#AND DID ANYTHING SHE COULD TO TRY AND GET THEM HELP

[cressidagrey]

System Failure - Prologue

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Dr. Anastasia "Ana" Wolff (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen to Mercedes? The paddock is buzzing. The media’s in meltdown.

Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff, Mercedes’ notoriously brilliant, emotionally unavailable lead systems engineer and Toto Wolff’s eldest daughter, is not handling it well.  Because Max isn’t just a potential signing, he’s the man she’s been sleeping with in secret for nearly a decade.

And if the rumours are true, and Max Verstappen really is joining Mercedes, then Ana’s carefully compartmentalised world is about to explode.

Warnings and Notes: 

Please read the Disclaimer first. George Russell Bashing, more in later chapters, but I am already warning for it here.

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

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - January 2025

At Brackley, everyone knew Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff.

She didn’t do small talk. She didn’t do“What’s your plan for the weekend?” conversations. She didn’t do passive aggression either—she did straight-up aggression, usually in the form of an eyebrow raised so sharply it could have sliced carbon fibre.

She didn’t stop by desks with coffee runs. She didn’t go to team karaoke nights at the pub, or sign thank-you cards, or smile for the annual “Team Mercedes Family” poster.

She was blunt—abrasive, even. Didn’t soften her tone. She once told a senior aero engineer that his revised packaging concept was “statistically insulting,” and then—five minutes later—handed him a diagnostic flowchart that solved three months’ worth of overheating problems.

Ana didn’t cushion her feedback or sugar-coat a failed system design. She once told a junior aerodynamicist that his heat dispersion model looked like “an Excel tantrum,” and he still asked for her help the next week.

She hated inefficiency. She loathed repetition. She had a mortal vendetta against unnecessary meetings and once told a senior consultant that his thirty-slide deck could be replaced by “a spreadsheet and two brain cells.”

Ana Wolff didn’t care if people liked her.

Which was probably why—quietly, absolutely—they did.

She wasn’t what you’d call warm. 

She could be sharp, abrupt, deeply blunt in a way that took some getting used to. She had a way of walking into a room, scanning it like a machine vision algorithm, and saying exactly what everyone else had politely danced around. 

But she wasn’t cruel. 

That was the difference.

Ana Wolff was kind. 

Not in the loud, performative way. Not in the “we should get drinks after work!” kind of way. But in the way that made them stop and hold the door open a little longer when they saw her coming, headphones on and sleeves rolled to the elbow. In the way they waited to eat lunch until she came back from the test bay and could join them, even if she only picked at an energy bar while debugging simulation code.

She was blunt—painfully so, yes. 

But she always helped.

She never made anyone feel stupid for asking. 

She answered questions at 2 a.m. if someone pinged her about an urgent cooling issue. 

She stayed late when no one asked her to. 

She didn’t smile often, but when she did—usually in the direction of a rookie intern who got the airflow graph right on the first try—it felt like a minor miracle.

She never acted like she was above getting her hands dirty. More than once, she’d crawled under a car in testing or stayed up on call with the factory floor when simulations threw bad flags.

When someone’s dad died last winter, Ana didn’t say anything. She just silently took over their entire portion of the control systems redesign and submitted the notes under their name.

She made jokes that didn’t always land, but they were always funny two minutes later when you finally got them. She never raised her voice. She never threw blame. She had no time for politics and no patience for ego, and if you made a mistake, she’d show you exactly where it happened, fix it beside you, and never mention it again.

When one of the junior engineer on her team had a panic attack during pre-season calibration, it was Ana who found her behind the equipment crates, sat down cross-legged on the floor beside her, and calmly walked her through her breathing like it was just another simulation glitch to solve.

Ana didn’t ask to be liked.

But the Brackley crew liked her anyway.

Because she was honest. Because she was brilliant. Because she didn’t bother pretending. Because beneath all the technical precision and withering sarcasm, she was kind—the kind of quiet kind that didn’t ask for recognition.

Most people at Brackley were sharp. A few were brilliant. But Ana Wolff? She was something else.

Some of the older engineers joked that she could hear an engine whine and tell you what part of the MGU-H needed replacement with her eyes closed. It wasn’t that far off the mark.

And of course—she was Toto’s daughter.

Not that she ever acted like it.

That was a known thing—unspoken but understood. But apart from her last name and the fact that she sometimes made grown men in strategy meetings go quiet with a single raised eyebrow, you wouldn’t guess it at first glance.

She never used his name to open doors. Never took the easy route. She had earned her way through Cambridge, earned her place at Brackley, and earned the deference of people twice her age.

You wouldn't necessarily guess they were related at first glance. She didn’t have her father’s height. Didn’t have his voice, or his presence that could fill a room like thunder. 

She didn’t look like him, not really. Her hair was soft blonde, pulled back in a no-nonsense bun most days. Her voice was cooler. Her frame smaller. 

But if you looked closely—her eyes gave it away.

That same dark intensity.

The same glint when she was fighting for an idea she believed in.

Still, people at Brackley respected her not because she was Toto’s daughter—but in spite of it. She had earned every inch of her place. Her doctorate, her portfolio, her published research—they all spoke louder than any nameplate could.

Dr. Ana Wolff might’ve walked like a lone variable, might’ve spoken like a MATLAB script—but she never looked down on anyone. Never shouted. 

Never asked for more than she’d be willing to give. And when she quietly joined the late shift, sleeves rolled up, fingers smudged with graphite from motor housing recalibration, people noticed.

They liked Ana.

Even if she didn’t always know what to do with that.

***

Department of Engineering, University of Cambridge

Hybrid Systems Efficiency in Turbocharged Power Units: Thermal Recovery, Energy Redistribution, and the Limits of Predictive Modelling in Competitive Motorsport Environments

A dissertation submitted for degree of Doctor of Philosophy

January 2021

By Anastasia Yelena Wolff

Trinity College

Dedication: 

For the machines that made sense when people didn’t.

And for Jack—who thinks I’m cool, even when I forget how to be human.

Acknowledgements: 

This research would not have been possible without the relentless patience of the machines that behaved exactly as expected, the data sets that told the truth even when no one asked, and the simulation models that never once demanded clarity on emotional intent.

To Professor J.L. Gorran, thank you for your guidance, even when I failed to meet the unspoken social expectations of academic interaction. Your feedback, blunt and mathematical, was always appreciated.

To my father—thank you for teaching me the value of precision, persistence, and volume. And for never asking me to be anything other than exactly what I am.

To Susie, who reminded me that kindness and intelligence are not mutually exclusive.

To Jack:  you won’t understand a word of this (yet), but thank you for reminding me that sometimes, even very complicated people can be loved very simply. 

To the person who once said engines don’t lie, and neither do I—not even when I pretend to. You are the variable I could never model, but somehow the system always runs better when you are there. You won’t see your name here. But if you ever read this, you’ll know it’s you. 

And finally, to the machines. For their logic. Their clarity. Their refusal to conceal fault.

May we all run as cleanly.

—A.Y.W.

***

The Guardian - Excerpt from "Power, Pressure, and Precision: Inside the Mind of Toto Wolff"

The Guardian Weekend | November 2024

By Rachel Kingsley

Interviewer: You’ve spoken often about your passion for leadership and long-term strategy—but I’m curious about your role off-track. You’re a father, too. How do you balance being a parent with the demands of running a Formula 1 team?

Toto Wolff (smiles): Badly, sometimes. I think any parent in a high-performance environment would admit that. It's always a balance between presence and pressure. But I try to show up when it counts.

Interviewer: You have four children?

Toto: Yes. Rosa and Benedict from my first marriage, and Jack with Susie. Jack is still young—he's seven. The house is noisy. There are a lot of LEGO pieces underfoot. 

And Anastasia, of course. She’s my eldest. From a relationship I had very early in my life—when I was living in Moscow in my twenties. Her mother and I weren’t… built for longevity. 

She came into my life when she was eight. We didn’t—how do I say this—start traditionally. But she’s mine. Fully. Always.

Interviewer: That must’ve been a big shift.

Toto: It was. Suddenly there was this very silent, very brilliant little girl standing in my apartment with a suitcase. She didn’t speak German at first, only Russian. She barely spoke at all. But she watched everything.

Interviewer: That must’ve been difficult.

Toto: It was. For both of us. I made mistakes. I thought giving her structure would help—boarding school, academics… And she was always brilliant. Quietly so. Sharp in a way that makes you slightly afraid she’s already figured out what you’re going to say next.

Interviewer: She’s in motorsport too, isn’t she?

Toto (nods): Yes. Very much by her own doing. I never pushed her toward it. In fact, I tried not to. 

She’s an engineer. System dynamics, hybrid architecture. She’s working in motorsport, but not on the front-facing side of it. Which suits her. Ana’s the kind of person who wants to solve the problem, not be photographed with it.

She’s brilliant. Quietly. Ferociously. She doesn’t like being looked at, but she loves solving impossible problems. 

Interviewer: Is it strange, working with your own daughter?

Toto: Strange? No. Surreal, sometimes. Because I look at her and I see someone who’s earned every inch of where she is. Not because of her name—but in spite of it. She doesn't use it. If anything, she tries to hide behind the work.

She’s… remarkable. Brilliant. Very independent. She doesn’t like attention, so I try not to talk about her too much in the press, but I am very proud of her.

***

Twitter Thread: People Behind the Car - Ana Wolff

@/F1backstage:  She’s Mercedes' quietest powerhouse. Fiercely private. Chronically unbothered. Hasn't given a quote to press since 2021. But if your engine runs right in 2026, you’ll have her to thank. 

@/F1backstage:  If you’ve never heard of Dr. Anastasia "Ana" Wolff, that’s by design.

She’s the daughter of Toto Wolff (yes, that Toto), but unlike the Nepo Baby™ playbook, she does not do press.

She doesn’t show up to premieres. She’s not pitching skincare on Instagram.

She’s in the engine room. Literally.

So here’s everything we know about her: 

@/F1backstage: Anastasia Yelena Wolff. Born December 1997.

Daughter of Toto Wolff. 

She’s from a relationship in Moscow when he was 25. Her mother left her with Toto when Ana was 8.

No, we are not making this up. Yes, it does sound like a Cold War Novel. 

@/F1backstage:  First appeared on the Mercedes internal staff directory as “Systems Integration Analyst” in 2021.  Has two Cambridge degrees and a doctorate, all earned before age 23.

@/F1backstage: Ana Wolff is Mercedes' lead systems engineer for the 2026 PU. Rumored to be the reason Brackley’s simulations outpaced the FIA's own projections.

@/F1backstage:  Fluent in English, German, French and Russian. Her social media presence = zero.

@/F1backstage:  You’ve probably never seen her in a team interview. She doesn’t do media. She’s not even listed on the website unless you really dig. But insiders will tell you she’s been instrumental in developing the systems diagnostics protocols for the upcoming engine cycle.

@/F1backstage:  She’s also terrifying.

A few engineers have joked that she’s “the ghost of Brackley” because you never see her unless the engine is in crisis. Someone once said she fixed an entire thermal sync issue without speaking a word. Just walked in, made three changes, and left.

@/F1backstage: Ana doesn’t do media. She’s not in team videos. She doesn’t give interviews. The only place she occasionally appears? Susie Wolff’s Instagram.

Usually blurry in the background. Sometimes in stories with her little brother Jack, who races karts and worships her.

@/F1backstage: Her relationship with the rest of the Wolff family seems… complicated. Rosa and Benedict—Toto’s other children from his first marriage—aren’t seen with her much. But Jack? Jack is glued to her side at every karting event she shows up to. 

@/F1backstage: Ana Wolff is a mystery. No romantic links. No partner ever spotted. One unlucky journo tried to ask Toto if she was dating someone. Toto reportedly just said, “My daughter has exacting standards,” and then changed the topic.

@/F1backstage: Basically: she’s brilliant, brutal, beloved by the mechanics, and likely operating on a higher plane of intellect than the rest of us.

@/F1backstage: If Mercedes nails the 2026 engine regs, don’t just thank the drivers. Thank Ana Wolff.

@/F1backstage: She has a doctorate, and once shut down a paddock journalist by saying, “If I wanted to be visible, I’d work in PR.” (Iconic. Terrifying. Queen.)

***

RaceTech Weekly - Dr. Ana Wolff: The Engineer Behind the Silence

By Emily Kavanagh – Senior Technology Correspondent

In the high-stakes world of Formula 1, names carry weight. And few names carry more gravitational pull than Wolff.

But while much of the motorsport world associates the name with Toto Wolff—Mercedes team principal, business strategist, and mainstay of the F1 political chessboard—another Wolff is quietly redefining the way Mercedes approaches the future.

When asked about the 2026 Mercedes power unit, most in the paddock will point to simulations, regulatory resets, and hybrid breakthroughs. But those who really know where to look will mention a name that rarely appears in public briefings and has never once spoken to press: Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff.

If the name rings familiar, it’s with good reason. The daughter of Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS Team Principal Toto Wolff, Ana has carved out her own reputation in Formula 1—but not as a figure of legacy or PR-ready dynasties. Instead, she’s quietly become one of the most respected hybrid systems specialists in the sport. Ask anyone in Brackley, and you’ll get the same answer:

“She thinks in algorithms and speaks in fuel flow regulation,” one senior Mercedes engineer said. “And she doesn’t just find problems—she solves the ones we haven’t seen coming. She’s the one you call when nothing makes sense anymore."

Born in 1997 during Toto’s brief time living in Moscow, Ana’s early life is something of a blank spot in public records. Her mother reportedly left her with Toto when Ana was just eight years old, after which she was raised between Vienna and international boarding schools. Engineers who’ve worked with her joke that she was “built, not born”—a dry reference to her analytical mind and emotionally guarded nature.

Wolff holds two degrees from Cambridge—including a doctorate in applied systems modelling and energy optimization. 

Ana joined the Mercedes engineering team in 2021 under no publicity whatsoever. At first, her presence raised questions—was this nepotism, or genuine talent?

Those questions didn’t last long.

Within weeks, she’d flagged a heat sync inefficiency in the MGU-H system that multiple dyno tests had missed. By 2023, she was the youngest systems engineer in the hybrid integration team. By 2024, she’d rewritten parts of the simulation interface used in PU calibration protocols.

Though officially listed as a Lead Systems and Hybrid Performance Engineer at Mercedes since 2023, her influence reaches further than her title suggests. She was a key figure in the early development phases of the 2026 engine, with internal reports noting that her predictive load balancing models improved early sim efficiency by 14%.

Now, in 2025, she’s one of the lead architects behind Mercedes’ 2026 engine concept.

Quietly, ruthlessly, brilliantly—Ana Wolff has become indispensable.

“She doesn’t say much,” one senior technician at Brackley told RaceTech. “But when she does? You shut up and listen.”

Wolff is known for her intensely private nature. She has no public social media, rarely appears in team media content, and is reportedly allergic to press days. The few glimpses fans get of her are through Susie Wolff’s Instagram stories, often in the background at her younger brother Jack’s karting events.

But it’s not just her engineering brilliance that makes Ana Wolff so fascinating—it’s the quiet distance she keeps from everything else.

She doesn’t give quotes to broadcasters. She doesn’t smile for TikToks. She doesn’t do post-race dinners or Sunday night afterparties. But make no mistake: she is one of the most formidable minds in Formula 1 today—and increasingly, one of its most fascinating enigmas.

Within Mercedes, Ana is known for her near-pathological precision, her deep loyalty to the team, and her absolute refusal to tolerate inefficiency, small talk, or anything resembling emotional vulnerability.

“She once restructured our entire hybrid module overnight because the error margin annoyed her,” said one Mercedes performance engineer. “When she finally sent the email, it just said: ‘Fixed this. Don’t make me do it again.’”

She also wrote a dissertation on thermal load management so technically dense that even some Cambridge professors reportedly asked her to “add more words that weren’t math.”

She is seen most often in Brackley, rarely at races. Asked once by a journalist during an off-record paddock event if she was dating anyone, she reportedly replied: “I have a data array that needs validation. That’s all the emotional commitment I have time for.”

She’s not here for the headlines. She’s not here to smile for sponsors.

 She’s here to build something that works.

And with Mercedes' 2026 power unit already being called “a potential generational leap,” Dr. Ana Wolff is no longer just the quiet brain in the back room.

She’s the one everyone’s watching now.

***

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - January 2025

Kimi hadn’t expected anything more than cafeteria pasta and a politely awkward twenty-minute lunch break.

It was one of his first visits to Brackley as a full-time driver. Just a logistics day — meet the engineers, try not to knock over anything priceless, remember names. He was still figuring out where the espresso machine was when popped up beside him.

“You hungry?” Bono asked, as casually as if they’d had lunch every week since 2019.

Kimi blinked. “Um… yeah?”

“Good,” Bono said. “Come on. You’re with us.”

He followed. Because… well, Bono. You didn’t say no to Bono. He had a weirdly Jedi energy.

What Kimi didn’t expect was to be led down a back hallway, into a side conference room that had been half-transformed with foldable chairs, a battered wooden table, and four mismatched mugs already waiting.

And then he saw her.

Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff.

 Legs crossed. Elbows on the table. Glasses on. Tablet closed.

Ana looked up. “He brought the new one,” she said to Valtteri, as if he weren’t standing right there.

Valtteri Bottas, seated beside her and halfway through a coffee, grinned.

“Fresh blood,” he said. “Finally.”

Bono grinned and pulled out a chair. “Welcome to Tuesday Lunch Club.”

“What?” Kimi said. “There’s… a club? I thought this was lunch?”

“This is lunch,” Bono said, already halfway through unpacking his tabbouleh. “This is the best lunch.”

“There is a club,” Ana said, deadpan.

“We’ve been meeting here since… what, 2020?” Bono offered.

“2021,” Ana corrected. “Valterri was grandfathered in,” Ana added.

“And now you’re here,” Valterri said cheerfully. “Poor you.”

Kimi looked around the table. Three terrifyingly competent adults. One overwhelmed teenager.

“Who—who else is in this club?”

“Just us,” Valtteri said. “It’s exclusive.”

Bono leaned in conspiratorially. “We all hated being social, so we made a social group where we didn’t have to be.”

“We don’t talk unless we want to,” Ana added. “We don’t take questions. And if you bring someone unvetted, they get exiled.”

“I’m unvetted,” Kimi pointed out.

“Exactly,” Ana said. “One wrong move and you’re out.”

“Do I get a trial period?”

“This is your trial,” Bono said.  “Valtteri voted to adopt you after your third simulator session.”

“I did,” Valtteri confirmed. “You drive like a man who knows pain.”

Kimi stared. “This is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Ana passed him the bread. “You’ll get used to it.”

Kimi stared at them.

Ana went back to her tablet. Bono opened a bag of crisps. Valtteri took a bite of his sandwich and offered no comfort whatsoever.

No one said anything for a full minute.

And weirdly… Kimi didn’t hate it.

It was the first moment all day that no one asked how he felt about being Lewis Hamilton’s successor. No one asked about media duties. No one tried to make him prove he belonged.

They just let him eat.

After a few minutes, Ana slid a second cookie onto his tray without looking up.

“Ground rule one,” she said. “No PR speak.”

Kimi blinked. “Okay.”

“Two,” Valtteri added, “no talking about George unless it’s to complain.”

Ana raised a brow. “And three—if you leak this lunch club to anyone in marketing, we will feed you to Toto.”

“This is… every Tuesday?”

“Yes,” Ana said. “No media. No meetings. No George.”

“That last one is important,” Bono muttered.

Kimi looked around at the trio — a brilliant, terrifying engineer, a suspiciously caffeinated Finn, and an overqualified race engineer who kept group minutes on laminated cards.

He took a bite of pasta.

“…I think I love it here.”

Later, when he left the room an hour later — full of surprisingly good food and existential career advice from Bottas — he realized something strange:

He felt calmer.

Like maybe this wasn’t just a lunch. Maybe it was infrastructure.

Maybe this was how Mercedes stayed sane.

By putting the smartest, driest, most overqualified people in a room once a week and letting them pretend they weren’t all secretly holding the team together with sarcasm and espresso.

***

Text Messages: Kimi Antonelli & Oliver Bearman

Kimi: bro i just had lunch with ana wolff valtteri and bono

Oliver: you WHAT

Kimi: they have a club. a secret lunch club. every tuesday. i’ve been conscripted.

Oliver: what do you MEAN “conscripted” was there hazing? do you need rescue?

Kimi: no they gave me tabbouleh and existential advice

Oliver: this is the most mercedes thing i’ve ever heard you okay?

Kimi: they don’t speak unless they want to they don’t allow george they passed me bread and stared at me in silence for like 3 full minutes i think i passed some kind of ancient test

Oliver: sounds like a cult but with more espresso

Kimi: ana gave me a second cookie and said “no PR speak” valtteri told me i drive like a man who knows pain

Oliver : are you sure you didn’t just hallucinate this during media day burnout

Kimi: they threatened to feed me to toto if i told anyone in marketing so if i disappear tell my story

Oliver: noted. i’ll light a candle in the sim room

***

FIA Press Conference Transcript

 Location: Suzuka Circuit, Japan Date: April 2025 Participants:

Toto Wolff (Team Principal, Mercedes-AMG Petronas F1 Team)

Fred Vasseur (Team Principal, Scuderia Ferrari HP)

Andrea Stella (Team Principal, McLaren Formula 1 Team)

Tom Clarkson: We’ll go next to a question from Giorgio Rossi at La Gazzetta.

Giorgio Rossie´: Thank you. Question to all three—how are preparations going for the 2026 engine regulations, and there are already whispers that Mercedes might be ahead of the curve. Care to comment?

Toto Wolff (smiling, guarded): I think everyone’s working hard. It’s a big change—electrification, new fuel, new balance of performance. I’m confident in the people we have in Brixworth and Brackley. But I wouldn’t say we’re ahead. That’s a dangerous assumption in Formula 1.

Fred Vasseur: Come on, Toto. We all hear the same rumours. Mercedes is three months ahead of the rest of us, and everyone’s too polite to say it. 

Fred: I tried to poach his systems engineer three times this year, by the way. The woman behind half his magic. 

(Laughter from the media.)

Andrea Stella (grinning): Only three?

Toto: You what?

Fred: I did! I emailed her directly. Asked if she’d be interested in hearing about our power unit project in Maranello.

Tom: And what happened?

Fred: She sent me a copy of her birth certificate the third time. No message. Just a scan.  (beat) I took the hint.

(Laughter breaks out across the room. Toto shakes his head, trying not to grin.)

Toto (completely deadpan): That sounds like Anastasia, yes.

Tom (grinning): Just to clarify, Fred, you're talking about Toto’s daughter, Ana Wolff?

Fred: Oui. I made the mistake of thinking I could lure her away with red overalls. Apparently not even the Pope could manage that.

Toto (mildly): The Pope drives a Mercedes, actually.

(more laughter)

Fred: Touché.

[everlong0girl]

𝐂𝐨𝐝 𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐟𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫

꧁—————————————————————꧂

Price is in his late thirties and entering forties. He’s been wanting to start a family for forever. You’ve had some pregnancy scares before and you’d see he would never get scared or worried, a small smile flashing across his beard framed mouth before disappearing.

He’d come up to you one day, simply asking you to start trying. You’ve been together for long enough right? He was practically shaking, wanting you to say yes more than wanting to breathe. Every time he’d see a baby he’d look at you with a small knowing look. Trying out multiple methods he’d read on the internet like putting a pillow under your hips and whatnot.

Definitely a girl dad. A big strong guy with a little girl is everything. He’d let her dress him up and put that kids makeup on him whenever she asked because he when he enters the room, fragile masculinity vanishes.

Very private and wouldn’t tell his work buddies a thing. Not about trying for a baby, nor having one later on. Why would they need to know anything about his girls?

Soap would need a bit more time. But when he feels that small want for a family, he’s whipped. First you’d notice he’s touching your stomach more and before bed he’d just put a hand on there. Eventually you’d ask him about it and he’d get embarrassed and tell you he just wants a baby.

Would be more of a boy dad. He’d be the type of guy to just start yelling and screaming around the hospital “It’s a boy! It’s a boy!” like the proudest man ever. Biggest dad ever and would take the boy to games and get him a lot of fake guns, which you’d sometimes oppose, though he’d just brush it off like harmless fun.

Would definitely tell everyone about trying. Unintentionally catching some off guard by saying how he and his missus are trying every night for about a week now or more, and would be until they have a bun in the over. Though it wouldn’t be long till you actually did conceive.

Gaz is the youngest out the lot, but he’d get the feeling pretty early. Still in his late twenties, either he’d make a joke about it, or a comment, but then start considering it.

He would seriously not mind if its a boy or a girl. Some people say that too but secretly bias one gender. He’s not like that. He just wants it to be his little baby.

He’d be a gentle parent. None of that yelling or screaming at the kid, just gentle. He has a patience of a saint, and he’d even encourage you to be as calm as you could. Would probably be the most understanding about what you would be going trough while pregnant, and after.

Wouldn’t say anything to his team, and would keep quiet about it. One day he’d let you show up with a baby on your hip, shocking them all slightly, but he’d just be like “Yeah i have a kid”.

Ghost is scared. One random day a thought came to his head and he brushed it off, but later when you came to him with the idea, he considered it. Until he agreed.

He is mostly like Gaz, and doesn’t have a preference. He’d only be really scared about his emotional state and would doubt his ability to give the kid that father-child relationship. Wouldn’t be scared to voice his fear to you, but you’d comfort him and tell him it was okay to be afraid. He was hurt like everyone else, and it felt so refreshing to him that he had you, a person who loved him, and now a little baby. Meaning his hands could be used for something oh so gentle, and not just handling firearms.

He’d hold the baby like it was made out of glass, and during your pregnancy and after, he’d help with anything. What you said was law.

Nobody in his team would know from aside Johnny maybe. He’d tell him since in his eyes Johnny seems the least harmless out the lot for some reason.

꧁—————————————————————꧂

[lilirae00]

Delay of Game - Part 2

Summary: Follow up from Part 1 here…Paige and Azzi finally meet back up after 10 days apart.

Word Count: 9.5k

Warnings: a lot of sexual tension, and smut, 18+

Masterlist

—

Paige was exhausted by the time the Wings’ charter bus rolled to a stop outside the team hotel in D.C., the engine rumbling low as the driver popped the luggage hatch. 

It was the standard pre-game travel slog: they’d spent half the day in transit, hours of recycled airplane air, cramped seats and stale jokes with teammates, flipping through game notes and trying not to think too hard about the rematch tomorrow night.

But even though she was bone tired, the second she spotted Azzi’s familiar silhouette just inside the automatic doors, Paige felt something coil tight and hot in her gut.

Azzi was waiting in the lobby, one hand tucked into the pocket of her sweats, eyes sweeping the bus windows as if she could spot Paige through the tinted glass. 

She wasn’t supposed to be here—Paige knew the Mystics had finished their own shootaround hours ago, and Azzi could’ve easily waited for tomorrow. But of course she hadn’t.

Of course Azzi was here, because she couldn’t help herself.

Paige hoisted her carry-on off the bus steps with one hand and tried to hide the stupid grin tugging at her mouth.

Behind her, Arike slung her duffel over her shoulder, catching the line of Paige’s sight immediately. “Well well,��� she drawled, voice low and knowing. “Look who couldn’t wait for you to check in first.”

Paige elbowed her, but she didn’t bother denying it.

The lobby was buzzing with Wings staff handing out keys, the front desk ringing phones and the revolving door squeaking every time it let someone in. 

