#like it's not at all a part of the conversation?

[ceilidho]

Buttermilk

It doesn't take long to settle into the rhythm of your new summer job. Or: the babysitter x single dad au

Part 3 | masterlist

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It’s not unusual for someone to mistake you for the baby’s mama.

How could someone not, at least for a moment? When you take the baby to the grocery store, older people gush over him babbling in his stroller, eager to shower him with compliments in baby-talk or tell you how much you resemble the little tyke. After hearing the same comment for the umpteenth time, you tire of correcting people by saying you’re the babysitter only to watch their face fall, somewhat mortified and feeling as though their comment should’ve been directed to the baby’s actual mother. Which isn’t you. 

It’s less typical for someone to mistake you for John’s wife, though that does happen from time to time.

You’ve become a fixture around the neighbourhood since John hired you at the beginning of the summer, and over the weeks, the other nannies and the stay-at-home moms have started to gradually warm up to you. Before long, you’re being invited on coffee runs and playdates with some of the other women, always careful to ask for John’s permission before bringing his baby into a stranger’s house.

“Just text me the address and their names,” he requests while you stand awkwardly in front of him, John sitting on the bed to finish buttoning up his shirt and fixing his watch around his wrist. You would’ve been fine standing on the other side of the door while he finished changing, but he insisted on inviting you in.

“I will,” you promise, nodding along with his words.

“And call me if you don’t feel comfortable. I’ll come get the two of you right away if you need me.”

You swallow. Nod again.

The first time you take the baby for a playdate with a couple of the moms from the park, one catches you in the act of texting John the address of the house as he requested. “Hubby wants to know where you are, huh?”

“Oh,” you choke out, face heating up. “He’s not—”

“Not a control freak, I know. They’re all like that.” Her smile is ebullient, rolling her eyes like you’re in on a joke together when you most assuredly are not. “Why don’t you share your location with him? Mine’s the same way. Here—I’ll show you how.”

She takes your phone and tap-taps something and suddenly you see it in the notifications of your conversation with John. If you bite your lip instead of correcting her assumption about the nature of your and John’s relationship, that’s for you and you alone to know. Your rationale is that any explanation will just make things tense; it’s not like you haven’t seen it happen before. 

It’s far more concerning when John doesn’t correct those assumptions. Particularly when you’re standing right next to him. 

Like at the local water park on a particularly hot weekend, wading in the kiddy pool with the baby nestled tight against your chest in his little swim trunks and floppy hat only for an employee to ask John if his wife would like something to drink. 

“Iced coffee, love?” John asks, taking your stupefied silence as a yes. “Nothing for me, mate. Cheers.” 

Your head spins like a top on that thought until a good while later. The server hands you a glass of iced coffee with condensation already dripping down the sides and John thanks him for you, taking the baby from you and pulling you to his side. You drink your coffee quietly with your thigh flush with his under the water, gripping the glass harder when his free hand squeezes around your waist, laughing at something another parent said to him.

It’s so over for you. There’s no coming back from this. 

The sight of someone of John’s size, a bulky, military man with arms of pure steel dusted with dark hairs, cradling a tiny, chubby baby with a thatch of similar dark hair on his head and big cheeks and roly poly arms unlocks something primal in you. An old, buried need. 

In the family changing room, you stand under an ice cold shower until it breaks the fever slowly consuming you. All you can do is hope it takes. 

In the evening, you sit out on the porch with John at the back of the house until the crickets swell with song, the moon a half-crescent in the sky. A cool breeze makes your shoulders lift a little, huddling into your body to keep warm. 

It’s hard to keep your eyes on the view in front of you and off the man sitting beside you when they want so badly to be running over him. He’s changed out of his work clothes into a soft pair of sweatpants and an old threadbare shirt, the sage green fabric faded after years of being run through the washing machine. It clings to his biceps and the soft pudge of his stomach, a layer of fat over the hard muscle beneath. 

A cigarette dangles from his fingers, thick wrist perched on the arm of the adirondack chair. Every so often he lifts it to his lips for a puff, always breathing out in the opposite direction from you. Considerate of your health, at least, if not his own. 

“Cold, sweetheart?” he asks before ashing his cigarette, and your bottom lip purses when you turn your head to look at him because you thought you were doing a good job suppressing your shivers. 

You stare at him, confused. He cocks an eyebrow at your questioning stare and deliberately glances down, waiting until you notice the way your nipples are protruding through your white tank top. You forgot that you’d taken your bra off earlier for a bit of relief and hadn’t yet had a chance to put it back on. 

“Oh my god,” you squeak, crossing your arms to hide as much as possible, humiliation flooding through you. “I’m so sorry—that’s so—I-I’m so sorry.”

John makes a rough sound when he rises to his feet, knees cracking as he does. “S’alright, hun. Lemme get you something to put on.”

The screen door creaks when he goes back inside briefly to fetch something only to come back a few seconds later with a big, cotton sweater that reeks of him. It looks well loved, some remnant of his younger years, and even from a distance, you can smell the distinct smoky aroma clinging to the fabric. 

When he kneels in front of you, you nearly go cross-eyed at the realisation that even on his knees, he’s as tall as you. The bulk of his waist forces your legs to spread around him. 

“C’mon, arms up,” John commands, barely waiting until you’ve raised your arms above your head before helping guide your head and arms into the right holes. 

Dragging the sweater down the way he does forces it to rub over your nipples, sending a shock through you. If you had any less self-control, your teeth might actually chatter together. 

“There we go,” he says, fluffing out the sweater around your waist before resting his hands on the tops of your thighs, the gesture coming so naturally to him that you doubt he’s even noticed the placement of his hands. “Much better. That’ll warm you up.”

He isn't wrong. You’ve already worked up a sweat. 

Late night rain.

It comes down in buckets, a dark slate rapping hard against the window pane. A bolt of lightning flickers across the horizon off in the distance. White striations across an otherwise dark sky. About thirty seconds later, thunder rumbles. 

You peek from between the blinds, chewing your lip nervously. You’ve never driven in rain this bad, but with supper done and the dishes washed, there’s no excuse for you to stay any longer. Still, the rain comes down so heavily that despite your timidity, you briefly contemplate asking John if you can stay a little longer. At least until it lets up a bit; until your headlights won’t blind you reflecting off the puddles on the drive home. 

Someone else pulls the blinds further apart.

“There’s no way in hell you’re going out in that,” John says from behind you, practically growling his words. Daring you to contradict him. 

You glance over your shoulder to find him right there at your back, staring out the window. He’s so close that you can smell the red sauce on his flannel from dinner and make out the flecks of grey in his beard that are almost masked by the darker hairs. 

“It’s not…that bad…”

“Sweetheart, don’t piss me off,” he warns.

The blinds shuttle back together with a clatter when you finally let go of them. 

“I could—I could take the couch,” you offer. 

“Sweetheart,” John sighs, looking down at you meaningfully.

“What?” you ask, confused.

“I’m not gonna take the big, comfy bed and leave you with the couch.” When you open your mouth to protest, he cuts you off. “And don’t even try arguing. I won’t hear it.”

There’s not much you can say to dissuade him after that. The furrow of his brow lets you know he’s made up his mind; no ifs, ands, or buts. Besides, there’s a not-so-secret part of you that’s relieved that you don’t have to drive home in this weather. You’re an average driver on a good day. You don’t need your last moments before shuffling off this mortal coil to involve hydroplaning on the highway before ramming into the guardrail. 

John gives you a shirt of his to change into for after your shower, which you spend far too long in, scrubbing your body with his shower gel and quivering under the warm water. When you pull it on, you bring the collar up to your nose to smell. The same patent smoky scent, musky like ambergris and leather. Intoxicating. It makes the blood rush through your ear like a conch shell, the ocean swirling behind your eardrum. 

You hadn’t asked for underwear, content at first to keep on the same pair, but after your shower, you cringe at the thought of putting your day-old panties back on. Besides, his shirt is long enough to cover anything indecent. 

He sits on the edge of the bed when you come out, the concern on his brow melting away at the sight of you. 

“Practically a dress on you, isn’t it?” John says, voice a little wondrous. His eyes drag over you, tip to toe. 

You fiddle with the ends of it. “…Are you sure you want me to take the bed?” 

“Wouldn’t be fair. It’s yours for the night.” His lips quirk up at the corners when you frown. “Don’t worry about me—I’ve slept in worse places before.”

“Like where?” you ask dubiously.

“Tents. Abandoned buildings. Shacks. In the back of a moving van a few times. You wouldn’t believe half the places we used to make camp. Definitely no place for pretty girls like you.”

His condescending tone vaguely annoys you, but it’s hard to dig into your irritation when he thumbs the edge of the shirt you’re wearing and you realise that he’s just a few raised inches away from noticing that you don’t have any panties on. You should’ve just put your old ones back on, but it’s far too late now. 

You clear your throat instead. “We could…um…we could share.” 

You don’t know what possesses you to offer to share the bed, but the words are already gone, out of your mouth and in the air. John cocks an eyebrow.

“Unless you don’t want to,” you amend. 

“Don’t know about that, sweetheart,” he rasps. “…I snore like a bear.”

“That’s okay. I’m a pretty deep sleeper.”

John scrutinises you a bit longer, looking for any sign of hesitancy. You know he’d squash your offer in a second if he found any wariness in your gaze. 

“Alright,” he finally concedes, letting go of your shirt and slapping his thighs. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you when you wake up and can’t fall back asleep because of my snoring.”

After his shower, during which you lie on your side facing away from the bathroom door, stomach fraught with nerves as you consider the fact that he’s naked in the ensuite, you hear him come out and rummage around in the dresser for a change of clothes. You lie beside him with your stomach twisted in knots, your hands shoved under the pillow and staring resolutely at the wall. 

The appropriateness of sleeping in the same bed beside your boss isn't lost on you, but you're too far into this now.

The bed dips when he settles onto the other side, and the sudden absence of light when he switches the bedside lamp off nearly makes you cheep. 

He breathes heavily, you notice, particularly when he finally falls asleep. It’s a deep, rumbling sound—not entirely unlike a bear, though you can’t really confirm that for certain seeing as how you’ve never slept beside a bear before. 

Those are the thoughts that would signal the approach of sleep if you weren’t soon to be engulfed by it. 

Sometime in the middle of the night, you wake up to a rough hand stroking your back leisurely. There’s a hard chest under you, your cheek propped up on a pillowy pec that rises and falls with his breaths. Sleep bobs around in you like a toulouse decanter. You struggle to keep an eye open, certain that there’s something you need to tend to, but then his hand slides down your back again to curve over your rump and sleep drags you back down. 

You wake up again to your breath wafting back into your mouth, your face shoved into the crook of a man’s neck. Humid, hot. You’re lipping at the skin of his neck, little tongue darting out to lap up a bead of sweat, salty on your tongue. 

Your cunt pulses against his leg, toes curling when John drags his hand up your thigh and hitches it higher up around his waist. 

“Baby?” he groans, his voice still rusty from sleep. The sound is a rough burr up your spine. 

“Sorry,” you whisper. “Couldn’ get comfy.”

“You hot?” he asks.

The denial on the tip of your tongue slips back down your throat when he plants his foot on the bed and draws his leg up, pressing the meat of his thigh into your throbbing sex. 

“Here, lemme help you—” he groans, reaching down to ruck up your shirt, dragging it up over your breasts and helping manoeuvre your arms out of the holes. It gets tossed off the bed onto the floor. 

Now your breasts are flat on his chest, smushed against his ribcage. It registers somewhere in the back of your head as inappropriate, but sleep pushes that thought away, focusing instead on the discomfort of moving around when you just want to settle back down and go back to bed. 

It must be the heat making you act this way. 

“Shit—sorry, sweetheart,” he apologizes, shifting under you. “M’hot too.”

He plants a hand on your ass and heaves you up his chest, giving him enough room to wiggle out of his boxers. It pushes your breasts right into his face, your nipples mere inches from his mouth. When his tongue pokes out to wet his upper lip, it nicks your pebbled nipple. 

A hard length presses against your butt when you’re slid back down, the tip wet when it catches against your skin. 

“Jus’ ignore it, sweetie,” John mumbles, petting a hand down your back. 

You lie like that for a while, splayed over his body. Want simmering just under your skin. Flustered and exhausted all at once, sleep-drained; not a drop of strength in your muscles. 

The heat is just—

Scorching. Dizzying. You feel featherbrained, slipping in and out of sleep, biting off the whimpers that threaten to crawl up your throat when John tucks his hands into the crevice of your thighs to wrench them apart, spreading them around his hips again. 

Distantly, you remember that the man under you is at least twenty years your senior. Your employer at that. A man now palming your butt, sinking his fingers into the flesh and rumbling low in his throat. 

It’s wrong—flagrantly wrong. You know that you should say something, that you should get up and tell him that you’re going to sleep on the couch instead. But your tongue is too thick for your mouth. And your thoughts are a sticky paste. The pulse between your thighs empties out all the common sense from your head. 

His palms are slick on your skin. 

Your breathing grows shallow when a hard length suddenly pushes between your thighs as well. 

When the mushroomed head nudges at your opening, you flinch, heart thumping ferociously against your chest. 

“John—John—” you breathe, panicked. As if to warn him. As if he weren’t planting both feet on the bed and lifting his hips. 

As if it wasn’t his hands, warm on your waist, dragging you down onto the shaft spearing into you. 

Your blood is molten hot in your veins. Sticky hands and sticky fingers curl into his chest hair. Your head thumps against his pecs, too weak to hold it up, lipping at the damp skin of his chest. 

“It hurts—” you bleat, tears pricking at the backs of your eyes. 

“I know, baby, I know,” John pants. He draws his hips back just to press forward again, deeper this time. Filling you up more than before. “I’m sorry, baby—I can’t, it’s just…too good. Shit.”

Resolve in tatters. Shattered like his willpower, like his determination not to fuck the girl twenty years his junior sleeping beside him in his bed. 

His hips pump up into yours, bouncing you in his lap. Each thrust plunging his cock deeper into your pussy. It’d be painful if you weren’t so wet, but you’re dripping, arousal making you leak around his shaft and slickening his way. 

Sleep still rattles around in your brain, but not even the fog of sleep can shake the ever intensifying realisation that you’re fucking your boss. No two ways around it—breasts naked against his hirsute chest; pussy wet and stuffed to the hilt with a big dick. Knocked senseless by it. 

The veins of his cock drag over the viscid walls of your cunt with every thrust. He must like the involuntary noises you make because he loses his rhythm when you cry out, growling out a string of unintelligible curses. His body feels bigger like this somehow, biceps and forearms bulging where they’re wrapped around your waist, hips forcing your legs to spread wide around him, the ache sinking deep into your muscle, into your bones.  

When you look up at him, his eyes are more hooded than usual, the blue of his irises so dark that they’re almost black. 

“Such a good girl,” he grunts, big arms like steel bands around your waist, holding you tight to his chest so you have nowhere to run. “Jus’ let…jus’ let daddy come and—oh Christ, fuck, fuck…—jus’ lemme come and we’ll go back to bed, okay, sweetie?”

“I’m gonna…” you pant, trailing off when he gets a little rough, pumping harder up into you. The sound of your pussy squelching around his length makes your eyes roll back, mouth hanging open. 

“Yeah, yeah, you—you come too, baby. Jus’ need to take the edge off, both of us.”

You squeal when he reaches a hand down to dig his fingers into your butt cheek and it makes you tense up, walls tightening around his dick. One well-placed swat hard enough to make the flesh of your ass jiggle and you come, clenching up so tight that his next few thrusts are slowed by your spasming walls, forcing him to really cram his cock into your hole. 

“Christ, that’s cute,” John growls, his pupils blown out. 

It hurts to come that hard; makes your belly cramp up and everything. Whatever gibberish spills from your mouth gets lost in the aftermath. 

That’s when the temperature goes from hot to blistering. The muscles of his thighs tense, straining with his impending release. Even his grip around your waist gets tighter, his self-control steamrolled under his approaching climax, oblivious to the way you squeal and squirm when it threads the delicate needle of being too much. 

“Sorry, baby,” he apologises, voice treading gravel. “M’gonna mess your pussy up a bit—”

“Wait—wait—” you gasp, trying fruitlessly to lift yourself up, his arms keeping you pinned tight to his chest. “You’re gonna—John, you’re gonna come inside me—”

His hips thrust up hard at your words, one last rough pump that has him digging his heels into the mattress and clenching his jaw, the veins in his neck protruding. You feel it flood inside you, hot spurts of cum right up against your womb. He curses when he comes, eyelids sliding shut, lost in the sensation of emptying himself into you. 

A few last, punishing thrusts that make your teeth clack together. More heat spurting into you. A murmured oh fuck before his legs slide back down the bed, spreading out over the mattress. 

The blanket is somewhere at the foot of the bed, all scrunched up and nearly dangling off the edge. You only start to shiver when the sweat on your back finally begins to cool. 

When he pulls you off his cock, you whimper, a hot flash snaking through you. Oh Christ did he plug you up good. Stringy, viscous cum leaks from your hole, leaving a little puddle on his thigh when you slide off his chest and to the side a bit. 

“Oh baby,” he tuts softly, reaching between your legs to feel where you’re wet and a little swollen. “Sorry, sweetheart…wanna get cleaned up?”

“No…” you rasp, so dazed that you can’t even lift your cheek off his chest. 

Exhaustion has never ridden you this hard before, but considering the circumstances…—perhaps you’re lucky to be conscious at all, is all you mean. There’s not a chance of you having enough energy to do anything as rigorous as showering though. 

“Okay, baby. Little kiss?” John asks in a murmur, lifting your head up by your chin and swooping down for a kiss. Not even giving you enough time to process his words before his mouth is on yours. 

His lips glide slick against yours, tongue slipping into your mouth like he needs a good, deep kiss to ground him. A wet twisting of tongues; a thick finger stroking up your neck. He can’t stop touching you. Running a hand up your spine and curving it back down over your ass. Featherlight touches meant to calm you down. His kisses grow sticky, lingering; each one almost the last until he pulls you in for another. 

“Go back to sleep, okay?” John says, still speaking low enough to push you back under. He smooths his hand down your back again. 

You fall back asleep with a load in your belly and your head in a tizzy. The you of tomorrow is going to have a lot to contend with from the you of tonight.

[sleepyhoon]

TWO MOONS - L.HS

pairing. plug!heeseung x reader

genre. smut, 18+ content, one shot, drabble. MDNI!

word count. 4k+

warnings. drug & alcohol consumption, partying, swearing, sex while intoxicated, short smut [ dry humping, multiple orgasms, oral (f. receiving), fingering ]

synopsis. based off of this hard thought! plug!heeseung who likes you so much that he's convinced himself that you're kinda evil.

a/n. sorry this took so long lol hope u enjoy regardless :) no part 2 so plss dont request it but maybe some drabbles!! also not fully proofread so pls disregard any typos or grammatical errors hehe

Never in his life did Heeseung predict he’d be getting bitched around by a girl arguably much shorter, physically weaker, and far less intimidating than him. And yet here he was, shirtless in his kitchen at two in the morning on his third attempt of baking edibles all because you were too scared to smoke a little weed. 

Fucking ridiculous.

It’s his own fault, really, he should’ve known that innocent, good girl persona you put on was all an act you use to control people – specifically men. Stirring the dessert batter in the mixing bowl, Heeseung shakes his head at the memory of you tilting your head and batting your eyelashes at him as you spoke, your perfectly manicured nails – that you probably got some desperate bitchboy to pay for – tracing and lightly scratching his bicep.

“So,” you started, dragging out the ‘o’, “how much do you charge for edibles?”

Heeseung shakes his head, tracing the rim of his half-empty red solo cup as he responds, “Edibles aren’t my forte. You don’t smoke?”

“Not my forte,” you say in a mocking tone, making Heeseung chuckle. “It’s just too much, you know? The smell, how quick it kicks in…not for me. But, uh, if you don’t make them I’ll stop wasting your time, then.” You give Heeseung a friendly pat on the shoulder before turning on your heels, fully prepared to disappear back into the party and find someone who actually meets your needs.

“Wait!” Heeseung stops you, tugging on your arm until you’re back to facing him. He can’t fucking believe this bullshit manipulation tactic you’re using on him is actually working, he’s literally pulling on your arm like a child so you won’t leave him.

You raise a brow at him as you wait for Heeseung to continue, taking note of his sudden nervousness, “Yeah?”

“Uh…are you into, like, brownies? Or…”

The smirk you gave in response said enough, you’ve got him exactly where you want him.

He’d spent the next few hours browsing the aisles of Target, checking his phone every so often and checking off each ingredient as he tossed them into the bright red shopping cart. To make matters worse, you hadn’t even requested normal brownies, you wanted some shit he’d hardly ever heard of before: blondies. 

It was bad enough that Heeseung already couldn’t bake for shit, and here you were demanding he’d make something he’d never even tasted before; you really are a master manipulator.

His third and final attempt at baking the blondies were a success, his three roommates taste-testing the fresh batch as a final confirmation.

“I can’t even taste it,” Jake says, his brows shooting up in delight, “you sure you’re not forgetting the main ingredient?”

“That’s the whole point,” Heeseung explains, cutting the remaining batch into neat squares, “YN doesn’t want the taste to be too strong, she likes when it’s more subtle and takes awhile to kick in.”

“Are you her wife or her plug?” Sunghoon jokes from his spot on the couch, taking a small bite of his own blondie.

“Neither,” Jay inserts himself into the conversation, taking a seat next to Sunghoon, “I’m sure he wants to be both, though.”

“Fuck off,” Heeseung snaps, momentarily narrowing his eyes at his roommates. “We just met, I’m just trying to get to know her.” He sets the knife down, reaching into the wooden cabinet to retrieve ziplock bags.

“You’re already her bitch, what else is there to know?” Sunghoon half-jokes, resting his feet on the ottoman.

“I am not her bitch.”

He totally is, if the way he’s hurrying to send you a picture of the freshly made blondies is anything to go by.

Heeseung * 2:47 AM

[Attachment: 1 Image] Yooo

YN * 9:06 AM

omggggg  ur the fucking best how much??

You didn’t respond until the following morning, causing Heeseung to nearly jump out of his skin once he woke up to your texts. He turns on his side, elbow propped up against the mattress as he formulates a response.

Heeseung * 10:31 AM

1 for 10 or 2 for 15. venmo or cashapp But lmk if you want more 

YN * 10:40 AM

no cash? :(

Heeseung’s about to go on a long winded explanation about how money transferring apps are quicker and more convenient than accepting cash when you interrupt him by sending a photo.

YN * 10:41 AM 

[Attachment: 1 Image] plsssss i don’t trust cashapp and ive been having issues w my venmo acc :(

It’s a photo of the bottom half of your face, lips formed into a cute pout with your camera angled low enough to show off your cleavage. You weren’t even trying to be discreet, setting your forearm underneath your chest to make your boobs sit higher, the cheetah print material of your bra peeking out from under your too-small tank top.

Heeseung swallows hard, staring down at the photo with his pupils blown wide as his trembling fingers type out a response.

Heeseung * 10:50 AM

Actually you know what don’t even worry about it lmao Consider it a gift When r u free for pickup Or i can bring to u Either or is fine lol

YN * 10:59 AM

omg :o are u sure?  don’t want u to lose out on money >.<

Heeseung * 11:11 AM

It’s fine dw about me baby U picking up? Or want me to drop off On campus is too risky

YN * 11:12 AM

thank u hee!!!!!!! im done with classes around 4:30 i’ll pick up around then if that works also u responded at 11:11…angel number u must be my angel :o

There you go again with your subtle manipulation tactics that Heeseung swears won’t work on him. If there really is angel out of the two of you, it definitely wouldn’t be you, but Heeseung’s not too sure he’d be considered one either. After all, in the twelve minutes it took him to respond to your message, he spent ten of them fucking into his fist as he stared at the photo you sent.

His mind conjured up countless scenarios; leaving hickeys and bite marks across your chest, slipping his dick between your tits as you held them together for him, cumming all over them, fucking anything. Desperate wasn’t even the word.

Heeseung * 11:13 AM

Must be :)

After a month and a half of being your personal baker slash bitchboy, Heeseung really is convinced that you’re using him, yet he doesn’t seem to mind. If anything he’s grateful, fully aware that if it weren’t for him being your plug, the two of you likely never would’ve crossed paths despite attending the same universities.

There wasn’t an ounce of school spirit in his body, so he had little to no urgency to attend any of the sporting events you cheered at or one of the many school-sponsored events you were required to attend. Meeting you at that party not too long ago had been his first encounter with you ever, and you clearly left him with a great first impression on him.

Since that night, he’s found himself conjuring up a new batch of edibles for you every week; brownies, cupcakes, cereal bars, whatever the fuck you wanted, and half the time he’d do it for free if it meant he got to give it to you in person.

He still hasn’t convinced you to actually smoke, though, but maybe it’s for the best. The mere thought of getting high with you and how you’d stare him down with half-lidded eyes was enough to make his dick hard — in fact, it already has. Several times.

Enough time has passed to the point where it’s obvious to everyone, yourself included, that Heeseung has genuine feelings for you that go beyond a physical and sexual attraction. Sure, he’s still convinced that you’re a little bit evil and definitely manipulative, but he considers it part of the fun. He’s also deluded himself into having the “I can fix her” mindset that he’s been using to justify his actions of ignoring your red flags.

However, even if he can’t “fix” you, it wouldn’t be a huge loss. Red is his favorite color, after all.

“You sound…crazy, and she sounds crazier,” Jake leans against the kitchen counter, raising a concerned brow at Heeseung as he takes a sip of his drink.

“I’m not crazy,” Heeseung corrects, “and YN is…I don’t know, honestly. Leave her alone, dipshit.”

Jake throws a hand up in defense, glaring when a fellow partygoer accidentally bumps into him, nearly causing him to spill his drink. “Rather be a dipshit than a bitchboy.” He mutters loud enough for Heeseung to hear before groaning, “Wow, speak of the devil.”

Heeseung turns, following Jake’s line of sight until he spots you walking through the front door. Stunning as always, your khaki mini skirt and black halter top fitting as if they were custom designed for you and only you.

Despite extending you an invitation to Sunghoon’s birthday party, Heeseung was fairly certain you wouldn’t show up tonight, assuming you’d be consumed with cheer practice or one of your many extracurricular activities to attend. Yet, here you were, a wicked grin on your face as you made eye contact with Heeseung.

He gulps in return, eyes wide as he watches you walk over to him and Jake.

You stand beside Heeseung, shooting him a quick smile before directing your attention to Jake, “Sunghoon! Happy birthday, king!”

Jake side-eyes you, briefly glancing at Heeseung before responding, “I’m not…you know what? Nevermind, thanks.” He takes this as an opportunity to exit the conversation, giving Heeseung a light pat on the shoulder as he leaves.

“Didn’t think you’d be here.” Heeseung comments, leaning against the kitchen countertop.

You shrug, “Wasn’t doing anything else, figured it wouldn’t hurt to stop by for a little. Besides, I wanted to see you.”

“Yeah?” Heeseung asks, tongue darting out to lick his lips.

“Yeah,” you respond, taking a step closer and resting your hand on his bicep, “got anything for me?”

Fuck, Heeseung knew he should’ve made another batch of brownies or some shit. He seriously hadn’t been expecting you to show up tonight, otherwise he would’ve been prepared.

He shakes his head, “Not this time, you should’ve told me you were coming; I would’ve made something.”

You groan, momentarily tilting your head back, “I just wanted to surprise you.”

“Consider me surprised,” his hand lands on your waist, pulling your body until your flush against him, “why won’t you just smoke with me?”

You grimace, shaking your head in response.

Heeseung rolls his eyes, “Just once? I know your first time wasn’t that great, but, I really think you’d like it if you tried again.”

“I don’t know, Hee…”

“Tell you what,” Heeseung starts, clearing his throat, “smoke with me just this once, and your next few purchases are on me.”

It isn’t much of an offer considering most of the shit he gave you was either free or already extremely discounted, but your eyes light up regardless. “Really?”

Heeseung nods, “I swear.”

You think it over for a moment, the pros instantly outweigh the cons and lead you to accept Heeseung’s desperate offer. 

A few minutes later, you find yourself in a comfortable lounge chair with Heeseung in his backyard, grateful that the remaining partygoers opted to stay indoors, giving you privacy and alone time with him.

You’re sitting sideways on his lap, trying your best to ignore the feeling of his dick pressing right against your ass, neatly rolled blunt in one hand as he uses the other to fish a lighter from his pocket. “You’re nervous,” he comments.

You shake your head, “I’m not.”

“You are, I feel you shaking.”

“I’m fine, just kinda cold. Go on.”

Heeseung studies you for a moment, eye contact strong and intimidating as ever as he brings the blunt to his parted lips. You watch carefully as he brings the lighter towards the tip, focusing entirely too much on the concentrated look on his face as he lights it. Slowly, he begins to rotate it as the end continues to burn, taking a few small puffs here and there.

Satisfied with his creation, Heeseung takes a long, slow drag, inhaling the smoke into his lungs before titling his head away to exhale.

“Your turn,” he says, offering you the blunt.

You hesitantly stare down at it before accepting; it was intimidating to say the least, the scent alone strong enough to make your head hurt. Heeseung watches you patiently, eyes darting between your lips and the blunt in silence.

Deciding you need a little bit of encouragement, he brings his thumb to your lips, parting them slightly as his free-hand wraps around your wrist, “You’ll be fine, trust me.” 

Under the guidance of his calloused hand, you finally bring the blunt up to your lips and briefly inhale before immediately exhaling.

Heeseung chuckles, shaking his head, “How’d that feel?”

You ponder for a moment, passing the blunt back to Heeseung, “I don’t feel anything. Literally nothing.”

“I mean, yeah, you didn’t even inhale it.”

You roll your eyes, “Why are there so many steps? This is why I prefer edibles.”

“I’m just showing you that you have other options, babe.”

“Yeah, well I’m sticking to my baked goods. You can have the rest of that, I don’t want anymore.”

Heeseung’s well aware that you’re a woman of your word, and the chances of you ever smoking again were a definite zero, so trying to get you to change your mind was pointless. However, there is one thing that may just work on you.

“Mind if I try something?”

You perk up, “Try what?”

“I do all the work but you still get high.”

You raise a brow, “That’s possible?”

He nods, “All you’d have to do is take deep breaths.”

Taking a deep breath, you accept Heeseung’s offer with a sigh, resting a hand on his shoulder as you adjust yourself on his lap. “Fine.”

Here goes nothing.

He guides the blunt back to his lips, taking a long drag as he holds the smoke in his mouth. He tilts his head upward towards you, taking your chin in his hand, signaling for you to part your lips. You follow his command and part your lips open, just enough for Heeseung to close the distance and allow the smoke into your mouth, his lips barely brushing against yours in the process.

You take in a deep breath, eyes closed shut and inhale the smoke, careful not to exhale too quickly and have a repeat of your previous attempt.

“How was that?” Heeseung asks, taking note of your sudden silence.

Truthfully, it wasn’t bad. The smell is still too strong for your liking and requires much more effort than biting off a piece of dessert and calling it a day, but it wasn’t bad. You’re certain that Heeseung shotgunning it into your mouth only added to the experience.

“Not bad,” you admit, “probably because you did all the work.”

He chuckles at that, “I’ll always take care of you, remember that.”

Heeseung is having the time of his life, thoroughly convinced that he finally has some power over you. Here you were sitting on his lap in his backyard letting him blow smoke into your mouth. Sure, it may have taken a lot of convincing and begging on his end to get to this point, but none of that matters; baby steps are still movement.

As if the night couldn’t have gotten any better, you’re asking Heeseung to shotgun more smoke into your mouth over and over. He’s careful to maintain a calm and nonchalant demeanor as he does so, not wanting to come off as too eager out of fear of scaring you away. Or even worse, giving you back that power you have over him.

On the fifth time, you swipe your tongue across Heeseung’s bottom lip when he passes the smoke into your mouth, a low groan escaping from him in the process. He’s fully hard in his jeans by now, and there’s no way you can’t feel his dick pressing right into you. Despite the cold weather, your entire body feels warm all over, Heeseung only adding to the pleasure.

