#thinking about the time i was at a hotel and trying to get into my room

[onsomenewsht]

And through the clouds, I see love shine

About when, on a Wednesday in a restaurant at Barcelona, you watch it begin again

》 Alexia Putellas x Reader

》 words count: 12.8k

》 fight a losing battle [idiom]: also known as “losing game”, to try hard to do something when there is no chance that you will succeed, a failing effort or activity 

Your last relationship ends so badly that you consider abstinence from everything – processed sugar, alcohol, and even people. A period of deep cleansing, as if you could purify every cell of your body, like a celebrity spiraling from rehab to full-blown identity crisis.

This emotional state explains why you find yourself on a one-way flight to Barcelona, all your things crumbled in a backpack.  A rash impulse led you to declutter your belongings, a wishful attempt of turning into a completely new person just because your closet is now half what it used to be.

The decision to straight-up flee is rushed and quite terrifying, much like many of your recent choices.

Elena, your best friend since you were barely old enough to share made-up stories and Barbie-like careers, thinks you’re going mental. She nearly cries when you decide to donate your vintage Christian Lacroix jacket, but you’re convinced it’s the only way to get a new lease on life, so she mourns in silence.

The loudest reaction comes from your brother, who, if you could be mature enough to admit it, is the only voice of reason that almost resonates in your head. 

Almost.

Despite your stubbornness, you accept the offer of hospitality from one of his university friends, who gives away a spare room. You don’t plan on staying in a hotel for gods know how long, and you certainly don’t have the patience to search for an apartment. You’re not completely out of mind, if they want to help, so be it. 

Barcelona is brighter and feels as welcoming as you hoped, though that might just be the nicer weather and the fact you’re far from your problems. And your ex. 

The first month flies by in a rush of Catalan cafeterias, art galleries, and little boutiques that refill both your closet and your spirit. 

The people here are kind enough to put up with your attempts to speak the language, humoring you since you’re oh-so-sure that eleven consecutive days on a passive-aggressive app have made you fluent.

The places you visit and the ones strangers recommend are loud enough to ignore the voices of reason in your ear that start to sound a lot like your brother’s.

Still, there’s only so much one can do to avoid responsibilities and self-consciousness.

“You need a job”, Ricardo states one morning, finding you in the kitchen eating cold pizza, still in the clothes you wore two nights ago.

Your closet isn’t as limited anymore.

“I’ve saved enough money to enjoy my vacation, thanks for your concern”

“I thought that was the money saved to buy a house with your ex”

“I do not have an ex nor a house to worry about, do I?”

As soon as the pizza starts to taste like regret, you’re ready to end the conversation to sleep the rest of day away. 

Ricardo means well, you know that. 

He’s a nice guy and a good roommate, but, like your brother, he’s overprotective and likes to gossip a little too much. Sometimes, it’s surprising how much he knows about you. Most of the time, it’s just annoying.

“I want to say– maybe a routine could be good for you”

“I have a routine”, you retort, knowing it’s a fat lie.

You’re out of the bed before eleven only if you didn’t sleep through the night before, wandering around the city with no real destination until something, somehow, catches your attention.

It’s not a bad thing per se, but it’s not a sustainable lifestyle.

“You quit a well-paid accounting job, right?”

“Ricardo, I swear, I’m this close to reporting you for stalking”

His laugh is too loud this early in the morning, but the comfort of bantering with someone who knows you is too familiar to ignore. Even if most of his insight comes from your nosy brother.

They both need to find a hobby that doesn’t involve judging your questionable life choices.

He sips his coffee while studying you, assessing how risky it would be to keep pushing the subject.

Apparently, he feels brave enough.

“My friends’ restaurant could use some help”

~

You’re not sure if Ricardo downplayed it or if he’s just blissfully unaware, but his friends don’t need some help – they need a miracle. 

That’s what happens when you get scammed by your bookkeeper. 

Despite not being really familiar with Spanish tax laws and regulation, it’s clear as the day someone exploited every possible loophole in the profitable business run by three way-too-trusting men. The truth becomes evident as you examine their accounting ledger, your frown deepening with each passing moment.

You have been to their restaurant before, and have loved it.

The place is cosy and carefully maintained. The food is prepared by a grumpy man from Puerto Rico named Paco, who, after twenty years in Barcelona, learned just enough cursing in Catalan to run the kitchen. Local bands play live on the weekend and someone’s mom made sure everyone is nice and well mannered. The worn wooden tables are witness of countless shared meals. 

Pedro and Paul, the other two owners, can only be described as a comedy duo with a really questionable sense of style and even worse jokes. But they’re nice enough, definitely good company when you have a bad day. They can turn it upside down so quickly, for the better or the worst.

However, Ricardo tells you how much the restaurant means for his friends and the local community, guilt-tripping you into helping them to fix their finances.

The truth is, you love math and numbers so much that a challenge like this excites you more than it’s appropriate to admit.

Hence, you agree to help them for far less money you could have asked anyone in the same situation.

They take it as a promise to make sure the business keeps running and organise a dinner with way too many people to celebrate your help.

“I’ve barely started looking into it, Pedro”, you complain, not used to such enthusiasm.

“¡Cállate y bebe tu sangría!”

You meet Alba that same night.

She’s nice and quick-witted, no one is safe from her clever remarks. It feels nice, the way she makes sure you’re included when everyone seems to forget you’re still learning Spanish from a green bird on your phone, and that, in most conversations, you relate more to vibes than actual words.

Flirting is a universal language, though.

If her hand brushes on your arm a couple of times you make sure to smile and get closer, and if you lean into her with the excuse of needing a translation she makes sure to whisper right into your ear. There’s a note in her voice that makes you feel at ease.

Of course, Ricardo ruins everything.

“I’m starting to think you’re running from tax collectors, not your ex”

It’s a good joke, you know it is nothing more than that. But it suddenly reminds you how messy your life is and how out of place you feel sometimes.

Not just far away from home, but also far away from everything familiar.

A job for a company you hated but paid good money; friends you didn’t see as you’d liked, but who knew damn well when to drag you out of your apartment – and out of your own head. A boyfriend who barely tolerated your love, but somehow always managed to say and do the right things at the right time.

Every morning, you wake up knowing what to wear for work, what numbers to punch into the computer to get the needed results, and how to act to be sure you’re not too much.

You’re not running away from just your ex, you’re running away from your life as known until finding out about the cheating. 

“��Todo bien?”, Alba asks, noticing how you miss the opportunity to jab Ricardo. 

It takes you a moment to register her reassuring hand on your arm and the talks moving to a completely different topic.

“Yeah, sorry, just tired”

“You better get used to the Spanish nightlife”

“It’s pretty much all I’m doing so far”, you admit, slowly sipping a beer and making sure your annoying roommate doesn’t hear a word about this.

The rest of the dinner passes without too much trouble, despite not remembering most of the names and following even less of the conversations. 

Alba stays close and you blame the spicy food for the way your face reddens when she bids her goodbye with three kisses and a promise to meet up with less people.

“It’s a surprise”, Ricardo comments, his grin spreading across his face as soon as you settle onto the couch to debrief the day’s events.

It’s starting to look a lot like a new routine, a tradition in the making.

“What? Something my brother didn’t mention?”

“¡Ay, claro!”

“I hate you”

“I had no idea Alba is your type”

You have to give credit where due, he displays incredible reflexes. He dodges the pillow you throw at him, your punch barely grazes his arm, and your kick misses his shin by a mile.

To be honest with yourself, you’re not really sure who is your type. 

Not even getting in the mind-space to think about your ex, the past relationships you care about to recall all look pretty different. There’s no consistent pattern, not a clear preference in haircuts or any kind of colours, not a style that catches your attention more than another. 

The only thing most of your exes have in common is tiring you to the bones and leaving your life making you trust less and less in others. 

Maybe you do have a type.

~

It’s not a date, you both agree on that.

She doesn’t ask about the infamous ex, she’s good company and even a nicer distraction.

But your mind drifts and, as you recount the highlights of how that relationship crumpled in slow motion, it becomes clear as the day you shouldn’t be with someone until you’ve committed to a good therapist.

It’s not fair to anyone, but it’s definitely not fair to Alba.

You kiss her anyway, and she makes you promise to let her be your first date as soon as you’re ready to get back into the game again.

~

“Ricardo told me your ex is un cabrón”

If not for the possibility of blemishing your otherwise spotless record, you could have shoved Pedro down the hill you’re currently struggling to climb, losing too much dignity. 

The guy looks like he had one beer too many, but he’s surprisingly in shape and apparently unaffected by the whole hike so far. 

“Am I the only topic of conversation he has?”, you ask, mostly to buy a few more seconds to catch your breath.

“Creo que sí”

You raise the finger as you outpace him to keep going.

The sun has set, casting a warm, golden hue across the clear Barcelona sky. Despite Pedro knocking on your door when it was barely socially accessible to be at someone’s place, it takes the two of you more time than necessary to reach this point of the trail.

Not close enough to the top yet, but definitely too late to turn back without regrets. 

It’s mostly his fault.

The view is impressive, and the Catalan knows too many fascinating details to not be amazed by the nature around.

“¿Estás bien?

“Cabrón is a nice word”

“It’s not”

“No, it’s– I mean it’s not a bad enough word to describe him”, you clarify with a faint smile as Pedro slows his pace.

Your final destination is just a few steps away.

It may be the pleasant company, a good friend you’ve discovered in an unexpected place at the most unexpected time of your life. It may be the warm rays of sunshine that tickle your skin or the ache making your legs feel alive. It may be the weight on your chest, the one that crushed good intentions and caused too many sleepless nights, now becoming smaller under a new sense of resolve.

It may be for many different reasons, but for the first time in more than you’re comfortable looking back, it feels better.

“It was a good relationship”

He gives you a moment, sitting on the slightly damp grass next to your sprawled figure.

“It was good, until it was really bad. But it’s hard to do anything about it when you’re doing such an impressive job at hiding all the signs”

“A bad relationship can’t be blamed on just one person”, he tries to reason.

“It can”

“Guapa, mira–”

“No, it can. He was controlling, aggressive, and incredibly talented at making me take all the blame and the shame”, you admit, for the first time out loud, “My only fault was pretending to ignore when I finally saw it all for what it really was”

As you gather the strength to rise to a more dignified position, you almost expect Pedro to hug you or be the over affectionate Spanish stereotype he usually is.

Instead, he’s looking somewhere away in the sky, pensive.

You feel the need to reassure him, “I’m fine now, I–”

“No, lo siento, lo siento”, he turns with a small, yet genuine smile, “We don’t know each other that well”

“You’re hurting me now, I thought we were friends”

“We are, tonta!”

Pedro raises and his large hands, marked with tiny cuts, extend to pick you up. He paves the way down the hill with no words, and for the first time since you meet the man, the silence it’s a surprise. 

It’s not uncomfortable, maybe just a little unsettling.

And short-lived.

“We don’t know each well”

“You already said that”

He shoves you playfully, not impressed by your attitude, but used to it.

“Lo que quiero decir es que– you’re a good person, I can tell, even if we don’t know each other for long”

“Don’t get soft on my right now”

“You’re a good person and you love good, you have to keep loving”, he states, so casually, “Once you know love, you should never try to forget”

~

“At this point, I’m pretty sure you hit your head hard enough to go mental and somehow no one noticed”

“I miss you so much, Elena”

Your phone is precariously balanced on a glass of wine as you cook a recipe Paco scribbled on a piece of paper. In Catalan. 

It makes less sense than his finance decisions, but you’ll take it.

Your best friend’s face is half out of frame but you can clearly point out every step of her beauty routine. It’s a grueling and painfully long process, her boyfriend is way more patient than you about it.

But tonight Ricardo is out for his bi-weekly pottery class, and you’re happy to indulge her just for the sake of spending some time together, even if it’s through a screen.

Not like there’s a slight chance you’d say it out loud.

“What are you trying to cook?”, the eyebrow in frame raises skeptically.

“No idea”, you admit, coming to the conclusion the number you’re looking at is five and there’s no way this dish needs so many onions.

“Good, now, let’s track back to your mental instability”

“And you ask why I am in different country?”

The wasp she lets out is so loud, and the silence that follows is so deafening you look at the screen to make sure the call is still on. She can be so dramatic.

“Don’t joke about it, I’m still grieving”

“I’m still alive”

“Barely”, she mutters.

Elena is a good friend, despite the theatrics. 

When the world seems a little too much to handle, she turns into a safe space for you to be at peace. When you’re overthinking the stupidest choices, she always has a comforting, new point of view. 

To people who don’t have the privilege to know her well enough, she may look shallow and too noisy. The truth is, you’ve never met someone so aware of herself and her life that she perfectly understands how to give due weight to even the smallest things. 

And she doesn’t keep quiet, she loves loud and proud. 

You learned to hold yourself back. You were forced to.

That’s the biggest lesson she’s still teaching you.

“Just saying, you’re surrounded by hot, Spanish people–”

“Happens when in Spain”

“You’re allowed to have fun!”

“I have plenty, thank you very much”

A strange smell comes out of the pan as the lid is lifted, prompting you to close it and pretend it’s not even there for the rest of the night. Not planning to call a poison center, ordering takeout is how you opt to end this cooking attempt.

If Elena thinks you paused the video to piss her off, it is on her.

When your best friend’s face pops up on the screen again it’s so serious you’re tempted to hang up for real.

“I mean it in a good way, don’t get me wrong, but taking a leave of absence and flying to Barcelona is the most selfish thing I witnessed you do in forever”

“I’m actually thinking of quitting for good and going freelance”

“See?”, she gushes, although she can’t be taken seriously with a panda-shaped face mask on, “You like to do your nerd-numbers-shit again, you’re trying new things, even if you clearly can’t be trusted in the kitchen–”

“Fuck you, that man can cook, but for sure can’t write”

“You’re making friends, not as amazing as me, but we’ll take it!”

Trying to argue could be useless and, honestly, you have no arguments.

“You’re fine, you’re doing good”, she smiles, and you miss her a little bit more.

This time you say it out loud, and she cries.

~

The guys are planning something.

By now, you know them well enough to sense trouble the moment you step into the restaurant.

Paco wears a grin that’s almost creepy, a beam blasted across his face, while Pedro is cleaning the tables with unnecessary vigour and his usual commitment is taken to an unusual level.

They’re clearly waiting for something to happen, lingering around as you try to explain to Paul, the musketeer you pointed as the most reliable when money is on the line, how to delay a payment reminder.

“Okay, what is wrong with them?”, you ask, trying to recall a single reason why you put up with these people’s ethics.

You only need one.

“No te entiendo”

“Tú me entiendes perfectamente”

“Your español is getting so good, ¿lo sabes?”, Pedro chimes in, and you’re sure whatever they want, you’re not going to like it. 

Paul is usually the voice of reason, the emotionally adult one. Why is he looking at you like he’s about to commit the worst betrayal?

“We were thinking–”

“I’m scared when you guys think”

“We are allies, feminists, and strong supporters of women in male dominated fields, equality–”

“Please, shut up”, you interrupt as if the conversation is physically hurting you.

“Barça is playing the Copa on Saturday. We organise una fiesta every year when they come back, es una tradición”, Pedro cuts in, feeling like the best way to get to the point is to dive straight into it.

“What if they lose?”

“Ellas no pierden”, Paul’s voice is so final you don’t dare to object.

“Cool, fine, why are you acting like this party is something I’ll not like?”

“We pay for it all”

It’s nice.

It is a really nice gesture, knowing how much they care about their community and their friends and apparently the women’s side of their favourite club. 

Then you remember they have a huge debt to pay up because an asshole took advantage of their kind hearts and the accounts are just starting to make sense again.

“It’s a good thing”, you admit out loud, “But–”

When Paul starts a passionate rant about the team’s season so far and how sure he is they are gonna win those trophies all over again, apparently setting a new record for the sport itself, it’s not strange to feel thrilled too.

Even Paco joins the excitement at the prospect of adding another title to the collection.

You have been in Barcelona long enough to understand football is a big deal here, and you can’t deny it’s really wonderful to see three big guys hyping up their club – women’s and men’s side alike. 

Pedro looks at you like he knows you’re about to crumble.

“They better win then”, you agree, pretending it takes a lot of thinking.

They wrap you in a group hug so welcoming you don’t have the heart to tell them the restaurant can’t really afford to pay out an entire party right now, on a weekend, literally planned for a football team and their mothers. 

You’ll make sure the numbers check out later.

You meet Alexia that same night.

Alba makes the introductions, and you shake her hand a moment too late and too long than socially acceptable.

You’re busy shifting your gaze back and forth. 

They look alike. A lot. But somehow, they’re also so different.

You make a mental note to dig up some old pictures of a younger version of yourself and your brother.

“She’s the reason this party won’t bankrupt the guys”

“I’ve heard only good things about you”, Alexia admits.

If a slight redness tints your face it’s due to the compliments, not the feeling of her eyes on you, or the way your body seems to jolt awake.

“All lies, probably”, you try to compose yourself – get a fucking grip, “They’re just impressed ‘cus they can’t count to save their lives”

The laugh that leaves the older woman’s lips is the most melodic sound you’ve ever heard. Something in the way her face lights up and her features relax makes your chest ache with a surprisingly comfortable feeling.

A desire to make her laugh again.

And that is what you do all night.

The girls are way too excited – deservedly so, after another title added to their already impressive collection. The live music is loud, the food and the drinks come in flows. You’re too busy to mentally estimate the costs.

When one of Alexia’s teammates decides you’re her new favorite person in the whole restaurant, you’re perfectly fine with it. Just because she’s funny, not because she seems to have an impressive amount of stories to tease her captain with.

When Paul hands you another beer, you sip it without a care of keeping count. Just because you’re allowed to get loose, not because you noticed Alexia is making sure everyone will not regret a drink too much tomorrow. 

When Alba drags you to the makeshift dance floor, you let yourself feel the music and the bodies around. Just because the party is definitely worth it, vibrant, not because her sister joins the group at the same time.

You go home, much later than intended, with an unfamiliar feeling prickling beneath your skin and a somehow familiar pair of eyes stuck in your head.

~

The first time you end up in the stands for a football game is purely by accident.

An unmistakable electric buzz fills the air, lingering all the way from the parking lot to the seats that seem to keep filling. Everyone is smiling and chanting, sporting just two different colours but expressing their support in an unique way. 

The games you endured watching on TV to spend a few hours with your brother as a kid can’t compare to the real thing.

You never imagined finding yourself in such a place, but when in Rome. Or, well, when in Barcelona.

It’s all on the Putella sisters, to be honest.

You meet Alba in the most unusual place you could think of, or being yourself in the first place. A sports shop.

Planning to go on the hike a stranger at the restaurant pointed out, you need appropriate trekking shoes. Since the decluttering phase is officially over, you looked up one of those obnoxious places that sell overpriced sports-related shit.

Not the kind of shop you’d picture Alba willingly entering.

“Mind you, I actually like sports”, she objects.

“Do you?”

She giggles as your head tilts in a mocking way, “Vale, I like watching more than doing the sports”

“No way!”

The bags she’s dragging out of the shop are the only thing stopping her from not-so-playfully smacking you. It’s surprisingly easy to tease each other.

She reminds you of Elena, who called this morning to discuss how to act now she discovered where her boyfriend hides the ring. As if she hasn’t been snooping around for months.

Not entirely her fault, the poor guy left the jewelry’s receipt with the car keys at the entrance.

“Are you?”, the younger woman asks.

“What?”

“A sports person”

“My brother used to kick footballs at me when we were kids, the only sport I ever pretended to be remotely interest in”

Her smile dims slightly.

For some reason, that seems to have been the wrong thing to say.

“Have you been to a Barça game yet?”

“What if I’m a Madridista?”

That’s even worse, apparently, since Alba dramatically drops the bags to gasp in shock. Her acting of a heartbreak is surprisingly convincing.

A second voice chimes in out of nowhere, “Don’t even joke about it”

Alexia’s comment is dead serious, you can tell, with just the hint of a grin on her lips as a clear giveaway that she’s more than comfortable teasing a person she barely knows.

You’re definitely not going to complain.

The hat she’s wearing hides half her face, but you can see her lighting up behind it.

“What if I’m not joking?”

“Alba, you said she is a nice person”, the midfielder complains, a huff escaping her lips as she adjusts the weight of the bags she’s carrying. 

Did they just raid the whole shop?

“Bold to you to assume I can’t be a nice person and a Madridista”

“Please, don’t fight her on this, she’s gonna be insufferable”, Alba complains, playfully rolling her eyes at her sister’s antics and your teasing.

“No, she needs to be educated. She’s coming to El Clásico with us”

As simple as that.

You find yourself in the home section of the stadium for one of the most anticipated games of the season.

Or that’s what Alexia is ranting about all the way to your seats, going off about the rivalry and basic football knowledge you have to thank your borther for drilling into your brain against your will.

It’s all worth it when her blush spreads across her face as she realises, in the middle of her fourth attempt to explain with yet another example, that you actually do know what offside is.

Alba watches the interaction closely, amused by how easy it is for you to tease Barcelana’s captain and how comfortable she seems to be around you, despite not having known each other for long.

A couple of minutes before kick-off, Alexia returns from wherever she went – one mission in mind. She takes her place on your side, handing you a Blaugrana jersey, “You can’t sit here without wearing the right colours”

Maybe wearing a white t-shirt was a bit too much.

You burst out laughing, opting to put in the item immediately to avoid upsetting the filled seats around you, “How’d you find your own at a men’s game?”

“I happen to be pretty beloved around here”

“Did you hear that, Alba? La Reina is bragging!”

The only reason she doesn’t retort is due to the referee’s whistle announcing the start of the game, followed by a surprisingly enjoyable night with the two sisters.

~

Summer in Barcelona is nothing like you pictured it.

The streets are filled with tourists, too many people crammed in too little spaces. Complaints about the crowds and the chaos drown out any excitement. You have to remind Pedro that it’s awful, but it’s good for business.

Sometimes, it’s too hot to even think of leaving the comfort of your place. Fans blow in every room because, of course, the air conditioner broke the day it was turned on. 

Sometimes, it’s so loud you don’t need to ignore the voices of doubt in your head, subdued by everything that’s happening around you.

Sometimes, it’s exactly the kind of life you can see yourself living.

Your brother came to visit for a week, spending more time teasing you with Ricardo than doing anything else. You hate it, but you missed him too much to complain.

Maybe you pulled some strings to make his dream of visiting Camp Nou come true, just so you could look cool, but then what?

He’s as happy as a kid in a candy store, and all you have to do is endure an overexcited guided tour and bribe Alexia with overpriced drinks the night after. Totally manageable.

Your therapist announces her vacation like it’s not the worst news she’ll be sharing, leaving you with tasks to occupy the time. You dutifully completed them all, never quite managing to shake the nerd label off, and, quite frankly, you pay her too much to not do her homework.

Some tasks seem a little over the top, though – signing up for a dating app is definitely not how you’ll get over your ex.

You started hanging out with a group of passionate excursionists. Perhaps a bit too excited about life in general, but nice enough to follow during their hikes.

Pedro joins when he can, most of the time, someone from the Barcelona team manages to invite themselves. 

Since you and María aren’t allowed to be on your own, Ingrid or Esme supervise. It may be an overreaction, but the last time you two were alone, you sprained your ankle and the defender got nasty cuts on her legs before the trip even started, so you can’t really judge them. 

If you say Alexia is a better hike partner than most is just to piss María.

That summer in Barcelona makes you miss your family and friends back home a little more than usual, but it’s also the first time in months that you feel like you’re actually living your life – not just letting it flow right through you. 

~

When the new school year starts, Irene and her wife come to the restaurant a couple of times before Paul suggests that you could be the perfect person to help their son with his math homework.

Your attempt to explain that you really are not qualified to teach in a different language goes completely ignored.

They’ve already tried different tutors, and Mateo seems to hate them all. You accept, mostly because of the kid’s puppy-dog eyes.

The two of you fell into an easy routine. Once a week, he would lend you basic grammar school manuals and children’s books to help with your Spanish, and you would explain math to him in the simplest way possible.

It goes well.

Mateo decides pretty soon you’re his new favourite person, and you basically become one of Irene’s as well.

That’s how you find yourself on the sideline during a Barça training session, reading a book about a dog that doesn’t know how to bark while Mateo is too pleased with himself, checking all the math exercises he nailed. 

“Good one?”

You raise your gaze, shielding your eyes from the sun enough to point out Alexia’s silhouette.

The weather is still too warm for your comfort, making you question the girls’ mental stability for running lap after lap under such conditions with a smile on their faces. 

Sports people are scary.

“You look too good to be someone who just finished training”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Derogatory”, you clarify, pushing your stuff aside so that Alexia can sit beside you on the sideline. 

She’s drinking some sort of sport drink like she’s just eaten sand, and this close, she looks human. She’s grinning, enjoying the sun picking at her skin and Mateo’s passionate explanation of the math exercises he’s done all by himself.

The training session is wrapped up, she stays until Irene comes back from the changing room, washed and dressed, ready to take the little boy home.

The blonde lingers a bit longer, talking about books she loved growing up and how she takes management courses when she can. You find out Penélope Cruz is both your favourite actress, but the midfielder acts shocked when you tell her you haven’t watched her favourite film. 

That night, you put it on and change the language setting, live-texting Alexia all your reactions.

Halfway through, you’re pretty sure she’s watching it too.

~

Almost nine months after booking that life-changing one-way ticket to Barcelona, you buy another one to go back home.

With a return ticket in hand.

It’s your mother’s birthday, so you kind of have to.

Recently, she’s been repeating a new favorite line, rambling about the uncertainty of life and the precariousness of old age. She’s barely in her 60s and has less back pain than most people of your generation, but she’s not willing to listen to reason. 

You come to the conclusion you can’t lose any more points against your brother in the unspoken sibling race for your parent’s love. So you book the flight, pack a suitcase big enough, because you literally have nothing to wear left behind, and mentally prepare for the investigation your family will conduct. 

The tension in your shoulder melts away the moment your brother wraps his arms around you in the airport terminal. 

“You grow up so much”

And, just like that, he’s your annoying, stupid older brother again.

“I didn’t miss you at all”

“I can see you holding back tears”

“You’re literally crying!”, you accuse with a grin on your lips, lightly punching him.

“Just wait until mum sees that new tattoo”

The truth is, your mother is too busy peering deep into your soul to care about the tattoo. 

It takes two days of constant reassurance that you’re working, eating, and sleeping properly; a ceramic salamander figurine – maybe overpriced, but a gift meant to make an impression; and Elena backing up your story to calm her worries.

Barely enough to get you through the rest of the week unstretched.

“She’s just worried”, your best friend tries to reason, sipping a flashy pink drink that you’re not even sure is made from real fruit.

“I moved to Barcelona, not a war zone”

“Oh, so now it’s permanent?”

The shit-eating grin spreading across her face should annoy you, but you have to admit she has a point.

At first it was just an impulsive decision, an urge to run away from everything and everyone. Then, without really realising it, the Catalan city started to feel a lot like a place to settle in, to let your wings spread wide open.

Now you almost call it home.

The waitress interrupts your flow of thoughts, saving you from Elena’s pointed gaze long enough to be properly distracted by the huge amount of food presented. He leaves with a charming smile, but you’re genuinely too focused on the salty chips to notice.

“Are you pregnant?”, you ask, looking as she almost chokes to avoid comically spilling her drink on you.

“The Spanish heat fried your brain?”

“What? You didn’t even have soft drink when we were underage”

Elena pauses for a moment, weighting if knocking over you the rest of the pink beverage could be worth it. It takes genuine pondering.

She decides to take the highest road.

