#just setting up a future plot point | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sunnami · 1 year ago

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❝i am half-agony, half-hope. . . i have loved none but you.❞

summary: how the marauders loved you in their time. featuring harry potter the time-traveller and sixth-wheel.

pairing/s: poly!marauders + lily x reader.

tags: reader is referred to as she/her and a mother throughout the whole fic[!], reader is a violent gremlin who craves blood but the marauders love you for that, implied child abuse[!], mentions of blood and violence[!], disgustingly sappy poetic fluff, no angst, happy ending, not proofread we die like finnick odair, edited: very minor detail.

note: there is little plot, it’s just the marauders and their adoration for you. thank you all so much for your kind responses to my first marauders fic :(( ilysm! i hope you enjoy this one as well! because there are parts when i was writing that i ended up kicking my feet in the air and smiling to myself.

“MY NAME IS HARRY POTTER. I come from twenty-years in the future, you’re my mum — one of my ‘em, actually. It’s complicated. And you’re married to James Potter, Remus Lupin, and Sirius Black.”

You blink.

“Get the fuck out of my room!”

Harry James Potter has dodged many things in his life. Killing curses, jinxes, girls, Draco Malfoy, and Dudley’s sloppy punches, but he’s never had to dodge his sixteen-year-old mother’s fuzzy slipper before. (Godric, that sounds weird, even in his head.) He doesn’t know precisely how he arrived here. In the Slytherin common room, to be exact, in your dorm. Harry remembers duelling with Death Eaters, Hermione calling his name, and a flash of light hitting him square in the chest, then he remembers waking up in the cold tiles of the snake dungeon. He nearly throws himself off the window when he meets your eyes, bleary from interrupted sleep — it’s not often he gets to meet [read: one of] his dead parents, after all, three had been brutally murdered by Voldemort, and one killed by his own loony cousin. He misses Sirius, though. A lot. And right about now, he could do with some of Hermione’s nagging and brilliant plan-making.

At present — or past, Harry guesses — he watches you scramble out from your duvet, hand clumsily reaching for your wand as you snarl at him. He wonders if his mother knows that he’s encountered other creatures far more threatening than her. Oh shit, he realizes with all the forces of an angry Hermione Granger, isn’t this the last thing he’s supposed to do? But, well, Harry has given, and given, so much of himself all for the greater good — just this once, he’d like to see his parents alive and well. Even if they were currently trying to blast him into the walls.

“If you’d just let me explain, mum—!” Harry pleads, nearly dropping his glasses after dodging one of your stinging hexes. Godric, you’re crazy. “Please!”

“Stop calling me that!” You screech, eyes set ablaze. Harry finds that you’re quite dynamic with your attacks. A hairbrush, followed by a stinging jinx, then a thick History of Magic textbook — which rudely hits him in the face, but he doesn’t dare complain because you’re his mother, and he’s respectful like that — and after you’ve exhausted your breath, running him into a corner, and your nostrils flare with the stubbornness of a lion, you point the tip of your wand at him. “If this is another one of the Prewett’s shitty pranks, I want you to leave! You are in the girls’ dormitory beyond midnight, and so help me, if you aren’t walking out that door in the next five seconds, I will kill you and string you up by your bottoms for everyone in school to see! Maybe all your stupid rumours of me being a Death-Eater might come true after all!”

“You’re a Death-Eater?” Harry asks dumbly.

You growl furiously, and Harry figures that was not the right thing to say. “I wonder what McGonagall would say if I delivered your head to her on a silver platter.”

“Professor,” Harry corrects with a toothy grin. “Professor McGonagall.”

You slam his head against the wall.

Definitely the wrong thing to say.

Harry groans, little Dobby heads floating around his vision. Why was this so much harder than actually facing Voldemort? Quick, he needed to think of something, otherwise he’d end up eviscerated to ashes on your cold, stone floors. Harry is pretty sure you’d use his remains as decoration to send off a message to your enemies.

“You hate your father,” Harry slurs through the pain, remembering Remus’s stories of how you were the gentlest magical being he’s ever had the privilege to love — now that Harry thinks about it, Remus was being extremely biased, nothing about you is gentle at all. “He’s forcing you to marry someone old enough to be your grandfather. You love to read Muggle literature but had to stop when your father burnt your whole collection of books. Your favorite novel is Persuasion by Jane Austen. It’s the one book you carry with you everywhere, you could never get tired of it.”

Your grip on his shoulders falters, but the fury in your eyes crackles. “This isn’t funny.”

“It’s not meant to be funny, mum,” Harry croaks, voice cracking pathetically — strange how this is the most he’s ever uttered the word, mum; it’s a peculiar string of letters, foreign on his tongue. “You have tremors in your left leg from when your father cast the Cruciatus curse on you. One of your dearest friends is a Hogwarts house-elf named Pipley. You cheated on your Transfiguration essay once, and—”

“That’s enough!” You bark, eyes narrowed in dangerous slits. “I don’t know where you heard those from, you creepy, little stalker, but if you want to keep breathing, then I suggest you shut up.”

Harry scoffs — you don’t understand. Everything he’s learned about you is from Sirius and Remus. They talk about you with whispered devotion, your name like a prayer on their lips, their eyes glazed with wistfulness as though they could see you reaching out for them — but you were dead in Harry’s time. Yet, you might as well have been alive with their tales of you.

(“She’s a different kind of beautiful,” Sirius had said, a year after breaking out from Azkaban, sitting by the fire in Grimmauld Place, taking a swig of decade-old firewhiskey, “The kind of beautiful you don’t want to take your eyes off from because you’re afraid she’ll disappear from your eyes. But you won’t forget her, oh no, you’ll memorize the freckles and moles on her skin, the scars from her years, the light in her eyes, and the way she holds her head up high. You should have seen her, James, she. . . she was — is glorious.”)

“I told you,” says Harry firmly — although he loves his mother very much, she’s beginning to wear him out, “My name is Harry James Potter, I come from twenty-years in the future. You are one of my parents.” A lightbulb flashes in his head. He squirms in your hold, reaching for his robe pocket until he finds the thing he’s looking for. Harry dangles the ring in front of you, grinning in success when your eyes flash in recognition. “It’s—”

“A family heirloom,” You say breathlessly. The alexandrite winks under the light, a familiar gold band with the Latin inscription of your House words. “Where did you steal this from?”

Harry rolls his eyes. “You left it for me in my Gringotts vault. It’s my heirloom now. You have to believe me, there’s no way you can deny this.”

You take a step backwards, nibbling on your lower lip, as you stagger to your bed — Harry nearly stumbling to catch you in case you fell; adjusting to the living proof of time travel was quite difficult, he, of all people, should know. He exhales, dragging a hand down his face. “Magic, amirite?”

You throw a pillow at him, which he catches gracefully thanks to his Seeker reflexes, as you plop down in the comforts of your quilts. “Sleep. The other girls won’t be back until the end of the holiday. We can deal with whatever this is in the morning. It’s way too early for me to process the idea of a future Potter spawn following me around.”

Harry smiles. “Yes, mum.”

ONE THING THAT his fathers failed to tell him about you, and that Harry had to learn himself, was that you took ages to get ready. You sat on the chair in front of your vanity mirror, the birch wood legs whittled with snakes, and it was as though you had a Sticking Charm on the cushion. Harry didn’t know there could be so many creams, oils, and serums, and powders one put on their face. He blanches when you turn to offer him a cream for his under eyes. (“Suit yourself.” You shrug, turning to brush your cheek with dusts of pink. “Just saying, those dark circles aren’t doing you any favors.”)

“What am I like in the future?” You ask, a kind lilt to your voice, much like a warm hug, much like home.

Harry stiffens, shoving his hands in pockets of the robes that were twice his size — you had given him the garments of Lucius Malfoy to change in, which you apparently had stolen from his room. It’s come full circle, really, the Sorting Hat had once told him he would be great in Slytherin, and now here he was, looking fabulous in green — because he was about to hurl at the feel of the velvet on his skin, knowing slimy Lucius Malfoy had worn it. (“No son—” You pause with a tight purse in your lips, as if you still can’t accept the fact. Harry doesn’t blame you. “—no son of mine will be parading around in red of all colors, future or not.” And Harry finds that he really doesn’t care, so long as you call him your son.)

“Loved,” replies Harry gruffly, avoiding your eyes in the reflection of your mirror — they were piercing. One look and Harry wanted to spill all of his deepest, darkest secrets. He remembers the photographs in his album, the one he’s stared at so many times as a child. It’s a moving photograph of the five of you, fresh out of Hogwarts, each wearing a smile that stretched from ear-to-ear. Before Sirius and Remus, it was the only semblance of proof that Harry had — that you had once been alive. Remus is holding you by the waist in the picture, twirling you around as autumn leaves fell. You were — are — loved, and Harry thinks there’s no better description than that.

(“I bloody hated her cat,” says Remus with a roguish quirk to his lips, regalling Harry with more talks of his parents. “Sirius, too. We just never got along with the little creature. But your mother loved it, and we would have done anything to make her happy. She deserved it, you see. She deserved more than what I had to offer her, but still she chose me anyway. And I am a selfish man, Harry, I crave glimpses of her and the whispers of her voice. She has made me a mad man whose only reprieve is her touch.”)

You hum knowingly. “Stupid question, I guess. Since you aren’t allowed to reveal anything more about the future.” You sigh, gracefully threading your arms in the sleeves of your shirt, a green tie in the center of your collar. “Except, of course, when you gave me a heart attack in the middle of the night by telling me the last thing I want to become — no offense, I just don’t see how a relationship with those rowdy bunch would work. They get on my nerves far too much for me to ever feel anything other than disgust.”

Harry doesn’t need a mirror to see that his expression has contorted in confusion; brows knitted and upper lip crinkled. By their memories of you, you all were madly in love in Hogwarts. Damn. This just made his trip to the past a lot harder. No maze seems to be ever just a maze.

Luckily, you don’t notice him brewing a grand master plan to bring his parents together. Instead, you say, “But you don’t seem to be phased by any of this. If I had been thrown twenty years into the past, I would have puked my guts out twice at some point.”

“Thanks for the image,” says Harry with a scowl. Truthfully, it had either been a present with a noseless Dark Lord to face, trauma to unpack but really never have the chance to, or a past where all of his parents were alive, and a chance to talk with them for however long he has. He knows where he’ll be staying, thank you very much.

“Anytime,” You reply with an impish smile.

Your heels pad across the floor as you walk over to him, mouth clicking as you pat the top of his head, full of wild, untameable Potter hair. “You need a trim soon,” You mutter, frowning, as you brush the thick strands away from his eyes, then you gasp — and Harry knows exactly what’s coming next. “Oh, you’ve got Evans’s eyes. That’s freaky.”

“I know.” Harry grins.

“Here’s the plan,” You say as you lead him out of your room, making sure no one saw him walking out of your door and getting the wrong impression — because that would be so wrong on many levels, but also, explaining to someone else that the person beside you was a time-traveller was just complicated in general. The Slytherin dungeon is unfamiliarly familiar, eerily quiet, as the two of you made your way out. “Just say you’re Potter’s distant relative, twice or thrice removed, and you’ve always been here. If you lie to their faces enough, they’ll believe it eventually.”

“Will that work?” Harry doesn’t really mind — he needs a connection to James, his father, if he’s going to work out a connection between you and the others, because at the moment, it doesn’t seem like you’re too fond of them. There’s a tick on your jaw every time you mumble the word, Potter. Nevertheless, Harry decides he’s going to spend the duration of the holiday break trying to set you up with them — on the list of most insane things he’s ever done, living out the Parent Trap was high up the tally.

You shrug. “They’ve fallen for less.”

(“She’s got this adorable habit when she lies,” Sirius tells Harry, whipping up a stack of pancakes for their breakfast — Remus browsing through the morning paper. It’s the closest he’s ever been to a normal family. “It’s not obvious to her, of course, but I know her more than I know my own name. So we play along with it.” For a moment, he stops drizzling the maple syrup on the well-cooked batter, gazing at Remus fondly. “D’you remember that, Moony? She led us straight to one of her pranks, and we ended up covered in slug slime. She was so obvious — with her adorable fucking giggles. I need help with Charms, she said, and we knew right away it was a set-up. But it didn’t matter. I’d happily let her lead me to my ruin.”)

The Great Hall is the same as Harry remembers. Now that most have returned home for the holidays, those who stay back mingle with students from other Houses, sharing meals under the bewitched ceiling, their low murmurs and hushed Christmas greetings bouncing off the walls. Harry scours the four tables to find a hint of blazing red hair, or the scent of impending trouble. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to search very far. As fate would have it, James Potter finds you — and where he is, Sirius Black is sure to follow.

You’re barely seated when James comes bounding over to your table — more precisely, he struts, and Harry is horrified to ever be proven wrong by Snape, of all people. He ignores the roll of your eyes as he drags a leg over the bench, sitting to face you as Sirius occupies the space to your left before Harry can even sit down. He can’t even fathom how weird it is to see his parents as rambunctious teenagers. Lovesick, rambunctious teenagers.

“Morning, dove.” James preens under your glare, stealing a grape from your bowl with a boyish smirk. His hair looks as though he’s ran his hand through it many times. “You look ravishing today.”

“As always,” Sirius pipes in. “But that eyeshadow really isn’t complementing your skin tone, my darling.”

You smile at him, right before your lips twist into a cutthroat sneer. “Piss off, Black.”

James stifles a laugh as he shovels a mass of potatoes on your plate, then pumpkin pasties, and slides a steaming cup of Dragon Well tea in front of you.

“What the hell are you doing, Potter?” You reach over to smack his arm when he sprinkles apple slices and bacon on your breakfast.

“What does it look like?” James smiles lopsidedly. “You need to eat more, honey.”

(In the future, Sirius will tell Harry, “It started off as a joke, a way to get on her nerves — but then, it just became this thing about taking care of her, making sure she got enough sleep before her tests, wondering if she had breakfast or dinner, staying with her in the library, walking her to the Slytherin common room, and sending her stupid notes just to make her laugh. You don’t get it, Harry. I’d give my every breath to ensure her life. We all would.” Harry doesn’t see Sirius any more during that evening, but he hears a bottle crashing against a wall, cracking into a million pieces, and the masked sound of Sirius sobbing, and Harry decides to leave him alone for the night.)

Then, you tear your eyes away from James — he huffs, pushing your plate to you, mildly annoyed that you’ve deprived him of your eyes; they were his favorite part of you, you see, so expressive and full of life; James thinks you put the stars to shame — and thankfully, you remember that Harry still exists. You lightly smack Sirius’s leg until he gives Harry some room to sit. “Potter, meet other Potter. It’s the holidays, shouldn’t it be the perfect time to let go of House prejudices and spend time with family?”

James looks at Harry up and down. “You must be from dad’s side of the family with all that hair.”

Harry lets out a breath of relief. That was easy — way too easy. When he takes the vacant space in between you and Sirius, you dump all the available food on his plate, just as James had done for you.

“Eat,” You say with a tone of finality. “You look like the wind could snap you in half.”

“Yes, m—” Harry stops himself before he could finish his sentence, avoiding Sirius’s curious gaze.

“Wow.” Sirius pokes Harry in the shoulder and in the cheek. “You really look like a mini-James, you’ve even got his terrible eyesight.”

“Oi!”

Your fork clatters against the silverware as you turn to Sirius with a shrill. “Not that I do enjoy your company — because, trust me, I do not want you here at all and would very much prefer if you got out of my sight — but why are you here? The Gryffindor table is over there. Unless your housemates finally got sick of you, Potter, which I can definitely see happening.”

James chuckles, tossing another grape in his mouth without taking his eyes off you. “It’s as you said, isn’t it? It’s the time for putting aside House prejudices. And I think it’s a lovely day to enjoy a meal with my favorite snake.”

“Drop dead,” You retort, digging into your chicken with a little more force than necessary.

“Oh, dove.” James shakes his head, a teasing grin pulling at his lips. “It’s cute that you think death will keep me from you.”

(Harry’s been told before, probably by Sirius, that this line had been wedged into his wedding vows for you. “A dramatic one, James was,” Sirius chuckles to himself one morning, Harry and Hermione listening intently, “He always said he’d rather die than ever hurt her. There was this time in seventh year, they had a fight — it was ugly — and she had ignored him for a week. James cried in Remus’s arms begging him to cut his heart out, saying that he didn’t deserve to keep on breathing, not after making you cry.”)

“That is so creepy,” You say in disgust, scrunching your nose. Sirius chortles at your side. “I still wonder why Evans agreed to go out with you.”

“It’s all part of the charm, dove.” James winks. “It’s all part of the charm.”

Harry wants to barf, actually.

After breakfast, James then decides to introduce Harry to Lily, Remus, and Peter. (He’s gonna need the patience of a saint to not Avada Kedavra that rat on the spot.) Harry had spent the whole morning watching Sirius peel oranges and give them to you with a smitten look in his eyes — naturally, you gave whatever Sirius offered you to Harry, and each time Padfoot would visibly wilt. If he were in his Animagus form, Harry thinks he would be whining by now, tongue out and all. James and Sirius follow after you like lost puppies when you extricate yourself from the table.

“Where are you going?” James calls, hot on your heels as you leave the Great Hall.

“Away from you, Potter!”

And James actually sighs when you turn the corner and disappear from their peripheral vision. Seconds later, he turns to Harry with a blinding smile, “She’s definitely charmed.”

Harry chortles.

“Well, come on then!” James guffaws as he wraps an arm around Harry’s neck — this is so, so strange. They begin walking in the opposite direction of where you went. “I still can’t believe we’ve got another Potter here and in Slytherin. I think I would have remembered Minnie calling your name during the Sorting Ceremony. What year are you in?”

He’s supposed to start his sixth-year in a few weeks. “Fifth.” Technically.

“We should ask Lily,” says Sirius, hands in his pockets and ebony ringlets tickling his nape. “She’s got the best memory out of all of us.”

It’s odd, Harry thinks, meeting the person who’s got his eyes — or the other way around, as people have told him. It’s like someone carved out the emeralds of Lily Evans’s eyes and bestowed it upon Harry for safekeeping. She sits beside Remus Lupin, head resting on his shoulder, hands clasped together, as they enjoy the shade. Nex to them, oblivious to their intimate conversation, is Peter Pettigrew — with his rosy, cherub cheeks and innocent blue eyes; not at all the image of a pathological, cowardly liar. Their heads snap in attention as James boisterously cries for their name.

“Marauders — and Lily-pad — meet ickle Potter.” James lightheartedly whacks Harry on the back, to which Harry feels his lungs spill out from his mouth, he’s sure there’s an imprint of his father’s hand on his back now.

“There’s two Potters in Hogwarts?” Sea-green eyes look at him in scrutiny as Lily knits her brows. “How even is the castle still standing?”

James cackles like it’s the best joke he’s ever heard in his entire life, slapping his knee for dramatic effect. Oh, well, at least they’re buying Harry’s half-baked lie. At this point, it’s not even baked, it’s just wet, soggy, and poorly done. “Good one, Lily-pad!”

Sirius ruffles Remus’s shaggy blonde hair, canines bared in a wide grin. “This one here’s Moony, uptight prefect in the morning and absolute beast in the evening.”

Harry blanches. Surely he was talking about his furry problem, right? Right?

Remus doesn’t even flinch, just peels off Sirius’s hand from him and extends his hand out to Harry. “Please do not mind him. Remus Lupin, nice to meet you. Although, I can’t believe this is the first time we’ve met. We would have definitely remembered if we had another Potter in our midst.”

“It’s true, we Potters are just hard to forget,” says James, smiling cheekily.

Harry pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue. “Mum didn’t take the Potter name. I’m part Dursley. Muggle.”

Lily hums, toying at the ends of her bright hair. “Dursley, huh? What a familiar name.”

“It’s a common one,” Harry assures her — not at all the names of the people who would take him in after they died. And make his life miserable.

“I suppose you’re right,” says Lily, unconvinced.

“And this is Peter.” James introduces the boy eagerly, pride in his voice — as though this isn’t the person who literally allies himself with Voldemort. As if Peter won’t betray his friends all because of fear.

“N–Nice to meet you,” Peter stammers with a nervous fidget, “Any family of James is a friend of ours.”

Harry’s eye twitches.

IT IS ALMOST COMICAL — the way their eyes land on your figure, bursting through the courtyard from the corridors, winter cloak swishing with every step, tendrils of hair swaying in the crisp wind, and head held up high, thick books under your arms. You pause in front of the Marauders, face blank, then you turn to Peter, greeting him with a: “Hello, only Gryffindor I can tolerate.”

Peter’s cheeks burn a saccharine hue of pink. Oh, no, no, no — absolutely not — Harry will not stand for a little crush Peter Pettigrew has on his mother. He needs James to act now. “Hi,” Peter replies shyly.

Lily quirks her lips. “Hello, princess, see your score for the Astronomy test yet?”

You scowl. “Zip it, Evans.”

The sound of Lily’s laughter fills the atmosphere — it’s the sort of melody that makes flowers bloom in deserts. “Had a bit of difficulty with the star charts?”

Sirius pinches your cheek — Harry thinks you’re going to murder him on the spot. “Difficulty? I think this one just slept through the whole thing.”

James snickers. “Must have been one hell of a nap, princess. You were drooling on my jumper.”

“I most certainly do not drool!” You gasp, appalled, eyes wide as you step away from Sirius.

Sirius rolls his eyes. “What? Is drooling too barbaric for the pretty, little pure-blooded princess now? Newsflash, pet, you’re just as human as we are.”

“Oh, you horrible, loathsome, infuriating—” You whip around to beat his chest with the course book in your grasp — it’s the kind of book Hermione would consider for light reading.

“Irresistibly attractive—?” Sirius supplies for you, grin widening with as he captures your wrist with his hands.

“In your dreams!” You shrill.

You exhale slowly, eyes closing, chest rising when you take a sharp inhale. You open your eyes and stare straight at Harry — for a moment he fears that you’ll bite his head off. “Harry, dear, will you accompany me to the library? I think I’ve found something important regarding your situation.”

Harry nods. “Is it time already?”

“Yes,” You say firmly. “And time is of the essence. Come on.”

“Wait!” Lily calls out to you as you turn to head back to the castle, Harry in tow — he tries to avoid the way James is glaring at your linked arms. “Hogsmeade next week?”

Your jaw falls to the ground — this must have been unrehearsed, if the others’ reactions were anything to go by; Remus had dropped his book in shock, Sirius looked like he couldn’t decide between applauding Lily’s bravery or shaking her, and James was somehow frozen in time. “Excuse me?”

“You’re excused, princess,” says Lily, dimples poking out of her cheek as she takes another step towards you. “You, me, Hogsmeade. A date. I’m sure you’ve gone on one of those before.”

Harry elbows your stomach as you stare at Lily in shock. It takes a few moments to break you out of your stupor. “A–And what makes you think I’ll just go with you?”

Lily shrugs. “I’m fit. Aren’t I, Remus?”

“The fittest,” says Remus without missing a beat.

You laugh incredulously. “Do you just expect me to go along with this? You’re mad, Evans.”

Harry glares at you. You need to go along with this.

“Are you scared, princess?” Lily’s face is inches away from yours, noses almost touching — Harry doesn’t know if he should keep watching this painful way of flirting — as she grins at you, happiness barely contained within her eyes.

To your credit, you don’t back down. (Harry has to say this for the masses: he saw your gaze flitter down to Lily’s lips for a split second.) “Stop calling me that, Evans.”

“One date, then.”

You growl in exasperation, eyes flickering to the boys behind her back — pretending not to hear their conversation. “I suppose I’ll have to deal with them as well?”

Lily beams and Harry swears sunflowers could grow in her direction. “We’re a package deal.”

“Unfortunately,” You utter — but Harry notices it, the lack of venom in your voice. You straighten your posture, nose lifted haughtily, “I choose where we’re going.”

“Done.” The sun peeks out from the cloud just as Lily smiles at you.

“And I want to—”

“Done,” Remus interjects raspily, peering up at you from underneath his lashes. “Anything you want, it’s yours.”

You fight a growing smile, but continue, “If we’re going out in public, you’re going to have to wear—”

“Done,” says James giddily, he looks as though he could kiss you in front of everyone without a care in the world.

“You can’t just agree to anything I say!” You flap your arms in frustration.

“Yes, dear,” Sirius teases.

“Do you know how much you piss me off, Black?” You squawk. “Because you are this close to—”

“You are so fucking beautiful,” Sirius confesses, every pretense shed raw from his skin, sincerity pouring from his words.

“I—” You falter, heat rushing to your cheeks. “You’ve gone mad.”

“It’s your fault, dove,” says James, eyes twinkling like crescent moons as he smiles. “You best take accountability for this.”

“You’re incorrigible — all of you,” You say as you avoid their gazes.

(But they were yours. Past, present, and future. They loved you so much that their soul was no longer their own — it was yours; yours to keep, yours to break, and yours to love. It would be unjust to ask them why they loved you. Do we ask why the sun rises each day without rest? Do we ask a daisy to stop blooming, or a tree to stop growing after it has endured storms and floods? After all, we do not ask why humans follow the light in a tunnel shrouded in darkness.)

“Come on, Harry, let’s go.” You reach for his hand, he notices immediately that the tips of your ears are pink, and your palms are warm with sweat. He barely sees Peter wave goodbye before you tug him in the direction of the castle entrance.

“Wait up!” Remus catches up to you two in quick strides, offering to carry your books for you — not that you agree, stubborn Slytherin that you are. “I’ll walk you to the library.”

“There’s no need for that, Lupin, thank you.” You dodge his eyes, lips tightly pressed together, nails slightly digging into Harry’s arm.

“Remus,” He says with a twinkle. “Call me Remus.”

“Alright.” You pause. “Remus.”

(In that moment, Remus wonders if you remember decking Lucius Malfoy in the face to defend him in your fourth year. He didn’t think he deserved to even breathe in the same air as you — the pure-blooded princess, dressed in clothing worth more than his life, adorned in jewelry he could only dream to afford, raised to believe she was better than everyone else. Then, you beat up Evan Rosier the next month in the courtyard, eyes ablaze, extravagant silk marred with grass stains and mud, and knuckles split open. You spit blood on the ground, looking at Lily then back at Rosier. “Red,” You say, kicking him one last time in the stomach, unafraid of McGonagall’s wrath growing louder and louder. “Just like everyone else. Like those Muggleborns you fear. We’ve all got dirty blood, Rosier. Suck it up.”

“I’ll tell your father about this!” Rosier bellows through bloody teeth.

“Tell him!” You grab his neck and slam your forehead against his. “Tell him that I decide my own future now!”

Remus doesn’t even have to think about it.

He falls in love.)

FUNNILY ENOUGH, IT’S LILY who gives you her heart first, before anyone else does. It’s the last month of her first year at Hogwarts — it still hasn’t quite sunk in yet that she was a witch. Her, not Petunia, but her — Lily Evans, the witch. Apparently, some people can’t believe it either. A girl from Ravenclaw calls her this foul word, she’s heard it a few times now but it always hurts the same. James and Sirius get into a fight for her honor, now faced with detention later this evening. But she can’t help but wonder, what if they were right? What if she really didn’t belong in this world? It was too good to be true, anyway. Perhaps she’ll just run a flower boutique with Petunia.

“Oi.”

The sound of your voice startles her, and she nearly topples over in the Great Lake. Lily catches sight of your Slytherin colors and resigns herself to another round of name-calling. “What do you want?”

“They’re wrong, you know,” You tell her, ignoring Lily’s question. You look down on her with your nose raised arrogantly — she wishes she could be like you. Born to be magic. “You’ve got a terrifying brain locked up in your head there, Evans. And they know it, too. They’re scared.”

Lily scoffs. “I’m just a Mudblood to them. There’s nothing to be intimidated by.”

You sneer. “Don’t say that word. You’re more than that. More than them. They’ve got long ways to go to prove they have a place in this world. But you — you’ve defied the odds and you were destined to become magic. You don’t have to prove anything. You have the right to be in the wizarding world and no one can take that away from you.”

