper. Deeper. “Biiig stretch–”

“That’s right—” Oh, you’ve never been more irresistible to him. And Gojo’s palm massages the bumpin’ bulge being pounded against your tummy, until you can feel every crease of his palm lines. It makes his filthy mouth salivate to feel the stretch inside as you keep swallowing his cock deeper. “Again now- nghhh- biiig stretch.”

“Biiiig stretch- oh, fuck!”

Just about the only thing you can do is spit out a string of swears when Gojo bottoms out and hits the base of your pussy with a sharp spank! 

Tendrils of white rubbin’ your outer pussy raw, the circumference of his length bullying inside to stretch your hole into such a cute oh! The exact same shape that your mouth was turning into right now, “Please- fuck mmm–”

Squelches! ring out after every springy bounce you plant on Gojo’s length, your calves burning with the sheer effort it takes to smooch your puckered ring over his tip and slide, slide, slide all the way down to his hilt. 

Breathing out in a pant, “Oh, you’ve taken all of me- all of me? Seriously- fuck!” Gojo lets his inexperienced hips drive all the way upwards in carnal, uncontrolled ruts. “Tha’s just right- fuh-fuck back t’me like that mmm-”

“Getting hck! really cocky–” You’re biting, your overworked pussy quivering as you clench. “-Toru.”

And oh, that makes him shatter. 

Hips mindless, head flopping backwards, mouth opening with the prettiest, more pornographic whine. You’d just made the Gojo Satoru whine with your pussy.

His drunken gaze only half-opening to stare at you through dilated eyes, glasses completely fogged-up and useless now that you’re roughly riding him. Smart mouth babbling, “D-don’t think you’re- winning–”

It was a competition even now. 

Like a race to who could get the other to break first, he’s matching your papping cadence and even more. And through the tears clung to your lashes, you’re spying the way that Gojo’s v-line was swollen n’ red with slamming contact. 

Your hand glissading down his sweat-glistening skin to trace his sensitive abs, “Oh yeah? And you think- hck-” Another sluuurping clench, another topple of his head. His sanity. “-y-you’re winning?”

“Still haven’t found the mmm– Gräfenberg spot yet, princess.” He’s smirking, one hand rested upon your right ass cheek to keep on stirrin’ his rummaging length in swivels inside of you. The other thumbing over your neglected clit in the meantime, muttering. “Anterior wall under the urethra…roughly hnghhh– this many inches deep and part of the sensitive clitoral network…”

His split-ending, bawling cocktip probes your glossy walls like a spotlight. Your g-spot being the bullseye that he’s targeting dead on. Grinning. 

“-here.”

Precisely, you feel the heat of his prominent spherical cockhead drive up n’ down the entire length of that sensitive bundle of nerves. Digging the curve of his shaft generously into where you saw stars-

“Who’s winning hck! what now?”

Sloppily kissing him, just to quieten the man down. “Oh- sh-shut up.”

“Hm…” Gojo’s accurate whack! of his girth against your g-spot lets off the loudest, most lecherous squeeeelch. And he’s proddin’ his sensitive slit against your cervix just to feel it, “Can you shut up when I fuck you like- this-”

You can’t. 

Mewling, your knees hit halt and wedge the swollen n’ aching nub of your clit against his supple palm. Letting his skin streak a good rub over where your core was painfully needy, “Y-you grew bigger.”

“Hmmm–?”

You’re riding him craaaazy with your hips, pussy walls clinging onto his slick cock so tightly that you’re rendered weak with every vein. Every throb. Every growth of his shaft pounding even fatter until you could barely even clench-

Bigger. Harder. Tongue slathering with a glaze of syrupy spit, “B-big– got ngh! bigger.”

“What’s that? What’s thaaaat?” His pummeling dick scouring down your walls, erupting in a proud splosh of rich precum at that cute lil’ compliment. “Bigger? Heh- my princess ngh likes, big- don’tcha?”

At this point you’re driven wild, your dewy pupils circlin’ around the insides of your eye comically. Mouth hanging open with stupid little ‘oh’s’ and ‘yesses.’

Gojo narrows his eyes once you start blubbering, bashing his tip extra hard into your g-spot so that he could have you fully dumb on his cock. “Mmm– c’mon, miss valedictorian.” Lips twitching, “Use your big girl words.”

“Hngh- hard-”

“Yeahhh– m’pretty fucking- hard- huh?”

“Harder.”

Oh- it’s a wonder he didn’t cum right then- shit, Gojo thinks he almost is. 

A thin, ropey string of hot seed that hits your womb the moment he’s flattening his feet on the cushion of the bed to thrash a mean thwack! onto your spongy cervix. 

Digging his geysering divot so deep against the bottom of your glutinous cunt that he grits his teeth and plugs his weepy crown shut. 

Trying not to cum- praying not to cum, “Harder? Harder?” Repeated in such a high, unsteady pitch. His dazed eyes peeking over his glasses and widening, “My girl wants it harder?”

Nodding, “Please, Toru– m’soooo close.”

“Then- greedy fucking- girl- better- take it.” And he wasn’t just pummeling your poor pussy, he was pummeling it like a madman. You could practically see the rippling of his muscular body, sheer power that was being channeled into each thrust. 

Each strike. Each damp smooch with your g-spot. 

You didn’t even realize you were clawing at his shoulders in an attempt to crawl away until his left hand pushes down on your sweat-matted scalp. 

Holding your face still, Gojo watches every cute minute reaction of yours as he goes hard. Then slow. Then sloppy. Alternating his pace until you’re sure you’ve memorized the patterns of his hammering veins on each side. “N’ that means nghh- nooo running away.”

“No runnin’-” Babbling through tears, every strike makes your brain spin. “Not gonna last- nghh fuck…not gonna last, Toru.”

“Swallowing my cock so much- S’this what you wanted after every hah- argument? Every time you yelled? Filthy giiirl, shoulda just asked.”

And Gojo was murmuring such filth into your ear that you can’t help but shrill– “Let me cum- ngh- let me cum-”

“Tch- demanding.”

“Please-”

“Better…how about ‘pretty pl–’ oh fuck.” 

Before he can revel in his victory, before he can tease you any further - you’re reaching one of your jittery hands behind your back and palming at Gojo’s tight, aching ballsack. Tracing your sultry touch just where he was red n’ raw with the slamming impact of your ass.

Hips speeding up, creaking getting louder. 

“Oh hah- haaaa–” Gojo tosses his head back and bucks- bucks and bucks and bucks as if he was trying to milk your orgasm sooner. Rovering thumb pressing down on your clit like his favorite button, “Cheater, cheater~”

You didn’t know who was off worse - you who was drooling out a sappy puddle after every repeated three slams of his cock each passing second. Letting your droopy body be manhandled into bouncing in a S-A-T-O-R-U that you’re not even sure Gojo realizes he’s making you spell out. 

Didn’t even register. Didn’t even know. 

Or Gojo who was trembling with every squeeze of your gushing walls, frantically letting his glasses slide off even further so that he wasn’t hypnotized and on the verge of losing just by watching you ride him dry.

You’re too hot to handle. 

A perk that you’re immediately abusing as you push his glasses cleanly back onto his nosebridge n’ smudge away the misted fog. 

“Ngh f-fuck–” Chin hitting your sweaty chest once he’s manoeuvering you into a wiiiide O to muddle together the letters of his name. Claiming your pretty pussy. Claiming him. “-fuck you, Satoru.”

Gojo leans in closer with puckered lips, close enough to kiss. “I’m fucking you, princess.” To shut you up while sucking on your tongue while it hits. 

And Gojo’s so caught up in every movement of your body that he doesn’t even realize he’s finishing off in such a wet, voluminous way until it’s dripping out of you. Mouth parting, “O-oh…”

Your own orgasm takes over your body like a wave, being suddenly hit with strikes of white-hot pleasure that send goosebumps trailing down your spine. Every push of Gojo’s slick shaft feels so good that it makes your vision flash white, whimpering each time his slimy mushroom tip was kissin’ your sweetest spots. 

“Cumming–” You’re calling out belatedly, hips creaming yourself on his. “I’m– oh.”

“H-heh.” And Gojo was actually giggling- giggling. Faintly noting the hot-headed mess that was his brain right now, he could only flutter his long lashes at each spike of pleasure and stare. 

Ogling the way your puffy pussylips were gulping after every streak of his cum, the creamy white mess pouring out into you until your womb felt heavy. 

Over and over he’s thrusting inside, making- almost forcing his cock to pour out every drop. Every ounce until it was dry.

Showered, sloppy wads of seed plastered across your hole, you could feel the pearly mess dangling out of you each time your cunt hit his pelvis. Formulating a ring of syrupy cum that made Gojo just swallow past his parched throat, “I win.”

“No.” You’re huffing. Stubborn, even as you’re sagging down until your face was cushioned by his pecs, perking your hips to milk out his last few dredges until Gojo was cumming dry. “I win-”

Dry- you’d made him cum dry.

Humping upwards so that oodles of sap would slip down your cervix and make you shudder. Both your popped ears buzzing with the splat! of cobwebbed cum that glues down your thighs. “Nuh uh, princess. I totally won that.”

“Hngh- yuh uh.”

“Nuh-”

And maybe you were the least drunken of the two, because you’re the only one with enough murky sense right now to put an end to the endless argument. 

Shutting Gojo Satoru up for once in his life by reaching your hand over to dig underneath his navy pillow - searching for that glint of something you’re sure you’d caught in your lustful haze moments prior. 

He can only lay beneath you and blush and blush once you pull out…that.

The PocketPussy3000 he’d named after you– the very same one he’d fuck up into night after long, lonely night thinking about his damn “rival.” 

Fuck…he should’ve known the valedictorian wouldn’t forget. 

“Named after me, huh? Cute.”

Indignantly pushing up his frames, “Wh-what is the meaning of this-”

“Let’s consider it a tie.” You croon, in that exact tone he knew was dangerous. And his brainy suspicions are proven correct when, the very next moment, you’re pulling yourself off of him with a dampened pop! 

Letting a stream of ivory creamy swoosh down below to sheen his pale thighs - Gojo has never looked prettier, you think.

“Oh- oh my god…ngh- oh my god, princess.”

The apples of his cheeks scorching, mouth gaping, tired n’ thoroughly overstimulated pink cock flinching when you hover that rubbery toy over. Letting off a sopping slurp as you start to bully his reddened tip between the folds and jerk him off– “Round two?”

.

.

.

“It can’t be-”

“So that last time seriously wasn’t about studying?”

“You owe me five thousand yen.”

And you swear you’re catching about half the class and Yaga himself exchanges betting pools of money the very moment you and Gojo enter the lecture hall. Together. Hand-in-hand.

Fuck- was your rivalry really that infamous? 

Because Gojo’s fingers weave even tighter with yours as you pass by countless stares, numerous cellphones out to take paparazzi shots of the markings on your neck that you’re sure will end up on some sort of campus bulletin board by the end of the hour. 

Ah, maybe you should’ve done one of those ‘soft-launches’ first…

Too late for that, you think, seated at your usual spot on one of the first few rows and wearily watches as Yaga happily counts the spoils of his bet. 

Sneaking a glance at your gloomy boyfriend, you try not to snicker- not only did he receive a stupendous second placement on the last exam, tied with you, it’s as if every single person here blatantly couldn’t tear their eyes off of his hunched, blushing figure. 

Nervously pushing his glasses up to his bangs– “Maybe we should ah…‘cut class’ as they call it, princess-”

“So-” There’s a slamming weight of a strong forearm on your shoulder, ringed fingers possessive - and another one on Gojo’s - that could only mean one person. “Unless my milkshake was spiked again, I take it that the scheme- I mean, study session went well? Even though I did get first place on our last final.” 

Before you can answer, Geto’s husky voice heats up your ear, low. Dangerous. “Y’know, I hear this next assignment’s a…group project.”

A/N. Hehehe I MISSED Nerdjo so I just had to…

Plagiarism not authorized.

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 28: July 2024 - Part 3

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

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

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

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

Warnings and Notes: 

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

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

The second session did not magically become easier than the first.

If anything, it felt heavier — not with tension, but with the weight of everything unspoken that now hovered in the room like fog. The kind that settled into your bones.

Belle sat stiffly on the couch, her posture a little too perfect, the line of her spine drawn taut like a string pulled too tight. One hand curled around a mug of herbal tea Camille had handed her the moment she walked in — chamomile, the kind that was supposed to soothe. Her other hand rested on her thigh, fingers loose until Max’s slid between them. He didn’t squeeze. Didn’t press. Just... anchored.

Silent. Solid. Always there.

Across from them, Camille offered her usual soft, steady smile, pen poised but barely moving. “Thank you all for coming back,” she said. “I know this isn’t easy.”

Arthur gave a quiet nod. Lorenzo sat with his hands clasped, his expression drawn and unreadable, like he was still bracing for impact. Pascale held her handbag on her lap like armor — her nails tapping absently against the clasp. And Charles… Charles looked wrecked. Hair rumpled, shadows under his eyes, like sleep had been a stranger all week.

Belle didn’t look at him long.

“Let’s talk about the foal,” Camille said gently. “Galahad.”

The name alone sent a ripple through the room.

Belle blinked. She hadn’t expected that to come up so soon. Her thumb brushed the rim of her cup.

“He’s Blanche’s grandson,” she said quietly.

Pascale inhaled sharply, the kind of breath that sounded like it had edges. Arthur went still. Lorenzo’s brows pulled together, low and pained, as if he was trying to fold the memory of Blanche into something less sharp.

Charles frowned, his confusion too genuine to be faked. “I—wait. That’s real? It’s not just… people online guessing?”

Belle didn’t answer him at first. She just looked down into her tea — then lifted her eyes, cool and clear, to her brother.

“Max gave me Fleur,” she said, voice steady. “Blanche’s last foal. He found her. Bought her. For my birthday.”

Max didn’t flinch when every pair of Leclerc eyes snapped toward him. He didn’t even blink. He just slid his thumb gently over Belle’s knuckles, grounding her again — like a lighthouse in a storm he wasn’t afraid to weather.

“Blanche was sold when I was thirteen,” Belle continued. “She was the one thing in the world that was mine. And Papa sold her to pay for Charles’ karting season.”

Charles flinched visibly. Arthur looked like he was trying not to speak.

“We didn’t realize,” Pascale said quietly, voice barely above a breath. “That it hurt so much. You were so quiet about it…”

“I stopped talking about it,” Belle said, turning to her mother now — not cold, but calm in a way that made Max’s grip on her hand tighten slightly. “Because I learned not to ask for anything I loved. Because if I did, it would be taken away.”

The room went still.

Dead quiet.

“I didn’t know,” Charles said. “I mean— I knew Blanche was important, but I didn’t know it broke you like that.”

Belle didn’t blink. “Because no one ever asked if I wanted to ride again. Not once. You just assumed I was fine.”

“I thought you’d outgrown it,” Charles said weakly. 

“I didn’t,” Belle said. Her voice cracked for the first time, but she cleared it and went on. “I missed her every day. I used to dream she’d be there when I got home. I’d walk past the stables and think maybe… maybe someone changed their mind.”

Arthur’s voice was rough. “Why didn’t you say something?”

She looked at him. And for the first time, it wasn’t hurt in her eyes — it was exhaustion.

“Because you took away what I loved once,” Belle said. “What reason did I have to believe anyone would give it back?”

Camille sat forward slightly. “Belle, you mentioned working at a stable during university?”

Belle nodded. “It was the only way I could be near horses again. I mucked stalls, fed foals, groomed show ponies. I worked before and after classes just to pay for riding lessons.”

“And you never told anyone?” Lorenzo asked softly.

Belle gave him a thin smile. “Charles was already making F1 money. You were all busy celebrating. Why would I ruin it by saying I still missed something you decided didn’t matter?”

Max let go of her hand just long enough to rest his palm over her thigh, his thumb rubbing small, grounding circles there.

Charles leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I was so focused on not letting anyone down—on winning. I didn’t know—”

“You didn’t ask,” Belle said.

And this time, it landed.

The silence afterward was raw. Heavy. Pascale dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief she pulled from her coat pocket.

“I thought you were so strong,” she whispered. “I thought if I didn’t ask, you wouldn’t hurt.”

“I still hurt,” Belle said, gentler this time. “I just stopped hoping you’d notice.”

“I’m sorry,” Charles said suddenly, voice thick. “I’m so— I was selfish. I didn’t see what I cost you. I didn’t know how much we hurt you. That we took something from you and never even tried to give it back. That we just… assumed you didn’t need it anymore.”

Belle blinked hard. Max squeezed her hand tighter.

“I remember when they sold Blanche,” Charles said. “You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You just stopped. And I told myself that meant you were okay. But you weren’t. You were never okay. And I never asked why.”

Camille nodded. “Belle, how does that feel to hear?”

“I don’t want apologies because people feel guilty,” Belle said. “I want them because they finally see me. All of me.”

She looked at Charles again. “Do you?”

“I’m trying,” he said, voice shaking. “I promise—I’m really, really trying.”

Max finally spoke, low and firm. “Trying is good. But it’s only the beginning.”

Charles met Max’s eyes. For once, there was no defensiveness. Just shame.

Camille let the silence stretch before speaking again, her voice soft.

“Grief doesn’t always come from loss,” she said. “Sometimes it comes from being forgotten. From knowing that what matters most to you… didn’t matter to someone else.”

Belle closed her eyes, just for a moment.

And Max held her hand, the only thing that didn’t tremble.

The silence stretched again, heavier this time.

Charles had leaned back, hands clasped between his knees, shame carved deep into the lines of his face. Arthur sat rigid beside him, like he was holding his breath through the weight of it all.

And Lorenzo… Lorenzo hadn’t spoken in a while.

Not because he had nothing to say.

But because he had too much.

“I should’ve known,” he said finally.

His voice was rough — unused, too tight, like every word scraped its way out.

Belle looked at him, but didn’t speak. Just watched. Quiet. Braced.

Lorenzo’s hands flexed in his lap before he went still again.

“I was the oldest,” he said, not to anyone in particular. “I was supposed to look after everyone. Especially after Papa died. And I didn’t. Not really.”

He looked up at her then, and the regret in his expression nearly knocked the wind from her lungs.

“I thought… if you weren’t complaining, if you weren’t fighting… that meant you were fine.” A pause. “But you weren’t. And I should’ve seen that.”

Belle’s throat worked. She didn’t trust herself to speak, so she just waited.

“I saw you working during uni,” Lorenzo added, softer now. “I knew you were doing too much. But I told myself it was just who you were — that you liked being independent. I didn’t think to ask why. I didn’t think to ask if it was because we hadn’t given you anything to rely on.”

He looked down, thumb rubbing over a faded scar on his knuckle.

“I didn’t know you were still riding,” he said. “I didn’t know you were still hurting. And that’s not on you. That’s on me.”

Belle’s breath hitched — and she looked away, blinking fast.

“I thought I was doing enough by staying out of your way,” Lorenzo said, quieter still. “But all I did was stay out of your life.”

Across the room, Pascale was quietly crying.

Camille sat back, letting the silence do what it needed.

Max gently squeezed Belle’s hand.

And finally — finally — she found her voice again.

“I never stopped waiting for someone to ask,” she whispered. “Just once. Just one of you.”

Her voice didn’t waver, even though her eyes were glassy.

“You all knew how much I loved Blanche. You all knew what it meant when she was gone. And then you just… never asked again. All I ever wanted,” she said, “was to matter to you the way racing mattered. The way Charles mattered. The way Arthur’s comeback mattered. I didn’t need a podium. I just needed to be enough without earning it.”

Lorenzo wiped his face with a shaking hand.

Pascale looked like her heart was breaking in slow motion.

Lorenzo looked like he’d been punched.

“I care,” he said hoarsely. “I care, Belle. I’m so sorry it took me this long to say it.”

Belle didn’t nod.

Didn’t forgive.

But her hand curled tighter around Max’s.

And she didn’t look away.

Which was, for now, more than she’d ever given them before.

Camille’s voice was soft, guiding. “Maybe the next step isn’t trying to fix the past all at once. Maybe it’s about listening better. Starting now.”

***

The kitchen was quiet except for the soft hum of the dishwasher and the occasional flick of Max’s thumb as he scrolled through his phone. Belle sat at the island, legs curled up on the stool, her chin resting on her palm as she nursed a glass of iced tea.

It had been a long day. The kind that didn’t hurt exactly, but left her feeling stretched thin.

Max looked up from his phone. “So, I was thinking,” he said, tone light, joking, “the summer break is coming up… we could actually take a holiday this time.”

Belle raised an eyebrow. “A real one? No media, no Red Bull calls, no pretending we’re just ‘close friends’ in public?”

Max grinned. “Full honeymoon energy. Just with slightly more sunscreen and probably less champagne.”

She smiled faintly, but the curve of it faltered after a second.

“I don’t want to plan anything that’s meant to include them,” Belle said quietly, fingers tightening around her glass. “Not this time.”

Max didn’t ask who them was.

He didn’t have to.

She pressed on, voice steady but tired. “Every family trip, every holiday, every break… it was always about accommodating them. Maman’s preferences, Charles’ schedule, Lorenzo’s mood. I don’t want to do that again. I don’t want to spend my vacation hoping someone remembers I’m there.”

Max’s gaze softened. He reached out, tugging gently on her hand until she let go of the glass and laced her fingers through his instead.

“Then we don’t,” he said simply. “We make it ours. No apologies.”

Belle exhaled, slow and shaky. “I don’t want to spend this summer proving I’m fine without them. I want to actually be fine.”

Max brushed his thumb along her knuckles. “What if we invited my family instead?”

Belle blinked.

He continued, tone still light but thoughtful. “Ma has been asking to see you. We could rent a little villa — bring Victoria, Tom, the boys. Just family, but the kind that… makes you feel safe.”

Belle’s lips parted like she was going to argue — reflex, habit — but then she stopped.

Because that didn’t sound exhausting.

It didn’t sound like pressure.

It sounded like warm breakfasts and sleepy mornings and Lio climbing into her lap with sticky fingers, and Sophie giving her that kind, knowing smile that never made her feel small.

It sounded like a life she didn’t have to fight for every second.

She swallowed. “That actually… sounds really nice.”

Max leaned over, kissed her temple, and said, “Good. Because I already looked at places in the South of France.”

Belle let out a soft laugh, the tension finally beginning to slide from her shoulders. “Of course you did.”

Max smirked. “I have taste. And a wife with excellent boundaries.”

Belle squeezed his hand. “Getting there.”

“You’re already doing better than most,” he said, kissing her again. “And this summer? It’s going to be about you. Us. The people who show up.”

***

Group Chat: Summer Escape ☀️🐚

 (Members: Max, Belle, Victoria, Sophie, Tom)

Max: Found a villa in the South of France. Private beach, lots of space, kid-friendly. Sent you all the link.

Tom: Already sold by private beach tbh.

Victoria: Oh my god this place looks like a dream. Maxie, you’ve outdone yourself.

Sophie: It’s beautiful. And it looks peaceful, too — no paparazzi hiding in the bushes, I hope?

Belle: It’s gated and secluded. Max made sure.

Max: Called ahead. They’ve hosted high-profile guests before. We’ll be safe.

Victoria: Bless you. I love you both but I’m not spending my vacation ducking from long lenses while trying to wrangle Luka and Lio into sunscreen.

Tom: I can already feel the sunburn happening anyway.

Belle: I’ve got a whole itinerary if anyone’s interested 📝 Markets, coastal trails, a boat rental option, a local cooking class, and yes, Vic — I found a day spa.

Victoria: I LOVE YOU.

Sophie: That sounds like heaven. I’ll bake if someone else drives.

Max: Tom and I will handle the cars.

Tom: I’ll drive if Max promises not to play Dutch rap the entire way.

Max: Absolutely not. 

Belle: Compromise: Max gets aux on the way there, Tom gets it on the way back.

Tom: Deal.

Victoria: What dates are we looking at?

Max:Early August. I double-checked the F1 calendar. I’m free, and Belle will be far enough along to enjoy the trip but still comfortable.

Belle: I’ve already blocked off the week. Booked the villa this morning 🐚

Sophie: My bags are already mentally packed.

Victoria: Do you think Luka will cry if I tell him Auntie Belle is bringing board games?

Victoria: Okay but I’m bringing floaties for everyone. Even the adults.

Tom: I am NOT wearing a flamingo floatie, Vic.

Victoria: You will if you love me.

Sophie: I’ll bring sunscreen.

Max: Confirmed: easiest vacation planning ever.

***

The villa confirmation email had just come through when Max padded into the living room, two mugs of tea in hand and Jimmy winding lazily around his ankles.

Belle was curled up on the couch in one of his hoodies, her laptop balanced on her knees, the faintest smile on her face — the kind she wore when something felt right.

Max handed her the mug, kissed her forehead, then dropped beside her with a contented sigh.

“All set?” he asked, glancing at the screen.

Belle nodded. “Dates confirmed, boat booked, and Victoria has already texted me a list of pool floaties shaped like sea creatures.”

Max huffed a soft laugh. “She really took the flamingo comment personally.”

“She said if Tom doesn’t wear the inflatable crab, she’s revoking his beach privileges.”

“Fair.”

Belle smiled again, soft and genuine — no tightness behind it, no edge of exhaustion. Just ease.

Max studied her for a moment. The light was hitting her just right — golden and gentle, casting little halos in her hair and warming the faint curve at the base of her belly.

“It’s different, isn’t it?” he said quietly. “Planning things with them. With us.”

Belle didn’t answer at first. She just wrapped both hands around the mug and stared at the steam rising gently from it.

Then: “It doesn’t feel like walking on eggshells.”

Her voice was calm, but Max heard the weight beneath it. The quiet ache of comparison.

“With them, it was always…” She hesitated, then shrugged one shoulder. “Careful. Strategic. Making sure everyone’s feelings were considered, even if it meant mine weren’t. And still, it always felt like I was asking for too much.”

Max leaned forward, resting his elbow on the back of the couch so he could face her properly.

“And now?” he asked.

Belle looked at him then, eyes warm. “Now it just feels like family.”

He swallowed against the lump forming in his throat. Reached for her hand. Held it.

“You are family,” he said softly.

Before she could reply — her breath caught.

Max’s brow furrowed. “What is it?”

She blinked, wide-eyed.

Then she grabbed his hand and moved it — lower, gently, carefully — to rest on the curve of her belly.

“There,” she whispered. “Right there.”

Max held still.

For a heartbeat, he wasn’t sure.

Then —

A flutter. A ripple. The tiniest thud beneath his palm. Like a secret knock from inside her.

His breath hitched.

“Oh,” he breathed, stunned.

Belle was already crying — silently, the kind of overwhelmed joy that needed no sound to carry its weight.

Max stared at her stomach like it held the universe.

“That was… That was the baby,” he said dumbly, his voice cracking halfway through. “That was our baby.”

She nodded, a laugh escaping through her tears.

He pressed his palm firmer, trying to coax another one — another flutter, another sign.

And there it was. Stronger this time.

A tiny kick.

A hello.

Max didn’t speak. Couldn’t. He just leaned forward and pressed his lips reverently to the curve of her belly, hands still cupping her like she might float away.

When he looked up at Belle, there were tears in her eyes too — but not the kind that broke. The kind that healed.

And Max — F1 World Champion, man of speed and fire — sat there quietly, completely undone by the smallest movement he’d ever felt.

Together, they stayed like that — no more talking, no more planning — just stillness, warmth, and the tiniest heartbeat between them.

***

Text Messages:  Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Belle: em

Emilie: 👀 what happened are you okay is max okay did you post a horse again

Belle: 😂 no. Everyone’s fine, everything’s fine but the baby kicked for the first time. 

Emilie: WAIT WHAT BELLE ARE YOU SERIOUS AS IN REAL KICK LIKE A HELLO-I’M-HERE KICK???

Belle: Yes.  Like a real, actual kick Max felt it too I think he forgot how to breathe for a second

Emilie:I’m crying in the wine aisle A toddler just asked me if i’m okay

Belle:I wasn’t expecting it. We were just talking and then—boom… a little thump like "Hi mama, I exist"

Emilie: 😭😭😭😭 this baby already has dramatic timing just like their parents

Belle:You should’ve seen Max. He looked like he’d been hit by lightning Then he kissed my belly and just… stayed there Like he was listening for more

Emilie: STOP YOU’RE KILLING ME I already love this child more than life itself

Belle: me too and they haven’t even arrived yet

Emilie:You’re going to be such a good mom they’re already so, so loved

Belle:They really are (and so are you)

Emilie: don’t do this i’m already emotional enough also do i get godmother rights or what

Belle: first dibs obviously

Emilie: 💅 as it should be

***

The race had started with cautious optimism.

Emilie had brought pastries. Belle had made tea. The cats were napping peacefully on the windowsill, and the entire living room smelled faintly of lavender and lemon from the candle burning on the side table.

It should have been a peaceful Sunday.

It was not.

It was a catastrophe. 

From start to finish. 

"Did they just—" Emilie’s voice cut off as she sat bolt upright on the couch, nearly spilling her tea. "Did McLaren really just tell Lando to stop pushing when he was gaining seconds a lap?!"

Belle didn’t answer. Her eyes were glued to the screen, mouth open in disbelief. She looked pale beneath the soft blanket pulled over her lap — a protective hand resting unconsciously on the slight curve of her belly.

"He's faster," Emilie growled. "They’re emotionally blackmailing him with Oscar’s first win. This is what we’re doing now?"

"This is going to break him," Emilie whispered. "You can hear it. You can hear the leash snap."

Belle flinched as Red Bull’s pit wall came into focus next. She could hear Max tightly banked fury in every single radio message. 

It was absolute chaos. 

Meanwhile Oscar Piastri — calm, clinical, precise — was slowly edging toward his maiden win.

Emilie had gone from angry muttering to full shouting.

"WHY ARE THEY LIKE THIS?" she demanded, half-standing, waving a croissant like a weapon. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH MCLAREN’S PIT WALL?!?! AND MAX?!? HE’S MAX. HOW DO YOU MESS UP MAX VERSTAPPEN?!"

Belle didn’t move. She just sat there, clenching her teeth as she watched Max fight for a P5 finish by the skin of his teeth. 

On the screen, Oscar crossed the line — P1. His first win. A historic moment. And the cameras panned to the McLaren garage erupting in joy.

Emilie sat back down, quieter now. "That was a nightmare," she murmured. "Nobody’s walking away from this clean."

Belle nodded, eyes still fixed on the screen.

"No," she said. "They're not."

Emilie threw her hands up. "Oscar just won his first race, and I still want to punch someone."

Belle nodded slowly. "Because the entire grid is on fire."

"Because they sabotaged Lando, emotionally and strategically," Emilie fumed. "Because Red Bull turned Max into a sacrificial lamb. And because poor Oscar isn’t even going to get his proper moment."

They sat in silence for a few minutes.

On the screen, Oscar climbed from the car, waving to the crowd. The cheers were loud. But Belle could already see it happening — the press would spin it into "Verstappen furious at Red Bull failure" instead of "Piastri’s first victory."

Belle leaned her head back against the couch. “This was supposed to be a normal weekend.”

Emilie snorted. “Have you met Formula 1?”

Belle sighed. “Max is going to be impossible to calm down after this.”

"You’re the only one who can," Emilie said. "And maybe the baby, if they kick him in the kidney hard enough."

***

Text Messages:  Belle Verstappen & Max Verstappen

Belle: Hey. You want to talk about it?

Max: … No.

Max: Just Tell me about your day. Please.

Belle: Okay. Let’s see. Emilie came over and brought croissants. Then she spent the race shouting at the tv.  I made tea. The cats staged a nap-time rebellion. And our baby — who is currently the size of a sweet potato, apparently — kicked me when I sat down wrong.

Max:Already dramatic. That’s on you.

Belle: Excuse me?? I am elegance and grace.

Max: You are. But also a little terrifying. I love you.

Belle: I love you too. I’m proud of you, you know. Even when the car lets you down. Even when the whole race is a disaster. You still came home.

Max: That’s all I ever want. To come home to you.

Belle: Always. No matter what happens on track — I’m here. You, me, and a very kicky sweet potato. 🧡

Max: That made me smile. Thank you, Schatje. I’ll be home soon.

***

Text Messages:  Belle Verstappen & Lily Zneimer

Belle: Hey What’s Oscar thinking for the celebration?

Lily: Honestly? He’s feeling kind of… underwhelmed.

Belle: God. That makes me so sad. He deserved the whole fireworks-and-cake treatment.

Lily: He keeps saying “a win’s a win,” but it’s like… even he knows they tainted it. He’s proud. He is. But he feels like everything around it fell apart. Like he won, but at what cost, you know?

Belle: Because they used Lando’s loyalty against him. All the headlines are about Max. Or Lando. Or McLaren strategy. Not about how brilliant he drove. He was flawless. Cool under pressure. Calm. Surgical. He deserved the world for that drive.

Lily: I told him that. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Belle: The entire race was a masterclass in emotional sabotage.

Lily: Exactly. He hasn’t said it, but I think he feels like he stole something. And it wasn’t his fault. But he still feels it.

Belle: That’s the worst part. He should be celebrating. But instead he’s probably thinking about Lando’s face on the podium and Max’s radio messages.

Lily: He keeps saying Lando didn’t even try to smile.

Belle: …Oscar and Lando are going to trauma-bond over this, aren’t they?

Lily: 100%. I’m pretty sure we’re about three days away from a “we’re not mad at each other, just mad at the world” emotionally repressed heart-to-heart.

Belle: They’re going to cry into Monster Energy Drinks and protein bars and swear they’re never letting a pit wall gaslight them again.