“Are you dying?”

“Are you taking comedy classes in Barcelona?”

The last time your best friend was this over the edge it was because of a pregnancy scare. First year of university, and her boyfriend at time wasn’t really the guy you’d take home for Christmas. A memory that doesn’t help her case right now.

You slip under the dim lights of the bar, a classy spot where she hangs out with the women from her pilates class. A shiver runs down your back, a bad feeling overcoming deep inside you. 

Then, she speaks up.

“I’ve already bought a wedding dress”, she admits, as if she’s confessing a crime, “It’s a size smaller and I have to–”

“Elena, for fuck’s sake, I thought you were actually dying!”

“It is, indeed, a tragedy”

“He hasn’t even proposed yet”

“Details”, she chugs the rest of the drink, smirking and grabbing the last chips you’re too shocked to care about.

The same waitress hovers around your table, drawn in by the loud exchange and your clear distress, “Excuse me, is everything okay?”

He’s young, charming enough for this to be just a gig while he waits and hopes for his acting career to take off. However, he looks genuinely concerned, his gaze shifting between the deep frown and your friend amused grin.

“All good, she’s just dramatic”, Elena points at you with the straw, before delivering the final blow, “And she is single”

The poor boy’s face lights up, naively thinking the commotion was a creative way to play matchmaker.

What a mistake.

You don’t even dignify her with a glance, rolling your eyes before addressing him directly, “Excuse her, she’s panicking because her long-time, overly in-love boyfriend still hasn’t popped the question”

“That’s not–”

“And I’m not interested”, you finish, kind but firm.

He leaves with a nod, cheeks slightly red.

Elena watches him disappear as you sip your own drink, studying you the way she used to when you were confused teenagers who didn’t know how to deal properly with all those feelings and real-life emotions.

“Oh”

The reason you still encourage her goes beyond your understanding.

You’re not starting to question it now, “What?”

“You like someone”

“Elena, I swear–”

“No, no, it’s just–”, her gaze softens as she looks at you, teasing and playful attitude making space for her most supportive side, “It’s good to see you, you know, welcoming back some happiness”

It doesn’t matter how she’s always capable of reading you like a book, like you’re a poem she knows by heart but she’s never tired of.

After all the years and the lessons you’ve learned together, it feels so comforting to know there’s someone out there who deeply understands you. Who truly sees you.

You don’t deny it, you don’t retort to her observation. 

That's not the point right now.

~

You break the promise made to Alba.

Kind of.

It’s early in the morning, the sun has barely risen in the sky, but it’s the perfect time to arrive at the little market. It arrives every two weeks, with vibrant stalls full of everything – though you understand half the things the vendors say. The freshness of the fruit and the unique clothing finds you always manage to come home with are totally worth it.

Alexia is buying vegetables and, judging by the passion she shares with the old lady in front of her, discussing important geopolitical questions.

You enjoy the exchange, taking a moment before approaching.

She jokes about the fact you’re up before the clock even hits double digits, laughing at your retort about fighting with the elderly over groceries. 

The footballer suggests breakfast in a cosy place not far from the market, the promise of fresh bakeries enough to convince you.

It’s not a date.

But you walk side by side, bags lightly colliding sometimes, and before you know it, you’ve arrived at the café. Alexia holds the door open, pointing out her favorite pastries. She scoffs, unamused, when she realizes your questions distracted her long enough for you to pay for both your orders.

It’s not a date, obviously.

But you sit at a table in the far corner of the café for almost three hours, talking about everything and nothing. The bubble you find yourself in bursts when Ricardo calls, complaining that you’re late for lunch, despite insisting on making a reservation.

“We should do this again”, she says as she hugs you goodbye, a smile lighting her entire face.

It’s not a date, but it definitely feels like it.

You remembered the promise you made to Alba, to save your first date for her once you feel ready, just a second after realising how badly you wish to go on a real one with her sister.

~

You refuse categorically to celebrate your birthday at the boys’ restaurant.

They could make a big deal out of it, insist on paying for everything, and you couldn’t let that happen. After months of knowing them and the “Barcelona way” of celebrating loved ones, you can’t let them be in charge of this. 

Also, the bills are finally adding up. They can afford it, you can’t let them do it – at least, not emotionally speaking.

So you host a little party at your place – your place, because Ricardo says you basically own it as much as he does after the bathroom’s makeover. 

The small kitchen quickly turns into chaos the moment Paco takes charge and ropes Ricardo into helping. Pedro shows up with decorations and a banner that was most likely used for his little sister’s. Paul, however, closes the restaurant that same afternoon, brushing off your protests and reassuring you that your birthday is more important than the evening’s earnings.

You can’t find it in yourself to fight them.

The apartment fills with laughter and a vibrant energy that eases the weight pressing on your chest when overthinking takes hold. Balloons cover nearly the entire floor, raised voices and the scent of spices travel from the kitchen. 

Your friends from the hiking group arrive in waves, immediately hitting it off with some of Barcelona’s team. You’ve grown close to a few of them through your relationship with Irene’s family and the one Ingrid and Frido practically forced on you.

Some regular customers from the restaurant also show up, people you’ve grown pretty comfortable with after spending so much time there during the first weeks of taking over the accounting job.

There’s also a nice girl you met at a concert, who Elena stalks on social media to make sure she’s not a serial killer.

Alba and Alexia are the last ones to arrive.

Your life in Barcelona is full of new people, new experiences and adventures.

At your lowest point, you’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be loved out loud.

And those people are the loudest you ever met.

The noise around the apartment subsides just as most of the guests leave. The music is turned down to a minimum, because of the late hour and Pedro’s questionable taste, as he hasn’t let go of the speaker once all night.

The small group gathers around the couch, drinks in hand, still willing to celebrate with you. 

“I’m just saying, I think they taste the same”

The entire room erupts in protests at Ricardo’s comment.

“Absolutely no”, Pedro chimes in, seated on the edge of the armchair with a half-drunk beer in hand, “Black olives are made to be a pizza topping, green ones are perfect for everything else”

“What do you even know about pizza topping?”, you interrupt with a grin, “You put pineapple on yours”

Somehow, the complaints grew louder, the room buzzing with indignation.

“What’s wrong with that? Pineapple is a great pizza topic, you’re just too pretentious to admit it!”

“Can we move on from the pizza argument?”

“Oh, no, let’s get into it!”, you wave your hand dismissively, “Pedro, please, tell everyone what you put on first, cheese or sauce?”

“Fuck you”

“You work in a restaurant”, Alba says, her voice laced with disbelief. 

“I’m not the one cooking, am I?”

“Thank God!”

The conversation quickly turns on poor Pedro, who now finds himself defending his questionable taste and own belief.

Alexia, who’s been quietly sipping from her glass, looks at the scene with a raised eyebrow before turning to you, relaxed on the couch beside her, “Honestly, I never imagined pizza to be the thing that ends a friendship”

“I’m just happy we’re not talking about pineapple anymore, that’s a sin”

“You started this”, she points out, giggling. 

Ricardo shrugs from his spot on the floor, amused but staying out of it for now. 

“It’s my birthday, I can do whatever I want”

“Oh, por favor”, Alexia says with a playful roll of her eyes, nudging the paper crown still perched on your head, “This must have cut off circulation to your brain”

You gasp, your dramatic antics in full display, fueled by the time, the alcohol, and, likely, the footballer’s shoulder still brushing against yours.

“You’re just jealous you’re not the only reina in the room”

“Keep dreaming”, Alexia responds with a grin.

The proximity lingers in a way that’s not just playful. It’s comfortable, like an inside joke no one else is allowed in on.

Ricardo watches the interaction from the corner of his eye, his gaze lingering on you and the blonde for a moment longer than necessary. He notices how her cheeks redden slightly, the way you look a little different – softer, at ease.

Alba catches the moment too, still pretending to be involved in the pizza argument. She notices the quiet exchanges and private moments that have unfolded all evening. The way you and her sister have fallen into a different rhythm, a different world.

She’s seen it before.

There’s something between you two, something unspoken, but not quite hidden. She wonders how long it’s been there, how long it’s been that way.

But, like Ricardo, she keeps her thoughts to herself.

The rest of the group laughs, the debate seems to fade into a more relaxed conversation that doesn’t involve food or questionable life choices.

As the night goes on, the teasing continues, but, underneath the surface, there’s something deeper.

There’s the way you lean in a little closer to Alexia when someone says something ridiculous, how your eyes linger on her when Pedro makes a joke and you think no one is watching.

There’s the way Alexia’s knee brushes yours when you laugh, how her fingers dance on your arm simply because you’re close enough to.

There’s the exchange of gazes and smiles, quiet signs of complicity in the loud room.

~

Ricardo waits to the tune of three days before cornering you.

You mention being a bit homesick after your birthday and the Putellas sisters literally drag you to have dinner with them at their mom’s. Eli is the sweetest woman ever, going above and beyond to the point of making that one pie you mentioned once being your favourite. 

The house is filled with memories and tender gestures, a haven of support and a desire of caring for your own that squeezes your heart with a bittersweet beauty. Spending the night there makes it clear how Alexia and Alba were raised, revealing the roots of their kindness.

“You had fun?”

It’s a miracle you don’t drop dead on the floor right there, Ricardo’s voice echoing from the middle of the couch in the dark room.

“Why are you lurking like a fucking killer?”, you shout at him when your heartbeat slows down enough to let you come up with proper words.

“I was waiting for you”

You don’t even dignify him with a response, watching how he’s sipping from a mug like a scene from the shittiest b-movie you can think of.

Crossing the room to sleep the unease away, the guy’s next words make you stop right where you are, “You need to come clean with her”

“What are you talking about–”

“You like Alexia”

It’s not a question, there’s no doubt in his voice.

There’s not a single reason to even try to fight his assumption or your own overthinking.

You reach for the seat next to him on the couch, noticing the second mug just when he offers it to you. It’s a fruity tea you enjoy hot, with way too much honey and not a drop of milk – exactly like the one in your hands. 

The silence wrapping around is comforting in a way that makes sense just because it’s the two of you, sipping tea in the quiet darkness of the room.

“I do”, you admit after a while, even if you don’t need to. 

“I know”

“That obvious?”

“Yeah”, your roommate confirms with a soft smile.

He doesn’t tease, he doesn’t accuse you of anything.

It’s so typically Ricardo that you feel a surge of affection, a need to embrace him and accepting the support of someone who, in a twisted and brotherly way, looks out for you – and your heart. So you do just that, jumping into his arms without a care of your reputation or of the almost-empty mugs.

The man, despite the surprise of your reaction, is ready to hold you for how long you need.

Turns out, you need it a lot.

“Sorry, sorry”, you say after a couple of minute, trying to pull yourself together, “I didn’t see it coming”

“Me being so observant and clever or you falling in love with Alexia?”

“I’m not in love with Alexia”

“Yet”

He’s lucky the tea is not hot anymore.

“I’m not in love with Alexia”, you repeat. 

Not yet, resonates in your head – your own mind betraying you. 

Yes, Alexia is beautiful. Yes, you two apparently clicked perfectly right the moment you met. Yes, recently the time together doubled the time spent with anyone else. You can admit you like Alexia, the therapy is worth the commitment and the money put into it. 

But being in love?

It’s a good feeling, the one that makes her cheeks flush crimson when your smile catches her gazing. Even better, the one that fills you with pride when Alexia’s laugh resonates in the room because of something you say or do. 

It’s an exciting force, the one that unsettles your stomach when she reaches for you just for the sake of touching – of feeling you close. Even better, the one that makes you two sure of finding the other in a room full of people just when needed. 

It’s so terrifying close to love, what it’s blossoming.

You want to fall in love with Alexia.

Ricardo raises from the couch, taking the mugs and putting them on the sink to be dealt with tomorrow. An annoying habit you’re sure he keeps up with just to annoy you.

He returns a minute later, “Are you going to do something about it?”

You don’t miss a bit, “Yes”

“Let Alba know first”, he says with a serious note in his voice, “She liked you”

~

The stadium buzzes with the loud roaring of fans and the sharp, clean scent of freshly cut grass under the rain. Barcelona dominates the pitch, their control of the midfield a suffocating grip as the opponents scramble, desperate for a counterattack. 

Between miscalculated slides and short passes, Alexia weaves through defenders in a blur of motion and focused energy. She’s calm when the ball is glued on her feet, sparkling to light, her presence igniting the pitch, as soon as her teammates take over. 

Patri finds her captain just outside the box and you lean forward, smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

You may be new to the whole thing, new in the Blaugrana’s home stands, but you learn quickly and you know exactly what Alexia’s movement means. 

The shot curves perfectly, the stadium exhales a collective gasp as the goalkeeper’s fingertips fail to reach it. The ball hits the bar loudly, the sound echoing before it flies out of the pitch.

Beside you, Alba lets out a whoop, clapping her hands with a grin stretching across her face, “She’s out for blood”

You laugh, not like anyone could disagree.

Barça is winning by three goals, outrunning the defence and shooting as if they need to score at least three more to sleep peacefully tonight. 

The poor goalkeeper will have nightmares for sure.

“She really want to take home that ball”

“She’s playing to impress”, Alba points out, not so subtly.

You chuckle, her remark flying over your head, “She’s just– good, I guess”

“Good? ¡Por favor!”, the younger Putellas scoffs, rolling her eyes, “She’s acting like a ballet dancer out there, doing pirouettes and running around like she has two sets of lungs”

As to prove her sister’s point, Alexia nutmegs another midfielder and executes another perfect movement, clearing the field for Aitana to set up Vicky for a chip goal.

The crowd erupts, but Alba’s attention remains fixed on you.

“¡Mirala!”, she says, pointing at the pitch where the team is hugging and celebrating, “That was another ‘look at me, soy la Reina’ moment!” 

“Your sister is the most competitive person I’ve ever met”

“Competitive? Chica, she’s showing off! And don’t even get me started on the way she keeps looking up here, fixing her hair between plays– It’s ridiculous”

You watch as Barcelona’s bubble dissipates and they get back at their positions, Alexia waves towards your seats, her face illuminated by a radiant grin.

Your cheeks flush slightly, a mixture of amusement and something else.

The game keeps on with the same level of excitement, and even more shots on target. They win narrowly, unconcerned by their soaked clothes, lingering happily in the rain to sign autographs and chat with supporters.

Alexia immediately seeks out you and Alba, trying to embrace you both despite your not-so-playful protests. The damp material of her kit clings, accentuating her defined muscles, and your thoughts stray to less innocent territories.

Alba sends her sister to the changing room, accepting the kiss landed on her forehead and watching as you nod like an idiot when she leaves with the promise to be back in no time, her hand lingering on your arm.

“¡Ay, esto es increíble!”, she interrupts your thought flow, tilting her umbrella just enough for a stream of rain to drop on your face. 

“Alba!”

“You’re not exactly subtle either, ¿sabes?”

The stadium noises fade into a distant hum. The air between you thickens, the playful banter morphing into something more charged and intentional. Your fingers fidget with the edge of your jacket, avoiding the younger woman’s gaze.

“How long have you known?”, you ask.

“The moment I introduced the two of you, idiota!”, she says, her voice teasing, “But I knew for sure at your birthday’s party”

“Nothing happened between us”

Alba’s smile softens, a gentle understanding dawning in her eyes, “I’m not blind and I know my sister pretty well. And honestly? I think it’s cute, you two glow when you’re together. She likes you. A lot. And you like her too"

Your shoulders relax, “I do. I really like her, Alba”

The wave of relief that washes over you is comforting.

You don’t owe her anything, and Alba definitely doesn’t owe you anything. But it’s good to know this love growing between you and Alexia is real, people around you see it too. People you care about support it.

Your smile spreads naturally on your face when you spot Barcelona’s captain approaching, hair still wet but changed in warm clothes.

Alba doesn’t miss it, nudging you with her elbow just before her sister’s close enough to hear, “It’s good you feel ready to date again, and I’m happy it’s her”

~

“I’m going to say it just once, so listen carefully”, you stop in the middle of the road with a stoic face, “Please, don’t make me regret our entire friendship”

The grin on Elena’s lips tells you everything you need to know, but you give her the benefit of the doubt. Because she’s your best friend, because she knows how to behave.

But she’s your best friend, and she’s not going to behave.

Her visit is not unpleasant, just unexpected.

It’s barely six in the morning when loud bangs on the front door wake you up and almost scare Ricardo to death. He takes it well enough, greeting Elena and going back to sleep the shock away. You, on the other hand, think of leaving her waiting outside until it’s socially acceptable to show up. Her immediate embrace is a clever attempt to smooth your annoyance.

She booked a red-eye flight for a hit and run, so you take her around Barcelona all day and agree to a late night out in a club Alba suggested you join with some of her friends.

“Relax”, she says, skipping steps like a kid as you approach the place.

“Elena, I’m serious”

“Why are you so stressed? Oh– oh, I know!”

She turns around in her heels, too graciously for someone with shoes so high and such low alcohol tolerance – you two may not be in your early 20s anymore, but you figured pregame was necessary this time around.

Her good resolution of not drinking alcohol crumbled as soundly as it started.

“Is she here too?”

“I don’t know what–”

“This mysterious woman you can’t shut up about, who is so great you have heart-shaped eyes but I can’t know her name”, she interrupts, grabbing you by the shoulder as you approach the club’s entrance. 

It’s not like you’re hiding Alexia, or your feelings for her.

She’s a frequent topic of conversation with your best friend, you’re comfortable sharing the moments between the two of you and the way your heart beats at a completely different rhythm around the Barcelona’s captain.

But Elena can be protective, and curious.

All she needs is a name, and she’s going to find out if Alexia has ever got a bad grade in primary school. The teasing for liking a football player? You aren’t ready for that either.

“Yes, she’s here and I need you to–”

“This is the best day of my life!”, she doesn’t even let you finish, leaves you right there, flashing the bodyguard at the entrance a huge smile and sweet talking her way in – even though they have your names as vip guests.

“This is going to be the worst day of mine”, you mutter to yourself, following after her.

The energy in the club is charged with a dangerous combination of freewill and alcohol. The place is packed and colored lights go on and off with the music, bright enough to see who’s in front of you, but not enough to make your decision clear. Not tonight.

Alba sees you first, waving her hand to catch your attention so you join them in a secluded table in a corner of the place.

You don’t even ask how Elena is already seated in the cool leather booth, talking animatedly.

“She’s funny”, Alba comments after greeting you with a hug.

“Don’t believe a word she says”

The younger girl’s laugh mixes with your best friend’s, and you know your fate is sealed when a guy hands her a drink. 

You look around the table, noticing some people from Alba’s close circle and some you met in passing at the restaurant or at a Barcelona’s game.

“She’s in the bathroom”

Your body betrays you before a coherent thought can leave your brain, your cheeks redding to the tips of your ears. 

“Told you, you’re not subtle”, Alba comments, too amused at your reaction.

As if she knows you’re talking about her, as if a magnetic energy forces your body to get closer and closer, Alexia’s gaze locks with yours as she approaches the table, followed by a vaguely familiar face.

She greets you with a dimpled smile and a welcoming hug, it may look like months passed but it’s been a matter of days. The black top she’s wearing emphasizes her toned stomach, and your fingers itch to trace the subtle sheen of sweat crossing her back – a sign she’s been dancing for a while now. 

You’re fashionably late, regardless of the time Alba suggested you to be here. Spanish people are stragglers, you have learned it at your own expense.

“Are you ready?”, the footballer asks.

“For what?”

“You owe me a dance”

“Absolutely not!”, you protest, trying to escape her hug.

“Oh, yes”, she smile, her arm around your waist dragging you even closer, “You made fun of my dancing moves, now you have to prove yours”

Next time, you will think twice before sending the blonde every single comment you found online about a TikTok video one of her teammates posted after a huge win. In your defence, you find it very cute.

The dance floor is filled with people, dancing in fluid movements like you learned Spaniard are comfortable with. A sea of arms fling around, bodies smoothly moving to feel each other. The music vibrates with a bass so deep that your ribs pulses at the same rhythm.

Alexia guides you in a less crowded section, far enough from the table so Alba and Elena can study every single movement, but out of earshot. 

You try to ignore the thought of your best friend gossiping with Alba.

Thinking, however, is the last thing you do when Alexia’s hand finds the small of your back, skin waking up by the slight hint of touch.

It doesn’t really matter how you managed to get this close, how the music runs through your bodies with an unmistakable energy and desire to get even closer. Your arms rise to frame the blonde’s face, her grin growing as soon as she notices your reaction.

It’s not like either of you is hiding the attraction, the pulsing needs to be together. To talk, to touch, to be around one another. It’s always been there, you just never acted on it.

“Are they like that all the time?”, Elena asks, still studying the way you seem to speak a different language with Alexia.

“I’m thinking about locking them somewhere until they kiss or whatever”

The disbelief is clear in Elena’s voice, “Are you sure they haven’t kissed yet?”

“If I know my sister, she must be really fucking scared”

“If I know my best friend, she must be really fucking stupid”

The two nod before bursting in a loud laugh, clicking their glasses. 

Almost an half an hour later, you find them like that, giggling and talking as if they have known each other for years and not just met. Alexia raises an eyebrow, silently questioning if she needs to hold back Alba’s enthusiasm – Elena is matching it without a problem, and that’s what really worries you. 

“And that’s how she ended up with the sister of her blind date”

“That’s not how it happened, at all”, you complain, hitting your best friend’s arm as she decide telling the worst stories possible is the best way to spend the night.

“Must have been a great date”, someone jokes.

“I’m a fantastic date, thank you so much”

“I can confirm”, Alba says with a teasing grin, raising her empty glass as you flip her off with an equally open smile on your lips.

Alexia, on the other hand, straightens up a bit at the exchange, switches her gaze between the two of you, almost taken aback, “You two dated?”

“I told you”, the younger girl retorts.

“I thought you were messing with me”

The change in her posture is subtle, but you’re close enough to feel it. Close enough to notice the way she moves her knee, breaking contact with yours, her fingers toying with the ring on her pinky.

Alba is a bit too drunk to pay attention to the footballer’s dampened mood, not affected anymore by that one date with you so long ago.

She told her sister about it when she first clocked in her interest for you, hoping to clear the way for her to do something about it – a sort of blessing.

Turns out, Alexia’s so sure she was teasing her, lying about it just to annoy her.

Thankfully, your best friend reads in your face the panic and drifts the conversation on a completely different topic. 

The rest of the night passes in a blur of laughs, questionable drinking choices, and more dancing. 

Every single attempt of catching Alexia’s eyes fails miserably. She’s not ignoring you, she doesn’t leave her seat next to you, and her touch is light but grounding. Your mind, however, spirals in a way it hasn’t in months.

It’s late when the group decides to call it a day, stumbling out into the cool, damp air of Barcelona. No one is sober enough to even think of driving, the decision to summon taxis rather than risk the roads is unanimous. 

A strange intimacy settled inside the car. You and Alexia sit in the back, while Alba, in the middle, sleeps on the older woman’s shoulder with soft snores. Elena is deep in conversation with the Catalan driver, despite not speaking a word of the language. The city lights flash outside, blurred by a light drizzle that you trace with a finger against the window.

Upon reaching Alexia’s apartment, you insist on helping her carry her sister inside, ignoring her half-hearted protests. Your best friend, armed with a winning smile and a ‘thank me later’ attitude, somehow manages to convince the driver to wait for you outside.

The place is quiet when you enter, amplifying the tension that crackled between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s never uncomfortable.

You and Alexia carefully settle Alba onto the bed, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting long shadows across the guest room. Each gentle adjustment of her sister’s blanket, each soft whisper to ensure her comfort, stretched out the delicate balance. 

It’s minutes later, right by the front door, that something snaps.

Before you can reach the handle on the way out, the footballer’s fingers wrap around your wrist.

There’s urgency in the way her body feels stirred by an electric discharge all of a sudden, her voice low, “You dated?”

“What?”, your confusion is mostly prompted by Alexia’s distressed tone.

“You dated my sister?”

“No, we– I mean, we went out like one time and I was, clearly, still fucked up by my ex– It’s not like we actually dated or something”

“She said–”

“She was joking”, your hands cupping the blonde’s face seems to do wonder at calming her, but you still feel the need to clarify the situation, “I kissed her, once, then found a good therapist and said to her I wasn’t interested like that”

“Are you interested like that?”

“Alexia, I just said–”

“No, no”, she interrupts shyly, never dropping her gaze, “Are you interested in me like that?”

Despite the voices still filling doubts in your head, kissing her is the easiest, most natural thing to do at that moment. 

Her lips are soft, warm, and taste faintly of sweet drinks. Her breath mingled with yours, a shared rhythm in the quiet intimacy of the kiss.

A current of interest, desire, and care pulls you closer. There’s complicity and belonging, mingling with curiosity, and the thrill of uncharted territory.

And there’s Alexia, right in front of you, vulnerable and exposed and trusting enough to lay her emotions in your hands. Making you feel so safe that you don’t even have to think about doing the same.

So you kiss again, trying to convey how sure you are about your feelings. Because the insecurities and the questioning silence when Alexia’s heartbeat syncs with yours and her hand caresses your face.

The sharp honk coming from the taxi outside is the only reason why you separate.

~

The late afternoon sun drapes over the Barcelona streets as you and Alexia stroll, fingers laced together. 

It’s a familiar feeling now, holding hands after a date.

You have explored hidden hikes, shared tapas after her games, and even attended a couple of flamenco lessons. Nothing too different from what you’ve already experienced. 

Except, of course, for the kissing.

And there’s been a lot of that.

Your phone buzzes, interrupting Alexia’s recall of Vicky’s last attempt of convincing her to do another stupid trend. You drop her hand, your fingers flying across the screen, muttering in concentration.

The footballer raises an eyebrow, complaining playfully, “Am I annoying you?”

“It’s this stupid bird!”

“Still fighting with ser y estar?”

“I’m sorry, my Spanish teacher is a tease and gets distracted five minutes after promising to help me study”

“She sounds like an incredible teacher”, she counters, too pleased with herself as she hints at your last private tutoring.

Despite your best effort, the other woman had other plans. The sentences she whispered right at your ear, with a raspy voice and a note of teasing in every single movement of her lips, made your resolution crumble in a matter of minutes. The books, not even opened, fell off the bed with a kick of her foot.

You do, however, learn some new words.

Your cheeks flush at the memory, “Shut up!”

“I said nothing”

You ignore her grin, still welcoming her embrace as she pulls you closer to help with the lesson.

“This app is useless! Why do those Spanish animals always do weird things? It’s making me questioning my entire existence”

“Tan dramática”, Alexia snorts, nudging you with her hip, “Why are you even using that thing? You can learn everything you need from me”

“I’m trying to actually learn something here”, you retort, faking annoyance, “Besides, you’re not always available for Spanish lessons. I want to get better, impress the locals”

“After more than a year?”

“Never too late”, you grin, “Just wait, I’ll be ordering in flawless Catalan in less time than it took you to ask me out”

Alexia stops in her tracks at your teasing, taken aback by your admission and by way of calling her out for the stalling after the first kiss you shared. She may have needed a little push then, trying to find the best moment to ask you for a real date to just blur it out in the rush of a late game night you attended.

You continue walking, too focused on the lesson to acknowledge the blonde’s momentary pause.

“Wait, I thought you were taking Spanish lessons”

“Yes, from you and the stupid bird, but I have an actually tutor for Catalan”

“You’re learning Catalan?”

“I live in Barcelona”, you say, matter of factly, but the flush creeping up on your cheeks betrays you.

The truth hangs in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken. It isn’t about fitting in, not anymore. It’s about her.