Azzi’s eyes lit up the second she spotted Paige, her whole body straightening, shoulders relaxing, mouth curving into something that was all relief and heat and something so stupidly tender it made Paige’s chest ache.

Paige didn’t even pretend to be cool about it. She closed the distance in three strides and dropped her bag with a thunk on the polished floor, arms wrapping around Azzi’s waist and hauling her in. 

Azzi went with it immediately, arms sliding around Paige’s neck, burying her face in Paige’s shoulder.

“Hey,” Paige murmured into her hair, voice ragged.

Azzi breathed out a laugh that sounded like she’d been holding it in for days. “Hi.”

They kissed. Not soft. Not quick. Azzi’s fingers threaded into Paige’s hair and Paige angled her head to deepen it, ignoring the snickers from Arike and Nai behind them.

“Jesus, get a room,” Nai muttered, earning an immediate, delighted cackle from Arike.

Paige flipped them off behind Azzi’s back without even pulling away from the kiss.

Finally she forced herself to break it, leaning back just enough to see Azzi’s face. Azzi’s cheeks were flushed, lips wet, eyes blazing in a way that sent another sharp jolt straight through Paige.

“You didn’t have to come all the way out here tonight,” Paige murmured, voice low enough for only Azzi.

Azzi’s mouth tightened into that stubborn line Paige knew too well. “Yeah, I did,” she said simply.

Paige exhaled, heart hammering. She pressed another quick kiss to Azzi’s temple before pulling back fully. She bent down for her bag, but Azzi beat her to it, hooking the strap over her own shoulder. Paige shot her a look.

“I’ve got, like, fifteen minutes,” she said, voice hushed, trying not to sound disappointed. “Coach needs us back downstairs for film review.”

Azzi’s fingers flexed on the bag strap, but she nodded, jaw tense. “Yeah. I know.”

Paige’s teammates were still watching, trying and failing to hide their grins. Paige glared at them until they pretended to look at their phones. She reached out and brushed her thumb over Azzi’s cheek.

“Come up with me?” she asked quietly. “Just for a bit.”

Azzi’s eyes softened immediately. “Yeah,” she breathed. “Of course.”

They didn’t say anything else as they headed to the elevators, Paige’s teammates catcalling half-heartedly behind them. The doors slid shut with a soft ding and they were alone.

Azzi was quiet on the ride up, but she didn’t let go of Paige’s wrist where she’d grabbed it, thumb stroking absently over her pulse. Paige watched her in the mirrored walls of the elevator, heart beating too fast, stomach tight.

They both knew they didn’t have time for anything. Not tonight. Not with meetings and curfew and tomorrow’s game looming over them. But Paige couldn’t not have this. Even fifteen minutes was better than nothing at all. 

When the elevator chimed their floor, Azzi handed back the bag so Paige could swipe her key. The room was standard—king bed, tiny desk, TV mounted crookedly on the wall. Paige dumped her bag on the floor, turning immediately to face Azzi.

Azzi stepped into her, crowding her back against the door, pressing in close. Paige felt her mouth go dry.

“I missed you,” Azzi said, voice low, tight, like it cost her something to admit.

Paige’s throat worked. She swallowed hard, hands coming up to cup Azzi’s face. “God, I missed you too.”

They kissed again, slower now, more deliberate, the kind of kiss that left Paige aching, head spinning. Azzi’s fingers dug into her hips, trying to pull her impossibly closer. Paige let her.

When they finally broke apart, they were both breathing hard.

“Tomorrow night,” Paige rasped, pressing their foreheads together. “I swear to God. I’m gonna make it worth it.”

Azzi’s fingers flexed on Paige’s hips, her eyes narrowing just a little despite the flush in her cheeks. “You better,” she murmured, voice low but teasing. “Because last time I saw you, you said you couldn’t wait ten days and I had to make sure you got off before you even made it to the airport.”

Paige’s grin was feral. She tightened her hold on Azzi’s waist and ducked her head closer, her lips ghosting just beneath Azzi’s ear. “Oh, baby,” she drawled, voice dripping promise, “just you wait.”

Azzi shivered visibly, breath catching. She swallowed, trying to keep her composure, but her fingers tightened even harder in Paige’s shirt like she might fall over if she let go.

Paige felt it, all of it—the tension humming between them, the promise of later, the soft vulnerability they never really showed anyone else. She softened just enough to press a careful kiss to Azzi’s temple before pulling back to meet her eyes.

“Tomorrow night,” she said, softer but no less sure. “It’s gonna be worth every second you had to wait.”

Azzi’s face finally cracked into a reluctant smile, and she huffed out a breath, bumping her forehead to Paige’s with a tiny laugh.

A knock at the door startled them both.

“Yo, Bueckers! Meeting in five!”

Paige cursed, pressing one last kiss to Azzi’s mouth.

“I have to go,” she breathed, pulling away with clear reluctance.

Azzi nodded, eyes glassy. She turned and grabbed the door handle, but not before stealing one last look over her shoulder, gaze raking over Paige like she was memorizing her.

“I���ll see you tomorrow,” she whispered.

Paige nodded, biting back everything she wanted to say.

“Yeah,” she said hoarsely. “Tomorrow.”

And then Azzi was gone, the door clicking shut behind her, leaving Paige with nothing but the thud of her own heart and the ghost of Azzi’s lips on hers.

—

The next day dawned overcast and heavy, clouds pressing low over D.C. like they were trying to squash the whole city. Paige didn’t sleep great. She never really did on game days, and knowing Azzi was literally in the same city, sleeping just across town, didn’t help one damn bit.

She dragged herself through the hotel breakfast with her team, tapping her fingers restlessly on the table while one of her teammates gave her shit for barely eating. 

Film session felt like torture. She was trying to pay attention—really. But her mind kept wandering. To Azzi’s hair spilling across her pillow. To Azzi’s voice, husky with need in her ear. To that tiny, needy whine Azzi had made yesterday when Paige had kissed her just a little too deep, right before she’d had to shove her out of the room to make it back to team meetings on time.

Focus. She had to focus.

When they finally got to shootaround at the Mystics’ arena, Paige felt jittery in that wired, electric way that meant she was too hyped, too early. 

She was chewing on the drawstring of her practice pullover, adjusting her shorts, tapping the ball against her hip when she spotted Azzi across the gym.

Azzi was there already, shooting easy warmup jumpers in that infuriatingly calm, deadly style. Her hair was pulled back, neat and perfect, her white practice tank sticking to her shoulder blades in damp patches.

Paige watched her sink three in a row, all net.

Azzi turned just a little, saw her, and stuttered. The ball bounced off her knee and skittered away.

Paige snorted and jogged over.

Azzi caught the ball and scowled at her own hands.

“Hey,” Paige said, voice dropping into something low and easy even though she was buzzing inside.

Azzi wouldn’t meet her eyes at first. “Hey.”

Paige stepped right up to her, close enough that Azzi had to tilt her chin up. She did it grudgingly, cheeks already going pink.

“You good?” Paige asked.

Azzi’s eyes finally lifted, and the look in them nearly sent Paige’s heart skidding sideways.

Heat. Frustration. Desperation.

Paige felt her smirk creep out before she could stop it. She lifted a brow. “You look a little… distracted.”

Azzi’s glare was murderous, but it was ruined by how her eyes dropped to Paige’s arms, bare and slick with sweat, muscles tensed from drills. 

Paige watched Azzi swallow hard.

“Oh my God,” Paige teased softly, voice dropping even further. “You can’t even look at me without getting all squirmy, huh?”

Azzi snapped her eyes up to hers, breathing sharp. “Paige.”

Paige was suddenly too aware of the eyes on them—teammates, coaches. She gentled her expression, stepping just a little closer but not enough to be obvious.

“Hey,” she murmured. “Look at me.”

Azzi did. Paige reached out like she was just brushing lint from her tank, but her fingers ghosted over Azzi’s side.

“Breathe.”

Azzi blinked.

Paige demonstrated, slow and deliberate. Deep inhale. Slow exhale.

Azzi copied her, chest heaving.

Again.

Again.

Finally Azzi’s shoulders dropped just a little. The tightness in her jaw eased.

Paige gave her a small, private smile. “There she is.”

Azzi scowled. “Shut up.”

But her voice had lost that brittle edge.

Paige’s grin softened. “You gonna play like shit tonight if I don’t help you calm down?”

Azzi narrowed her eyes, lips twitching. “You’re the worst.”

Paige shrugged, letting her hand drop but not stepping back yet. “I just want my girl to go off. Can’t have you bricking shots ‘cause you’re too busy thinking ‘bout later.”

Azzi made a strangled noise that sounded like pure frustration and pure want in equal measure.

Paige winked. “Focus up, Fudd.”

Azzi shoved her shoulder, muttering under her breath as she turned back toward her teammates.

Paige watched her go, biting back her laugh. But inside, she felt warm. Settled.

Because as much as she loved seeing Azzi wound so tight she was ready to snap…

She also loved making sure Azzi could do what she did best.

And tonight, Paige would let her have her game.

But after?

After, Paige was going to ruin her.

—

The arena was loud that night. The crowd was packed in, buzzing, the low roar of conversation building with every quarter. Paige lived for that sound. For the crackle of sneakers on the court, the thud of the ball, the shriek of the whistle.

It was home, even if she was on the road.

But tonight felt different.

Because Azzi was out there too.

They’d always competed hard. Even at UConn, practice battles were legendary. Now it was the WNBA, and there was no coach to remind them to take it easy on each other.

And Paige wouldn’t want to…

But tonight… Azzi was off.

Paige noticed immediately. The way Azzi’s shot was just a hair too flat, her passes a split second too slow. The subtle way she kept glancing sidelong, looking for Paige like she couldn’t help herself.

Paige fought a smile every time she caught her.

But the game was close. Too close.

Coach had them pressing hard, running a switch-heavy defense, and Paige could hear her own breath tearing in and out of her lungs like a bellows. She was drenched in sweat. Muscles burning. But her brain was on, sharp as ever.

Except for her.

Because even while she played, Paige tracked Azzi. Watched her bite her lip after a turnover. Watched her mutter under her breath after clanking a three.

At one point during a timeout, Paige caught Azzi’s eye across the court. Azzi was on the bench, arms folded tight, jaw locked. Paige dropped her head, caught her breath, and gave the tiniest smirk.

Azzi’s glare could’ve melted steel.

Paige felt her heart thump, heat spooling in her stomach, and forced her eyes back to the huddle.

Focus.

But she couldn’t. Not fully.

The fourth quarter was brutal.

Mystics had chipped away at the Wings’ lead, possession by possession. The crowd was on their feet. The scoreboard glared tied with seconds left.

Azzi had the ball on the wing. Paige switched onto her, footwork perfect, chest up.

Azzi drove. Hard.

Paige felt the contact a millisecond too late.

The whistle split the air, sharp and brutal.

Paige froze for half a beat, the realization slamming into her like a body blow. She’d reached too far across Azzi’s driving lane, slapped her arm hard enough the whole arena probably heard it.

“Foul on Paige Bueckers. Two shots.”

The ref’s voice felt miles away, drowned under the roaring crowd.

Paige blew out a furious breath, trying not to smack the floor in frustration. She bent forward, hands braced on her knees, sweat dripping off her nose. Her heartbeat crashed in her ears.

She lifted her head just enough to watch Azzi walk to the line.

Azzi looked… tense. Wound so tight she was practically vibrating. She dribbled the ball once, twice, her shoulders stiff. 

Paige knew that body language. The way Azzi’s jaw flexed. The set of her mouth.

Fuck. She’s rattled.

Paige shifted her stance, chest heaving, eyes locked on Azzi’s face.

Azzi didn’t look at her.

So Paige inhaled slow, forcing the anger and frustration down. She squared her shoulders, gave the tiniest jerk of her chin.

Look at me.

Azzi blinked, eyes finally flicking up. Just for a second.

Paige didn’t break. She held her gaze, deliberate. Drew in a slow, deep breath that expanded her chest. Let it out even slower.

She was telling her without words. You’ve done this a thousand times. You know how to breathe. You know how to hit these.

Azzi’s eyes widened just slightly, like the message finally got through. Her shoulders dropped. Her grip on the ball loosened.

She took a breath.

Bounced once.

Twice.

Rolled it off her fingertips.

The net snapped.

Cheers thundered around them.

Paige’s hands clenched at her sides, her chest tight with something that felt like pride and heartbreak all tangled up.

Azzi settled, swallowed hard, eyes darting back to Paige for just a flicker. Paige nodded again. Just once. Barely perceptible.

You got this.

Azzi took another breath. Her routine was smoother this time. She exhaled. Shot.

Swish.

The building lost its mind.

Paige stayed frozen. Watching Azzi’s shoulders finally ease. The tiniest ghost of a triumphant smile crossing her face.

Timeout was called, benches emptied. The Wings scrambled for a final prayer of a play. Paige ran it, set her feet for a desperate three as the clock expired.

It bricked hard off the rim.

Game over.

The buzzer was deafening.

Paige bent over again, palms on her knees, sweat dripping onto the polished court. Her lungs burned. Her heart felt like it might give out.

And she looked up, through the swirl of players and staff and fans.

Azzi was being mobbed by her team, hugs and back slaps and laughter echoing. Her face was bright, alive, glowing with relief.

Paige’s mouth twitched.

She straightened slowly. Shoulders sore. Knees screaming.

Goddamn it.

—

Paige stormed through the tunnel, raking sweaty hair out of her face. She was pissed. Proud. Pissed and proud. The contradiction simmered in her chest like a live coal.

Inside the locker room, the mood was sour. Bags thumped. Tape ripped. Players muttered to themselves or snapped at staff.

Paige dropped onto the bench with a grunt, untying her shoes like they’d personally betrayed her.

Arike passed her, clapping her on the shoulder. “Hell of a game, P.”

Paige didn’t bother smiling. Just gave her a nod.

When her name got called for media, she blew out a long breath. She wasn’t in the mood to talk, but she wiped her face with a towel and forced herself up.

The little press scrum across the hallway was even worse. Too many mics. Too many lights.

She squinted against the flash of a camera and tried to keep her answers short.

Until someone asked that question.

“What did you think of Azzi’s performance tonight? Given your relationship, what’s it like seeing her at the foul line in that moment?”

Paige felt her pulse in her throat. She swallowed, jaw ticking.

She glanced away for a second—long enough to see a familiar silhouette leaning just out of the media ring.

Azzi.

She was watching. Still in her Mystics warmup jacket, hair pulled back in that messy bun that let curls spill around her temples. Her lips were parted, like she’d been mid-sigh. Her eyes were dark, fixed entirely on Paige.

Paige felt it like a punch to the chest.

She forced her gaze back to the reporter, voice going low and steady even though her heart was jackhammering.

“She’s clutch,” she said simply. “Always has been. That’s Azzi. She’s the reason they won tonight. That’s who she is.”

Her voice cracked a little on is, but she didn’t care.

For a second, no one said anything.

Then the reporters started firing more questions. Paige ignored them.

She stepped back, the handler trying to pull her for more, but she shook them off with a muttered “I’m good.”

She grabbed her backpack and slung it over her shoulder, barely feeling the weight.

As she stepped away from the lights, she caught the tiniest sliver of Azzi’s face.

Their eyes locked.

Azzi’s expression was unreadable at first. But Paige saw it—felt it—the second Azzi’s mouth softened.

Like she was trying not to smile. Like she’d just heard the one thing she needed.

Paige swallowed hard, heat licking her ribs.

She nodded once, barely perceptible.

Azzi nodded back.

When Paige finished changing, muttering curses at the squeak of her locker door, she found Azzi waiting just outside the locker room.

Paige’s heart fucking stuttered.

She walked toward her, trying to keep her face neutral even though she wanted to break into the stupidest, goofiest grin.

Azzi didn’t say anything. Just let her approach.

Finally Paige stopped in front of her, the hallway noisy with teammates and staff moving past, but it all seemed to dull to a hush when their eyes locked. 

Azzi didn’t say anything at first—just searched Paige’s face like she was looking for something she needed to see there. 

Then she spoke, voice lower and rougher than normal. “You fouled me.”

It wasn’t an accusation, not really. More like a memory, something raw they were both still feeling. 

Paige felt heat crawl up the back of her neck. She exhaled sharply through her nose, trying to play it off.

“Yeah,” she muttered, head tilting as if she could shrug off how tightly her chest had gone. “Sorry about that.”

Azzi’s mouth twitched, but the smile didn’t quite make it. Instead, her expression softened, eyes shining in a way that hit Paige straight in the ribs. 

She shifted on her feet, lowering her voice so no one else could hear.

“Thank you,” Azzi murmured.

Paige blinked. Confused, thrown. She frowned, the word catching her off guard. “For what?”

Azzi’s gaze didn’t waver. She seemed to draw in a breath like she was steadying herself.

“For breathing with me,” she said, voice cracking just enough that Paige’s throat felt tight. “Out there. You could’ve let me brick those shots.”

The words lodged in Paige’s chest. She swallowed hard, trying to look anywhere else, trying not to let it show how much Azzi’s gratitude rattled her. 

She gave a small, awkward shrug, like it didn’t matter. Like her heart wasn’t lying in pieces at Azzi’s feet.

“Yeah, well,” she rasped, the corner of her mouth twitching despite herself. “I know what missing those would’ve done to you.”

Azzi huffed out a tiny, unsteady laugh that sounded half relieved, half on the verge of tears. She ducked her head for a second, composing herself, then looked up at Paige again—eyes dark, glassy, so fucking intense.

Paige felt the entire world contract to the space between them.

Azzi reached out, fingers brushing Paige’s wrist before dropping. “Get your stuff,” she said, voice soft but unyielding. “Let’s go.”

Paige didn’t argue. Didn’t have it in her to joke. She just nodded, turning toward the locker room, heart thudding like a drum in her ears.

“Yeah,” she rasped. “Okay.”

She squeezed Azzi’s wrist once before turning to grab her bag and let her team manager know she was out for the night.

—

They pushed through the heavy security door into the back corridor, the muffled roar of the arena fading behind them. The air inside was damp and cool in the concrete hall, the fluorescents buzzing overhead.

Paige shifted her gear bag higher on her shoulder, the strap biting in. She winced, rolling her sore shoulder. Every muscle in her body felt wrecked from the game—but none of that mattered right now.

Azzi walked next to her, quiet. Too quiet.

Their arms brushed. Paige could practically feel the tension humming off Azzi like static.

Paige risked a sidelong glance. Azzi’s cheeks were flushed. Her dark hair was falling out of its bun, curling around her face. Her warm-up jacket was tied crooked at her waist, and her chest was still rising and falling a little too fast.

Paige’s mouth went dry.

Jesus.

They rounded a corner, passing a couple of arena staff pushing a squeaky cart stacked with towels. Paige cleared her throat roughly, dragging her gaze away from Azzi’s parted lips.

“Hang on,” Paige said roughly, catching Azzi’s elbow before she could push through the door to the loading dock. Her fingers tightened just a second longer than necessary, like she couldn’t help herself.

Azzi turned back, slow and heavy-lidded, lashes sweeping against flushed cheeks. Her lips parted, just slightly, like she might say something.

Paige had to clear her throat to speak. “I gotta…let the manager know I’m not getting on the bus,” she muttered, voice cracking on the end.

Azzi blinked, like she’d forgotten they weren’t the only two people in the world. She drew in a breath and nodded, a jerky little motion. “Yeah. Okay.”

Paige forced herself to let go. Her fingers dragged across the soft fabric of Azzi’s sleeve, lingering until the last second. She turned and stalked toward the Wings team manager, trying to get her shit together.

“Hey,” she rasped, voice low but determined. “Scratch me from the bus list. I have…other plans tonight.”

The manager didn’t even look fazed, just checked a box on the clipboard. “Got it. Be safe.”

Paige huffed a breath that was half relief, half anticipation. “Sure,” she mumbled, trying to sound casual even as her heart was jackhammering in her chest.

She pivoted too quickly—and nearly collided with Azzi, who was standing right there waiting.

Azzi’s eyes flicked over her face, dark and knowing. Her mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Other plans, huh?” she asked softly, the words rolling slow, teasing.

Paige’s lips twitched into a crooked grin, heat flaring in her eyes. She reached out and brushed Azzi’s wrist with her thumb. “Yeah,” she said, voice dropping. “Best plans I’ve had in a month.”

Azzi’s breath hitched, and she didn’t look away. Neither of them did. The world around them blurred, the noise of the arena fading.

Paige jerked her head toward the door, grin widening into something hungry. “C’mon,” she murmured. “Let’s go.”

And this time, Azzi didn’t hesitate at all.

They walked side by side through the loading dock, their footsteps echoing off concrete walls, eyes locked on the shape of Azzi’s car waiting at the far end. 

Paige’s fingers brushed against Azzi’s for a second before she slipped her hand away, smirking as she nodded toward the car.

She moved in closer, lowering her voice to a husky drawl. “Gimme your keys.”

Azzi blinked slowly, pupils blown.

“What?” she breathed.

Paige smirked, tugging on the string of Azzi’s waistband to pull her closer. Her other hand slipped around, digging into Azzi’s pocket with deliberate slowness.

Azzi jumped at the contact, a small broken gasp escaping her lips.

Paige’s voice dropped even lower.

“C’mon,” she murmured against Azzi’s ear, letting her lips brush just enough to make Azzi shiver. “You think I’m letting you drive like this?”

Azzi’s fingers curled into Paige’s biceps.

“I’m fine,” she tried to say, but her voice cracked embarrassingly halfway through.

Paige pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. She cocked a brow.

“Baby. You’re shaking.”

Azzi glared at her weakly.

Paige’s grin went sharp and knowing. She finally tugged the keys free and dangled them between them.

“Good girl,” she purred. “Now get your pretty ass in the car.”

Azzi’s mouth dropped open in outrage, but she couldn’t make any words come out.

Paige’s smirk widened. She clicked the car unlocked with Azzi’s fob and popped the trunk so she could drop in her gear bag.

When she turned back, Azzi was still just standing there on the passenger side, chest heaving.

Paige met her gaze across the roof.

Azzi’s knuckles were white on the door handle.

Paige raised a brow, voice lazy.

“Get in.”

Azzi swallowed hard.

Her voice was a ragged whisper. “Paige…”

Paige opened the driver door without breaking eye contact.

“Oh baby,” she drawled, sliding in with a dark smile. “You have no idea what you’re in for tonight.”

—

Paige parked Azzi’s car in the apartment lot with unnecessary precision, hands gripping the wheel for a moment after the engine cut. 

The quiet between them felt like it had mass, pressing down on both of them. Azzi’s breath hitched in the passenger seat, eyes darting from the windshield to Paige’s profile. She swallowed hard.

Paige finally turned, eyes dark, hungry, but softened by the smallest smile. 

She reached across and brushed her fingers over Azzi’s wrist. “Come on,” she said, voice low but even. “We’re here.”

Azzi nodded too fast, hands shaking slightly as she fumbled with the door handle. Paige was already out, walking around to the trunk to grab her small duffel. 

When Azzi rounded the car, Paige’s eyes flicked over her—lingering on the rapid rise and fall of Azzi’s chest, the flush in her cheeks. Paige felt something in her own stomach tighten almost painfully.

Azzi had been on edge since yesterday, since the moment Paige stepped off that bus and found her in the lobby. Since Paige made that promise. And Paige intended to keep it.

Azzi led the way up to her apartment door but her steps were uneven. She fished in her bag for the keys, breath stuttering as she fumbled around for them. Paige stayed right behind her, close enough that Azzi could feel her body heat.

“Az,” Paige murmured, voice pitched soft and low, one hand resting lightly on Azzi’s hip. “Breathe.”

Azzi made a small strangled sound, but nodded. The key slid in on the next try and she turned it, pushing the door open. Paige didn’t wait for an invitation—she pressed in behind her, using her foot to nudge the door closed.

The lock clicked. The apartment fell into quiet, except for the muffled city noise outside the window. Azzi set her keys on the counter with an unsteady clack. Paige dropped her duffel next to them.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

They just looked.

Azzi’s pupils were blown wide, dark and glassy. She bit her lower lip like she was trying to hold something back. Paige’s chest was heaving slightly with the effort to keep still, to keep controlled.

Paige took one slow step forward, closing the last bit of space. Her hand found Azzi’s waist again. Azzi’s head tipped back slightly, eyes fluttering closed at the contact.

Paige’s voice was low, a rough rasp. “Been waiting to touch you all damn day.”

Azzi let out a shaky exhale, her hands hovering at Paige’s sides before giving in, clutching at her shirt. “I know,” she whispered, voice cracking. “Paige, please…”

Paige’s fingers tightened possessively. She dipped her head, brushing her nose along Azzi’s temple, breathing her in. “I know, baby,” she said, softer now. “I know.”

Azzi shivered under the attention, the care in Paige’s voice doing something worse to her than the promise of what was coming. 

She turned her face, pressing her lips to Paige’s jaw. Paige’s eyes fell closed, her grip shifting to Azzi’s back to hold her even tighter.

They stood there for a moment, bodies pressed close but unmoving. Like they both needed the pause, needed to feel each other solid and real before the world dropped out from under them.

Paige pulled back first, just enough to see Azzi’s face. Her thumb brushed Azzi’s cheekbone with maddening gentleness. She studied her. Azzi’s lashes were damp. Paige felt her own chest clench.

“Tell me what you want,” Paige asked, voice barely more than a husk of sound.

Azzi’s breath hitched. She blinked at Paige, desperate and unwavering all at once. “Paige,” she whispered. “I want you.”

Paige’s mouth curved into something halfway between a smile and a snarl. She pressed their foreheads together. “Good,” she breathed. “Because I’m done waiting.”

Azzi whimpered, pressing closer. Paige let her.

And for a moment longer, they just stood.

Their hearts pounded. Their breaths mingled. Their hands wandered—slow, intentional, almost shaking.

Paige’s thumb traced Azzi’s lower lip before she finally leaned in, kissing her like she’d been dying of thirst. Azzi moaned into her mouth, fingers digging into Paige’s sides.

Paige groaned low, deep in her chest, pulling Azzi fully against her.

Azzi gasped when she felt Paige’s hands slip lower, fingers flexing, gripping her hips with purpose.

Azzi pulled back just enough to see Paige’s eyes, wide and dark and burning.

“Bedroom?” Paige asked roughly.

Azzi just nodded, breathless.

Paige didn’t wait for more. She took Azzi’s hand, fingers lacing tight.

They made it into the bedroom only because Paige refused to let them stop in the hall. 

Azzi tried—God, she tried—hands buried in Paige’s hair, mouth dragging along her jaw, teeth catching her earlobe with a desperation that felt feral. 

Paige laughed breathlessly, her fingers at Azzi’s waist, guiding her back step by step until her knees hit the edge of the bed.

“Paige,” Azzi hissed, hands already fumbling at Paige’s shirt.

“Hold on,” Paige growled, pressing in close, lips ghosting Azzi’s. “We’ve got all night. I want to see you.”

Azzi let out a frustrated groan but lifted her arms anyway. Paige peeled the shirt off slowly, eyes tracking every inch of newly exposed skin. 

Azzi’s sports bra was dark against her skin, her breathing ragged. Paige tossed the shirt aside carelessly and ran her thumbs along the elastic band where bra met flesh, making Azzi shiver.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” Paige murmured. She bent down to mouth along Azzi’s collarbone, biting just enough to make Azzi’s knees buckle. Azzi’s fingers tightened in Paige’s hair, tugging.