Belle: You know what? Screw it. Let’s throw a pool party at ours. Oscar deserves joy. Lando deserves relaxation. Max needs sunlight and distraction. And I’m pregnant. I can make it about me if I need to.

Lily: OH MY GOD YES. YES TO EVERYTHING. You say when and I’ll bring snacks and inflatable flamingos.

Belle: Done. I’ll talk to Max. Let’s give Oscar the celebration McLaren should have.

Lily: You’re the best. Seriously. He’s going to cry.

Belle: He can cry into the pool float shaped like a trophy. I’ll allow it. 😌

***

Text Messages:  Belle Verstappen & Oscar Piastri

Belle: Hey you 🧡 I know the last 24 hours have been a mess. But I also know something else. You won that race. Not McLaren. Not the strategists. You.

Oscar: Thanks, Belle. I’m trying to focus on that. It just feels… weird.

Belle: Of course it does. You were brilliant. But the world got loud about everything else. That doesn’t take away from what you did.

Oscar: It’s hard to feel like it’s mine, I guess. I don’t want Lando to think I didn’t notice how much he gave up. And Max… he deserved better too. Everyone’s mad. It’s hard to celebrate when it feels like I’m the reason for the wreckage.

Belle: Oscar. You are not the wreckage.

Oscar: That’s… Thank you. Really.

Belle: So. Here’s what’s going to happen. This weekend, you’re coming over. We’re throwing a pool party.

Oscar: A what?? 😳

Belle: A celebration. For you. No media. No drama. Just people who love you, a barbecue, flamingos, probably cats, and a really smug Red Bull driver pretending he isn’t excited to man the grill.

Oscar: Is this a trap?

Belle: Only if you hate joy and inflatable pool floaties. Which would be tragic.

Oscar: You don’t have to do that, Belle.

Belle: I want to. Because you should’ve had fireworks. So we’ll give you laughter instead. You earned your moment, Oscar. Let us give it to you.

Oscar: …Okay. Okay, yeah. I think I’d like that.

Belle: Good. And you’re bringing Lily. I’ll blackmail Lando into bringing a playlist and making mocktails. 

Oscar: Thank you, Belle. Really.

Belle: Always. Now go pick your favorite sunglasses. You’re getting a party.

***

Text Messages:  Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: He’s not answering. Belle, he’s not answering any of my texts. Or calls. Since last night.

Belle: Lando?

Emilie: Yes. He read my message at like 2am and didn’t reply. And now he’s gone dark. I’m trying not to freak out but— Okay I’m freaking out.

Belle: Deep breath. He’s probably just trying to decompress. Hungary was a disaster and you know how he gets when he feels like he failed everyone.

Emilie: But he didn’t fail. McLaren failed him. And they made him watch it happen in real-time.

Belle: I know. But Lando’s the kind of person who carries blame even when it’s not his to carry. Especially if it’s Oscar on the other side of it.

Emilie: God. I just want to drag him out of whatever cave he’s sulking in and make him eat something. I keep checking Twitter like a lunatic.

Emilie: Belle— He looked wrecked on the podium. And McLaren acted like everything was fine. Like they didn’t just emotionally ransom him in real time.

Belle: Let me text him.

Emilie: You sure? I don’t want to overstep—

Belle: Em, it’s not overstepping when you care. And Lando cares about you. That’s why he’s hiding. But he’ll talk to me. He always does when he thinks no one else should worry.

Emilie: Please let me know if he answers. I’m just… worried.

Belle: I’ll text him. Promise.

***

Text Messages:  Belle Verstappen & Lando Norris

Belle: Hey. I’m not here to push. Just letting you know I’m here when you’re ready.

Belle: Emilie’s worried. (So am I. But I won’t crowd you about it.) Just… maybe don’t go full ghost. You don’t have to be okay. But you don’t have to be alone either.

Belle: I watched the race. Every second. And I know what they did.

Belle: You didn’t lose.

You were put into an impossible situation by your team. You gave up a win so your teammate could have his moment. You drove with loyalty, with grace, with more heart than that entire pit wall put together. And it wasn’t fair.

Belle: I also know you’re probably thinking you don’t deserve comfort right now. That you let everyone down. You didn’t. You held the whole damn thing together until it cracked around you.

Lando: I’m here. Just didn’t know what to say. Still don’t, really.

Belle: You don’t have to say anything profound. Just… let someone know you’re breathing.

Lando: Barely. Feels like I’m stuck under it. The weight. The noise. Everyone has a take. And it’s all just too much.

Belle: Then let me be quiet with you. Or loud, if that helps. Whichever you need.

Lando: Oscar deserved the win. He did. But I hate how it happened.

Lando: And I hate that part of me is still wishing they’d let me have it. That feels… selfish.

Belle: It’s not selfish. It’s human. You fought like hell. You were brilliant. And you were betrayed by the people who were supposed to have your back. You’re allowed to grieve that.

Lando: I just keep thinking… if I had pushed anyway. If I’d ignored the call. If I’d just been selfish for once.

Belle: Then they would’ve crucified you. Turned you into the villain. You did the right thing. And they still broke your heart.

Lando: Yeah. That’s what it feels like.

Lando: Like I’m grieving something nobody else even noticed was lost.

Belle: I noticed. So did Max. So did Emilie. So did Oscar.

Lando: Oscar texted. I couldn’t answer. Emilie too. I couldn’t… I didn’t want them to think I blamed them.

Belle: They don’t. But they miss you. Especially Emilie. She’s halfway to turning up at your door with a backpack and emotional snacks. Text her. She’s losing her mind a little. Probably cried into a baguette this morning.

Lando: I don’t know what to say to her.

Belle: Try: “Hi, I’m alive. Sorry for being a dumb ghost boy. Miss you.” Bonus points if you throw in an emoji.

Lando: … Fine. I’ll text her. But only because you bullied me and I don’t want her to throw a baguette at my head.

Belle: Good.

Belle: Also. There’s a pool party at ours this weekend.

Lando: Is this a threat or an invitation

Belle: Yes.

Belle: Come. Max is barbecuing. Oscar’s being emotionally blackmailed into smiling. Emilie’s already picked out her floatie. I have lemon iced tea and three cats who miss you.

Lando: …Is it weird if I say I miss the cats too?

Belle: Deeply normal. One of them climbed into Max’s suitcase today like he was personally offended he wasn’t invited to the garage.

Lando: Okay. I’ll come. Just don’t… expect me to be the life of the party.

Belle: I don’t need you to be anything but you. Messy. Sad. Recovering. You’re allowed to take up space exactly as you are.

Lando: Thanks, Belle. Really.

***

Belle had always believed healing didn’t happen in grand gestures. It happened in the quiet.

It happened in things like grilled corn on a sunny patio. In the sound of Lando’s laugh — rusty, but real — echoing from the pool deck. In the way Oscar kept checking that Lily had enough sunscreen on, even though she was already under a parasol. In Emilie wearing sunglasses far too big for her face while floating across the water in a neon flamingo, sipping mocktail number three and pretending she wasn’t sneaking glances at Lando every five seconds.

It was in the smallness of it all. That’s where the cracks began to mend.

Belle sat on a lounger in the shade, legs curled under her, a book in her lap that she hadn’t turned a page of in at least twenty minutes. Her free hand rested absentmindedly over the curve of her belly. 

Max was at the grill with a look of serious concentration that made him look more like he was engineering a pit stop than flipping burgers. He’d already threatened to throw anyone who messed with his skewers into the pool.

The air smelled like coconut sunscreen, charcoal smoke, and fresh lemonade. A slow breeze ruffled the ivy growing along the stone wall. Everything was soft, warm, safe.

Lando was perched on the edge of a lounge chair near the shallow end, hair still wet, swim trunks clinging awkwardly to his legs after a stealth dunk by Oscar.

Belle had watched the shift in him happen slowly over the last hour. The way his shoulders dropped an inch. The way he let himself speak without weighing every syllable. The way Emilie, now dried off and sitting beside him with her towel around her shoulders, kept brushing her pinky against his like she was asking: Here? Can I meet you here?

And Lando — for once — didn’t flinch.

Oscar and Lily were sitting on the pool steps, water up to their waists, sharing a bag of chips like they were teenagers again. Belle caught Oscar watching Lando once, his face carefully unreadable, before he turned and whispered something to Lily that made her laugh and splash him.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was healing.

“Need anything?” Max asked, suddenly beside her, handing her a cold glass of lemon soda like he knew she was about to ask without having said a word.

Belle smiled up at him. “No. Just this.”

He sat down on the lounger beside her, his hand settling instinctively on the spot where their baby had kicked earlier that week. She leaned into him, and for a moment, there was no chaos, no paddock, no headlines — just Max and Belle and the quiet miracle they were building between them.

Across the patio, Lando called out, “Max! Your burger’s on fire!”

Max stood, dramatically offended. “It’s charred for flavor!”

Emilie snorted. “It’s charcoal, Verstappen.”

“Don’t insult the chef,” Belle murmured into her glass.

Lando grinned faintly. It didn’t reach all the way to his eyes — but it got closer.

Belle caught his gaze and lifted her glass in a silent toast.

To survival. To found families. To the summer that might finally give them all a little peace.

Lando nodded once, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Yeah. He got it.

And Belle — finally, fully — let herself exhale.

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat 

 Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale. 

Pascale: I was thinking we should start planning the summer holiday. Maybe the coast? That little hotel in Antibes with the good croissants?

Arthur: Can we not do the same hotel again? Last time we went there the air conditioning broke and Charles nearly started a war with the concierge.

Charles: That’s because it was 40 degrees and they offered me a fan the size of a desert plate.

Lorenzo: Still better than the year we tried that cabin in the Alps and you forgot you hate nature.

Charles: There were bugs. I make no apologies.

Pascale: Anyway—Isabelle, chérie, can you look into accommodations again? You always find the nicest ones. ❤️

Belle: I won’t be joining this year.

Arthur: Wait, what?

Charles: You’re not coming?

Pascale: What do you mean?

Belle: Max and I already made plans with his family. We’re spending two weeks in the South of France — a villa by the coast. Just us and them.

Lorenzo: So you’re skipping the family holiday?

Belle: I’m not skipping. I’m just not the one planning it this time. If you want to go somewhere, you’ll have to coordinate it yourselves.

Pascale: Isabelle, I just thought— You’ve always been the one who organizes things. It’s tradition.

Belle: It’s also exhausting. I’d like a summer where I don’t feel invisible while trying to make everyone else comfortable.

Lorenzo: Belle… we didn’t mean to take that for granted.

Belle: I know. But you did. And this year? I’m choosing peace.

Charles: So we’re just… not doing anything all together?

Belle: You’re welcome to. But not with me trying to hold it all together. Not this time.

***

Instagram Stories: @/belleverstappen

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/gridwitches: belle verstappen really said “our love is loud even when it’s quiet” and now i have to lie down in traffic 🫠

@/formulagenz: “You don’t have to earn love by disappearing.” i’m crying in the work bathroom. this woman deserves the world.

@/paddocktea:  her saying “we weren’t ready for the noise” while still radiating the kind of peace most people spend years searching for??? iconic. queen energy. verstappen-level PR mastery without saying a single messy thing.

@/mclarendrama:  also @LandoNorris being outed as the unofficial wedding photographer?? please god let him have used portrait mode.

@/babyverstappenupdates baby verstappen is the size of a carrot, has an entire f1 grid of honorary uncles, a red bull onesie in production, and a mother who is effortlessly poetic even in a Q&A. i’m already obsessed with this child.

@/f1softies: can’t stop thinking about: – “he always makes sure I know I’m loved, even when no one else remembered.” – “the bump. and the dad.” – “don’t sell your riding boots. they’ll matter again.” this isn’t just a q&a. it’s a novel.

@/charlesupdates:  shoutout to belle for asking people not to send hate to her brothers. even after everything, she’s still trying to hold the peace. grace personified.

@/wagsupreme:  it’s the way belle confirmed her entire love story, baby, and career in one story drop and still managed to say “let us be a family, privately.” she’s the blueprint.

@/oscarstan03:  her being like “our baby is healthy, i’m grateful, lilly the cat is fierce” like girl you are the voice of a generation.

@/gridgirlie:  BELLE VERSTAPPEN JUST SAID “LOVE LIKE THIS IS LOUD EVEN WHEN IT’S QUIET” AND I NEED A MINUTE TO SOB IN MY CAR

@/f1nosyparkers:  “Because I wanted to be someone’s first thought, not a footnote.” THIS IS WHY I WILL DIE FOR HER

@/lanflorals: Lando Norris was the wedding photographer??? I’m sorry??? HE’S BEEN SITTING ON THESE PHOTOS LIKE A FERAL LITTLE SECRET KEEPER

@/redbullhoneybadger:  not belle casually saying she met max because he tried a bad pickup line on her I NEED TO KNOW WHAT THE LINE WAS WAS IT ABOUT TIRES? WAS IT “I’D PIT FOR YOU”?

@/paddockwives: “She doesn’t have to earn love by disappearing” “She visits Fleur every week” “She calls the baby a little Verstappen” “She’s still working” “She’s exactly where she’s meant to be” NO BUT I AM A BELLE GIRL FOREVER

@/belleleclercupdates:  belle: please don’t send hate to my brothers she’s class. she’s grace. she’s emotionally destroying them without raising her voice.

@/sunnyforoscar:  “don’t harass them. we’re family. a fractured one, but still family.” she’s giving boundaries AND compassion how is she this composed???

@/babyverstappenfanclub:  THE BABY IS THE SIZE OF A CARROT. I REPEAT. THE BABY IS A CARROT. I love them already.

@/leclercguiltposting:  Belle: asks people not to send hate Also Belle: answers every question with poise, kindness, and veiled emotional warfare I see why Charles is in shambles.

@/paddocktea:  Belle asking people not to send hate to her brothers???? A better person than me tbh Because if my family forgot my birthday and I was pregnant and GLOWING like that??? They’d be BLOCKED 💅

@/emotionaldnf:  “don’t sell your riding boots. they’ll matter again.” BELLE??? STOP??? I CAN’T BREATHE????

@/lanverstappensimp:   i’m sorry but imagine max taking a pickup line shot in a bar and it ended with marriage and a baby he WINS. he WINS AT LIFE.

@/danielricciardosburner: imagine going to a Q&A for fun and getting:

therapy

a life lesson

cat pics

baby updates

confirmation that Max Verstappen is completely whipped i need to lie down.

@/gridwivesupreme: i keep thinking about “don’t harass my brothers. that doesn’t help anyone.” like… she’s STILL trying to shield them from the fallout. even now.

that’s not just grace — that’s trauma reflex.

@/gridsleuths:  no bc the entire tone of her answers is so quiet but final “we’re still family, but let us do this privately” babe. that’s a boundary forged from burn scars

@/charlesgirlfail: idk how to explain it but belle’s entire vibe is

“i don’t hate you, i just finally stopped needing you to care”

which is somehow 1000x more devastating

@/emotionaldnf:  i’m convinced belle spent years showing up for people who never remembered her coffee order and max took one look and said: not on my watch

@/sunflowersoftgrid

her talking about her old riding boots and how she thought she had to earn love by disappearing…

you could feel the silence she grew up in

you could feel how loud max’s love must’ve been by comparison

@/underratedwags: 

the Q&A was soft and graceful but like… the subtext??

– never mentions a Leclerc attending the wedding

– references her husband and her baby and her horses before her family

the silence is screaming

@/f1sleuths: 📌 Thread: How bad is Belle Verstappen’s relationship with her family, really? Because after that Q&A… yeah. Let’s unpack. 🧵

@/f1sleuths: 1.  First of all, the line “I wanted to be someone’s first thought, not a footnote”??? That’s not shade. That’s a funeral for unmet needs. That’s someone who’s been sidelined for years.

@/f1sleuths: 2. She said:

“We weren’t ready for the noise.” And then: “For once, I wanted to be someone’s first thought.” And then: “You don’t have to earn love by disappearing.” Tell me that woman hasn’t been begging to be seen her entire life.

@/f1sleuths: 3. Also let’s talk about how she didn’t deny anything. She didn’t say “my family and I are fine.”  She said:

“We are family — a fractured one, maybe, but still family.” That “maybe” is loud. That “still” is tired. That whole line is someone choosing compassion without pretending everything’s okay.

@/f1sleuths: 4. She also said “don’t send my brothers hate,” which is usually something people only have to say when… people are sending hate. And why are people sending hate? Because this family ignored her for so long that people noticed.

5. Let’s not forget:

The birthday her family forgot

The wedding they didn’t attend. (Because they were not on that wedding picture she posted.)

The horse story (I’m still crying over Blanche) This isn’t a one-time fight. This is a pattern.

@/f1sleuths: 6.  Meanwhile, the Verstappens have:

Flew in for the wedding

Max got her a horse she lost in childhood

Victoria posted a photo of Belle organizing the baby’s nursery

I’m sorry but the contrast is BLINDING.

@/f1sleuths: 7. “Love like this is loud even when it’s quiet.” = I didn’t grow up with this kind of love. And I don’t know how anyone reads it differently.

@/f1sleuths: 8. This is not about drama. It’s about a girl who spent years being told (implicitly or otherwise) that she didn’t matter as much as the rest of them. And now? She’s with someone who shows her every day that she does.

@/f1sleuths: 9. Final thought: Belle didn’t air her family’s dirty laundry. She didn’t name names. She didn’t point fingers. She just told the truth — hers — quietly. And somehow it was louder than anything they’ve ever said.@/f1sleuths: 10. Anyway. I hope Belle gets everything she never thought she could have. And I hope the Leclercs are listening. Because the rest of us? We hear her loud and clear.

[shokocide]

PONYBOY - CHOSO KAMO

summary. You came to Dustwell looking for a fresh start. To live a new life in the beat-up house your grandfather left you. Getting involved with the local ranch hand definitely wasn’t on the agenda—and ending up in his bed? Yeah, that wasn’t part of the plan either.

word count. 15k (oh what the hell-)

content. mdni fem!reader, cowboy!choso, slow burnnnn, they want each other but wont do anything about it, he fell first but she fell harder trope, he's lowkey protective, alcohol consumption, pet names, smut, oral (fem rec.), fingering, FERAL choso, p in v, cowgirl (because save a horse), rough sex, multiple orgasms, praise, creampie, overstim, aftercare

author's note. WHAT ARE THEY FEEDING THE CHOSO ARTISTS OH MY DAYS

The house looks smaller than you remember. Maybe it’s the dust-soft edges or the way the sun hits it, turning the old wood siding gold like a sepia photograph. You stand at the edge of the gravel driveway, hands on your hips, squinting through the heat shimmer rolling off the hood of your car.

Inherited property. That’s what the letter called it—like it was some gift. But all you see is a sagging front porch, weeds elbowing through the cracks in the steps, and a mailbox hanging on by a single rusted screw. The whole place smells like dry earth, wood rot, and a faint hint of motor oil.

You spend the afternoon sweating through your shirt, dragging boxes inside and swatting at flies that seem personally offended by your presence. The floors creak in protest. One of the cabinet doors falls off when you open it. You curse out loud and immediately apologize to the empty house, like your grandpa might still be listening somewhere.

There’s no air conditioning. The ceiling fan makes a sound like it’s chewing on itself. You prop open the back door and hope the breeze isn’t carrying more hornets.

By the time the sun starts to dip behind the trees, the living room’s half-unpacked, your hair’s sticking to your neck, and you’re dangerously close to throwing a box labeled “KITCHEN — FRAGILE” straight through the window.

You need a drink.

The bar—locals call it The Pit—is tucked between a feed store and a mechanic’s garage on the edge of town. It’s not much to look at from the outside, just sun-bleached siding and a rusted-out neon sign that reads “OPEN” if you squint hard enough. But inside, it’s cool, low-lit, and smells like wood polish and whiskey.

You get exactly three steps in before every head turns. A beat passes. Then the low hum of conversation starts back up, like nothing happened.

The bartender is a woman with blond streaks in her braid and she’s wearing a plain tank top and jeans, no name tag. She raises an eyebrow as you approach.

“New in town?”

You slide onto a stool. “That obvious?”

She pours something golden into a glass. “Around here? Everything is.”

You take a sip. It burns, in a good way.

“Movin’ into the old place a few blocks down?” she asks, already knowing the answer.

You nod, and she hums like that means something. Maybe it does.

She gestures vaguely toward the back of the bar, where a wall’s been plastered with old photos—rodeos, family cookouts, black-and-white shots of horses mid-stride.

“Lotta history out there,” she says. “That land’s got roots deeper than the well.”

You glance at the glass in your hand. “Hopefully no ghosts.”

She smirks. “Nah. Just nosy neighbors, rattlesnakes, and one too many cowboys who think silence is a personality trait.”

You laugh, tired but genuine. You don’t ask for names. Not yet.

The bartender leans back on one hip, wiping down a glass with a rag that’s seen better days. “You’ll meet the whole town soon enough,” she says, voice easy. “Mornings at the diner, Friday nights at the Pit. Someone’ll swing by your place, offer help you didn’t ask for. Happens every time someone new rolls in.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That supposed to be comforting?”

She grins. “That depends. Some of ’em are harmless. Some of ’em don’t know how to mind their own business.”

A photo behind her catches your eye—framed and slightly crooked, tucked between shelves of mismatched liquor bottles. It’s black and white, a bit worn at the edges. A man stands in front of a horse, head bowed just enough that the brim of his hat hides most of his face. He’s wearing gloves, a long coat, boots scuffed to hell. There’s something still about him—something heavy.

“That one?” she says, catching your gaze. “Choso.”

You don’t look away. “He local?”

“Mhm. Works the Dustwell Ranch a few miles out. Sticks to himself. Comes in when the nights get long or the work gets worse.” She pauses, then adds, “Quiet, mostly. But folks around here know better than to mistake that for soft.”

You blink. The photo stays with you longer than it should.

“Lemme guess,” you say, setting your glass down. “He one of those cowboys you mentioned?”

She chuckles, dry. “He’s the reason I mentioned them.”

You nod slowly. “He’s… not bad-looking.”

The bartender smirks. “Yeah, he hears that a lot. Doesn’t do much with it, though.”

You glance back at the photo. “Not the friendly type?”

“Polite,” she says, “but quiet. Keeps to himself. Doesn’t stick around long when folks start talking too much.”

You hum into your drink. “So, not exactly easy to get to know.”

She shrugs. “People’ve tried. Never really seems interested. Doesn’t mean anything’s wrong with him—just one of those men who likes his space.”

You let that sit for a second. Then: “You saying I shouldn’t bother?”

She smiles without looking at you. “I’m saying if you’re the curious type, just don’t expect straight answers.”

-

You head out just before sunset, boots crunching on gravel as the heat finally starts to ease off the land. The air smells like mesquite and dirt, with a hint of something sweet on the wind—wildflowers, maybe. The road that runs past your place stretches long in both directions, flanked by open fields and fences that lean just enough to say no one’s been out here fixing things in a while.

You don’t take a phone. There’s no signal anyway. Just the breeze, the cicadas, and the sound of your own steps as you walk past fences wrapped in rusted wire, thistles pushing up through the cracks in the asphalt.

There’s not much out here—just land. Wide and quiet. Like it’s still waiting to decide what to do with you.

Then, about half a mile out, the trees start to thin, and you catch sight of a gate.

It’s big—old wood and iron, solid in that way that says it wasn’t built for decoration. There’s a sign nailed across the top beam. The paint’s worn, but the lettering’s still clear:

DUSTWELL RANCH

You slow without meaning to.

Beyond the gate, the land stretches open again—miles of pasture rolling out beneath a soft orange sky. You can just make out the edge of a barn in the distance, roof sloped, doors cracked. A couple of horses stand near the fence line, heads down, tails flicking lazily.

You rest your hands on the top of the gate. Not climbing it. Just looking.

You’re about to turn back when you hear it—the low groan of leather, the thud of boots hitting packed earth.

Someone’s moving out there.

And then, farther out—near the barn—you catch sight of a figure. Broad shoulders, long stride, dark hair pulled back under a white hat. He moves like the heat doesn’t bother him. Like the land’s just an extension of his own skin.

You can’t make out his face from this far, but something about the way he adjusts the strap over his shoulder—smooth, practiced—tells you it’s him.

Choso.

You don’t call out. You don’t wave.

You just watch, quiet, until he disappears around the side of the barn.

You stay a moment more before turning back, heading home before the sky goes fully dark.

-

You decide to take a look at the general store the next afternoon.

The little bell above the door jingles as you step inside, and you’re immediately hit with the scent of wood and old paper. The general store’s got everything—canned beans, rope, seed packets, and even a rack of novelty postcards that look older than you.

You wander through the aisles, basket on your arm, grabbing some cleaning rags and a stubborn bottle of wood polish. You’re reaching for a pack of nails on a higher shelf when someone steps into the aisle at the same time you do.

You both stop—almost head to chest.

“Whoa—sorry,” you say, laughing a little.

He steps back without much of a reaction, but his eyes linger. It’s him. Cowboy hat, button-down rolled to the elbows, gloves tucked into his back pocket. He’s taller up close. And quieter, too—like the kind of quiet that says more than most people do out loud.

“Haven’t seen you around before,” he says, voice low and easy. “You new?”

You nod, trying not to stare. “Yeah. Just moved in. My grandfather left me the old place off Hollow Creek.”

He tilts his head. “Big property, that one. Lotta trees.”

“Also a lot of creaky floors and suspicious plumbing,” you joke.

That gets him—just barely. A small huff of a laugh, like it surprised him too.

“I’m Choso.”

“So I’ve heard.” you smile at him before offering your own name.

“Well,” he says, eyes crinkling just a little at the corners, “welcome to Dustwell, darlin’.”

And just like that, he tips his hat and keeps walking, leaving you in the middle of aisle three, staring after him with a half-full basket and a flutter in your chest.

-

The FaceTime connects with a familiar ceiling view and the soft clink of ice in a glass.

“...Are you lying dead in a ditch or just ghosting me now?” Shoko’s voice is dry as ever as she finally appears on screen, sunglasses on, cigarette in one hand, something suspiciously alcoholic in the other—even though it’s barely 3 p.m.

“I’ve been busy,” you whine, slumping onto the couch. “There’s a lot to unpack.”

“Yeah? Unpack the hot cowboy you texted me about at midnight and then never followed up on.”

You groan into your palm. “It wasn’t that serious! He just—he was at the store. I bumped into him. Literally. And he’s tall and—hat, gloves, boots, the whole deal.”

“Cowboy cosplay or actual cowboy?”

“Actual cowboy, Shoko. Like... brawny forearms and slow drawl. Called me darlin’.”

She sips her drink. “Mmm. Cowboys are usually good with their hands. You should test that.”

“Shoko! I don’t even know the guy!”

“Perfect. No expectations. Just vibes.”

You gawk at her, scandalized. She shrugs.

“I'm just saying—man’s probably got calluses in all the right places.”

You grab a pillow and yell into it while she just watches, smug.

You peek out from behind the pillow. “You’re the worst.”

“I’ve been called worse,” she says, exhaling smoke. “Now show me.”

“Show you what?”

“The cowboy, obviously.”

You blink. “Shoko. I’m not a stalker. I didn’t take a picture of him.”

She raises a brow. “Miss ma’am didn’t sneak a pic? I taught you nothing.”

You groan. “It would’ve been weird! I didn’t even know what to say after he walked off. I just stood there like an idiot with my bread and canned soup.”

“That’s hot. Very romance novel of you.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” she says, smug. “You’re just mad because your little prairie crush made your brain short-circuit.”

You bury your face again, voice muffled. “He had that whole rugged, fresh-off-the-ranch thing going on, Shoko.”

There’s a pause.

“Okay, yeah. You’re done for.”

You sit back up, defeated. “It was just one interaction. He probably won’t even remember me.”

“Oh, he’ll remember. You’re new in town. He absolutely noticed. And if he’s quiet and broody like you said, that man’s probably thought about you seventeen times since then and doesn’t know what to do about it.”

You blink at her.

“You’re scary.”

“I’m right.”

You sulk into the couch. “What do I even do with that information?”

Shoko grins slowly. “You go to the store again. And you wait.”

You squint at the screen. “That’s your plan? I just... loiter in the soup aisle until he appears?”

“If he’s got work boots and a quiet drawl, yeah. Linger,” Shoko says, entirely unfazed.

You groan. “He probably won’t even show up again. It’s a small town, not a Hallmark movie.”

“Which means he’ll show up everywhere,” she counters, raising a brow. “That’s the rule. First hot man encounter? You will see him again. At least three times. One of them in an inconvenient setting.”

You pause. “Like what?”

She smirks. “Public restroom line. Town fair. Your porch. Shirtless.”

“Okay goodbye,” you say, jabbing the screen to hang up, and her laughter is the last thing you hear before it goes dark.

You drop your phone on your stomach and stare at the ceiling, brain already drifting.

You weren’t even looking for anyone. This move was supposed to be peaceful—slow mornings, quiet skies, maybe a dog. You were going to find yourself or whatever people in dramatic life transitions are supposed to do.

But now there’s a man with sleepy eyes and dust on his jeans, and you can’t stop replaying the way he’d said darlin’, like it wasn’t the first time he’d said it and like he wouldn’t mind saying it again.

You sigh.

And the worst part?

You already need eggs.

-

You need eggs.

That’s what you tell yourself, at least, when you head back to the little general store the next day, pretending it has nothing to do with a six-foot-something man in a cowboy hat.

Nope. It’s all for the eggs.

You meander through the store, making slow, aimless rounds. Produce. Aisles with three different kinds of cereal. Laundry detergent. You’re halfway through the snacks when you realize you’re not shopping anymore. You’re lurking.

You make a show of studying a can of chili you have zero intention of buying.

Still no sign of him.

You check your phone. It's been almost 30 minutes. You’ve looped the store twice, possibly three times. The cashier’s starting to give you that polite, “do you need help with something or are you casing the joint” smile.

You give up and finally head to the register with the single carton of eggs you came for.

No Choso.

No deep voice. No gloves in his back pocket. Not even a damn cowboy hat on the horizon.

You leave the store feeling... not disappointed, exactly. Just... aware of how silly you probably looked loitering in front of a shelf of trail mix like it was hiding romance.

You sigh and clutch the eggs a little tighter.

Guess he won’t be everywhere after all.

You’re not looking for him.

You’re just taking a walk.

That’s what you tell yourself as your feet find the same dusty road that runs past that ranch. The sign’s old but well-kept, carved into smooth wood with curling ends, tucked beside a wide gate.

You think about turning back.

You don’t.

There’s a low sound—rhythmic, heavy. Hooves. And when you glance up, there he is.

Horseback. Broad-shouldered. Hat low over his eyes. A quiet silhouette against the gold-tinted sky, steering a few cattle into a separate pen like it’s second nature. The reins in one hand, the other resting lazily on his thigh.

You freeze. Not even dramatically. You just stop walking.

And when he spots you, he pauses, too. The horse slows under him, and he turns his head just slightly, eyes squinting under the brim.

“You again,” he says, like it’s not surprising at all. “You lost, darlin’?”

Your stomach does a stupid flip.

“No,” you manage. “Just walking.”

He nods like that tracks. “It’s getting late.”

You shrug, trying not to stare at the way the reins rest between his gloved fingers. “Needed air.”

He hums—low and easy. “Air’s better out here anyway.”

You take a breath like you need proof. It is better.

He shifts a bit in the saddle, posture relaxed. “So. You just out sightseeing?”

You huff a laugh before you can stop it. “Just wanted to familiarize myself with the place.”

That gets a tiny smile out of him—small, but there. He tips his hat. “Well. You ever wanna get closer, Dustwell has open trails past the fence. Just mind the mud. And the bulls.”

“Oh,” you say, blinking. “Cool. Thanks.”

“Sure thing,” he says, clicking his tongue once to move the horse forward. He nods at you as he rides past. “See you ‘round.”

You don’t say anything. You’re too busy trying not to grin at nothing like a complete idiot.

Shoko was right.

You’re done for.

-

The bar’s quieter tonight.

Dim, warm lights. A slow, lazy country tune playing on the old jukebox in the corner. You slide onto a stool, nod at the bartender—same one from before, hair up in a messy bun, a dishrag slung over her shoulder like it’s part of the uniform.

“Back already?” she asks with a grin. “Thought you city types got bored easy.”

“I don’t scare that easy,” you say, returning the smile. “And besides… the drinks are good.”

She snorts. “Flattery won’t get you a free round.”

“Damn. Worth a shot.”

She pours you something light, something crisp, and leans against the bar, elbow propped lazily. “So. You settlin’ in okay out at that old house?”

You nod. “Trying to. Place has character.”

“You mean termites?”

You laugh. And then, because maybe the alcohol’s working faster than expected, you say it—

“I met Choso though. Kind of. Ran into him out by the ranch. Real quiet.”

The bartender lifts an eyebrow. “Tall, broody, horse-riding kind of hot?”

You gesture with your glass. “Exactly.”

She hums knowingly. “Sounds like him.”

“Yeah. He was pretty nice though.”

“Mhm. Doesn’t talk much. Just keeps to himself.”

You nod along, about to say something else when the bell over the door rings.

And of course—

Speak of the devil.

There he is.

Choso. Same dark clothes, same quiet presence, the brim of his hat low over his eyes as he steps into the bar like he doesn’t know you were just talking about him.

Your mouth goes a little dry.

The bartender glances at you and smirks.

“Well, well,” she murmurs under her breath. “Looks like fate’s got a good sense of timing.”

You straighten in your seat instinctively, like posture is going to fix the heat crawling up your neck.

The bartender leans in closer, voice pitched low just for you. “You want me to bring him over?”