To understand her better, wrapping deeply into the fabric of her world. It’s commitment, to the city and to a future that you can’t picture without her in. It’s a promise, somehow, to bridge any gap and to learn her culture, her soul. 

Alexia’s gaze lingers, the weight of your growing feelings both exhilarating and inevitable.

She told herself she set a pace comfortable for you, respecting your need to get better with loving yourself and trusting others.

But you’ve been ready for this love for quite some time now.

The way you open up with her, hold her after a long day, and gently kiss the creases around her lips when she smiles. The way you not just proudly wear your heart on your sleeve, but you hand out your emotions to be seen. The way you make her feel safe enough to be vulnerable, to be taken care of. 

The way you’re learning to love her by learning to love everything that makes her who she is.

A nervous flutter, like trapped butterflies, stirred in your stomach as Alexia catches up to you. You could feel the energy radiating from her, the subtle scent of her perfume, a mix of wood and something undeniably her.

“Estic enamorada de tu”, she confesses, cheeks slightly tinted but her voice so firm, so sure. 

“I know what that means”

A smile, genuine and carefree, grows on both your lips. You study her face for a moment, finding nothing but pure care and a force that feels like arms keeping you safe and warm.

Nothing but love. 

The way you kiss her is almost too intense for a late afternoon in the streets of Barcelona, but barely enough to convey all the emotions that you discovered and learned to welcome in your life again. 

You may not be ready to say out loud you’re falling in love with her too, not yet. But the firmness of your hands on her face, the happiness lightning in your eyes, the resolution conveyed by your kiss.

She knows.

~

On the day you declare the restaurant officially debt free, Paco lifts you up off the ground, spins you around with ease and plants a loud kiss on your forehead.

Paul’s reaction is a bit tamed, even if he declares he’s going to name his firstborn after you. Still single and hopeless romantic, you’re not sure how much to read into his words.

Pedro cries, of course he does, but he also hugs you in a way that conveys almost too much not to shed a few tears yourself.

It’s not difficult for you to admit you own them more than they own you. 

Taking care of the restaurant’s ledger and the guys’ enthusiastic opinion about your accounting job opened a lot of small businesses’ doors. The idea of opening your own office never even crosses your mind, not planning on entangling yourself in a structured system anytime soon. The new apartment you rent has a small room that works just fine as a study.

You will still keep an eye on them, though, not sure enough your finance lessons really drilled in their heads. 

“So, you’re finally letting us treat you with dinner?”, Paul asks, serving you up with way too many pleasantries. 

“I already have someone who pays for me”, you retort, playful smirk on your lips.

“¡Ay, I thought you were taking me out tonight!”, Alexia complains next to you, keeping up with the joke as she pretends to not be interested in the food anymore. She can be such a dork.

“Wait, am I crushing a date?”, Alba intercepts from the other side of the table.

“You’ve been crushing our dates since the day we met!”

The laughs that erupt are loud enough to catch the attention of the other patrons, thankfully not really annoyed by the chaos. The truth is that, despite being a menace of a group, it is not like you can drag your friends in any other place without the risk of getting banned forever. 

It’s a familiar scene. The restaurant feels like a second home now, one that you built on your own around people that truly see you, support you and never miss a chance to tease you.

So you shake your head at Ricardo’s antics and glare at Alexia when she keeps teasing her sister, effortlessly distracting her with light movements of your fingers on her knee. 

The conversation flows between shared memories and inside jokes, carrying the night away until your table is the only one left. Not planning on leaving the place anytime soon. And as you sit there, surrounded by your friends, questionable recalling of stories, and the magnetic pull of Alexia’s presence, you just know that this is it. 

This is your life, your love, your chosen family.

Then Pedro has to ruin the moment, persuading everyone you have to make a toast for whatever reason. You try to fight it, embarrassed and quite frankly taken aback by the respect and genuine admiration this people seems to feel for you. 

A subtle nod of your girlfriend’s head, her hand finding yours beneath the table, is all you need to indulge with their antics.

“To us”, you say, raising a glass, “To finally getting our shit together!”

Laughter and cheers fill the restaurant, everyone congratulating each other for the most random things and joking around as if life could always be this simple.

Alexia’s hold tightens, her eyes meeting yours. Her face lights up in a way that never fails to make your own heart grow. 

“T’estimo”, you whisper, just for her to hear. 

Your love is usually so loud. A love that grows unexpectedly, but burns with a fierce and tender flame. But your promises are quiet. A silent acknowledgment of commitment that goes beyond, that stretches confidently into the future. 

Together.

[stargazsblog]

what happens in vegas | ch.1 vegas?

satoru gojo x fem!reader

౨ৎ after a messy breakup, you go to vegas with your best friend, shoko, to forget about everything. a night of partying and drinking, you wake up in a hotel room with a stranger in your bed and a ring on your finger, with zero idea what happened. that stranger? satoru gojo-some guy you barely know. turns out, you two might've gotten married. now you've got to figure out what to do with this mess.

౨ৎ warning/tags: fluff, romance, jealousy, no smut (im sorry), sexual references, some angst, use of alcohol, inspired by what happens in vegas.

note: i’m loving this already…

masterlist

“You know what, Shoko?” you slurred, swirling the liquid in your glass before taking another sip. “He doesn’t even deserve me.”

A few hours ago, you walked in on Sukuna with another girl in your bed. Now, you’re at a bar with your best friend, Shoko, trying to drown the memory.

Shoko sat across from you, arms folded on the sticky bar table. Her eyes narrowed. “Damn right he doesn’t.” She reached for her drink, taking a long swig before slamming the glass down. “You should’ve punch him when you saw him. Or — oh! You know what we should do? We should egg his house.” Her face lit up with the idea, leaning closer. “Or maybe… we can beat the living shit out of him.”

You blinked at her, a little stunned. “Shoko…”

“What?” She shrugged, taking another drink. “He deserves it.”

You laughed dryly, shaking your head. “It’s not worth it.” Your fingers traced the rim of your glass, eyes dropping to the table. “I just… I really thought I was going to marry him, you know?” The words came out softer, almost like a confession.

Shoko’s face softened. She reached over, resting her hand over yours. “I know.”

You sighed, taking another sip, the burn sliding down your throat. “How did I not see it? I walked into my own room and there he was… with her. On my bed.” You squeezed your eyes shut, the image flashing behind your eyelids. “God, I’m so stupid.”

“Hey.” Shoko squeezed your hand. “You’re not stupid. He’s just an asshole.”

You let out a shaky breath, leaning back in your seat. The music pounded through the speakers, but all you could feel was the ache in your chest. “Yeah,” you whispered. “An asshole.”

“You know what? Where can you go to forget all your troubles and make bad decisions?” Shoko asked, swirling her drink.

“Don’t say Vegas.” You rolled your eyes. She’d been begging you to go for the past month, but Sukuna said you couldn’t go. He was strict, always keeping you on a leash, making sure you never had too much fun.

“Vegas,” Shoko repeated, grinning.

You sighed, biting your lip. “I don’t know… what if I just end up thinking about him the whole time?”

“That’s what the drinks are for.” She took a sip and set her glass back down with a soft clink.

Shoko leaned in, eyes softening. “Babe, I know you’re going through a hard time right now. That’s why we’re going to Vegas. It’ll be a distraction. It’ll be fun. Besides, you deserve a break. Three years with Sukuna? that sounds like living hell.”

You hesitated. She wasn’t wrong. You were always asking permission, feeling more like a prisoner than a girlfriend. Maybe this was exactly what you needed.

“Okay,” you mumbled, nodding slowly. “Okay, fine. But I’m not trying to do anything stupid.”

Shoko smirked. “It’s Vegas, babe. We’ll deal with the consequences when we get back.”

You exhaled, feeling the tiniest flicker of relief. Maybe this was a good idea. Maybe, for once, you deserved to let go.

The moment you stepped out of the cab and onto the Strip, your mouth practically fell open. The lights were brighter than you imagined, stretching high into the sky, flashing and glowing in every color. The streets were alive, packed with people laughing, drinking, and stumbling from one casino to the next. Music thumped from somewhere nearby, and the air smelled like heat, excitement, and a little bit of regret.

“Wow…” you whispered, turning in a slow circle to take it all in. “Why haven’t I come here sooner?”

“Gee, I don’t know,” Shoko said dryly, dragging her suitcase behind her. “Maybe because you were too far up Sukuna’s ass to do anything fun.”

You shot her a glare. “Real nice.”

“Just saying.” She shrugged, smirking. “If you hadn’t spent the last three years playing house with Mr. ‘You Can’t Breathe Without Me Watching,’ we could’ve been making bad decisions here ages ago.”

You sighed, but a small smile crept onto your face. She wasn’t wrong. For the first time in a long time, you felt… free.

“Come on,” Shoko said, linking her arm with yours. “Let’s check in, get dressed, and let’s have fun.”

The hotel lobby was super busy. People were everywhere — talking, laughing, and dragging their suitcases across the shiny marble floor. The ceiling was really high, and there were these giant chandeliers that sparkled. You followed Shoko to the check-in desk, trying to take it all in.

Shoko tapped the little bell on the counter, sighing loudly. “Ugh, finally. My feet are killing me.”

While she dealt with the receptionist, you looked around. There was a bar in the corner, and you could hear the sound of slot machines somewhere in the background. Then, you noticed a group of guys standing near the lounge.

They stood out.

One of them had long black hair, leaning against a pillar with his arms crossed, looking bored. Another guy, taller and super muscular, had a scar on his lip and was sipping a drink while watching people walk by. But the one in the middle… he caught your attention.

He had white hair — like, really white — and the brightest blue eyes you’d ever seen. They almost glowed under the lights. He was tall and lean, dressed pretty casually, but something about him made it hard to look away. He laughed at something one of his friends said.

Then, as if he could feel you staring, he turned his head.

His blue eyes locked onto yours, sharp and curious. For a second, it felt like time slowed down. The noise of the lobby faded, and all you could hear was the pounding of your heart in your ears. He tilted his head slightly, a small smirk curling at the corner of his lips.

You blinked, heat rushing to your cheeks, and quickly looked away. What the heck was that?

“Come on.” Shoko grabbed your wrist, pulling you toward the elevator. “Room first, drinks second.”

You risked one last glance as the elevator doors slid shut. The white-haired guy was still watching you, his smirk growing before he turned back to his friends.

As the elevator went up, you leaned against the wall, heart racing. It was probably nothing. Just some random guy.

But for some reason, you had a weird feeling you’d be seeing him again.

The elevator doors slid open, and you followed Shoko down a long, carpeted hallway. The walls had fancy gold trim, and the lights were soft and warm. When you reached your room, Shoko swiped the key card, pushing the door open dramatically.

“Ta-da!” she announced, stepping inside.

You dragged your suitcase in and looked around. The room was huge — two big beds with fluffy white blankets, a flat-screen TV, and a massive window that showed off the bright lights of the city. You wandered over, pressing your hands against the glass, staring down at the endless crowd of people and glowing signs.

Shoko flopped onto one of the beds, stretching out like a starfish. “Do you have any idea how much money I spent on this?” she asked, grinning over at you.

You turned and gave her a look. “Shoko, how much?”

Shoko had been kind enough to pay for the trip. Of course, you offered to split the cost, but she insisted—something about ‘wanting to be reckless with her money for once.’

She just shrugged casually. “Does it really matter? What matters is that you’re having fun today. We’re in Vegas, and we’re going to make sure you forget all about that idiot Sukuna.” She paused, then her eyes lit up. “And maybe we can find a sexy man for you tonight.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really? Vegas men? You do realize those guys don’t want to commit, right?”

Shoko waved her hand dismissively, sitting up on the bed. “Please, babe. It’s Vegas. They’re here for fun, and so are we. Who cares if it’s not forever? You just need someone to take your mind off things.”

You sighed but couldn’t help the small smile creeping onto your face. “I guess you’re right.”

Shoko grabbed a bottle of water from the mini-fridge, cracking it open and offering it to you. “Exactly. Now, drink up, get dressed, and let’s hit the club. We’ve got a whole night of bad decisions ahead.”

You opened your suitcase, only to find a bunch of skimpy outfits neatly folded inside. You frowned, realizing with a sinking feeling that none of this was your doing. It was all Shoko’s idea of “fun.”

“What the hell, Shoko?” you muttered under your breath, pulling out a tight red dress with way too many straps.

As Shoko rummaged through her own things, oblivious to your mild panic, you started thinking. You hadn’t been out in so long. You were 23, still so young, but somehow, it felt like you missed out on so much. The last three years had been consumed by your relationship with Sukuna.

You and Shoko used to have so much fun back in high school — sneaking into parties, drinking. But ever since you met Sukuna, everything changed. He hated you going out, hated you having fun without him. He was too controlling, convinced you couldn’t be trusted to do anything on your own. You tried to argue, tried to explain that you were independent, but he always found a way to make you feel guilty.

You looked over at Shoko, who was already slipping into something that probably cost way too much, and realized how lucky you were to have her by your side. She’s the one who is helping you forget about him, even if just for a night. She always had your back, even when Sukuna tried to convince you that no one else could ever understand you like he did.

“Ready to party?” Shoko called over her shoulder, catching your eye as she twirled around.

You smiled, feeling a weight lift off your chest. “Yeah, let’s do this.”

You and Shoko finally arrived at the club, the music growing louder the closer you got to the entrance. The neon lights flashing from the outside made everything feel electric. You couldn’t help but feel a rush of excitement as the bouncer waved you both in, barely even checking your IDs.

Once inside, the place was packed with people moving to the beat, colorful lights flashing from every corner of the club. The bass thumped deep in your chest, vibrating through your body. It felt like a whole new world compared to the quiet, controlled life you’d been living with Sukuna.

Shoko immediately pulled you toward the bar, practically dragging you through the crowd of people. The bartender, a guy with slicked-back hair and a black apron, gave you a smile as you both hopped onto the bar stools.

“What are we drinking tonight?” he asked, his voice barely audible over the music.

Shoko smiled and leaned in a little too close to the bar. “Two of whatever’s strongest.”

The bartender nodded and quickly got to work, mixing the drinks with practiced ease. As he slid them over to you, you took a sip of the strong cocktail, the burn warming your throat. You cringed at the taste, but it was a good kind of burn. The alcohol hit you almost immediately.

Shoko was talking to the bartender, but your attention drifted. You glanced around, trying to get used to the neon lights and the crowd, and then you spotted him across the bar.

It was him. The guy from the hotel lobby.

For a second, you totally forgot how to breathe. He was leaning against the wall, somehow looking like a model without even trying. His white button-up was unbuttoned at the top, showing just enough of his chest to make your face heat up. The sleeves were rolled up, showing off his forearms, and he wore this silver chain that somehow made him look even hotter. His dark jeans fit really well, and the way he stood, all relaxed and confident, made it hard not to stare. Then his eyes met yours, and it felt like the whole room faded for a moment. He held your gaze a little too long before looking away, and you had to remind yourself to blink.

You turned your head, feeling a flush creep up your neck.

Shoko, always noticing everything, leaned over to look at where you’d been staring. Her eyes lit up when she saw him.

“Oh, he’s cute,” she said, her voice almost teasing.

You couldn’t help but bite your lip. “Stop,” you said, trying to brush it off.

Shoko wasn’t having it. “What? He is cute. And I don’t know, he looks like he’s into you.”

You glanced over at him again, but this time, your eyes locked. You quickly looked away, your heart racing just a little faster.

Shoko raised an eyebrow, amused. “He’s totally checking you out.”

You shook your head, but the grin on Shoko’s face told you she wasn’t going to let it go.

“Don’t freak out, but I think he’s coming over here,” Shoko said, her eyes glued to the guy across the room.

You whipped your head around to look at her, your eyes wide. “What do you mean he’s coming over here?!”

Shoko leaned forward slightly, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “I mean he’s literally walking with his two legs over here. Wait, hold up, a girl just stopped him.” She paused, watching the scene unfold across the bar.

You stared at her, confused. “What? What’s happening?”

Shoko squinted, still watching him. “Oh, wait, never mind. He’s coming back, and—oh no, his friends are following him too.”

Your brows furrowed, trying to make sense of the situation. “What are you even talking about?”

Shoko, now looking entirely too pleased with herself, glanced over at you. “Relax. He’s coming over. Just… breathe.”

You shook your head, panic rising. “Shoko, what do I do? Oh my god, I think I’m gonna throw up.” You took another gulp of your drink, chugging it down in a desperate attempt to calm your nerves. You’d never done anything like this before. Your whole life had been spent with Sukuna, and you hadn’t exactly gotten a lot of practice with normal, everyday interactions.

Shoko gave you a playful shove. “You’re gonna be fine. Just be cool. He’s just a guy, right? Don’t overthink it.”

Before you could even reply to Shoko, you heard a deep voice from behind you.

“Hello.”

You froze, your eyes wide as you looked at Shoko, who was staring at you with a teasing grin, then at the guy behind you. You slowly turned around, and there he was — the same man from the hotel lobby. He stood taller than you expected, towering over you as you sat at the bar.

You gulped, trying to compose yourself. He was even more hotter up close. His features were sharp, and those intense blue eyes seemed to lock onto yours, scanning you from head to toe. You felt a flutter in your chest as he smirked, his gaze lingering just a little too long.

“Well, you look even better up close,” he said, his voice smooth and teasing. His grin was playful, but there was a sharp edge to it. “I’m starting to think I’m the lucky one tonight.”

Behind him, you noticed his friends were watching, clearly enjoying the scene unfolding before them.

You were completely caught off guard. Was this really happening? This wasn’t how your night was supposed to go. You opened your mouth to say something, but no words came out at first.

Shoko, always ready to tease you, couldn’t help but smirk. “Oh, you two already know each other, huh?”

He chuckled, glancing over at Shoko with a sly look. “Not yet, but I’m sure we’ll become great friends.” His eyes flicked back to you. “Right, sweetheart?”

You felt your heart race, but you rolled your eyes to play it cool, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing how flustered you were. “Really? Is this how you greet every girl you meet?”

His smirk widened, and he leaned a little closer, his breath warm against your ear as he spoke. “Only the ones I think are worth my time. And right now, you’re definitely making the list.” He gave you a wink, causing a mix of excitement and discomfort to swirl in your stomach.

You sat there, trying to play it cool despite the way his intense gaze made your heart beat faster. Before you could say anything else, he spoke up again.

“Let me buy you a drink,” he said, his tone more casual, like it was the easiest thing in the world to offer.

You shook your head lightly, glancing over at Shoko, who raised an eyebrow and shot you a knowing side-eye. “No thank you,” you said, trying to sound firm. “We were actually just leaving.”

His eyes sparkled with amusement as he took a step closer, his body language relaxed, almost too confident. “Really?” he asked, his voice teasing. “Seems like you two just got here.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but before you could get a word out, he interrupted you. “Just one drink. I promise you, it’ll be worth your time.”

Shoko, still sitting beside you, seemed entertained by the back-and-forth. She glanced at you, her expression clearly saying you’re not gonna turn him down, are you?

You bit your lip, feeling torn. You weren’t exactly in the mood to indulge in this whole situation, but something about his persistent grin made you hesitate.

“Fine,” you said, trying to hide the smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “One drink. But that’s it.”

He grin stretched wider, clearly pleased by your decision. “That’s all I need,” he said.

The last thing you remembered was you and the white-haired man talking. But somehow, one drink turned into five, stumbling back to his hotel room, tearing each other’s clothes off., and now… now you were sitting up in an unfamiliar hotel room, the sunlight streaming in through the blinds, your naked body wrapped in the blankets.

Your head pounded, your mouth felt like a desert, and there was something strange on your left hand.

Blinking, you stared at the shiny ring on your finger. It was real, wasn’t it?

“Wait…” you muttered, trying to recall anything about the night. “What the hell happened?”

You turned, half expecting to see your friend Shoko beside you, but instead, you saw the tall, white-haired stranger sprawled across the bed.

His piercing blue eyes stared right at you, head propped up on one arm as he gave you a lazy grin.

“Good morning, wifey,” he drawled.

You both stared at each other in silence.

Then you screamed. Loudly.

“Ah, geez, tone it down, will you?” he groaned, covering his ears as you scrambled to grab the sheets, wrapping them tightly around your body. You practically fell out of bed, heart racing a mile a minute.

“What… oh my god.” Your eyes darted around the room in panic, then back to him. Your gaze dropped to his bare chest, the blanket barely covering half his naked body. That’s when you saw his hand — and the ring on his finger.

“Did we…?” you whispered, voice trembling.

“Did we what?” he teased, wiggling his fingers at you. “Get married? Looks like we did, sweetheart.”

You froze, staring at him in disbelief. “No. No, no, no, no. There’s no way.” Your heart pounded in your chest as you tried to piece together the foggy memories of last night. “I mean, I don’t even know your name! What is your name?!”

He smirked. “Wow, I’m hurt. You were screaming it last night.” He sat up, running a hand through his messy white hair. “It’s Satoru Gojo.”

Your head spun. “Oh my god, this isn’t happening.” You buried your face in your hands. “This was supposed to be a fun trip, and now… now I’m married to a complete stranger!”

Satoru chuckled, clearly amused by your meltdown. “Well, technically, I’m not a stranger anymore.” He leaned back against the headboard, watching you with that infuriating grin. “If it makes you feel better, I’m pretty sure it was your idea.”

“My idea?!” You glared at him, eyes wide with disbelief. “There is no way I’d agree to something like this!”

“Well,” he shrugged, “you seemed pretty into it last night. Even called me ‘hubby’ a couple of times.”

You groaned, sinking to the floor as the weight of the situation hit you like a train. What had you done? You tugged the sheets tighter around you, gripping the fabric like it was the only thing holding you together.

“No. No way.” You squeezed your eyes shut, hoping that when you opened them, this would all be some ridiculous nightmare.

But when you opened your eyes, Satoru was still there, lounging in bed without a care in the world. His blue eyes sparkled with amusement as he watched you unravel. You ran a hand down your face, glancing around the room. Clothes were scattered across the floor, empty bottles on the nightstand, and the faint smell of alcohol still lingered in the air. The hotel room was definitely nicer than you expected — sleek furniture, massive bed, and a window view that overlooked the bright Las Vegas strip.

“You okay down there?” he asked, voice dripping with fake concern. “You look a little pale. Maybe you should lie down. Or better yet, we could cuddle. You know… husband and wife bonding time.”

You shot him a glare. “Don’t. Even. Start.”

He raised his hands in surrender, though the smirk never left his face. “Hey, just trying to be supportive.”

You ignored him, your heart racing as you stared at the ring on your finger. You tugged at it, twisting and pulling, but it wouldn’t budge. “Oh, come on!” you hissed, yanking harder.

“You’re gonna rip your finger off.”

“I’d rather lose a finger than stay married to you!” you snapped, still struggling with the ring.

“Ouch,” he said, clutching his chest dramatically. “You really know how to wound a guy.”

You finally stopped, breathless and frustrated, letting your hands fall into your lap. “This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening.”

Satoru stretched, the sheets slipping lower on his hips, and you quickly averted your gaze. “Well,” he said casually, “unless we both had the exact same hallucination and these rings magically appeared on our fingers… I’d say it definitely happened.”

You buried your face in your hands, groaning again. “I’m gonna be sick.”

“Hey, at least we’ve got a great story,” he said, grinning. “Not everyone can say they got married in Vegas to a total stranger.”

You glared at him. “I don’t want a story. I want a time machine.”

He chuckled, leaning back against the pillows. “Sorry, sweetheart. No time machines here. But hey… at least you married someone hot.”

You ignored him, your brain starting to work through the haze of last night. Then it hit you. “Shoko.”

You scrambled to your feet, sheets still wrapped around you, frantically looking for your clothes. Satoru propped himself up on one elbow, watching you with blatant interest. “In a rush, wifey?” he teased, his eyes lazily trailing down your body. “You’re not trying to sneak out on me, are you?”

You spotted your bra hanging off the lamp and snatched it quickly, cheeks burning. He watched you with a lazy smirk, eyes following your every move. Turning your back to him, you dropped the sheets and hurried to hook it on, feeling the weight of his gaze like a physical touch.

“Wow,” Satoru whistled lowly. “Didn’t know I’d get a private show this morning. If I’d known marriage came with perks like this, I would’ve settled down ages ago.”

“Could you not?” you snapped, fumbling with the clasp. Your hands were shaking, whether from embarrassment or rage, you weren’t sure.

“Hey, don’t blame me,” he said, chuckling softly. “Hard not to look when my wife is putting on a show.”

Your face burned. Yanking on your underwear, you grabbed your dress and tugged it over your head, the fabric sliding down your body as you adjusted it into place. You whirled around, glaring at him. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“Not when I’m this entertained.” He flashed you a grin, resting his chin in his hand as his eyes roamed over you once more. “Gotta say, though… you look just as good putting your clothes on as you did taking them off.”

You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?”

“Never.” He smirked. “But if you want to shut me up, you can just kissed me again.”

You groaned, ignoring his teasing as you spotted your phone half-buried under a pile of clothes. Snatching it up, the screen lit with countless missed calls and texts from Shoko. Heart racing, you unlocked it and scrolled through the messages.

Shoko: OMG I JUST WOKE UP WTF HAPPENED LAST NIGHT

Shoko: WHY AM I IN SOME DUDE’S ROOM??

Shoko: tell me you actually didn’t marry that guy…

Shoko: CALL ME RIGHT NOW.

Before you could reply, Satoru who is now fully clothed, peeked over your shoulder, reading the messages. “Aw, looks like your friend had a good time too.” He grinned. “One of my buddies must’ve kept her company.”

You shot him another glare. “Can you be serious for five seconds?”

“Depends. Can you stop looking so cute when you’re angry?”

You let out a frustrated groan, flopping back onto the bed and covering your face with a pillow. This was officially the worst morning of your life.

taglist: @vehuzzzz @sleepykittyenergy @n1vi @nakiich @artbligh @miizuzu @seternic @luciferlikesducks

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part three)

warnings ; masturbation (f recieving), you lowkey being a jealous bitch, jk being annoying

prompt ; in which you learn that your dignity has a price, and unfortunately, it looks a lot like Jeon Jungkook in Calvin Klein boxers.

note ; see, the thing about writing a character that reminds you of yourself is you need to do some deep introspection to conjure up this chapter 💀 this one is a shit show ngl yall we got jealous!oc and she’s losing her marbles over him and jk is such a little shit and i hate him. last night i was up alllllll nite writing part 7 of this and its giving you’re all getting a part 9. clearly i have not learned how to pace my writing. oh well! enjoy!

playlist here

series masterlist here

Dinner should have ended an hour ago.

Everyone is full, warm, and just tipsy enough from multiple rounds of soju to start thinking they’re invincible. At some point, probably around the fourth bottle, Daniel had leaned back in his seat, exhaled loudly, and declared, “We’re not done.”

He wasn’t alone in the endeavor. Jungkook’s team, your team, everyone had agreed in unison, fueled by the kind of reckless confidence that only comes after a good meal and too much alcohol.

Unfortunately, that’s how you all ended up at the hotel bar.

Someone, anyone, needs to get you out of here. Like now. You were this close to having a peaceful night, hotel bar dimly lit and stupidly aesthetic, all warm amber tones and overpriced cocktails, the kind of place that whispers “sip slowly and pretend you’re not emotionally unhinged.” You had a glass of Sauvignon blanc in one hand, your crossed legs, your carefully composed expression. Everything was fine. Everything was dandy.

But, of course, no rest for the wicked because Jeon Jungkook is testing you. Again.

Somehow this time, it’s worse.

Because now there’s no boardroom, no work talk, no distractions.