“Off,” Azzi demanded, voice breaking. “Paige, please, just—off.”

Paige chuckled, low and dark, pulling back to tug off her own shirt. Azzi’s eyes devoured her. She always did—Paige knew the look, had seen it enough times to know when Azzi was about to snap.

Bras went next, fumbled and frantic. Paige pressed her mouth to Azzi’s chest as soon as the fabric fell away, kissing one breast then the other, tongue teasing at a nipple until Azzi’s head fell back with a sharp moan.

They kissed again, teeth and tongue, messy and deep. Paige’s hands roamed up and down Azzi’s back, Azzi’s fingers dug into Paige’s abs like she wanted to climb inside her.

Pants went next, dragging down clumsily as they stumbled onto the bed. Paige pushed Azzi back gently, hovering above her as she kicked her own off.

Azzi was left in nothing, sprawled out on the sheets, skin dark and glowing in the low light, breathing like she’d run sprints. Paige just paused, taking her in.

Azzi squirmed, trying to close her legs self-consciously. Paige stopped her with firm hands on her thighs. “Don’t you fucking dare,” she rasped.

Azzi whimpered.

Paige crawled over her, dragging her palms up Azzi’s legs, kissing her knee, her inner thigh. She deliberately skipped over where Azzi was wet and aching, moving to kiss her stomach instead, biting lightly.

Azzi let out a sob of frustration. “Paige,” she panted. “I need you to touch me.”

Paige lifted her head with infuriating calm. “I am touching you.”

Azzi actually growled, grabbing at Paige’s hair and tugging her back in. “Not like that. You said I didn’t know what I was in for tonight? Show me.”

Paige’s smirk faded as she saw Azzi’s eyes—dark, glassy, almost wet. She was wrecked. Paige’s chest squeezed tight.

She pressed her forehead to Azzi’s, breath mingling. “Jesus, Az,” she murmured, voice cracking. She kissed her, slow but intense, then pulled back just enough to whisper, “I know you’ve been waiting 31 days for this.”

Azzi trembled, hips rolling up into Paige’s stomach involuntarily.

Paige’s fingers tightened on her waist. She dropped her voice low, commanding but unbearably gentle. “Okay. Listen to me.” 

She kissed Azzi again, biting her lower lip before letting go. “You come however you want right now. Fast and dirty, take it. I’ll give you anything. But after that…”

Azzi blinked, panting, barely following.

Paige’s eyes locked on hers, dark and possessive. “After that, I get to decide. Okay?”

Azzi let out a broken noise that might have been a whimper or a moan. She nodded frantically. “Yes, anything. Just—Paige, please.”

Paige smiled, this slow, filthy curl of her lips that made Azzi shudder. “How do you want it, baby? Tell me.”

Azzi squeezed her eyes shut like she needed a second to gather the words. When they opened, they were glazed with lust, voice low and raw. “I want… I want to ride your stomach.”

Paige didn’t say a word. She just moved. One second Azzi was on her back, the next Paige had them flipped, Azzi straddling her waist, gasping at the maneuver. Paige’s hands steadied her hips.

Azzi’s thighs trembled as she realized the position. She looked down, seeing Paige’s toned abs flex under her, the hard lines of muscle she’d dreamed about grinding against.

Paige gave her a look that was pure sin, eyebrows lifted in challenge. She didn’t speak, just dropped her gaze to her own stomach and then flicked her eyes back up, daring Azzi.

Azzi groaned, squeezing Paige’s sides with her knees. “Fuck,” she whispered, voice shaking.

Paige’s hands on her ass guided her forward. “Come on, baby,” she rasped. “Show me how bad you need it.”

Azzi whimpered but obeyed, lifting herself and dragging her wet heat along Paige’s abs. The contact made them both moan. Paige’s muscles were hard and unyielding under her, the friction exactly what Azzi had been dying for.

She rocked forward, then back, pace slow at first, feeling every ridge of Paige’s body under her. Paige’s hands squeezed her ass, helping her move, watching every second with hooded eyes.

“Look at you,” Paige whispered, voice so husky it was nearly a growl. “You look so good like this.”

Azzi let out a cracked sob, pace stuttering as she tried to grind harder. Paige moved with her, giving her just enough friction but never letting her go too fast too soon.

Azzi was panting now, hair sticking to her forehead, sweat gleaming on her collarbones. Her fingers dug into Paige’s chest for balance, leaving little crescent marks on her skin. 

Paige never looked away—her gaze locked with Azzi’s, watching the way her eyelids fluttered, the flush climbing her throat, the way her mouth fell open on ragged breaths.

It was so quick, so raw—Azzi didn’t try to make it last. She didn’t want to. She just needed it. She chased it hungrily, rocking hard and fast against Paige’s abs, grinding in frantic, desperate circles. 

It hadn’t even been that long—just enough. Enough to finally feel what she’d been craving for thirty-one unbearable days.

Azzi’s moans pitched higher, voice shaking apart. “Paige—I’m—”

Paige's hands tightened on Azzi's hips, steadying her. She lifted her chin just enough to let her voice carry, low and gentle but clear. “That’s it, baby. Let go for me. You’ve been waiting so good for this.”

Azzi choked on a sob and fell apart, hips jerking, grinding down with frantic abandon as her orgasm ripped through her. She was loud, raw, messy, shaking all over as she lost herself on Paige’s abs.

Paige held her through it, hands firm on her ass and waist, guiding her even as she trembled. When Azzi finally collapsed forward onto her, breath stuttering and tears gathering in the corners of her eyes, Paige just caught her.

She wrapped her arms around her, one hand cradling Azzi’s head, the other stroking her back slowly. She pressed kisses into her hair, her temple, whispering low, reverent words.

“That’s it. Fuck, Azzi. You’re perfect. Got you. Always got you.”

Azzi just lay there, wrecked and shaking, breathing hot against Paige’s neck.

Paige felt the heat of her cheek, the sweat sticking them together. She kissed Azzi’s temple, heart hammering at how beautiful she looked—wrecked and radiant.

But Paige didn’t give her long.

She shifted her grip on Azzi’s hips and rolled them smoothly, guiding Azzi’s back onto the mattress. 

Azzi went with her easily, only realizing what was happening when her back hit the sheets. She blinked up, pupils huge, breath catching as Paige’s hair fell forward to frame their faces.

Paige braced herself on one arm, her other hand cupping Azzi’s jaw. “You okay?” she murmured, brushing a thumb over swollen lips.

Azzi swallowed hard, voice still hoarse. “Yeah. Just—fuck.”

Paige grinned, something hot and dark flashing in her eyes. She leaned in, nose brushing Azzi’s cheek, letting her breath ghost across Azzi’s skin until she squirmed.

“You know I’m not done with you yet, baby,” she whispered, voice deep and low.

Azzi’s breath was still ragged from her first orgasm, chest heaving with the effort of pulling in air that didn’t seem to want to come. 

Paige watched it, mesmerized by the rise and fall, the flush that spread over Azzi’s throat like a brand she’d left herself.

Paige didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. She lowered her head and let her mouth drift over Azzi’s collarbone, tongue tracing the salt of sweat there before dragging teeth gently across the curve. 

Azzi shivered, muscles twitching beneath her. Paige could feel Azzi’s body trying to buck, instinctively searching for something more, but Paige kept her pinned, hands splayed wide over Azzi’s ribs in a firm, anchoring hold.

Azzi’s fingers gripped Paige’s arms, nails biting lightly as if she could make Paige move faster by sheer force of will. 

But Paige just smiled against her skin, lips dragging lower, teeth grazing over the swell of one breast, catching a nipple between them and flicking her tongue until Azzi gasped. 

She felt Azzi’s thighs shifting, hips lifting in tiny, needy movements that begged for friction, anything, even air.

Paige’s hand finally slipped lower, slow enough to make Azzi curse under her breath, nails digging in deeper. 

Paige trailed fingers over Azzi’s belly, brushing just barely between her legs where she was soaked, hot, pulsing with want. 

Azzi’s hips jerked at the contact, a strangled sound escaping her throat that sounded like both a plea and a threat.

“Fuck—Paige—please,” Azzi gasped.

But Paige didn’t give her what she wanted. She only teased, featherlight touches along slick folds, drawing circles so slow it was nearly cruel. 

Azzi’s body trembled, trying to lift to meet her, to make her do something—anything. 

Paige felt Azzi’s legs tense, her breath coming in short, frustrated pants.

And Paige just watched her. Drinking her in. She felt the power of it—Azzi completely open to her, undone and laid bare in a way no one else had ever seen. Paige’s own heart thundered, so full of want and love she felt like it might split open.

When Azzi tried to grind up harder against her hand, Paige pressed down firmly, stilling her completely. She lifted her gaze and let Azzi see the promise in her eyes.

“Remember,” she breathed, voice low and dark with intent, letting her thumb stroke lazily against Azzi’s throbbing clit. “I get to decide.”

Azzi let out something between a sob and a laugh, her head falling back into the pillow, surrender written in every trembling line of her body. 

And Paige felt it, deep in her chest—the raw, overwhelming need to give her everything she wanted, but exactly the way Paige chose.

Paige’s fingers finally sank in deep, slow and patient, pressing past that tight heat with an aching deliberateness that made Azzi’s entire body tense. 

She let out a low, broken moan, hands scrambling for purchase on Paige’s biceps. Paige didn’t let up, curling her fingers inside Azzi with each slow withdrawal, drawing circles against that spot she knew would make Azzi see stars.

She watched Azzi’s eyes flutter closed, lashes damp, mouth falling open in a soundless gasp. Paige felt every clench around her fingers, every tremor in those strong thighs she loved. 

She leaned in, pressing open-mouthed kisses along Azzi’s throat, her collarbone, the soft swell of one breast. Azzi’s skin was hot and slick with sweat, tasting like salt and something sweet and private that Paige wanted to drown in.

Azzi’s hips jerked up, trying to meet her hand, to get more friction, more pressure, anything. Paige felt the tremor of need and her heart twisted with it—but she didn’t speed up. 

She slowed her rhythm on purpose, drawing her fingers out and back in, just to hear Azzi whimper and mutter a curse.

Paige’s voice was a warm purr against Azzi’s neck. “Easy,” she murmured, thumb brushing teasingly against Azzi’s clit in barely-there circles that made Azzi sob. “Not yet. I want to take my time with you.”

Azzi let out a strangled, frustrated noise, nails digging into Paige’s shoulders. 

Paige loved the burn of it. She loved Azzi desperate like this—because she knew Azzi trusted her to take her apart, and to put her back together.

She savored it. Pressing kisses lower, biting gently at Azzi’s ribs. She couldn’t get enough of the way Azzi’s muscles twitched beneath her, couldn’t help flicking her tongue out to taste sweat and heat. 

Paige felt like she was starving, and Azzi was the only thing that would ever feed her.

Azzi’s voice cracked. “Paige, please.”

Paige lifted her head just enough to look at her. Azzi’s pupils were blown wide, cheeks pink and wet with sweat. Paige’s heart pounded at the sight of her like this—completely hers.

“You feel good, baby?” Paige whispered, her thumb brushing firmer now against that swollen clit.

Azzi’s hips bucked. “Yes,” she panted, voice breaking on the word. “Please, Paige—I need to come.”

Paige smiled slowly. She bent to lick a wet stripe right up the center of Azzi’s chest, feeling Azzi shiver. “I know,” she said softly. “Not yet. Hold off for me.”

Azzi let out a strangled sob of frustration, hips lifting again, trying to force Paige’s fingers deeper, faster. 

Paige felt the flutter of Azzi’s walls clenching around her, so she stilled her fingers entirely. 

Azzi actually whined, loud and desperate, back arching off the bed. Paige kissed her again, teeth tugging at a nipple, tongue soothing after, making Azzi writhe beneath her.

“Shhh,” Paige murmured, moving down Azzi’s body with devastating slowness. “You can hold it.”

Azzi’s entire body was shaking, muscles jumping under Paige’s hands. Paige bit her own lip to hold back a moan as she looked at her—open, ruined, beautiful. 

She bent lower and kissed around Azzi’s wet folds, deliberately avoiding her clit. She heard Azzi take a shaky breath like she was grounding herself, trying to focus through the overwhelming rush building inside her, holding on just a second longer.

Paige smiled against sensitive skin. “Good girl,” she praised low, hearing Azzi’s whimper in response. 

She dragged her tongue teasingly along the seam, finally flicking it against Azzi’s clit in a wet, practiced swirl. Azzi actually screamed, clapping a hand over her own mouth too late to muffle it.

Paige’s fingers resumed their slow push and pull, curling just right. Her mouth worked Azzi’s clit with devastating precision, alternating gentle sucks with relentless flicks of her tongue. 

Azzi was babbling now, half-incoherent pleas, curses, and Paige’s name on a loop.

Paige’s own hips were grinding reflexively into the mattress, wetness slick between her thighs at the taste and smell of Azzi. She didn’t stop. She didn’t even pause when Azzi’s whole body went taut beneath her, thighs trying to clamp around Paige’s head.

Azzi’s voice cracked into something raw and helpless. “I can’t, baby—I can’t hold it—”

Paige’s voice was low and wrecked, vibrating against Azzi’s clit. “You can let go. Come for me, right now.”

Azzi shattered. Paige felt it—every clench, every stuttering breath, the loud, broken moan that spilled from Azzi’s lips as her hips bucked wildly.

Paige didn’t stop licking, sucking, working her fingers in deep, tight, perfect curls even as Azzi fell apart under her mouth, sobbing her name, muscles quivering and locking. 

She didn’t wait for Azzi’s body to stop shaking. Paige used that raw, vulnerable moment—while Azzi was still feeling the tail end of her orgasm, hips twitching and clenching around nothing—to roll them over once again.

Azzi gasped, breath hitching in surprise, her orgasm still sputtering through her core as Paige maneuvered her limp, boneless form so she was straddling Paige’s chest. 

Azzi blinked down at her, eyes glazed, wet, body trembling all over. But Paige didn’t give her a chance to catch her breath. 

She grabbed Azzi’s thighs firmly, pulling her higher without asking, guiding her up until Azzi was hovering over Paige’s mouth.

Paige’s voice was barely a whisper, eyes dark and aching as they met Azzi’s. “C’mere,” she breathed. “I want you like this.”

Azzi’s breath caught. “It’s too much,” she whispered, voice cracking on the words.

Paige’s eyes burned with heat and love. “You waited 31 days,” she rasped, voice dark and certain. “I know you can.”

She guided Azzi down to her mouth and devoured her. Azzi’s cry cracked, went hoarse, hips bucking helplessly. 

Paige gripped her thighs tighter, forcing her to stay put as she licked and sucked, deliberately rough now, pushing Azzi past what she thought she could take.

Azzi sobbed Paige’s name, half-pleading, half-cursing, hands buried in Paige’s hair, tugging so hard it hurt. Paige only groaned in response, the vibration making Azzi move her hips faster against Paige’s mouth. 

Paige could barely see straight—Azzi was riding her mouth like she needed it to live, whimpering with every grind of her hips. 

Paige felt her own clit pulsing, a deep, aching throb that had been building for hours, days—hell, weeks. 

The taste of Azzi on her tongue, the frantic little sounds spilling from her lips, the desperate roll of her hips, it was too fucking much. Paige’s entire body was strung tight as a bow.

She couldn’t help herself. Her free hand slipped between their slick, overheated bodies to rub tight, messy circles against her own clit. 

She barely even needed it—she felt like she could have come just from the sight and taste of Azzi alone. But the ache was unbearable, insistent. 

She chased her own release shamelessly even as she kept her mouth locked on Azzi, devouring her with relentless precision.

Azzi’s thighs were shaking violently on either side of Paige’s face, nails digging into the headboard as she used it for leverage to keep from collapsing. 

Paige’s hand gripped Azzi’s thighs hard, knuckles white with effort, both to hold her in place and to anchor herself as she teetered on the edge.

When Azzi came again—her third, raw and unstoppable—it was so hard and fast she let out a strangled cry, hips jerking, her whole body seizing. 

Paige felt it ripple through her own body like a fuse catching. She moaned against Azzi, mouth full of her, tongue pressing hard against her clit one final time as her own orgasm ripped through her body. 

Azzi nearly collapsed forward from the force of it, Paige’s grip the only thing keeping her upright as they both shook, riding out wave after wave until there was nothing left but the sound of their wrecked breathing and the tremor of overstimulated muscles.

Slowly, Paige eased her back down, guiding Azzi to collapse against her. She pulled Azzi in close, pressing kisses to tear-streaked cheeks, salty and warm. 

Paige’s chest heaved, her own orgasm still buzzing at the edge of her nerves, but all she cared about was Azzi.

“Breathe, baby,” she whispered against her hair, voice shredded. “I’ve got you. I’m right here. Just breathe.”

Azzi could only sob, clutching Paige so hard it was like she was scared she might vanish. Paige just held her, stroking her back, kissing her temple over and over, murmuring love into the dim room until Azzi’s breathing finally slowed.

Azzi was limp against her, her breath coming in ragged gasps that stuttered every time Paige’s hands skimmed her slick back. 

Paige didn’t rush her. She let Azzi sag fully onto her chest, soaking up the warmth of her body, the racing of her heart that echoed Paige’s own. 

She could feel Azzi’s thighs still trembling where they straddled Paige’s hips, the tiny involuntary shudders that rippled through her every few seconds.

Paige’s palms traced slow, grounding paths over Azzi’s spine. She pressed soft kisses to her hairline, her temple, the damp skin of her cheek. 

Azzi smelled like sweat and sex, the heady scent of her arousal still clinging to Paige’s mouth, but Paige wouldn’t have moved for anything.

“Easy,” Paige murmured, voice low and husky, worn to tatters from what she’d just done. She nuzzled Azzi’s hair with her nose. “Breathe with me.”

Azzi sucked in a stuttering inhale and let it out in a long, shivery exhale. Paige felt the heat of Azzi’s tear-wet face against her chest. It punched something tender and protective in her gut.

“I’ve got you,” Paige whispered, softer still, like a promise. Her hands rubbed soothing circles between Azzi’s shoulder blades, fingers slipping over damp skin. She could feel every tiny tremor, the way Azzi’s pulse fluttered in her neck.

Azzi didn’t answer at first. She just clung tighter, her fingers pressing into Paige’s sides like she was trying to fuse them together. When she finally spoke, it was so quiet Paige almost didn’t catch it.

“Can’t feel my legs,” Azzi mumbled, voice wrecked and hoarse but with a shaky laugh buried under the exhaustion.

Paige huffed a laugh that broke on relief. She angled her head to press another kiss to Azzi’s temple. “Pretty sure that’s my fault,” she said, lips curving against Azzi’s skin.

Azzi let out a half-sob, half-laugh that shook them both. She twisted just enough to bury her face in the crook of Paige’s neck. “Asshole,” she mumbled, voice cracking.

Paige’s chest ached with how much she loved her. She squeezed her even tighter, one hand drifting up to cradle the back of Azzi’s head. “Yeah,” she agreed softly, voice a rasp. “I am.”

Azzi made a small, exhausted noise in her throat. She shifted, trying to melt even closer, like she couldn’t get enough. Paige let her, adjusting just enough to settle them comfortably on the messy sheets.

Silence fell, heavy and full of the weight of everything that had just happened. Their breathing slowly matched, deep and ragged, chests pressed close. 

Paige’s fingers threaded through Azzi’s hair, combing out knots gently, over and over until Azzi’s breathing evened out.

Paige cleared her raw throat and pressed her mouth to Azzi’s hair. “You okay?” she asked, voice low but steady.

Azzi shifted, just enough to lift her head and meet Paige’s eyes. Hers were wet, lashes clumped together. She nodded slowly. “Yeah,” she whispered. “Yeah. Just... wrecked.”

Paige’s lips curved tiredly. She brushed a thumb under Azzi’s eye, catching a tear. “Good. You deserve to be.”

Azzi huffed another weak laugh, breath ghosting across Paige’s lips. “Fucking jerk.”

Paige smiled wider, kissing her softly, slow, no heat left—just love. She felt Azzi sigh against her mouth, the tension draining from her body, leaving her pliant and trusting and Paige’s.

They broke apart reluctantly, foreheads pressing together, eyes slipping shut. Paige kept one hand on Azzi’s cheek, the other splayed across her back, fingers splayed protectively.

“Stay here,” Paige rasped eventually. “Just like this. Don’t move.”

Azzi didn’t even try to argue. She nodded into Paige’s skin, cheek pressed to her collarbone, lashes fluttering low. “Wasn’t planning on it,” she mumbled, voice already drifting, slurred with exhaustion.

Paige swallowed, pressing a careful kiss to Azzi’s damp hair. She let her hand smooth slowly over Azzi’s spine once, twice, until she felt the tight tremors in those muscles ease a fraction. 

Then she took a deep, bracing breath and gently eased Azzi back onto the mattress, murmuring, “Shhh. Just for a second. I’ll be right back.”

Azzi made a soft, incoherent sound of protest, one hand pawing weakly at Paige’s wrist like she couldn’t bear to let her go. 

But Paige just caught her fingers, squeezed them tight, and pressed them back against Azzi’s chest. “Two minutes,” she promised roughly. “Promise.”

She pushed herself upright on shaky arms, muscles protesting every move, and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. 

Her stomach was a sticky, glistening mess—Azzi’s wetness slicked across her abs and ribs. She didn’t care, not really, but she’d be damned if Azzi was going to fall asleep covered in it too.

Padding to the bathroom, Paige flicked on the dull overhead light, wincing at the harsh glare. She ran warm water over a washcloth, squeezing it out with trembling fingers. 

She was still coming down herself—her thighs quivered, her pulse felt like it was everywhere. She took a deep breath, steadied herself, then wet the cloth again.

When she came back, Azzi hadn’t moved an inch. She was sprawled like a starfish across the tangled sheets, breathing deep but not quite asleep, eyes blinking heavily. 

Paige’s heart cramped at the sight—this tough, focused, competitive girl into a melted mess for her.

“Hey,” Paige whispered, crawling back onto the bed. She nudged Azzi’s hip gently. “C’mon. Lemme clean you up.”

Azzi mumbled something incoherent but obediently lifted her hips a fraction, enough for Paige to slip the warm cloth between their bodies. Paige wiped her with aching tenderness, as though Azzi might break under her touch. 

She cleaned her thighs, her belly, every sticky trace of their need. Azzi’s lashes fluttered, a tiny shiver running through her, but she didn’t fight it.

When she was done with Azzi, Paige huffed a breath, wiped herself off too—sloppy, efficient, a little embarrassed at how soaked she was. She tossed the washcloth blindly toward the floor and immediately wrapped herself back around Azzi, pulling her in tight.

“Okay,” she sighed, burying her face in Azzi’s hair. “Better.”

Paige felt her own eyelids grow heavy, exhaustion creeping in like a warm tide. But she didn’t let herself fall asleep yet. 

She stayed awake just long enough to feel Azzi’s breathing slow, even out, her entire body going loose and heavy with trust and satisfaction.

Only then did Paige let her eyes close. She pressed one last kiss to Azzi’s hair and whispered, so quiet even she could barely hear it:

“Love you so fucking much.”

Basketball would always carry them to different cities, different nights, different beds. But it didn’t matter. Because they’d keep finding their way back, bodies crashing together like the inevitable pull of gravity. 

Soulmates. 

That’s what this was. 

Paige clung to that thought, breathing in Azzi’s warmth, memorizing the shape of her pressed so tight to her, knowing no matter how many times they said goodbye, they’d always end up here again—wrapped around each other, hearts pounding the same rhythm in the quiet dark.

[sunflowergirl522]

You Better Be Nice

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary: You make sure the team is enthusiastic when Bob shows them the crafts he made them.

Word Count: 1651

A/n: Honestly as soon as I saw this trend I thought of Bob immediately

Bob Masterlist

You hadn’t been part of the original members of the New Avengers. Val had discovered you in hidden documents she had gotten her hands on. Shortly after the government had gotten their hands on the files on Hydra’s experimentation on The Scarlet Witch they had decided to try experimenting themselves much like how O.X.E was experimenting with the Sentry Project. You liked to joke that you never got any of the fun powers like shooting red orbs or flying because all you could do was put people back into memories, make them stuck in them so they don’t know what’s going on around them. The bad memories are the easiest to trap people in thanks to how they were training you, it’s how you had escaped the underground cell you were held in.

Once you were out you planted a false memory, something they had just started trying to train you in doing, in a guards head that he had shot and killed you before hiding. Val hadn’t believed that story, finding too many holes in it and had people search you out and find you before bringing you to an office to meet with her. You had been quickly added to the team after with her threatening to make what you did to the guards in order to get out public.

And when you had finally met the team and gotten acquainted with everyone you were glad to be on it. The only downside was that because of your powers Val had decided to make your “look” while doing anything for the public eye darker to make you seem scarier and more unapproachable than your teammates. Which had been the reason you hadn’t wanted your information getting out to the public to begin with, because you love being around people and you would hate to have children be frightened of you. So sometimes you wish you hadn’t agreed to be on the team if that’s how she wants to portray you but at the same time you love the family you’re surrounded with now.

And you love Bob.

Your relationship had been like a nuclear bomb, a brief moment of stillness before it happened all at once. The two of you were drawn to each other like moths to flames. It could’ve been because your stories were similar but mainly it was because you got him. He could sense your welcoming, bright energy from the moment you met and has always felt as if he could be himself around you even if he was more down than up. You like to say that the two of you work because of the few psych classes you took before volunteering for the government project that was supposed to have a big payout. You had even been quick to move into his room after a week of falling asleep in it anyway.

The two of you do everything together, practically attached at the hip if you aren’t on a mission. Reading curled up into him, watching movies side by side on the couch during team movie nights, helping him clean or do dishes when he gets the motivation to. One of your favorite things to do with him is crafts. Mainly because it clears his mind more than anything else when he’s stuck in it but also because he’s actually so good at so many of the ones you guys have tried. The two of you will make something and then you’ll get the team together so Bob can show them what he’s made. Today was no different.

“Oh! Good, you’re all here already!” You come into the common room after being shut away with Bob for hours glad to see the team already there.

“What’s up?” Yelena asks as everyone's attention turns to you.

“Not again.” John groans already knowing what you’re about to say based on the old sweatshirt covered in paint that you have on that you often wear when you and Bob lock yourselves in the newer craft room.

“Bob’s gonna show you the flowers he made!” Your voice drops from the loud cheerful one you had knowing Bob would hear you on his way to you to a more threatening one because you can already see John opening his mouth to make a quip. “And you better be nice and tell him how good they are.” You make eye contact with each one of them making sure the threat was obvious to them all. Because as bubbly as you are you are still the scariest of them all especially because you’ve used your power on John before for being an asshole. None of them want to go through what he did, the man didn’t even want to be on missions with you for weeks after.

“Alright baby, we're ready for you!” Bob comes into the room then all the flowers he had made hidden in a small basket which you hold your hands out to take from him so he can pull them out as he speaks.

“Uh, hi guys.”

“Hi Bob!”

“Bob, what have you brought for us today huh?”

“Let’s get this over with.” Yelena, Alexei, and John speak at the same time while Ava waves and Bucky just stares. You shoot John a glare and he straightens up immediately.

“Okay well um first we have a camomile flower for Alexei.” He pulls the first one out and you smile encouragingly at him but immediately go back to staring down the team when his back is to you. 

“Ah yes! Russia's national flower!” Alexei cheers happily getting up to take the pipe cleaner flower as gently as he can from your boyfriend. You knew you had nothing to worry about with Alexei; he was always excited with anything Bob made. “I will display proudly in room!”