Then, you pivot on your heels, not bothering to hear her reply. “You’re my rival now, Evans. Do keep up. We’ve got an Astronomy test tomorrow. I look forward to seeing how you do then.”

Lily just gapes. She’s certain there’s butterflies in her stomach. Her heart thumps wildly against her ribcage. Lily raises her hands to feel her blushing cheeks. There’s a light unfamiliar sensation in her stomach — like the urge to kick her legs and scream into a pillow, or more precisely, chase after you and hold your hand.

She stiffens.

Oh.

part two

#hp angst #hp fluff #hp imagine #hp x reader #james potter x reader #lily evans x reader #marauders angst #marauders fluff #marauders imagine #marauders x reader #sirius black x reader #poly!marauders x reader #poly!marauders fluff #remus lupin x reader

7K notes · View notes

miaoua3 · 9 days ago

Text

Ghost of Your Dreams

Pairing: bf!scoups x f!reader

Genre: smut (MDNI), size kink, no protection (don’t be silly wrap the willy), dom!scoups, spanking, choking, spitting, degradation(slight), praise, cosplay! ghost

Description: all it took was one comment of your and here he was, embarrassed and shy but ready to commit to the fullest in order for him to fulfil your fantasy

Note: everyone went berserk last year when i posted on my tiktok as what characters id like to see svt as for halloween and put coups as ghost from cod so naturally i had to bring even more chaos and write a whole fanfic about it…enjoy hehe (post writing edit of the notes: i passionately hate this my bad guys i suck so bad. and again, not proof read so…yeah lmao)

you knew what you were getting into the very minute you first stepped a foot into your boyfriend’s s home and saw a whole professional pc set-up, with headphones and the kind of keyboard that lights up in rainbow light every time you press any key on it. you knew what to expect from him-late night gaming sessions between him and his friends, him yelling whenever he got annoyed, and a whole lot of cursing.

these are just some of the things you knew to expect.

cheol, on the other hand, never even thought what kind of an effect his hobby could have on you. he knew you would be supportive, and that you would probably use his gaming time to do and practice your own hobbies.

but now, several years into the relationship, he never even expected for you to take any special interest in his hobby, never mind for you to make such an…out-of-character comment like you did two weeks ago.

he was just starting a new game, concentrating on the plot and character dialogue so he knew what to do, when he felt you approach him from behind, carefully watching the screen right beside him.

after a few seconds, cheol sees your pretty pointer finger point at one of the characters from the screen and hears your sweet voice ask “who is that?”

cheol looks up at you with his pretty and big boba eyes, a bit of confusion visible in the way his eyebrows furrow.

“his name is simon riley, but they call him ‘ghost’.”

you only hum in response, tilting your head to the side as you carefully watch the character move around the screen. after a few seconds, you deliver a comment that will forever change seungcheol and who he is as a person.

“he’s hot.”

cheol looks at you, both in confusion and in offence, totally blindsided by the two words that have just left your mouth.

“what- why? how? you can’t even see his face because of the mask. plus, you have a boyfriend, miss. how dare you find another man other than me attractive?”

you finally look at the boyfriend in question, only to see his big cherry lips set in pout, making you smile in amusement. you bend down to hug him around his neck, softly kissing his cheek to comfort him. after you see the corner of his mouth twitch in weakness, you answer his questions.

“i don’t know, something about him is attractive, maybe the way he carries himself and the mysteriousness because of the whole mask thing.”, you muse as you go back to watching ghost on the screen.

cheol does the same, the pout still present as he looks at his favourite character, now with a bit of disdain due to your newfound attraction to him.

after a few seconds of silence, you chuckle before you add another comment that will play a big part in both your futures.

“plus, he kind of reminds me of you, baby. with all the dominance, confidence and that deep voice.”, letting another chuckle, you look him directly in the eyes, you faces only inches apart so he can see your eyes clearly as you add “who knows, maybe you should cosplay him sometime. i know i would love to see that.”

you smile at him before you let a brief kiss land on his lips before you part your body away from his and go back to laying on the bed.

you may have said it in the joking manner, but cheol knew. he saw that look in your eyes, the way your pupils were dilated, the way your smile hid something a bit darker, a bit more sinister in the corners of your lips.

he knew that you weren’t joking.

so here he is, two weeks later, on a saturday night, in the full cosplay, waiting for you to get back from work, his blushing and red face hidden behind the balaclava and mask.

he fondles with all the little belts around his body, namely his waist, chest and thighs. a bit uncomfortable, but nothing cheol couldn’t handle.

hey, anything for love, right?

cheol looks around the apartment as if it will give him an answer as to what he should do, what the plan to surprising you is, but to no avail. the nervousness and sort of excitement is getting more and more unbearable the closer your arrival is getting.

finally, he settles on hiding in the bathroom, knowing that your first move will be to check your shared bedroom to see if he’s there, making the bathroom the perfect place to hide, as it is directly across the bedroom and he can then quietly sneak up behind you.

just like he planned, cheol skilfully hides behind the bathroom door, leaving the light off and the door slightly open as to make you think he isn’t inside. he stills his movements the moment he hears the keys jingling behind the entrance door before the door click open.

you drop your keys into the little dish beside the door before hanging your bag and coat on the hanger right beside it. he hears you sigh deeply, probably meaning that you have had a long day and that you need some relaxation.

perfect.

after you take your shoes off, he hears you still for a moment, carefully listening to the sounds in your own home. after a second, he hears you call out “cheol? are you there? i’m home!”

but to no avail. because he doesn’t answer.

right in that moment, cheol's belief that he knows you better than anyone else was solidified.

because just like he predicted, he hears you take a few steps before you lightly open the door of your bedroom, peaking inside to see if your boyfriend is inside.

showtime.

ever so quietly, cheol moves until he’s standing right behind you, his eyes looking at the top of your head. he just had to smirk at your cluelessness, how you are so cutely looking for him while he’s standing directly behind you.

not being able to resist the temptation, cheol leans in until his covered lips are right by your ear before he utters in his deepest voice possible.

“looking for something, m’love?”

you gasp in shock, eyes wide as you quickly turn towards him, stumbling back so much that if it weren’t for his hand catching your arm, you would’ve fallen right onto your ass.

you gape at his tall and darkly clothed silhouette, being somewhere between shocked and in awe of your beautiful muscle-y boyfriend standing in front of you in a costume you never could’ve imagined seeing him in.

the shock lasts all but 5 seconds before the widest smile he has ever seen on you takes over your features, your pupils blown out, so much so that they appear almost completely black.

with excitement you start word-vomiting “oh my god, i can’t believe you really did this. i think this is the best day of my life. oh my god, are you gonna spank me and say that i’ve been a bad girl? or maybe-“

something about the way you look little too excited, like a kid on a christmas morning that can’t wait to open their presents, the way you smiled so wide, maybe even too widely. like cheol just walked right into your trap.

it rubbed him the wrong way, blood boiling slightly.

although that just might be the multiple layers of clothes that he’s wearing.

oh well.

wasting no time, seungcheol suddenly grabs you by your neck and pulls you towards him, making whatever words you wanted to say die on your tongue and a gasp slip out instead.

the moment your body collides with his, he uses his big and broad body to push you against the wall by your bedroom door, harshly.

your body slams against the cold white wall, and cheol has the oh shit- thought for all of half second that he might’ve pushed you too hard and that he might’ve hurt you.

that is before he hears you moan loudly at the action, throwing your head back.

little masochist.

cheol then immediately comes closer to you, crowding your space so much, until the only thing left to focus on is the mask that covers his face. his chest pushes into yours, making it that harder to breathe, and his knee finds its home right between your legs, pushing upwards until he can feel the warmth between your legs on his thigh.

your beautiful and cute eyes are already teary as you look upwards at him, desperation forming on your waterline in the form of tears.

you don’t have to see it to know that cheol is smirking at the effect he has on you, smugness dripping in his voice as he says.

“what do we have here, hm? your pussy already desperate for me, baby? but we haven’t even started.” he pauses for a second to press his covered forehead against yours before he continues “is this all it took to reduce you to what you really are? a desperate, cock-hungry little bitch? so hungry for my cock hm? can’t even wait for it to enter that little pussy of yours, already rubbing yourself on me.”

it is only when his glove-clothed hand suddenly runs over your front, right where your pussy is desperately rubbing on his thigh, that you even notice what you’ve unconsciously started doing, his fingertips digging until he finds the slit of your pussy lips, pressing hard until he reaches your clit, despite two layers of clothes being in his way.

you moan at the contact, hands grabbing at his wrist, somewhere between pushing his hand away and closer to where you need him the most.

seungcheol won’t let you have any control tonight, he wants you to completely surrender to him, to let him use you and move you however he wants, to just accept whatever he gives you with a fucked out smile on your face.

hence why he grabs both your hands into his before slamming them onto the wall above your head, quickly switching his hold onto your wrists.

with a purposefully made angry face, he looks into your teary eyes. something dark and far more sinister than he thought he could ever feel awakens inside of him, the feeling of giddiness overcoming him as he watches your eyelashes get wet by the tears gathering in your eyes, neediness and desperation swimming in them.

with a deep voice overflowing with warning, he says “no touching tonight, are we clear pretty girl? you are at my mercy tonight. everything i want to give you…”, he pause for a few seconds so he can remove the skull mask from his face and reveal the identical balaclava beneath it, before he pushes his face closer until his cloth-covered nose meets your own and continues “…you will take like a good girl i know you are. understood?”

you watch his dark eyes, purposefully covered in black paint, as you process his words. your mouth are agape, shaky breaths leaving the opening until the sound hits cheol’s ears. his free hand that isn’t holding your wrists comes to hold your cheek gently, a touch of love to show you that this isn’t real, that this is just a bit of a fun game to both of you, that he still loves you despite his harsh words.

with wide eyes, you slowly nod your head to his demand, showing him that you understand.

contrary to his tone just a few seconds ago, cheol gently whispers in the little space between you two “use your words baby, i need to hear you say ‘yes’ before we continue.”

you heart squeezes in love that you have for this man. the fact that he basically interrupted his own fantasy in the name of having you consent to him with your own words makes you love him that much more. sure, it may be the bare minimum to the rest of the world, but to you, who never experienced such gentle love by the previous partners? it means the whole world.

with hoarse voice, you whisper “yes. i understand.”

cheol looks at your eyes for a second, looking for doubt and fear, only to find excitement and trust instead. nodding his head, he pushes his balaclava until his lips are freed, and using the newfound freedom to lay a gentle and light kiss to your mouth, letting them linger just for a second before he pushes the balaclava back in place, now fully ready to push you to the point of tears of pleasure.

within a second, that old flame of desire returns to his eyes. for a second you could’ve sworn that his eyes had a tinge of redness in them, almost like they were literally set on fire.

his hand slowly but firmly wraps around your neck, the leather material making the squeaky sound as he repositions his hand so his fingers are only squeezing the sides of your slender neck. the last bit of air leaves your lungs as cheol squeezes your neck, making you feel lightheaded within seconds.

your boyfriend uses your distraction and hazy mind to just observe you-the way your eyes flutter shut and how tears gather at your water line, how your hands try to grasp onto something to no avail because he’s holding the hostage above your head, how your mouth can’t decide if you want to bite your lip and keep the gasps and moans from escaping or opening them as wide as possible and letting all those pretty sounds flow like a river straight out.

he watches how your hair is already messy, a complete opposite to how you usually style it for work. then to how your pretty neck bobs in an effort to take in more air. the way his black leather glove wraps prettily around it.

his eyes fall onto your chest, and the way your button up shirt gives him a peak of your cleavage, as well as the necklace with his initials engraved on the back of the pendant hanging from the chain. the way your chest raise and fall at rapid speed, the way your tits move with every exhale.

his pupils follow the curvature of your waist, and the way your pants hug your hips-the hips he loves to hold, grab, squeeze and use as his anchor while he’s fucking you from behind.

lastly, cheol observes the movement of your hips, how you slowly roll your hips in slow and small circles on his leg that is pushed between your legs in an effort to relieve the uncomfortable tingle on your clit, the warmth from between your legs making his mouth water in need to taste you, in need to have your tight pussy wrap around his cock.

fuck, he needs to fuck you. right now.

his head drops beside yours, a groan hitting the shell of your ear before he demands “take your pants off, need to have that needy pussy around my cock right now.”

no sooner than when his hand lets go of your hands that were hanging above your head that you immediately got to work, unzipping your pants and missing the zipper a few times. the minute it was unzipped enough, you pulled your pants down, along with your panties, before you kicked them to the side.

while you were preoccupied by taking your pants off, cheol did the same to his. well, he couldn’t really take them off due to insane amount of tiny belts hugging his big thighs. instead, he just unzipped them and pulled them down just enough to free his aching cock from his boxers, precum leaking from the tip the moment it bounces upon being taken out.

your eyes immediately get drawn to the sight, how big he looks, the tip the slight pinkish colour due to lack of stimulation.

but it’s not just his dick-cheol as a whole, right at this moment, looks like something straight out of your wet dreams, like a desire or a kink you can’t talk about, keeping it locked inside a box instead, hidden deeply inside your closet.

the black balaclava with the skull printed on it hugging his head and currently hiding his beautiful face, the black turtleneck that is covered with the fake black military vest, with tons of tiny pockets. the way his big biceps bulge out, protruding even with the longs sleeves trying to keep them hidden.

the black leather gloves that are trying to keep his pants below his cock, kind of frustratedly fumbling with the material because it’s not obeying to his orders. the black pants that hug his legs, the black boots-simply everything.

it makes your whole body feel hot, so hot like somebody poured hot lava all over it.

fuck, i need to suck him off dry right. now.

just as cheol was about to grab you, you let your knees drop, kind of painfully hitting the floor, and as gently as possible due to the hunger grabbing his dick.

cheol confusedly looks down at you, mouth open to say “wha-“ but gets cut off with a moan the moment your warm mouth wraps around his cock.

normally, you would go slow, paying attention to his tip for a minute or so before trying to swallow his whole length.

normally. but not now.

the moment you open your mouth and lean in towards his dick, you start bobbing your head up and down his cock, you hand working on the base that you can’t reach with your mouth just yet. you other hand pulls on his pants, trying to keep them in place while you suck his length.

feeling overwhelmed by your sudden actions, cheol gasps a moan and slams a hand onto the wall to keep him balanced, knees buckling due to the sheer force of your movements.

your mouth haven’t even been around his dick for a minute and he can already feel his balls ready to burst, breathing deep and looking towards to the ceiling (or the heavens, whichever way you want to interpret it), praying that he doesn’t cum so quickly.

you continue with your movements, tongue wrapping around and licking his cock as you drag your mouth back before you suck his length back in, his tip hitting the back of your throat.

cheol watches you in awe and fascination, the way your eyebrows furrow not in concentration, but due to the neediness to have yourself choking on his big cock, moaning every few seconds in pure enjoyment.

never thought sucking a dick could be so good and so…sexually full filling.

you look up through your eyelashes at your boyfriend. even with the balaclava you can tell that his mouth is opened, letting those beautiful and loud moans flow freely out of them, that his eyebrows are furrowed because he’s trying to contain himself and not fuck your face.

which is exactly what you want.

you pull away, both to let yourself and himself breathe, though you keep the eye contact going.

and cheol sees it. that look in your eyes that is begging him to fuck your mouth.

how could he ever deny his baby anything?

just as you were about to go back to sucking his dick, cheol grabs your hair and pulls you away, and keeps pulling on it, making you move your body with it. he only stops once your whole body is back to leaning against the wall, legs kind of awkwardly bent before you readjust them.

your glossy eyes look up at him, needy and demanding for him to fuck your mouth, now.

tapping your cheek with two fingers, he's only able to rasp out "open your mouth."

your lips fall open without a second thought, poking your tongue out as you wait for him to give it to you hard and fast, just like how you like it.

cheol wishes that he could take a mental picture of you like this-eyes glossy, face littered with sweat and mouth calling his name. this right here, how you like right now.

this is everything cheol has ever dreamt about.

ever so slowly, cheol pushes his pelvis foward, his cock held tightly in his hand as he guides it straight to your mouth. he smears the head a bit on your tongue, letting you taste him yet again, but immediately pulling away once you try closing your mouth around it, a sound of disapprovement escaping his lips. once you look at him confusedly, eyebrows furrowed, he's adds "don't move. let me fuck that pretty mouth of yours like i know you want me to, like a good slut i know you are. just relax and enjoy, hm?"

you nod your head quickly before opening your mouth again, an amused chuckle echoing in cheol’s mouth.

very carefully, cheol pushes his cock back into your mouth. his eyes are fully trained to follow your every move, eyes cloudy with desire as he watches you close your mouth around his girth, pretty eyes looking right back into his. he continues pushing his pelvis until he feels the back of your throat close against the head, pearly precum falling down your throat, before he pulls back.

he continues repeatedly doing this a few times, getting you used to the motion and pace, before he speeds up slightly.

your fists are clenched against your thighs, desperate to touch him but resisting the urge to touch him, to pull him closer until you feel yourself choking on his thick cock. instead, you focus that energy to let all the little sounds that you know cheol definitely loves, your humming and moaning creating vibrations on his length.

cheol moans right back, throwing his head back every so often because it just feels so good. the warmth of your mouth as he rocks his hips, the way you try swirling your tongue around the head, the way you’re looking at him, like he’s the only man ever for you.

it all messes with his head.

naturally, he loses himself in the pleasure, unconsciously speeding up his movement until his cock is repeatedly hitting the back of your throat, choking sounds hitting the shell of his ear every time he pushes his cock back in.

after another few minutes of him fucking your pretty mouth, of him letting little comments like “fuck, just like that pretty girl” and “yeah chock on my cock, just like that”, cheol feels himself being so so close, almost a second away from cumming. and although he would like nothing more to paint your pretty face with his cum, to smear it around, almost like he’s marking his territory, to see tears spill from your eyes and mix with his fluids, he would much rather cum inside of you. now.

harshly, he pulls all the way out, hissing once the cold air meets his wet length, before grabbing your jaw harshly with one hand. using that hold, he quickly picks you up, dragging you up to meet him.

you gasp at the action and the way it cuts your airway off, hands quickly grabbing his forearm as he drags you to your feet.

the moment you are close enough, he pulls his balaclava all the way off and clashes your mouths together, tongue swirling around your own, stealing yet another breath away from you.

just as quickly as he kissed you, he pulls away, lips swollen from both the kiss and biting on his lips while fucking your mouth, eyes dark and cloudy like a stormy night.

you’re still gasping because he still has a hold on your cheeks with one hand, nails digging into your skin in a painful yet delicious way, your own hand squeezing his wrist in indecisiveness, unsure if you want him to squeeze it even more or to let you breathe.

pushing his forehead against your own, you can clearly see him struggling to control himself by the way he’s harshly breathing. in a dangerously low and warning tone, he just says “i’m gonna fuck you so hard, just like you want me to. gonna fuck you like a slut i know you are. gonna make you beg me to let you cum. now jump.” before he bends down and grabs you by your legs, picking you up like you weigh nothing and wrapping your legs around his waist.

your heart jumps to your throat in excitement, everything about this so new and so unfamiliar-the face fucking, the cosplay, the degradation. you previously told him it was something you’d like to try, just to see if you would like it more than when he praises you and worships you, and although you like how every time he called you ‘slut’ a shiver went down your back, his praise and calling you his love and baby while he’s fucking you will always be number one place.

cheol quickly grabs his dick and slaps it a few times against your clit before he pushes it inside of you, gliding much easier due to your arousal. you both moan loudly at the contact, cheols eyebrows furrowing almost like he’s in pain. his eyes focused entirely on how your pussy is swallowing his big cock.

you feel heat on your cheeks at the sound your cunt makes every time cheol pushes back inside you and pulls back, it’s all wet and loud, and it makes you want to hide your face in embarrassment. you can’t remember the last you were this aroused, so much so that the slick was staining cheol’s pants that were still just pushed right under his dick.

in the matter of seconds, cheol starts fucking you hard and fast, your loud moans echoing in the hallway, probably making it a show for the neighbours to hear. head thrown back against the wall, you focus on gripping cheol’s shoulders like your life depends on it.

his hands are harshly gripping your thighs, both to hold you up and keep you in place so you don’t slip due to sheer force of his movements, but also because he adores your thighs-if it were up to him, his face would be permanently squished between them while eating you out, all day, every day.

you can quickly tell that neither of you will last much longer, the long foreplay already getting you close to the finish line. for yourself you can tell by that funny feeling in your tummy and in the quiver of your legs that are wrapped around cheol’s hips. for cheol, you can tell by how his movements have lost the rhythm, only focusing on fucking you as fast as possible, desperate to cum inside of you and make you cum on his dick.

cheol presses his sweaty forehead against your own, his glassy eyes looking directly into your own. despite how dirty this all feels, you can still feel love pouring from his eyes into your own. you feel his adoration for you, you feel that his heart is beating for you and for you only. al of that is enough to make the knot inside of your tummy slowly start to unravel, your pussy squeezing around cheol’s dick stronger than ever before.

at the feeling of you milking him dry, he moans loudly, his movements sloppier than ever, holding out his orgasm and stopping himself from cumming just so you can cum together with him.

“that’s it, baby, cum around me. take it, take what’s yours. lemme feel that pussy-“

the rest of his words don’t register in your brain because cheol lets go one of your thighs so he can rub your clit, thumb pressing harshly into it as he moves it side to side in quick movements, and in a few seconds you are cumming.

cheol moans as he feels you cumming around him, his own finish following your own immediately. he tries to ride your orgasms as long as possible, but then he feels liquid drench his pants, only to see you squirting on him, his brain short-circuiting at the sensation.

he successful holds you up through your orgasms despite his legs shaking like crazy from how hard he has come. using the fact that you are leaning on the wall, cheol pushes you further into it in the name of getting closer to you, dropping his forehead onto your shoulder as he feels the last of your orgasm drenching him, his own dick pulsating almost painfully inside of you.

for a minute or so, you two just stand there, hugging each other as you breathe heavily, trying desperately to regain your vision. you pat his hair slowly, just like how he likes it. cheol, in return, hugs you impossibly close to himself, whispering beautiful nothings into your ear like “good girl” and “i love you so much baby”, just how you like it.

after another moment or so, he finally pulls back, his big brown eyes looking you over to see if everything is good, only to be met with your spent but satisfied expression, eyes unfocused as you try to look back into him.

he uses one hand to slowly move your hair away from your face, grimacing a little at the feeling of sweat that sticks to his hand as he wipes your forehead.

he watches you for a few seconds, eyes so gentle and full of love, he can’t resist kissing you slowly, his lips a bit chapped from continuously biting it, but still somehow so soft.

you close your eyes and just enjoy the feeling of his love, arms lazily wrapped around his shoulders, fingers twirling his hair at the back of his head.

he slowly pulls away, eyes searching your own. once he sees you finally being able to focus on him, the first thing he says to you is

“i love you so much baby.”

and for some reason, probably due to all the adrenaline and because of how gentle he is being, you feel your eyes prickling with tears, quickly hiding your face in his shoulder and hugging him closer than ever, seeking out his comfort.

cheol tries prying a bit worriedly, gently asking things like ‘what’s wrong baby? hm? tell me so i can make it better’ but all you have strength for is to whisper quietly to him “i love you too. so much…bedroom, please.”

cheol gets the hint, quickly pulling out of you so he can carry you to your bedroom so he can cuddle you and take care of you, lips kissing your temple as he kicks the door open and walks to your bed.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

you stir awake, eyes blurry as you try to find your boyfriend.

only to see his side of the bed empty.

you quickly get up in panic, still a bit needy and in need of his touch, looking around with furrowed eyebrows.

only to see the bathroom door open, cheol standing in front of the mirror as he’s trying to take off the black paint from his eye area, softly and quietly cursing at how stubborn the paint is, only smudging around instead of getting off his face.

you immediately stop panicking, observing his half naked form, his soft muscles and little tummy getting all of your attention.

he’s so effortlessly beautiful, it makes you wonder how he is even yours. he’s just standing there, only in his black towel, yet he looks like a god, wet hair falling into his eyes as he’s still trying to take the makeup off, pouting at how unsuccessful he is at getting it off.

slowly, you get out of the bed and walk towards him, arms immediately wrapping around his waist from behind the moment you are close enough to him, nuzzling your face into the soft skin of his back.

he smells fresh, like his body gel. luckily your boyfriend isn’t one of those people who uses 36 in 1 shower gels, instead of opting for the regular one, this time having grabbed the one that smells like…cucumbers maybe? nevertheless, he’s clean and smells great, and you enjoy every second of it.

cheol drops one hand across your own that are rubbing his tummy, still trying to take the paint off.

you watch him across his shoulder, smiling in amusement for a few second before you use your hands to slowly turn him around so he’s facing you.

he immediately starts pouting at you, hands quickly finding your waist under his shirt that is hanging from your frame.

in whiny voice, he starts complaining “it won’t come off baby. what am i supposed to do? i have an important meeting tomorrow morning.”

you smile as you take the cotton pad from his hand and take your own micellar water, dabbing the pad a bit with it before you gently start rubbing his eyes.

you feel his thumbs rubbing slow circles on your hip bones in comfort, enjoying the sensation and his touch to the fullest.

“you need to use a micellar water that has some oil in it as well, so the oil can break off the paint particles. your micellar water isn’t strong enough for it apparently.”

cheol just hums in response, fully taking advantage of you taking care of him, eyes closed in enjoyment.

after a minute or so, you pull your hands away to see if everything has come off successfully, nodding your head as you see his open eyes clear of paint. you tell him that he can wash his face now, but before you can pull away and let him get back to it, cheol uses his hold on your hips to pull you into a hug. his lips immediately find yours, tongue slowly entering your mouth so he can deepen the kiss. you kiss him right back, melting in his arms because of how gently he’s kissing you.

your hands rub his chest as he’s kissing you, his own hands travelling up your back, pulling your (his) shirt with it, cold air greeting your ass that is only in a pair of panties.

slowly pulling away, cheol again looks at you with those eyes, making you feel something catch in your throat at the look he’s giving you.

smiling gently, he bends down a little so he can kiss your forehead, the whole action performed slowly and gently.

pulling away yet again, he smiles again as he uses one hand to cup your cheek, thumb slowly rubbing your skin as he looks at you.

seconds go buy as he just watches you before he lightly says in the little space between you “i am so in love with you. you don’t even know it but you own my whole being. i want to give you the world. i want to spend eternity with you, if you would let me.” he pauses so he can push his forehead against your own. almost inaudibly, he adds “in this world, it’s just you and me, love. i don’t need anybody else as long as i have you.”

and as you kiss him to shut him up before he says something else and makes you cry yet again, you think to yourself.

if only you knew, choi seungcheol. if only you knew.

#seventeen #svt #svt x reader #fypシ #tumblr fyp #fypage #fluff #scoups #smut #choi seungcheol #choi seungcheol x reader #scoups x reader #scoups x y/n #scoups x you #choi seungcheol the man that you are

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salem-s · 15 days ago

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04 ── PLAYING UNDER THE SICILIAN SUN (18+) ── RAFE CAMERON

── SYNOPSIS when your image-obsessed mother catches you and Rafe Cameron ─ your friends with benefits ─ in a compromising situation, you must lie and say you're dating. It spirals out of control when your mother invites him to your cousin's upcoming wedding in Italy, and spirals even further when he says yes. ── WARNINGS language, fingering, p-in-v sex. angst (familial issues, mentions of abuse). but also hella fluff??? 18+ mdni. ── WORD COUNT 13.7k. don't. ── NOTES edited from third person perspective to second, so let me know if there are any mistakes. my italian skills may be slightly inaccurate, translations provided. reader's birthday is around thankgiving for plot sake. ── SERIES MASTERLIST | NEXT PART ── SONG OF THE CHAPTER 24 hours by sky ferreira

The thought of tomorrow sets a pit in your stomach.

You toss and turn for the better part of two hours, wanting to throw a pillow at Rafe’s face when you see him sleeping soundly in his twin bed, envious of the rest that he’s getting that you yearn for since you obviously didn’t get to nap today after the beach.

It’s not uncommon for you to dread your birthday.

