#not even joking like. look at them legs and the arms

[strang3lov3]

Rock You

Dad rocks you to sleep.

Tags - dad!joel, incest, smut, one shot, dad jokes, banter, dad!joel eats slim jim’s (sorry. they’re a certified #dadclassic), road head, blow job, cum swallowing, fingering, piv sex, creampie, cockwarming, somno-ish, Nirvana’s MTV Unplugged in New York lol. Sweet and loving nostalgia. THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION AND ALL CHARACTERS ARE ADULTS. 5.5k words

A/N - He’s back, daddy’s girls 🩷 thank you for your patience. And thank you to all who contributed in the #dadsnacks discussion! That was very valuable.

Joel pulls his truck up next to the gas pump, then puts the vehicle into park and steps out. With your head against the window, you watch him through the windshield that’s all spattered in gnats and flies, Dad rounding the front of his truck. He looks so handsome, brows knitted together as he untwists the gas cap and puts the pump inside, graying hair blowing in the breeze. He pulls out his wallet then, reads a little sign, and then hangs his head back in irritation. “God dammit.” 

Joel taps twice on your window, voice muffled as he speaks, “Gotta pay inside,” he says. “Let’s go.” 

You roll your eyes. “Dad, let me just stay,” you whine.

But Joel doesn’t budge. “No can do, kiddo. I don’t like ya out here alone,” he says. “Come with, come pick out some junk food with me, huh?”

“I don’t want…whatever.” You can’t fight the smile that grows on your face. Joel knows all too well how to bribe you, his sweet fucking girl. You unclick your seatbelt and Joel opens the truck door, and he takes your hand and helps you down. 

He’ll never stop doing that, you know. He knows you’re big now, all grown up. Your legs are longer and you’re more graceful than the little punk kid you once were, but Joel will always, always help you down. You bit it one goddamn time and ended up with a big gash on your forehead and all these scrapes on your knees, and you screamed bloody murder when Joel dumped peroxide on your skin to clean the wounds. It broke his fucking heart, hurting you like that, even if it was to help you in the long run. At least he got a giggle out of you when he let you hurt him - “hurt” him back by punching him in his strong bicep. Ouch, kiddo. Uh huh. Hurts real bad. Yep, we’re even now. 

Joel holds the glass gas station door open for you, then points to a stack of baskets. “You know what to do.” 

Joel follows you through the gas station, loving that beautiful grin on your face as you grab his snacks first - his preferred junk food never changes. Snickers, sunflower seeds, a honey bun, a couple of Slim Jim’s and some Reese’s peanut butter cups and a big bottle of Arizona Arnold Palmer to wash it all down. You did good, kiddo. 

Dad’s turn. Joel picks out Sour Patch watermelons, your very favorite. He grabs you a big bag of white cheddar popcorn, too, and some of those mini powdered donuts. You always had a thing for those donuts. Joel’s standing in front of the refrigerated section, thinking hard about what to get you to drink. You approach him and browse with him. “Could get ya Bug Juice,” he teases, nudging your arm. “‘Member those?”

You laugh out of your nose, “Ew,” you giggle, scrunching your face.

“Ya liked ‘em when you were little,” Joel replies, opening the fridge and grabbing you a cherry Coke. You smile, Dad knows you so well.  

You and Joel bring your items up to the register, where the attendant scans everything. Joel reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, then narrows his eyes at an end cap that catches his attention. “Grab me one’a them Paydays, would ya?” 

You raise your eyebrow and put your hands on your hips and Jesus, you truly are your father’s daughter. Same fucking mannerisms and facial expressions right there. 

“Dad, no. You broke your tooth on one of those the last time you ate one.” 

“It was one time,” Joel argues quietly, snatching a Payday himself, and handing it as well as a couple of bills to the attendant, who’s laughing at this argument. “Put the change on pump four, please,” he tells her.

“Dad–”

“Can it,” Joel says. “Tooth was already cracked to begin with. Thank ya, ma’am,” he says to the attendant, swiping the white plastic bags full of snacks off the counter. Then he nods his head in the direction of the door. 

“It was not,” you mumble, more for the attendant’s ears than for Joel’s. You wish her a nice rest of her day. 

Outside, Joel opens his truck door for you and helps you into it, then fills his truck with gas. When he’s done, he puts the pump away and joins you in the driver’s seat, the engine roaring to life as he turns the key. You’re back on the endless highway in minutes, snacking on junk food together. 

“And ya know the great thing,” Joel starts, pausing to take a swig of his drink, “All this garbage s’only eight thousand calories.” 

“It’s not, actually.” 

“Yeah, how’s that?”

You swallow the Sour Patch watermelons you were chewing. “Because it doesn’t count when you eat it in the truck.” 

Joel laughs at that, eyes crinkling with his smile. “You are wise beyond your years, girl.” He’s got his window cracked, and the wind is blowing his curls back. The sun beginning to set makes his dark eyes shine a vibrant amber in its glow. 

Another hour passes. You notice a Volkswagen Beetle and punch Joel in his bicep, snickering. Before he can argue, he notices the car, too. “Didn���t say slug bug, darlin’. Doesn’t count.” 

“Does too.” 

Joel takes his right hand off of the steering wheel and makes his pointer finger and thumb into a circle, and holds it above the floor of the truck. “Psst. What’s that, kid? That a bug on the floor?” You gasp when you look down and roll your eyes when you see Joel’s circle, and he punches you in the bicep in return, laughing triumphantly. He punches lightly, of course. Dad never rough houses too hard with you, baby girl. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head, then shakes out his arm. “Goddamn, girl. Your punch is gettin’ harder.”

More time passes by, and you’re keeping track of the number of flies that smack the windshield. You and Joel played twenty questions - he was thinking about coffee, and you were thinking about a cat. He tried to play again, but you shut him down. “I’m bored,” you whined instead, and Joel told you that you could go play in traffic. 

You’re flipping through radio channels now, looking for something to listen to. Remember when Uncle Tommy would sit with you in the truck with some AM station on? Joel hated that. He thinks that’s partially where you got your attitude from, or at least where you learned to argue. Uncle Tommy would beg to differ, though. He thinks you and his brother are the same fucking person. Joel can make all the excuses he wants, and it’ll never change the fact that everything he is - the good, bad, and the ugly - you are too. 

Joel reaches over your head for the CD case attached to the mirror above your seat and pulls out Nirvana’s MTV Unplugged in New York. He puts it into the disc drive, humming along to ‘About a Girl’. You don’t remember it, but Joel used to play this album for you to get you to sleep, sometimes. He’d sing ‘Where Did You Sleep Last Night’ to you, too. Not very well, but neither of you gave a shit, because it was your special thing. Just for you and him, you and Dad.

“Are we almost home?”

“Do you see our house, baby?” 

“No.” 

Joel gives you a silent look in response, and you sigh dramatically. “I’m bored to fucking death,” you complain. 

Joel clicks his tongue. “To death, huh? S’a shame. Well, was nice knowin’ ya.” 

“Daaaad.”

“Oh, I know, I know, I know.” Joel leans over and pushes open the glove box, and rummages around for a pen and some paper. He finds a napkin instead. “Draw me somethin’ pretty,” he tells you. 

You take the napkin, and you can tell it’s many years old by the words ‘a note for your lunch’ that are written on them in faded ink. You chuckle and put that napkin back, and find a different, blank one instead. 

You can’t believe it’s still there after all these years. When you were in elementary school, you asked your dad to leave you a note in your lunch box because you liked that the other kids’ parents would write them sweet and loving notes. Notes like, you’re gonna do great on that test! I love you! 

And what did your dear old man, Joel, write? A note for your lunch. 

Joel would give anything to see the look on your face when you opened it, but in truth, he could perfectly picture it in his imagination when he was at work that day. Your cute little pout, inherited directly from him. When he picked you up from school later, you angrily handed it back to him. 

“What? S’what ya asked for, right? A note for your lunch?”

“I hate you.” 

“Uh huh,” he smirked.

You put your pen to your napkin before you’ve even got the faintest idea of what you want to draw, you just hope you’ll end up somewhere eventually. A squiggly circle here, a wobbly line there, all accidental mistakes. You groan in frustration, then put the napkin and pen back in the glove box. “I don’t wanna draw. It’s too bumpy.” 

Joel sighs deeply and puts his head against his left hand, his elbow resting on the driver’s side door. “You don’t wanna draw,” he starts, “Don’t wanna play games, either. Just wanna complain, huh?”

“Yep,” you answer, crossing your arms and resting your face against the glass window. 

“Then f’ya wanna complain, I’ll give ya somethin’ to complain about.”

You look over and see Joel switching his grip on the wheel. He uses his right hand to start to unbuckle his belt, his eyes darting from his crotch to the road ahead. “Gimme a hand here, kiddo. Shouldn’t be takin’ my eyes off the road.” Another one of his do as I say, not as I do moments.

“Now?”

“Yes, now. C’mon now, don’t make me ask twice.” 

You huff and puff and sigh as you unbuckle yourself to take care of Joel’s belt and jeans. You poor girl, all bored and antsy. Your generation’s gonna have a tough time figuring that one out, Joel thinks. Keeping yourself entertained without a screen in front of your face. Shoot. 

He’s getting hard as your soft, gentle hands undo the leather, patting over his bulge. Joel lets out a sigh when he feels you drag the zipper down, fingers tugging on fabric to free his cock. Joel sucks in his soft belly and pulls himself out for you, giving his length a couple of strokes with his fist before letting you take over. 

It’s difficult to keep his eyes on the road with you bent over his crotch the way you are, with one of your hands wrapped around the base of his cock and the other on his thigh. You begin with a couple of kisses pressed against his soft tip, moving your way down his veiny shaft. You are dad’s kind, sweet girl, through and fucking through. He keeps the fact that this is quite an excruciating tease to himself, because he likes your generous kisses, finds it cute that you do this. 

You circle his head with your tongue just twice, then take Joel into your mouth completely, gagging yourself in the process. You feel embarrassed as Joel pats your back, softly warning you, “Easy - woah - easy, baby girl. Not all once, honey, that’s how ya choke.” He chuckles after he says it.

It took Joel forever to stop cutting your grapes in half. 

He rests the back of his head against his chair as you try again, this time working your way down his shaft a little slower. You’re making a mess of both yourself and Joel, just like he tells you to. “With your hand, baby, just like I showed ya,” Joel reminds you. You move your hand in time with your bobbing head, and the quiet, pleasured groans Joel makes go straight to your core. “Doin’ so good, honey. Attagirl.” 

He grunts in surprise when you pull away suddenly, whining his name. Daaad. Joel pulls his eyes from the road momentarily to watch you pull one of his wiry, graying pubic hairs off of your tongue. He laughs, “Oh shit, I know. My bad, kiddo, I’ll trim first thing tomorrow.”

“You better,” you murmur, wiping your hand on his jeans. You bend back over and continue pleasuring him, and look at how quickly you find your rhythm, baby girl. It’s that steady, quiet, mindless repetition that calms you down, regulates your system. Joel tries to stress the importance of slowing down to you, of getting your mind off of stuff and things. It’s those quiet, repetitive activities that help you. Folding laundry, sorting buttons. And then, your oral fixation is satiated when you bob your head up and down on Dad’s cock, too, isn’t it? And it helps that much further, pacifies you in a sort of way. Funny how that works, huh?

Joel gives your back a couple of taps to signal his impending release. You pump your fist and massage the underside of his cock with your tongue, working him to his peak. Joel moans your name with all the love in the world as he cums all over your tongue, and you taste each rope of the very spend you’re made from, swallowing it all with a hum turned squeak when Joel tugs on your hair a little too hard. “Sorry, kiddo,” he apologizes quietly. Dad always did have a tendency of being rough with your hair when he would put it into pigtails or braids, but you were always a little tender headed, too, weren’t you? Christ, he misses doing those pigtails. The smell of green apple scented Suave’s detangling spray, those colorful hair ties he was always buying. Joel always wondered where they’d disappear to. 

You take a sip of your Coke, then lay your head on Joel’s lap with the back of your head resting against his soft tummy, all tuckered out, just like he wanted you to be. Dad pushes some hair out of your face and traces the curve of your ear, rubbing the cartilage between his fingertips.

Your father has such gentle, loving hands as he runs one of them down your body, tugging up on your shirt. He rubs the valley between your hip and your waist, where it dips just so, then runs his hand over the curve of your ass. He pats you in time with the beat of Nirvana playing over his tinny speakers, then lets his fingers travel lower. He traces that little diamond shape that frames your pussy so perfectly, and tugs your soft shorts and panties to the side, dipping just his middle finger into you. 

Joel can feel you clenching around his knuckle as he pumps it in and out of you, and he can hear that soft murmur of pleasure you let slip. “Yeah, that feels nice, huh, baby?” 

“S’nice,” you mumble in agreement, and Joel’s adding a second finger. Dad’s got you memorized by hand, and knows how to touch you to make you come undone for him like you’re meant to. A little wiggling, curling of his fingers and you’re gasping, dripping into your cotton panties. Joel pulls his fingers out and slides them up the warm, wet seam of your pussy, and he finds your clit swollen and throbbing. Poor kid, he thinks. That can’t feel good.

He rubs your clit in steady, expertly made circles to get you off. He’s not looking to make you cum especially hard or anything like that - just a soft, sweet orgasm to soothe you off to sleep for the rest of the ride. 

There are days when Dad does just that to you though, where he overstimulates you and fucks you so hard you sob. Sometimes he’ll shove his fingers down your throat to keep you from making too much noise, and he’ll feel a little guilty when you gag on them. Sorry, baby. Dad got ahead of himself. 

And then, there are days where you ride him until you’re out of breath and gasping for air, where Joel has to slow you down and force you to take a break. Time out and have a sip of water, kiddo. There’s no rush. Dad’s not going anywhere. 

Dad’s taught you the nuances of sex, and you’re lucky for that. To learn from someone who loves you and who’s so patient and experienced, similarly to when he taught you to drive. It doesn’t have to be all rough and grabbing hands, grabbing fistfuls of hair and flesh like you see in some TV and movies. Dad’s introduced you to the simple pleasure created between a body pressing against another body, the special warmth that comes from skin resting on skin, bones resting on bones, muscle twitching against muscle. Heavy breaths syncing as his arms wrap around your shoulders and waist, holding you close. Soft, gentle, never ending orgasms simply experienced for the sake of being experienced. 

Joel doesn’t change his pace at all when your clit starts to throb and pulse rapidly. “That’s it, honey. Cum for Daddy.” 

He works you through your orgasm, right until you’re whimpering, “S-stop, Dad, please. M’done, all done.”

“All done?” Joel asks, and you nod. He pulls his fingers from you and sucks them clean, then puts his hand on your back again. A little bit of rubbing, maybe some scratching, and you’re out like a light. Joel looks down at your sleeping face and notices a bit of his spend still on your lips. He licks his thumb, brings it to your mouth, then wipes it away. 

And wouldn’t you know it, your song is playing. Joel sings along to the lyrics, repeatedly rubbing your cheekbone with his fingers, looking down at you every so often, though he knows he shouldn’t. 

Sometimes, Joel will still instinctively look into his rearview mirror and angle it down, looking for your little legs kicking in your booster seat. Those days are long gone now, but the alternative isn’t so bad, is it? His sweet little girl asleep in his lap, drooling onto his jeans. The sun’s gone down, and there’s another two hours before he’ll be home with you. Joel holds his forearm protectively around your body. 

When those two hours pass, Joel pulls into his driveway, then shuts off the truck. He puts his keys into the pocket of his soft, worn shirt, and he’s gentle as ever when he lifts your head from his lap, doing this silly and awkward, careful maneuver as he opens the truck door and slides out of the vehicle. He leans over your body and grabs you in his strong arms, then carries you tightly against his chest. Joel closes the truck door shut by kicking it with his foot, then looks down at you. 

Your sleeping face, knocked the fuck out. Lips plump and pouting, drooling - there’s a nice stain of spit on his jeans, too. Not that Joel minds any. Lord knows he’s cleaned up worse from you. “Ohh,” he sighs quietly. “What’m I gonna do with ya, my girl?”

Drives in Joel’s truck always put you to sleep. Joel remembers when you were a baby, and fucking inconsolable. Colicky, you poor thing. All out of sorts. Nothing worked to soothe you - not a bottle, not a story, not being rocked or bounced or anything else. And Joel didn’t have the heart to just let you cry it out, either. He just couldn’t stomach listening to you cry like that, all alone and scared because your dad wasn’t there, and you needed him.

You kept Joel awake for days at a time, screaming your little head off. Joel was at his wits end with you, and he needed a break before he screamed his head off, too. So he buckled you into your little carseat and began driving to Uncle Tommy’s. Tommy owed him one, anyway. And you always had a thing for Tommy, too, which helped. You were sweet on him from day fucking one. He just had this special way with you, where he could soothe you and charm you out of your moods in a way Joel couldn’t always do. It made Joel jealous, if he’s being honest with himself. Still kind of does. 

On that particular drive, Joel had realized at a point that he could actually hear Nirvana playing on the radio, and not your agonized screams and cries. In however many minutes it was you’d gone out like a light, and it’s like everything clicked in that moment. Whenever you got too fussy to relax, he’d just drive with you, his sweet baby girl. Sometimes listening to music, sometimes not. Sometimes Uncle Tommy would come with and he and Joel would talk in whispers that lulled you off to sleep, paired with the dull roar of the truck’s engine.

Joel grunts when he carries you inside, muscles burning as he brings you up the stairs. “When’d you get so fuckin’ big, huh?” he murmurs, laying you down on his bed. He tells himself you probably would’ve ended up in his bed, anyway. Joel unties your shoes one at a time and slips them off, quietly placing them on the floor. And it wasn’t so long ago that your shoes had velcro straps and lit up when you ran, was it? Good fucking god.

Joel takes off your clothes, one article at a time. Socks and pants first, then panties. He gingerly slips your arms back through your sleeves and the collar of your shirt up and over your face, careful not to disturb your slumber. But of course…

“Dad,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep.

“Shit, sweetheart. M’sorry,” Joel whispers, stroking the side of your head. “Didn’t mean to wake ya. Go back to sleep, darlin’. S’okay. You’re home.” 

You shake your head, wiping your eyes as you sit up. “Can’t sleep,” you argue tiredly.

Joel scoffs a laugh. “Oh bullshit, yes ya can. You’ve been knocked out for a while now,” he whispers, pulling off his own shirt. “Jus’ close your eyes, honey. Be right there to snuggle ya.”

“Mm-mm. Rock me, Daddy.” 

Oh, Joel knows what that means. When he looks at you, he’s met with pleading, tired, and big eyes, asking him oh-so-kindly to rock you. You’re a master manipulator with those eyes of yours, you know. It took Joel a long time to learn not to cave to your puppy eyes, and it took Uncle Tommy even longer. If you asked Joel, he’d tell you that you can still get Uncle Tommy with that look.

“Rock you, huh?” Joel’s cock jumps in his denim. “Reckon s’a little late for that, kiddo. ‘Specially for a weeknight.” 

“No, please,” you beg, reaching for your dad’s warm hand and putting it between your thighs. “I need you, Daddy.”

“Y’sure like to pull your ‘daddy’ card when you’re wantin’ somethin’ from me, huh?”  

Joel loves the way you can’t hide your grin from his accusation. He sighs, then bites the corner of his lip to keep himself from mirroring the same smile. It’s true what they say, about kids making you soft. “Yeah, alright. I’ll rock ya,” he concedes, already pushing down his jeans and boxers. He plops in the seat of his La-Z-Boy rocker recliner that’s been in the corner of his room since you were born, lazily pumping his own cock while patting his thigh. “C’mere.”

You groan as you stand up, pausing to yawn while stretching. “Ohh, you are not long for this world, daughter of mine,” Joel murmurs, eyeing you as you move closer to him. You straddle his lap, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and burying your face into his neck, inhaling the warm, familiar scent of his skin. “Scoot, kiddo. C’mon, up,” Joel grunts, urging you to sit up before spitting into his palm. “Lazy ass.” You whine in disapproval but do it anyway, sighing when you feel the blunt head of Joel’s cock prodding at your folds. He passes his cock through your seam a couple of times, then lines up with your entrance.

“Careful, baby. Easy does it,” Joel grunts, easing you down his length, sighing at the feeling of being enveloped in your warm cunt, warm for him and him alone. Joel thrusts up a little to bottom out, soothing your cries with the kindest of kisses pressed against your lips. “There she is. Down here, darlin’. Right here.” 

Joel wraps his arms around you and pulls you close, close so that you’re chest to chest, skin to skin. He inhales deeply the scent of the top of your head and rubs your back, propelling the rocking chair with his feet on the ground. He notices goosebumps on your skin.

Rocking used to mean one thing, a long time ago. Joel soothing you to sleep, bonding with you. Your little self pressed against him, with a blanket over your shoulders and tucked under your feet as he read picture books to you. And it still kind of does mean that, in a way. It’s different now, of course, and it was always going to change. But it’s just as special. Maybe even more so, now.

Joel groans as you clench around his length. “Bedtime story,” you murmur against his skin. You’re holding onto him so tightly, warming your hands on his soft body. 

Dad chuckles. “What, am I supposed to read your textbook to ya or somethin’? We donated all your picture books to Goodwill forever ago.” 

“Just wanna hear a story, Daddy.” 

“Mhm.” You moan as Joel leans forward, reaching behind his head to grab a blanket draped over the recliner. He spreads it out, then wraps it around your shoulders. “Let’s see…”

Joel thinks for a moment, quietly rocking you on his cock. With one hand under your ass, he uses his arm’s strength to assist in moving you up and down on his cock, just gentle, easy thrusts. His cockhead rubs perfectly against your g-spot, like you were made perfectly for him. And really, weren’t you? Isn’t this exactly what he brought you into this world for?

One of these things, at least. 

“Alright. I know one,” Joel says. 

“Tell me,” you breathe. 

“I lost ya once,” Joel admits quietly. 

You hum in surprise, pulling away from Joel for a moment to look at him. “Really?”

Dad clutches you back against his chest, putting you right where he wants you. “Sure did,” he answers, pausing for a moment. “Felt so fuckin’ guilty, kid. I thought I failed ya.” 

Your heart pangs at that. “Daaad,” you whisper sadly.