Your eyes go wide. “Absolutely not.”

She grins like that’s not an answer. “Too late.”

Before you can stop her, she cups a hand to her mouth and calls out across the bar, casual as anything—

“Hey, Choso! You want your usual?”

His head lifts slightly. His gaze shifts, one beat to the bartender, the next—unmistakably—to you.

Then he nods.

The bartender grabs a clean glass, but before she moves to pour, she shoots you a wink. “Be a peach and slide down one seat, would you?”

You blink. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m always serious about good company.”

You hesitate just long enough to regret it, and then Choso’s already making his way over—long strides, quiet steps, the click of his boots drowned out by your internal oh no oh no oh no loop.

He settles beside you without much fanfare, tipping his hat a little as he sits.

“Evenin’,” he says, low and smooth.

Your heart’s doing something ridiculous, but you manage a smile. “Hey. Fancy seeing you again.”

The bartender places his drink down and looks way too pleased with herself. “Y’all have fun,” she says, backing away with her towel slung over her shoulder like a mission accomplished banner.

Choso glances after her, then back at you.

“She always like that?” you ask.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Only when she senses blood in the water.”

And there’s something playful in his tone this time. Barely there. But it makes your stomach flutter anyway.

You raise a brow. “That so?”

hides a smile behind his glass.

“So,” you say after a beat, “do you always ride in dramatically right after someone talks about you?”

He tilts his head. “You were talkin’ about me?”

You pause, caught.

“…No?”

He hums. “Huh.”

You shoot him a look. “Don’t act like you weren’t eavesdropping.”

“Didn’t have to,” he says, calm as ever. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

You open your mouth to respond, probably with something clever—or at least less humiliating—but he leans an elbow on the bar, eyes on yours.

“Darlin’, I can tell.”

Your jaw drops. “I was not-”

“It’s cute.”

You swat at his arm lightly, but he just chuckles under his breath—barely there, but there.

Somehow, the small talk slips easy after that. Talk of the town. The best place for coffee in the morning (“It’s not the diner,” he warns). At some point, your shoulders stop feeling so tight. And by the time the bartender swings by again with a smug little grin, you're both halfway through your second drinks.

You glance out the window—dark now, and quiet, the kind of still night that makes everything feel slower.

“I should probably head back,” you say, setting your glass down.

Choso finishes his sip and nods. “I’ll walk you.”

You blink. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

Simple as that.

So you agree.

Outside, the night air is cooler than it was when you stepped in. Crisp in a way that feels nice after being inside with too many people and too many thoughts. Choso falls into step beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You glance at him. “You always this quiet?”

He shrugs, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. “Talk when I need to.”

You hum. “That’s fair. I talk even when I don’t need to, so… you balance it out.”

There’s the ghost of a grin at the edge of his mouth. “Yeah, I figured that out.”

You nudge him lightly with your shoulder, and he lets it happen without comment.

It’s quiet again. Not awkward, just… easy.

You don’t live far, and the walk feels shorter with someone next to you. Before long, your porch light’s glowing just up ahead.

“Well,” you say as you stop in front of your door. “Thanks for the company.”

Choso nods. “You gonna be alright out here on your own?”

“I’ve survived worse,” you joke. “Like moving boxes. And small talk with ranch-hands.”

That gets a real smile out of him. Barely-there dimples. Trouble.

He dips his head a little, eyes on you. “You ever need somethin’, you know where the ranch is.”

You raise a brow. “And what exactly would I be needin’?”

He takes a small step back, eyes flicking to your porch light, then back to you.

“Dunno,” he says, and this time his voice is a little rougher. “Thought I’d leave the door open.”

And with that, he tips his hat—just slightly—and turns to walk off.

-

[you]: okay wait

[you]: I get it now.

[you]: the cowboy thing.

She replies in two seconds flat.

[shoko]: took you long enough

[shoko]: you gonna test the hands theory or what

You stare at your screen and groan.

[you]: SHOKO.

[you]: i’ve met him 3 times.

[shoko]: and that’s just the BEGINNING

[shoko]: trust the process

[you]: i’m blocking you.

[shoko]: you say that every time sweetie

You huff, turning your phone off, and get up to get ready for bed.

You huff, turn your phone off, and get up to go to bed.

You lie down, stare at the ceiling. Think about the unpacked boxes still in the hallway. The weird noise the fridge made earlier. And then—like clockwork—your mind drifts.

Choso.

You don’t even know him. Had one conversation, maybe two. But of course that’s enough for your brain to cling to the one decent-looking guy you’ve seen in town so far. Tall, quiet, unfairly attractive. Of course.

You roll over, annoyed at yourself.

He’s probably just...normal. Works with his hands. Doesn’t talk much. Wears the whole rugged cowboy thing like it’s not a big deal, which makes it worse somehow. And okay—fine, the “darlin’” thing did something to you. That’s on him. But it’s also on you for letting it live rent-free in your head all day.

You stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror.

You didn’t come here to get distracted. Definitely not by some man with pretty hands and a nice voice and a face that should be illegal this far out in the middle of nowhere.

No. You’re here to get your life together.

Unfortunately, your life now involves a cowboy you can’t stop thinking about.

You shut your eyes and try to pretend you’re not already in trouble.

-

You’d been at it for over an hour now—sweating under the midday sun, brow furrowed, and jaw clenched tight. The damn wooden plank on your porch just wouldn’t fit right. You’d hammered, yanked, cursed, and even tried sweet-talking it at one point, like that would somehow make it cooperate.

It didn’t.

You sit back on your heels with a frustrated sigh, wiping at your temple with the back of your hand. The rest of the porch is a patchwork of replaced and rotted wood, and the one plank holding everything up just refuses to be tamed.

“Y’look like you’re about five seconds from fightin’ that board.”

You jump a little, glancing up to see Choso standing by the gate—hands in his back pockets, hat pulled low, a half-smirk tugging at his lips.

“Don’t tempt me,” you mutter, rising to your feet. “I’ve about had it with this thing.”

He starts walking toward you, boots crunching softly in the dirt. “Need a hand?”

You shake your head quickly. “No, no, I—I got it. Don’t worry. I know you’ve got your own work to do.”

He slows to a stop at the edge of the porch. “Ain’t in a rush. S’not a burden if I offer.”

You hesitate. He’s not the kind of man you ask favors from lightly—partly because he’s always so quiet, so distant. But he’s looking at you with a kind of patience that softens his usually sharp features.

“…Alright,” you say, stepping aside. “But only because this thing’s winning, and I can’t have that.”

He huffs a quiet laugh and crouches beside the plank, examining the fit. You expect him to just get to work—but instead, he peels off his gloves, sets them aside, and reaches up to tug his hat off his head.

You blink.

Because holy hell.

You’d only ever seen glimpses of his face before—just enough to wonder what he was hiding beneath the brim. And now that it’s gone, it’s like the sun comes out in full.

He’s beautiful. Not the kind of pretty you’d expect from someone who works rough and silent—no, he’s got the kind of beauty that’s sharp. Angular cheekbones. Long lashes. Hair tied back but loose strands frame his face. And that tattoo—dark and striking across the bridge of his nose—only makes it worse.

Your brain short-circuits for a second.

“...What?” he asks, not looking up, already focused on the wood.

“What?” he asks.

You swallow, trying to play it cool. “Just… didn’t know you had a tattoo there.”

He nods once, unfazed. “Had it a long time.”

“It suits you,” you say before you can think better of it.

Choso pauses. His eyes flick to yours—slow, unreadable.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, then goes right back to work.

The two of you work in near silence after that. He makes quick work of the stubborn plank, fitting it with practiced ease, fingers steady and sure. You hold nails when he asks, pass him tools without thinking. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel awkward—just natural.

At one point, your hands brush as you hand him the screwdriver. Neither of you say anything. But you feel it. The spark. The stillness.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. His brow is furrowed, lips parted slightly in concentration, and there’s a bit of sawdust on his shoulder.

He catches you looking.

You snap your gaze away.

And in your chest, something shifts. Something soft. Warm. Familiar in a way that unsettles you.

You like him.

You like him.

It hits you like a whisper—gentle, but impossible to ignore.

When the board’s finally in place, he sits back and nods once, satisfied. “There. Should hold now.”

You clear your throat. “Thanks. Really.”

He glances up at you, hat dangling from his fingers. “Told you I’d help if you needed.”

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Guess you did.”

The two of you sit there for a minute longer, side by side, watching the wind stir the grass. It’s quiet, but not in a bad way.

Like maybe you don’t need to say everything out loud.

“You want somethin’ to drink?” you ask, brushing your palms on your thighs as you stand. “It’s not much, just some lemonade. Store-bought, not even the fancy kind.”

Choso shifts a little like he’s not used to being offered anything. Like you’ve surprised him.

You catch it, that pause—and suddenly feel a little silly. “You don’t have to, obviously. I just thought, you know… in return for saving me from an early death by splinter.”

He huffs out a laugh, low and amused. “Didn’t know I was savin’ your life.”

“Oh, you absolutely were,” you say, feigning seriousness. “That board had it out for me.”

He looks at you for a second too long. Then: “Alright. I’ll take a glass.”

You try not to grin as you head inside, calling back over your shoulder, “Don’t run off. I’m only sharing if you stay and actually drink it.”

When you return, two slightly sweating glasses in hand, he’s still sitting on the porch step, hat resting beside him, hair a little mussed from the heat and work. He glances up as you hand him his glass.

“Thanks,” he says, fingers brushing yours briefly.

You sit beside him again, both sipping in a quiet that doesn’t feel awkward—just easy.

It’s small. It’s nothing.

But your heart is beating just a little faster anyway.

Choso tips his glass back, slow. “Did a good job, y’know.”

You glance over. “On the porch?”

“On the house. All of it.” He shrugs one shoulder, like it’s no big deal. “Most folks would’ve given up or hired it out. But you stuck with it.”

You blink, surprised by the softness in his voice.

“Thanks,” you say, quieter than you mean to. “I wasn’t sure it’d show.”

He nods once. “It shows.”

Then he stands, stretches a bit, picks up his hat. And just as he steps off the porch, he glances back at you.

“You’re settlin’ in alright,” he says simply. “You should stay. It’d be nice if you do.”

And then he’s gone—hat pulled low again, boots crunching down the gravel path.

You sit there a moment longer, lemonade glass half full in your lap, brain absolutely fried.

You should stay.

Goddamn it.

-

[you]: shoko

[you]: shoko

[you]: SHOKO

[shoko]: it’s literally midnight

[shoko]: did something catch on fire

[you]: NO

[you]: but I’m gonna die anyway

[you]: he said it’d be nice if i stay here

[you]: WHO SAYS THAT

[you]: I HAVEN’T STOPPED THINKING ABOUT IT FOR TWO HOURS

[shoko]: it means he thinks you should stay there

[shoko]: probably with him, in his weird cowboy brain

[you]: SHOKO PLEASE

[you]: THAT’S NOT HELPING

[you]: I CALLED LEMONADE “LEMON WATER” AFTER

[you]: I’M SO STUPID

[shoko]: oh you’re down bad

[shoko]: adorable

[shoko]: pls keep embarrassing yourself. it’s entertaining

[shoko]: also

[shoko]: call me when you kiss him

[you]: FUCK YOU.

-

The Pit is quieter on weeknights. Less rowdy, more murmured conversation and old country music buzzing from the jukebox in the corner. You’re at the bar nursing a whiskey and soda, trying very hard not to think about the way Choso had looked at you like that porch was the only thing standing between you and him.

“You look distracted,” drawls the bartender as she wipes down a glass. 

You smile sheepishly. “Long day.”

She hums like she doesn’t believe you, sliding the glass onto the shelf. “Well, you’ll wanna unwind before Saturday anyway. Big weekend comin’.”

You blink. “Saturday?”

“You didn’t hear? Dustwell’s annual Fall Festival.” She leans an elbow on the bar, grinning. “Whole town shows up. Good food, live music, terrible dancing.”

Your brows raise. “That sounds... kind of amazing.”

“Oh, it’s somethin’. Bit of everything—bonfire, market stalls, pie contest, all that small-town charm.” She leans in a little. “You should come. Be a good way to meet folks.”

You sip your drink. “Will there be whiskey?”

“Enough to drown a horse,” she deadpans. “C’mon. You might even have fun.”

You hesitate. Then nod, smiling. “Alright. I’ll check it out.”

She straightens, clearly pleased. “Attagirl.”

You pause. “Is it the kind of thing people go to alone?”

“You won’t be alone long,” she says, smirking as she grabs a bottle from the shelf. “Trust me.”

You smile into your glass and murmur, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

She laughs and moves on to the next customer, leaving you sitting in the low golden glow of the bar lights, your drink slowly warming in your hand.

You swirl the ice once more.

You’re going to that festival. You already know exactly who you hope to see there.

-

You tell yourself it’s just a small-town festival.

No need to overthink it. Just food stalls, some live music, maybe a bonfire if the wind stays down. But somehow, you’ve tried on three outfits already and you’re still standing in front of the mirror, arms crossed, trying to decide if you look like you’re trying.

Your fingers smooth down the hem of the floral babydoll dress you finally settled on—light, flowy, soft against your skin. Not too short. Not too loud. Just enough.

Your boots are worn but clean. A bit of balm on your lips, a brush through your hair. You pause over the mascara.

“Stupid,” you mutter, swiping it on anyway.

You’re not dressing up for him. You’re not.

You grab your bag and give yourself one last look in the mirror. The dress sways with your movement, delicate and easy in the late afternoon light.

You look… nice.

And if a certain broody ranch hand happens to notice?

Well. That’s not why you’re going.

(Probably.)

-

The lights strung up over Dustwell’s main road flicker warm and golden, casting a glow over the small crowd that’s gathered. There’s laughter, music, chatter—a rhythm to the evening that thrums low and pleasant.

You should be enjoying it.

But your eyes are elsewhere.

You move through the crowd slowly, aimless, pretending to admire booths you don’t quite see. A table of carved wooden animals. A local honey stand. Rows of pies, flaky and golden. People pass with plates stacked high, cups of cider sloshing, the scent of cinnamon in the air.

And still, you keep looking.

Your boots crunch softly on gravel as you round the corner near the bonfire pit. A flicker of orange firelight glows against smiling faces. Couples sway to the drawl of a country ballad being played live somewhere off to the left. You scan each cluster of people with careful, almost casual glances.

He’s not here.

You try not to feel stupid about it.

Choso never said he’d come. Hell, you never even asked him. Maybe he’s back at the ranch. Maybe he hates crowds. Or maybe he just didn’t think about you at all.

You sigh through your nose and roll your shoulders like that could shake the disappointment off.

“Pretty dress,” someone says beside you, voice too close, too sticky with alcohol.

You tense.

Some guy, clearly drunk, sways into your space with a grin that’s more grease than charm. He’s got a beer bottle in hand and eyes that crawl. You step back slightly, but he follows, grin widening.

“You look real sweet tonight,” he adds, leaning closer. “You local?”

You step sideways, the movement polite but clear. “Just passing through,” you lie.

He follows. “Nah, I’ve seen you before. Came in not long ago. You’ve been out at the old farmstead, ain’t you? Near the ridge?”

Your mouth tightens. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

He laughs, too loud, too bold. “Well, we’re meetin’ now, ain’t we?”

“You here alone?” he asks, leaning in. “Don’t seem right, someone like you walkin’ around without a man.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” you say, voice firm but polite.

“Aww, c’mon now—don’t be like that,” he drawls, reaching like he’s about to touch your arm.

You stiffen, heart starting to pound—

Then suddenly, there’s someone else.

A wall of quiet tension slots between you and the sleazy stranger, solid and unmoving. The guy stumbles back half a step as the air shifts.

You don’t even need to look up to know who it is.

Low and slow, that familiar gravel-edged voice speaks:

“This guy botherin’ you, darlin’?”

Your heart kicks hard in your chest.

Choso stands between you and the drunk, broad shoulders blocking the man from view, voice calm but carrying a warning beneath it.

You swallow, then nod.

Choso doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t raise his voice. Just says, “Get lost.”

The guy laughs nervously. “Hey, no trouble—just chattin’, that’s all—”

Choso shifts. Barely. But something about the way he straightens, the silence that falls around him—it’s enough.

The drunk mutters something under his breath and stumbles off.

For a beat, it’s quiet.

Then Choso turns, finally, and his eyes rake over you—slowly, like he’s still processing what he’s seeing.

“You alright?” he asks.

You nod, heart fluttering so loud you’re sure he can hear it. “Yeah. Thanks.”

His gaze lingers a second too long before flicking away. “Shouldn’t be lettin’ creeps like that get near you.”

You smile softly. “Wasn’t exactly planning on it.”

He huffs, almost a laugh, then gestures toward the booths. “You eaten yet?”

“…No.”

“C’mon then,” he murmurs. “I’ll buy you somethin’.”

You fall into step beside him.

Maybe you weren’t just looking around after all.

The two of you drift past the bonfire, not saying much at first. There’s an ease to it—like neither of you feels the need to fill the silence. Just the scrape of boots on gravel, the occasional burst of laughter from nearby, and the soft hum of music carried on the wind.

You pause at a food stall where an older woman is selling fried hand pies. Choso buys two without asking—one for you, one for him. You raise an eyebrow as he hands it over.

“Thought I wasn’t hungry,” you say, amused.

“You looked at it twice,” he replies simply.

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. “You always this observant?”

He shrugs, chewing. “Just when it matters.”

You try not to read too much into that. You fail.

You wander with him toward a quieter part of the festival, where the booths thin out and string lights dangle lower from wooden poles. Kids run past in a blur, chasing each other with glow sticks. There’s a tent set up nearby with hay bales inside for resting.

You slip into the edge of it to take a break, brushing your skirt down as you sit. Choso stands nearby, arms folded loosely, watching the crowd.

You can’t help sneaking a look at him. The way the firelight hits his profile. The way his jaw tightens when he’s lost in thought. He’s wearing that same beat-up hat—but you’ve seen what’s underneath now. The soft waves of his hair. The scar, beautiful in its own way. How gentle his eyes are, even when his face looks like it’s forgotten how to smile.

“You don’t like crowds, do you?” you ask softly.

He glances over, amused. “Figured that obvious?”

You laugh. “You’re standing like a bouncer outside a saloon.”

He huffs. “Just keepin’ an eye out.”

“For trouble?”

He looks at you for a beat. “For you.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Your fingers fidget with the edge of your dress—until you feel his gaze lower.

“That dress,” he says, voice low like he almost hadn’t meant to say it aloud. “You look real pretty in it.”

You blink up at him, caught off guard. “…What?”

He shifts his weight, gaze still on you but softer now. “I mean it. Real damn pretty, darlin’.”

Your heart jumps at the nickname. God, it sounds even better tonight. Heat crawls up the back of your neck as you glance down at the floral fabric bunched around your knees.

“I almost wore jeans,” you murmur, smiling despite yourself.

He chuckles, and it’s quiet but deep. “Would’ve looked good either way. But I’m glad you didn’t.”

You peek up at him again—and he’s still looking. Not just at your dress, not at the way your hair’s curled around your shoulders—but at you. Really looking.

He gestures to the edge of the hill beyond the festival. “C’mon. There’s a view you might like.”

You follow without thinking.

And maybe this isn’t a date. Maybe you both keep pretending it’s not.

But as he walks just ahead of you, turning back now and then to make sure you’re still with him—you feel it settling in your chest.

You follow him past the last of the booths, away from the warmth of the fire and the noise of the crowd. The grass grows wilder out here, untamed and soft beneath your boots. String lights give way to open sky, and above you, the stars stretch wide and scattered like sugar spilled over velvet.

Choso walks a little ahead, hands tucked in his pockets. His pace is slow, easy. Like he’s making sure you can keep up without looking like he’s trying.

“D you always bring girls out here?” you tease, nudging his arm gently with your shoulder.

He glances at you, amused. “Ain’t much of a crowd person, remember?”

“Still didn’t answer the question.”

That almost-smile tugs at his lips again. “No. First time.”

You don’t know what to say to that, but your heart makes a quiet little flutter behind your ribs.

The hill slopes up just enough to make your calves ache by the time you reach the top. But the view? It’s worth it.

Below, Dustwell looks like something out of a painting. Warm flickers of light. People like shadows moving between tents. Music floating up faint and distant. And past it all, the open stretch of the plains—blue-black and endless.

You exhale softly. “Wow.”

Choso settles beside you, just close enough for your arms to almost brush. “Didn’t oversell it, huh?”

You shake your head. “You didn’t say anything about it being this beautiful.”

He glances sideways, and for a moment, you think he’s going to say something else.

Instead, he hums low in his throat and says, “Figured you’d see it yourself.”

A breeze kicks up, catching the hem of your dress and lifting it just enough to make you shiver. You cross your arms, rubbing at your sleeves, and without a word, Choso shrugs off his jacket.

You hesitate. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he says simply, already draping it over your shoulders. “But you’re cold.”

The jacket smells like cedar and sun-warmed cotton. It’s too big, but in a comforting way. You sink into it without thinking, and when you glance up to thank him, he’s already looking at you.

Not shy. Not teasing.

Just… honest.

And something about it—something about him—makes your pulse slow, heavy in your ears.

Maybe this isn’t a date.

But it feels like one.

And right now, that’s more than enough.

You both fall into a quiet lull, watching the horizon blur at its edges. The night wraps around you, soft and vast, and with his jacket warming your shoulders, something inside you loosens.

You hug it closer. “I wasn’t even sure I’d stay at first,” you admit, voice hushed. “Dustwell just… felt like a name on a deed. Not a place I’d belong.”

Choso doesn’t interrupt. He waits, like he knows there’s more.

“I thought I’d fix up the house, sell it maybe. Move back to the city,” you say. “But then I started patching up things. Talking to people. And then…”

You glance over, offering a small smile. “Then I met you.”

His gaze is steady, unreadable—but his jaw flexes, just barely. Like your words landed somewhere deeper than you meant them to.

You shift slightly, brushing hair away from your face. “You ever get that feeling? Like maybe you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be, even if it doesn’t make sense yet?”

He’s silent for a beat too long.

Then, quietly—“Yeah.”

The word hangs between you, heavy and fragile.

You turn to face him fully now, searching his expression—and find that he’s already looking at you.

And there’s something in his eyes. Something new.

Tentative. Quiet. Intense.

His gaze flickers downward—just once, just enough to make your breath catch.

To your mouth.

He swallows, throat working. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, darlin’, ’m gonna start gettin’ ideas.”

Your heart slams in your chest.

And then he leans in—slow, so goddamn slow, like giving you every chance to pull away.

But you don’t.

Your hand finds the edge of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric on instinct—like you need something to hold onto to keep you grounded. His fingertips skim along your jaw, featherlight, until his thumb brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

He doesn’t pull away.

And you don’t either.

The air between you grows thick, weighted with everything unsaid. His hand lingers just beneath your jaw, rough from work and calloused in a way that feels real, solid—so unlike anything you’ve ever known.

You swear your heart’s beating so loud it’s echoing in your ears.

His eyes flicker from yours to your lips and back again, like he’s giving you every second to say no.

You don’t.

His nose grazes yours, warm breath fanning across your skin. Your lashes flutter as your eyes fall shut.

Then, finally, his lips press to yours.

Soft. Barely there at first. Just a brush. A question.

You sigh—yes, God, yes—and that’s all he needs.

The kiss deepens, coaxed open by quiet urgency and something tender just beneath the surface. His palm cradles the side of your face now, thumb stroking the apple of your cheek like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you.

He tastes like mint and something a little smoky, a little wild. He kisses like he’s not used to having something this gentle, this good, and he’s afraid it’ll vanish if he pushes too hard.

But still—he leans in closer.

Your spine meets the wooden rail behind you, but you hardly notice. Your hands slide up to his chest, the warmth of him soaking through his shirt, steady and sure. One of his hands drifts to your waist, grounding you, tugging you infinitesimally closer.

And God—you feel it. That shift.

That invisible line you just crossed.

When you finally part, it’s only because you need to breathe. And even then, his lips brush yours once more. A quieter kiss. A promise.

He doesn’t move far.

Forehead resting against yours, he murmurs, voice husky, “Been wantin’ to do that for a while now.”

You smile, lips still tingling. “Yeah?”

His eyes don’t leave yours. “Yeah.”

You blink up at him, dazed. Your lips still buzz where his mouth had just been, and your heart is doing something stupidly dramatic in your chest—fluttering like it’s got something to prove.

Choso pulls back just enough to see you, really see you. There’s a small crease between his brows like he’s still unsure if he overstepped.

But all you can do is stare.

Then—God—you laugh.

A quiet, breathy little sound that slips out before you can catch it.

He tilts his head. “Somethin’ funny, darlin’?”

Your hands are still resting against his chest, and you shake your head, cheeks warming. “No—no, just… I think my brain short-circuited a little.”

That earns the faintest smirk from him—just the barest curve at the corner of his mouth, but it feels like sunlight cracking through clouds.

“Well,” he drawls, voice low and rough, “you did look real pretty tonight. Could’ve warned me.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to play it cool despite the way your pulse is still racing. “Is that how you kiss everyone?”

He huffs a quiet breath—almost a laugh—and dips his gaze to your lips again. “No,” he says, low. “Just you.”

That does something to your chest. You feel it settle there, warm and certain.

Your voice is quieter now. “Why me?”

His eyes meet yours again, steady. “Ain’t figured that part out yet.”

And just like that, the shyness dissolves into something quieter, sweeter. You lean into him, your hands settling over his heart. It’s steady. Comforting.

He doesn’t rush the silence. Doesn’t push.

The noise of the festival still hums in the background, but it feels like a distant memory now—muted beneath the rush of your heart and the warmth still lingering on your lips.

He steps back a little, just enough to breathe, but not enough to lose the closeness. “You wan’ me to walk ya home?”

Your answer is immediate, quiet. “I do.”

You fall into step beside each other, the path dimly lit by strings of warm bulbs and the fading firelight from the festival. The ground crunches under your boots, and the night air wraps cool and easy around your skin. He doesn’t speak at first, and you don’t mind. You like the silence between you—it’s comfortable. Safe.

Then, as you near the edge of town, his hand brushes yours.

Just barely.

You glance over at him. He’s looking straight ahead like nothing happened, but there’s a soft pink creeping up the side of his neck.

You don’t say anything. You just let your hand shift a little closer.

The next time they touch, it’s on purpose.

Fingers slide together slow, like testing the weight of something new.

He doesn’t pull away.

And neither do you.

-

By the time you reach your porch, the stars are scattered thick above you and the crickets are singing like they know something you don’t.

You stop at the steps, not quite ready to go inside.

Choso stands just a step down, taller than you even now, his silhouette all shadows and moonlight. His fingers are still loosely curled around yours.

He looks at you, quiet.

You look back.

Something thick and tender swims in the air between you.

Then, just as you’re about to speak—he leans in again.

But this time, it’s different.

Softer. Slower. Like he’s savoring it.

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin, and his lips meet yours in a kiss that’s warm and unhurried. Like a goodnight. Like a promise.

It doesn’t last long—but it doesn’t need to.

When he pulls away, you’re still standing there, blinking, trying to catch your breath.

“Night, darlin’,” he murmurs, voice low and warm.

You open your mouth to respond but—nothing comes out.

He smirks, just barely, and tips his hat before turning back toward the road, boots crunching softly as he walks away.

You exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding, pressing your fingers to your lips, heart racing.

-

[you]: shoko.

[you]: he kissed me.

[you]: just… kissed me. said “night, darlin’” and walked off like it was nothing.

[you]: i think i forgot how to stand for a second.

You watch the typing bubble blink in and out a few times.

[shoko]: and how was it

[you]: …really good.

[shoko]: knew it. told you he had a thing for you.

[you]: you also said he probably talks to horses more than people.

[shoko]: and apparently he kisses better than both. proud of you.

You huff a laugh, dropping your head back against the couch.

The room is quiet. The porch light still glows through the curtains. Your lips still tingle.

You pull your knees up to your chest, phone resting in your palm.

And when sleep finally pulls you under, it's with the weight of his touch still lingering and his voice—low and warm—tucked somewhere in the back of your mind.

-

The days that follow feel different.

Not loud or sudden—just quieter in a way that stays with you.

Like the way his eyes linger a little longer when you talk. Like the way he leans in when no one’s looking. Like the way your hand always seems to find his when no one’s around to see.

There’s a moment in the barn—just the two of you, the air heavy with hay and late sun—where he kisses you slow, with one hand braced against the stall and the other at your waist. You laugh into his mouth, and he smiles like he can’t help it.

Another time, it’s behind your house, just after he helps you carry firewood. You thank him and mean it—and before you can say more, he cups your jaw and kisses you like he’s been thinking about it all day.

Sometimes, though—sometimes it shifts.

Like the night you're sitting side by side on your porch steps, your knee brushing his, your laughter fading into something quieter. His eyes darken as they drop to your mouth. He kisses you, slower this time. Deeper. And when his lips trail down to the edge of your jaw, when his hand skims along your thigh—

The porch light flickers.

A car rumbles by.

You both pause, breath caught in your throats.

He pulls back with a soft exhale, forehead resting against yours for a second longer before he clears his throat and leans away.

Another time, it’s the hayloft—warm, private, the dust floating golden in the air. He’s hovering above you, lips at your collarbone, fingers curling just under the hem of your shirt—

Then the barn door creaks. A voice calls for him.

You sit up, flushed and breathless, heart thudding hard in your chest.

He mutters something under his breath, presses a kiss to your temple, and climbs down first.

It’s never awkward. Never forced.

Just moments that build. Stretch. Hold.

And it’s always him who pulls back—like he's afraid of what might happen if he doesn’t.

-

The air seems lighter, the walk into town quieter, your thoughts a little louder.

You find yourself smiling at nothing, fingers ghosting over your lips like they still remember the weight of his. And when you catch sight of him across the way—hat low, shirt clinging to his shoulders from the heat—you swear your pulse stutters.

He doesn’t say much when he sees you, just tips his head in that lazy way of his, mouth curling faintly at the edges.

But as you pass by, his hand brushes yours—just for a second. Barely there. Like a secret no one else is supposed to notice.

And you swear your skin hums from the touch.

Later, when you're out by the edge of the property replacing fence boards, he shows up with that same quiet timing he always does. He leans against the post beside you, hands in his pockets, watching.

“You’re gonna get splinters, y’know,” he drawls.

You shoot him a look. “Then maybe you should help.”

He does.

And this time, when he kneels beside you, handing you nails and steadying the board with one hand, his knee brushes yours and stays there. There’s no flinch, no apology—just a glance up, a half-smile passed between you.

When he stands, he offers a hand to pull you up. You hesitate a moment too long before taking it, your fingers curling around his, warm and sure.

“You always this helpful?” you tease.

He shrugs. “Only when there’s pretty company.”

You try to roll your eyes, but the way your heart kicks in your chest ruins the effort.

-

It starts with a rumble.

The sky’s been moody all morning, clouds hanging heavy like they’re waiting for the right moment to split open. You’d taken the risk anyway, walking into town for some supplies, telling yourself you’d beat the storm back.

You don’t.

You're only halfway down the winding road back to the house when it hits—sudden and sharp, fat drops pelting the dust and kicking up the smell of rain-soaked earth. Within seconds, you’re drenched. Your dress clings to your skin, hair plastered to your face, and you’re shivering as you trudge along, arms wrapped around yourself.

You barely hear the truck pulling up beside you over the roar of rain.

But you definitely hear his voice.

“Darlin’?”

You blink through the downpour, and there he is—Choso, leaning out the driver’s side window of his old pickup, hat pulled low, brow furrowed in concern.

“You tryin’ to drown out here?”

You shake your head, a breathless laugh escaping you despite the chill. “Thought I could outrun it.”

His eyes flick down, taking in your soaked dress, the way you’re hugging your elbows. His jaw flexes.

“My place is closer,” he says after a beat. “C’mon.”

You hesitate only for a second. Not because you don’t trust him—you do, more than you probably should—but because stepping into that truck feels like crossing into something else. Something charged.

Still, the rain’s cold, and your feet hurt, and his voice is so damn gentle.

You nod.

He’s out of the truck in a blink, jogging around the front and opening the door for you like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t send a flutter through your chest. He holds the door open as you climb in, and when your fingers brush his wrist, they’re warm, solid. Comforting.

Inside the cab, the heater’s on, and it smells like cedar and something faintly smoky. Choso reaches behind the seat, grabs an old flannel, and without a word, drapes it over your shoulders.

You glance over at him, your hands gripping the soft fabric.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes fixed ahead as he pulls back onto the road. Then, voice low: “Ain’t gonna let you freeze out here.”

You look over at him again, and this time, he catches your gaze.

The silence stretches.

“You always play knight in shining armor?” you tease, trying for casual, though your voice is soft around the edges.

Choso doesn’t look at you right away. His fingers flex around the steering wheel. “Nah,” he says eventually. “Don’t usually have a reason to.”

The hum of the engine fills the cab, steady and low, and the rain tapping against the windshield makes the world outside feel far away—blurred and gray and quiet.

Inside, it’s warmer. Safer.

You clutch the flannel tighter around you, the sleeves hanging over your fingers. The scent of it—woodsmoke, leather, something him—makes your chest ache just a little.

“Didn’t think the weather’d turn that fast,” you murmur, glancing out the window.

Choso glances over. “Storms move quick out here,” he says. “You’ll learn.”

You smile faintly. “Guess I’m still adjusting.”

“You’re doin’ alright,” he says, voice low.

The silence returns, but it’s not awkward. It settles over the two of you like another blanket. Comforting. There’s something steady in his presence, something grounding, and it creeps in slow, calming your nerves until your body starts to relax on its own.