The conversation around the barstools flows, but you barely process it. Not when Jungkook’s arm is draped over the back of your stool, the curve of his wrist just inches from your shoulder. Not when he shifts slightly, slow, deliberate, enough that his knee presses against yours again.

You ignore it. Or, at least, you try to.

Because unfortunately for you and your dignity, he leans in. Just enough so that when he speaks, his voice is low, warm, meant just for you. “You’re not as unaffected as you want everyone to think.”

You pause, fingers tightening slightly around your glass. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jungkook lets out a quiet, amused hum. “Don’t you?”

His voice is calm, casual, never wavering an octave. You take a slow sip of your drink, hoping he’ll drop it. He doesn’t (the little shit that he is.) Instead, he moves again. A shift of his leg, a brush of fabric against fabric, a subtle press of warmth where his knee collides with yours beneath the bar top.

Your pulse ticks higher.

“You keep doing that,” he murmurs, tilting his head slightly.

You don’t look at him. “Doing what?”

“Hm. Nothing.”

Your lips press into a thin line.

Jungkook watches you a second too long.

You feel it, not just the weight of his gaze, but the smug satisfaction practically radiating off him like heat from a flame. And then, predictably, it happens. His mouth curves into that maddening half-smirk, the one that always looks like he knows something you don’t.

Your fingers curl tighter around your glass. It’s subtle— just a minor flex at the knuckles — but it’s the only tell you allow yourself. You inhale slowly like you’ve trained for this moment in a monastery somewhere. Like you didn’t just get goosebumps from the sound of his voice.

His words, his stupid little observations, his entire existence, it all hangs between you like a lit match waiting for a breeze.

You don’t flinch. You don’t blink. You certainly don’t look at him.

Instead, you pivot. You turn your attention back to Daniel, who’s halfway through a sentence about tomorrow’s logistics and blissfully unaware that you are seconds away from launching a fork across the bar.

“We should confirm final call times with production before we leave in the morning,” you say smoothly, voice as calm and cool as the ice melting in your drink.

Daniel nods, already unlocking his phone. “I’ll check in with them tonight. We need to make sure—”

A low chuckle cuts through the conversation.

You don’t need to look. You already know who it is.

He shifts beside you, slow and easy, like someone stretching out in the sun. Like someone who’s already won. Then comes the voice. That infuriating, honey-laced drawl. “I bet you’re thinking about emails right now too, huh?”

Honestly, you might kill him.

You gulp down some saliva, hopefully not dramatically at all. Just enough to prove to no one but yourself that yes, you are still tethered to reality and no, you are not about to respond to whatever stupid thing just came out of his mouth.

Daniel doesn’t even look up. “She probably is.”

You exhale sharply through your nose. “I’m literally sitting right here.”

Jungkook doesn’t miss a beat. Grinning, he taps one lazy finger against the side of his glass like this is all a game and you’re the most entertaining piece on the board.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Sitting here, sure. But mentally? You’re already drafting a five-paragraph email about… what? Scheduling conflicts? Budget approvals? A strongly worded message to legal about font usage?”

You don’t dignify that with a response. You don’t even blink. That’s the only way you survive this, by pretending he’s white noise. Annoying, persistent, occasionally rhythmic, but ultimately ignorable.

Except Jungkook doesn’t move, doesn’t look away. He just keeps watching you with that infuriating mix of patience and heat, like he’s got all night to wait for the crack.

He leans in. Not much. Just enough to enter your atmosphere, enough to make the hair at the back of your neck stand up like he physically touched you.

His voice drops lower, slipping beneath your skin, curling at the base of your spine. “What would it take,” he says softly, “to get a real reaction out of you?”

Your pulse jumps. Just once. You think you’ve spared anyone noticing, but Jungkook notices. Of course he fucking does.

His gaze flickers down, quick and precise, catching the way your breath hitches, how your throat tightens just slightly before you mask it with a sip of your drink.

You scoff. A perfect, practiced sound. Tilting your head, you fix him with a look so flat it might as well be a screen saver. “You’d have to be interesting first.”

That earns a low chuckle from him, the kind that vibrates in his chest before spilling past his lips. His tongue presses briefly against the inside of his cheek like he’s holding back something worse. Something better.

However, the worst part? The part that makes your skin itch beneath your outfit and your pride scream into a pillow?

He’s right.

You are thinking about emails. About schedules. About anything that isn’t the slow, creeping awareness building in your chest every time he looks at you like that, like he sees through you. You’ve mastered restraint. But with him, you’re starting to wonder if you ever really had it.

By the time you settle the bill on the corporate card — after three more hours, four rounds of wine, and one very questionable attempt at a poker game — the team is absolutely gone.

Not in a scandalous, HR-nightmare kind of way. Just the warm, giggly, soft-around-the-edges kind of gone, where every sentence is funnier than it should be, and people keep bumping into furniture like the floor’s decided to quietly rotate.

Daniel is the worst offender. Laughing at something Jungkook’s manager said ten full minutes ago, still holding onto a half-empty water bottle like it’s a holy relic capable of sobering him up through sheer willpower.

“I need sleep,” One of your assistants mumbles, rubbing their temples with the weary gravitas of a soldier in a war film.

Daniel sighs dramatically, clutching his chest like he’s been mortally wounded. “I need a raise.”

“You’re literally the VP,” You deadpan, pressing the elevator button with the exact energy of someone who wants to be horizontal in thirty seconds or less.

Daniel waves you off like you’re boring him. “Yeah, yeah, but emotional labor is expensive.”

The elevator dings and you move forward automatically, ready to herd the group in like tipsy sheep, but the moment the doors slide open, it’s clear: it’s a clown car situation. Overpacked. Your team is squished in like sardines, not a single centimeter of space left. And unfortunately, neither you nor Jungkook are among the chosen ones.

He’s already near you, of course, standing off to the side with his hands tucked into the pockets of his gray Calvin Klein sweats — God, even those manage to look insane on him — leaning casually against the mirrored wall like this was always part of the plan. Like he manifested this moment with sheer arrogance.

You pause. Just for a second. Just long enough for your brain to scream no, no, absolutely not.

Daniel, blissfully unaware of the silent hellscape unfolding beside him, reaches out from the crowded elevator and claps you on the shoulder. “Get to your room safe,” he mutters like it’s a personal attack, before the doors close with the rest of your saving grace inside there.

You’re alone… you and Jungkook. In the fluorescent-lit purgatory of the hotel lobby, with absolutely no witnesses and nowhere to run.

Another elevator dings almost immediately, like the universe is trying to be merciful for once. You step in without hesitation, hitting your floor number.

You pray — actually pray — that Jungkook will take the hint. That he’ll wait for the next one. That he’ll remember this morning, or last night, or literally any of the moments where you made it painfully clear that proximity to him was not something you enjoyed.

But, to your dismay, of course he follows.

The doors slide shut behind you two, and instantly, the atmosphere shifts. Not heavy. Not claustrophobic. Just… electrically still, like the silence right before a storm hits.

You take a step back farther than necessary, like putting a little distance between you will somehow neutralize the static humming between your ribs.

Jungkook doesn’t say anything. Not yet. He just stands there calmly and silently like this isn’t a small metal box and you aren’t slowly suffocating on tension.

His reflection flickers in the mirrored panels. The lights overhead cast soft shadows across his face, catching on the faint curve of his jaw, the delicate slope of his nose, the glint of his silver chain resting just above the collar of his hoodie.

And that’s when you do it. You look at him. It’s stupid how unfair it is; how someone can look like that with zero effort with a hoodie and sweatpants on. Post-drinks hair slightly tousled. Like he rolled out of a Vogue spread and into your elevator just to ruin your night.

Your eyes drag up slowly, his mouth, still curved like he’s just barely holding back a grin. His hands still tucked in his pockets like he’s relaxed, as if this isn’t killing him even a little.

You shift your gaze back to the elevator doors, jaw clenched.

You won’t be the first to speak. You refuse to be the first to speak. In fact, you’d rather not speak at all.

You exhale slowly, a practiced breath, long, quiet, like it cost you nothing to let it go. Your eyes fix straight ahead. You’ve mastered this look, worn it like armor.

Jungkook sees the twitch in your jaw, the way your fingers curl slightly at your sides like they’re bracing for impact. He sees the second you hold your breath, just long enough to mean something.

And when he finally speaks, his voice is lower than it has any right to be. Smooth. Almost casual. “You sure you don’t like me?”

The words don’t land gently. They settle, then sink right into the center of your chest, where all your irritation and confusion lives in a tangled knot. Somewhere between the fourth and fifth floor, you realize you don’t have an answer.

You should roll your eyes. Say nothing. Laugh it off like you always do.

Despite what your brain knows, the Sauvignon blanc speaks for you. You finally let yourself turn to him. And for the first time tonight, you allow yourself to enjoy it.

The way his gaze is fixed on you now, intense, unreadable, dark in that infuriating way that makes you feel stripped down without ever being touched. The way his jaw ticks, like he’s already bracing for your next sharp remark. The way he’s not leaning in, not crowding you, but somehow still manages to take up every inch of air in the elevator.

So you tilt your head, let your lips curl, slow and deliberate, into something just short of a smirk.

“That’s funny,” you whisper, tone smooth, like you’re discussing quarterly projections. “Because from where I’m standing…”

Your gaze drops unapologetically. You let it travel down the stretch of his chest, over the chain glinting against his collarbone, down the trail of ink barely visible beneath the edge of his sleeve. You linger just long enough to be rude. Then you look back up, straight into his eyes. “…it looks like you’re the one begging for my attention.”

You see it in him almost instantly; the crack. Jungkook’s lips part slightly, brows lifting a fraction, not enough to call it surprise, not enough to be obvious. But enough to confirm it: he wasn’t expecting that.

But then, like clockwork, he recovers. The shift is seamless. An uptick of his mouth. A flicker of amusement. That practiced, pretty smirk he wears like a shield.

“Is that right?” he says, voice far too smooth, like silk dragged across skin.

You shrug effortlessly, sounding borderline bored. “I mean, I get it. Happens to the best of them.”

That earns a laugh, quiet, but little breathy. He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair, the silver rings on his fingers catching the light as he exhales like he doesn’t know what to do with you.

Ding. The elevator reaches your floor.

You step forward, pressing your palm against the door to hold it open. But you don’t step out immediately.

You glance over your shoulder, just enough to catch his eye. “Sweet dreams, Jungkook.”

You walk out like you didn’t just set the room on fire with your mouth. Like your pulse isn’t thudding against your ribcage. Like this wasn’t the most dangerous ten floors of your entire career.

The doors slide shut behind you with a soft click, and you can still feel him on your skin.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Los Angeles is a blur.

Not the dreamy kind, the kind with sunsets over palm trees and smoothies named after zodiac signs. No, this is the real kind. The kind that grinds your bones into paste and calls it glamour. The kind that starts at 5AM with your phone vibrating off a marble nightstand and ends — if it even ends — with you asleep in front of your laptop, mascara smudged and calendar still open like a horror novel.

The campaign is moving like a bullet train with no brakes. Shoot schedules locked. Press engagements triple confirmed. Creative edits approved so fast it’s suspicious. You don’t breathe so much as manage air intake. Your inbox is a warzone all flags, forwards, follow-ups, and your calendar is a meticulously color-coded march toward the inevitable collapse of your sanity.

Every day begins before the sun even considers rising. You’re on conference calls with the international team while the city’s still asleep, firing off approvals, putting out fires you didn’t start. Fires that, frankly, should never have existed in the first place; why the Tokyo team decided to schedule a last-minute denim edit on a national holiday is beyond you.

Your days are spent in transit. You’re a ghost in a power suit, haunting fitting rooms, lurking behind monitors, whispering death threats to the printer in the production trailer when it jams mid-deadline. There is not a single frame, not a single outfit, not a single loose thread that escapes your notice.

You are everywhere. And… you are exhausted.

So when your team finally earns a night off, where do you end up?

A charity gala.

Because rest is a myth and Calvin Klein has a reputation to maintain.

You hope, pray, that tonight will be uneventful. A blur of small talk and handshakes. A chance to wear heels and pretend you’re not one bad cocktail away from sobbing into the nearest light fixture.

But the universe has jokes and all of them are wearing CK-logo embroidery.

Jungkook, for example, has apparently decided that shirts are optional now. Which would be fine, if he wasn’t your problem. If he didn’t strut onto set like every denim jacket ever made was stitched just to showcase the dip of his collarbone. If every stylist on earth didn’t keep insisting that “this shoot would really work if we just lost the shirt.”

It’s criminal. It’s maddening.

The worst part of it all is you’re not immune.

You’re supposed to be above this. You’re supposed to be focused. You’re supposed to be untouchable. Instead, you’re flustered, trapped between campaign deadlines and the unbearable fact that Jungkook exists with a jawline like that and tattoos that wink at you every time he stretches.

You hate it here.

The Calvin Klein charity gala is everything you expected and everything you dreaded. From the moment you arrive, it’s clear: this is not just a party.

The floral arrangements alone are taller than most of your assistants. The lighting is soft, golden, flattering to skin tones and egos alike. Everyone here looks like money, even the ones pretending they don’t care.

You know the script. You’ve been to more of these than you can count. You know how to nod just right, how to fake-laugh without showing teeth.

You keep your head high, your heels steady, your face unreadable. You’re tired, but keeping it together best you can.

And then, of course, there are the faces. The ones whose names print headlines without trying. Whose cheekbones alone could fund a campaign. Models, actors, musicians; the walking endorsements who keep Calvin Klein perched high in the cultural stratosphere, where one perfectly timed Instagram post can move product faster than a quarterly media buy.

You know them all. You’ve worked with most of them. Negotiated their contracts, managed their meltdowns, rewritten their press releases at 2AM when their publicists mysteriously “lost signal.” You spot them all within minutes.

You spot a familiar swish of black hair a few feet away — Jennie Kim. She’s stationed effortlessly near the center of the room, composed in a sleek black dress that whispers Calvin Klein with just enough subtlety to be expensive. Nothing about her is trying too hard. Nothing ever is. To the public, she’s still a K-pop idol.

But to you? She’s a brand asset. A clean campaign file in your Dropbox. A woman who understands strategy and ROI better than most middle-aged execs with a Wharton degree.

You worked with her last year; she was a dream partnership. Professional. Polished. Sharp as hell. She showed up on time, approved edits without ego, understood how to sell a lifestyle without looking like she was trying to sell anything.

You don’t mind her, which is a rare compliment, considering half the people in this room make you want to walk directly into traffic.

A server floats by, all crisp collar and too-bright smile. You take a flute of champagne with a quiet nod, murmuring a “thank you” before redirecting your gaze toward the entrance.

Still no sign of Jungkook. Good.

The longer you go without seeing him tonight, the better. Because while this event may technically be about Calvin Klein — the brand, the philanthropy, the public-facing purity of fashion-for-good — you know the second he walks in, that narrative is going to collapse under the weight of your impending demise.

You hover near the edge of the room, your team circling close by, half-listening as they rattle off the rest of the night’s agenda. Silent auctions. Keynote speeches. A press check-in before the dinner service begins.

It’s all noise. You’ve heard it a hundred times before. So you nod along, fingers tracing the delicate curve of your champagne glass, your expression politely engaged while your brain drifts.

What’s throwing you off isn’t the gala. It’s the creeping awareness at the back of your spine. The kind that makes you glance toward the doors without realizing it. The kind that tightens the air in the room without anyone needing to speak, like you’re looking for someone.

You should really get a primetime spot of Ashton Kutcher’s Punkd for thinking of that as soon he as enters.

The shift is immediate, unmistakable. The atmosphere bends slightly around him, conversation fluttering for half a second before regaining composure. Heads turn. Bodies angle. A ripple moves through the room like the collective instinct to look good suddenly got dialed up to eleven. The crowd practically parts for him like the Red Sea.

And of course Jungkook acts like he doesn’t notice, like he hasn’t timed this entrance perfectly. He’s draped in Calvin Klein, naturally.

The black button-down is simple, classic, and tailored to perfection. The white shirt underneath is open at the collar, just enough to flirt with impropriety. His silver chain glints under the chandelier lights.

He looks good.

Another massive problem. This night is supposed to be about control, about keeping the spotlight fixed exactly where you want it. Now he’s here and nothing is going to stay on script.

His eyes sweep the room, not searching, not scanning, just…passing through. As if he belongs everywhere and nowhere at once.

You don’t look. You absolutely do not look. Instead, you swirl the champagne in your glass like it’s interesting, like Daniel murmuring something about the CEO’s arrival is the most riveting thing you’ve heard all night.

You keep your focus forward. You keep your expression locked.

He moves about, nothing showy. Just a calm shift, a casual step deeper into the crowd, his pace unhurried as he slips past people with a nod here, a handshake there.

Somehow, you feel it. The creeping closeness, the magnetic pull of him inching nearer. Your fingertips nearly break the glass stem.

And because admitting anything else would be dangerous, you tell yourself it’s the dress. The one you almost didn’t wear. The one that makes you feel too aware of your own body. The one that skims too close, holds too tight, and is not helping your composure right now.

You tell yourself he hasn’t noticed. You lie to yourself for sport. You know how he looks at you when you’re not paying attention, or when you pretend not to be.

You refuse to give him the satisfaction. You keep your eyes on the far wall like it’s about to announce the cure for burnout.

Luckily, Jungkook doesn’t approach you. Instead, he does what he’s supposed to do, what every hour of media training and brand grooming prepared him for. He slides into conversations with executives like he’s known them for years, shakes hands with museum donors like he’s interested in tax-deductible causes. He smiles brightly, poses when needed. A perfect product in perfect packaging.

He’s such a damn good return on investment that you almost feel proud.

Because if you were the kind of person who let herself admit things, you’d admit he’s doing everything right, that he’s holding the brand on his shoulders and making it look light. That he’s annoyingly nailing it.

And — oh god. Goddamnit.

He’s looking at you.

Daniel notices before you do. You’re busy pretending not to care, running your thumb along the base of your glass, when he leans a little closer and mutters under his breath “Christ. He’s not even pretending to hide it.”

You don’t look up. “Hide what?”

Daniel gestures loosely across the room with his chin. “The fact that he’s mentally stripping you while shaking hands with the chairman of the board.”

You pause, then tilt your glass slightly, watching the bubbles trail upward. “You’re being dramatic.”

Daniel snorts. “Am I?”

You take a sip, calm and practiced, expression smooth as ever.

The truth — the part that lives somewhere tight in your chest and buzzes beneath your skin — is that you feel it. You feel him. The burn of his gaze every time it finds you, dragging over the fabric of your dress like he’s trying to memorize the way it hugs your waist. The way it dips at your back. The way you’re very much not wearing a blazer to cover it up.

You don’t need to look to know what expression he’s wearing.

However, if you acknowledge it… that would mean giving him what he wants.

So instead, you turn to Daniel. One brow lifted, lips barely curved. “If he’s looking,” you murmur, voice smooth as ever and twice as dismissive, “that sounds like a him problem.”

Daniel huffs out a laugh, low and knowing. “Right. And you don’t care. Not even a little.”

You take another sip, “Nope.”

Daniel, your observant little coworker… yeah, he doesn’t buy that for a single second.

You inhale once, then glance over at him flat-eyed. “Zip it.”

He rolls his eyes but grins into his champagne. “Sure, boss.”

To your luck, the conversation shifts. The room continues its expensive dance around you. Conversations ebb and flow, the gentle hum of a jazz quartet pulsing through the air. You do your best to work the room; a strategic presence, handshake here, a check-in with PR there. A nod to the editor-in-chief of a magazine you ghosted twice last year. You move through the event like you belong in every corner of it.

But… your eyes keep drifting back. (Not intentionally. Not at first.)

Just one glance… okay, then another, and another.

Jungkook moves through the space, unlike the the cocky brat you’ve been tolerating behind the scenes, but the golden boy the brand paid for. No smirk, no teasing, just that lethal kind of charm that makes executives lean in and reporters jot down adjectives like “magnetic” and “boyish, but timeless.”

You catch flashes of him; the subtle nods, the confident handshake, the curated smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

He looks disgustingly good.

And maybe it wouldn’t matter if it weren’t for this: there’s a sharp, stupid feeling tightening low in your stomach. This quiet awareness that you’ve been trying to kill all night. The way it coils, slow and unwelcome, every time he runs a hand through his hair like it’s nothing, like he doesn’t know exactly where your eyes are.

It’s been years since anything like this has touched you, since a man has taken up any space in your mind or your body, im the heat that simmers behind your ribs before you shut it down. You’ve buried yourself in work and the relentless climb toward a version of success that left no time for softness.

Yet here you are, white-knuckling a champagne flute like it insulted your family. Fighting off the burn creeping up your spine. Pretending you don’t see him, don’t feel him, don’t care.

You straighten your posture, swallow the ache in your throat, and refocus. The night moves forward. Press is being escorted in. Introductions are underway. The gala is running like clockwork, exactly as you planned it. Your team is finalizing the press list. Your assistant is confirming cues. Daniel is muttering under his breath about black-tie events being the eighth circle of hell.

Everything is in its rightful place.

Until it isn’t.

Because when you glance up, a temporary flick of the eyes, a reflex, your stomach drops.

What the fuck?

Jungkook is talking to Jennie. And not just talking… they’re close. Too comfortable

Your brain immediately leaps into rationalization mode. They obviously know each other. It’s the industry. The Korean music scene is a small world. They’ve probably worked together. Filmed something. Shared stylists.

It’s nothing.

Or.. well, it doesn’t look like nothing.

He shifts slightly, his posture loose and shoulders dipped. His focus dialed in like whatever she’s saying is the only thing worth hearing tonight.

Jennie tilts her head, eyes gleaming beneath the chandelier. Her mouth curls into the kind of smile you know isn’t just polite. She laughs lowly, the kind of laugh people lean in to hear.

Your jaw clenches. What the hell is he doing?

You’ve seen him charm a dozen people tonight. You’ve watched him play the room like a pro. This is different. This is intentional. This is just enough to start rumors, to spark headlines. It’s a flicker of chemistry, a well-timed glance, a private moment, dressed up for public consumption.

Jungkook has to know exactly what he’s doing.

Your fingers curl tightly around the stem of your glass, pulse ticking higher, heat prickling at the back of your neck. Your mind starts moving fast, quicker than it should.

You’re already thinking about damage control, angle management, what gets picked up by press. What kind of fire this could start if it circulates. If Dispatch catches wind. If fans start spinning theories.

This is how it starts — not the campaign, not the narrative you’ve so carefully constructed over the past month.

No. This is how the other thing starts.

The thing that spirals out of your reach before you’ve even finished your champagne. The kind of chaos that turns into a PR nightmare before dessert hits the table. The kind of moment that ends with your team spending three days scrubbing TikTok edits off the internet while Twitter builds a conspiracy theory with color-coded timelines and three million likes.

This is exactly the kind of thing that keeps you up at night.

You haven’t even tasted the crab cake yet. Damnit.

Your eyes track across the room, locked on Jungkook and Jennie. And yeah, you’re watching. So what? You’re not hovering, you’re not jealous, you’re not spiraling, you’re monitoring. For the brand. For optics. For reasons.

He laughs again. That stupid, low laugh he does when he’s being charming on purpose. Jennie smirks and a strand of hair behind her ear like she was born for red carpet flirtation.

Something inside you, small and sharp and completely unwelcome, tightens. You don’t let it show. Your expression doesn’t shift.

He has to feel it. The silent pull between your body language and the knife-edge restraint in your jaw. The way you haven’t touched your drink in three whole minutes. The way your spine is a little too straight.

There’s a part of you that curls inward at the sight. A part that doesn’t give a single fuck about brand strategy or headlines or the possibility of Dispatch camping outside your hotel. A part that just hates that it’s him.

Because if it were anyone else — some other Calvin Klein face, some other industry darling — you could write it off.

This is Jungkook. And now, you can see it happening in real time. He leans in even more, enough to make it look natural and make people wonder.

His hand brushes Jennie’s waist. A blink-and-you-miss-it kind of touch, probably for the camera. Probably for the campaign. Probably a thousand justifiable things.

And Jennie, ever the pro, plays her part flawlessly. She leans in too, smiles, gives the moment enough weight to catch the light.

You watch every second of it. And then you realize you’re about to get caught in a really compromising position, so you keep your focus trained forward on the executive beside you talking about Q4 metrics, on your assistant adjusting a speech note, on the champagne in your hand that you haven’t touched in twelve minutes.

Anything but him.

However, you do feel it before you see it. That electric awareness buzzing just under your skin. You glance over and catch him already looking. When your eyes meet, he tosses you a smirk that anyone could miss easily, like he won.

Like this is a game and you just played your hand without meaning to.

Something ugly twists in your chest. It’s sharp and immediate and furious. He should know better. He does know better. He’s not some clueless rookie who doesn’t understand how this works. He’s Jeon fucking Jungkook.

He knows how Korea works, how netizens twist everything. How one look becomes a dating rumor, how one hand on a waist becomes “Calvin Klein’s It Couple?”

But he’s dragging this out for some reason you can’t put your finger on. Your heart kicks once, hard. You just keep telling yourself you’re fine (even though you’re not. Not even close.)

It’s really so reckless. Borderline suicidal, if we’re talking about headlines and stockholder morale. The part that makes your pulse spike and your jaw clench is that he knows.

You can see it in the way he leans just a little too casually into Jennie, posture loose, like he didn’t just detonate a PR landmine in the middle of your gala. He’s playing some game called “see how close he can get to the edge.” How hot he can let the fire burn before everything goes up with it.

It pisses you off mostly because you don’t have time for this, not with investors watching and press circling like sharks. Not with your reputation balancing on the razor-thin edge of flawless execution.

You don’t have room for his recklessness, for his smug little power plays, for whatever masochistic need he has to push and poke and test the limits of your patience especially when there are stakes involved. Real stakes.

So when his gaze flicks back to you like he’s waiting to see if you’ll crack, you don’t blink.

And if Jeon Jungkook thinks he can play you?

He’s about to learn what happens when you push someone who’s spent their entire life building something from nothing.

You excuse yourself mid-sentence to literally nobody, deposit your untouched champagne on the nearest tray like it personally offended you, and walk gracefully out of the space and into the restroom.

The second the bathroom door clicks shut behind you, the noise fades. It becomes background like the night is happening in some other timeline you no longer belong to.

You plant your palms against the marble sink. It’s cool, anchoring you. You breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth.

You’re not here to unravel. You’re not here to throw a fit over a boy who thinks teasing you in public is some twisted mating ritual. The solution is simple. You’re going to yell at his publicist.

That has to be the answer. That has to be the valve you release so the pressure doesn’t implode somewhere messier — or worse, somewhere emotional or personal. This thing he’s doing: it’s not cute. It’s not clever. It’s a liability.

You knew working with Jungkook would be complicated the second you saw the contract terms his team sent yours. You anticipated creative clashes. Maybe the occasional passive-aggressive email about photo approval rights. But not this, not the glances that land like weapons, not the way he’s looking at you like he wants something from you.

Your hands curl into fists against the sink. Everything he’s doing has nothing to do with Calvin Klein. It’s about you. It’s about the way he keeps watching you, waiting.

And if it’s a reaction he wants? Fine. He’ll get one, just not the kind he’s expecting.

You straighten and smooth the fabric of your dress with a practiced hand. You open the door, slipping out of the room with ease as not to be seen. And then you turn the corner —

Body slammed right into an unsuspecting soul. It’s a hard chest, kinda warm.

The apology is already half-formed on your lips until your brain catches up. You smell the cologne; it’s suble but familiar.

The gaze that meets yours when you look up is smug, so recognizable it’s almost laughable.