“You couldn’t’ve been older’n four,” Joel begins. “I was tryin’ to get some work done with Uncle Tommy here in the house and ya wouldn’t leave us alone.” 

When you giggle at that, Joel groans softly. You clench around his cock when you laugh. 

“Yeah, laugh it up,” he continues in a soft voice. “Every other minute you wanted juice or a snack or you’d be sweet talkin’ Uncle Tommy into playin’ dolls with you,” Joel says. “You were drivin’ me fuckin nuts, girl.” Joel squeezes you tighter, then turns his head and kisses your forehead. “I sent ya outside in the backyard, which Uncle Tommy and I had just fenced in, mind ya. Because of you, if you’ll recall.” 

“What do you mean?”

“I never told ya?”

“Mm-mm.”

“I sent that fence up because of you, trouble. I’d be grillin’ us hot dogs or somethin’ for dinner and I’d have ya right by my side, drawin’ me pictures with chalk on the patio. Remember this?”

“Mhm,” you murmur.

“Do you remember haulin’ ass across the yard the minute I turned my back?”

You giggle, “No.”

“Mhm, well - so I’m grillin’ for us, right, and I’d turn my back and pshoo, you’d be gone at the neighbor’s house charmin’ that sweet old lady outta the cookies she made. Miss Rosie was her name, right?”

“Yeah, I remember her,” you say fondly. She passed away a few years ago. You and Joel had gone to her funeral.

Dad laughs at the memory. He remembers stomping across her lawn, “Get your little ass back here,” he’d scolded, and you looked like a deer in the headlights with chocolate all over your face. “Did you spoil your dinner?”

“No, Daddy.” 

Joel huffed in frustration as he bent down to pick you up, then held you on his hip. “Well,” he’d said, tickling your chin with his finger, “What do you say to Miss Rosie?”

“Thank you.” 

Joel rolled his eyes and apologized to her, but she didn’t mind your little impromptu visit. Joel maneuvered you so that you were sitting on his shoulders, your little fingers tugging at his hair, and he marched you right back home. 

“Anyway, you were buggin’ me an’ Uncle Tommy so I sent ya outside to make friends with a squirrel or somethin. And sure enough, you stayed busy out there,” Joel says. 

He continues, “An’ then I got nervous,” he explains. “‘Cause I couldn’t see ya, and it was quiet. And quiet usually meant you were troublemakin’, my sweet girl.” He continues, “So I went lookin’ for ya out there and you were fuckin’ gone, kiddo. Gone,” Joel enunciates. “Didn’t know if you’d snuck out through the fence somehow or if some fuckin’ pervert lured ya out with candy and snatched ya off the street. We called the cops an’ everything. Screaming your name, lookin’ for ya in the neighbors’ yards.” Joel sighs deeply before continuing. You squeeze him tight and kiss his neck, and he squeezes you back, almost like he’s trying to remind himself that you’re right here, safe in his arms, and everything’s okay. “I was a wreck talkin’ to the cops. Cryin’ and everything ‘cause I lost my baby.” 

Joel inhales deeply. “And then,” he says, “A cop came up to me and asked me what shoes you were wearin’, and I told him that you were wearing your pink Chucks. He told me to c’mere and I found ya in the fuckin’ egress window. Little shoes pokin’ out.”

“What?”

“The egress window, like the basement window,” Joel clarifies. “You’d lifted up the grate and sat down there, made friends with some toads. An’ then you fell asleep, you little shit.” Joel smiles at your giggle, the same sweet laugh you’ve always had. “Oh, you scared the bejesus outta me, baby girl. Think I started goin’ gray that fuckin’ day,” he whispers, then goes quiet as the story hangs in the air. “Anyway. That’s how I lost ya.”

“Father of the year, huh?” you tease quietly.

Joel rolls his eyes. “Uh huh.” He wants to tell you how sorry he is still, all these years later. But he thinks you know. “I love ya,” is all he says when he focuses on fucking you in the rocking chair he used to soothe you to sleep in, working himself and you closer and closer to the edge. You wriggle your hand between your bodies and touch your clit, and the way Joel fucks himself into you provides enough friction that you’ll be coming soon. He can hear it in the way you moan, or rather, the way you’ve stopped moaning. When you go quiet, he knows you’re close. He is too. 

It’s only one, two, three long and deep thrusts before you’re coming, whimpering, “Dad, Dad, Dad,” as Joel fucks you through it, finding his own orgasm. Fuck, coming with his baby girl. Is there anything in this world more precious and special than that?

You stay on Joel’s lap, dripping his spend. Just quietly coming down, held securely in Dad’s strong arms. You’re exactly where you’re meant to be, and drifting off to sleep. 

“Alright. Up, baby, up.” Joel pats your ass to rouse you. “I know you’re not sleepin’.” 

But only silence from you. 

“I can’t stay like this with ya, honey, my back’ll be all fucked up. C’mon, kiddo. Up.” 

You don’t budge. Joel sighs deeply, accepting his defeat. He’ll stay like this with you, his softening cock buried in your pussy, maybe just for a moment longer. Rocking you gently, whispering sweet nothings to you. He’s a fucking sucker for you, baby girl.

More dad!joel here and a playlist here!

Hi ♡ if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging and/or sending an ask, but reblogs are especially appreciated. I get people are hesitant to publicly engage with a fic as icky as this one but it goes a long way in breaking the stigma, because after all, it is just fiction. Strength in numbers and all of that :) It’s been a rough go for me lately. I love you, thank you for reading.

Aaaand cat tax. Say hi to Gizmo :)

[azzibuckets]

worth the wait part one

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

a/n: happy pride! here's part one of a new series of pazzi enemies to fwb to lovers. feel free to let me know your thoughts, and live reacts are always greatly appreciated!

word count: 4.3k i believe

wtw masterlist

2018 - Minsk, Belarus 

Clang.

The ball spins pathetically around the rim once, twice, before falling desolately to the side. Azzi fixes her eyes on the floor as she jogs to rebound it, refusing to meet the the stare of her coaches. It’s her fourth miss in a row, and usually she’s able to shake it off and focus on the next shot if it weren’t for the cocky, arrogant, blonde headed bitch—that shouldn’t be so good at basketball but somehow fucking is—snickering behind her.

“Fudd, I think you’re supposed to be aiming for the net,” the blonde in question says under her breath, glee written across her face before she dribbles the ball between her legs, steps back, and shoots it so cleanly that it falls through the net without disturbing a single thread. 

Azzi grits her teeth, trying to resist the urge to chuck the basketball at Paige’s smirk. But not wanting to get benched by her coaches that are always droning on and on about sportsmanship and supportive team culture, she settles for a hard shoulder check instead, sending Paige wincing and grabbing her arm like the typical drama queen that she is. 

Azzi rolls her eyes. Usually she’s all for teamwork and bonding and all that sappy crap, but she’s also never been on the same team with a girl whose sole intention seems to be pressing on every one of her nerves until she explodes. “Fuck you, Bueckers.”

“I mean, geez,” the blonde wiggles her eyebrows, her smirk widening from cheek to cheek. “Get in line.”

“I wouldn’t touch you even if you paid me a million dollars,” Azzi mutters, shuddering at the thought of even hugging her.

“I don’t know,” the older girl drawls. Her fingers graze across Azzi’s shoulder, sneaking under the cloth of her jersey to brush over the ridge of her muscle. “You feel pretty tense.” She trails her hand slowly down her arm. “If you ever need some stress relief, you know where to find me.”

“Don’t touch me,” Azzi snaps, jerking away. Paige only winks before jogging to catch up with the rest of the team as they break on the bleachers. Cheeks turning pink, Azzi groans and stomps away.

From day one, Paige has been like that: flirtatious, easy-going, charming. Everyone on the team had naturally gravitated towards her last season—that is, everyone but Azzi, if you don’t count the first week that they’d met. During tryouts, she’d been mildly intrigued by how a bone-skinny white chick was crossing over the most seasoned girls on the team, and when Paige had nodded coolly at her and they’d had a brief conversation, that intrigue had turned into interest. The way Paige had looked at her, had sidled closer and whispered a joke in her ear, had made Azzi feel seen on a team full of players so much older and experienced than she was. But to hell with that, Azzi thinks. Because since then, she'd gotten to know Paige for who she really is, and the older girl is nothing but a self-conceited asshole.

༉‧₊˚✧

“I don’t know,” Sam Brunelle says, taking a slow sip of her water. “I think she’s pretty hilarious.”

Azzi stabs a piece of broccoli with her fork. “She’s immature,” she corrects. “She makes fun of people and she can’t go one goddamn minute without making a stupid yo mama joke.” 

“I mean, yeah, I guess she likes to have a lot of fun,” Sam relents. “But she keeps the team light-hearted. I think that’s pretty important.”

“You don’t know what it’s like,” Azzi fumes. Paige has always been supportive of everyone else on the team, cheering them on from the bench or hyping them up after big games. Azzi, on the other hand, has never received the same treatment. Their history is a bitter war of sharp elbows and sneers; she can't even remember the last time Paige had said something remotely nice to her. “She leaves you alone, but she’s always messing with me.”

Sam, one of the oldest on the team and ever the wiser, tilts her head to study the dark haired girl carefully. “I think she’s always messing with you ‘cause you’re the only one that doesn’t like her.” She shrugs. “Maybe she cares about your opinion.” She leans in closer with a conspiratorial whisper. “Maybe she wants to be friends.” She utters the last word like a bad word, and Azzi rolls her eyes and throws a crumpled up napkin at her. Sam breaks out in laughter at the look of disgust on the younger girl’s face.

Azzi’s about to respond when she’s interrupted by a tray dropping loudly on their table. The devil herself plops down in one of the seats, stretching out her legs as if she hadn’t just rudely cut off their conversation. Then she has the nerve to blow out a long, tired sigh, as if she’s doing them a favor, gracing the two girls by just being there. Azzi’s jaw tightens in exasperation, but Sam is all sunshine and smiles. “Hey, P,” she grins, dapping Paige up.

Azzi glares down at her plate, trying to ignore Paige breathing heavily next to her. Maybe if she pretends that she doesn’t exist, the blonde will finally leave her alone. 

But panting and breathing get louder and louder, and Azzi swears she can feel it hot on her cheek. Snapping her head, she turns face to face with Paige, who’s looking over her shoulder—way too close for comfort, has she ever heard of personal space?—with twisted lips and furrowed eyebrows. “Yo, that shit looks nasty,” Paige says, eyes trained on Azzi’s plate.

“Ugh, get away from me,” Azzi complains, roughly pushing her away. Her heartbeat, having quickened from their proximity, begins to slow down, but her body physically recoils. “And it’s called vegetables, Bueckers,” she adds flatly. “Maybe you should try eating healthy for once too.”

Paige sits back in her seat, clearly pleased from her knack of getting a ruse out of Azzi so easily. Pointing her fork at her pasta, she says, “Carbs,” then at at her corndog and says, “Protein,” and then at the dollop of ketchup on her plate and says, with an overly pleased smile, “Vegetables.”

Sam immediately cracks up as if Paige had made the funniest joke in the world. Azzi stomps on her foot under the table. “Your eating habits are gonna catch up to you one day,” Azzi sniffs, shoving the last of her broccoli into her mouth, hoping she can get the meal over with as quick as possible so she can hide in her room, away from annoying blondes that breathe too loud and give unwarranted, wrong opinions.

“Until then, I’ll still be breaking your ankles,” Paige grins, clearly referencing the moment in practice earlier that day where Azzi had tripped over her own feet in an attempt to defend Paige’s drive to the basket. She’d been so angered by the pure confidence on Paige’s face and the trash talk in her ear the entire scrimmage, that everything she’d learned about lateral footwork had flew out of her mind as she’d fallen on Paige and even fouled her in the process. 

“God, you’re insufferable.” Azzi gives Paige the dirtiest look she can manage. “Who even invited you to sit with us?”

“What, I need an invite to bond with my teammates?” Paige leans over again, shoulder poking into Azzi's as she reaches over her to snatch the garlic bread from her plate. “You don’t mind, right? Since you got your veggies and all?” Before the younger girl can even blink, the garlic bread is stuffed inside her mouth, and Paige starts chewing loudly without breaking eye contact with Azzi. Sam snorts in disbelief. 

“Oh my god!” Azzi stands up, cheeks reddening with anger. “Are you actually a child?” Pushing her chair back loudly, she leaves the dining room in a storm.

Sam winces. “Are you trying to kill her?”

“Not my fault she gets all hot and bothered just like that.” Paige wipes a crumb from her lip, napkin falling away to reveal a satisfied smile. 

Sam shakes her head knowingly. “You like it.” She’s known both of the girls for more than a year now, and by now she’s used to the fact that they have their own dance. It’s weird, and they have a funky sort of chemistry that they’ll both probably refuse to ever address, but it makes for some good drama, Sam thinks. 

Paige snorts. “No, I don’t. People that uptight need to loosen up every once in a while. It’s good for them.”

“It’s okay to admit that you like seeing her get flustered.” Sam nudges Paige’s arm, a twinkle in her eye. “For someone who claims to hate her, you talk about her an awful lot.” 

“Nah, shut up Sam.” Paige stands up abruptly, moving to grab her finished plate. 

“You want me to shut up?”

“Yes,” Paige grunts, pushing her chair in. 

“So I guess you don’t want me to tell you about the room assignments?” 

Paige freezes. Turning around slowly, she glares at the taller blonde. “What room assignments?”

Sam takes a piece of paper from her pocket. “Oh, nothing,” she says airily, waving it. “Just that you and Azzi are rooming together tonight.”

“What?” Paige grabs the paper from Sam, scanning it anxiously. True enough, it says Room 310 - Paige Bueckers, Azzi Fudd. “But I thought I was rooming with Hailey!”

Sam beams. “I guess the coaches changed their mind.”

“No.” Paige paces around, gripping the paper so tight it turns into a ball in her hand. “I can’t room with Fudd. She probably sleeps with a stick up her butt too!” 

“She’s not that bad, P,” Sam defends. “You guys are more alike than you think.”

“I’m not bossy, or a party pooper, or incapable of having any fun,” Paige shoots back, offended that Sam would even liken her to someone who doesn't think yo mama jokes are funny. Because who doesn't think yo mama jokes are funny?

Sam shrugs. “I’m just saying. You guys have an awful lot of assumptions about each other. Maybe if you actually spent some time together, you’d change your mind a bit.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Paige scoffs, even though it makes total sense. But she’s never really been logical when it comes to Azzi, and she’s not about to start now. “Whatever. I’m gonna go check on the room and make sure she doesn’t have her hands all over everything already.”

Raising an eyebrow, Sam watches her go too. 

When Paige reaches the room, she takes second to square her shoulders and catch her breath. Azzi has a way of makes her upset like no one else can, her heartbeat always skyrocketing and chest heaving after their arguments. But she needs to control herself, to uphold the facade of unbotheredness. Taking a deep breath to calm herself down, she slides her key card over the lock and opens the door with a swing. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Azzi’s jaw drops, the halfway folded shirt in her hand dropping on the bed.

“Surprise.” Paige smirks. “Hey, roomie.”

“Nuh uh.” Azzi massages her temples, panic embedded in the lines of her eyes. “This is not happening right now.”

“I know.” Paige closes the door with her foot and drags her suitcase and duffel bag in. “Too good to be true, huh?”

“I thought I was rooming with Sam!” Azzi says indignantly. 

“And I thought me and Hailey were gonna be together,” Paige grumbles. “Trust me, I don’t wanna be here any more than you do.”

Azzi flops back on the bed, groaning, and Paige freezes when her shirt slides up to show the tan skin of her abs, muscles flexing as she reaches to grab a pillow. Swallowing hard, she forces her eyes away. Now was not a good time to be admiring the body of her sworn enemy, no matter how good she looked. “I can’t room with you,” Azzi repeats. 

“Yeah, well.” Paige tosses her backpack on the armchair and starts unzipping her suitcase. “It is what it is.” She starts rummaging through her clothes, a pile of USA gear and Hopkins hoodies slowly starting to form next to her as she searches. 

“What are you doing?” Azzi asks, stunned by how the blonde has managed to make a mess of their room in a mere two minutes.

“Deciding my fit for tomorrow.” Paige scrunches her eyebrows as she looks between two blue shirts, both exactly the same except one slightly darker in shade. “Gotta look good for the ladies.”

“Paige, you wear the same thing every day.” Azzi stuffs the pillow over her face in an effort to suffocate herself and end this nightmare. “The color and pattern doesn’t matter when it’s still shirts and sweats.”

“It’s cute that you pay so much attention to what I wear,” Paige says, “But I actually brought jeans and flannels this time. So yes, it does matter.” 

“Whatever.” Azzi gets up and heads for the bathroom, kicking aside a neon green hoodie in her way. Paige yelps, reaching for the ugly piece of clothing and cradling it in her hands. “Don’t make a mess. I’m gonna take a shower, if you know what that is.” 

Paige narrows her eyes, bringing the hoodie closer to her chest. “Don’t leave your products out, or I’mma use all of them.”

༉‧₊˚✧

Paige wakes up before her alarm clock. Sun streams in through the windows, casting a golden haze on everything in the room, including the girl asleep on the bed beside her. She’s snuggled into a pink blanket that she’d brought from home, lips slightly parted as quiet snores come from her mouth. She looks soft, vulnerable, her guard down in a way Paige has never seen before. 

Her mouth goes dry for a second, and she doesn’t know why. Shaking her head at herself, Paige stares up at the ceiling. The team has film before breakfast, then a workout, followed by recovery, lunch, more film, evening practice, and team dinner. It’s a packed day, and Paige already feels the lethargic pull of sleep from just sitting in the warmth of her sheets. Forcing herself out of bed, she begins to get ready.

It’s ten minutes to nine, the time they’re supposed to meet, when Paige is about to head out the door. Azzi is still fast asleep, and for a second she considers being nice and shaking her awake. But then she remembers Azzi calling her insufferable yesterday, and snickering to herself, she leaves. That girl has never been late to a single workout; it would do her some good to be humbled every once in a while.

Their coach is drawing out a play on the whiteboard next to the TV when Azzi runs in, out of breath, curls a mess and eyes anxious. “I’m so sorry,” she pants. “I slept in.”

“Get in your seat, Fudd."

Azzi looks around the room frantically. The nearest empty seat is next to Paige, damn her, and she’s sure her already annoyed coach wouldn’t appreciate her wasting even more time searching for another seat, so she sidles over and sits down resentfully. 

“Morning, sunshine,” Paige whispers from the corner of her mouth. 

Azzi sniffs suddenly, smelling a whiff of something familiar. Eyes narrowing, she leans in closer and takes another inhale to be sure. “Is that my shampoo?” she whispers angrily. 

“Coconut with a hint of hibiscus and honey?” Paige shrugs, trying to fight back her laughter. “Perhaps.”

“I told you not to touch my products!”

“And I told you that I’d use them if you left them out, so.” Paige continues sketching in her notebook, not bothering to even look over at Azzi.

“You don’t even have curly hair,” Azzi says scathingly. 

“Oops,” Paige says, not looking very sorry at all. “Maybe I shouldn’t have used your conditioner too then.”

Azzi makes a mental note to pack away all her shower products later. Her roommate is actually deranged. “And why the fuck didn’t you wake me up?” she hisses. 

“You were too deep in your beauty sleep.” Paige side eyes her. “Doesn’t seem like it worked, though,” she adds, knowing full well that she’s lying. Paige may be a hater, but she's still gay, and much to her chagrin, Azzi, despite frizzy hair and bags under her eyes, is admittedly pretty.

“I thought teammates were supposed to have each others’ backs,” Azzi grits out.

“I guess you have a point.” Paige shifts her notebook within eyesight of Azzi. “You can copy my notes.”

“Really?” Azzi, stunned by her sudden kindness, huddles in to squint at the paper. Her face falls when she realizes that the only thing on the sheet is a big dick, with even bigger balls. And hair.

“You’re an asshole,” Azzi says, slightly embarrassed that she'd thought Paige could even be capable of being nice for a single second.

“Not a dick?” Paige can’t help it. The opportunity was just too good to pass up.

Azzi doesn't speak to her for the rest of the day. 

༉‧₊˚✧

They win their first game, blowing out Italy 86-48. Paige is giddy, having finished with a solid 12 points and 5 assists, and she’s riding that high until her dad deliver the bad news.

“We’re doing what?”

Bob pats Paige on the back. “We offered to take out the Fudds for dinner, our treat.”

“The Fudds?” Paige echoes incredulously. “As in, Azzi’s family?”

“That’s correct.” Bob nods. “We happened to sit next to her parents during the game and we were talking about how good you and Azzi click together.”

“On the court,” Paige specifies. “And only on the court. Basketball’s the only thing we ever agree on, and that’s being generous.” 

“Don’t be dramatic,” her dad reprimands. “They’re nice people, Katie and Tim, and Azzi seems lovely. We’re going to dinner and we’re having a good time.” His tone leaves no room for disagreement, and Paige slumps down in her seat, defeated. “It’s an up-scale place, so go to your room and pick out something nice to wear. Meet us in an hour in the lobby.”

“Okay,” she mumbles begrudgingly. 

The rest of the drive back to the hotel is silent as Paige stews in her thoughts. Sitting through dinner with Azzi seems hellish, and knowing her parents’ tendency to talk on and on, it’ll surely end up being a multi-hour affair. Maybe she can fake being sick and leave early. Paige brightens up at the idea, and spends the next fifteen minutes devising a plan to fully sell it.

Wanting to put off dinner as long as possible, Paige takes her time heading back to the room, choosing to take the stairs even though her legs are still tired and aching from the game. She’s barely opened the door to her room when Azzi’s scrambled up from the bed and saying, “I need to borrow something.”

“Borrow something?” Paige goes to the closet and begins to ruffle through her more formal tops, starting to put together her own outfit.

“I realized I forgot all my nice clothes at home,” Azzi says. “I only have sweats and shit.”

“Aw, weren’t you just making fun of me for—”

“Paige,” Azzi interrupts. “Now is not the time.���

Paige rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine.” She looks through her clothes again, this time with a wary eye. “I guess you can borrow this.” She throws a long black sleeve at Azzi. 

“Bro, what is this?” Azzi gingerly picks up the piece of clothing with two fingers as if it’s poisonous. “You gave me your ugliest top!” she accuses.

“I didn’t!” Paige turns her back. “Beggars can’t be choosers anyways.”