He makes a turn, gravel crunching under the tires as he pulls onto a long, dirt path lined with wild mesquite trees. You didn’t realize how close his place actually was.

Your eyes feel heavy. Maybe it’s the warmth. Maybe it’s the rhythm of the road.

Maybe it’s him.

You glance over, watching him quietly—his jawline, the way the rain beads on the brim of his hat. Without thinking, you lean a little closer, until your head gently rests against his shoulder.

Choso’s muscles tense just slightly beneath you.

“Sorry,” you say quickly, starting to pull away.

But his voice stops you—soft, quieter than usual.

“It’s alright.”

And so you stay.

For a minute, maybe two, neither of you says anything. His shoulder is solid and warm beneath your cheek. You close your eyes.

“You get used to the rain, too,” he says after a while. “’Specially when you’ve got someone to ride it out with.”

There’s a pause. Your fingers twitch under the flannel.

“Think I’d like that,” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer, but you can feel the way his breath shifts. Like he wants to say something but bites it back.

The truck rolls to a stop.

“We’re here,” he says gently.

The rain’s still falling when Choso gets out and jogs around to open your door, hat tilted low to shield from the downpour. You hesitate for a second before slipping your hand into his, jumping down from the truck. His palm is rough and warm, and when you look up at him, his eyes are already on you.

The walk to the front porch is brief but soaked. By the time you’re inside, boots tracking mud onto the wooden floor, your clothes cling to your skin and your hair’s dripping water down your neck.

“Bathroom’s down the hall,” Choso says, tossing his keys onto a hook near the door. “Towels are in the cabinet. I’ll find you somethin’ dry.”

You nod, teeth chattering just a bit. “Thanks.”

The bathroom smells faintly of cedar and old cologne. You dry off as best you can, toweling your hair and arms. When you step out, Choso’s waiting in the hall with a bundle in his hands—a soft, well-worn hoodie and a pair of sweatpants that’ll definitely be too big.

“Hope that works,” he says, eyes flicking over you quickly. “Didn’t figure you’d want jeans.”

You smile, hugging the bundle to your chest. “Perfect.”

When you come out dressed in his clothes, sleeves past your hands and the waistband of the sweatpants rolled over once, he’s in the kitchen, pouring you a mug of something steaming.

“Here,” he says, holding it out. “Hot cocoa. Not coffee—it’s late.”

You raise a brow. “Didn’t peg you as the cocoa type.”

A ghost of a smirk tugs at his lips. “I ain’t. But you seem like the kind who’d need somethin’ sweet after a cold walk home.”

Your stomach flips.

You sip slowly, the warmth seeping into your fingers. He leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you. There’s a quiet in the room again—not awkward, just…thick. Charged. Like something could happen if either of you let it.

Then, he tilts his head a bit. “You look good in that.”

Your gaze snaps up to his.

“In what?”

He nods at the hoodie. “Never liked how it looked on me, but it suits you.”

You laugh softly, heart in your throat. “I look like I’m drowning in it.”

“Still suits you.”

You barely register the shift in the air until you feel him move behind you—slow, purposeful. His boots echo quiet on the wooden floor, and before you can even turn, he’s there. His arms plant on either side of you, palms flat against the counter, caging you in without a word.

The space between your bodies buzzes with unspoken something. His chest nearly brushes your back, and when he dips his head, breath warm at the curve of your neck, you freeze.

Then—soft.

The faintest brush of his lips against your skin. Once. Then again. Featherlight, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to want this much.

You manage a breathless laugh. “I’m starting to think this was all an excuse to bring me here.”

You feel him smile against your neck, a quiet huff of amusement. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea I’ve ever had.”

Your heart skips, and before you can respond, he presses one more kiss—just below your ear this time—and murmurs, voice low, rough:

“Glad you agreed to come.”

You shift slightly, finally daring to glance back at him. “And if I hadn’t?”

He lifts his head, eyes locking with yours now—closer than you expected, darker too. “Guess I’d be missin’ out.”

The tension between you crackles. You're not sure who leans in first, but suddenly the distance isn’t so wide anymore.

His mouth crashes against yours this time—no hesitation, no space to think, just heat.

It’s clumsy at first, teeth clashing, breath hitching, but neither of you care. Your fingers tangle in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer like you’ll fall apart if there’s even an inch between you. He groans into your mouth, low and rough, one hand sliding around your waist to press you flush to him, the other threading into your hair.

Your back hits the counter as he crowds you in, lips hot and relentless, kissing like he means to memorize every inch. Tongues meet, the kiss deepening into something hungry, something that’s been simmering just below the surface for far too long.

His fingers splay across your lower back, gripping like he can’t stand the thought of letting go. Your hands wander—his jaw, his neck, the soft strands of his hair now damp from the rain. He kisses you like he’s starved, like this moment has been clawing at the edge of his self-control for days. Weeks.

When you gasp against him, he takes the opportunity to nip at your bottom lip, chasing it with a gentler kiss right after—contrasting, addictive. You pull him closer, like you’ll crawl into him if he lets you.

The only sound in the room is the soft rustle of clothing, the quiet thud of footsteps shifting, the desperate sound of mouths colliding again and again—wet, open-mouthed, aching.

Nothing else exists. Just the warmth of his body, the taste of his kiss, and the way he’s kissing you like he never wants to stop.

His hand slips beneath your hoodie, palm warm and steady against your skin. It’s not rushed—he touches like he’s memorizing, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice thick. “’Bout you.”

You shiver, not just from his touch but from how needy he sounds—like he’s been holding back and it’s finally breaking loose.

His teeth graze your jaw, your neck, and then he’s kissing lower, slower, the kind of kiss that makes your knees threaten to give out.

“You gotta tell me to stop,” he says, breath hot against your skin, “or I’m not gonna.”

But your hands are already tugging his shirt up, fingers greedy against the lines of his stomach, and the way you say his name—low, breathy, a little wrecked—has him cursing under his breath.

He’s everywhere—hands and lips and heat.

You barely notice when his hands shift—one to your thigh, the other braced at your lower back—until your feet leave the ground.

You gasp, arms locking around his shoulders as he lifts you like you weigh nothing.

“Choso—”

“Not here,” he murmurs, voice rough in your ear. “You deserve better than a fuckin’ kitchen counter.”

The heat of his breath sends a full-body shiver down your spine, but there’s something else too—the way he carries you, steady and certain, like he’s done thinking. Like he’s made up his mind.

He walks with you through the dim hallway, never once breaking eye contact when you look up at him.

“You sure?” he asks, even though he’s already halfway to his room.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah.”

His mouth twitches and the second you’re in his room, he’s setting you down on the bed like you’re the most important thing he’s ever touched.

Then he’s on you again, lips trailing down your neck, hands at your waist, tugging at your clothes like they’re in the way of something holy.

He leans over you, breath still heavy, eyes dragging across your body like he can’t decide where to touch first. You’re in his hoodie—his hoodie—and there’s something about that that makes his jaw flex, like the sight alone has undone him.

“Didn’t think you could look better in my clothes,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly. “’Til now.”

His fingers curl around the hem, and he lifts it inch by inch, knuckles brushing your stomach, your ribs, the curve of your chest—leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He pulls it over your head with care, like he’s unwrapping something delicate, and tosses it aside without taking his eyes off you.

Then his hands slide to the waistband of the sweatpants.

He hooks his fingers under the fabric, ready to ask again—ready to take it slow. But when he tugs it down your hips and catches the bare skin beneath, he freezes.

There’s no fabric. No lace. Nothing.

His breath catches—sharp and audible—and his hands go still.

“...You’re not wearin’ anything underneath,” he says, almost like he’s making sure he didn’t just imagine it.

You nod, watching the understanding settle across his face. “Yeah. Didn’t wanna put them back on. You handed me your clothes, so I just…”

His hands tighten at your hips, knuckles flexing against your bare skin like he’s trying so fucking hard not to lose it.

“Jesus,” he mutters, low and hoarse, like the image just broke something in him. “You’ve been like this the whole time?”

Your breath hitches, and that’s all the answer he needs.

The shift in him is instant—his mouth is back on your skin, kissing a line down your stomach, then your inner thigh, slower this time, deeper, like he’s savoring the thought.

Hands spread your legs with a kind of reverence, eyes locked on you like a man seeing something sacred for the first time.

And when he settles between them, shoulders anchoring your thighs apart, it’s not just lust in his expression.

It’s awe. It’s hunger. It’s devotion.

He exhales slow, like he’s trying to ground himself—but the tension in his shoulders says it’s a losing battle.

“Fuck, baby…” he murmurs, voice barely there, lips hovering just over your skin. “You got no idea what that’s doin’ to me.”

His fingers dig into your thighs, spreading you wider as he leans in—and when he finally drags his tongue through your folds, slow and deliberate, it pulls a gasp straight from your chest.

He groans against you, deep and raw, like you’re the best thing he’s ever tasted.

“You’re soaked,” he breathes, almost in disbelief, like he wasn’t expecting you to be this ready for him. “This all for me?”

You nod, breath ragged, and he huffs a short, wrecked laugh against your skin. Then he’s back at it—mouth open, tongue greedy, sucking your clit into the heat of his mouth before pulling away just enough to tease you with the flat of his tongue.

It’s messy. It’s focused. He’s focused—like he’s been dreaming about this and finally has you where he wants you, and now he can’t stop. Won’t stop.

He grips your thighs tighter when they start to twitch, holding you in place, tongue fucking into you with slow, devastating precision. He’s learning what makes you squirm, what makes your hips buck, and he goes after it again and again—hungry, deliberate, obsessed.

Every so often, he pauses just to kiss you there. Open-mouthed, lingering kisses, like he’s trying to make it tender and filthy at the same time.

And when he speaks, it’s into your skin—low and reverent and wrecked.

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he growls. “Could stay down here all night. You’d let me, wouldn’t you? Let me make you come on my fuckin’ tongue?”

You can’t even respond—your fingers are in his hair, clutching hard, and he moans at the way you tug, like your need turns him on even more.

He doesn’t stop. If anything, he gets deeper, more intense—tongue and lips working in tandem, determined to push you right over the edge.

And the look he gives you when you start to unravel? It’s pure worship.

Like you’re a miracle.

He doesn’t rush.

Doesn’t tear into you like he’s trying to make a point. He just stays there—mouth warm and steady, tongue moving slow and sure through your folds, like he’s figuring you out by feel.

And the second you react—hips tilting toward him, breath hitching—he locks onto it. Keeps going in the same rhythm, like he’s memorizing what works.

His grip on your thighs tightens just slightly, holding you open, but never forceful. Just firm. Like he doesn’t want to miss a single twitch, a single sound. One hand slides up, settling on your hip, grounding you, keeping you right where he wants you. The other stays on your thigh, thumb brushing slow circles into your skin, keeping you calm. Or trying to.

Because it’s not calm anymore.

There’s nothing showy in the way he moves—just focused, hungry pressure. Every lap of his tongue has intention behind it. He’s not trying to tease. He wants you to come, and it’s obvious in every breath, every groan, every time his mouth seals around your clit and pulls a noise out of you you didn’t know you could make.

When you start to shake, he pulls back just a little—enough to look at you.

“Almost there?”

You nod fast, too far gone for words, and that’s all he needs.

He goes right back in, tongue and mouth working in sync now, no hesitation, no breaks. Just pressure, just heat, just him, fully focused on pulling you under. The tension builds quick—sharp and tight, spiraling—and he doesn’t stop until you fall apart.

Even then, he lingers. Soft, slow, soothing now. Gentle licks while you come down, his hands smoothing over your hips like he’s making sure you’re still breathing.

He stays between your thighs for a moment, just breathing, eyes dragging over you like he’s trying to decide if you’re real. Then his hand slides down—slow, careful—and his fingers spread you open with a quiet, appreciative hum.

“You’re still dripping,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

He runs a thumb through the mess he’s made, not teasing, just... feeling. Like he needs to know how soft you are, how warm. Then he shifts up slightly, mouth still close, and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh before slipping one finger in—slow and steady.

“Still with me?” he asks, voice low.

You nod, biting your lip, hips twitching at the stretch.

“Good.”

He keeps it gentle at first, letting you adjust, watching your face the whole time. Then he curls his finger just right, and the sound you make has him swearing under his breath.

“Fuck… yeah. There it is.”

He adds a second finger, just as slowly. It’s a snug fit, but you’re wet enough that he doesn’t have to push hard—and he doesn’t. He’s careful, steady, easing you open like he wants to take his time.

Like it matters.

And it does.

“You’re takin’ me so well already,” he says quietly, more wonder than praise. “Gonna feel so fuckin’ good around me.”

His fingers work in a steady rhythm now—deep, purposeful, hitting the spot over and over while his thumb finds your clit again, rubbing soft, slow circles that have your thighs shaking all over again.

“Think you can come like this?” he asks, almost curious. “Wanna feel you squeeze around my fingers before I even get inside you.”

He keeps going until your legs are trembling again, until you’re arching into him without even realizing, until he knows you’re right there—

And he doesn’t stop until he has you falling apart a second time.

You’re still catching your breath when his fingers slip free, slow and careful, like he doesn’t want to lose the warmth of you just yet. He presses another kiss to your inner thigh, then one just above your hipbone, working his way up your body with this quiet, steady intensity—like he’s been waiting forever to touch you like this.

When he finally settles over you, his face is close, his hair still damp at the ends, a little wild from where you’ve tugged at it.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low and quiet. Not just a throwaway check-in—he means it. Like if you said stop right now, he actually would.

You nod, still flushed, still reeling.

He studies you for a beat longer, eyes scanning your face like he’s looking for any sign you’re not sure. But you are. And when your hand curls around the back of his neck to pull him down for a kiss, that’s all he needs.

His mouth moves over yours—slow this time, less frantic than before. It’s warm. Intimate. Like he wants you to feel how much this means to him. And when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“Still not rushin’ you,” he says, almost like a promise. “But I want you. Been wantin’ you since the day we met.”

You swallow, heart pounding, and ease up onto your knees.

“Then let me,” you murmur. “I want to.”

He nods—small, reverent. His hands fall back to the mattress like he’s surrendering himself to you completely, and you shift, climbing into his lap with shaky hands and a tight chest. He watches you the whole time, eyes dark but gentle, tracking the way your thighs settle around his hips.

You lean forward to kiss him once—slow, almost nervous—then sit back and reach for the waistband of his sweatpants.

And that’s when your breath catches.

He’s big.

Thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip, and heavy against his stomach. You don’t even have your hand around him yet and he looks like he shouldn’t fit.

Choso sees your hesitation—feels it, maybe—and his voice comes quiet. Steady.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you whisper, eyes still locked on him.

You reach down, fingers curling around the base, and he shudders under you. The sound he makes is low and wrecked, like even the idea of you touching him is too much.

You guide him toward your entrance, breathing a little harder now. Every nerve is alive. His leaky tip brushes against you and he groans, fingers twitching against the bedsheets.

“Wait,” he says softly, his voice suddenly closer, steadier. His hand comes to your thigh, grounding. “You alright?”

You nod—quick, almost frantic.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I just—you're big.”

His thumb strokes gently along your skin. “I know, baby. You don’t gotta rush, alright?”

Still, you press down—slowly, inch by inch—and your body gives, stretching around him. He’s thick, the burn immediate but not unbearable, just enough to make your eyes flutter shut, jaw tight as you try to breathe through it.

He sees it all.

Your thighs shaking. The hitch in your breath. The way your hands scramble for something to hold onto—him, the sheets, anything.

“Takin’ me so good,” he murmurs, sitting up just a bit to cup your face. His thumbs brush beneath your eyes. “Look at me, sweetheart.”

You blink down at him—and that’s when the tears slip, soft and silent.

“Oh, hey,” he whispers, thumbing them away gently, kissing the edge of your jaw. “Shh… you’re okay. You’re doin’ so good for me.”

His hands cradle your hips now, steadying you. Not forcing—supporting.

“You feel like heaven,” he says, eyes flicking down to where you’re still taking him. “You’re perfect. So fuckin’ perfect like this.”

Your breath stutters as you sink just a little more, and his jaw clenches hard.

“God, you’re squeezin’ me so tight,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “You don’t even know what you’re doin’ to me.”

You pause with most of him inside, breath shaky, overwhelmed—but full. And when your eyes find his again, he’s already there, watching you with a kind of quiet awe.

“You’re okay?” he asks again, softer this time.

You nod, a tear rolling down your cheek.

“I want to,” you whisper.

Choso smiles—soft and aching.

“Then take your time,” he says. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

You breathe deep, hands braced on his chest, hips trembling as you sink down the last few inches. The stretch burns, your body aching with the effort, but the way he looks at you—like you’re some kind of miracle—keeps you steady.

And then you bottom out.

Your thighs meet his hips. He’s all the way inside.

And for a second, everything goes still.

Choso’s head falls back against the pillows with a ragged breath, jaw clenched so tight you swear you can hear his teeth grind. His fingers grip your hips, not to guide you, just to anchor himself—like he needs something to hold on to or he’ll lose whatever grip on reality he has left.

“Fuck,” he chokes out. “Baby—fuck, you—”

His eyes squeeze shut and he groans, long and low, like he’s never felt anything like this before. Like you’ve just undone him completely.

“You feel so good,” he whispers, voice shaking. “You feel so fuckin’ good, I can’t—can’t even think straight.”

Your hands slide up his chest as you breathe through the fullness, the pressure—every nerve raw and pulsing.

He blinks up at you, eyes blown wide, flushed and wrecked. His hands move again, gentler now, one cupping your waist, the other smoothing up your spine until it cradles the back of your head.

“You okay?” he murmurs again. “Still good?”

You nod, breathless, lips parted. “Yeah.”

“You’re takin’ me so good. Can’t believe you’re lettin’ me in like this. Feels like—feels like I’m dreamin’,” he murmurs, kissing your chest, your collarbone, wherever he can reach. 

You shift your hips just slightly, and he groans, clutching at your waist like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Don’t move yet,” he begs, forehead pressed to your sternum. “Just—just stay like this a minute. Let me feel you.”

And so you do.

You sit there, chest to chest, buried deep in each other, his hands trembling against your skin, your breath feathering against his ear. No movement. No rush. Just the overwhelming heat of him inside you, the way he kisses your shoulder like he’s saying thank you without words.

Like he can’t believe he gets to be this close.

You start to move—just barely. A slow roll of your hips, careful and unsure, easing yourself into the rhythm.

Choso groans, low and guttural, his fingers tightening where they rest on your hips. You feel him twitch inside you, thick and heavy, and when you do it again—just a little deeper—his head drops back with a gasp.

“Baby…”

It’s a warning. A plea. His restraint is hanging by a thread.

But you do it again—grind down a little harder, a little slower—and that thread snaps.

He surges up with a grunt, hips bucking into you hard and sudden, burying himself deeper than before. You gasp, eyes wide, hands flying to his chest for balance.

“Choso—!”

“Fuck, I can’t,” he growls, mouth at your neck, voice cracked and breathless. “You feel too good—too fuckin’ good—I tried, baby, I did—”

He thrusts up again, rougher now, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room. You moan loud, back arching into him, completely overwhelmed.

He groans against your shoulder, hands gripping your hips like a man possessed, guiding you into a rhythm he can’t hold back anymore. Snapping up into you over and over, messy and hard and desperate.

“So tight—so fuckin’ wet—” he pants. “You were made for me, weren’t you?”

You whimper, nodding against his mouth, and he kisses you hard, open and gasping between thrusts.

“This what you wanted?” he mutters, teeth grazing your bottom lip. “Me losin’ it underneath you? Fuckin’ you like I need it?”

Your only answer is a cry—his name—and that breaks him even more.

He pounds into you now, rhythm rough and frantic, his body trembling under the weight of it all. Every thrust drives him deeper, drags a moan from your throat, makes your vision blur with heat.

His thumb brushes your clit, fast and precise, and your whole body jerks.

“There you go,” he breathes, watching you with wild eyes. “C’mon, baby. Wanna feel you cum on me. Wanna feel you lose it—right fuckin’ here.”

And with the way he’s fucking into you—relentless, possessive, absolutely wrecked—you know you won’t last long.

Your climax crashes through you like a wave—sudden, shaking, too much. Your hips stutter, thighs trembling where they’re locked around him, mouth falling open in a gasping moan.

“Thaaat’s it,” he murmurs through gritted teeth, slowing his thrusts but never stopping, easing you through the high. “That’s my girl. Fuck—so pretty when you come for me.”

His grip on your waist loosens just slightly, letting you ride the tail end of it. You collapse forward onto his chest, boneless, breathing hard, face tucked into the crook of his neck as your walls flutter helplessly around him.

He groans.

And then it happens.

In one fluid motion, he moves—sits up, grabs you by the hips, and flips you onto your back like you weigh nothing. Your gasp barely escapes before his mouth is on yours, hungry, his body heavy and burning over yours.

He thrusts back into you hard and deep, and your whole body jolts. He’s panting now, fully gone, sweat beading at his temple, hair sticking to his jaw in damp strands.

His hips slap against yours, hard and fast, rhythm brutal. Gone is the careful restraint.

“Fuck—you’re still so tight,” he pants, driving into you again, harder. “So warm—could stay inside you forever.”

One hand grabs your thigh and pushes it back, open, spreading you wider so he can get even deeper. You cry out, toes curling, fingernails dragging down his back.

“Hold it there, baby,” he says through clenched teeth, eyes locked on where you’re joined. “Just like that—let me have it.”

His other hand drops between your bodies, fingers finding your clit like he knows exactly what you need. He rubs tight, fast circles, dragging a broken sound from your throat.

“You’re gonna give me another one,” he growls, pace relentless. “You’re gonna fuckin’ take it.”

And with the way he’s pounding into you—feral, possessed, hand on your thigh, breath hot against your cheek—you know he means it.

You’re not leaving this bed until he’s satisfied.

You’re soaked—sweat-slick and breathless beneath him, body trembling with the aftershocks of your third orgasm but he’s still moving—still buried inside you, deep and hard and relentless.

“Cho,” you whimper, voice wrecked, eyes fluttering.

“I know, I know,” Choso breathes, hand still working tight, precise circles against your clit. “One more, you got one more for me.”

You’re not sure if it’s a question or a command—but your body responds before your mouth can. Hips twitching, walls fluttering again around him like you need him to wring the last of it from you.

His thrusts grow rougher—sloppier, deeper—his control unraveling fast. His hand moves from your thigh to your face, tilting your chin toward him as he leans in, eyes locked to yours.

“You feel what you’re doin’ to me?” he hisses. “Can’t hold back anymore—fuck, baby—”

And then he slams into you one last time, hips grinding deep as you clench around him like a vice.

That’s all it takes. You break.

Again.

Your fourth orgasm rips through you without warning—violent, breath-stealing, almost too much. Your vision blurs. Back arches. A sob breaks in your throat as your body clenches, pulsing wildly around him.

Choso loses it.

“Fuck—fuck—oh my god—” he snarls, buried to the hilt as his body goes rigid, cock twitching inside you. “That’s it—fuckin’—fuckin’ takin’ me just like that—”

He cums hard, groaning deep and wrecked, hips jerking as he spills into you, warmth flooding deep. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other gripping your waist like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart completely.

You both stay like that—panting, sweating, shaking—his body heavy over yours, his forehead pressed to yours, eyes shut tight like he’s afraid it’s all going to disappear if he opens them.

Finally, he exhales—slow, shaky, almost a laugh.

“You alright?” he whispers, voice hoarse, thumb brushing your cheek.

You nod weakly, barely able to speak. “Mhm.”

He smiles, kisses your forehead.

“You were so good for me, angel,” he murmurs. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

You flinch a little when he pulls away, already missing the weight of him, the heat.

“Be right back, darlin’,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your jaw. His voice is low, rough around the edges, but there’s something tender in it. “Gonna get you cleaned up.”

You nod, barely able to do more than breathe.

He disappears down the hall, leaving the room bathed in the quiet aftermath—your heart still hammering, skin tingling where his hands had been. He returns a minute later with a damp, warm towel and kneels beside you, moving slow, careful.

“Still doin’ alright?” he asks, voice softer now.

“Yeah,” you whisper, and he gives a small nod, gaze never leaving yours as he starts to clean you up.

“Did so good for me,” he says. “Took me so damn well.”

You try to hide your face, but he catches your chin between his fingers, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw.

“Don’t go shy on me now.”

Once he’s done, he tosses the towel aside and climbs back into bed, pulling you into him like you belong there. You do. Right now, you do.

For a long while, it’s just the sound of your breathing—yours slowing, his steady. One of his hands drifts up and down your back, lazy and unhurried, like he’s in no rush to let the moment go.

Then, quietly, “Didn’t think I’d ever want somethin’ like this.”

You glance up at him, chin tucked near his shoulder. “Like what?”

He hesitates, eyes on the ceiling. Then, “You. In my bed. Not just for tonight.”

Your breath catches, heart stumbling. You don’t answer right away. Instead, your fingers find his, lacing together.

“I’m not in a rush to leave,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his chest.

Choso doesn’t say anything at first, just exhales slowly—and the arm around you tightens, pulling you in like he’s afraid to let go.

Then, just above a whisper, you hear him say, “I’m glad you’re not.”

There’s a quiet honesty in it that makes your chest ache a little. You nuzzle closer, fingers still laced with his, and let the silence stretch comfortably between you.

No need to rush. Not tonight.

author's note. not my proudest work but to be fair, i did write this while going through major writer's block. i still hope y'all enjoy it <3

[mallory524]

Oh oh, can I request a sort of alternate ending to the kidnapping headcanons with each of the Thunderbolts where, when they are about to break into the building reader is trapped in, reader appears behind them all bloody and bruised, making them jump and her saying, “Did you guys come to save me? Aww, that’s so sweet, I feel so loved right now!!”

(OMG YES This is sweet and fun I love it)

the thunderbolts come to save you, but you've already handled it yourself

pictures from pinterest

tags- she/her used, mostly just silly and fluffy, mentions of kidnapping, mentions of blood and fighting and minor injuries, some language

Yelena

Yelena knows that you’re tough, but she doesn’t expect you to be able to get yourself out of this one. The group gets to where you’re being held, and you’re just sitting on the ground, with your back up against the doorway. You look like hell, but you’re free. This is not what Yelena had imagined. She thought she’d have to free you herself and toss you over her shoulder or something. She couldn’t be more happy to see that she was wrong about your state. “Oh, hey, guys! This is awfully sweet of you to all come out here. This is a long ways away from the city,” you say as you manage to get back up on your feet. Yelena looks at you, amazed, and runs up to hug you and kiss your temple. Walker mutters to Ava, “At this point we could’ve just called her an Uber.”

Bucky

Bucky did not want to think about what could be happening to you. He’s seen a lot of pain and hurt in his day, so he knows firsthand how ugly these situations can get. Luckily, it never got as bad as it could’ve, because you actually broke yourself out. Bucky did not expect to find you already fighting off your captors on your own when he arrived with the whole team. Bucky wants to help, of course. He gets one punch in. You thank him, like you haven’t just knocked out every other person on your own. “I was just about to look for where they hid my phone so I could call you to give me a ride home, but it looks like I didn’t even need to call! You guys are the best,” you say, as if you’d just been stranded at the airport. Bucky’s never been so proud.

Ava

The fact that the search for you was dragging on for days was only making Ava’s nerves worse. Leaving you in danger for so long made her feel so horrible, and sometimes she’d wonder if it was possible that you’d escaped on your own. She figured it was too much to hope for, but it made her feel a little better. Besides, it wasn’t too far out of the realm of possibility. She’d imagine finally reaching your location, and the people who were supposed to be guarding you would all be just as clueless about your whereabouts as she was. She never considered that they’d all be unconscious on the ground when she got there. “Ava!!” she hears you yell from behind. She spins around and sees you jogging (with a slight limp) down the hall to reach her. She’s astonished. “Aww you guys! Thanks for coming. That means a lot.” After that remarkably chill response, Ava looks at you like you’ve never been so beautiful and cool in her eyes before, and that’s saying something.

John

John was terrified the whole time you were missing. All day long, he panicked and thought about all the horrible things that could be happening to you at any given moment. He didn't sleep, he didn't eat, he led the whole search, and he was ready to do whatever to took to get to you. You can only imagine his surprise when you run out and cut his destructive rampage short. He keeps standing there and looking at you because this is not computing. You're just standing there with your hands on your hips, your clothes all tattered, with bruises and cuts all over you. You're clearly exhausted, but you manage a little smirk. "Awww, Walker! Were you worried about me?" He just tosses his silly folded shield to the ground and pulls you into a tight hug. "Yeah, yeah, whatever." He doesn't even put up a fight when you reach out to affectionately ruffle his hair or pinch his cheek like a grandma. He's just so happy you're safe.

Alexei

When Alexei gets there and realizes you’ve already broken yourself out, he is so shocked. Then he thinks about it for a moment, and he doesn’t know why he’s even surprised. Of course you solved this on your own! You’re such a badass. You always have been. It’s one of the first things he noticed about you, and it’s what initially drew him to you. He feels like he should’ve had more faith in you, but now’s not the time for that. Now’s the time to celebrate the fact that you’re safe. He lets out a loud, jovial laugh and wraps his arms around you, telling you over and over again how proud he is of you while wiping some blood from your forehead. Somehow, you always manage to surprise him. Everyone is thrilled that you’re back, but Alexei is absolutely beaming with pride and relief for the rest of the night.

Bob

Part of why the team originally didn’t want Bob to go on the rescue mission, besides the Void stuff, was because they didn’t know what kind of state you’d be in. Bob’s very new to this line of work, and they know how much you mean to him, so they thought it might be too much for him to handle if he ended up having to see you seriously hurt. Luckily that didn’t happen. Before they have the chance to break the door down, you walk out from the other side of the building, waving your arms. “Hey! I’m right here!” Bob rushes to hug you, and it’s so tight that all your words are kind of muffled. “Guys I got the whole search party? This is actually really flattering.” Bob pulls away after a while and he’s immediately worried again when he sees the bruising all over you. You make a “You should see the other guy” joke, but everyone knows you’re not kidding. They really don’t want to see the other guy.

[azzibuckets]

reputation, or, all the ways i’ve loved you

or, love is immature and heady and new and blissful and hard and exhausting and it might kill you but in the end—love endures.

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

summary: paige and azzi in various stages of love, as told through reputation by taylor swift

a/n: as a celebration for 3k followers, here’s my longest fic yet! don’t know if this style is for me so we’ll see if i ever write a long one again lol. nevertheless, i hope you guys enjoy :)

word count: 9k

masterlist | oneshots masterlist

⋆⑅˚₊ i. dancing with our hands tied - i loved you in secret / first sight, yeah, we love without reason

July 2018

Out of all the things Azzi Fudd expected her father to do after telling him the big news, laughing was probably last on the list. Actually, scratch that — it wasn’t even on the list to begin with, because what kind of father takes their child’s health as a joke? Certainly not Tim, who’s forced Azzi to take her daily vitamin gummies for as long as she can remember, the nasty ones that taste too sour to resemble the Trolli eggs they’re supposed to be a dupe of.

But here is Tim Fudd, the man who raised her, lines crinkling around his eyes as he guffaws so loud he starts pounding his own chest. Azzi would be worried for his lack of oxygen if she wasn’t so incredulously offended. “Dad? Did you hear what I said?”

“Oh, I heard you.” Tim pauses to take a breath before starting to laugh again, tears slowly beginning to form at the corner of his eyes.

“What’s so funny, then?” Azzi questions snarkily, hands on her hips in the perfect pose of sassy teenage indignance.

“Azzi, honey.” Tim straightens up as his breathing ebbs back to normal. He moves to place a comforting hand on Azzi’s shoulder, but she jerks away, not at all in the mood for his antics. “You’re not sick,” he says gently. “I think you might have something else.”

Azzi wrinkles her nose, running through all the meticulous shelves of research stored in her mind. She’d gone through every possibility on the Internet, taking methodical notes on every potential disorder, anamoly, or illness that could be afflicting her body. She'd been pretty sure she’d scoured them all, but maybe she had missed something in her overzealousness. “You’re saying I didn’t get a hypoglycemic episode?”

“Sweetie, do you even know what hypoglycemic means?”

Azzi opens her mouth to answer, wanting to say that she does, in fact, know that hypoglycemia is an indicator of low glucose levels in the blood, and that if left untreated, her bodily functions will not have enough energy to continue, and her organs will fail, and she will die a long and painful death, and her understanding of the word hypoglycemic makes it all the more astounding as to why her dad won't take her illness seriously, but before she can can even begin her tirade, her dad winces and puts up a palm. “Actually, never mind. I don’t want to hear all about your self diagnosis, as funny as it is.”

“It’s not a self diagnosis if everyone on the Internet says I have all the symptoms of hypoglycemia!” Azzi argues, but even she knows the argument is weak.

Tim massages his forehead, lips twitching with the exertion of holding back a second round of laughter. “And what did you say your symptoms were again, hon?”

“Excessive sweating, even when I’m like, standing still and it’s 60 degrees out. And dizziness. And my fingers start to shake sometimes! Difficulty concentrating, and tingling lips.” Azzi lists them out on her fingers, smiling triumphantly when she’s finished. Take that, Dad.

“Mm.” Tim rubs his chin in thought. “And when exactly do you experience these symptoms?”

“Well, the last time I can remember is when I was hanging out with Paige at Grandma’s on Wednesday.”

Tim coughs into his arm, loud, and it sounds suspiciously like a wheeze. Azzi squints at him, suspicion written across her face. After recovering, he prods, “Do you remember any of the other times this has happened?”