You stumble back a step, instinctive, like he’s toxic to the touch. He stands there like he has all the time in the world. Jungkook looks quite pleased with himself, as if he hasn’t completely derailed your night.

And you, still holding onto that last sliver of restraint, realize one very important thing: you are absolutely going to lose it.

Just like that, the spark hits gasoline.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Your voice is controlled, a velvet-wrapped blade drawn without ceremony.

Jungkook blinks at you like he’s just been asked his coffee order. “Existing?”

You inhale sharply through your nose. “Don’t.”

You take a step back, not because it helps, not because distance makes anything better, but because your body needs something to do that isn’t launching him into the nearest wall. It’s useless, of course. His presence is still all over you. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

He tilts his head slightly with faux confusion. “Do I?”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails pressing into your palms like anchors. “Don’t play dumb,” you snap, voice tight. “You’re being irresponsible.”

That makes his eyebrows lift like you’ve said something adorable. “Oh?”

“Yes,” you bite out. “You can’t just stand there in the middle of a gala, flirting with Jennie like you’re not a walking headline. You know how this works. You’ve been doing this longer than I’ve been in this job.”

He exhales through his nostrils, soft and dismissive, like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. “And what exactly did I do, hmm?”

That voice… it’s low and infuriating and far too calm for someone who’s about ten seconds away from having a garbage can thrown at his head.

“You leaned in,” you narrow your eyes. “You lingered. You gave them just enough to write a story, and don’t pretend you don’t know exactly what that story will be.”

He’s still, tense, not so much defensive. He almost looks like he’s enjoying this. The realization hits low in your stomach, nauseating and warm. He likes this. Your anger, your control slipping.

That lights another fuse.

“You know how netizens are,” you say, biting off every word like it costs you. “You know how fast things spiral. One fucking look, Jungkook. One picture. That’s all it takes.”

Nothing. No panic. No apology. Just the faintest trace of amusement at the corner of his mouth like he’s listening to you rant about shipping delays, not a potential scandal that could blow up an entire marketing strategy.

Your breathing turns shallow. Rage simmering beneath your skin, humming through your bones like a second pulse.

“You seem upset,” he murmurs. “Why is that?”

Your blood feels like it’s about to vibrate through your skin. You don’t have an answer to that question, or not one you’re willing to say out loud.

You snap, not loudly or dramatically, but more precisely like the crack of something finally breaking after being held too tightly for too long.

“Because you’re a fucking irresponsible idol,” you seethe, your voice like steel honed to a axe. “You’re all the same.”

Jungkook’s brows lift, intrigued. Clearly, he’s watching something unfold that he’s been waiting for.

You’re not done, not even close. “You act like nothing sticks to you. Like you’re untouchable. Like the rules don’t apply because you’re Jeon Jungkook, global superstar, golden boy of Korea, the one everyone bows down to no matter what you do.”

Your voice is building, rising with the fire you’ve tried for weeks to keep buried under professionalism and politeness. “You fuck around, you flirt, you play, and people let you. Because they want to. Because they love you. Because they think you can do no wrong. And when you do, when you make a mess? Someone’s always there to clean it up.”

He doesn’t interrupt or defend himself. But that infuriating smirk you’ve come to hate more than anything flickers. He’s less certain.

Still, you press forward. Once the dam breaks, there’s no holding it back.

“You think what you did tonight means nothing?” you demand, your words like fire. “You think you can just cozy up to Jennie in front of photographers, in front of executives, in front of me, and it won’t get turned into something it was never supposed to be?”

Your chest is tight, pulse slamming beneath your skin. You’re starting to think he’s getting some kind of sick pleasure from watching you unravel.

He probably is, the bastard.

You draw a breath and try to center yourself. Try to remember that you’re not in your apartment or on a closed set. You’re in a dark hallway of a charity gala, one wrong word away from scandal.

Thank god you’re alone.

The last thing you need is a journalist stumbling across this, catching you flushed, furious, so far off-script you wouldn’t even recognize the version of yourself they’d quote.

You say a silent prayer that no one’s out looking for you. Because if they saw this, they might start asking questions.

He just lets your words hang there densely.

“Are you done?” His voice is not playful or light or amused anymore.

You tilt your head, lips curving into something sharp. “I don’t know. Am I?”

The words land like a slap. You watch it, how his jaw tenses, how his body shifts, how he takes a breath like it costs him.

Suddenly the hallway doesn’t feel quiet anymore. He moves, one singular step. He’s closer now. Closer than he’s been all night.

Now, he’s angry too with the kind that builds. You see it in the way his gaze sharpens. In how his expression hardens, dark eyes locked onto yours like he’s warning you.

You should back off, turn around, and walk away. Do the responsible thing.

Yet you can’t because your hands are still trembling from holding back and chest is still burning from everything you’ve wanted to say but couldn’t and your pride is still aching from being dragged through the night like a puppet on his string.

You hold your ground and meet his stare.

Neither of you speaks, or moves, or dares to look away.

“You act like I committed a felony,” Jungkook mutters, exhaling through his nose like he’s already exhausted by this conversation. “Like I grabbed a mic and told the press Jennie and I secretly eloped in Jeju.”

“That’s not the point,” you say, each word clipped but quiet, the kind of sharp that draws blood without raising volume. “The point is you know exactly how this industry operates. You know how quickly stories spread, how easily narratives twist, and you still fed into it.”

His expression flickers but you catch it; the slight tension around his eyes.

“You think I’m feeding into it?” he asks, tone just dry enough to test you.

You scoff. “You’re playing with it. And for what? To stir up buzz? To make yourself feel powerful? Or is this just another way to get under my skin?”

A short laugh escapes him, more disbelief than humor. He shakes his head, mouth twitching like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “You are so fucking full of yourself.”

You bristle, shoulders stiffening before you can stop them. “Excuse me?”

“You think this is about you?” he says, voice louder now, sharper. “Not everything revolves around you, [Y/N].”

“Oh, right,” you fire back, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “Because you were out there acting like that for brand optics, not for my benefit.”

His gaze hardens. And when he speaks again, his voice is rougher. “You’re pissed because you think I was trying to start a scandal,” he says, slowly, like he’s testing the weight of the words as they leave his mouth.

His eyes scan your face, zeroing in, his tone quieting even further. “But that’s not why you’re mad.”

Your throat tightens. You hate that it does.

“If it was just about the cameras,” he tilts his head slightly, “you wouldn’t be this upset.”

You exhale hard, rolling your shoulders back like it’ll shake off the pressure building in your chest. “Oh, fuck off.”

His lips twitch. “Hit a nerve?”

“No,” you swallow, your jaw clenched so tight it aches. “You’re just delusional.”

Jungkook hums, unconvinced. His body leans forward just slightly, enough to make the space feel tighter.

“So tell me,” he says, “what pissed you off more?”

You roll your eyes, force out a scoff, push the moment back where it belongs.

“You,” you say, tone steady but laced with venom, “are the cockiest person I’ve ever met.”

He exhales a laugh, low and infuriating, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he’s trying not to grin. He doesn’t deny it, doesn’t say he secretly likes the way you’re seething, likes the way he gets under your skin, likes the fact that he’s the one pulling this version of you out into the open, entirely unlike the woman you spend so much effort trying to be.

Jungkook’s tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek as he shakes his head like you are the ridiculous one in this conversation.

“You are so tightly wound,” he says, sounding more that it’s an observation, not an insult.

Your jaw tightens instantly. “Come again?”

His tone doesn’t shift. If anything, it softens.

“I’m just saying,” he murmurs, watching you closely, “maybe you need to get off or something.”

The words land like a match to gasoline.

There’s a pause so brief it might’ve gone unnoticed. He sees the momentary flicker behind your eyes, the way your throat closes before you force yourself to exhale through your nose, to reset your features back into bored indifference. You school your expression with a precision you’ve mastered.

But it’s already too late. His lips twitch into a slow, knowing curve.

“That shut you up quick,” he says, quiet and far too satisfied with himself.

The last thread snaps, tension curling through you like electricity with nowhere to go. You step forward, not a warning or a threat, but close enough that your words hit the air between you like something physical. “Bet you wish it was you helping me do it, huh?”

It’s subtle. The smallest shift in the set of his shoulders, the faintest flicker behind his eyes, jaw flexes once. No retort. No easy comeback.

That’s a win.

Before he can recover, before he can pull another smug line from that bottomless well of cocky self-assurance, you push his shoulder.

Enough to make him take a single step back. Enough to prove a point. Enough to make it clear that you’re done. That whatever game he thought this was, it’s over.

Without waiting, without flinching, without looking back, you turn and walk away. He stays behind, backlit in the dim hallway light, still watching you.

You don’t stop moving. If you don’t leave now, you might not walk away at all and that’s a risk you’re not willing to take.

You don’t go back to the event. You don’t say goodbye to anyone. You don’t even wait for your team.

You call a car with shaking fingers and step inside without looking back, seething so hard you can barely speak when the driver asks where to. Your hotel, you manage to grit out.

The moment the door closes behind you, you’re already kicking off your heels, yanking the zipper of your gown down too hard. The silence of the room is almost mocking, like even the walls are waiting for you to admit what you won’t say out loud.

Who the fuck does he think he is?

You pace. You throw your bag onto the desk. You curse his name under your breath like a mantra, like if you say it enough times it might finally lose meaning.

Maybe you just need to get off.

Your jaw clenches. “Fucking unbelievable,” you mutter aloud, storming into the bathroom to scrub off your makeup. “Says the man who was practically dry-humping Jennie for the press.”

Your face is flushed, possibly from anger or something worse. You splash water over your skin, cold enough to sting. But the thought still slips in, unwelcome and heavy.

What if he’s right?

You grip the counter, knuckles white, water dripping from your jaw. You hate how the echo of his voice lingers in your head and how you can still see the way his jaw flexed, the way his button-down clung to every inch of him under those lights.

God, he looked good. Too good. Like a fucking problem with a dick and an attitude.

You groan and press your palms to your face, willing yourself to forget how your body reacted even while your brain was screaming at him.

You hate him. You also hate… that you want him. He put the idea in your head and now it’s floating around in there, out in the open.

You march to the bed, flop onto it, and stare at the ceiling, the sheets cool against your bare legs. Your heart won’t slow. Your mind won’t stop. And worst of all, your body won’t listen.

Because no matter how angry you are, no matter how justified you feel, you can’t shake the image of his mouth when he smirked, the look in his eyes when he said that stupid sentence. Who does he think he is? Some character from a Wattpad fanfiction?

You toss and turn. You flip the pillow over like that’ll make a difference, like the cooler side of the fabric will somehow quiet the fever burning under your skin. The sheets are twisted around your thighs. The moonlight bleeding through the curtains feels too bright.

Even when you close your eyes, all you see is him. His lips. That stupid silver ring that glinted when he smirked. The look in his eyes when he leaned in too close, when he said the most obscene thing in the most casual voice.

You roll onto your stomach and scream into the pillow. A muffled, frustrated sound that doesn’t help at all. You feel like you’re crawling out of your own skin like every part of your body is tuned to him.

His voice. His mouth. His hands.

God, those hands.

You squeeze your eyes shut tighter and will the thoughts away, but they crawl back in like ivy through cracks in the foundation.

Now you’re alone in your hotel room, aching, restless, and nothing — not anger, not pride, or even common sense — is helping.

You whisper, just to the empty room, “Goddamn you, Jungkook.”

And your hand starts to drift, almost without permission like gravity’s pulling it there. Like your body’s answering a question your brain refuses to ask.

You let out a shaky breath as your fingertips slide lower past your underwear, pushing it to the side with haste.

You’re too tired to fight it. You are wound too tight. You hate that he’s right.

You’re not even thinking about the way he touched Jennie. You’re thinking about how his hands might’ve felt on you if you’d let them.

You lie there, still as stone, for exactly three seconds before muttering, “I am out of my fucking mind.”

But your hand doesn’t stop moving. It’s slow at first against your clit. It’s a gentle rub, just to see if you’ll even have any reaction to it. Almost tentative, like you’re testing yourself, waiting to regain some semblance of dignity and snap out of it. But you don’t.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, slamming your eyes shut. The pads of your fingers speed up against your clit, breathy moans escaping you, echoing the room and taunting you.

It’s all because of the stupid hallway. The stupid smirk. The stupid way his voice dipped when he said maybe you just need to get off.

Your entire body curls at the memory. You clench your jaw and bite your bottom lip, but the image is too vivid now, too detailed. The fight. The heat of it.

Your fingers move quickly, experimentally, like you’re trying to prove some point to yourself. You’re not sure if it’s self-care or a nervous breakdown. All you know is that your pulse is racing and your brain has left the chat entirely.

You try to focus on anything else. That random hookup you had last year. Emails. Deadlines. Q3 marketing reports. The breakup sex you had with your ex. Nothing works.

All you can see is the tension in Jungkook’s arms. The way his chest rose and fell. The way he looked at you like he wanted to ruin your life and kiss you senseless in the same breath.

You groan softly, one hand gripping the sheets, the other sliding two fingers into you, hot and slick and aching.

It’s so unfair. He’s not even here, and he’s still winning, under your skin and in your fucking head.

You try to bite back the sounds slipping out of you, but they come anyway involuntarily. You can’t stop thinking about what it would’ve felt like if he touched you like this. Probably would’ve been rough, would definitely make you cum in under three minutes.

Of course he would. The cocky fucker.

He’d look you in the eyes the entire time, wouldn’t he? Mouth parted, lip ring cool against your lips, voice deep, asking still wound up, baby?

Your hips twitch and your fingers are soaking wet now with your arousal, messily pumping in and out desperately. Your ego shrivels up into a piece of lint and floats off into the distance. The sounds that are coming out of you are borderline obscene and you pray no one from your team walks this floor.

Finally — god willing — you come apart, eyes screwed shut, chest heaving, body tensing and then softening all at once.

You lie there afterward, stunned and drenched in sweat, breathing like you just ran a marathon fueled entirely by spite and delusion.

For a long time, you don’t move. Eventually though,a soft, incredulous laugh escapes your lips. “God, I am so pathetic.”

You stare at the ceiling completely mortified. But beneath the embarrassment, buried under the heat still humming through your skin, is one clear, undeniable thought: You’re in deep.

So much deeper than you ever meant to be.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

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[softtdaisy]

Congrats on 2k!!! You deserve it ❤

Could i request bed chem by sabrina with charles leclerc, please

summary. sometimes chemistry can't be explained. you and charles have it, specially in bed

words count. 1 824

song. bed chem by sabrina carpenter

what to expect. a very little smut, like blink it and you miss it but it's here

a/n. writing with sabrina's song is becoming my favorite thing at this point 🩷

PARTICIPATE IN MY 2K CELEBRATION

criminal minds masterlist | F1 masterlist | general masterlist| request

“Souris un peu, bon sang.” 

Charles turned around, suddenly cut in his thought by Pierre complaining with his cheeky tone that right was now getting on the Monegasque mind. Smile, smile… He clearly didn’t want to be there, and for once in his life, he didn’t have the strength to pretend.

It wasn’t even Charles’ fault. Whose idea was it to have this big event after the Grand Prix? Of course some drivers would have been upset because it was impossible for the 20 of them to have a great race.

And of course it turned out Charles was the one to have the worse race of the season. He was on pole, doing the record of the track, all of it for what? To get in a pile-up at the beginning of the race and not be able to do one lap. One. Lap.

And now he had to be all dressed up and look like the usual perfect son-in-law in an event he didn’t even want to come to. 

“It’s not because you’re used to having a bad weekend that I should act like you.” Charles mumbled, walking closer to the photographs. His remark didn’t offend Pierre but caused him a hysterical laugh. Making people turn around.

“Ok, buddy,” Pierre said, calming down his laughter slowly. He put an arm around his friend’s shoulder. “You need to get laid.” 

This time, Charles had to admit he laughed sincerely at his answer. Hopefully the photographs got the image. “Does Kika know sex is your solution to everything?”

“How do you think we make this relationship work so well?”

Charles shook his head, trying to get this image out of his mind. At least he was lucky to have his friend to improve the evening because he was this close to not showing up at all. If it weren’t for Pierre picking him up right in his hotel room, he probably wouldn’t have.

“You’re next, guys!” The assistant said, and Charles thanked her with a smile—he didn’t forget his good manners in his suitcase. 

While Pierre was chatting with someone around, Charles gave a look at the person having their picture taken right now.

And right in front of him was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. 

If Charles knew he was attractive—at this point he couldn’t ignore the fact he was getting multiple proposals per day—he was the biggest flirt. Usually, he thanked women with a smile and went on with his life without thinking about it. Did he have a one-night stand? Some, during the season. He could get very lonely by himself in hotel rooms. But most of the team, he wasn’t the one looking on purpose for the woman he would get in his bed.

But you.

He couldn’t take his eyes off of you.

How magnetic you looked with your perfect and seductive smile, how the photographs seemed not to get enough of you and asked for more—more poses, more smiles, more. How he seemed to not get enough of you. His eyes went down your whole body and looked to appreciate everything. 

His silence—even if he was clearly not the chatting type tonight—called Pierre to mind. When he followed Charles' eyes, he understood why his friend was suddenly so calm and less upset. “That’s one of Kika’s friends.”

Charles only answered with some kind of groan, clearly not pleased that Pierre could read him so easily. “She’s a singer. She’s wonderful. And she’s single.” He sang the last word.

“Good for her.” Charles replied, rolling his eyes.

Soon, you left to go to the party, and it was the boys turn to get their pictures. And Charles had a little less of a hard time looking happy, mostly because the image of you in that great and hot look stayed printed in his mind. 

He would be lying saying he didn’t look for you for most of the party. It was difficult to follow the discussion when he could only think about finding the woman who made him lose his mind so easily. Little did he know that you were looking for him too.

But it wasn’t until the end of the night that you two finally met. You were the one who walked to the two F1 drivers who were waiting outside for the car. “So here hides the most interesting man of the night,” you said, putting a hand on Charles’ shoulder. 

“Oh, you’re flattering me.” Pierre replied, putting a hand on his heart. You exchanged a playful look, both knowing what was happening.

“I wasn’t talking about you,” you said, winking, before turning to face Charles. “I thought I was never going to meet the golden boy everyone’s talking about.” 

You’ve heard about Charles Leclerc. Oh, how you’ve heard about him. It was impossible not to know about him. You’ve even been a little jealous that many of your friends had met him through the years but you’ve never. So many missed occasions that you were definitely not going to miss that one.

Charles followed your eyes as they went down his face slowly, appreciating his perfect features. And stopping on his lips, you kept thinking about during the party. “I hope they didn’t give you high hopes concerning me.” He moved his face closer to yours to speak in a low voice.

You bit your lips before moving your eyes up to his. “It’s up to you to prove they were right or wrong about you.”

“You won’t be mad if I take this car and you take the next one, right? Right.” Pierre spoke almost to himself when the driver showed up. But none of you answered; Charles barely moved his hand to agree. He couldn’t care less about what his friend wanted to do right now.  All he cared about was you.

And oh, how he cared about you that night.

From the moment you got in the car, the chemistry caused sparks to fly. 

You were quick on his lap, his hands in your lower back to keep you against him when your mouths were discovering each other. You bit his lip when his fingers sank into your skin. You pulled his hair when his mouth started to travel down your neck. 

You almost didn’t leave the car. But thank god you did, because the night in the hotel room was even better.

It was like your bodies were made for each other. 

The way his hand perfectly found the way to your inner thighs, how it cupped your pussy like it had been created for his hand. How his finger on your clit had the perfect width, how he found the perfect rhythm to make you lose it in a matter of seconds. 

How he already knew your body so well already. Enough to know how to edge you and make you even more eager for him.

And when he finally got into you, you wondered if it was you manifesting that he was oversized. Or if Charles really was that perfect of a man even in his pants. 

All you knew was that it fit you perfectly, giving you the pleasure you’ve never experienced before. Not only with him into you, but with his lips that never left your skin or his fingers that alternated the pleasure between your tits and your clit.

“You,” you whispered, your head on his chest after having sex yet another time. His hand was caressing your naked back, coming close to your bottom by slightly brushing it. “You were made for me.”

Charles laughed with a raspy voice. You couldn’t decide whether this was hotter than the way he moaned your name when you went down on him an hour ago. Both being as hot was a good answer.

“One night was enough to know that?” he asked, looking down at you. You knew exactly what he meant by that, what offer he was implying in his words. 

So you looked up and saw his lazy and seductive smile. “I’m not against other occasions to confirm it.”

And so you did it again the next morning, in the shower, before he left to take his plane for the following race.

And you saw each other as much as you could with both your planning. But each intimate moment was even better than the one before. So good that it almost became an addiction for each other.

You came to another race later that season. 

Funny enough, Charles had invited you, but you also got invited by some brand. “You can’t escape me, number 16,” you said when Charles opened the hotel room to you in a little red dress that was going to haunt his dream. 

And the whole weekend had just been a big game of teasing Charles and the world about your relationship with him.

When they asked you why you were here, you said that you loved the sport but that you also got the sweetest invitation to come and support your favorite driver. “You know which one.” You winked when they asked.

When they said you were Charles' lucky charm when he got the pole, you told them he didn’t need you to perform and that he was amazing on his own. “But I would gladly reward him for his performance.” 

Which you did, indeed, right when you closed the door of the hotel room. 

But more than that, Charles’ attitude was almost speaking louder than all your funny and flirty comments. He looked happy and relieved knowing you were around. You were making his life so much simpler by just being you, by his side. And giving him amazing sex too—he couldn’t deny how nice it was to relax by your hands and mouth.

“What?” Charles sighed with a little smile. 

The Ferrari driver had won the race with so much ease that it was a demonstration of his talent. He had a lot of interviews to do, sure. And he couldn’t wait to go back to you again.

Pierre was staring at him with a cheeky expression, his arms crossed against his chest. “This is the moment I’m supposed to thank you for setting us up?” Charles asked with a laugh. 

Pierre’s expression changed. “I didn’t do anything, buddy.” 

They both turned to look at you, surrounded by fans asking for your autographs. At an event, you weren’t even the main character. But the whole world loved you so much, it wasn’t a surprise anymore.

You felt their eyes on you, and the smile you offered Charles made him blush. There was something so genuine about you, so sincere, that he always felt so loved whenever you gave him some attention. Which became more and more frequent. 

And the wink you gave him let him know you were far from being done with him.

Fortunately, he had no plan of letting you go anytime soon. 

[itsraceweekbitches]

LOVEBOMB

summary: You have a manic episode and say things to Max that you don’t really mean. Now it’s time to heal and figure out how to move on. ✤ pairing: Max Verstappen x reader ✤ wc: 2.7k ✤ tags: fem!reader, reader has bipolar disorder ✤ note: The fic is based on Nessa Barrett’s song lovebomb. Yes, I know, she has BPD and it’s about that, but I have no personal experience with it, ‘cause I have bipolar disorder. Song recommendations: lovebomb as previously mentioned, then Kelly Clarkson - Sober.

“That was my WDC trophy! Are you fucking insane?!”

“I don’t give a fuck about your trophy, Max, just answer my question! Or you know what? Fuck it. God, I hate you so much…”

Just like every other couple, you get into fights too. Sometimes over something silly, like who left the upcoming dinner on the kitchen island where the cats could reach it, or bigger ones when you accuse the other of deliberately forgetting an important engagement you’ve planned ages ago.

But that night? It was different. It was intense, and that might be an understatement. You don’t really remember what set you off. Maybe it was something he said without the intention of upsetting you, but he still managed to pull the pin and make you explode. 

Your emotions were running high, the words were flowing out before you could realize exactly what you were saying, and you didn’t even bother to read his expression to know just how much they hurt him. If you had paid attention, you would have known just how bad things were.

Yet, you didn’t care. You couldn’t care. 

Your brain was in overdrive, so many thoughts running through it that you couldn’t even keep track, and the sudden anger pushed your love for him out of the way. 

Max had enough. He told you to message him when you calmed down, until then he was going to give Daniel a visit. And even that wasn’t enough for you to realize just how bad things were, all because you couldn’t keep yourself on a short leash. 

Instead of begging for his forgiveness, you threw some clothes and a few essentials into a suitcase, then headed to a hotel where you were planning to stay until he apologized. Because you didn’t think you were at fault here, not at all. In your mind, it was Max who caused this whole mess, so it was his job to fix things.

It takes you a week to calm down enough to think rationally, to realize maybe it wasn’t his fault but yours. He didn’t mean to hurt or upset you, that was nothing more but an innocent comment, a misfired joke, no more. 

Anxiety slowly fills your brain, especially when you sneak into your shared home to grab a few more clothes along with some belongings that you need now. Without realizing it, you begin to move out, piece by piece. You wonder if he notices—if he cares to notice. Or is he still mad at you? You couldn’t blame him if he was. 

One day, you pick up your phone and open the messaging app you always use, and type a quick message. You don’t expect an answer, of course, you just want him to know what’s on your mind. Just to be sure, in case he’s willing to bury the hatchet.

You: I’m sorry. I really am.

As you expected, there’s no response, but you honestly can’t blame him. It’s just a simple I’m sorry, what’s there to say to that? Maybe one day you’ll have more to say, maybe you’ll have a plausible explanation to what’s happening to you. 

Because earlier that day you had lunch with your best friend, who pointed out things you hadn’t noticed yourself. “Look, don’t get me wrong, you know I love you, but maybe Max didn’t deserve this,” Gisele said cautiously, clearly walking on eggshells. Your friend let out a sigh as she turned her coffee cup around. “What I’m trying to say is that you’ve been… weird lately. You’re irritable, you tend to hurt those you love, you say you can’t sleep, you speak really fast, and you make rushed decisions,” she explained what she had noticed.

Now that you thought about it, she might have been right, and maybe Max noticed too, which eventually led to this big fight between the two of you. “That bad, huh?” you asked quietly, your eyes fixed on your hand that fidgeted with the napkin.

Gisele nodded with a sigh. “I’m saying this as a friend: visit a psychiatrist.”

You decided to take her advice, and so now you’re waiting for the evaluation of the conversations and tests you did at the beginning of this process. It’s been five weeks since that night, but at least now you’re near the finish line, soon you’ll know if there’s something wrong with your brain. 

On a Thursday, shortly after you watch the press conference at the track, you begin to type. It’s not a long message, it’s just a quick update about seeking help and a simple good luck this weekend. As it happened the last time you texted him, the message is left on read, there is no answer from Max. Once again, you can’t blame him, if you were in his shoes, you would be cautious too.

It’s the weekend of the Chinese Grand Prix when he receives yet another message from you, and Max hesitates, having a hard time deciding whether or not he should read it. He read the previous one, he knew you seek professional help, which is good, but is it enough? Let’s say you change, but how long will it last? When will you give up? And even if you won’t give up, what if things go wrong again anyway? 

He hates that he can only think about the worst case scenario, living up to the Doomstappen name, but he doesn’t want to risk giving your relationship another chance, only to end up at the same place. 

And he noticed that your things began to disappear from your shared apartment in the past few weeks, which told him that maybe you don’t want to mend things after all. Maybe you’re just trying to stay friends with him, this is why you keep him updated. Does it hurt? Yes, it does. Because despite everything, despite your changing moods, the highs and the lows, he still loves you. 

Once in his driver's room, he sits on the edge of the bed, then takes a deep breath as he opens the messaging app where your message is waiting, still unread. His thumb hovers above your name, because even though he has made up his mind not long ago, his bravery disappeared now that he’s about to read your message. 