“Can’t I have something, like, a little bit more interesting?” Azzi pushes past Paige, taking her spot in front of the closet  to look for herself. “Like this,” she holds up a tiny crop top that’s more like a glorified sports bra, and Paige’s eyes widen. 

“Hell no.” The older girl snatches it away from her. “We’re eating dinner with our parents, not going to a party.”

“There’s gonna be cute Belarusian guys at the restaurant, I know it,” Azzi complains. “I gotta look my best.” 

Paige blinks. “I don’t know why you think that helps your case.”

“Well, what about this one?” Azzi points to another crop top, this one slightly less revealing. Paige is about to relent when she imagines Azzi showing up with even a sliver of abs and toned arms out. The thought of having to sit next to Azzi, with nowhere to escape, when she’s looking like that, makes her shiver, and she hates it. 

“No,” Paige says firmly. “You’re shorter than me so it’s definitely gonna show way too much skin on you.” 

“When the fuck did you turn into a nun?” Azzi grumbles.

Paige glares at her. “Look, either you borrow this one or you get nothing. It’s up to you.” 

Protesting under her breath, Azzi grabs back the black long-sleeve and goes to the bathroom to change. Paige changes too and sits on the bed as she waits for the dark haired girl to finish up. When Azzi finally comes out, she stares at Paige dumbfoundedly. “You’re literally wearing a crop top and short shorts.”

“I can wear revealing shit,” Paige says. “You’re fifteen. It would be a crime if I enabled the baby of the team to walk around in clothes like this.” 

“I’m not the baby of the team,” Azzi says, crossing her arms even though she knows she younger than most of her teammates by a full two years. “And fifteen is plenty big.”

“You are,” Paige argues back. 

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Harrumphing, Azzi gives up and leaves the room, forcing Paige to scramble to get her phone and purse in order to catch up. The doors of the elevator are about to meet when Paige hurriedly sticks her hand between them and pushes her way in. “Seriously?” she pants, looking pointedly at where Azzi’s finger had been frantically pushing the close button.

Azzi‘s mouth pulls into a tight line. “You coulda taken the stairs. Lord knows you need the conditioning.” 

Paige scoffs, and the rest of the elevator ride down is silent, both of them bristling. 

Their parents are running late, so they take a seat in the lobby to wait. Paige makes sure to leave an extra chair between them. Silence fills the air between them, heavy and pervasive, until Azzi suddenly asks, “Can I ask you a favor?” 

“No.” Paige’s response is immediate. She'd already very generously let Azzi borrow her clothes. What else could the younger girl possibly need?

Azzi huffs and forges ahead anyways. “Look, my parents are super worried about me.”

“Why?” Paige questions reluctantly. She’s in no mood to entertain Azzi's request for a favor, but her curiosity wins out; why would Azzi of all people have parents worrying over her? Despite how much she dislikes the girl, she can admit that she’s unusually independent and capable. It's honestly half the reason why Paige resents her so much.

“Because…” Azzi crosses her arms, like she’s trying to make herself smaller. “I don’t know. They’re scared I’m not making any friends. Which is completely stupid, because I’m close to Sam and Jordan!” she says the last part defiantly, as if she’s trying to convince herself more than anything.

Paige stays quiet. To be truthful, it’s not a wrong observation. Azzi is more introverted and on the shyer side, and despite being one of the few returning girls from last season, she still hasn’t fully integrated into the team dynamic. 

“And once they saw us play together, they got super excited. For whatever reason, they thought I made a new friend, and the fact that it was you—” Azzi cuts herself off, shaking her head in embarrassment. 

Once again, the blonde is curious. “Why me?” she prods. 

“I don’t know. They’ve seen you play a ton and they admire your work ethic, I guess.”  

“They know what’s up,” Paige says approvingly with a solemn nod.

Azzi holds back from rolling her eyes. “Listen, can we just play it chill at dinner? We don’t have to pretend to be besties, but let’s just hold off on the arguing for a couple hours.” She rubs her palms against her thighs, almost as if she’s nervous, and her pants come away damp. “I just don’t wanna disappoint them.”

Paige opens her mouth, about to crack another joke, but then Azzi looks down, avoiding her eyes, still hunched over herself and looking like she’s trying to disappear, and something about how vulnerable the younger girl looks makes her heart twinge a little. So she plays it off by clearing her throat instead, and busies herself with looking at the receptionist, who’s actually quite pretty. “Yeah, whatever. That’s fine.”

The dark haired girl shifts next to her. Paige swears she sees a small smile flash across her face before it’s quickly controlled into a stony mask. “Thanks.”

༉‧₊˚✧

2017 - Colorado Springs, Colorado 

1 year ago: training camp day one 

“Nervous?”

Azzi’s eyes shoot towards the blonde next to her. It’s her first time actually looking at her face, and she realizes with a start that the girl is disarmingly pretty, golden wisps of hair escaping her Nike headband, and her eyes are a sharp, deep blue. 

“No,” she lies. “I’m making this roster.”

“Nice.” The blonde grins at her, and it’s toothy and big, and it makes Azzi do a double take. “I am too.”

The rest of day one passes by quickly. Every so often, Azzi looks up from a drill and swears she sees blue eyes lingering on her before they quickly look away. She finds out from the yelling of the coaches that the blonde's name is Paige, and the name rolls around in her mind for longer than she can explain. Yet they don't talk again, merely exchanging high fives and mumbling "Good jobs" before they both end up using the bathroom before they head out of the gym for the day.

“You’re something, Fudd.” Paige wipes her hands with a paper towel as she leans coolly against the wall. “Where you from?”

“Virginia,” Azzi says, a little shyly. “You?”

“Minnesota.” Paige leans in closer, ever the charmer at fifteen years old. “But I’ve always wanted to go to the DMV.”

Azzi, flustered by how she can smell Paige's perfume, stammers out, “It’s pretty nice up there.”

“It’s nicer knowing I’ll have a pretty girl to show me around when I visit.” Azzi is fourteen, and this is the first time anyone has so blatantly flirted with her, and she’s kinda confused but she kinda likes it? Still, she's speechless, at an utter loss for words before Paige says, “Well, I guess I'll see you,” her hand brushing Azzi’s hip as she walks behind her to the door. Azzi puts a hand on the counter, steadying herself from the heated feeling of warm fingers against her bare skin.

“Yeah, see you,” Azzi breathes out, but when she looks behind her, the girl is lone gone.

[rafessecret]

Instead of smut what about we get some angust. Rafes friends talking shit about reader and she hears and he is laughing with them and she is sitting right next to them ?

⋆˚࿔ step¡sister reader && rafe cameron

I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHO YOU ARE ANYMORE.

You’re there again. Curled into him like muscle memory, your body moulded into Rafe’s side like it always is—your legs sprawled over his lap, his hand settled warm on your bare thigh, thumb stroking thoughtless patterns. He smells like cedar and salt and cigarette smoke, his cologne lingering thick in the humid air, sweet and masculine and so stupidly familiar.

The house is buzzing—beer cans cracking, bass thumping from someone’s speaker, the boys slurring jokes and shouting over each other in that way they always do. You’re half-listening, aimlessly scrolling, your acrylics tapping against the screen, catching glints of sunlight. You feel pretty. Effortless. His. You feel like maybe this is what soft looks like. Until it shifts. It starts like every other conversation does. Topper ribbing Rafe, Kelce chiming in. Dumb stories. Cheap laughter. But then: ❝Man, she’s so fucking dumb sometimes,❞ Kelce says, lazy and loud, like you aren’t right there.

You freeze. Topper’s laugh is sharp and nasal. ❝Cute, sure, but that baby voice? It’s like dating a cartoon character.❞ Your phone slips just a little in your grip. And Rafe? Rafe laughs. That laugh. The low one. The one he gives you when you’re wrapped in his hoodie, whispering sweet nonsense into his neck. But now it’s cruel. Detached. Cold.

❝She means well,❞ he shrugs. ❝She’s just—y’know. Kind of dumb. But she looks good on her knees.❞ The room howls with laughter. You feel everything slow. Muffle. Your stomach turns. You can hear your own heartbeat over the noise, loud and panicked, pulsing in your throat. Still, you don’t move. Don’t even blink. He doesn’t notice. None of them do. You’re a prop. An accessory. Pretty and pliable and easy to mock. At some point, you stand. You don’t remember it. Your legs just take you. Silent. Invisible. You slip from the couch like mist, like a shadow no one saw in the first place.

Your feet carry you to the bathroom down the hall, fingers shaking as you twist the lock. Your back hits the wall and everything collapses. You sink to the floor in slow motion, the cold tile against your thighs grounding you just enough to break. The sob rips out of you before you can catch it, messy and raw. Ugly. You cover your mouth with your wrist, mascara bleeding down your cheeks. You don’t want them to hear you. You don’t want him to hear you. But God, you heard him.

You heard every syllable. The boy who kissed your knuckles, who called you his girl, who told you that you were the only thing that made him feel calm—he laughed. At you. He sold your softness for a laugh. A knock, eventually. Sharp. Impatient. ❝Hey. Open the door.❞ His voice crawls under your skin. ❝What the fuck’s wrong with you now?❞ Now.Like you’re always causing problems. Like your heartbreak is an inconvenience.

You open the door with trembling fingers. Eyes swollen. Lip bitten. He looks annoyed. Arms crossed. Brows drawn. ❝Don’t do that,❞ you say, voice shaking. ❝Don’t pretend you don’t know.❞ He scoffs. ❝It’s always a guessing game with you.❞ That’s what shatters you. ❝I heard you,❞ you whisper. Your breath hitches. ❝All of it. ‘Dumb.’ ‘Toddler.’ ‘Good on her knees.’❞ His jaw tightens. But he doesn’t say sorry. Doesn’t reach for you. ❝It was a joke,❞ he mutters.

❝Don’t.❞ You take a step back. ❝Don’t fucking do that. I was right there, Rafe.❞ Your voice rises, not loud, but broken. Frantic. ❝You didn’t even blink.❞ Tears streak hot down your cheeks again. ❝You made me feel so fucking small.❞ He shifts. Looks away. But his pride is louder than his guilt. ❝You’re being dramatic.❞ You laugh. Not because it’s funny. Because it’s over. ❝You don’t get to say that. Not after every time I stayed quiet. Not after every time I let you get away with it.❞

His jaw clenches tighter. Anger rippling under his skin. But you’re already gone, aren’t you? ❝I don’t even know who you are anymore,❞ you say, voice a whisper, eyes shining. ❝You say you love me, but all you do is humiliate me.❞ And finally—finally—you say the truth: ❝I don’t think you do love me.❞ Silence. The kind that tastes like goodbye. And Rafe? He doesn’t say a word.

── ⋆ 𝐲𝐚𝐩 : thanks anon… lowkey this might sound weird but this made me think of cherry waves by deftones for some reason. i actually really like how this turned out. sorry if i’m bad at angst though </3 hope you still enjoy it!

── ⋆ 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔 : @scne-vampire @browniepop62 @urcoolgf @folksriddle @loverliner @delicatelyquiet @rafeysbrat @amelialovesrafe

©RAFESSECRET ⋆˚࿔ est. 2025

[carlislefiles]

first fight | gojo satoru ╰►you and your boyfriend, gojo, never fight. it's like your whole schtick. you love each other sooooo much that nothing is ever important enough to argue over. sure, you get annoyed with each other, but you're both adults who love each other very, very much. nothing is worth jeopardizing your relationship over, and you're both perfectly capable of having mature conversations with one another. it drives his students crazy, how gojo pulled such a 10/10 and how you never fight, your relationship is just perfect. until it isn't. until you tell gojo the one thing he never thought you'd say, the last thing he ever wanted to hear from you. 3.8k words

a/n: I love disgustingly, sickeningly, disturbingly in love couples, because what do you mean people actually experience true joy and unconditional love??? anyways, this deals with some self-esteem issues, insecurities, etc. from both parties, some are more physical, others are more mental. just want y'all to know that I love you, even though I don't know you, because you all deserve that :)

you arrive at jujutsu high in the same car every morning, the same soundtrack playing, the same thermos passed between your hands. gojo insists that coffee tastes better when it’s made by you, even though he’s the one who set the timer on the machine at 6:00 a.m. sharp. you just roll your eyes and let him say it, because he looks at you like you’ve just invented the concept of caffeine.

everything about the two of you is too much.

you walk through the school like you were born holding hands. you teach separate classes, sure, but somehow you still manage to be in the same rooms at the same times, overlapping missions and sparring demos and paperwork like you planned it. which—okay—you did. kind of.

lunch is shared. not in the “sitting across from each other like normal people” way, but in the “you’re eating from his bento and he’s picking the mushrooms out of yours” kind of way. shoko once joked that if she took one of your lunches and swapped it with the other, you’d both starve out of muscle memory.

gojo didn’t even deny it. he just said, “honestly? probably true.”

and somehow, you make it work. him with his chaotic, oversized presence, and you with your quiet steel. it’s like watching a thunderstorm fall in love with a garden. beautiful. slightly horrifying. weirdly functional.

the students, of course, are suffering.

“do they ever fight?” nobara asks one afternoon, watching you flick a piece of eraser at gojo’s head during a grading session.

“they don’t even disagree,” megumi mutters. “it’s like they’re possessed.”

“they’re just in love,” yuuji says with a dumb little smile, arms behind his head. “it’s sweet.”

“it’s unnatural,” nobara grumbles. "I saw them high-five after a kill last week. who does that?”

“they make up little handshakes,” megumi adds darkly, like he’s sharing a war crime. “one for every type of curse. I've seen it.”

you two are oblivious, or maybe just immune. gojo’s got one leg thrown over your chair, bent over your shoulder as you work through lesson plans, humming some off-key pop song into your ear. you tap his nose with a pen when he gets too loud. he steals your glasses and wears them dramatically until you threaten to break his fingers. everyone assumes it’s a joke. (it’s not.)

even utahime has given up. "I hate him slightly less when you’re around,” she admitted once, after a mission. “don’t quote me. I'll deny it.”

“quoting it,” gojo chirped, already grinning like a child who’s won the spelling bee. “printing it. framing it.”

she almost cursed him on the spot.

and nanami—well. nanami sighs a lot these days. "I assume you’ve figured out how to file joint mission reports by now,” he says without looking up, already anticipating gojo’s attempt to dump his paperwork on him.

“oh, we file jointly,” gojo replies with a smug little smirk. “she writes, I supervise.”

“she works,” nanami corrects. “you annoy.” but nanami doesn’t say much else, and he doesn’t really have to. you know he doesn’t hate it as much as he pretends to. the two of you get the job done. your students are thriving. you and gojo—well. you don’t fight. you just don’t.

there’s never been a reason to. you annoy each other, sure, and he leaves his socks on the floor and you use his fancy hair stuff without asking, and sometimes you both forget that not every disagreement has to become a twenty-minute philosophical debate—but none of it matters. none of it’s important. nothing is ever more important than each other.

and everyone knows it. you’re the couple. not just a couple. the couple. the blueprint. the “they’re so gross it’s kind of beautiful” pair that makes everyone feel like maybe love is possible, if you just find the right balance of infuriating and perfect.

the first time you attend one of the sorcerer galas together, it feels like a fairytale.

gojo’s tux is crisp and sleek, his blindfold replaced with thin designer sunglasses that let his smirk gleam underneath. you wear black satin with a slit that teeters on the edge of scandalous, and he damn near short-circuits trying to pick his jaw off the floor. you aren’t fond of crowds, not fond of being seen, but you do it for him. for your boyfriend. for the strongest.

“damn, baby,” he breathes into your neck that night, one hand on your waist, the other around a champagne flute. “do you want me to get assassinated? ‘cause you’re killing me.” you laugh. your heart glows. you stay close to his side all night, tucked under his arm like his favorite secret.

the second gala is a little harder.

the hair takes longer. the heels are higher. the dress clings tighter. it’s blue this time, and gojo whistles when you walk out of the bathroom. but he doesn't notice how long you took to put on your eyeliner. how many times you changed the part in your hair. how much of your dinner you didn’t eat. you stay quiet. smiling. you know how to play the part.

he keeps you close again, proudly introducing you to a blur of other sorcerers and cursed clan heirs and political figures whose names all sound the same. you hold your glass delicately and shake their hands and say all the right things. you don’t notice when you start holding your breath.

by the tenth event, it’s a routine. you wake up with your stomach in knots. you force yourself to eat something light. you do your makeup, wash it off, and do it again. you think about skipping it. you think about canceling. you know he'd say yes, bend to your every whim, probably even comfort you if you asked to stay him. you think about asking him to go alone. but he’s so happy when he talks about you. when he holds your hand and introduces you as his person. when he leans over during a speech to whisper, “if you weren’t here, i’d be asleep under the dessert table.”

you’re his anchor in a room full of masks and monsters. and god, you try. you try so hard.

you wear the tight red dress, even though it makes you feel like you’re stuffed into someone else’s skin. you suck in your stomach. you smile at the compliments that don’t feel real. you nod along to conversations you don’t understand. you rest your hand on satoru’s chest like it belongs there, even when you want to disappear into the floorboards. you do your job. you perform. but the thing about performance is that it’s exhausting. and eventually, even the strongest burn out.

it happens on the way home. you’re riding in the passenger seat, skin prickling, heart thudding like it’s run five miles without you. your hair is pinned perfectly. your lipstick hasn’t smudged. your hands are shaking in your lap, the ocular headache you have right now is blurring your vision, and satoru doesn’t see it because he’s humming under his breath to the radio, one hand on the wheel, the other already reaching for yours like always.

you pull into the lot. the engine cuts. he gets out first, stretches dramatically, then opens your door with that lazy, dazzling grin. “c’mon, sweetheart,” he says, extending a hand. “let’s get you out of those murder weapons and into something cozy.” right, heels. torture devices.

but you don’t move. not right away. your eyes don’t meet his. and then you climb out of the car, slowly, shakily, the sound of your heels against the pavement almost too loud in the night.

he notices it then—the way your fingers fumble with your clutch, how your shoulders curl inward like you’re bracing for impact. your lip trembles. your eyes are bloodshot, glassy and wet. you're crying.

his heart skips so violently he thinks for a second it might’ve stopped altogether. “hey—hey, baby,” he murmurs, voice shifting into panic-soft, the way it only gets when you're sick or hurt. “what’s wrong? what happened? did someone—did I—?”

he takes a step toward you, and your breath catches.

your arms wrap around yourself. your chin drops to your chest. "I can’t do this,” you whisper, and it’s not dramatic, not a plea—it’s just...honest. defeated. tired. 

gojo's entire world narrows to the space between you. the space that, for once, isn’t shrinking.

he doesn’t understand it yet—not fully—but the panic starts to rise. because his girl, his perfect girl, his one-in-a-billion miracle who never asks for anything, who has stood beside him through missions and injuries and political bullshit and nightmares—you’re crying. right here. dressed like a goddess and shaking like a leaf. and for the first time in a long time, he has no idea how to fix it.

……

you make it up the stairs in silence. gojo unlocks the door like muscle memory, eyes on you the whole time, one hand still ready to catch your elbow, your waist, anything. just in case. just in case you fall. just in case you run.

you don’t do either. you step inside, and the door clicks closed behind you. the red dress is suffocating now. your shoes pinch like punishment. the golden light of your apartment feels wrong—too bright, too cozy. like you’re tainting it just by existing here, dressed like this, breaking like this.

“I'm sorry,” you say suddenly, too fast, too quiet. satoru blinks. you won’t look at him. "I know I'm being dramatic. I just—I just can’t do it anymore. I'm so tired.”

he’s next to you in a second, hands gentle but firm as he guides you to sit on the edge of the bed. kneels in front of you, big hands on your knees, eyes frantic behind his sunglasses. “talk to me,” he says softly. “please. tell me what’s wrong, baby. tell me what I can do.”

you shake your head. “it’s not you,” you whisper. “it’s me. I mean—god, that sounds stupid. I just—I can’t keep doing these things. the events. the meetings. the fake smiling and fake laughing. I know they’re important to you. I know I'm supposed to be...whatever I am to you. a partner. a face. something pretty on your arm.”

he flinches at that. you don’t notice.

"I keep trying to be enough. I keep thinking, maybe if I wear the right dress, or say the right thing, or pretend I'm not awkward and shy and fucking uncomfortable in my own skin—maybe I'll feel like I deserve to be there. next to you. with you.”

his voice is soft, low, trembling. “you do deserve—”

"I don’t.” you don’t raise your voice. you don’t need to. the words come out like a knife’s edge. like a breath you’ve been holding for months. "I don’t,” you repeat, quieter now. “I'm not pretty enough. I'm not confident. I'm not exciting or charming or strong. I'm not anything.” not anything compared to you, but you aren’t quite brave enough for that yet. or maybe you are and you’re worried he’s the one that’s not brave enough. 

satoru’s hands tighten on your knees. “that’s—baby, that’s ridiculous. you’re—” he laughs, like it’s absurd, like it’s a joke. “you’re gorgeous. you’re funny and smart and—”

“I'm not, satoru.” the sound of his name stops him cold. you only ever call him that when something’s wrong. "I know you love me,” you say. “and I love you so, so much. but I feel like I'm waiting for the moment when you wake up one day and realize what everyone else already knows. that I'm not good enough for you. that I never was. that you deserve someone...better. someone funnier, someone prettier. someone who can actually handle this world you live in. someone more like you.”

and that’s it. that’s the line. the one thing you never should’ve said. the thing he’s been waiting—terrified—to hear. because he’s always known you’d leave him. not because you’d stop loving him. no. because you’d stop loving yourself. because you’d look in the mirror and only see the ways you think you fall short, and you’d believe them. because he’s spent every damn day of your relationship thanking the stars you even looked at him twice—and now you’re here, thinking he’s the one who’s out of your league.

like your love isn’t the first real thing he’s ever had. like he doesn’t spend every waking moment terrified he’ll mess it up.

the silence is heavy. you don’t look up. you can’t. because if you do, if you see the look on his face—the hurt, the disbelief, the heartbreak—you’ll crumble.

and you can’t fall apart now. you’re already too far gone.

satoru says nothing. for once, he says nothing.

you don't know what to do with that. you brace yourself for an argument, a denial, a joke—something. but the silence wraps around you like a blanket just a little too heavy. it's not punishing. it’s not cold. it's aching. and when he moves—when he stands and reaches for your wrists—it’s slow and reverent.

you flinch, just slightly. you think he’s going to hug you. you brace for it. and you think—don’t. please don’t. because if he hugs you now, you’ll crumble. you’ll drown in it. in how good it feels. how wrong it feels. how unearned.

but he doesn't pull you in. he turns you around. guides you across the room with hands light on your back. and before you know it, you’re in the bathroom, sitting on the counter, legs swinging slightly, your red dress riding above your knees.

he’s still taller than you. even like this. and then—you freeze. because he starts taking out the pins in your hair. one by one. slow. delicate. like you’re made of spun glass. like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he pulls too hard.

it’s the most careful he’s ever been. you usually just claw them out with a groan, drag a comb through, and fall into bed. but satoru’s fingers are sure, gentle. reverent.

you don’t say anything. neither does he.

then come the makeup wipes—cool against your cheeks, your lips, your lashes. he doesn’t scrub. he doesn’t rush. he just erases—soft and patient and tender. the face you wore tonight, the mask you built so carefully, peeled away in layers. one wipe. then another. then another.

and still, he says nothing. but there's a tiny smile growing on his lips. not amused. not teasing. content. because the woman on this counter—bare-faced, heavy-limbed, emotionally wrecked—is his. and that alone is enough to undo him. he finishes the last swipe, tosses the wipe into the trash, and sets both hands on either side of your thighs on the counter. close. steadying himself. like if he doesn't hold onto something, he might spin off the earth.