You should’ve taken Heeseung a bit more seriously when he said you’d still get high from this; after a few minutes, your limbs were already starting to feel lighter and weaker. A delicate, cloud-like haze fills your head; your vision blurs slightly and it takes a few minutes for you to fully relax.

Heeseung, attentive as ever, remains silent and still has he watches you; primarily due to the fact that you squirming around on his lap is only adding to the uncomfortable tightness in his jeans. One wrong move, and he’d surely be cumming in his boxers.

You rest your forehead against Heeseung, pressing a firm hand against his chest when he moves to blow more smoke into your mouth. He hums, staring up at with a concerned look on his face.

You close your eyes, mumbling, “Heeseung…”

He hums again in response, still holding the smoke in his mouth.

You open your eyes briefly before closing them again, balling up the collar of his shirt in your fist as you lean down to press your lips against his. He opens his mouth on instinct, as if it were a second nature, parting his lips slightly and exhaling the smoke into your mouth once again.

Heeseung absentmindedly sets the blunt down, his hands moving to your waist to pull you closer to him until your tits are pressed right up against his chest. He groans into your mouth at the feelings, tilting his head to allow himself further into your mouth. 

You cup his face in your hands, hips moving forward as you slowly begin to grind yourself against him. “Fuck,” he moans in a low voice, “keep doing that.”

You grind down harsher this time, capturing his moan in your mouth in the process. With each movement of your hips, a shiver descends down your spine at the friction; Heeseung is painfully hard, and from what you could feel, he was definitely packing. Bigger than what you would’ve expected.

It all feels too good; you grinding against him, the state of his high, your tongue in his mouth. It’s all so overwhelmingly euphoric that Heeseung hardly realizes how close he is to literally cumming in his boxers.

His body was always overly sensitive whenever he got high, and often avoided any sort of intimacy that involved another person due to how embarrassingly quick he would finish, and tonight doesn't seem to be any different. What makes matters worse is the fact that Heeseung was already desperately attracted to you and had been dreaming of this moment since he’d first met you.

He pulls away quickly, cursing under his breath, “YN, h-hold on,” he stutters, “slow down, please.”

You don’t listen; in fact, you can barely even hear him with how caught up you were in your own head. “Hmm? Say that again?”

“S-slow – ah, fuck – slow down for a sec, baby.”

His grip on your waist tightens, and despite the urgency in his tone of wanting you to slow down, he makes no effort to still your hips move you off of him. Fuck it, it is what it is.

“Why?” You question, tilting your head, but you’re a few seconds too late.

Heeseung’s entire body shivers, hips jolting upwards as he comes on himself, making a mess of his boxers. While that alone was definitely embarrassing, Heeseung is more annoyed over the fact that you’ve regained your power over him. His priorities were definitely fucked, but he didn’t even care; he could clean himself up later, but the damage to his ego would take longer to repair.

Your hands fly to your mouth in shock, eyes widening as you process what’s just happened, “Oh, Heeseung…” you mumble into the palm of your hands.

He throws his head back, eyes squeezed shut as he runs a hand down his face, “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding.”

“It’s okay! It happens! No big deal!” You try to reassure him, but it goes in one ear and out the other.

Sure it happens and maybe it isn’t a big deal, but it is for Heeseung. He’s not the type to bust a nut over someone squirming around in his lap for ten minutes, this shit was fucking insanity.

“I’m seriously not like this, I’m just overly-sensitive when I’m high. I swear, I-”

“It’s fine, Heeseung,” you interrupt, standing from his lap, “if anything, I’m flattered! Why don’t you, uh, get cleaned up and I’ll see you later?”

“YN, come on, don’t do this.” He pleads, following you and you make your way towards the sliding door. 

“I told you, it’s fine! I’m not like,” you pause, opening the door with a loud grunt, “mad or weirded out or anything.”

You slip back into the living room, Heeseung hot on your tail with every step. “Let me make it up to you!”

You sigh, “Honestly, I don’t think you have it in you to do that right now.”

“I do! Just let me, please.”

“Heeseung, please drop it. I said it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, at least let me eat you out or something!”

“Heeseung!” Your eyes widen at his lewd, shameless offer, “Lower your voice! We’re in a fucking party surrounded by people!”

He smacks his teeth, “I don’t care. Please, YN.”

“You don’t have to make it up to me, you do not owe me anything.”

A beat of silence passes, then he says, “Then do it for me. Please.”

Even though Heeseung was the one literally begging to go down for you, there is a possibility of him having some sort of power over you; or maybe you just have a soft spot for him. Either way, you end up lying in his bed twenty minutes later, skirt bunched up around your waist as Heeseung’s wet tongue circles your clit, desperate attempt at coaxing a second orgasm from you.

He hadn’t even realized he’d grown hard again just from eating you out, and would likely end up cuuming in his boxers again just from doing this.

“Fuck,” he moans into your folds, pulling away slightly to pepper kisses on your inner thighs, “been waiting so fucking long for this.”

“Yeah?” You question, your grip on Heeseung’s hair tightening.

This earns a low groan from him as he nods against your skin, “You have no idea.”

Deciding he’s spent enough time away from your cunt, his lips make their way back onto you; his tongue falls flat against you, dragging your wetness upwards towards your swollen clit before wrapping his lips around the sensitive bud.

Your body shivers, a beam of sweat dripping down your forehead as your second orgasm approaches. You’ve been eaten out before, countless times, but never like this. It was almost as if Heeseung was doing it for his own pleasure rather than your.

He teases your entrance with his finger before sliding two of them in with ease, curling them upwards and immediately hitting the spot you needed him the most.

“H-Heeseung…hold on…”

He hums, but he’s not really listening, too occupied with kitten-licking your clit and pumping his fingers in and out of you. The knot in your stomach finally snaps and you’re gushing against his hands and mouth, Heeseung only takes this as a sign to continue lapping at your cunt. You have to literally grab him by the hair and drag him away from you.

He stares up at you, pupils blown wide and his chin coated in your juices, but he definitely looks happy. “What?” he asks.

You struggle to catch your breath, “You’re hard again?”

He looks down at his crotch momentarily before shrugging, “I guess.”

“You…don’t you wanna do something about that?”

His eyes flash down to your cunt for a split second, “It can wait.”

You scoff, “Well, I need a minute.”

Heeseung nods in agreement, impatiently drumming his fingers on his bed as you flop against his mattress. “Ready?” He asks once a minute has passed.

“No.”

He sighs, then sighs again, and again and again until you let out a frustrated groan. “Go get me a glass of fucking water.”

“Okay!” He shouts while standing, exiting the bedroom in a hurry. Maybe you really do treat him like a bitchboy, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

[lupinqs]

CRUSH CULTURE ━━ paige bueckers x reader

☆ ━ summary: paige has a hopeless crush on you, a cheerleader.

☆ ━ word count: 5.4K

☆ ━ warnings: alcohol consumption, kissing, this one’s tame

☆ ━ links: my masterlist, inspired by this request (lol i know this was forever ago)

☆ ━ author’s note: hiii i hope y’all enjoy—lemme know if you guys want a part 2 and if so send in ideas for it!!! i have been hopelessly uncreative recently!!! also yes i have been writing tmtc and safe and sound i promise—new chapter of tmtc should be out sometime this weekend, no idea on safe and sound because goddamn that fic takes me forever to write

PAIGE HAS ALWAYS noticed you—though, funny enough, at first it wasn’t because you cheered. That part didn’t even register until her junior year, when she started paying attention to things off the court. But she’d first noticed you back in her sophomore year, in that one class she didn’t feel like she needed at all. She’d often zone out, either doodling in the margins of her notebook or letting her eyes drift around the room as she let her mind wander. Her gaze would skip over classmates until, one day, it stopped on you.

And, God, she remembers that moment. The way she’d blinked, like she needed to reset her brain for a second because… well, you. It wasn’t anything specific, nothing she could even name at the time. But there was this something about you that made her stomach flip. From then on, whenever she zoned out, her eyes would find you before she even realized it. You’d be focused on your notes or lost in thought, completely unaware, and Paige would catch herself staring just a little too long.

She’d think about talking to you, but for some reason, you made her nervous. And that wasn’t something Paige was used to feeling—not with girls. She’d been confident her whole life, even a little cocky when it came to flirting, and her reputation certainly proceeded her. But with you, all of that confidence vanished. Her brain would go blank, her hands would fidget, and her heart would pound just watching you, sitting across the room. The idea of walking up to you, striking up a conversation, felt almost laughable. You’d somehow managed to turn her, Paige Bueckers, into a stammering mess with just a look.

And then there was the other part—the part that kept her from making a move even when she managed to work up the nerve. You looked so…straight. She knows it’s a stupid assumption, but something about the way you carried yourself—she’d convinced herself that you had to be straight. Maybe it was the way you fit in with the other girls, how they flocked around you like they were all in some effortlessly straight, picture-perfect group. Whatever it was, Paige felt certain you’d never look at her the way she looked at you.

So she let it go, or at least, she tried to. But you kept slipping into her thoughts, distracting her in that class, making her mind wander back to you when she least expected it. Her silly little crush on you lingered all through sophomore year, and even when summer rolled around, she found herself thinking of you every now and then, imagining what it might have been like to know you outside of that class.

Then junior year rolled around, and her whole world changed with that ACL tear. Benched for the season, her focus shifted in ways she never anticipated. Instead of charging down the court, she found herself sitting on the sidelines, watching, observing things she normally wouldn’t have noticed. And it was during one of those games, one of those long, frustrating nights when she just wanted to play, that she saw you again—this time, on the court as one of the cheerleaders.

At first, she couldn’t believe it. She actually had to blink a few times, like her brain was trying to catch up with what her eyes were seeing. This was her third year at UConn, and she hadn’t noticed you were a cheerleader ever. Maybe she really was just unobservant, but it truly shocked her. You looked completely different from how you did in class—more animated, more alive, like you were in your element. And when you started that long, impressive tumbling pass down the court, her jaw dropped. She didn’t even know you could do that, and it left her staring, heart hammering in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time. (And maybe the tiny little uniform helped speed it up, too.)

From then on, Paige couldn’t keep her eyes off you during games. She’d always find herself watching you, wondering if you’d somehow feel her gaze, hoping that maybe, just once, you’d look her way. She spent so many games like that—sneaking glances, letting her mind wander, imagining what it might be like to finally work up the nerve to talk to you. But game after game, you never seemed to notice her, too focused on your routines, your teammates, and the cheering crowd around you.

And Paige? She knew she was hopelessly stuck. She’d sit there on the sidelines, feeling ridiculous, pining after a girl she couldn’t even talk to, a girl she thought she’d never really have a chance with. It was her worst crush yet—the kind that left her feeling off-balance, stumbling over her own thoughts, trying to convince herself that it didn’t matter—and she’d never even spoken to you. But each time she saw you out there, smiling, moving with that same effortless grace, she’d feel that same pull, that same quiet, persistent ache.

It’s senior year now, and Paige has one thing on her mind: basketball. It’s been more than a year since she’s played, and she’s determined to make this season count. All summer, she told herself the same thing over and over: Stay focused. Don’t get distracted. No more drifting thoughts, no more daydreams, and absolutely no more pointless crushes on girls she can’t have. And especially no crushes on you.

You, the cheerleader she’d spent too many junior year games staring at from the sidelines. You, the girl she still thought about when her mind wandered late at night, even though she knew better. No, this year, she was locking in. She’d worked too hard, too long, to let her head get all twisted up over you again. She was here to play basketball, not to chase after some unattainable crush.

But as she jogs onto the court for warm-ups, trying to ignore the butterflies that come with her first game back, her eyes somehow find you anyway. Just like they always do. And it’s like no time has passed at all. You’re laughing with the other cheerleaders, your hair perfectly styled in a half-up-half-down, a bow nestled in it, your uniform hugging you just right. The lights catch on your skin, giving you this soft glow, and your smile—God, that smile, so open and sweet and painfully distracting—has her heart skipping a beat before she even realizes it. Paige quickly snaps her eyes away, reminding herself she’s here to play, not to get lost in some imaginary world where she has a chance with you. This is her first game back, and even if it’s just an exhibition against Dayton, she’s got to make it count.

With a deep breath, she manages to brush you off. The pregame excitement kicks in, and her focus sharpens as the game begins. And it’s everything she’s been waiting for—the sounds of the court, the rush of the crowd, the thrill of moving with the ball in her hands again. She’s finally back, and for the first quarter, she’s locked in, feeling the rhythm of the game, feeling unstoppable.

Then it happens. KK makes a bad pass, and Paige is already in motion, chasing down the ball to save it from going out of bounds. She dives, stretching to reach it, but it’s just out of reach. Before she can stop herself, she’s crashing full speed into the sidelines—right into the cheerleaders.

Right into you.

The impact is quick and jarring, and she scrambles to her feet as fast as she can, heart hammering in her chest. She’s prepared to rattle off an apology when she realizes who she’s just barreled into. You’re significantly smaller than her, and her stomach drops as she takes in your wide eyes and the faint wince that flickers across your face. But you handle it with the same grace she’d always admired from afar, waving her off with a laugh and saying, “It’s fine! You’re good!” Your smile is easy, casual, and she’s even more mortified by how sweet you’re being about it.

She tries to apologize again, but you’re already brushing it off with that smile, and she feels her face heating up as she mumbles something unintelligible before hurrying back onto the court. But now her head’s a mess, all her carefully built-up focus gone, replaced by the embarrassing replay of what just happened. She tells herself to get it together, but it’s no use. Her mind keeps drifting back to the look on your face, to the sound of your laugh, to the softness in your smile when you waved her off.

The rest of the game passes in a frustrating blur. She’s off her rhythm, missing open shots she’d normally sink with ease, getting caught in rotations she usually anticipates. By the end, she’s only scored eight points—a painfully low number, especially for her—and she feels the weight of it like a stone in her stomach. She should be thinking about the game, her missed shots, how to get her focus back. But as she sits on the bench, watching the last few minutes tick away, all she can think about is you standing there, laughing off her clumsy collision, looking up at her with that easy, unbothered smile.

So much for not getting distracted.

After the game, Paige is still kicking herself over how sloppy her performance was. She lingers in the locker room, hoping to avoid any unwanted run-ins. But finally, when she’s convinced she’s given it enough time for everyone to clear out, she heads out into the quiet halls of Gampel Pavilion.

Except, of course, her luck isn’t that great. Just as she’s walking out, she spots you—still in your cheer uniform but with a UConn sweatshirt thrown over it, heading down the hall, cheer bag on your back. Her first instinct is to turn around, bolt back into the locker room, and hope to avoid any more humiliation, but it’s already too late. You look up, and your eyes meet, and suddenly she’s frozen in place, panicking because she’s actually staring straight into your eyes.

And then you smile at her. That smile, the one that sends her brain into a meltdown every time. But it’s so much worse now because your smile is directed at her. And, suddenly, you’re walking up to her and saying, “Hey, good game tonight,” and Paige is pretty sure her heart has stopped.

She tries to seem casual, to play it cool, but all she can manage is a shrug and a half-hearted, “Eh, wasn’t my best.” She’s hoping you don’t notice her stutter, but her cheeks are burning, giving her away.

You just wave it off, your dimple showing as you grin up at her. “Nah, this was just your warm-up. You haven’t played in, like, over a year. Next game you’ll drop thirty.”

Paige blinks, and the fact that you know she’s good at basketball—even though everyone knows she’s good at basketball—is enough to send her into a coma, she thinks. “Oh, gosh,” she says, rubbing the back of her neck, struggling to find words. “Gonna have to now, just for you.” The second it’s out of her mouth, she mentally facepalms. That totally sounds like she’s trying to flirt with you.

But you just laugh, eyes crinkling as you look at her, completely unfazed. “I’ll hold you to it,” you say, and that smile doesn’t waver.

There’s a pause, and Paige knows this is where you’re about to say goodbye, and she panics because, after two years of thinking and practically obsessing over you, she’s finally talking to you, and it feels too short, too fleeting. Before she can second-guess herself, she blurts, “Oh—uh, hey, about earlier… when I ran into you. I’m… really sorry about that.”

You shake your head, smiling even wider, brushing it off with an easy laugh. “Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time; more than you’d think.”

There’s something so casual and warm about the way you say it, and she feels herself relax a little, caught up in the fact that you’re looking right at her, not at all bothered, almost… endeared? And for some reason, seeing your dimpled smile has her stammering like she’s never done before.

“So… uh…” Paige stumbles, her words failing, her confidence gone. “Are you, um, going to Ted’s tonight?” She bites her lip the moment it’s out, but she presses on. “You know, a lot of people go there after the first game—it’s kinda, like, a…thing. Which, y’know, I guess you probably already know about because… you’re, like, not a freshman…” She sounds so stupid. God.

You tilt your head slightly, considering, before you smile at her again. “I wasn’t really planning on going, but…” You pause, looking at her with a bit of a spark in your eyes, and for a second, she feels like she might actually combust. “Should I?”

Paige’s eyes widen, and she’s nodding before she can stop herself. “Y-yes! I—I think you’d have a good time.” She mentally scolds herself for the stutter, but you’re just nodding, still smiling, still looking so effortlessly at ease while she’s a nervous mess.

You laugh softly, a sound she’s sure she’ll replay in her head all night, and say, “Alright. I’ll think about it. And if I do decide to go, I’ll see you there, Bueckers.”

And with one last smile, you turn and walk away, leaving her standing there in shock, her heart racing and her mind replaying every word you just said. She’s tempted to pinch herself, convinced this has to be some elaborate daydream because there’s no way she actually just talked to you.

She doesn’t move for a long moment, replaying the way you said her name, the sound of your laugh, and the chance that she might actually see you tonight.

IT’S LATER in the night at Ted’s, and Paige is doing her best to stay composed, talking with one of the guys from the men’s team. Dirty Shirley in hand, she’s feeling just the faintest buzz, not enough to loosen her grip on reality but just enough to feel the edges of her confidence soften. She’s nodding along to something the guy’s saying when, over his shoulder, she spots you walking in.

Paige’s attention falters as she takes you in. You’re in baggy jeans that hang low on your hips, and a leather tube top that clings in all the right places, dipping enough to make her gaze lower slightly. She can barely tear her gaze away as you head over to the bar with a couple of friends, both of whom Paige recognizes from the cheer team. You’re laughing, leaning into one of them, completely at ease, and she can’t stop watching.

She realizes she’s staring a little too long, so she quickly excuses herself, not to talk to you—God, no, she can’t even think straight around you—but to hide by her teammates before she does something stupid. Her teammates notice her the moment she approaches, grinning as they watch her flustered expression.

“You see who just walked in, P?” Azzi teases, nudging her.

Paige groans, cheeks burning. “Don’t start.”

But they’re all laughing, and Ice is elbowing KK with a smirk. Nika, who’s been listening with a barely disguised grin, rolls her eyes. “Okay, this is ridiculous. You’ve had a crush on this girl since, like, forever. Go talk to her.”

“Are you kidding? I can’t. She’s—” Paige doesn’t even finish the sentence, glancing over her shoulder just in time to see you at the bar, waiting for your drink. She’d be lying if she said her confidence hadn’t evaporated the moment you walked in, looking like that.

“Girl boo,” KK sighs dramatically, before grabbing Paige’s wrist and dragging her toward the bar. Paige stumbles after her, mumbling weak protests, but KK is determined, practically hauling her across the crowded floor until they’re standing right next to you. KK orders a Sprite, leaning casually on the bar and glancing over at you with a grin. “Hey, girly pop! You cheer, right?”

You smile, looking more at Paige than at KK, and Paige’s heart thuds against her ribs. “Yeah, I do,” you say, introducing yourself and holding out a hand to KK, but your gaze flickers right back to Paige, who’s half-hiding behind her friend, cheeks pink and looking slightly caught. “Hi, Paige.”

Paige’s voice comes out a little sheepish. “Hey.”

KK smirks, clearly satisfied, and gives Paige a quick wink before excusing herself, leaving Paige standing there alone with you.

There’s a beat of awkward silence as Paige shifts on her feet, trying to keep herself from looking like an idiot, which is hard considering how aware she is of every single thing about you—your posture, your smile, the way you’re leaning in just close enough that she can catch a faint hint of your perfume.

“So,” Paige says, trying for casual. “You glad you came?”

You tilt your head, your lips quirking up. “Hmm, not sure yet. I’m not too impressed so far.”

She nods, stifling a wince, feeling more awkward than she can ever remember. And yet, her mind’s racing, urging her to just go for it, because this is her moment. She’s Paige Bueckers—she’s supposed to be confident. She always is. Besides, if you’re not interested, at least she’ll know. And if you are…

She hesitates, then swallows, trying to keep her voice steady as she says, “Um… can I buy you a drink?”

There’s a flicker of something in your eyes—maybe amusement, maybe surprise—and she’s mentally bracing herself for you to say no when you glance at the bar and say, “Actually, I just ordered one.” Her heart sinks a little, but she forces a smile, trying to play it off. Of course you’re not interested; she should have known better—

Then you’re leaning closer, nudging her elbow with yours, and you smirk, your voice soft and playful. “But you can buy my next one, if you want.”

Paige’s brain short-circuits as your words settle in, her mouth going dry as she realizes what you just said. “Uh, y-yeah, totally,” she manages, trying to keep from looking as giddy as she feels. “I…I’d love to.”

Your smirk turns into a grin, and you’re looking at her like she’s the only person in the room. She’s trying to come up with something smooth to say when, suddenly, one of your friends pops ups beside you and Paige, tugging on your arm, pulling you off the barstool and towards the crowd with a teasing, “Come on!”

Paige opens her mouth to protest, but before she knows it, you’re being swallowed up into the throng of people—not before you send her a quick, apologetic look over your shoulder, your friend still dragging you. Paige frowns, a little disappointed, but quickly catches herself. It’s fine, she thinks, though a twinge of regret lingers. She pushes it aside, grabbing her drink from the bar and returning back to her table, telling herself to focus on celebrating. She’s finally back on the court, and after such a long, difficult recovery, tonight is meant to be about unwinding. So she does, letting her team hype her up as they cheer and clink their drinks in her honor, pulling her deeper into the night.

As the time passes, Paige’s frustration eases, replaced by a warm buzz that dulls everything except the elation of being surrounded by her friends. But even as she sips her drink, she can’t help but think about where you’ve disappeared to, if you’re still here, still laughing with your friends somewhere across the bar. She finds herself scanning the crowd more than once, looking for a glimpse of you. She tries to push it down, laugh it off with another round, but every time she looks around, her gaze seems to search for you.

Eventually, the heat of the crowded bar gets to her. She feels flushed, dizzy from the alcohol and the mass of people, so she slips out the back door for some air. The cool breeze hits her face, and she closes her eyes for a second, sighing as the sounds of the bar fade behind her. She barely has a moment to herself before she notices a figure sitting just a few feet away.

It’s you, sitting on the curb, looking down at your hands as if lost in thought. Paige blinks, unsure if she’s seeing things. But then you look up at the sound of the door closing and smile, that familiar, gentle smile that makes her heart stutter. You seem just as surprised to see her, but your expression softens, like you’re genuinely happy she’s there. And that’s all the encouragement Paige needs.

“You care if I join?” she asks, trying to sound casual, even though her heart’s racing.

“Not at all,” you reply, and she takes a seat beside you, a bit closer than she planned. She feels your warmth even in the night air, and it makes her head spin in a way she can’t blame on the alcohol.

There’s a pause, a comfortable silence stretching between you. Paige watches as you draw patterns in the gravel with your fingers, the lights from the bar casting a soft glow over your face. She swallows, summoning up the nerve to say something—anything that might keep you sitting here with her.

“Why you out here?” she starts, genuinely curious.

You shrug, glancing back toward the bar. “Got a little claustrophobic in there,” you say, voice soft.

“Yeah… me too,” Paige nods, grateful for the fresh air and this quiet moment with you. The silence returns, but this time, it’s charged, heavy with something she can’t quite put into words.

Finally, Paige finds her voice again, her words slipping out before she can think them over. “You’re a good cheerleader, y’know. You do all those flips and shit—it’s impressive.”

You let out a small laugh, looking away for a second as if flattered. Paige is almost certain she sees a faint blush on your cheeks, and the sight makes her smile a little, lips curving upward. “Didn’t know you really paid attention to the cheerleaders,” you respond, teasing.

Paige scoffs, shrugging as if it isn’t a big deal, even though she feels like she’s been caught in some sort of confession—which, she kinda has. “Well, I did sit out for a year, so… I had to find something to watch.”

You tilt your head, smirking as you ask, “So you chose to watch me?”

Paige’s cheeks warm, and she silently thanks the alcohol for the courage that lets her meet your gaze. “Yeah,” she murmurs, watching as you look away, biting your lip as if trying to hide a smile. The sight makes her heart skip in a way that’s both exhilarating and terrifying.

After a moment, Paige adds, “I think we… had a class together, couple years ago?”

You nod, eyes lighting up at the memory. “Yeah, we did. Sociology, right?” you reaffirm, nodding in tandem with her. “’M surprised you remember that—you always seemed so disinterested.”

Paige nearly blanches, genuinely surprised you’d noticed her too. She didn’t think you’d have remembered her, much less noticed her back then. The notion gives her some of her usual confidence beck and she manages a chuckle, shaking her head and tilting it slightly toward you as she murmurs, “Ah, so you were watching me too, huh?”

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you as you nudge her shoulder. “Shut up,” you mutter, but the blush on your face doesn’t go unnoticed.

There’s another pause, the two of you sitting side by side in the quiet, both of you lingering on the edge of something unsaid. Finally, you break the silence, voice soft and hesitant. “How come you never said anything before?”

Paige swallows, the question catching her off guard. She doesn’t know how to answer without giving herself away, without admitting the way her stomach twists every time she sees you around campus. So instead, she asks, turning the question back on you, “How come you never did?”

You don’t seem to mind that she didn’t really give you an answer. Instead, you just shrug, looking down at your hands. “I don’t know… you make me kinda nervous.”

The confession makes Paige’s heart alight, feeling like it’s on fire and might spread throughout her whole body. She’s used to people being in awe of her for basketball, for her skills on the court. But hearing you say that you feel that way too, like she’s someone more than just her reputation, shakes her. Besides, you’ve always seemed so incredibly at ease around her, never even bothering to look her way. So, almost incredulously, she asks, “Why?”

You scoff, looking at her like she’s missing something obvious. “Um, because you’re Paige Bueckers. Basketball prodigy, campus celebrity.” You raise your eyebrows at her. “I think most people would be.”

Paige feels a rush of warmth at your words, the way you say her name like it means something special. She searches your face, feeling the air grow thick around you, heavy with something she couldn’t quite name. And maybe it’s the alcohol in her system, maybe it’s the way you’re looking at her like she’s somehow both intimidating and endearing at the same time, but she’s feeling bold. Bold enough to keep this conversation going, to see where this moment might lead.

She clears her throat, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Well, if it helps… you make me nervous.”

You laugh, a little breathless, clearly surprised. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m serious,” Paige insists. “You ain’t see the way I stuttered around you earlier? Ion know, ma, you just kinda fuck with my head.”

She watches, grin widening, as you blush at her words, the color blooming across your cheeks. It’s addictive, seeing you react like that—because of her. She doesn’t even try to hide her amusement when you ask, gaze set out in front of you instead of on her, “Why would I fuck with your head?”

It’s a good question, one Paige asked herself for a long time. It never took her long to figure out the answer. Though, she’s a little nervous to explain herself.

And she gets even more nervous when your gaze slides back onto hers, your head turning towards her. Paige’s smile falters, just slightly, at the eye contact. It’s intense, the kind that feels like it’s holding the world still for a second. Paige’s heart is a drum in her chest, each beat vibrating through her veins. Her eyes slide across your face, your features, tracing the slope of your nose, the curve of your lips, the faint shimmer glitter swiped along your eyelids. She catalogues every detail as if she’s never going to get this close again—a very real possibility if she doesn’t up her game.

Finally, she leans in—just slightly—her voice low and steady as she answers you. “You got this positive energy that makes you just… stand out in front of a crowd. Big smile. Bright eyes. Mm, I just… like seeing that in people.”

The words settle in the space between you, warm and lingering. Paige hesitates, letting them wrap around you both before adding, her voice dipping lower, her boldness shooting upward, “And it doesn’t help that you’re too beautiful for your own good.”

You blush deeper this time, cheeks tinted more red than pink, and it makes Paige’s heart skip. She can’t help the way her lips twitch into a grin. She’s waited so long to see this—see you flustered because of her. It’s everything she imagined and more.

“Stop,” you protest, fighting a smile as you push at her hands, your tone not carrying any weight behind the word. Paige just laughs, soft and easy, catching your hand in hers before you can pull away. She lifts it slightly, letting her thumb brush over your knuckles as she murmurs, “Nah, really.”

It’s then that the air changes—shifting into something heavier. The space between the two of you is practically nonexistent at this point, your sides tucked right into each other. You’re staring at one another, and Paige can’t help it when her gaze flickers down to your lips, just for a second. But it turns out to be enough. Because then she sees your eyes dart to her mouth in return, lingering there. And that’s when Paige knows.

Still holding your hand, she locks her gaze on yours, her voice firm but soft when she repeats, “Really.”

It’s like that word unlocks something between you because suddenly you’re leaning in, and Paige is doing the same, her breath catching the moment your lips touch hers. It’s soft, tentative at first, like neither of you are quite sure if this is real. But then you press into her just slightly, and Paige swears the whole world tilts on its axis.

The kiss deepens, slow but deliberate, and Paige feels her whole body light up. Your lips are warm, soft, and you taste faintly of tequila and strawberry chapstick. It’s intoxicating, the way you move against her, gentle but with enough purpose to make her head spin. Paige’s hand slides up to cradle your jaw, her thumb brushing against your cheekbone.

Your fingers grab at her bicep, holding on like you don’t want to let go, and it sends a thrill through her. Paige’s lips part slightly, and when you follow, letting her slip her tongue into your mouth, it’s like a fire ignites somewhere deep inside her. The kiss isn’t frantic or messy—it’s unhurried, like the two of you have all the time in the world to explore this. She can feel the heat of your skin where her hand cups your face, and she wants to memorize every second, every sensation.

The way you tilt your head just a little, giving her more access, nearly undoes her. Paige tilts her own in response, deepening the kiss further, her fingers slipping from your jaw to the back of your neck. The touch is light, almost reverent, but the closeness makes her heart race.

Your other hand moves, grazing against her side before resting lightly on her hip. Paige’s stomach flips at the contact, her body leaning instinctively closer to yours. She swears she can feel the warmth of your breath between kisses, the subtle hitch when she nips at your bottom lip.

It’s slow, it’s sweet, but it’s intoxicating. Paige swears she’s never kissed anyone like this before, never felt this much just from simple lip-locking. When you pull back slightly—not breaking the kiss entirely, just catching your breath—she can’t help herself. She follows you instinctively, her mouth chasing yours in a way that feels both vulnerable and utterly fearless. You allow her to, tongues half entwined between your swollen lips.

When you finally part, Paige keeps close, her forehead gently pressing against yours, her hand still cradling your neck. Neither of you moves far, the space between you so small your breaths still mingle, soft and warm against each other’s lips. Paige’s eyes flutter open, but she doesn’t look away from you, her gaze locked on yours like you’re the only thing in the world that matters—which, right now, you might as well be.

Her voice comes out lower than she intends, husky and laced with something she can’t quite hide as she murmurs, “You gonna let me buy you that drink now?”

Your lips curve into a slow, easy grin, and Paige feels her chest tighten, her heart skipping a beat at the sight of it. You’re so close she can see the faint glimmer of mischief in your eyes, the way they soften as you look at her.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice soft but sure, “I’d like that.”

The way you say it, the way your smile widens just slightly after, makes Paige’s heart race all over again. She can’t help the small, satisfied smile that spreads across her face. Paige leans back just enough to take in the sight of you—your flushed cheeks, the way your hair’s slightly mussed, and that lingering, breathtaking smile she knows will haunt her in the best way.