Growing up, it was always so close to or sometimes on Thanksgiving that it was overshadowed by the holiday, and you never got an extravagant celebration and instead was pushed to the sidelines. Truly, you never cared for a giant blowout, but the song and a slice of appreciation would’ve been nice.

This holiday in particular is a big time of year for your family to flaunt all the things that they are ‘thankful’ for, which mainly entails money, clothes, and materialistic things that are so out of touch with reality that it makes you sick. So, taking that into account, you associate this time of year with dread and misery.

On your thirteenth birthday, the day fell on the holiday and no one in your family remembered. The one thing you asked for was a birthday cake with candles that only you got to blow out, not your little cousins or your brother, just you.

Apparently, you asking that was far too annoying for your mother, resulting in a swift backhand when you prompted one too many times.

That was the last time you asked for a birthday gift, and stopped bringing the day up altogether in the future.

So, you don't really tell people with the exception of a few friends and nonna, who promised to not make a big deal out of it in front of Rafe. The last thing you want is it to become a thing for a multitude of reasons, and pulled Lorenza aside when Rafe was preoccupied with Ticino to not let it slip to your so-called boyfriend.

Of course, Lorenza would not let the topic slide away that easily, so you settled on her making your favorite meal with your favorite bottle of wine.

The day, its lonely memories, plus the thought of having to dress shop keep you from being able to fall asleep.

You try all sorts of positions, fluff your pillow, count sheep. Nothing.

Anxiety creeps up the longer you're awake, knowing the clock is ticking until you have to cross off a lot of items off your check list: the dress, formalities with your extended family, dealing with your mother, pretending to be Cupid-struck by the guy sleeping seven feet away from you. You don't know how long you've been up at this point, and you're starting to grow delirious.

One idea - a horrible one, at that - stays in the back of your mind for the betterment of an hour.

That last resort sleeps across the room, probably frolicking in a field in his dreams peacefully based on the content expression on his face.

The thought of what you're about to do makes your head spin in embarrassment, the idea of needing Rafe Cameron - of all people - to be able to sleep. It sounds revolting and pathetic to even consider, and it makes you slap a hand to your forehead in frustration, reeling in the thousands of possibilities of how it could go down.

What if it doesn’t work and you still can’t sleep, and then you're stuck in his arms for the rest of the night? What if he wakes up and tells you to go back to your own bed? He wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy after you had sex earlier, and was weird all day following it.

Weirder than he usually is, anyway.

But it’s the only option, frankly, because the few times he’s slept over or you've slept at his, you always got surprisingly good sleep.

You usually forgo the sleeping over aspect since your dorm rooms are quite literally next to each other, so the walk of shame is only a mere few steps. But, on occasion, he will be too tired to retreat back, or you'll get caught up in stupid conversation, or whatever the excuse is that night.

As much as you hate to admit it, you always found better sleep in his arms, and that remedy is calling your name right now. Honestly, you fear if you don't do it, you'll be up all night wondering if it would’ve worked.

Fuck it, you think.

With diligence, you slip out of bed and hiss quietly at the cold tile floor against your feet, adjusting to the temperature. You sheepishly pad over to his side of the room, analyzing where it’ll be best for you to slip in without waking him up. A wave of ridiculousness washes over you, cheeks burning in the darkness at how desperate this feels.

Rafe is fast asleep on his side, facing your bed with an arm slung over the edge and nearly brushing the ground. The position leaves a tiny sliver of space between his body and the wall that you can see from the moonlight casting a pearly hue into the room, particularly towards his half.

Now or never, you think bitterly.

You nudge his arm gently with your palm to see if he’s truly out cold. He is, because he doesn’t even flinch, chest rising and falling deeply even and syncopated.

Then you slowly lower your knee onto the edge of the bed, careful not to bump into him as you hike your other leg over his body. Diligently, you place your foot firmly on the mattress, wincing at the way it dips down at the weight of you and you bite your lip at the fear you've woken him up.

However, Rafe doesn’t budge, so you continue your stealth mission and move to climb over him.

But – of course – when you launch forward to quickly hop over his body, you severely overestimate how close the wall is and-

Thud.

You smaaaack your forehead against the wall, hard. The bang isn’t that loud, but you involuntarily yelp at the pain and nearly collapse at the ferocity of the collision. The unsteadiness of your posture has your trailing leg nudging his hip harshly.

You freeze, hoping it isn't hard enough to wake him up, and for a moment you think you're in the clear.

But your absolutely heart drops when Rafe twitches, groans, and moves to lay on his back, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes in an adoring way that makes your cheeks flame even hotter than before. His hair, from what you can see, is freshly tousled and sticking up in every possible direction, some pieces falling over his eyes while others stick up and out.

You'd normally laugh at the sight if you weren't currently getting caught in the most embarrassing position to grace planet earth.

Rafe squints in the dark and blinks blearily, taking in the dim sight of you kneeling on his bed and cupping your forehead. All you can do is look down at him with wide eyes, like a deer in headlights.

Despite being lulled from his sleep, you hate how he smiles at you. No, not smiling. He's beaming.

“What are you doing?”

Your mouth opens and closes, attempting and failing to find an excuse for your endeavors as your head throbs at how hard you smacked it on the wall.

Say something, idiot.

Apparently, you take too long to come up with a response, because soon a cool hand comes up to brush against your knee, rubbing a thumb across the bone lazily as if Rafe has all the time in the world, as if he hasn't been woken up from a peaceful sleep.

Now you really stumble over your words.

After a moment of gaping like a fish, you sigh in exhaustion. “I can’t sleep.”

“Hmm?”

“I thought maybe…” you trail off, furrowing your brows.

But you wince when the gesture makes your head throb even more.

Rafe drops his teasing demeanor when he sees a flash of pain paint over your pretty features, concern immediately rising as his chest tugs something foreign from him. Protection, maybe? Fear? Whatever the emotion may be this time, it makes him panic for a moment at the thought of you being hurt.

He pushes himself up on his elbow and brings his hand from your knee to your cheek, brows furrowing. “Hey, are you okay?”

The whole thing is so ridiculous that you can’t help but snort, but the humorless facade fades quickly and all of a sudden you feel stupid under his gaze and feather light touch.

Incredibly stupid.

You feel stupid that you woke him up when you really didn’t need to, and feel even stupider as his hand caresses your jaw so affectionately that it evokes a need to lean into his touch, to feel protected and cared for. You feel stupid that you just want to melt into his big arms and play dumb.

Especially with the way he's looking at you right now.

God. You hate that you're so tired. You hate that the dress doesn’t fit you. You hate that you have to seek solace in him in order to feel at ease. You hate that your head hurts.

You hate that it’s your birthday.

Before you know it, tears spring to your waterline. You pray it’s dark enough so he can’t tell.

But he notices.

Rafe sits up immediately, keeping one hand on your cheek and the other on your bicep to ground you, but also to force you to face him. He ducks his head to your level to meet you eye to eye, and even in the darkness you can still pinpoint those gorgeous blues staring at you.

However they hold a new look you don't recognize from him, and after a moment of staring you realize it’s concern.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

God, it makes you want to melt. And puke. And scream. Why does he have to say that outside of intimacy? Why does he have to play with your heart? Why can’t he simply say your name like normal friends do?

“I just–” Your bottom lip trembles and frustration bubbles in your chest. “I hit my head," is all you can pathetically muster.

You hope that’ll be enough to not have to share the other stuff.

Rafe’s eyes land on where you cradle your forehead, frowning as he gently moves your hand away. The moonlight offers him the ability to lightly inspect the damage. There’s no visible blood or bump as his thumb smooths over it with a feather light touch.

Without thinking, he leans forward, pressing a light, chaste kiss on the soreness. When he pulls back, Rafe pushes some hair away from your face and tucks it behind your ear, his hand then settling back on your cheek with a nonchalance that doesn't match how incredibly intimate the act was.

You watch him the whole time, still willing the tears to not fall as you blink them away quickly. Your head doesn’t really hurt that much anymore.

After a moment of staring at each other, Rafe gently coaxes you down onto the mattress and pulls you against his chest. His hands sprawl on your back, rubbing up and down your spine and over the ridges of your muscles. Your cheek rests against his bare chest, hearing the loud thump, thump, thump of his heartbeat which contrasts his relaxed demeanor.

Is he nervous?

You push the thought away. He probably feels panicked on how to handle someone crying in front of him, as emotions are not in his forte.

“I’m sorry, sweet girl,” he murmurs against the crown of your head. “Can I do anything?”

You simply shake your head with little to no motion, heart dropping as you remember this is just an arrangement, a fake ploy to help you get through the next week. He’s doing this to have leverage. Rafe Cameron doesn’t do things without expecting something in return. But you really don't feel like having sex right now.

“I don’t feel like doing anything right now,” you murmur, voice more shaky than you'd like. “Maybe tomorrow. I just want to sleep.”

Rafe frowns at the implication behind your words, something ugly brewing in his chest as he repeats them in his head.

Do you really think he wants to have sex right now?

“No, I–” He stops himself. You want to sleep, he needs to let you sleep, but he also feels the need to defend himself. Rafe comes up short on his response, a flicker of panic rising in his throat at the thought of revealing too much.

He sighs to himself, irritated that that’s how he presents himself.

Rafe says your name quietly. “Go to sleep.”

You frown at the use of your name, knowing he never really uses it unless he’s angry or upset about something or coming down from a high. He sounds annoyed, probably because he thought he was getting some when he saw you climb into his bed, not expecting the late night blue balls.

You bite your lip at the meaning, wanting to go through all the potential reasons of why he would say that instead of his usual obnoxious pet names, but sleep starts to lull you away as his big arms cradle you, cage you in, share warmth and everything nice.

Not that you'd ever admit this to anyone – not even in a confessional booth – but this is you favorite place to be.

The overwhelming urge to sleep plus the contentment of being in his arms makes you relax, turning your brain off as you flutter your eyes shut.

You assume this position also makes you delusional, because you swear you hear Rafe whisper, “Happy birthday.”

You wake up in a sour mood.

First, Po steps on your chest and it feels like a hundred tons on your sternum, jolting you awake.

Begrudgingly petting the cat, you then notice you're alone in the bedroom with the covers bunched around your waist. Inhaling out of frustration, you try to ignore how the sheets smell like him and sit up, but the act makes you groan, the lingering throbbing on your forehead springing back at the sudden movement.

Then when you leave the bedroom, you discover the house to be quiet. Too quiet.

You enter the kitchen and movement in the garden catches your attention, and your breath hitches when you see Rafe and Lorenza sitting at the outdoor table, sipping coffee and talking animatedly.

Ticino sits right against Rafe’s leg, alternating between typing on his phone and petting him. You watch Rafe type something into his phone and then show Lorenza, who nods and takes the phone, pressing a button and speaking into it.

A pang of frustration pricks at your chest when you see them laugh together. What could they be talking about?

No, you panic.

They aren’t supposed to be getting along. Rafe isn’t your boyfriend. He doesn’t need to be falling in step with this little act. He’s doing this as a pity favor, because he felt bad for you when your mother practically berated you in front of him. He’s doing this because he doesn’t want to go home and see his family for the holiday, he takes the first out he can get and clings to it. He’s not doing this because he wants to, but because he has to.

You push the thought away when you remember your agenda for the day, a cloud of grumpiness shifting over your head as you grumble something incoherent. The sun hasn't been up for long and you're already wishing it's the next day.

Instead of joining the two for coffee, you change into daytime clothes and freshen up, hoping to be able to slip out of the cottage and go on your endeavors alone.

The thought of entertaining Rafe all day makes your stomach do a somersault, as you just want to go in, get a dress, and come back. All you want to do today is relax, maybe go to the beach again, and get stupid drunk at dinner so you can pass out before all the heartfelt emotions circulating your birthday memories come into fruition.

The only remedy to today is drinking yourself into oblivion at dinnertime.

Of course when you exit the house, purse in arm and sunglasses perched on the bridge of your nose, Rafe and Lorenza frown.

“Dove stai andando?” (where are you going?)

You admit your tone is nothing inviting, as you reply that you're going to the dress shop, and your nonna stubbornly matches your irritable tone.

“Porti il tuo ragazzo.” (bring your boy)

An excuse brews in your throat but Lorenza doesn’t let you argue, shushing you harshly and gently ushering Rafe towards you.

You nearly roll your eyes at the difference in treatment, practically coddling your so-called boyfriend. You guess you wouldn’t be surprised if, at some point, your nonna ends up pinching his cheeks endearingly before you leave for the wedding.

You bite back a groan when Rafe shoots up from his seat, waving goodbye to your nonna and falling into step with you. You don't wait for him before you start practically speed walking onto the dirt path, eager to get this whole thing over with - especially since you begrudgingly have a babysitter now.

However, his long legs allow him to catch up with ease, even taking it one notion further and spinning around so Rafe's walking backwards and facing you.

If you weren't so irritated you'd actually be impressed with his foot coordination.

“You weren’t even gonna wait for me?” he teases, his tone and demeanor a stark contrast from last night. Maybe he jerked off this morning and got rid of his blue balls, as it seems like the only valid excuse for his chippier attitude on this bright sunny day. “I find that highly offensive, baby.”

You roll your eyes, and then realize you're wearing sunglasses. “What’s highly offensive is the lack of steps you took to catch up. Has anyone ever compared you to Gumby?”

“Is he handsome?”

“No.”

“Then no.”

You groan. “You’re in the wrong profession. You should be on some sort of court instead of running your mouth all the time.” You try to side step so he’s not backwards-walking right in front of you, but he mirrors your movements to prevent that from happening, taking utter glee in your irritation. “Stop.”

“No,” he retorts, shuffling with a skip in his step. He must’ve played soccer with the way his feet are coordinationally graceful. “This is how I like to walk.”

“No, it’s not.”

“How would you know?”

All you want to do is leap forward and throttle him.

It’s bad enough you have to run this errand in the first place, and even worse that he has to torment you the entire time with that stupid smile that he wears when he knows he’s pissing you off. It also frustrates you that he’s essentially forcing you to look at him, his biceps outlined offensively well in his plain navy t-shirt and his hair falling over his squinted eyes.

You attempt to mask your staring with a scowl, but it feels like he sees right through you. And it further pisses you off.

“You know you don’t have to talk, right?” you hiss, hating the way he laughs at you. “Sometimes people like to walk in silence.”

“I don’t.”

You throw your head back, huffing at his stubbornness, at your headache, at the whole ordeal in itself. “Well, I do. So shut up.”

Of course, Rafe doesn’t listen and instead taps his chin in mock contemplation, humming low as he pretends to think. “Do you think I could get away with robbery? I’m not talking amateur klepto, I’m talking something big. Like a car. Or a freight train.”

The rest of the walk is essentially just that: Rafe talking your ear off as you brush him off with one word responses, move to hit him, or ignore him altogether.

You know you're being a dick, but today, of all days, you do not want to be tested. Rafe doesn’t seem to run out of words, though, moving past your bratty attitude and filling in the gaps of silence with outrageous hypothetical questions or random stories and facts about stuff you don't care about.

After tuning him out for the better part of fifteen minutes, you nearly sigh in relief when you approach town. He eventually falls into step next to you, taking in the sights around him. Your heart does a weird leap when you see him pull out a camera you've never seen before and snap some photos of the scenery around you.

In a moment of his distraction, you race forward and slip into a store in a feasible attempt to lose him.

But Rafe doesn’t shake that easily, following you inside with ease and shooting you a deadpanned look as if to say nice try.

The store doesn’t end up selling clothes, instead holding antiques and random trinkets that you actually don't mind looking at. Frankly, you want to stall your loitering as much as possible with the hopes that he’ll get bored and go venture off somewhere else for the better part of an hour. But to your dismay, Rafe doesn’t budge, instead looking at the items with you and lingering around the things you seem to pick up, inspect, then put down.

You forget about your irritable facade when you pick up a ceramic fish about the size of your palm, the sardine painted in whites, blues, and yellows with two little holes through the top fin, assumingely there to be able to hang it up with a piece of string. The handmade item sits gently in your hand, inspecting the grooves and crevices and paint job as you run your thumb across the glassy surface.

There’s a small section of the table devoted to similar ceramic fish, all painted with the same colors but in different patterns, no two alike. They're all beautiful, and you stop and inspect all the different detailing on each one while still holding the original you picked up.

Rafe suddenly appears next to you and follows your gaze to the art piece in your hand, picking up another one off the table and flipping it over to see the artist’s small signature on the back. Your arms brush as he moves his hand next to yours so you can look at both fishes next to each other. The one in his hand looks so much smaller than yours despite being the same size.

“These are cool,” he murmurs, almost challenging you to agree.

But you simply hum, taking one more lingering glance before putting your fish back down on the table and walking away to inspect other items. You're so dismissive to his presence that you don't seem him pick up the sardine you were previously holding, cradling it along with the fish he picked up in his hand.

You do that a few more times in the store: pick up a random item, inspect it, hum in appreciation, then put it back. Rafe trails behind you, as if following your movements and analyzing the same things that you do.

When you move to leave, Rafe calls your name in warning before you can exit.

“I’m getting something for my sisters, can you wait for me? Or am I going to have to chase you down again?”

You roll your eyes at him, but nod nonetheless as you linger by the door obediently, picking at the material of your purse with one hand as you absentmindedly trace the spines of old books with the other.

It doesn’t take long for him to meet you, gripping the brown paper bag tightly as he approaches with shifty eyes.

“What’d you get for them?” You ask quietly as you move to leave, deciding the question is too intimate so you don't hold the door for him to make up for it.

Rafe scratches the back of his neck and falls into step next to you, avoiding your eyes as he pretends to busy himself looking through the windows of passing shops. “Uh, there were some small posters in the back made by a local artist. They’re kind of freaky looking, but my sisters are weird. So. That’s what they get.”

You hum at the thought of him thinking about his sisters, catching yourself smiling lightly. But you wipe it off your face as quickly as it came. “Cool. I think there are other shops like that if you wanna get them more stuff. I’m gonna pop in here quick to look around.”

“Nuh-uh,” he warns sternly and your shoulders sag at his stubbornness. “I’m under strict orders to stay with you from Lorenza. Stop trying to get rid of me.”

The thought of the two of them conspiring broaches a weird feeling in your gut, a combination of confusion and envy and something else that you can’t quite pinpoint. There’s a slight tick of anxiety that flashes in your mind that their conversation this morning was all about you, more specifically on what today is. You just hope your nonna respected your wishes and didn’t tell him that it’s your birthday.

“Whatever,” you eventually grumble, cutting off his stride to side step into a dress shop.

Rafe follows obediently, trailing behind you in the store to inspect the vintage looking dresses on the racks. He watches you fish through them without a forethought, humming at some possible contenders but then continuing to move on with your search.

You feel his gaze burning from your peripheral and decide to ignore him, taking his focus as boredom because he has nothing better to do than to watch.

You take a few possible dresses under your arm as you move onto the neck rack, ignoring the gross feeling in your chest when he offers to hold them for you while you continue to look.

It almost makes you laugh at the sight of Rafe Cameron as your personal clothing rack.

You have half a mind to tease him on the matter, but when you look back at him to hand him another dress to hold, he looks perfectly content. Happy, even, to provide such a small service. You hate that he doesn’t complain once, grumbling something incoherent about his stupidly incessant presence as you turn back to the rack to resume your search.

Then your gaze settles on a particularly unordinary dress shoved deep in the back as if someone hid it.

You pull it out and inspect it with a quiet gasp. It’s a silky spaghetti strap dress with all kinds of patterns etched through it, decorated with delicate beading that make up swirls, small flowers, and dotted lines along the hem. The bottom is uneven, creating an edgy diagonal stitch as it cascades down. The neckline is a v-neck, you assume, because there’s a sliver of material in the bust that gives the dress a bit of a cowlick design.

With one hand you hold up the dress by the hanger and gently skim over the material with the other, as if admiring its beauty through touch alone.

You hear Rafe hum quietly behind you, drastically pulled from the mesmorizing moment as you nearly cough from the surprise.

“You like that one?” he asks gently, voice void of any teasing regard.

You mimic his hum, but then frown as you further inspect the dress. “It’s beautiful, but…”

You trail off. The dress is beautiful. Ethereal. It’s the kind you’d see in a dream and spend life trying to find.

But you catch the numbers on the tag and your shoulders sag, because there’s no way in hell you’re able to afford that off a measly part time job at school. Even then, you can’t think of a scenario where you would wear this, knowing it’ll ultimately sit in your closet collecting dust. Because this dress will turn heads, and you’re not the kind of person who normally holds the spotlight.

Plus, the dress isn’t wedding guest appropriate to you, because it would no doubt draw attention to you in a way that you really don’t want – assuming that it will even fit you.

Your mother would probably call it hideous and demand you change into something else more appropriate: basic, standard, conservative, because god forbid you try to figure out your own style versus molding into whatever cookie cutter shape your mother wants you to be that day.

“But what?” You hear Rafe behind you, confusion edging his tone.

“I wouldn’t wear it to the wedding,” you say softly, almost dejected and trying to convince yourself not to waste your savings on a dress you have no occasion to wear it for. “Too…out there. Besides, it’s worth like three months of work for me.”

You put it back on the rack and move on with your search, knowing the longer you look at it the more upset you’ll get.

In another life, you suppose.

But Rafe doesn’t let you get far, reaching back in to grab the dress and add it to the growing pile. You spin around with an argument ready in your throat, but your words don’t come when he gives you a pointed look, a warning, forcing you to shut up before you create another argument.

The thought of standing in the middle of this shop and arguing with him seems like your personal hell, so you humor him with a dejected sigh, turning back around to fish through the last rack.

“I’ll be quick,” you grumble as you take the pile of dresses from his arm. “You can wait outside if you want.”

Rafe’s response is immediate. “Sweet girl.”

A warning.

The changing room is small. Well, calling it that is generous, because it seems more like a supply closet that the owners were forced to change into a dressing room. It’s a fully closed off room with no seats for observers, so Rafe settles on leaning onto the wall next to the door.

You have to physically look away when he shamefully crosses his arms, shutting the door quickly behind you to put the barrier between you.

It's as if Rafe knows how achingly annoyed you are at this little errand, because, bless him, he tries to make it fun for you.

The first dress you try on is a deliberate no based on the awkward fit, but he insists you show him anyway despite your excessive cursing. With a scowl, you oblige, doing a sarcastic twirl for him. In return, he puts on a fake British accent to thoroughly judge the dress with dramatic flair.

Rafe only amps it up when you barely - just barely - crack a smile.

After breaking the ice, your cold demeanor slowly starts to slip. You come out one by one, needing his help a few times with a lingering zipper. There’s one that is so atrociously bad that you step out to show him as a joke, and hate how he laughs with you (not at you, it seems) pulling out that camera before you can protest and snapping a photo of you mid-shout. Rafe holds the camera high above his head when you nearly tackle him to get him to delete it, failing to no avail as he simply fights you off as you attempt to reach it.

You wouldn’t even call it fighting, because it takes little to no effort for him at his offensively tall stature.

Eventually, you give up on the matter, grumbling something about judge-model confidentiality before disappearing back into the changing room.

It isn’t until you come out in a sleek wine-red gown that Rafe perks up, and he's at a loss for words because he can't even muster up the gall to put on the judge-facade he's been milking the whole time.

And, boy, does he stare.

The dress is beautiful and wedding appropriate. It’s conservative enough with a higher v-neck that ties into a halter, your entire spine exposed with a cowlick at the base of your back. The form is fitting around the bust but falls loosely from your hips down, a knee-high slit showing a sliver of your leg.

You hate the way Rafe is drinking you in right now, staring shamelessly up and down your body.

To fill the gap of silence, you try to distract yourself by explaining what you’d do with your hair, which is tie it up, and what kind of jewelry you’d adorn. But, frankly, it’s as if it goes in one ear and out the next given how Rafe can only nod absentmindedly at your words, eyelids low and lazy.

“Okay,” you roll your eyes at his demeanor, “clearly this is the winner based on your lovely review.”

Rafe can only blink stupidly as you shoot him a pointed look before disappearing back into the dressing room.

In your absence, he masks a cough as he readjusts his pants, suddenly irritated how he seemingly has to wait at least another thirty minutes before he can fuck you right, and that’s if Lorenza isn’t home. He sighs at the thought of having to sneak around again, wanting to hear you loud and clear every single time.

This knuckle-biting-moan-preventing bullshit is starting to irritate him.

When you exit the dressing room, back in your normal clothes as you hold the red-wine dress, Rafe frowns, angrily huffing.

“You didn’t try the other one on.”

You look up at him quizzically, gesturing to the piece of material in your hand. “I’m getting this one. There’s no need.”

Rafe scoffs, as if the whole thing offends him. “Go back and try the other one on.”

“Cameron–”

“Go.”

His incessant tone makes you freeze, your gaze flickering between his furrowed brow and his palm upturned at you, gesturing you to hand him the dress.

Your frustration bubbles at his bossiness, pinching your brows at his sudden demeanor switch and nearly stomping your foot when you move to walk to the register and he grabs you by the elbow, keeping you in place.

Rafe squeezes in warning. “Now.”

You narrow your gaze right back at him, so it just becomes a few moments of you staring at each other in mutual irritation, waiting to see who will break first.

Eventually, Rafe squeezes your arm again to which you relent, rolling your eyes so hard it kickstarts a migraine, shoving the dress in his hands and slamming the door behind you.

You grumble to yourself the whole time, shoving your pants off and ripping your shirt over your head as it falls to the floor carelessly. Despite the anger, you handle the dress with delicacy as you slip it onto your body with such care it might as well be made of glass. After adjusting the straps and zipping the side, you sigh dreamily at the sight.

It fits you like a glove. It makes you feel beautiful.

Though your heart is heavy.

Fuck, you wish you hadn’t even picked it up, because the sagging feeling of not being able to afford it nags at your brain. A wave of sadness crashes over you as your palm skims over the material longingly.

A knock at the door startles you, pulling you from the moment. You don’t realize how long you’d been standing there admiring the piece until you hear Rafe’s voice.

“Are you dead in there? What’s taking so long?”

God, you want to throttle him. His impatience turns your sadness into anger.

You swing the door open, nearly hitting him as you meet his gaze. Huffing, you gesture to the dress with an attitude.

“Here it is. Happy?”

There’s a prolonged silence between you as Rafe takes in the sight before him, studying the way it shapes your body, cascades down your legs, and hugs your breasts in the right place. His breath hitches, feeling his dick twitch uncomfortably at how frustratingly perfect it looks on you. The delicacy and beauty of the dress starkly contrast the expression on your face, one of irateness and annoyance that it makes him furious.

You take his silence as dislike.

Grumbling something under your breath, you spin around and attempt to slam the door in his face.

But Rafe’s foot jabs out to stop it from shutting.

Before you can yell at him, the words die in your throat as Rafe pulls you in for a bruising kiss, pushing himself into the small changing room and shutting the door behind him. His hands wander all over, shameless groping and fondling you as he pushes you against the mirror, caging you in.

Breathless, Rafe pulls back, reeling in the way you lean up to chase his lips and pout when you don’t get your way.

“I need you to understand something,” Rafe warns low, his fingers feather light against the neckline of the dress, tracing it and ghosting over the warmth of your sternum. “You've been nothing but a brat all morning.” His finger finds the strap, pulling one down your shoulder agonizingly slow, his touch the complete opposite of his intentions. “So, I’m going to fuck the attitude out of you. And you’re going to be good and quiet, and you’re going to take it.”

You nearly gasp when he presses his hip against yours, feeling his already aching hard-on against the swell of your belly.

He doesn’t falter. “When I’m done with you, I’m buying you both dresses and you’re not going to complain about it.”

“Bu–”

A hand grips your chin, forcing your mouth shut. “Shut. Up. Not another word about it. Alright?”

Frustration seeps from your pores. You don’t want him to feel obligated to buy you the dress, the price tag flashing across your mind and a swell of guilt rises in your chest. The topic of money is no concern for him, you assume, but it’s more so the implication of the purchase.

Why does Rafe care?

His fingers only grip harder when he sees your internal battle, and the guilt slowly starts to fizzle out and is replaced by lust, especially with the way his other hand ghosts under the material to slowly fondle your ass.