"I don’t know how deep this thing runs,” he says finally. quiet. low. barely above a whisper. “and I won’t pretend I can fix it in a night.” you blink. swallow. nod. “but I need you to hear this. really hear me.” his voice is steady. soft, but unshaking. “maybe there is someone out there who looks better on paper. someone more suited to the job. someone who would’ve made sense in a perfect little sorcerer marriage. someone the higher-ups would’ve picked for me. but the second I met you—” he breathes out through his nose, like it still stuns him, “—the second I met you, that version of me—the one who ends up with someone else—died.”

you blink hard. he presses on.

“you’re not my arm candy. you’re not my accessory. you’re not here to make me look good or fit into some mold. if that’s what I was meant to have…god, I never would’ve subjected you to that, to the whole performance of it. I'm so sorry that you’ve been feeling like that this whole time.” you exhale. shaky. but the tears slow.

“and yeah, I'm loud. I'm obnoxious. I'm exhausting. I was told my whole life that I was too much, and I believed it—until I met you. you never once made me feel like I was too much. you just...let me be. let me love you.” you nod. tiny. barely.

“and now you’re the one who thinks you’re not enough, and I swear to you—on my life, on everything I am—you are. you are. maybe we’re both a mess, but if that’s true, then we’re the only kind of mess I want to be. you and me. no masks. no roles. just us.” 

and finally, finally, your tears stop. you breathe in, and it lands. it sinks in like rain into dry soil. like something alive. something healing. you slide off the counter. unzip your dress, slow. you grab an oversized shirt from the drawer. toss it on. you pull out a pair of sweatpants and hand them to him without a word.

he changes, quietly, mirroring you. and then you both sit. on the bed. cross-legged. until you climb into his lap like it’s instinct. like your body knows where it belongs. your fingers trace the line of his jaw, his cheekbones, his lips. and you look at him like he is holy. like you’re not worthy—but you want to be. and gojo—satoru—melts.

he’s not the strongest sorcerer in the world. he’s not special. not here. not in this room. not with you looking at him like that. he’s just yours. yours. yours.

you breathe, trembling. “I'm sorry.” he opens his mouth. you keep going. “I'm so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I know that’s the thing you hate hearing. I know it’s what they’ve always told you. that you’re too much, too strong, too untouchable, and I used it against you, even if I didn’t mean to. I just—i didn’t mean to hurt you. I swear I didn’t. I love you so much I—”

“hey,” he whispers, hand sliding up your back. “hey.” you stop.

"I get it. I do.” his hand moves in slow circles. "I know what it’s like. to feel like you’re not enough. I know exactly what that voice in your head sounds like. I hear it every time I look in the mirror.” you press your forehead against his. he kisses the corner of your mouth. “maybe we’re not perfect,” he says. “but I know we’re enough. enough for ourselves, and enough for each other. and I've never asked you to be enough, I just want you to be with me. that is enough.”

you nod. you don’t trust your voice. you curl into him. let the rhythm of his breath soothe you. let his fingers write love letters into your spine. and then—through the snot and salt and stifled giggle—you whisper: “is this our first fight?”

satoru groans dramatically. "I hope not. if it is, we’re already terrible at it.” you snort. he grins. “but,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple, “it damn well better be our last.”

satoru is not stupid enough to think that this is solved, that he's perfectly put you back together and that you'll never feel another insecurity ever again. if you were at a point this low, in which you thought he was something to deserve, and even worse that you somehow didn't...that's not something that will be magically changed by a couple of compliments in one evening.

but that doesn't change the fact that he's trying, and that he'll continue to try. to make you see yourself in the way that you see him, in the way that he sees you. perfect, beautiful, everything all at once.

……

the next morning is…normal. which is to say, it’s perfect.

you wake up tangled in limbs, mouth dry, vision blurry, and feet sore. gojo’s hair is a catastrophe. your shirt is on backwards. neither of you cares. he kisses your nose and groans, “babe, I love you, but if you don’t get off my arm in the next ten seconds I will have to gnaw it off like a wild animal.”

you snort. “aren’t you into the wild animal thing?” 

he grins like it’s the cleverest thing he’s ever heard, even though it’s so, so stupid and probably the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever said. “down, girl.” 

it’s the same routine. brush teeth together, jostling elbows. you steal his shirt. he steals your breakfast. he fake-gasps like it’s a betrayal. you threaten his life. he says, “as long as it’s in your arms, baby.”

there's a little weight there, that wasn't yesterday morning. you both carry it on your shoulders, but at least you're not carrying it on your own anymore, satoru thinks. he's more than happy to carry it with you.

you drive together. park crookedly. link pinkies the whole walk into the school. take your usual spot on the bench by the vending machine. except now—it’s not just routine. it’s not autopilot. every moment feels intentional. you do everything together, but now you feel it.

every sip of shared coffee. every brush of fingers. every sideways glance in a too-long meeting. every dumb joke from yuuji that makes you laugh just a little too loud.

and speaking of which—yuuji stares at the two of you from across the courtyard as you sit on a bench, sharing a smoothie like that’s a completely normal thing for two fully grown adults to do. yuta, nobara, and megumi watch too, with something more akin to disgust. 

yuta squints. tilts his head. “hey, do they ever fight?”

megumi sighs like he’s aged thirty years. “don’t ask.”

"I mean, they must fight. but they’re like, weirdly in sync about it. maybe they fight in their minds. like telepathically. like—maybe they’re fighting right now,” yuuji says animatedly. 

nobara socks him in the ribs. “shut up, rom-com boy. some of us are trying to enjoy the one healthy relationship in this entire war-torn hellscape.”

yuuji wheezes. “oof. I'm just saying—they make fighting look like flirting.”

"that's because they probably are flirting, you dumbass. gojo finally got a girl and he's never gonna stop talking her up," megumi says, because he knows way too much about your relationship. gojo tells him much more than he'd ever like to hear.

gojo, across the yard, sticks his tongue out and flashes a peace sign without even turning around. you don’t even notice. just sip the smoothie again. business as usual.

gojo doesn’t show up to any major events with you for a while. he goes alone sometimes—just enough to keep the higher-ups off his back—but even then, he’s ghost-like. there. visible. but untouchable.

the public misses his usual flare. the loud suits. the outrageous jokes. the smug charm.

he saves all that for you, now. and then—one day—he brings you. you don’t dress up. you don’t pile on the makeup or style your hair into something that takes three rounds of heat damage and an exorcism to hold. you just throw on the linen sundress he always stares at a little too long. (it’s the one he once called “a religious experience.” you told him to shut up. he told you it was too late, he’d already ascended.)

your hair is down. soft. natural. windswept from the drive. you slapped on some makeup at 6:00 a.m. that morning and didn’t bother touching it up. and to him—you look like a dream. not the kind that fades when you wake up. the kind that follows you. that clings. that changes you.

you don’t talk to any of the council members. you don’t need to. you talk to him. you talk to the students. you let ino talk your ear off about his promotion, and you smile like you mean it—because you do. you’re proud of him. you’re present. you’re glowing.

and the council members do look your way. they glance, whisper, measure. but gojo doesn’t even let it start. one look from him—one icy flash of his eyes, a fraction of his power slipping out like a cold wind—and the room resets. no one says a word. you are not a weakness. you are not a mistake. you are not a prop on his arm. you are the axis his world spins around. you laugh at something he says—head tilted back, unguarded, radiant—and he thinks: I could give her the world. every inch of it. and still want to give her more. because you’re happy. you’re not grinning for the crowd, not posing for a photo. you’re happy. and that is more than enough.

dividers by @cafekitsune

[lazysoulwriter]

snl!pedro pascal ── .✦

requested! thank you. content: pedro pascal x wife!actress!reader, fluff, chaotic married energy, suggestive jokes, SNL shenanigans

---

“you did not just say that on live television,” you whisper, barely containing your laughter as you grab pedro by the collar of his blazer and yank him off the stage.

his eyes are wide with mock innocence. “say what?”

“‘my wife’s the reason i’m bow-legged’ — pedro.”

“i meant emotionally!” he says, beaming. “like... you’ve mentally exhausted me.”

you cross your arms. “you had your hand on my ass when you said it.”

“for support,” he nods solemnly. “i’m fragile. the floor was slippery.”

you stare at him, then burst out laughing as he pulls you close, whispering, “also, not my fault you wore that dress. i’m only human.”

you’re a last-minute surprise guest for his snl hosting gig — both of you actors, both of you unhinged — and the writers simply couldn’t resist putting you in a sketch together.

they pair you as rival soap opera stars with dramatic sexual tension. every time pedro gets too close, you slap him. he rips his shirt open in slow motion. you throw a glass of wine at his chest. the audience eats it up.

“your hands are ice cold,” he whispers off-camera as you press a prop knife to his chest.

“maybe you should warm them up,” you shoot back, just as the camera goes live again. he breaks character mid-line, laughing with his whole chest.

someone backstage mutters, “we're never inviting them back at the same time again.”

during the goodnights, you try to behave. you try. but pedro kisses you in front of the whole cast and the cameras, one hand on your waist, the other messing up your hair as you lean back, giggling.

he whispers, “thanks for making this the best week of my life.”

you roll your eyes but blush anyway. “you mean that? even after i made you do salsa rehearsal drunk?”

he kisses your cheek. “especially because of that.”

hours later, afterparty in full swing, your phone won’t stop buzzing. you glance down and gasp.

“pedro.”

he’s mid-sip of a whiskey soda. “yeah?”

“this tweet says ‘pedro pascal grabbing his wife like a medieval knight come back from war’ and it has fifty thousand likes.”

he leans over your shoulder, smirks. “they’re not wrong.”

you raise an eyebrow. “you had lipstick all over your face. people think it was a bit.”

“it wasn’t,” he says proudly. “you just looked too good to not kiss.”

you end the night curled up together on the couch of your hotel suite, makeup half-off, feet tangled, your fingers tracing lazy lines across his chest.

he’s scrolling through your joint trending page. “someone made a fancam of us set to ‘crazy in love’. we’ve officially peaked.”

you hum against his neck. “i think i peaked when you moaned during the pottery sketch.”

“baby, i actually got clay in my pants. that wasn’t acting.”

you giggle, nose scrunching. “pedro!”

he grins, leans in and kisses your nose. “i love you.”

“i love you more.”

“nope,” he says. “not possible. i’m a simp on live television now. i win.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

---

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @joelmillerpascal @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure@barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512 @alltounwell @libbyaller @beaagiannelli @broad-shouldrs @oceanmcu @kysosa @melloispunk @jollycupcakeblizzard @angvlicsoulll @needz1nk @daddypascal17 @agustdpeach @mrsbilicablog @k4t13ispunk @hotdadlvr95 @lnnysnts @pedropascalfan221 @queenofklonnie22 @christinamadsen @ilovecheriies @stvr-bloom

[unstablecherries]

More nsfw vi please! I’m in love with how you write her. Maybe something with overstim? Reader mentions to vi that she hasn’t ever orgasmed more than once or twice with a partner before and vi takes it as a challenge 🫣 ahhhh idk I just love your vi stuff

yes, yes, yes, anon!! :) I'm so glad you like my Vi stuff, thank you. Honestly, I think this whole overstimulation niche fits Vi extremely well! ♡

Record Broken, (NSFW)

Oneshot; Vi x Reader

content: Vi!top, overstimulation, praise, teasing

It started as a joke.

You’d been laying in bed together, tangled up in soft sheets and even softer kisses, when you’d let it slip:

“No one’s ever made me come more than, like… once. Twice, if they were really trying.”

Vi went quiet.

Then she looked at you with that gleam in her eye, the one that always spelled trouble.

And she said, “Wanna change that?”

You laughed. “What, like it’s a competition?”

She grinned. “No, baby. It’s a promise.”

That was two orgasms ago.

You were already a panting, writhing mess, your legs trembling as Vi licked you through your second high, but she hadn’t stopped.

Her arms were strong, holding you down with that unfair mix of strength and tenderness. Her mouth was relentless on your clit, her tongue flicking in tight, practiced circles like she knew exactly how your body ticked now.

“Vi- fuck- I can’t-”

“Yes you can,” she murmured, voice hoarse from breath and heat and smug victory. “You’re doin’ so good, baby. Thought you said two was your limit.”

“I-I meant- fuck, please-”

“Mm-mm.” Her tongue curled around your clit again, and your whole body jolted.

You were soaked, slick dripping down your thighs, sheets damp beneath you, hands clawing at the mattress as your third orgasm built too fast, too hot. Her fingers slid back into you, slow and deep, curling perfectly.

“You feel this?” she groaned, loving the way you clenched around her. “You’re dripping down my fuckin’ hand.”

“Vi-Vi, please-”

“C’mon, angel. Gimme another. You can do it.”

Your thighs tried to close; she didn’t let them. She pinned them wide, her mouth locked to your clit as you came again, this time with a cry so sharp it left your throat raw.

Everything was too much but so good. That edge of pain-and-pleasure, your whole body twitching as her fingers kept moving, slow and teasing, drawing it out.

“That’s three,” she whispered, kissing the inside of your thigh.

You whimpered, wrecked and shaking. “Vi, I- can’t-”

“Shhh.” She kissed your stomach, up your ribs, over your breasts, mouth trailing all the way to your ear. “You can. One more. Just one.”

And you wanted it.

She slid back down your body, locking eyes with you the whole way.

“I’m gonna take care of you, okay? Let me.”

And when she mouthed at your clit again, so slow, so deliberate, your body lit up like it had never been touched before.

The fourth orgasm hit you like a wave, sharp, hot, shattering. Your vision whited out, your hands in her hair as your body trembled, pulsed, leaked all over her.

When it passed, when your breathing slowed and your muscles stopped twitching, she kissed the inside of your thigh and finally let you go.

She climbed back up and pulled you into her arms, brushing the sweat-stuck hair from your face.

“You okay, baby?” she asked softly, eyes filled with warmth now. “Too much?”

You managed a shaky smile. “Too good.”

She kissed you like you were fragile; a contrast to how thoroughly she’d just wrecked you.

“Four,” she said smugly.

“Shut up.”

She grinned. “Bet I can hit six next time.”

[sweetlyvibe]

REQUEST : In which Sasuke realizes his feelings for the reader through jealousy when someone flirts with them. He reacts possessively, firmly telling the suitor “this is NOT happening,” and shows his affection by getting touchy and territorial—like a cat marking its territory—leading to playful yet meaningful moments between them.

You’re the kind of person people feel lucky to meet.

Loud, sweet, always laughing—even at the dumbest jokes—and somehow, impossibly kind to everyone. The type to bring snacks to team meetings even when they weren’t asked for. The type to compliment the old man at the mission board on his new robe. The type to wave at strangers like they’re old friends.

It drove Sasuke insane.

Not in the “I hate you” kind of way—although, sure, he said he hated you at least once a week. But in the way that made his eye twitch when you gave Naruto a high-five that lingered too long. Or when Kiba dared to sling his arm around your shoulders and you just laughed. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like Sasuke didn’t exist just five steps behind you, glaring holes into the back of Kiba’s skull.

It wasn’t like you two got along all the time. You teased him constantly—calling him “Mr. Moody” or “Grumpy Pants.” He retorted by saying things like “Do you ever shut up?” or “Your voice is more annoying than Naruto’s.”

But still, you always saved a seat next to you. You always offered him the first dango stick. You always smiled at him like he hadn’t just insulted you with that signature Uchiha coldness.

And that? That was worse than anything. Because it made his chest tight in ways he didn’t like to admit.

౨ৎ

Today, it all snapped.

You were sitting on the stone railing outside the Hokage building, swinging your legs and talking animatedly with a visiting Cloud shinobi. Some guy with silver piercings and a cocky smile who leaned in way too close.

Sasuke saw it from across the street.

His chakra flared so naturally it felt like breathing.

“Tch,” he muttered, already walking before he even processed it.

“Y/N,” Sasuke said, voice sharp and low.

You turned, cheerful as ever. “Sasuke! You’re actually outside during daylight hours! Should I alert the media?”

He didn’t respond. He just stepped between you and the shinobi like a silent wall of black fabric and cold intent. You blinked as Sasuke—without breaking eye contact with the other guy—reached back and grabbed your wrist, pulling you off the railing and into him.

“Whoa—! Sasuke, what are you—”

“Stay with me now.”

You froze.

Not because of the words, but the way he said them—low, serious, a little breathless. His hand was still on your wrist, but his thumb was stroking circles. Absent-minded. Possessive. Like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

The Cloud shinobi raised a brow. “Didn’t realize she was taken.”

“She is now,” Sasuke muttered.

Your heart flipped.

౨ৎ

Later that evening, back at the training grounds, you finally found the courage to poke at it. “So… earlier,” you said, tossing a senbon into the dirt. “You gonna explain that whole… caveman thing?”

Sasuke scoffed. “You’re too loud for your own good. Always attracting weirdos.”

“Oh, so you pulled me into your chest and told me to ‘stay with you’ for my safety?”

A pause. He didn’t look at you. “Tch. Maybe.”

You stepped closer, leaning forward just enough to make him uncomfortable.

“Jealous, much?”

Silence.

Then, finally, he met your eyes. No smirk. No scowl.

Just… sincerity.

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “I was.”

Your breath caught.

“I don’t want you laughing like that with anyone else,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I want it to be me. I want it to always be me.”

And when he leaned in, hand cupping your cheek with the softest touch imaginable, it felt less like a kiss and more like a promise.

Bonus Headcanons – Jealous Sasuke Edition :

• Silent Glare of Death : He won’t always say something, but the way he stares daggers into anyone getting too close is enough to make most people back off immediately.

• Strategic Positioning : Suddenly, he’s always standing just a little too close. Between you and whoever’s talking to you. Behind you, hand on your lower back. Always there.

• “Tch. You’re too nice to people.” He’ll grumble, pretending it’s about them—but deep down, he’s just mad he has to compete for your attention.

• Touchy in His Own Way : Sasuke’s not overly affectionate, but when he’s jealous? Expect his hand lingering a little longer on your wrist, or him pulling you just a bit closer during walks—subtle, but obvious to anyone watching.

• Unspoken Claim : He won’t say “mine,” but it’s all over his body language. The way he looks at you. The way he softens only when you’re around. You feel it.

• Teasing to Deflect : If you bring it up? He’ll brush it off with something like, “I just didn’t want to clean up the mess when they got rejected.” But his ears go red, and his arm still stays around your shoulders.

[kathlare]

couldn't make it any harder

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary:Lando senses something is off with Amelie. The day unfolds slowly, wrapped in silence and unspoken weight, until understanding and quiet love anchor them back together.

Wordcount: 3.8 k

Warnings: none

full masterlist // request over here!

May 28th, 2025 - Monte Carlo, Monaco

The sunlight was starting to creep through the sheer curtains of their bedroom, a warm golden hue kissing the hardwood floors and tangled white sheets. Lando stirred lazily, muscles stretching as he blinked slowly at the ceiling, still in that hazy limbo between dreaming and waking. A sleepy smile curled his lips as he turned to the side, arms reaching instinctively for her.

But nothing.

No Amelie.

Only the dip of the mattress where she should be, and the comforting weight of Benny curled against his legs. Lando furrowed his brows, still half-asleep, and blindly patted the sheets like she might be hiding under them.

—Ames?— he murmured, voice husky and rough with sleep. Nothing. Benny meowed softly, stretching and nuzzling into his thigh.

Lando propped himself up on one elbow, eyes squinting against the soft light. He looked toward the ensuite bathroom—door wide open, lights off, empty.

Weird.

Dragging a hand through his messy curls, he sat up and stretched again, back cracking slightly. Björn launched himself from the top of the dresser, thudding to the floor with a loud thump and darting toward the door like a creature on a mission. Lando narrowed his eyes at the cat.

—Alright, alright, little goblin, I’m coming— he muttered as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, scooping up Benny into his arms with ease. The cat purred immediately, rubbing his face against Lando’s chin.

Lando kissed the top of Benny’s head, half smiling. —Where’s mommy, huh? Where’d she go? Hiding from us again?—

Björn let out a loud, demanding meow as he scratched the doorframe, tail flicking aggressively. Lando padded out of the bedroom in just his Calvin Kleins and a sleep-creased t-shirt, feet silent against the marble floors of the Monte Carlo apartment. The place was quiet, just the faint sound of waves below and the occasional seagull.

And then he saw her.

Sitting on one of the iron chairs out on the balcony, knees pulled up to her chest in one of his hoodies, the hood almost swallowing her whole. A long sleeve tugged over her hand… and a cigarette pressed between her fingers.

Lando froze.

Amelie never smoked.

Not unless something was wrong.

He blinked, staring for a moment, Benny’s warmth grounding him as something uneasy coiled in his stomach.

She didn’t see him at first. Her eyes were on the sea, glassy, lost. Her lips moved slightly, maybe mouthing something. Maybe nothing.

Then he slid the balcony door open and stepped out.

Her head snapped up.