“Good,” she murmurs, her thumb brushing your jaw lightly one last time before she pulls away completely, standing up and offering you her hand. When you take it, she holds on a little longer than necessary, leading you back into the bar, already planning how she’s going to keep you smiling for the rest of the night—and, hopefully, much longer afterwards.

[pellucid-constellations]

Fable - During

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Azriel was too late, and something was brewing. The fate of your wings rested in the balance and there was nothing left of him to reconcile with.

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: Angst, injury, violence

a/n: This is part of a mini-series but each part can be read on its own/out of order. The next part is going to be long guys <3 Thank you for reading all of this angst!!!

Series Masterlist (all parts ♡)

~~

The ground beneath Azriel’s feet must have disappeared. 

He was unstable, falling, plummeting into an unknown abyss. 

When he looked down, Azriel saw the plush carpet at his feet, but as he replayed Rhysand’s words—four words, echoing—the blur behind his eyes made the physical obsolete. We can’t find her, Rhysand had said, followed by a multitude of questions from Cassian that Azriel could not hear. Everything was buzzing and the carpet was gone. 

Where was Lucien? Azriel remembered that Lucien was to go with you. Where was he? 

He had to be dead because if he were alive and you were missing, Azriel would kill him himself. 

“Lucien,” Azriel spoke, his voice rough, interrupting the conversation he had not been part of. 

“What?” Rhysand asked. 

But Cassian ignored his High Lord’s confusion. “She was never bringing Lucien,” he growled, throwing his brother a sneer. “She only said that to make sure you went on your date. I told her I should’ve come. I told her—” 

Azriel had lost his breath. He was grappling for it, trying to make sense of Cassian’s words as his lungs began to burn, but you wouldn’t do that, would you? Why would you lie to him? Over something like this? 

“Cassian, enough,” Azriel gasped, the buzzing of his brother’s voice a constant barrier in the losing battle within his head. “Who’s looking for her? Where should we go?” 

Azriel was dressed in a ridiculous button-up shirt with slacks that now felt too tight on his legs. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms and his shadows took advantage of the open space, trailing up to protect him from nothing. Because nothing was here—he wasn’t in danger. 

You were. 

Azriel had only gotten through drinks with Elain before the call from his High Lord sent him into the sky. He couldn’t remember if he apologized. Azriel’s shoes were pinching his feet. 

“I had just lost connection with her when I called you. I sent her to the northeast camp. There’s a possibility that—” 

Azriel was traveling through the shadows, darkness consuming him before Rhysand could finish his sentence. He should have grabbed Cassian for backup, but that was a thought Azriel would only have much, much later. 

His mind was on you—only on you. 

That wasn’t unnatural for Azriel; you were one of the most important people in his life and you had been in trouble before. Life-threatening, war-induced trouble, but somehow, this felt different. 

You had been distant lately. 

Azriel had noticed, but Azriel had also been so zeroed in on getting Elain’s attention that he figured he would have time to check on you in a few weeks. 

When he landed in the camp, the foreboding quiet made him consider that he might never get to check on you again. Illyrian camps were never quiet. There was always shouting or fighting or nagging mothers getting after their young. But the insects in the bushes could be heard in this camp, and Azriel paused amid his racing heart to make sense of the noise. 

And then he heard the scream. 

Your scream.

And he was running. 

His shoes groaned as they pounded into soft dirt and you screamed again. Azriel had never heard that sound come from you. The way it erupted into the air—it was as if it was ripped from your throat, evoked from nothing but agony. 

He pushed himself harder, faster, until the screams became closer and a small hut materialized on the horizon. The image of the quaint house brought Azriel relief, but that relief was short-lived because your screams had become tired in his journey. With each step, your voice broke more and more and Azriel didn’t even feel angry. 

The rage he expected to feel was consumed by the terror that gripped him. 

He ripped open the door and that terror only increased tenfold. 

Azriel was usually focused during battle, his mind razor-sharp. He was known for calculating every step, for remembering each life he took, and being able to recount each slice of his blade when asked for a report days later. Azriel was a warrior and a spy. 

But Azriel could not remember his actions. 

From the moment he opened the door and found you on the ground, surrounded by enemies and so broken, he lost the ability to calculate anything other than death. 

He figured a few must have gotten away because he vaguely registered that the door made a sound. But over the screams, that sound was inconsequential, and with the image of you before him, lying in your blood, chest only minutely rising and falling, everything else was inconsequential. 

He only remembered that the rage finally found him. 

Only when bodies littered the floor did the anger make way for the visceral fear that came with reaching for you—grabbing you as you let out small, weak sounds and took labored breaths. 

“Y/n?” Azriel stressed, eyes roving over your figure with haste that his hands couldn't match. He had to be careful; so much of you was broken. “Y/n,” he spoke again, as if the echo of your name would somehow fix you, snap you out of the hurt. 

Azriel’s breath quivered. His scarred hands hovered over your skin now, afraid to touch you more than to bring you into his arms. His fingers shook. Your wings—it was your wings. 

“You’re okay,” Azriel affirmed, whispering only to himself. “You’re okay. You’re okay.” 

Salt tainted the surface of his tongue, and Azriel then recognized that he was crying. Fat, heavy tears blurred his vision and fell into his mouth as he repeated his mantra into the stagnant air. 

Your wings looked beyond repair. When Hybern destroyed Cassian’s, the roots remained. The delicate flesh was burned and torn, but regrowth was still feasible.

Only small pieces of the membrane along your back remained. 

Azriel’s soul wept. 

You groaned, and Azriel stopped his inspection of your back, his hands brushing your hair off from where it stuck to your skin. 

“Y/n?” he tried again. “Can you hear me? I’m—I’m going to bring you home, okay? You’re going to be fine, I promise.” 

He shouldn’t have promised that. His voice broke as he spoke the words and Azriel knew he shouldn’t have promised that because you only let out a broken rendition of ‘my wings?’ that Azriel had no response to. He only squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead to your temple before shadows consumed him once more. They had been rampaging around the pair, whispering worried, angry words in Azriel’s ear, but they remained faithful. 

They brought you home. 

Mor screamed first. 

He assumed everyone would be out looking for you, but Azriel hadn’t broken the connection to Rhysand’s mind, and they had been expecting him. His family stood before him as your blood stained the rug of his High Lord’s favorite sitting room. Rhysand was missing, gone to retrieve Madja, but Azriel was only looking for those he knew could help you. 

His throat caught on air as he frantically searched for Feyre in the room. When he saw her wide eyes, he let out a desperate, “Help her,” that sounded nothing like him. His High Lady’s shoulders rose and fell with hurried panic as she came forward and then hesitated. 

Azriel heard someone vomit in the corner of the room—Cassian, he thought—and Mor came to kneel beside him. 

“Feyre,” he sobbed. “Please. Please, try.” 

Mor was crying. Cassian had wiped his mouth and come to stand beside Feyre, but everyone was too afraid to touch you. You rested in Azriel’s arms, but even his palms remained face up and did not connect with your skin. He would break you more, he was sure of it. Your wings bent at odd angles and hung from your body by only tethered threads and no one knew what to do. 

Azriel thought that dying would be better than this. 

His button-up was stained red. 

“Fuck.” Rhysand’s voice rattled the air in the House. At some point, Feyre had broken her hesitancy and kneeled before you, a gentle glow emitting from her hands as she tried to stitch together the broken remains of your skin. When her mate appeared with the elder healer, she turned wild eyes towards him. Rhysand stood frozen, mimicking each person in the room, but he was the High Lord—a composed leader—so his reverie lasted only seconds before he was sent into action. 

“The table,” Rhysand demanded. “Lay her on the table.” 

No one moved. 

Azriel couldn’t stop looking at you. 

Madja then spoke, no, demanded, “Now.” 

The table was cleared, everything swiped to the floor with abandon. As gently as he could, Azriel rose from the floor on shaking legs and heaved you up with him, offering soft apologies as you cried out. He wished you would pass out from the pain, be free of it all, but the agonizing reality that you might not wake up struck him harder. 

“I’m so sorry, y/n,” he whispered against your hair. His body ached. Azriel leaned you against the table as the other members of his family turned you on your stomach. He kneeled to meet your lidded gaze, your face pressed against the wood. “Madja’s going to fix it, okay?” 

The healer was giving orders—Cassian to get water, Mor to support your head, Feyre for support. It was all a buzz in Azriel’s ears. He licked his lips and tried to meet your eyes, but they were trailing off, unfocused. 

“Y/n?” he tried. “Angel?” A name he had dropped once Elain came into the picture. Your lashes fluttered. His attention peaked. “It’s okay, angel. I’m so, so sorry. I’m sorry—” 

Azriel was torn from his position on the ground, a heavy hand shoving him up and against the wall. His shadows remained caressing your skin, but a fist met Azriel's face and he lost sight of you. 

“This is your fault.” 

“Cassian!” Mor called, desperately pleading with no one. 

“It is,” Cassian seethed, his arm pressed to the Shadowsinger’s throat. “If he hadn’t been searching for something with a woman not even meant to be his, he would have been there. She would have said anything to ensure your happiness. Anything, Azriel.” 

Azriel blinked and Cassian’s face was inches from his own. “I didn’t—” 

“You have been blinded, brother. You’ve been blind for years and now this is the price.” 

“I don’t—what are you saying?” Azriel pleaded, trying and failing to look over Cassian’s broad wings to catch a glimpse of you. 

“Cassian, this is not the time,” Mor scolded, but the anguish burned so deeply in Cassian’s eyes that Azriel could tell he wasn’t hearing her. 

“She gave you everything,” his brother continued. “She—” 

Your scream punctuated the building tension in the room. Cassian whipped around and Azriel used the opportunity to shove him away, the Shadowsinger racing to your side once again. But, once again, he was pushed away. Rhysand held his shoulder back this time, shaking his head with a furrowed brow. 

The screams echoed in the room and they hurt. 

They hurt everyone. 

Feyre and Mor stood beside Madja, the three of them set to the fruitless task of saving your wings. A small part of Azriel spoke the truth that they were also just trying to save you. You had lost so much blood and he still knew nothing of your other injuries. 

“Rhys,” Azriel begged, beseeching him with his gaze. 

But Rhysand only shook his head once more. “They need the space.” 

“She needs me.” 

Cassian scoffed and ground his jaw, but a glance in the general’s direction found only tears and the quivering of his lips as he pressed them together. 

“You need to let them work.” 

“This is my fault,” Azriel spoke, his tone dead, lost within the echo of your screams. “I was seeing Elain,” he admitted. He met Rhysand’s eyes. “You told me not to. She lied so I could go.” 

Rhysand didn’t even look disappointed. He didn’t look surprised. He only ticked his jaw to the side and breathed deeply through his nose as your screams filled the room once more. 

Azriel flinched. The soles of his shoes were caked with blood and cracked along the stitches. 

Rhysand would have the right to be angry. He had the right to send Azriel away and force him to sit in uncertainty and the consequences of the night, but Rhysand found something familiar in the Shadowsinger’s eyes—something different. Something that Rhysand could find in himself if he were to search his mind from the night he thought Feyre to be dead. 

Impossible, the High Lord assumed, but you were still screaming and there was no time to inspect the intricacies of Azriel’s reaction. 

So Rhysand only held back the maelstrom of his own emotions, his sister broken on the table just feet from him, and kept his response to that of a leader. 

“Let them work, Azriel.”

[itneverendshere]

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - EIGHT

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mentions of pregnancy; abortion.

MASTERLIST

Topper prided himself in keeping out of people’s business.

He hadn’t noticed anything was off with you on his own, he wouldn’t have; he didn’t do the whole “emotional radar” thing.

But Rafe had practically cornered him, demanding he figure out what was going on with you.

You were his cousin, after all. 

That didn’t stop the way his stomach twisted from thinking about lying to you, or how every part of him had always silently rooted for you and Rafe. He’d loved seeing you two together. You were a mess most days, for years, sure, but it was the kind of mess that made sense in a way, and Topper couldn’t help but admire it.

You were like fire and gasoline.

But that was before the break-up, before everything got fucked.

Now, you were just… distant. He never knew how to approach you without feeling like he was crossing a line, but the way you’d passed out on Rafe at the beach had him worrying in a way that was more personal than he wanted to admit.

He wasn’t a thinker, not really, he liked simple things: good waves, cold beer, and not getting roped into drama.

But there he was, standing outside your door with Korean fried chicken. He didn’t do feelings, and he didn’t do heavy conversations. Rafe owed him big for this. The conversation had been good, even when you started talking about Sarah and Ruthie. 

Topper was all in—laughing along, throwing in a dumb joke here and there, the usual. It felt nice, like when you were kids, sneaking your dad’s beers and pretending you weren’t gonna get caught.

But then he had to go and ruin it by asking if you were okay.

You went all stiff, then weirdly far away, laughing it off like he’d just asked you to explain calculus or something. You mumbled something about being fine and then bolted to the bathroom before he could even follow up with his usual Topper-brand wisdom.

He sat there, feeling uncomfortable, which wasn’t a thing he usually did. You were acting off, and it was messing with him more than he wanted to admit.

Finally, he decided he needed to move, so he got up to grab some water. Except, as he walked past the counter, his hip caught a pile of your mail, and an envelope went sliding to the floor.

“Crap,” he muttered, crouching to grab it. It was just some random envelope, but there was a phone number written on the front in messy blue ink.

Topper didn’t think about it—because thinking wasn’t really his strong suit—he just whipped out his phone and typed it in. Curiosity, man. It got him every time.

He hit call. He wasn’t trying to snoop or anything. It was just one of those things you do on autopilot, right? Call a number just to see who answers? Except this time, someone did answer.

The phone rang. Once. Twice. Then:

“Women’s Health Center, how can I help you?”

His brain short-circuited, full-on panic mode. He stared at the phone like it had grown a second screen, then frantically hit the hang-up button just as the bathroom door creaked open.

You were back.

Topper, sweating for no reason, slapped the envelope back on the counter like it was about to explode and turned to you with a smile that definitely didn’t match his pounding heart.

He got out of there as soon as possible, as he drove to meet Rafe, the whole thing was still playing on a loop in his head. That phone number, the voice on the other end of the line, the way you’d acted when he’d asked if you were okay—he couldn’t stop trying to force the pieces into place.

Something was going on, he wasn't sure what, and he wasn’t exactly the guy you went to for deep insights, but he felt something was up.

When he pulled into Tanyhill, he spotted Rafe leaning against his truck, scrolling through his phone with that permanent scowl he seemed to have these days. He barely had the car in park before Rafe was pushing off the truck and heading his way.

He climbed out, doing his best to act normal—which, for him, meant cracking the same goofy grin he always did. His mind was still spinning with a dozen half-formed thoughts about that phone call, that clinic, and how the the fuck he might fit into all of it. 

The only thing he knew for sure was that Rafe knowing could be catastrophic. Like, meteor-hits-earth catastrophic.

“You gotta chill,” Topper said, slamming his car door shut and giving Rafe a once-over. “Why do you look like you’re about to punch somebody?”

Rafe just glared, shoving his phone in his pocket. “What’d you find out?”

He blinked, thrown by how fast he cut to the point. “Nice to see you, too. Second, what makes you think I found out anything?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Top. Did you figure it out or not?”

“Yeah, I figured it out,” Topper shot back, crossing his arms. “But why the hell did you make me go through all this work if you already know what’s going on?”

Rafe shrugged, leaning back against the truck like this was all just some casual conversation. “Didn’t think you’d actually get it, to be honest.”

“Bro, I’m not that stupid. How did you get to the bottom of this shit? I’m still confused as fuck over here.”

Rafe’s mouth twitched like he was deciding whether to smirk or yell, hesettled on neither. “She passed out on me, remember?”

“So?” Topper shot back, frowning. “I’ve seen you pass out for, like, way less.”

“It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t a hangover or heat stroke, it was different. And she’s been weird lately, avoiding everyone.” Rafe leaned back against his truck, arms crossed, talking fast. “The hospital did blood work.”

Topper, who’d been zoning out halfway through his little doctor act, suddenly perked up.

“Wow,” he mused, dragging the word out. “Okay. So, how’d you take the news? I mean, shit, you look pretty calm for once. Didn’t think that was in your wheelhouse."

Rafe frowned, his sharp blue eyes narrowing, the crease between his brows deepening like it always did when he thought someone was wasting his time. 

"The fuck are you talking about?”

Topper shrugged like this was totally normal. “I just expected you to, like…freak out or somethin'. Throw a punch, maybe.”

“Throw a punch about what?” Rafe snapped.

“About—” Topper paused, squinting at Rafe like he was trying to solve a puzzle. “Wait. What are you supposed to do?”

Rafe’s hand twitched toward his jaw, fingers brushing over the stubble there, a telltale sign that he was gearing up to lose patience. He didn’t wait for Topper to answer before shaking his head, the movement quick and irritated. 

“Don’t do that, man,” he added, pointing a finger “I’ll help her figure it out. What else can I do?”

Topper tilted his head, genuinely impressed. “Damn. You really matured, huh? I mean, good for you.”

“Top, what the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Rafe demanded, his tone sharp now like he was finally catching on to the fact that they weren’t on the same page.

Topper blinked, “I’m just saying you’re handling it better than I thought. Especially since she’s not—uh, showing yet.”

“Not showing what?”

“…The bump?”

He immediately realized he’d said the wrong thing, or maybe the right thing, but in the wrong tone, with the wrong level of context, and—okay, maybe he should just stop talking. 

Abort mission, abort mission. Topper immediately wanted to crawl into a hole. Dude, shut up, shut up, shut up.

“What the fuck?” Rafe’s voice cracked; his eyes blazing as he stepped closer. “What bump?!”

His laugh fizzled out under Rafe’s glare, it was starting to feel less like “concerned ex-boyfriend” and more like “interrogating cop.” He felt a bead of sweat slide down the back of his neck. 

Cool. Stay cool.

“Wait,” Topper held his hands up, trying to physically stop the situation from spiraling. “What do you think is wrong with her?”

His brain was spinning in a way it wasn’t built for. He was a simple guy—he liked clear problems and easy fixes. But this? This was a category-five disaster, and he was stuck right in the middle of it.

Rafe let out a sharp breath through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair, the small strands sticking up in every direction.

“I think she’s got a fucking infection! Why the hell would I think she’s pregnant?”

Topper hesitated, glancing toward the house like maybe Sarah or Wheezie might miraculously appear to save him. No such luck.

“Well fucking shit,” Topper blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush. His heart was pounding, and he was pretty sure he’d just signed his death warrant. “I—I didn’t say she’s pregnant, okay? I found this number, and it was for a women’s health center, and—fuck, man, I’m dead. I’m so dead.”

Rafe grabbed him by the collar, yanking him close. “Start talking. Now.”

“I wasn’t snooping, okay? It just—happened. I wasn’t trying to get in her business, but—”

“But what?” Rafe barked. His other hand twitched at his side, curling into a fist before flexing out again, a warning of how close Topper was to eating pavement, but Rafe wasn’t the one he feared right now.

You were going to kill him.

He could already picture the look on your face when you found out—those cold, furious eyes, the way your voice would drop, he was officially dead meat. He gulped, his mouth dry as his brain scrambled for something—anything—that wouldn’t get him killed or disowned.

“You better explain what the fuck you mean by ‘happened,’” Rafe growled, his grip tightening, giving Topper’s collar a shake, just enough to make his point clear.

Topper was done, leaving nothing but pure panic and the faint, distant sound of his voice saying things he definitely shouldn’t. 

“I called the number!” Topper yelped. “I didn’t even mean to, it was—dude, she’s gonna kill me, and I mean that literally. She will.”

“Not if I kill you first,” Rafe shoved him back, his grip finally loosening, his face unreadable now, which was somehow worse than when he’d looked ready to punch him. “You’re telling me you think she’s pregnant? And you didn’t remember to tell me sooner?”

“I didn’t!” Topper said quickly, panic bubbling over. “It’s not like she’s gonna tell me this kind of stuff.”

“Did she say anything to you? Anything about seeing a doctor or being sick?”

Topper shook his head so fast it made him dizzy. “I asked if she was okay, but she just brushed it off and changed the subject.”

The silence that followed was thick and suffocating, both of them staring each other down.

“No, no way. She’s probably… I don’t fucking know, changing her pill or something.”

Topper raised an eyebrow. “Changing her pill?”

“Yeah,” Rafe said quickly, “Or—what else do they do there? Those check-up things. Maybe she’s getting one of those.”

“Uh-huh,” Topper replied, not convinced but also not dumb enough to call him out on it outright. “Sure. Just a… routine check-up?”

“Exactly,” Rafe agreed a little too loud, his tone almost defensive as he started circling again, his hands gesturing wildly. “They don’t just deal with… y'know. They do all kinds of shit. Tests, prescriptions, all that stuff. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Topper scratched the back of his neck, his expression caught between agreement and unease. “I mean, yeah, they do other stuff… but don’t you think—”

“I don’t think anything, there’s nothing to think about. She’s fine. She’s—she’s fine.” He stopped pacing, standing rigid with his hands on his hips, glaring at the ground like it had personally offended him.

“Okay,” Topper started, his tone cautious. “I get that you don’t want to jump to conclusions, but—”

“I’m not jumping to conclusions!” Rafe barked, spinning around “You’re the one making it into something it’s not! She’s not—she wouldn’t—she hasn’t told me anything,” He muttered finally, “And if she’s hiding this… from me…”

He’d never seen Rafe like this—angry, yeah, but there was something else there, either way, it wasn’t good. His glare burned into him, but for the first time, there was hesitation behind it. He wasn’t just mad—he was scared. Topper couldn’t decide if that made him feel better or worse. 

“Holy shit,” Rafe muttered, gripping the side of his truck for balance. His vision going fuzzy as his heart raced like he’d just sprinted a mile. “Holy shit, what if—what if she is?”

“Dude, breathe,” Topper said, stepping closer cautiously like Rafe was a live grenade. “You don’t even—”

“Even if—if—she was, how the hell would that even—” He cut himself off, his face twisting like he couldn’t decide whether to finish the thought or abandon it entirely.

Topper didn’t need him to finish, he understood exactly what Rafe was thinking. The timeline, the breakup, the way everything had gone down between you.

Rafe’s breath hitched as he let go of the truck and paced a few steps, his hands on his hips, muttering under his breath. “No. No way. It’s not—she’d tell me, right? She’d fucking tell me.”

Images started flashing through his mind in rapid succession, each one more ridiculous and unhinged than the last. You, standing in some clinic, staring at a test with a blank expression. You, trying to figure out how to tell Rafe.

You, holding a baby—Rafe’s baby—in your arms.

“This doesn’t make any sense. We were careful. She’s just stressed, girls go through shit. Hormones or whatever. Right?”

“You’re asking me? I barely passed bio. I’m not exactly a walking textbook on—” He stopped himself, seeing the look on Rafe’s face. “I don’t know what’s going on with her, okay? But if this is what I think it is, you gotta handle it right. Don’t screw it up more than it already is.”

“And if I don’t handle it right?”

Topper forced a shaky grin, even as his stomach twisted in knots.

“Then I guess I’ll see you in hell, man. Because she’s gonna kill us both.”

Rafe’s hands went to his hips, his thumb brushing the edge of his pocket as he stared past Topper, he was trying to work out an equation that wasn’t adding up.

“She hasn’t said a word to me,” Rafe muttered, “Not at the hospital, not since. And you think…” He trailed off, dragging a hand over his face. 

Topper shifted on his feet, resisting the urge to bolt to the other side of the world.

“I guess, but I swear, it wasn’t on purpose.”

Rafe shot him a look, his brows knitting together, and Topper felt like he was under a microscope. “You called a random number. How does that ‘just happen’?”

He huffed, throwing his hands up. “I was grabbing some water, and her mail fell, and there was this number—I didn’t think! I just… acted.” He groaned, his head falling back as he stared at the sky. “I didn’t mean to put two and two together, but what was I supposed to do? You’re the one who made me go digging in the first place!”

“You really think that’s what’s going on?” Rafe asked finally, his voice quieter.

“You said she’s acting weird, and then there was that number, and…” He trailed off, scratching the back of his neck. 

“Do you even understand what this means? If she’s—if there’s a—” He broke off, “I’d have to—Jesus Christ, what would I even do? I’m not—God.”

His hands gripped the edge of the truck bed so hard his knuckles turned white, the veins in his arms standing out as he glared at the ground like it had personally offended him.

“If she didn’t tell me—” His voice was low, quiet in a way that made Topper wince because he knew what came next.

“Maybe just... ask her?”

 “Ask her?” he repeated, his voice disbelieving.

“Yeah, you know,” Topper said, gesturing vaguely. “Talk to her? Maybe find out what’s going on instead of losing your shit over worst-case scenarios?”

Rafe shook his head, “No. If she wanted me to know, she’d tell me. She’s... she’s dealing with her own stuff. It’s not my place to push.”

 “Since when do you not push?”

“Since now,” Rafe snapped, though even he didn’t sound convinced.

“Rafe—”

“No, seriously,” Rafe interrupted, his voice rising now, the tight restraint unraveling with every word. “If she’s—if she’s going through this, if she’s pregnant, and she didn’t tell me?” He let out a bitter chuckle, “What the fuck does that say? About me.”

Topper opened his mouth, hesitated, then closed it again. This felt like a minefield, and if anyone was good at stepping on the wrong spot, it was him.

Rafe pushed off the truck, he couldn’t physically stay still. His eyes were burning as he raked a hand through his buzzed hair.

“I was—fuck. She thinks what? That I wouldn’t show up for this. She didn’t tell me because she doesn’t think I deserve to know.”

“That’s not true,” Topper said quickly, stepping closer, but Rafe’s empty laugh stopped him.

“Isn’t it?” Rafe’s voice was hollow now, all the fire drained out of him, turning his head slightly, just enough for Topper to see his throat working as he swallowed hard. “What the hell have I ever done to make her think I’d be there? That I’d—” He broke off. “Shit. I wouldn’t blame her. I can't even fucking blame her.”

“You still care about her, right?” Topper pressed, knowing he didn’t have to ask to know the answer.

Rafe’s head snapped up, “She’s the only thing I’ve ever cared about.”

He nodded slowly, “Then prove it.”

The envelope sat exactly where you’d left it, the faintest corner of folded. You froze for a second, your pulse quickening.

No. No way.

It was fine. Fine.

The number wasn’t even labeled—just digits scrawled hastily, you hadn’t touched it in days. Still, you couldn’t stop the tiny seed of panic attaching itself to your chest. There was absolutely no way Topper could’ve seen it, let alone put two and two together.

You exhaled slowly, placing it back on the counter.

He didn’t see it. He couldn’t have seen it.

Then why had he acted so… off? The pale face, the sudden excuse, the jittery energy—it was all so unlike him.

You shook your head, trying to push the thought away, a million things could’ve set him off. 

Maybe Ruthie had texted him something awful, or maybe he’d remembered he had to pick up his dry cleaning before the shop closed. Knowing Topper, it was probably something stupid and unrelated to you entirely.

Still, the nagging lingered as you cleaned up the counter and threw away the napkins. You glanced at the envelope one last time, then slid it into a drawer and shut it firmly. Whatever was going on with your cousin, it couldn’t have anything to do with that. It was impossible. And yet…

You sighed, rubbing your temples. 

“Pregnancy brain,” you muttered to yourself. “Making me paranoid over nothing.”

Of course that didn’t stop your heart from jumping every time the drawer creaked, or when you saw anything even remotely similar to that envelope’s color lying around the house for the entire night. Not that he’d ask, of course—Topper wasn’t the confrontational type, especially not with you. But he noticed things. And when he noticed, he worried.

The next morning you sank onto the couch, hugging a pillow to your chest. Topper was close, but he wasn’t like Sarah. She had been able to look you in the eye and say, You know I’m here, right? and mean it without any strings attached. Topper, though…

Your fingers itched toward your phone, even though it was stupid to call her so early over this. Still, you needed someone to remind you that you weren’t losing it, that Topper’s weirdness had nothing to do with anything serious.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you found Sarah’s number, pressing the call button. She picked up on the second ring, “Hey, what’s wrong?”

You could picture her, sitting in her car or probably stretched out somewhere in Poguelandia with her feet propped up on a table, looking concerned.

“Nothing’s wrong. I just…” You trailed off, fiddling with the edge of a pillow. 

“Topper’s been acting strange. And I think I’m just overthinking it, but it’s making me crazy.”

She made a sound between a hum and a laugh. “So the Topper panic spiral. That’s what we’re dealing with?”

“Basically,” you muttered, trying to keep your tone light. “But this time… He was here last night, and I thought he saw this random piece of paper I had with, you know. A number on it.” You took a shaky breath, embarrassed for how paranoid you sounded. “But he couldn’t have, right? I mean, it was buried under five other things.”

“Okay,” Sarah said slowly, clearly choosing her words. “First, let’s just say that if he did see anything, which he probably didn’t, he wouldn’t assume the worst. He’s your cousin; he knows you don’t tell him everything, and he respects that. Right?”

“Yeah… I guess.” You chewed your lip, feeling a little stupid for even calling her.  “But what if he does put it together, Sarah? I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”

“He won’t,” she reassured, like she could see right through your anxiety. “And you don’t need to feel bad for wanting to keep this private. You’re allowed to handle it however you need to. You’re not doing anything wrong.”

You exhaled, the knot in your chest loosening a little. She always knew how to talk you down, "Okay,” you murmured, and a shaky laugh slipped out. “Maybe I'm being paranoid.”

“Pregnancy brain,” she teased, and you couldn’t help but smile.

You hung up feeling marginally better.

Sarah had a way of calming you down, but the uneasiness stayed with you, the way it always did when you couldn’t fully explain something.

But the relief was fleeting, by lunchtime, the nagging voice in your head was back. Topper wasn’t malicious, but he did have a habit of talking without thinking, and the last thing you needed was for this to get out before you were ready. Not only was this a huge scandal, but it was your business.

You busied yourself with small tasks—folding laundry, wiping down the counters, pretending that everything was fine. It wasn’t until almost noon that your phone rang. The hospital’s number flashed on the screen, and your stomach dropped.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Miss Thornton?” the voice on the other end asked politely, too polite for comfort.

“This is she."

“This is Linda from the hospital. I’m calling about your recent bloodwork. We had a bit of an issue with our system, and unfortunately, there was a delay in getting back to you. We also lost some patient information temporarily—”

“Wait, what?” you interrupted, not liking where this was going, “What do you mean you lost information?”

“Oh, nothing to worry about,” Linda said quickly, as if that would make you feel better. “We managed to recover most of it, but in the meantime, we had to rely on emergency contact information to reach out. Dr. Harris called yours last night.”

Your breath caught. “Called... my emergency contact?”

“Yes.”

“Sarah Cameron? She didn’t tell me someone called.”

“She’s not listed as your emergency contact in our system, Rafe Cameron is. It might be an older record?”

Fuck.

Your heart was in your throat. “What... what did he tell him?”

“He only left a generic message asking for you to follow up about your bloodwork. Nothing specific.”

“Nothing specific,” you repeated, more to yourself than to her. Relief and panic warred within you. If Rafe knew, he’d already be there, the night before, demanding answers. Right?

“We need you to come back in. It’s possible you may have an infection, and we need to run a few more tests.”

You didn’t even hear the rest of her explanation.

Your fingers felt numb as you mumbled something that vaguely resembled agreement and hung up.

Infection, that was what she’d said. That was all it was. Not… not anything else. If it were anything else, they wouldn’t have just called—they’d have told Rafe.

“Stop,” you muttered aloud, shaking your head. “Stop spiraling.”

But your brain wouldn’t listen.

“Generic message,” Linda had said, but did it sound generic? What did he think when he got it? Had he laughed it off, or was he running his stupid pristine bedroom, piecing together clues you hadn’t even realized you’d left?

You didn’t want to text Sarah again.

You could imagine her smirking, “I told you, he’s not going to magically grow psychic overnight.” Yeah, sure, but this was Rafe.

He didn’t need magic. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to focus on Sarah’s voice in your head. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”

Except it didn’t feel like that. You hadn’t thought about Rafe as your emergency contact in months, hadn’t needed to. 