Rafe peers down at you, patiently waiting for the green light, and he moves lightning fast when you nod against his hold, submitting.

He suddenly takes a step back, hands and body leaving yours and you nearly slump without the weight of his support. Your mind feels fuzzy as he inspects the scene in front of him, dick painfully hard at the sight of you waiting obediently.

“Good,” he growls. Then, with a wave of his hand, he gestures to the dress. “Off.”

For once, you don’t argue as you carefully push the straps down your shoulders and unzip the side, letting the material fall to the ground and pool around your feet. Eagerly, you grab a hanger and step away, gently putting the dress back on the wall as your tummy flutters with excitement.

There’s no denying you’ve been a brat all day. Maybe you really do need him to fuck you into a better mood.

Rafe hums in appreciation. “Turn.”

Obliging, you spin and face the mirror, eyes coming into contact with his as he takes a step forward, closing the distance. Your heart skips a beat when you feel him up against your back, and suddenly you survey the scene in front of you, naked besides a pair of panties while he stands behind you, fully clothed.

A flicker of embarrassment coats your features, as you want him to be as naked as you are right now (almost in solidarity?), so you spin around and grab at the ends of his shirt to try and pull it over his head.

But Rafe doesn’t allow that to happen, snatching your hands to pull them away from him and forcing you to face the mirror once again, tsking in your ear at the disobedience.

“I thought you were gonna be good for me,” he spats quietly, but the words feel amplified as his mouth ghosts over the shell of your ear.

“I-I am,” you defend weakly. “You’re being—“

“No,” he rasps, interrupting you with a firm tone that has you shutting up immediately. “Quiet.”

Rafe doesn’t break eye contact with you through the mirror as one of his hands snakes around your waist, flattening his palm against your lower belly and traveling lower to trace the outline of your panties.

Your breath hitches, watching his fingers slowly descend into your underwear as your heart races with anticipation. It doesn’t take a look in the mirror to know how ferociously your cheeks tint pink when he slips a finger through your slit, the embarrassing realization dawning on you that you’re already wet for him.

You can feel and see your face get hot, and it only spurs him on further.

Rafe smiles at you and it’s nothing nice.

He drinks in the way you’re practically putty in his arms, chest heaving when he enters one finger inside and eagerly watches your reaction. Stubbornly, you try to not give him one, but fail when he enters a second without warning, humming in satisfaction when you let out a low moan at the feeling.

You flutter your eyes shut but snap them open when his other hand roughly grips your hip.

“Eyes open,” Rafe commands with a whisper. “I want you to watch yourself come on my hand.”

Jesus, the words make you bite back a smile.

You should act like a brat more often if this is what the result will be.

Rafe continues to shamelessly finger you in this dingy dressing room, his other hand groping your ass, tits, waist — anything else he can get his hands on — while he works you towards your high.

Every time your eyes start to slip closed from pleasure, he stops and scolds you with a particularly harsh squeeze with whatever part of your body his hand happens to be on in that moment. It's usually accompanied with a simple "sweet girl" or "eyes" when he notices.

And, of course, you obey.

It only takes a minute for you to feel shaky under his touch, especially when he presses his thumb against your clit and traces tight circles on it. Your head falls back onto his shoulder, reaching an arm up to grip his hair to ground you to something while you feel your release approaching.

Your other hand flies up to your mouth, biting down on your knuckle as you try — and fail — to hide a shameful moan.

"Look at you." Rafe's voice is right in your ear, sucking ungodly kisses on your neck. "Dirty girl, fucking my hand for everyone to hear."

It only takes around half a minute before you’re writhing from his touch, panting as you feel your orgasm coming.

“Fuck, Rafe, I’m–” You can’t finish, instead interrupting yourself with a pornographic moan as you rut against his hand like a bitch in heat.

You force yourself to look in the mirror at the scene in front of you in fear that he’ll rip his fingers away if you close your eyes. With eyes slitted and your mouth parted, you will yourself to look him in the eye, only spurring your orgasm.

And Rafe simply stares at you.

His mouth is agape, eyes trailing from yours down to your breasts and eventually down to where his fingers disappear inside you. Rafe has to bite back a moan when he sees your cum coating his hand and your underwear, relentlessly continuing to shove his fingers in and out to shove your cum back inside as you ride out your high.

You moan in overstimulation when you come down from it and realize he’s still going.

Weakly, you try to push his hand away with a huff, attempting to assert any last ounce of dignity, but that quickly flies out the window when he snatches your wrist with his other hand, gripping so tight that you can’t move even if you wanted to.

“No,” Rafe orders, bringing your hand back up to his hair where it was before. “You’re giving me another.”

You splutter in protest. “Bu–”

He interrupts you when his thumb returns to your clit, entering a third finger that elicits a loud whine from you.

Gripping his hair impossibly tight, you nearly pull him forward to where his lips ghost over your flaming cheeks, the roughness making his eyes roll back for a fraction of a moment. Your back arches off of him when you feel Rafe press against you again, feeling his hard-on through his shorts, and in a feeble attempt to stake your claim of control, you push your hips back to press into him.

Of course, that makes him stop.

Rafe scoffs meanly at you absolutely writhing against him. “You’re such a fucking brat. No complaining.”

The dominance makes your head feel fuzzy, and when his other hand comes up to wrap around your neck, the coil in your belly starting to gradually build again.

With a fuzzy brain, you whine, mouth agape as you get closer and closer until–

“You want my dick, princess?” Rafe urges mockingly.

Your head is spinning as your orgasm builds, and builds, and builds. “Yes, Rafe, I’m cl–”

“Fine.”

A gasp rips out of your throat as Rafe suddenly pulls away, his fingers leaving your pussy devastatingly early.

You stumble on your own two feet at the loss of support, about to spin around and hit him on the chest for teasing you until the hand around your neck grips your chin, forcing you to look at him in the mirror.

“Stay,” he commands harshly.

Rafe brings his cum-coated fingers out of your underwear and to your lips, eyes narrowing as it takes a moment for you to realize what he’s waiting for you to do. With bleary eyes and shallow breaths, you take his fingers in your mouth, sucking the taste off of him and swirling your tongue around his digits.

The act elicits a low moan to escape from his mouth, and he hates the way it comes out involuntarily.

Rafe takes his fingers out and quickly unbuckles his shorts, letting them fall to the floor as you both look down to the achingly pitched tent in his boxers.

Your mouth nearly salivates at the sight of it, your hazy muscle memory forcing you to dart your hands forward to grab him.

But his fingers harshly grip your wrists and pull them away from him.

“Turn around,” Rafe grumbles.

You stumble on your feet as he tries to spin you around. “I want to–”

“No.”

You huff in frustration, nearly stomping your foot. The bratty excuse but it’s my birthday rises but dies in your throat.

Irritation clouds your mind. You want to suck him off. The last time you did so was in his dorm room about a week and a half ago, as he had a particularly rough day. A small part of you loved when he let you take control, giving into the notion of letting you take care of him without needing to ask. Instead, you had insisted.

You want an ounce of that semblance back in an attempt to gain control of the situation. But you can’t help but feed off of being bossed around, since this isn't the first time Rafe has fucked his frustration out on you. After snipping and barking insults and orders, it’s nice to let someone else take the reins for a little.

Despite your wishes, you oblige and turn around with a pout, letting Rafe practically shove your underwear down the curve of your ass and around your ankles. Your faux irritation wipes away from your features when he butterfly splays a calloused palm on the middle of your spine, pushing you down to bend over.

With a spark of excitement, your hands brace themselves on the mirror, biting your lip in anticipation as you watch him admire you from this angle, cock hard in his hands as he fists himself up against your ass.

“Look at you,” Rafe coos, almost mockingly. You meet his eyes in the mirror, the piercing blues dark with lust. “Being such a good girl for me.”

Rafe takes achingly long. It could be seconds but it feels like hours before he brings his cock between your folds to soak up your wetness. You’d be embarrassed if it didn’t feel so damn nice, and you can’t help but moan at the sensation, wanting to yell at him to stop elongating the foreplay.

“Rafe, please—“

But it’s as if he reads your mind, aligning himself with your entrance and pushing himself in until he’s buried fully.

“Shut. Up.”

Unlike the tender-like intercourse yesterday, Rafe snaps his hips harshly, setting a fast starting pace as he thrusts in and out of you, keeping one hand on your hip to raggedly keep you in place while the other stays firm on your back to keep you low and bent over nicely for him.

His tip nearly leaves your cunt every time, slamming back into you with his full length.

God, your eyes roll back into your skull.

“Feel good, baby?” Rafe asks huskily. The tone is far from genuine.

You can only babble something incoherent back to him.

It only makes him laugh darkly. Mean. “Done being a fucking brat, hm?”

Your elbows fold and extract with every thrust, trying your very best to hold yourself against the mirror instead of smacking headfirst against it. You moan as he fucks you deep and rough, the sound of hips snapping together only spurring you on further.

"N-Never—"

One of his hands leaves your hip to firmly smack your ass, jolting your body forward as you can't help but sigh at the sensation, head lulling as your legs begin to shake from his force. But Rafe notices, and instantly his palm is snaking up your spine to grab at your hair, forcing your eyes back into the mirror.

"Eyes. Up."

Back arching at the sensation, you both moan when his cock nearly hits your cervix, the mixture of pain and pleasure creating a low rumble in your tummy.

You try and say something back, some half-assed retort that never reaches the light of day because you find his eyes in the mirror, and you instantly notices he's equally as fucked out as you are.

Rafe’s hand on your back snakes around your body, instead splaying on your stomach as he pulls you to stand up straight, the new angle causing you to roll your eyes back. You throw your head against his shoulder, forehead sticky with sweat and legs shaking from overstimulation. He continues to fuck into you, a thumb finding your clit that has you immediately arching your back, molding into his body.

When you glance into the mirror, you notice Rafe is already staring at you.

“Look at yourself, princess,” he rasps breathlessly, your blissed out state nearly making him finish. “Taking it so goddamn well.”

Suddenly, it’s all too much.

The pace, the obscene noises, the way Rafe’s blue eyes are blown black with lust, never straying away from your face.

“Give me one more.”

It’s as if his words ignite a fire in your stomach, the sensation of everything happening in this room catches up to you.

His thumb on your clit. His dick hitting every possible angle. His chest heaving against your back. His breathy moans ghosting the shell of your ear.

The coil snaps for the second time as you’re coming so hard you see white, the noise wrangling from your throat in surprise as you throw a hand up to cover your mouth, not wanting to alert the shop owner of the scandalous activity happening in the room, but you really don't do much to prohibit the noise as your hands shake from the force.

The sight in front of him has Rafe’s pace stuttering, trying to ignore how fucking nice your orgasm feels around his cock, how your hand knots in his hair, how your pretty little sounds echo off the walls.

“Shit,” Rafe curses, eyebrows furrowed in what looks like pain as his thrusts gradually slow.

You return to planet Earth momentarily, frowning at his elongated pace. In an attempt to ride out your high for a little longer, you snap your hips back into him.

The rebellious act has Rafe gripping your hips impossibly tight, probably bruising, as his rhythm falters.

“Where? Where should I–?”

The response is immediate and careless.

“Inside.”

That seems to startle Rafe as he nearly shoves himself forward, coming inside of you with hot spurts as he groans into your ear, both of you nearly drooling at the side of his cum pooling down your thighs as he fucks you through his orgasm. His hands on your hip are iron clad, guiding your motions in rhythm with his.

Eventually, Rafe’s thrusts gradually slow as you lean against one another with heaving chests and breathy pants.

Once he’s assured his knees won’t give out, Rafe slowly pulls out of you. You stand there for a moment, balancing on wobbly legs and nearly collapsing from the dull ache from between your thighs.

But he’s quick to hold you in place, gentler this time, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder as his fingers smooth over the roughness of his previous grip, soft enough to be considered an apology.

Blinking away the fuzziness, your mind comes down from the dumbification.

And it makes your heart ache.

You hate the way Rafe’s eyes soften in his post-orgasm haze, trailing his eyes up and down your body not in hunger but in admiration.

At least you hope it’s admiration.

You two stand there for a moment, chests heaving and staring at each other through the palm-stained mirror with matching fucked out gazes. In an attempt to regulate your breathing, you bring a hand up to smooth down the pieces of his hair that you pulled abhorrently tight, doing your best to make it look presentable.

Then, Rafe manages to chuckle lightly. “Still wanna be a brat?”

That makes you snort.

“Hm,” you hum in mock contemplation, eyes slitting. “Can we do reverse cowgirl if I do?”

He shakes his head in disbelief, but the rising grin gives away his faux irritation. "Sweet girl, you don't even need to ask."

It’s funny because the first couple of times you and Rafe hooked up, you were thoroughly appalled at his lack of aftercare.

You remember cussing him out for practically ignoring you, thinking he was purposefully not helping you clean up because you weren’t really friends at the time and you still couldn’t really come to terms with how you both, sometimes, had to be nice to each other. But once you brought the word up to him in the heat of an argument, you watched his anger morph into confusion.

Given his track record, you were stunned that he genuinely had no preconception of the word, let alone the concept in itself, and taught him the implications of aftercare and how it makes life so much easier for everyone.

He hasn’t forgotten about it since.

Rafe helps you clean up, but not without pushing some of his cum back into your pussy with his fingers, then proceeding to pull your underwear back up over your hips.

You, truly, try to ignore the casual intimacy of it, but it doesn’t seem to faze him as he helps you dress first, then takes care of himself.

With a racing heart, you tell him you’ll meet him out at the register in a minute, spewing some excuse of wanting to fix your hair. Rafe doesn’t press any further, grabbing the dress hanging and throwing it over his arm before he leaves the room, closing the door behind him to give you some privacy.

What the fuck was that?

It was almost perfect. Almost.

Why does Rafe have to do things like that? Why can’t he just fuck you rough and hand you your clothes instead of dressing you himself? Why can’t he use a tissue to clean his cum instead of pushing it back into you? Why does he have to say stupidly endearing things right after as if he didn’t just give you an earth-shattering orgasm?

Pull yourself together, you harshly think.

After you nearly coach yourself to calm down in the mirror, you slide out of the room looking presentable enough to see Rafe at the register, flashing his black credit card to the shop owner. When he stuffs the card back in his wallet, you catch a glimpse of a giant wad of Euros that you’ve never seen before.

You don’t linger on the moment before the shop owner is handing him a bag, taking it with a curt nod.

Rafe’s eyes find yours as you carefully approach him. “Ready?”

So nonchalant, you think.

You can’t find the words, instead nodding and murmuring grazie to the shop owner, partially out of guilt for what went on in the changing room. As if the universe hates you, Rafe’s hand grazes your lower back, guiding you out of the store and back out onto the street.

You don’t venture back up to the cottage just yet, as your mood has – shockingly – improved.

Finding an ounce of independence again, you decide you want to look around in a few more stores for shits.

Rafe doesn’t complain, and instead encourages it, claiming he can look for more trinkets for his sisters. Although, you don’t see the way his gaze shifts to you when he says it, nervously waiting for you to call him out on his strange behavior of why he wants to buy things for his family after bitching and moaning about them.

But you don’t seem to catch on, thankfully.

Because Rafe practically buys everything you express the slightest interest in in secret.

When you’re off distractedly looking at something else or hopping to another store, he’s carefully building up his collection: dainty rings with jewels, clunky rings, a pair of earrings with pretty green jewels, an old annotated copy of Macchiavelli’s Un Principe, an old Italian movie poster that he doesn’t understand, a thin frilly scarf, and even manages to sneak a pair of vintage heels that he has to nonchalantly confirm are in your size.

Rafe stuffs all the items in the only two bags you know about, not wanting to raise suspicions even though they get heavier after leaving each store. He imagines you’d be mortified if you caught him in the act buying all the things you seemed to touch, and no doubt bites back a laugh as you’d probably force him to take it all back.

After all, he bought you a computer once after yours broke, and you harassed him for a week to take it back or let you pay him for it. Rafe edged you so fucking much one night until he forced you to drop it.

So, yeah, he’s content doing this under your nose.

Eventually, after Rafe convinces you that you need gelato from a stand on the street, you retreat back to the cottage with a careless pace in your strides, taking all the time in the world as you eat your ice cream and talk about stupid stuff that has no meaning. He wishes he had another hand so he could take a photo of you like this: grinning into your cone with the slightest bit dribbling on the side of your lip, no doubt grilling him about something stupid he says.

Rafe quickly finishes his cone so he can have the hand free, reaching over and brushing the pad of his thumb over the sweet strawberry gelato ghosting your lip.

The fuuuuuck.

Your mind turns to mush as you pause mid sentence at the action, watching him as he takes the thumb in his mouth, tasting the flavor.

“Mhm,” Rafe hums. “Good choice.”

You shake your mind out of the gutter at the terribly intimate action, telling yourself that he is so casual about it because he doesn’t care about stuff like that.

Besides, he’s probably doing it to get a reaction out of you — his favorite past time — which you refuse to give him.

Instead, you roll your eyes in faux irritation and continues what you were saying.

After twenty minutes, you make it back to the cottage and the overwhelming gloom-cloud over your head returns, popping out of fantasy land and remembering your birthday celebration tonight, the memories of the day in the past creeping up to haunt you.

Memories of you begging your mother for a cake or the newest Barbie or whatever infatuation you had of the year to get absolutely nothing in response, maybe an eye roll or – that one year – a swift backhand to the cheek for interrupting her phone call.

A small part of you wishes you felt comfortable enough to ask for what you want, as it would certainly make life a lot easier. Instead it only augments your stubbornness and makes you skeptical of what people do actually bring you things. And that definitely doesn’t allow for an easy way out of situations.

Unfortunately, Rafe notices your quiet demeanor, trailing off from whatever tangent he finds himself on and frowning.

“You okay?”

His change in tone pulls you away from your nagging thoughts, looking up at him distractedly. “Hm? Oh, yeah. Fine. Just tired.”

Rafe nods, half accepting that answer but also not wanting to push it. You enter the garden. “How’s your head?”

The question tugs something in your heartstrings. Why does he care?

You push it away. “Better. Might refrain from sneaking around in the dark, though."

You go to push open the door but Rafe beats you, opening it for you despite the two bags he carries.

Thinking back to the dresses, that former guilt of him spending all that money on you resurfaces as you pause. Rafe expectantly holds the door open, gaze flickering from his arm down to you, who stares at the bags in deep thought.

A shot of panic flashes to his mind, thinking you caught a glimpse of all the things for you stuffed deep in the bags, but instead you peer up at him sheepishly, a kind of look he hasn’t seen from you before. It has him tilting his head to the side in concern, half torn between making a chide comment in teasing and half resisting the urge to kiss you.

“What?” he whispers, gazing deep into your eyes.

You bite your lip, frowning ever so slightly. “You really didn’t have to buy them. The dresses, I mean. They were expensive.”

Rafe’s mouth curls up into a smile, the cost having little to no effect on his wallet and it’s endearing to him that that’s your concern.

Hell, he’d buy you anything you wanted with no questions whatsoever – if only you asked.

Asking isn’t in your nature. Rafe learned that pretty quickly after the computer debacle. Plus, he just had to fuck you stupid in order to buy two dresses for you alone, so he couldn’t imagine what he’d have to do to convince you to let him take care of you more often.

“I just…” you continue, hating the way he’s practically beaming at you, “don’t expect me to let you buy stuff for me just because you fuck me nice.”

That earns a belly laugh from him, throwing his head back precariously close to hitting the doorway and you have to refrain from mirroring his smile, switching your demeanor back to serious as best as you can to keep up your firm facade. Although, it's proven difficult because he has the audacity to look incriminatingly handsome.

Rafe’s grin burns a hole through your heart. His eyes gleam with pride. “So you’re admitting I fuck you nice?”

Cheeks burning embarrassingly red, you turn away from him and roll your eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. But I’m not letting you buy me anything else ever again.” You point to him in warning, then brush past him to enter the cottage.

Rafe’s laugh echoes throughout the house as you storm into the bedroom, partially laughing at how mad you’re going to be at him later.

Boy, is he wrong about that.

Dinner runs swimmingly.

Lorenza makes your favorite kind of meals: gnocchi with a crab based tomato sauce, breaded chicken with lemon squeezed over the top, along with a homemade tiramisu that the neighbors bring over just an hour before you all eat. The older woman prepped with two bottles of wine: one to drink during the cooking and another to drink while eating.

It’s wonderful.

It’s all you want out of your birthday: having a lively dinner full of laughter and conversation with a belly full of wine. Rafe asks a bunch of questions to Lorenza and she answers, trying to tie a few English words into her stories to help him understand. However, you end up translating for most of the night, but you don't mind.

Not in the slightest. Not when your mouth hurts from smiling so much.

After eating, Lorenza slips a gift into your hand when Rafe leaves the room to play with Ticino, an assortment of your favorite Italian chocolates and an old pendant of hers that you once complimented. Along with the present, she gave you a smooch on each side of your cheek with a quiet, “Tanti auguri.”

You tell your nonna that she absolutely did not need to get you anything, but, in Lorenza-like fashion, waves you off with a scoff, nearly offended at the thought of not doing anything for you.

When you retreat back to the room, a little tipsy and toying with the gift in your hand, you sit down on the edge of the bed, a stupid smile painting your lips as you close your eyes and hum dreamily.

This is the most content you've felt in a while, and you feel incredibly grateful at the notion of your nonna getting you a gift. It’s small and light, wrapped delicately with a ribbon, a short handwritten note folded inside with something so beautifully written that you can't bring yourself to read it right now, otherwise you'd probably cry from the sappiness.

The door creaking causes you to open one eye, seeing Rafe poke his head in to see if you're in here. He reciprocates your smile as he pushes inside, walking over to you and kneeling between your legs.

The sensation of his cool hands gently running up and down your thighs makes you hum sweetly and brace your hands on his shoulders, smoothing down the ridges of his collar.

“Hi, pretty,” he says softly.

You beam at him and he swears he’s never seen a better sight. “Hi.”

Rafe drums his fingers on your soft skin in anticipation. “How do you feel?”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Mhm.” You shut your eyes in contentment, sighing dreamily as the effects of wine make you feel warm. “Great.”

Rafe taps your thigh gently. “Hey. Don’t fall asleep.”

You open your eyes obediently and pout. “But ‘m tired,” you nearly whine, especially when his smile grows larger.

“Wake up.”

Your eyes flutter shut again. “Why?”

“‘Cause we’re going out.”

Then they shoot open, staring down at Rafe in confusion.

Your feather-light touches around his collar and the nape of his neck cease. He taps your thigh again, noticing he's trying (and failing) to suppress a grin, one that screams trouble. If you weren't so tired, you'd tease him for his eagerness.

But curiosity gets the best of you, especially when he has this look in his eyes that means he’s up to something.

“Why?”

“Did you really think I wasn’t going to do something special for your birthday?”

You freeze, the confession causing a moment of panic to rise like bile in your throat.

God, you're going to kill your nonna.

Your gaze darts between his eyes to see if he’s going to add anything else, or berate you for not saying anything. People usually go berserk when you neglect to tell them your birthday, seemingly more upset about it than you. Over the years, you've gotten used to the lectures, and it's given you more reasons not to tell people the day to avoid such grandiose scoldings.

However, Rafe simply stays quiet, watching you intently with a gaze so genuinely soft that it makes your stomach somersault. Suddenly, the wine doesn’t make you feel so nice.

You hate the way your voice is barely above a whisper. “We don’t have to do anything.”

Then Rafe sits up, placing a caressing hand on the side of your neck as his lips place a chaste kiss on one cheek. “We’re going out.” He alternates and places another on your other cheek. “You’re going to wear your pretty new dress.” And then his gaze flickers from your eyes down to your lips, pausing for a moment before leaning in and kissing you. “And we’re gonna take your nonna’s Vespa.”

That pulls you from the moment, brows furrowing and blinking stupidly. You move a fraction away, still confused about the whole matter.

“Nonna has a Vespa?”

Rafe nods. “Mhm. It took a lot of convincing. But she eased up when I told her I know how to drive a motorcycle.”

A...what?

The confession sends warmth to your tummy, the thought of Rafe operating a motorcycle has you shifting in your seat. “You do?”

“Mhm. What do you say, sweet girl? Wanna go?”

God, if you ever say no to that question...

It doesn’t take you long to get ready, simply pulling on your new dress and putting on some mascara. The whole time, Rafe simply watches you, lounging lazily on the bed after quickly changing with an arm tucked under his head.

It isn't until you're digging through your bag to take out your heels – meant to be for the wedding – Rafe stands and stops you, putting his hand over yours and pulling something out from behind his back.

You want to slap him silly when it’s a pair of heels, shoes that you voiced interest in earlier during your shopping (or browsing) spree. Of course, you were never going to buy them, and placed them back on the rack, but it seems as though he snuck his way around you.

You never really know how to accept gifts. Usually it’s with reluctance and dismissal, but right now, in this very moment, you've found a new reaction when he hands them over to you: a scowl.

“Okay, this is the last thing you buy me. Deal?”

Rafe puts his hands up in surrender, dressed adoringly in a collared shirt and dress pants. He looks so ridiculously handsome that it makes you blush, especially with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the top button undone. It almost makes you angry at his audacity. Truthfully, he looks good in anything: T-shirts, flannels, polos, nothing. It isn't fair.

The urge to stab him with the stiletto of your shoe but also pull him in for a bruising kiss comes into fruition, and you have to shove it to the back of your mind when you stand with the heels on, slinging your purse over your shoulder. You have the sudden realization that you're dripped out in clothes he's bought you, and you'd be pretending if you said it didn't make you feel some type of way.

Like his.

"Ready, baby?"

Shamelessly watching you, Rafe crosses his arms and tilts his head, drinking the sight of you in.

Thank god you're still a little buzzed from all the wine you drank, because you can't stand it when he looks at you like that.

So, instead of babbling like an idiot, you smile sweetly and nod.

And, jesus, the sight of it makes him bite his lip.

You're annoyingly beautiful, especially dressed in clothing that he's gotten you. A wild wave of possession rolls over him, much to his dismay, and it only makes his heart lurch when he remembers that you're not his.

Not really, anyway.

But regardless, Rafe ignores the thought.

Lorenza escorts you to the scooter waiting patiently at the edge of the gate, exchanging a few words with you and forcing a helmet into your nimble hands. Rafe waits patiently on the vehicle, biting back a grin when you nuzzle in behind him, wrapping timid arms around his middle and pulling yourself flush against his back. He can feel your breath on the back of his neck, and it makes the hair stand up with a chill. Before he starts driving, he gives your hand a gentle squeeze in reassurance.

The ride is, admittedly, stupidly fun.

Rafe is careful on the dirt road, rightfully so, focused on his task so intently that he barely registers you hugging him tighter, expressing your thanks in the only way you know how.

The sun sets low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the horizon that your eyes seem glued to, and soon the drive is illuminated by street lamps, making it into the heart of town as the roads slowly transition to cobblestone. Watching the life on the streets pass by, you rest your helmet clad head against his back, looking out towards the sea in longing and glancing at the locals basking in the setting sun.

Only now, you allow yourself to relish in the moment, shutting your eyes and simply existing, feeling his warm chest against your palms, the wind blowing against the exposed skin of your leg, hearing the sounds of laughter emitting from the street. The whole journey is so achingly pleasant that you forget you're actually stopping.

Rafe parks on the street in a small designated spot, hopping off before you can think. He slips his helmet off then proceeds to unbuckle yours, diligently lifting it off your head and holding both of them in one hand by the straps.

Then he offers a polite hand to help you off. “M’lady.”

You raise a quizzical brow. "Is this the Rafe Cameron boyfriend experience?”

“Shut up and take my hand.”

You roll your eyes, taking his hand anyway and allowing him to help you off the scooter. “How charming.”

Ignoring the thumping of your heart, you walk across the street to a quaint little restaurant, his hand splaying on the small of your back possessively as you enter.

You peer further into the restaurant to see they have outdoor seating with a view of the ocean, deciding to indulge in the pleasantries of a birthday and attempt to learn how to ask for (seemingly small) things.