“I don’t know, I can’t think specifically. It happens a lot. Umm…” Azzi thinks back. “Maybe last week, at the fair? I’m trying to remember.” She closes her eyes, trying to prompt memories of that airy feeling in her head, the rollercoaster in her tummy, the buzz in her chest that had started the car ride over to the fair, right around when they’d picked Paige and her brother up.

It had gotten increasingly worse as the day went on, peaking during the afternoon when they’d been on the bumper cars. She’d been squished into the same car as Paige, the car offering only a very small seat to service two basketball players suffering from summer growth spurts, all long limbs and awkward lank. As a result, the sides of their feet and thighs and arms had been touching and overlapping—Paige almost fell into Azzi’s lap when Jose crashed into them especially hard, golden hair spilling across Azzi’s face and pale hands landing on her thighs. She remembers the smell of fruity shampoo and the feeling of feathery strands tickling her cheeks making her even dizzier than bumper car itself, her nerve endings lighting up, every point on her skin ultra sensitive as sweat had started to pool in her armpits and in the palms of her head. And when Paige's palms had rubbed up and down on her thighs — God. She'd almost died.

Azzi shudders at the memory and opens her eyes. “Yeah, definitely at the fair.”

“The fair?” Tim cocks an eyebrow. “You mean, the fair we went to last week?”

“Yes, Dad, that’s what I said,” Azzi responds, growing increasingly frustrated.

“The fair we went to with Paige and Drew?”

“Yeah.” Azzi crosses her arms in defiance. “Is that supposed to be relevant?”

Tim makes an unncommital sound in his throat. “So you’re saying you don’t get any of these symptoms, say, at home?“

“Well…” Azzi purses her lips. “I guess recently I've been having difficulty concentrating all the time. Wherever I’m like, at home or school or whatever.”

“What makes it hard to concentrate?” Tim cocks his head in genuine curiosity. “What’re you thinking about?”

Azzi doesn’t have a ready answer. What does she think about? She tries to draw from her memory again, but gets distracted by the sort of hilarious, muddled irony of trying to think about what’re you usually thinking about. Then she realizes she’s making an expression again, the expression Paige has coined as her “thinky face” whenever she’s trying really hard to work out a homework problem or come up with an outfit to wear. The first time Paige had mentioned it, Azzi had frowned at her. “I don’t have a thinky face,” she’d replied.

“Oh, you totally do,” Paige said, glee written across her face — her typical attitude whenever she gets to argue with Azzi about something and be right.

“No, I don’t,” Azzi argued, but she’s already accepted that it’s a useless fight. It always is with Paige, who's stubborn and hard-headed and so much like Azzi that she looks at her best friend sometimes and think she's found her soulmate. Platonic soulmate, of course.

Paige smirked at her. “Azzi Fudd so has a thinky face.” She leaned in closer, so close that Azzi could see the glimmer in the deep blue of her eyes and the way her long lashes fluttered. “It’s okay, though, I think it’s pretty cute.” Then she’d pulled back and started talking about some stupid NBA game she’d watched recently, a topic Azzi usually tuned out anyways but this time especially didn’t pay any attention to because she was too disarmed by the fact that Paige had just called her cute. It shouldn’t have felt weird; her friends at school and her teammates called her beautiful and cute and adjectives much more crazy all the time, but still. There again went that same dry feeling in her throat.

“Azzi?”

Azzi blinks as she’s pulled back to the present. “Huh?”

“Maybe you are really sick.” Tim sends her a weary look. “But I just asked you what you usually think about, remember? Do you have an answer?”

“No." Azzi shakes her head grimly. "I couldn’t remember.”

Tim is the one to squint in disbelief this time. “Honey, what were you just thinking about? That’s probably it.”

“Oh, Paige? I was thinking about something she told me the other day. But it’s nothing. Before I was trying to remember, but I couldn’t think—" She’s cut off with an uncomfortable realization that’s starting to dawn in her as a very, very large pit balloons in the bottom of her tummy and begins to ache.

And at the same time this horrible understanding is beginning to come to light in the back of Azzi’s brain, Jose stands up from where he’d been sitting on the couch, watching TV. “You’re stupid, Azzi,” he snickers as he walks by them to grab a snack. “I’m only twelve and even I know you’re not sick.”

“Shut up, Jose,” Azzi replies back angrily, still staring at her hands — the very same hands that had held Paige's, and trembled and moistened in sweaty nervousness. No.

Jose, her little twerp of a brother, sticks his tongue out. “Your lips aren’t tingling from hypoguyseema, dummy.”

“Hypoglycemia,” Tim supplies unhelpfully.

“Your lips are tingling because you wanna make out with Paigey.” And the words don’t really register in Azzi’s heads, not right away at least, she honestly only reaches out to slap Jose from her instinctive, older sisterly awareness that he's being an annoying smart ass like usual, but still he runs away, out of her grasp, singing obnoxiously at the top of his lungs, “Paige and Azzi sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-"

“Shut up, Jose!” She picks up a pillow from the couch and chucks it at him, narrowly missing his retreating figure and instead hitting a vase that slowly toddles in places before falling to the ground with a dramatic crash.

“Azzi, you know we don’t throw things in the house for a reason,” Tim reprimands, exasperated at the childish scene in front of him, but when he turns to look at his daughter, her head is in her hands and her shoulders are shaking.

Tim has loved Azzi since he’s met her as a bumbling little toddler who instantly attached to his hip. He knows Azzi is sweet and sensitive and soft, a girl who has the gift of easily picking up on others' emotions but also is vulnerable to having her own shaken up. So he bites his tongue and makes a mental note to resolve the sibling conflict later. Right now, his daughter needs him; without a word, he collects Azzi into his arms and lets her tears fall on his shirt sleeve.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “It’s okay, sweetheart.” and he doesn’t have to say anything else for Azzi to understand he’s not just talking about now — that this shocking and indescribable feeling that Azzi has only been able to name now, is okay, that Azzi, for who she is, is okay.

And yes, Azzi is able to name the feeling, but yet she buries it under her skin. Just because she realizes she has a crush on Paige doesn’t mean she has to act like it — and it especially doesn’t mean Paige, who definitely doesn't like her like that, has to know, she reminds herself.

And although the "illness" never goes away, although she never stops being nervous, and her fingers never stop trembling at least a little when Paige kisses her goodbye on the cheek, Azzi becomes really good at acting. Really good. At first, she couldn't sleep at night, overwrought with anxiety because no matter how good she became at pretending, Jose and her family have never been the best at keeping secrets. But she finds a way to control it definitely not by threatening to take away and sell her brother’s gaming console if she ever hears a peep about how much she damningly wants to kiss Paige, and time passes, and Azzi turns 17, and it’s been two years of knowing Paige, and she thinks that she might be a little bit in love at this point.

She knows how her crush started: an infatuation at camp, impressed by the white girl's agility and speed on the court, the ease and practiced experience with which she directed the team on the court, turning them from a group of girls who'd never played together before into one that worked the ball seamlessly to a gold medal. Of course, in the very beginning, she'd always been hyper-aware of the fact that Paige was just so pretty, a mischievous smirk ever present on pretty pink lips that looked too soft, eyes always bright and hair, even when messy, like a halo around her face.

Then Paige had decided to come into Azzi’s life and do things like go with her family to the fair, and the infatuation had turned into something closely resembling love. And it's not like there weren't many other things that made Azzi fall so fast and so dangerously, like how kind Paige was to the JV girls on her high school team even when they could barely shoot free throws, to the way she was so freely open about her adoration for Azzi, always having to saying something about good she thought Azzi looked.

It was safe to say that Paige had wormed her way into her team then her life then her family then her heart, settling in there like it was home and she’d always belonged there. Paige was someone who could make her laugh, but was always up to talk about serious things, and also was just so sweet to Azzi. Azzi had never met someone who had been all of those things, and now she was positively enthralled. So, even at age 15, even at age 16, and 17, Azzi is completely and utterly fucked.

⋆⑅˚₊ ii. dress - all of this silence and patience / pining in anticipation

April 2019

Azzi hadn’t planned on going to prom.

It was only her junior prom, anyways, and it happened to be the same time Paige was coming to visit, which meant she was going to be booked and busy. Her friends had pushed her to go, but how could she tell them she’d rather be with Paige, playing 1v1 in an empty gym where they always guarded a little too close, hands fisting shirts, always with. heavy breaths into the back’s of each other’s necks and fingers skimming palms?

But then James had made her a poster, standing at her front door with a big smile on his face and flowers in one hand. And she hadn't wanted to hurt his feelings, and what did she have to lose? James was nice, and cute enough. His hands were soft and Azzi didn’t mind holding them.

Which is how Azzi finds herself at the Lincoln Memorial, walking painstakingly up the steps in her tight heels. Her mom had gotten a makeup artist to come doll her up, and it’s her first time wearing eyeliner, or any eye makeup at all. She thinks she could get used to this smoky look, the way her lashes look full and dark. It’s not often she gets to express her feminine side, with basketball taking almost all of her waking minutes - she hasn’t ever gone to homecoming or any other dance, and sweats and her shirts are typically her go to outfit. So she admits that this wasn’t a terrible idea, to get dressed up and pretty for once. It certainly helped being able to watch Paige’s reaction (all blushes and wide eyes, thank you very much) when she’d stepped out of the bathroom, glimmering and gilded in a shiny dress that slotted open to show the rich brown of her thigh.

Azzi knew that Paige found her attractive. And although she’s spent years wishing such an attraction went beyond a nere appreciation of her body and her face, she’s long accepted the fact that the love Paige has for her is purely platonic. Strong and steady, sure, but heartbreakingly platonic. Still, Azzi, gets a kick out of making Paige nervous.

Azzi winces as she stumbles for the fifth time, the sole of her foot throbbing and screaming to be let out of the confines of her heels.

“I told you you should’ve brought sneakers and carried your heels,” Pige says from behind her, and Azzi fights the urge to turn around and throttle her. Usually, her best friend would usually offer to do that for her, but Azzi can tell she’s using this opportunity to try and test James — and by the shit-eating smirk on Paige's face, Azzi knows that failing would be generous to describe how he's doing.

Azzi glances beside her and places her hand on her mouth to stifle a giggle. Paige sticks out like a sore thumb as she walks casually behind them, hands stuffed into her Nike sweats. She’s wearing her bright pink EYBL sweater, her hair slightly messy from lying around all day, but she still looks confident as ever, totally unperturbed by the long gowns and tuxedos surrounding her.

“Alright, smile!” Tim and Katie hold up five different cameras, capturing about a million different angles of the group of teens. Paige stands next to them, watching as they pose, but it doesn't take long before she begins to grow bored. “Why am I even here?” Azzi hears her complain quietly to her parents.

“Because when you stay with us, you’re part of our family, and being part of the family means coming to support each other in big moments," Katie reminds her, ruffling Paige's hair.

“Big moments, my ass,” Paige says under her breath as to goes to carefully fix her hair. “I’ve never even been to prom. It can’t be that good.”

“Paige.” Katie sends her a warning glare, effectively shutting her up. Paige has a very comfortable relationship with Tim and Katie, they're basically a second set of parents for her, but she knows her limits.

“Be a good sport, kid.” Tim adds, and claps her on the back. With a long and drawn-out sigh, Paige follows begrudgingly as they move from place to place to take more pictures, hands staying in her pockets and face remaining indifferent.

“Alright Paige, get in there!” Katie puts her camera down to encourage Paige with a nod.

“I’m not even dressed nice,” Paige grumbles, but she sidles in anyways, hand hovering hesitantly over Azzi's side before brushing down her back and finally settling firmly on her hip. The dark haired girl finds herself leaning away from James and into Paige’s touch, her hand burning into Azzi's skin even through the layers of her dress.

“One of you two alone?” Tim asks, a teasing smile on his face. Azzi narrows her eyes at him.

“Aw, you don’t want one with me?” Paige grins, her tone light as she starts to leave.

“No, I do, wait,” Azzi stumbles over her words, flustered, as Tim starts to laugh into his hands. She reaches for the blonde’s hand and tugs her back to her side where she belongs. “My dad’s just being annoying.”

James steps out, and Paige immediately relaxes, head naturally tilting towards Azzi's as they both smile for the cameras. “Aight, I think that’s good,” Paige says after another round of photos and cooing by Azzi’s parents. She takes a step back, shoving her hands back into her pocket as her eyes skim Azzi’s body. Azzi meets her eyes once they come back up, and she wills Paige to say something, anything, but the blonde only swallows hard before looking away.

“Az, I’m gonna go with your dad to get the car,” James tells her. “You good going with your mom back home? I’ll be there to pick you up in like, half an hour.”

The car ride back to her house is silent. Paige picks at her cuticles, while Azzi sits ramrod straight in her seat, not wanting to mess up her hair or wrinkle her dress. When her mom pulls into the driveway, she reaches over and pinches Paige’s side. “Can you stay for a sec? I wanna talk.”

Paige, who had been already attempting to get out of the car, sits back down into her seat, eyebrows raised in a question. Azzi doesn’t speak yet, and their breathing is the only sound in the car. Paige crosses then uncrosses her legs, peeking at Azzi before returning her gaze outside the window, clearly impatient for the younger girl to begin talking.

Azzi fingers a strand of her hair. “Do you think I look pretty?”

Paige’s lips quirk at the question. “That was not what I was expecting you to say.”

“What were you expecting me to say?” Azzi asks, slightly defensive.

“Nothing,” Paige replies too quickly, but Azzi senses a tinge of relief in her tone. She shifts in her seat, edging slightly closer as she examines Azzi’s face. Her knee accidentally bumps into Azzi's ribs. Azzi hates when her best friend starts looking at her with her full attention. The heavy weight of blue eyes always causes her heart to flutter, and she begins to squirm self-consciously under her gaze. “Stop that.”

“You asked me if I thought you were pretty,” Paige retorts. “Can’t blame me for looking.”

God, she’s so annoying. Azzi pushes her, but Paige catches her hand, sandwiching it between her own and bringing it captive to her lips. “Of course I think you look pretty, Az,” Paige laughs. She presses a single small kiss to her knuckles. “You know I do.”

“Well, you didn’t compliment me tonight, and you always do.” Azzi ducks her head as she feels the warmth in her cheeks give her away. Damn it.

“Always want my validation, huh,” Paige teases, trying to meet her eyes, but Azzi looks away still, stubborn as always, and her expression sombers. “You look gorgeous, Azzi, seriously. I mean, you’re always gorgeous,” Paige tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, but Azzi’s not sure there was even a flyaway to begin with, so Paige ends up just ghosting her fingers down from her temple to her chin. “But…” her gaze falls down, and her eyes alone say enough words to finish her sentence and a thousand more. Paige leans in, eyes half lidded, and Azzi shuts her eyes, preparing for the usual affectionate kiss on the cheek. She shudders when she feels lips on her neck instead, at the soft spot below her ear, lingering for a few seconds before it’s gone all too soon. Deep, unguarded heat blooms from that spot, spreading from her neck to her chest.

Azzi realizes they’re still holding hands, and she gives Paige's fingers a squeeze for the hell of it. Encouraged, Paige moves in even closer, hands moving to the headrest for support. Azzi is caged in by Paige’s arms, and Azzi sort of likes it, and she sort of wants Paige to start kissing down her neck like in the movies, maybe leaving a mark or two, but she’s met only with a kiss on her cheek, right near the corner of her mouth, so close that if she’d moved to the right just a couple millimeters their lips would’ve touched.

Paige’s lips part just a bit, her tongue poking out to lick her bottom lip. Her breathing whistles out unevenly. “Have fun tonight, Azzi,” she says, eyes flicking down, and Azzi swears they pause at her lips. She pops the door open and slides out, walking slowly back inside all cool and collected, like she didn’t just leave Azzi absolutely ruined from just two kisses.

Azzi bangs her head against the headrest, perfect hair be gone, and groans.

༉‧₊˚✧

When she finally gets back home, hair messy from dancing, calves sore from jumping around, Azzi is just a little tipsy, softened at the edges. Most of the effects from pre-gaming with her friends have worn off by now, and all she feels is the loose warmth in her chest, a warmth that floods down to her toes when she opens her bedroom door and sees a lump on her bed. Blonde hair peeks out from beneath her purple blanket. Azzi giggles when she lifts it and sees Paige with her mouth ajar, snoring away. Her glasses are perched messily on her nose, laptop on her thighs still open. She takes a quick picture for blackmail purposes before grabbing her pajamas to go change.

Azzi blames the alcohol for the way she can’t stop smiling to herself the whole way to the bathroom. It’s been a hectic day, and the thought of being able to curl up in bed with her best friend, being able to soak in the warmth of her body heat and bury her face into her neck and finally relax, gives her more satisfaction than she’d like to admit.

By the time Azzi has finished getting ready for bed, Paige, constantly moving while awake and in her sleep, has sprawled out in the center of the mattress. Azzi climbs in gingerly, but despite her best efforts not to disturb the older girl, she stirs.

“Azzi?” The blonde rolls over and snuggles into a pillow before she seemingly remembers where she is and shoots up in bed, looking as startled as a deer caught in headlights.

Azzi can’t help but snicker. “Yeah?”

Paige blinks groggily at her, clearly needing a moment to get her bearings. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to fall asleep in here.” She fidgets with the end of her shirt, almost as if she’s embarrassed to have been caught in Azzi’s bed like this, and Azzi gets a sudden surge of cuteness aggression.

Deciding not to turn it into a big deal (she'd never want to scare Paige away from sleeping in her bed, God knows how much she loves it） out of the goodness of her heart, and the sore muscles in her body telling her to just sleep, Azzi says quietly, “You don’t have to go.” She pulls the comforter over her chest as she watches Paige breathe heavily, her shoulders and back flexing in her hunched over position.

A moment of silence passes before Paige responds. “Okay.” Lying back down is an awkward process, actions hesitant as the older girl overthinks where to go. She finds the very edge of the bed, arms pinned to her sides as she stares directly up at the ceiling. And it’s not like Paige and Azzi have never slept in the same bed, but they’ve never intentionally slept together, limbs intertwining only in the dark of night when they pretend to be asleep and ending when one of them wakes up first in the morning and is able to separate themselves before they have to deal with the awkward ordeal of waking up snuggling. Neither of them have ever really considered the fact that it shouldn’t be awkward for people who are really just friends to cuddle—but for them, it always has been, even the slightest of touches meaning too much and too little.

So Azzi waits for Paige to settle into bed and close her eyes before she takes the initiative to scoot closer in. She pauses a little when her best friend stiffens, and starts to regret maybe overstepping. But then Paige reaches out for her. She stares at the ceiling, not looking at Azzi, but her hand tugs Azzi’s wrist, bringing her closer until she’s fully curling into Paige’s chest. Paige's arm falls around her shoulders a little awkwardly. But she's warm, her chest solid, and Azzi thinks it's perfect.

Azzi has almost drifted fully into unconciousness when Paige whispers, “How was prom?” Her lips graze Azzi’s temple as she speaks into her hair, and Azzi shudders at the feeling.

“It was fine.” She presses her forehead sleepily to Paige’s neck, skin against skin, feeling her pulse thrum steadily. The fresh scent of Paige's deodorant and body wash is simple, a thousand times familiar, but still her favorite in the world. “Missed you,” Azzi admits, the tenderness in her own voice making her cringe a little.

Paige squeezes her closer in. “Missed you more." Her thumb caresses the younger girl's jawline, soothing her to sleep. "Maybe next year will be more fun.”

Azzi doesn’t say that prom was only fine because she could only think about Paige the entire time, and that things probably wouldn't change in a year if they hadn't for the past three. She only hums softly in response.

“Good night.” Paige drops a kiss on her hairline, so briefly and so casually that Azzi almost misses it.

“Night.” Azzi snuggles closer in, heart racing, and she sleeps.

⋆⑅˚₊ iii. so it goes - i'm yours to keep and i'm yours to lose

May 2020

Paige knows before it happens.

It was hard not to. Azzi had been acting distant all week, smiles tight and eyes a little less shiny whenever she’d spoken to Paige. The blonde had just assumed it was because she was having a hard time saying goodbye—what she didn't know was that Azzi was saying goodbye in more ways than one.

The morning of, Paige is the last in the house to wake up. She pads downstairs, still in her pajamas, to find her family and Azzi at the table, eating waffles. Drew is babbling about dinosaurs or something, whipped cream all over his nose and chin, while her dad mans the waffle maker and her step-mom packs a bag of snacks. Azzi is sitting next to Drew, cross-legged and domestic while feeding him between bites of her own food, and it strikes a feeling within Paige she can’t quite place yet.

“Good morning to my two favorite people,” she crows, her volume much too loud for 9 in the morning as seen by the winces on everyone’s faces. She throws one arm each around her little brother and best friend, pulling them in for a group hug, and she finds a hint of the old, familiar softness in Azzi’s eyes before it’s quickly replaced by the distant, guarded expression she’s been wearing for too long. Paige’s stomach heaves a little, but then Drew smears some whipped cream on her nose, eliciting a tickle war, and like usual, the feeling gets pushed to the side.

“Paige, there’s a stack of waffles for you on the table. Try to eat pretty quick because we have to leave soon,” her dad motions for her to sit down, and Paige dutifully obeys. Her eyes light up when she sees the bottle of syrup, and she proceeds to grab it eagerly before drizzling a concerning amount onto her breakfast.

“Paige, you’re gonna make yourself sick,” Azzi reprimands, but Paige only kicks her hard under the table before digging in.

“I’m packing some food for your plane ride,” her step-mom says. “Do you want Slim Jims or apple slices as snack?”

“Can I have both?”

“You only have room for one.”

Decisions, decisions. “Slim Jims.”

Azzi wipes her mouth with her napkin. “Hey,” she says quietly when the adults fall back into their own conversation. “I need to talk to you before you leave.”

“Oh yeah, I was gonna talk to you anyways. I needed to tell you something.” Paige was going to give Azzi the letter she wrote a couple weeks ago. She’d written and rewritten it only about a hundred times, then copied the final letter to fancy card stock paper in her best hand-writing, even adding a couple quick sketches of flowers and rainbows and hearts. It looked pretty awesome, if she did say so herself. Anddddd it also said a bunch of things she wasn’t ready to say out loud, so Paige’s current plan was to say her good-bye before shoving the card in Azzi’s hands as the last thing she’d do before jumping in the car and leaving. And then she’d spend the entire plane ride with her dad going batshit crazy thinking about Azzi reading it.

But still, it would be worth it. Paige was so sure Azzi felt the same — how could she not? She felt the way Azzi’s heart rate picked up whenever they touched, knew the way Azzi looked at her when she thought she wasn’t looking wasn’t normal for just best friends, especially since summer, when everything had between them had changed. It had started off with a kiss, and quickly evolved to something messy and tangled between the two of them that they’d labeled as “friends with benefits”, a label that Paige thought did their dynamic injustice. But still, it had been four years of knowing each other and almost a year of being more, and Paige was finally ready to let Azzi know. No more friends with benefits — girlfriends.

But Paige, so caught up in her thoughts, doesn’t see Azzi’s face drop, the younger girl’s tendency to overthink clearly leading her own train of thought. So she continues to eat her waffles in blissful ignorance as Azzi sits back quietly.

༉‧₊˚✧

“I’m just so ready, ya know?” Paige tosses her charger in the backpack. “I think that’s everything on my packing list,” she muses to herself quietly, gaze sweeping around the room with an air of finality. Then she looks up at Azzi and smiles. “The college experience, the whole nine yards.” She takes a seat on her bed and pats the spot next to her, indicating for the dark haired girl to sit with her. “Even though there’s still COVID and I won’t be able to do the really fun stuff—" she imagines playing in front of a sold out crowd at Gampel, and the smile on her face dims just a little at the feeling of missing out, “—still, I’m just so excited. I can’t stop like, bouncing around. You get it, right?” She flops down on the bed, hands folding behind her head as she closes her eyes and imagines it all.

Azzi is silent beside her, still sitting upright. Paige can’t see her face, so she nudges her knee. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.” Azzi’s voice is unsteady. “I get it.”

Paige opens her eyes and sits back up. “Bro, are you good? I didn't wanna say anything, but you’ve been kinda acting weird lately.”

“Listen,” Azzi says. She’s fiddling with a loose thread on her sweats, and Paige swears her fingers are shaking. “I know we haven’t really talked about it directly, but–" she takes a deep breath to steady her voice, “I want it to be clear between the two of us. Clean cut, you know?”

“Clean cut?” Paige echoes, lost.

“Yeah. No messy stuff and wondering what we are. So that you can go do your own thing at college, without feeling bad or- or like you owe me anything,” her words trail off into a gasp, “and I can do mine.”

Paige is even more lost. “Azzi, what are you talking about?”

Azzi bites her bottom lip, her nervous tic. “I’m saying that we should end this — whatever this is. Friends with benefits, casually sleeping together, whatever you wanna call it." She inhales sharply. "It’s probably the best for both of us.”

Immediately, she hones in on the word casual. Casual? Paige had never thought that whatever they had going on was a casual thing. Maybe unknown, unfamiliar, new—but never casual. She thought it was the most sacred thing in the world. A bitter taste forms at the base of her throat when she realizes that maybe she’s read it wrong all along. But Paige would never want to pressure Azzi into something she doesn't want. “So you’re saying - you’re saying you wanna end this?”

“Yeah." Azzi finally turns her head to her, and her face is marked by tear tracks. "You know, for your college experience. And for me.”

Devastation.

That's the only word Paige can think of that comes even close to what she's feeling right now.

She feels numb, and stupid, and god. How could she ever been so foolish to think that Azzi could like her back? Could want Paige in the same, aching, all-consuming, nonsensical way that she wanted Azzi? She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out but a broken "Okay."

“Okay?” Azzi sounds incredulous before she shakes her head and catches herself. Clearing her throat, she mumbles, “So, um, we good?”

Paige is thrown. Completely, utterly thrown. “Yeah, we’re good. I guess.”

Her dad calls for her downstairs, and when she stands it seems like she’s watching herself move in third person. “Well, thanks for visiting this past week and saying goodbye. I had fun.” Her tone is strangely flat, void of any emotion, unrecognizable even to herself. But when your heart has just gotten broken before it had to chance to even beat, how can self-preservation allow you to be on anything but auto-pilot?

“Yeah, me too.” Azzi sounds defeated, and Paige wonders if it’s because she’d felt trapped this entire week, had hated whenever Paige had pulled her aside for a quick kiss. The mere thought of Azzi feeling uncomfortable around her makes her nauseous with guilt.

So, Paige does the only thing she knows how to do. She shoulders on her backpack, but her suitcase and duffel bags are already in the trunk, so she doesn’t have anywhere to put her hands, and they hang limply by her side. She doesn’t even know if she should give Azzi a hug. “We’re still…we’re still best friends right?”

“Of course.” The smile Azzi flashes is meant to be reassuring, but the way it doesn’t reach her eyes makes it anything but. “I’ll come visit you soon,” she adds as an after-thought, seemingly wanting to remedy the situation, but Paige doesn’t even hear her, already leaving before she can finish her sentence. Having to stay any longer, having to look and let go of the sight of Azzi in her bed, in her room, in her home, would make her break down on the spot.

So Paige leaves without really saying good-bye, and she cries the entire plane ride to Connecticut.

⋆⑅˚₊

Azzi: just said goodbye to paige

Azzi: my flight's in a couple hours

Azzi: see you soon

Azzi finishes texting her parents before shutting her phone off and snuggling deeper into Paige's blankets. Everything had turned out so different than she'd expected a week ago. She'd came to Minnesota eager to spend a few days with her best friend before sending her off to college, with this persistent, nagging hope in the back of her brain that maybe this would be the moment where she could finally tell Paige about her feelings.

Then the moment she'd arrived at the Bueckers' home, Paige had started going on about how excited she was for the college experience. She hadn't said it explicitly — no, Paige was too kind to tell Azzi directly, but Azzi knew everything her best friend couldn't say. That she wanted to end these things, because she wanted other, better things: other girls, other people, other relationships.

And besides, letting go of Paige now is the only way to save herself in the future, Azzi reasons to herself. Being stuck in this weird limbo of being her best friend who also kisses her would only make it so much harder to see and hear about Paige with other girls in Connecticut. It was better to snap it in half now, while she still could, to leave her pride somewhat intact so that she wasn't hanging onto Paige while Paige was trying to shake her off.

Azzi had ended it before Paige could, and that was that.

⋆⑅˚₊ iv. dress - say my name and everything just stops / i don’t want you like a best friend

February 2022

“I’m gonna go hang out with Kiki after this.” The corner of Paige’s mouth twitches when Azzi stiffens in her arms.

“Oh, okay.”

Paige drums her fingers against Azzi's waist. “Just wanted to let you know.”

“Well, now I know.“ Azzi sidles out of her arms harshly. “Gonna go pee.”

The deeply entrenched lingers of doubt becomes to crawl in her mind again when Azzi leaves, but unlike a year ago, when Paige had left her house for the airport in tears, she has experience. Experience in reading people and picking up when they show all the tell-tale signs of a crush: the flush of cheeks, the stuttering whenever Paige flirts a little too hard, the way she subconsciously leans into her touch whenever they’re sitting next to each other. And the signs of jealousy — all the signs she sees in herself whenever Azzi talks to anyone but her. And honestly, even if Paige didn’t know for sure, it’s getting to a point where she can no longer ignore the tension between them. Ever since Azzi has joined her at UConn, even though they haven’t slept together, per se, their relationship has been more than when they were; the press of mouths to cheeks that linger longer than necessary, the grinding at Ted’s that start before either of them are really drunk but pretend to be for the sake of forgetting. And, in all honesty, Paige really can’t see Azzi talking to another asshat. Hence, their current situation.

When Azzi comes back, oversized shirt wet with the stains of washed hands, Paige has finished gathering up her courage again. Azzi makes a point of sitting down far out of reach at the other end of the couch instead of returning to Paige’s arms. Definitely jealous, she thinks to herself.

“Might take her out to a nice dinner or something,” Paige says, picking up right where she left off. Then she decides why not be more of an annoying shit, and asks, “Actually, can I borrow your car?”

Azzi’s eye twitches. “What do you need my car for?” She does a damn good job of forcing her tone into one of disinterest and indifference, but from the way her jaw ticks, Paige knows she’s anything but.

“Mine’s low on gas and the restaurant I wanna go to is far. Wanna give her princess treatment, you know?”

The younger girl is positively scowling now, eyes in slits as she channels all her anger into glaring at the TV. “And why are you telling me all of this?”

Paige scoots next to Azzi and throws an arm around her shoulder. Time to make her move. Tracing circles on her shoulder with a finger, she says slowly, “Because I wanted to see your reaction.”

“My reaction?”

Her laugh comes out breathy. “Azzi, I can tell that you’re jealous.”

Her best friend’s eyes close briefly, and Paige’s heart drops a beat. Reading Azzi has always came naturally to her, pure intuition for someone she’s always in sync with. Not to brag, but she’s perfected knowing exactly how to push Azzi and where her boundaries are, but this time maybe she’d gone too far. Paige is two seconds away from apologizing until the dark haired girl opens her eyes again and says firmly, “I’m not jealous.”

No turning back now. “No?”

“I’m really not.”

“So if I took your car, and went to pick her up, with a bouquet of flowers, maybe even some chocolate, and took her to a fancy restaurant…you wouldn’t mind at all?”

A strangled sound leaves Azzi’s mouth, so quiet Paige almost misses it. “Not at all.”

“And if I took her back to her house-“ Paige’s voice drops a note, all husky and raspy, “and I took her to her bedroom, and I kissed her-“

“Paige-”

“And I touched her-,”

“Paige, stop.” Azzi’s chest heaves. Paige looks away, trying not to get sidetracked by the way her tiny tank top dips on her cleavage and leaves a little too much to the imagination. The younger girl shrugs Paige’s arm off her shoulders and stands up, backing away as if being any closer to her will make her explode. “Fine, you win. You know I’m jealous.”

Paige’s smile is triumphant. “That’s all you all had to say, baby.”

Scoffing, Azzi turns around and marches into her room, but Paige is quick to follow. “I’m not hanging out with Kiki after this,”she says, breathing down Azzi’s neck as she almost steps on her heels, but her best friend speeds up. “I haven’t hung out with Kiki since before you got here.”

“So?”

“So,” Paige emphasizes, and realizing she has only about five seconds before Azzi reaches her room and slams the door in her face for being, she admits, sort of an asshole, she says all in one breath, “I-wanted-to-make-sure-you-felt-the-same-because-I-have-feelings-for-you-and-I’ve-had-them-for-a-while-and-I-really-want-to-take-you-on-a-proper-date-and-hopefully-become-your-girlfriend-because-I-don’t-wan’t-you-like-a-best-friend-and-I-honestly-go-crazy-thinking-about-you-with-anyone-but-me-but-if-you-don’t-feel-ready-for-more-yet-then-it’s-okay.” She’s panting by the time she finishes and doesn’t realize that Azzi has fully stopped in her tracks before she’s stumbling over her feet and crashing into her, sending the both of them falling to the ground.

Somehow they both end up with their backs against the carpet, looking up at the ceiling. Azzi is still breathing hard next to her, from speed walking or falling or from Paige getting on her nerves, Paige isn’t sure which, but she waits patiently for her response, trying to ignore the stupid noise in her head saying maybe your dumbass got it all wrong again.

Finally, finally, after what seems like ten minutes, Azzi opens her mouth. “You’re stupid,” is all she says, then she rolls over and kisses Paige on the mouth.

Not what Paige was expecting after her grand love confession, but the plumpness of Azzi’s bottom lip captured in between hers makes it hard to complain about anything at all.