You sank into the couch, hugging your knees to your chest.

“This is so stupid,” you muttered, but your voice didn’t make it feel any less real. You weren’t even sure what you were spiraling over anymore. The envelope? The hospital? The baby?

“Okay,” you said out loud. “Okay, it’s fine. Everything’s fine.”

The sound of your voice didn’t even convince you. Your brain wouldn’t stop jumping from one thing to the next, spinning every scenario you didn’t want to think about. 

What if he did know? If that was enough to set him off, to make him call someone, pull some strings...Shit, what if he did show up, and you had to explain why you were dodging everyone and keeping things from him and—stop. 

Stop. 

You were doing it again. The spiraling. The pregnancy brain Sarah teased you about like it was some sort of cute quirk, but wasn’t cute.

You sat up straight, squeezing the couch pillow so hard you thought it might burst. Breathe. Just breathe, you’d made it this far without imploding.

You glanced toward the drawer again, the one with the envelope. You should’ve burned it, shredded it first. No, you had to keep it—just in case. But just in case of what? Just in case you needed more reasons to feel like a lunatic.

Oh my god. What if Topper saw the stupid number, and then Rafe got the hospital call, and then—bam—suddenly, they had the whole damn thing figured out?

You could feel it already—the panic. You liked to think they were both too stupid for their own good, but they were also observant. Rafe, that bastard always knew how to put things together faster than anyone. 

What if—what if it’s that simple for them? What if they both saw it, and then they were just sitting there, having some stupid-ass conversation, connecting dots you didn’t even realize were dots?

No. Stop. Stop thinking like that.

You were getting carried away, jumping to conclusions like some manic soap opera character. You weren’t that girl. Not really. But the thought of them talking—Topper with his concern and Rafe with his overbearing intensity.

Your fingers tapped a frantic rhythm against the pillow. The idea of him figuring it out? Oh, that made your skin crawl. Not because he’d be cruel—no, that wasn’t his style. He’d just be so… himself.

Overwhelming, determined to “fix” things for you, even when you didn’t ask for it. 

You groaned, dropping the pillow and standing abruptly, like the movement might kill the growing dread. No, you told yourself firmly.

You weren’t spiraling over things that hadn’t even happened yet.

But the voice in your head, the one that always sounded a little too much like Rafe, had other plans: What if it’s already too late?

You paced the living room, arms crossed tightly over your chest. This was ridiculous, you were ridiculous. Nothing had happened, nothing was going to happen. The number wasn’t even that suspicious, it could’ve been anything.

You groaned again, flopping onto the couch like the dramatic mess you were currently embodying. Rafe had probably gotten the hospital call, rolled his eyes without a second thought, too busy with his new precious life.

Your stomach churned, and you pressed your hands against it instinctively. It wasn’t showing yet—thank god—but you couldn’t help the way your mind spiraled back to it, to all the ways this could go wrong.

You grabbed your car keys without thinking, maybe it would clear your head. A drive—that’s what you needed. Get out of the house, and put some distance between you and the stupid envelope, the phone calls, all of it. You turned the knob, yanked the door open—

—and froze.

Rafe’s hand was raised mid-air, clearly about to knock. You didn’t even try to hide the way your breath hitched. 

Oh, no. No, no, no.

Standing there on the porch like he hadn’t just derailed your entire plan. As if it was still perfectly normal for him to show up unannounced, one hand shoved into his pocket and the other gripping his phone, his head tilted in a maddeningly familiar way.

His hand hovered uncertainly on the doorframe as you stepped back, your arms folding protectively over your chest. He didn’t push past you, didn’t move his weight forward—just stood there.

He glanced down at the spare key still in his hand, turning it over like he was considering whether he even had the right to use it. “They called me last night.”

Okay, he was just here because of the hospital, a coincidence, that’s all it was.

“And? You could’ve ignored it.”

His hand flexed at his side like he didn’t know what to do with it. “I thought something might be wrong.”

“It’s not.” Your voice was clipped, cold. “They called the wrong number. End of story.”

He didn’t rise to the bait.

“I thought—” He cut himself off, exhaling sharply. “I thought you were sick.”

“Like I said, it was a mix-up.”

His jaw ticked. That tiny muscle in his cheek twitched, the one that always flared when he was suspicious.

“Funny, they didn’t sound mixed up when they said your name,” he drawled, his tone probing. “Wanna try again?”

“Mind your fucking business,” Your voice was defensive, and you hated the crackle of guilt in your chest when he flinched. “I don’t need you to pretend to care. Why are you even here?” you snapped, taking a step back. The space between you felt vulnerable. “Don’t you have someone else to worry about?"

You felt cornered with every second he stood there.

“We need to talk.”

Maybe if you acted calm, like nothing was wrong, he’d stop looking at you like that. Vulnerability wasn’t something you were good at, he’d already taken too much. He always took too much.

“I don’t owe you shit. Not explanations, not answers, nothing. Leave.”

He didn’t. Of course, he didn’t.

Rafe didn’t know how to let shit go, not when it came to you, he didn’t back away.

“You’re right,” he said, surprising you. “You don’t, but I’m not leaving until we talk.”

The way he said, it wasn’t even a threat. It was worse than that. It was calm, resolute, like he’d already decided, and nothing you said or did could change it. 

That scared you more than anything.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you hissed, “Whatever you think you know, you don’t.”

He arched an eyebrow, his eyes flicking to the edge of the couch where your phone still sat, “You sure about that?”

“God, you’re always like this. Always overstepping, always assuming—”

“I know."

All the noise in your head—your spiraling thoughts, your excuses, your endless denials—went silent, except for the way your heart thudded in your chest, so fast, it hurt. He hadn’t raised his voice, but those two words hit you like a kick to your chest.

No, he couldn’t—he didn’t, he was bluffing, he had to be. Air caught in your throat, and for a moment, you thought you might choke on it. He didn’t move, didn’t repeat himself. He couldn’t know.

Your tongue went dry. 

“What are you talking about?” You couldn’t breathe. It felt like someone was squeezing your chest. You shook your head again, more violently this time, stepping back, “You don’t know shit.”

“I think I do.” His voice was quiet, and that made it worse, it wasn’t cold or angry; it wasn’t even accusing. He didn’t sound like he wanted to be right, he just sounded tired.

You prayed to come up with something—anything—to deflect, to deny, to keep the truth buried where it belonged. 

“You’re delusional,” you took another step back, putting more space between you and the man who had always known you too well.

He just shook his head, “You don’t have to lie to me, you’re scared, you’re not even trying to hide it.”

It was the way he stared with those stupid blue eyes, he was peeling back your layers. He always did that, made you feel like he could see something in you that you weren’t ready to acknowledge.

“Oh, fuck off.” You threw your hands up. “You don’t know shit about what I’m feeling. You’ve got no right to—I’m not lying.”

It still hurt how much you missed him, hurt to even look at him.

“Don’t pull this cryptic bullshit with me, if you’ve got something to say, say it.”

“You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

The thing you’d been running from, denying, hiding, you simply stared at him, trying to decide if there was any way to lie your way out of this.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” You tried to laugh, but it came out strangled, desperate. “T-That’s insane. You’ve lost your mind.”

Rafe wasn’t gloating or triumphant—he just looked… resigned, he’d pieced it together before he showed up.

“Don’t do that. Don’t lie to me, not about this.”

You wanted to scream, to shove him, to do anything that would make him stop looking at you like he cared. Like he knew you. Because if you stopped long enough to think about it, you knew it was over.

He’d already seen it.

“I mean it, Rafe.” Your hand tightened on the door, nails digging into the wood. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

God, this was so fucked. You wanted him gone, but wanted him here, needed him to leave you alone, but at the same time, you hated that he could just leave.

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

You thought about what he’d do if he knew—really knew. Not just the vague sense he had now, but the details. Would he try to stop you? 

Your lip quivered, and you hated yourself for it. “You’re wrong.”

You stared at him, at the way his shoulders hunched slightly, his usual confidence worn down. You hated him for being calm for once in his fucking life, for being here, for not letting this slide when it was none of his fucking business.

“Am I?”

Your hands clenched tighter, nails biting into your palms. “Why? Why do you even care? It’s not like you—”

“Because it’s mine.”

Your breath hitched again, and this time, you couldn’t hide it. You wanted to deny it, to throw something—hell, anything—back at him to make him shut the fuck up. But your throat felt like it had shut off entirely, and your mind had gone blank.

“I—” you stammered, shaking your head violently, “No. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re—”

“Hey, hey, just—just stop,” he said, his voice careful, as if he was trying not to spook you. “I’m not—Jesus, I’m not here to fight with you, okay? I’m not here to make this harder.”

Your chest heaved, a bitter laugh escaping before you could stop it. He was too late—late to care, late to help, late to fix anything. Five days, that’s all you had to get through.

Five days until you didn’t have to think about it anymore. 

This is the right choice, you told yourself for the hundredth time. You couldn’t bring a baby into this mess.

“You’re doing a hell of a job at that.”

“I just want to help. If you let me—”

“No,” you interrupted, grabbing the edge of the door. “I’m fixing it.”

“Fixing—?” Rafe’s brow furrowed, his confusion almost comical He started to step forward, but you stopped him with a resentful glare that made him stop. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you can take your fake concern and shove it up your ass.”

His brow furrowed. “It’s not fake—” His face twisted in confusion, mouth opening like he was about to argue, but you didn’t give him the chance, slamming the door in his face, so hard the frame rattled.

“Of course. Of course, it’s mine,” you muttered to yourself, mocking his stupid, self-righteous tone.

You leaned back against the door, sliding to the floor, arms crossed over your knees as your brain whirred like it was trying to kill you.

It wasn’t like you had a choice.

Technically, you did, but what were you supposed to do? Keep it and become a tragic sob story? The words almost felt like you’d ripped them out of someone else’s mouth, right or wrong didn’t even matter anymore. There wasn’t space in your life for this—for him, for a baby, for any of it.

A muffled knock sounded from the front door—tentative, like he was giving you a moment.

“Go away,” you yelled, your voice hoarse.

“Open the door.”

Your thoughts taunted you with memories and possibilities you didn’t want to entertain. The way Rafe had looked at you—like he knew—it was unbearable.

How had he put it together? Maybe you'd slip up in tiny ways, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for him to follow. You hated yourself for being so careless, despised him even more for being so fucking relentless.

You wiped your cheeks roughly, not realizing you’d started crying until your sleeve came back damp.

“Please, just open the door. We can talk—just talk, okay?

“No,” you muttered to the empty room. “No, I’m not doing this.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, leaning your head back against the door and pressing your hands over your ears to block him out. 

“Don’t shut me out like this,” he begged. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t stand it when you do this. Just open the door. Five minutes, that’s all I’m asking.”

He had a key. If he wanted to, he could let himself in at any moment, but he didn’t, that wasn’t the Rafe you were used to.

Before, he'd have barged right in, shouted until your ears bled, and demanded answers. He would’ve tried to fix it or destroy it, maybe both. 

You hated that he still acted like he cared, that he was trying to be so fucking reasonable now, when just a few months ago, he would’ve lost it, broken through any barrier to get what he wanted.

This was worse, this Rafe was wearing you down.

Another hushed plea made it through the door, but all you could think was how thin the wood felt, how it barely drowned the sound of his voice. A new door might be better, something heavier, more solid, that could drown out everything—the desperation, the crack in his voice.

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, and you bit hard on the inside of your cheek to keep them from falling. 

“I know you’re scared,” he continued, “And I know you think I’ll screw this up—God knows I probably will. But please don’t keep me in the dark. Just tell me what’s going on.”

You pictured flipping through hardware store catalogs, weighing your options: oak? steel? soundproofing foam?

“Please,” Rafe whispered, and the rawness in his voice scraped against you like nails on a chalkboard. You tilted your head back against the door, willing yourself not to cry again. 

Steel doors don’t warp as easily as wood.

You swallowed hard, your body aching as you fought the sob threatening to escape. He didn’t deserve this—didn’t deserve to sound so wrecked over you. He'd done this to himself.

Your fingers twitched against the door handle, the temptation to open it curling around you, but instead, you thought about bolts.

Deadbolts, a second lock could work, something he couldn’t get through even if he had the key.

His voice wavered again, you thought he might start crying, too, yet all you did was glance at the base of the door. A better seal would muffle the noise more. Maybe weatherstripping? That could help.

You pressed your hands tighter over your ears, as though it would help. It didn’t. Nothing would—not until you replaced the lock, the door, the memory of him standing there and breaking himself open for you.

God, you really needed a new door—and a new heart.

One that didn’t twist at the sound of his voice, that didn’t flinch every time he called your name like it was a prayer. A heart that didn’t feel for him, you told yourself, over and over, like a mantra. If you could just stop the way your chest tightened at his pleas, stop the ache in your ribs when he said he couldn’t let this go.

You wanted steel walls, that could keep everything out—his voice, his touch, the memories of all the good parts of him that had kept you hanging on for so long. Because of this heart? It was useless, too soft, too easily swayed, still willing to believe him, even when you knew better.

“Please, just talk to me,” Rafe begged. You bit your lip hard enough to taste blood.

You couldn’t help but wonder if this calmness came from Sofia.

Perhaps she was the reason he’d changed, maybe she had somehow made him different, had softened the sharp edges of the guy you used to know. She was calm, collected—nothing like you. It hurt like a bitch, the thought that someone else could make him this patient. You wondered if she’d taught him how to handle his emotions, how to be this way—he’d learned some secret he never bothered to share with you.

You couldn't let yourself go there, couldn't let the bitterness of that thought settle in your mind for too long.

“Talk to me.”

No. Not this time.

TAGLIST: @maybankslover @october-baby25 @haruvalentine4321 @hopelesslydevoted2paige

@rafebb @rafesbby @whytheylosttheirminds

@zyafics @astarlights @bruher @nosebeers @carrerascameron

@serrendiipty @sunny1616 @yootvi @ditzyzombiesblog

@psychocitylights @maibelitaaura @kiiyomei

@stoned-writer @justafangirls-blog-deactivated2

@starkeygirlposts @enjoymyloves @ijustwanttoreadlols @icaqttt

[pboogerswbb]

TOO LOST IN YOU - part IV

Paige Bueckers x bartender!oc

playlist, part I, part II, part III

Warnings: smut and i mean FILTHY OK, toxic!paige, kinda cheating, language, etc.

Wordcount: 7.4k (sorry but there's smut ok)

A/N: TY for being so patient with me, i've been feeling sick but slowly getting better and finally got this done. finally some fluff for y'all. also please leave feedback/live reactions I LOVE THAT SHIT! ok enjoy guys mwah <3

-

“You’re joking, right Paige?” A frustrated voice comes through the speaker as I lean back on the couch, spreading my legs to find a more comfortable position. The game of fortnite me, Aubrey and Ice had been planning on for like a week was turned down, not wanting the phone’s mic picking up the sounds.

“‘M afraid not,” I mumble into the phone, biting my lower lip in concentration. I was so close to getting a kill if I could just finally hang up, but here I still was, fifteen minutes of going back and forth on some topic that didn’t need all this drama with a girl whose last name I’d forgotten.

“But it’s my birthday,” Clara whines into my ear. Watching my character get killed, I groan and tilt my head back, throwing the controller onto my grey sweats.

“I know, baby. Look we can do a lil something next week, lemme make it up to you,” I say into the phone, needing to get this girl to get off my ass. “I promise.” I didn’t mean that though, it was just empty words.

Truth was I just needed some time, after what happened the other night with Valerie I had felt my thoughts chipping away at me. The things running through my head had made sleeping impossible and practice even worse. The lack of control I felt when she was around me was terrifying. I needed a night just with my girls, badly.

I felt tense, distracted.

“Clara, whatchu want me to do? it's an emergency.”

To get away from Clara’s plans for the night Aubrey and Ice had helped me to come up with an elaborate lie about me “pulling a muscle in my wrist and it needed resting”. I hadn’t found it as believable but for Clara it worked.

The girl’s soft sigh comes through the phone. “Fine, ok. But you gotta make it up to me.”

“I will I will,” I mumble, unaware of what I’m really saying, stuffing my mouth with a fistful of popcorn from a bowl on the couch. Sitting cross legged on the floor, Ice lets out a loud laugh, quickly covering her mouth as I give her a scolding look, pointing to the phone. Thankfully Clara doesn’t hear a thing.

As the new game begins I quickly grab the controller from my grey sweats, I needed to wrap up this call quick.

“I wish you’d let me come take ca-”

“Gotta go Clara, happy birthday,” I yell hurriedly into the phone before Clara could even finish, hanging up the phone and throwing it onto the couch which makes Aubrey and Ice snicker.

-

“Bro you suck at this game!” I yell at Aubrey who looks at me offended.

“Nah, that wasn’t my fault!! It was Ice!!” she scoffs.

The ringing of my phone interrupts the conversation. Before I can pick it up, or even complain about Clara getting clingy, the sound stops. Not to sound too cocky or like a piece of shit but if it was one of the girls on my roster, that ringing wouldn’t have stopped for a minute. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t love the power I had over some of these chicks, how they stayed up till 4am just to see if I called them up. They didn’t need to let me know it’s what they did, I knew all too well.

I grab my phone and quickly unlock it. With wide eyes and heart fluttering, I dial back.

“Paige I thought we were gonna have a girls’ night,” Aubrey groans but my finger comes up to shush her when I hear a soft voice come through the phone.

“Hey?” 

“Valerie?” I ask, I can barely hear her from the loud traffic nearly burying the sound of her voice.

“Wh- why are you callin’ me?” she asks, her words are slurred enough to let me know she’s drunk. Even so, hearing her sweet voice might as well have been a choir of angels singing. 

“You called me, mama,” I chuckle softly, walking away from the girls to hear better.

There’s a moment of silence between us as I slide into my own dorm room, closing the door behind me, leaning against it. 

“Oh… uh I was trying to call Paige,” she murmurs and loudly gasps. I can hear her slapping her own mouth and a cocky smirk grows on my face. “JAY, JAY I WAS. I was trying to call Jay.”

The bite on my lower lip stuffles the laugh I let out. Honestly, it made me feel a little smug knowing she said my name instead of hers. I wonder if I was really on her mind that much. It had been quite a long time since I had wondered anything like that.

“Ohh right… Justine,” I joke, the name making me giggle each time. This time, Valerie giggles too. 

“Don’t make fun P.”

“Alright alright,” I chuckle walking over to my bed and sitting down on it, pulling down my sweats a little so my boxers peak out. Faint screaming in the background of the call reminds me of why Val called in the first place - she’s drunk. “Woah, where you at Val?”

A deep sigh comes through the phone. “I dunno where my friends went, they were my rideee,” she whines, the sound of the cars making it hard to hear her. I lean forward resting my elbow on the knees.

“Did you call ‘em?” I ask, concerned over how drunk she was. How could her friends just dip? I’m gonna need to have a word with them.

“I’m nodding,” she slurs out and groans frustratedly. “Such a long way to walk,” Valerie whines again.

I’m already reaching for my keys when the words come out of my mouth. “Drop your location Val.”

She groans. “I’m walking by the highway.”

“You’re WHAT?” I yell into the phone, throwing on a puffer vest over my grey sweatshirt, struggling to get my shoes on. This girl was gonna get herself killed I swear.

“Relaaxxx.”

“Sit down and drop your location, I’m comin to get you ma.”

“Paige you’re so dr-”

“Sit your ass down. I’m so forreal now Valerie.” I command, without even waving a careless bye to the girls as I rush out, the plans for a girl’s night quickly forgotten. After a whine and a sigh from the drunk girl on the line I hear her set herself onto the ground.

“Fine,” her voice murmurs and I sigh in relief.

All of the fury I felt at her for being so careless goes away when I see her, in boots and a leather jacket thrown carelessly over her skimpy dress, sitting on the ground playing with the ends of her golden brown hair. I pull the car over, quickly rushing to her. How could her friends leave her in a state like that? From now on I should watch over her all the time, just to make sure she doesn’t get in trouble.

Nevermind her friends, how could Jay let this happen? If Valerie was my girl she would not be alone like this, yet alone going out without me at all. She needs someone who takes care of her, who truly cherishes every single thing about her. 

“Paigeyyy,” she smiles as I reach down and pick her up, her hair was a mess and eyes bloodshot and tired. There’s a strong smell of alcohol as Valerie wraps her arms around me, but I don’t mind. I wanted to be mad at her for being so irresponsible, for making me come get her. But I couldn’t be.

I grin as I help steady her. Anyone could notice she’s gleaming looking up at me. Usually that would make my chest tighten, make me feel sick and claustrophobic. Now, for some reason, I felt like gleaming too.

“C’mon silly girl, before you get in more trouble,” I murmur, opening the door and making sure she gets in the car, helping her with the seatbelt.

“I got it Paige,” she laughs as I reach over her lap, grabbing the belt but I slap her hand away gently, biting the inside of my cheek to stifle the way I wanted to smile, the butterflies growing inside me.

“Lemme do it ma,” I tell her hoarsely. She’s grinning at me stupidly as I buckle her in, my fingers running along her neck to fix the belt. When our eyes meet just for a moment, it takes every bit of my self discipline not to kiss her, the way her tongue slides over her lips enticingly.

The drive back is quiet, soft R&B the only sound filling the car. I hum along to the songs, tapping the steering wheel to the beat. Valerie watches as she rests her head against the seat. An involuntary smirk takes over my face, my eyes flicking from her to the road to my speed. I was driving much more carefully than usual, I had something precious to take home.

“You admirin’ the view?” I tease earning a lighthearted scoff from Valerie.

“No I’m… thinking,” she explains slowly, moving her eyes to the road too. Suddenly she wasn’t so giggly, but seemed to be sobering up.

“I got some water in the back if you need,” I tell her, already reaching for it, other hand on the wheel as I lean back on the driver’s seat.

She reaches for it with me, our fingertips brushing against each other as I hand it over. “Thanks,” she murmurs and takes a few big gulps.

Valerie’s shoulders slump as she takes a deep sigh, I know her well enough that something was clearly on her mind. 

“I lied P,” she says, her voice small. For a moment a wave of confusion washes over me, and I look at her expectantly. My first assumption is she’s talking about what happened between us in the bathroom, about how she hadn’t told Jay about it.

“‘S okay Justine don’t have to know,” I quickly console but Valerie is shaking her head.

“No I meant… Fuck, I mean I did mean to call you,” she let’s out, frustrated. “It wasn’t an accident.”

I swallow, feeling a heat rise to my cheeks. Was I… blushing? I must be more whipped than I realised.

“Oh yeah?” I ask, my tone a little too needy for my liking - I didn’t want her to think, no, to know I cared. That it mattered to me. Valerie could never know how I felt. I would just end up fucking everything up, at least now I had basketball. That’s enough.

“I just… I dunno I don’t wanna go to my dorm,” Valerie sighs, fidgeting with her fingers on her lap.

“Why’s that?”

“Jay’s waiting for me,” Valerie says with a slight shake in her voice.

Oh. 

At first I’d been more jealous than I’d like to admit, the idea of Valerie, my Valerie, with someone else made me sick. But running into them at that party I knew Justine could never do what I could. But most importantly, Valerie didn’t shine the way she did with me with Justine. I had an inkling there was nothing to be jealous of, and got my confirmation in the bathroom. But now, I only felt more validated. She didn’t even want to be around her. She drunk called me, not her.

“‘S that why you got so fucked up? Because of Jay?” I try to sound nonchalant, like I didn’t care. But I needed to know for sure. I needed to know I wasn’t delusional in thinking she couldn’t just move on from me, from us.

“Something like that,” she chuckles and shifts in the seat, sipping her water still. Without thinking it through, what it might mean, what it says about my feelings, the words slip out.

“I can take you to mine,” I suggest, knowing full well my biggest rule was not letting girls sleep over. I guess my rules had gone way out the window with Valerie.

She scoffs and shakes her head, my heart aching at her disapproval. “No P, it can’t happen anymore, I mean it this time.”

A scoff leaves my mouth as I pull up to the campus parking lot.

“I didn’t mean that dumbass, I mean just to sleep,” I groan, parking my jeep. “I’ll even sleep on the floor.”

Valerie looks at me wide eyed and dumbfounded. Guess I wasn’t coming off as nonchalant as I’d have liked. I felt a strange feeling grow inside me that I could only call nervousness. It had been a while since a girl had made me feel anything even close to it.

“Okay,” Val nods and a wave of relief takes over me - I didn’t want her to go yet. Being with her felt good.

“Okay,” I repeat watching her start getting out of the car. I do the same and we head towards my dorm. Without thinking about it much, my hand wraps around her waist, whether to hold her up or to touch her I’m not sure.

Jana and Allie are in the kitchen talking, their heads peeking out when we come in the door. Meeting their gazes I realise I have never introduced a girl to my teammates.

“Yo, uh, this is Valerie,” I say a little awkwardly, the new situation making me unsure of how to act. Allie and Jana share a look that I pray the drunk brunette clinging to my arm didn’t notice. Looking down I see she’s too busy struggling getting her shoes off. Without thinking about it, I kneel down and my fingers unbuckle the strappy heeled sandals she was wearing, my touch on her skin tender and careful.

“Hey girl,” Jana says intrigued, waving her hand at us. As Valerie nearly trips, she lets out a loud giggle, my hand gripping her thigh, steadying her.

“Whoa there,” I chuckle, standing up from the ground as the brunette slaps her face with her hand, bashfully.

“I’m sorry I make a much better first impression when I’m not drunk,” her sweet voice lets out and somewhere deep down I feel my heart flutter at the idea of her wanting to make a good impression on my friends. Jana and Allie both let out friendly laughs as I guide Valerie towards my room.

“She’s gonna sleep here tonight, that cool?” I ask as we pass my roomies, who are both nodding but clearly shocked at the prospect of me letting a girl sleep over.

I bring the brunette to my room by her hips, closing the door behind us as she throws herself face first onto my purple sheets. She looked good like that, in my room, on my bed, burying her nose into my blanket. For a fleeting moment I let myself dream of an alternate universe where she could be here waiting for me, all the time. Only for a moment though.

“C’mon ma let’s get you ready for bed,” I suggest softly, walking to the bed. She groans and flips onto her back, my eyes flickering to her upper thighs where her dress had hiked up. A sudden need to touch her comes over me, but I push it away. It wouldn’t be right like this.

“But your bed’s so comfyyy,” Valerie lets out a whine as she stretches, her pretty eyes fluttering shut. I can’t help the smile that forms on my face, my heart aching at how cute she looked like this - drunk and tired, mascara flaking underneath her eyes and a small pout on her lips.

Throwing her a navy blue Uconn shirt to sleep in is finally enough to get her to sit back up, her eyelids half closed as her hands start pulling her dress down.

With wide eyes I quickly turn my back to her, staring at the wall. As much as I wanted to, it didn't feel right to watch her change. Valerie only giggles, and I hear her stand up and shimmy out of her clothes, my mouth growing dry from the filthy thoughts in my head right now, the way she was completely bare behind me.

“It’s nothing you haven’t seen before P,” she says teasingly and I almost groan, my mind jumping through memories of the way she looked in just a pair of panties, the curve of her ass, the way her tits sat pretty on her body, that long golden brown hair trailing down her back. Fuck. I felt myself getting wet. I rub my jaw frustratedly, trying to shake my dirty thoughts.

“Just get dressed Val,” I murmur, my voice hoarse with need. Finally, she obliges, throwing on the t-shirt I gave her. It’s not enough to stop my filthy thoughts, seeing her in my shirt and a pair of white lacy panties, thick thighs all on display, nipples hard and visible through the shirt. No. This wasn’t the time.

Valerie is about to crash back into the bed right when I grab her waist to keep her upright.

“Wanna sleep,” she whines as I guide her towards the bathroom.

“I know ma, in a little bit I promise,” I nearly whisper. It was the first time in my life I had promised anything to a girl and meant it.

Closing the bathroom door, I sit Valerie on the counter, her feet dangling off the edge which makes me smile. Grabbing a brand new toothbrush I try to hand it to Valerie, but her head is almost nodding, eyes completely shut now. This girl would be the death of me.

I wet the toothbrush, and gently holding her face, I brush her teeth. My face is only inches from hers as I watch her start to smile, realising what I was doing. For a moment her eyes flicker open and meet mine, and I feel something I have never felt before. I can’t name it, or quite place it, but the warmth in my chest, the blush on my cheeks and the way my breath hitched made itself known.

“Thank you,” Valerie murmurs, her mouth full of foam. She spits it into the sink, rinsing her mouth as I hold her hair, so incredibly softly, as to not hurt or disturb her.

“Let’s get this makeup off mama,” I say mostly to myself, wiping it all off with some micellar water, trying to be as gentle as I could. Her brown eyes roam my face, making me feel flustered.

“What about my skincare routine?” Valerie asks with a furrow of her brows and I chuckle, shaking my head, going over her face with a cotton pad.

“You don’t want me doin’ that, trust,” I murmur as I’m finally done. Watching her, the way her long dark lashes fluttered, her plump lips and soft skin made a shiver run down my spine. She must’ve been the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, even more so like this.

I suddenly notice that my hands are rubbing on the skin of her bare thighs as she watches up at me. I can’t help myself when I lean down and press my lips against her forehead, the tenderness of it making my eyes close. Valerie hums and wraps her arms around my neck, her legs doing the same as I pick her up like that, holding her up by her thighs. Her skin was soft and warm underneath my fingertips, sending sparks all over me. 

I carry her to my bed as she clings to me, gently laying her down on my bed and tucking the blanket over her, brushing a strand of hair off her face.

“I’mma get you some water and go sleep on the couch ok?” I murmur, my fingers brushing against her cheek. Her hands urgently grab my wrist and pull me closer.

“Don’t go,” she whispers and my heart nearly breaks at the way her voice sounds, pleading. 

“You sure Val?” I ask carefully.

“Please.”

It doesn’t take more than that to have me throwing off my clothes, leaving me in black boxers and a Nike sports bra and climbing into bed next to her. I carefully lay my head down onto the pillow, studying her features. The curve of her nose, the way her eyebrows arched, the hint of red on her cheeks from the alcohol. Her eyes flicker open, meeting mine as we stare at each other in the dim room. I could feel the heat of her breath on my face, and she inches her head closer, our noses brushing against each other. I nearly whimper at how good it felt, being this close to her.

My blue eyes travel to her lips, the way they glistened as her tongue brushed over them, the way her lower lip was that much more plump than the upper one. In the haze of the night, it’s like I’m outside of my body, unable to control myself when I lean in and kiss her. Immediately Valerie hums, and I think I’m in heaven when her mouth opens to move against mine.

We had kissed plenty of times. But it was never without fucking afterwards. This was completely new, kissing just because. I didn’t know kissing with no end goal could feel this good. I breathe heavy and loud through my nose as our lips move against each other, Valerie’s hand pulling me closer from the back of my neck. My hand on her waist slides underneath the t-shirt and I press my body flush against hers. I feel all of her, the bare skin of her legs wrapping into mine, her breasts against me. But it’s enough for me. Just to have her like this. 

“P?” Valerie whispers, as I nuzzle my nose against her, breathless from the kiss.

“Yeah?” I murmur softly, the overwhelming warmth in my chest feeling dizzying.

“I-” she hesitates. “I know you don’t… like when girls spend the night-”

I stop her with a kiss, more for my own sake than hers. It might drive me insane if I have to think about it for longer than ten seconds. The way I was bending all my own rules, the feelings deep inside me. I felt terrified. I didn’t wanna think about it right now.

“You needed me Val,” I whisper against her lips, knowing it wouldn’t be a solution but that explanation would do. It’s not like I was in love, but I did care about her to an extent I guess. And I would never let her be in danger. Ever. I helped because I wanted her safe and because deep down I was a good person. But it has nothing to do with love.

I wrap my arms around the girl next to me, pulling her face into the crook of my neck, her leg swinging over my waist and nuzzling into me. I gently run my hand up and down her back until I feel her go limp in my arms and just for a second I let myself inhale the scent of her, my nose buried into her hair. Maybe, just maybe, if I wasn’t Paige Bueckers, if I wasn’t me, this might have had something to do with love.