You: Hi. I’m quite sure you don’t care, but I thought I should give you an update. You: But first, there’s another thing. I picked up the last of my stuff from the apartment and gave the keys to Daniel. I’m sorry it took this long, I know you probably wished to throw them out. You: Anyway, the psychiatrist told me the verdict. It’s bipolar disorder, so now I’m taking meds to tackle the symptoms, and I also go to psychotherapy. So far so good. The meds made me a bit drowsy in the first few days, but now things are getting better and better. You: And last, good luck for the weekend. 

Max blows out the air he didn’t even know he’s been holding before leaning back on the bed. How can you think he wants you to move out? He doesn’t want that, not until you talk about how to move on. It should be a proper discussion, a mutual decision, not whatever the hell you’re doing. 

It’s been over an hour since you sent this message, and he knows it’s late back home, but there’s something that’s bothering him. So, without letting himself think too much, he begins to type a message. 

Max: Hey. Glad to hear that. If you moved out, where are you staying now? You: I didn’t think you would respond. Max: I’m full of surprises. So? You: I rented an apartment. Max: You could have stayed. You: After what happened? I needed my own space. 

Shaking his head, Max closes the app and decides to dial your number. It’s ridiculous that you’re communicating in written form instead of talking on the phone like normal people do. As if you weren’t together just a couple of weeks ago, and honestly, you still haven’t discussed what’s next. At this point, your relationship is suspended, not finished. 

One ring. 

Two rings. 

Come on, answer it, he mumbles, as if his life depends on you picking up the phone. 

Three rings. 

And then…

“Max?” you say hesitantly.

Your voice is thin, and there’s something else, a slight raspiness he heard every time you cried. He always hated to see you cry, and even knowing about it is hard for him. Because you were probably crying because of him, and he wasn’t there to comfort you. You’re apart–you’ve been apart for long enough, maybe it’s time to stop this madness and just move on like nothing happened. 

Then again, could he do it? Could he move on just like that? Probably not. There would always be a voice in the back of his mind telling him to run. Your relationship is like a broken vase, no matter how cliché that example is. Even if you fix it, it won’t work the same way anymore. 

He gulps before speaking up. “Yeah, I thought… Anyway, I’m glad you’re feeling better,” he begins, but then his voice falters, because he simply cannot figure out how to go on.

Lucky for him, you know what to say. “Thanks. Look, I highly doubt sorry could ever cut it, but I meant it. I didn’t realize how bad the situation with me was, from my perspective, it wasn’t that bad. But now I see I was wrong, and I’m working on getting better.”

“I can tell. You sound better.” 

There’s a beat of silence, just enough to let him find the right words. He’s been thinking about you, and he was thinking a lot. He didn’t necessarily want to let go, but he didn’t want to hurry things either. You needed to heal first, everything else was supposed to come after that. This was your top priority now, and he wasn’t about to mess this up for you.

But before he could speak up, you clear your throat. "I... uhm... gotta go. Bye, Max."

The call ends, and he's left there wondering if calling you was the right thing to do. Did he upset you? Did he bring back feelings you tried to push aside?

It’s been three months since your last conversation with Max, since the day you decided to close that chapter of your life for good, and since you began to look for apartments on the other side of the continent. Almost two months since you moved into your new home in Denmark and started to learn Danish. One month since you adopted a dog to have company. And one day since you came back to Monaco to visit Gisele. 

The two of you are sitting at your usual table in the usual restaurant, waiting for the usual order. It’s nice to be back, even if just for a few days. Are you worried about meeting your ex? Not really. You moved on, and you assume so did he. Right now you’re here to spend some time with your best friend anyway, worrying about him is the last thing on your mind. 

“Aren’t you a good boy? I thought you’ll be begging for food the whole time,” Gisele says in a high-pitched voice as she leans down to press her nose to your dog’s. 

It was love at first sight, in fact, your dog decided to ditch you the moment he sniffed your friend’s hand. That little traitor. You don’t miss the look an older woman gives you two, but you just flash a wide grin at her before looking down at your furry son who’s currently enjoying a head massage.

“Oh, trust me, he loves to beg for food,” you note with a laugh. “So, how’s your husband?”

“Away on a fishing trip, thank God,” she replies with a laugh. 

You two spent a big chunk of last month talking about the poor guy, who was just trying to celebrate their anniversary throughout that week. Gisele believed a one-week-long celebration would be an overkill, but you convinced her to agree to cheer up Jeff. Little did she know that her husband gave you a call to ask for your help, because he was devastated after she said no to this the first time. 

An hour later you are both drinking your coffee when your dog gets excited; he stands up, begins to wag his tail so fast it hurts when it hits your arm, and you hear the familiar whimpering sound he makes whenever he meets another dog he likes. When you look down, your blood freezes in your veins, because who wouldn’t recognize Leo Leclerc?

And sure enough, Charles is there on the other end of the leash, giving you a friendly smile when he stops next to you, letting the two dogs get familiar with each other. “Hi. I didn’t know you had a dog,” he says with a laugh before looking down at them. 

While you follow his line of sight, you clear your throat. You knew meeting an F1 driver in Monaco was a possibility, but right on the first proper day here? Damn it. Still, he’s a good guy, you don’t want to go all defensive, especially not now that you’re consciously working on this issue of yours. 

“Hey. Yeah, I adopted him last month. How are you?” you ask with a polite smile. 

You and Gisele watch in shock as he pulls over a chair and sits down next to you. Before you could ask him what he’s doing, he starts talking, saying a lot of things that aren’t even connected and hardly make sense. It seems like he's trying to keep you up, deliberately stalling. But why? Why would he want to keep you occupied? 

Suddenly, Leo gets super excited in Charles’s lap, his tail wagging like crazy as he’s looking at something behind you. Now curious, you turn around, only to see Max stand there a few feet away from you. He looks a little uncertain, his hands stuffed into his pockets as he watches you, but he doesn’t say anything, only flashes an awkward smile at you. 

“Oh, Max, hello!” Charles says with a wide smile, waving at the Dutchman. “Well, I should get going, it was nice to see you again.”

And with that, he stands up with Leo in his hands, then walks away in Max’s direction, exchanging a meaningful look with him. So this was all part of a plan? You glance at Gisele out of the corner of your eye, who’s clutching her glass so tightly you’re afraid it will break. 

He finally walks a little closer, still looking slightly awkward when he stops in front of you. “Hi. I’m Max,” he says, acting like you didn’t know each other. It doesn’t make sense, what the hell is he doing? You give him a confused look, but he only sits down on the chair his friend occupied a minute ago. “You won’t even tell me your name?”

You look over at Gisele, who only shrugs, telling you she has absolutely no idea what’s going on. So, deciding to play along for now, you introduce yourself. Max flashes a satisfied smile at you, then flags down a waiter to order a gin and tonic. 

“Monaco is small, but I don’t remember ever seeing you. Are you from around here? Or are you on a vacation?” 

“Excuse me, I’ll go fix my makeup, I’ll be right back,” Gisele says as she stands up, then walks inside without her bag that has her makeup kit in it. Traitor. 

Meanwhile Max is looking at you expectedly with those blue eyes, head tilted to the side as if he was a curious puppy. He wants you to play along, he’s waiting for an answer, but you hesitate while your mind is in overdrive trying to figure out what is happening. But then you realize what it is. 

A fresh start. 

“It’s a vacation. You look familiar,” you note, engaging in a conversation that resembles your first meeting. 

Maybe it’s time to step out of your new comfort zone, and maybe you should do it for him, and him alone.

[capseycartwright]

hi <3 bridal carries from the physical intimacy list?

Eddie fixed Buck with a glare that might have been scary to anyone else, but Buck knew Eddie far too well. “No.”

“Aw, come on! Don’t be a spoilsport.”

“Buck, absolutely not.”

Buck put on his best pout. “It would really mean a lot to me, Eddie.”

Eddie waved a hand vaguely, shaking his head. “No, none of the pouting – you’re not changing my mind here Buck. Absolutely not.”

Buck raised an eyebrow. “Eddie,” he heaved out a dramatic sigh. “It’s an important part of the ritual of weddings, I have to carry you over the threshold!” he exclaimed, waving at their front door. When they’d decided to get married – about three weeks ago, officially, but in reality, they’d made that decision the moment they’d first kissed – Maddie had offered up a night in a bougie hotel downtown as her wedding gift, and call them sappy, but Buck – and Eddie – had wanted to spend their wedding night at home, in their home, the place on South Bedford where everything had finally fallen into place.

“Isn’t it that you’re supposed to carry the bride over the threshold? Am I the bride?”

“No, the point is we’re both grooms, Edmundo,” Buck rolled his eyes. His husband could be so annoying, when he wanted to be. “But I’m stronger, so I want to carry you over the threshold.”

Eddie frowned. “I’m plenty strong! What if I want to carry you over the threshold?”

Buck smirked. “You can try.”

Listen – Buck had put a lot of time and effort into getting as strong as he did. He was 200 pounds of nothing but muscle, and he was ridiculously strong – he knew he was. The version of himself who’d first joined the LAFD wouldn’t recognise the man he was now – broad, and strong, his muscles for function, rather than show, show-off abs replaced by a layer of muscle and fat that Eddie seemed to have some sort of magnetic attachment to.

The point was, he was strong.

Huffing out a breath, Eddie crouched, slightly, getting his arms around Buck’s waist, groaning slightly as he tried to lift him off the ground. “Could you – you’re deliberately being a dead weight,” Eddie let out a frustrated noise. “Can you work with me, here?”

Buck grinned. “I’m not doing anything, honey. Just – standing here.”

Eddie stood back up, giving him a furious look. “What the fuck are you so strong for?”

“So that I can carry my grumpy new husband over the threshold of the house where we fell in love. Obviously.”

Despite the grumpy expression, Eddie was a vision in his wedding suit, the material navy blue, hugging every part of Eddie’s frankly perfect body. His tie was baby blue – the same colour as Buck’s eyes, he’d announced to the suit shop, making Buck tear up on the spot – and it had come loose, over the course of the evening, the top two buttons of his shirt open. He looked perfect, and he was all Buck’s.

“Come on,” Buck chided, tugging Eddie closer by the lapels of his wedding suit. “Let me have this one, baby.”

Eddie heaved out an award-winningly dramatic sigh. “Fine,” he conceded, letting out a startled yelp as Buck easily swung him into a bridal carry, his arms automatically going around Buck’s neck as he found himself in the air. “Why is this so important to you?” he asked, brow furrowing.

“Traditionally, it’s supposed to symbolise stepping into the next chapter of your lives together – the married chapter,” Buck shrugged. “It’s cheesy, but I think after all this time, you and I have earned some cheese.”

Eddie’s smile was wide, as he replied. “Okay, baby,” he relaxed a little, in Buck’s hold. “Let’s step into the next chapter.”

Buck beamed, taking a step forward before he paused, brow furrowing.

“What’s wrong?” Eddie questioned.

Buck couldn’t help the snort of laughter that escaped him. “I didn’t really think through how we were supposed to unlock the door, now.”

[drtyelvisfantasy]

SAVE YOUR LOVE

LINEMAN!RAFE X STRIPPER!READER AU

note: Thank you to all who sent in questions about my au. I really appreciated it🩷 if any of you have any more questions, feel free to send them in 😊 I promise to write some more happy stuff for this au soon lol

summary: You and Rafe finally have a baby together, but things don't go as planned

warnings: childbirth, pregnancy, toxic relationship, yelling, feelings of abandonment, swearing,

The physical changes of the pregnancy took a toll on me, leaving me feeling exhausted and drained every minute of the day. I eventually had to stop working at the strip club when my bump became more noticeable. Rafe promised he would help me find a new job. He said he knew some people down here in Vegas, and he managed to secure me a position at a construction company, creating schedules for the workers. Although the work was boring and the pay was much lower than what I was used to as a stripper, it provided enough income to support myself and the baby. The hours were manageable, and I found some sense of stability in this new job.

Instead of meeting at the hotel like in the past, Rafe started coming by my apartment. His visits were less secretive, yet a sense of unease and tension still hung in the air.

“Are you staying the night?” I asked, my voice laced with a mix of hope and hesitation.

Rafe walked over where I was sitting on the couch, his expression unreadable as he considered my request. “Yeah, I’ll stay for the night.”

“Do you think you’ll be here for the birth?” I pressed, trying to remain calm. “I think it would be good for both of us if you came to the hospital with me.”

Rafe didn’t seem happy, his voice flat. “I don’t know, sweetheart. I can’t make any promises. Things are complicated right now.”

I felt a pang of disappointment. I thought this pregnancy would make things better between us, would force him to become more invested, but clearly, I was wrong. He seemed so uninterested, almost detached from the whole thing.

“I mean, would you at least try to make an effort to be there?” I asked, desperately seeking something from him.

Rafe sighed, avoiding eye contact. His voice remained neutral, but I could hear the reluctance in his words. “I just told you, I don’t know. I’ve got a lot going on. But... I’ll try my best to be there, if I can.”

Even though Rafe didn’t know if he’d be around for the birth of our baby, at least he did his part when it came to the nursery, leaving the decorating to me. He made it clear that it was “a woman’s job.” He might’ve pitched in with some of the more physical tasks, like putting together the crib, or perhaps offering some financial contributions, but the creative aspect of the nursery was entirely mine to handle.

A few months back, when the doctor revealed that the baby’s gender was going to be a girl, I was excited. I had always told Rafe that if we were to ever have a baby, I wanted the firstborn to be a girl, and now that dream had come true. However, Rafe didn’t seem nearly as excited. His tone remained indifferent as he stated that he didn’t care about the gender as long as the baby was healthy.

-

The months of pregnancy were emotionally draining. Rafe’s unpredictability and inconsistency only added to the stress. Sometimes he’d show up, but his presence felt more distant than comforting. Most of the time, I faced doctor’s appointments and navigated the challenges of pregnancy alone.

“I have one last doctor’s appointment before my due date,” I told him.

Rafe nodded, his expression remaining unbothered. “Oh yeah, right. That’s next week, right?”

“Yeah… will you come?” I asked, hoping for some show of support.

Rafe hesitated for a moment, then gave an indifferent shrug. “Sure, I’ll come.”

“I was thinking we could do a bit of shopping before the baby gets here, you know? We can buy her some cute little dresses.”

Rafe’s expression started off indifferent, but a small sigh escaped him. His shoulders sagged slightly as he replied, “Yeah, I guess we can do some shopping. But forget it, I don’t care for all that pink stuff. You know I like the more natural colors.”

“Oh, come on, pink is essential,” I teased him, trying to lighten the mood.

Rafe rolled his eyes, a slight hint of annoyance in his voice. “Essential? You’re going to make our baby look like a walking cotton candy or something?”

“Yes, and she’ll be the cutest cotton candy to ever exist,” I replied playfully.

After the doctor’s appointment, Rafe and I went to a few stores to pick up some last-minute necessities. He followed me around, slightly frustrated, bearing with the shopping trip. He picked up some items with a hint of annoyance, mostly focusing on the practical things.

“Oh, Rafe, look at this! Isn’t it adorable?” I gushed, holding up a tiny Hello Kitty onesie for him to see.

I held up the onesie, but he barely spared it a glance. “Yeah, it’s cute,” he mumbled, his tone flat and uninterested.

“I’m going to get it,” I said while walking to the checkout line.

Rafe nodded, his expression betraying his lack of enthusiasm.

-

The birth went smoothly, thanks to the epidural. Rafe had come down to Vegas a week before the due date to make sure everything went smoothly. And while he wasn’t exactly bursting with excitement, there was a hint of anticipation in his eyes when he saw his baby girl for the first time.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” I said, my voice calm but full of affection.

As Rafe looked down at our newborn daughter, a flicker of admiration sparked in his eyes. His voice, softer than usual, added, “Yeah, she is. And she’s ours.”

“I’m going to name her Margaret. A beautiful name for a beautiful baby,” I said, my heart swelling with love for her.

As Rafe heard the name I chose, he nodded, his expression neutral. But there was something in his voice, a subtle approval. “Margaret, huh? That’s a nice name. Definitely better than some of the other ones you had thrown around earlier.”

“Oh, stop it,” I laughed, rolling my eyes playfully.

Rafe smirked, a hint of teasing in his tone. “Hey, I’m just being honest. Some of those names you suggested were ridiculous.”

“Do you want to hold her?” I asked, wanting him to have a moment with our daughter.

He hesitated for a moment, his usual confident demeanor faltering. “Uh, sure. I guess I can hold her. Just for a minute.” As Rafe held the tiny baby in his arms, his expression softened. The usual boldness melted away, giving him a tender tone. He spoke to her in a sweet voice, his words filled with awe. “Hey there, little one… You’re just a tiny little thing, aren’t you?”

-

Initially, it seemed like things might improve after the baby’s birth, especially when I came home from the hospital. However, over time, Rafe’s behavior changed back to his usual, uncaring demeanor. The brief baby bliss he displayed in the hospital quickly faded.

The phone rang for a few moments before Rafe picked up, his voice slightly irritated as his usual nonchalance seeped through. “What’s up?”

“You promised you’d be here a week ago. Where the hell are you?” I asked, frustration lacing my words.

Rafe sighed, clearly annoyed by the question. His voice remained apathetic as he responded. “I told you, I’ve been busy. I’ve got things to deal with, you know?”

“You have a daughter now. I know you’ve got a wife and two kids back home, but you can’t just abandon us like this,” I said, my voice shaky but firm.

Rafe grumbled, his irritation sharpening his voice. “Abandon? I’m not abandoning anyone. I’m just handling things with my family. I can’t drop everything just because we have a kid now.”

I stayed silent for a moment, processing his words. Does he not think before he speaks? Does he not realize how much his words sting? “Okay, Rafe. Well, make sure you come by... please.”

His tone softened slightly, but his voice remained neutral. “Alright. I’ll swing by in a few days, okay? Don’t keep nagging me about it.”

Six months have passed since Margaret’s birth, and she’s growing cuter and bigger each day. Yet Rafe’s behavior remains unchanged. He continues to act distant, rarely showing any real interest in me or the baby. Rafe is at the apartment again. I thought it would be a calm visit, just the two of us, so he could spend some time with his daughter. But it seems like we can never be around each other without arguing.

“Seriously, can you just relax? You’re being overdramatic about everything,” Rafe says dismissively.

“I’m not being overdramatic! You’re barely here, it’s like we don’t even exist to you,” I snap, unable to hold back the frustration anymore.

Rafe rolls his eyes as he gets up from the floor, where he was playing with Margaret. His voice laced with anger. “Oh please, just because I’m not here 24/7 doesn’t mean you don’t exist to me. I’ve got another family back home. I can’t just ditch them for you.”

“That’s not the point!” I shout, hurt and angry. “At least make an effort to show you actually care. If you don’t want to be with me, that’s fine, but at least try to be in your daughter’s life.”

He groans in frustration, clearly annoyed by my point. “I do show I care, alright? I provide for you, don’t I? And I’ve been over here plenty of times to see her. What more do you want from me?”

“I want you to be a man,” I yell, my voice shaking with anger. “I don’t even know how you can call yourself a father!”

Rafe’s irritation boils over as Margaret starts to cry from the shouting. He shoots me a glare before shouting back in an authoritarian tone, “For Christ’s sake, stop yelling! You’re scaring her!”

“You should blame yourself for this,” I snap, my voice cold. “If it wasn’t for you, this argument wouldn’t have started.”

Rafe’s patience snaps. His frustration morphs into full-blown anger. He steps closer, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t forget who you’re talking to. I’m the one paying your rent, so you better watch your fucking tone. ”

“Or what?” I challenge him, my heart racing.

His eyes narrow, his voice more menacing. “Or you’ll regret it. I’m warning you, don’t test me, not when I’ve got you living under my dollar.”

Rafe walks past me and storms out of the apartment, and the moment the door slams shut, I let the tears fall down my cheeks. I try to hold back my sobs, attempting to stay strong for Margaret’s sake, but the weight of the argument makes it impossible. The situation has reached a breaking point, and I can’t help but wonder how things have gotten so out of control between us.

[batwynn]

If anyone’s wondering what the rural side of a purple USA state is looking like right now, here’s a sample:

80% of the roads are almost completely impassible around the entire state. Massive holes destroying cars. Newly paved roads destroyed in 3 months. We barely had money for cheap patches last year, we are likely not going to have any money for roads and bridges at all this year. Both roads that lead to where I live have collapsing culverts under the roads because they installed plastic ones instead of metal, meaning in DAYS myself, 20+ households, and 5+ farms will not be able to get in and out of our homes. And yet, not a single person out here other than me will complain or say anything to get it fixed because they’re full of complex guilt over voting for this to happen to all of us. My emails and calls to the office of two people that manage this area have been ignored. They’re too busy trying to move the gigantic chunks of ice that flooded several roads from the river flooding severely this year. No, climate change didn’t cause this how dare you even bring that up when people are dealing with results of *climate change?!*

We are getting punished, as a state, because our governor chose to follow the rule of state-controlled law about trans people participating in sports and that made somebody angwy. Most people around here have decided any harm caused by this are trans people’s faults and there has been an even sharper rise in aggression at even the hint of gender-nonconformity. Yes, even the dog’s genders are more intensely defined right now.

Everyone is angry. Every single person. People who wanted this are angry, but can’t even begin to face why. A lot of people who didn’t vote for this are too scared to say anything because most of us are in very real danger. We are so fucking angry, though. If you’re a visible minority and/or wear a mask, the MAGA will unleash their displaced rage on you every opportunity they can get. The people who can afford to be vocal about it are also in danger. Power keg doesn’t even begin to describe it.

60% of people visiting this area were Canadians crossing the border to shop and idk hang out I guess? I have not seen a single Canadian license plate in almost a month now. The hotels are all weirdly open for booking all year when they’re usually booked up. People here are upping their advertising for off-roading, fishing, camping, etc. No, they haven’t figured it out yet.

There’s been a sharp rise of domestic violence, violent interactions on the road, and drug use has spiked. Everyone’s very angry at a few drug users who are living in extreme poverty in town when half their household is using alcohol or other drugs to deal with their daily lives as well. Again, a lot of misplaced anger, yelling at the suffering as though they caused it all.

A loooot of local people just got cut off from contact from their not-asshole families for the first time ever, so you hear a lot of ‘we used to be able to stick together as a country’ and ‘we shouldn’t let things divide us’. No, they won’t say what divided them from their families because they’re still pretending they didn’t do anything wrong even when it’s starting to actually affect their daily lives negatively.

Some of the farmers have been pretty quiet about their politics since somebody cut all of their incoming money. I’ve looked into some of the local farm’s records in the past and know for a fact that their more shady-ish practices got them more money from the government than they got from actually selling food. Billions more. Now nothing. So very quiet.

A weird, sharp turn against the cops has happened ever since people finally saw baby’s first corruption. Billions of dollars for cops that was supposed to go towards something, and has just sort of… vanished for four years now. People started admitting they didn’t vote for it to go to them, so how did it get passed? They’re all very close to Getting It but they still thinks the cops will fuck them save them from the Transes so they can’t get over that hump yet.

There are a select few who are the most normal Joes you’ve ever seen going about their lives very happily and averagely because literally none of this has affected them yet and yes, they’re all younger cishet white men. (I guess they don’t eat eggs?)

Eggs. Rages about eggs. Egg orgies at the chicken people’s houses. So much cash in hand for eggs. People who didn’t even like eggs are all about buying the cheapest from the most backyard-est chickens. People buying chickens who couldn’t raise a chia pet. None of them even aknowledge the bird flu, but they sure have a lot to say about not vaccinating their chickens.

Raw milk. Orgies at the dairy. So much cash in hand for raw milk. People who are lactose intolerant buying it by the bucketload because not only is it ‘free of *insert random thing they’re afraid of here*’ but also ‘*more misinformation*’ and ‘lactose intolerant people can drink it because it’s *insert some random Christian phrasing about purity*’

No sharp rise in church going. Churches have actually closed. The religion has twisted itself too far away from even that.

The dollar (1.50) store is packed. Still no acknowledgement of why we’re all so poor that we’re all getting our groceries here together, because that would admit to a systematic problem. The food there is getting shadier and shadier. We’re all just sort of waiting for the day some bacteria or random rat shit dropped in from the factory kills us from our $1.50 mystery meat frozen meal.

Isolation for queer people—especially trans people—has quadrupled. We aren’t even looking at one another in the stores anymore. No silent looks of acknowledgement or knowing smiles. We pretend we didn’t clock each other at all now. Everyone is cishet/binary passing as much as we can. The tension and fear is very high.

No one, apparently, remembers the caterpillars that destroyed all the trees last year, or the fact that we were warned it would happen again this year 10x worse. Or the fact that scientists said the trees can only handle so many years without fucking leaves. They’re going to die in droves if this keeps happening. It’s literally been completely forgotten by everyone. If you bring it up they stare at you blankly.

The local younger generation are more nihilistic and risk taking than ever. They keep dying while driving 108mph, or from overdoses. They’re angry and scared and genuinly suicidal. The kids aren’t, in fact, alright.

80% of the people you meet around town have been day drinking at the local bowling alley. Yes, they’re all drinking and driving. No, the billionaire cops are not even present on the roads.

Ticks. More ticks than ever before. No, do not even mention climate change this just mysteriously happened.

Surprisingly (I joke), there has a rise in even more mediocre white men in jobs they’re not qualified for as a lot of the older generation are retiring after one too many injuries on the job. You cannot, for the life of you, find a plumber within a 200mile distance that will actually show up and do the job correctly, nevermind well. One guy had this area covered for 50 something years before and apparently was the last person to know how to do their job. Now it’s daily posts on facebook of people looking for a plumber, 20 year old dude ‘master plumbers’ saying they’ll fix it, then the OP posting again looking for a plumber and maybe a priest a week later.

Did I mention how incredibly angry everyone is?

[mwahgo]

SLEEPING WITH THE COOK

— Black leg Sanji x Fem! Reader (One Piece)

[+18 MINORS DO NOT INTERACT 18+]

Summary: After being cock blocked the whole day, you and Sanji finally get to take your pleasure escapade away from the crew.

Word count: 2,345 words

Tags: Usage of Y/N, flirting, making out, cockblocked multiple times, P in V, unprotected sex, breeding kink, oral (fem! receiving), love hotel, rough sex, FWB relationship

Mwahgo's note: Thank you for whoever suggested this! (I need to get through my reqs HUHUHU)

You placed your chin on your palm as you watched Sanji cooking with interest. His broad back turned to you as he stirs something in the pot while humming a sailor’s song. His cigarette placed on the far corner to avoid getting the smell of it to the food he is about to serve. You and Sanji have been doing this routine for a while now, waking up as early as him as you accompany him in the kitchen, coffee in your hand to get the day started with some energy. You always join him in the kitchen that has some of the Straw hats think that you’re dating (Nami has obviously made a bet about it) and to be honest with yourself, you’re not so sure yourself.

Your relationship with Sanji started with just a little flirting—Sanji being his usual self, giving over-the-top compliments to you, showering you with so much adoration and dedicating himself to let you know how my he loves you.

On the other hand, you wanted to entertain his flirting. Nami and Robin usually dismiss it—Nami being a little too harsh on him and Robin just smiles and ignores him either way. You felt bad, the man loves women, he couldn’t help but fawn over them by just their presence alone. One breathe of a lady and Sanji is already shouting to the rooftop how gorgeous she is.

You went along with his flirting, which is something that Sanji didn’t expect. Every time you tease back, it always ends up him being red in the face, freezing in place and stuttering his words. You smirked, knowing you have him wrapped around your fingers. It was cute watching him crumble down his walls and blushing heavily, but knowing Sanji, he has never experienced getting flirted back.