She panicked—visibly. Quickly stubbing the cigarette out against the ashtray and tossing it, waving smoke away with a frantic hand like a teenager caught sneaking out.

—Lan, fuck, I...— she stood up in a rush, brushing her hands down the front of the hoodie like she could hide it.

He stepped closer, gentle, brows pinched in quiet concern. —Morning, baby. You alright?—

Amelie smiled tightly, the kind that didn’t reach her eyes. Her voice cracked just a bit. —Yeah. Just… couldn’t sleep. Needed air.—

Lando bent down, aiming to kiss her good morning, but just before his lips could reach hers, she turned her face slightly to the side.

—Ew, no— she tried to joke, waving her hand between them —I stink. I’ll brush first, promise.—

Lando blinked at her. That wasn’t like her. Amelie never said no to a morning kiss. Not even when she had morning breath. She always teased him about “not being able to resist her either way.”

He nodded slowly. —Alright. I’ll wait, stinky.—

She tried to laugh, but it was hollow. She slipped past him, fingers trailing along the railing as she walked back inside barefoot. Benny twisted in Lando’s arms, but he didn’t put him down yet. He just stared after her, standing alone on the balcony with Björn now twining around his ankles, glaring at the sea like it had answers.

The rest of the morning was… off.

She moved through the flat like a ghost. Barely touching her food. Ignoring the TV. Lando had made pancakes—her favorite, even added Nutella and strawberries. Normally she'd be perched on the counter, stealing bites from the spatula, playfully smearing chocolate on his cheek, calling him mi chef guapo. Today? She just sat curled up on the couch, legs under her, picking at a pancake with her fork without eating much more than a few bites.

The movie on TV played quietly. Ratatouille. One of her comfort films.

She didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile.

Lando kept glancing at her between bites, trying to make conversation. He even tried a bad French accent at one point—got nothing more than a small hum in response. No eye contact.

She didn’t even correct him when he called Remy “the blue rat thing.”

Something wasn’t right.

But no matter what he tried—kisses to her temple, fingers brushing hers, even gently tugging her hoodie sleeve to pull her closer—she didn’t lean in like usual. She just gave him that same flat, polite smile.

He eventually gave up.

—I think I’m gonna go for a run,— he said softly, standing by the door and glancing at her curled form on the couch. She didn’t look up.

—Okay. Be safe.— came her automatic reply.

Lando stared at her for a second longer, then nodded and slipped on his trainers. The door shut quietly behind him.

He didn’t run far. Just down the promenade, past a few yachts, the air warm and salty. He wasn’t really timing himself. He just needed to clear his head.

She hadn’t been like this in months.

Something had happened.

He pulled his phone from his pocket mid-run, just to scroll. Check messages. Maybe get distracted.

And that’s when he saw it.

Trending on Twitter.

“Cameron Boyce would’ve turned 26 today.”

Fuck.

It hit him like a punch to the chest.

Of course.

Fuck. Of course.

He slowed to a stop, heart still racing but for a different reason now. His thumb hovered over the screen. Her name was there, too, in the related tags. Old photos. Fan edits. Candle emojis.

Cameron.

He remembered how she used to talk about him. Like he was the sun. Like she couldn’t say his name without that soft tremble in her voice. Her best friend. Her first love. The boy who always reminded her to breathe when things got too loud. The boy she never really stopped missing.

Suddenly everything made sense.

The cigarette. The silence. The way she couldn’t meet his eyes.

Lando stood there for a long moment, hand on his waist, phone clenched tightly. Heart aching a little for her.

He had known this day would come. But he hadn’t known how much it would hurt to watch her go through it.

He turned around, already heading back toward the apartment, the run forgotten. All he wanted now was to hold her. To let her grieve. To not let her carry it alone.

Because she didn’t have to anymore.

Not when she had him.

-------------

liked by callumdayman, alexwolffofficial, and others

ameliedayman: always missing you my angel. happy 26th. see you in the next life. love you forever 🤍

View all 207,907 comments

elysiadayman: he’d be so proud of you sis. always with you 🕊️🤍 → ameliedayman: @elysiadayman love you

callumdayman: thinking of him today. love you → ameliedayman: @callumdayman love you always

maxfewtrell: sending you a big hug. cam would be proud → ameliedayman: @maxfewtrell thank you maxie 🖤

lanmeliesupremacy: crying because she never forgets him 😭🕊️ → dayman_doll: @lanmeliesupremacy she carries him with her always, you can tell 🥺

pitwallwitch: idc what anyone says, this is such a beautiful post. grief doesn’t expire.

landofanacc: and this is why i love her, she’s so real and grounded 🥹 → mclarenswifey: @landofanacc and strong af for sharing something this vulnerable

cryingoverlanmelie: the fact she’s still carrying him in her heart AND loving lando so deeply 🥲 it’s giving soul depth → lanmeliecentral: @cryingoverlanmelie she’s truly got that once-in-a-generation heart

ameliedaymanshines: reminder that cameron would be LIVING for her right now. movies. music. love. everything. → angelicdayman: @ameliedaymanshines fr he’d be first in the comments saying “that’s my girl” 😭

f1wagsunite: this post always hits so hard every year. grief is forever. so is love 🤍 → gridhearts: @f1wagsunite and she handles both so gracefully. cam would be proud. we all are.

alexwolffofficial: he’s got the best view up there. sending you love today, always

sunshines4cam: this post hurts and heals at the same time 🕊️ → melancholyamelie: @sunshines4cam grief posts like these are sacred. i cry every year

wags_unfiltered: watching her hold space for Cameron and love Lando just as fully? she’s a whole universe of a woman

georgerussell63: he’ll always be with you. proud of you always → ameliedayman: @georgerussell63 thank you george

-------------

The sun had dipped low by the time Amelie finally peeled herself off the bed.

The bedroom was dim now, just the faint pink of the sunset bleeding through the curtains. She'd spent most of the day curled up in the same position, her cheek pressed to Lando's pillow, the scent of him clinging to the cotton like it was trying to coax her out of herself. Her throat was raw from crying earlier. Her head pounded. Her chest ached with that old, familiar hollow feeling. She hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t moved, really, except to let Benny crawl under the blanket beside her and purr against her ribs.

She was sure both cats had been watching her all day—little sentries of soft fur and big, worried eyes.

Benny had barely left her side, occasionally licking her knuckles like he knew. Like he remembered the last time she’d gone this quiet.

Björn had been more subtle. Guarding the door. Meowing once or twice like he wanted her to follow him. Scratching at the carpet outside the ensuite and then staring at her with those too-human eyes that always made her wonder what he saw when he looked at her.

They were still there when she stood up, legs shaky, hoodie hanging off her frame like a ghost. Benny meowed once from the bed, then jumped down and padded after her. Björn was already waiting at the threshold, tail flicking. She gave them both a tired, crooked smile.

—Alright, alright. I’m coming. Hungry little monsters.—

She didn’t expect to see him right away. She figured he might still be out, or maybe sulking in his sim room, giving her space. She hadn't deserved how kind he'd been this morning. She knew she’d shut him out, and it wasn’t his fault. None of this was.

But then—

As she stepped into the main hallway, her bare feet cold against the marble, she caught the faintest smell.

Tomatoes. Basil. Garlic. Her favorite wine sauce. The scent drifted from the kitchen like a memory, wrapping around her like a hug.

And then she saw him.

Lando.

On the couch.

His curls were damp from a post-run shower, and he’d changed into soft sweats and one of his old McLaren hoodies. His socked feet were propped on the edge of the coffee table, one hand resting on the throw pillow. The TV flickered with the soft glow of Pride & Prejudice—the 2005 one. Her comfort movie.

And the dining table?

Set for two.

Candles lit. Her favorite plates—the mismatched vintage ones she'd found at a market in Paris. A cloth napkin folded like he’d YouTubed it. Wine already breathing in the decanter. The big glass bowl of pasta still steaming.

Lando hadn’t noticed her yet. He was staring at the TV, brows slightly furrowed, lost in the movie like he was watching it for her.

Her throat closed.

God, she didn’t deserve this man.

She didn’t deserve the way he always knew. The way he never pushed. The way he’d come back from his run and done all this, quietly, just in case she needed it.

Amelie crossed the room slowly, her fingers tightening around the sleeves of his hoodie like she might fall apart otherwise. Benny hopped onto the armrest of the couch and then jumped to curl next to Björn. Lando looked up at the sudden movement, his eyes meeting hers.

And then she was climbing onto the couch next to him without a word, curling into his side like her whole body just ached to be close.

Lando didn't hesitate.

He opened his arms instantly, pulled her against his chest, and kissed the side of her head. —Hey, baby. You’re okay.—

That’s all it took.

The second his lips touched her temple, something in her snapped. Broke wide open.

A choked sob tore from her chest before she could stop it, and suddenly she was crying—really crying—all over again, her hands gripping his hoodie, face buried in his shoulder.

—I’m sorry,— she whispered between gasps, her whole body trembling. —I’m so sorry, Lan, I didn’t mean to shut you out, I just... I just couldn’t today, and I didn’t know how to say it, and then the stupid fucking Twitter post and I just... I missed him, and I missed you, and I didn’t know how to be without feeling like I was betraying him and I...—

Lando shifted without a word, gently pulling her fully into his lap like she weighed nothing, wrapping his arms around her tightly. One hand rubbed soothing circles on her back while the other cradled her head, holding her like he could keep her together with just his touch.

He rocked her.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Like she was something precious. Like she was breakable. Like he knew what she needed more than she did.

—I’ve got you, Ames,— he murmured softly. —I’ve always got you.—

She cried until the tightness in her chest began to loosen, until her tears quieted into hiccups, until her breathing slowed enough to speak again.

Lando didn’t say anything. He just let her fall apart and held her through all of it, his thumb brushing gently at the corner of her eye when she finally looked up at him, cheeks blotchy and raw.

She was curled into his lap like a child now, knees tucked against his thighs. The cats had both stayed close, Björn curled on the armrest, Benny purring at her feet like a guardian.

She sniffled. —You cooked.—

He smiled, soft and boyish. —Yeah. Hope I didn’t burn the garlic this time.—

She shook her head, voice small. —You set the table. With the Paris plates.—

—I Googled how to fold a napkin into a swan. Failed miserably. Ended up doing that fan shape thing instead.—

A small, wet laugh escaped her lips, and Lando’s heart squeezed.

She stared at him for a moment longer. And then she whispered, —You’re too good to me.—

Lando leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the space just between her brows. —I’m just trying to love you the way you deserve. Even on the hard days.—

She swallowed thickly, heart pounding. God, he was so sweet.

She couldn’t reject that. Not him. Not the food. Not the movie. Not the arms wrapped around her like she was home.

—Okay,— she said softly. —But you’re feeding me. I don’t have the strength to twirl spaghetti.—

Lando grinned, a dimple flashing. —Deal. But I’m doing the airplane noises like you’re three.—

Amelie groaned. —You’re so annoying.—

—You love it.—

—I really do.—

And for the first time all day, she meant it.

-------------

liked by callumdayman, alexwolffofficial, and others lanmelieupdates: Lando and Amelie were spotted taking a quiet walk around Monaco tonight after all the chaos of the weekend 🧡 he had his arm around her the whole time and they looked so soft… post-win glow and peace with his girl 🥹🌙 View all 66,982 comments

lanmeliesupremacy: she cried today and he still made her smile… soulmate behavior fr → simp4lanmelie: @lanmeliesupremacy i saw the vid of them laughing on the bench i SOBBED

mcclarenwives: she probably told him stories abt cameron while they walked 🥺 → lanl0ver: @mcclarenwives and you just know he listened so carefully and kissed her forehead after 😭

wagsunhinged: amelie in her wag wife era. lando better drop the knee soon 😭 → mrsnorris: @wagsunhinged she already got his last name on speed dial don't worry

camislilrose: he’s literally walking his girl through monaco like it’s a romcom i’m sick → lanfanbaby: @camislilrose she’s the main character AND the love interest bye

chaoticwags: nah bc this man won monaco and still said “my girl first”

monaqueen: the city of monaco seeing lanmelie hand in hand AGAIN like it’s tradition → zenzaddy: @monaqueen every year. same walk. different level of whipped.

chaoticwags: lando walking her thru monaco like he promised cam he’d take care of her 😭 → norisimp: @chaoticwags i’m actually not well rn. like this is soulmate coded fr

gridgirlies: imagine winning monaco and your gf still looks like the real prize → f1gfenergy: @gridgirlies no bc lando def stared at her more than the trophy

lanmelieforeverrr: that boy won monaco and said “now let’s go on a lil date” 😭 → quadwifey: @lanmelieforeverrr he’s just a baby boy in love i fear 😭🧡

f1baddie: cameron watching them from the stars like “yeah u did good kid” 🥹 → pastelpitstop: @f1baddie crying throwing up screaming. leave me alone

lanfanclub: he’s calm now but i know he was screaming internally every time she smiled 😭 → gridsideglam: @lanfanclub not internally he prob texted max “bro she smiled again” mid-walk 💀

f1mami: he held her bag. HE. HELD. HER. BAG. → monacoedits: @f1mami i know her love language is acts of service and he’s eating it up 💅🏼

maxfewstann: they’ve entered their domestic era and i’m spiraling → quadrantchaos: @maxfewstann one yacht party, one club makeout, one walk = MARRIED

-------------

The night had grown quiet, save for the rhythmic hush of waves against the shore.

After dinner, Amelie had insisted they go for a walk. No destination, no conversation—just hand in hand, slipping out of the house and down the stone path that led to the cliffs. The coastal air was cool and salted, brushing against their cheeks as the stars blinked into the navy sky one by one. Lando didn’t ask questions. He simply followed, her hand warm in his, thumb brushing the back of her fingers every few steps like he was checking she was still there.

Now, they sat on the old weathered bench near the edge of the lookout, slightly tilted from years of use, the wood creaking faintly under their weight. The ocean spread out before them in endless black and silver, the moon laying a path of light across its surface. It was the kind of quiet that made you feel small. Or maybe safe.

Amelie hugged her knees to her chest, chin resting on them, her fingers twitching where they overlapped. She hadn’t spoken since they left the house.

Lando glanced at her from the side, giving her space. His arm was stretched along the back of the bench, just close enough that if she leaned into him, he’d catch her. But she didn’t. Not yet.

She was staring at the sea like it had answers.

He waited.

It was a long time before she spoke, her voice small, almost hesitant.

—He used to love the ocean.—

Lando blinked, turning his head slightly. He didn’t say anything, just listened.

Amelie kept her eyes on the water.

—Cameron.— she clarified softly. —We'd go out to the beach after shoots sometimes. Even if it was freezing. He said the ocean made everything feel... less heavy. I used to think it was dumb, but now... I get it.—

Lando’s heart tugged in his chest. He stayed quiet.

—I’ve never really talked about him. Not like this,— she murmured, almost to herself. —Everyone either tiptoes around it, or looks at me like I might break if they say his name. And I didn’t want to burden anyone. So I just... kept it to myself.—

She laughed, bitter and dry.

—But it doesn’t stay inside. It leaks out. In little ways. The silence. The spirals. The days I can’t get out of bed. And I hate that. I hate how much it still hurts.—

Her voice cracked on the last word.

Lando shifted closer, but still didn’t touch her. He could feel her vibrating, like a string pulled too tight.

—I was nineteen,— she whispered. —Nineteen and in love with my best friend. And one day he was there, and then... he wasn’t. Just gone. Like the universe made a mistake and couldn’t fix it fast enough.—

She bit her lip, hard. Her eyes shimmered in the moonlight.

—I remember everything. The sound of the call. The way my mom dropped her phone. The screaming. The silence that came after. I remember being numb for weeks. Months. Smiling through red carpets like my insides weren’t ashes.—

Her arms wrapped tighter around her knees.

—He was the first person who saw me. Like really saw me. Not the actress. Not the singer. Just me. And I thought I’d never find that again. I didn’t even want to. It felt like cheating. Like if I let myself be happy without him, I’d be erasing him.—

Finally, she turned her head toward Lando, her expression crumpling.

—But then you happened.—

Lando’s breath caught in his throat.

—You showed up in my life with your stupid sim rig and your dumb jokes and your terrible British accent impressions. And you made me laugh again. You made me feel again. And I fought it, God, I fought it so hard because I didn’t think I was allowed to feel that way again. But I do.—

She swallowed, and for the first time since they sat, she leaned into him, letting her head fall against his shoulder.

—I love you, Lando. And sometimes that terrifies me. Because it means I've moved forward. It means I’m still here. And sometimes that feels unfair.—

He turned then, carefully wrapping both arms around her, drawing her into his chest until she was tucked beneath his chin. His voice, when it came, was quiet and steady.

—Amelie... loving again doesn’t erase him. Nothing ever could. And you don’t have to choose between honoring him and letting yourself live. He mattered. He matters. And so do you.—

Her fingers clutched at his hoodie.

—I’m scared I’ll forget him. That the world already has.—

Lando kissed the top of her head.

—You won’t forget. Not ever. He’s in everything you do. In your art. In your kindness. In the way you fight for people. He’s a part of you, Ames. And nothing... not time, not grief, not even love... can take that away.—

She let out a shuddering breath, eyes finally closing, the tears slipping free without resistance now. Lando held her tighter.

They stayed like that for a long while. Just breathing. Just listening to the waves.

And for the first time in a very long time, Amelie didn’t feel like she was drowning in it.

She felt like maybe—just maybe—she could float.

[zaynessbeloved]

The hospital quiets after dark in a way few places ever do—low hums of distant machines, faint footsteps in the corridor, the soft sweep of janitorial carts echoing like waves retreating from shore.

Zayne’s office is dim. One floor lamp glows warm in the corner, casting long shadows across the glass and steel of his workspace. You’re perched on the edge of his desk, half-crossed legs swinging idly, the hem of your skirt grazing your thighs in deliberate little shifts.

He’s finishing a patient report, silent behind his glasses, brows slightly furrowed in that way that makes you want to lean over and kiss the crease away. The sleeves of his white coat are rolled up just past his elbows, and the faint clink of his stethoscope swinging loosely from his neck reminds you that he hasn’t even changed out of his work attire yet.

You tip your head, feigning innocence. “Long day, Doctor?”

His fingers pause on the tablet, his gaze sliding to you without turning his head. “Very.”

“And yet you still haven't looked at me once since I walked in.” You pout, then let your hand drift—playful, light—across the top of his desk. You make a slow show of reaching for a pen, but your fingers brush the stethoscope instead, grazing it purposefully as if by accident.

Zayne’s eyes drop to your hand. You feel it before he speaks—that shift. The quiet tension winding slowly, barely perceptible to most, but now, after all these months, unmistakable to you.

Your smile curves slyly. “You remember what you said last time? Something about showing me how surgeons tie knots…”

He exhales, a sound closer to a breath through his nose than anything resembling amusement.

You lean in slightly. “I was just wondering—was that an idle threat? Or a promise?”

That’s when he moves. No warning, no theatrics—just fluid, controlled motion. Zayne sets down the tablet. Then he rises from his chair and stands in front of you, close enough that your knees press against his thighs. His hand lifts—slow, precise—and you half expect him to brush your cheek. But instead, he reaches for the stethoscope still hanging loosely around his neck.

The warmth in your chest blooms at once, curling low in your stomach. He doesn’t speak as he unloops it, doesn't even glance at your expression. His gaze is on your wrists, and his hands are deft, practiced—too practiced, you think, to be improvising.

“Zayne—” you start, half-laughing.

“You wanted my attention,” he murmurs, voice low and cool as satin.

You barely manage a breath before he takes both your wrists in one hand, firm but careful, and guides them behind your back. The cool press of rubber brushes your skin, then tightens. The stethoscope coils around your wrists in a perfect knot, but not in any way painful.

Your breath stutters. You shift your arms experimentally, but there’s no give.

Zayne finally lifts his eyes to yours.

“I wasn’t joking,” he says simply, and the weight behind his words is the kind that lands deep between your ribs.

You blink up at him, breath catching, heart thrumming like it always does when he’s like this—focused, present, tethering you to him with nothing more than touch and quiet authority.

“Say something,” he murmurs, his free hand brushing the inside of your thigh with maddening softness.

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

“You teased me knowing I might.”

That hand inches higher, slipping beneath your skirt now. Your thighs tense, then fall apart for him as naturally as breath. His palm is warm against the curve of your leg, and he lets it linger there, not moving further—just being there.

“You’ve been doing this lately,” he murmurs against your ear, voice steady. “Testing how much it takes to break my focus.”

“I like when you lose it.”

“I don’t lose control,” he says, and you feel the smile more than see it—brushed against your neck like the stroke of his fingers.

You press your cheek to his shoulder, helplessly fond. “You don’t. But I like it when you pretend to.”

He hums, then sinks to his knees in front of you. Your wrists flex against the knot behind you, your breath catching again—not just from the anticipation, but from how he looks when he’s kneeling there. Still in his dress shirt, glasses catching the low light, expression unreadable and devoted and utterly calm.

“You always do this,” you whisper.

He tilts his head. “Do what?”

“Show me I have your attention in the most unfair ways.”

Zayne doesn’t respond at first. His hand moves again, slow and patient, parting the last layers of your clothing like he’s opening something sacred. When he speaks, his voice is softer—something quieter than seduction. Something real.

“This is how I love you,” he says.

And then his mouth follows the trail his hand made, and you forget how to answer.

Your wrists flex instinctively behind your back, the rubber tubing of his stethoscope biting into your skin in the gentlest reminder—you can’t touch him. Can’t bury your fingers in his hair the way you always do when he goes down on you. Can’t cradle his jaw, guide him, cling to him as your hips lose rhythm and your breath unravels.

And Zayne knows it. He watches you squirm—cool eyes lifted to your face as he drags his lips along the inside of your thigh, so achingly slow you swear the air itself grows thicker. The heat of his mouth lingers like a secret against your skin, ghosting higher with each kiss, each breath, until he brushes just shy of where you need him most.

You press your knees apart a little more, a silent offering. Your breath hitches, back arching slightly as his nose grazes the lace of your panties.

And that’s when he looks up at you again. A soft, knowing curve touches his lips—not quite a smirk, but close. It’s the smile he gives only to you. Not the cold, distant mask the hospital sees. Not the sharp-edged detachment that made the world believe he doesn’t care.

This is Zayne, focused and ferociously gentle, utterly immersed in you.