-

As the morning sun shines in through the window I feel myself stir awake, immediately met with a pounding in my head as my eyes flutter open. I feel a tight grip around my waist, holding me tight. For a moment I get the uneasy feeling that it’s Jay, but then I hear the light snore of Paige in my ear. Warmth spreads all over my body when I feel her pull me closer in her sleep, her nose pressed against the back of my neck.

A soft smile spreads on my face as I remember last night, Paige picking me up, driving me back, taking care of me, letting me stay over. My stomach fills with butterflies knowing this isn’t what Paige did for any girl. The only thing that mattered to her was ball and that’s it. Girls were just a distraction, something fun to do. But she didn’t care, right? Then why did it feel like she did, when she took care of me last night?

An incredible thirst from my hungover takes over, and I carefully peel Paige’s hand from my waist. Thinking I was sneaky enough to make my escape, I start to climb out of the bed when the strong arm quickly pulls me back down, pressing my back into her front once more.

“Where you going?” Paige’s voice is deep and hoarse from sleep, words muffled against my neck as she holds me down, nuzzling her face into my skin.

“Need some water,” I murmur trying to flatten my hair and push the hand away but Paige doesn’t fold. All she does is shake her head. 

“No,” she murmurs and holds me even tighter. It’s almost overwhelming, the way I was getting affection from her. For a moment I try and figure out why she would act like this, but then she kisses my shoulder through the navy shirt and I forget all about it.

“Paigeee,” I giggle but she only keeps shaking her head, her hands tightening around me.

“A lil longer,” she hums, her voice tickling against my ear.

“But I’m thirsty.”

“Fine.”

With a groan, Paige gives my cheek a kiss and climbs out of bed, putting on her basketball shorts and going out to fetch the water. I scooch up on the bed, quickly fixing my hair and trying to make myself look presentable when Paige walks in, carrying two bottles.

“There you go princess,” she grins. Her hair is matted and blue eyes tired as she gets back into bed next to me but I’m quite sure she’s never looked better. However, a sliver of fear in the back of my mind is nibbling away at me. I didn’t understand why she was acting this way, usually Paige’s motives were clear to me. Not this time.

Before I can spiral Paige leans towards me and presses a gentle kiss on my lips, her hand holding my cheek as she does. I kiss her back softly, my stomach twisting. Could she really be this good to me?

Paige pulls back and smiles. “Good morning Val,” she hums with another peck to my lips. I let myself smile back, deciding to worry about this later.

“Morning P,” I whisper and pull back to sip on my water, it soothing the pounding in my head. 

“Hungover?” the blonde chuckles but I shake my head, though maybe I did feel the shakes a little bit. 

Paige bites her lower lip not believing a word I said with a knowing smirk. She grabs her glasses, putting them on herself to see me better in the morning light. I can’t lie, she looks fucking amazing in her glasses and it makes it hard to ignore the ache between my legs when she looks like that - silver chain with a cross on her neck, sports bra, shorts and those fucking glasses.

I snuggle back underneath the blanket, pulling it all the way over my head, like that could somehow hide my filthy thoughts.

“Yo, where you going,” Paige laughs hoarsely, pulling the blanket away. I quickly bury my face in the pillow to hide.

“I don’t look good in the mornings,” I murmur, a blush rising to my cheeks from the way she was staring, let alone the dirty thoughts in my head.

Paige snorts and brushes my hair away from my face. “Oh so you care that much what I think huh?” her voice is smug and it makes me slap her arm, making her hiss.

She slides underneath the blanket too, her head resting next to my pillow. I can feel her watchful eyes roaming my face.

“Get outta here with that shit Val, you know you’re fucking gorgeous,” she murmurs, her words lighthearted but to me they mean more. My stomach filling with butterflies, I finally turn to face her, eyes meeting hers.

“You really think so?” I ask in a moment of vulnerability. I was a confident woman, someone who took care of herself, didn’t need anyone’s approval. But with Paige I found myself craving it. I hated it

With a roll of her eyes, Paige smirks and pulls me on top of her. “C’mere ma,” she murmurs and her hand drags me down for a kiss by the back of my head. I sigh into her lips, my body against hers and legs straddling her as Paige’s big hands explored my body, slipping underneath the t-shirt and brushing against my side. All the need accumulated since last night, no, since that night in the bathroom finally tips over.

I break the kiss to sit back up and pull off the t-shirt, Paige’s mouth agape as she looks up at me, wetting her lips as her eyes wander around my body, letting out a heavy breath as her gaze lands onto my breasts.

“Perfect girl,” she coos, bringing her hand to cup my breast. Goosebumps cover my skin as I lower myself back to kiss her jaw. I had completely forgotten about Jay at this point, all I saw was Paige.

My hands are quick to find her shorts, pulling them down with urgency while my lips suck on her neck. Usually she reminded me not to leave marks but this time all I hear from her is heavy breathing and quiet groans, bucking her hips up at me. I grin against her neck, testing the waters and sucking a little, enough to leave a little mark. Paige only hums and helps me by throwing her shorts onto the floor.

My fingertips sneak underneath her sports bra, my other hand pushing Paige’s rising hips down, seeking to find contact somewhere. 

“Take it off,” I whimper and watch her lust filled gaze never break eye contact as she pulls the bra off, leaving her only in the black boxers. I found my mouth salivating for her, wanting to bury myself between her legs. But I must take my time, I needed to. I needed to drag it out as long as I could.

I watch her hiss and throw her head back as my tongue swirls around her nipple, feeling it turn hard underneath my tongue. Biting on it gently, I grind my clothed core down on her thigh, my wetness growing unbearable. 

“Val, you’re killing me,” Paige nearly whines and I giggle, leaving red marks on her breasts, my hands gripping her thighs tight.

“Good,” is all I say as I continue my descent, placing sloppy kisses all over her abs, my mind wandering to the dirty thoughts of what they’d feel like flexing under my pussy, grinding my clit against them. I needed to keep that in mind for the future. But not now, I needed to taste her.

Paige groans frustratedly, and I feel her hands coming to my head to push me down. I slap her hands away, pinning them by her side, lifting my head to look at her. She could easily push my grip away and take me, but Paige was letting me have my fun, my fingers digging into her wrists.

“Baby, c’mon,” she whines, looking down at me with her teeth biting down on her lip, brows furrowed and hips bucking. 

“Keep those hands to yourself Bueckers,” I murmur, my lips kissing along the band of her boxers. I hear her groan, arching to my touch. I lift my gaze to her, my eyes wide. “Oh, you want these off?” I ask, acting dumb, slowly beginning to pull down the boxers.

“You’re such a bitch,” Paige says, trying to sound serious but a small whine comes through in her voice, making me grin. 

“I think you like it,” I tease, finally pulling the boxers off her. “I think it makes you wet,” I grin seeing the way she’s glistening for me as I spread her legs apart, making room for myself.

“Fuck it does ma,” Paige moans, watching me descend inbetween her legs, her hand finding my brown hair and pulling it off my face. I maintain eye contact, my own core leaking through my panties at this point as I kiss her inner thighs, feeling the way they tremble underneath my lips.

“That’s fucked up, you should go to therapy,” I grin, my mouth slowly inching closer to where she needed me most. “That’s gotta be some kinda- mmph,” suddenly Paige’s hands both pull me to her core, my mouth buried in her cunt as she lets out a guttural moan.

“Ohhhh shit Val that’s it,” she groans as I take the hint, my tongue swirling all around her folds, softly lapping against her clit just the way she likes. Her taste on my tongue feels like heaven and I feel my own eyes roll back from how good it felt to have her like this. My arms wrap around her thighs, pulling her impossibly closer as my lips suck on her clit, earning desperate whines from her.

“Mmmh, that’s it, just like that ma,” she moans and I hear her hiss as my tongue slips inside her, nose rubbing against her clit. Paige is making a mess of my face, and the sheets but neither of us bother to care at this point. She leans up against her elbows to see my ass in the mirrored closet opposite to her bed, letting out a groan as she sees the reflection of me bent over, eating her, a wet spot visible on my panties.

She leans over and I feel a loud smack on my ass as I continue to make a mess of her with my tongue, alternating between sucking her clit and licking sloppily. “Mmph,” I moan against her, it sending vibrations all over her body. That was enough for me to feel the muscles on her thighs start to tighten.

“Taste so good baby, fuck,” I whimper on her pussy, making Paige let out a guttural groan, her grip in my hair tightening further, guiding my mouth just right.

“Such a fucking good girl,” she hisses, watching me in the mirror, her eyes heavy as she found herself getting closer just from the way my tongue is lapping her up. “So fucking- ahh shit, sexy,” 

“Yeah you think I’m sexy?” I whimper against her dripping cunt, shaking my head with my tongue buried in her folds. Paige’s eyes flutter shut and she nods, jaw going slack.

“Perfect, so good for me,” she mumbles, barely able to hold herself together. “Gonna make me– shit, gonna make me cum.”

I keep lapping her, listening for her reactions and holding her still as her body started to squirm underneath me, building to her orgasm. “Baby I need you to cum,” I murmur, my jaw hurting but the sounds coming out of Paige’s mouth making it all worth it.

“Please, Paige,” I whine and that does it. I feel her gasp, her hand gripping my hair and burying my face into her. I could barely breathe but I don’t mind as my mouth works tirelessly to get her over the edge.

“Valerie, oh fuck,” she groans, her head tilting back and back arching as she reaches her orgasm, grinding herself against my face. It’s so hot I nearly come too. I guide her through it, licking her until her moans turn high pitched and her hands in my hair ease up.

Panting, she brushes her hair off her face as I wipe my face onto her thigh, watching her from between her legs.

“Goddamn baby,” she says hoarsely, trying to catch her breath. Giggling, I climb back up on top of her, Paige’s hand slapping my ass hard enough to make me let out a squeal. 

“Stop, you’ll leave a bruise,” I complain, but Paige grins arrogantly, pulling me into a sloppy kiss. I moan hard, feeling the dampness in my panties growing unbearable.

“That’s the point ma,” she chuckles against my lips, suddenly flipping me over and spreading my legs wide as she sits between them, biting her lips and gazing down at me. “Fuck,” she groans looking from my damp panties to my dark eyes. For a moment she looks almost a little flustered, trying to find the words.

“I uh, I got something new,” she says, her cheeks turning even redder. Curious, I lean up against the pillows behind me. “For us, I mean.” 

Wait, she knew I was seeing someone, and she was seeing someone too, but she got something just for us two? What game was she trying to play? It felt impossible to figure her out.

Before my mind begins to race further, Paige has dug out a blue vibrator wand and is kissing me more tenderly than before. She pulls away a little, clearly hesitating for a moment.

“I don’t want you using the same toy on me and your other bitches,” I tell her a little offended but Paige quickly shakes her head.

“No no no, Valerie ‘s not like that,” she urgently stops me, kissing me softly. “It’s just for us, for you. No one else.”

Her words sound soft, almost tender against my lips which only makes me grow wetter between my legs. I didn’t know what parts were an act and what were genuine. All I knew is I needed her badly.

The moment I nod, Paige’s hands slide underneath the band of my panties, sliding them down to my ankles tenderly, her kisses soft and sloppy against my lips, moving to my neck. The breathy whimper I let out makes Paige let out a heavy breath as her hands spread my legs wide apart, wetness dripping out of me already.

“So pretty,” she murmurs hoarsely, licking her lips as she grabs the vibrator, the quiet, steady buzzing signalling it was turned on. I watch her wide eyes as she brings it to my thighs.

“Paige please,” I whine out squirming as she kneels between my legs and places her knees on my thighs to hold them wide open and steady. She watches me writhe underneath her, nearly gasping for air from how bad she loves seeing me like this.

“Nuh-uh,” she shakes her head, the vibrator ghosting my cunt to find my opposite thigh, vibrating against it. “You know what to call me.”

Fuck. She had gotten like this once before, made me call her something that drove both her and me wild. She knew I would remember what it was.

“Fuck. Daddy, please,”

With that Paige presses the toy against my swollen, sensitive clit, immediately forcing wetness to drip out of me as I gasp and grab onto the sheets around us. She gasps with me, like she’s feeling it too as my legs immediately start to shake, wanting to close around the toy, but Paige’s legs are pinning me down. It was way too much, overstimulating in every sense.

“Too much P,” I cry out but Paige shakes her head, shushing me as she towers over me. 

“Just a lil more ma, you can take it,” she coos, leaning down to press kisses on my open mouth, turning the vibrator on a higher setting. “‘S gonna feel so good I promise.”

I feel my eyes grow teary as the toy vibrates against my soaking cunt ruthlessly, when suddenly all of the overstimulation turns into nothing but pleasure. My eyes roll back and I let out a loud moan.

“Daddy, shit,” I whine, my back arching and my nails digging into Paige’s back as she holds the toy steady on me, slowly starting to circle my clit with it making a quick mess of me.

“You’re so wet baby,” Paige gasps shocked as she glances down at the way her hand and the sheets were glistening. But I barely notice, already feeling that coil in my abdomen start to tighten. I’m gasping desperately now, hands grabbing anything they could, moaning loudly as Paige kissed my jaw and neck groaning against my skin.

“Daddy I’m gonna come-” I cry out, tears spilling from my eyes, Paige moving the vibrator against me sloppily, driving me to the edge.

“Fuck, already?” Paige asks, surprised but impressed, her nose pressing against mine. My legs tremble desperately as her free hand slides up to hold my jaw.

I nod, my eyes squeezing shut as I’m just about to roll over the edge. Suddenly Paige pulls the toy away from me, making my eyes snap open and leaving my core throbbing, no, aching for relief.

“What the fuck?” I ask but Paige just grins down at me. 

“You didn’t say please,” she smirks, making me roll my eyes.

“I don’t have to say please,”

“Yes the fuck you do.”

“No I don’t,”

“Fine if you don’t wanna come ma.” 

Frustrated, I groan. I simultaneously hated and loved when Paige made me beg for it. I hated giving her the satisfaction. But lying underneath her with my cunt throbbing and tears rolling down my cheeks I would’ve done anything to come for her.

“Please,” I say, my cheeks blushing as I look up into her blue eyes. She was enjoying this a little too much.

“Please what?” Paige teases, pushing the vibrator against my inner thigh again. It makes me moan softly, wanting to buck my hips closer, but it was useless.

“Please daddy,” I finally whine, earning a smile from Paige.

“Good girl.”

The vibrator is pushed against my clit again, now turned up all the way, forcing a moan to spill from my lips as I feel my orgasm quickly start to build once more.

“Open your mouth,” Paige commands and I don’t even think about it when I push my tongue out and feel her spit into my mouth before kissing my lips fiercely, moving the toy in a circular motion against my swollen clit.

“Daddy, fuck, please, please, please,” I plead, not even completely sure what for as my mind turns hazy and my body trembles uncontrollably.

“Such a good girl for daddy,” she praises with a hoarse voice, nose pressed tight against mine as she kisses my open mouth, bringing me to the edge.

“C’mon pretty girl come for me.”

I feel my body ride over the edge, all the muscles in my body tightening, back arching and a high pitched moan leaving my lips as the pleasure finally releases, waves of ecstasy rushing over me.

“Aww shit, look at that ma,” Paige mumbles, looking between our bodies watching the way my cunt was squirting all over her arm, legs and bed. My mind turns completely blank, eyes shut tight as my nails nearly draw blood from her back, the pleasure overwhelming me. 

I swear I black out for a moment, only returning to consciousness from how suddenly overstimulating and almost painful the toy felt against my clit.

“Stopp, stop stop stop,” I whine pushing Paige’s hand away as she chuckles but obliges. The quiet buzzing of the toy ends as it’s thrown onto the mattress and the blonde crashes on top of me, nuzzling her nose into my neck.

I take a moment to try and catch my breath before I realise what just happened, and what a mess I had made. Looking down at us and the wet spot we were lying in I sigh, feeling a little embarrassed.

“Fuck I’m sorry P,” I murmur but she pulls away, looking at me shocked.

“For?”

“For, well…” I mumble and point to the mess but she only smugly smiles and shakes her head.

“You’re kidding, ma that’s so sexy,” she arrogantly says.

My eyes widen in surprise. “Really?”

Paige licks her lips and nods. “Ye, really. Never made you squirt before.”

I blush a little as Paige presses a soft, tender kiss on my lips - almost loving.

“C’mon let’s go shower,” she murmurs.

I giggle a little, shaking my head. “I cannot stand yet.”

“Oh,” Paige laughs and looks down at my legs that are visibly still trembling.

“I’ll carry you then,” she says and easily scoops me up, walking us both towards the shower. 

I rest my head on her shoulder, watching the way her nose turns up at the end, the way her lower lip pouts and how her jawline sharpens as she tilts her head. Something about her had changed. Lately she had been more caring, kind, tender. I didn’t understand it. All I knew is the way my heart fluttered and my mind eased up around her, I was in big trouble with Paige Bueckers.

-

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[motomamita]

loser!könig × female!reader

warnings: +18, smut, cunnilingus, sex!

loser!könig

a simple photo of your breasts was enough for könig to become the most submissive and needy being in the entire universe. And how to blame him? It was the first time that a girl agreed to have a conversation with him without leaving him in seen or blocking him.

from that moment on, not a day went by when könig sent you a good morning message or a photo of his fat cock showing through his jeans. sometimes you ignored him or took a while to respond, but he always answered instantly. könig didn't mind staying up late talking to you or having to look at his cell phone constantly waiting for your response, he loved the little attention you gave him.

some nights he would surprise you by sending you videos of him masturbating while moaning your name and telling you in an agitated voice how much he needed you there with him. he set your photo as his wallpaper and, sooner rather than later, asked for your bank account information to send you money every time you delayed responding.

soon könig proposed that you meet him in his city, he wanted to meet you in person. you hesitated at his proposal but soon changed your mind when you noticed the amount of money he had sent you, it was enough to pay for a plane ticket to his city. it was all paid for, so how can you say no?

you met könig in a hotel room that he had reserved for both of you. in photos he looked huge and in person it was even more so. he covered almost the entire door frame, his muscles were visible through his t-shirt and his face expressed absolute desire. in his hand he carried a bouquet of roses that he had bought especially to receive you and a bottle of champagne.

you both didn't talk much. there was no need either, you both knew what you were going for.

könig had you under him, hugging your bare legs preventing you from escaping while his big cock entered and exited you. your pussy stretched deliciously with each thrust while your clitoris rubbed against his skin. könig breathed close to your face, fixing his gaze on every expression of pleasure and how you desperately asked him to slow down a little.

"cutie, i can't stop, i can't..."

könig increased the speed of his thrusts, sinking you into the mattress and approaching your face to kiss you desperately. your tongues played with each other and his alcoholic breath invaded you completely.

"are you going to cum? uh? i can feel your pussy squeezing my fat cock. come on, cum in my mouth."

könig pulled out of you and brought his mouth to your wet pussy. he licks and sucks every part of your folds like he's wanted to do it for a long time, and he did. he brought his large hands to your thighs and squeezed them tightly, preventing you from closing your legs.

you pulled his hair hard as your orgasm hit. könig moaned over your pussy and tried to collect all your flavor with his tongue.

before you could react, he sat up and positioned himself on top of you jerking his cock quickly while moaning your name. in a matter of seconds his abundant warm cum fell onto your belly and a moan of relief left his mouth.

"fuck, cutie... now, can you let me cum inside you, please, please?"

with a face like that, how can you refuse? :(

[mapis-putellas]

𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒅

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x single mom!reader

Words: 1000+

Warnings: none

Summary: A chance meeting at a cafe turns your whole life upside down.

The café was buzzing with the usual Saturday morning chaos, the hum of chatter and clinking cups filling the air. You sat at a small table near the window, your coffee still steaming on the table while you nursed Evangeline beneath a thin, breathable blanket. She was fussy, her tiny hands kneading against your chest as her eyelids grew heavy. You'd spent the morning at the park, pushing her on the baby swings and letting her crawl in the grass, so her nap was well overdue.

The café was packed, every seat taken, and you'd already caught a few glances from people clearly waiting for a table. You sipped your coffee with your free hand, your gaze wandering until a nervous presence approached.

"Perdón," a soft, accented voice interrupted your thoughts.

You looked up to see a tall blonde woman standing hesitantly at your table, a coffee in one hand and her phone in the other. She was striking, her brown eyes warm but uncertain, like she was unsure whether to stay or walk away.

"All the tables are full," she continued, her accent thick as she switched to English. "May I sit here? Only for... a moment?"

Her request was polite, and there was something about her slight awkwardness that made you smile. You nodded toward the empty seat across from you. "Of course," you said.

She smiled in return, soft and grateful, before slipping into the seat opposite you. She placed her coffee on the table, her hands clasped around the cup like she was unsure of what to do next.

For a moment, the two of you sat in comfortable silence, the busy café drowning out the small sounds of Evangeline nursing beneath the blanket. But then, to your surprise, she spoke.

"You have a baby," she said, her voice soft and curious.

You chuckled lightly. "I do," you replied. "Evangeline Quinn. She's eleven months old."

Her face lit up at the name, her smile reaching her eyes. "Beautiful name," she said sincerely, her Spanish accent making the words sound even sweeter.

"Thank you," you said. "And you? What's your name?”

"Alexia," she said simply. "Alexia Putellas."

The name didn't immediately register, and she seemed relieved that you didn't react with any recognition. You smiled and introduced yourself in return, and before you knew it, the two of you were talking easily.

Alexia's English wasn't perfect, but she tried her best, her determination to keep up with the conversation both endearing and impressive. She asked about Evangeline, about motherhood, her questions genuine and thoughtful.

"She is... how you say? A good baby?" Alexia asked after a moment, her head tilting slightly as she tried to find the right words.

You smiled. "She's amazing. She's crawling now and babbles nonstop. She's even started saying 'mama,' though I'm pretty sure it's just babbles at this point."

Alexia's eyes softened, her expression warm. "Mama," she repeated quietly, almost to herself.

Just then, Evangeline seemed to notice the unfamiliar voice nearby. She let out a small whimper, squirming against you until she unlatched and wriggled beneath the blanket. You adjusted yourself quickly, pulling the blanket away to reveal her.

"Hi, baby," you cooed, lifting her up and situating her on your lap.

Evangeline blinked sleepily, her green eyes locking onto Alexia. For a moment, the baby just stared, her little head tilting in curiosity before she let out a soft babble.

Alexia's entire face lit up. "Hola, pequeña," she said, her voice soft and full of warmth.

Evangeline's lips parted in a tiny smile, her little hands reaching out toward Alexia. You laughed, your heart swelling at the sight. "Looks like she likes you," you said.

Alexia chuckled, her eyes never leaving Evangeline. "She is... very cute," she said, her Spanish accent making the words sound even sweeter.

"She is," you agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of Evangeline's wispy blonde hair.

The three of you fell into a natural rhythm after that, Alexia occasionally leaning forward to make silly faces at Evangeline while you sipped your coffee. Evangeline giggled at Alexia's exaggerated expressions, her tiny hands clapping in delight.

"She has your eyes," Alexia remarked after a moment, her gaze flicking between you and the baby.

You smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair from Evangeline's face. "She does," you said. "I always hoped she would."

Alexia nodded, her expression thoughtful. "You are alone?" she asked hesitantly.

You hesitated for a moment before nodding. "I am. I always wanted to be a mom, but I never found the right person to settle down with. So... I did it on my own. IVF."

Alexia's eyes widened slightly, her admiration clear. "That is very brave," she said softly.

"Thank you," you said, your cheeks flushing slightly at her sincerity.

The conversation shifted after that, moving to lighter topics as Evangeline grew sleepier in your arms. By the time you realized how much time had passed, the café had begun to clear out, and Alexia was glancing at her phone.

"I should go," she said reluctantly, her gaze lingering on you and Evangeline. "It was... very nice to meet you both."

"You too," you said, your smile warm as you watched her stand.

Alexia hesitated for a moment, her hands fidgeting slightly before she reached into her pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper. "Here," she said, placing it on the table.

You glanced down to see a phone number scribbled in neat handwriting.

"For coffee," Alexia said quickly, her cheeks flushing slightly. "Or... anything."

You couldn't help but smile, your heart skipping a beat at her shy demeanor. "I'd like that," you said softly.

Alexia nodded, her smile widening before she turned and made her way out of the café. As you watched her go, Evangeline let out a small babble, her tiny fingers grasping at the air.

"I think you like her too, huh?" you murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

And as you cradled your daughter close, you couldn't help but feel like this ordinary Saturday had turned into something extraordinary.

**

Tags:

@ceesimz @marysfics @wileys-russo @mead-iocre @girlgenius1111 @codiemarin @simp4panos @silentwolfsstuff @goldenempyrean @xxnaiaxx @liloandstitchstan

[ceilidho]

Buttermilk

It doesn't take long to settle into the rhythm of your new summer job. Or: the babysitter x single dad au

Part 4 | masterlist

-

There’s nothing else to do but pretend it didn’t happen. 

In the morning, you’re surprised to wake up and find him in the bed next to you, still covered in old sweat and dried cum. You suppose even in your sleep you’d unconsciously expected him to avoid the incident altogether—wake up extra early to shower while leaving you alone in the bed, giving you a modicum of privacy to digest the situation and its repercussions on your own.

He does no such thing.

“Morning, sweetheart,” John rumbles, stroking your cheek with his thumb. “Feeling alright?”

Dangling precariously over the edge of oblivion. Some kind of abyss. The kind that says you might not like what’s down here, girlie, but still you sit by the edge and kick your feet. 

“Yeah,” you croak, and Lord, your voice is hoarse. Scratchy and rough, like it’s been dragged over sandpaper. 

“Good.” He lets his hand rest on the curve of your cheek for a second before pulling it away. “Why don’t you get cleaned up? I’ll shower after.”

The bed groans under his weight when he sits up, throwing his legs over the side before rising to his feet. You quickly avert your eyes at the sight of his naked backside, hairy there as well. A bear all over. Even his yawn reminds you of one. And the way that he stretches his arms overhead and every bone in his upper body cricks and cracks, the sounds of age manifold. 

You scrub yourself with shaky hands in the shower, gnawing at your bottom lip when you spread your puffy folds to find his cum still slightly tacky inside of you. Very bad. Scooping as much out as you can with your fingers, watching it run down the drain. Very bad indeed. 

John has breakfast on the table when you come downstairs and it seems, somehow, uncouth to just tell him you want to go home. So instead you force yourself to sit and eat, glad that he at least agrees that it isn’t the time for conversation. 

At the door, he sees you off with a hug, watching you from the door until you reverse out of his driveway and drive off, waving as you leave. 

“This is really bad,” you whisper to yourself on the drive home. “Really, really bad.”

Despite the morning after, the night you spent together is never explicitly spoken about. It’s not a ‘thing’ you discuss by any means. No sit down conversation, no awkward allusions to it, no talking around and around the events until the exchange becomes unbearable. It simply blips out of existence as soon as you change into your old clothes and John walks you to the door, seeing you out. 

You still show up the next day, as usual. Nothing’s changed except everything, but it feels taboo to even mention that things feel different. 

The world hasn’t radically changed since you accidentally slept with John, but it certainly feels that way sometimes. In the few delicate hours after leaving his house, you were sure he’d call at any moment to tell you that your services would no longer be required—that he’d send your last check in the mail before parting ways. So sure of that, in fact, that you’d put your phone on silent for hours before mustering up the courage to check your missed calls later that evening.

Only a few texts from friends. No missed calls from your employer. 

He doesn’t fire you. He certainly doesn’t treat you any differently the next time you come to babysit. You still get paid every week—though, admittedly, the money makes you feel a little weird now after sleeping with him, but it’s not like you can just turn your nose up at making rent—and everything else in your life stays exactly the same. If you weren’t now acutely aware of the feeling of your boss coming inside you, you might even think you dreamt it up. 

Still, despite John never bringing it up or even alluding to sleeping with you, there’s still a sense that he—

The soft, affectionate thanks, hun that he gives you when you bring him a glass of water on the rare day he comes home early to work out in the garage makes you shiver. 

His need to touch increases tenfold, matched only by his proprietariness. He must feel like after what you did together, it’s nothing for him to squeeze your thighs when he tells you that you did a good job with the baby or hug you extra tight when you’re about to leave. 

If you’re extra shy around him, he doesn’t remark on it. 

You’re levelheaded enough to know that he shouldn’t be so touchy with his younger female employee—his babysitter no less—especially after what happened, but it’s not as though he treats you like sleeping with you is a given. When a week goes by and nothing happens, you almost relax. Almost. Enough to let your guard down. 

But—

You can’t stop thinking about it though. It runs through your head every hour of every day, made worse by the fact that you see him six days a week, Sundays excluded. Sundays being your one day off, which you no longer look forward to but rather dread because Sundays mean no baby, no park, and no John Price.

So, you follow his lead and pretend like it didn’t happen. 

You think it’s past you; a terrible mistake that’ll never happen again until it happens again. 

Eight o’clock at night and the blue light from the television has begun to strain your eyes. Baby sleeping upstairs—you put him down a few hours earlier without much of a peep; had to check on him a few times, but otherwise the baby monitor sitting on the end table hasn’t so much as crackled, leaving you no choice but to doze off on the couch. 

When the door opens, it startles you awake. 

“Mr. Price?” you ask, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and clearing your throat.

John’s there when you twist around to peek over the back of the couch, filling out the door frame. Dishevelled after a long day’s work, his beard even more grown out than when he left earlier in the morning. A bit rougher around the edges, the day leaving its mark in the slight dark circles under his eyes and the set of his jaw, which only relaxes when he lays eyes on you. 

“Just me, sweetheart.”

“Sorry, I…the baby’s been asleep for awhile, so I just thought I’d—”

“It’s fine, don’t worry. I know you’ve got it under control.”

“Let me just get my stuff and I’ll be out of your hair—”

He cuts you off with a wave, toeing his boots off at the same time. “No, no, no—you stay there and finish your movie. I’m gonna grab a drink and join you.”

There’s not much more you can say to that. Instead, you watch him take his bag upstairs to put away in the bedroom before you hear the sink turn on. Running water. 

You carefully avoid looking at him when John comes back downstairs, the creaking steps signalling his descent. He heads to the kitchen without stopping by the living room first. The light switches on with a click. The fridge door opens and bottles clinking together when he roots around for something to drink. 

And then you hear him make his way back to the living room. 

The unspoken pact to not bring up what happened the last time you spent any alone time together imbues you with a false sense of security. Part of you expects him to take the single recliner next to the couch, if only to put some distance between the two of you. 

Except when he comes back into the living room, he plops right down in the middle of the couch like always, close enough to you that you’re forced to scoot away, pressed up against the arm of the sofa. You shiver when he cracks open his beer and takes a swig, resting his arm on the back of the couch with the can held in a loose grip. 

“What’re we watching?” he asks, blatantly adjusting himself to get more comfortable on the couch. Even soft, the outline of his cock is visible through his trousers. 

You stare over at him nervously, unblinking. 

“Sweetheart?” John prompts when you don’t answer. 

“Oh, um…” You clear your throat again. “It’s just a Hallmark movie.”

“Cute. Well, we can keep it on. No sense changing it now.”

It’s tense for a little while. You keep your hands folded in your lap like a good girl and your eyes on the television. So you can’t stop inhaling the heady scent of tobacco and vanilla. So you can’t stop blinking your eyes, each blink heavier than the last until they spend more time shut than open. So you yawn and burrow deeper into the cushions, your head tipping back and nearly jarring you awake when you lean too far and topple over the side. 

When you lean the other way and start to doze off on his shoulder, he pulls you onto his lap. You squirm, initially resistant, but he shushes you before you can put up a fuss. 

“Just don’t want you to drool on my shirt,” he teases in a low murmur, smoothing a hand down your side and then it’s lights out for you. 

You wake to a blunt intrusion at your entrance. Half-awake and squirming, you vaguely feel him rub the tip of his cock up and down your pussy, teasing himself. The second you squirm just a little too much, he uses that little bit of movement to push the tip in. It pops in without much resistance; then the slow, methodical press inward, your walls squeezing around the thick length thrusting up into you. 