“Next is for Bucky. I had Y/n look up what flowers were popular in the forties because I wasn’t sure what kind you’d like. So I made a hyacinth.” As soon as Bob faces the group you look at Bucky and trace the smile on your face as if you were doing the slitting throat motion. It causes him to immediately force a smile on his face while accepting the delicate flower from Bob’s hand.

“Thanks Bob.”

“For Ava a ghost flower. I thought it would be fun to play on your name but it was probably the most difficult.” He pulls it out of the basket in your hand and when he turns around she’s already appearing in front of him awe clearly written on her face.

“It’s wonderful Bob, thank you.” You nod at her as she glances at you before going back to her perched seat behind the couch.

“Next is John.” You look at the man in question two fingers coming up to do the my eyes are on you motion and he gulps. “You’re from Georgia so I made a branch of peach blossoms.” There’s a full peach on his branch as well and when his head turns to look from the basket over to John you put a hand to your ear before making a give me more motion with it.

“It looks great. Just like the ones back home.” John wouldn’t tell anyone but it’s gonna go on his nightstand and never move because he loves it so much. Yelena stands up ready to accept her own flower before Johns even sits down.

“And for Lena I made a Natalia lily.” When he pulls out the intricate pink flower Yelena’s steps falter as she takes in the name she barely suppresses the gasp that wants to fall from her lips. “Y/n had helped me with this one admittedly.”

“I only helped with doing a petal or two. This is the one Bob was the most excited for honestly.” Bob turns pink at your outing of him and Yelena finishes crossing the distance and brings Bob into a bone crushing hug. You’re quick enough to grab the flower from his hand before it can get dropped seeing this coming. 

“This is so nice, I don’t know what to say but thank you.” She hadn’t even known there was a type of flower that shared her sister's name but now that she does it’s her new favorite. She takes the flower from you giving Bob another hug before going back to her spot. You try to suppress a yawn but Bob notices and takes the basket back from you.

“Okay well uh I think we’re going to head to bed now. I’m glad you all like them. You're welcome and good night.” He turns to leave pausing to look at you expectantly.

“I’ll be right there, I wanna get some water first.” He nods at you walking out of the room. When you leave the kitchen to follow him with two bottles in your hands you stop to face the team. “You all better display those safely and proudly in your rooms.” Once you’re out of the room they burst into conversation about how cool their pipe cleaner flowers are with John and Ava arguing over whose is better.

“I have something for you too.” Bob says as you enter your shared room.

“Oh? What is it?”

“Here, because you’re my sun.” He holds out a pipe cleaner sunflower and you beam happily taking it from him and adding it to the vase of other flowers he’s made you before letting him bring you into his arms. Your hands cup his cheeks before placing a kiss that you both smile through on his lips.

“I love it, I love you.”

“I love you too.” 

Unbeknownst to all of you Val had Mel post the footage from the common room to social media the next day starting a trend and gaining lots of points for the New Avengers in the public's eye.

Bob Taglist: @Minami97 @mommymilkers0526 @Baylegend6 @beebeerockknot @crispynutella @ren-ni @my-name-is-baby

Marvel Taglist: @lieswithoutfairytales @sugarbutterbailey @1-800-ch3rry @neenieweenie @fluffy-bnny @bunnyweasley23 @chaoticevilbakugo @trikigirl271 @chxosunbound @mazerunnerrose @goldylions @literally-a-ferret @angelgirl45367 @supraveng

Everything Taglist: @matchabbarnes​ @bubsonnobx​ @practicalghost​ @katsukis1wife @crustyowos @yourfavdummy @protecteddiemunson4vr @kennedy-brooke @m00nkn1ghts @rory-cakes

[snooperzz]

Benny and the Jets

Clark Kent x female!Reader/OC Word count: 4.3k Warnings: angst, reader/oc has self esteem issues Note: this is written in third person & reader/oc is unnamed! you can also read this story on ao3 :) Summary/Excerpt: It wasn’t her proudest moment, sitting by herself in her apartment with a giant bucket of ice cream in her lap, watching her favorite comfort-film while emotionally exhausted from crying her eyes out for the past couple hours. There were a few questionable decisions she had made that had led her up to this point. And all of them began with her going to Jimmy Olsen for advice on her romantic life. (i.e., After the reader/oc tries and fails to get back into the dating scene, Clark Kent swoops in to save the day.)

It wasn’t her proudest moment, sitting by herself in her apartment with a giant bucket of ice cream in her lap, watching her favorite comfort-film while emotionally exhausted from crying her eyes out for the past couple hours. There were a few questionable decisions she had made that had led her up to this point. And all of them began with her going to Jimmy Olsen for advice on her romantic life.

It didn’t seem like a totally far-fetched strategy. She knew that Jimmy had quite the roster, and after years of no boyfriends, talking stages, or even dates, she was beginning to feel lonely. Just a little bit. 

And that compounded the day she met the clumsy, polite, new-hire Clark Kent a few years back.

Clark Kent who sat just a few desks from her, but despite this, always seemed to be lingering around her own desk, asking about her day or recounting the time he saved a squirrel from being run over by a taxi.

Clark Kent who instantly memorized her preferred coffee order, sliding it onto her desk each day as he walked into the office, sometimes right on time, but most of the time an hour or two late.

Not that she was complaining, though, because she definitely wasn’t. She enjoyed having him around, and even looked forward to seeing him everyday. His fluffy hair. His cute glasses that he constantly had to push up his nose.

Unfortunately, though, she had never worked up the courage to do anything about her little (huge) crush on the man. And anytime she finally convinced herself to approach him about maybe going to a coffee shop or to see a movie, he rushed away, blaming his abrupt exits on family emergencies or food poisoning from his dinner the previous night.

So of course, it seemed pretty clear to her that he just wasn’t interested in her like that. Which was fine (not really). And this was what led her to Jimmy, asking him for advice on how to meet someone. Anyone who might fill the gap in her heart.

And Jimmy, the idiot he was, told her to just download Hinge and make a profile, insistent there were plenty of guys in Metropolis who would love to get to know a girl like her.

So she did, and that was how she met Haden.

Haden was sweet. He was talkative over their messages, and even more talkative in person. He took her to the karaoke night at a local bar for their first date, which wouldn’t have been her first choice, but he was a big advocate for stepping out of your comfort zone. Trying new things. And she couldn’t help but find that sort of charming.

Even better, the first song he picked was a classic.

Benny and the Jets by Elton John.

She nearly swooned on the spot.

She remembered talking his ear off as they walked back to his apartment that night, gushing about how the couple in one of her favorite rom-coms, 27 Dresses, sang that song together at a bar and how iconic it was. He laughed and agreed it was a cool coincidence.

Soon, their one date turned into two. Then three. Then four. They were meeting multiple times a week. Some days for lunch. Some days for dinner. Some days for lunch and dinner. Haden was great. Amazing even. So amazing that she almost forgot about her crush on Clark.

Almost.

In her defense, though, how could she forget about the guy who brought her a coffee every morning? How could she forget about the guy who would throw a bag of chips on her desk whenever she off-handedly mentioned having yet to eat anything that day.

But, of course, all good things must come to an end, and for her and Haden, that end was a little over a month after their first date.

He had taken her to get a sushi dinner that night, and as soon as they sat down she could tell something was off. After questioning him, he finally admitted that things were moving just a little too fast for him. This confused her at first. The conversation of becoming exclusive had never been brought up, and she wasn’t pushing for him to stop talking to other women or delete the dating apps off his phone. She knew that wasn’t a realistic expectation. 

She hoped that one day, maybe after a month or two, he might want to just focus on her, maybe make things a little more official, but she didn’t expect that to happen anytime soon.

Plus, in all honesty, she agreed with him a little bit. They had gotten pretty physical pretty fast, and she had definitely done some things with him that the past men she had been with had to wait a couple months for. But she had just chopped that up to her loneliness, and maybe a little bit of desperation (even if that thought made her cringe).

Then she realized where his concern was coming from. A few dates ago, she had briefly mentioned this fact to Haden, before continuing to say that she wasn’t really talking to anyone else at the moment. Just him. And ever since then, he had been a little different. More distant. In fact, this date was the first time he had reached out to her all week, and it was a Thursday night.

Shit. She hadn’t even thought twice about her comments at the time, but now she could see it coming off that maybe she was hinting at something, even if that was not the case. But before she could explain herself, he shot her down.

“Look,” he had said. “You’re a nice girl, but I’m just not looking to settle down. I’m talking to a few other girls right now. Just trying to have fun, you know?”

“Right,” she swallowed. “Yeah, I get that. I wasn’t trying to freak you out or anything, I just–”

“It was just bad timing,” he interrupted her, continuing on. “But also kind of good timing too, I guess? Because it made me realize that we should probably just stop now while we’re ahead, you know?”

She looked at him dumbly. “Oh.”

He sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Yeah, I mean I’m flattered that you were so focused on us, but it made me realize that this,” he pointed between the two of them, “isn’t really what I’m looking for. Like, you’re a really nice girl, like I said, but I’m just looking for someone with a little bit more…experience. If you know what I mean.”

She could feel her face pale as the blood drained from it. She tried not to crumble to the ground in embarrassment right then and there.

“Right, I understand,” she croaked out, looking at the table, out the window, anywhere but the man sitting in front of her.

He let out a sigh of relief. “See that’s why you’re so cool. You just get it, you know?”

She nodded again, even though she wasn’t really listening to him anymore. She was more focused on how to get the hell out of there before she started crying.

She ended up pulling the classic move, excusing herself to the bathroom before sneaking out the entrance. And she was sure to block Haden’s number and delete that stupid dating app before she made it home.

The next day she was quieter than usual. And Clark had definitely noticed.

She brushed off any questions Jimmy asked her about her date, and she declined Lois’ multiple invites to the bar with everyone else that night, simply stating that she didn’t feel too good and just wanted to get some rest after work.

But when Clark offered to get her some medicine, she refused.

She simply stayed glued to her computer all day, except for when slipped away for her lunch break. And when five o’clock rolled around, she left without a word.

And now she was here, wallowing on her couch with a tub of ice cream in her lap, her face puffy and red. It wasn’t her proudest moment. She had only known this guy for a month and some change, but she couldn’t get what he had said out of her head.

She knew she wasn’t the most experienced when it came to intimacy, and it was something she had always been self-conscious about. Intimacy was something she had shied away from in previous relationships out of nerves. Or maybe deep down her gut just knew that those guys weren’t the one. But she tried to be different for Haden. She put herself out there for him in ways that she hadn’t done in her previous relationships. But that had backfired big time, and now she found herself even more self-conscious than before.

Was she getting to the age where her lack of experience was embarrassing? Haden seemed to think so. And she had a feeling that most guys in her age range would probably have the same opinion.

As the end credits to her movie began to roll, she sighed deeply. She plopped the half-empty, half-melted ice cream bucket on her coffee table and sunk further into her couch, burying her head into her pillows and wishing to disappear from the world. She thought about how she should probably get up, brush her teeth, and just get ready for bed, but the idea just seemed too exhausting. Maybe she would just sleep on the couch tonight.

A knock on her apartment door caused her to jolt up. She looked over at her clock.

It was nine o’clock.

Who the hell was knocking on her door at nine o’clock?

She got up and stumbled over to her front door, not bothering to check out her peep hole before opening the door in a moment of delirium.

But oh boy did she wish she had when she saw who was standing outside her door.

Clark Kent, with a can of chicken noodle soup in his hand.

She was suddenly very aware of how insane she looked right now. Her face was still red and puffy, her hair was most likely a rat’s nest. She was wearing an old t-shirt from high school that was about three sizes too big along with a pair of sweats that made her look like a penguin waddling around whenever she walked, but hey, at least she was comfortable.

“Clark,” she squeaked as she smoothed her hands over her hair in an attempt to look somewhat presentable. “What are you doing here?”

He looked down at her, his eyes soft as he provided a polite smile and lifted up the soup can. “I–uh–brought you some soup. Since you said you weren’t feeling good,” he stumbled over his words.

“It’s nine o’clock at night, Clark,” she responded. Why was he bringing her soup this late? Why was he bringing her soup at all? She didn’t deserve it, not after how she treated him and the rest of her co-workers that day.

“I was just worried about you, I guess. So I wanted to check in,” he explained. He looked at her carefully as she took in his words.

She didn’t say anything for a moment, not quite sure what to do with the fact that Clark was standing at her front door because he was worried about her. 

After an awkward beat of silence he cleared his throat, “May I come in?” he asked, swallowing hard.

“Oh shit! Yeah sorry. Please,” she stumbled, opening the door wider and gesturing him in. “Sorry, sorry. I’m just…tired, I guess. Not thinking straight.”

“I can go–”

“No!” she said a little too quickly, surprising the both of them. She coughed awkwardly. “I mean, you can. If you want. But you came all this way, so if you want to stay…you can. If you want.”

He smiled, letting out a soft chuckle.

“I can stay for a little bit. Make you the soup?” He lifted the can up again.

She looked at it for a moment. “Ummm…I’m not really…hungry.” 

Her eyes darted towards the bucket of half-melted ice cream sitting a few feet away on her coffee table, and Clark followed her gaze.

“I see,” he stated, trying and failing to hold back a grin. “You’re feeling better then?”

She sighed. “I guess. I wasn’t really sick, just…feeling shitty…mentally.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “Why were you feeling crappy? If you don’t mind me asking?”

She chewed on her lips for a moment, trying to decide if she really wanted to talk to Clark, who she had been crushing on non-stop for the past several months, about her boy troubles. But she didn’t really have anyone else to talk to about it. She sure as hell wasn’t going to talk to Jimmy, and Lois was never really into boy-talk. She sucked in a deep breath and nodded toward her couch, and Clark followed as she walked over and sat down.

He looked at her expectantly as he sat down, waiting for her to speak.

She stewed around in her thoughts for a moment, before she finally began.

“You know how I’ve been seeing this guy for the past few weeks? A little over a month, I guess.”

He nodded, a dark look coming over his eyes.

“Did he do something?” he asked, looking at her carefully. He looked like he was ready to fight the man, and she hadn’t even said anything yet.

“He didn’t necessarily do anything. I mean, he ended things, I guess. Which is fine, I mean, we didn’t see each other for that long, that’s not why I’m upset,” she rambled. “He just said some other things that kind of hurt…I guess.”

She snuck a look at him as she finished her answer, and he looked absolutely pissed off. “What did he say?” 

“He said…” she began. She could feel her eyes burning again, and she blinked hard to keep the tears from falling. She turned her head away from Clark. God, this was so embarrassing.

He reached out and gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“No,” she sniffled. “I do. I’m just embarrassed.” She let out a nervous laugh.

“Well, you shouldn’t be,” he argued. “If anything he should be for letting a girl like you down.”

She huffed out a laugh, quickly wiping the tears from her face before continuing. “He just commented on how…inexperienced I am. And I just didn’t realize I was that bad that he needed to comment on it. So I’m just feeling a bit insecure. And wondering now if I’m ever going to find another man without completely humiliating myself.”

His forehead creased as he shook his head. “You should not be humiliated. He should be. That’s just,” he let out a frustrated breath. “That’s no way to speak to a woman. Especially you.”

She looked at him for a moment, noticing his clenched hands, one nearly crushing the soup can he was still holding. She didn’t think she’d ever seen Clark look so angry before. So disappointed. She didn’t understand why he was getting so worked up over what happened to her.

She wasn’t quite sure how to respond to his words, so neither said anything for a moment. Suddenly, she let out a short laugh, and he shot her a confused look.

“Sorry,” she shook her head. “I just realized that this whole relationship, or situationship, or whatever, totally ruined one of my favorite songs.”

“What song?”

She snorted before continuing. “Benny and the Jets? Elton John?”

He smiled. “Yeah I’ve heard that one. How’d this jerk ruin it?”

“Well we sang it together at a karaoke bar on our first date. And I told him about how this couple also sings it together in one of my favorite movies. Then we went to his place and watched that movie. I don’t know. Maybe it sounds stupid, but I kinda saw it as like our song. And now I guess it will always be linked to him in my head. Which sucks because I love that song. It was one of my dad’s favorites. It was on the first record he bought for me when he gave me my record player.” She was rambling again, but she didn’t really care.

And it didn’t seem to bother Clark, thankfully.

Instead he looked at her carefully again, before his eyes began to search the room. They landed on the record player next to the large bay window that sat in her living room, and they lit up immediately.

She watched him curiously as he finally let go of the chicken soup can he had been holding since he got there, placing it gently on her coffee table, right next to the forgotten ice cream.

“Come here,” he said, taking her hand and pulling her up from the couch. He led her over to her record player. It was older, her father had gifted it to her many birthdays ago. He crouched down and began sifting through the line up of records that she had carefully organized in the cupboard beneath the player. His left hand carefully traced the spine of each record case as he searched. 

His right hand still held her own, gentle but firm.

“Where is Sir Elton John…?” he mumbled to himself, entranced by the selection in front of him.

She watched him in awe, completely astonished that he was here, in her living room, searching through her prized collection of music, and holding her hand like it was a completely normal thing.

“Aha!” he said suddenly. He stood up, dropping her hand in the process, and turned towards the record player, quickly and efficiently taking the record out of its case and placing it onto the player.

As he fiddled with the player’s arm, making sure he picked the correct track, she eyed the album he had selected.

Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.

She let out a quiet laugh, and he turned to look down at her.

“What’s so funny?” he questioned. His eyebrows scrunched together as he glared, humour dancing in his eyes.

“I don’t know, I guess I’m just trying to figure out what you are doing,” she shrugged. She pressed her lips together and watched him as he finally found the track he was searching for. He straightened up, somehow growing even taller, and grabbed both of her hands this time, leading her to the center of her living room.

She was nervous. Undoubtedly so. Her head caught up in all of the times her coworkers had caught her staring at him from across the room, the playful jests at her obvious crush on the man. The sly looks they gave her whenever he visited her desk. He had a way of making her feel like she was back in school, all red-faced and giggly, and right now was no exception.

He was handsome. Extremely. And he was extremely more handsome at this moment. With the city lights breaking through the bay window of her apartment, shining like a disco ball throughout the living room. With her lamp casting a warm glow around them, its orange glow highlighting his features in all the right places. 

And for some reason he had chosen to be extremely handsome here, with her, holding her hands like they held the answer to the universe.

She suddenly realized she was definitely just standing there staring at him like a dope. She felt her face get hot, and she looked down at the ground quickly trying to hide the growing redness in her cheeks.

She heard him laugh softly before whispering her name.

She looked at him again, only to find his eyes locked on her. She glanced away, out the bay window and into the night. Then back at him. Then away again, not really sure what to do with all of the attention he was giving her at this moment.

He tugged her arms lightly, finally sealing her attention. Then he looked at her. Really looked at her.

“You know you’re beautiful right?”

His words caught her off guard, and she rolled her eyes slightly, looking down at the ground again. It didn’t really help though. Everytime she looked down “at the ground,” her gaze just landed on her hands, which were still enveloped in his.

She snorted and shook her head, almost as if she was shaking off his compliment. “I don’t know about that, Kent.” She shot a quick look at him, clocking the furrow in his brows, before looking out the window towards the city line again.

“You don’t have to say that. I’m average at best. It’s fine.”

“No you’re not.” His response was instantaneous, and he shook his head fervently. “You’re not ‘average’ at all.”

He craned his neck, leaning over as he tried to catch her eyes. He said her name, squeezing her hands as he reiterated, “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

She looked at him again, her eyes searching his own for the meaning of his words. Trying to figure out what he was doing and why he was doing it. Clark Kent wasn’t known for being a prankster, but maybe Jimmy had dared him to come over tonight just to mess with her.

Elton John continued to serenade them, his voice and the piano accompaniment flowing through her apartment as she finally paid attention to which song Clark had chosen.

…Hey, kids, shake it loose together,

The spotlight’s hitting something,

That's been known to change the weather…

She bit back the smile threatening to grow on her face. “You turned on this song?” she questioned, her mind wandering back to Haden.

“I don’t know, I just wanted to try something,” he whispered.

A small smile played on his lips as he pulled her closer. Much closer.

...You’re gonna hear electric music,

Solid walls of sound…

He guided her hands carefully, moving one to rest on his shoulder while still grasping the other to their side. Their chests were pressed together now, and he wrapped his arm around her waist as he swayed her gently along with the music.

“Whenever you hear this song…” he began, leaning back slightly to look down at her. She looked up at him, curiosity bright in her eyes.

Elton John continued on, and he let go of her waist, using his other hand to twirl her. 

…She’s got electric boots, a mohair suit…

She let out a quiet laugh as they collided again. He pulled her arms up and wrapped them around his shoulders, moving his own to rest on her waist, and continued as they began to sway again.

“...I want you to think of this.”

He leaned in slightly as he looked down at her. She looked back up at him in shock, her eyes dancing back and forth between his own, then down to his mouth as he leaned in closer. Was this actually happening? He stopped for a moment, hesitating, almost as if he noticed her nervousness. Like he could hear how fast her heart was pounding in her chest.

“If it’s okay?” he asked. He looked at her softly, waiting patiently for her reassurance.

She tried to respond, but her nerves kept her from being able to form any type of coherent word, let alone a sentence. So instead she nodded quickly, quietly laughing at herself and how ridiculous she must’ve looked.

“It’s okay?” he confirmed, smiling as he nodded along with her.

She wondered if her face could grow more red than it already was. She couldn’t believe that this is what her night led to. She had probably dreamed of this moment a thousand times, but she never really thought it would actually happen. But it was happening. Clark Kent was in her living room, arms wrapped around her, waiting for her to kiss him. If she had known being in an embarrassing situationship would have led to this, she would have downloaded Hinge way sooner.

“Yes,” she whispered, words finally coming to her.

His grin grew ever-wider, and she could feel his smile as their lips finally touched.

…B-B-B-Bennie and the Jets…

Elton John’s piano keys fluttered around them as Clark kissed her softly, their lips dancing around each other. 

She hadn’t kissed many people in her lifetime, but, God, none of them came close to Clark. He felt safe, like she didn’t have to worry about messing it up. He guided her through it, just like his hands guided her through their dance. His hands eventually left her waist, moving up slowly along her sides until they cusped the sides of her face. 

It felt as if he was her air. She didn’t need oxygen anymore, she could just breathe him in.

But, of course, that wasn’t really the case, and she did break away eventually, if only to catch her breath. His lips trailed her own, giving her quick, short kisses as they finally broke apart.

“Gosh, I’ve been waiting to do that for a long time,” he confessed, peppering kisses along her cheeks, her nose, her forehead.

She breathed out a laugh and nodded her head, causing their noses to bump together.

“Yeah, me too.”

He smiled at her words, and she wasn’t sure if she had ever seen him as happy as he was in that moment. She wasn’t sure if she had ever been as happy as she was in that moment. They stood like that for a moment, smiling dopily at each other before he pressed another kiss to her temple and pulled her in again.

[mrs-delaney]

Orbit

🏈 Joe Burrow x Reader | 9.3k-ish words

Request: Hi, can you write about Joe being the first man in the reader's life (first love always hurts) But he doesn't want anything serious, he's dating another influencer, and he won't commit to the reader who's deeply in love with him, so she puts up with it.(May it have a lot of angst, be a bit spicy, and finally have a happy ending? 🙏🏻)

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🌙 ask box is open — come keep me company, i’m around tonight 💌

Content Advisory: This story contains lies about birthday plans, astronomical amounts of pining, and one very expensive lesson in why you shouldn't date people who keep you a secret. Proceed with tissues and low expectations for male behavior.

Author’s Note: This one did not come easy, y’all. I’ve been chipping away at it for at least a month and honestly it feels like longer. I really wanted it to feel different from BTL and anything else I’ve written, and it was hard as hell to get there. Writing Joe in such a messy, kind of toxic way? Not really my usual vibe but this story just demanded it.

I hope it shows how much care I put into it. Huge thanks to my beta @crazytheoriststrawberry for helping.

Hope you love it. ✨

You'd coordinated events for athletes before, but The Joe Burrow Foundation's golf tournament felt different from the moment you walked into Top Golf Cincinnati. Maybe it was the way he'd insisted on reviewing every detail personally instead of sending an assistant, or how he'd actually listened when you explained why the silent auction would work better positioned near the bar. Most clients nodded along and trusted you to handle it. Joe asked questions that showed he was actually thinking about the answers.

"The sponsors want visibility," he'd said during your planning meeting three weeks ago, "but I don't want it to feel like a corporate showcase. How do we balance that?"

It wasn't something most people would think about. You'd suggested integrating sponsor recognition into the competition format itself—branded hole challenges, custom scorecards, a food truck, photo ops that felt natural rather than forced. The way his face had lit up told you everything about why this mattered to him.

Now, watching him move through the crowd of old college teammates, NFL colleagues, and Cincinnati business leaders, you felt that same flutter of professional pride mixed with something more. He wasn't just working the room—he was connecting. Laughing with teammates, asking questions about sponsors' businesses, making everyone feel like they were the most important person there.

"Ms. Y/L/N." His voice appeared at your shoulder as you checked your tablet, making sure the auction timing stayed on track. "How are we doing?"

You turned, finding him closer than expected, close enough to catch the expensive scent of his cologne. "Ahead of schedule, which in my world means perfectly on time. Silent auction's tracking twenty percent higher than what we initally expected."

"Good." His smile was easy, genuinely pleased. "And how are our guests doing?"

"Having the time of their lives. The sponsors are already asking about next year, and I think your guys are trying to outdo each other with their swing techniques.

Joe's laugh was genuine, the kind that reached his eyes. "Good. That's what we want." He glanced around the space, taking in the mix of people enjoying themselves, then looked back at you. "This is perfect. It's exactly what I asked for."

The compliment hit differently than the usual client praise. There was something personal in it, like he actually saw the thought you'd put into every detail.

"Thank you," you said, trying to keep your voice professional despite the warmth spreading through your chest. "It helps when the client knows what they want."

"I had ideas. You made them actually work."

Before you could respond, someone called his name from across the room. A sponsor, probably, based on the eager wave and the way they were already walking over with purpose. Joe's expression shifted slightly—not annoyed, but resigned.

"Will you stick around after? I owe you a drink."

It wasn't a professional invitation. The way his eyes lingered on yours when he said it made that clear.

"Of course," you heard yourself say. "I'll need to oversee cleanup anyway."

"Perfect." His smile was different now—less public, more personal. Then he was moving away, back into host mode, leaving you standing there with your tablet and the distinct feeling that something had just shifted.

The rest of the event passed in a blur of logistics and small victories. The auction exceeded projections, the food service went off without a hitch, and you managed to coordinate the group photos without anyone looking awkward. Professional success, the kind that left you satisfied and ready to move on to the next project.

But as the crowd began to thin and the staff started breaking down equipment, you found yourself hyperaware of where Joe was in the room, who he was talking to, how often his gaze found yours across the space.

By nine-thirty, Top Golf had mostly emptied out. The last of the sponsors had left with their gift bags and business cards, the guys had moved their reunion to whatever bar would tolerate their volume, and your cleanup crew was finishing the final breakdown of auction displays.

You were double-checking the donation receipts when Joe reappeared. He looked more relaxed than he had all evening.

"How'd we do?" he asked, settling into the chair across from your makeshift office setup.

"Better than we expected." You turned your laptop screen toward him, showing the final numbers. "Auction brought in four hundred and twenty thousand, entry fees another hundred and thirty. After expenses, you're looking at about five hundred and fifty thousand for the foundation."