“Was this what you wanted?” he asks softly, fingertips teasing the crease of your thigh as his mouth presses another kiss just beside the damp fabric clinging to you. “Or were you just bored and wanted to play?”

The question is rhetorical. He already knows the answer. He can feel it in the way your body trembles, in the way your breaths come fast and shallow, chest rising against the soft fabric of your blouse.

You try to lift your hips just a little. Just enough. But your balance wavers without your hands, and you find yourself bracing your forearms against the edge of his desk instead, cheeks flushed with heat, mouth parted but silent.

“Careful,” Zayne murmurs, warm breath fanning across the soaked center of your panties. “You’ll fall if you push too hard.”

His hands slide up the backs of your thighs, anchoring you—large, steady palms curling around your hips with exquisite care. And then, without ceremony, he leans in and kisses you through the fabric.

You gasp. The pressure is firm and deliberate, just enough to make your spine curve, your head tip back, a low sound catching in your throat as his tongue presses against the thin lace, slow and maddening, wet heat barely dulled by the barrier.

The friction is torture. You writhe, thighs trembling as he continues—unhurried, focused—like this is a puzzle he intends to solve thoroughly.

Zayne pulls back only far enough to speak.

“You’re soaked,” he says, voice low, a dark thread of satisfaction beneath the observation. “You’ve been like this since the moment you walked in, haven’t you?”

You make a soft, helpless noise, not even words—just yes, just please, just more. But your lips can’t seem to shape any of it fast enough.

His fingers hook into your panties, pulling them down with a slow drag that makes your breath catch again, the fabric sticking slightly before sliding down your thighs. They pool at your ankles, forgotten, as he leans back to look.

And then his glasses come off. He sets them down somewhere behind you, probably on top of a chart, a folder, maybe that patient report he’d been working on before you walked in and turned his focus to this.

Now his attention is undivided. You watch him, helpless, as he leans back in—this time, without anything between his mouth and you.

The first pass of his tongue is slow and deliberate, a firm stroke from your entrance up to the aching bundle of nerves above. Your head tips forward, eyes wide, moan caught halfway between shock and relief.

He does it again—slower. Deeper. And then he settles there, lapping between your folds in measured, practiced rhythms, the way he always does when he wants to unravel you completely before even thinking about letting you come. Like he’s taking notes with every movement, every tremble.

You can’t touch him. Can’t push his head closer. Can’t thread your fingers through his hair and plead for him to keep going. You can only brace yourself against the desk, back arching as your legs tremble, thighs spreading wider to give him more space, more of you.

And still, he hums against you, a soft, approving sound that vibrates through your core. His grip tightens just slightly on your hips, pulling you closer to the edge of the desk, anchoring you to him.

You feel every flick of his tongue like a secret only he knows how to coax out of you. And then—just when your breath is shuddering, when your body is taut with want—he speaks again, his voice like silk, low and infuriatingly in control against your slick skin. “Tell me what you want.”

Your voice cracks. “Zayne—”

But he doesn’t stop. He knows. He knows exactly what you want. What you need. What your body has been aching for since the moment he looked up at you with that calm, fond expression.

And because he knows—because this is how he shows love—he gives it. He gives you everything.

Your moans begin to crumble—trembling little things that slip past your lips with every sweep of his tongue, but soon they're laced with something else. A softness. A frustration. A whimper that doesn’t rise from pleasure alone.

Zayne doesn’t miss it. He hears the change in your breath, the pleading edge behind the sounds you make when you try to shift your weight forward, when your fingers curl helplessly against the knot of his stethoscope behind your back. When you whine his name again—not because you want more (he’s already giving you that), but because you can’t touch him. Can’t reach him. And you want to. Desperately.

His mouth stills against you. Your breath catches, eyes wide, pupils blown, your whole body trembles on the precipice—and then his voice cuts through the haze, low and controlled and unbearably intimate.

“You’ll come like this,” he murmurs, lips brushing your inner thigh, voice warm as velvet and edged in something firmer. “Tied up and aching, just how you wanted it. Like a good girl.”

You whimper, the words hitting deeper than they should. Your hips twitch in response, clenching down around nothing, body already inching back toward the edge.

“And then,” he adds, letting his thumb trace the slick mess between your thighs, “maybe I’ll untie you. Let you touch me while I bury myself inside you right here on this desk.”

A pout forms at your lips, your thighs flexing around his shoulders, the sweet ache of wanting him more than your body can contain bubbling over—and just as quickly, it shatters when he dives back in.

This time, there’s no slowness. No teasing. He licks you like he owns you, like he knows every flick and circle and drag that turns your breath into broken gasps. His tongue moves with purpose now—steady, hungry, unrelenting—and his grip on your hips tightens until you’re pressed full against his mouth, helpless beneath the force of your pleasure.

You cry out—sharp and high—and he hisses under his breath, quick and quiet, lifting one hand to cover your mouth even as he doesn’t stop. Even as he groans into you, eyes half-lidded with focused heat.

“Quiet,” he breathes, not unkindly. “Do you want the whole floor hearing you?”

Your answer is muffled by his palm, a keening moan that dissolves into little sobs of pleasure as your thighs begin to shake, your body teetering and then tipping.

You come with a cry against his hand, full-bodied and raw, your whole form arching and curling forward as his mouth works you through it, never once letting up, never leaving you alone in the heat of it. His tongue doesn’t stop until you collapse, trembling and wrung out, hips twitching from oversensitivity.

Only then does he let go. Only then does he lift his head. His lips glisten. His breath is steady. But his eyes…They’re anything but calm.

You’re panting now, wrists still bound, arms aching with the need to hold him, and your eyes—blown wide and glassy—lock on his mouth, silently begging.

And Zayne, who rarely gives in to impulse, does. He rises swiftly, catching your mouth with his in one deep, consuming kiss. The taste of you lingers between your lips, thick and warm and intimate, but he doesn’t seem to care. If anything, it fuels him.

His mouth moves against yours like he’s been waiting hours, not minutes. Tongue deep, breath hot, hands bracketing your hips now. You whine into him, pushing forward even with your arms behind you, trying to get closer, needing to feel more, all of him.

His fingers slide behind your back and the knot falls away with one smooth tug.

Your arms fly forward in an instant. You drag him close, fisting your hands in his white coat, in his shirt, in anything you can reach. And Zayne, caught in your grip, lets out the faintest gasp as your momentum tips him forward—your back hitting the desk with a soft thud, pulling him down with you.

You kiss him harder, breathless and greedy, your hands finally free, finally on him. And he groans into your mouth—low and real this time—as if the weight of your touch knocks the air from his lungs.

There is no more distance. No restraint. Just the dizzying heat of skin on skin, lips clashing, breaths stolen, and the desk beneath you both groaning quietly under the shifting weight.

The desk behind you is hard and unyielding, but you hardly notice. Not with Zayne between your thighs. Not with his mouth on yours, hot and breathless, stealing whatever air you have left with every deep kiss.

You brace your hands on his shoulders, clinging to the rough lines of his coat, nails dragging across the thick fabric. And then he shifts, fluid as breath, tugging the white coat from his shoulders in one clean motion. It falls to the floor, forgotten.

Your hands are on his shirt the moment the coat is gone, working fast at the buttons with shaking fingers. He groans into your mouth when you get halfway, and you feel his hips roll forward, just slightly, like his body is already preparing for what comes next.

The shirt stays on—half-open, collar loose, sleeves still clinging to his arms—but you don’t care. You drag your nails down his chest, savoring the heat of his skin, the hard definition beneath your fingers, and the way he shudders when your touch grazes low, just above his waistband.

He grips your hips harder—broad palms cupping your ass, pulling you forward to the very edge of the desk. You’re wet, aching, desperate, and he’s just as wrecked. You can feel it in the way he holds you, in the tremble beneath the surface of his control.

Your hand fumbles at his belt.

“Zayne,” you whisper into his mouth between frantic kisses, “I need you. I need it—need you.”

He exhales sharply against your lips like the words land somewhere deep in his chest, and his fingers twitch where they’re gripping you, heat rising off his skin in waves. His jaw tightens—your name caught somewhere in his throat—but he doesn’t waste a second more.

With a soft grunt, he unfastens himself, movements rougher now, urgent. You reach between you, helping—wanting—until you both gasp when the thick heat of him presses against your slick entrance.

There’s no hesitation. He sheathes himself inside you in one deep, smooth thrust, filling you to the hilt. Your head falls back with a broken sound. Zayne swears under his breath, forehead pressed to yours, one arm wrapping around your back to steady you both as you tighten around him.

“God—” he breathes, “you always feel like this.”

He doesn’t wait. Can’t. You claw at his half-unbuttoned shirt, dragging him closer, grounding yourself against his chest as he begins to move. Slow, deep thrusts at first—controlled, precise—but the rhythm builds fast. Every time your hips meet his, you fall apart a little more.

You kiss him through it—sloppy, gasping, desperate kisses that taste like love and heat and everything you can’t say fast enough. His hand fists in your hair, tugging gently to tilt your head so he can kiss you deeper, longer.

And then—between your moans, between the hard, rocking thrusts that send the desk beneath you creaking—you whisper it, “I love you.”

Zayne stills for a heartbeat, but you feel the way it wrecks him. Feel it in the way his body stutters. In the rough, choked breath he exhales against your lips.

And then he moves harder. Not reckless, not wild, but deeper. Hotter. More. He kisses you like he’s falling apart.

“I love you,” he growls into your mouth, voice frayed and hoarse, “my love—I love you—fuck—you feel so good…”

You whimper against him, breathless, as he thrusts harder, each stroke sending you sliding slightly on the desk. He grips your hips again, anchoring you as your bodies crash together over and over, his mouth never far from yours, kissing you through every sound, every gasp.

The office is hot. The windows are fogged. The world outside doesn’t exist—just this. Just you and him. And the way you fall into each other like you’ve done it a thousand times—and would do it a thousand more.

[caxde]

truly | eddie munson x reader

summary you and eddie are best friends, oblivous to each others' feelings until someone helps you realise (4.5k)

warnings fem!reader, fluff, mutual pining, yearning etc, slowburn bestfriends to lovers, idiots in love!!!, , english is not my first language so I apologise if there’s some mistakes, not proof read! based on this ask!

You were a bit too deep inside your thoughts, as you often were. You hair was half up, hair loose on the front framed your face in a way that made you seem even more concentrated than you actually were. Your left hand was lost on the back of your neck, messaging that spot in a repetitive manner that soothes you. Your right hand was scribbling down the frame ideas for the essay that was due in a couple days. 

Eddie noticed as soon as he entered the dining hall. You had used your free period to set yourself into a quiet corner, bathed by the weak sunlight of the late morning. He knew you had barely moved from your spot, the crease on your blue jeans that always formed if you stopped moving had been there for a while.  He smiled shyly to himself before asking the lunch lady that was setting up everything if she could give him some water for you, he knew she’d say yes since it was for you. The kindness that you always showed her was something Eddie usually used to his advantage. A lot of snacks that he promised were for you were usually for him. A red apple if he was bored, whatever soda she’d give if he was still craving something sweet and whatever wrapped up candy bar she had left when he needed a bargain chip for something else. 

This time, the lunch lady smiled to herself as soon as she saw how he approached you. Slowly, trying his hardest not to disturb you. His right hand replaced your left, messaging that same spot you had been mindlessly rubbing for over an hour. Your eyes met in that same moment, when the bottled water hitted the table. The soft warm light framed the encounter, a perfect photograph. 

Eddie’s wild curly hair seemed longer when he was standing over you, and you enjoyed how it bounced once he sat down and shook his head. 

He didn’t say anything, there really was no need. 

He grabbed your notebook and eyed your scribbling right before trying to hide his chuckling. You playfully punched him in the arm, while you took the first sip of water in god knows how long. You hadn’t realised how thirsty you were until the water touched your lips.

 Half of the bottle was now empty.

 Eddie glanced at it before letting his lips curl, just as you pushed your hair behind your ear. 

“I thought you had already finished Mrs.White essay” He finally said, leaving the notebook right where it was, his body shifting so his legs were in between the bench, looking directly at you. 

“I did.” You pointed out, looking back at his brown eyes, the sun hitting them always makes them seem brighter, like melted chocolate you thought. “This one’s yours.” You shook your head, pushing the notebook into him.

“How…Why would you…” He didn’t really know how to formulate the question, a bit too dumbfounded to even process the information you were giving to him. 

“You have Hellfire tonight.” You say, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. “And you haven’t even started reading the book yet… so… Just copy it so it has your handwriting once I’m done, ‘kay?” 

“You’re an Angel.” He says, astonished. He can feel his cheeks getting warmer for a second before he shakes his head, leaning closer to you so he can leave a small kiss on your cheek. Partially to say thank you, though deep down he knows he’s doing it so he can see you bite down the inside of your cheek, in an attempt to not blush as quickly as he had done. 

“Yeah, you can pay me later.” You joke, returning his gesture with your knee bumping into his leg. “The water doesn’t count.” You say before he can, his index finger already pointing at it. 

“Oh come on! You were about to die of dehydration.” 

“Denise gave it to you!” 

“I did, loverboy.” You can’t help but giggle as soon as you hear her interfere. But maybe it was because seeing Eddie flustered and rolling his eyes made your chest tighten in a way you were unfamiliar with. 

“Loverboy?” Eddie questioned with his voice barely above a whisper, even you didn’t hear him. He cleared his throat, getting your attention once again. “You should clear the table.” He added in a hush tone, nodding to the opening doors of the dining hall. You smiled as you started to put your things away, tucked neatly into your beat-up backpack. Everything but Eddie’s half done essay was away. He left you scribbling away, while a hoard of hungry students invaded the previously quiet space. 

Robin sat down next to you, with her usual soft “hi” right before she peered over your shoulder so she could see what you were writing. She couldn’t help but chuckle at the words you were writing. 

“Eddie doesn’t know what perhaps means.” She points out teasing you with a smirk once you look right at her. 

“He has to.” You argue, not really focusing on her teasing, not wanting to get into it. Not really wanting to understand what it means. “He has read The Hobbit like fifty times.” 

“That’s why he keeps reading it.” She continues, unwrapping her homemade sandwich. The smell of melted cheese hits your nose, making your stomach rumble with hunger. “He doesn’t understand it.” You can’t help but laugh with her. That kind of laugh that makes your cheeks hurt after a while. 

“What are you up to on Saturday?” You ask in your usual cheerful voice, trying desperately to change the topic of conversation away from the curly headed boy. 

“I’m covering Steve’s turn at Family Video, so I guess I won’t leave until I close. Yey for double shifts.” She cheers in a monotone voice that makes the right side of your lips curl upwards. 

“Yay for money?” You try to make her chuckle, with little success. 

“I guess.” She plays a bit with the crust of her sandwich before she takes a bite out of it. “Why couldn’t my parents be made of money?”

“Hey, at least you have parents.” Eddie joins back at your table, closely followed by his little followers. You scoot so everyone barely fits. 

“Are you feeding a whole town by yourself?” Robin snaps back, as her eyes widen at the size of Eddie’s overstuffed plates. 

“Nah, just taking advantage of the American School System.” He chuckles as his little finger pushes the tray in your direction, in a subtle way, so you won’t notice. 

Robin does notice however. And so does Dustin. They exchange a knowing look that you both don’t see. You’re way too deep into the way his mouth moves whenever he is explaining a nonsense story like he is now, his hair softly brushing his pale cheeks everytime he ends a sentence, and Eddie is too enamored by the way your eyes shine at him, as he feels how every word makes your lips curl upwards, drawing a big smile on your face. 

You pick at his food, and he just smiles down at you whenever he catches you eating something. He knows you have a hard time remembering to feed yourself, even more so when you’re deep in concentration, once he saw you sitting alone being engulfed by various papers he knew you hadn’t eaten, and how you probably wouldn’t until you had finished or gotten home. He smiled back with his eyes half closed making those tiny lines appear next to his eyes, a type of smile you knew well. A please do anything you want, a please keep doing exactly what you are doing, a please never leave my side kind of smile. 

“psst” Dustin whispered into Robin’s ear, hitting her arm with his elbow. 

“What!?” She half whispered as she turned around quickly, her eyes almost out of her head, as she rubbed the spot where he hit her. 

“What do we do?” He asks, nodding to the both of you. The angelical image you both formed looked straight out of a painting. The looks of admiration between the both of you were enough for anyone else to realise something was happening. 

“We?” 

“Yeah, they’re smart, but they’re also idiots.” Dustin overenunciated every word, as he usually does when he’s whispering. Robin rolled her eyes at the image of you, falling deep and without breaks, with you not even realising it. 

“We could kidnap them.” She half jokes, talking to Dustin’s ear while her eyes were still fixated onto you. “Put them in nice clothes and chuck them into a restaurant.” She chuckled as she ended the sentence, her voice picking the paste as she got more excited about those nonsense ideas. 

“Eddie doesn’t do restaurants. Says they’re an elitist nightmare fruit of capitalism or something like that. He does like dinners though.” Dustin points out in a monotone whisper, his head now turned to both of you. 

“That’s your issue with what I said?” 

“Pretty much.” Dustin answers nonchalantly. “We could just talk to them.” 

“And tell them what, exactly?” Robin raises her eyebrow as she quickly glances at Dustin, right when you’re laughing at one of Eddie’s bad jokes. 

“Just… I don’t know. That they’re stupid, and they obviously like each other.” 

“Maybe we shouldn’t call them stupid.” Robin points out. 

“Yeah, I know.” Dustin waits for a moment as he watches Eddie shake his head just so he can see you smile widen. “But they are, right?” 

“Oh.” Robin waits as she watches you leaving your hand on the high part of his tight, squeezing it softly. Eddie’s eyes open a bit as they shine a bit more. “Absolutely they are.” 

-

By the time you reached your car, your backpack still half opened with a notebook blocking the zipper’s way, Robin was already sitting on the hood of the red chipped paint. You smiled at her as you pushed the little button on your keys, hearing the loud noise it did as it unlocked, making the short haired girl jump as she laid her feet on the ground once more, opening the passenger door as she found her way in. You opened your door, passing her your backpack as you dove in, head first and turning the key on the same movement, knowing that the sooner you had your windows down, the better the heat that had accumulated from a long day would be handled. 

Robin kicked her almost empty bag under her feet, as she tightly held onto the overly stuffed one that was hanging from your shoulders as she looked attentively at you. You playfully mistake that level of attention, guessing that she needed confirmation that you remembered that she was working that afternoon. 

“Don’t worry.” You chirp as your hands start changing the car gear’s. “I’ll have you at Family Video in ten minutes.” 

“What?” She mumbled as she was focused on the wrong thing once more. 

“Are you not working today?” You answer back as you stop at a red light, looking at her for a moment, your eyebrows furrowed as she nods her head yes. 

“Yeah, but what’re you doing?” She is speaking in that frenetic tone, the one she usually uses when she’s eager to make a point. So you decide to speak calmly, if only to bring some sense into the conversation. 

“I’m heading to Edd’s, I finished his essay and he has Hellfire. He told me I could stay in his room so I can keep working on homework. So I’ll already be there for pizza night once you and Steve get there.” 

“You do realise how that sounds right?” Her words were coated with honey, making you raise an eyebrow at her. She took your silence as a response and continued talking. “You’re practically dating.”

“Fuck off.” You warned. Cheeks burning red, your teeth biting the inside of them. 

“Oh come on dude!” She pleaded now, punching your arm as you turned left. “You obviously like each other! You do his homework, always try to be near him, laugh at every single one of his stupid jokes, you let him take care of you and you look at him as if he's the answer you can’t find in your books.” 

She runs out of breath by the end, looking at you, needing you to realise what everyone already has, but you just stay the same. A vacant stare through the windshield as the car slowly stops. 

“Robs…” There’s a sliver of pain in your voice. “As much as I’d like that to be true, it can’t be.” You shake your head as you take your backpack so she can leave the car. 

“It is true though…” 

“Maybe.” You add with a shy smile. “But I can’t have that in my head now.” You add, your voice barely above a whisper. 

“You want it to be true?” Robin asks with hopefulness clear in her voice, her eyes gleaming at the possibility. 

“Yes.” You admit not only to your friend, but to yourself. 

-

Meanwhile, Dustin had a very similar approach. He had followed Eddie closely to his van, screaming for him to wait, and reminding him that he promised a ride to his house, since Gareth would drive him back. Eddie agreed, with a snarl as he opened the passenger door. The van was old, and it needed a stronger approach for it to actually open and close, the windows never closed all the way and a vague smell of weed always emanated from the back. 

“Who’s coming to today’s session?” Dustin questions with a very openly hidden intention. 

“Uh, Mike, Gareth, Lucas, Jeff, Erica I think and uh… Angel.” He added your nickname last, with a soft grin appearing in his face as soon as it leaves his lips. 

“She’s playing?” 

“No, no. She’ll just hang out in my room, we’ve got pizza night with Robs and Steve” 

“Your room?” 

“Yeah” Eddie brushes it off, as if it is no big deal, as if it meant nothing. Dustin was staring with daggers in his eyes. 

“Dude…” 

“What?” 

“Oh. Come. On.” Dustin overly enunciates every word, his eyes opening wider with every syllable. “Did you ask her to? You know what, it actually doesn’t matter, you’re way too thick to even get it. You like like this girl. You make her laugh with every idiotic thing that leaves your mouth, she does everything in her power to help you and you always make time and an effort to be close to her, come on Edward!” Eddie stops the car suddenly, the use of his government name takes him by surprise, even more so than the overly explanation to his unthought actions regarding you and his -apparently- very obvious feelings. 

“You didn’t have to call me Edward.” He tries deeply to change the topic, a bit too embarrassed to actually talk it out. 

“Dude.” 

“Yeah, I know.” He apologises in a defeated tone. “Is it really that obvious?” Dustin nods as they look at each other, the van slowly starting again. “You really think she feels the same?” Dustin nods again. “Fuck.” 

-

It had been weird. 

For both of you. 

Dustin didn’t stop laughing, even if he did try to not make it obvious. 

The way he opened the door didn’t follow his usual routine. He didn’t tease you, he didn’t mess with your hair or make fun of you for obsessively positioning your shoes by the entrance. 

Instead, his voice shook a bit when he opened the door, the sound of your name in a raspy whisper you never had heard from him before. Instead a small conversation with a pleasant tone erupted, a very mechanical “hi” “hi” “you can wait in my room, shout if you need anything” before he sprinted off, his face red. 