They kiss for twenty minutes, or maybe forty. Paige loses track of time, and honestly, she could do this forever without getting tired, but she came to Azzi's apartment tonight with a game plan, and she has to stick with it, so she pushes her best friend away a little to end their 10/10 makeout session.

Smoothing the frizz of Azzi’s hair back with her palm, she whispers, “I’m gonna take you on a date, okay?”

Azzi grins and kisses her forehead. “Okay.”

“Tomorrow. Are you free?”

Azzi moves to her cheek, tongue leaving wet trails on her face. “Don’t act like you don’t know my schedule.”

“Okay then. Tomorrow at six.” Paige traces the dimple of Azzi’s smile with the pad of her thumb, memorizing the indentation she loves so much. “That was lowkey easier than I thought it’d be.”

“Making my life hell for the past twenty minutes was easier than you thought?” Azzi bites down hard on Paige bottom lip, teeth scraping into her soft skin, and the blonde winces.

“Sorry,” she replies unapologetically. “Just had to make sure. Plus, you’re cute when you’re jealous.”

Azzi smirks against her mouth. “’I go crazy thinking about you with anyone but me,’” she mimics in a high pitched tone.

“Who you tryna be?” Paige grumbles, but there’s no heat in her voice.

⋆⑅˚₊ v. don’t blame me - i get so high, oh, every time you’re loving me

“It’s too early in the goddamn morning for you to be cheesin like this,” Nika complains as they stretch out on the cold floor of the gym.

Paige grabs her foot and leans toward it, shaking out the stiffness in her hamstrings and calves. “You’re just jealous I got a hot date and you don’t,” she responds, unable to take the grin off her face.

Nika grimaces. “Please never say that ever again.”

“Who’s this hot date?” Azzi plops down next to them, her thigh brushing Paige’s as she extends her knee, and Paige shivers.

Nika mimes putting a finger down her throat, and Paige waves her off. “Only the prettiest girl in the world," she says, not giving a shit about how cheesy the words coming out of her mouth sound.

Azzi wrinkles her nose, but her eyes shine with affection. “Have I told you you’re stupid?” She slides her hand over Paige’s, giving it a quick squeeze before moving it as quickly as it came.

“Only a couple of times.” Paige takes a swift search around for prying eyes before leaning in close to Azzi. “Just to be clear,” she whispers, “you like me? Like, like like me?”

“I feel like we're in middle school again, but to answer your question, last I heard of, yeah,” Azzi says, a smile threatening her lips. “Unless anything has changed since ten hours ago?”

“Nahh, nothin.” Paige gives Azzi’s earlobe a quick nip. “'Cept for the fact that I’m nervous as hell thinking about tonight.”

Azzi giggles at the ticklish feeling before CD steps into the gym, clapping her hands and directing the girls to start warming up. Paige sends her a wink before jogging to the front to take charge.

⋆⑅˚₊

They’re the last ones in the locker room, and Paige waits only a few seconds after the last of their teammates leave before she’s pushing Azzi against the wall and and kissing her. Paige’s cheeks are flushed and rosy from practice, hair coming loose from her bun and wild strands framing her face, and Azzi drinks it all in.

“Look so fuckin good just practicing, it’s unfair,” Paige mumbles in breaths, unable to keep her mouth away from Azzi’s for too long. Her hand wanders down Azzi’s back, fisting up her jersey to stroke the bare softness of her waist before trailing down to cup the swell of her ass. She squeezes hard, and Azzi moans into her mouth, a little breathy sound that drives Paige absolutely feral. It’s only when a door bangs outside that they realize how incriminating they’d look if someone walked in, and they separate, gasping.

“We should probably go,” Azzi breathes out, unable to take her eyes off the swollen wetness of her best friend’s lips.

“Probably,” Paige agrees. Then she takes off her jersey, movements slow and sensual. Her shirt rides up in the process, giving Azzi a glimpse of milky white skin and muscled abs, and Azzi really can’t blame herself for what she does next, not when Paige looks like that.

⋆⑅˚₊ vi. new year’s day - but i stay when you’re lost and i’m scared and you’re turning away

August 2025

Paige wakes up to three missed phone calls. She’s only able to swipe up and see that they’re all from Azzi before her phone immediately dies. She curses. Worst fucking timing in the world. She rushes to plug her charger in, tapping the black screen aggressively as if it’ll make it turn on any after. Her head still pounds from the chaos of the night before, her mouth dry and gross. She’s not sure if she even brushed her teeth after coming home from the club, the way her breath still stinks of alcohol.

She thinks about finally getting up to take or shower or do anything that’ll make her feel less disgusting but then finally, finally, her phone comes back to life. Her hearts starts pounding harder when she’d realized she’d missed not just three calls, but a series of texts.

11:45 PM

Missed call from Azzi

Missed call from Azzi

Azzi: hey u good?

Azzi: lmk if u need a minute

11:58 PM

Azzi: lmao did u forget

12:10 AM

Missed call from Azzi

Azzi: seriously paige

Azzi: at the fucking club again

12:22 AM

Azzi: call me when ur up

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Paige squeezes her eyes shut. She can’t even really remember last night—it’s a blur of hazy smoke, one too many shots, and bassy music thumping so loud she swore her eardrums almost burst. But after the win at home, that much needed win, when the team had started making plans to celebrate, Arike promising that drinks were on her, she’d told Azzi that she needed to cancel their previously scheduled Facetime for that night. Didn’t she?

She scrolls down, heart ricocheting in her chest when she sees the unsent text in her message bar. She must have exited it out or closed her phone before she could’ve pressed send. Cursing under her breath, Paige slides on her glasses and calls Azzi.

The phone rings three times before it’s answered. “Hello?” Azzi’s voice comes out dry and scratchy. She sounds like she’s just woken up, or is sick, or maybe a mixture of both.

“Baby, hey.” Paige runs a hand through her hair but gives up when it gets tangled in a knot. “I’m so sorry about last night. I meant to text you and I forgot to press send and there was a ton of shit happening at once. I should’ve double checked that it sent, and I’m- I’m sorry.” Paige isn’t sure what to do but keep apologizing, but she's only greeted with silence on the other end. After a couple of beats, she says hesitantly, “Azzi?”

Her girlfriend exhales slowly on the other end, the tell-tale sign that she’s trying really hard not to lose her patience. Not a good sign. “Okay.”

“Just...okay?” Paige repeats, slightly confused at the lack of anger or really any emotion at all in her tone.

There’s rustling on the other end of the line before Azzi’s voice comes out clearer and louder. “What do you want me to say?”

“I - I don’t know. Are you mad?” Because Azzi isn’t yelling at her, or saying anything in particular, just sounds resigned, and Paige doesn’t know what to do with that. She’d rather Azzi show any kind of emotion than this. She can't read this. She can't navigate this.

“Christ, Paige, you’re so dense sometimes.”

“You have every right to be mad with me, but I don’t know, you sound—”

“You think I want to be mad at you? You think I wanna spend one of our, what, four phone calls a week arguing with you? Fuck.” There it is.

Paige rubs her temples. “I know.”

“I’m not tryna be your clingy girlfriend from home,” Azzi continues. “Trust me, I’m really fucking not. Ever since you left I’ve been trying to respect your new life, your new schedule, letting you have space to enjoy your rookie year without having to feel suffocated. But please, please tell me I’m not insane for thinking that it’s unreasonable for you to cancel a call not even for basketball, but for shit like partying at a club?” Azzi pauses. “Honestly, I feel like I’m the one initiating our conversations most of the times. It’s like you’re putting in zero effort.”

“I understand that you’re mad but it’s a little ridiculous of you to just say I never put in any effort, Azzi.” Paige has never lashed out like this, never spoken to Azzi in this tone that sounds like anger and bitterness and exasperation fighting over each other to be heard, but Azzi's words strike something deep inside of her that hurts. “You think I like being this busy, this exhausted, having this little free time to talk more than a couple of hours? Throughout everything I’ve been trying to make you feel like a priority because god, Azzi, you are, I love you so much, and it hurts that you think I’m not even trying.” Her voice chokes an embarrasing amount on the last word, and she tosses her phone on her pillow to run her hands over her face in an effort to collect herself.

“Oh, my bad, Paige. Sorry for being such a burden and an inconvenience in your busy life,” Azzi spits out bitterly.

Paige can't help but jump to her own defense. “You didn’t even wanna come down to Dallas last month when you were free. And it's not like I can go up to you. If one of is putting in less effort, Azzi, it's sure as hell not me.”

“We had pre-season workouts, Paige, you know that.”

“I also know that they’re not mandatory and it wouldn’t have killed you to missed one. You could’ve worked out with me down here.” Somewhere deep inside, Paige knows she's being unreasonable, that Azzi has never asked her to skip practice for her and so neither should she, but she remembers the hurt that had coiled in her stomach, dark and tangled, when Azzi had refused to come down for even just a couple of days after not having seen each other in almost three weeks. If it had been her, she would’ve taken the first flight, Paige thinks, and it hadn’t taken much to spiral down the rabbit-hole of doubts—that Azzi didn’t miss her the same way she did, that Azzi was perfectly fine living her life in Storrs while Paige lived hers in Dallas, that Azzi didn’t care enough about Paige to want to visit her again. And when she’d been scrolling on Tiktok, seen videos of her girlfriend with her teammates that weekend, laughing and smiling with them when it could’ve been her—the spiral had turned into something much worse in her mind.

“So you expect me to drop everything for you but when it’s your turn to actually do something, to, I don't know, call me first for once, all of a sudden you’re too busy and tired?” Azzi accuses.

“That’s not even what I said!" Paige argues. "And I don't call first because I know you always call at a set time. Why are we even keeping track of who calls who first? If we're resorting to this, what's even the point?"

“What’s the point?” Azzi’s voice trembles. “What’s the point of this relationship, you mean?”

No, no, no. “Come on, Az, you know I didn’t mean it like that,” Paige pleads.

“You asked me what the point of our relationship was, Paige, don’t scramble now.”

“Because apparently you think it’s all one sided! And you’ve clearly been feeling like this for a while!” Paige swears under her breath. “How long have you been resenting me for this? Thinking that I don’t care about you, that I don’t care about us?”

“Don’t yell at me!”

“I’m not yelling!” Paige pinches the bridge of her nose, trying to get herself to take a couple of deep breaths and calm down. “Az, I’m sorry about last night, okay? I really am. It won’t happen again, I swear.”

“It’s not even about last night!” Azzi explodes. “How are you still not getting that?”

Seeing the time on her watch, Paige grits her teeth. “This conversation isn’t getting anywhere and I have practice. Can we talk later?”

“It’s always later with you.” Azzi’s voice is oddly high pitched, strained as if she’s trying to hide something, and Paige realizes that she’s probably crying. Fuck. She hates this, the distance, the ease of throwing angry accusations over the phone when you can’t see their face crumble from the impact of what you've done. Azzi sniffs. “Whatever. We’ll talk after. Call me when you’re done.”

“Okay.” Paige opens her mouth to say one more thing, but the line ends before she can. Fuck. She throws her phone on the bed, but it slides off the mattress and tumbles to the ground with a smack. Picking it up, she sees two cracks running through the screen. It looks almost as ugly as she feels inside.

Perfect. It’s 7 AM and her day already sucks.

As soon as practice is over, she shoots Azzi a text.

Paige: done for the day, lmk when ur free

Read

She checks her phone for the next couple of hours, waiting for a response, but to no avail.

Paige: are u really ignoring my texts

Paige: lmfao thought we left this petty shit back in high school

Paige: u said u wanted to talk and now u don’t want to?? i really don’t know what u even want from me

Azzi calls her a couple minutes later.

“That’s how I feel,” Azzi says tightly. “That’s how I felt last night, when I stayed up until 12:30 waiting for you to call.”

“Aight, next time tell me if you’re gonna call just to pick a fight, ‘cause then I won’t fuckin pick up,” Paige fires back, and she knows before she says it that it'll just make everything worse, but shit, she's so tired of arguing, for having to walk on eggshells whenever they talk, and she knows Azzi is too. And she's been in a terrifically awful mood all day, going stir crazy at her girlfriend's lack of response to her texts; she wants to resolve it more than anything, to make everything okay again, yet it seems like Azzi is holding onto that anger for her and she doesn’t know why.

“You’re such a fucking asshole, I don’t even know why I miss you," Azzi says scathingly. "Honestly, maybe we should take a break. This clearly isn’t working.” And those words are so sudden, so heavy and unexpected, that Paige can only fall silent in response.

Breathing hard, Paige touches her cheeks. She’s never been a crier, but all of a sudden the sleeve of her sweater is damp and her vision is blurring and her head is spinning.

“Paige?” Azzi says her name softly and regretfully.

“Yeah,” she says numbly into the phone, pretending as if Azzi suggesting a break—Azzi, in effect, wanting to end things—didn't just crush everything inside of her.

A sob comes out over the line. “I - I just miss you and I just said a bunch of shit that I didn’t mean and I feel so horrible. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Paige swipes angrily at her eyes, willing the tears to stop flowing. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” Then Azzi whimpers, a small and deadly sound that pierces right through Paige’s heart, and despite everything, she just wants to reach through the phone and hold her. “I don’t wanna take a break. I love you, and I’m not used to fighting with you, and I just want you to be here.”

Paige is quiet for a moment, head swimming. “I’m sorry too. Listen, it’s late. Let’s just sleep on it and talk tomorrow, okay? When we both have clearer heads.” Paige would never call their relationship fragile, she feels like that would be a disservice to their years of fighting for each other, but it’s definitely not in a good place right now. And she's so consumed by her anger she’s not sure what might come out of her mouth if they keep going at it, and she doesn’t want to risk it.

"I love you," Azzi speaks quietly. Paige closes her eyes, turning the words over in her mind as a reminder. She loves you. You love her. That’s all that matters. "More than anything or anyone in this world, I love you."

"I know." Paige’s voice trembles. "I love you too."

The call ends, and Paige has never in her life felt this helpless; the only thing she can do from a million miles away is stare listlessly at the black screen on her phone. The two of them have always had their arguments, but it would always be resolved within a couple of days. Now, the distance makes it so much more complicated, because it had been easy—too easy to say all those things to Azzi that she really didn't mean. She supposes they both took part in it, intentionally calling instead of Facetiming so they could avoid dealing with the fallout or taking accountability by blaming it on the emotional and physical barriers separating them.

Christ. Paige reaches for the jar of melatonin on her bedside table. She's gonna need double the dose tonight.

⋆⑅˚₊

Azzi doesn't know what came over her.

Maybe it had been from the pure exhaustion of the past few months. Living in Storrs is like being surrounded by constant reminders of Paige—in Werth, in Gampel, even in her own fucking dorm. And she's always been stable and secure in their relationship, but it still hurts only being able to hear about Paige's new life without really being a part of it.

Then she'd gone and suggested a break, quite possibly the dumbest thing she's ever said, and for an agonizing second of silence over the phone, she'd been scared that Paige would agree, that Paige would say, maybe this is best for us, and end it all right then and there.

But she hadn't, and Azzi had apologized, but she knew it had done nothing to fix the impact of her words.

Which is why it's 2 AM, but she's still up, looking at flights to Los Angeles on her laptop. Paige has a game against the Sparks, and she can only stay for one day, so she's searching for tickets that will allow her to arrive right before the game and leave the early morning after.

Bingo. A last minute flight that leaves in six hours. Azzi calculates the timing in her head; the plane ride is 8 hours but LA is 3 hours behind, meaning she'll arrive at around 1 pm PST. It'll be too late by then to catch Paige before the game, and she wouldn't want to distract her anyways, so she'll have a few hours to make it to the game, watch, before hopefully having the chance to talk to Paige that night before both of them have to leave for their own cities. Azzi completes the purchase, then starts to pack her backpack.

LA is sunny and warm, and uplifts Azzi's spirits just a little. She takes an Uber to a restaurant to get some food in her stomach before taking another Uber to Crypto Arena. She wasn't able to secure a very good seat, so she pulls her hoodie tight over her head and hopes that the cameras don't see her. With red-rimmed eyes and deep bags under them, she looks worse for wear, and the last thing she wants to do is to be displayed on the big screen for everyone to see.

The first three quarters fly in a flash; Paige has a rocky start before she picks Rickea's pocket late in the second and scores, setting off her momentum for a solid 14 points by the end of the third. Azzi has always loved watching Paige play, but this is only the fourth or fifth time she's gotten to watch her girlfriend play professionally, but she's still in awe of how Paige moves so naturally on the court, already a leader on both ends despite being a rookie.

Azzi is on her phone during the break when the crowd starts to cheer. Looking up at the commotion, she fights the urge to groan when she sees herself on the screen, looking confused as hell. Contorting her face into a smile, she awkwardly waves and flashes a thumbs up before the cameras thankfully pan towards a celebrity across the arena.

Then she sees Paige, who had by some chance saw Azzi on the screen. The blonde is searching the arena, hands on her waist as her eyes sweep the crowds. Her mouth is tight, set into a firm line, body posture rigid, before one of the assistant coaches taps her on the shoulder and redirects her attention to Chris.

As soon as the game is over, Paige is walking around the court, evidently still scanning the arena for her. Knowing that the older girl doesn't have her phone, Azzi makes her way down the stairs, a task made much slower by her compression boot. Finally, she makes it down, but then she's stopped by a security guard who raises a brow at her.

"Hey, Azzi!" A familiar voice rings out, and there's Cameron, eyes bright as she makes her way through the throng of people on the court. She motions for the security guard to let her through the rope, and Azzi slips in. Wrong blonde, but still, Azzi is glad to see her.

"Cam! It's nice to see you," Azzi greets, pulling in the taller girl for a hug. "Looking good back on the court."

"Thank you, thank you." Cameron brushes off her jersey in faux humility. "Still getting used to it but it feels really good."

Azzi knows all too well what returning to the game feels like after an ACL, so she smiles sympathetically at her old friend.

"What brings you to LA?" The older girl leans in conspiratorially. "Here to see your girl?" Cameron is one of few people who'd witnessed the birth of their friendship into something more, and usually Azzi would be laughing with her, but the bleakness of it all makes her only have the strength to offer a weak smile and a "Yeah."

"Azzi." The two of them turn around and see Paige, who still looks slightly confused as she moves quickly towards the two of them. Azzi takes in her girlfriend, her hair falling apart from her bun, sweat beading on her chest and neck. Unsure of what to say or do, they look at each other for a second before Paige reaches out for a hug, both of them stiff before they fall into the familiarity of each other's arms. Azzi nuzzles her head into her girlfriend's neck, not caring that her cheeks come away damp from Paige's sweat. She'd missed Paige, terribly so.

Paige is caught up in staring at Azzi when they separate before she seemingly registers that there's a third person. "Hey, Cam," she says, dapping her up.

"Paige," Cameron pats her on the back. "Gave us hell tonight." Paige chuckles, and the two players pull apart, but Paige's gaze quickly returns to examining Azzi. Cameron looks between the two of them, observant as ever, and raises an eyebrow at the tension she senses hanging in the air. "Oookay. Well, I gotta go now, but it was nice seeing the both of you. Enjoy LA, Azzi. Good game, P."

"Yeah, you too," Paige says distractedly. "It's nice having you back on the court."

Then Paige and Azzi are alone, but not really alone because they're surrounded by athletes and media and fans and more than a couple of cameras pointed at them. Paige seems to pick up on the cameras too, when she reaches for Azzi's hand, then draws back, overthinking her actions. "Let's, uh, go to my car?" she suggests. "We can talk?"

Azzi nods, and they fall into step back to the locker room. They're silent as they walk, neither really knowing what to say, until a familiar curly-headed face intercepts them in the hall. "Paige," Rae Burrell intones, a smirk on her face, "Nice to see you." Azzi immediately tenses up, slowing down in her steps, but Paige's hand moves to the small of her back, a quiet reassurance, as she guides them along, trying to move past the Spark. "Rae," she acknowledges with a mere nod.

"Azzi, fancy seeing you here. How you doing?" Rae asks, all sugar and sweetness as she starts walking beside them.

"Just peachy," Azzi drawls. Her hand lands meaningfully on Paige's bicep, firm and smooth under her hand, and she draws her girlfriend closer. Paige wraps an arm around her waist and kisses her temple without even sparing a glance at Rae, and even though there's a million things they need to work through, though apologies are needed and solutions must be made, Azzi knows that through it all, they are the surest thing in the world.

Finally getting the hint, Rae nods. "Alright, see y'all around," she mutters, an ugly frown on her face as she ducks into a side room.

"She doesn't give up, does she?" Azzi grumbles, hand falling from Paige's arm when she realizes that the older girl is likely still angry from last night. But Paige grabs her hand and brings it back, an apology that's silent and the first of many, and squeezes her closer.

"No, she doesn't," Paige affirms. They've reached the locker room, and Paige lingers for a moment before going inside. She pulls Azzi in by the waist and presses their foreheads together. "I'm really glad you're here."

"Only for today," Azzi says, and disappointment fills Paige's eyes before the events of the night before flash in her mind. "It's good," the older girl responds gently. "You're traveling sixteen hours just to be here for a few, and I appreciate it."

"I'm sorry," Azzi says, the apology tumbling out of her mouth. The need for Paige to know how much she regrets everything is too much to bear, and she starts to continue apologizing, but she's shut up by Paige's mouth suddenly on hers, moving softly, intentionally, urgently, perfectly. Her lips are so, so soft, and Azzi has missed this so bad.

Paige gives her one last kiss, forceful and emphatic, before looking at her, soft and sweet. Azzi exhales. They're gonna be okay.

[my-castles-crumbling]

finally - may 11 - black brothers - jegulus - @black-brothers-microfic - word count: 247

“Oh…Merlin!”

James, who was currently perched on top of Regulus, pinning him to his bed and, admittedly, snogging the life out of him, froze. Because he’d know that voice anywhere. Wincing, he looked down at Regulus, who also looked terrified. 

“Sirius, it’s not–”

“Sirius, we’re just–”

“--we can explain, it’s–”

“--so sorry we didn’t–”

They both tried to talk at the same time, still tangled together, obviously having no plan of what to say. They’d talked about telling him, sure. But not now, and not like this. Sirius wasn’t supposed to be back to the Gryffindor Dorm for hours! But as they both stopped to take breaths and readjust into better positions, Sirius burst out laughing.

“Fuck. Finally!” he shouted, throwing his hands in the air and collapsing onto his own bed.

Again, James exchanged a glance with Regulus, who looked just as flummoxed. “Erm…what?” he asked his best friend, eyebrows furrowed.

“Finally I caught you two! It was getting ridiculous, watching the two of you sneak around, thinking you’re actually good at it! And ugh, the disgusting way you look at each other? Blegh!” Sirius gagged, sticking his tongue out. “It was hilarious revenge, don’t get me wrong, making you two continue to act like complete prats by sneaking about, but now I can finally say it: get a fucking broom closet, or learn how do cast a proper Silencing Charm like the rest of us!”

James could only stare with shock at a bright-red Regulus.

[thedevilsoftruth]

Ok ok ok hear me out - feral Bucky who is exhausted and grumpy and mad at everyone and can only be soothed by his mouth on your tits and his dick in your pussy…and it starts with just cockwarming but he cums and then he cums again and AGAIN cause super soldier and ohhhhh extra fat bonus points if he REALLY wants to put a baby inside you with all that super soldier cum

(I’m so sorry, I’m ovulating😭)

Ough anon I am OBSESSED with this request. I'm pretty sure I'm like... The guy you go to when you want breeding Bucky fics. Idk I just write them a lot and idk why lmao. Funny you mention this because I am ALSO ovulating. I'm an absolute freak, I hear the words 'bucky' and 'breeding' and 'breast play' in the same sentence and I cum running faster than the fastest man on earth. But here you go, baby. I got a little carried away when writing it (sorry I made it congressman bucky btw I'm not sure how on board you are with that being apart of it)🤭 enjoy!!!

Stress relief

Congressman! J. B. Barnes x Afab! reader.

Sum: Bucky had a tough day at work. So what does he do to help with the stress? Give his pretty girl a baby. 💜

Smut tags: light impact play kink, cock warming, heavy breast play, breeding kink, degrading, name calling (slut) overstimulation, mentions of reader ovulating, squirting, the theme is cum. (Restrain me please) Not beta read!!

W/c - 1.6k

Song recommended: Cherry Pie (I need a freak) by Insane Clown Posse.

I do not consent to my work being reposted or translated on ANY website. Reblog and comments are always appreciated and encouraged, however.

MDNI!!! I am NOT responsible for what you find on the internet!!

[ my request box is open. PLEASE see my pinned post for more information regarding my request rules. ]

He'd been so angry all day. He'd been stomping around and huffing like he was an angry toddler who has just been denied their favorite treat. Everyone and everything was pissing him off. You could it was bad when he had yelled at an aide that morning. But now, he had his only down time until he had to work again stupid ass early in the morning. His way of relieving his stress? Calling you to his study to keep him warm while he signs paperwork he's supposed to get turned in the next morning. It started out simple; just you sitting on his cock and keeping your mouth shut so he could focus like he asked. Until he started rutting into you like a caveman with his hands on your hips and his mouth on your tits.

You were wearing one of the tank tops you normally wore to bed, expect this one was baby pink and was worn thin, so brushing his hand over your breasts felt like he was touching your actual skin. He wasn't one for pink, but fuck, it looked so good on you. How he could complain when it felt so good to suck your pretty pink, swollen nipple into his mouth while he came into you for the second time in the past thirty minutes.

You were squirming on his lap, his hands gripping bruises into your skin as his lips pulled on your nipple. Little tiny whimpers left your mouth as his tongue flicked up your bud, the thick, milky hot cum from his last load dripping from your over-stuff cunt. His mouth left your breast with a wet pop, and he brought his flesh hand up to take your flesh into his hand, his pussy-drunken eyes admiring the way you spill out in his hand. You moaned loud as he dipped his head back down and licked a thick strip up your other breast with his fat tongue. His beard was brushing your skin in the most perfect way possible, and the sensations just got even better when two thick vibranium fingers began circling your throbbing clit. A loud gasp left your mouth, and your back arched into his mouth as if begging for more.

"Sensitive?" He asks as if the answer isn't directly in front of him. You nod weakly, and press your hand into his chest, your fingers brushing his red wine tie.

"Baby," you whine, your voice pitched and making his cock twitch inside you. "Can't take anymore. Too much."

He looks at you like you just said the stupidest fucking thing he'd ever heard.

"Don't care." He grunts, big hands moving to cup your ass as he stands up and pulls you with him. Your mind short circuits and you panic as he begins heading towards the door.

"You told me you were ovulating just two seconds ago. You don't get to back out of things like that. Not after I've had the day I'm having." He tells you, throwing you down onto the bed, his hands already scrambling to tear your tank top off your body. He's crowding you into the headboard, barley giving you any space to breathe as he's instructing you to put your arms up. The tiny thing slips off your body easily, and Bucky's face twists into a sick, twitched sadistic smile as your tits bounce free.

"Spread your fuckin' legs." He says, leaning down to suck on your neck eagerly. You gasp and your hands fly to his chest.

"Bucky..." You breath. He slaps your breast with a metal hand, the impact of it leaving you gasping and shocked. Your skin quickly reddens where he struck you, and a beautiful light sting prickles up your flesh.

"Open." He says darkly and low, tapping your thigh. You gulp hard and obey, shaky legs hesitantly spreading open in front of your perfect lover. He growls when you do so, looking down between your bodies. He sits up and gives his angry red cock a few pumps with his fist. Your thighs nearly clench together at the sight, but you know better than to disobey him.

"Such a good fucking girl." He growls slapping his cock against your messy cunt, making you whimper. He runs his already leaky cockhead up and down your aching clit a few times before he finally sinks himself into you, all with a loud, gutteral groan that makes your pussy flutter.

"Always take me so good like the perfect little slut you are for me." He mutters through gritted teeth, pulling his hips back a bit before he slowly sunk into you. When he bottomed out, it was with a very loud moan that could be heard from the outside of the house.

"You gonna take it? Hmm?" He grunts, pushing so deep into you that you swear it makes you black out for a moment. "Gonna let me fill you up and breed this sloppy, pathetic little cunt?" His pace quickens, his hips snapping into yours at a perfect rate and precision that has your eyes fluttering shut and your hands gripping his forearms like you need it to survive.

"With the amounts of times you've cum in me, I'm sure you already have me bred." You spit under your breath, almost angrily and out of spite. He smack your breasts again and you yelp.

"What was that?" He inquired, his voice low in that tone that told you he was mad and feeling mean. You gulp and scramble, shaking your head.

"N-nothing." Is all you say, your eyes widening at him in fear. He laughs at you, cold and dark.

"That's what I thought."

He grips the headboard then slams into you, his cock brushing and kissing against every single part of your pretty pussy that makes you squirm. You put your hand on his chest, your back arching and your mouth falling open in a silent 'o' shape. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him into you impossibly deeper and making the both of you moan.

He leans down and takes a pebbled nipple into his mouth once more, and your body cannot stop the way your legs shake around his hips or the loud cries and whines that leave your mouth.

"Bucky," you whine, wrapping your arms around his back and clawing at his skin with long fingernails. He groans into your skin as he kisses the peak of your breast, his eyes rolling back in pleasure at the sensation. "Dont stop, baby. Please--oh fuck, feels so good."

He looks up at you and pulls his cock out of you a few Inches before he slams back into you.

"Yeah?" He pulls back from your breasts and taps your clit with a metal finger before he rubs harsh circles into it. Your legs fly into the air Instinctively before they fall back down onto his waist. Your fingernails dig deeper into his back. He rubs harder, and the walls of your pussy squeeze him hard.

"Ohohoho." He laughs cruelly. "That's the spot, inn'it, sweet girl?" He continues circling it, going faster by the second--all along with his cock fucking into so deep, and you swear you see god for a minute.

"Yeah, yeah. Gonna fuck--cum--ah!! Shit!" You nod along, but right as you're telling him about your impending orgasm, you cut yourself off as you come crashing onto him hard and fast. The walls of your cunt clamp down on him like they're scared he's going to run away, and hot cum comes spurring out of you wildly. The milky liquid squirts onto your lovers pelvis, and he moans like he was the one cumming.

"Holy fucking shit, babydoll." He groans, his head lulling back as he slowly, deliberately starts thrusting into you again. He slaps your pretty pussy a few times with his flesh hand before he really starts picking up speed again.

"Gotta fucking fill you up again after that one." He says, giving you one harsh thrusts that hits your cervix. You scream and your eyes roll into the back of your head your hips shaking uncontrollably at the overstimulation. He holds you down with a metal arm.

"Nuh-uh. You stay right fucking there, slut." He slurps messy kiss from the back of your ear to the crook of your neck. "Pretty pussy needs to be rewarded with a warm, thick load after cumming all over me like that, don't you agree?"

You whine, your pussy making pathetic little squelching sounds as he pumps sloppy, fast thrusts into you. The wet, lewd noises have your head spinning and your pussy fluttering at how fucking obscure it is. All you can do is nod along to whatever he says, though you're too fucked out to even know what you're agreeing too.

"Good fucking girl." He praises, his cock slamming into you hard. "Gonna get you so nice and round and--fuck!" He cuts himself off when his cock twitched sweetly before thick, hot ropes of his seed start flooding into you. His hands shoot down to the backs of your thighs, and he lifts your your legs a little so he could watch himself drip into you.

"Good god," he swears under his breath, his mind going blank at the milky ring forming at the base of his cock. "If only you could see this." He chuckles, nudging his hips forward and making you whine loud.

"Bucky---"

"Shh, baby, let me fuck it into you. Gotta make sure it sticks." He hushes you, leaning down to kiss you hard as he slowly rolls his hips forward, fucking his cum up and into you deeply.

[fireinmoonshot]

unreal | robert reynolds x reader

THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR MARVEL'S THUNDERBOLTS*.

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x Reader Summary: Bob offers for you to share his room while your room in the Watch Tower gets renovated... there's just one problem – he didn't think about the fact that he'd have to share a bed with you. Warnings: General mentions of mental health issues (nothing specific) Word Count: 2.1k A/N: Okay, so it's been over a week since I last wrote for Bob and the response on my last Bob fic is insane. I cannot believe how much love it's gotten 🥹 I have since seen Thunderbolts three more times and I love Bob even more. This was the fic idea that won in the poll I posted earlier today and it was so enjoyable to write. I am really looking forward to writing more for him (including the other ideas that I had in the poll). I hope you all enjoy this one as well. Requests are always open! 💗

“You can share my room” are five words that Bob regrets the second that they’re out of his mouth. Not because he doesn’t want you to share his room, but just because now that it’s out in the open, the prospect of you saying yes is terrifying.

When you’d all moved into the Watch Tower, you hadn’t considered the fact that most of the building was still a work in progress. There were so many rooms that still needed to be built and while there had been bedrooms, there weren’t many and Valentina had insisted on building you all your own. Nothing but the best for my New Avengers, she’d said.

Your bedroom was the last one to be renovated. Every other member of the team had gone through the room-sharing phase while their rooms were completed. Yelena and Ava had always shared, though they’d hated every second of it – both girls loved their personal space. Both Bucky and John refused to share with Alexei. Bob had managed to come out the other end without sharing a room at all. 

Until his offer to you, that is.

“Seriously?” You ask, crossing your arms over your chest as you look around at the others. “None of you are offering to share with me so you’re making Bob offer?”

Walker scoffs. “You think we put him up to it? Please.”

“No one put me up to it,” Bob shakes his head. “I just thought I’d ask you since… y’know… none of the others have… and you probably don’t wanna sleep on the couch out here.”