“Wha—” you whimper, keening when a big hand glides up your chest to squeeze a tit, rolling your nipple between his fingers.

“S’alright, baby, it’s just me,” John murmurs, his voice right in your ear. 

You come to gradually and then all at once, aware of your back pressed to his clothed chest and your legs spread around his, your ankles hooked around his calves. Skirt rolled up and panties pushed to the side, one of his arms locked around your waist like a seatbelt to hold you in place. 

“John, I’m—we c-can’t do it again—”

“Sorry, honey,” he apologises into your neck, kissing the area he just spoke into. “Had to be inside you again. S’all I’ve been able to think about since you came on my cock the other night. Promise it’ll be easier this time, okay, baby?”

He guides you down his length until he bottoms out, slick lips kissing the base of his dick. The pressure is overwhelming; in your belly, in your throat, in your head. Heart beating a million miles a minute. Walls throbbing around his length, thicker and heavier than you remembered. 

All you can think of now is the last time he had you like this, legs spread for him and pussy dripping wet. Taking his cock all sleepy and sweaty under his giant comforter, whimpering into his neck. 

It’s not as frantic this time, no rush to the finish line. He seems to like just burying his cock in you while he plays with your breasts, pinching and plucking your nipples until they’re pebbled and sore. His hands aren’t particularly soft either, callused from years of hard labour. When you whine and try to push his hands away, he shushes you again, not paying your protests any mind. 

“Fuck, these are pretty,” John praises, staring down at your tits from over your shoulder. “No, baby, jus’ watch your show. M’gonna use your pussy for a bit, okay?”

It’s just that it’s—

When he lets go of your breast to play with your clit instead, you melt, any resistance going up in flames. The heat fans over your cheeks, your eyelids too heavy to lift, vision blurring even when you try to focus. 

He helps you grind your hips down on him, big hands like manacles on your waist. Little undulations of your hips. Short, shallow thrusts that keep you both right on the edge, drenching his lap with your juices. When he gets bored of playing with your clit, he switches back to your breasts, pawing at them and then bending down to suck a nipple into his mouth. 

Any time you get distracted by what he’s doing, he stops, holding you down on his cock and coaxing you to focus on the television in front of you instead. 

When he jiggles your clit, you seize up, heart hammering in your throat. 

“Good girl, c’mon—jus’ like that.” John presses a hot kiss to your temple, arm tightening around your front to keep you close. Sweet talks you through your orgasm, all vaguely paternalistic and patronising in the best and worst way.  

He makes you lean forward so he can bounce you on his dick after, your hands braced on his knees to keep yourself upright. 

“Ah, ah, ah, ah—”

“Almost there, honey, jus’—fuck, perfect, yeah, tighten up like that. Good fuckin’ girl.”

He comes with a strangled moan, still cognizant enough to keep the volume down even if you can’t. Shuttles you down onto his cock a few more times until you’re filled to the brim with cum. 

In the aftermath, he sits you back against his sweat-matted chest and pushes his cum back into your sore cunt with his fingers when it dribbles out. Ignores your wounded little sounds like they’re just background noise. He even makes you suck his fingers to clean them up, the digits coated in your combined juices. 

“Best fuckin’ girl,” John growls, pressing another kiss to the side of your head. Your fingers twitch feebly in your lap. 

Pretending like it didn’t happen after the second time around doesn’t seem wise, but still you don’t know how to broach the subject. 

Especially since you know it’s going to happen again. 

John doesn’t say it outright, but his actions speak for themselves. An arm looped around your waist casually in line for coffee. Paying for the two of you in any situation, you having your own source of income be damned. 

“It’s my money anyway, sweetheart,” he says when you point that out. “Might as well just pay now.”

And doesn’t that just send you into a tizzy, head spinning and mouth agape. Embarrassingly so. 

Not to mention you still have this strange, sycophantic need to please him, even after everything. The complicated nature of your relationship aside, it still makes your heart flutter to hear him praise you for anything. 

That’s how you end up in his bed on a Saturday afternoon, taking a nap with him after a long day out in the sun. Two hours spent at the botanical gardens, the sun beating down on your head, lathering sunscreen on the baby’s sensitive little arms and legs, and swiping it over his cheeks. John sporting a mild sunburn near the collar of his shirt where he forgot to apply sunscreen and when you have the audacity to giggle, he pulls your baseball hat down over your eyes. 

It’s almost too easy for him to coax you into his bed, even though you’re adamant about keeping it clean. A hand firm on your back up the stairs. Already yawning when you put the baby down for a nap, so why not take one too? Ushering you into the bedroom when you say you can take the couch, but why, he presses, take the couch when you’ve already shared the bed before?

Well, because the last time—

He draws the blinds shut and climbs into bed, pulling you into his chest. 

You wake up to John plastered against your back, bare cock nudging against your cunt while he snores into your neck. You don’t remember him curling up next to you without any clothes on, but he must have taken off his pants in his sleep, now somewhere rumpled at the end of the bed. 

When you try to quietly pull away, his arms just tighten around you more, grumbling in his sleep. The sound makes you freeze, going quiet as a mouse. A few more minutes go by before you feel confident enough to try moving again, carefully trying to slide out from his hold. 

You wiggle a hand out, reaching for the other end of the bed.

The hand resting on your belly dips low, shoved between your legs and feeling you up before you can do more than gasp. The man behind you gives a short exhale, shaking off the last vestiges of sleep, rising out of it like a wave now that he feels something wet under his hand.

“Oh, honey…why didn’t you tell me you needed my cock again? You’re leaking right through your panties,” John rasps, dragging your underwear down to mid-thigh. 

A big bear hand clamps over your mouth before you have a chance to protest. There’s nothing you can do to keep his knee from spreading your legs and feeding his cock into your drenched centre with his other hand. As soon as he notches the head against your entrance, it’s a smooth glide in. 

“There we go,” he pants into your neck. “Big stretch—ah, yeah, nice ‘n tight. That’s my pretty girl.”

He keeps your legs spread with a hand on the inside of your thigh. All you can do is moan behind his hand, humid breath blowing back around your face as you pant. So hot for it that you’re almost nauseous. 

You’re a bit too tight for him to fit his cock in you, so he has to work to stretch you out, bullying another inch into you with every thrust. The angle makes it tricky though; means he can’t get more than half of his cock into you. It’s hardly comfortable for you either, your leg already cramping. 

“My leg’s got a cramp,” you whine, unsure of what you want to happen. All you know is that you can’t keep this up. 

He readjusts his grip, but that just makes you hiss, wincing when that makes your leg twinge. Suddenly the world spins, the pillows going from comfortably under your head to right in your face, John manoeuvring you onto your tummy and hiking your hips up a few inches. It lets him get even deeper, the angle letting him slide right to the hilt. 

“Oh god, oh god—John, I can’t—”

“Shh—you’re alright, honey. Much better like this,” he breathes, settling on top of you. It takes him a second to get comfortable, nudging right up against a sensitive spot inside of you the whole time, so deep you can almost feel him in your throat. 

He weighs a ton on top of you, rutting between your thighs like he can’t hold himself back, his self-control snapping like brittle glass. Bristly beard chafing your neck when he buries his head to suck on the tender skin there, smothering you under his weight. Thighs trapping you in place, your memory jumping back to that time at the beach, but now there’s nothing between you. Just a thick cock pounding into you and moulding you around its shape.  

His hips slap against your ass with every thrust, the lewdest sound you’ve ever heard. 

“Gonna make sure it takes this time,” John grunts. “Wanna take care of my baby so bad? I’ll give you a couple to mind.”

That rattles you right to your core; shakes you to the foundations of who you are. You don’t know what to think, what to say—tongue tied and loose lipped all at once. You’ve let him come inside of you so many times that if it hasn’t taken already, surely it will soon. 

It slips out before you can take it back. “D-daddy, please—” 

That makes him lose his mind. Just a bit. 

“Fuck,” he snarls. “Again.”

He wedges his arm under you to curl his hand around your throat, tilting your head out. 

“Daddy—daddy—please, I wanna come—” you pant, repeating the same word until it sounds like nothing, tongue puffy in your mouth. 

His dick slips out at some point and he wrenches himself off you long enough to wrap his hand around himself and slap it against your ass a few times, cum tagging your skin. Your breath catches in your throat, whining when you clench down on nothing. One stroke after repositioning himself and he’s all the way back in, hammering the spot that makes you go cross-eyed and squeak. 

“Make daddy another baby, okay, sweetheart?” It’s not sweet. It’s not doting. It’s growled into your ear like a demand, punctuated by the way his hips snap forward, nearly sending you into the headboard. 

You’re practically an old hat at taking his cum now, squeezing up when you can feel it coming and giving him a nice little treat. He sinks his teeth into the back of your neck when he does, muffling the sound roaring out of him, and it hurts. 

He’s tender with you after though. Lavishes the line of your neck with soft kisses; murmurs sweet nothings into your ear while you cry fat tears onto the pillow. Even twists and turns so you’re no longer on your back but rather splayed across his chest again, urging you up for a deeper kiss with tongue. 

“‘Know you’re tired, sweetie, but this is for your own good,” John murmurs as he wedges a hard thigh between your legs and makes you ride it, grinding your sensitive, throbbing clit down on the muscle. “Can you come, baby? Jus’ like that—that’s good, baby—”

It hurts so good that you don’t even notice when you squirt, the emotions too big for you. It’s like being squeezed too tight, unable to catch your breath or say anything but the same word on a loop. John’s sweet about it though—wipes the sweat from your hairline and upper lip, talking you through it until you slump down on his chest, legs akimbo.   

For a bachelor, you think in a daze, he’d make a good husband.

The days grow colder and the sun sets earlier.

A while ago you thought maybe this babysitting gig would be temporary. That at some point you’d move on—maybe go back to school or apply for a more standard nine-to-five job. That’s how the trajectory of your life was supposed to go, you think. 

But the timing never seems right. Maybe you’ve grown too attached to the baby or maybe the pay is just too good to give up or maybe you’ve just become habituated to someone getting you off at least every other day. Still, it feels a bit weird to get paid for what essentially boils down to fucking a man and taking care of his baby. 

It comes up when you’re sitting out on the porch with him again, this time in his lap in the same adirondack chair, a blanket wrapped around you to keep you warm. John laces his fingers through yours, thumb stroking over your finger, burning a line into the skin.

“Doesn’t it make you feel weird to pay me for…” you say, trailing off with a cocked eyebrow. Surely he must catch your drift. 

He chuckles. You wait for the joke.

Your eyes must be big as moons staring up at him. 

“Don’t think of it as a paycheck, sweetheart. That’s your allowance.”

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip and swallow. 

“Okay,” you whisper. Then let him reel you back in for another kiss, his thumb resting over your ring finger and pressing.

[mwuaferrari]

FERRARI GIRL - LANDO NORRIS

summary: at carlos sainz's birthday party, lando meets a captivating woman who is part of carlos' close circle of friends. Instantly struck by her warmth and confidence, lando finds himself drawn to her in ways he doesn't fully understand.

pairing: lando norris x reader

warning: english is not my native language, so any spelling or writing error is the fault of the translator hehe.

I´M BAAAAACK

The place was alive with energy, music echoing through the spacious villa and laughter spilling out into the night air. Carlos’ birthday celebrations were in full swing, and his closest friends and family mingled effortlessly, drinks in hand and smiles on their faces.

She arrived late, fashionably so, stepping through the wide-open doors with a casual confidence that immediately drew attention. Carlos spotted her from across the room and waved her over enthusiastically, his arm slung over the shoulders of another friend.

“¡Por fin llegas!” (you finally arrive!) Carlos exclaimed, greeting her with a tight hug. “Ya estaba pensando que te olvidaste de mi cumpleaños” (I was starting to think you’d forgotten my birthday)

“Jamás” (never) she replied, grinning. “Me atrasé por el trabajo, pero sabes que no me lo perdería por nada” (Got held up at work, but I wouldn’t miss this.

He introduced her to the group around him, most of whom she already knew, except for one. Lando Norris.

Lando was mid-sip of his drink when Carlos gestured toward him. “And this is Lando—he’s part of the family now, I guess. You probably know who he is.”

She turned to him, her smile widening in recognition. “McLaren´s golden boy?”

Lando chuckled softly, setting his glass down. “Guilty as charged,” he said, holding out a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” She shook his hand, her grip firm but friendly. There was something about her that caught him off guard—a mix of confidence and warmth, paired with a sparkle in her eye that made him forget for a moment how to speak.

Carlos, blissfully unaware of the silent exchange, clapped Lando on the back. “Don’t let him fool you; he’s way more interesting off the track than on it.”

She raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. “Oh? Care to elaborate?”

Lando blushed slightly, waving off Carlos’ teasing. “Don’t listen to him. He’s just trying to embarrass me.”

Carlos laughed and turned his attention back to the group, leaving Lando and her to chat.

“So,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “What’s it like being part of the ‘family’ Carlos talks about? He’s so annoying, isn’t he?”

Lando relaxed a little at her lighthearted tone. “Oh, you have no idea. But I guess he’s worth the chaos. What about you? How do you survive being in this group?”

“Years of practice,” she replied with a mock-serious expression. “It’s all about knowing when to dodge Carlos’ pranks and when to just give in.”

Lando laughed, the sound genuine and warm. “I’ll keep that in mind. Any other survival tips?”

“Plenty,” she said, her smile teasing. “But you’ll have to stick around long enough to learn them all.”

Lando felt his heart skip a beat at her words, though he quickly tried to mask it with a confident grin. “Challenge accepted.”

They continued talking, the noise of the party fading into the background as they delved into an easy, flowing conversation. For the first time in a while, Lando found himself genuinely captivated—not by a race, not by a victory, but by someone who seemed to see him as just another guy at a party.

And as the night wore on, he couldn’t help but think this might be the best birthday party he’d ever attended—not because of the celebration itself, but because he’d met her.

…

The days following Carlos’ birthday party felt like a blur for Lando. Between training sessions, media obligations, and sponsor meetings, his mind was on autopilot. Yet, every now and then, a thought would creep in, derailing his focus entirely: her smile.

It wasn’t just her smile, though. It was the way she spoke with an ease that put him at peace, the way she teased Carlos as though she’d known him forever, and the way her eyes seemed to hold a quiet depth, as if she understood the world in ways others didn’t.

He found himself scrolling mindlessly through his phone one evening, laying on the couch in his apartment, the TV murmuring in the background. His thumb hovered over Carlos’ contact. Should I? he thought. Asking for her number felt… bold. Presumptuous, even.

“Mate, just do it,” he muttered to himself, groaning as he dropped the phone onto his chest. “It’s not a big deal.” Except, to him, it was.

After another ten minutes of mental back-and-forth, Lando sat up abruptly, picking up his phone again and tapping Carlos’ name. He typed a message, erased it, typed it again, and then sighed heavily before hitting send.

Lando: Hey, Carlos. Random question, but do you think you could give me your friend’s number? The one from your party? No worries if not.

The response came quicker than expected.

Carlos: Which one? You mean y/n?

Lando’s pulse quickened.

Lando: Yeah, her. If it’s okay with her, of course.

Carlos didn’t reply right away, and in that silence, Lando second-guessed every choice that had led to this moment. He was about to follow up, maybe even backpedal entirely, when his phone buzzed.

Carlos: She said it’s fine. Here you go…

Lando stared at the screen, his heart doing an odd little flip. She’d said yes. That had to be a good sign, right? He copied the number into his contacts, hesitating again as he stared at her name.

What should he say? Something casual? Something funny?

After a moment, he typed out a message and hit send before he could overthink it any more.

Lando: Hey, it’s Lando. Carlos gave me your number, hope that’s okay. I just thought it’d be nice to keep in touch.

The seconds ticked by, and he was already regretting his choice of words when his phone buzzed.

Y/n: Hey! Of course it’s okay. I was wondering when I’d hear from you.

Lando let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, a grin spreading across his face. Maybe this wasn’t so scary after all.

…

Lando was lounging on the plush sofa in McLaren's team lounge, his legs stretched out lazily as he typed away on his phone. A small, content smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he read her latest reply.

Y/n: Wait, so you actually thought pineapple on pizza was a good idea?

He chuckled softly, quickly firing back a reply.

Lando: Listen, don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. Elite taste buds only.

He could almost picture her rolling her eyes as she typed her response, and the thought made his grin widen.

“Alright, mate. Who’s got you looking like that?” Max Fewtrell’s voice cut through Lando’s bubble, teasing and curious.

Lando jolted slightly, instinctively locking his phone screen as if he’d been caught doing something incriminating. “What are you on about?” he asked, trying—and failing—to sound nonchalant.

Max plopped down on the sofa beside him, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t play dumb. You’ve been sitting there smiling at your phone like some lovesick teenager for the last ten minutes. Spill.”

“I’m not—” Lando started, but Max gave him a knowing look, arms crossed, waiting. Lando sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine. It’s just... someone I met recently.”

Max’s face lit up with excitement. “Ah-ha! I knew it. Who is she? Is she fit? Of course she’s fit—she’s got you giggling like an idiot.”

Lando groaned, trying to dodge the interrogation. “Can you not make this a thing? It’s not a big deal.”

“Oh, it’s a thing,” Max countered, grinning. “So, where’d you meet her? Tell me everything. What’s her name? Does she know you’re you?”

Lando rolled his eyes, but there was no real irritation behind it. “She’s a friend of Carlos’,” he admitted reluctantly. “We met at his birthday party.”

Max leaned back, nodding approvingly. “A friend of Carlos’. Okay, solid start. So, what’s the game plan? When are you seeing her again?”

“Don’t know yet,” Lando said, glancing back at his phone when it buzzed. Her latest message lit up his screen.

Y/n: You’re lucky you’re funny, Norris. I’ll let this pineapple thing slide….for now.

The smile returned to his face before he could help it.

Max smirked. “Mate, you’ve got it bad. Just don’t screw it up, yeah?”

Lando shook his head, chuckling. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Max.”

Max gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Anytime, lover boy. Anytime.”

…

Then the day came. After weeks of messaging and playful banter through their phones, he was finally going to see her again. Lando had tried not to think too much about it, but now that the moment had arrived, he felt the same nervousness he had when they first met at Carlos's party.

The paddock was its usual whirlwind of activity, with mechanics, drivers, and journalists rushing around. She was leaning casually against a barrier, chatting animatedly with Carlos and another friend from their group. On her head, she wore a red Ferrari cap emblazoned with the number 55—a clear sign of her loyalty to the Spanish driver.

Lando spotted her from the other side of the paddock. His heart was racing faster than he’d like to admit. He had managed to greet her that morning with a barely audible “hi” before she turned her attention back to Carlos, and since then, he hadn’t been able to shake the thought of going up to her.

“Come on, mate, just go say hi. She won’t bite,” Max Fewtrell said, grinning as he toyed with a water bottle beside Lando.

“Easier said than done,” Lando muttered, scratching the back of his neck, trying to look distracted.

“For crying out loud, you’re a Formula 1 driver. You literally race at 300 kilometers an hour, and you can’t walk ten steps to talk to a girl? Pathetic.”

“She’s not just any girl,” Lando mumbled, his gaze inevitably drifting back to her. She was laughing at something Carlos had said, her smile lighting up the space around her—or at least that’s how it seemed to him.

Max let out an exaggerated sigh and gave him a friendly shove. “Then do something. Or I’ll go over there and tell her you’ve been standing here like an idiot, staring at her.”

“Don’t you dare!” Lando whipped around, alarmed.

Max burst out laughing, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Relax, mate. But seriously, don’t waste time. It’s not like Carlos is going to hand-deliver her to you. Make a move already.”

Taking a deep breath, Lando grabbed his orange McLaren cap from his back pocket and started walking toward her. Each step felt heavier than the last, like he was carrying the weight of the entire paddock on his shoulders.

By the time he reached her, she was still engrossed in her conversation, completely unaware of his presence. Carlos noticed him first, a knowing smirk spreading across his face.

“Hey, Lando. What are you doing just standing there?” Carlos teased, dragging out his words with obvious intent, clearly enjoying the moment.

She turned then, her eyes locking with Lando’s. “Oh, hi, Lando!” she greeted him with the same warmth she always did.

For a moment, Lando froze, his mind completely blank. Finally, he raised the orange cap in his hand. “I think you’re wearing the wrong hat.” Before she could react, he swiftly swapped her Ferrari cap for his McLaren one.

She blinked, momentarily stunned, before bursting into laughter. “Oh, really? Is this some kind of declaration of war?”

“Something like that,” Lando replied, scratching the back of his neck, feeling his cheeks flush. Carlos chuckled and walked away, leaving them to it.

She adjusted the orange cap, looking at him with a mix of amusement and curiosity. “Bad boy isn’t really your vibe, but I appreciate the effort.”

Lando relaxed a little at her laugh. “Well, someone had to save you from that awful red cap.”

“Awful?” she said, feigning offense, though her smile betrayed her. “I guess I’ll have to get my cap back by any means necessary.”

“Good luck with that.” Lando finally grinned, the initial awkwardness melting away bit by bit.

It was a small gesture, just a simple exchange of words, but in that moment, the noise of the paddock seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of them in the midst of the chaos.

[emmcfrxst]

I’m wondering how Laura would react if reader and OldMan!Logan got into a fight? Maybe they tried to keep it away from her but unfortunately the girls too much like her father and ends up hearing most of it.

Ugh and imagine if she saw Logan storming off not realizing that he left you in tears…

(I’m feeling extremely angsty tonight.)

TW: MENTIONS OF DEATH, TRAUMA, ILLNESS, UNHEALTHY COPING MECHANISMS, SUICIDAL IDEATIONS & GOD (I guess????) Set before Logan gets, as nonnie put it, chest-fucked, so during the period of time everyone’s trying to escape the fucking Reavers while figuring shit out. It got too long so it’s under the cut

You don’t argue that often with Logan— your relationship is solid and although communication was rocky at first, he’s made significant progress and is able to hold a serious conversation without immediately jumping back into his defense mechanisms (misguided anger, deflection and ultimately fleeing were his initial reactions when you tried establishing proper communication about feelings in the beginning). His progress, however, is rendered completely useless when the conversation is about his rapidly declining health; he’s immediately on the defensive, body going rigid and eyes going dark, jaw clenched so hard you’re afraid he might shatter it— he hates thinking about his newfound mortality, not necessarily because he’s afraid of death (it’s actually quite the opposite, he seeks death in a way, longing for the pain and the nightmares to just stop once and for all) but because he knows that dying means leaving you on your own and that’s something he can’t bear to think about— the guilt he feels at the thought of leaving you is immeasurable; it overwhelms him entirely because he knows that losing him would break you and it makes him feel physically ill to think about the consequences. So in true Logan fashion, he blows you off whenever you bring up your concerns, stating that he’s fine, and the anger he feels at himself and his body for failing him ends up being taken out on you through biting words he regrets as soon as they slip from his tongue.

“I’m the one who’s fuckin’ dying, for Christ’s sake, quit your fuckin’ yapping.” It’s a phrase he regrets uttering for multiple reasons: he hates being rude to you in any way, shape or form because you’re the last person who deserves to be subjected to his emotional constipation— you’ve taken all of his broken parts into your hands and pieced them back together with your unconditional love and unwavering patience, you’ve made him feel loved, you’ve made him feel alive, and most importantly, you’ve shown him that he doesn’t have to feel guilty or bitter about his existence. You’ve done so much for him throughout the years and he fucking hates himself for letting his emotions get the better of him like that. The other thing that bothers him deeply about his reaction is the verbal acknowledgment of his condition; it’s something that he somehow believes can be ignored, as if denying it could make it any less real. Acknowledging that he’s dying makes bile rise up his throat— it’s a bitter feeling, really, because he used to wish for death everyday before he met you, heart and mind torn to shreds from years of horrific abuse and unwavering violence; he even prayed to whatever God was out there, despite not being a believer, to just let him go, to free him of the chains of trauma that bound his psyche. His prayers were left unanswered, Logan only accumulating more trauma as the years went by— he can’t count how many times he’s cursed God for making him go through what he’s gone through, needing someone to blame and wishing for a way to end it all. Ironically, Logan’s immortality only seems to waver once he starts treasuring life; it feels like a stab in the back, a cruel joke orchestrated by God who finally decided to answer his prayers now that he wishes he could take them back. The feeling of betrayal only seems to further fuel Logan’s anger towards his illness, which, combined with the guilt he feels at the thought of leaving you alone, causes him to act out whenever you bring up the subject. You take offense in the words thrown at you, hurt by the reminder of his impending death and the way he navigates it, arguing back that you do this because you care about him, for fuck’s sake. Unfortunately, that only seems to make things worse, upsetting Logan further and bringing back years’ worth of feeling unworthy of your affections.

“That’s your fuckin’ problem bub. I told ya you shouldn’t waste your time with a man like me.” he physically winces as he utters those words, wishing he could unsee the way it makes your entire face crumble with despair— it’s a slap in the face, really, to be brought back to square one and have him reject you in this way. Logan flees before either of you can say anything else, slamming the front door behind him and walking in no particular direction until he feels like he can finally breathe again, leaving you in tears at home. Laura, although playing in her makeshift room at the time, hears the whole exchange as clear as day due to her enhanced senses, her fists clenching with rage when her ears pick up the sound of your stifled sobs. You feel her before you even hear her, your body tensing as a pair of small, skinny arms wrap around your middle, a head resting along your spine. After the initial alarm of feeling someone touching you, you can’t help but let out a watery laugh at just how easy it seemed for her to surprise you, turning around in Laura’s arms so you can look down at her. A frown is etched onto her features, lips puckered into an angry pout as she hugs you tighter, insulting Logan in spanish under her breath. It makes you laugh again, this time softly, your hand smoothing out her hair as you sniffle.

“I’m okay, Laura. I’m okay.” she glares up at you, unconvinced, giving you another squeeze and reluctantly allowing her features to relax when you gently run a fingertip across the furrow of her brows— despite not being together for long, you find that you’re able to soothe Laura quite easily; there is a connection between the two of you like you’ve never felt before, a bond that you feel like you were always destined to have. Your heart warms at the obvious way the child seems to care for you, wanting nothing more than to make all of her worries disappear.

“He made you cry.” her voice is so quiet that you almost miss it, a soft, indignant noise leaving her at the sight of your tear-stained cheeks. You sniffle again, free hand moving up to wipe at your eyes, the other caressing her hair lovingly.

“I know.” you don’t say that it’s okay because it’s not— Logan crossed a line that you thought had been worn down ages ago, and you’ll be damned before you ever teach Laura that hurtful words can be brushed aside so easily without an apology. It’s for her as much as for you; you’re aware that you deserve respect even when Logan is upset, and you’re not about to stomp down on your self-worth to coddle him when he’s done something wrong. He’ll apologize, you’re sure of it, but until that happens, you’re not going to pretend that his reaction was acceptable. It’s something you categorically refuse to do, and it’s one of the many reasons Logan fell in love with you in the first place. You know your worth.

“I’ll be okay soon.” you tell her honestly, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to the top of her head. She studies you for a moment longer before nodding her head, allowing you to lead her onto the couch where she curls up next to you.

You’re asleep by the time Logan starts walking back towards the house but Laura hears the crunching of sand and gravel under his shoes, quietly untangling herself from you and moving to the side of the door, frown back on her features. Logan barely has the time to pass the threshold before she’s on him, jumping onto his back like a feral animal and punching his shoulders repeatedly, growling when he grabs her and holds her still, visibly confused and irritated by her behavior.

“Don’t even think about it.” he warns her when she makes to bite the hand that holds her down, frowning down at her just as hard she does up to him. She struggles in his hold, trying to hit him again, making him grunt in pain.

“You made her cry, coño.” the words make Logan freeze in his tracks, eyes falling on your sleeping form on the couch, noting the way your eyes look reddened and the tear tracks on your cheeks. Nausea immediately strikes him like lightning, the expression on his face seeming to satisfy Laura as she stops struggling, frown still evident on her face. She sits up and watches silently once he lets her go, staying nearby to see the situation unfold.

You awake to a calloused hand gently running over the plane of your cheekbone, eyes opening to meet Logan’s remorseful ones. He’s sitting on the ground next to the couch, looming over you in a way that makes you feel safe like no one else ever could.

“Hey.” his voice is hoarse but soft, thumb swiping back and forth over your skin in a silent act of comfort. It makes you smile despite your grogginess, and you feel more than you hear Logan releasing a soft, relieved inhale through his nose.

“Hey.” you answer him just as softly, leaning into his touch and closing your eyes again, content to feel him again.

“I’m sorry.” the words sound heavy coming out of his mouth, a grim expression taking over his features as he wipes off the remnants of your earlier tears.

“I know.” you reply simply, turning your head to press a gentle kiss against the roughened palm of his hand. It makes him exhale shakily, shoulders squaring as he prepares himself for the discomfort of the following words.

“Didn’t mean to snap at you, baby. I just… I feel helpless, I guess, and it fuckin’ pisses me off. Never had to worry about dying and leaving you alone before.” he says the words slowly, trying to make the last sentence sound like a joke, tone falling flat. You can tell he’s uncomfortable with the discussion but he pushes through, causing you to feel a rush of sympathy— he’s trying, you know he’s trying, and that means something to you.

“I know. I feel helpless, too. But you have to remember that you’re not alone. Not anymore. And I’m not going anywhere. No matter what happens, it’s you and me until the end.” he laughs wetly at your words, nodding his head and swallowing thickly before speaking again.

“I know.” this time it’s his turn to provide reassurance, the two little words more than enough for the both of you. The feeling of his warm lips connecting with your forehead makes your eyes flutter shut, hand coming up to lay over the one he’s curled around the back of your neck.

“Kid’s kicked my ass for making you cry.” he mumbles against your skin, the amusement in his voice clear. It makes you snort in surprise, unaware that Laura had intervened before you woke up.

“Did she? Well, you kinda deserved it.” your answer is playful, tone devoid of its previous heaviness, your eyes meeting Laura’s over Logan’s shoulder for a brief moment before focusing on your lover once again.

“That I did.” he agrees simply, a soft, tender, apologetic smile on his face. You lean further into him when he kisses your nose, heart feeling lighter than it had in a while.

You were going to be okay.

[ktownshizzle]

Love & Lullabies | Part 3

Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader

Summary: What begins as a simple favor for your best friend Namjoon soon pulls you into the rhythms of Yoongi’s life—afternoons spent caring for his son, late nights filled with candid conversations, and a connection neither of you thought you needed. You’re just fresh out of a long-term relationship with an ex who didn’t want a family with you, so did you really just stumble into a life you’ve always dreamed of? (Thank god Namjoon isn’t the only one who’s clumsy.)

Alternatively: It’s 2025 and BTS is prepping for their comeback. All members seem to have gained muscle weight from their time at camp. But Min Yoongi has gained a different kind of weight—an 8-pound baby and a fuck-load of responsibility. (Thank god you’re there to help him.)

Genre: Fluff, Angst, Smut, idol!au, Acquaintances to Lovers, Reader is Namjoon’s bestie

Warnings: Yoongi is a DILF (!!!) That’s it.

Chapter warnings: GRAB YOUR TISSUES!, this bitch is a whole ass kdrama episode and it’s gonna hurt before it gets better, happy ending tho!, themes of self-loathing, anxiety, and depression (MC), severe postpartum depression (not MC), it’s monsoon season and namgi don’t like umbrellas, (____) in the rain cliche scene, NAMTIDDIES because I can’t help myself, lastly… watch me morph this into another workplace romance/co-workers to lovers story lmao (real)

Word count: ~7k

Posting date: November 21, 2024

Notes: This is inspired by an ask/prompt sent by @yoongznme. 

I am a clown 🤡 and a liar 🤥 From pretending this is a two-shot, then a three-shot. It has become a chaptered series, atp. There is a part 4 in the works and I fully intend to end it there, but again, I may have just jinxed myself. Anyway! Enjoy, my lovelies~ 💕

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four |  Masterlist

“She’s Haneul’s mom.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut.

“What?”