Before the host can pull them into a corner to hide you from the locals, you ask, “Se è possibile, possiamo per sederci fuori?” (if it’s possible, can we sit outside?)

The request is successful, because the host leads you to their private tables outside, and you nearly sigh when you feel the ocean air brush your cheeks. You and Rafe sit away from others, tucked in your own world as the ocean laps gently to your left, his right. The table is lit gently by hanging lanterns and a single candle on each table, impossibly romantic in a way you try to disregard.

You order two red Chianti’s for them, the same wine you drank earlier at dinner.

When the waiter disappears, the silence stretches between you.

It suddenly dawns on you that you're on a date. With Rafe Cameron.

He seems to have the same epiphany simultaneously, and he chuckles out an anxious laugh and scratches the back of his neck.

The act makes you reel. Is he nervous?

You decide to elongate his misery as he comes up short on things to say. “How’d you find this place?”

“Oh,” he murmurs, the question catching him off guard.

He can’t look you in the eye.

It makes you grin.

“Lorenza recommended it. Said it was fancy to the locals, but far enough from the tourists.”

“Technically, we are tourists,” you tease.

Big, bad Rafe Cameron nervous on a date. Who would’ve thought?

Rafe finally meets your gaze, rolling his eyes when he sees your big grin at his stupidity. The hard edges to his exterior slowly smooth out, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Repressing his own smile, he shakes his head and turns away from you, hating the way he feels his cheeks turn pink.

“Shut up.”

“You’re being awfully rude to me on my birthday.”

“You were being awfully rude to me on your birthday,” he retorts as the waiter brings the wine, setting each glass in front of you.

Despite his playful tone, the accusation has you frowning.

You definitely were an asshole all day, no doubt about it given the dressing room treatment. There really was no excuse to take out all the anger surrounding your birthday and the upcoming wedding out on him, who simply has been helping you this entire time and going above and beyond in front of your nonna. A flicker of embarrassment coats your features at the thought of it.

After the waiter pours you each a glass, he places the bottle on the table and walks away, leaving you alone once again.

This time, it’s you who can’t look him in the eye, absentmindedly swirling the wine by the leg of the glass.

Fuck it.

You decide to swallow your pride because, regardless of how insane he drives you or how much of an asshole he is or everything in between, he didn’t deserve to be at the receiving end of your behavior today. After all, he did buy you two beautiful dresses and heels despite being your personal punching bag all morning.

Guilt washes over you. You don't even remember if you thanked him.

“I’m sorry for being such a dick today.”

The confession catches Rafe by surprise, his brows rising as he brings the glass to his lips, pausing his sip mto see if he heard you right. The genuine tone of your voice renders him speechless as he's only able to stare at you.

His silence makes you continue. As well as the alcohol.

“I don’t really like celebrating my birthday just because of…stuff that’s happened in the past. It’s not an excuse, but contrary to popular belief, I’m juggling a lot of shit right now and I took it out on you.” You struggle to get through the sentence, finding a shroud of bravery to look him in the eye. “So, I’m sorry.”

Rafe takes a sip, then puts the glass down on the table. A moment of silence stretches between you before he finds himself asking, “Do you…want to talk about it?”

You raise a brow. “Which part?”

“Any of it.”

Rafe knows his tone reeks of desperation, but he wants you to be able to trust him, even if it’s for one night.

Because, fuck, he wants you to tell him what’s bothering you, and he wants you to know that he’s here to listen. He stills, nearly holding his breath and waiting for you to reject it, to shove him back into a cloud of mystery surrounding the pleasantries of your past. The pounding in his ribcage only augments the longer you stay silent, contemplating opening up to him.

Taking a long sip of your drink, you take a moment to compose yourself, swirling the drink more as you stare at it.

Fuck it.

“My birthday brings up a lot of bad memories,” you murmur quietly, almost reluctantly. You refuse to look at him but he doesn’t even mind, eager to pick on the breadcrumbs. “I, uhm, am used to not celebrating it because it’s so close to the holiday, so it usually just gets…brushed over.”

You decide that’s a nicer term than what the reality is.

But Rafe simply doesn’t understand. How could anyone treat you like that?

You fidget with the glass, finding it really interesting to look at all of a sudden as you feel his gaze burning into you.

“As a kid, I used to have to beg my mom for the family to sing me happy birthday, trying to compromise that I didn’t even need a cake or presents or anything. Obviously that went nowhere, so after thirteen I stopped asking.”

You find yourself faintly smiling, remembering the gift your nonna gave you and the clothes he bought you today.

“I can’t remember the last time I got a birthday gift. So, thank you,” you say so gently.

The expression on his face is indifferent, you realize, when you look up at him.

It’s a mixture of concern, pity, admiration, and a bunch of others that you can’t quite pinpoint. He doesn’t offer an immediate response, instead staring at you as if he’s carefully collecting his thoughts by darting his piercing blues around your features.

You once again fidget under his gaze, unsure of what to make of it.

But Rafe takes a deep breath, sliding his hand forward to cover yours that anxiously picks at the glass, ceasing your movements altogether. The gesture of comfort makes your shoulders visibly relax, leaning into the conversation instead of shying away from it.

Rafe squeezes your hand, as if to coax you to continue, to let you know that he’s here to listen.

So he does.

Rafe listens intently to you lament about (most) issues plaguing your mind: how the whole concept of celebrating your birthday feeling foreign and disingenuous to you, the upcoming stress surrounding the wedding – more so having to see all of your extended family and deal with your mother at the same time – and how you wish you could just exist with them instead of constantly trying to prove yourself, the term paper that you have to submit by the end of the month that you forgot to start, and the thought of leaving nonna again since your mother is forcing you to come home for winter break.

The bottle of wine is eventually finished, and Rafe insists on getting some food so you're not stumbling around on an empty stomach.

You share a calamari appetizer throughout the night as you go over your checklist of worries. Rafe offers a few of his own so you don't feel left out: the fact that he has to say goodbye to the greatest dog he’s ever met, the nagging reminder that he has to call his dad at some point and give a thorough explanation of why he didn’t come home for the holiday, the excuses he has to come up with as to why he doesn’t want to spend Christmas with them, and how he doesn’t want to leave Italy to return back to the cold.

"I almost have maternal instincts for him," you frown after you're both long finished with the lamenting. "If I was having a really bad day, I think I would get irritated with him even though he doesn't know any better. He would probably think it was his fault."

"Sweet girl, Spongebob isn't real, you know."

This exact conversation is a tale-telling sign that you're tipsy.

You're babbling about nothing, but you really don't care. "It doesn't matter. No one understands him-"

Rafe is grinning at you taking this conversation so seriously.

"-I mean, his own best friend participated in the 'No Spongebob Day' for fuck's sake." Your cheeks flush at Rafe's teasing expression. "Stop looking at me like that. How would you feel if your best friend celebrated in a 'No Rafe Cameron Day'? It probably wouldn't feel good, you know. You're not being very sympathetic right now."

"Sorry, baby." His tone is hardly apologetic.

All you can do is narrow your eyes. "You're on thin ice, Cameron."

He nearly laughs. "Whatever you say."

You reluctantly let Rafe pay for the drinks and food despite a million protests, claiming that Lorenza gave you money to spend on the evening, but he doesn’t buy it for one second, flashing a wad of Euros to the waiter to take care of the bill without so much a thought.

Once you finished your last glass of wine (not Rafe, he stopped drinking hours ago), he guides you out of the restaurant by the hand, intertwining his fingers with you gingerly. You blame the overly affectionate act as special treatment for today and today only.

The ride back is calming, hugging him impossibly tight the entire time. When the cottage comes into view, you frown under the helmet that the little excursion is over already, nearly laughing in disbelief that your date with Rafe Cameron was actually pretty decent (maybe excluding the part where you drunkenly ranted about the implications of modern day make-up in period pieces or the Great Molasses Flood).

Even if it was all pretend, anyway.

Lorenza’s asleep given all the lights are off except the entryway, so you and Rafe quietly tip toe towards the bedroom. It’s much easier for him than it is for you, so it’s mainly him guiding you through the house by your waist, careful not to bump into anything or make a lot of noise. At one point, you almost knock over a vase that makes Rafe pull you taut against his chest, not letting you an inch from his grasp until you make it to the room.

He shuts the bedroom door behind you, flickering on the lamp behind his bed before turning back to the birthday girl.

Rafe isn’t sure if it’s technically your birthday still, but none of it matters because he still needs to do a few things before you fall asleep, starting with showing you how much you mean to him without having to say anything.

Without further ado, he gently takes your hand, slips your dress off, and guides you to bed, all while kissing your knuckles, your cheeks, your forehead, your lips, murmuring sweet nothings against the goosebumps on your skin in a tone that seems only reserved for you, his sweet girl.

Then Rafe proceeds to make the softest love he knows how to you.

There isn’t an inch of your body that goes unnoticed, un-kissed, unappreciated. It’s slow, gentle as he can, and completely, irrevocably, impossibly revealing his true feelings, spilling secrets he can’t seem to speak into fruition or else it’ll simply confirm the rawness of it all. So he lets his body do all the talking, and all it does is worship you.

Frankly, you relish in the princess treatment, liking it a little too much that you can’t even find the gall to tease him for how doting he’s being.

So you both submit to each other, emotionally and physically.

When you lay under his sheets together, limbs entangled with one another with quiet chatter spilled across cotton sheets, it’s the most content he’s felt in a really long time. He could spend the rest of his life in this twin bed with you if he had the ability to choose, to forget about everything else happening and solely devote himself to you and only you.

Fatigue creeps up on you in your body and soul, your core aching in a pleasant way as you nuzzle into the sheets that smell like him while adorning one of his t-shirts, the clothing practically swallowing you whole. You're surrounded by him, physically, emotionally, mentally, a thick fog that clouds your vision.

Your eyes start to lull shut, but a calloused palm shakes your shoulder gently.

"Hey, don't fall asleep yet."

You whine, but obey nonetheless as you watch Rafe turn over and nearly hang off the bed, reaching underneath to pull out a bag and the sight of it makes your heart throb.

It’s the same bag he carried around all day, you recognize with a pang of guilt.

And he's handing it to you.

Moving to sit up, you reluctantly take the bag from him and he twiddles his thumbs together as he watches you.

“What’s this?”

“It’s for you.”

Your shoulders sag. “I told you not to get me anything else.”

Rafe simply shrugs, not entertaining the thought.

You have half a mind to tell him off, but your eyes catch a glimpse of something in the bag and your heart flutters, freezing as your gaze flickers between the contents and his nervous expression. Reaching into the bag, you can’t help but grin as you hold up the ceramic sardine you so patiently admired earlier today.

Leaning back to pull something out of his backpack, he holds up another ceramic sardine, the one that he picked out. “I got one, too. Now we can match.”

God, the whole thing is so fucking thoughtful that you want to cry.

You pull out more objects, the gifts seemingly never-ending: the fish, more clothes, a scarf, a book, jewelry, and more.

The realization dawns on you like a tidal wave. He got you everything you expressed interest in at the stores and managed to do it right under your nose. The whole thing is severely overwhelming and you cradle each item with such love that he nearly melts at the care.

You've never had someone do anything like this for you, never had to not ask to get something, never had someone who simply understood what you wanted without needing to outright say it.

You're hugging him before you can process it.

The action startles Rafe, your arms hooking around his neck as you press yourself impossibly tight against him. He hesitates to reciprocate it in a moment of surprise, but Rafe eventually slides his arms around your waist, warm hands settling on your back as he shuts his eyes at the sensation of simply holding you, being held by you, holding each other.

Rafe decides that he really likes hugging you.

Being a hugger is not in his day to day agenda, not even his year to year. Hugs are viewed as hello and goodbyes in his family, nothing more. When someone was upset, he simply talked it out. When someone had something great happen, he poured them a drink. When someone was expressing gratitude or love or genuine appreciation, it was through words or not expressed at all. Rafe doesn’t realize what he’s been missing out on all his life, not knowing hugs can just be. They can simply happen because it can, no need for an occasion.

But when your shoulders start to gently shake with a quiet sniffle, his eyes snap open.

Are you crying?

Rafe tries to pull back to inspect the damage but you only grip onto him tighter, holding yourself there in his arms for a little longer before you have to face reality again.

He says your name so fucking soft that it brings upon more tears.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, worry evident in his tone.

Fuck. Was it too much? Was it not enough?

Rafe nearly huffs in frustration at the thought of fucking it all up, kicking himself because he was doing so well, or at least he thinks he was doing well, but all of that goes out the window by making you upset. No, not just upset: he made you cry. Now that’s a new low, even for him, and panic rises in his throat as his heart drops at the sound of your sniffling.

He decides he hates the noise, never wanting to hear it again after tonight.

In another attempt to comfort you, Rafe pulls back again and you let him.

He doesn’t get a glimpse of your face as you immediately cover it with your hands, sniffling once more as he frowns deeper. His hands ghost over your forearms, unsure if he should touch you right now or give you a bit of space. There’s always a caution when it comes to people crying, and he normally doesn’t handle it correctly.

But his anxiety simmers when you let out a strangled laugh, aggressively wiping your tears away and sniffling once more as you finally manage eye contact with him, faintly smiling at his severely worried expression.

“I–” you hiccup, “I was so mean to you all day, and you were doing all of this for me.”

Rafe’s shoulders drop in relief, huffing out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Gingerly, he lets his hands run up and down your arms endearingly as you continue to wipe away your tears, the nerves in his chest simmering down because, phew, you aren't mad at him or upset or, more importantly, he didn’t overstep.

Brushing a stray tear away with his thumb, he manages a tired smile. “Don’t scare me like that. I thought I upset you.”

You pout, confused. “Why would I be upset? This is…so thoughtful. I’ve never…” you trail off.

But he understands what you're trying to say. And he hates that he's the first to do so.

“You deserve all of it,” Rafe says quietly before he can stop himself. “All of it. And more. I’m sorry that no one has done it before.”

He opens his mouth again to say more, but the words die in his throat, not wanting to say too much even though a small part of him fears he has. Instead of speaking, Rafe settles in silence, keeping his hand against your cheek as he caresses your jaw and stares deeply into your eyes to compensate for his lack of words, trying to telepathically tell you what he's trying to say.

You do the same, so confused on how someone could think you deserve all of this, especially when that someone is Rafe Cameron.

Melting into his touch, you nearly sigh, relishing in the moment and trying to draw the line between real and fake. However, dwelling on the fine line of the arrangement will only make you more upset, so instead you lean into his touch and decide you'll indulge in your delusions for tonight.

At that, Rafe breaks eye contact to look at your lips. It doesn’t take long for him to lean in, kissing you slowly, passionately, earnestly. The kiss ends as soon as it begins, you feel, because he’s already pulling away and tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

“C’mon, sweet girl. Let’s go to sleep.”

After carefully putting all the gifts back in the bag and setting it on the floor where you won’t step on it in the morning, you settle into his bed as he turns the lamp off, following suit and pulling you taut against his chest. Your face nuzzles into his neck as a big hand cradles your back, rubbing gentle circles along your spine underneath his shirt.

In the dark, you feel a little more comfortable and a little less vulnerable (despite literally crying in front of him a few mere minutes ago), but the confidence to say what you've been meaning to say all night comes easy in the pitch-black.

“Thank you,” you whisper against his neck, voice so quiet you aren't sure he hears you.

But Rafe hums, confirming he does. He says your name quietly. “You don’t ever have to thank me for that…for anything. I want you to know that.”

Your heart beats uncontrollably at his words, at your name. “Okay.”

“I’d get you anything you wanted if you just asked.”

Your chest feels funny at the confession, confusion running awry in your mind at all the implications that statement can have. What is he trying to say to you right now?

Exhaustion fatigues you, eyes lulling shut as you lay in his big, warm arms. Despite all the nagging and overly complicated emotions plaguing your mind, you manage to softly smile against his skin, pressing a featherlight kiss on him.

“Even a Mary Poppins umbrella to save myself from a tsunami?”

Rafe chuckles above you. “Anything you want, baby.”

“What about a talking car?”

“Sure.”

“A magic crystal that turns me invisible?”

“Mhm-hmm.”

“The Fairy Godmother’s wand from Shrek 2?”

“‘F course.”

You pause, biting your lip. “What about a cannoli tomorrow at the bakery by the beach?”

Rafe snorts. “Now you’ve crossed a line.”

You can't help but laugh, nuzzling even closer to him as you hum in contentment.

The sensation of being in his arms, the warmth of the bed, and the fuzzy feeling pooling in your chest quickly lull you to sleep, soon turning limp in a matter of minutes. The last thing you register is Rafe's lips pressing on your hairline, pulling you just a fraction closer than before.

notes please leave comments. i yearn for feedback.

#rafe cameron #salem-s works #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x y/n #rafe cameron x you #rafe x reader #rafe x y/n #rafe x you #rafe cameron angst #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron smut #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron outer banks #outerbanks #reader insert #rafe cameron x female reader #rafe x female reader

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willsdreamgirl · 2 years ago

Text

“morning mr. shelby.” — tommy shelby x reader ⋆｡˚

tommy shelby x fem!reader

you meet tommy as a nurse during the war, but happens when he realizes that he’s known you all along? (loosely based around some s1 plot points, but all set before the war)

18+ minors dni please! angst, fluff and smut

cw: mentions of war, shooting, stabbing, suturing, ptsd, friends to lovers, eventual smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!!), slight breeding kink

word count: 5.4k+ (sorry lmao)

a/n: ahh first fic alert!! i’m so excited for you guys to read this! don’t be a ghost reader and lmk if you want to be added to my tag list for future tommy/cillian stuff!! 💌

you met tommy shelby during the war. he was a soldier, you were a wartime nurse. before the war, you had obviously heard of him. tommy shelby, leader of the fucking peaky blinders. arrogant bastards.

you lived in small heath, and everyday you’d pass him on the street. and everyday, you’d smile and say, “morning, mr. shelby.” and everyday, he would barely look up at you. you were sure he wasn’t even aware of your existence. prick.

your parents had always told you to stay away from the shelby boys. your dad would say that “they’re dangerous and make whores out of innocent girls” and your mum would make some comment about “the shelby men and their stupid cocks and their stupid judgements”.

they were the most intimidating people in all of small heath, possibly in all of birmingham. truth be told, there was a certain charm to them that you couldn’t shake off. well, to one of them. tommy shelby. you couldn’t tell if it was because he was your age, or because he was powerful and strong, or simply because he was strictly off limits. or because of his piercing blue eyes.

everyone in small heath knew tommy. but you knew tommy. he didn’t know you, though. you could tell if was him by the way he exhaled or by the sound of his footsteps or by the way he held a cigarette in his hand, the peaked cap on his head, a hand in his coat pocket. you despised tommy shelby, but god, was he fucking irresistible.

when men were drafted for the war in france, it was common sense that they’d need someone to tend to their cuts and bruises. you’d decided to volunteer, and after a couple weeks of training, you were right there, in the field. practicing on dolls and bags of rice and flour was nothing compared to what you saw. what you heard.

your first day in france was… eventful, to say the least. some commander had led you to the medical tent, and you were welcomed by the screams of hurt soldiers, blood and panic. you were immediately assigned to a patient, who’d been shot in the chest. you tried your best, did everything you could have, but ultimately, he had just lost too much blood. you didn’t sleep that night, haunted by the bloodshed, by the pleas of the soldier to keep him alive, by the feeling of someone else’s blood on your hands. over time, however, you grew accustomed to having your pristine white uniform soiled with blood and mud.

a month or so after you’d started, you heard shouts outside the tent. “help! someone HELP, for FUCK’s SAKE!” this was a regular occurrence, but the voice the shouts came from didn’t sound wounded. you felt an instinctual need to go see what it was.

what you saw, though, was something you never expected to see. tommy shelby, with a comrade’s head in his lap, putting pressure on a wound in his shoulder. without hesitating, you helped tommy drag the soldier to a vacant bed in the tent. “what happened?” you asked, hurriedly. tommy was visibly panicked. “i- he- um, he got st-stabbed by… one of the germans… his name’s danny- daniel.” you looked in tommy’s eyes, trying to give him some semblance of comfort. “he’ll be okay.” you applied pressure on the wound, and luckily, the blood stopped flowing soon. you cleaned the wound up and looked to tommy. “i’m gonna have to disinfect the wound with alcohol, you might want to hold daniel down for this.” daniel was still delirious from the blood loss, but the pain would be excruciating. tommy braced himself. his hands firmly holding down daniel’s. you nodded before tipping the bottle over on the wound. danny thrashed around on the bed, screaming and cursing, struggling against tommy’s hold. you heard his voice over danny’s. “you’re alright, lad! y’er gonna be fine!”

tommy sat by his friend’s bedside as he came to. you tended to other patients in the meantime but eventually went over to talk to him. “i want to keep him here for the night, mr. shelby. make sure there’s no infection.” he looked at you, surprised you knew him. “you know who i am?” “of course i do, all of small heath knows you. what i didn’t expect was to have a run-in with you, here in france.” he scoffed at his own misery and spoke. “you don’t belong here. you should be home.” you rolled your eyes, even in his state, he managed to be cocky. “if i wasn’t here today, mr. shelby, who would save danny?” that seemed to shut him up. he was about to speak, before you heard your name from the other side of the tent. “y/n, we need you!” after having helped a soldier who looked like he had been mauled, you looked out to see it was nightfall, and tommy had left.

a couple days later, at about noon, john shelby, the youngest of the shelby brothers walked in, clutching his arm tightly. “do you need help, mr. shelby?” you called out. “yes, i-i’ve been shot.” he all but whispered. you rushed over with a tray of distilled alcohol, forceps and bandages. after an afternoon of agony and pain, you had finally managed to pull out the bullet form his arm, john’s face a clear representation of his relief. “oh my god love, if we were home, i’d marry you right now.” you laughed at the proposition. “mr. shelby, i think you’re still a bit delirious from the anaesthesia. besides, i’m your brother’s age.” he looked shocked. “what, you’re arthur’s age? really?? you look nothing like that old prick.” you couldn’t help but laugh yet again. “i’m not that old, jesus. i’m tommy’s age.” he sighed. “marry him then. lord knows he needs a girl.” you giggled as you gathered your things and walked away. “you amuse me far too much, mr. shelby.”

it felt like ages had passed before you saw tommy again. your back was towards the tent entrance but you knew who had walked in. his breath trembled and his footsteps felt a bit unsteady, but it was undoubtedly him. you waited to turn until he called out your name. “y/n, is it?” you turned around, to find his face and shirt covered in blood. “mr. shelby! what happened?” you rushed over to him, taking his hand and sitting his down on a bed. “i- i… killed a man today, y/n.” he looked down, he couldn’t bring himself to look at you. you didn’t respond, simply got up and grabbed a stitching kit and a bowl of warm water. “is all this blood yours?” was your first question. “no. most of it is his.” you sighed and searched his face to find a cut on his cheekbone, the source of his own bleeding. “i’m wiping away the blood now, okay?” tommy gulped and nodded, his eyes still trained on the ground. “mr. shelby, i want you to look at me.” it was as if he didn’t hear you. you spoke again, softer yet more authoritative this time. “tommy. look at me.” he finally brought himself to look into your eyes. in his eyes, you saw guilt, regret and fear. in yours, he saw compassion, love and a warmth that could engulf all his pain. “good.” you whispered. you wrung out a washcloth and began wiping the blood away from his face, using your other hand to hold his chin in place. his arms found themselves wrapped around your waist, in an attempt to ground himself. you didn’t say anything, but your eyes told him that you didn’t mind. in that moment, you saw a different version of tommy shelby. you didn’t see ‘tommy, the criminal’, ‘tommy, the gangster’ or ‘tommy, the womanizer’. you saw tommy, a good man, an honest man. you felt his arms tighten around your waist as you pulled your hands away from his face, as if he was afraid you would dissipate into thin air. “tommy.” you whispered. “i’m gonna have to stich that wound up. it might hurt.” but he didn’t mind pain, not if you were the one inflicting it. “okay.” he spoke, his voice deep. he rubbed circles into your skin with his thumbs, the pain making him hum. “sorry, almost done.” you finished the last stitch. “there. you’re all fixed.” tommy held you like that, his hands around your waist, icy blue eyes staring into yours. your arms rested on his shoulders and you leaned down to whisper to him. “tommy. people are staring.” “so? let them.” eventually, he reluctantly pulled away from you. “it’s time for dinner, and then lights out.” he smiled as he spoke, and slowly exited the tent, catching a glimpse of you as he left.

needless to say, you only grew closer over the next few weeks. you were inseparable. whenever tommy had free time, he’d make his way to the familiar tent, and talk to you. it was wartime. you were left hurt and traumatized and so was he, but you both found solace in each other’s company. you told him how you knew him, and how you’d wish him good morning every day, only to receive complete silence from him each time. he chuckled and apologized. he told you about the peaky blinders, what they did, how they ran their business. you bonded over your shared hunger for knowledge and stories. you told him everything you knew about art, history and literature; and he told you stories of fighting gangs in the streets and stealing contraband. his stories were always more thrilling than yours. you’d try to set each other up with people for fun. you’d introduce him to every nurse, telling them how he was fighting for his country, and of course, they fell prey to his charming eyes and dashing smile. they’d ask what he did back home, and as soon as you said the words ‘gangster’, they’d run in the opposite direction. he’d done the same for you. introduced you to other soldiers, and when you spoke to them, about art and literature, they’d call you ‘unladylike’ or ‘too ambitious for a man’. you both secretly liked it this way, it was like you were his and he was yours.

when he became sergeant major, you both celebrated together. he’d brought you a bottle of whiskey, and you spent the night, talking and giggling drunkenly. but soon, he was assigned to be a sapper and dig tunnels. you both knew that the germans were going to dig their own tunnels, and at some unfortunate point, the tunnels would converge. both of you realized the danger it held, but he had to do it. you tried to talk him out of it, though. “tommy, please!” “y/n, calm down.” “goddamn it tommy, think! you’re gonna get yourself killed! what the fuck are you doing?” “i’ll be alright.” “no, you won’t! what if you get hurt? what if they shoot at you, huh? i won’t be there underground to make sure you’re okay!” “y/n, i have to serve my country. i have to do this.” “tommy. i’m begging you, don’t do this.” he simply sighed and kissed your forehead and held your face in his hands. you held tightly onto his wrists as tears threatened to spill from your eyes. “shhh, i’ll be alright. in fact, i’ll write you.” you seemed to calm down at the idea of him writing you. at least you’d be updated on his condition.

the morning he went down to the tunnels, he came to see you. you were sorting gauze and bandages when you felt his presence near you. you turned around and ran to hug him. he buried his face in your neck and breathed you in. you could feel tears brimming your eyes. neither of you knew why you felt like this. you were just friends, right? “tommy michael shelby, i swear to god if you die, i’ll kill you myself.” you heard him chuckle. he took a step back and caressed your cheek. “you take care, darling.” you wished he wouldn’t leave, but in your heart, you knew he had to. a few hours after, you found a letter tucked under a book on your desk. you curiously pulled it out and opened it.

dearest y/n,

i know how much you hate that i’m going to be a sapper now. i want you to know, no matter what happens down there, i care for you, and i love you, unconditionally. i’ve loved you since the day i first met you. i can’t believe i was looking for love in whores and prostitutes when the love of my fucking life was saying the sweetest good morning to me every morning. i’ll protect myself, and i want you to protect yourself too since i can’t do that for the time being. if we survive this wretched war, i want to take you home, ask your father for your hand and marry you, sweetheart. you take care of yourself, alright?

all my love,

tommy shelby.

you couldn’t help but gasp at what you read. he loved you. tommy shelby loved you. the same tommy shelby that was too arrogant to say a word to you, the same tommy shelby that your parents told you to stay away from, the same tommy shelby was head over heels for you. you immediately looked for a piece of paper, a pen and some ink. you wrote a letter back and sent it with one of the workers heading down to the tunnels. you didn’t know what it was like down there, but you hoped your letters would keep him sane. meanwhile, tommy received your letter and opened it with the same enthusiasm you showed his letter. however, he was also filled with nervous energy. he had confessed his love for you, which was so incredibly out of character for him, but with shaky hands, he proceeded to open the letter.

dearest tommy,

to say that your letter was shocking would be an understatement. i never knew you felt this way for me. like i’ve told you on several occasions, my parents always told me to stay away from ‘your kind’ and as a good catholic girl, i obeyed them. but tommy, in these few months, i’ve seen a side of you i can’t ever forget. i love you too tommy, the real you. the honest, raw, genuine tommy that i get to see on late nights and in random moments on busy days. i’d love to marry you, just make it out alive of that damn tunnel, you prick.

only yours,

y/n.

tommy felt his eyes welling up as he read the words you had penned on the paper. it had been so long since he’d seen you, or heard your voice. he wanted you. he needed you. to keep him stable and sane. as the days passed, your and tommy’s letter exchange became more and more frequent, and you felt like even if you were in this goddamned lawless land of blood and chaos, you had tommy. and he was all you needed.

that was, until the letters slowed down. you kept writing him, but to no avail. he hadn’t sent you a letter in days, or weeks, you weren’t sure anymore. you’d almost lost hope, and spent entire nights grieving him. trying to remember the sound of his voice, the feeling of his hands on your waist, the smell of his cologne. you hadn’t heard his breath or felt his footsteps in a long time. the pain was almost unbearable, and some days felt like decades. but the only thought that kept you going was that you saw tommy in all the wounded soldiers you treated. they were someone’s tommy. and they needed to get home alive.