He’s not really sure why he’d offered, actually. The words had been out of his mouth before he’d had a chance to think them over, which was strange for him. He supposes it might have something to do with the fact that he’s been crushing on you for a solid few months. It would be fine, though. He didn’t have a couch in his room, but he’s slept on his fair share of floors before and this one would be no different. Sharing a bedroom with someone he was slowly falling head over heels with was definitely going to end well.

You cross the room and put a hand down on Bob’s shoulder. “Are you really sure you want me to share with you? I know you haven’t had to share before and I really don’t want to intrude on your space.” Your voice is soft, for Bob’s ears only.

He nods once. “It’ll be fine. I promise.”

You don’t completely believe him. He’s undoubtedly the most independent out of all of you, but it’s been proven that he really does love being around other people. The last thing you want is to get in his way or make him uncomfortable.

“Bob,” you meet his eyes. 

His lips turn up into a small smile at the tone of your voice. “I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to share with you.”

That seems to do the trick, because you nod your head and step away from Bob after that before announcing that you’re going to go and start getting all your things together. 

That afternoon, you move your things into his room so that the renovations can start on your own. Bob makes some space for you – not that he has a lot of things himself – but he wants to make you feel comfortable. He doesn’t want you to feel like you’re living in his room. He wants it to feel like it’s yours too.

It only starts to feel real once it’s gotten dark outside and everyone has started to retire to bed. Once he’s in his room again, sitting on a bean bag in the corner, a book in his hand and he sees you walk into his room, hair a little bit wet from your shower. 

“I just realised,” you say, stopping in the centre of the room and looking around, “that you don’t have a couch.”

“Oh, yeah,” Bob nods, closing the book and sitting up a little straighter. “I just sit here. I, uh, I changed the sheets on the bed earlier so that you don’t have to sleep in dirty ones.”

You frown and look over at him. “Me? I’m not sleeping in your bed, Bob. I assumed I’d sleep on the couch. But I can just sleep on your beanbag. I’ll go and find some blankets…”

You turn to go and leave the room when you see Bob standing up in the corner of your eye. He stumbles a little, the blanket on the ground in front of him briefly catching his feet, and then rights himself. 

“No, you don’t have to do that,” he says. “You take the bed. I’m fine with sleeping on the floor. I’ve done it more often than you think.”

“Bob… you’re not sleeping on the floor.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “It’s really okay.”

He really doesn’t mind. As long as you’re comfortable, he will be too. He’s slept in worse places. Plus, he doubts he’d even be able to sleep soundly knowing you were uncomfortable on the cold, hard floor. How could he let the person he likes sleep there rather than on his perfectly comfortable bed?

You cross your arms over your chest and shake your head, slowly starting to walk towards him. This is a losing battle, you can see that. There’s no way that Bob is going to relent and let you sleep on the floor or the bean bag, and there’s no way you’re going to let him sleep there either. You couldn’t live with yourself if he did.

“Why don’t we both take the bed?” You suggest.

Bob’s eyes widen a little and he opens his mouth and then closes it again without saying anything. That’s the last thing he’d expected you to say. Sharing a bed? Had any of the others shared beds when they’d shared rooms? He highly doubted that. The members of the New Avengers weren’t particularly comfortable when it came to physical contact. 

“I don’t think we have to do that,” he mutters.

“Why not? I don’t mind it. That way, we both get to sleep on the bed and neither of us have to be uncomfortable on the floor. I promise I’ll stick to my side.”

Bob stares at you for a moment. You’re really suggesting this. You really want to share a bed with him. But how is he supposed to share a bed with you? This is not going to be beneficial towards his crush at all. It’s definitely not going to help him in his mission to get over you… he hadn’t started on that mission yet but he was definitely going to start soon… oh, he really shouldn’t have suggested this…

“All right, then,” he hums, and then squeezes his eyes shut as he winces. What the hell is he doing? Why are the words he’s speaking and the thoughts he’s having so out of sync?

You smile at him – one of the beautiful smiles that always sets his heart alight – and then move towards the bed. “Which side do you usually sleep on?” 

“Closest to the door,” he says, starting to walk towards it.

“A man after my own heart,” you grin, voice teasing as you pull the sheets back to the other side of the bed and slip underneath them. “Can you get the lights?” 

Bob tries his best to ignore your words, thinking about how he is actually after your heart, and slowly walks towards the light switch. He turns them off, then makes his way towards the bed in the dark. His heart is racing in his chest. It’s not until he’s sitting on the bed, hands fisted in the sheets, that he realises he’s sweating bullets.

He’d forgotten. How could he forget something like this? He’s always run hot. He’s been known to wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, especially after a nightmare.

Maybe, once you’re asleep, he can slip out of the bed and go back to the bean bag without waking you up… surely that would be okay. He could make up some excuse in the morning about not being able to sleep in the bed…

“Everything all right?” You ask from beside him.

The room is so dark that he can’t see you to tell how far away from him you are, but your voice is close. He trusts that you’ve stuck to your word, though, and that you haven’t crept over to his side of the bed.

“I don’t know if this is a good idea actually.”

He hears the sheets rustling and can somehow tell that you’re sitting up now. 

“Why not?”

Bob sighs and tucks a piece of his hair behind his ear. He doesn’t know why he’s so embarrassed about this. It’s not like you don’t know. You were there in the vault. You heard him admit it to Yelena. You’ve seen so many parts of him that he hates and you’ve never judged him for any of them, so why would you judge him for this now?

“Hey,” your voice is gentle. “You can tell me. If you don’t want me here, I can go.”

“No,” Bob shakes his head, quick to respond. He doesn’t want you to feel like you’re not welcome here when truthfully, all he wants is to have you here with him. He just wishes he wasn’t so awkward about it. “It’s not that. It’s just…”

“There’s no rush.” 

He turns to look at where you’re sitting, his eyes now adjusted to the darkness so he can see you just barely. “I run hot,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable if I sweat a lot during the night. I should just sleep on the floor by myself.”

There’s silence for a moment and Bob takes that as your answer. He swings his legs off the bed and is just about to stand up when he feels the mattress shift underneath him, and then he feels your warmth pressed against his side.

“Hey, no,” you hum, leaning your arm against his. “Don’t do that. You don’t have to worry about things like that with me. If you sleep on the floor, I’m sleeping on the floor too. You’re not giving up your comforts for me.”

Bob turns to look at you through the darkness. “I’d just make you uncomfortable.”

“No,” you reach down and find his hand, entwining your fingers together. It’s true that the members of your team are bad when it comes to physical contact, but you don’t mind it. Bob’s always been a little concerned about touch ever since the incident that had happened a few months back but you can tell by the way he doesn’t tense up at your touch that he doesn’t mind it. You’re surprised to find you can actually feel him relax a little. “You won’t.” 

“I won’t?” 

“No,” you repeat. “I’m really glad you offered for me to share your room, Bob. I don’t care if you run so hot that the whole bed feels like a giant inferno. I’m not going to leave unless you ask me to.”

“I won’t. ” 

You give his hand a squeeze. “Okay, so should we get back into bed and try and get some sleep then?”

Bob nods and then remembers it’s dark and you probably can’t see him. “Yeah, all right.”

He hates the feeling of emptiness when you let go of his hand. He can feel the mattress shifting as you move back to your side of the bed. It takes every part of him to swing his legs back up and to lay down. It’s only once his head hits the pillow that he feels truly relaxed. It’s strange, even just knowing that you’re right beside him puts him a little bit at ease.

“I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” You say, voice so close to him that he almost jumps.

“Okay,” he murmurs, staring up at the dark ceiling above him. 

He’s so certain he’s going to wake up in the morning and all of this will have just been a dream. Not a good dream, not a bad dream. Just an unreal one. One where you hold his hand and sleep beside him. One where, as he’s drifting off to sleep he can feel the warmth of your body inches away. One where he can remember the feeling of your arm pressed against his with such clarity it almost feels real. 

But when he wakes up in the morning, the first thing he sees is you sleeping soundly beside him and he knows it wasn’t a dream. A small smile makes its way onto his face. He can’t remember the last time he slept through the night without waking up… not until right now. 

[everythingspokenfor]

All characters are aged up 18+. MDNI.

Bakugou sometimes get overwhelmed with the love he has for you, his feelings seem borderline obsessive occasionally, especially considering you weren't even dating, just best friends with benefits, he knows you, thoroughly, but every once in a while he finds new thinks to go crazy over.

It's one of those days, when you opt for a hotel room instead of travelling back to your shared apartment, sometimes too exhausted to drive, other times too pent up to wait.

Today, however was slightly different, the mission in Tokyo ended earlier than expected, allowing you both to rest in your hotel room.

Bags of essentials scattered in the hotel room floor, Bakugou was still in bed, tried from all the activities, waiting for you to finish skin care before sliding in next to him.

The room still smelled like sex, a little bit of you and slightly more of him, the sheets too, but alas you both showered and intended to head to bed soon. Hopefully. But with the way Bakugou's gaze lingered on your back made it seem otherwise.

"We have early flight back tomorrow, and it's past 1 in the morning." You chastise, eyeing him through the mirror, watching as a cheeky grin spread on his face.

"And you have tons of freckles on you back." He moved closer slowly, dragging the thin blanket along with him. His touch is light, it tickles your skin, the tips of his fingers dragging from one birthmark to another. "I haven't really gotten to admire these."

"Didn't know Dynamight did admiring, I thought you were a fucked and tucked kinda guy." You teased, tongue jutting into your cheek as you watched his eyebrows raise in amusement.

His hand sneaks around your side, calloused fingers coming to pinch at your nipples, before tugging it, "Ask your pussy if I do admiring, at least those lips won't lie."

"Eh, cringe alert." You quip out, hand clasping around his to pull him away from your bud, he doesn't relent though, fingers pinching harder at your teasing, you let out a hiss, thighs rubbing together as he rubs away the pain, "asshole."

He ignores your curse, instead presses kisses against your back, lips tracing the constellation he just discovered. "You have a mole down there too," He recounts.

"Really? I didn't know that."

"Yeah, I see it everytime I spread her open, little embellishment decorating your skin." He sounds lost, like the vision of your spread pussy is playing behind his eyes.

"You know," You murmur, leaning back slightly, pressing against his chest, "it's a theory that birthmarks are where you soulmate kissed you in your past life."

"Good to know, she was taken care of in your last life too." He jokes, hand leaving your breast to cup your bare pussy.

You let out a snort, head lolling back to rest on his shoulder, "Aren't you jealous?" You chimed, tilting your head slightly to look at him.

"Jealous of what?"

"The guy that left all these kisses."

"Why would I be jealous of myself, petal?"

"So confident for someone that didn't even know about the ones on my back."

He smiles, leaning back again, "I have moles too, you know." He mumbles, voice as soft as the sheets around you both.

"And I know every one of them." You gleam, squeezing a decent amount of hand cream, before turning around to face him.

"I didn't know, it was a competition."

"Everything was supposed to be a competition to you, Dynamight."

He snorts, pulling you closer, "You are getting too full of yourself." He presses his lips, against the corner of your mouth, delight filling his chest as he feels your lips stretch into a smile. He pulls you in further, wrapping his limbs around you, snuggling in tight.

"I thought you were going to flip me over and prove me wrong."

"I have all the lifetimes left for that." He grumbles, breathing in your smell, before humming peaceful as he nudges his face into the crook of your neck.

Dividers by: @/thecutestgrotto

[thegingerwriter]

I would literally die for avengerz tower, fluffy Bob smut pls and ty. Like the team go out on a mission (not realising that reader/ Bob are together) and they have the whole tower to themselves!! Like anywhere they like to be together!! Maybe even the group couch!! Or the shared kitchen!! Or their games room!! The possibilities are endless 💞💞

A supposed 3-4 hours

Summary: Basically what the ask says lol I really liked it. Bob Reynolds x Fem!reader.

Warnings/content: Some smut! Very fluffy, very sweet. Some dom/sub undertones if you squint.

Word Count: 1.3k Little story. Support me on my Ko-fi so I can write more!

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

"How long will you guys be gone?"

Yelena looked up at you as she picked up her bag off the ground next to the kitchen counter you were sat on.

"Uhh...Buck, what do you think?" Yelena said as Bucky walked into the room, and she threw her bag at him which he easily caught with his vibranium arm.

Buck thought for a moment. "3-4 hours give or take? We'll pick up Ava and Walker on the way back. Alexei...No idea when he'll be back up."

Your heart fluttered with hope at the idea they would be out for a big chunk of the day. You looked over at Bob, reading on the couch and gave him a slight smile. "Well, hopefully I don't disturb Bob's reading. But I doubt he'll even notice I'm the only one here, he's been stuck in that book for days" You joke, and nearly laugh as Bob sits up, clearly a little offended.

"Excuse me, I am not deaf and also I have not been 'stuck in my book for days'. It's been like...1." Bob says, sending a smile back as he defends himself.

"At least 2." Bucky says matter-oh-factly, heading towards the door with Yelena in tow. "Alright you two- we're out. Don't cause any trouble, don't burn the tower down."

You decide to sell it just a little harder as you call at them right as they enter the elevator. "You sure you don't need our help with this one?"

"We know the people involved, we got it. Enjoy the break." Bucky replies, and Yelena sends you a wink right as the doors close.

A beat. Silence. The elevator makes a soft humming sound as the others descend down to the bottom of the tower and you make brave the storm, choosing to look over at Bob.

He's so red. You waste no time, barreling towards him on the couch, tackling him in an instant as he yelps, tossing his book on the floor before it accidentally gets bent.

“Woah-Jesus.” Bob has barely enough time to get the words before you tackle him on the couch, forcing the book out of his hands and tossing it gently on the floor next to you. You pause on top of him, his face red and his body heating up beneath you.

He sucks in a breathe. “Uh-hi…sweetie.” Bob’s voice cracks a little and you give him a smile.

“Hi Bob.”

“Can I um…can I help you?”

“I think you can.”

You pull him up by the collar of his shirt, and he finally takes the hint, his body pressing up against yours as he cups your face and crashes his lips against yours desperately. You run your fingers through his hair- the length longer now but still somehow knotless and silky.

You let out a quiet moan, trying to repress it. The two of you are desperate for each other, kissing and grabbing at hair and whatever skin is available. It’s not like you two haven’t done anything lately. But the desperation around the excitement of being alone in the tower was great.

Just two nights ago, Bob had been fingering you through your 3rd orgasm of the evening, his other hand free for you to suck on his fingers in a desperate attempt to keep you quiet at 2am.

You bring yourself back to the present as you let Bob tilt your face up so he can slip his tongue in your mouth. It’s warm against yours and you let out a quiet moan at the action. You whine softly as he pulls away from you to look at your face.

“Why are you being quiet?” Bob asks plainly. Your heart flutters as you try to find an answer.

“Um,” You swallow, steadying your voice. “Force of habit I guess. We’re not properly alone often.”

Bob looks you up and down, his hands sliding up under our shirt and you shiver, sucking in a breathe and waiting. But he stops right before his hands can glaze over your nipples.

You go to speak, but stop yourself and Bob tries not to smile.

“Yes?” Bob asks, feigning innocence as you hold back a whine.

“Bob…” Your voice is barely above a whisper. His fingers just brush delicately over the hardened tips before pulling back again.

“I can’t hear you sweetheart. I want to hear you.” His voice is low but more audible than yours and words send heat right to you core.

“Robert.”

“Yes sweetie?”

“Please.”

He takes pity on you, his fingers finally pinching the sensitive flesh , pulling you towards him as you fall into little him ravish your mouth again. You kiss him back, breaking the kiss only for a moment to tear his shirt off and throw it carelessly behind you.

You continue to whine quietly, and Bob finally has enough, breaking the kiss and gently pushing a hand into your hair before closing his fingers and gripping it harshly, pulling your head to the side so he can kiss the spot right below your ear.

“What did I say?” His voice sends shivers absolutely everywhere as he whispers directly into your ear and you try not to squirm, the firmness not new but still surprising.

“I-I can’t help it-.” You stutter, and Bob grips your hair harder and you finally let out a moan, echoing into the empty tower.

“I want to hear you.” Bob says again, continuing to kiss down your neck. He pulls away, grabbing the bottom of your shirt and giving you a look that says he’s asking for permission. After a quick nod, your shirt is off and on the floor next to his.

“Fuck-“ You whine loudly as he grips your nipples again, the cool air hitting them and making you squirm in his lap.

“That’s my girl.”

Bob makes quick work to flip you over on the couch, the air rushing out of as you hit the soft surface with surprising strength and force, his arms staying at your sides. You try to calm your beating heart, but the way he’s looking at you- like he wants to eat you- it’s too much.

“Pants. Now.” You demand, and Bob laughs, his hands reaching for your waistband, undoing the buttons slowly.

But it’s not him undoing the buttons on your jeans that makes you freeze. It’s what you hear that makes both of you freeze.

“Dude, we all hang OUT ON THAT COUCH!” You immediately recognise Bucky’s voice.

You look past Bob’s shoulder, seeing Bucky, Yelena, Walker and Ava. Ava has her hands over her eyes, and your face heats up so much you think you might actually combust.

“OFF!” You yell, pushing Bob a little too harshly off of you, but he’s already on it, tumbling onto the floor and throwing you your shirt as he scrambles for his as well.

“Oh this is so funny.” Yelena says, the biggest smile on her face. “Wait till I tell Alexei.”

“Fuck…” Walker says, reaching into his back pocket, pulling out a wallet and a $10 note, dropping it into Ava’s open hand, the other still over her eyes.

“I-what are you guys even doing here!?” You shirt is on, and you try to desperately smooth out your hair as well but it’s really no use.  

“Turns out they were already on their way back, and we don’t have to go anymore.” Yelena shrugs.

You look at Bob, standing there with his shirt too big hanging off of his body, scrunching his arms around his body to keep himself from being perceived. You reach out and grab his hand and he relaxes slightly.

“They were gonna find out eventually.” You try to comfort him, and he gives a smile back.

“Wish it wasn’t like tha-.” Bob starts but is cut off by the elevator dinging and a loud voice with a Russian accent cutting him off.

“I FUCKING KNEW IT!”

[crowsofdarkness]

Today's lesson with Bucky: Oral-Bucky needs his meal

Part Five to the Teach Me series. If you haven't read the other parts, you might be a little confused. Tags for this are open, just comment if you're interested!

18+ CW's below the cut( oral with female recieving and slight possesive Bucky)

tags: @muchwita @chrisevansleftnipple @georgeyblast @justsebstan @memenerdlover @mrsalexstan @mandydornanjohnson @spencypookie13 @wintrsoldrluvr @ronjantz @buckysgirl27 @starstuck-cowgirl @idkman5335 @winchestert101 @dhoruwolfie @amanda-says @felicity-lemons-thoughts @studious-muppet @trixilove257

BUCKY

As soon as Y/N stepped foot back into the tower, I was quick to get her attention, letting her know that our next lesson was starting right fucking now. She’d been gone with Bill for a week on a mission and it was killing me inside on not seeing her. I never meant for me to catch feelings for her, these lessons were only supposed to be that. But something in the way she opened up to me, figuratively and literally, and trusted me to be the one to teach her sexual things made me realize that I could never let her walk away from this into someone else's embrace.

How could I teach her how to suck my cock only for her to use those lessons on someone else? 

Leaning against the kitchen counter with a scowl, I watched as Bill and Y/N talked for a few moments. I knew she saw me, her eyes widening when they landed on me, but she tried her best to not show how excited she was. Even though we were feet away from each other, I could hear how fast her heart was pounding in her chest. 

This mother fucker needs to let her leave otherwise I’m going to throw her down on the couch to eat her out right infront of him. 

Damn, Bucky. Chill the fuck out. 

Running my left hand over my face, I took a centering breath before finally walking over to Y/N and Bill. 

“Mr. Barnes!”

 The asshole fucking saluted me. Who the hell salutes people nowadays?

I gave him a curt nod before motiong towards Y/N. “You’ve had her quite long enough. She’s needed elsewhere.” 

Wrapping my right arm around her, I began leading her towards my bedroom in the tower. She playfully smacked my chest and as much as she wanted to be upset with me dragging her away, I could see the hint of a smile pulling at her lips. 

“You can’t just drag me away, ya know,” she said, her voice sweet like honey. 

I made a noise in the back of my throat that sounded like a mix of a grunt and sigh. “Our next lesson is starting now. Did you need to shower?” 

I noticed she was wearing street clothes but figured I would double check to see if she wanted to wash away the mission's filth from her skin. I would ask how it went but I read over the debriefing files while I waited for her to get back so there was no need to waste time. 

I wanted to taste her. Now.

“I showered on the jet. So what’s the next lesson?” She asked just as we stepped inside my bedroom. 

I’d spent all day cleaning my living quarters for her, making sure it looked and smelled clean. 

I motioned for her to sit on the bed while I shucked off my jacket, leaving me in a grey shirt and black sweats. 

“Oral.” 

Her spine stiffened as she sat straighter on my bed, immediately twirling her fingers. A nervous habit of hers I’ve noticed early on. 

“Me to you?” She asked, nerves lacing on every word. 

I shook my head while helping her lay back against my bed, wanting her to be comfortable. “You’ve been giving me a lot of pleasure. I think it’s time for me to return the favor.” 

Her bright eyes stared up at the ceiling, refusing to make direct contact with me, so with a long sigh I kneeled on the bed next to her so I could stare down at her. 

“Is that alright?” I questioned. 

“Yeah,” she hesitated at first, before nodding. “I’m just nervous because I’ve never had that before so I don’t know if I’ll like it.” 

I cupped her cheek with my left hand, her cheek leaning into my vibranium palm and it was evident how relaxed she became. Another reason why I couldn’t allow her to go to someone else for this. They could take advantage of her, force her into doing something she didn’t know how. 

“If you don’t like it, just tap the top of my head twice and I’ll stop, alright?”

“Okay,” she breathed. 

Tapping her thigh, I helped her out of her leggings and green panties, my cock jumping at the sight of not only it but her cunt as well. Almost immediately, Y/N tried to close her thighs tighter together to hide. 

“I haven’t shaved,” she whispered. 

“I don’t care,” I assured her with a tender kiss to the inside of her thigh. 

I truly didn’t. It seemed like she hadn’t shaved in a few days but that was not about to stop me. I needed Y/N, I needed to taste her, have her cum linger on my tongue for days. 

“Spread your legs for me, baby,” I breathed over her cunt, causing her to shiver. 

She did what I asked and I had to hold myself back from devouring her right then and there. I didn’t want to rush this. 

“That’s it, good girl,” I praised while adjusting my cock inside of my sweats. 

Anything to alleviate the blood rushing to it. 

“I’m going to try a few different things, let me know if you like them,” I said while flicking my gaze up at her from my spot between her legs. 

The way she looked at me with a look full of fondness made something inside of me twinge with an unknown feeling but I didn’t dare dwell on it. I needed to focus on what was in front of me. 

As soon as the tip of my tongue flicked her clit, tingles exploded throughout my body villing my veins with her taste. One simple taste of Y/N and I was hooked, addicted to her and suddenly in that moment I knew I’d never get enough of her. 

Her body shuddered when I did it two more times and before I could question if she liked it or not, Y/N let out a soft moan eliciting me further. So I dragged my tongue up and down her slit, tasting even more of her and I could stop the groan that slipped out. 

“Holy shit,” she breathed, fingers dragging through my hair. “I didn’t expect it to feel so good.” 

I hummed, lapping up more of her honey taste and let my tongue slip inside of her a bit. She bucked off the bed causing me to hold her in place with my vibranium hand against her hip. With the hand that wasn’t tied into my hair, she dragged her fingers along the vibranium knuckles and without saying anything, I knew what she wanted. 

I spent the next few moments switching from tongue fucking her and bitting and sucking on her clit. When she told me she liked it better when I paid more attention to her clit, I kept my mouth there. But still wanting to give attention to her cunt, I removed my left hand from her hip to tease her opening. 

“Please, please, please,” she begged, nearly humping my face. 

“What do you want, baby?” I asked right before wrapping my lips around her cunt to suck. 

“Fuck me with your fingers, Bucky.”

Hearing my name on a breathless moan made a fire ignite at the base of my spine. I began humping the bed to put pressure on my cock, desperate for some kind of friction. I pictured my cock was where my fingers were, deep inside her warmth, squeezing the life out of me. 

My fingers worked inside of her, curling up into that sweet spot I knew so well only fingering her twice. I became attuned to what her body came alive with and how much she loved it when I flicked my tongue over her clit before dragging my teeth over it. 

“Oh fuck,” she said with a hint of worry in her voice. “I’m close.”

“Cum for me, baby,” I pulled away from her for a moment, meeting her blissed out expressions. “It’s okay. You can cum like this.”

With my mouth on her again, I worked my fingers faster inside of her to urge her closer to her orgasm and soon, her honey taste exploded in my mouth. I humped the bed like a madman and devoured more of her. No one besides me would taste her, bring her this pleasure, or hear her moans. She would only cry out my name when she came apart. I’d be the only one that would see her naked, feel her skin upon mine. 

Images of her naked underneath me and on top of me as she rode me flashed in my mind causing me to eat more of her arousal, never letting up even after she came down from her high. I was sloppy humping my bed now as my own orgasm was on the tip of teetering off the edge, my body so numb I barely felt Y/N gently tug on my hair. 

“Bucky,” she panted. “I th-I think I’m going to cum again.” 

My fingers never stopped fucking her and leaving her clit, I pressed tongue inside of her too. My urgent mutters were muffled by her soft skin and all over again, the honey filled my mouth and my hips stalled against the bed when I felt a stickiness between my own legs. 

When I could tell Y/N was spent from her two orgasm, I reluctantly pulled away from her and titled my head up at her. My jaw ached, my fingers and chin were soaked with her arousal, and I didn’t doubt my hair was a mess due to her fingers because the way she looked at me made my heart stutter in my chest. 

“Holy fuck,” she choked on a breath while resting on her elbows. “That’s what I’ve been missing out on?” 

I chuckled. “I take it as you liked it, huh?” 

“I came twice, Bucky. That’s never happened before.” 

A boost of confidence filled me and I leaned back on my knees. “Well, I’m glad I could be of service but I need to shower.” 

Y/N gave me a puzzled look with furrowed brows so I motioned down to my lap; more so the wet spot on my sweats. 

“Oh my god,” she giggled behind her hands, a crimson hue covering her cheeks. “You sure made a mess.”

I leaned myself over her now, gazing deep into those bright eyes full of wonder, and didn’t stop to think of the ramifications on what I was about to do. Ghosting my lips over hers, I broke into a grin. 

“It’s all because of you, baby.” 

[duskbornraven]

Veteran, Doctor, Wedding Date

Never in my life have I finished a sex scene in writing. This fandom has broken me. There is a second part in the works for the actual wedding, because I am weak willed when it comes to him.

Paring: Jack Abbot x f!Reader

Warnings: mdni, sex with plot, female reader, Oral (m receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, general teasing, implied age gap.

Summary: Weddings take up a lot of time, especially when you're dating the best man.

Word Count: 4k

It had been too many years since Jack had been to a wedding. Let alone asked to be in a wedding party, but when one of your best friends asks you to be his best man you can’t really say no. Even harder when said friend oh so politely reminded him that he could bring his cute new girlfriend. 

So here he was, sitting on the couch waiting for you to get home. The TV was on but he wasn’t really watching it. Anticipation weighed on him. He knew first hand that people got weird about weddings. There was an unspoken weight around them, and he hadn’t asked anyone to be his date to anything in what felt like an eternity. 

He still managed to fall asleep on the couch, and was startled awake when he heard the familiar click of the lock. Snapping his head up to a dimly lit living room, bathed in the flickering light of the TV. Pushing himself more upright, the fog of sleep still fighting to pull him back under. 

With a groan he scrubbed his face, forcing himself to wake up, so you could have this conversation. Watching you kick your shoes off, braced against the door to avoid overbalancing. “Did you make it upstairs at all?” You were still facing away from him but he could hear the smile in your voice. 

“I did, thank you.” His mock indignation getting a laugh from you, making your way over to throw yourself down on the opposite end of the couch, stretching out with a continent sigh. 

“What’s on your mind?” You tapped his leg with a toe, leaning up to get a better look at him. “You’re burning a hole in the wall.” 

“I was asked to be in a wedding later this year.” Jack turned himself on the couch to face you “And, I was wondering if you would be my date.” 

He knew the answer before you even opened your mouth to speak. Your eyes lit up as you pushed yourself the rest of the way into a sitting position. The way you beamed at him, practically glowing in the low light of the room. “Of course I will.” Your excitement was hardly concealed. 

You leaned forward kneeling on the couch, braced on his shoulder, to peck him on the cheek before leaning in for a lingering kiss. His head tilted back slightly to meet your lips. A hand wrapped reassuringly around your arm to keep you balanced, the other coming to rest on your hip. 

You pulled away, looking down into his eyes, unable to keep the smile from your face. Watching his face soften as he took you in again. A grin slowly spreading over his own tired features. Letting you settle back on the couch beside him. An arm draped over the back of the couch, fingertips just brushing against your shoulder. 

“Didn’t really have a plan if you said no. Considering my backup date would have been the groom.” You pushed him away lightly, moving yourself more than him with a scoff. 

“Do you know when it is yet?” You chose to ignore his comment. ‘I’ll make sure to get some time off from work.” 

“Not yet, he’s supposed to be getting a hold of me about that since it’s going to be a scheduling nightmare. I don’t know how they’re going to get by without us for a night.” His hand left the couch to run through his hair absently. 

“Do you maybe want to finish this conversation after you get a nap in old man?” You pressed a kiss to his temple ignoring the look he shot you. 

“You know I do a pretty decent job keeping up with you last time I checked.” It was hard to read his expression in the low lighting but you could catch the way his head tilted almost like a challenge. The faintest hint of a smirk still plastered to his face. 

“You do. But have you considered I’m using you as an excuse to take a nap and get some quiet time with my boyfriend for once?” You challenged him back, trying your best to keep a straight face. 

Wordlessly he hauled himself up. Then turned to offer you a hand, helping you to your feet. Once you were upstairs it didn’t take long for you to drift off, an alarm set for an hour in the future. More importantly, Jack’s arm wrapped securely around you and the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath you. 

Months passed quietly, comfortably between the night he asked you to come with him. He had steadily been pulled more and more into the planning and preparation. Which meant less sleep and less time with you. 

Jack still made the effort, still made sure he caught you to kiss you goodbye and was home to kiss you before work if he had to be out. But between your work schedules and the approaching wedding date you hadn’t had time for much outside a quick kiss here or there. 

And it was starting to get the better of both of you. 

When the time came to actually go get fitted for a suit he found you waiting for him in the bedroom, laying on the bed still only in a stolen shirt that had once been his, watching him emerge from the bathroom. He stalled in the doorway taking you in, laying on your back, your bare legs bent to let your feet plant on the bed. 

 “Don't you tempt me, I can’t be late to this one.” With effort he managed to pull his focus to getting dressed, aware you were watching as he zipped up his jeans. 

“I wasn’t trying to.” But he saw the way your eyes also lingered, dragging themselves over his half naked body. 

“And hypothetically if you were, I’d make it up to you tonight.” He leaned over you pressing a kiss to your lips. Melting into your touch as your hands skated over the planes of his chest before looping around the back of his neck, letting you pull him in closer, his weight pressing you further into the bed. Your hand tangled in his hair as the kiss deepened. Weeks of want and frustration just below the surface as the heat between you. 

Shattered by the ringing of his phone from the bathroom. 

Pulling away his head hit the mattress, breathing heavily against your neck, pressing a trail kisses along your jaw before slowly pushing himself upright. Reluctantly you let him push away from you, almost aching as the warmth of his body left yours. Not missing the way he adjusted the growing bulge in his jeans before hearing his frustrated voice from the other room. “Yeah, be down in a minute.” 

You sat up on the bed watching him as he pulled a shirt over his head, glancing over at you still watching him. “Not trying to be tempting?” 

“Maybe a little.” You didn’t quite meet his eyes. 

“Then I’ll have to see if I can’t return the favor when I get home.” He leaned down again, capturing you in another searing kiss that was unfairly short lived. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” 

You listened to the front door slam behind him. Still perched on the edge of the bed listening to the sound of wheels on pavement. It had been too long since the pair of you had been home for more than a few minutes, even on his days off it felt like he was helping with something these days. 

Which was fine most of the time, but you missed him, missed finding him asleep on the couch when you got home from work. Or getting to sleep in with him on your days off, the weight of him on top of you. The way you would find yourself casually reaching out to touch him when you spread out on the couch together. 

You forced yourself to get up and move, heading for the shower to at least make an effort to start the day. By the time you had made yourself a meal there was an unopened message from Jack. A mirror photo of him, half changed into formal wear. Pants unzipped and shirt unbuttoned, his face was mostly covered by the phone itself but you could see the hint of a smirk playing across his features. 

You stood there, frozen for what felt like an eternity starting at it. You finally backed out to and were about to type out something when another photo started to load in. Now fully dressed, with his arm around a groomsman, like wasn’t sending you thirst traps from the dressing room. You debated not giving him the satisfaction but you were pretty sure he knew it had worked.

You reacted to the messages and asked how it was going. Saving some of your decency hopefully by not openly showing he had gotten under your skin. It took a few minutes for him to reply. 

Good. Getting dinner and drinks after this but I’ll be home right after. 

You started to type back a reply, scrolling back to the first photo, the too pleased expression on his hardly visible face. The fact that you almost had him before he left replaying in your head. It was hard enough making the time with your schedules and now he was so busy. And this man had the audacity to tease you like that. 