He let out a low whistle. "Damn. That's really good."

"Your Bengals guys bid on everything. I think they were trying to one-up each other."

"Sounds about right." His smile was easy, genuine. "Those fuckers are competitive about everything."

You saved the spreadsheet and closed your laptop, suddenly aware that the space around you had gone quiet. The cleanup crew had finished and left without you noticing, and the Top Golf staff had dimmed most of the lights. It was just the two of you now.

"So," Joe said, leaning back in his chair. "That drink I owe you."

You glanced toward the bar area. A few staff members were still cleaning up, but the lights were on and you could see a bartender wiping down glasses.

"What do you drink?" he asked, already standing. "I'll grab us something."

"Bourbon's fine. Whatever they have that's decent."

He nodded and headed toward the bar, leaving you alone with your laptop and the realization that the professional part of your evening was officially over. Whatever came next was something else entirely.

When he returned a few minutes later with two glasses of amber liquid, he'd gotten them the good stuff.

"Buffalo Trace," he said, setting your glass down.

You took a sip, letting the warmth settle in your chest. "Good choice."

He just nodded and settled back into his chair, glass in hand. "So tell me something."

"What?"

"How'd you end up coordinating events? Doesn't seem like the kind of thing people stumble into."

It was a genuine question, not small talk. The way he asked it—direct, interested—made you want to give him a real answer.

"I started in college," you said. "With the student activities board. I was good at making things happen, keeping all the moving pieces organized. Turns out there's decent money in making rich people's parties look effortless."

Joe laughed. "Is that what tonight was? Making rich people look effortless?"

"Tonight was different," you admitted. "Most of my clients want to be seen being charitable. You actually care about the cause."

"How can you tell?"

"The way you talked about the kids in the program during planning. You knew their names, their stories. That doesn't come from a PR brief."

He was quiet for a moment, swirling the bourbon in his glass. "You planning on sticking around Cincinnati for a while?"

The question caught you off guard - direct, personal, nothing to do with foundation work or tonight's event.

"That depends," you said. "Why?"

"Because I'd like to see you again. Outside of work."

The words hung between you, and you felt your pulse quicken.

“I’d like that too,” you said.

“Good.” He finished his bourbon and set the glass down. “I know a place. Nothing fancy.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow? If you’re free.”

* * *

Eight Months Later

That dinner had led to another, and another, until Tuesday nights became yours and Joe’s standing date. Eight months of stolen moments between his schedule and yours, of late-night texts that had nothing to do with work, of learning that he liked his matcha and read physics articles to fall asleep.

Eight months of being his secret.

It hadn’t started that way. At first, the privacy felt intentional—getting to know each other away from the noise, building something real before letting the world in. You’d started sleeping together after the third date, and the chemistry had been undeniable from the first time he’d shown up at your apartment after a loss to the Chiefs, shoulders tight with frustration.

“Rough night?” you’d asked, letting him in.

“Don’t want to talk about it.”

He dropped his keys on the table without looking, then reached for you like you were the only person in the world who could fix him. He kissed you hard, like breathing you was the only way to quiet the noise inside him.

Then he pulled back, not far, just enough to rest his forehead against yours. His breathing was uneven, and you could feel the tension in his shoulders like he was fighting something inside himself.

"I just needed to be here," he said quietly, his voice rougher than usual. "With you."

It wasn't an explanation or an apology. Just honesty, which was more than he usually gave you after bad games. His hands stayed at your waist, thumbs brushing against your hip bones through your shirt.

You didn't push for more. Just reached up to touch the back of his neck, feeling some of the tension ease out of him as he leaned into the contact.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, then pulled back just long enough to tug your shirt over your head. You did the same with his sweatshirt, both of you moving with the kind of urgent efficiency that came from wanting each other and not wanting to overthink it.

The rest happened fast—clothes hitting the floor, him pulling you down onto the couch, the familiar weight of him settling between your legs. He didn't say much, just breathed hard against your neck as he pushed into you, both of you finding that rhythm that worked.

You let him take what he needed, let him lose himself completely. Your fingers traced his back, catching the tremor in his muscles as he chased relief — not just physical but something deeper, something he didn’t know how to ask for out loud`

And when he finally came, it wasn’t with bravado or noise, but a rough, broken gasp against your neck, arms wrapped tight around you like he was trying to stay tethered.

After, he didn’t move far. Just gathered you into his chest, skin damp and heartbeat still racing. He kissed the top of your head — soft, almost absent — and held you like he wasn’t ready to let go.

Wrapped around each other in the quiet, neither of you asked questions he wasn’t ready to answer, comfort given without condition.

He fell asleep with his head on your chest, and you traced patterns on his back until morning, thinking this was what real intimacy looked like.

But as weeks turned to months, the secrecy had calcified into something else entirely. You were the woman he called when he needed to talk through a bad game, the one who knew he got quiet when he was stressed, who understood that his confidence was as much armor as it was truth.

Maddie was the woman he was photographed with.

“She knows what this is,” he’d said the first time you’d seen them together in a gossip blog photo, her hand on his arm at some charity auction. “We’re just having fun. No pressure.”

You’d believed him because you wanted to, because you were twenty-six and he was your first everything that mattered. Your first love, your first heartbreak-in-waiting, your first lesson in how little you actually knew about what you deserved.

But tonight felt different. Tonight was his birthday, and you’d spent weeks planning something perfect.

* * *

The dinner was ready—his favorite pasta dish you’d learned to make after watching him devour it at that little Italian place you’d gone to in September. The bourbon was breathing on the counter, the good bottle you’d been saving. And tucked inside the card on your coffee table were two first-class tickets to Washington DC for February, along with confirmation details for a private after-hours tour of the National Air and Space Museum.

It had taken three weeks of phone calls, emails, and a significant chunk of your savings to arrange. But the thought of seeing his face when he realized you were giving him the stars—literally—made every bit of effort worth it. You’d even coordinated with his assistant to make sure the February date worked with his off-season schedule.

You checked your phone. 7:30 PM. He’d said he’d be over by eight, that he was looking forward to a quiet night in. Just the two of you, no cameras, no expectations. The kind of evening that had become your specialty.

That’s when the notification popped up on your screen.

TMZ: Joe Burrow & Maddie Thompson Celebrate His Birthday in Aspen!

Your heart stopped. The photo loaded, revealing Joe and Maddie laughing in the snow, both bundled in expensive ski gear, looking genuinely happy. Not posed, not staged—just two people enjoying themselves. The timestamp showed it was taken this afternoon.

Your hands shook as you read the caption: “The Bengals quarterback and lifestyle influencer are spending a romantic birthday getaway in Aspen, looking more loved-up than ever!”

Your phone slipped from your numb fingers, clattering onto the coffee table next to the card with the plane tickets.

He was in Aspen. On his birthday. During the team's bye week, when he'd told you he just wanted to stay in and relax. The birthday he'd said he wanted to spend quietly, just the two of you.

You stared at the photo until your eyes blurred. They looked happy. Like a couple who actually got to be a couple, instead of whatever the hell you'd been doing for eight months.

The pasta was getting cold on the stove. The bourbon sat untouched. The museum confirmation email was still open on your laptop, detailing the private tour you’d arranged for February—his off-season, when he’d said he wanted to travel somewhere meaningful.

Apparently, he’d already made those plans. With someone else.

Your phone buzzed. A text from Joe.

"Hey, something came up last minute. My parents wanted to take me out for my birthday. Can we raincheck tonight? I wish I was with you instead. Sorry."

The laugh that escaped your throat was bitter, almost hysterical. Wish he was with you instead? He could be with you. He was choosing not to be.

You picked up your phone with shaking hands and typed back:

“I know you’re in Aspen. I made your favorite dinner. Bought you bourbon. Had a gift waiting. I’m done.”

You hit send before you could second-guess yourself, then immediately turned your phone face down on the table. You couldn’t look at it anymore.

The apartment felt suffocating suddenly. All this effort, all this hope, all these months of accepting less than you deserved because you thought—what? That eventually he’d choose you? That love would be enough?

You walked to the kitchen and turned off the burner, staring at the pasta you’d spent an hour perfecting. In the living room, the bourbon caught the light, amber and expensive and pointless. The plane tickets might as well have been confetti.

Eight months of being his secret. Eight months of believing his lies about Maddie. Eight months of thinking you were building toward something real.

Your phone buzzed again. Then again.

You didn’t look.

* * *

You woke up on your couch at 6 AM with mascara streaked down your cheeks and your phone battery dead. The bourbon bottle sat exactly where you'd left it, the pasta had congealed in the pot, and the card with the plane tickets lay open on the coffee table like evidence of your own stupidity.

Your phone had seventeen missed calls and twenty-three unread messages when you plugged it in. All from Joe.

You almost deleted them without reading, but morbid curiosity won.

11:47 PM: “What do you mean you’re done? Call me back.”

11:52 PM: “I don’t understand why you’re upset.”

12:15 AM: "How did you know I was in Aspen?"

12:16 AM: "I lied about my parents. I'm sorry. I can explain."

12:45 AM: "Baby please call me back. This is crazy."

1:23 AM: “I’m sorry. I know you planned something. I’ll make it up to you.”

1:24 AM: “We can celebrate when I get back.”

2:18 AM: “Don’t do this. Don’t throw us away over a misunderstanding.”

3:01 AM: “I care about you. You know that.”

3:02 AM: “This is different and you know it.”

And on and on. Twenty-three messages that cycled between confusion, dismissal, and damage control. He apologized for lying, but not one message said he'd choose you.

Your fingers moved before your brain could stop them:

“I arranged a private tour of the National Air and Space Museum for February. Bought first-class tickets. Spent my savings so you could see the stars without cameras. While you were booking a trip to Aspen with your girlfriend.”

“Do NOT contact me again.”

You hit send, then immediately blocked his number.

Then you sat on your kitchen floor and cried until you had nothing left.

* * *

Joe spent the flight back to Cincinnati drafting and deleting messages he couldn’t send. Every approach felt inadequate. How do you apologize for eight months of lies? How do you explain that you didn’t realize what you had until you’d destroyed it?

He tried calling from different numbers. When she found out it was him she’d blocked those too.

He showed up at her apartment building on December 15th with flowers and an apology speech he’d rehearsed twenty times. The doorman—a guy Joe recognized from previous visits—took one look at him and shook his head.

“She left specific instructions, Mr. Burrow. You’re not on the list anymore.”

So he waited. Four hours in his car across the street until she came home from work, grocery bags in hand. When she saw him getting out of his car, her entire body went rigid.

“Don’t,” she said, not stopping her walk toward the building.

“Please. Just five minutes.”

“No.” She didn’t even look at him. “I meant what I said.”

“I ended things with Maddie.”

That made her stop. Turn around. For a moment, hope flared in his chest.

“Good for you,” she said, her voice flat. “That doesn’t change what you did to me.”

“I know. I know I fucked up—”

“You didn’t fuck up, Joe. You made choices. For eight months, you made the same choice over and over again.” She shifted the grocery bags, and he could see how tired she looked. How much weight she’d lost in just five days. “You chose her every time it mattered.”

“That’s not true—”

“Your birthday mattered. And you chose her.”

The simple statement hit like a physical blow. Because she was right.

“I was scared,” he said, the words coming out raw. “I was scared of what this was, what you meant to me—”

“I don’t care.” Her voice was steady, but he could see her hands shaking. “I don’t care why you did it. I only care that you did.”

She turned back toward the building.

“I love you,” he called after her.

She stopped again, but didn’t turn around.

“You love the idea of me,” she said quietly. “You love having someone who accepts scraps and calls it enough. But you don’t love me, Joe. If you did, you would have chosen me.”

* * *

February 14th - Valentine's Day

You stared at your phone screen, watching another Venmo notification light up. $2,999 from Joe Burrow. Memo: "I know it's Valentine's Day and this is pathetic but I miss you."

It had been two months since you’d blocked him. Two months of returned gifts, ignored letters, and apparently daily Venmo transfers that were slowly driving you insane. Your bank account was looking healthier than it ever had, but every notification felt like a fresh wound.

This had to stop.

You unblocked his number long enough to send one text:

“Stop sending me money. I’m serious. It’s not helping anything and it’s borderline harassment at this point.”

Your finger hovered over the block button again, but his response came faster than expected.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”

That was it. No arguing, no desperate pleas, no “but can we talk.” Just acknowledgment and agreement.

You stared at the message for a long moment, waiting for the follow-up that didn’t come. Where was the Joe who had waited outside your building for four hours? Who had sent flowers to your office every day for a week? Who had somehow found your work email and sent you a twenty-paragraph explanation of his feelings?

“Thank you,” you typed back, then immediately blocked him again.

But something about his response sat differently than all his other attempts. For the first time in two months, he’d listened to what you asked for instead of trying to negotiate around it.

You checked your Venmo. No new notifications.

It was such a small thing—just stopping when you asked him to stop. But after months of him refusing to respect any of your boundaries, the basic act of compliance felt… surprising.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That you were reading too much into a simple text exchange. But that night, for the first time since December, you didn’t fall asleep angry.

* * *

April 15th

The new Italian place in Over-the-Rhine was buzzing with Cincinnati’s elite—business leaders, local celebrities, and apparently half the Bengals roster. You’d been coordinating launch events long enough to read a room within minutes, and this one was going well. The chef was happy, the investors were mingling, and the servers were keeping up with the cocktail orders.

You were adjusting the lighting for the chef’s welcome speech when you saw him.

Joe stood near the bar, nursing what looked like a bourbon and listening to whatever story a local business owner was telling him. When the man finished speaking, Joe nodded and leaned in slightly, clearly engaged in the conversation.

Your breath caught. He’d come. To an event you were coordinating.

In eight months of dating, you’d probably coordinated a dozen events he’d been invited to. Gallery openings, charity auctions, restaurant launches—Cincinnati wasn’t that big, and athletes were always on VIP lists. But Joe had never shown up to a single one. “Not really my scene,” he’d always said, preferring quiet nights in to schmoozing with strangers.

Seeing him here now, in his least favorite type of environment, you knew it wasn’t a coincidence.

He looked different. Bigger, maybe, and there was something quieter about the way he carried himself. When someone tried to take a selfie with him, he politely declined and redirected the conversation back to the restaurant.

For the next two hours, you found yourself stealing glances while managing the event. Joe worked the room, engaging with guests throughout the night. When the local news crew asked for an interview, he kept it short and focused on the restaurant and community rather than himself.

You watched him nurse the same bourbon all night. In the eight months you'd dated, you'd learned he wasn't much of a drinker at events—too careful about his image, too controlled. But this felt different. Like he was actually trying to enjoy himself instead of just getting through it.

By ten PM, the crowd had thinned and you were overseeing the breakdown. Your staff was handling the heavy lifting, leaving you to do final checks and coordinate with the restaurant management. You were reviewing the evening’s photos with the owner when you sensed someone behind you.

“Excuse me.”

You turned around, and there he was.

“Hi,” you said, professional instincts kicking in. “Did you enjoy the event?”

“I did.” He glanced around at your staff efficiently packing up equipment. “You did an incredible job. The whole thing felt… authentic. Not like a show.”

“Thank you.”

An awkward silence stretched between you. The owner had diplomatically moved away, giving you space.

“I know you’re working,” Joe said. “I just wanted to say—I stopped the Venmo thing. Like you asked.”

“I noticed.”

“And I wanted to apologize. Not for the relationship stuff, I know you don’t want to hear that. But for not respecting your boundaries. For making you ask me to stop instead of just… stopping and for…everything else.”

You studied his face, looking for the catch, the angle, the thing he wanted from you. But his expression was straightforward, almost resigned.

“Okay,” you said carefully.

“That’s it. That’s all I wanted to say.” He took a small step back. “I hope you have a good rest of your evening.”

He started to turn away, and something in your chest twisted.

“Joe.”

He stopped, turned back.

“Are you…” You paused, unsure why you were asking. “Are you doing okay?”

Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe relief. “Yeah. Actually, I am. Finally.”

And then he was gone, leaving you standing in the middle of a half-dismantled event space, wondering why you felt like you’d just seen a ghost of someone you used to know.

* * *

April 20th - 11:47 PM

You’d had exactly one and a half glasses of wine. You weren't drunk, just… relaxed enough to make questionable decisions. Like unblocking Joe Burrow on Instagram at nearly midnight on a Friday.

It had been almost a week since the restaurant opening, and his words kept replaying in your head. 

You told yourself you were just curious. Just wanted to see if the changes you’d observed were real or if you’d been projecting. His Instagram had always been pretty standard athlete fare—workout posts, game highlights, the occasional brand partnership.

You scrolled through his recent posts. A photo from training camp. A story about some charity work. A picture of him reading a book (which was new—he’d never posted about reading before). You found yourself pausing on each one, looking for clues about who he was becoming.

Then you saw it.

Posted eight hours ago: Joe post-workout, shirtless, drinking a Body Armor. Clearly a sponsored post, but he looked good—really good. The caption was simple: "Friday grind complete. @bodyarmor"

Your thumb hovered over the image as you studied it. He looked good. Really good. Broader through the shoulders than you remembered, and there was something different about his expression. Less posed, more natural. Like he wasn’t trying to look perfect for the camera.

Before you could stop yourself, you double-tapped.

The little red heart appeared instantly, and your stomach dropped to your feet.

“No, no, no,” you whispered to your empty apartment, staring at the screen in horror. You’d just liked a shirtless thirst trap posted by your ex-situationship at 11:47 PM on a Friday night. After unblocking him. After months of radio silence.

You could unlike it, but he’d already get the notification. You could block him again, but that would look absolutely unhinged—unblock him just to like his shirtless photo and then immediately block him again?

Your phone was practically burning in your hand. You set it face-down on your coffee table and put your head in your hands.

This was worse than the Venmo situation. At least that had been his pathetic desperation. This was your pathetic desperation, immortalized in Instagram notifications.

Your phone buzzed against the table.

You ignored it.

It buzzed again.

Against every instinct for self-preservation, you flipped it over.

Not a text. Just Instagram notifications.

Joeyb_9 liked your photo.

The photo was from three weeks ago—you at a client event, you looked good. He’d liked it approximately thirty seconds after you’d liked his shirtless post.

You stared at the notification, wine-fuzzy brain trying to decode the meaning. Was he letting you know he’d seen your like? Was he being petty? Or was this his equally awkward way of saying… what?

Another buzz.

Joeyb_9  liked your photo.

This one from a month ago. Then another. And another.

He was going through your recent posts and systematically liking them. Not in a rapid-fire, manic way. Just… methodically. Like he was taking his time, actually looking at them.

You sat there in your pajamas, wine glass forgotten, watching notifications pop up every few minutes as Joe Burrow liked his way through six weeks of your Instagram posts at midnight on a Friday.

When it stopped, you waited. For a text, a DM, a follow request. Something.

Nothing came.

Just the strange knowledge that somewhere across Cincinnati, Joe was awake and thinking about you enough to scroll through weeks of your life. And you were awake and thinking about him enough to have started this whole mortifying chain of events.

You set your phone aside and went to bed, but sleep was impossible. Because despite the embarrassment, despite everything that had happened between you, something warm had unfurled in your chest.

* * *

April 21st - 9:23 AM

You woke up with a wine headache and the immediate, mortifying memory of what you’d done the night before. The shirtless photo. The accidental like. Joe’s methodical response of liking six weeks worth of your posts.

You grabbed your phone, hoping maybe you’d dreamed the whole thing.

Nope. The evidence was right there in your notifications.

You scrolled back to his profile, telling yourself you were just checking to see if he’d posted anything new. He hadn’t. The shirtless photo still sat there with your little red heart under it, announcing to the world that you’d been thirsty on main at midnight.

But as you scrolled through his feed, you found yourself looking at the posts he’d liked on your page. The fundraiser event you’d coordinated where you looked proud and professional. The coffee shop photo where you were laughing at something off-camera. The sunset from your apartment balcony with the caption about grateful moments.

He’d skipped the selfies and the group shots. Only liked the ones where you looked genuinely happy or where you were talking about work you were proud of. Like he was seeing the real parts of your life and… appreciating them.

Before you could overthink it, you scrolled back through his recent posts and liked the one about the charity work. Then the book photo. Then one from two weeks ago of him at what looked like a coffee shop, no caption, just him looking thoughtful.

Your thumb hovered over a post from a month ago—him with some of his teammates at a community event, genuinely smiling. You liked it.

Then you kept going.

The post about finishing a difficult workout. Like.

A sunset photo from his backyard with a caption about finding peace in quiet moments. Like.

A picture of him reading (again—when had Joe become someone who posted about books?). Like.

You realized you were now three months deep in his Instagram, systematically liking posts the same way he’d done to you, and you couldn’t seem to stop yourself.

Your phone buzzed with a notification.

Joeyb_9  liked your photo.

The coffee shop photo from yesterday morning that you’d posted an hour ago. He was awake. He was seeing your likes in real time.

Another buzz.

Joeyb_9  liked your photo.

A different recent post.

You were now in some sort of bizarre Instagram standoff, both of you awake on a Saturday morning, liking each other’s posts like teenagers. It was absurd. It was embarrassing.

It was also the most you’d communicated in four months.

Your phone buzzed again, but this time it wasn’t a like notification.

Joeyb_9: “I’m unblocked. Is this okay?”

You stared at the DM. No pretending he hadn’t noticed. No casual small talk to test the waters. Just a direct question asking for consent to be in your digital space again.

The old Joe would have either not acknowledged it or used it as an opening to launch into some speech about missing you. This Joe was just… checking in. Making sure he wasn’t overstepping.

“It’s okay.”

“Thank you.”

That was it. No follow-up, no pushing for more. Just gratitude for the permission to exist in your notifications again.

You found yourself staring at the simple exchange, surprised by how much those two words meant to you. Thank you. Like your boundaries actually mattered to him now.

Fifteen minutes passed before he sent another message.

“For what it’s worth, I noticed you liked the workout photo at 11:47 PM on a Friday. Interesting timing.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. Of course he’d noticed the timestamp.

“Shut up.”

“I’m not judging. I liked six weeks of your posts at midnight. We’re both fucked up.”

Despite everything, you found yourself smiling at your phone.

“The worst part is it was the shirtless one.”

“I know. I was there when I posted it.”

“You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Little bit. It’s nice to know I’m not the only one who makes questionable late-night social media decisions.”

You could practically hear the smile in his message, and something warm unfurled in your chest.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late. My ego has been fully restored by your thirst trap engagement.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

He was right. You didn’t. 

* * *

April 25th

Joeyb_9: “Saw your story about the charity auction. That venue looks incredible.”

“Thanks. The client wanted something different from the usual hotel ballroom.”

“You delivered. That lighting setup must have taken forever.”

You stared at the message, surprised he’d noticed the technical details.

“6 hours. But worth it for the photos.”

“Definitely worth it.”

-----

April 30th

Joeyb_9: “Random question - do you still make that pasta dish? The one with the pancetta?”

“Why?”

“Been craving it for months. Tried to recreate it and failed miserably.”

“You burned the pancetta, didn’t you?”

“How did you know?”

“Because you have no patience with cooking. I bet you turned the heat too high.”

“Guilty. Any chance you’d be willing to share the recipe?”

You hesitated before responding. It felt intimate, sharing something you’d made for him during your relationship.

“I’ll think about it.”

-----

May 3rd

“You were right about that book recommendation.”

Joeyb_9: “Which one?”

“The one about astrophysics you mentioned months ago. Finally picked it up.”

“And?”

“And I understand maybe 30% of it, but the parts I get are fascinating.”

“That’s 30% more than most people. What’s your favorite part so far?”

You found yourself genuinely excited to discuss it with him.

-----

May 8th

Joeyb_9: “Therapy was rough today.”

The message came out of nowhere at 3 PM on a Wednesday.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Not really. Just wanted to tell someone who’d understand why I’m sitting in my car outside the stadium questioning everything.”

“That sounds normal for therapy.”

“Is it supposed to feel like emotional surgery without anesthesia?”

“Pretty much. But the healing part comes later.”

“When?”

“When you stop bleeding.”

“Great. Something to look forward to.”

“It gets easier. I promise.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re different than you were four months ago. Different than you were four weeks ago.”

There was a long pause before he responded.

“Thanks. I needed to hear that.”

-----

May 15th

“Okay, I’m sending you the pasta recipe. But you have to promise to actually follow it.”

Joeyb_9: “Yes ma’am.”

“Medium heat. Not medium-high. Not ‘close enough.’ MEDIUM.”

“Got it.”

“And don’t skip the wine step. The alcohol cooks off, but the flavor doesn’t.”

“I would never skip a wine step.”

“You better send me proof you didn’t burn it.”

“Deal.”

Three hours later, he sent a photo of a perfectly executed plate of pasta.

“I’m impressed.”

“I had a good teacher.”

-----

May 20th

Joeyb_9: “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Do you think people can actually change? Like, fundamentally?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Because I’m trying to figure out if I’m actually becoming a better person or just learning to fake it better.”

The vulnerability in the message made your chest tight.

“I think the fact that you’re questioning it means you’re not faking it.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the old you would have been sure you were right about everything.”

“Ouch. But fair.”

“Change is possible, Joe. But it has to be for you, not for anyone else.”

“What if it started for someone else but became for me?”

You stared at that message for a long time.

“Then I guess that’s still change.”

-----

May 28th

Joeyb_9: “I have something to ask you, and you can absolutely say no.”

“That’s ominous.”

“I arranged a private tour of the Cincinnati Museum Center. Next Saturday afternoon. Would you want to come with me?”

Your heart did something complicated.

“You arranged a private tour?”

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about what you planned for my birthday. About the National Air and Space Museum. I can’t take that back, but I thought maybe… this could be a start.”

“When did you arrange this?”

“Two weeks ago. I wanted to ask you sooner, but I didn’t want you to think I was rushing things.”

“And you’re asking me because?”

“Because I want to see if we can spend time together without it ending in disaster. And because I think you’d actually enjoy it.”

You found yourself smiling at your phone.

“What time Saturday?”

* * *

You spotted Joe before he saw you, standing outside the Cincinnati Museum Center looking uncharacteristically nervous. He was early—something he’d never been during your relationship—and kept checking his phone like he was worried you’d changed your mind.

“Hey,” you said, walking up behind him.

He turned, and his face relaxed into a genuine smile. “Hey. You came.”

“I said I would.”

“I know, but…” He shrugged. “I wasn’t sure until I saw you.”

The honesty was still jarring. The old Joe would have played it cool, acted like he’d never doubted you’d show up.

“So,” you said, gesturing toward the building. “Private tour?”

“Yeah. The curator is a friend of a friend. Apparently, they don’t usually do this, but I may have mentioned it was for someone who appreciates the educational value.” His smile turned slightly sheepish. “I also may have made a donation.”

“Of course you did.”

The curator met you inside, a enthusiastic woman in her fifties who clearly knew her stuff. “Mr. Burrow, Ms. Y/L/N, welcome! I understand you’re particularly interested in the space and natural history exhibits?”

Joe glanced at you. “That’s right.”

“Wonderful. We’ll start with the Neil Armstrong Space Exploration Gallery, then move through natural history, and finish in the planetarium if you’d like.”

As you walked through the first exhibit, you found yourself watching Joe more than the displays. He was different here than he’d been at public events during your relationship. More engaged, asking questions instead of just nodding politely. When the curator explained the mechanics of lunar landing, Joe leaned in, genuinely curious.

“I never understood how they calculated the fuel ratios,” he said. “With all the variables in space.”