You were left by yourself, inside his messily organized room. All of his black thick cords were neatly and carefully wrapped, yet left on a corner of his room right by his dresser. You also noted the half empty ashtrays on his table, the one he wanted you to use, and the faint smell they left. The array of magazines stacked by the foot of his bed, ranging from cars and mechanical magazines, gracing through music and a half hidden obscene one. He had various photos, drawings, drabbles and lyrics written on different pieces of paper glued to his walls. Corroded Coffin’s flyers, photos he had taken up on the lake, him smiling while he posed with the band, him concentrated in the middle of a D&D session. Right by his bed, there was a sunny day one. You remember that day, it was last summer, and you decided to walk through the woods in search of a cool spot, somewhere that would only be known by the both of you. You found that little pond, and you stayed there for hours, looking at the small frogs, collecting flowers for your room and singing songs he was obsessed with. You sketched a bit while he took a picture of you, peaceful, perfect, undisturbed you. You felt yourself smiling when you realised he had the drawing right next to it, a small heart had been added with black ink. 

You tried to concentrate on the remaining homework you had left, but you kept getting distracted, your eyes subconsciously landing on that photograph. 

With Robin’s words still ringing in your ear, you still didn’t know what to do, or what to feel. 

Eddie’s weirdness hadn’t helped. 

You usually spoke to him when you needed help to understand yourself, he usually did that better than you anyway. You started to realise how much of that was true, he always seems to know exactly how to calm you down when you have a million things going over your head at the same time, even the times you're not conscious about it, he does it. And it is quite simple. It's just a touch. The coldness of his rings finds your skin, leg, arm, neck; it doesn't matter. His hand lays on top of your skin and his fingers just hold you, a bit firm, right before moving softly. That is all it takes. You’re grounded again, and you know you’re safe, because he is there. And if Eddie is there, and if he is that close to you, nothing can be wrong. 

This feeling stays with you now. 

nothing can be wrong

You’re in his bedroom, because it’s full of him, every single thing he owns and loves is inside, and it smells of him. The freshly burned sandalwood that impregnates every piece of clothing he owns, in a desperate attempt to hide the cigarette smoke that you’ve grown to love. Candles have been blown out right before you came, the rim of them still burned. You can feel his panic, he must’ve gone through the room whilst Dustin was right behind him, and if you know something about that, Dustin must have been giving him the exact same speech Robin did to you. 

The carefulness that he had put out in making sure you were comfortable, because he is well aware of how much you despise being on such a big house by yourself, and the hard time you have concentrating and remembering to take care of yourself was clear now. He keeps inviting you to hang out, he keeps asking you to come over and there’s always food and drinks out for you, all so you don’t have to think about it. Because he cares. 

he cares. 

Nothing can be wrong, he cares. 

You are starting to wonder if that caring is the same kind of care you feel for him. 

You can’t really remember a time you haven’t known him. You can’t imagine your life without him if you’re being honest. That scrawny young boy with a buzzed head that was starting to learn how to play guitar had grown right beside you. You remember after school hours where you taught him how to play the guitar, and how he now tries to get you to play with him, even if he knows you’ll say no since you’ve got a new project or a new essay that needs a few tweaks. Wade will tease him, telling him how he needs to be more like you, but you’ve always dismissed it. 

You like being there for him, you like it when he asks for help with a paper he doesn’t quite have the energy to finish, you like it when he needs help with the final details of his campaign, you like it when he asks for your opinions in his lyrics because “I trust your mind more than I do mine”, you like it when he asks you to cut your hair with a big dumb smile in his lips… His lips, you think I also like his lips. 

Without really thinking, you abandon the homework, letting your body crumble into his mattress. The smell of his shampoo is intoxicating. You had made fun of him when you saw “amarath and jasmine shampoo” in his shower, but he had said that “those curls are expensive, darling” you giggled at the memory. Your eyes closed remembering the smile he had on his lips while he teased you back. his lips. 

You can’t seem to focus on anything else. They always looked pinker in real life than in your memories, not cracked but smooth. Everytime they said your name, some part of your skin bloomed with goosebumps, your heart skipped a bit, just to relax right after. They had the warmest smile and sang the most angelical laugh you had ever heard. Speaking of song, his voice when he had a mic in front of them was truly out of this world. 

It has to be true, you think at this moment this has to be what love feels like. 

You could feel your cheeks burning at the thought of it. That vulnerability was a different kind to the one you were used to share with him. 

It scares the fuck out of you. 

And yet, a sense of relief invades you.

You feel like you need to tell him, you’ve always shared your secrets with him, what’s one more?

Not now, you think, Hellfire’s still running. 

Your hand flings above your head, you want to scratch your own head, wanting to sooth yourself, instead, you find your fingers hitting the cold surface of his old acoustic guitar. 

The once light brown wood surface was not badly painted with black acrylic paint, and a faded sentence you could no longer read in chipped white paint. You smile at yourself, picking it up instead. 

You’re not really thinking, if you were you wouldn’t have started playing meaningless chords. 

You’re thankful you’re not thinking. 

You had forgotten how easily it calms you down, your fingers playing with the strings, whilst your brain thinks about playing with his tangled hair. 

It’s easy. It’s like breathing. 

You don’t really know how long it’s been. You just know you’ve started to play guitar and nothing else matters, you’re in love with him and nothing else matters. 

Eddie knows something has changed as soon as he reaches his door. 

You usually studied in silence, murmuring to yourself, repeating your notes aloud. As soon as he hears the soft strummings of his out of tune guitar he knows something has changed. 

He is hopeful that maybe you have realised what he had earlier. 

While he was cleaning his room with Dustin beside him, he was just telling him obsessively why you are such a great person, and why he’s so afraid to lose you to something so stupid like love. He had said that you are not only a good friend to him, but to everyone, you're empathetic and unbelievably kind, you make him feel like a warm shower after rain had left him drenched, you were the most beautiful soul he knew, inside and out. And it scared him shitless that you might not feel the same. 

But now, as he carefully opened his bedroom door, he could see you were smiling as you graced the strings, soft and calm notes escaping from the old guitar. Your perfume was mixed in the air, and he felt that flutter in his stomach. 

He walked slowly, not wanting to interrupt. 

You smiled as soon as you felt his eyes on you. 

His hand laid on your thigh. That touch. That nothing can be wrong touch. 

“You’re playing guitar.” He whispers, his breath brushing your cheek. You look back at him, your fingers still messing with the strings. You lock eyes, his pupils expand as soon as you look at him. You feel as if your heart was about to explode, wanting to communicate too many feelings at the same moment. 

“I taught you how” You whisper back. Stoping the notes so he could hear your voice, clearer. 

“Don’t stop.” He pleaded, his tone sounding more like a whimper. “I haven't heard you in years”

“Eddie.” You feel the shakiness in your voice, and so must he, as he tightens the grip on your thigh. “I…” 

“What?” 

“I think I may be in love with you.” It just slips out. So naturally, so casually. As if you’ve said it a million times before. As if it is no big deal. 

“What?” He asks again, his eyes widening, his heart beating faster. He can’t quite believe your words. Even if they are now forever engraved into his brain. 

You let go of his guitar, your fingers now playing with his hair, which is all they want to do. 

You find that one of your hands has found the back of his neck, and it pushes his lips against yours. 

They feel even better than you have imagined. And it’s natural, it’s as easy as breathing, as carefree as a bird flying. It is what it should be. 

His lips pressed against yours fit like the perfect puzzle they are, and his free hand is now under your chin, holding you closer so he can taste as much of you as he can. 

It feels like heaven. 

It’s a confirmation. 

It a I’m in love with you, and the response I am too. 

You don’t really need anything else, so you stay exactly like that for a long time, enjoying each other with no rush, with a calmness and a stillness that is unbecoming of both of you, who always seem to be in a rush. 

“I feel safe with you, and I always want to be next to you. Nothing else matters.” You whisper once you break the kiss, your eyes closed as you press your forehead against his. 

“Nothing else matters.” He whispers back. 

He can’t help but chuckle a bit, now that he gets to kiss you every time he wants to, now that he knows you feel exactly as he does. 

Deeply, truly, madly in love with each other. 

The smile on both of your faces and the knowing glances now have a different meaning, and it is obvious that something has changed, yet nothing hasn’t. There was love before, now it has just been declared.

[cherrywriterrr]

psych 203 two

college!rafe x pinkhaired!oc

warnings: mentions of sex, sexual desire (mildly explicit), casual profanity, drugs, chaotic bsf behavior, light objectification, suggestive girl on girl content, foreshadowing, hunger, sexual tension, inappropriate jokes, etc.

one two three

“bye baby girl.”

that was all nova said. no wave, no wink, no glance back.

she left rafe cameron blinking at her empty seat, mouth twitching like he’d just been slapped and flirted with in the same breath. which, to be fair, he had.

now, half an hour later, nova sat cross-legged on top of a lunch table outside, iced matcha in hand, thighs on full display. her boots were on the bench, sunglasses on her head, and her film camera lay on the table beside a crumpled bag of hot cheetos.

across from her was luca—22, film major, chain-smoking poet vibes, sharp jaw, slutty hands. they used to hook up last year and never stopped being unhealthily close. he wore rings and always looked like he’d just gotten out of someone’s bed.

next to him was ivory, redhead, bio major with a minor in being ethereal. petite, pouty, pink-cheeked, and currently drinking an oat milk latte like it was spiked. she and nova had history too—soft hands, tangled sheets, giggly confessions under fairy lights.

they were the holy trinity of terrible decisions.

“so,” luca said, flicking ash off his cigarette, “who were you sitting next to in class?”

nova rolled her eyes. “rafe cameron.”

both of them choked.

“the rafe?” ivory blinked. “sarah’s brother? rehab rafe?”

“buzzcut god complex?” luca added, raising a brow.

“mmhm.” nova popped a cheeto in her mouth. “asked me why i had pink hair. so i asked him why the fuck he’s bald.”

ivory gasped. “you didn’t.”

“baby, please,” nova said, licking orange powder off her finger. “i’m me.”

luca let out a low whistle. “that man has rage issues and weirdly hot hands. you gonna let him destroy your life?”

“maybe,” nova said, voice light. “i love a man who could accidentally kill me and cry about it after.”

ivory giggled. “you love anyone with a pulse and a tragic backstory.”

“not true,” nova said sweetly. “i also love you.”

ivory blushed and stuck out her tongue. luca rolled his eyes.

“i swear to god, i’ve seen both of you naked and it still gets weirder every time.”

“jealous?” nova asked.

“always.”

they clinked drinks. the sun was warm. the campus buzzed in the background.

nova stretched, yawned, and said:

“i need to either eat someone out or get railed tonight. or both. balance.”

“i’m free at nine,” luca offered casually.

“i know,” nova said without looking at him.

ivory just sipped her latte like it was tea.

same lunch table. same sins. zero shame.

luca leaned back on the bench, cigarette between his teeth, watching nova and ivory like he was witnessing a slow-motion porno that only he remembered filming.

“okay but real question,” he said, voice lazy, cocky. “when are we having a threesome again?”

ivory choked on her latte.

nova didn’t even blink. she just stretched her arms above her head, tits pressing against her shirt like she knew what she was doing. (she did. always.)

“whenever, baby,” she said, licking cheeto dust off her thumb. “you know i love you both.”

ivory hid her face behind her cup, ears turning red. “you’re insufferable.”

“you’re obsessed with me,” nova replied, leaning across the table to steal a sip of ivory’s drink. “and you moan so cute.”

“jesus,” luca muttered, trying not to look impressed. “i forgot how feral you get in public.”

“you like it when i get feral,” nova smirked.

luca shot her a look that was 70% lust, 30% resignation. “unfortunately.”

“i still have that video of us from last halloween,” she added casually, scrolling through her phone. “the one where ivory’s in a bunny costume and i—”

“delete it,” ivory said quickly, face burning.

“never,” nova grinned.

they were all laughing now. too loud. too hot. too much.

someone walking by slowed down, stared, then sped up like they’d seen something illegal.

luca grinned, teeth sharp. “we are so going to hell.”

nova shrugged. “i’ll bring snacks.”

nova glanced at her phone—3:42 PM.

sarah would be out of her last class soon, probably texting her something like “can u make pasta? i’m dying.”

nova stretched her arms again, this time with purpose, gathering her bag, camera, and pride. her iced matcha was long gone. the cheeto bag was empty. and the sinful tension at this table was getting dangerous even for her.

“i gots to go, babes,” she said, sliding off the table and adjusting her tiny thrifted skirt. “sarah’s gonna come back to our room soon and i wanna make us some food.”

ivory blinked up at her. “look at you being all wifed up.”

nova smirked. “someone’s gotta take care of her.”

luca snorted, blowing smoke off to the side.

“how sweet,” he drawled, flicking ash into a crushed soda can. “the bitch has feelings.”

nova gasped, one hand to her chest. “not feelings,” she said mockingly. “don’t ruin my image like that.”

ivory giggled behind her latte again, already pulling out her phone.

luca raised a brow. “next thing we know you’ll be baking cookies and falling in love.”

nova leaned down, lips by his ear. “i only fall in love during threesomes.”

then she winked and turned on her heel, pink hair bouncing as she strutted away like a problem in platforms.

“jesus—” she muttered, stumbling back.

she blinked, looked up—up—UP—and nearly groaned out loud.

buzzcut. bruised knuckles. expensive hoodie. smirk already forming.

“hey, pinkie,” rafe said, like they were old friends or lovers or something worse.

nova pulled out one earbud, unimpressed.

“hello baby girl,” she said flatly. “i didn’t miss you.”

his grin spread slowly. he pulled something from his hoodie pocket and held it out toward her—two fingers pinching the slim, glittery pink vape she thought she’d lost forever.

“you forgot this on the desk,” he said. “hope you don’t mind… i took a few puffs on the way here.”

nova stared at it like it was radioactive.

“ew. you put that in your mouth?” she said, horrified. “no way i’m using it again. god knows how many diseases you have.”

rafe tilted his head, still holding it out.

“c’mon,” he said, low and smug. “we basically kissed now.”

nova narrowed her eyes, lips curling.

“if i wanted to kiss a man with untreated trauma and an authority complex, i’d just go back to dating art boys.”

“ouch.”

she snatched the vape from his hand—fingertips brushing for half a second longer than necessary—and tucked it into her bra with zero hesitation.

rafe didn’t look away.

nova didn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting.

rafe’s eyes followed the movement—nova casually slipping the vape into her bra like it belonged there.

he let out a low breath, cocking his head slightly, mouth twitching at the corner.

“you always put your stuff in your bra?” he asked, voice dipped in amusement.

nova didn’t miss a beat.

“yes,” she said, adjusting her top like she was just so comfy with being that girl. “i put everything between my boobs.”

she leaned in just a touch, lashes fluttering with zero innocence. “especially men’s heads… both heads.”

rafe choked. like, visibly tried not to laugh or blush or combust on the spot.

he looked at her, jaw flexing, eyes lingering too long. “jesus.”

nova just smiled sweetly. “mm-mm,” she said. “wrong name, baby.”

he stared at her for a second too long.

then looked away like looking at her was somehow too much.

which, honestly, it kinda was.

nova turned on her heel, hips swaying, smug as hell.

her platform boots clicked dramatically against the tile, pink hair bouncing like a warning sign.

two steps down the hall, she paused.

looked back over her shoulder with maximum menace.

“you coming with me,” she purred, eyes sharp and lips glossy, “or just gonna stand there and get hard over my hallway performance?”

rafe blinked.

literally just stood there, caught between a laugh and a groan, dragging a hand down his face like she was short-circuiting his entire nervous system.

“jesus christ,” he muttered under his breath—but yeah, of course he followed.

nova heard his footsteps behind her and smirked to herself, unlocking the dorm door like this was just another Monday.

which, for her, it was.

the door shut behind them with a soft click, and rafe paused just inside the room, eyes scanning over the explosion of personality that was nova’s half of the dorm.

pink sheer curtains barely covered the windows. polaroids were taped to the walls in messy rows—half-naked girls, blurry parties, middle fingers. a soft haze of vanilla, weed, and citrus perfume clung to the air like it had roots there.

“this room is so you,” rafe said, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. “and smells like you.”

nova dropped her bag on sarah’s bed and turned to look at him, one brow lifted.

“you like?” she asked, head tilting, voice all mock innocence.

he glanced around again, taking in the film camera on the desk, a shelf of psych books with sticky notes poking out like veins, a pink vibrator peeking out from under a hoodie.

rafe scoffed under his breath.

“this is barely sarah’s dorm,” he said, stepping closer. “it looks like you did everything in here.”

nova smirked. “i did.”

she kicked off her boots, barefoot now, still taller than she should be, and padded into the kitchenette like it was her stage. she grabbed a pot, box of mac & cheese, hot sauce, and a leftover joint from last night—completely unbothered.

rafe leaned on sarah’s dresser, arms crossed, watching her like she was the most entertaining thing he’d seen in months.

nova lit the joint with practiced ease, flame dancing just under the tip before it glowed red.

she took a slow drag, eyes half-lidded, lips parted just enough.

then, without looking, she held it out to rafe.

he hesitated—just for a second—then pushed off the dresser and took it from her fingers, their hands brushing again.

“didn’t think i’d be smoking in my little sister’s dorm,” he said, raising the joint to his mouth, “with the girl who wants to bite me.”

nova turned, leaned back against the counter, arms crossed under her chest, smirk deadly.

“who says i don’t still want to?”

rafe exhaled slow, smoke curling around his buzzcut like a halo made of poor decisions.

he looked at her, that same unreadable expression she was starting to find addictive.

“you’re insane,” he muttered.

nova grinned. “but hot.”

“unfortunately.”

she giggled—actually giggled—and turned back to stir the violently orange mac & cheese.

“don’t worry, baby girl,” she said. “i don’t bite unless you beg.”

nova stirred the pot slowly, one hip popped out, pink hair tied up in a lazy claw clip that somehow made her look even hotter. the joint rested between her lips again, smoke curling around her cheekbone like eyeliner.

rafe sat half on sarah’s desk, watching her with a level of interest that should be illegal.

“so,” he said eventually, voice low. “are you always like this?”

nova blinked at him, joint between two fingers now. “like what?”

he gestured vaguely. “hot. terrifying. kind of mean.”

she smirked. “you missed delusional and borderline feral.”

rafe laughed—actually laughed—and she felt it in her spine.

“noted,” he said.

she shrugged, grabbing two chipped bowls and pouring the mac & cheese without asking if he even wanted any.

“i’m charming,” she said innocently. “in a mentally unstable, bite-your-neck, talk-shit-about-your-mother kind of way.”

rafe looked at the bowl she slid toward him.

“you’re something, alright.”

“that’s what your brotherhood probably says in group therapy.”

he choked on his own breath, and nova snorted.

then—click.

the dorm door swung open.

“nova, i swear if you made mac again—” sarah froze. blinked. blinked harder.

“why the fuck is my brother here?”

nova, without missing a beat: “don’t freak out, i’m just feeding him.”

rafe, one hand holding the joint like it’s a cigarette in a 90s movie: “and corrupting me, apparently.”

sarah squinted. “…too late for that.”

nova grinned and turned back to the stove. “you’re welcome.”

rafe tried—really tried—not to look at nova’s legs.

but she was sitting on the windowsill now, knees up, bare thighs on full display, one foot tucked under the other like she didn’t know what she was doing.

she absolutely knew what she was doing.

rafe shifted on the bed, pretending to be more interested in the mac & cheese than the dangerously hot girl rolling another joint in dolphin-print pajama shorts.

nova glanced up at him, eyes hazy but sharp.

“i know you’ve been clean for like… what, a year?” she said casually, licking the edge of the paper. “good for you, baby girl.”

rafe blinked. “uh. yeah.”

she finished sealing it and grinned. “but like, weed doesn’t count. not real drugs. it’s basically self-care.”

he raised a brow. “that what you tell yourself?”

“no,” she said, lighting it. “that’s what my therapist tells me. or at least, that’s what i imagine she’d say if i went.”

sarah dropped her bag by her desk, unimpressed.

“just so we’re clear,” she said, tugging off her hoodie and glaring between them. “as long as you two don’t fuck with me in this apartment, you’re good.”

nova exhaled a cloud of smoke dramatically.

“so like… sex is off the table?”

sarah looked her dead in the eye. “on my desk, under my bed, or in my presence? yes.”

rafe, nearly choking on mac & cheese: “jesus.”

nova grinned, “wrong name again, cameron.”

sarah shrugged, hands on her hips, eyes sharp.

“understood,” she said flatly. “just don’t fuck in my presence.”

nova grinned like she’d just won a game.

“so,” she said, voice dripping with mock sweetness, “you’re saying i can fuck your brother… but just not in your presence.”

rafe looked between them, eyebrows raised.

“what,” he teased, voice low, “you wanna fuck me now?”

nova gave him a slow once-over, lips quirking with a crooked smile.

“nah,” she said, flicking ash into an old candle, “i wanna sacrifice your soul to the gods of the night.”

she leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “that’s what i usually do with men like you.”

rafe smirked, not quite sure if he was scared or turned on. “guess i’m in trouble then.”

sarah rolled her eyes, grabbed her towel, and headed toward the bathroom.

“i’m gonna shower before this gets weirder,” she said over her shoulder.

nova watched her go, then turned back to rafe, eyes gleaming with mischief.

“so,” she purred, stepping closer, “what, you want me to fuck with you, baby?”

rafe’s grin was slow, sly, and full of challenge.

“nah,” he said, voice low, leaning in just enough to make her heart skip. “i wanna fuck you.”

nova laughed—a full, unapologetic sound—then blew smoke in his direction like a queen claiming her throne.

“bold,” she said. “i like it.”

“anyway,” she said, voice lighter, “project starts next week. library, not our dorms. don’t get any ideas.”

rafe raised an eyebrow, amused.

“why? scared something’s gonna happen?”

nova’s grin faded just a touch, eyes sharpening.

“nah,” she said bluntly. “just scared of hiv.”

rafe blinked. “well, that’s… practical.”

nova shrugged, lighting another joint. “realest fear i’ve got.”

rafe blinked, eyes narrowing just a bit. “wait,” he said, voice low and teasing, “are you fucking saying that i have hiv?”

nova shrugged, the ghost of a wicked smile playing on her lips.