“Sung Kyung and Yoongi… they’ve been good friends for years,” Namjoon explains quickly, his tone almost apologetic. “I didn’t think they were dating. But yeah, she’s his mom. She left for months and when she came back, she'd already given birth.”

You feel like the ground has been ripped out from under you. What Namjoon said made no sense. You clutch the edge of the counter, your mind racing. “What do you mean she left…?” You have never been more confused in your entire life.

Namjoon sighs. “I don’t know all the details. You know hyung, he tells you what he thinks you need to know. The rest, he keeps to himself. But I do know they did the paternity tests and everything, and Haneul’s his, theirs.”

Theirs. It’s easier if Namjoon just slices your heart open at this rate. 

He places a tentative hand on your shoulder. “It’s better to hear it straight from Yoongi-hyung, since you guys are, you know.”

“I– I don’t know. I don’t know what we are,” you say, leaning your weight sideways against the wall to steady yourself. 

Get a grip. It’s Haneul’s day. 

Namjoon stands to shield you from the rest, in case anybody chances to look your way. You probably look like you’re about to puke. You definitely feel like it.

“Joonie…” Your voice is small when you ask, “Do you think she wants to come back now?”

Namjoon lifts his shoulder, lets it sag, “I don’t know. Maybe. She wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

Your chest tightens, a wave of insecurity crashing over you. Of course, she would want to come back now. She’s beautiful, successful, everything you’re not. And most importantly, she’s Haneul’s mother. That’s the kicker. How can you compete with that?

Spoiler alert: you can’t.

When you step back into the living room, the first thing you notice is Yoongi’s mom. She’s standing off to the side, her lips pressed into a thin line as she glares at Sung Kyung from across the room with a mixture of disapproval and barely-contained irritation.

“She shouldn’t be here,” she says quietly, her voice cold and clipped.

“Eomma,” Yoongi grits.

“She abandoned Haneul, Yoongi,” his mom hisses, her tone sharper now. “And she thinks she can just come here like nothing happened?”

Yoongi sighs, his hand briefly brushing his mother’s arm in a silent plea for calm. “Not here, eomma. Please. It’s Haneul’s birthday. Don’t make a scene.”

Of course he is siding with her.

You’re unable to tear your eyes away from Sung Kyung. How can she look so beautiful even if she looks miserable? She exchanges a few more quiet words with Yoongi near the door, her expression alternating between frustration and what looks like regret. You can’t hear what they’re saying, but you catch the way Yoongi’s shoulders stiffen, the way his jaw tightens as she reaches out to brush his arm. You see Yoongi nod, and you’re so curious, what is he agreeing to?

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, she leaves. The door is closed, but for sure this chapter isn’t. Not even close.

You entertain yourself by watching some of the BTS members play some video games. Their antics, as funny as they are, don’t really register. Your laughs are hollow, mind totally elsewhere. It’s a while before Yoongi finally finds you, after he disappeared to his studio after Sung Kyung left and went MIA for half an hour or so.

He corners you near the snack table as you pretend to be engrossed in arranging leftover cupcakes.

“Hey,” he says softly, touching your arm lightly.

You turn to face him, your smile brittle. “Hey. How’s everything going?”

“Can we talk?”

You nod, following him toward the hallway, away from the laughter and chatter. The noise completely fades as you enter his soundproof studio and he turns to face you.

He exhales deeply, running a hand through his hair. “I wanted to talk to you,” he says carefully, like he’s choosing every word with precision.

“About Sung Kyung.” you offer. He nods, shoulders visibly tense. “Yeah. And Haneul.”

The mention of Haneul makes your chest tighten, but you steady yourself, waiting for him to continue.

“She and I… we were close for a long time,” he begins, his gaze dropping to the floor. “And yeah, there was a point where I thought it was going somewhere. But then she just… disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“She left Korea. No warning, no explanation. Just… ghosted.” He shrugs. “I didn’t know where she went or why. She didn’t contact me for months.”

“And then one day,” he continues, “she called. Told me she just gave birth to a son. That it was mine.”

The words hang between you, heavy and jarring. You don’t say anything, letting him get it all out.

“She didn’t tell me she was pregnant,” he says, shaking his head as if he still can’t believe it. “I literally only found out after he was born.”

You feel a pang of sympathy, but then you’re also feeling angry at Sung Kyung. “Why did she wait so long to tell you?”

“She said she didn’t want to burden me. I was already doing my military service and I had that thing… that case. She thought she could handle it on her own.” He looks up at you then, his eyes dark and conflicted. “But after she had him… she couldn’t. She fell into really severe postpartum depression and some other health issues, basically telling me she was diagnosed unfit to take care of him.”

Your throat tightens, and you clasp your hands together to keep them from shaking. “So you stepped in.”

He nods, “I didn’t have a choice. Haneul needed someone, and I couldn’t—I wouldn’t turn my back on him. He’s my son. It was confirmed by a paternity test.”

“And now she’s back,” you say, more a statement than a question.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, dragging a hand down his face. “She says she’s better. That she wants to be in his life now. That she can be. And honestly… I don’t know what to do.”

You study him for a moment, your emotions warring between compassion and your own sense of inadequacy. “What do you want, Yoongi? Not for her, not for Haneul. What do you want?”

“I don’t know,” he admits, gnawing his lip before he says, “I just… I want to do what’s right for Haneul.”

The words cut deeper than you expected, but you force a small smile, nodding as if they don’t sting. “That makes sense.”

Yoongi takes a step closer as he studies your face. “But what about you?” he asks, his voice almost too gentle. “How are you feeling about all this?”

The sincerity in his question takes you off guard, and for a moment, you’re tempted to tell him everything. The ache in your chest, the jealousy you hate admitting to, the fear of losing whatever connection the two of you have built. But instead, you plaster on a smile, shoving all those emotions into a corner of your mind.

“I’m fine,” you say lightly. “It’s Haneul’s birthday. That’s what matters.”

Yoongi doesn’t look convinced, his gaze lingering on you as if he’s trying to read the truth in your expression. But after a moment, he nods, letting it drop. “Okay.”

Finally, you glance at the door, forcing yourself to straighten up. “We should probably get back to the party.”

“Yeah,” Yoongi says, stepping aside to let you pass. But as you reach for the door, his voice stops you.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

You turn back, your brows furrowing. “For what?”

“For everything,” he says, his eyes filled with something you can’t quite name.

You don’t know how to respond, so you just nod. Because his words—why did it feel like a goodbye?

The rest of the party passes in a blur. You keep smiling, keep laughing, keep pretending everything is fine. You stand by as Yoongi helps Haneul blow out his single candle, snapping pictures of his chubby hands smashing into the frosting. 

You’re wiping stray frosting from Haneul’s cheek when you glance at him and for a split second, you see her. Sung Kyung’s face is right there, faint but unmistakable, in the shape of his eyes and the curve of his brows.

The realization hits you like a freight train. You freeze, the cloth clutched in your hand, staring at this beautiful baby boy who isn’t yours. Who will never be yours.

It’s too much. You set the muslin down, excusing yourself to the kitchen with a muttered, “I’ll grab more drinks.”

You don’t even make it to the fridge. You stand there by the counter, gripping its edge as you force yourself to breathe, to keep the tears at bay. You’ve never felt more out of place in your life.

Namjoon finds you a few moments later, leaning against the doorway with a quiet, watchful look. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He just stays there, close but not too close, his presence steady and silent. You appreciate him for that—for knowing exactly what you need when you’re unraveling. He’s your best friend after all.

But even his quiet support isn’t enough to keep the emotions at bay.

Across the room, Yoongi’s eomma catches your eye. There’s something pitying in the glances she throws your way, a faint furrow of her brow that makes you want to sink into the floor. You had the feeling she knows there’s something between you and Yoongi, but now… now it feels like she’s seeing through you, like she knows exactly how small you’re starting to feel.

Because the truth is, you’re nothing.

You’re not Haneul’s mom. You’re not Yoongi’s girlfriend. You’re just someone who helps out when it’s convenient, and now that they have a nanny, you’re not even that. And it hurts. God, it hurts because you thought—maybe foolishly, maybe selfishly—that you were becoming something more. That you were becoming someone to them. That, maybe, you were becoming a family.

But now, as you stand there watching Yoongi carry Haneul to his room, barely sparing you a glance, the truth sinks in like a stone in your chest. You’re not someone. You’re a placeholder. A stand-in.

And pretty soon, just like Jiyong, they’re going to discard you. Because that’s what always happens. You’re always easy to leave behind. Always replaceable. Always useless.

The thought claws at you, and you suddenly can’t breathe. You grab your things and run. The cool night air stings your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the ache in your chest.

The tears come before you can stop them, hot and angry and full of every ounce of self-loathing you’ve tried to bury.

You glance back at the building. Maybe for the last time. You’re on the outside now—of course you are. You’ve been on the outside this entire time.

Namjoon must have noticed you were gone because he texted shortly after:

Joonie: You okay? Joonie: Don’t worry, I told them you weren’t feeling well. Go home and rest. Text me when you’re there.

That night, you ignored Yoongi’s call. You stared at the screen as his name lit up, your finger hovering over the answer button before you let it ring out. He left a voicemail. You deleted it without listening.

The next morning, you wake up to another call from him. This time, he doesn’t leave a voicemail. Instead, he sends a message.

Yoongi: Can I come over?

You stare at the text for a long time, your stomach twisting with guilt and anger and sadness. Finally, you type out a single word:

You: No

You throw your phone face-down on the couch, ignoring the way it buzzes again and again and again.

For the next few days, you ghost him.

It wasn’t easy. Every time your phone buzzes, you feel a pang of guilt, a deep ache that gnaws at your resolve. But you can’t bring yourself to answer. You need time. You need to figure out where you stood in all of this.

His messages come sporadically at first:

Yoongi: Hey, can we talk? Yoongi: I don’t know what I did wrong, but I want to fix it. Yoongi: Please. Just let me know you’re okay.

You delete most of them without reading too much into them. But then he starts sending pictures.

The first was of Haneul, grinning in his chair, wearing the capybara slippers you’d gifted him for his birthday.

Yoongi: Haneul misses you

The next day, another photo. This time, Haneul was lying on his playmat, still wearing the slippers, holding onto Bora.

Yoongi: Still missing you

Each message chips away at your resolve, but the one that breaks you comes Thursday evening:

A short video clip. In it, Haneul is sitting on the floor, babbling as he clutches Bora. And then, clear as day, he says it:

“Sa-ra.”

Your heart twists painfully. It’s clipped, but it’s unmistakably sarang. Your term of endearment for him, the nickname you’d called him since he started smiling every time he heard it. He’d never been able to say it back—not until now.

And Yoongi knows exactly what he is doing, sending this to you.

You stare at the screen for what feels like an eternity, leaving the video on loop, before finally opening your call log. His name was right at the top, of course. You hit the call button, your hands trembling as you bring the phone to your ear.

“Hello?” Yoongi’s voice comes through almost immediately.

You exhale shakily. “Hi.”

There was a pause. Then he speaks again, and you can hear his vulnerability. “I didn’t think you’d call back.”

You close your eyes, trying to steady yourself. “How could I ignore that video? Haneul… he said sarang.”

“Yeah, he’s been saying it non-stop since yesterday.”

You swallowed hard, gripping the phone tighter. “Yoongi… about… us.”

“Mmh?” He didn’t interrupt, didn’t rush you. He just waited.

“I’ve been thinking,” you began. “Haneul deserves to have a complete family. He deserves to know his mom, to have her in his life. If—if that’s what you both want.”

Yoongi was quiet for a long moment before he finally responded. “But… he needs you, too.”

Before you can back out, “Yoongi, I need space,” you say finally, your voice trembling.

There was a pause, and when he spoke again, his voice was quiet. “Okay.”

It wasn’t a protest. It wasn’t an argument. Just… okay. It’s the most ‘Yoongi’ reaction to things, and you hate it. You hate it so much.

You hang up, staring at the screen until it goes dark. Your chest felt heavy, your heart splintering in ways you didn’t know it could.

You’d told him you needed space and he said okay. The truth is, when you said space, you just wanted him to make room for you. To assure you that you belong with them. That there is a seat, warm and yours. But he didn’t.

You miss Yoongi so much it feels like a physical ache. But it’s not just him. You miss Haneul’s face, his giggles, his sleepy weight in your arms. 

Namjoon has been doing his best to check in. He sends you UberEats nearly every other day, a steady stream of meals you barely touch. The one time he came over, unannounced, he walked into what could only be described as a disaster.

“Jesus Christ,” Namjoon muttered, kicking a stray box out of his way as he entered your apartment. The laundry basket was overflowing, your trash can piled up. You were in a 2-day old shirt, hair a rat’s nest, and you’re slouched on the couch with an empty brain.

Namjoon stared at you, his disappointment radiating off him. “Y/N, you can’t keep doing this to yourself.”

“I’m fine,” you lied, barely looking at him.

He scoffed. “Fine? You look like you’ve been run over by a truck. Twice.”

“So dramatic.” You rolled your eyes, but the truth of his words stung.

Namjoon crouched in front of you, placing his hands on your knees. “Move in with me for now. You know I have the space. You can’t stay here like this. It’s not healthy.”

“I’m not moving in with you, Joon,” you said, shaking your head. “I’m not your charity case.”

He sighed, rubbing his temples. “You’re not a charity case. You’re my best friend. And I’m not gonna sit back and watch you drown in your own misery.”

“I’m not gonna live in your and Soyeon’s sex den,” you snapped unnecessarily.

Namjoon just looked at you, shook his head, before he flopped beside you on the couch. He fed you, forced you to go take a shower, and watched some shitty reality show with you. He eventually left, though you could feel the weight of his disappointment long after the door shut behind him. If he only knew how thankful you were of those visits.

A week later, you find yourself standing in front of Yoongi’s apartment. You didn’t plan this. You don’t even know what you’re hoping to achieve by being here. All you know is that the ache of missing them—missing him—has become unbearable.

You knock on the door before you can second-guess yourself.

Mrs. Kwon opens it, her expression immediately uneasy. “Y/N,” she says, her tone cautious. “You should come back another time.”

“Why?” you ask, your voice sharper than you intended.

She hesitates, her lips pressing into a thin line. “It’s just… not a good time.”

“I need to see them,” you insist, stepping forward.

“My dear girl, please listen—”

But you’re already past her, your determination overriding her warnings.

When you step into the living room–

Fuck.

There she is. Sung Kyung, sitting on the floor with Haneul in her lap, holding a plush toy you don’t recognize. She’s smiling at him, her voice soft as she tries to coax him into playing with it. Adding salt to the wound–Bora, the capybara plush you gave Haneul, is discarded carelessly in the corner near the diaper pail.

Your heart stops, and before you can control yourself, you take a step back, your movement catching Sung Kyung’s attention. She looks up, confused. She doesn’t know you, why would she? 

Yoongi’s voice comes from behind you, and you turn to see him emerging from his studio, his brows furrowed in confusion. “Who rang the—”

His eyes widen when he sees you, but you’re already moving, your feet carrying you toward the door in a blind rush.

“Wait—Y/N!”

You barely hear him as you bend down and snatch Bora from the floor. Haneul’s voice suddenly cuts through the air, his tiny, excited voice calling out, “Sa-ra! Sa-ra!”

Tears blur your vision as you wrench the door open and run, Yoongi’s voice calling after you, but you don’t stop.

It’s raining when you step outside. Great, because this day couldn’t get any worse. The cold droplets soak through your clothes almost instantly. You don’t have an umbrella, but you don’t give a shit. Tears stream down your face mixing with the rain.

You don’t know how far you get before you feel it—a warmth against your back, arms wrapping around you tightly.

Yoongi’s voice cracks as he says your name, his rain-soaked body like a furnace against your shivering frame. “Please.”

He sounds like he is begging, but why? What is he asking? What does he want from you?

You shake your head, your voice breaking. “This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come.”

“Then why did you?” he asks, his tone desperate, his chest heaving as he pulls you tighter.

“Because I thought… I thought I had a place here. But I’m such a fucking idiot.”

“Don’t say that,” he pleads, his voice barely audible over the rain as he turns you to face him. His hands come up to cradle your face. He was starting to shake too, the pads of his fingers damp against your skin. His eyes search yours, desperate, and before you can stop him—or yourself—he closes the space between you and kisses you.

Against the pouring rain, your lips press against each other, clumsy, shaky, unexpectedly urgent. His lips move like he’s trying to say all the things he can’t find the words for, like this is his only way to make you understand. And for a second, maybe a minute, maybe more, you let him.

You feel his ragged breaths as he licks into your mouth, his hair brushing your temple, droplets trailing down your skin. His hand slides from your cheek to the nape of your neck, fingers threading gently through your wet hair. It’s tender and fierce all at once, like he’s afraid you might vanish if he lets go.

But there is a tinge of bitterness cutting through the taste of his kiss. This isn’t enough—not to fix everything, not to erase the doubt clawing at the edges of your mind. Not to prevent the new thoughts from worming its way inside.

Sung Kyung is in his apartment right now. So maybe it’s not just about Haneul anymore. Maybe they’re reconciling. Trying to sort out their own feelings that they put on ice. Yoongi did say he thought their relationship was going somewhere. 

God, you do not want to be some homewrecker. You cannot do that to Haneul. Weakly you try to pull back. 

But Yoongi doesn’t let you. His lips chase yours, teeth gently sinking into your plush and you’re unable to stifle the moan from your mouth at the delicious sting. You open up to him, lips sliding against his as his other hand grips your waist now, pulling you closer until you can really feel the heat of his body through the drenched fabric of his clothes. The world feels like it’s spinning, everything is blending into a dizzying blur, and you don’t know how to stop it.

Your hand hovers at his chest, not pushing him away but not pulling him closer either. Your heart is screaming to hold on just a little longer. But your head is telling you—

“No,” you whisper, breaking away as quickly as you can without slipping on the slick ground. Your chest heaves as you clutch Bora tighter against you.

Yoongi stands frozen, his lips parted as if he’s about to speak, his dark eyes locked on yours. The rain clings to his lashes, his hair plastered to his forehead, and for a moment, he looks completely lost.

“I can’t do this, Yoongi,” you choke out, your voice shaking. “I just… I can’t.”

And before he can stop you, you turn and run again, your feet splashing through puddles as you make your way to the nearest bus stop. By some miracle, you make your way home in one piece. Barring one vital organ that’s discarded somewhere in Hannam.

My tea's gone cold, I'm wondering why I Got out of bed at all The morning rain clouds up my window And I can't see at all And even if I could, it'd all be gray But your picture on my wall It reminds me that it's not so bad, it's not so bad - Stan, Eminem

Your apartment is cold and quiet, the soft patter of rain against the windows the only sound. The mug of tea on your table has long since gone cold, untouched, as you sit curled up on the couch, staring at that grainy selca Yoongi sent you weeks ago. 

You’re startled out of your thoughts by the sound of the door opening. Namjoon steps in, shaking off the rain and holding a grocery bag in one hand, his hoodie slung over his shoulder. He’s soaked to the bone, but he flashes you his dimples anyway.

“You know,” he starts, setting the bag on the counter, “for someone who always claims they’re fine, you sure as hell don’t look it.”

“Don’t start, Joon,” you mumble, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself.

Namjoon ignores you, glancing around the apartment with a disapproving look. “Seriously? It still looks like you just moved in. No decorations, no warmth. This part could be a photo wall or something…”

You roll your eyes. “Alright, Mr. Art influencer.”

“I need a dry shirt,” he says, gripping the edge of his tee and pulling it up and over his head without fanfare.

You’ve never felt attracted to your best friend in any physical or sexual way ever (seriously, ew), but you can appreciate a good physique when you see one.

“Wow, Joonie, are your tiddies getting bigger?” you say as you stand to find a shirt for him from your makeshift closet.

“You’re an idiot.”

Before you can respond, the doorbell rings. Namjoon straightens, wiping his hands on his pants. “You expecting someone?”

You shake your head.

Namjoon strides to the door, glancing through the peephole with a tsk before pulling it open. He doesn’t seem to care that he’s shirtless, which would be awkward enough if it were anyone else standing there. 

But it’s Yoongi.

Yoongi stands in the hallway, his expression strained, his eyes immediately scanning the room behind Namjoon until they land on you, curled on the couch. You clutch the t-shirt you were about to lend Namjoon tighter against your chest, unsure whether to feel relief, anger, or the painful longing that’s been gnawing at you for days.

“I need to talk to her,” Yoongi says, his voice calm but heavy with emotion.

Namjoon steps into the doorway, crossing his arms as he blocks the entrance. “Maybe not today, hyung.”

Yoongi’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t flinch. “I have to. I need to explain.”

Namjoon doesn’t budge, his voice soft but firm. “Sorry, hyung. Not after everything.”

Yoongi’s eyes flick to you again, desperate. “I just… fuck,” He swallows hard, his voice breaking slightly. “I can’t let her think she doesn’t matter to me. She does. More than anyone.”

Namjoon hesitates for the first time, glancing back at you. His expression softens briefly, but when he turns to Yoongi again, it’s your voice that responds.

“Yoongi.” Your voice is quiet, but it cuts through the tension like a blade. Both men turn to you, and the hope that flashes across Yoongi’s face makes your lungs shrivel.

You grip the fabric in your hands tighter, willing yourself to stay firm. “You should go.”

Yoongi’s lips part as if to argue, but the look in your eyes silences him. He nods once, slowly, his expression crumbling for just a moment before he turns away.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice so soft you almost don’t hear it.

Namjoon watches him for a moment longer before stepping back into the apartment and shutting the door.

The first step is always the hardest.

Namjoon didn’t sugarcoat anything when he told you to get your shit together. “I love you,” he said bluntly after Yoongi left that rainy night, “but you’re the only one who can pull yourself out of this. No one else is coming to save you. Not me. Not Jiyong. Not Yoongi. Just you.”

You hated hearing it, but he was right.

So you took the first step: you called a therapist. Twice a week, you sat in that tiny, clinical room and talked about everything you’d buried for years. The abandonment issues you’d carried since childhood. The shame you felt after your relationship with Jiyong fell apart. The way you constantly give pieces of yourself to others, just like you did with Haneul and Yoongi, leaving nothing for yourself. Thinking that’s okay.

Session by session, the fog began to lift. Slowly, you started to understand that happiness couldn’t come from someone else, no matter how deeply you loved them. It had to come from you—built piece by piece, nurtured, protected.

You realized that loving yourself wasn’t selfish. It was necessary. And for the first time in months, you began to believe you were worthy of it.

At home, you started small. One night, you finally tackled the pile of laundry that had been haunting you for weeks. Another night, you scrubbed down the kitchen until the counters gleamed. And then one weekend, you went to IKEA and bought a bed frame—not just a functional one, but a beautiful one that made you feel excited to wake up in the mornings.

You even hung up paintings on the walls, little pops of color that made the apartment feel like it was actually yours. Namjoon gave you some from his collection, too.

Running sucks, but it became your nightly ritual. At first, it was hard. Your legs ached, and your lungs burned. But the more you pushed yourself, the better it felt—the rush of endorphins, the rhythm of your feet hitting the pavement, the way your thoughts quieted for just a little while.

Bit by bit, you started to feel lighter. Like you were shedding layers of weight you didn’t even realize you were carrying.

And then there was Yoongi.

He was still a constant name on your phone, though the tone of his messages had shifted over time. At first, his texts were full of apologies and pleas for a second chance:

Yoongi: I know I messed up. Please let me make it right.

Yoongi: I’m sorry for everything. I hate that I hurt you.

Yoongi: I need you, Y/N. I should have told you sooner.

Yoongi: Can I come over? I really want to explain everything.

Yoongi: I’m an idiot.

Yoongi: I’ll wait for you. Just tell me when you’re ready to talk.

Then came the texts about Haneul:

Yoongi: Haneul misses you. Not to one-up my own kid, but I miss you more.

Yoongi: Han said your name today. He kept pointing at the door like he was waiting for you to walk in.

Yoongi: I bought him a new Bora. This giraffe is lame. [image attached]

Yoongi: Han’s been carrying Bora 2.0 everywhere. He even tried to feed it rice last night.

And now, weeks later, his messages had settled into something different.

Yoongi: I was in the studio all day, and Hobi made me take a break. We ended up eating too much fried chicken and now I have a zit.

Yoongi: How was your run today? Namjoonah says you’re joining a mini marathon. Good luck!

Yoongi: Still have boxes of Silver Moon tea. It’s too bougie for my ghetto taste buds. Lmk if you want it. Yoongi: Actually, no need. I'll send it thru Namjoonah.

Yoongi: I fucked up the choreography to our new track at Mubank today like an amateur. I hope you didn’t get to watch it.

They were simple, almost mundane. But Yoongi’s texts had a way of hitting you square in the chest. You think back to that conversation in his home, the one where he admitted how lonely he sometimes felt—how he wished for someone to talk to about the little things, the big milestones, everything in between. Someone to share life with. And now, with every message he sends, it feels like he’s choosing you.

Even though weeks have passed without seeing him, he’s still there. Reaching out. Trying to stay connected. Even when you never reply.

But his messages have become tiny bursts of dopamine in your otherwise quiet days. You’re both surprised and relieved he hasn’t stopped trying, that he hasn’t grown tired of pouring himself into the void of your Kakao.

Namjoon told you recently that Yoongi and Sung Kyung have started co-parenting Haneul. She gets supervised visits twice a month. At first, the green-eyed monster threatened to come out. But your best friend tells you that Yoongi never wanted to rekindle anything with Sung Kyung, which gave you some peace. Maybe if you’d been braver back then, you could’ve asked Yoongi yourself. Maybe if Yoongi had been better at communicating, he would have told you then it wouldn’t have felt like such an uphill climb.

But, he was also having such a difficult time, sorting through his own circumstances. And your insecurities at the time were too heavy, too overwhelming to sift through. You probably wouldn’t have believed him then. The progress you’ve made now—to love yourself first—feels hard-won and necessary. And maybe Yoongi also needed to go on a journey to really know what he wants for him and Haneul.

You’ve come to realize through all this that you don’t really hate Sung Kyung. Maybe you were angry on behalf of Yoongi and Haneul for all the secrets she kept, for the ways her choices hurt them both. There was even a night when you found yourself doing a Naver search on postpartum depression. You hadn’t understood how debilitating it could be, how it could turn even the strongest person into a shell of themselves. It didn’t excuse everything, but it gave you perspective, especially as you battle your own demons.

Still, as you journey forward, there are moments when you imagine the “what ifs” with Yoongi, if Sung Kyung hadn't showed up that day. Sometimes, late at night, your mind drifts back to him. You replay his kiss, remembering the way it felt, the way he tasted. You can still conjure the image of his face under the rain, the way he looked at you in that fleeting, heart-wrenching moment.

You wonder if he thinks about it, too. You know he’s waiting. You just hope that when you’re finally ready to let him back in, he’ll still be there—on the other side, willing to try again.

One evening, Namjoon called, his tone unusually excited. “Hey, I’ve got something for you.”

“No, I don’t need more lube, I’m stocked,” you joked, just to be a piece of shit.

“Shut up and listen,” he said, laughing. “Hybe’s opening a daycare for employees’ kids. They need someone to run it. You’re perfect for this.”

Your stomach flipped. “What? Joonie, I don’t even—”

“Don’t even try to argue,” he interrupted. “You have a degree in early childhood education. You love kids. This was your literal job in the states. C’mon, this is made for you.”

“What if I’m not ready?”

Namjoon sighed. “You are. I’ve seen how much work you’ve been putting in. You’re stronger than you think. Just… apply. The worst they can do is say no.”

You’re quiet, so he added. “...and they won’t. I’ll have each member of Bangtan sign a recommendation letter for you.”

“You’re too much, Joonie,” you laugh. But you surely won’t put it past him to do that. “But ok, I’ll apply.”

So you did. And a week later, you got the call.

Your first day at Hybe’s daycare center feels like a dream you didn’t know you had. The space is beautiful—sunlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm glow over the colorful toys, tiny tables, and pastel murals. There are only three kids who pre-registered, but you were expecting more to walk in.

Namjoon is there, truly your ride or die, sitting casually on your desk with his ever-supportive grin. “You nervous?” 

“Nope,” you say, trying to sound confident. But the way your voice wavers gives you away.

Namjoon chuckles. “Relax. You’re going to crush this.”

Before you can respond, the door swings open, and in walks Hobi with Yunjin and their toddler, Jeongyeon. The little girl looks adorable in her sunflower-patterned overalls, her tiny pigtails bobbing as she walks toward the play area.

“Jeongyeon, say hi to teacher Y/N,” Yunjin says, gently guiding her forward.

“Hi!” Jeongyeon squeaks.

You crouch down to her level. “Hi, Jeongyeon! You’re gonna have so much fun today.”

“First kid of the day, ayeeee!" Hobi says, high-fiving Yunjin, before she runs to Jeongyeon who is mounting the toy pony. Then he turns to you, “Congratulations, Y/N.”

Just as they’re leaving, Namjoon nudges you. “By the way, did you know there’s a capybara mascot today?”

“What?” you blink, confused.

Before Namjoon can explain, something soft and warm suddenly envelops you in a hug. You turn to see a capybara mascot wrapping its plush arms around you, its giant head tilted adorably to the side.

“What the…” You laugh, surprised, grasping its arm. “Hybe really went all out, huh?”

Namjoon smirks. “Of course. First-day activations are a big deal here. And look at that, your favorite animal. What a coincidence.”

You grin, stepping back to look at the mascot. “Guess I’m a little biased, but this might be the cutest thing ever.”

The mascot gives you an exaggerated thumbs-up. 

Shortly, Haneul arrives. The moment you see him toddling through the door, all your nerves, all the weight you’d carried for weeks—gone. There’s no ache, no tension. Just pure, uncomplicated happiness.

His nanny, a kind older woman, walks him in, holding his hand as he peers curiously around the room.

Haneul bounds toward you giggling, his gummy smile stretching wide as he lets go of the nanny’s hand and waddles toward you.

“Hi, sarang,” you say, crouching down to scoop him into your arms. He smells like baby lotion and sunshine, and your chest feels full as he buries his face in your shoulder. “I missed you.”

You glance toward the door, your eyes darting around instinctively, but there’s no sign of Yoongi. A small pang of disappointment settles in your stomach before you shake it off. He’s probably holed up in his studio, working on something brilliant. It would have been nice to see him though.

The capybara mascot wanders over, drawing Haneul’s attention instantly. His eyes light up as he points at it, giggling.

“Appa!” Haneul says excitedly, punching the knee of the mascot with his tiny fists.

You laugh, brushing a hand through his soft hair. “That’s not your appa, Haneul. He’s probably in one of the big studios upstairs working very hard right now.”

The mascot gives you a pat on the head, and something about its movements feels oddly familiar. But you don’t dwell on it, too caught up in Haneul’s delighted squeals as the mascot does a little dance for him. It sure loves to shake its ass.

For the rest of the morning, you’re in your element, guiding the kids through activities, wiping tears, and singing songs during circle time. Every so often, Haneul points at the mascot and calls out “Appa!” again, and you can’t help but laugh.

And if the capybara mascot seems to hover a little longer around Haneul, or if it lingers near you whenever there’s a chance, well… you just chalk it up to coincidence.

(One day, much later, you’ll find out the truth. But for now, you’re content not knowing.)

That night, your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you pull it out to find another message from Yoongi.

Yoongi: Congratulations on your first day!

You stare at the screen, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. For the first time in weeks, as you look at your thread of messages from him, you let yourself smile—a small, cautious smile, but a smile nonetheless. And for the first time in months of radio silence, you type up your first reply to him.

You: Thanks, Yoongi. I’m really happy. :)

His reply came almost immediately.

Yoongi: You deserve it

And it may have taken a while, but you finally believe that. So you decide you are also finally ready to do this.