“It’s fascinating, isn’t it?” the curator replied. “The precision required was extraordinary. One miscalculation and…”

“And you’re floating in space forever,” Joe finished. “The ultimate consequence for poor planning.”

You caught his eye and he smiled—a real smile, not the polished one he used to wear like armor.

In the natural history section, you found yourself relaxing. This felt like the conversations you’d had during your relationship, the late-night talks about curiosity and discovery. But better, because Joe wasn’t holding back parts of himself.

“I used to love this place as a kid,” you mentioned as you stood in front of a display about ocean exploration.

“Yeah?”

“My mom would bring me here on rainy Saturdays. I thought I was going to be a marine biologist for exactly three weeks when I was eight.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Realized I get seasick on boats.” You laughed. “Hard to study the ocean when you can’t get on it.”

“So you went into event planning instead.”

“Eventually. Turns out I like organizing chaos more than I like fish.”

Joe was quiet for a moment, studying your face. “I should have asked you more questions like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“About what you wanted to be as a kid. About your mom bringing you here. About… you.” He looked down at his hands. “I was so focused on not giving up too much about myself that I never learned enough about you.”

“Joe…”

“I know we’re not… I know this isn’t about getting back together,” he said quickly. “I just wanted you to know that I see that now. How selfish I was.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you just nodded and kept walking.

The planetarium was the last stop, and as the lights dimmed and the dome filled with stars, you felt something shift in the space between you. You were sitting close enough to catch the scent of his cologne, the same one he’d worn when you were together.

“This is what you were trying to give me,” he said quietly as constellations moved across the artificial sky. “Wasn’t it? Not just the museum, but… this. Wonder without performance.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I thought you’d like it.”

“I would have loved it.” His voice was rough. “I would have loved all of it.”

When the show ended and the lights came up, you both sat in the quiet for a moment.

“Thank you,” Joe said finally. “For coming today. For giving me the chance to do this right.”

“It was nice,” you admitted. “Seeing you actually excited about something instead of just going through the motions.”

“I’m trying to live more like that. Present instead of performing.”

You studied his face in the dim planetarium lighting. “How’s that working out?”

“It’s terrifying,” he said with a laugh. “But better. Everything feels more real.”

As you walked back toward the entrance, you found yourself not wanting the afternoon to end. For three hours, you’d forgotten about the hurt and the lies and the months of silence. You’d just enjoyed spending time with someone who was genuinely interested in the world around him.

“Can I ask you something?” you said as you reached the parking lot.

“Yeah.”

“Are you doing this—therapy, the museum, all of it—because you want me back? Or because you actually want to change?”

Joe stopped walking and turned to face you fully. “Six months ago, I would have said both and thought that was an acceptable answer.”

“And now?”

“Now I know that if I’m only changing to get you back, then I’m not really changing at all. I’m just learning new ways to manipulate the situation.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I started therapy because I lost you. But I kept going because I realized I didn’t like who I was even when I thought I was happy.”

The honesty was overwhelming. This was what you’d wanted from him for eight months—the truth.

“I want to keep seeing you,” he continued. “Talking, spending time together, whatever this is. But not because I’m trying to earn my way back into a relationship. Because I like who I am when I’m around you now. I like who you are. I like… this.”

He gestured between you, and you knew what he meant. The ease of conversation, the shared curiosity, the lack of pretense.

“I like this too,” you admitted.

“So maybe we can keep doing this? Museums, hanging out, terrible Instagram interactions?”

Despite everything, you laughed. “I can’t promise not to accidentally like more of your thirst traps.”

“I’m counting on it,” he said with a grin. “My ego needs the boost.”

As you walked toward your car, you felt something you hadn’t experienced in months: hope. Not for getting back together—that felt too big, too complicated still. But hope that maybe you could build something new. Something honest.

Something real.

* * *

June - August

It started slowly. Coffee dates that lasted three hours because you kept forgetting to leave. Texts that had nothing to do with logistics and everything to do with wanting to share random thoughts. Joe sending you photos of books he was reading, you sending him behind-the-scenes shots from events you were coordinating.

The first time he kissed you was in July, outside a bookstore in Northside after you’d spent two hours arguing about whether sci-fi authors accurately portrayed space travel. It was soft, tentative, nothing like the confident way he used to kiss you. Like he was asking permission instead of taking what he wanted.

“Is this okay?” he asked afterward, foreheads touching.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “It’s okay.”

But you took things slow. Glacially slow. He didn’t push, didn’t ask why you needed space or time or whatever this careful rebuilding process was. He just followed your lead, showing up when you asked him to, giving you room when you needed it.

The first time you stayed over at his place again was a Tuesday in August. Not because anything dramatic happened, but because you’d fallen asleep on his couch during a movie and woken up with a blanket draped over you and Joe reading in the chair across the room.

“You could have woken me up,” you said, stretching.

“You looked peaceful.” He set his book aside.

It was so domestic, so normal, that it made your chest tight. This was what you’d wanted during your relationship—quiet evenings, comfortable silences, the feeling that you belonged in each other’s spaces.

“What are you reading?” you asked, settling next to him on the couch.

“That astrophysics book you recommended." He looked at you, something soft in his expression. “I like this. Us. Whatever we’re calling it.”

“What would you call it?”

“Hopeful,” he said simply.

-----

September

The first fight you had was about Maddie.

Not because Joe brought her up, but because you saw a photo of them together on social media—some mutual friend’s wedding where they’d apparently both been guests. They weren’t together in the photo, just happened to be in the same group shot, but seeing her face brought everything flooding back.

“Did you know she was going to be there?” you asked when Joe came over that night.

“Yeah.” He didn’t try to deflect or minimize it. “I almost didn’t go because of it.”

“But you did.”

“I did. Because I’m tired of letting awkward situations control my life.” He sat across from you, not trying to close the distance. “We talked for maybe five minutes. She asked how I was doing, I said I was good, she said she was glad. That was it.”

“How is she?”

“She seemed okay. Happy.” Joe was quiet for a moment. “I owed her an apology too, you know. For letting her think we were building toward something when I was never really present.”

“Did you apologize?”

“Not at the wedding. But I called her a few months ago. Had an actual conversation about how I handled things.”

You felt something ease in your chest. Not jealousy exactly, but the tight knot of unfinished business.

“How did that go?”

“Better than I expected. She said she’d figured out pretty quickly that my heart wasn’t in it, but she’d hoped if she just tried harder…” He shook his head. “Sound familiar?”

It did. The willingness to accept less than you deserved, hoping the other person would eventually see what was right in front of them.

“I’m glad you talked to her,” you said, and meant it.

“Are we okay?” Joe asked.

“Yeah. We’re okay.”

-----

October

The first time you said “I love you” again was anticlimactic and perfect.

You were at Joe's place, attempting to teach him how to make your grandmother's apple pie. He'd insisted he could handle the crust, despite all evidence to the contrary.

“It’s not supposed to look like that,” you said, watching him wrestle with dough that had clearly been overworked.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It looks like concrete.”

“Edible concrete.”

“That’s generous.”

Joe laughed, flour in his hair and on his shirt, looking more relaxed than you’d ever seen him. “Okay, fine. Show me what I did wrong.”

You moved behind him, covering his hands with yours to guide his movements. “Gentle,” you said. “You’re not trying to conquer it.”

“I’m not good at gentle.”

“You’re learning.”

As you worked together, fixing his mangled pie crust, you felt overwhelmed by how right this felt. How easy. How much you’d missed not just Joe, but this version of Joe—unguarded, willing to fail at something, content to let you take the lead.

“I love you,” you said without thinking.

Joe went still under your hands. “What?”

“I love you,” you repeated, realizing you meant it. Not the desperate, grasping love you’d felt during your relationship, but something steadier. More sure.

He turned in your arms, search your face. “I love you too. I never stopped.”

“I know.” You reached up to brush flour from his cheek. “But this feels different.”

He kissed you then, soft and sweet and tasting like apple and possibility.

-----

November

The first event you attended together as a couple was a charity gala you'd coordinated—your choice, your comfort zone, your rules. Joe wore a perfectly tailored tuxedo and stayed by your side the entire evening, introducing himself to your colleagues, asking thoughtful questions about your work, never once making the night about him.

When a photographer asked for a picture, Joe looked to you first.

"It's your call," he said quietly.

You thought about it—about being public for the first time, about what it would mean, about whether you were ready for that kind of exposure.

"Okay," you said. "But just one."

The photo that ran in the society pages the next day showed you laughing at something Joe had whispered in your ear, his hand on the small of your back, both of you looking genuinely happy.

It was the first time you'd ever been photographed together. The first time the world knew you existed in his life.

December 9th

The night before Joe's birthday, you found yourself nervous. Not because you thought he'd leave—you were past that fear now—but because this felt like a test of how far you'd both come.

"I have something for you," you said as you curled up next to him on his couch.

"My birthday's not until tomorrow."

"I know. But I wanted to give this to you tonight."

You handed him an envelope. Inside were two tickets to Washington DC and a confirmation for a private tour of the National Air and Space Museum.

"The same dates as before," you said. "I never canceled it, just kept pushing it back."

Joe stared at the tickets for a long moment. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"What changed?"

You thought about it, about the months of rebuilding, about learning to trust again.

"I'm not trying to give you the stars anymore," you said. "I'm trying to share them with you."

Joe's smile was radiant. "That's even better."

He set the tickets carefully on the coffee table, then turned back toward you, his expression soft in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. He cupped your face gently, thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

“Thank you,” he said, and you knew he wasn’t just talking about the gift.

His forehead rested against yours, his breath warm, and the corner of his mouth tugged upward, like he was holding something back. His thumb brushed your cheekbone again, slower this time, like he was trying to memorize it. The way he was looking at you, like he was seeing something new. The quiet between you felt different now. Not empty, but full of everything you hadn't said yet.

He didn't rush. Joe hardly ever rushed. His hand moved from your cheek down to your neck, fingers trailing along your jaw. When he brushed the hollow of your throat, you found yourself leaning into the touch without thinking about it.

Neither of you spoke.

His other hand moved to your hip, drawing you closer. You were suddenly aware of how much clothing was between you.

You tilted your head slightly and he kissed you. Soft at first, then deeper, like he'd been waiting for permission.

Joe kissed the way he did everything else focused, and sure of himself. He didn't hesitate, but he wasn't rushing either. Just confident in a way that always turned you on.

His mouth moved against yours, coaxing you to open for him. You melted into it immediately, into the heat of him.

His hand slid back into your hair, thumb brushing your jaw like he was holding you exactly where he wanted you. And you wanted to be held there.

When he pulled back, you could still feel the press of his mouth on yours.

He looked at you with that half-smile that always undid you completely.

"Come here," he said, guiding you into his lap.

You moved to straddle him, settling against him naturally. His sweatshirt was soft under your hands as you pressed them to his chest, feeling his heartbeat.

You didn't rush either.

Your fingers slipped under his sweatshirt, palms finding warm skin. You felt his breath catch, his hands tightening at your waist.

Joe's head dipped, lips brushing your jaw, then lower to that spot below your ear that always made you shiver. His mouth moved down your neck, breath warm against your skin.

You shifted slightly in his lap and felt him respond, his breath catching.

His hand moved to your thigh, fingers tracing along the edge of your dress. He took his time, just touching like he was memorizing you.

You kissed him again, deeper this time, your hands in his hair, guiding him where you wanted him. When he made a quiet sound against your mouth, it felt like everything you'd both worked for had led to this moment.

His lips were at your ear, fingers pressing into your hip as he pulled you closer until there was nothing between you.

"You feel that?" he whispered, voice rough.

You nodded, already breathless.

He kissed you again, and when you made a quiet sound against his mouth, his hands tightened at your waist.

You moved against him slowly, and he let you set the pace, his hands steady at your waist.

"Say you'll be mine," he whispered against your lips.

"Yes," you whispered back.

His hands slipped beneath your dress as he tugged you in closer. You could feel the heat of him, even through the last layers between you.

Your fingers slid under the hem of his sweatshirt again, pushing it up slowly. He helped without a word, peeling it over his head and tossing it aside. His skin was warm, and you traced your hands over his chest, down the line of his ribs.

His breath stuttered when you shifted against him again, grinding just enough to feel him fully, already hard and heavy beneath you.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, head tipping back slightly.

You leaned in, kissing along the edge of his jaw, your hands steady as they mapped familiar territory. His hands slid up your thighs, dragging the hem of your dress higher, bunching it around your hips.

His fingers slipped under the edge of your underwear, pushing them aside.

“Jesus,” he murmured, thumb brushing over you again, steady this time. “You’re already…”

“Yeah,” you whispered, voice catching.

His hand tightened at your hip as he kept touching you; slow, careful. Just reading every shift in your breathing, every quiet gasp, adjusting to it.

Your forehead pressed to his, your hips already moving instinctively into the rhythm of his hand.

Your breath hitched, fingers curling tight into his shoulders. He caught it right away, mouth brushing yours before he moved again.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Come on, baby.”

His voice sent you over the edge faster than you expected. You came quietly, breath stuttering against his lips, your whole body tightening around his hand.

He kissed you through it, his mouth soft but sure, catching every shaky breath.

And when you finally stilled, breath shallow and heartbeat loud in your ears, he was already reaching down, tugging at his sweatpants with one hand while the other stayed firm at your hip.

You shifted to help him, lifting just enough so he could free himself, and then he was there—pressed hot and heavy against you, one hand wrapped around himself, steadying, teasing, just brushing.

Then he guided you down onto him, slow, steady, his breath catching hard when he finally sank in deep.

You both stilled—just breathing, just feeling.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, one hand gripping your thigh as he held you there. “You feel… God.”

You didn’t answer—just curled your fingers around the back of his neck and started to move, slow at first. Testing. Learning this new version of each other.

His hands traced your waist, your hips, guiding you but letting you set the pace. When you ground down a little harder, a quiet groan slipped from his lips, and you felt it everywhere—his breath at your throat, his fingers flexing at your sides.

“Look at me,” he said, voice rougher now.

You did.

His gaze held yours as you moved together and when he finally lost a bit of that careful control—when his hips pushed up into yours a little harder, breath coming ragged—you welcomed it. Matched it. Took it.

He cupped your jaw, thumb brushing just under your lip, and kissed you hard as you came again—hard and fast, your body tightening around him.

He followed right after, muttering your name against your mouth, hips snapping up once, twice, before he stilled completely.

Neither of you moved for a while. Just breathing. His forehead pressed to yours, breath still uneven, his hand slipping back to your face, thumb dragging slow along your cheekbone.

When he did speak, his voice was quiet. Rough. Almost like he wasn’t sure if he was saying it at the right time, but he needed to anyway.

“I love you,” he murmured.

You froze, just for a second, but he kept going—like he’d been holding it in so long he couldn’t stop now.

“I’m sorry it took me so fucking long.”

Your throat felt tight. You didn't say anything at first, just let your fingers find the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

"I know," you whispered. "I know you do."

"I love you too."

He exhaled shakily, like he'd been holding his breath. His arms tightened around you, pulling you against him, forehead still pressed to yours.

You stayed like that for a long moment, wrapped around each other, hearts still racing. Everything felt different now. Better. Like you'd finally found your way back to where you were supposed to be.

[bewitched-hours]

Pre-saken 007n7 x reader (smut) 007n7 met the reader as he was exploiting in an pizza place he found the reader so he started flirting and accidentally made the reader into a flustered mess because we all know how he was back then so maybe that led to (smut) because 007n7 decided to be an dumbass and give them kisses so he pulled them by the (waist) and teleported to his house or hideout and yk..

Anon you frea- I love it-

Reader gets She/They pronouns~

Were you a goody-two-shoes? Nah

But were you as bad as- say- 007n7? Also no.

You did use exploits quite a bit but it was never anything for the admins to blink at. You just did minor things and never really bothered anyone needlessly so why should you be stopped?

And when the infamous hacker would start destroying a place you visited, you could teleport out to save yourself. If anything you could be considered a neutral party since you didn't mess with either hackers nor admins.

But today was weirdly... Different...

Your gut was telling- no... Demanding- that you get home or to your workplace or... Anywhere that wasn't Elliot's workplace.

You wanted to wait for him to go on break so you two could chat and continue finding a way to help ease his anxiety over 007n7 coming by so often... You felt bad for your friend but it wasn't like you could do anything with your exploits against someone with much more knowledge on them than you.

Ignoring your gut, you shot Elliot a friendly smile which seemed to ease his current worries temporarily as you stayed near the doors.

Even if your gut wanted you far away from this place currently, you couldn't leave behind one of the few friends you actually had. But you could at least keep a possible exit in reach in case your gut was right.

... And it was... Shocker...

Within a matter of minutes, the pizzaplace was set ablaze and chaos reigned like an apocalypse was starting.

The culprit? Take a wild fucking guess...

You could hear 007n7's cackling as you held onto Elliot and typed into your terminal to teleport you both out. You couldn't care less for the other people around but you could at least teleport your friend back to his home before you started typing the same command for yourself.

You felt a pit form in your stomach as you kept typing and focusing on your terminal. But it seemed the hacker was actually quite interested in your likeness.

Feeling yourself being pulled away from your terminal, you looked behind you with a glare until you realized it was him.

Well shit, this wasn't how you wanted to spend your time in his chaos.

But that smirk on his face frustrated you to no end.

Sure, you usually didn't care about his antics and were just glad Elliot was safe but seeing him so smug about inconveniencing you made you nearly seethe. "What? You want a fight?" You hissed at him, using your terminal to quickly summon a sword to your aid.

"Nah~ But I do recall seeing you more often. What's a pretty little thing doing, meddling in my business?" His words made you stop in your tracks as you felt confused and simultaneously felt a warmth spreading onto your face. You weren't used to compliments already but flirting? You weren't gonna get out of this unless you let your pride waver...

"Wh- HUH???" Your shock was showing, only fuelling his own pride further. "What's with the flattery?!" You asked incredulously and looked around to make sure he wasn't stalling you. Can't have yourself getting jumped by his buddy because you were busy being flustered.

"Besides- I'm not meddling with anyone, just helping out my friends and that's it." You huffed, trying to regain your composure as you realized he was alone this time. "I couldn't care less what happens otherwise so if you don't want anything, I'll get goi-"

You were cut off immediately when you suddenly felt yourself be pulled away from the terminal you summoned again by his clones. Oh yeah, you forgot he had those...

"Now whoever said I wasn't after anything~?" His chuckles only served to make you question him further as you were practically forced to watch him approach calmly.

If you pulled up your terminal, his clones would have you pulled away from it again and now that they were keeping you from even raising your arms, you couldn't exactly move much on your own or try to use the sword still in your hand.

Curiosity took over for a moment as you let him speak with a scowl on your face. "I just wanted to admire someone who's obviously throwing away so much talent for nothing~ Can't blame a guy for appreciating a beauty~"

There it was again, that warm feeling in your face as he put a finger under your chin to lift it up. Sly bastard just wanted to float for a bit to have you looking up at him like some kinda power move. Well... You could try to see if-

No. No no no- You weren't seriously about to consider flirting back, were you???

I mean... Maybe but- No! You were not falling for his plays!

As if sensing your inner turmoil, he pulled out his c00lgui to take away your sword and placed a kiss on your forehead. A gentle one that made all of your questions multiply tenfold. "It's fine if you don't believe me but maybe we can have a little fun at least? A little prize for me and I'm sure you've been quite frustrated yourself~" He teased, drawing a bright blush to your face as you seemed completely taken aback.

Was he seriously suggesting a hook-up when there was fire and screaming all around?! And did he seriously imply you were sexually frustrated??? What the fu-

Turns out he was right though. You had been rather pent up from stressing over your own work and worrying over your friends and with your drive, you could barely help yourself.

You did wonder if he may have stalked you or found you on that dating app you had installed a few months ago to look for hook-ups to relax for a bit but you never had any luck for one reason or another.

Wether it was an issue with condoms, the guy ignoring your entire bio to say he wanted a longterm relationship, maybe even some slut-shaming...

You couldn't exactly pretend like you weren't desperate to just get it over with...

"Fine... But no one will know about this and nothing comes from it." You deflated a bit in his hold, letting silence fall between you until your curiosity made you look up and-

He was flushed as well.

"Wh- OH COME ON-" You barked out, embarrassed now that he was seemingly taken aback by your agreement.

But before you could even think to call him out on it, you noticed the environment shift.

No longer were you at Builder Brother's Pizzaplace. Instead, he had you brought to his hideout where you were finally freed from the grip of his clones.

You stood there awkwardly, watching him grip his face and move away from you to grab a few things. Lube, condoms- Oh god, he was serious-

Though you didn't say anything, you decided to look around and admire how cozy he made himself despite the hideout looking... Less than ideal even for the standards of a college dorm...

You didn't even know what this hideout was supposed to be or where it was but you were pretty sure it wasn't anywhere nice. He was still a hacker after all. You barely even took notice of him still talking to you until the name of his little friend reached your ears.

"[...] Noli's out right now so we can even be as loud as we want!" Ugh, now you wished you could've tuned him out longer...

Oh well, you were already committed...

"Hey, I'm no virgin." You chuckled, deciding to play along for a bit since you figured he was probably underestimating you. "Only reason I even agreed was because dating apps suck and hook-ups are still somehow viewed as a bad thing."

You shrugged, sighing until 007 suddenly dragged you away and handed you some stuff he seemingly had stashed away.

A gag, some handcuffs- Why did he have a vibrator wand-

"Your reactions say otherwise~!" He spoke in a sing-song tune as he watched your face flush again. "Besides, I'm not a complete ass to force this shit~"

That one surprised you. 007n7, the infamous hacker wanted by the admins, not forcing you to go along with his wants? You would be dashing for the door by now if you weren't so fucking desperate because this was raising a lot of suspicions in your mind...

As expected though, most of the hideout was messy. You were starting to wonder if you were desperate enough to go along with this. Surely you couldn't be so starved for a way to get all of this frustration out that you would risk whatever this guy had in mind...

It was even worse with how excited he seemed... Surely he hadn't been planning for this-

"Don't mind the mess, I try to keep it clean..." He muttered as you stepped into what you assumed was his bedroom. It was... Actually surprisingly cleaner than you thought!

Sure, a couple boxes were still around but it looked more like a home than the rest of the hideout. You were actually a little impressed in spite of what you had expected.

You looked around curiously, setting the stuff he handed you onto a nightstand next to the bed as you thought... "It's by far better than most bedrooms I've seen." You admitted casually.

He didn't want to waste time though and was already stripping down to his boxes by the time you had taken off your shirt. You had to stifle your chuckling over this strange eagerness you seemed to have awaken in him as you kicked off your jeans and shoes. Your socks slipped right off with the shoes so you were pretty much left in your underwear already and throwing away all shame you may have had until now.

Apparently you were desperate enough to do this...

"I'm surprised you didn't try to get me drunk or some shit." You joked with a low chuckle escaping you. Though you weren't sure at this point if being drunk wouldn't have been better, considering you'd be able to just forget about getting some release from someone you really wouldn't want to be seen with in public...

He could only shrug, crawling over you as he was surprisingly gentle at getting you in the mood.

Neither of you spoke a word before his lips captured yours in an almost romantic gesture. It was really surprising he wasn't just gonna treat you like some toy even though he seemed so content on it when his chaos was running rampant.

You couldn't help but relax as he carefully began pulling off your bra and panties before deciding to lower his head and nip at your neck. "You're rather patient..." You muttered under your breath as you decided to hook your legs around his hips. He had his boxers already down to his knees which was more what you had expected with his sly chuckling.

"Hey, we've got a deal and I've been patient enough, might as well enjoy my prize~" Although you didn't have the slightest idea what he meant, any thought about it was quickly lost when you noticed the feel of rubber against your cunt. When did he have the time to put on a condom? AND lube it up??

A sharp gasp left your lips when he slipped in, startling you with the sudden arousal growing at your core. Man, you had been tense for too long and didn't even notice just how desperate you were getting...

An involuntary whimper escaped you as you got used to his entrance and he was clearly trying to tease you by waiting in place to instead mark up your shoulders. At least he knows not to leave anything showing...

You don't even want to imagine the kind of hellish scolding you'd be in for if Elliot found out about this... Ugh, it almost made you feel guilty...

But for now, you shrugged those thoughts off and tried to move your hips upwards a bit before feeling him stop entirely. "Patience~" You huffed, wanting to ask why he was being so slow before you suddenly felt one of his arms leave your side and grab something you couldn't see at first.

Turns out it had been the handcuffs he was aiming for. You didn't even need him to really ask with your body feeling like it was on fire practically. You simply let him place the fuzzy cuffs around your wrists and held them above your head by the small chain in the middle. You could at least feel that they weren't very sturdy so if the need arose, you could probably just break them and escape.

He luckily picked up the pace when you began quietly whining again and slid in smoothly. Your body involuntarily relaxed around him in anticipation as he began sliding back and forth inside you at a steady speed. It even brought out a sigh of relief you didn't know you were holding as your legs tensed slightly to keep him close. You'd be damned if you let him get his load out and leave you hot and bothered...

You quietly bit your lip as you felt blood being drawn at your shoulders. He was definitely getting a little overly excited but you figured you'd let him. It was just a sting and not like he was some rabid animal... Though you could certainly picture him as one with how he was pushing in and out of your needy hole.

"F-faster- fuck~" A quiet moan escaped your lips as you felt the pain of his bites melt into pleasure. It was a surprise for sure but not like you could think about much when you felt the knot in your stomach tighten like a warning.

Before you had time to react, 007 pulled his face away and momentarily released his hold on the cuff chain to grab your face and force you into a heated kiss as his hips worked their way against yours like a rabbit in heat.

It was all too fast but too good as you struggled to catch your breath between the muffled moans escaping you mingled with his. It seemed you were both nearing your high and maybe it was the lack of oxygen or the pleasure but you barely even realized how your hands managed to grab onto his hair and pull him down against you until...

The knot broke. With a sharp gasp and only slightly shaky legs, you let go and took deep breaths to collect your thoughts again. He came only shortly after you so you simply stared at the ceiling as he got off you.

Your body was sweaty, knees weak(moms spaghetti), you were dizzy...

Yeah, you really needed that though...

But you jolted in surprise as you felt something back at your cunt only to look down and notice he was cleaning you both up with a damp wash cloth.

"What? Just cuz I can be ass doesn't mean I don't know shit about aftercare." He chuckled at your surprised look.

It was almost... Flattering? You weren't sure what word to use but it was definitely unexpected. Pleasantly so...

"Guessing I should head home for a shower then." You calmly stated as you sat up once he was done. It felt so awkward being taken care of now but instead of waving you off, you got a change of clothes thrown at you.

"The bathroom's right across. Either you go in first or we go together." He bluntly stated with that shit-eating grin on his face again as you flushed at the implication. Although...

"I... Don't mind.." You sheepishly admitted as you took the handcuffs off. "But if you're thinking of another round, I'm not being pushed against any surfaces..." You quickly made your way to the door and headed to the room across from 007's bedroom, taking a look at a surprisingly clean bathroom with one of those shower-bath combos.

"Then we better run a bath instead~ Save some water and easier to clean~" He chuckled, following close behind you and draping an arm over your bite-covered shoulders.

You had a feeling this wouldn't be a one-time thing but you were hoping you could keep this from Elliot...

Gods, this was probably cringe to read because I had no clue what I was doing at first lmao

Anything you'd like to request/ask? Check out my pinned post first and I'll be happy to write up whatever you want!