The cycle of flirtation continues and it got to the point it led you and Sanji to bed—naked and sweaty. That night you discovered something within him, he wasn’t the usual soft gentleman in the outside. You discovered Sanji was rough in bed, panting heavily in your ear, whispering these praises to keep you going as he drills your cock in your pussy. It led you panting heavily and sore from your hips to your legs on how tight he grips you.

But even with that, he was still a gentleman with the aftercare, he would get up and grab a towel to clean you, asks if you’re okay and was he too rough—which you answered it was the sex in your life. He’ll massage your sore muscles before cuddling you in bed, it was truly the best.

You can’t look at him properly after that, like right now, he has a serene smile plastered on his face as he chops up some vegetables. He was an animal in bed and now he’s acting like a domestic husband, cooking up his wife some of her favorite food. It drives you insane, you wanted him, you want him to treat you like a common slut in bed again. Your panties soaked with arousal as you stare at him with lust in your eyes.

Sanji noticed your unusual silence and looks up to you, “Something wrong, my sweets?”

You irked at the sweet nickname as you finished your morning coffee as you approached the sink. Sanji frowned at the silence, thinking he might’ve accidentally did something as you placed your empty coffee mug in the sink, “If there’s something bothering you, I can he—OMF!” You cut him off by kissing his lips.

His hands grips the counter behind him as you smother his lips with kisses, desperately trying to get him to do something, “W-Wait, Y/N-chan, n-not in here!” He blushed.

“I don’t give a fuck, Sanji just fuck me, please,” You begged as you went back to kissing him.

Sanji wrapped his arms your waist as he finally gives in as you both started making out in the kitchen. The atmosphere became more intense as your hands grabbed his nape to pull him closer. You hips started grinding on his clothed cock as he whimpered in your lips, his hands trailed down your ass and grabs it.

You were about to remove his button up shirt, someone bangs on the door, “SANJI! WHEN ARE WE GETTING FOOD?!” Luffy’s voice rang behind the door.

You both jumped in surprise as you suddenly pulled away, “Goddamnit Luffy! Make your hungry ass wait!” Sanji yells back

He sighed as he pulls away to continue cooking, “Sorry, love but the others are waiting and you know how our captain can be,” Sanji smiled sadly as he went back to cooking as you scoffed annoyingly.

This happened almost for the whole day, the Straw hats constantly cockblocking you and Sanji. At any given chance, when you’re about to have this intense moment together and it was already leading to sex, any member of the Straw hats cuts you off.

You were making out with Sanji at the back deck of the Going Merry when you suddenly heard Nami’s voice calling you. You quickly pulled away from Sanji as Nami grabs your arms and pulls you away, “Come on, I need help picking my outfit!” She cried

You pulled Sanji to the kitchen—hoping to get lesser attention to the crew members as you straddled on his lap as you both started making out again. It was getting good until the door creaked open, you and Sanji jumped in shock as you fell off his lap and hit the floor, “Oh hey, Sanji, you’ve seen my screwdriver?” Usopp asks, “Also, what are you doing on the floor, Y/N?”

You both moved to the crow’s nest in desperation and you started making out again until you heard some grumbling from the door, “Wh-what the..” You and Sanji shrieked in shock as Zoro climbs in the crow’s nest, “What the hell are you two doi—” “GET OUT MOSSHEAD!”

You were getting irritated, your leg bouncing impatiently as you leaned on the railing with a hot head. You just want the simple things in life and you love the Straw hats but today just seems like it’s just a bad day for you. Sanji is also the same, he already finished 3 boxes of cigarettes out of sexual frustration, well, it was kinda your fault as well. You’ve been pushing to the edge, despite the fact you know the crew will always be present.

“Nami, look! I see an island ahead!” Luffy called, pointing over to a small island, “Let’s go! Let’s go!” Luffy cheered

Nami sighed at the captain’s enthusiasm, “Okay, calm down Luffy, we do need to update the log post” She said, looking down at it, “Everyone! Prepare to dock!” She calls for the others

An idea popped in your head as Sanji bursts out from the kitchen, yelling out for Nami. Before he starts moving around the ship, you grabbed his tie and pulls him close to you, “Let’s go grocery shopping later,” You whispered, menacingly.

Sanji sweat dropped, nervously, “Wh-why?”

You clicked your tongue in annoyance, “Just. Because.” He gulped.

The Going Merry docked by the shore of the remote island as the Straw hats looked over the small village ahead, “I smell adventure! WOHOOO!” Luffy cheered as he immediately jumped off the ship and ran to the city.

“LUFFY—Ugh.. When will he learn self control?” Nami frowned

“When will you ever get use to his stupidity..?” Zoro smirked as he jumps off the ship, following after Luffy.

Nami sighs and Robin just giggles with their antics as the ship properly docked, they boarded off the ship with Chopper willing to guard the it. You waited for Sanji at the dock with a plan in mind as he finally comes down with some bags to “buy grocery”.

“Are you ready to go, Y/N-chan?” He asked sweetly as you smirked. You walked into the small market, Sanji looking intently at the different fresh products as you smirked mischievously beside him.

“Sanji, there’s this one market here that’ll probably interest you,” You said

His eyes turned into hearts, “YES! Lead the way, my love!” He exclaimed

You smirked as you pass by the moving crowd, holding his hand so that you wouldn’t get separated. After a good walk, you both entered an alleyway and went down a couple of stairs until you got to a small pink building with a sign that says “love hotel”.

Sanji’s eyes widened as he blushes, “M-My dear, I get what you want but shouldn’t we continue shopping?” He asked

You giggled, “Sanji, I never really wanted to go shopping,” His eyes widened, “I just wanted some time away from the crew… Just us, alone,” You smiled, seductively.

Sanji blushed heavily, “Yo-You really are desperate, Y/N-chan?” He chuckled

You laughed as you entered the love hotel. The receptionist greeted you as you booked a room for 2. They nodded and gave you the key and a “Do Not Disturb” sign before going to your room.

As you entered, the walls are painted in red velvet. In the ceiling, there is a circular mirror that points to the queen size bed, covered in silk sheets. A couple of walls are also covered with mirrors and by the nightstand, there’s a pack of condoms perched on a small ceramic bowl.

As the door closes, you and Sanji didn’t waste any time as you both stripped your clothes off and Sanji gently laid you down the bed, “I’ve been waiting for so long, Sanji,” You whimpered as you kissed his lips.

“Fuck.. Me too, love” He moaned in the kiss as he trailed his lips down to your neck, sucking on your sweet spot. You bit your lip as he trails his lips down to your breasts, sucking on one side as his the other one is being played by his fingers.

“Sanji, please, I need you,” You whimpered as he chuckles in response.

“Patience, my dear, you were able to do it before, yeah?” You nodded, “… Then let me have my time with you,” He reached down to your aching pussy as he spreads your legs open, showing how wet you were, waiting for him. His tongue licks up from your hole to your clit, making you moan as he wrapped his lips around your clit before sucking on it.

“Ohhhh~ Sanji!” Your back arched and your hand grabs his blonde hair, pulling him closer to your pussy. He eats pussy loudly, squelching noises of your arousal and his saliva echoes in the room, along with your loud moans.

“S-Sanji.. you suck my pussy so good!” You whimpered as your hand grips the sheets. You gasped as he sucked on a sensitive spot, making you throw your head back in pleasure, “Ohhh please, Sanji! Don’t stop,”

Sanji hummed around your pussy before pulling away, making you whimper helplessly. He smirked before climbs on the bed, pumping his cock, “Do you want me to fuck you now, Y/N-chan?”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, “Yes, please… Fuck my poor pussy,” You begged.

He smirked as his cock tip entered your wet pussy, making you moan loudly. Sanji started with a controlled pace, slowly thrusting his hips, making his cock fill your pussy, “Do you feel me there, love? My cock… ugh.. slowly filling your pussy?” He grunted.

You nodded frantically, “Yes! Yes please, fuck me harder!” His eyes widened by your request.

“H-Harder?” You nodded

“Please.. fuck me harder, l-like how you were rough with me before. I want to feel your cock.. deep inside me,” You whined

Your hips tried to push back on Sanji’s until he suddenly grabbed and pinned them to the bed. You gasped as he raised your legs to his shoulders, “I’ll give you what you want, darling,” He groaned before his hips quicken.

You gasped at the sudden change of pace as the slapping of your skins together rings inside the love room. Your eyes rolled back as Sanji’s cock bullied your insides—you can feel him hitting your cervix as you moaned loudly, “Ohhh yes! Yes! Just l-like that, Sanji. Fuck me hard!” You cried.

He nodded as he pinned your hands above your head, “Y-Yes, my love, I’ll fuck you.. the hardest.. Fuck!” He groaned as he felt a tight coil in his stomach, “Oh god, Y/N-chan, I’m gonna cum!” He moaned

You giggled seductively, “C-Cum inside me, baby. Please!” His eyes widened.

“I-Inside?” He asked, his hips stuttering, signaling that he’s about to cum, “Y-Yes, Sanji please. I wanna feel your cum!” You cried.

He nodded as his pace quickens and his groans gotten loud. With one last thrust, you felt him cumming inside you, making you cum along with him. You moaned loudly as his hips stuttered before plopping down above you, burying his head on your shoulder.

You both panted heavily, “A-Are you okay, Y/N-chan?” Sanji asked.

You nodded in response, too tired to actually talk. Sanji slowly pulls out as his cum leaks out your pussy—almost making him fuck you again but he knew you were too tired for another round as he stood up from the bed and went to the bathroom to grab a towel. He came back and you were already settled in bed, sleeping peacefully. He sighed as he cleaned you up, trying his best not to disturb your sleep. He threw the towel to the floor and climb under the blanket with you. He admires your peaceful resting face as he leans down and kisses your forehead before settling in bed as he falls asleep.

[echoes-of-a-dream]

blind instinct 0.4 | matt murdock

blind instinct masterlist | matt murdock masterlist

synopsis: when you find matt unconscious and bleeding out, your instinct is to take him to the e.r.: good instinct. when they won’t release information on his condition to anyone outside of kin, you lie and say you’re his wife: bad instinct. when matt wakes up from surgery with amnesia, believing when the doctors say you’re married, you play along to keep him safe: you don’t even know how to categorize that one.

amnesia | childhood best friends to lovers | marriage of convenience/fake marriage | slow burn | mutual pining | wc 2.5k

note: this one is a lot longer than usual and literally none of what i planned on happening (there was supposed to be a conversation with a nurse [not claire] and the return of dr. bahl. and also a psychiatrist who got moved from character to throw-away comment) happened. and all of this conversation that happened wasn't meant to; basically matt looked at my planning and smirked and said no thank you. so without further ado...

<- previous chapter

You had all fallen into different conversations, the group avoiding discussing the elephant in the room until finally Foggy can’t take it. “Alright, let’s talk,” he begins once you’re conceivably sure that Matt is asleep.

You turn from your discussion with Luke and Claire to face where he, Jessica, and Karen are standing, having had their own conversation.

“Right,” you agree, forcing a confidence you don’t feel. “Jess, you manage to find anything?”

Jessica scoffs and shakes her head. “There were cops everywhere. Even blocked people from getting in the building.”

You raise your brow. “And that stopped you?”

“No. But it made things a hell of a lot harder. By the time I got there, assailants had been taken away, most of the stuff already bagged. I’m heading back in the morning when there’s less attention. Maybe I can find something they missed.”

You frown in displeasure at that but are unsurprised. 

“Do you have any idea why they attacked Matt?” Karen asks. “You’re the only one to have been there.”

“No,” you admit, frustrated with yourself for the answer despite the fact that it was entirely out of your control. You’re aware of what she’s asking. “They were all knocked out by the time I got there, so I don’t know if they know who he is or if it was just that lawyer Matt Murdock stepped on too many toes.”

“Well, if it was the latter, why not go after me?” Foggy points out.

Luke and Claire share a look. “Maybe you’re next,” Luke suggests.

“Great,” Jessica mutters.

Karen’s expression pinches in worry. “You might want to relocate tomorrow night, stay in a hotel with Marci for a few days.”

Foggy pales and whips out his phone, already headed for the door. “Shit, I didn’t even think about that.”

Foggy now gone, the others turn to you. “I don’t like those expressions,” you say slowly, already nervous.

They exchange glances until finally Claire puts a hand on your shoulder. “Look, while you and Matt were talking, we were trying to figure out the best way to move forward, considering the amnesia.”

“And?” You have a very strong feeling you won’t like where this is going.

“We think it would be for the best if you… played along with the marriage thing. When he gets out, he goes to your apartment.”

You laugh.

The group, once again, exchanges looks. “Seriously,” Foggy agrees as he walks back in, halting your nervous laughter. “You can’t tell him.”

“Why not?” 

It’s Jessica who pipes up, now. “For his safety. Matt doesn’t remember being… anything, so he isn’t prepared if they’re coming after him. Until he remembers, it’s safer to keep it all a secret.”

“So we don’t mention his extracurriculars, okay. Why does he have to still be married to me, though?”

“We can keep an eye on him better that way.” Foggy again. “There’s someone with him if something happens before Jess can figure out who did this. Plus, Matt’s an idiot—what if he decides to become a vigilante again, independent of us telling him? He sure as hell didn’t tell anyone last time. This way, we’re aware.”

“What, so this is just a unilateral decision? I don’t get a say?” By their expressions, the answer to that is no. The anger drops, gives way to exhaustion, and you scrub your free hand, the one not currently tangled in Matt’s locks, over your face. It falls away, and you grimace. “I don’t like this.”

“Nor do any of us,” Karen comforts. “But you made a choice, and… moving forward, this is the best option we see.”

You see their point, really, you do. Matt is a genius but his common sense is a little… lacking, especially when it comes to himself and his health. You sigh, hand stilling in Matt’s hair as you fiddle with your grandmother’s rings between your thumb and ring finger. “Alright.”

“Alright?” Foggy parrots, not expecting the easy acquiescence.

“Only until we find out who attacked him,” you clarify, eyes narrowed, subconsciously resuming your earlier motion of running your fingers through his hair repeatedly. “Or when his memories return. Whichever happens first.”

“If his me-”

“When,” you cut in. “When, Foggy, when they return.”

Foggy looks like he’s going to further argue that point, but Claire jumps in first. “Deal.” 

“Deal,” you agree. “And Jess?”

“Yeah?”

“Find the bastards quick. Please.”

You don’t know when you fell asleep. The others had talked for a little while before heading out—first Claire, returning to work, and Luke leaving with his girlfriend before heading who knows where; then Jessica, to investigate; Foggy, to check on Marci; and Karen, to… these days, you don’t even ask.

You wake up to the sound of nurses moving around, monitors beeping. You let out a groggy grumble as you lift your head from where it was resting in the crook of your elbow by Matt’s thighs. The brightness of the room causes you to wince.

“Apologies, Mrs. Murdock,” one says. 

“‘S fine,” you manage to respond to him, embarrassed at how you look. You look at Matt, who seems a lot cleaner than when you fell asleep. “H’re y’ feeling?”

Matt chuckles. “From how you sound, I feel like I should be asking you.”

“Matt,” you reprimand, a little more awake and alert now.

His smile turns thin. “Well, I still don’t remember anything.”

“Oh.” Your stomach sinks, but you force a smile back on. It’s better for him if he doesn’t, you remind yourself. “That’s okay. Other than that? Did they let you shower?”

“Not yet. Gave me a sponge bath, though.” His smile grows more strained, obviously uncomfortable with the idea, so you reach for his hand and squeeze it for comfort.

He maintains his grip when you try to pull away, prompting you to stop. He turns your hand over in his hand, feeling over the rings. “I got you these?”

You clear your throat. “No, uh, they’re my… my grandmother’s.” You quickly change the subject. “Uh, let’s get you caught up on the major events since 2012. Uh, 2014, you quit working at L&Z and dragged Foggy along with you.” And became a masked vigilante while you were at it, you think but don’t say. “A few months later, you guys started Nelson & Murdock. You remember Karen, one of the people that stopped by yesterday?”

Matt furrows a brow, thinking. “Vaguely, I think so.”

“Yeah, she was your first client.”

“Really?”

“Yup. Framed for the murder of a coworker, then someone tried to kill her in her cell, she had a pretty rough go of it.”

“Why?”

“Found some inconsistencies in the accounts, figured out some stuff people didn’t want to know. Someone got the data to the New York Bulletin and she was acquitted. Whole company got absorbed into another corporation.”

“And continued doing the same thing, I’m guessing.”

“Got it in one.”

“What about the others that were here?”

“Well, Jessica Jones is a similar story—you met when she was framed for murder, also stole evidence, but that one was real.”

“Are my friends all just former clients?” Matt jokes, although you can tell he’s a little disconcerted at the idea.

“Well, Luke was Foggy’s client, if that helps.”

He huffs out something close to a laugh. “Not sure it does, but thanks. What about the last one? The… nurse, right? I think she came in earlier, while you were asleep. Before the psychiatrist.”

Dang. How long was I asleep for? “You met Claire when you… passed out, she’s a nurse and took you to her apartment to help fix you up.”

“Passed out? Why? And why not take me to the hospital?”

Your smile strains. “She comes from a low-income area. Not everyone can afford a hospital, and it’s not like you were conscious enough to tell her whether or not you could.”

“You dodged the first question.”

“I’m well aware.”

“Okay, then,” Matt allows. “Just… I don’t have seizures or anything, do I?”

“Nope. Just chronic stupidity that sometimes leads to you not taking care of yourself well enough to make it home without passing out.”

“...That unfortunately tracks.”

“Yup.” You pop the ‘p’ awkwardly. “There’s a lot of other stuff to catch up on, so, uh… what questions do you have? What’s most important to you to cover?”

A shit-eating grin forms on his face. “I pray thee now tell me, for which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?”

You gape at him, and if he weren’t injured you’d whack him with a pillow. “You can’t remember the past decade, but you can remember a line out of Much Ado About Nothing?”

“You only read it to me fifteen hundred times when you were memorizing your lines back at St. Agnes.”

“That-” you point a finger, “is not my fault. You could have left at any point.”

“And do what? Get in another fight?”

“You do seem to have a knack for that.” You gesture to his current state. “Although I must request you don’t get into any more. You wanna go to the gym, punch some bags, be my guest, but walking in and finding you bleeding out is not on my list of desired repeat experiences,” you joke.

Matt is silent for a moment. When he speaks, it’s a lot quieter. “You found me?” 

Shit. You hadn’t meant to let that slip. “...Yeah.”

“They said- I thought- When I woke, they told me you weren’t there.”

“I wasn’t,” you confirm. You search through your brain to find a way to word things so you aren’t technically lying. “I, uh, went back to my apartment. My lease ends soon, and most of my stuff is still there, hasn’t been moved to yours. I needed to grab something. But, uh…” you let out an awkward, slightly self deprecating chuckle as your breath quickens. You teeter on the edge of panic as you recount the events of the night, still traumatized by the scene, but try to maintain your composure. “Left my purse at the apartment, so I had to go back. You weren’t answering, so I freaked and broke in-”

“Wow, breaking and entering,” Matt interrupts with a joke, hand squeezing yours. To help you center yourself. You give him a brittle smile, grateful for the attempt to calm you. “Need a lawyer for that?”

“One not on bedrest, probably,” you tease, pausing to breathe. When you’re able to speak again, you give Matt a nod of thanks. “Oh, uh, by the way, you, uh, I know about the… sensitivities.”

Matt’s a little guarded at that, before forcing himself to untense. “Makes sense. We’re married, I figure I would have told you.”

“Well…” you worry your lip. “It’s not just me. Everyone in the… friend group, for lack of a better term, knows.”

“Why?”

“You’ve gotten a little more open in the past years.”

Matt scoffs. “That’s a lie.”

“No, it isn’t.” You brush a thumb back and forth across his hands. “You’ve had some… setbacks, some big mistakes, but you’ve grown a lot, Matty. You’ve gotten better at letting people in. You’re still by no means the best, but you’re better at it than you used to be.”

He’s silent for another long moment, before prompting, “So. You broke in?”

You allow him to change the subject, as he did for you before. “Yeah. Decided to follow in your delinquent footsteps.”

“Hey! I never broke the law!”

“Assault isn’t illegal any more? Battery?”

“Extenuating circumstances.” You raise a brow at his defense. “...I see your point. Touche.”

“I don’t think you see much of anything,” you tease.

Matt chuckles again, but motions for you to continue. You sigh, picking a spot on the wall to stare at. “You were- there were some other guys. Unconscious. You were in the remains of your coffee table-” here, Matt winces, probably imagining his back through said table, “and a lot of blood. I wish I could say more theirs than yours, but…”

“Hey.” It’s only when he wipes away a tear that you realize you’re crying. You sniffle slightly. “I’m sorry you had to see that.” His voice is gentle, soothing.

“I, I thought-” you choke slightly on a sob. “G-d, Matt, I thought you were gonna die on me. 911 was taking so long, and you didn’t stay awake, and you were- I was- I-”

“C’mere.” He shifts slightly, pain flashing across his features for a second before he suppresses it. 

“Matt-” You don’t want him in pain, nor do you want to 

“Please.” It’s that and his lethal puppy dog eyes that prompt you to sigh and comply, sitting on the bed and scooting closer to him. It’s nothing you haven’t done before—you grew up together, and Matt is a very tactile person, so you’ve cuddled before—but the context, pretending to be his fake wife, makes it all feel… different.

Matt wraps an arm around you, tugging you closer, but you resist when he tries to get you to lay your head on his chest. “Line drawn here.”

“Okay.” He sighs but complies. “How much have you slept?”

You check the clock. “About four hours,” you realize in surprise. Before that, you were awake for… well, a while. You had gotten to the apartment around 21:45, then there was ten minutes for the ambulance to get there and twelve minutes back to the hospital, Matt was rushed to surgery and that took about two and a half hours, and then there was another hour before you could see him. Then probably another hour and a half before you fell asleep, around 03:15, and now it’s 7:19. Combine that with having woken up at six the morning before and the trauma of the night before, and it’s no wonder you’re exhausted.

“Well, I’m tired, and you’re tired, and you feel like you have dried blood in your hair, which I now realize is mine, and I’m going to take a wild guess and assume that extends to your skin and clothes, which can’t be comfortable. So we’re going to take another nap until Foggy gets back here with whoever the other people mentioned earlier were, and then you’re going to go home and shower and change and get some food in you and come back.”

“You’re in a hospital bed, aren’t I supposed to be giving you orders?”

“I’ve got nurses for that. I’ve only got one wife, though, and I’d rather not lose her because she was so focused on me she forgot about self-care, okay?” “Mkay,” you murmur, already drowsy again, but can’t help the guilt when he says the word ‘wife’. Your last thought as you drift off again is a sad and you don’t even have that.

next chapter ->

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[starmocha]

Xiiiiiuuu 💕

it's a brand new Monday, I had a dream with zayne that left me with some searing doubts and i wanna make it everyone's problem:

seeing the guys breaking for being so pent up after days apart from mc is cute and all

but what about a really pent up mc who's also ovulating and she hasn't seen her men in almost a month coz of a silly, classified mission that had her traveling everywhere and put her in a routine where she was too exhausted to do anything else but sleep once she was at the hotel

any kind of text she exchanged with the guys would sometimes get real flirty (initiated by her coz they're all gentlemen and the thing that mattered the most was if she was OK) but she'd end up falling asleep and frustrating herself

so when she comes back, she's pampered by them and they're really just happy she's back and she's ok but this girl is ravenous, and she's climbing on top of them and straddling them and grinding her hips and she's so eager that they have to hold her in place so they can even take a proper look at her face coz really, they can wait, she's tired, they don't have to do anything, they're just soooo fucking happy to be holding her again

and she's looking at them like they're all made of stars and love and she leans in, steals a kiss and while her face is red, cheeks hurting, her voice does not tremble at all when she whispers that she wants to feel them everywhere, and when theur hold on her gets a little tighter, fingers digging into her flesh, she adds that she wants to feel them in all of her holes 🙂

my question is: which of the guys just fucking loses it the hardest? i think all of them would short circuit a bit and almost cum on the spot tbh but they'd fulfill all of her wishes coz they just love her so much

(I'm blaming zayne for this question. blaming him and the desperate way he's always kissing mc. you fall asleep listening to silent poem for the billionth time and this is the result. damn you sexy snowman)

✨HAPPY MONDAY EVERYONE✨

I love a take charge MC. We stan. Get that dicc, girlie. 👏

Ok I accidentally wrote more than yap, so............I had a lot of thoughts........ 🙂 this will be on ao3, too.....

I feel like Xavier would break first. She just needs to mess with him a little and she'll get what she wants lol whereas Sylus would probably have the most control. Of course, he would lose it, too, but only after making sure she is truly wet for him. Anyhoo.................................

tit for tat

Xavier gets hard instantly, because what did his girl just fucking say to him? He knows they've been on different assignments lately and have had minimal contact, but surely that wasn't the reason she came back so... frisky, right? He's stammering, hands on her waist as she assaults him with kisses. It's not that he wants to stop her, but he wants to make sure she realizes what she is asking of him.

He's trying so hard to be a gentleman, but with the way she's grinding down on him, kissing him so hard, and then having the audacity to tease him finally made him snap. Before she realizes she had flipped a switch in him, he had pressed her down into the couch cushions, and he gives her The Xavier Stare Down™. She breathes in sharply. She's familiar with the way his eyes darken. In typical Xavier's fashion, he makes sure her legs are spread for him, and he chastises her, "You shouldn't have teased me so much. I would have been nicer to you."

She acts coy, letting him think he has control over her, but little does Xavier know, she wanted mean Xavier to take over. She anticipates he's going to help her relieve all of her... pent up energy.

sex on the beach

Rafayel is flustered. She had just said what?!

This isn't what he had thought would happen tonight. He had planned the perfect welcome home celebration for Miss Bodyguard. An exclusive reservation at one of the top-starred seafood restaurants, a walk on the beach, catching up under the stars, slowly reigniting the flame between them...

But she's in no mood to take it slow. She practically jumps him the moment they are back in his studio, and he finds himself dodging her advances, hiding behind canvases and the couch as she prowls to him like a lioness with her prey. He has never seen her like this before, and before things could escalate any further, Thomas calls his phone, immediately cockblocking the poor girl to her irritation. Normally, she likes Thomas, but this time, she is already planning his early retirement as Rafayel's agent.

After hanging up, Rafayel takes control of the situation again, saying with feigned disappointment that since the mood is ruined, they might as well still head out and continue with his original plans. She begrudgingly agrees, but throughout the whole dinner at the restaurant, Rafayel could see how frustrated she is. Not at him, per se, but she seems anxious to speed through dinner as quickly as possible.

Later when they walk along the beach together, his hand intertwined with hers and Rafayel is describing what he did during her absence, how boring everything was without her, and if it weren't for the secrecy of her mission, he would've bought a ticket and flew straight to her immediately. This makes her pause, and Rafayel looks at her with confusion.

She starts tearing up suddenly and asks why he was avoiding her earlier then if he claims to have missed her just as much as she had missed him. Immediately, he starts to panic a little, never expecting her to cry. He starts stammering out an explanation, saying he didn't think she was thinking clearly and he didn't want to take advantage of the situation.

She stops him. Suddenly, Rafayel finds himself pushed back, landing in the water, completely soaked. Before he could react, she straddles him and gently holds his chin up, making him look at her.

He realizes she was faking everything the whole time. He scoffs in disbelief, feeling foolish for falling for her ploy. "Crocodile tears, Miss Bodyguard?"

"How else would I get you to take me seriously?" she purrs against his ear, and his breath hitches. Her arms are around his neck, body pressing closer to him. She is just as soaked as he is now, he realizes, feeling the wet fabric cling to her body, his mind shifting focus to the slow grinds of her hips against him and his heart accelerating with every roll.