4 months. 4 whole months since you heard from tommy. you were convinced he was dead now. you spent your days bandaging and stitching wounds, yet you could never fix the wound tommy left in your heart. it was one of the hottest afternoons, the french sun blazing unmercifully. you were insanely busy with patients today, the war was almost ending, and the soldiers needed to be fixed up before they could go home. yet, no sign of tommy. you sighed, cursing yourself for holding out hope now for someone who would not return.

“can i have a nurse here?” you could recognize that damn voice anywhere. the deep voice that filled your ears, smooth like honey, you’d recognize that voice at the end of the world. you turned around. tommy. “hi, love.” he smiled. but his smile quickly changed into a frown when he saw your sobs. you took him to a quieter corner of the tent. you stepped closer to him. he went to put his arms around you. you slapped him across the face. “where. the FUCK were you, thomas michael shelby?!” he was incredibly confused. “l- love, what?” “i thought YOU DIED, YOU BASTARD. where were you?” the time you spent apart had changed you, and from his response, you could tell it clearly changed him. “i was TRYING to fucking STAY ALIVE for YOU.” he raised his voice at you. he never raised his voice. neither of you spoke for a while and tension filled the air between the two of you. “i should leave.” he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. he left, and you let him.

after a few weeks, news broke that britain had won the war, and everyone went home. five years had passed since you last saw the familiar streets of small heath, and you were no longer a girl, but a woman. a woman who needed to get a job to survive in this city. you walked around and saw a flyer on the doors of the garrison. ‘BARMAID NEEDED.’ you walked in to find harry. he looked up pleasantly surprised. “y/n! haven’t seen you in a while, eh? what can i do you for?” “i’m here to get the barmaid job, harry.” he sighed.” y/n, this job isn’t suitable for a girl like you. these men, they’ve just come back from war, they haven’t seen a girl, let alone a pretty one like yourself, in ages. they’ll have you up against a wall within the first hour of your shift.” you looked at him desperately. “harry, please. i need this job, otherwise i’ll be out on the streets, which are surely worse than this pub. i was a nurse in france, i’ve dealt with these men. please?” he sighed again before nodding. “alright then, you start tomorrow.”

your first shift consisted of the usual alcoholics, men with ptsd, everything that was to be expected after a war. you hear the bells at the door ring as the familiar footsteps walk closer to the bar. without turning around, you ask, “what do you want?” he replies, “whiskey, scotc- y/n?” you finally turn around at the sound of your name falling from his lips. “yes, mr. shelby. so, scotch? on the house right?” he leans over so that just the two of you can hear. “don’t mr. shelby me. come on, love, talk to me.” “i have nothing to talk to you about.” as you poured him a glass of whiskey, he held your wrist assertively. “y/n. come.” you rolled your eyes and went to the shelby’s private booth. “what is it that you want, tommy?” “what the fuck do you mean ‘what do i want’? you, i want YOU. i need you. did ya lose your fucking mind in france like danny whiz-bang?” you felt your bottom lip trembling and your throat choking up. “i… i thought y- you were fucking dead. i mourned you. for MONTHS. i grieved over the death of the love of my life. of my future husband. of my future children that i’d have with him. and then, just as i’m making my peace with it, YOU have the fucking audacity to show up? you have some bloody nerve, tommy shelby.” the look in his eyes softened as he took a step closer to you. “no. don’t you dare come any closer to me, tommy, i’ll kill you.” you said, holding up the bottle of whiskey as a weapon. he embraced you, holding you tightly, his fingers stroking your hair. you resisted the hug and tried to push him away, only to find his grip on you getting tighter. “g- get away… from me, p- please… i- just” your voice came out muffled between sobs. tommy felt hot tears rolling down his own cheeks. “shhh, sweetheart. i’m okay, eh? i’m fine. i’m here, with you.” you dropped the bottle you were holding and it shattered into a million pieces on the ground. you stood there in his arms, crying for what felt like an eternity. you finally pulled away from him, and he wiped your tears with his thumbs. you laughed, but then lightly slapped his arm. “you scare me like that again, tommy, i swear i’ll kill ya.” “i’ll hold you to it, sweetheart.” he kissed your forehead, and you rested your forehead against his. he tentatively closed the gap between your lips and his, and you pulled him by the collar and kissed him with enough force to make him trip and fall. he managed to stay steady and kissed you back with equal fervour. he spoke between kisses. “i *kiss* spent *kiss* every *kiss* second *kiss* thinking *kiss* of you.” you giggled. “i missed you too, tommy.”

he told harry that you’d be leaving the bar early that day, and dragged you out the bar while holding your hand, a smile on his face for the first time in a long time. “the great thomas shelby isn’t embarrassed to have a barmaid as his girlfriend?” you giggled. “never. and those who think i should be embarrassed can suck me cock.” he spoke proudly. he opened the car door for you, and you sat inside and waited for him to turn the ignition on. “where are we going, tommy?” “i want you to meet my family, love.” during the countless hours you spent together chatting, he told you about his family’s idiosyncrasies and stories about them. how arthur needed to be protected the most during fights because he was just as likely to hurt himself as he was to hurt someone else, how aunty pol’s instincts about love were never wrong, how john once fell in love with a prostitute and everyone laughed at him, how ada was the most rebellious and married a communist (who happened to be in of his best mates), and how finn always pretended to act like tommy, doing whatever his big brother did. you were excited to meet them of course, but anxious. they would be your family one day too.

he held your hand as he brought you in, everyone sitting around a table waiting for him. “does everyone just sit together like this?” you asked. “uh, no i called a family meeting for 3 pm.” tommy replied simply. “how did you know you’d be able to have me here by 3?” he winked at you. “i have my ways. and i know how much you love me.” he spoke in a singsong voice. you rolled your eyes at his schoolboy behaviour and waited for him to speak. “shelby’s, this is my girlfriend and soon to be fiancé, y/n.” he held his arm around your waist proudly, and you leaned up to kiss his cheek. you recognized arthur and john immediately from your time in the war. you assumed that the older woman was aunt polly, and the younger with the baby in her arms would be ada, leaving the youngest member of the family, finn. john came up to talk to you first, while tommy spoke with polly. “you know i didn’t really mean the ‘marry tommy’ thing?” you laughed as you replied, “i didn’t either, but fate works in weird ways, eh?” he agreed with you before talking to tommy. arthur was the next one to see you. “you and tommy, eh? if it wasn’t for the war, you two would probably never have met. i s’pose war isn’t all bad then.” “perhaps you’re right. i did find your brother to be arrogant before the war.” “that he is, y/n. that he is.” both of you looked over at him, engaged in conversation with everyone else. you fussed over the baby in ada’s arms. “awww, he’s precious! what’s his name?” “karl, after karl marx.” you shot her a look. “it’s unconventional, i know. but freddie really wanted it.” “it’s lovely.” finn rushed over to you and kissed your hand. you gushed exaggeratedly. “what a gentleman you are, finn!” “if tommy wasn’t here, you’d be my girlfriend, miss y/n.” you laughed at his childishness and ruffled his hair. “sure i would, finn.” the only person you hadn’t spoken to yet was aunt polly, arguably the most intimidating person of the family. “i have one question for you, y/n. how you answer it will determine if you’re fit for being a shelby. how do you think i kept this business up and running during the war?” you felt put on the spot but tried your best to answer. “um, well, to be quite frank, i’ve believed that women are better at business anyway. we know how to settle deals with whiskey and not fists or guns. and you seem like twice the man than most men i know anyway.” her lips twitched up into a smile as she looked to tommy. “oh, i like her already.” he held your hand in hers, and addressed tommy. “she seems like a lovely girl, do not fuck this up tommy.” tommy shook his head and laughed. “i’ll try, pol. i’ll try.”

you ate dinner with the shelby’s before you headed up to his house. “you sure you don’t want me to walk you home?” he asked for the hundredth time that night. “no tommy, i’m perfectly content spending the night with you. unless you’d like me to leave?” you questioned. “no no, stay, please!” he said, almost pleadingly. you looked around his bedroom when you reached his home. it was obviously a house, but it didn’t feel like a home. you frowned at your observation. “what’s wrong, y/n?” “this house isn’t a home yet, tommy.” “that’s because i want my first home to be with you. with our children. and as far as i’m concerned, you are my home.”

“care to dance?” he asked, holding out his hand. you looked at the gramophone in the corner. “that doesn’t look like it works, love.” you placed your hand in his. “so what? we can dance without music.” he said, holding your waist close to him, your hand on his shoulder. you leaned your head on his shoulder, both of you dancing in the silence, listening to the sound of each other’s breathing. “kiss me, tommy.” you whispered. he obeyed probably for the first time in his life and kissed your soft lips.

things escalated and you were now on tommy’s bed, tracing the sun tattoo on his chest, with him on top of you. “fuck me, tommy, please.” “your cunt wants this cock?” he growled. you moaned in his ear. “fuck, yes tommy, make me yours.” he stretched you out in the most blissful way. of course, you had used your fingers before, but nothing could replace the feeling of his cock. “god, please!” you moaned out, words slowly turning into incoherent sounds. tommy chuckled. “god can’t hear you now, sweetheart. not here.” he pistoned his hips into you just right and it wasn’t long before he found the spot inside you that made you scream. “t- tommy fuck! right there, please don’t stop!” “i wouldn’t dream of stopping, darling. my girl, so pretty all spread out for me. take it, love. take that cock.” the feeling of your impending orgasm coursed through your entire body, making you writhe in pleasure. “god, i’m so close tommy!” “good fucking girl.” his hand reached down to rub circles on your clit while he fucked you so good. “oh god, tommy, i’m not gonna be able to walk tomorrow…” “that’s the plan, sweetheart.” he spoke as he kissed hickeys on your neck, matching the ones you’d given him earlier. “come on love, make a mess on my cock.” as soon as he said that, you felt yourself falling apart, the tight band in your stomach snapping, uncontrollable moans of his name falling from your lips. “thank you tommy, thank you so much.” you moaned, drunk on the feeling of his cock inside you. “such an angel. who do you belong to, sweets?” he said, still pounding your cunt. “y- you, tommy. i belong to you!” “that’s right, sweetheart.” he whispered in your ear, “i love you, darling.” you moaned as you felt your second orgasm approaching. “tommy, fuck! i- i love you too!” “god i’m gonna cum inside you! you’d like that, eh? me getting you pregnant, all nice and round with my baby?” you felt your orgasm pulsing through you at his words. “yes, tommy! fill my womb up, please! i need it!” you heard tommy’s loud moans as he came inside you. “oh, such a good girl. took my cock so well, love.” tommy stayed on top of you for a while, his cock still inside you. “i’ve wanted to do that for five fucking years.” he spoke, voice muffled since his head was buried between your tits. you laughed, but the laughs quickly turned to moans as your sensitive cunt felt friction from tommy’s cock rubbing up against its walls. he pulled out of you slowly, watching his seed spill out of you. he eventually got up to get a warm washcloth and a glass of water for you. you drank the water as he cleaned you and himself up and pulled you into his chest. you pulled the covers over both of you, feeling your body flush against his. “that was amazing tommy, thank you.” “the pleasure is all mine, sweetheart.” he kissed your forehead.

ever since tommy came back from france, he had these recurring nightmares every night. of his time in the tunnels. the germans. his comrades. how he had to kill people with his bare hands. he could still hear the shovels digging the tunnels when he closed his eyes. when he was with you though, he could finally fall asleep. or so he thought.

you were awoken in the middle of the night by the sounds of a gasping tommy, suddenly sitting up. you felt groggy for a moment, having just woken up, but quickly sprung into action. you sat next to him, rubbing his back. “tommy, what’s wrong?” he didn’t speak. but he didn’t need to. you’d seen enough cases of ptsd from your time in the war to know what was happening to him. “you still see it, eh?” he only nodded. you laid back down and pulled him into your chest. he protested. “what are y-” “shut up.” you could tell, he was still a bit frantic, his breath still heavy. you spoke to him in a soft tone and you played with his fingers, his head on your chest. “listen to me. listen to the sound of my voice. feel my body against yours. you are home. you are safe. the war is over. the nightmares are just parts of your mind trying to scare you. but you’re stronger than that, eh? i’m here with you, and you don’t need to be scared. alright? i’m here with you, always.” he hummed, heavy eyelids slowly closing shut. being able to smell the scent of your perfume helped ground him. “good job, tommy. now sleep. i’ll be here with you when you wake up.” you managed to get him to go to sleep, but somehow convinced your mind to let you sleep light enough that if tommy were to have another nightmare, you’d be up immediately. fortunately, he didn’t wake up during the night.

he woke up to the sight of a sleeping you, the sun rays hitting you just right. he swore he could look at you forever. you felt his gaze on you and slowly opened your eyes. “how’d you sleep?” you asked. “like i hadn’t slept in years.” he replied.

“morning, mr. shelby.” you wished him, as you did, every day before the war. except this time, you were in his arms, in his bed. you kissed his lips softly. except this time, he finally wished you back.

“mornin’, sweetheart.”

5K notes · View notes

2-dsimp · 1 year ago

Note

Yandere rich single dad falling for his daughter's nanny/babysitter!

Cw: fem reader! jealousy, possessive/obsessive tendencies, father-daughter plotting on you, you’ve got an pushy coworker,

Synopsis: 【You were just a normal office worker with a minimum wage. So in an effort to pay rent, you scrounged job offers for babysitting since you were good at handling children. And in the process you applied and got accepted to become a nanny for a rich former movie star’s daughter. The daughter apparently hated every nanny she got but once she met you she was absolutely smitten…And so was her Daddy.】

Pt2→ 《x》

☆*:.｡..｡.:*☆ ☆*:.｡..｡.:*☆ ☆*:.｡..｡.:

Yandere rich Dilf! Who continues to pace back and forth in his house, his anticipation growing as the seconds count down. He knows that you must be getting off work soon, and that you'll be coming back to him ahem to take care of his little brat and him before too long.

Yandere rich Dilf! That tries to distract himself, focusing on making sure everything is prepared for your arrival. He excused all the servants so he can personally oversee that everything in his mansion was set up to perfection. He was sweating like a madman.

Yandere rich Dilf! Who couldn’t shake the feeling of jittery excitement that's building within him. Eventhough he was hailed as a famous handsome actor he couldn’t get his shit together at the thought of finally making moves on his darling. This poor man was practically leaning against the counter for life support. From how he got swept up by the plan his nosey daughter concocted. Which was for him to seduce you into making you completely theirs.

Yandere rich Dilf! Whose daughter was already in full support of making her sweet nanny into her new mommy. And was smart enough to call her playmates ahead of time. So her Dad can give her the sibling she’s always been asking for. Since she was tired of being the only child in the huge mansion.

As the clock ticks down the minutes foretelling of your arrival. Quio starts to feel a sense of nervousness mixed with impatience, knowing that it was almost game time.

“Cmon Dad you can’t be looking like a wimp, it’s time for you to man up! By the time I get back I expect to have a mommy and a little brother on the way. Understood?”

His daughter, Peina chastised as she whacked him on the back and continued to threaten him give him encouragement before she left to see her friends.

"Okay, okay, Understood you prima donna."

Quio sassed with an heavy eye roll from how his bossy his daughter was. I mean sure he knows that she gets that from him. But at the same time it’s surreal to be at the receiving end of having orders being barked at you. Soon enough there’s a signature knock at the door, which makes Peina perk up. As she giddily skips towards the door to greet her beloved nanny.

“Gah wait! I’m not mentally prepared yet! Are ya really tryna give yer old man a heart attack?! How heartless can you be?”

He practically whispered yelled in an attempt to halt his daughter hand from twisting open the knob. As his heart raced at the speed of sound from the thought of seeing his apparent future missus crush. His daughter merely gave him a judgmental glare and promptly flipped him off. Mouthing to him ‘Get it together’ leaving him utterly offended. He was an A-listed actor damn it. Before flinging open the door to greet her Nanny with a big hug to their waist.

“Nana who’s this with you?”

At his daughter’s pointed inquiry, Quio nearly trips over his feet as he hauls ass to the door. His tall and bulky build moving as gracefully as a one legged flamingo. When he peeks his head out only to bite back a bitchy grimace at the sight of you with your so called nice colleague. Oh how he hated that pretentious asshole’s guts despite not knowing a damn thing about the man.

"Uh heya, Sweetheart it’s so good to see ya. I never get tired of seeing your gorgeous face!“

The Dilf crooned with a heavy twang to his voice as he blatantly ignored the little pest hanging to your side. His daughter felt the same way as she outwardly glared at your coworker while she purposefully tugged you closer to her Dad’s direction.

“Aha you flatter me too much Mr. Evinis. Also this is Miki he just so happened to see me and wanted to say hello”

You hummed lightly always finding the rugged single father to be charming. Completely, missing his subtle glance over at Miki, his serpentine eyes studying his potential love rival with thinly concealed disgust . He can't help but feel extremely jealous of the way that Miki is able to freely hang around you because yall worked at the same office. God, would it be too overkill to just buy the company you worked at so he could freely stalk watch you from 9-5.

"Hey, it’s nice to meet you man. But wow you’ve got an amazing house”

Your colleague says with a grin, holding out a hand for Quio to shake. Both him and his daughter stared down with an ick at the outstretched sweaty hand of the slime ball. And in order to keep up appearances in front of his soon to be wife. The Dilf inwardly sighed and begrudgingly took Miki's hand into an bruising iron grip. his eyes still fixed on you as he tries to focus on the conversation.

"Uh huh, Nice to meet you pal. Well, come on in, make yourself at home Sweet— "

“Don’t mind if I do! Oh my god is that the newest gaming console?”

Quio was soon interrupted by your colleague who had the audacity to grab you by the shoulders and usher you inside his mansion. Did he say that fucking parasite was invited? No, so why the hell did that cockblocking bitch think it was okay to scamper his mousy ass inside his mansion. Only meant for his lovely wife, his daughter, and him, alone. He was definitely going to call pest control afterwards to make sure the problem wouldn’t occur again.

Veins popped out around his neck as the Dilf nearly broke the door handle in utter rage. While numerous murderous thoughts about curb stomping the shit outta Miki crossed his mind like a freight train. And his daughter was the splitting image of him. She was appalled by how that leech just snatched her mommy nanny away from her grasp. And she balled her tiny fists with a small snarl present as she snapped her head up to give her Father a knowing look.

“Dad!…”

“Yeah I know squirt, I’ll make sure to have a real good chat with the fucker— I mean guy. You’ll get your sibling and mommy soon enough.”

Quio said in a hushed tone with an undertone of venomous certainty. Which made Peina somewhat pleased as she curtly nodded off at her Dad.

“Now run along and stay outta grown folks business”

He huffed lightly nudging his daughter further outside their residence. To which she gave an equally heavy eye roll mirroring his that he gave her a couple minutes ago. Before she started trotting off towards her friend’s chauffeur car that just pulled up for their play date.

Yeah he’d make damn sure that you’d be his pretty darling mama for him and his baby girl. Afterall he’s a man of his word and he promised to deliver. Nothing would stand in his way of achieving whatever he wanted. And he sure as hell isn’t letting Miki from the stupid parts and services department. Get away with the disrespect of having the gall to touch you without some form of bloody repercussions.

。

Lmk If you guys like him. If so, I’ll write some more or make a part two (>^ω^<)

#yandere drabble #yandere oc #yandere x reader #yandere imagines #yandere male #yandere male x reader #yanderecore #yandere concept #yandere content #yandere scenarios #yandere headcanons #yandere x y/n #yandere x you #yandere x darling #dilf x reader #Quio the dilf #yandere dad

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lizzybeeee · 6 months ago

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Calling it now:

If there's ever any future installments of Dragon Age there will be no mention of the differentiation between the Dalish or City Elves.

Like in DATV they will simply all be 'elves' and the vallaslin will be reduced to 'cool looking tattoo's that some veil jumpers have' - no mention of the elven pantheon either, because why bother! They're all dead now!

They're all dead and responsible for every lore plot point in Thedas, and there's nothing of mystery or substance left in the world now.

No mention of the culture in the alienage, of the vhenadahl tree, of the horrific racism and systematic abuse the elves have been through...now its just elves. With the way the Veil Jumpers have been set up, and the fact that the elven gods were the enemy in DATV, I find it extremely unlikely that the Dalish will even exist as a group either. Why would they? Their Gods returned and blighted the world - not that the fact is even truly discussed in the game. Elves are just elves, and the notable elves are Veil Jumpers.

Maybe you'll walk in a city, pick up a codex, and get a copy and pasted explanation of history from a DAO codex - a reminder of what we used to have and what BioWare absolutely demolished in their attempt to build a new IP on the bones of Dragon Age. The absolute whiplash in writing, story, and character between DAI and DATV is staggering. How on earth could the studio that made such a gorgeous, rich world of lore surrounding the elves in one game end up utterly bastardizing and reducing it to nothing?

How can you look at a place like the Temple of Mythal and go from those gorgeous golden murals and emerald tiled roofs that reached to the heavens to a place like the Lighthouse? From the Emerald Graves to the ruins of Arlathan - devoid of halls that reach to the heavens and golden murals replaced with stained glass? The entirety of the Trespasser DLC had more character and reverence for what the elven empire once was, and DATV feels as though it's approaching it with the perspective of 'generic elven bullshit with triangles everywhere'. All that unique architecture has been obliterated by adding in World of Warcraft focus crystals and automatons.

How can you go from the atmospheric/environmental storytelling of the Lost Temple of Dirthamen to Solas just blurting everything out? No weight, no double truths or hidden meanings - just blurting it out, getting it said and done with no gravitas? That was Solas' entire thing! People have made threads literally dissecting what Solas says and does not say - now he spits lore out as though it were common, everyday knowledge.

How can anyone justify the sudden emergence of magical automatons everywhere in old elven ruins? As if Dragon Age didn't have a host of enemies/creatures available to use in their stead - or the ability to create something unique to the forest of Arlathan. What happened to the spirit guardians? What happened to the lingering echoes of the elves slaughtered by humans in wars ages past like in DAO? Magic was their very existence - spells taking years or centuries to cast, weaving in and about each other - and you're telling me the ancient elves spent their time creating magical transformers?! It feels/looks so utterly seperate from everything we know of the elves from Dragon Age.

Or look at the Crossroads - listen to how Morrigan speaks of it - the reverence for the past, the misty atmosphere, and the heaviness of this pocket of the world that carries the fading memories of a world and people that no longer exists...now it's reduced to a hub world! People are just popping in and out of it at will!

In Trespasser, the few eluvians that we were available to travel to led to the most lonely, desolate spots of Thedas, which ensured their survival over the past millennia. The mirror in the Deep Roads, the mirror in the ancient stronghold in Ferelden...now they're everywhere!The 'few surviving' eluvians are in every major settlement of Thedas and all are in operating order! More than that, everyone who sees an eluvian knows what it is - this ancient marvel of a world long gone has lost all worth and is reduced to a 'world building' justification for fast travel.

Poor Merrill, slaving for a near decade to try and restore a small sliver of her history, only to have all gravitas and wonder of her discovery utterly made void. All that accomplishment wasted, especially when Bellara can wave her magic omni-tool and fix an eluvian in a matter of hours.

If you took every specific Dragon Age terminology out of the Veilguard and replaced it with generic fantasy bullshit you would never be able to tell the difference. The world of DATV is so divorced from its predecessors its astounding.

#datv spoilers #dragon age #dragon age the veilguard #bioware critical #bioware what the fuck #elves of thedas #dalish elves #city elves #one good thing about how bad this game is: it's easy to just separate it from the rest of the games #I wanted to explore every corner of the ruins in Inquisition #I wanted to read every codex #fun fact! it's all gone now!#Never forget the bioware fucking nuked southern thedas from existence #weeping into the void #duncan didn't die for this #datv critical #edited to add in that I think the 'dalish' won't even exist as a group anymore thanks to DATV #veilguard critical

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imaginespazzi · 5 months ago

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Part 12: Fleeting Moments Of Forever

Masterlist - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 13 - Part 14 - Part 15

I let my guard down and you pulled the rug (I was getting kinda used to being someone you loved)

(In which a depressed by recent events author spreads her depression)

Pairing: Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd

Themes: Angst, Fluff if you squint really hard, Hurt with a little bit of comfort if you squint really hard again (basically just squint you guys!)

Words: 12.3K

TW: Swearing (as per usual), a man (ew), brief reference to parental abandonment

A/N: Good morning/night my lovelies <3 Not quite sure what to say when it's one in the morning and I'm slightly delirious but I'm only a couple of hours late with this. There's a lot going on in this chapter and I'm sure I will once again be spammed with asks calling me evil, but remember lovelies, it's for the plot! I will be editing this chapter at some point tomorrow because I just really don't have the energy to edit but I wanted to get this out for you guys by tonight. So if you're reading tonight and see mistakes, please feel free to point them out and I'll fix them. As always, let me know what you liked, what you didn't and what you'd like to see in the future. Have a lovely rest of your week my loves!

May 2033

~ A few minutes ago ~

Azzi feels like shit as she runs up the stairs behind her daughter. She feels like a shit mother, she feels like a shit sister-in-law-sort-of-kinda-thing and most of all she feels like a shit ex-girlfriend-turned-complicated-current-situationship-or-whatever. And saying those complicated relationship titles in her head only makes her feel worse. Because really it should’ve been so simple; it had been so simple. And Azzi had chosen to make everything complicated and difficult instead.

Drew’s words had been like a shot going down wrong, an accusation she knew she deserved but one that stung all the same. Paige’s silence -the fact that she hadn’t been able to give Azzi the assurance that she’d forgiven her- had been like the terrible chaser after that only made her feel more nauseous. And the after effects of it had been Azzi exploding all her feelings on her baby girl who’d just wanted some damn soda.

Letting the guilt fester, Azzi pushes open the door to Paige’s bedroom to find Stephie cuddled up against lavender pillows, one of Paige’s few hoodies that hadn’t made it to the Fudd household draped around her tiny little body. Azzi’s heart constricts at the sound of her daughter’s hiccoughs, tightening even more when she notices the wet patch Stephie’s tears have created against the pillow.

“Stephie-bean,” she says softly as she climbs onto the bed, reaching out to brush a hand across the little girl’s curled up frame.

“Go away Mama. I’m mad at you,” Stephie’s petulant reply is immediate as she shrugs off Azzi’s hand, furling away further into herself.

“I know sweetheart-”

“You yelled at me,” Stephie continues, trying to keep her voice as firm as a five-year old’s can be but it’s too many emotions for such a little soul and Azzi can hear the telltale sign of a fresh new set of tears just waiting to fall.