[slutzforbueckers]

i would owe you my life if you wrote something with a kind of weird reader 😭 like a funky, different girl that paige is just head over heels for even though their energies are so different

SHE'S THE ONE, YOUR HONOR

♡— pairing: paige bueckers x fem!reader

♡— warnings: fluff

♡— synopsis: it’s your first time meeting paige’s friends and family and you’re definitely not what they would expect but everyone loves you anyways, especially paige.

paige has been reassuring you since you got in the car, holding your hand tight while she used the other one to drive. you were heading to a small gathering between her friends and family, it would be your first time meeting them and you were a nervous wreck. 

“but what if they don’t like me? what if they think i’m weird?” you asked. your heart was genuinely beating out of your chest, you tried to distract yourself by playing with her fingers but it only helped so much. 

“they will like you and no one is going to think you’re weird.” paige looked over at you as she stopped at a red light. she moved her hand to your thigh and gave you a gentle squeeze. “i promise you have nothing to worry about, ma.”

you and paige weren’t necessarily the average looking couple—no one would pick you out of the line up and pair you two together because they thought it looked right. you were shyer than she was but when you were comfortable with the people surrounding you, you tended to show your true self. 

you’ve always had that weird, off putting vibe to you that often made people think twice about talking to you. in school you were given the title of being the school weirdo because sometimes you’d like to paint your skin a different color and you didn’t care about social norms. 

when everyone else sat in the lunchroom for lunch you’d take off to the library or the art room, whichever one you were feeling that day. you didn’t have many friends because you preferred not to open your mouth and when you did people only looked at you funny.

nothing really changed as you grew up, you only grew more into who you were—especially in college when you figured out your newfound freedom. paige loved it though—she loved it when she’d walk into your shared apartment and find you talking to your plants as you watered them. 

you let out a shaky breath as you looked out the window and noticed she was slowing down in front of a house. there were a bunch of cars in the driveway and parked on the curb so you had to park a little further down. 

once she parked the car she unbuckled her seatbelt and turned to face you, taking both of your hands in hers. “everything is going to be just fine, okay? i promise you they’ll love you and if anything or anyone makes you uncomfortable then just say the words and we’re outta here.” 

you nodded your head and you repeated the words back in your head, trying to calm your jumping nerves. paige flashed you a small smile before getting out of the car and walking around to your side. you quickly unbuckled your seatbelt as she opened the door to let you out. as soon as you stepped out of the car you were reaching for her hand. 

“do i look okay?” you asked, looking up at her with concerned eyes. 

“you look perfect.” her answer was enough to make you roll your eyes and smile. 

the both of you walked hand in hand all the way to the front door. you were a little less nervous now that awful feeling was still lingering in your gut. as you approached the front door you started to cling onto her a little tighter. paige didn’t bother knocking, she just opened the door and pulled you straight to the living room where she assumed the people would be. 

everyone’s eyes were on you as soon as they heard footsteps, wide and confused about who the girl was with paige. you couldn’t look at all of them at once but you could feel the stares raking over your body. it made you rethink the mismatched socks you wore and hide behind paige. she wouldn’t let you dress any differently from how you usually dress—she plainly told you not to try and change yourself to fit in. 

“guys, this is y/n.” paige said nonchalantly, and then everyone’s eyes were either on her or darting between you two. you awkwardly waved and gave them a tight lipped smile, trying to think of something to say to break the uncomfortable silence. 

“i–uhm–i would’ve brought a dish or something but i had a meltdown before we got here…” you trailed off, slowly turning your head to paige for silent reassurance. she gave you a soft smile and a squeeze of the hand. 

you were really starting to consider taking her up on that offer of leaving but then you heard a voice that wasn’t your own or paige’s. “you’re not what i was expecting…i kinda like it.” 

you turned your head so fast you almost got whiplash. paige nudged you slightly with her shoulder as kk and a few of the other girls approached you. 

“i get that alot, not the liking part but y’know.” you shrugged, a shy smile forming on your lips. 

“how’d you get your hair this bright?” jana gushed as she reached out and gently tugged at the ends of your pink hair. 

“oh, i just fried it with bleach first.” you shrugged. they all laughed at your joke and it made you feel so much better. kk stepped forward and looped her arm in yours and started to pull you to the couch where they all were previously sitting.

“alright, now you have to catch us up on the lore between you.”

[angellekookie]

"Hate to see you go, love to watch you leave 🥹" is how I feel about my pigments couple. Like, yes I could read them forever and always, but also I love the note they end on🥹

Yes, I have been trying to put this in words for weeks.

Ktownshizzle, you genius, you.

Everybody clear the way, Mr. MIN YOONGI is existing and making us swoon. The phone call, the lil gifts, helping her sort through products, him breathing 😔���✨️✨️ (can we tell I'm down bad or am I normal? Be honest.)

Just wondering, so if I call Min Yoongi and tell to take responsibility and own up for what he did, he'll just come over? Say less, omw to become a makeup girlie TONIGHT!!!!!

I love love love love the interactions between the rest of the tannies and Yoongi and Mc 🥹🥹it's just soo.. soo perfect🥹 I love it. Like, it's not the heart of the fic, but it feels like it's in the heart of the fic if that makes sense.🩷💯🩷

Very sexy of him to leave after that kiss, very sexy of him to have all that restraint. Very sexy of him and and actually, this was one of the best things in the fic for me because you can just tell how much more he would have wanted to do and the fact that he didn't 🫦

Finally, you know Min Yoongi. Not the pixels, but the person.

You know him now in the noise and chaos of backstage, from watching him when you have your kit open and he’s on his chair waiting to be groomed. 

There’s no need to polish him here. Because this is him at his most perfect in your eyes. When you can just reach for him. 

Not because he’s Min Yoongi, the idol. 

He’s Min Yoongi, yours.

I keep calling you Shakespeare because honestly. Beautiful. 🥹

Y'all I'm not bragging or anything but I was there the night the skirt scene was born 🫦 and know that IT DID NOT DISAPPOINT! I'VE BEEN WAITING ON THIS 😭🤭 K LEMME TELL YOU HOW I WAS SCREAMING AS I READ THIS AND I'VE ONLY JUST TODAY BEEN ABLE TO READ THE SKIRT SCENE WITH A SEMI STRAIGHT FACE MY GOSH. But anyway, glad I didn't overreact.

But it’s the jeans—loose, shredded clean through the knees—that have you scandalized like a Victorian maiden seeing skin for the first time.

Same. Valid.

“But aren’t you glad you did?”

I feel like i can hear him saying this. And maybe I'm delusional but damn, every reaction is valid, mc. You better than me cause I'd actually just fall to my knees since they would have most definitely lost strength 😔💯

You meet Yoongi’s eyes in the mirror and almost crash out when he brings his hand to his lips—without shame, without pause—and licks two fingers clean.

😑 smug little..

The whole Thanksgiving dinner 🫦 but also I remember being all too happy about it and felt like something was looming on the horizon....

And I was right cause what's up with HR? Did she attend a Coldplay concert and get caught on the jumbotron, perchance? 😕 (this reblog is late but I'm glad. Maybe it was waiting for this absolutely perfect brain rot reference 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️💯💯💯)

That aside, HR this is for you 🖕🏽😔🖕🏽

K, idk if you've ever seen this k-drama, but it's one of my favourites– Romance is a Bonus Book. But like essentially, it's a workplace noona romance and the female lead does get fired from her job and the boyfriend is there just wanting to cheer her up from the whole ordeal. Now ofc the cheering up in the drama didn't include them being so close🫦 but I'm typing this today and Yoongi’s willing to be there for Mc just reminded me of the male lead from that drama🥹💯💯

I love Pigments & Playlists Yoongi

Is all I'll say on the scene. That and Yoongi I'm available Monday ✨️

The rest of the fic honestly had me like this K😭 No words or notes actually it was just so freaking cute and warm and I'm just happy for em🫶🏽

Pigments & Playlists [Final] | myg

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: Between makeup and music, you find the one person worth blurring the lines for. ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluffy coworkers to lovers, idol au, older woman (by a few years), smut ✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: SMUT MDNI!, Undercut Yoongi!!, MC-noona is the embodiment of “independent check, got her own check”, office shenanigans as always, exhibitionist kink, fingering, edging, very minor pain kink, use of a blindfold, power play (im new to writing this so pls forgive any errors), unprotected p in v, idk tell me if i missed any of it, unfair/sexist HR practices, insinuation of self-harm (assumed wrongly), MC hatin’ on HYBE, happy ending woohoo ✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 9k ✎ ˎˊ˗ Posting date: June 21, 2025 ✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Yoongi’s discharge today. So proud of you, baby! 💜 Thank you so much @tea4sykes for your brilliant ideas, betareading, and basically keeping me motivated in writing this! Love yew! ✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes 2: Hope you guys enjoy reading this~ Made it a personal goal to publish today, because I didn't know how June 21 was gonna go for us, but I was sure it was going to be emotional. Consider this a gift from me to you. However you may be feeling today, I hope this makes you smile.

[Full taglist to follow in rbs.]

Part One | Yoongi Masterlist

So Yoongi disappeared after he did that. Frankly, how dare he?!

Way too many thoughts swirling in your head while you lay awake and there is no way you’ll be able to sleep.

Your arm flies across the bed as your hand pulls your nightstand drawer and fumbles inside for the one thing you need to help yourself relax…

Nah. Not the rabbit.

Tiger Balm.

You dab a bit on your temples and the tip of your nose and inhale deeply, letting the menthol work its magic. Yup. That’s the stuff.

Unfortunately, you’ve been staring at the ceiling for an hour, heart thudding like something’s wrong. Except nothing’s wrong. You kissed. That’s all.

You kissed and now you’re thinking about it way too much. Not because it was bad. Because it was… something.

And because the more you think about it, the more it’s starting to scare you how much you need it to happen again.

You sigh. Rub at the menthol on your nose, frustrated it didn’t thwart your torturous thoughts.

And then you do the logical thing. You call.

It rings once. Twice.

“...Noona?”

His voice is low, a little scratchy. Not groggy, just sleep-warm.

You swallow. “Sorry. I know it’s late.”

“Nah it’s fine,” he says. “You okay?”

You hesitate. “Kind of.”

There’s a pause. He doesn’t fill it. Just waits.

You exhale, quiet. “Remember when you said I could call you if I couldn’t sleep?”

“Yeah.”

“This isn’t about my ex though,” you say.

“Okay.”

“It’s about you.”

That makes him hum. You hear the faint rustle of his sheets, like he’s sitting up.

“Me?”

“Own up to what you did.”

Faint chuckles crackle through your phone and you can almost imagine how he looks. Eyes like the moon, shoulders bobbing, grin smug as shit.

“What did I do?”

You groan, tack his name at the end of it.

“Been wanting to do that for a while,” he says after a beat. “Is that a problem?”

“I don’t know yet,” you reply. “It makes me anxious.”

He hums softly. “Because?”

“Because I liked it,” you say. “And I kinda hate how much I’m thinking about it. And you’re probably chill.”

There’s a long silence.

Then he says, calm and careful: “I’ve been thinking about it, too.”

“Thought you don’t date coworkers.”

“And then there’s you.”

You let out a huff—relieved, breathy, kinda giddy. “That’s… okay.”

“Yeah.” 

You sit up in bed, pulling your knees in.

“I was gonna wait,” you admit. “To see if you’d make the next move. But then I figured that’s dumb. I’m not a teenager.”

“No. You’re definitely not.”

“You don’t mind it?”

“Mind what?”

“That I’m older?” You roll your eyes, even though he can’t see.

“Noona,” he breathes. “I’m not really someone who cares about things like that. At the end of the day aren’t we all just human beings trying to find a connection?”

God this man. Your mouth moves before you can think about it any more. “If you’re not too busy… you wanna come over sometime?”

There’s a pause. Just enough to make your stomach flip.

 “Noona,” he says, teasing, “are you asking me on a…”

“Yes, Yoongi,” you cut in. “That’s exactly what I’m asking.”

He laughs. Really laughs. Low and bright and warm through the speaker. You want to bottle that sound.

“Technically, I did ask first,” he says. “But yeah. I’ll come over.”

You kick your feet under the duvet before replying, “Okay.”

You talk more.

About nothing. About music. About how Namjoon’s on his ass about a song. About how he’s been working out. You tease him mercilessly about how he just casually dropped the last part.

At some point, the sky turns blue.

When you finally hang up, your body feels softer, a little less anxious. And when you fall asleep, it’s his cute throaty laugh still echoing in your head.

“Yoongi, will you please stop making that face? I’m trying to even out your eyeliner,” you scold, trying not to laugh.

Yoongi, the piece of shit, still keeps at his :] while you skim a q-tip along the outer corner of his eye.

“Yoongi-hyung, why are you acting cutely?” Hobi asks from the next chair. “Are we even filming right now?”

A flush creeps up Yoongi’s cheeks as he responds, mock indignant, “What? This is my face. Not my fault I was born cute.”

You meet Hobi’s eyes in the mirror. Then, he winks. You immediately look away, vaguely mortified.

Wait—does everybody know?

Trying to recover, you boop your powder puff on Yoongi’s nose, sending a cloud of setting powder into the air. “Quit it.”

He coughs once, laughing as the puff drops to his lap. Okay shit, good thing he is wearing khaki slacks and not black pants. But finally, he relaxes.

“Noona, you have a Rejuran appointment later,” Jimin chimes in.

Your head snaps up. “What? How did you…?”

Jimin grins from across the room, eyes glued to your phone screen where it’s charging in one of the other stations. Your sockets were full, so you left it there earlier and a calendar alert must’ve popped up.

“You’re so nosy, Jimin.”

“What’s Rejuran?” Hobi asks, peering over with mild curiosity. “I’ve heard that somewhere.”

“It’s just a kind of facial,” you say breezily, catching Hyein’s knowing glance as she smooths Hobi’s hair with her Dyson. These boys don’t need to know your anti-aging secrets.

“They inject salmon sperm into noona’s face,” Jimin announces with a totally straight face, mischief glinting in his eyes.

“Salmon what?!” Yoongi blurts, snapping his head up to look at you. Hobi recoils with a horrified grimace.

“Park Jimin, when I catch you—!”

Jimin squeals and ducks behind a rack of stage outfits as you toss a blending sponge in his direction, trying not to laugh yourself.

The commotion dies down, and you go back to packing up your powders, muttering under your breath, “It’s not even that weird. Just some polynucleotides. Helps stimulate collagen. Keeps the wrinkles at bay.”

Hobi raises a brow. “I don’t see wrinkles, noona.”

“Exactly.” Now it’s you who sends him a wink back.

Yoongi lets out a low chuckle. You glance at him and catch him typing something into his Notes app. Thankfully everyone goes back to their own damn business.

A second later, Yoongi tilts the screen toward you just enough for you to read it: Friday night?

Your hand holding a brush freezes for half a second over his cheek.

He’s already looking away like he didn’t just casually drop that invite.

“Okay,” you mumble softly under your breath.

The lilt of his lips tells you he heard it anyway.

The door buzzes. You’ve been so chill all day. Still chill. You're chill. (No, you’re not.) You rush to open the door before you make him wait too long.

Yoongi looks… casual. Just a black sweater layered over a gray tee, soft black pants. Hair tucked neatly under a beanie. He looks like your neighborhood ahjussi.

“Noona,” he says, voice muffled behind a white face mask.

“Wow. You’re on time.”

“I try to impress on the first date.”

You try not to smile too big, but fail.

He takes his mask off and hands you a small paper bag. “Dessert.”

You peek inside. Cream puffs from that place in Sinsa-dong that always sells out by 3 PM. “Did you have to bribe someone for these?”

“I have my ways.”

Dinner is simple, something you can make with your eyes closed. Miso salmon, cilantro lime rice, and a cucumber salad. You make this at least twice a month. You could’ve cooked steak or some grilled chops, something that gave a more date-night vibe, but you wanted to make the menu fool-proof.

You eat at the kitchen counter with his insistence, saying you didn’t need to set the dining table all fancy. (“It’s just me.”) So you sit close together on your bar stools, knees almost brushing. He clears his plate like it’s the best thing he’s eaten. You beam.

“Noona, this is really good,” he says, tapping a napkin against his mouth.

You smirk. “Better than Jungkook’s?”

He slides an arm on the backrest of your chair. “Are you as competitive as the maknae?”

“I’m just playing.” You chuckle. “I know mine’s better.”

He smiles, watching you quietly but intently as you sip your wine.

“What?” you ask, his stare is warming the side of your face.

“Just... haven’t done this in a while.”

“Eaten?”

“No.” He tuts, picks up his wine glass and sips before explaining, “Sat with someone like this. Them cooking for me. In their home. Talking.”

Your stomach dips. Not from nerves this time. From the way he admits it. Simple. Open.

You shrug, keeping it light. “Well. You’ve still got it.”

“Got what?”

“You know… the kids call it rizz.”

He laughs heartily, and you feel his fingers curling against your arm. “Was worried I might’ve lost my… rizz.” He overenunciates the last word, his lisp decorating the edge of the sound.

You raise your brow, not buying it. “Liar.”

He bites his lower lip and shakes his head at you. Your eyes track the way his pretty teeth sink against the pink plush and ugh. Again with this rizz.

After dishes are rinsed and placed in the dishwasher and dessert’s split between bites and laughter, the two of you end up on the couch. His arm stretched along the backrest yet again, just shy of your shoulder. Your head tilted toward his, but not touching, even if you wanted to.

There’s some Netflix movie playing in the background, purely for vibes. Neither of you are really watching. You talk about work. Gossip a bit. He asks about that corner shelf in your living room, the one with the knick knacks. You tell him stories about your travels, touring with Seventeen. He says you have the same lucky cat figurine from Hong Kong.

You try not to let his voice get under your skin. It’s different hearing his warm, caramelly tone when you’re not otherwise occupied with evening out his contour or with the buzz of a hair dryer in the background. It’s criminal how smooth it is when it’s all you need to focus on, even more so when he’s being earnest.

He glances at your hand resting on his thigh. (How did it get there???) Then up at your face. You nod before your brain realizes that he in fact did not ask a question.

But then he leans in and all thoughts fly out the window. His lips taste like vanilla cream and maybe the wine you shared earlier. It’s sweet. Even better than the first one because you’re ready for it.

You shift closer, hands finding their way to the hem of his sweater, thumbs brushing warm skin underneath. His breath catches a little. And then his fingers are trailing up your arm, until they settle gently on your jaw. His thumb presses against your cheek, coaxing your mouth open so he can press his tongue against yours. You feel dizzy with want.

His hands stay respectful, never wandering too far. Just the faint brush against the back of your neck, the side of your thigh. But every press of his calloused fingers leaves a quiet, contained fire in its wake. You need more.

You move closer, straddling his lap, never breaking contact with his mouth. He kisses you deeper, sloppier when your weight settles against him. His tongue licks into your mouth expertly and you welcome it. It teases you long enough to make you wonder how it might feel in other places, too. 

Like butter, you're melting, unraveling as his hands find more courage—one sliding up, pausing at your ribs, then higher to cup your tits. He groans into your mouth and it nearly ruins you. You roll your hips forward, barely a grind, just enough to feel him straining between you. Just enough to hear him groan again. 

You make out for what feels like an eternity. But you think you’re both on the same page, when your mouths move a little slower, softer. Air starts to seep between your lips as you retreat. You’re somewhere between wanting more and knowing it’s not time. Not yet. But god, it’s close.

Eventually, he leans his forehead against your shoulder, both of you breathless–maybe a little embarrassed.

“I should probably go,” he murmurs, even as he hugs you tighter at the waist.

“Probably,” you sigh, his undercut grazing your neck and igniting a dull, sweet tickle.

You stay like that for a moment, sharing the soft beat of your hearts as they slow back to normal.

He finally rises, slipping back into his white sneakers as you walk him to the door.

“Thanks for dinner,” he says, lingering by the frame.

“Thanks for coming,” you reply, fingers tightening on the knob as you hold it open.

“Next time, my place?”

“Already booking that second date?”

He pulls his mask on, but not before you catch the shy grin he tries to hide.

“I’ll bring dessert,” you offer.

“Just bring yourself. “ he says, gaze flicking down your body, before settling back on your eyes.

Oh. You are the dessert.

And this time, when the door clicks shut behind him, your heart isn’t racing from confusion. It’s welcoming the slow bloom of potential.

You: Thank you for dropping off coffee and donuts for the team Yoongi: 👌

Yoongi: finished it one sitting You: what? You: i got you 10 pcs 🍊 Yoongi: and? You: you dont get acidic? Yoongi: it’s my favorite!! You: i noticed

Yoongi: [spotify playlist link] You: hey dj suga Yoongi: thought you might like You: listened to it on the drive home Yoongi: favorite track? You: musiq soulchild - just friends Yoongi: me too

It’s not like there was a talk. No formal check-in or DTR. But somehow, as the weeks pass, the rhythm between you and Yoongi settles into something steady. There’s no pressure. No constant push for reassurance. No need to define what already feels known.

You see him constantly at work—during rehearsals, music shows, brand shoots. He’s not overly affectionate, that’s just not him. But there are moments. The way his fingers graze yours when no one’s looking. The way his eyes seek you out as soon as he walks in. The way he’ll shift his chair an inch closer when you’re touching up his base, so your knees knock just enough.

He really makes this whole thing feel easy. Comfortable in a way that still thrills you. Because what can be more thrilling at this point in your life than to finally meet somebody that makes you feel vibrant.

What surprises you most is how little insecurity you feel. You’ve seen how people look at him—the other makeup artists, stylists, managers, external clients. There’s something magnetic about him that draws attention without trying. You’ve clocked it. But Yoongi has a way of making sure you never wonder.

It’s in the way he says your name. How his eyes soften when he talks to you. How he remembers the little things. The tea you like. The one concealer you always complain about running out of. Sometimes you find a sticky note in your kit. Or a box of snacks with your name scribbled on it. Just things that say: I see you. You’re on my mind.

And then there are the others. The rest of Bangtan.

It’s a choreography video shoot day, which always means chaos. Full glam’s not required since most shots are wide, so it’s just you and Hwapyeong handling light touch-ups.

You’re finishing Yoongi’s concealer when Jungkook suddenly rests his chin on your shoulder. “Noona, if I promise to sit still, can I go next?”

Before you can answer, Jimin appears behind him. “She’s doing me next. I called dibs.”

“Not how dibs works,” Jungkook pulls back his arm for a mock-punch and Jimin clutches his heart, rattling off a litany of how Jungkook wounds him.

“Hajimaaa,” Yoongi gives them all a staredown. 

But then from across the room, Taehyung yells, “Noona, help! My concealer’s making me look gray!”

“AISH!” Yoongi snarls with his non-existent fangs. It’s not even menacing. You know now that his canines are blunt. But he tries, so you giggle.

Jin comes to your rescue. “Why are all of you crowding her? You never even get your faces done for choreo. Fuck off,” Then, sweetly, “Hi noona, just a dab of lip balm, please.”

“HYUNG!” Jungkook giggles as he shoves his elder playfully away from you and they continue to horseplay elsewhere.

Yoongi turns slowly to Jimin and Taehyung, unimpressed. “Why are you still here?”

“Because she’s nice to us,” Jimin says, fluttering his lashes at you with zero shame.

“Because we love her more than you do,” Taehyung declares with a shit-eating grin.

That gets Yoongi to raise a brow.

“Okay, enough,” you laugh, pointing your brush like a weapon. “If you want me to do all your faces, line up like kindergarteners and bring me coffee.”

“Done,” Taehyung shoots up immediately.

When they disperse to bother other members of the staff, you catch Yoongi watching you through the mirror.

“I think…” you murmur as you smooth out the edge of his eye shadow, “I just got myself a new set of boys.”

He doesn’t say anything, but the way his smile lingers tells you everything.

When he stands up to finally let one of the maknaes take his spot, he whispers, “For the record, I called dibs.” Then pinches your hip slightly.

You’re still grinning when Jimin plops into the chair and narrows his eyes at you. Eye-smiling. Suspicious. Rightly so.

You: check your studio door Yoongi: ? Yoongi: why Yoongi: what did you do You: just do it

(three minutes later)

Yoongi: you cooked? You: 👩‍🍳 Yoongi: you even packed utensils?? You: i’m considerate Yoongi: shit you the best You: i know you’re busy but now you don’t have an excuse Yoongi: you tryna wife me up huh? You: idiot Yoongi: cmere eat with me You: i have a thing You: meeting a makeup artist friend who started her own salon Yoongi: thats nice Yoongi: but next time come in You: k Yoongi: 134340 You: ? Yoongi: door code You: guarding it with my life

(fifteen minutes later)

Yoongi: (photo attached: empty bento box)

Curious how time has passed and with frequency and proximity, you discover new things about Yoongi. Things that only came with time. Things you wouldn’t catch if you weren’t paying attention. Things you couldn’t have known before.

There are lines you never noticed until you were tracing them at rest. Creases that only surface when he’s thinking too hard, or biting back a smile. Dimples, not on the smile lines, but on his chin, when he’s bored. And then there’s the slightest double chin when he’s slumped and snoozing when schedules get rough. It’s your job to know his face, to fill the lines. There are times you touch him a little longer, not for anything but comfort and maybe your greed. He lets you.

Lips, sweeter than any cherry balm you could ever swipe. But far more frequently chapped than you like so you’ve started packing bottled water inside your kit, making him sip while you let lip mask seep between the patches of dry skin. His lips have become your favorite. Sometimes it splits when he does that shriek he often pulls to make others laugh but then it also presses against your shoulder when he’s too tired to kiss you properly. Sometimes they murmur your name like it’s a sexy secret, and you wonder how you lived before hearing it said like that. 

There’s also his eyes. Small, but somehow holds a significant power. He has a habit of narrowing them, but now you can tell why, when he’s suspicious, or teasing or just tired, or forgot his glasses. You don’t need him to speak. Sometimes the way he looks at you says more than full conversations ever could.

His default expressions are even more cat-like up close. On default :< When he’s playful :] But your favorite is the :3. You always make sure his features stay sharp, complimenting his felinesque features. You pull his liner outward, shade his jaw, angle his brow. Lil Meow Meow, apparently he is called. And what ARMY wants, ARMY gets.

His hair is finer than it looks. Silky in a way that slips easily between your fingers when you card through it absentmindedly, especially when he’s resting his head in your lap. The strands at his nape get extra soft after he showers, curling ever so slightly where they brush against his undercut. He likes when you play with it, especially the buzzed edges, more than he lets on. You figured that out the first time you tugged a little harder and heard the way his breath caught, low in his throat. Now it’s something he leans into, shameless. One tug and suddenly he’s pliant, open.

He smells like tangerines. Rarely does he not have it in his pocket. But also, there’s this perfume he wears. It clings. Intoxicating and addicting, and you wonder if it’s just you who’s not immune. It lives in your hair, your pillow, your skin. You catch yourself breathing deeper when you catch it, like your body recognizes what’s safe faster than your mind can.

You no longer think about what you used to think of him. When he only said four words, and always closed his eyes.

Finally, you know Min Yoongi. Not the pixels, but the person.

You know him now in the noise and chaos of backstage, from watching him when you have your kit open and he’s on his chair waiting to be groomed. 

But you’ve come to know him more in the quietest hours, too. When he wakes beside you in his California king, face bathed in the kind of morning light no makeup could ever imitate. When he opens his eyes, and leans into your space like he always does, all soft and sleepy and sexy.

There’s no need to polish him here. Because this is him at his most perfect in your eyes. When you can just reach for him. 