“i don’t know, man,” she said coolly, “for all i know, you probably do…”

rafe laughed—dark, amused, and maybe a little impressed. “damn, you really came to play, huh?”

nova leaned back on the windowsill, flicking ash like a queen settling in. “always.”

the room felt smaller all of a sudden, the air thick like smoke, heat, and unspoken words curling between them.

rafe’s eyes locked on nova’s, something fierce flickering just beneath his calm exterior

nova’s fingers twitched, as if daring him to make the next move, lips parted in that cocky half-smile.

neither said a word, the silence louder than anything else.

then— slam.

the door burst open, shaking the walls.

a rough voice cut through the tension like a knife.

“fucking nova hart.”

the room froze. and just like that, everything changed.

taglist psych 203 masterlist more works

tags: 🏷️ @rafesbabygirlx @iconiccolo @k4yr14 @sc05 @t0x1cfaerie @ijustwanttoreadlols @certifiedlovergirl112 @viqtoria @devoutedlover @qversazex

[gloomwitchwrites]

Okay so I don’t think I’ve sent and ask before, but hi!

I’ve been really getting into Nikolai lately. Like the man is a bear and I’m all here for it. Would you mind if ask for a NSFW alphabet? Or maybe just a little…breeding kink Drabble (with daddy of course) lol.

Also any recommendations on some good COD fics? Or Nikolai in general fics?

Oh, hey! That's a lot for one ask lol. I'm totally happy to do a NSFW alphabet for Nikolai!

written as gn!reader (can be read as both f!reader or m!reader)

nsfw alphabet template

A = Aftercare

Nik is the perfect aura of calm after sex. Your legs shake, breath heavy, and Nik is utterly attentive as if he hadn’t just blown your back out minutes ago. His big arms wrap around you for cuddles, and his hands roam to massage sore muscles all while whispering how good you took his cock.

B = Body part

Nikolai adores the roughness of his hands compared to the smoothness of yours. Even better if your hands are smaller than his. It makes him feel big, and he loves how his calloused hands look when they’re on your ass.

C = Cum

With his breeding kink, Nikolai enjoys watching his cum leak out of all your holes. Doesn’t matter where or how he breeds you, watching his cum slowly drip out turns him on.

D = Dirty secret

Frequents sex clubs/parties in his spare time. His favorite are the dark rooms where the lights are off and everyone is on a free use bases.

E = Experience

Very experienced and brags about it. Always follows through with whatever he says he’s going to do to you. Nikolai knows action speaks louder than words.

F = Favorite position

Any position that gives him a clear view of his cock moving in and out of your body (or mouth).

G = Goofy

Typically very serious, but when he does joke, it’s to tease you when you’re a whimpering mess. That’s when the jokes come out (but it’s all part of the deal to get you—and him—off.)

H = Hair

Hairy but very well groomed. Nikolai has an amazing happy trail, while his stomach and chest have the perfect amount of hair. It just adds to his charm and sexiness.

I = Intimacy

Knows when to bring intimacy into it, but can also be a filth dog. He’s happy to kiss you slowly, and whisper sweet nothings. Nikolai will do that for you while also taking you on all fours, or having you on your knees while he fucks your mouth. He’ll shower you with compliments and romance you all you like but be prepared to take his dick hard and fast if he wants to.

J = Jack off

Chronic masturbator. If he can’t have you, he’ll take his hand.

K = Kink

Breeding, Daddy, Primal, CNC

L = Location

While he enjoys having sex in a bed (it’s classic), he really enjoys getting off in his shop, surrounded by all his projects. He’ll fuck you over the hood of a car he’s fixing up, or taking you on the floor of his helicopter. The worn sofa against the wall sees a lot of action too.

M = Motivation

Physical touch and words. Grab him and tell him (bluntly) that you want to fuck and Nikolai is ready to go.

N = No

Knife play. Not interested in accidentally harming your or himself.

O = Oral

Gives liberally, but prefers receiving more.

P = Pace

Nikolai typically fucks fast and rough. He’ll occasionally go slow or be gentle, but he prefers moving/tossing you around, putting you in every position possible when he wants. He wants you shaking and gasping for air.

Q = Quickie

Down for a quickie anywhere, anytime. Loves an oral quickie more. Get on those knees for him.

R = Risk

Always down to experiment as long as his partner is. Smarter about experimenting with smaller things before moving to bigger things. Nikolai isn’t interested in hurting you or himself.

S = Stamina

Decent but needs a breather between rounds. After he’s spent, Nikolai wants a little lie down on his back for a few minutes with some casual touching and slow kisses before he’s ready to go again.

T = Toys

Doesn’t use toys on himself but enjoys using them on his partner. He’s the dominate in the relationship, which means he’ll use any and all toys at his pleasure.

U = Unfair

Major tease. His favorite way to tease is to edge. When you think it’s time to fall over the edge and find that end, Nikolai is right there to pull you back from it, telling you how sweet you look when you’re squirming and begging for release.

V = Volume

Not loud, but expect lots of grunting and groaning from him.

W = Wild card

Enjoys watching you masturbate. Sometimes he can get off just by watching you please yourself.

X = Xtra

Has been pegged before and would allow you to do it to him (but you have to ask first.)

Y = Yearning

Constant yearning. This man thinks about you all the time.

Z = Zzz

Nikolai always tries to stay awake long enough to take care of you after sex, but sometimes even he gets worn out. He’ll usually fall asleep once you do or fall asleep while the two of you are cuddling.

main masterlist

[raekensluver]

I wonder how the UK YT guys would react if you sprained your ankle while out with them?

contains: fluff, established relationship

arthur frederick x fem!reader, chris dixon x fem!reader, george clarke x fem!reader, harry lewis x fem!reader

arthur frederick - panics a bit- “shit, are you okay? that looked bad.” hovers awkwardly at first, unsure how to help, until you wince again and he’s immediately kneeling beside you, undoing your shoe with careful fingers. he’s the type to text his mum to double-check what you’re supposed to do for a sprain, then makes you tea and refuses to let you walk at all.

chris dixon - goes from joking to deadly serious in half a second. “what happened? did you twist it? okay, don’t put weight on it, i’ve got you.” he’d support you with an arm around your waist and throw in a nervous, “you alright, babe?” every few seconds. definitely googles “how to wrap a sprained ankle” and insists on doing it himself.

george clarke - he’d drop into caretaker mode immediately- gentle hands and worried eyes. “hey, hey, don’t move, poppet. let me see.” he’d crouch beside you, supporting your leg like it’s made of glass. insists on carrying you to the car, no arguments, and would stay up all night icing your ankle and fussing over you like it’s life-threatening.

harry lewis - tries to make you laugh even though he’s clearly freaking out. “you dramatic little thing—could’ve just asked me to carry you, y’know.” but he’s already got you in his arms, bridal-style, yelling at the others to get the door and asking where the nearest hospital is. checks in on you constantly after, guilt eating him even if it wasn’t his fault.

[xoxolaw]

+ THE TURNING POINT

this is an interactive story. if this is your first time seeing this, then hop over to introduction - to get the idea behind this story.

+ CONTENTS

+ CH 1

“Did you see that video from last week?”

The boy’s voice cut through the low hum of the classroom. He leaned over his desk, shoving his phone toward his friends like he was sharing state secrets.

“She literally busted his nose.”

Two more boys leaned in, the glow of the screen casting flickers of light across their wide-eyed faces.

“Man, he was twice her size. That swing? BOOM.” One of them mimed the punch midair, laughing.

“And then she apologized! Like, ‘Oops, sorry I crushed your face.’”

They broke into loud snickers.

“Bro, I’d love it if she crushed my face. If you ever see Y/N hitting me, don’t save me. That’s exactly where I wanna be.”

They were so caught up in their laughter that they didn’t notice the small figure now standing right beside them—arms crossed, a faint smirk on her lips.

“So…” Y/N said slowly, “Who wants to get beaten up by me?”

Silence.

The boys stiffened, eyes darting between each other like they were about to pick a sacrifice.

Y/N tilted her head. Arms still folded. Weight shifted lazily onto one leg.

She didn’t look angry.

That was the terrifying part.

Her smirk was small—teasing, even—but there was something in her eyes that made their backs straighten. Like she could play back their entire conversation and still know exactly who said what.

The boldest one—the guy who made the “don’t save me” joke—cleared his throat, scratching the back of his neck.

“We were just, y’know... joking. No offense or anything...”

She raised a brow. “Right. Because nothing screams comedy like fantasizing about getting your jaw realigned.”

They let out shaky laughs. One of them fumbled to lock his phone, nearly dropping it.

Y/N took a step closer—not to threaten, but somehow, it felt like one.

“Here’s the thing,” she said lightly. “I don’t actually like fighting. Never have. But I’m really, really good at it.”

She leaned in just a little, voice dropping to a murmur.

“Which means, if someone does give me a reason… I don’t miss.”

Silence.

They looked like they were praying for the bell to ring.

Then she smiled. Way too sweet.

“Have a good day, guys.”

And with that, she turned and walked to her seat, dropping her head onto her desk like she hadn’t slept in years.

It had only been a month since Y/N transferred to Eunjang High, and she’d already managed to capture the attention of the whole school. Her loud, chaotic, and vaguely terrifying personality made half the students admire her—and the other half avoid her like she was a final exam.

“Y/N!! You cheated last night at the arcade and ran off! Give me that prize!!”

She groaned at the voice. Of course it was him.

Turning over, she squinted up at the loud, tall idiot with too much energy.

“Baku… you just suck. Admit it.”

“Yeah, it was a clean win for her. Stop crying about it,” said the guy in the blue hoodie, chuckling beside him.

“Gotak! You’re siding with her?! That’s betrayal!”

Baku and Gotak had somehow become her friends.

Back in her first week, she’d stopped one of Baku’s punches mid-swing—pure misunderstanding. He’d been fighting someone who was bullying a junior, but she thought he was the bully and jumped in.

Ever since, Baku had been weirdly loud around her. Constant bad jokes. Tossing snacks her way during breaks. Talking like he wasn’t paying attention, but his eyes always seemed to track her movements. Like he was watching—making sure no one got too close.

Gotak was different. It was quieter, more... sincere.

He’d twisted his ankle in gym class, and while everyone else ignored it, she’d silently dropped a roll of sports tape next to him before jogging off. No words, just action.

He’d stared after her for a moment and nodded once. After that, they just got each other. He always hung out when Baku made plans, but if Baku wasn’t around? He could never quite bring himself to ask her to hang out alone.

“You guys are too loud,” she whined, rubbing her forehead. “I already have a headache and you’re making it worse. Baku!”

She stood up and headed toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Baku called after her.

She paused, turning around.

“To the washroom. You wanna come?”

Baku blinked.

Then frowned.

Then blinked again. “What? No—! I mean—! Not unless you need backup?!”

Gotak snorted.

Y/N rolled her eyes. “I’m not about to fight someone in the bathroom, Baku. It’s called peeing.”

The class broke into soft laughter as Baku turned bright red, muttering something about “just checking.” She waved him off and stepped into the hallway.

Her headache magically disappeared the second she spotted Jun Tae and Si-eun around the corner.

“Jun Tae!!” she yelled with delight, practically skipping over.

Jun Tae had been her best friend since kindergarten. He was also the one who’d jokingly recommended Eunjang when she was school-hunting.

She’d taken him seriously.

“Hey!” he grinned. “I heard the teachers talking about that video from last week. Watch out—they might try to punish you or something.”

“Punish me? For what? That bastard was harassing a girl!”

“Well… it could just be gossip.”

She huffed but nodded, then turned to Si-eun.

“Si-eun! I read that textbook you recommended—my concepts are crystal clear now.”

He gave a small smile. “Glad it helped.”

“Oh, and those blue-highlighted diagrams? Gold. I owe you one.”

He ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck with a shy chuckle. “Not a big deal. I just thought they’d be useful.”

Jun Tae raised a brow, smirking as he glanced between them. “Oh-ho? Si-eun’s your study buddy now? That’s new.”

“Jealous?” she shot back.

“Pfft. Of Si-eun? No way. I’m just worried he’s stealing my best friend card.”

“You’re still winning in the childhood trauma bonding category,” she grinned.

Jun Tae laughed while Si-eun blinked slowly, trying to figure out whether that was an insult or a compliment.

“Alright, guys. I’ll catch you later.”

She walked away, her steps light.

---

She had a lot of friends at school—sometimes so many that she couldn’t even tell if people genuinely liked her or just wanted something.

Plenty of girls had tried to get close to her just to ask about Baku. She even tried setting some of them up.

Too bad Baku was a disaster on dates.

Still, she enjoyed coming to school. Eunjang’s rough reputation never bothered her. If anything, she thrived in it.

But her reputation didn’t end at the school gates.

Outside, things were a little more complicated.

---

“Hello, sweetheart.”

The drawling voice hit her ears as she turned the corner on her way home.

She sighed, already dreading the next five minutes.

There he was. Leaning against the wall like he owned it—hands tucked in his jacket pockets, cigarette between his fingers, smirking like the devil himself.

Geum Seong-je.

“I thought you didn’t like fighting,” he teased, taking a drag. “He still cries about that punch. Swears he could’ve knocked you out.”

“He was harassing a girl. I should’ve knocked out all his teeth.”

He chuckled and stepped closer.

“Seong-je,” she said flatly. “Remember our 6-feet rule?”

She hated him.

She hated how he picked fights just because he could. How he could knock someone out in three seconds. How he looked at her like she was the only one worth talking to.

Their first meeting was a disaster. She’d called him out for bullying someone. He’d stared at her like she was the most interesting puzzle he’d ever seen.

Since then, things between them were... tense. Sharp. Flirty. Borderline dangerous.

But he never crossed her line.

“Are you sure?” he asked, tilting his head with that crooked grin that made her fingers twitch. “Because last time I stepped closer… you didn’t move.”

She let out a dry laugh. “That’s because I was calculating how many punches it’d take to dislocate your jaw.”

“See?” he said, blowing smoke to the side—away from her, oddly polite for someone so impolite. “You calculate. I improvise.”

She rolled her eyes and tried to walk past him, but of course, Seong-je fell into step beside her like they were out on a stroll.

“Don’t you have some poor soul to torment today?” she muttered.

“Already did. Finished by lunch. I’m efficient.”

“Disgusting.”

“Admit it,” he said, glancing sideways at her. “You like talking to me.”

She stopped.

Turned.

And smiled—so fake it could’ve melted metal.

“If I ever like talking to you, Seong-je… call an ambulance. That means I’ve had a stroke.”

He grinned wider. “I’ll take that as a maybe.”

“You would.”

Things were perfect.

There was comfort in the routine—waking up late, barely catching the bus, scribbling notes in classes she half-listened to, and sharing cafeteria food with a group of chaotic, loud-mouthed, but fiercely loyal friends.

Her grades were steady, her friendships were solid, and the drama was just enough to keep things exciting—never too serious, never dangerous.

At least, not yet.

But nothing perfect ever lasts.

The next day felt wrong from the moment she stepped onto campus.

She couldn’t explain it at first. Just a strange, uneasy stillness in the air. A shift she couldn’t quite place.

When she walked through the hallway, conversations died mid-sentence. People’s eyes darted away the moment she looked at them, as if the simple act of making eye contact might burn.

She waved at someone she knew—a girl from her club. Normally talkative, even a little clingy.

But today, she just offered a weak, awkward smile before turning sharply and hurrying off, clutching her phone like a lifeline.

That’s when the knot in her stomach tightened. The hallway suddenly felt colder, louder. She could feel the whispers brushing against her like static. Like judgment.

Something was wrong.

Horribly wrong.

She could feel it in her spine, in the way her fingers shook slightly as she unlocked her phone, hoping for some kind of answer.

Then—

A notification blinked onto her screen.

A message.

No name. No words.

Just a video.

Her heart skipped. Her thumb hovered over it, uncertain.

Then she tapped.

And the moment the video began to play—

The moment she saw what was on that screen—

It felt like the floor cracked open beneath her.

Like the world she knew had shattered in one breathless instant, and all that remained was a silence so loud it drowned everything else out.

countinue to CH 2

crafted for you with love by - xoxolaw

[demie90s]

Whose Vet? Pt.5

꒰ 🍒 ꒱ Diana Taurasi x Reader ꒰ 🍒 ꒱

MASTERLIST

⭑ pairing: Diana Taurasi x reader (bold rookie!fem!reader)

⭑ summary: It’s a quiet ride back after a win—until a teammate jokes that Diana should “mentor the rookies better.” You don’t hesitate. You claim her. Loudly. Publicly. And the whole bus damn near stops breathing. Diana? She doesn’t deny it. Not even close.

⭑ genre: Flirty tension, locker room chaos, power dynamics, light humor, slow-burn legend x rising star

⭑ warnings: Strong language, teasing, very public claiming, rookie with too much confidence

⭑ word count: ~0.8k

The win was nasty.

Bodies hit the floor. Elbows were thrown. Scoreboard sang your name at least twice. But you? You’re already back in your slides, baggy tee slung over your shoulder, long legs stretched out across the back row of the Mercury’s team bus. One AirPod in. One eyebrow raised.

The bus is alive—laughing, buzzing, damn near echoing with energy. Lexie Brown’s got her legs tucked under her, showing someone a meme. Sophie’s holding court over snacks. And Diana? She’s sitting two rows from the front, hoodie on, water bottle in hand, watching film on her phone like it’s gospel.

Someone—probably Kysre—says it.

“Yo, DT don’t even talk to us rookies like that. She be mentoring y’all in Morse code or what?”

You lean your head back, let the hum of the bus vibrate through your spine. Then you sit up.

Loud.

Sharp.

Amused.

“She mentors me just fine. Real hands-on.”

The whole bus goes silent.

Like movie-scene silent.

One of the rookies chokes on her Gatorade. A vet in the middle row covers her mouth and wheezes. Even the damn Bluetooth speaker skips.

All eyes shift to the front.

Diana doesn’t turn right away. She pauses her video first, takes a sip from her bottle, and then slowly—like she’s clocking a foul—glances back over her shoulder.

You give her a little wave.

“Hi, baby.”

Lexie covers her face. “Bro.”

“She’s insane,” Sophie whispers, grinning way too hard.

“She been like this all season,” Kahleah mutters, shaking her head, “and Diana still ain’t packed her up.”

Diana just stares at you.

Unmoving.

Unbothered.

But her lips twitch.

Her eyes burn hotter than usual, but not angry—more like… entertained. Caught off guard but not mad about it.

You lean forward, arms resting over the back of the seat in front of you.

“She be mentoring me behind closed doors,” you add. “Real passionate about player development.”

Chaos.

Kitija drops her phone.

Shey lets out the loudest “AYO?” in WNBA history.

Even the damn bus driver laughs.

Diana finally exhales. Looks back forward. But she’s smiling. Not big, but just enough that the team clocked it.

And you? You sink back into your seat like nothing happened. Slide your AirPod back in. Smirk still painted on your lips.

Someone mutters, “She really think she Diana’s girl.”

You correct them without blinking.

“I don’t think shit. I know whose vet she is.”

—————————————

This LIVE?!?!

🗣️ “I’m sorry but the rookie flirting with Diana like she got a mortgage on her is ICONIC.”

“Somebody needs to sedate her before she proposes mid-season.”

“I just KNOW Diana’s letting it happen. The smirk? Yeah.”

“She not playing for the Mercury. She playing for Diana.”

“Y’all saw her mouth ‘hi baby’ on live TV?! 😭😭😭 I’m crying.”

@chocoramito69

[leighbaye]

um can you do more mike x cheerleader reader ?

😓

mike & cheerleader girlfriend headcannons ୨ৎ

labels. happy go lucky reader, hyper feminine reader, popular girl, she/her pronouns used, y/n used, mentions of cheer practice & school dynamics.

reader’s vibe. soft pinks, lip gloss & lace, satin bows, sweet perfume, sparkly nails, dainty aesthetic ♡

warnings. fluff, soft!mike & lowercase text

✿ you always show up to school in soft cardigans, matching barrettes, and glossy lips that smell like strawberries. mike is absolutely gone for you.

✿ you’re soft-spoken around others, but when it’s just you and mike, you get a little giggly and playful. he lives for it.

❝ you’re blushing. ❞

❝ no i’m not, stop looking. ❞

❝ i always look. ❞

✿ you handwrite him letters just because. on pink stationery. seeped in gel pen. he keeps them all in a shoebox under his bed.

✿ you painted his nails once — just soft baby pink on one hand — and he wore it to school the next day like it was nothing.

✿ he walks you to class with your books, carries your cheer bag when it’s heavy, and once helped you tie your ribbon bow when your hands were full. he’s awkward about it, but he tries his best. it looked all lopsided and droopy but your boyfriend tried and that was what mattered.

✿ you made him a keychain with your initials on it and attached a tiny bow to it. he put it on his backpack and refused to take it off even when lucas joked about it.

✿ when you cry — even over something small — he panics.

❝ what happened? ❞

and you’re like ❝ i smudged my eyeliner! ❞

✿ he compliments your outfits every single day.

❝ wow look at you! ❞

❝ you’re glowing. like literally. ❞

❝ is that new lip gloss? ❞ he tried to kiss it off.

✿ he keeps a tiny polaroid of you in his wallet — one where you’re holding a vanilla milkshake and blowing a kiss at the camera.

✿ you once fell asleep in his lap wearing your cheer uniform and he legit didn’t move for 45 minutes because he didn’t want to wake you.

his legs went numb but he didn’t care.

✿ your room smells like strawberry lotion and there’s always soft music playing in the background. when mike visits, he sits on your bed stiffly like he’s afraid to break something.

✿ when you cheer at games, mike can’t focus on anything but you. he doesn’t even know if hawkins wins or loses half the time

✿ you buy him a pinky ring to match your charm bracelet.

people tease him — he doesn’t care.

❝ she gave it to me. so. ❞

✿ you sit next to each other in english class

mike almost died when the teacher made it alphabetical and your last names lined up.

one time you reached under the desk to hold his hand and he accidentally knocked over his pencil case in pure panic.

✿ he’s not super into pda … unless it’s you.

he always walks you to class and holds your hand, even if it’s sweaty or he’s holding his dnd binder with the other.

✿ your couple photo is you kissing his cheek while he’s blushing down to his neck.

he has one arm around your waist, stiff but sweet.