If he wanted to play that game you could play that game. Phone in hand you scrambled back up the steps, an excited fluttering in your gut. There was one thing that would give you the unfair advantage, the shirt you had to stop stealing. After you had moved in you had been granted access to his old shirts. Jack insisted that he didn’t care what you stole, as long as he got it back. 

But he did, he just hadn’t known it. You had dug out one of his old shirts from the army. Had picked it because of its age, it felt like a piece of him when you missed him. That morning you woke up with your alarms as usual, rolling out of bed before the sun. Half awake you had stumbled your way downstairs to make coffee as the front door swung open, the familiar sound of shoes on the hardwood letting you know Jack had made it home. 

A moment later the footsteps stopped, freezing in the doorway to the kitchen behind you. The feeling of being watched buzzed in the back of your head, prompting you to turn. There he had stood, frozen, eyes focused solely on you. Suddenly feeling very naked you had turned to face him. 

You had been late for work that morning, and every other morning you had mistakenly decided to wear that particular shirt to bed. As exhausted as he was when he came home he always seemed to find the energy those mornings. It had become a pattern, so much so that you had given up wearing it, almost forgotten it existed. Until now. 

It took some digging to find. Buried under newer clothes, newer memories but where you had expected to find it. Embarrassingly enough the sight of the shirt alone was enough to make you feel warm. Memories associated with the way the fabric felt bunched in your hands resurfacing. 

You looked around like someone would catch you undressing in your own home before changing into it. Like the man who once wore it it had softened slightly with age, still sturdy but not as stiff as it had once been. It felt like an extension of Jack, a piece of his past made tangible. Maybe that’s why you had always loved it. 

You kicked your shorts off for good measure before positioning yourself in the mirror. The fabric covered just enough to make a point, the tiniest hint of bare skin showing in the reflection. 

Filtering through the photos until you landed on one that was perfect. Mimicking his own smug expression, phone held to the side, making sure to capture your back in the mirror. Completely innocent on a first glance, if anyone other than Jack saw you it would seem like a sweet picture from his girl. 

You hit send and retrieved the shorts, slipping them back on. Your phone dinged twice in short succession before you even had them all the way back on. 

That’s evil. 

I’m coming home. 

You had him, but you knew that before you even sent the picture. The second the idea popped into your head you won this little battle of wills. You wanted him home, but not at the cost of something important. Something he might regret missing. 

Stay, be with your friends. I’ll see you tonight. 

Fine. But you’re not changing. Be home as soon as we’re done. 

Battle won you settled yourself on the couch, determined to distract yourself, to make the time move faster while you waited. 

Say one thing for Jack Abbot, he’s a man of his word. He got dropped off around eight, a few drinks in and had practically pushed his ride into the truck when they got to the parking lot. The flush of liquor warming him in the cool night air as he made his way inside. 

You had been on his mind since he left, the weeks of pent up frustration slowly building to this moment. It took no time to spot you in your usual spot on the couch, half focusing on a movie, half looking at something on your phone. He settled heavily onto his spot on the couch, watching but not watching the TV. Far too aware that you were slowly sliding yourself closer to him.

“How was your night?” You spoke first, glancing up from your phone, finally making contact with his leg at the other end of the couch. 

“Good, I'm ready to have my weekends back.” He glanced over at you, a hand resting on your shin, the pad of his thumb rubbing circles into the exposed skin. 

You hummed in agreement, going back to your phone. Pretending that you weren’t aware of the way his eyes were watching you. Ignoring the slow press of his body against yours until he was pressed into your side one arm pinned beneath his weight. A hand skating over the fabric of the stolen shirt. 

Holding himself over you, meeting you in a slow, desperate kiss. Groaning into your mouth when you pulled him in closer, beer still lingering on his tongue. 

He pulled away to press kisses along your jaw, just catching the whispered “missed you” that escaped you with a heavy sigh. 

He stilled above you for a moment, pausing before he spoke, whispering against your jaw “How much?” 

You squirmed under him watching a hand slowly slide up your leg, brushing at the hem of your shorts. When you didn’t answer right away he spoke again. “Because I know how much I’ve missed you.” The faintest scratch of teeth along the shell of your ear. “Missed this.” 

Heat radiating from your skin against his touch, fingers dipping breath the fabric of your shorts and inching along the soft skin of your thighs. Mouth claiming the sensitive skin just over your pulse. You could feel a twitch of a smile against your neck when a moan escaped your lips. 

His free hand abandoning your thigh to instead slide beneath your shirt, thumb teasing the elastic of your bra, leaning away to watch your expression. To take in the way your breathing caught as his hand pressed into your soft skin, savoring the way you felt against him.

“I’m going to need you to work with me.” And his arm was around your shoulders, pulling you against him, rolling himself under you. With you helping he was able to mostly pull you solidly on top of him, if not a little awkwardly. 

“Better.” He sighed, adjusting himself slightly beneath you. Hands wrapping around you to capture you in another kiss, more desperate than the last. His hand tangling in your hair bucking up against you chasing the fleeting friction against you. 

The groan you got in response to your own desperate grind against him sent a jolt of arousal through your body, adding to the pooling heat between your legs. Your desperate movements doing nothing to relieve the ache, if anything it made your movements more desperate against him. 

Jack clearly felt the same way, hands pushing down your shorts, thumbs hooking deftly in the elastic of your panties, sliding them both down your thighs, supporting you as you kicked them off entirely. Your hands travel down, fumbling with his belt for a second before managing to undo his jeans and helping him tugg them off. 

He didn’t miss the way your eyes lingered on the damp patch of cloth staining his boxers. Watched as his cock twitched under your gaze. Hands pull you forwards again, pressing his clothed erection against your own soaked cunt. Still not enough but his deliberate grind pulled a broken moan from you, head falling forwards into the crook of his neck. Mindlessly chasing the sensation, grinding down against him. 

“Someone’s eager.” His voice thick with need as he bucked against you again. Dragging that fucking shirt over your head, nipping at the exposed skin he could reach. 

It was nowhere near enough, the drag of cloth doing little to ease the ache. Pulling away to be able to practically tear away the last of the fabric separating you. Swallowing thickly at the sight of him, settling back between his thighs. 

Keeping eye contact as you leaned in, licking a hot stripe from base to tip. That earned you an exhale that was dangerously close to a growl. Jack’s eyes didn’t leave yours, pupils totally blown as he watched you take his tip slowly in your mouth. Watched you even as your eyes fluttered shut, slowly inching your way down his length. With all the restraint in the world he kept his hips still when he felt the brush of the back of your throat. 

A hand brushing hair out of your face, settling at the back of your head, letting you feel the faint scrape of nails against your scalp with the swirl of your tongue and you began move, setting a pace just restrained enough to not be a tease, but not nearly enough to get him to break. Swallowing thickly around him, losing yourself in the weight of him, the increasingly desperate noises coming from above you. 

Pulling away enough to meet his eyes “Who’s eager now?” Pressing a kiss to his tip before taking him to the base again. Settling into the same steady rhythm, watching him come undone under you. 

“So fucking pretty. Can’t help it” It came out raw, almost unrecognizable as his voice. Still watching, eyes locked on the way your lips parted around his cock. Watching as you squirmed into the fabric beneath you, trying desperately to find your own relief. 

A tug from the hand still half tangled in your hair got you to pull away with an obscene pop, slightly breathless and lips swollen. Becking you forward again, sliding backwards to sit more upright against the arm of the couch. 

Those familiar hands guided you down, firm hands pressing your hips against him. Not letting you take him yet, a slow teasing thrill running through you again as he dragged between your folds. Letting up to let you set the pace, hips pressed to yours, matching your pace as you finally were able to chase away your own desperate need. 

The frim press of a thumb against your clit made you almost come undone. Hips stuttering against his as preassue built at your core, back arching arching. His other hand skating up your back, skilled hands unclasping your bra in one fluid motion, another piece of clothing discarded somewhere in the dark room. 

It was like you were being consumed by flame, burning hands teasing hardened nippels, rolling them lightly between practiced fingers. Another circling your clit, helping you come undone grinding against his leaking cock. Your breathy moans echoed in desperate shaky breaths beneath you. You were barely holding on, hips jerking erratically against his. 

“Let go.” That was all that it took. His voice was raw and quiet, strained with need. 

The building crescendo of tension snapped, stilling against him,hands braced against his chest as pleasure wracked your body, fluttering against him as you came, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. Slumping forward, breathing hard. Your breath is almost too warm against the sweat collecting on your bodies. 

Jack kissed you again, slow, tender, letting the tremors run their course against him. Completely still beneath you. Cupping your face and grounding you again as you came down from the high or your orgasam. 

Pulling away, a thin line of saliva still connecting you briefly he adjusted beneath you again. He rolled against you again, a moan falling from your lips. Pushing against his chest you were disappointed to still find the cloth of his shirt, damp with sweat and very much in the way of wandering hands. 

Your hand slid under the hem, sliding it up. Reaching back with the other to stroke him before taking a breath and sinking down onto him. Jack’s head falling back exhaling through his teeth as fluttering walls gripped him, pulling him in. “fuck”

You clenched around him when your hips met. Hangs tightening their grip on your hips grinding into you. Hungry eyes glued to where you met, watching as you started to move, lifting yourself to ride him. 

You knew he wasn’t far from his own release. What little composure he had held onto was already cracking, his hips jerking erratically against yours. Already sensitive and moving at your own reckless pace once you adjusted, nails biting into skin. His thumb returning to circle your already over sensitive clit. Fatigue battling pleasure as heat sparked through you once again.  

A pathetic whine escaped your mouth, bracing against his shoulder, almost frenzied in your movements as pleasure wound tight once more. The room falling silent other than the sound of your labored breathing. Focusing solely on chasing senestion, watching the man beneath you coming undone, jaw clenched and breathing hard as you rode him.

Your second orgasm ripped through you. Your walls spasming around him slumping forwards bonelessly onto his chest. Arms circled you, hips snapping against yours, breathing ragged in your ear. 

A your name tumbling from his lips his hips stuttered against yours, finishing inside you, leaving you feeling impossibly full. You stayed like that for a minute, both breathing heavily. Still riding the high of your climax. 

“Shower?” You offered, pressing a slightly breathless kiss to his forehead. He nodded wordlessly, reaching past you to offer you your discarded clothes and helping you get off him without making a mess of the fabric below you. 

Waking the next morning you felt heavier than you had the past few nights. Blinking slowly you realized that you were pinned, your legs tangled with Jack’s, his arm thrown over your shoulders. The weight of him was almost alien the past week. Extra heat tangled around you along with the sheets. 

Moving slowly you tried to extricate yourself, tossing and tuning would likely wake him and you were awake enough. You managed to free your legs from the sheet and were slowly pulling out from under him when the arm around you flexed, pulling you closer. 

“Stay.” He murmured, arms tightening around you, shifting to press a kiss to your temple. “Just a little longer.” 

You let him pull you into him, the warmth of his chest at your back, the steady pulse of his heart against your skin. The comforting scent of him filling your lungs with each breath. It was hard to resist letting your world become Jack Abbot for just a little longer. 

[heartyluv]

I love your writings of Zayne and Sylus! Can you do one of Zayne and Sylus (separately) where reader tells them that she thinks they should break up because she feels like she isn’t good enough for him so she needs to focus on herself, plus he’s been so busy, and they haven’t had time to be with each other for a while. Which leads up to this moment. Zayne and Sylus ofc get angry because they love reader so much and deny her request. No matter what they will always chose her and who is she to tell him how to feel. Kind of angsty, passionate, and deep yearning if you get what I’m saying. Thank you.🙇🏻‍♀️

Note: You guys are getting all the angst today LOLL. I had some extra time to actually get this done, especially since it didn’t need to be too long. I hope you enjoy, luvly! Thank you so much for being here.

Warning: You talk badly about yourself in this, but I’m here to tell you that all of you luvlys deserve nothing but the absolute best and nothing less. I luv you. 😚

Zayne

Zayne was worried when he got a text from you while he was at work during another one of his late night shifts. He hasn’t been able to be around you for long for the last couple of weeks because of being on call so often lately, so when you messaged him on your own accord for the first time in a while at almost one in the morning, all his focus was out the window. It was a good thing he was due to go home soon.

“Hey, Z. Sorry if you’re busy. Nothing’s wrong, but if you had time tomorrow, could I come by and we talk for a little bit? Love you.”

He wasn’t waiting until tomorrow. Especially when he tried to text and call you and you didn’t answer any attempt. And not when you texted him like that. No emojis, no babe, no lovebug, not even an I in saying that you love him. So when he finally was able to get out of the hospital, the first thing he did was drive to your home.

He doesn’t know about the mental turmoil you’ve been dealing with. He doesn’t know that it’s been going on long before he started getting really busy.

You’ve been feeling insecure about, well, everything. About you not feeling like you’re good enough for someone as talented, intelligent, and handsome as your boyfriend, feeling like he deserves someone who can match him in ways you believe you’re incapable of doing. The distance hasn’t helped, and all you could think of was all the pretty doctors and nurses that he’s around everyday, all the women he encounters on the daily who are undoubtedly just as enamored by him as you were when you first laid your eyes on him.

You tried to convince yourself that this was just you having a moment of weakness, that you simply missed him so much that your brain couldn’t help but try and pin something on you since you haven’t seen him in what feels like forever. It got so bad that you genuinely wondered if he was working overtime, longer than usual, just to get away from you.

Because you knew Zayne was never that cruel, you came to the conclusion that it was time to talk, to tell him that perhaps breaking up is good for the both of you so he doesn’t have to deal with you.

You were rehearsing all of what you hoped you could properly communicate in your bed, when you got a text.

“I’m outside. Please open the door.”

Your whole body froze. He wasn’t supposed to be here now. But you couldn’t just leave him out there, so you dragged yourself out of bed to get ready to tell him something you’d never be prepared enough to say.

His eyes were full of curiosity, confusion, and concern when you stood face to face. He was so worried that he didn’t even bother removing his coat or making himself comfortable. Instead, he just turned your light on so that he could see you properly.

“I got your text, yet you didn’t respond to me when I tried to message and call you back. You’ve worried me. Tell me, what’s wrong?”

You swallow, feeling the tears in your eyes burn as you tried to get yourself right to say what you needed to. But every time you looked into his worrying eyes, your heart cracked. For yourself and for the fact that even with the love in them, you couldn’t help but feel like you were undeserving of it.

“I think we need to break up, Zayne,” you rush out, shutting your eyes and breathing out as if you were being held underwater. No amount of tugging on your pajama sleeve was going to ease your nerves, so you resorted to your fingers, picking at the skin until it hurt.

Zayne hated that. He placed a large palm on both of your hands, looking down at them before he looked up at you.

“Is it something I’ve done wrong? Because of my recent increase in absence?” he studies you, trying to look for any of your ticks to try and see if you’ll lie.

“I just—” the tears fall loosely, rushing down your cheeks. Instead of piecing your thoughts together, they just start spilling out uncontrollably. “I just believe you deserve so much more than me, than what I offer you. I could never be what you need, what you deserve. You’re one of the youngest and most successful surgeons in the world, Zayne. You are so perfect that it makes me wonder how I was so lucky to be given someone like you. And because of that it’s best for me to just let you go so that you—“

“Stop,” he interrupts you. “You don’t get to tell me what I deserve when everything and all I’ve ever wanted, needed, is standing right in front of me, trying to leave.”

Your heart beats rapidly from the intense emotions and heavy stress you’ve weighed upon yourself.

“I could lose my job, lose everything I’ve ever earned in this life, and the only thing that would keep me going is you, do you understand that?” He reaches his hand up to cup your face. “But because you’ve come to me with this, it’s obvious that I’ve failed in making sure you know and understand how special you are to me. And it is my responsibility to instill that security in you and us, again.”

He leans forward, pressing his lips to yours. He shut all of that down before you had the chance to dig an unnecessary hole deeper, even if that uncertainly is still in the back of your mind.

“I will listen to your concerns and I will mend your heart, but I will not let you discredit or talk down on the only person I’ll only and will ever, love. Is that fair?”

You nod, unable to speak due to embarrassment, relief, and even because of that tinge of fear in your chest. “I’m sorry,” you only mumble.

“There’s no need to apologize to me. It’s my fault for letting these thoughts have the chance to stew in your pretty mind when I know that reassurance is one of the things that keeps us strong. We’re okay, my love. We always will be.”

Sylus

When you started ignoring Sylus’ text messages today, he tried to give you the benefit of the doubt. You had times where you forgot to even look at your phone, so he couldn’t fault you. His kitten, funnily enough, was still human. He was bothered that you had only spoken with him once this morning and it was almost five in the evening now.

Even then, he figured that since he’ll see you later, you can tell him what was so much more important than him while he teased you about it. But when you ignored his phone calls, he knew there was a problem.

You never missed a call from him because his ringtone was the song he had playing when he asked to be your boyfriend. It was a beautiful night on a luxurious rooftop restaurant that he rented for the night as a special way to romance you. It was unique and the song always had you smiling, floating to your phone when you went to pick up as that same dreamy memory replayed in your mind. So now that you’re not answering, his anger and concern began to mend together.

“She’s home?” Luke says with confusion when he gives Sylus your location. He had him find you after his first and only attempt to call you went to voicemail.

“Boss, did you do something?” Kieran asks, his tone laced with shock. You never got like this and the only thing he could think was that after almost three years together, you must’ve had your first real big fight that they were unaware of.

Prepared to debunk that theory, he suddenly got the text message that had him in front of your house faster than anything or anyone could comprehend.

“I’m breaking up with you, Sylus. I’m so sorry.”

Sylus angry was scary—because he didn’t look angry. He had the face that you could compare to a sleeping baby; calm, peaceful unbothered. But under the surface, he was one wrong sentence away from losing his shit.

Your door was thrown open, broken off the hinges when you ran into your living room. His head quirked to the side when he saw you. Puffy and eyes, runny nose, oversized clothing in a relatively warm house. He didn’t know what was wrong, but running from him? He wasn’t allowing it.

“It seems you’ve gotten my attention as you anticipated, sweetie.” He steps toward you, feeling his heart twist with concern as you look at everything but his eyes. “You ignore me, and I allow it all day. Yet to repay me for my generosity, my sweet kitten decides to push her luck and sends me nonsense.”

His playful attempt to control himself drops when he thinks of how prepared you were to just send him that message as if he would ever just accept such a thing. “There is nothing above me that I an incapable of fixing when it comes to keeping you happy. Talk to me. Tell me what needs to be done so that we can resolve it together like we’re supposed to.”

You taught Sylus what real communication was. In this moment, he’s thankful for it because he’s determined to use it to get rid of all your worries and concerns. He tilts your chin up when you refuse to look at him and that sends the waterworks rushing again.

Sylus has been so busy that this was the first night you would’ve seen him face to face in over a month. A part of the reason as to why you were driven to send him that message is because you felt like he was only ready to see you since you nagged him so much.

Even if you didn’t seem to understand that, it couldn’t be further away from the truth for the man looking down at you with determination. Being away from you was hard, but your safety meant more to him than anything. Being apart from you was necessary to ensure nothing ever touched a hair on your head while he handled things you didn’t need to concern yourself with.

Between him being gone and the type of charismatic man he is, you firmly believed that Sylus would inevitably find someone better. You became so dependent on him in a way that made you feel desperate. You felt that maybe you were way in over your head, that this separation was needed so that you could accurately reflect.

You believe that he should have someone secure in themselves, someone who could keep up with him. Someone that was better than you, someone more than you’d ever be.

“I’ve been thinking… And I believe that it’s good for the both us to separate. I didn’t intend to drop this on you, not like this. I just feel like I’m not worthy of you—that you’re a man that women would give nothing but the best to. All I want is for you to get the things that make you happy, not have you settling for something like me.”

You’re surprised that he actually let you finish.

He breathes out, shaking his head slightly. “For someone so smart, your mind must’ve worked tirelessly to convince you to believe something so ridiculous.”

His thumb runs along your bottom lip, staring at them before he looks into your eyes. “It insults me that you don’t think that I know what I want, that I know what I deserve. It insults me that you would belittle the only real thing I’ve ever had in my life, so boldly. It angers me, that I’ve not done my part to properly ensure that you know that you are the only person alive that I would destroy this planet and myself for.”

Your breath hitches when he pulls you closer. “If you ever believed for a second, that I’d let you simmer in this darkness, that I’d let you leave me, I need to do a better job in showing you the kind of man whose children you’ll carry.” He kisses your nose. “Whose ring you’ll bear.” Another kiss to your lips. “Whose heart you will always own.” A final one to your forehead.

“Sylus…” you whimper, feeling the emotions bubble inside you again, threatening to spillover. You want to believe that what you sent was a spark of simple insecurity. But you know it’s been inside you long enough for it to erupt the way it did.

It’s the fact that he would never even allow you to deal with any of this on your own that makes your tears spill.

“You don’t need to say anything, pretty.” He rubs the tears away, one by one as they come. “The only thing you need to tell me are ways we can make sure that this belief never plagues your mind again and how I can keep you confident in my love for you.”

He simply takes your hand, walking out of your apartment and makes a phone call to have your door repaired tonight because you’ll be staying with him until further notice.

“You’re stuck with me for life, kitten. Not even death could keep me from you. And I’m going to make sure that you always understand that.”

[-harmonytbh]

the wayward kind still love deep

summary: Smoke returns to the Delta after years of war and silence, he seeks the woman he never stopped loving, but the past, both sweet and bitter, won’t let them move on without a fight. (angst, longing)

pairing: smoke x black plus sized!reader, platonic!stack x reader

warnings: cursing, mentions of war, sexual tension and suggestive content.

author's note: I haven't written fanfics since my Team Mindless days, but I'm a Mississippi girl obsessed with Sinners and decided to give it a go...be easy on me. will definitely continue this. Also, a comma hates to see me coming, so ignore any improper punctuation and typos. This was one of those do it scared moments lol

Nothing prepared her for the light rapping against her window shutters before dawn that morning. She leaned bleary-eyed over the windowsill trying to make sense of the dark figure gazing up at her from the dewy ground below her window. The cicadas were still screeching their nightly song, and lightning bugs flitted here and there.  Once her eyes acclimated to the inky darkness she knew instantly. Felt it in her bones. Felt it in the thump-thump-thump of her heart against her ribcage. It was Elijah…or “Smoke” now, she supposed. Some time around their thirteenth year, she watched the light leave Elijah’s eyes. She noticed the way the smooth brown surface of his face became a brick wall not even she could penetrate. Smiles were few and far between, laughter even more rare. That was Smoke. The Elijah she knew was foolhardy and goofy, the first to crack a joke or play a prank with his other half—the easygoing and charming Elias, or “Stack” now. Yes, the Moore boys were men now and with that came new identities and an air of mystique that alienated them. 

“Smoke?” She called out cautiously. She knew it was him. Of course, she knew it was him. She’d bet her left pinky toe on it, but the question was more of a inquiry about what the hell he wanted with her at the ass-crack of dawn after seven years of silence. 

“Yeah it’s me honey. Come fishin’ wid me,” he called back plainly. Like it was normal. Like it was broad daylight. Like it wasn’t THE ASS-CRACK of dawn. 

“So I s’pose them German trenches an’ Chicago gangways finally rid ya of whatever lil sense ya did have Lijah, huh?” 

“So I s’pose ya want me tuh make a scene in fronta God and evr’ybody, huh?” He retorted easily, and she had no doubt he would make good on his promise. She kissed her teeth and stepped away from her window. 

He sighed audibly as he saw the light from her oil lamp wash her room in golden light. Smoke swore to himself if he ever came back to the Delta for her that he would come proper. Ask her family for her hand and do all the typical gentlemanly shit. And there would be time for that, but he and Stack had just rolled into town an hour ago under the cloak of darkness with stolen money, beer, wine, and enough stories to fill a library. He wasn’t feeling too gentlemanly. He wanted—no—needed to see her as soon as the tires on the truck crunched to a halt at the gravel fork in their shared road. He would make an honest woman out her if that’s what she wanted, but for tonight, all he wanted to do was sneak off into the night like they used to do before all of this. Before he was one half of the notorious SmokeStack twins, before he was drafted to fight for a country that spit in his face when his shiny boots reconnected with the soil that was made of him and held his mother and father. Smoke shoved his trembling hands into the rough tweed of his neatly tailored pants and felt around for a cig to calm his nerves. As he flicked the lighter, she emerged from the house looking more beautiful than any woman had a right to look before the first tinges of daylight threatened the horizon. His heart slammed in his chest. His girl, in the flesh. Not in a fleeting fever dream under the barrage of artillery, not in the hazy memory of a daydream before running a play. She stood before him, all woman, every luscious inch of her. His eyes raked over her possessively, committing this new iteration of her to memory for later…hopefully there would be no need for later. She was all legs and mouth last time he saw her, but in his absence she had blossomed into a beautiful woman. Filled out was too loose a description for the way she had transformed over these past seven years, and he felt the male parts of him stirring at the thought of what other parts of her had matured while he was away. He shook his head to banish the thought, hopefully there would be need for that later. She cocked her head to the side, curls spilling from beneath a bandana she tied around the front of her head, a mild flash of annoyance in her eyes. 

“An’ how ya figure we gon’ fish with no poles or bait Elijah?” she rasped sleepily, looking around him for evidence of fishing materials and tutting when her suspicions were validated. 

“Yo Pa still keeps some fixins in the shed, right?” he said back hopefully, watching as she turned on her heels and switched toward the back of the house muttering under her breath.  

“Good God a’mighty,” he groaned just low enough for her to faintly make out. 

“Stop lookin’ at me like that Lijah, ‘fore I knock da fire from ya mannish ass,” she spat over her shoulder before gesturing at him to help her open the rickety shed door. 

After grabbing what they needed, they set off toward the creek on at the back of her family’s property. Their spot. An uncomfortable silence enveloped them as the meandered through the dark, the cacophony of the Mississippi countryside punctuating their steps as the full moon overhead washed everything in a dreamy milky haze. 

“I must be dreaming,” she thought to herself, “Surely I fell off that mare yesterday, and I’m laid up in my mama’s bed hallucinatin’.” 

“Where Stack?” She finally asked after several minutes of tense silence. She didn’t miss the quick smirk at the mention of his brother. Still partners in crime. 

“Restin' back at the house. Surely he’ll wait and come pay ya a visit at a more respectable hour, unlike his uncouth pig of a brother,” he joked back easily, and she found herself smiling despite herself. 

She had missed him—both of them. For their early childhoods they were inseparable. As time went on, and life got rough, she and the twins clung to each other. When Smoke was eventually drafted and Stack joined him in service voluntarily, it wounded her. She was unsure how she would continue without their company. Her days were filled with chores around the farm, learning roots at the feet of her mama, and missing the Moore boys somethin’ fierce. She’d send many a letter by Lil Sammie, hoping they made it all those miles away to them, but aside from a short postcard from Stack from Paris, she didn’t hear a peep. 

“An’ why couldn’t ya wait, Smoke?” She asked stopping to square her shoulders in his direction. He removed his cap and rested it against his chest. Her breath caught at the serious gaze in his eyes, the moonlight fanning out over his lashes that seemed to stretch further than any cotton field she’d ever seen. His jaw jumped in the way it only did when he had something to say and didn’t know how to spit it out. 

“Cause I missed ya honey, an’ I couldn’t go another minute without layin’ eyes on ya,” he replied frankly, not daring to break eye contact. So there it was. The perfect words…six years too late. 

“It only took ya half a decade to say that, Elijah. What in the hell that s’posed tuh do fuh me now? I’m happy. Livin’ my life. Don’t come disturbin’ me now cause ya figured out whatever is out dere in dat big wide world of your’n ain’t shit,” she spat back through hot tears. 

You could say many many things about the twins, but you can’t say they didn’t have audacity. Ever since they were boys, they bent the world around them to their will. They walked like God sewed gold into the seat of their britches, and they helped him hang the stars with their own hands. Damn her if she didn’t believe it herself for a while. That was before she met Titus. Now, she didn’t especially love Titus, but she liked him just fine. He was kind, thoughtful, and sensible. He wanted a simple life with her and maybe a few kids, maybe not. What more can she ask for? Not this, this being jerked around by Elijah. Yes she still loved him, never stopped and probably never will, but he wasn’t the marrying kind. 

“I know, baby. I know. I got all ya letters from Sammie. I still have every single one. They kept me from losin’ my good sense over there in the war. Knew I had someone waiting on me tuh git back, knew I had somethin' tuh live for,” he cooed lowly, stepping forward to envelop her into an embrace. 

She jumped back like he was a scalding hot pot. Just like that, the cage of his countenance returned, and he continued stomping toward the creek. 

“Knew ya weren’t gon’ be my biggest fan darlin’ but damn. I expected a warmer reception than dis heah,” he spat bitterly, shaking his head adorned in immaculate waves. 

“Well damn, Smoke. What did ya really expect? I wrote cha fuh years, waited on ya fuh years. Didya think time stops fuh Elijah Moore?” 

He stopped in his tracks and spun around quickly.  

“Nuh uh, never, but I thought it might fuh us,” he said simply before stopping down by the creek bank and unceremoniously dropping their poles and bait. 

“At any rate princess, somethin’ made ya saddity ass come out tuh come fish wid me, so might as well enjoy the moment, huh?” He grumbled before lighting another cigarette. 

“Fuck ya, Elijah Moore,” she said, jutting her chin forward, white hot shame blooming in her chest. He was right, he still had a hold on her and even though she wanted to hate him, wanted to tell him to take a long walk off a short ledge, she knew she would do anything to share this moment with him. 

“If only I was that lucky, baby.” 

Part Two

[elieenaliak]

Thinking about Caleb taking care of his girl - mc/ fem!reader - so much, that he won’t put up with her spending any of her hard-earned money

After shutting your door for you, Caleb walks around the front of the car into the drivers seat, shuffling with the seatbelt as he turns the key in the ignition.

You hum to yourself in the meantime and find your lipstick in your bag—your new lipstick, a little more luxe this time, just the right shade to compliment your skin, a treat for yourself after finishing up a project at work. Just a little gift you deserved. You flip down the sun visor and open the mirror, making a pretty o with your lips to carefully apply it, stifling a smile when you feel Caleb watching.

“Where’s that from, baby?” he asks, a hand smoothing up your back.

“Hm?”

“The—uh…” His hand lifts, fingers hesitating near his lips as his eyes linger on yours. “The lipstick. That’s… new?”

You smile, the corners of your mouth tilting up. "Yeah. Just tried it now." You wrap your arms around his bicep for a quick, soft squeeze, then reach up to cradle his face, pecking his cheek - leaving soft pink mark behind. "You like it?"

He nods, almost absently, like he’s still trying to find the right words. Then, softer—surer: “Yeah. It’s… pretty.” A small pause. “Looks good on you.”

But his smile falters, and it has you pouting.

“What?”

“Nothing…” He shrugs. “Just don’t remember buying it. You used my card, right?”

You shake your head. “No, I bought it myself. It wasn’t expensive, honey, I promise.” Half true, at the very least.

“Yeah?” He blinks, then gently shifts back just enough to reach into his coat pocket, fishing out the wad of cash that’s accumulated there. “How much was it, baby? I’ll pay you back.”

“Caleb, I didn’t ask you to do that.”

“Yeah, well, I’m doing it anyway.” He counts out one, two, three twenties—

“Caleb, put that away—”

He looks up at you, raises his brows, dishes out a fourth and a fifth. “What?” He doesn’t hesitate for a second, folding the bills in half before leaning over the console to slip them into your purse. As he does, he presses a quick kiss to your cheek—light and teasing, knowing exactly what it’ll do. He grins, just a little, watching the way your attention drifts. One hand rests casually on the wheel—strong, veined, just enough to make you pause—and the other gently holds your jaw, guiding you toward him. He kisses you again, this time softly at the corner of your mouth, careful not to mess up the lipstick. “Use my card next time, yeah? Doesn’t matter what it’s for.”

You frown. “But I feel bad . . . I make my own money, you know.”

“You’re not supposed to spend your money, baby, you’re supposed to spend mine.”

He lifts your chin with two fingers—gentle, but sure—guiding your gaze back to him when you try to look away. His eyes search yours, steady and soft.

“Let me take care of you, sweetheart.” He presses a kiss to your lips—slow and certain, like a promise. “That’s what I’m here for.”

And honestly… when he says it like that, it’s hard to do anything but let him.

[plant-diets2savehumans]

Totally. Whole process is. Using a super-heated blade to saw through young chickens’ beaks (which do have nerve endings by the way) and slice off their toes like declawing cats (except the cats of course get the luxury of anesthetic). Hacking the testicles off of baby piglets without a proper surgery room like they’re FGM victims. Then chopping off their ears like we do for dogfighting breed prep. Tails too.

Can’t have pigs chewing on other out of stress and boredom of lifelong confinement, see. No-painkiller disfigurement is preferable. I mean you don’t want them getting infected and dying before they’re supposed to be stabbed in the throat, right? That would be cruel.

Then, after machinery fails to kill some of them and they’re thrashing around on hooks still alive and still being dismembered, they’re conventionally blended up in a slurry for you so you don’t have to do all that frivolous chewing. Your yummy chicken nuggies are soooo metal. Here’s one for a good widdle boi. You’re so metal. You’re such a top predator for goin to the grocery mart.

i like how at five guys they're like oh you want one burger okay "ONE LITTLE BURGER" and then the guy cooking the burger is like "ONE LITTLE BURGER FOR BABY FAGGOTS THAT CAN ONLY HANDLE ONE PATTY COMING UP" and then if you can't finish it they make you wear a maid costume and handcuff you to the sink in the men's bathroom