She tries again, gently pulling Stephie’s back against her chest and this time, there’s little resistance as the little girl goes easily into her mother’s arms. Azzi tightens her arms around Stephie’s waist, pressing a litany of featherlight kisses into her hair in between apologies, “I’m sorry. Mama’s so sorry sweetheart. I shouldn’t’ve yelled like that baby-”

“No you shouldn’t’ve,” Stephie says matter-of-factly, as she turns her body around to face her mother’s and Azzi’s hands instinctively move to wipe away the tears tracks on her face, “you were so loud. I don’t like when you yell.”

“I know bean,” Azzi says, the tight grip of remorse squeezing her heart harder at the melancholy in her daughter’s words, “but Stephie baby you know soda’s bad for you-”

“But it’s Friday Mama and I only wanted a little,” the little girl whines immediately, “I swear Mama I would’ve only had a little bit and then I would brushed my teeth so hard and they’d be sparkling white like this,” she pulls her cheeks wide open so she can bare her pearly white teeth at her mother, “see!”

And despite that heavy pit in her stomach, Azzi can’t help the slight peal of laughter that rumbles throughout her and elicits a matching grin from her daughter. She ruffles the little girl’s hair before pulling her flush against herself, Stephie’s head burrowing itself into the crook of her neck and for the first time tonight, Azzi finally feels like she can breathe again. Because at the end of the day, what matters most is the child wrapped securely in her arms and as long as she has Stephie, Azzi thinks, no matter what, she’ll find a way to survive. For Stephie.

Something soft and fluffy brushes against her skin and Azzi reluctantly unfocuses from Stephie to find that the arm of the hoodie that had previously been draped over her daughter’s body, is now wrapped around both of them. Paige’s hoodie. She stares at the material, eyes blinking back tears as that wretched feeling of something’s missing whirls around her. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling; this secret craving that Azzi had often found herself hiding away from when she and Stephie were alone. A craving to have Paige there too, a craving for the two of them to be cradled in the blonde’s strong arms, a craving for this almost perfect picture to be complete. And now that she’s had a taste of what it’s like to have that - these past few weeks having felt like a tester of what it could be like to live in a dream that Azzi had thought she was no longer allowed to dream- Azzi wants nothing more than for it to be permanent.

Another wave of guilt crashes against her as her mind flickers back to the bitter note she’d ended the conversation down stairs on. The stinging emphasis she’d placed on my daughter echoes loudly in her ears and even though Azzi knows that technically she hadn’t said anything untrue, the image of Paige’s face falling -the sparkle in her eyes dimming at the reality of the younger woman’s words- makes Azzi’s heart stutter with regret. There’s a part of her that thinks it’s all happening too fast, a part of her that’s in a constant duel with the rest of herself that’s ready to call Stephie theirs. And she knows it’s only been a couple of weeks -knows that it’s a little insane to have already carved out a place for forever on a shelf that’s plagued with uncertainties- but the truth is that there’s always been an unfilled space in Azzi and Stephie’s world that’s just been waiting for Paige to step in and claim it. It’s always been hers; they’ve always been hers.

“Mama,” Stephie’s quiet voice mumbles against her chest and Azzi distractedly hums in return, “why does Miss Buecks have to learn to say no to me?”

“Because she likes to say yes a little too much and she definitely likes to say yes to you but if she keeps saying yes all the time, she’s gonna spoil you. Well more than you already are that is,” Azzi teases goodnaturedly, tugging at Stephie’s nose.

The little girl pouts loudly before indignantly refuting her mother’s statement, “I am not spoiled. I’m a good girl. A very good girl. A very, very, very, very, very-”

‘Okay, okay, okay,” Azzi says, hushing the little girl with a slight laugh before she can continue to repeat herself, “you’re my very good girl who’s just a little bit spoiled.”

“Maybe a little bit,” Stephie admits, scrunching her nose, “but how come you never make Aunty Leen or Aunty J or Aunty Tessie or any of your other teammates say no to me?”

“Because-well,” Azzi struggles to find the words, “Miss Buecks is- she’s just- it’s different and she’s around a lot more,” she’s around all the time, “and so she’s gotta learn to say no to you sometimes.”

“Like Pops had to learn to say no to me if he wanted to keep helping Nana babysit?” Stephie asks earnestly and Azzi laughs at the reminder of how she and Katie had basically had to force Tim into learning how to say no to his persuasive granddaughter.

“Yeah something like that,” she says with an amused grin.

“So Miss Buecks is like-” Stephie pauses, hesitating slightly before a soft smile -one that bears an uncanny resemblance to the one her mother sometimes has when thinking of the same woman- appears on her face, “she’s like family?”

Azzi’s breath hitches in her throat; the delicate mix of sincerity and innocence in her daughter’s voice makes her pause. Because Stephie says it like it’s the most simple yet most important truth in the word, that’s it’s common knowledge she’s known all her life. Paige is family.

“Yeah,” the brunette breathes out finally, the edges of her lips slightly upturning into a grin that matches her daughter’s, “I guess she is.”

Stephie nods quietly as she mulls over her mother’s answer and Azzi can practically see the cogs turning in her brain before her daughter’s dark brown thoughtful eyes look back up at her, “so does that mean we can keep Miss Buecks forever?”

“I-’

“I mean cause you said she’s family right?” Stephie babbles on, ignoring the way Azzi’s eyes have widened considerably, “and family- family is forever right Mama? That’s what they say? So- so if Miss Buecks is family that means she has to stay forever? We get to keep her forever?”

Azzi blinks rapidly at the onslaught of words falling from her daughter’s lips. Stephie makes it sound so simple; she makes a forever with the three of them sound like a given, like something that’s meant to be. And it makes her think of that night eight years ago, when Paige had made it sound just as simple.

Be mine forever.

It was Azzi who had made it complicated; obsolete even.

But, she thinks, she won’t this time. As she looks back down at her daughter, the hopeful smile on Stephie’s face as she awaits Azzi’s answer, feels a little bit like fate is giving her another chance; a clear sky to re-write her own destiny in the stars. This time, with Paige.

“Do you- do you want that,” Azzi asks slowly, “do you want to keep Miss Buecks forever?”

If possible Stephie’s smile grows even larger as she gives her mother what can only be described as a ‘duh’ look, “of course Mama. I want Miss Buecks forever and ever and ever. You want that too don’t you Mama?”

Azzi pauses for a second, letting herself be immersed in the idea.

“Yeah,” she says softly, her eyes suddenly misty. And she knows that there’s still so much left unresolved, that tonight had revealed a chiasm of problems they’d have to still build a bridge over to get back to each other. But for a chance at a forever Azzi had thought she’d long forsaken, Azzi’s willing to try, “yeah I think I’d like to keep Miss Buecks forever too.”

The squeal Stephie lets out practically bounces off the walls in tandem with the little girl springing off the bed and Azzi laughs as her daughter wraps her small hands around her mother’s much larger ones, trying to tug her along.

“Stephie wait sweetheart, what are you doing? Where are you going?”

Stephie sighs impatiently, “we’re going to Miss Buecks, Mama. We can’t just make this decision without her,” she continues matter-of-factly, “we have to tell her.”

“Tell her what Stephie?” Azzi laughs as she finally lets her daughter pull her off the bed and start dragging her out the door.

“We have to tell her that she’s family and we have to tell her that we want to keep her forever.”

***

They’re about halfway down the stairs when Azzi begins to hear the whispered hissing of an argument between Paige and Drew going on in the kitchen and she feels dread wrap itself around her whole body. It doesn’t take a genius to gauge that it’s likely about her -more specifically about her and Paige’s relationship- and suddenly it feels like something dark has been cast all over her, stomping out the brightness that she’d felt just mere moments ago.

Azzi hesitates on the last few steps, causing Stephie to impatiently look up at her as she contemplates whether or not to interrupt whatever altercation is going on in the kitchen. For as long as she’d known them, Paige and Drew had never seriously fought but then again, when Azzi had known them, Drew had been a child; a kid who would never have doubted his sister's decision, or Azzi’s for that matter. But the man that had walked into their lives tonight is one that had been witness -perhaps even a victim- to all the terrible decisions the two of them had made in the last eight years. It’s only natural, Azzi thinks, that he’d be wary of their relationship. He’d seen the burn marks that their relationship catching on fire had left on his sister’s skin and it was only natural that he’d blame the woman who’d held the matches.

“Mama,” Stephie presses as she tugs at Azzi’s hand, “come on,” she whines, “I wanna see Miss Buecks.”

“Steph-” Azzi tries to say, her instincts going haywire when she hears Paige’s voice more clearly now -stop it Drew- but then Stephie pulls hard and she’s practically tripping down the rest of the stairs, trying to keep balance as the little girl holding her hand continues to drag her towards the kitchen.

They’re still speaking too quietly for Azzi to pick up exactly what they’re saying but there’s a resigned urgency in Drew’s voice and a fearful sadness in Paige’s that makes bile rise at the back of her throat and suddenly Azzi’s very sure that whatever this conversation is, she really doesn’t want to hear it. But her feet keep moving, letting Stephie lead the way as the claws of it takes a second for everything to fall apart sink into her heart.

“-there’s a reason you only wanted to be here for this season,” Azzi hears Drew say as they finally reach the kitchen door and she forces Stephie to a halt. Every part of her is screaming to take her daughter and turn away, to not listen to wherever this conversation she clearly wasn’t meant to hear is going.

“I know,” Paige whispers and Azzi’s heart stutters as she takes in the blonde’s red-rimmed eyes as she leans against the table, “I know.”

Azzi opens her mouth, ready to alert the brother-sister duo of their presence but before she can say anything, Drew’s speaking again and as the words roll out of his mouth, Azzi feels her blood run cold.

“Stick to the plan Paige. Let the Liberty be the end goal. You’ll be in New York by the end of October.”

The plan. Liberty. New York. October.

The words run around in a frenzy through Azzi’s brain creating a mixture of confusion battling with the sense of an unwanted realization that makes her feel dizzy. It’s like someone pricking a needle against the bubble of forever she’d just let herself believe in and there’s a loud pop echoing in her head. The noise hurts. Azzi had known Paige’s contract with GSV was only for a year; she’d even considered -perhaps even expected- that when Paige had signed it, she probably wasn’t planning on staying forever.

But that was then.

Surely things would be different now.

“Miss Buecks,” Azzi’s dragged out of the cacophony of her mind by the sound of her daughter speaking. Stephie’s voice is wracked with fragility as she clings tightly onto her mother’s hand, her face morphed into a combination of betrayal and please tell me i’m wrong as she looks at Paige, whose face has gone ashen at the sight of the two of them standing by the doorway, “you’re moving to New York?”

“Stephie,” Paige whispers, eyes brimming with tears as she falls to her knees in front of the little girl, hand moving to grip her her shoulders, “sweetheart I-”

“Miss Buecks,” Stephie says again, her usually boisterous tone replaced by a meek, desperate one, “are you going to New York? Are you- are you,” her voice breaks and the next words come out in a barely there whisper, “are you leaving us?”

Say no, Azzi thinks, please say no, say you aren’t leaving, promise you’d never leave. But as she watches Paige open and close her mouth, choking on air as she tries to give an answer, she knows it’s wishful thinking, knows that it’s a promise Paige isn’t going to make.

“Miss Buecks,” Stephie’s voice is shaking, holding back her tears as tight as she’s holding onto the hope that Paige will give her the answer she wants- the answer she needs, “are you leaving us?”

“I-” Paige bites her lip, hands running up and down Stephie’s shoulder and arms, almost like she’s trying to memorize what it feels like to be able to touch her, almost like, she’s not sure when she'll get the chance to have her this close again again, “I don’t- I don’t know sweetheart I-”

It’s the wrong answer and Azzi closes her eyes as Paige cuts herself off with a small gasp of air when Stephie rips herself out of the blonde's grasp

“No,” the little girl says harshly, pushing herself behind her mothers legs.

“Stephie-bean,” Paige says helplessly, looking from the little girl to Azzi.

“No, no, no, no,” Stephie says; each no is louder than the last, “how you don’t know? You’re an ‘dult. ‘Dults are big. They know everything so how you don't know Miss Buecks?”

“It’s not that simple bean-” Paige tries to say, her hands outstretched towards the little girl, fingers clenching and unclenching like they don’t know how to be still unless they’re clasping onto her.

“It is,” Stephie yells, “are you leaving us or not? Yes or no Miss Buecks?”

“I-” the blonde splutters, still unsure of what to say.

“Stephie,” it’s Azzi who cuts Paige off this time, opening her eyes as she bends down in front of her daughter, pulling the little girl into a hug, “baby it’s okay. It’s going to be okay-”

“No it’s not,” Stephie screams as she wrangles herself out of her mother’s grip, the force of it causing Azzi to stumble backwards and something like if you’re going to hold me, hold me forever catches in her throat when Paige instinctively reaches out an arm to wrap around the her waist to keep her steady. The contact makes Azzi shiver and she has to fight the urge to let her shoulders relax, the urge to let herself melt into the warmth that Paige has always exuded. They stare at each other for a second, Azzi trying to drown herself in the ocean blue of the blonde’s eyes as Paige tries to find some semblance of stability to hold onto in the brunette’s earthy ones.

“Azzi,” Paige breathes out, that one syllable coated in layers of emotions that Azzi thinks she’d be willing to spend an eternity peeling through if it would bring her one step closer to keeping the woman in front of her from leaving, from going to fucking New York.

“Mama I wanna go home,” Stephie’s adamant voice pierces through the silence and Azzi tears her gaze away from Paige -but not before she can catch a brief glance of the older woman’s face contorting in pain- to look up at her daughter's cloudy face.

“Stephie-bean,” Paige speaks before Azzi can, heartbreak laced in her tone as she practically pleads with the little girl, “sweetheart please-”

“You promised you’d try to stay” Stephie bursts out, big fat tears cascading down her small face, “do you even rem-ber? At Nana and Pops’s house when I was scared you left you promised you’d try. But you’re not- you’re not even trying to stay Miss Buecks,” the little girl accuses, “you- you- you lied to me Miss Buecks.”

“I didn’t Stephie- I didn’t lie-” Paige tries to explain between her own tears and they’re still pressed so close together that Azzi can feel every shake of the older woman’s body against her own, “I didn’t lie sweetheart. I’m still- I’m still trying-”

“You’re not-”

“I am. I am Stephie. It’s just-” Paige’s eyes flicker towards Azzi who flinches at the unspoken implication, “it’s complicated.”

“Then un-comp-icate it,” Stephie stomps her feet petulantly before a series of heavy sobs wracked her tiny body and she heaves loudly, clutching at her chest.

Concern floods through Azzi’s veins as she shuffles towards her daughter, still on her knees and Paige follows her lead, the two of them inching closer, “Stephie-”

Something shifts as Stephie looks at the two of them through tear-stained eyelashes; the anger and fight slowly dissolving into the air. And then, if possible, her face crumples even more before she’s falling into Paige’s lap, one arm tightly wrapping around the blonde’s neck as her other hand reaches out to grab onto Azzi’s bicep, binding the three of them together in a mess of limbs on the cold kitchen floor.

“Please don’t go Miss Buecks,” Stephie wails as Paige clutches the little girl firmly against her chest, her hands brushing through her dark curls as she tries to comfort her, “please, please, please Miss Buecks I don’t want you to go. Don’t go to New York. Please don’t go. Please stay- stay with me and Mama forever. Please Miss Buecks.”

“Stephie-”

“Please don’t leave us Miss Buecks,” Stephie cries, her breathing unnaturally heavy as she shakes in Paige’s arms and Azzi reaches out a hand to soothe her back, trying and failing to keep her own tears at bay. Azzi’s chest tightens as Stephie continues to babble, begging Paige to stay as the blonde continues to hold her, droplets of water streaming down her face as she gently rocks the little girl back and forth. Because despite the way Paige has practically melded Stephie’s little body into her own, Azzi can see the way that the older woman still can’t seem to say the words that the little girl wants to hear, can’t seem to bring herself to guarantee forever. And it feels like the threads of the dream she’d just started weaving, are slipping out of her fingertips.

Azzi doesn’t know how long they sit there -Stephie still pleading in Paige’s arms and Azzi stroking her back- but eventually her daughter’s words begin to turn into nonsense, her breathing slowly evening out until there’s nothing but silence; the gravity of her emotions having lulled her to sleep. The silence is deafening as Azzi tries to figure out what exactly she should do next, take her daughter and run or succumb to that part of herself that wants to follow Stephie’s lead and beg Paige to never leave them. She still doesn’t quite understand what’s going on, what sort of plan Paige has about moving to New York and if she’s honest with herself, there’s a part of her that doesn’t want to know; a part of her that wants to go back to ignorant bliss they’d been living in for the last few weeks. But as she stares at the dried tear tracks staining her daughter’s face -that familiar guilt of all we do is hurt the people around us reverberating between her and Paige- Azzi knows there’s no going back.

“We should talk,” Paige says finally, her voice small as she looks at Azzi, “please.”

Azzi swallows as she wipes at her tears, ignoring the way Paige’s eyes trace her fingers, like they wish it was her brushing them away instead. She ignores the part of heart that wants that too, wants Paige’s comfort, just wants Paige.

“Yeah, yeah I guess we should,” she says finally, “but um- I should- um,” she gestures towards Stephie’s sleeping body, “should uh- probably put her to bed first.”

“Right- yeah- yeah of course,” Paige nods awkwardly as Azzi reaches to pry Stephie off of her.

The little girl lets out a low sleepy whine, her hands tightening around Paige’s neck, “no Miss Buecks don’t let me go.”

“Stephie,” Azzi’s heart breaks at the fear etched on her daughter’s face, despite being fast asleep, at the idea of being taken away from her Miss Buecks.

“I’ve got you sweetheart,” Paige whispers softly against the little girl’s hair before looking back at Azzi, her eyes swimming with guilt, “I can- I can take her upstairs.”

A part of Azzi wants to say no, wants to start taking out stitches in the places where Stephie and Paige have already sewn themselves together. There’s a part of her that regrets having ever given them the needle in the first place, a part of her that wishes she’d never let her daughter get so attached, when there were so many uncertainties about the strength of the thread between them.

But instead she says, “fine,” as she follows Paige up the stairs, heart constricting at the softness with which the other woman holds her little girl.

“Put her in one of the guest rooms,” Azzi calls out quietly when Paigs starts to turn into her own room.

The blonde stops in her tracks, turning around to face Azzi and she has to look away when she sees the stricken expression on Paige’s face. They were meant to be having a sleepover. The night was supposed to end with the three of them curled in Paige’s bed, supposedly watching some random movie but in actuality, Stephie would have dosed off in the middle of it and Paige and Azzi, with their hands entwined over the little girl’s body, would have spent the rest of it talking about everything and nothing. That’s how it was meant to go; it was meant to have been just another night like any of the other ones they’d spent together the last couple of weeks. But now that normalcy seems like an out of reach fairytale.

“Az-” Paige tries to argue but there isn’t much fight in it and just the slight defeated shake of Azzi’s head is enough to have the older woman biting her lip and doing as she’s asked.

Azzi hangs back by the doorway as Paige gently places Stephie down on the bed, pulling up the moss green covers over the little girl’s body. It feels wrong, Azzi thinks, as her mind drifts back to a few moments ago when Stephie had been cuddled in Paige’s purple bedsheets; that had felt right, like a place her daughter could truly belong. She shuffles her feet nervously as she watches Paige caress Stephie’s cheeks before pressing her lips against the little girl’s forehead.

“I love you Miss Buecks,” Azzi hears Stephie mutter and she digs her fingernails into her palms.

Paige lets out a quiet whimper, shuddering slightly as she echoes the words back, “I love you more Stephie-bean.”

That should be enough, Azzi thinks, it should be enough that Stephie loves Paige and Paige loves Stephie to keep them together. And it’s not fair that it isn’t but if there’s anyone that knows that sometimes love isn’t quite enough to keep two people together, it’s Azzi. There’s too much there, too much history and she’d been naive to think the past wouldn’t cast a dark shadow on her present.

The walk back downstairs feels like it takes an eternity; like they’re climbing back down from a tall mountain. Azzi walks ahead of Paige and she can feel the blonde’s gaze lingering on her back, can practically feel the tension vibrating off of her body at the prospect of the talk they’re about to have. Drew stands at the bottom of the stairs, nervously pacing with his hands stuffed in his pocket. His eyes move up to meet Azzi’s when she finally reaches the last step and he looks a lot like the little boy who’d once accidentally spilled a glass of water all over one of her favorite books. He has that same guilty look he’d had back then when he’d apologized profusely, swearing he’d save up all his pocket money just to buy her another one.

“I’m sorry,” Drew says in a rush, “I didn’t know you guys were coming back down and I didn’t know Stephie was gonna hear that-any of that. I swear Azzi- you know I wouldn’t have said any of that shit if I knew she was gonna hear-”

“It’s fine Drew,” Azzi reassures him, hesitating slightly before reaching out a hand to gently pat his cheek and she’s relieved when he doesn’t immediately back away, “I know you didn’t mean to.”

Drew lets out a small sigh of relief, “okay good cause I really didn’t. I uh-” his gaze flutters between Paige and Azzi, “I’ll um- I’ll let you guys talk now,” he pauses in front of Paige, who looks about as miserable as Azzi feels, “love you no matter what Paigey,” he whispers before giving her a quick peck on her forehead and squeezing her shoulder.

And then it’s just the two of them and the heavy burden of everything they can no longer ignore.

***

April 2027

Azzi grips the armrest tightly, her eyes screwed shut as the plane shakes rapidly while preparing to land. For someone who’s pretty-well travelled and has dealt with her fair share of turbulent plane rides, Azzi still finds herself going ridgid every time an aircraft she’s on starts getting a little too bumpy. She can practically hear Paige’s teasing voice -even after all this time- calling her a big baby but the blonde would have laced their fingers together anyway, distracted her with some random story and she’d have held on to her hand -no matter how sweaty- until the plane stopped moving.

God, Azzi misses her so fucking much.

But hopefully she won’t have to for much longer. Azzi’s not quite sure what’ll happen after she lands in Dallas, hasn’t -in a very un-Azzi-like step- even really practiced what she wants to say. But, and she knows it’s a little dramatic but she thinks she can probably come up with a mix of apologizing, begging for forgiveness and declaring her undying love that would atleast get Paige to consider giving her another chance.

There’s this hollow ache in her chest that hasn’t gone away for the last two years. And Azzi had tried to ignore it, had tried to shift her focus to everything else -everything good- that was happening in her life. But even after she’d had an All-American last season at UConn, even after she’d let that team to a back-to-back national championship, even after she’d been the first pick of the 2026 draft to GSV, even after she’d won rookie of the year, there was a still lingering pain -a deep rooted sense of something she’d lost- etched through her whole body. The thing is that Azzi knows she can survive -can even succeed- without Paige- but she doesn’t want to. Not anymore.

The decision was a long-time coming, the inevitable leap of faith to chase after what she wanted most in the world. But it had all clicked into place at the most mundane of times. She’d been at the park on her regular morning run and she’d seen a family -two women who’d looked at each other like they’d stop breathing if they looked away and their beautiful baby girl who was happily swinging in between them- and suddenly everything else had felt so insignificant in comparison. She’d been forced to admit the truth she’d been trying so hard to run away from. That was the future Azzi wanted -perhaps not immediately but eventually- and she wanted it with Paige.

Azzi hadn’t let herself overthink it, knowing that if she gave herself enough time, she’d more than likely talk herself out of it. Instead, she’d booked the tickets from San Francisco to Dallas in a rush and then called Ice -the newly anointed Dallas Wing rookie- and it hadn’t taken much to convince her former teammate - who’d all but squealed at the idea of her ‘parents getting back together’- to pick her up from the airport and drive her straight to Paige’s.

“She’s gonna be so happy,” Ice had assured her, “I mean I’ve only been here like a week but I know for sure she misses you Az. Oh my god this is so exciting,” and Azzi had laughed as she’d listened to the sound of her friend giddily clapping, “I’m so excited for the two of you. You belong together.”

A serene smile crosses Azzi’s face, and she knows it must look a little ridiculous just smiling to herself like this, but all she can think about is that she’d be with Paige soon. And she’s not naive enough to think that everything would miraculously be okay; she knows just how deeply her rejection must have pierced into Paige’s soul. But if the other woman gives her the chance, Azzi’s ready to spend an eternity making it up to her.

She sucks in a deep breath as the wheels of the plane collide with the runway, her eyes crinkling slightly as she realizes the weather app had lied to her and instead of the ambient evening she’d expected, it’s torrential downpour outside. In hindsight, maybe that should have been her first sign. But for now, Azzi smiles at the raindrops trickling down the window, clichéd memories of kissing in the rain -”baby come on, it's romantic, who cares if we get sick”- flooding her brain.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Dallas Fort Worth International Airport. The time outside is currently 7 pm in the evening. We hope you had a good flight and on behalf of Delta Airlines, we wish you a pleasant stay,” the pilot’s voice croons throughout the speakers as Azzi fidgets with her necklace, her last Christmas gift from Paige.

Just a little while longer baby. I’m coming to you. Forever.

***

The nerves she’d kept at bay hit Azzi all at once as soon as she climbs into Ice’s car; the thoughts of everything that could possibly go wrong barrage into her mind as she watches the windshield wipers furiously fight against the rain. What if Paige doesn’t wanna see her? What if Paige isn’t willing to give her another chance? What if Paige hates her?

“Dude,” Ice groans, briefly looking away from the road to flick Azzi’s arm, “I can literally hear you thinking. Chill the fuck out!”

“I’m trying,” Azzi whines, leaning her head against the cool window, “Fuck, Ice what if this is the dumbest shit I’ve ever done in my life? What if she sees me and is like ‘what the fuck are you doing here,’ what if she tells me go home? Oh my god Ice why the fuck did you let me do this?”

“Let you?” Ice splutters indignantly, “oh no no no. You are not putting this on me. You didn’t even let me say anything when you called. It was literally ‘hey Ice, I’m coming to Dallas, make sure you pick me up in 6 hours okay thanks’ and next thing I know you’re in Dallas,” the younger girl mimics the phone-call as Azzi continues to groan.

“This is why I leave the spontaneous shit up to Paige,” she says, stressfully rubbing her face.

“Yeah but-” Ice gives her a lopsided grin, her tone softening considerably, “she’s gonna love that you did this for her Az. Trust me dude- the two of you- you’re meant to be. Everyone’s always known that. She’s gonna be so fucking happy to see you.”

“Thank Icey,” Azzi says softly, dragging in another deep breath, “I needed to hear that.”

“Any time Az, any time,” Ice reaches over to squeeze her hand and Azzi finally lets herself relax into her seat.

The rest of the car ride consists of reminiscing their time at UConn -it’s strange to think that they’re both alums now- and Ice telling Azzi stories about her move from Connecticut to Texas. Anticipation builds in Azzi’s stomach as she glances at the GSP, eyes fixating on the ‘3 minutes till your destination’ bubble on the bottom left corner.

Her destination.

Azzi thinks no matter how much she’d tried to fight, no matter how much she’d tried to turn and walk the other way, all roads were always meant to lead here. Paige was always meant to be her final destination. She’s not one for fairytales, doesn’t think life began with once upon a time, but as Ice’s car comes to halt opposite the blonde’s apartment, Azzi hopes that her life has a happily ever after where she and Paige get to write the ending of their stories together.

“We’re here,” Ice says slowly, smiling ear to ear as she turns towards Azzi, “go get your girl.”

“Okay, okay-” Azzi whispers to herself, “you’ve got this Azzi. Just fall to your knees and tell her you’re sorry and that you love her,” she shoves Ice when the younger girl snorts at her little pep talk and then breathes in deeply, “it’s gonna be okay. I’ve got this. I’ve got this!”

“You’ve got this,” Ice affirms, forever a supportive child.

Taking one more breath, Azzi’s just about to step outside, when she sees her. Paige is walking, almost running towards her apartment. Despite the rain, in typical Paige-fashion, the blonde doesn’t have an umbrella. Strands of wet hair are plastered against her forehead and little droplets of rain cascade down her face and neck. Her shirt sticks to her body so that Azzi can see the definition of her abs and the younger woman would love to take a moment to appreciate just how fucking hot Paige looks but instead, her eyes follow the bulge of the blonde’s biceps down to where her hands are interlocked with someone else’s. Someone else who’s not Azzi.