You: Can we talk? Yoongi: giv me 10 mins im cming overr

:)

A/N: 

Alright!! Wheeeew! You good? How are you feeling?!?!? As usual, please sound off in the comments. 💕

I just want to say that am so proud of this chapter. I think I wrote my best, angst work here. Plus - Kissing in the rain? Namtiddies? A taste of smau? Hee hee. 🤗 

If you make it to here, thank you so so much for reading this story, you lovely, beautiful, human! xo

Part 4 is coming uppp and it’s gonna be a doozy~ 🤭

P.S. As some of y’all know I am a mom and I have experienced post-partum depression before. It was nowhere near the severity of how it is depicted here (a condition that is grave and rare because the character also has other mental struggles), but I empathize. I cannot imagine being truly unfit to care for my own baby. So I request that we do not vilify L&L! LSK. She fucked up real baddd, she could’ve involved Yoongi earlier, etc etc but again she is trying to do better. Plusss, it needs to be said, she does not want Yoongi. Gasp. Y’all can rest easy. He’s yours! 💕

& If you want to read more of my work, please check out my masterlist. & If you enjoy my work and want to buy me a ko-fi, I'd appreciate it.

Taglist:

@yoongznme @nnybtitts08 @rinkud @nbjch05 @perfectiondazesworld

@marnz1990 @mxrauds @queenbloody @jadestonedaeho7 @futuristicenemychaos

@direnediane @glossdebut @maryhopemei @theresstardustinmyblood @mggv97

@wobblewobble822 @kam9404 @supernoonanyc @damn-u-min-yoongi @ot72025

@busanbby-jjk @granataepfelchen @jajabro @tarahardcore @marihoneywk

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@kookiewithluv @soop-sprite @hyukaluve

[gaywineauntsstuff]

Listen I love the ‘dicks being ostracized from his family and self destructs’ trope in fics however

I would like an inverse just once (I could write it but I want this fic to be good so I can enjoy it and I am not the greatest writer) where everyone blows up at him and flat out lays into him and he just goes… okay… if that’s how you feel?

Takes himself off of the patrol routes and rosters. He’s off the emergency calls and his ‘call for city wide emergency’ has been down graded to ‘call for world wide emergency’ he’s no longer on comms with oracle

He stops offering assistance to the other kids teams, doesn’t send info for investigation and doesn’t go within 100feet of Gotham.

Takes himself off the den-mother, baby sitter, trainer for all the younger teams lost that involve any and all bats

In the beginning he vacates his apartment and temporarily moves in with Donna in New York and things are good because of course they are. They’re Dick and Donna a world doesn’t exist where they aren’t okay.

And then his presence in New York leads to a lot of the og core five titans interacting and they realize that they miss each other like hell and start to work together more and more. Until news sites are like ‘teen titans grown up??’ ‘Original titans spotted doing hurricane aid in Florida!’

Because Dick loves his family but he knows when to bow out. And he chose the family he made in the new teen titans.

And then one day one of the bats track him down in nyc and breaks into what is now Dick and Donna’s apartment and are ready to argue that they need him back and need him there for a huge Gotham wide event.

And Dick says ‘sure okay let me get my stuff and we leave in half and hour’ as soon as the first sentence is out

No convincing or begging or asking for money (cough Jason cough)

Dick is patched into their comms and he’s working efficiently except he’s not… acting like himself.

He’s collaborating with whoever they tell him too, no problem, he’s discussing ideal plans and co-ops and teams and how to best get it under control.

But he’s talking to them the way he talks when he’s offering aid to teams he’s not a part of.

Like the hero version of an acquaintance and no one can call him out on it because he’s doing good work. Work that’s on par with his work before this whole fiasco. He explicitly isn’t letting their personal issues affect his work.

He’s speaking but not talking

And Bruce remembers this… he’s probably the only one who does because last time he was the only one included. The last time Dick acted like this is when he first visited Jason and him after he had been fired.

Whenever Bruce was in the room and Dick was forced to speak with him, the conversation never strayed past business casual especially around Jason.

Batman and Nightwing got into screaming matches

Bruce and Dick were strangers

And now they’re back to this, 7 kids later, a million ends of the world stopped, they’ve bled together, cried together and clung to each other in pure relief after they managed to clutch victory.

And Nightwing was treating Batman Inc like a new team stepping onto the scene.

Once they’ve secured everything and managed to keep Bruce from self destructing and making it worse. Dick just leaves and tells oracle that he’ll send over his debrief in 3-5 business days and it was nice working with them.

And then he’s gone

No cave, no manor, no Alfred, no med-bay because Dick doesn’t stay places he’s not welcome.

And after they all talk about that and how weird it was and Bruce reveals Dick did this before when he was Nightwing after Bruce fired, where Dick Grayson didn’t know Bruce Wayne.

And one of the kids asks when he broke and stopped the act and Bruce just says ‘the day he found out Jason died’

And the Batkids kinda freak bc what do you mean?? What is he only going to come back when someone dies? Thats not? There has to be another way?? And Bruce is like yeah no idea sorry (bc he’s helpful like that)

So then Steph the next day resolves to go visit him, Tim isn’t the only professional stalker. And she finds Dick and Donna’s apartment and well it’s daylight and she’s in civvies she’s if she climbs in through the window she might get reported to the NYPD and she doesn’t wanna get arrested or shot to door it is!

And so she goes and knocks and Dick opens the door and just lights up

Something something this is such a nice surprise something something it’s so good to see you.

Dick had taught Donna how to make some of his mother recipes when they were kids. So now whenever they’re together for a long time they cook together.

So Dick who is usually living in a cluttered apartment with no clean dishes and an exclusively grab and go food is now trying to force feed her some of his cooking.

Because he picked up the habit again since he’s the better cook between him and Donna.

And it’s delicious and he wants to catch up and hear everything that’s going on in her life, is she working with new people, dating anyone? How is her relationship with her mother etc etc.

It’s a nice day and she stays late and never confronts him on anything until she sees how long ago the sun set and she needs to get moving.

He hands her paper with his number and makes her promise not to give it to the others or she will lose access to it, he offers to help her on a conditional basis as nightwing but only her, she can call him about the rest if it’s an end of the world or they’re near death and need immediate aid.

And that’s like the fic because the key to winning nightwings assistance is like breathing (optional) but if you’re Dicks family you have to care or else. He’ll love you and help you, when you need it but he won’t tie his life up with yours, he’ll spend his time with people who value his opinion and the person behind the mask.

Anyway cue all the Batkids trying to do what Steph did and fail because they’re neurotic shits who think bonding involves doing casework together or a steak out.

(The next person to crack it is Damian, completely unintentionally he has a fight with Bruce and can’t ask him how the fuck he’s supposed to solve this equation in the new stupid way they’re teaching him no he can’t use the old method they’re supposed to show their work so he pulls up to Dick and Donna’s in a ratty ass hoodie like plz wtf do you mean you work top down explain Grayson- and dicks like awww no problem kid)

[fierceawakening]

Yes! That’s… less of a clear answer than I feel comfortable with to join a movement or admire its leaders, but it’s something.

I always get the sense in conversations like this that people are much more comfortable than I am just being like “who cares about the edge cases?”

I care about them, both because I’ve *been* the victim of things committed by people too deep in their mental illness for anyone who tried to convince them to stop, and because if we truly believe everyone is a person (which I see as a key tenet of leftist values and part of why I choose them over right wing values in the first place) then we believe some things are too cruel even for people who do horrific things.

So I don’t see it as an issue we can avoid.

Also like I’ve mentioned I work at a homeless shelter. The reason a lot of academically inclined leftists can talk about crime like it’s rare is because they don’t spend time in environments where people who’ve committed crimes are common. I don’t think they’re wrong that most people are basically good, but I think they can be naive about what it takes to convince someone crimes are not a great idea. If someone has a patten of criming, it’s because that’s what they believe works for them. Getting them to stop is about changing their outlook and habits, which is far from impossible but a lot slower and more bumpy than many people who never did much criming want to think.

Also I think a lot of people really don’t have an accurate picture in their heads of serious mental illness. I think very often people have an idea that even very acutely ill people are fairly rational, and you can usually help them deal with their anxiety, give them meds, whatever, and they improve a lot. Again, I don’t think this is fundamentally incorrect; disease isn’t destiny. But having interacted with a lot of people whose illness is particularly intractable, I think that people often have… the same kind of image in their mind, where they don’t really understand how incremental incremental can be.

There are many people, including one client I’m very morose about, who improve a little when treated well, but a little isn’t enough. My moroseness? That client has been banned for fighting, unless she appeals the decision and wins. I don’t *like* the thought that she’s going to lose her place here and that’s likely to only make things worse… but I don’t have the fundamental confidence to say that kicking people out for violence is too cruel, we can make sure it’s fine. Making sure it’s fine is very clearly above my pay grade, and while there are people with more experience and better degrees than me I don’t have the impression they’re less confused.

All of which says to me that deciding we’re ready to stop imprisoning people who do bad things is at the very least premature (and to their credit a lot of abolitionists do agree that prisons will be phased out over time.) I think it’s unrealistic not just in a way that paints a rosy picture of humanity (as a whole? My picture of humanity is also fairly rosy!) but also in a way that fundamentally ill prepares us to really help perpetrators in ways that matter.

[planetsstarsandmoons]

Synastry observations (partly) based on personal experience, part 6:

(18+!!)

(Back after a year! Lol🌜🌛)

Moon conjunct mars: can be one sided asfuhck. I’ve seen it play out. Fully accepting that deeply personal intimacy of having someone’s sex aspecting your deepest emotions and/or the other way around is a sort of intimacy that some people just.. don’t…. want with that other person. This comes as a shocker because to most people, having a synastry aspect automatically means you have to like that with the other person, but Some people are just not into the other person like that! Or have trouble with intimacy. And even though the very primal emotional bridge between (possible) intensity of emotions and (possible) intensity of sexuality really ‘clicks’ and hits like no other, it doesn’t mean that the emotions or sexuality of both of the people will be intense within themselves… or that they will be seen in the same way. Many times I’ve seen this aspect play out in two people who worked really well together, were natural kissers and such, had almost iconically amazing fullfilling sex together, but one person wanted to marry and move into the other person and the other person simply did not want that, got the ick maybe, or simply closed themselves off from that meaning to the connection that one party attached to it but they themselves could not get in touch with, and either abused that power dynamic as much as they could or they ran away. Meanwhile thatother person, and I’ve seen both the moon and the mars person in that situation, is left completely addicted and insecure and an unstable mess because of this, because this aspects didn’t cause them so much to be in love, it caused them to have an addiction to this perfectly fullfilling passion and intimacy that they fundamentally lack in their life. They wanted to marry this person because of that. A friend (the mars person) of mine once puked when they saw their recent mars-conjunct-moon-synastey ex (it was a 1,5 month relationship) walk into a room. He later discovered that for some reason, that extremely intense feeling heartbreak didn’t really have anything to do with her, but more about the affection he lacked from an absent parent in his childhood, and the (obvious to everyone else) fact that he was bordering on a complete burn-out. He desperately needed that dopamine and those endorphins. Meanwhile the moon person was nowhere near in the headspace to have that kind of emotional intimacy so fast in her 1st relationship, so she started finding him less and less attractive, and then it was over. I once had an international student (moon) I think fall in love with me (and later stalk me) after 2 dates. He was a lonely international student in this Nordic country and his mother was sick in Egypt. We could not hold an interesting conversation on our own if we tried, but we were -very good kissers-and the almost-sex was extremely good. I didn’t want to cross that line, because for lack of better words I felt like it would go on to mean too much, be too emotional and too intimate and the thought crossing that border with him gave me the ick/ a fight or flight response, like I would just let this man be wayy too intimate with me if it happened, so I cut it off 🤷‍♀️ All the hormones of interpreting yourself to be totally ‘in love’ are there in the synastry, but it’s not *really* that, and most people in the sorry position even secretely know that, even though it’s confusing because they forever remain adamant that there here was something bomb in their connection.. because there was. But imagine: the moon feels emotionally hit in their core by mars’s… sexuality/attractiveness. Mars sees the deepest inner emotions of the moon and feels… turned on. You see where I’m going with this? The intensity and intimacy is great, but for a real love connection you need synastry on things that lead to mental, spiritual and emotional connectivity too. Can you even have a good conversation with this person for longer than 25 minutes? Do you even.. care about them? and vice versa? Would you love them if they were a worm? I have even more stories but they’re for another time 💆‍♀️

Moon trine mars: so. This one is kind of different. What do I mean? Well I believe that in synastry aspects, planetary influence comes to exist in the context of the aspect. Mars conjunct a planet will get all of mars. Mars square a planet will get the worst/most challenging side of mars (brought out by both). Mars opposite will get the antihero kind of mars -the conjunct mars on a possible (and needed) character delevopment journey if you will- and mars trine and sextile will get the harmonious benific, kind of ‘angelic’ sides of mars. He becomes the Aiden from Sex And The City, the soft woodchipper. This mars is in relation to the moon person a 10th house oriented, responsibility taking man who makes you laugh in the form of making you smile. The moon person becomes enamored with the mars person’s standing for something, his way of solving problems, overcoming obstacles, his professionality and his energetic form of taking action. The mars here becomes the kind of mars that is serious about protecting and heartily keeping what he feels is hitting his mars, instead of fighting with it or having sex with it necessarily. The moon’s emotional being becomes like his healthy objective, that he will protect and will fight/work himself up for in a way that he can control. A trine is harmonious which is kind of how you’ll see the mars person get into that civilised and gentlemanly role (to the emotions of the!!👌) moon partner. Where mars squaring the moon is like a mean alcoholic to the moon, the mars trining the moon will be a driven, shaved man in a suit or a spencer, kissing his wife goodbye before going to work. The moon in this aspect is different too: like water, the moons energy decides to flow depending on the factors and tides of the environment: If the moon has no reason to feel stabbed all the time, the moon won’t act overly sensitive or insecure or reactive to every little thing. Being shown the harmonious and safe/secure part of such a powerful planet like mars, the moon person will let their guard down big time. Typically, in this aspect, the moon person opens up, becomes very emotionally comfortable and shows their real and raw private selves to the mars person in a way that even surprises the mars person. There will be lots of oohs and aahs from the mars person who is *absolutely thrilled* to discover that the moon person is actually way softer than they come across in their personality, or more insecure than they wear on their sleeve, or are actually way weirder than anyone would expect. This is like an emotional theme in the relationship for mars. Granted to mars, it actually is a kind of odd way of special, because Real selves are often only shown to others in despair, crisis, moments of survival, very few deep talks, or during sex, but here the moon person is comfortable being their quirky and complete and utter selves with the mars person just during ‘daylight’ so to speak, as if they were alone in their room doing a talk show monologue in the mirror. It’s because mars made themselves this safe haven but is also a good reason to get excited and happy. So this aspect isn’t so much about physical/primary (so sexual attraction) passionate intimacy as you see, it becomes a personality thing of more mental and earthy(?) substance imo. In couples this aspect creates a forever-kind of ‘fondness’ of each other. In this relationship it’s the sex that becomes the highest feat of romantic bonding, not commitment to each other or affirming affection like with the conjunct or the square, which needs those components to make or strengthen the connection as a romantic one.

Mars conjunct mercury: best friends aspect! Being able to talk for hours, do any activity together, spend an entire day doing stuff together or going to a daylong event with just the two of you without it ever being awkward. Being able to do groceries together for a pregame with each other before going to do an activity that you’ll also be doing together. Energy, jokes, and things to talk about never run out. Mars’s energy lets mercury’s thoughts and mind race through multiple subjects and important comments at once, and mercury’s thoughts excite slash fire up mars’s energy. Their response becomes fuel for mercury again and so fort. I know two best friends who have this in double whammy almost exact and they are *always* together. Like in the same day, they would hang out, go to do something else/hang out with someone else, then go hang out with each other again, then in the evening one would visit the other at work. I have this aspect with one good friend that I can talk for hours with. Catching up is never awkward and we constantly learn from each other, plus we’re interested in the same things, because his mind/daily thoughts/the things he pays attention to and tells me (his mercury), fires me up and consistently happens to catch my fixation (mars). And what I *do* in my life, the things that were motivation by nature of taking action, triggers his insight! Isn’t that the perfect combination? This aspect makes you very good and close friends, but this alone doesn’t grant an emotional bond. Those two best friends I talked about lacked in moon connections, so they kept surprisingly much of their feelings and what went on in their life/emotional world private from one another, including crushes they had on mutual friends 💀 like how was that possible?

Moon square moon: a link is a link, an attachment is an attachment, so moon square moon is that too. You will ‘see’ each other for who that person emotionally is from the inside. You will acknowledge it, you can even understand it, but trying to emotionally ‘relate’ or connect to the other’s emotional world causes a short-circuit. This sounds like a finished deal, and marriage it often is. This aspect imo means kind of sacrifing a part of crucial understanding of the other partner. But there is another important part: some people do not have moon to moon aspects in their partnerships. Some people can connect with a moon through their sun mercury venus and mars for example, but not be able to deeply feel the other person next to them with their own moon, like what’s possible in a moon to moon aspect. With moon square moon, the two people deeply *see* each other. It’s hard not to because the friction of the square makes them very neon noticable to each other. One moon person might not be able to touch or soothe the other moon person from and with their own emotional angle, because through the square it will inherently cause a (n immediate often) frictive disconnect, but their presence will be enough. They will learn from each other and with enough respect for the other, (seriously) they will be able to teach themselves how to manually get their moons to relate, by in their empathy intuitively touching and patting to learn what the other person feels, and sleutelingen on their own emotional patterns. With the man I had this with. I completely saw and understood how he was. We, to each other’s emotional automatic ways of thinking, understood each other, but could never relate, so in our most intimate conversations we saw each other raw, but were also like.. damn,, you live like this? you do you! 😂

Male Venus conjunct woman’s moon, but the man has venus square moon natal: so this is really too specific, I know, it’s from my personal life, but the observation is such an almost lawful rule that it needs to be said. So the man has a problem with women in a romantic or otherwise emotionally intimate sense. He either sees them as charmless but safe, emotional, and boring ‘kin’, who fullfills his emotional needs but in a way that cannot fullfill his romantic wants, because they fundamentally clash, or he sees them as these charming, pretty, sexy sensual creative people or muses that fullfill his wants and desires, but cannot fullfill his emotional needs because they fundamentally do not mesh/are able to ‘melt’ with each other. So men with this aspect are doomed to have a lonely romantic life where they deeply hurt a lot of women but in the long run also themselves. This is ofc unless the man is capable of self reflection and is willing to do the work and *respect* the challenge that squares require, but since misogyny is a thing that challenge and perceived radically different worldview of the woman practically never gets respected, found interesting/compelling enough for the man to study, or romanticised like the way in which women will handle a natal moon square mars for example. BUT! If a woman’s moon conjuncts that squared venus, they kind of crack the code in a weird sense!? And become sort of “the only woman that can tame this man blabla that he actually respects”. Because the woman becomes like a domineering mother to him. In his moon square/battle/tension her moon, so where his emotional ‘needs’ are challenged by another person’s needs, his moon yields to the woman’s moon because his venus is enamored by the woman’s moon emotional world. You will get two people who are weirdly intimate friends, because both square moons emotionally ‘acknowlegde’ each other’s emotional life and wavelength, in a kind of bizarre to witness way that will have the woman wear the pants and the often so misogynistic and macho guy follow her and her needs around like a (doggo)💀, acting like each other’s bf/gf, but sitting too close to each other?? Kissing? The thought of having s**?? Will make them revolt. From an astrological standpoint, this may be the most significant planetary relationship with a woman that this man will ever have in his life.

A woman’s venus conjunct that sort of man’s moon I have never seen, only conjunct other planets, but I imagine it would be the same but the other way around at the same time. I think she would be only possible romantically intimate partner for the man, the only girlfriend to exist, only girl that he can wholeheartedly register as ‘girlfriend’, who will hold that *romantic* muse place forever, the only one to forever fullfill his emotional needs like a romantic partner does and can, but he doesn’t like her as a person, he couldn’t be friends with her, can’t talk with her, was never even his type, wants to cheat on her, can’t admire her really. This female venus is the sensual and sexual but disrespected girlfriend to the female moon’s sexless but elevated wife. If that man ruled the world and had all the money and the woman who marries him would win the universe, these were both equally bad but extremley solid places you would want to be in, because you’d be one of the only two women that he will ever seriously consider in his life.

Venus square jupiter: I have this with almost every man I get involved with, because their venus is in that way also conjuncting my scorpio sun and mercury. I’ve found with these people that they are confused if they should be charmed by the grand/optimistic/philosophical side of me, or cringe. Either way they are overwhelmed. Venus in crush-mode will be especially interested in jupiters views and opinions and outlook on situations and jupiter is enthusiastic about the romantic muse that they see in venus and become a kind of a philosophical rant-y person near them, in a good way, because they see venus as an equally inspiring and interesting and beautiful (big ideas and emotions) creative peer of their outlook on life. Venus listens and is in awe. Jupiter is like a positive-energy bomber to venus and venus can be confused, overwhelmed, but gets all the butterflies and wants to be swept in. This is an aspect where the other knows or can relate to what the other is feeling the least, because jupiter is making venus live in their own world and venus is in their head thinking out loud. Astrologers say this easily dies out because of it, like an inflated balloon, but I don’t agree. Don’t let your relationship completely ride on this aspect alone and you’ll be fine and it won’t end with a big bang, but stay flickering like smoldering fire like any other venus or jupiter aspect.

Saturn conjunct moon: saturn wants to snatch moon off the market and moon is like “yeesssss”

Mars overlaying 8th house: it’s true what they say… i won’t elaborate 😶‍🌫️ just kidding I will of course. Having been the 8th house person, it’s actually very straightforward: whenever we talked about serious matters like trauma, (lost) finances, our heritage, and our secrets, fears, that’s when I became most attracted to his masculine/sexual side. Those were the moments I would find myself like ‘daym’, just like a 7th house having mars overlay there would have that during moments of romance and partnership.

Moon opposite mars: I talk about this aspect a lot because it just fascinates me. Moon opposite mars in the context of all the other mars aspects is almost funny because in the beginning, when the insane kind of unsettling attraction is noticed between two people, mars doesn’t really want to be in this situation and moon doesn’t like the fact that it exists at all. I feel like it’s a karmic aspect for mars and somewhat for the moon. Moon will feel every single jab from this aspect but because that jab fundamentally hits them in their *feelings* they will just think: “what was that, what even is that? Who is this mars person making me feel single intense emotion at once?” Even typing this synastry aspect out is making me laugh. It’s moon doing what? Opposing. Oh god. And the lucky planet it’s being opposed is… mars 😂🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️! Imagine the moon one day going like: “f*ck you! And you, and you, and you,” then pointing to mars “and ESPECIALLY you!” Mars turning around and saying: “what are you saying f*ck me for?” looks at moon, boom, falls in love. Kind of disrespectful, but it isn’t meant that way? Which can in short make the connection even more uncomfortable for the moon, or completely the opposite. The intrigue in this aspect lies in how fundamentally foreign (because they’re opposites!!) these people are to each other. This aspect is an up and down and up and down one, because to have the closeness that they both desire and even need, they have to do the work and understanding to become closer and win each other’s trust and affirmation. Mars is challenged to channel powerful frictive energy from the fixation that the opposition creates into creating an environment that caters to the moon’s emotional needs. It challenges itself to encompass all of mars’s qualities, both the ying (harmonious) and the yang (not necessarily that) in a hyperaware manner, and that’s one of the reasons he comes to have like ‘multiple personalities’ in this aspect. It doesn’t help that mars always manages to come across the wrong way to the moon person, can hurt the moon unintentionally, but can also in a burst of martian energy try to fight with the moon when aggravated (caused by their opposing natures), can come across too sexual and disrespectful by the moon person when they intensely show their attraction and preferred treatment to the moon. When Mars tries to be nice, it doesn’t come natural for them to do that imagining what the completely opposite person would want. When mars succeeds, a very real and mental bond is created that is extremely raw. In the healthy romantic version of this, the moon isn’t really easy sex for mars like I’ve seen male astrologers describe it. I’ve seen men describe it as ‘deer’, which can create reaally different outlooks depending on your respect and goodwill to the more vurnurable person. Goodwill especially can make or break this aspect. I feel like this can either be one of the most pain-in-your-stomach disrespectful cortisol aspects, or the sweetest and most genuine and wholsesome emotionally intimate aspects.

A little story I wanted to share: an astrologer on 27th november 2023 gifted me a moon badge on tumblr and I only opened it on 21th november 2024, because I thought it the little pop-up present on my home page was a tumblr advert 🥲 I almost cried because it was such a lovely present around my birthday and as it goes I didn’t say thank you or acknowledged it for a year even though it was an awfully sweet gesture and I really appreciate her 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

[azulpitlane]

american wedding l ln4

summary: lando dating zak brown's daughter leads to a lot of pr disasters, like getting married in vegas

notes: can be read as a part two to boss' daughter or a stand alone

masterlist

yourusername

liked by landonorris, oscarpiastri and 38,329 others

yourusername wasnt gonna drink tonight but i miss my bf like a mf.

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user real tbh

user i miss u like a mf. show ur face at a race already queen.

user no cause it's been forever since she went to one and i miss the chaotic content with her and lando

user you know damn well you were gonna drink regardless liked by yourusername

landonorris i miss u more😓 just drop out of uni and come to all my races

zbrownceo excuse me?

landonorris JUST A JOKE! ha ha ha.

user LANDO😭😭

landonorris but i just booked a flight to nyc because of this post btw. see you this weekend😈

yourusername i was about to start crying until i realized what emoji you used😐

oscarpiastri dont we have be at the mtc this weekened??

yourusername SHHHH OSCAH

landonorris yeah oscar shhh

user poor oscar is always getting tag teammed by those two

user lando getting that in-law privilege by skipping important meetings to see his boss' daughter😭

user i love this relationship's dynamic theyre so perfect for each other

f1gossip

23,432 likes

f1gossip Lando and Y/n's Brown's weekend in New York City! It seems Lando skipped his trip to the MTC to be with his girlfriend where they were pictured clubbing and walking around the city multiple times.

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user IN THE CLURB WE ALL FAM

user he finally met his match lol

user lando is a clingy drunk confirmed✅

user i really want to know what their drunk conversations sound like

user hot take but if she wasnt zaks daughter most of you guys would hate her

user shes making him blow off important meetings so he could be with her? she sounds like a distraction from racing

user girl what- her dad is literally the ceo? if there was an issue im sure he wouldve let them know bffr

user zak brown is probably tired of these two😭

user is partying all they do together?

user no cause she lowkey seems like a bad influence

user i agree🫣 shes always posting herself partying and drinking, thats not wag material

user she might be a pr nightmare but i stand with my canceled wife💜

landonorris

liked by yourusername, oscarpiastri and 820,429 others

landonorris nyc to vegas🛩 aaaand i brought the bad influence with

tagged yourusername

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user the caption IM-

user nah hes lowkey dissing y/n haters😭

user how did he bag someone 10x cooler than him

user the bottle of alcohol and the vape, she really is ready for vegas

user Y/N'S BACK!!!

yourusername vegas aint ready for us

landonorris no they arent😈

yourusername enough.

user no hate to the other wags but y/n is truly the realest one out of all of them

user fr she truly is just a normal girl in her twenties

oscarpiastri 🙂

yourusername what is that suppose that mean OSCAH!!! my father will hear of this

oscarpiastri ok calm down draco malfoy

user why is there lowkey beef between y/n and oscar LMFAO

yourusername he hates my swag!!!

oscarpiastri she brings a lotttt of energy to the garage when shes here🙂

user im crying at oscars response😭😭😭 hes had enough of yn and lando

user idk if her holding a bottle of alcohol is appropriate to post!

user pls grow up omg

yourusername

liked by carlossainz55, danielricciardo and 59,329 others

yourusername postt race partoes >>>>>> the avtual race

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user THEE party girl

user i need to party with them so bad

user lando.jpg when???

user the typos😭 shes already drunk

user yup theres already videos of her and lando drunkly dancing together all over twitter

user yeah and oscar was in the background of those videos looking miserable LMFAOO

user oh to be a wag partying in vegas with lando

yourusername posted a story

user i voted fall to my knees and cry btw…if you even care

user um this is a random question to ask at 3am…

user what stores are even open rn😭😭

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oscarpiastri Y/N??? IVE BEEN LOOKING FOR YOU AND LANDO FOR LIKE A HALF AN HOUR AT THE CLUB AND YOURE NOT EVEN HERE??

oscarpiastri if you guys dont pick up your phones i swear to god…

oscarpiastri of course i get stuck as babysitter to the two most drunk people at the party

yourusername heY oscah😊😊 sendingg u my lpcation now cuz we need a witness so come ASAPPPPPP

oscarpiastri WITNESS FOR WHAT?

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danielricciardo if this means what i think it means, youre both so dead🤣

user babes didnt u just post at the club like an hour ago

yourusername

liked by danielricciardo, landonorris and 1,392,321 others

yourusername do u guys thonk my dad will be mad thaT oscar walked me down the aislee?

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user OH MY GOD??

user mclarens pr team are going to have a rude awakening in the morning😭

user shes never beating the bad influence allegations i fear

user crazy to think that this time last year he was flirting with her through her instagram comments😭

user and now theyre married omg i remember everyone was teasing lando but he truly got the last laugh

carlossainz55 i dont know if i should congralute you guys or be concerned?

user mind you, its almost four in the morning in vegas

danielricciardo getting married is crazy, you should be at the club

yourusername u mak a grrat point! otw now

mclaren we cannot congratulate until the boss says its okay sorry😕

zbrownceo answer your phone.

oscarpiastri sir, i would like it to be known that she blackmailed to be there

yourusername okay snitch!

zbrownceo im not kidding y/n

danielricciardo ouuu youre in trouble

user its so over for them

user zak finally putting his foot down with these two LMFAO

f1gossip

25,532 likes

f1gossip Wedding celebrations at the club! Seems like the newlyweds are back partying after their wedding announcement was made just a few minutes ago. Congrats to them?

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user everyone is freaking out and theyre literally at the club im cryingg

user "congrats to them?" is literally all of us rn😭

user they are not real omg

user zak is probably blowing up their phones and they do not care at all lmfaooo

user truly winning the idgaf war

user real question is are they getting an annulment once they sober up???

user i really wanna know what zak will make them do

f1gossip

20,329 likes

f1gossip Newly weds update! The two were seen this afternoon leaving Las Vegas with Zak Brown himself. Neither were seen wearing wedding rings, possible divorce?

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user well that was fun while it lasted

user damn they beat kim kardashians record of the shortest marriage

user at least theyre still dating😭

user they definitely got yelled at lmfaoo

user cant tell if zak is happy or angry that his daughter married norris considering how much he loves him

user oh hes def happy about it but not happy they posted it LOL

user good for him for getting an annulment. shes a mess

user and hes not? bye theyre both messy

landonorris 📍qatar

liked by carlossainz55, yourusername and 2,424,232 others

landonorris annulment? we're in our honeymoon

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user oh so theyre fr about this marriage😭

user does bro know theres a race on sunday

user they look so in love im honestly really happy for them

yourusername we beat the fraud marriage allegations💜

mclaren now thats its been approved by the boss, congratulations to the best papaya couple theres ever been🧡

user wow so zak approves! im shocked tbh

user i wish i couldve seen their reactions the morning after the wedding

yourusername ohhh we didnt remember any of it tbh but were happy now!

user LMFAO OMG....

user she finally got her ring!! and here you guys were thinking they got a divorce bc she didnt have one

danielricciardo never thought id see the day

yourusername me neither tbh

landonorris excuse me WHAT

landoupdates

50,242 likes

landoupdates Lando was questioned on his Vegas wedding in new interview.

"We decided not to get any annulment or anything and just keep this Vegas marriage as sort of like a promise for a real one in the future." 🧡

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user omg😭😭they are too cute

user not to be dramatic but i would honestly cried if they broke up

user no literally they mean everything to me

user "i really do think y/n is the one" DO YOU HEAR ME SOBBING

user he gets so smiley when y/n is brought up ughhh me and WHO

user and to think y/n has haters is crazyyy this man is so in love with her

user if oscar isnt the best man ill riot for him, he was there for the og wedding

user imagining them trying to convince zak to not get a divorce is the cutest but funniest thing ever

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more notes: has anyone seen anora?? it inspired this haha A FRAUD MARRIAGE!!!