"This area is private," she whispers into his ear, noting the way it almost immediately turned red at her suggestive words. "Remember when I ordered a 'sex on the beach' earlier during dinner?"

"...Y-yeah..." His throat is dry, his mind already knowing what she is about to say next.

"I wasn't asking for a cocktail."

Immediately, his hands slip under the skirt of her dress, and he pauses almost as quickly, meeting her seductive gaze with surprise. "When did you—"

"They were already soaked before we left the studio. Seemed silly to change when you're just going to take them off anyway, right my fishie?"

He's going to lose his mind, but he gives into her spell, gladly and willingly ready to submit to her whims, to fall deeply into lust with her and drown in this pleasure.

on the same page

Zayne is picking her up from the airport and she nearly jumps on him. At first, Zayne thinks she's just excited to see him again. He misses her, too, and just kisses her back as normal.

Or so he thought.

The moment she gets in his car, she's grabbing his tie and tugging him to her into another heated kiss, surprising him with her boldness. He struggles to stop her, reminding her that they're still in public.

"So, if we're alone, then it's no problem, right?"

He knows what she's suggesting, but he doesn't comment on it. Instead, he buckles her seatbelt for her, intentionally ignoring the pout she gives him. During the drive back to their home, though, she notices how his large hand is covering her thigh, stroking and squeezing every so often. She steals a peek at him, but Zayne remains pokerfaced, and in fact, he is just conversing with her about mundane things. Still, she can't ignore the way his hand feels on her thigh in this moment, already wishing they were home now so he could pry her legs apart and see just how wet she already is for him.

The minute they are home and alone inside the house, Zayne drops his gentlemanly act. She is all over him again, more eager than before, because within the privacy of their home, there is no reason she needs to be discreet about her intents, right?

He lifts her into his arms, her legs wrapped around his waist as he presses her to the closest wall and his lips are all over hers as well. They're getting breathless, becoming delirious with desire for one another. He hears what she says, what she wants from him.

How convenient that this is what he wants, too, and if she's giving him her permission, then who is he to deny her this?

what an honor

Sylus is just delighted, because what did she just say to him?

He hasn’t misheard her, but he couldn’t help but messes with her a little, never imagining there would ever be a day that he would hear such bold, crass words out of the lovely Miss Hunter’s mouth.

"Sweetie, some men might misconstrue what you had just said—"

"You and I both know there is only one man I would say this to."

Fair point. He feels rather honored that she desires him in such a way, and he would be lying if he said he hadn't thought about her recently in a more... intimate nature.

He gets pulled back to the present, falling prey to her relentless kisses. He had missed the way her body feels on his, loving how she is finally being greedy and selfish, acting on her instincts and wanting to use him for her pleasure.

What she wants, he will give it to her.

And if what she wants is him... well then, he has always ever been hers and no one else's.

complete authority

Caleb is going to lose his fucking mind.

With their mismatched schedules lately, it's been difficult to see one another. Instead of arranging a day to meet up in Linkon or Skyhaven or even elsewhere in the world, Caleb comes home one day to find her already in his house in Skyhaven, waiting for him on the couch.

She has a key.

His home is her home.

And Caleb... well, Caleb is also hers. All hers. And she wants him now.

When he approaches her, she is already grabbing the lapels of his jacket and pulling him down on top of her. She's kissing him with so much force, not even bothering with the "hello, how are you" small talks. She needs him now. He's getting lost in her, enjoying the feel of her beneath him. He's kissing her back, getting pulled into the same haze of arousal as her. Things get even more heated as the minutes pass, their breathless gasps and moans filling the silence in his home. By now, he is practically humping her, because fuck, he's pent up, too. It's been weeks apart and the company of the Farspace Fleet is nothing compared to being with her.

His hands are tugging down her skirt, but he freezes when she tells him that.

"A-all of them?" he questions back, red-faced, half out of embarrassment, but the other half was complete arousal at the thought that she would let him use her like that, wanting him to fill all of her.

Feeling his bulge against her own arousal, she smiles back to him mischievously. "Did I stutter?"

He laughs and presses his forehead to hers before kissing her quickly. "You little... alright, be a good girl."

He's kissing her back with the same fervor, reminding her, "Whatever you want is what I'll offer to you."

And that includes the authority to command him.

[charrfie]

I recently had a clinical trial related dream and wanted to draw some moments from it. Below the read more I've included my dream journal entry of it and another bonus sketch!

The dream takes place after the events of the game itself, where angel and lee had been living together for roughly a year now. They settled into a schedule and were well accustomed to their daily rhythms. Angel, however, had used this time to start considering what they wanted to do with their life. Now that they weren't reliant on a paycheck to paycheck life, they could consider options and career paths that actually brought them joy, weren't detrimental to their health, and weren't too demanding of them. And so, for the first time in a long while, angel considered going back to college. Lee was quick to encourage them! They didn't know what they wanted to do quite yet aside from being in a creative field, so they planned to go in for general courses and eventually settle into a certain path. Unfortunately for lee, the college they would get into was states away (a couple days drive), and so he missed them terribly but still cheered them on in following their passions.

At first, they had some difficulty making friends. They weren't eager to open up and were afraid that if they did make friends there, they would eventually get burnt out from school a second time and leave them behind. Their favorite class in the first weeks turned out to be a film class! Their roommate also ended up in this same class, and so as luck would have it, they became fast friends despite angel's worries. She was a very adri-equivalent character.... though she WAS someone else in this dream. Unfortunately though, angel would also go on to make enemies with a girl in the same class that was incredibly rude to them for no reason, sabotaging them throughout the semester, tripping them, talking smack about them in front of their face, etc. Even going so far as to spread rumors about angel that almost got angel suspended from the school. It was probably transphobia or something idk; there's no other discernable reason for the random hatred campaign she was running. Thankfully, angel was still well-liked by their classmates and teachers. But it did wear on them.

Lee calls to check up on them often, always offering to make the drive up there in case angel needs anything, though angel is quick to assure him things are working out. They do confide in him about their bully, which he can tell is bothering them, even if they brush it off. He's worried sick about them being so far from home and having to deal with that.

As the semester nears it's end, and angel is getting ready to go back home in a couple weeks for break, they begin making a breakthrough with their bully. Again, for no discernable reason! All of a sudden she's nicer to them, even if there's traces of malice in their interactions with one another. Maybe school WILL be alright, they think. If this works out. If it's all settled. Maybe she's starting to see me as a person instead of a freak to harass.

With the closing of the semester comes two things: one, finals are due. In angel's film class, they're meant to bring in a final film they've shot to present to the class. As these presentations are happening, they're set to have a party in class, with everyone bringing different foods to eat while the watchparty happens! Two, after finals are completed, the last two weeks of the semester will be spent on a field trip where everyone will stay at a fancy hotel and get to go on museum trips to learn about art/film. So of course, angel excitedly speeds to class the morning of the watchparty, only to stop in their tracks when they see a very suspicious looking lee that is painfully aware he is not doing a very good job of hiding. As angel walks up to him, he visibly deflates, trying to excuse it with "I just wanted to make sure you were okay, I was worried." Angel gives him a hard time about it, saying "you couldn't have waited two more weeks?" Despite their teasing though, they feel bashful about the fact that he drove all that way with the intention of just checking on them in secret and driving back home immediately after. So they tell him that they have to go to class, but once they're done then they can let him stay in their dorm room, he only needs to busy himself in the meantime.

They make it to class at the last minute, film hard drive and brownies in hand. Considering that they've been talking about lee all semester with their classmates, they're eager to mention that he's visiting the campus today, so everyone's free to meet him if they want. They do note, however, that their bully isn't in class today, and they're admittedly a bit relieved because- even if they've been making progress with her- they still would rather not send out an open invitation for her to hang out after class. As they settle down and the first films are being pulled up by the teacher on the projector, somehow (AND DON'T ASK ME HOW, ITS JUST DREAM LOGIC) the projector screen at the front of the room suddenly lights up with security camera footage of a random hallway at the school (WHY DID THE TEACHER HAVE ACCESS TO THIS AND WHY WAS IT THE COMPUTER DEFAULT????), and on it is lee chasing down angel's bully into a stairwell. The teacher does not make note of this because she's having too much difficulty figuring out technical problems with plugging in the students' hard drives, so angel darts out of the classroom unnoticed, along with other class friends that follow them.

While I don't remember the exact details of the conversation that followed, angel explained to everyone that they needed to find those two before anything bad happened, and the group split up. Cue running around the school montage! Angel kept trying to call lee in hopes that they could distract him and find out where he was, to no avail.

Out of breath and awfully dizzy after 15 minutes of sprinting around the campus, angel shakily walked out onto a random balcony to get some fresh air and sit down, only to find lee sitting out there already. A lee with........ blood on him, they found. It wasn't a lot, just enough to notice it on his face and a few drops on his shirt. But it was enough to get angel mad enough that they forgot about their dizziness. As soon as lee noticed them, he looked at them silently like a sad, wet puppy who knows he's about to get in trouble. And he was. Bc angel was fucking pissed, not frozen and terrified like the last time they found brandon's body. Not only were they furious over the fact that the day they had been so looking forward to got interrupted by this, not only were they furious that lee had done this AGAIN after promising he wouldn't ever, but the fact that they had been making actual PROGRESS in the relationship they had with this girl and had other ways of addressing it was really the cherry on top. So they fully let into him for it, getting angry enough that they were brought to tears.

Again, the details of the conversation are fuzzy, but I do remember at one point lee said "the people that have passed me on this balcony keep asking ME if I'm alright because they think I've just had a nose bleed," kind of cluing angel in on the fact that he very intentionally didn't clean himself up because he knew he wasn't supposed to do this again and wanted to self sabotage by getting caught before angel could see him. Angel doesn't know what to say or how to handle the situation at all, so they tell lee to just go back to their room, exasperated, and they'll figure out what to do about this later.

There's a bit of a time skip after this point. I know angel returned to their room at some point, only going back to class to tell their teacher that they weren't feeling well and needed to leave early. I can't recall what happened to any evidence of the murder, but it was never an issue. And for the next few days angel makes lee follow them around EVERYWHERE, even on their field trip, bc they don't trust him not to go off and do something stupid (either to someone else to himself). They even make arrangements for him to come on the field trip with them because they don't want to let him out of their sight.

The rest of the dream is the fuzziest (and also I'm tired of writing), but it revolved around the two slowly trying to repair their relationship. Even after the field trip was over and break had started, angel said that they didn't want to go back home and wanted to spend more time away from the house, thinking that maybe their distance from lee at college had perhaps allowed him to spiral into his unhealthy thought patterns again, which he never mentioned over the phone since he wanted to make room for angel's grievances, considering how much they are dealing with. Maybe being on vacation might help. And despite how heavy everything in the dream was prior to this, it eventually lead to some especially cute moments between the pair. Also I remember tammy from anthology of the killer being there at one point for some reason. The end that's all I'm writing. Thank you.

[squidsquidsquidsquidsquidgame]

"How's Thailand?"

Summary: Hyunju is in Thailand looking at houses for the two of you. While you're at home with your new kitty, Mochi

Cho Hyun-Ju adjusted the strap of her tote bag and stepped out of the cab, the warm Thai sun casting a golden glow over the quiet suburban street. The scent of blooming frangipani and distant street food stalls filled the air as she took a deep breath, steadying herself. Today was important.

She pulled out her phone, checking the time. Back in Seoul, it was early afternoon. You were probably lounging on the couch, Mochi curled up in your lap, scrolling through the photos she'd sent you this morning.

A soft smile tugged at her lips as she tapped on your contact and hit the video call button.

The screen lit up with your face, and her heart did the familiar little flutter it always did when she saw you. “Baby,” you greeted, a tired but warm smile spreading across your lips. “How’s the house hunting?”

Hyun-Ju flipped the camera around, showing you the modest two-story home in front of her. “This one’s cute, right? It has a little garden in the back. I think Mochi would love it.”

She heard the faint meow of your new kitten in the background, and she laughed. “Speak of the devil! Is she behaving?”

“She’s a menace,” you sighed, lifting the tiny ball of fluff into view. “She knocked over my coffee this morning and then cried because her paws got wet.”

Hyun-Ju chuckled. “Sounds like you have your hands full.”

“Yeah, so you’d better come home soon.”“I will,” she promised. “But first, let me find us the perfect place.”

She switched back to the front camera, giving you a clear view of her face. She was wearing a floral dress today, her hair pulled back into a low ponytail with wisps framing her face. “Oh, wait, hold on.” She stepped back into the shade of a tree and snapped a quick selfie before sending it to you. “Do I look like a serious homeowner?”

You giggled as the notification popped up. “You look like my hot girlfriend who’s buying us a dream house.”

“That too,” she said, winking.For the next twenty minutes, she gave you a full tour of the house, walking through each room and describing how she imagined the two of you filling the space. “We could put a reading nook here,” she mused, pointing at a cozy window seat. “And I know you’ve always wanted a big kitchen. This one’s nice, right?”

“It’s perfect,” you murmured, and she could tell you meant it.

After she hung up, she spent the rest of the day visiting more houses, snapping pictures, and sending you voice notes about each one. But no matter how busy she was, she always found time to send you selfies—trying a new lipstick shade at a café, adjusting her hair in the mirror, flashing a peace sign as she held up a fresh fruit smoothie.

That night, as she settled into her hotel bed, she called you again. It was your ritual—FaceTiming every morning and night, talking for at least two hours, sometimes more.

“How was your day?” she asked, propping herself up on her elbow.“Mochi chewed on my earphones,” you groaned. “I think she’s teething.”

Hyun-Ju laughed. “Looks like I’ll be buying you new ones when I get back.”

You sighed dramatically. “You’re the best girlfriend ever.”

“I know,” she teased. “Now tell me about your day. Did you eat? Get enough rest?”

You rolled onto your side, getting comfortable. “Only if you tell me about yours too.”

And so, for the next two hours, you talked. About the houses, about Mochi’s antics, about the food she’d tried and the cute outfit she’d worn today. About missing each other. About how it wouldn’t be long until you were together in your new home, in a place where the air was warm and the future was bright.

Days passed, and Hyun-Ju kept up her routine, calling you in the mornings to show you her outfit for the day, then again at night to tell you about everything she’d done.

One evening, as you lounged in bed with Mochi sprawled across your stomach, your phone buzzed with another selfie. This time, Hyun-Ju was wearing a soft pastel dress, her hair in loose waves. “Tried something new today. Do I look cute?”

You smiled, typing back, “Always. But I like your natural look best.”

A video call came in almost immediately, and you answered to see her grinning. “That so? Then I won’t overdo it,” she said, smoothing her lipstick with her thumb. “I just like trying new things.”

“I love that about you.”

She yawned, stretching. “I think I found the one.”

Your eyes widened. “Really?”

She nodded, flipping the camera to show a cozy, modern house with a large porch and plenty of windows. “This place is perfect. It’s near a market, has a big yard, and the inside is spacious but homey.”

You felt your heart squeeze. “I trust you, baby. If you think it’s the one, I know it’ll be perfect.”

Hyun-Ju smiled softly. “Then it’s settled. Our new home.”

Tears prickled at your eyes as you whispered, “I can’t wait to be there with you.”

“Me neither,” she said, voice warm and full of promise. “Just a little longer, and we’ll be home.”

[yesihaveaobsession]

Alastor's New Protégé

Summary: The reader 's (yours) sister comes to the hotel to drop off your niece for the day, a curious six-year-old who asks a question that is for when she gets older.

A/N- This is canon I'm declaring this canon haha jk, I hope y'all enjoy this one and I'm back!

"And that, my dear, is how the noble crawfish battles the vile catfish for dominance over the murky bayou!" Alastor’s voice echoed with delight, his arms animated as he spun yet another fantastical tale from the depths of his wild imagination. He wasn’t a fan of children—usually, he’d avoid them like the plague—but when it came to your niece, she was an exception. Maybe it was her endless questions or her odd fascination with his eerie grin. Or maybe it was because she had a mischievous glint in her eye that reminded him of himself.

Your sister Jen had come to the hotel earlier to drop off your niece for the day. You hadn’t been paying much attention to the reason—it was something about going to Cannibal Town for an errand, and it’d be a hassle to bring Lily along. Or something like that. And that’s how you ended up in this situation.

Your niece, a wide-eyed little whirlwind of curiosity—aka a possible six-year-old—sat cross-legged on the floor by Alastor’s armchair, where he sat, hanging on his every word. She clutched a stuffed rabbit tightly to her chest, her expression one of absolute wonder.

“Whoa…” she breathed, completely captivated. “So… the crawfish wins, right?”

Alastor’s grin stretched wider, his crimson eyes gleaming with amusement. “Ah, but that, my dear, is a story for another time!” He tapped his index finger to his lips dramatically, leaning back in his armchair like a king holding court. You were honestly surprised at how well the two of them were getting along. You sat on the couch, sipping sweet tea as you watched the interaction.

“Uncle Alastor!” your niece suddenly chirped, her little nose scrunching up as she tilted her head.

“Hmm?” Alastor replied, peering down at her with curiosity.

“Where do babies come from?” she asked, her innocent eyes blinking up at him.

PFFT!

You immediately choked on your drink, eyes going wide as sweet tea sprayed from your mouth. Coughing violently, you slapped your chest while trying to breathe, eyes watering from the sheer shock of her question. Alastor, on the other hand, looked absolutely thrilled. You weren’t sure why—maybe because you were literally gasping for air while he just sat there, not even sure if he’d processed the question.

His grin stretched impossibly wide as he slowly turned his head toward you, his crimson eyes gleaming with wicked amusement.

“Well, well, well!” he chuckled, his tone dripping with mischief. “My dear, I think your niece has stumbled upon quite the interesting inquiry!”

You wheezed, barely managing to clear your throat. “Oh, hell no…” you muttered, trying to compose yourself, but the damage was already done.

It could be worse. It could be Angel. But honestly, you’d rather have Rosie. Not him.

Alastor’s grin only grew. “Shall I indulge her curiosity, darling?” he purred, a twinkle of mischief dancing in his eyes.

“Alastor!” You gave him a warning glare, but it only fueled his delight.

“Why, of course!” Alastor clapped his hands together, leaning forward with dramatic flair. “Now, you see, my dear,” he began, his voice taking on that smooth, storyteller cadence, “when a star falls from the heavens and collides with the spark of curiosity deep within the heart of a mortal—”

“Oh my God,” you groaned, covering your face as you tried to contain your laughter and mortification.

“—the result is an extraordinary little creature known as a child!” Alastor finished, wiggling his fingers like he was conjuring magic.

Your niece gasped, her eyes growing even wider. “WHOA! So babies are made of stardust?!”

“Precisely!” Alastor winked, clearly enjoying himself far too much.

You peeked through your fingers, barely holding back a giggle as your niece’s imagination ran wild.

“Wow…” she murmured, clearly buying into his ridiculous tale. “Does that mean I’m part star?!”

Alastor beamed, tapping her nose with a finger. “A dazzling little star, indeed!”

You finally managed to sit upright again, wiping the tears from your eyes as you tried to compose yourself.

“Alastor…” you muttered, shaking your head, but despite yourself, a smile tugged at your lips.

Oddly enough, you couldn’t even be mad.

Alastor glanced at you, his expression triumphant as you tried—and failed—to look serious. The sight of you choking on your drink was now burned into his memory, and he was absolutely living for it.

[pixie-felix]

Nkay but like....pillow princess!han

It just came to my mind I swear

He's trying so hard to make you feel good but he's so tried and he's just whining into your neck begging for you to take over

....

🥞

🥞 anon!

I wasn't sure if you would return, I thought I might've upset you because the top in that fanart had masculine hands, and then I went on a monologue about pegging... it's good to see you!

pillow princess!han you say? say less! no, wait, say more!

I know I'm always saying this so I'd understand if you didn't believe me, but I made notes the moment you sent this in and have 500 words written on this because I love the idea so much. But on the off chance I never manage to get my shit together and actually get that written, here's what I'm thinking:

You're not allowed on tour with the guys anymore, because you and Han always fuck like rabbits and then his energy flags during performances... blah blah blah... so by the time the last show is over, you're both fucking gagging for it.

Obviously you're waiting in his hotel room.

Maybe you were at the concert. Maybe he saw you, got instantly hard, and missed his line because all the blood was rushing to his dick and all his thoughts get stuck on how he was going to fuck you silly the minute he gets you alone.

Or maybe he has no idea you're there, waiting for him in his room. He's tired but buzzing from the final performance, and is just heading back for a quick shower before they all go out for drinks.

Except there you are, in his room. Wearing one of his shirts. That shirt.

Do you guys even say hello?

Does he jump you, or do you jump him? Is it like one of those cheesy movie scenes where the love interests run to each other in slow mo, except in this case rather than a flower field it's Han's messy hotel room, someone is going to trip, but that's okay because you don't need to be standing up to fuck, etcetc...

Anyway, yes. Even though Hannie is a bit of a pillow princess at the best of times, he's missed you so much and he's so desperate to be inside you that he ends up on top because that's the way the cookie crumbled.

Neither of you need it to last very long, really you just need to be close to each other. But this is sex with Han Jisung and he really wants to make you feel good- he's might be a pillow princess, but he always makes sure to make you cum at least once before he does.

But he's so tired and so overwhelmed that it's only a few minutes before his hips are stuttering and he's whimpering into your neck, begging you to take over, take control so he doesn't end up cumming in two minutes because you feel so good and he's so tired it's hard to control himself...

Do you take over, flip the both of you so you can ride him cowgirl and let him enjoy the view?

Or do you let him hump himself out, making him cry cum by squeezing your pelvic muscles and calling him his favourite pet name (any suggestions appreciated), only to coo and comfort the blushy mess he's become until he's ready to go again.

It doesn't take long. He's Han Jisung after all.

[am0ralexis]

Unwinding (comfort/fluff) ❤️‍🩹🩷

The hum of the hotel room’s air conditioning buzzed softly in the background, a steady rhythm that matched the slow rise and fall of Y/N’s chest against mine. Her fingers trailed lazily through my hair, smoothing back the strands that had fallen out of place after the chaos of the day. I could still hear the faint echo of the afterparty in my head—the laughter, the clinking of glasses, the excited chatter of fans and fellow streamers. But here, in this quiet room, it felt like all of that was a world away.

“You okay?” Y/N whispered, her voice barely audible above the hum. Her hand paused in my hair, waiting for my response.

I nodded, my cheek brushing against the soft fabric of her hoodie. “Yeah. Just… tired. It’s been a long day.”

She chuckled, a low, warm sound that made my chest tighten. “Understatement of the century. You were amazing, though. Everyone loved you.”

I snorted, burying my face deeper into her chest. “Yeah, right. I was a mess. Did you see how many times I tripped over my own words?”

“You were charming,” she insisted, her fingers resuming their gentle strokes. “People love you because you’re you. You don’t try to be anyone else.”

Her words settled over me like a blanket, soft and comforting. I wanted to believe her. But the weight of the day—the constant need to perform, to be on—was still pressing down on my shoulders. I’d been so nervous about bringing Y/N to the event, about how people would react to her being there with me. My fanbase was… intense, to say the least. And I didn’t want her to get caught in the crossfire.

“Hey,” Y/N murmured, her voice cutting through my thoughts. “Stop overthinking. I’m here, aren’t I? And Ale’s here. We’ve got your back.”

I lifted my head just enough to see her face. Her eyes were soft, filled with a quiet understanding that made my chest ache. She’d always been like this—steady, grounding. Like she could see right through the walls I put up and knew exactly what I needed.

“I know,” I said, my voice cracking slightly. “I just… I’m glad you’re here. Both of you.”

From the other side of the room, Ale let out a loud snore, her body sprawled haphazardly across the hotel bed. She’d been the one to push me to bring Y/N, insisting that she deserved to be part of this world I’d built. And as much as I’d been nervous about it, I was grateful she’d pushed me.

“She’s out cold,” Y/N said with a laugh, her gaze flicking toward Ale. “I don’t think anything short of an earthquake could wake her up.”

“Good,” I muttered, settling back against Y/N. “She’s been running on fumes all day. Looks like I’m not the only one who’s tired.”

Y/N’s hand found mine, her fingers intertwining with mine. Her skin was warm, and the simple contact sent a shiver down my spine. I’d missed this—just being with her, without the pressure of cameras or fans or expectations. It had been too long since we’d had a moment like this, and I was determined to hold onto it for as long as I could.

“You know,” she said after a moment, her voice taking on a teasing lilt, “you’ve got this whole brooding thing going on. Very mysterious. Very sexy.”

I rolled my eyes, though I couldn’t suppress the grin tugging at my lips. “Oh, shut up. I’m not brooding.”

“You are,” she insisted, poking my side. “You’re all moody and quiet. It’s kind of hot, actually.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, the sound low and rumbling in my chest. “You’re such a dork.”

“Your dork,” she corrected, her voice softening. She leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of my head. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Her words settled over me like a warm embrace, easing the tension that had been coiled in my chest all day. I closed my eyes, letting myself sink into the moment. The faint scent of her perfume filled my senses—something soft and floral, with just a hint of citrus. It was familiar, comforting. Like home.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. The words felt raw, vulnerable, but I didn’t care. She deserved to hear them.

Her hand stilled in my hair, and for a moment, the room was completely silent. Then she shifted, her arms tightening around me. “You’d manage,” she said softly. “But you don’t have to. I’m not going anywhere, Alex. I promise.”

Her words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. I felt something shift inside me, a weight I hadn’t even realized I’d been carrying lifting from my shoulders. I’d spent so much of my life worrying about what other people thought, about keeping up appearances. But with Y/N, I didn’t have to. She saw me—the real me—and she loved me anyway.

For a long time, neither of us spoke. The silence between us was comfortable, easy. Her fingers resumed their slow, rhythmic movements through my hair, and I let myself drift, my mind finally quieting after the chaos of the day.

“Hey,” she said after a while, her voice soft. “I’m proud of you, you know.”

I lifted my head, meeting her gaze. Her eyes were shining in the dim light, filled with a warmth that made my chest ache. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said, her lips curving into a small smile. “You’ve worked so hard for this. And you’ve handled today like a pro. I know it’s not easy, but you’re doing it. And you’re doing it well.”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from my lungs. I’d spent so much of the day second-guessing myself, worrying about whether I was enough. But hearing her say those words—knowing that she believed in me—it made all the difference.

“Thank you,” I said, my voice thick with emotion. “I… I needed to hear that.”

She brushed her thumb across my cheek, her touch gentle. “Anytime. Now, stop being so serious and snuggle with me. We’ve got a whole bed to ourselves, and I’m not letting you waste it.”

I laughed, the sound low and rumbling in my chest. “Yes, ma’am.”

I shifted, pulling her closer until we were tangled together in a mess of limbs and blankets. Her head rested on my chest, and I could feel the steady rhythm of her heartbeat against mine. It was a simple thing, but it felt right. Like this was exactly where we were meant to be.

Her hand found mine, her fingers intertwining with mine once more. I squeezed her hand gently, a silent promise passing between us.

“Love you,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Love you too,” I whispered back, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

And in that moment, as I lay there with her in my arms, I felt something shift. The weight of the day, the pressure of the event, the fear of what people might think—it all melted away. All that mattered was her. And for the first time in a long time, I felt at peace.

Ale’s soft snores filled the room, a steady reminder that we weren’t alone. But right now, in this moment, it felt like it was just the two of us. And that was more than enough.

Her fingers tightened around mine, a silent reassurance that she wasn’t going anywhere. And as I closed my eyes, I let myself believe it.

“Stay with me?” I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

She lifted her head, her eyes meeting mine. “Always.”