She gasps for air but she swears it’s carbon dioxide that settles in her lungs instead because god, does it burn.

Paige is laughing, eyes twinkling as she and a beautiful woman -a beautiful woman who isn’t Azzi- race to get out of the rain. She hears Ice curse behind her, sounding just as confused as she feels as the two of them watch the scene unfold in front of them, watching Paige and the woman come to halt right in front of the blonde’s apartment building.

“Az maybe we should-”

“Who is that?” Azzi cuts Ice off, her eyes still transfixed on the two smiling women.

Ice sighs, “her name’s Olivia. She’s a reporter for the Dallas Morning News-”

“And who is she to Paige?” Azzi asks bitterly, as if she doesn’t know the answer, as if the way Paige is wrapping an arm around that woman’s waist isn’t enough of an answer in itself.

“I don’t know. Azzi I swear I didn’t know she had a-” Ice hesitates, “she hasn’t told me anything about another woman.

Azzi doesn’t say anything, hand tightly gripping the car door she hadn’t even had a chance to open as she watches Paige brush a loose strand of hair out of the woman’s face.

The tip of the dagger pierces against her heart.

The woman smiles at Paige as she wraps her arms around the blonde’s neck and now they’re pressed flush against each other, barely any space between them.

The dagger digs deeper.

Paige caresses the woman’s cheeks.

The dagger twists.

It happens in slow motion; Paige moving ever so slowly as she presses her lips against the woman’s.

And the dagger lodges itself somewhere so deep inside Azzi, she thinks it might be permanently entrenched inside her soul.

It’s funny, Azzi thinks as she watches the two women break apart -their hands intertwining again as they start walking into the apartment- anyone else watching this scene would perhaps think of it as something straight out of a romantic comedy. But to Azzi, it feels like the climax scene of a tragedy.

“Can you take me back to the airport?” she says slowly, still watching Paige’s retreating back.

“What- no Azzi I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Ice disagrees immediately, “c’mon we’ll go back to my place and I swear I have some good vodka left over from my housewarming party-”

“Ice please,” Azzi begs, her voice hoarse, “I just wanna go home. Please.”

“Okay, okay. Whatever you say Azzi,” Ice concedes softly, already starting to pull away from the curb.

“You can’t tell her about this, you know that right?”

“Az-”

“No Ice. She’s moved on and she’s allowed to move on,” the words feel like thorns on the tip of her tongue, “she looks happy. I won’t ruin that. You can’t tell her. You can’t ever tell her.”

“Fine,” Ice nods reluctantly, “I won’t say anything.”

Azzi allows herself one more look back at the apartment, allows herself one more second to dream of Paige running back outside, spotting her and telling her that all of this is just one big misunderstanding, telling her that she hasn’t found someone else, telling her that she’s still Azzi’s. But dreams aren’t reality. No, reality is the fact that Paige looked happy, looked happy with someone that wasn’t Azzi. And even if that damn fucking dagger -sharpened with the image of Paige and someone else- is making her bleed out, Azzi thinks that her heart will still a find way to keep beating, as long as she knows that Paige is happy.

***

The almost two thousand dollar last-minute flight back to San Francisco passes by in a blur. Azzi feels like she’s sleep-walking as she gets into the uber, pressing play on a voice message Ice had left her from after she’d gotten on the plane.

“Azzi please text or call me as soon as you land. I’m really worried about you dude. I’m so fucking sorry. I had no idea. I texted Adam after -he’s a team manager that’s really close with Paige- and I guess she and Olivia have been dating since the end of the season last year but Paige is keeping it highkey on the DL like the team barely knows and I swear Az- I didn’t know. Fuck please don’t do anything stupid Azzi. Text me as soon as you hear this and then just- just go home and sleep and call me tomorrow morning. I love you Az, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Since the end of the season, Azzi thinks slowly, her brain still a fuddled mess. That meant that Paige had been with someone for almost eight months. And Azzi knows she has no right to feel this hurt, let alone feel that tiny spark of betrayal that’s lingering underneath it. She’s the one that had let go; it’s only natural that Paige would eventually find someone else to hold on to.

“Where to Miss?” the uber driver asks as Azzi’s typing out a short ‘landed’ text to Ice.

It’s almost two in the morning and sleep prickles against Azzi’s eyes, her body feeling barely functional but the urge to just forget is stronger than the wave of tiredness washing over her body. And so she ignores every good instinct she has and instead of giving the cab drive her home address, Azzi tells him to drive to the nearest bar instead.

It’s a heat-of-the-moment decision -taken as sordid images of Paige wrapped around another woman cloud her ability to think- and she doesn’t know it’s about to change the trajectory of her whole life.

***

May 2033

The silence in the living room is deafening as Paige and Azzi find themselves sitting on opposite sides of the sofa. Azzi’s fingers tap against her thighs; resisting the impulse to reach over and touch the other girl, comfort her and be comforted in return. This night has felt like one of the longest in her life, all the hits falling like dominoes with the two of them at the end of the line. And perhaps it’s the way she’s starting to feel the bruises now as she absorbs everything that’s happened tonight that has her thinking fuck it and turning to Paige with a pleading look on her face.

“Can you just-” Azzi hesitates as she scooches just slightly closer to the other woman who regards the movement with wide eyes, “I know- I know we have to talk and we will but I just- it’s been a long night and I’m just so fucking tired and I just- I miss you-” she says and she’s not sure how it’s possible when Paige has been here the whole night but it’s the truth, “and I just- can you just hold me? Please?”

Paige is so still that for a moment Azzi thinks maybe she’s asked for too much but then the older woman is moving -so fast like she’s scared the brunette will change her mind- and Azzi feels herself being lifted sideways onto Paige’s lap. The blonde’s grip is iron tight as Azzi buries her head into the crevice of her neck, breathing in the smell of all things Paige. She reaches her hand out gently, placing it against the older woman’s chest, trying to stabilize the two of them to the steady beat of Paige’s heart as the other woman rubs her hand up and down Azzi’s back. They stay like that for god knows how long and Azzi wishes she could just keep them like this forever, in each other’s arms.

But they need to talk.

And Azzi reluctantly untangles herself Paige, closing her eyes when the blonde lets out a soft whimper. She doesn’t move all the way to the other end of the sofa this time; choosing instead to sit right next to Paige with their legs pressed togethers and it’s not nearly enough -too little when all she wants is to be consumed by Paige- but at least it’s something.

“I was going to tell you tonight,” Paige starts slowly, “you remember in the car when I said I would explain the whole Angie thing to you, well that- that’s part of this whole mess.”

Azzi furrows her eyebrows, “Angie? What does- what does she have to do with this?”

“I’ll get there okay- just- just let me start from the beginning,” Paige says nervously, “just listen okay.”

Biting her lip, Azzi nods, signaling for the older woman to continue.

“I didn’t want to come to GSV-”

“Because of me?”

Paige sighs, “yes. It- it just- it felt like such a bad idea at the time. You broke my heart Az,” she shoots Azzi an apologetic look when she flinches at the bluntness of it, “and coming here- being around you- I was scared it was gonna be a reminder of that all the time. Every time I’ve seen you these last couple of years Az- it’s hurt. And I just didn’t- I couldn’t live with that every day.”

It’s not something Azzi wants to here but she understands it; she’d felt the exact same way when Colleen had first told her about GSV being interested in Paige.

“But more than anything,” Paige continues, “I was scared that coming here meant giving you a chance to do it again. Because the two of us being together for more than just a fleeting moment- well it felt inevitable that something would happen and I was just so scared that it would be something bad. And so I fought Talia every step of the way until she forced me to come here and I met Stephie,” a soft smile flitters across the blonde’s face, “and she just- she said I’d look good in purple.”

Azzi laughs, “and that’s all it took huh?”

“You know me. A little bit of flattery will get you everywhere,” Paige grins, “but it wasn’t just her,” she nudges Azzi, “it was you. I was so sure you were gonna tell me to turn it down, tell me that there was no way this was gonna work. But you didn’t. You’re always surprising me I guess. Baby you said you wanted me on your team and that was it for me. No matter how much I said I needed time to think or whatever, as soon as you asked me to come here, I knew I was a Valkyrie.”

“I lied to Colleen that it was for the team,” Azzi admits, “think I even lied to myself about it that I wanted you here to help us win a championship. And yeah maybe that was a little bit of it but I just-” she looks down shyly at her lap, “I just wanted you. Here. With me.”

They’re quiet for a little bit, letting their confession dangle in the air until Azzi breaks it, her mind back to focusing on the revelation from before, “I don’t get it then Paige- what was Drew talking about then? What is this whole plan thing with the Liberty? Being in New York by October? I know your contract is for a year but I just-” she shrugs, “I just assumed you were gonna renew with us so where- where does New York even come into play in all of this? I’m just- I’m just so confused.”

Paige chews at her bottom lip and fidgets with her fingers, two tell-tale signs of her nerves as she keep her gaze firmly away from meeting Azzi’s, “I guess- I guess all my fighting against GSV got through to Talia and after I’d made up my mind to sign with the Valkyries, she- she figured out a verbal deal with the Liberty. They didn’t- they didn’t have the money for me this year but next year with Sabrina retiring- next year they will and GSV knew they were gonna get Angie to be their point guard of the future and it all just- it all made sense. I’d stay here for a year, mentor Angie so she could be my replacement for next year and then I’d-”

“Then you’d leave,” Azzi says bitterly and this time it’s Paige who flinches, “but you said- you said Stephie and I convinced you to come here- so- so what? We only convinced you to come for a year?” she asks, her tone sharper than she intended it to be.

“No it wasn’t- it wasn’t like that,” Paige tries to justify, “I just- it scared me how easy it was for me to be convinced. It was one moment with Stephie- one moment with you- and I was ready to make a decision for my future based just off of those two little moments. Do you know how scary that is? And I knew- I knew that coming here- being around the two of you would just- it would make me fall so fucking fast -and it has- and I was just so scared that I’d get my heart broken again and I just- I needed an escape plan.”

“You needed an excuse to leave us,” Azzi says venomously.

“That’s not fair Azzi,” Paige says quietly, “you have to understand how afraid I was of history repeat itself Az,” she reaches for the younger woman’s hand, enveloping it between her own, “when I lost you the first time, I was so fucking broken and it took me so long to fix myself- I- I don’t even know if I did ever fully fix me. You can’t blame me for being scared of having to go through it again.”

Azzi’s quiet for a second before she finally lets out a sigh because Paige is right and she can’t- she won’t hold whatever decision the other woman had made before they’d found their way back to each other, against her.

“Okay. Okay. I- I get it. I get why you were scared. I get why you had a whole backup plan and-,” she grins teasingly at the blonde, “and now I also get why you were such a bitch to Angie.”

Paige laughs a little, pressing her forehead against Azzi’s and closing her eyes, letting themselves melt into a comfortable silence as they bask in each other’s presence and for a moment’s Azzi feels floaty and free until Drew’s words replay themselves inside her head.

“Paige,” she says slowly, earning a little hum of acknowledgement from the other woman, “it’s over now though right? The deal- you- you’re gonna tell the Liberty that it’s off? No more New York right? Not even as an escape plan?”

The blonde stiffens, her eyes opening immediately.

“Paige,” Azzi presses, lifting her forehead so she can study the older woman’s face properly, the false comfort of a few seconds ago being replaced by a leaden pit in her stomach.

“I- I don’t know,” Paige whispers, so quietly that it takes a couple of seconds for Azzi’s ears to even pick it up. But when it does finally register -the repeat of what she’d said to Stephie- it feels like something’s slowly cracking inside Azzi, until the cracks get larger and larger and something shatters, the pieces of it lodging themselves in every organ of her body.

“You don’t-” Azzi swallows, pulling her hands out Paige’s, “you don’t know?”

“Az-”

“No,” Azzi holds her hand out in a stop sign as Paige tries to grab for her, “how- how can you not know,” she keeps speaking even when the blonde tries to reply, “Paige you- you were the one who pushed for this. You were the one who begged- who convinced me to try. Why- why would you do that? What have we been doing for the last few weeks Paige if you’re still thinking about leaving at the end of the season? God Paige- how can you even say that you don’t know?”

“I thought I did,” Paige bumbles out, “these past few weeks have been everything to me Azzi and I thought I knew but tonight- everything Drew said-” she stops suddenly and Azzi knows whatever the young man had said isn't something Paige wants to repeat back to her.

“What did Drew say?”

Paige hesitates, “he thinks you’re gonna break my heart and that I’ll lose you and that I’ll-” she clutches her throat like the next words are physically painful to say, “that I’ll lose Stephie.”

“And you- you think he’s right?”

There’s heartbreak etched all over Paige’s face as she shrugs helplessly, “you’ve done it before Az. You let me go. You- you said no-”

“And you’re one who left,” Azzi bursts out, tears cascading down her face as she rises to her feet.

Paige guffaws up at her, “what?”

“I know I said no but you left literally the next fucking day before I could say anything else. God Paige, I know I fucked up and I know that it’s mainly my fault. Trust me I’ve regretted it every single day,” Azzi sobs, “but you- you left Paige. I know I let you go but you didn’t hold on to me either. You just- you left.”

“Azzi-”

“I understand why you had an escape plan before,” Azzi says, wiping away her tears, “but I can’t be with you if you still have one now. Especially not when Stephie’s involved. She’s already so fucking attached and if you can’t promise not to leave her then I- I can’t let her get anymore attached. I can’t watch my baby girl cry like she did tonight- not again Paige.”

“Azzi,” Paige says again, like it's the only word she knows; the only word that matters.

Azzi falls to her knees in front of the other woman, wrapping her hands around Paige’s tightly wounded fists.

“I get that you’re scared and I’m so sorry baby, I’m so sorry that I’ve made you feel like heartbreak is inevitable with me,” she presses a kiss against the blonde’s knuckles, “but Paige I- I can’t- live like this, I can’t live knowing that you could leave me -leave us- any second. I need you to trust me, I need you to believe in us and I need you to tell me you’ll stay. And if you can’t do that then-”

“Please don’t say it,” Paige breathes out, her shoulders radiating with tension.

Azzi stands back up slowly, delicately placing her lips against the older woman’s forehead. She feels Paige shudder under her touch as she tries to put every little bit of emotion, every little bit of please choose me, please choose us, please choose to stay, into that kiss.

“Just- just think about it- sleep on it I guess. Take your time Paige but I- I need more than ‘I don’t know’ as an answer,” she says finally, the words lingering between them as she brushes away a couple of strands of the blonde’s hair before letting out a sigh as she puts some space between them, “I should go.”

Paige’s fingers immediately wrap around her wrist as the other woman blinks up at Azzi with pleading eyes, “don’t go-”

“Paige-”

“It’s late. Stephie’s asleep. Just- just stay.”

You stay, Azzi wants to scream because how can Paige ask her to do the one thing that the older woman herself is scared to do. But she’s exhausted and driving home -to a house that’s entrenched with the memories of the last few weeks but wouldn’t have Paige in it- sounds like something dreadful. And so she nods, shooting Paige another longing look before she heads towards the staircase.

“Az,” she hears the other woman call out just as she’s about to climb onto the first step, making her stop and turn her head over her shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“You know right? You know that- that I-” Paige gulps, “you know that I lo-”

“No,” Azzi says immediately, shaking her head rapidly, “say it to me when you can tell me you’ll stay.”

***

May 2027

Azzi taps her foot incessantly against the hardwood floor as her gaze nervously flitters towards the front of the restaurant, where a man in a light blue polo shirt and dark jeans has just walked in, his own eyes scanning the premises in search of someone. She has the ridiculous urge to shrink in her seat, to hide away from his wandering eyesight as if he’s not the reason she’s here in the first place. Taking a deep breath and counting to ten Mississippis, Azzi finally raises her hand, trying to wave him over.

“Tristan,” she calls out, attempting to arrange her features into a smile to match his when the man in question finally spots her.

“Hey,” Tristan choruses, his eyes twinkling as he slips into the seat opposite Azzi, “I’m not gonna lie, I’m kinda shocked you called. Not that I’m not happy- I mean, who wouldn’t be happy if a pretty girl called but I- I just wasn’t expecting it.”

Azzi tries to give him a humorous grin, “so you just gave me your number expecting nothing?”

She’s trying to make a joke but it comes out flat and she hopes he can’t read just how uncomfortable she is; won’t call her out for the uneasiness that she knows is radiating off of her.

“Expecting? No. Hoping? Definitely,” Tristan smirks and Azzi’s reminded of the charm he’d exuded that night in the bar.

The memory makes her want to throw up- well she supposes it’s probably not just the memory but also her little situation. She regards the man in front of her warily; he’s not bad to look at and at first glance he doesn’t exude any major red flags. And she’s almost ready to give her way-too-fucking-drunk past self a pat on the back because she'd made multiple dumb-as-fuck decisions that night -exhibit a: fucking a random stranger in a bar while mourning her ex- but at least she’d had the sense not to choose a complete psychopath.

“Well I called,” she announces awkwardly.

Tristan raises an eyebrow, “it’s been a whole month.”

Azzi bites her lip, “better late than never?”

The man in front of her snorts, “I suppose so but honestly I wasn’t expecting you to call at all. I mean- I figured you’d have gotten back together with your ex.”

That causes Azzi to suck in a sharp breath, her fingers digging crescent shaped scars into her palms.

“I mean,” Tristan continues, oblivious to the way his words cut into the woman in front of him, “you just- you sounded like you really loved her and the way you talked about your relationship- it just- it sounded so perfect and I know I don’t know her and I know- I know you mentioned she was seeing someone else but you just- your relationship like- that shit sounded unbeatable and so I just- I guess I just assumed that if you wanted her back- she’d want you back-”

“She’s engaged,” Azzi says loudly and it would be comical how quickly that shuts Tristan up if it wasn’t for the fact that saying those words out loud, feels like shooting an arrow into her own heart. She can still see the engagement announcement floating behind her eyes; can still so clearly see the pictures of Paige down on one knee for a woman who was beaming down at her, for someone who had said yes.

“Oh,” Tristan’s saved from having to say anything more when the waiter appears with a menu.

“What can I get you guys today?” the waitress asks cheerfully.

“Just the salmon for me please,” Azzi says, still a little lost in her thoughts.

“And for you sir?” the waitress turns to Tristan after jotting down Azzi’s order.

“I will have the chicken with a waldorf salad on the side but with no nuts please; I’m allergic to most nuts,” Tristan responds politely as the waitress nods and starts to walk away but it’s the last part that perks Azzi’s ears up.

“You’re allergic to nuts? Is that like- is that genetic?” she asks.

Tristan seems a little taken back by her curiosity of his allergy but he nods his head yeah and Azzi pencils that little fact into her brain, figuring it would be an important tidbit to share with her doctor.

“So your ex is engaged,” Tristan repeats, looking apologetic when his bluntness makes Azzi flinch but it’s replaced by a smirk as he lounges back in his seat, “so you called me for what? A rebound? I mean look Az, you’re a gorgeous girl but only being called for a rebound might just give a guy a complex.”

She knows he’s trying to be suave -charming even- but instead all it does is give her the ick and Azzi’s reminded of why she’d avoided men since her mistake of a boyfriend back in her senior year of high school. Hell, she’d only dated him because she and Paige had been trying their hands at another attempt of being just friends and the blonde was dating some pretty girl. But he’d been the first and last man she’d ever been with -which wasn’t surprising considering it had taken her and Paige only a year after to finally get together- until that night at the bar.

Azzi barely remembers anything about that night beyond flashes of memories but she remembers the morning after clearly, remembers the regret that had coiled itself around her ribs. She’d practically run out of the hotel room, barely managing to keep the tears at bay in the back of the uber. She hadn’t even made it to her bedroom, breaking down in the middle of her living room floor as everything that had happened the night before -seeing Paige with someone else, being with someone else- hit her like an avalanche. Azzi doesn’t know how long she’d sat in a sobbing mess on the floor but at some point she must have fallen asleep, because her next memory is Colleen towering over her, a look of pure concern on her bestfriend’s face as she shook her awake. And then she was crying again, this time wrapped in the comfort of Colleen’s arm as she let the regret of all her mistakes -from the past and the present- flow down her cheeks.

All she’d wanted after, was to just forget about the night -forget the image of Paige kissing a stranger, forget the image of herself walking up next to a stranger- and for a little while, the world had even granted her that wish. That was until a mandatory pre-season checkup had given her news that would make sure she’d never forget that night.

“Azzi?” Tristan clicks his fingers in front of her face to get her attention, “you still with me?”

Azzi shakes her head, trying to come back to reality instead of staying lost in her mind. Taking a deep breath, she finally puts into words the truth that has become the epicenter of her world.

“I’m pregnant.”

Tristan stares at her with a shell-shocked look on his face, his eyes unblinking and wide as his mouth slowly morphs into a ‘O’ shape, “you’re- you’re pregnant?”

“Yes,” Azzi nods, her tone shifting from nervous into something more businesslike, “and before you ask, yes it’s definitely yours. But you don’t have to feel pressured to be involved beyond whatever you’re comfortable with. I’m more than financially capable of taking care of a child by myself and I’m very lucky to have a great support system in my friends and family so I’m not depending on you for any-”

“You’re keeping it?” Tristan cuts her off, sounding almost disbelieving that, that was the choice she was making.

Azzi stops at his words, tongue darting out to wet her lips. She’d gone back and forth with the decision from the minute she’d found out. Most of the factors in Azzi’s life pointed towards an abortion being the best thing for her. She was an athlete at the beginning of the peak of her career and she was only 25 years old, a young adult who’d just started this journey of life. For all her responsibleness, Azzi was still figuring out how to take care of herself. How could she possibly take care of a baby?

She’d been just about to call Dr. Myers when instead her phone had opened to the instagram app; Paige’s engagement announcement the first thing on her feed.

There’d been a thousand and one emotions that burst through Azzi but she’d fixated specifically one of them; loneliness. It was a ridiculous thing to feel for a girl whose family had moved across the country for her; whose best friend had become her manager and followed her to a brand new state. But Azzi felt it every time she was alone, sometimes even when she was surrounded by hundreds of people. She was so fucking lonely.

And that’s when she’d decided she wanted this baby, a baby she could love and a baby who’d love her back, a baby who would fill this aching whole in her heart. A baby that would be hers.

Azzi would never be lonely again.

“Yes,” she answers Tristan’s question without a hint of hesitation, “I’m keeping the baby.”

“Wow- okay- this is- sorry,” Tristan shakes his head, his previous casual demeanour having changed to something far more rigid, “this is just- it’s a lot to process.”

“I understand,” Azzi says gently, “take your time.”

Tristant stares down at the table for what feels like an eternity and when he looks up, well, Azzi doesn’t really know the man in front of her at all- hasn’t even had the chance to ask him his last name, but she knows what the guilt in his eyes means. She remembers seeing it when she’d met her own biological father, only once, only for an hour and never again but a snapshot of it has been saved to her brain ever since.

“I’m sorry,” he says, standing up from the table, “I can’t do this. I’m not ready to be a father. I can’t have a baby. Fuck me. I’m barely an adult. I can’t take care of a child. I’m sorry, I just- I can’t.”

“I understand,” Azzi replies clinically even though her stomach lurches a little at the rejection, at the realization that her child would grow up with the ever-present question of why didn’t he stay, just like she had.

Azzi hadn’t called Tristan for lunch with the intent of getting anything out of it. The plan had simply been to do her due diligence by telling the father of her child that she was pregnant. After that, the decision would be in his hands and she’d made peace with the fact this -what had just happened- could be one of the outcomes. She hadn’t come here under the guise of reconnecting, finding a husband or any of that, not when, even thinking of any of that -despite the fact that Paige is engaged to someone else- feels a little bit like cheating. But Tristan's response still stings.

Because he might not have been her first option to raise a child with-really she’d only ever wanted any of that with one person- but Azzi thinks if he’d wanted to try, she would’ve liked having a partner to watch her child grow up with

“I’m sorry. I’m really, really, really sorry,” Tristan repeats again as he starts to back away, “I wish you-” his eyes flicker down to her stomach, “I wish both of you the best.”

Azzi nods, “thank you,” and the words of gratitude are for a little more than just his best wishes.

Tristan pauses for one second, hesitating as he looks at Azzi's belly one more time with an indecipherable emotion in his eyes, something a little like regret. But it’s not enough to make him stay and Azzi watches, with a hand on her stomach, as he turns walks out of the restaurant. Through the window, she watches him walking down the street, getting smaller and smaller until he rounds the curb, disappearing out of sight. And Azzi lets out a breath she hadn’t even known she was holding.

“Oh,” her head snaps towards the waitress, who’s carrying two plates of food and looking awkwardly at Tristan’s abandoned seat, “your uh- your friend- where is he?”

“He’s gone,” Azzi says quietly.

“Is he coming back?”

“No,” Azzi shakes her head, “no, I don’t think he is.”

***

May 2033

The memory burns against the back of Azzi’s eyelids as she lies, wide awake, in Paige’s guest room with Stephie tightly snuggled against her chest. She’s not sure what exactly had triggered the memory because honestly, she doesn’t think about Stephie’s father -her sperm donor to be more accurate- that often. He’d existed for a mere second in the clock of her life, disappearing almost as fast as he’d appeared. But there’s a part of Azzi that will always be thankful to him, because he’s part of the reason she has this beautiful little girl who’s sleeping in her arms.

A little girl who she loves and who loves her back, a little girl who’d filled the aching hole in her heart. A little girl, that was hers.

And Azzi hasn’t been lonely ever since she’d been handed her little girl.

Until tonight.

Her eyes drift to the other side of the bed and she can’t help but focus on just how empty it looks, can help but be immersed in the feeling of something’s missing. It’s the first night in weeks that the other side of the bed isn’t filled and everything about it feels so fucking wrong. Azzi sighs, resting her cheek on Stephie’s head as she rubs her hand up and down the little girl’s shoulder. She can’t sleep and she knows -by the little telltale frown on her daughter’s face- that the little girl might be asleep, but it’s the kind that’s deeply troubled.

She’s just about to close her eyes for another unsuccessful attempt at letting her exhaustion lull her into a slumber, when she hears the sound of footsteps right outside her door. Azzi rises up slowly, gently disentangling herself from Stephie as she squints through the little gap between the door and the floor. It doesn’t take a genius to know who it is and Azzi’s heart thumps anticipation as she watches the shadow of feet pacing back and forth. Suddenly they disappear and disappointment -even it’s ridiculous to feel it after the events of the night- courses through Azzi. Sighing to herself again, she lays back down, closing her eyes.

A minute later they shoot open at the sound of the door being pushed and Azzi sits back up again, something like relief -something like i’m so glad you’re here, i'm so glad you came back please don’t ever go again- rushing into her veins. It takes a second for her eyes to adjust to the sight of the figure in the dark but once they do, Paige is practically illuminated by the moonlight streaking through the windows. The blonde looks at her, not a speckle of shock at the fact that she’s awake because Paige knows her, knows her the way Azzi had known Paige was awake too, knows that they’d never been particularly good at falling asleep after an argument.

“Can’t sleep,” Paige admits out loud in a whisper, nervously shuffling her feet by the doorway.

“Me neither,” Azzi confesses, her hands brushing through Stephie’s hair.

Their revelations -and the i can’t sleep because i can’t sleep without you hidden behind them- hang in the air, waiting for the two of them to say anything else as they stare at each other in the dark room.

Paige speaks first, stumbling towards the bed, “can I just-”

“Yes,” Azzi breathes out before the question’s even finished, “please.”

Despite the urgency in their words, Paige is slow, climbing into bed, like she’s waiting for Azzi to take it back. The blonde slips underneath the covers, her hands immediately moving to rub Stephie’s back where they collide against Azzi’s fingers and that lightest bit of contact elicits a breathy gasp from both of them. There’s so much still left to say, so much still left to fix, so much they’re not sure can be fixed, but as Azzi slowly lies back down, her fingers interlocking with Paige’s over Stephie’s tiny body, she thinks that she might not survive, if these fleeting moments don’t lead to forever.

#pazzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #wcbb

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