Not because he’s Min Yoongi, the idol. 

He’s Min Yoongi, yours. Even without the labels, yet.

You: yoongi. Yoongi: ? You: we almost got caught in the fucking meeting room 😭 Yoongi: that was close. You: close??? do you know what would’ve happened if someone saw? Yoongi: i’d probably get a raise You: ddaeng i’d get fired Yoongi: we’re fine You: you are not serious Yoongi: you kissed me You: you pulled me in Yoongi: yeah and? You: AND?? Yoongi: should’ve locked the door You: Yoongi 😩 Yoongi: you wanted it You: i did NOT Yoongi: your hand was where? You: BYE

You (photo attached: wine glass, bare legs, tv in background): guess what i’m watching Yoongi: don’t care Yoongi: all i see is leg You: rude Yoongi: wear a skirt tomorrow You: so direct Yoongi: thought we’re not teenagers You: thought you said you’d behave Yoongi: sure 😃

Another day in the glam room, another TikTok dance challenge Yoongi somehow said yes to. This time with members of TXT. He’s really never beating the allegations of rizzing up his juniors.

He’s already styled when he walks in. And looking at what he’s wearing... Honestly? He’s wearing you the fuck out. And it’s barely noon.

White tank under a greige short-sleeved shirt, pretty, purple embroidered butterflies sitting on either side of his chest. But it’s the jeans—loose, shredded clean through the knees—that have you scandalized like a Victorian maiden seeing skin for the first time.

“Good morning,” you greet.

He hums, eyes you up and down shamelessly and you know the conversation last night is about to resume in the flesh.

“Hey,” he takes his spot on the chair.

“Looking forward to today?” You ask, turning to pluck a brush and pot from your kit.

“You can say that…”

As you face him, he parts his legs, glancing down at the freshly cleared spot on the floor, then looks back up at you. Waits.

You sigh, already knowing what it is. An unspoken invitation to take your place between his knees. To get closer. So you do.

“This what you wanted?” you ask, feigning indifference, as you swirl the spoolie through your brow gel, wiping off the excess on the rim.

“Not exactly,” he says, smirking, knees closing in on the side of your hips. “But close.”

You start brushing his brows up, grooming them into a perfect arch when you feel it. His fingers, slow and sneaky, sliding up your skirt, skimming the soft skin of your inner thigh. 

You look him dead in the eyes.

He winks.

“Yoongi…” you tsk, moving to brush up his other brow.

“Noona…” he shifts forward, tongue peaking on the side of his mouth, which you try try try to ignore.

“Somebody might see,” you mumble. 

“Let them.”

“Such a little shit.”

“You love it.” You freeze when you feel his fingers hook your panties to the side and when he discovers that you’re more excited than you let on, “Oooh. You really do.”

Mortified, is what you are. Soaked from anticipation and some light, slight petting. How dare your body betray you like this?!

“I like your skirt,” he murmurs. The hand that isn’t currently violating you taps the floofy fabric like it’s innocent. As if the other one isn’t busy toying with your cunt.

Dignity hanging by a thread, you grit, “Didn’t wear it for you.”

A bold-faced lie. He knows it, too. “Sure you didn’t,” he chuckles.

His index swipes your folds, lazy, teasing strokes that get deeper with every pass, never quite reaching the one spot you need him to.

“But aren’t you glad you did?” At that exact moment, he flicks your puffy clit, circling it like he’s known exactly where it was all along.

“Fuck,” you gasp, pitching forward, hands gripping his knees just to stay upright.

The pot and brush drops to the floor and rolls into oblivion. Much like your sanity.

He hisses through his teeth as he eases his middle finger inside you, walls fluttering at the sudden intrusion.

“So wet for me, baby,” he grins, lower lip caged between his pretty teeth in his pretty mouth. It’s devastating. He’s devastating. And the way he’s watching you fall apart while knuckles-deep, pumping steadily in and out of your dripping pussy only makes it worse. Or better. Definitely worse. But shit, it feels so good.

“Yoongi… shit…” you breathe, forehead falling into the crook of his neck as your knees threaten to give out. Your palms, slick with sweat, slide beneath the frayed denim of his jeans, desperate for more skin, more heat, more of him. Fingertips dig into his thigh, surely to leave little crescent moons in his flesh. He groans, but doesn’t stop. If anything, he moves with maddening precision, adding just enough pressure to make you whimper. You moan, high and sharp, the sound slipping past your lips before you can stop it.

“Feel good?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Wanna cum?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do it,” he licks the shell of your ear. “I got you, baby.”

That fuckin’ does it. 

You come with a soft gasp, body jerking slightly as heat rushes through you in quiet waves. It’s not loud, not messy, but it rocks you all the same—your breath hitching, muscles clenching, forehead buried in his neck to muffle the sound.

“Shit…” you breathe, blinking as the aftershocks melt through your limbs.

He pulls his fingers out slow and slick, and you wince at the emptiness he leaves behind. 

Your mouth falls open. “Yoongi.”

“I like seeing you like this,” he murmurs, nudging his nose against yours so you look up. “When you lose control.”

His lips meet yours, stirring more chaos in your mind. When you pull back, trying to reorient yourself, he leans in again.

“Yoongi… fuck, you need to behave, okay?” You mumble against his lips, nipping his plush lower lip before attempting to pull away.

“But noona,” he lifts himself up, bucking against you once just so you feel the hardness between his thighs. “You're making it hard….”

You’re about to give in, when the door creaks open.

You spring backward like your life depends on it, bumping your back against your kit and you suppress the dull pain across your spine. A familiar voice floats in, Hyein, asking if you saw Jimin.

“Nope,” you reply as you start fixing bottles and palettes randomly. You meet Yoongi’s eyes in the mirror and almost crash out when he brings his hand to his lips—without shame, without pause—and licks two fingers clean.

You nearly choke on air.

“Yoongi needs to be out in 5,” Hyein calls out and closes the door.

The company Thanksgiving dinner isn’t really optional, since you’re both employees. But after a magazine shoot, Yoongi lingers as you pack up and still asks if you want to go with him.

“Why do you say it like that,” you laugh. “Like you’re inviting me to prom.”

 “Well… I’m down if you wanna match…” He shrugs, leaning against the wall as he watches you zip up your Zuca.

That’s how you end up in all black—simple, classic, and just a little coordinated with his own sleek black button-down shirt and pants. Yoongi always finds a way to underdress the right way. You compliment him, but he downplays it saying, he just ‘wore an old shirt.’ Yeah, it's the same look from their Grammy performance, but he says it like it should somehow make him look a little less. Joke’s on him, your humble king.

The event is important, but low-pressure. Not quite a red carpet, but still enough eyes to notice when the two of you walk in together. Thankfully Namjoon and Jin are not too far behind with one of their female producers.

You keep a respectful distance, like the professionals you are. But people see. You know they do. A couple of glances. Some whispers. Nothing rude, just… curious. To your insistence and his disappointment, you have dinner with your glam team. Because wouldn’t it be strange if you’re seated with them? You don’t know if you’re ready for a soft launch.

But it sure seems he is. The way he looks at you like there’s no one else in the room. And it’s in the way he caters to you. Like while you’re walking toward the open bar, the strap of your heel suddenly slips loose. You pause, bending slightly to fix it, but Yoongi beats you to it.

He kneels (!!) right there on the marble floor, one hand steadying your ankle as he buckles the strap with steady fingers.

You panic, pulling him by the sleeve of his shirt. “No, you don’t have to—”

 “Let me,” he tells you as he so often does. Head down, thumb brushing the side of your foot, he fixes your shoe and suddenly you’re Cinder-fuckin’-ella in your own damn fairy tale.

Obviously, more than one pair of eyes are turning toward the scene. Cos the scene is not something you see everyday: Min Yoongi, rapper-producer-self-proclaimed bad boy, on his knees for this random girl, rugged hands wrapped delicately on her ankle. 

A couple of stylists from another team, wide-eyed. One of the project managers from digital looks like she might combust. 

Yoongi rises slowly and nods his head towards the bar. You follow him. And that’s that.

After the dinner, you end up at his place. Still dressed up, both of you nursing hot tea listening to a record he chose. Something low and jazzy filters through the room as you curl into his sofa.

“I usually don’t like company parties,” you murmur. “But it wasn’t that bad.”

“Didn’t think it would be,” he says. “I’m glad you came with me.”

He looks at you for a moment, asks, “You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. I think so.”

You were always a good kid, so you never knew what it felt like to be summoned to the principal’s office. It’s probably something like this then. When two days after the company dinner, you were asked to go to HYBE’s HR department.

You’ve never met this woman before, but it’s clear she’s a higher-up. The tightest hair bun you’ve ever seen, cartoonishly wide cat-eye glasses, you already know she’s ripped at least one person a new asshole in the last five business days.

Not much preamble. When she started, oh, she really didn’t mince words and waste time. The way she looked at you spoke volumes of what she thought you had plotted.

“Miss Y/L/N, it has come to our attention that you have gotten involved with one of the members of BTS. As such, you can no longer be the lead makeup artist for the group effective immediately.”

“Due to our current headcount, we are unable to reassign you to another division.”

“Given the years of our professional relationship, we will still provide you with any recommendations you need should you choose to find employment in another company.”

“Your final pay will be sent to you within 30 business days. Please pack up your things and surrender your ID on your way out.”

Somehow, you are able to hold your head high, temper the storm in your chest, and nod as dignified as you can. “I understand. I’ll see myself out.”

You saw this shit coming. Sniffed it out from a mile away. But that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t sting. You spent more than a decade in this company, shaping and sharpening the creative vision for their two biggest acts, and they’ll let you go all because you decided to date a coworker.

Although they are clearly correct, you are involved with Yoongi, no clear evidence was even presented to you. Nothing was said to indicate that they were in touch with the member of BTS in question to get his side. Regardless, it was never gonna be a man’s fault. She thinks you probably seduced him and took advantage of your close working relationship. Ahh, this is so fucked up. 

“Noona…” a voice interrupts your thoughts.

Namjoon.

“Hey—are you…?”

You swipe a tear quickly from your cheek, but he already saw.

“What happened?”

You pull your cardigan tighter around your frame. Was there a point in lying about it? You sigh, “Got fired.”

“WHAT?” Namjoon’s voice echoes down the hall and your eyes widen like saucers.

He springs into action, stringing you like a marionette into every direction until then you end up in… his studio?

“The hell’s goin’ on?” 

You shrug, take a spot on the couch. “Not much to it, Namjoon. They fired me because they found out about me and Yoongi.”

It’s the first time you’ve acknowledged this to any member verbally. It feels oddly comforting to say it out loud.

“Does he know about this?”

“I haven’t told him.”

“Imma call him right now,” Namjoon fishes his phone from his pocket, but he knocks over something from the side table. It’s a half-full cup of coffee from god-knows-when. “Shit.”

You take some paper towels from his desk and help him soak the brown liquid from the carpet. It’s not really working. His paper towels are kinda thin. And the brown liquid is almost black at this point and it’s making you gag.

“You know what, shit,  let’s just leave that. We’ve got bigger problems…”

“It’s fine. I’m just gonna go.” You rise to your feet, smoothing your skirt down.

“Yoongi won’t allow this.”

“I know. But I did break the number 1 rule.”

“Let’s call him.”

“It’s ok, Namjoon-ah. I’m gonna pack up my stuff and go home. It’s a lot to process and I think I need to just… yeah. I’m gonna go home.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you give him what you hope is a placating smile. “I just wish I got to say goodbye to everybody.”

“We’ll fix it,” he promises.

“No need,” you call over your shoulder. “Nothing’s broken.”

Bzzt… bzzt…

Your eyes crack open, a slow, confused blink. You’re warm, groggy, skin dry from sleep and mouth sticky from wine. The room’s dark except for the kitchen pin lights still on.

You glance at your clock: 11:02 p.m. it says.

The hell? There’s some heavy knocking going on now.

You pull yourself off the couch, legs slightly cramping, brain not quite awake. So out of it you don’t actually check the peephole before you pull the door wide open.

“Baby—what the fuck?!”

Yoongi’s voice hits first. Then his body—arms wrapping you up so tightly, like he’s afraid you’ll slip between his fingers. His coat’s cold but he smells like cedar and mint shampoo..

“I thought you—” he chokes out, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping the back of your sweatshirt. “You weren’t answering, I—fuck, I thought you—”

“I fell asleep,” you whisper, dazed, unsure how to hold all of this emotion spilling from him. “I’m sorry.”

His hands come up to your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone like he’s checking if you’re real. His eyes are wet. His breathing unsteady.

“Why didn’t you call me?”

“I did,” you say. “You didn’t pick up. So I just… went home.”

He follows your gaze to the half-full wine glass on the coffee table. His jaw flexes.

“Had a few drinks and crashed,” you add, quietly.

Yoongi doesn’t say anything. He just exhales shakily and pulls you into his chest again, tighter this time. You press your face against his shirt, feel the way his heart is hammering through the fabric.

“I didn’t mean to make you worry,” you mumble.

He doesn’t answer that either. Just holds you there, arms wrapped around you like he needs to physically keep you in his orbit.

You pull back slightly. Look up. “Let me just wash my face real quick. Just sit, okay?”

He nods, wordless, and sinks into the couch like he’s been holding himself up all day.

You go to the bathroom, splash cold water on your cheeks. Brush your teeth. Run a brush through your hair. Change to a lounge set.

You can hear Yoongi’s voice outside. He’s on the phone with someone, and he just told them that you’re okay.

You stare at your reflection, pale and puffy-eyed. Yeah, you’re okay. The lines under your eyes are deeper than usual. But overall, you’re fine.

When you step back out, Yoongi’s sitting with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped like he’s praying. He lifts his eyes the moment you enter, teeth pulling at the skin of his lips.

You sit beside him on the couch, tuck your legs under you. Let your knee rest against his thigh.

“So I got fired…” you say softly, voice thin.

“Namjoon told me,” he says. “I wanted to punch that new HR guy.”

“It’s a woman.”

His lips twitch. “Yeah. Found that out belatedly after I barged in.”

You smile despite yourself.

“Anyway, I talked to Bang PD. He didn’t authorize this. This HR lady, she’s new. A bit too eager, trigger-happy. I think she wanted to make a statement.”

“Well what kind?”

“She said she just wanted to protect Bangtan from people…” he pauses, shakes his head. “Who might be taking advantage of us. I told her you’re my girlfriend. Fuckin’ idiot!”

Oh?

“They could assign you back to Seventeen,” he prattles on, nostrils flaring. “Not like they’ve found a new person to take over. It’s not easy to find your level of talent and they’re stupid to…”

“Yoongi.”

“What?”

“You said something…”

His mouth parts, a little confused.

“No cause you just casually dropped that.”

“Baby,” he hangs his head, pinching the space between his brows with his index and thumb. “That’s your takeaway?”

“Well,” you shrug. “News to me.”

“You’re my woman, okay? Don’t–” he tuts when you almost cut him off. “Baby please don’t even argue with me on this. You know I’ve been yours. And right now I feel guilty. I should have said so earlier and done my due diligence with the paperwork and shit. But I hate getting legal involved in my personal life. Hoba told me to do it. Cause he’s doling out NDAs left and right, but I don't want you to think you're just some hookup. This is on me. And I’m fixing it, okay. They will transfer you to any group you want.”

“I don’t want it,” you say, more firmly than you expected.

“Huh?”

“I don’t want it,” you repeat.

“You don’t want your boys?” 

You roll your eyes, because Seventeen is still some kind of chip on his shoulder. “No. I don’t want pity. Or to feel like they just let me stay because they’re afraid of you.”

“Damn right they are.”

You breathe out, jaw tight. “I want to leave with my head up. And I did.”

Yoongi nods, slow. Like he gets it. Because of course he does.

There’s a beat of silence, but it doesn’t last. Yoongi is still a ball of fire.

“You’re terrifying.”

“Why?”

“You’re so calm.”

You take a moment before you articulate your introspections as you enjoyed your merlot earlier. “You know what? Deep down, I knew it was gonna come to this,” you say. “And if it came down to it, I’d rather just leave HYBE… than you.”

That finally pulls a gentler sound from him. A quiet, pained exhale. His hand finds yours, holds it tight. When you look over, his eyes are glassy again, but his smile is faintly there—gummy, a little lopsided..

“What?” you ask.

He just shakes his head.

“Seriously, what?”

He presses his forehead against yours, closes his eyes.

“I don’t deserve you.”

You kiss him, and he lets you. For a minute or two you savor the way his lips slide against yours, no thoughts, just love. Then he pulls back and says something kind of out of pocket.

“I’m rich.”

You stare. “Okay…?”

“You know I can take care of you.” He says it so earnestly, but you can’t help but giggle.

“I don’t need a Sugar Daddy. How do they even call it if the woman is older?”

“How the hell are you so cool about this?”

“Because I know I have you, but I know I got me, too. I have some money saved up and some stocks I can sell if need be. Market’s looking bullish anyways…”

“You know how sexy you sound right now?”

“Umm talking about the stock market turns you on?”

“Something about a bull…”

“Want me to ride you like a bull?” You raise your brow.

“If you don’t let me fuck you right this second…”

Yoongi removes each button from your top, one by one, kissing every patch of skin revealed to him. You close your eyes, savoring the tiny, wet kisses deposited to your neck down to the valley of your breasts where he lingers for a beat. Purrs as he presses his cheek against your soft mounds and sighs before lifting his eyes to meet yours.

“Use me,” he says. “I know you’re angry, baby.” He peels your shirt down your arms. “Let it out…”

He holds your nipple between his fingers, twists it, and you groan helplessly in response.

“You can punish me. if you want…”

It takes a while for you to process his offer, between butterfly kisses and the teensiest sucks against your skin, a combination that's driving you wild. 

But he’s right. As always. You are mad. Not at him. But the broken sexist system.

“Yoongi?” You tug his hair.

“Hm?”

“Sit back against the headboard.”

He nods and situates himself as you asked.

You walk over to your closet to find a scarf, this white and black Valentino that he gifted you some weeks back. You climb onto him, knees bracketing his hips as you watch the curiosity glistening from his eyes. 

You’ve never really done anything like this before. But you’re familiar with it and you’ve always been down to try anything new. Bonus is you know Yoongi likes to play, so this is perfect. Honestly, he is perfect.

“I’m gonna blindfold you. And you’re not allowed to touch me. Is that okay?”

“Yes.”

The scarf drapes over his eyes, darkening everything he knows, leaving him with nothing but sensation. Breath. Sound. You.

“Use colors, okay?” you whisper, lips barely grazing the shell of his ear.

He nods, swallows. “Yes.”

“What’s it now?”

“Green:”

You hum in approval, fingers ghosting down his chest. “Good boy.”

You take your time with him. Explore his body in ways you never have before. Yoongi shivers. You watch his Adam’s apple bob, the breath hitch in his chest. 

“You asked for this,” you say softly, dragging your nails across his ribs, just enough to raise goosebumps. “So I’m going to use you.” You slap his cheek, earning a soft gasp from him, before his lips curve into a smile. He’s going to enjoy this, you can already tell.

You trace the lines of his body with your mouth. Flick your tongue on his nipples before nibbling on them until they're raw, slightly bruised. You blow cool air against it, earning you a low purr from the back of his throat.

He’s hard already. His huge cock straining against the waistband of his boxers, but you don’t touch him there. This is not like other nights. You want him aching for it.

You slink down to suck faint bruises into the soft dip of his hipbones. Let your nails wander, grazing his soft tummy where pink lines have bloomed like cat scratches. When he moans, hips bucking slightly, you press a palm flat to his stomach.

“Stay still,” you warn.

His voice is a rasp. “Yes, noona.”

You peel his boxers off slowly. His cock springs free—dark at the tip, already leaking. The bead of cum on his tip shines. You circle it once with your finger, feather-light.

“Fuck,” he gasps, hips twitching again.

You slap his thigh—not hard, just enough for pain to mix with the pleasure painted clearly on his face. “I said still.”

His hands flex against the sheets he’s gripping sooo tightly. You see the tension, the need. His mouth opens, lips trembling.

“More…”

You smirk, finally leaning down and licking a slow stripe up his shaft. He whimpers, whimpers! And by god, if it’s not the prettiest sound in the world.

And just for that you can throw him a bone. But you suck only the tip into your mouth and let it pop free. 

His body arches off the bed instinctively and one errant hand makes its way to the back of your neck.

Another slap—gentler this time.

“Sorry, noona.”

“Patience, baby. You wanted to be used, right? That means you wait until I’m done.”

You tease him for what feels like forever. Stroke him gently, then quicker, then stop just when he thinks you’ll give him more. Every whine you pull from him shoots straight to your cunt.

His thighs are trembling. “Noona. More…”

You finally straddle him, not lowering yourself yet, just grinding super slow against the base of his cock, letting your slick drag across him.

“You’re doing so well, baby,” you murmur, stroking his cheek where the blindfold wraps around his head. 

“Fuck, noona, let me touch you.”

“Not yet,” you lean forward, let your tits press against his chest, and drop a small peck on the corner of his mouth. His lips pucker belatedly as you pull back.

“You are so hot like this, baby. So good to me,,” you assure him, sliding a hand down to wrap around his cock, pumping it just once, then again, tighter. “Color?”

“Green. Fucking green.”

Finally, you shift to guide him to your entrance. Still hovering. Still making him wait.

He’s breathless now, forehead sweaty beneath the scarf. “Fuck noona. Put it in. I need to feel you—fuck—need to cum in you, please.”

God, he sounds broken. Ruined.

You sink down in one slow, aching glide, and you moan in unison, in pure fucking ecstasy. Your voice high and needy, his low and desperate. He’s pulsing inside you as you steady your hips, letting your walls adjust, keeping him warm.

“Fuck, you feel—fuck,” he gasps. “You’re so tight, noona. So warm—please let me touch you.”

“Not yet,” you grit out, riding him slow and mean, using him. You let your clit drag against the short hairs on his crotch, finding the perfect angle to get you off. He can probably sense it now in the steady swivel of your hips and the stutter in your breath. 

“Yeah, just like that, noona,” he says, voice hoarse. “Use me.”

You dig your nails into his chest, bite at his shoulder. You pant. Speeding up your grind. His legs are trembling now, the muscles on his thighs, stomach, taut. “Noona…” He’s babbling now, half-words and curses, his head tossing side to side. “Can’t—shit, please—I’m….”

He’s close. You’re almost there.

“Touch me.”

His hands immediately fly towards your hips, pressing you down, deeper. Grabs your ass and guides your movements.

You fuck him harder like this, ride him like your life depends on it. You feel him losing it. Coming undone beneath you. 

“Where?”

“Inside me, baby. Fill me up…”

His whole body convulses, a strangled moan torn from his throat as he spills into you. You follow a heartbeat later, biting down on his shoulder to muffle the sound as you unravel together.

You don’t move for a moment. Just feel his chest heaving beneath you, the sweat between your bodies. You remove the blindfold.

His lashes are wet. He looks wrecked and raw and beautiful.

“Was that okay?” you ask softly, fingers combing his damp hair back from his forehead.

He nods slowly. Smiles. “More than okay.”

You guide him to lie flat again, press your palm to his chest to calm his breathing. You grab a warm towel and clean him gently, kissing each place you left a bruise or scratch.

He pulls you close afterward, arms around your waist, face pressed to your shoulder.

Before you drift off, you remember something you wanted to address.

“Can I ask you something?”

He hums.

“Why were you so worried earlier?”

“Namjoon said you looked a little, like, out of it, you know. And when I couldn’t get a hold of you, I thought you…” he heaves a sigh. “I don’t know why my mind went into that. But I just couldn’t bear the thought of losing you.”

Your heart squeezes. “That’s not gonna happen, Yoongi. I’m yours.”

He hugs you and doesn’t let go.

Post-HYBE life turns out to be pretty… as Yoongi says, slayyy. 

It was tough in the beginning, starting from scratch. You start your own website and portfolio, reach out to friends and contacts to help get your skin back into the game. A few months in, you’re now affiliated with a salon who specializes in editorial and product campaign shoots. Your last one was with Choi San for D&G Beauty.

Yoongi slips deeper into your life until the boundaries blur. A toothbrush in his cup. His shirt in your hamper. 

You never needed to say it. Because you both knew that this wasn’t fleeting. That you weren’t getting any younger. That whatever this is feels constant. 

One night he sends you a Spotify link. To one song. It’s a BTS track.

He usually doesn’t send his own stuff when you exchange playlists (a ritual that stayed on). You listen to it.

🎵Home - BTS

Your chest tightens. Your fingers hover over the reply. But then he calls.

No hi or how are you. Just one question: “Move in with me?”

Life with him is a burst of pigments.

Yellow, in the warm sunlight that wakes you both every morning. Orange, in the tips of his fingers when he’s peeled his umpteenth tangerine. Blue, in the fabric softener he overused to the point that it triggered an allergic reaction for both of you. (Downy is now banned.) 

Green, in the hangover soup you cook for him after a night out. (You, on the other hand, are sober for 2 months now.) Purple, in the marks he leaves on your inner thighs and the soft bruises on your chest. Pink, in the way he blushes when you walk out in his clothes. 

And then, finally:

Red, in the two faint lines. 

You blink down at the stick in your hand, seated on the toilet, heart pounding.

It’s only a minute before the door creaks open.

“Babe?” Yoongi floats in. “You’ve been in here a while.”

He sees your face first. Then the test clutched around your fingers.

He’s piecing it together.

“Omo,” he breathes, stunned.

You nod, heart tight in your throat.

“OMO OMO, you’re pregnant?” he says it with so much disbelief it makes you laugh through the lump in your chest.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?!” he kneels on the tiles in front of you. His hands are on your cheeks, your shoulders, your belly. “Holy shit!!!”

You’re laughing now, ugly and teary. He pulls you into a tight hug, still stunned.

He leans back, eyes wild with emotion. “We’re gonna have a baby?”

“I guess we are.”

And then the tears come, his. Yoongi chokes out a wet little sound and buries his squishy face in your neck. “Fuck. I’m so happy.”

“Me, too.”

You are.

So happy.

So ready.

So loved.

Between pigments & playlists. 

In technicolor. In surround sound.

In the forever you never thought possible.

This spring day.

:)

A/N: Soooo?? Did y'all bogo your shipdas? (dk what the means, but hope you liked it?)

Yoongi is back! While it was a bittersweet note that we got today, I know things are only going to get better from here for him and us. I hope and pray that he knows that he is so so so loved by ARMY.

So the fic! Yes the fic! I’d love some feedback. And a reblog if you are so inclined?

Thank you for reading this you lovely beautiful human, xo

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[airybcby]

જ⁀✦ The Boy to Bring Home

( alexis ness x fem! reader )

✩ a/n — new ness theme means new ness fic!!

✩ word count — 930

✩ content — alexis ness x fem! reader, meeting the family, fluff, domesticity, ness is the perfect bf, your mom loves him, not proofread

✩ synopsis — As if Alexis Ness couldn't get anymore perfect...your parents loved him.

── .✦ my heart has changed, my soul has changed

Your dad tried to be intimidating—he really did. 

Straightened posture, crossed arms, a furrow in his brow like he was auditioning for a war film.

But Alexis Ness wasn’t rattled. Not even close. If anything, he looked excited.

“Sir, it’s really nice to meet you,” Ness said, extending a hand with a firm—but not too firm—grip, his tone light but respectful.

Your dad stared at him for a beat longer than necessary. 

You swore he was trying to do the whole “read a man’s soul through his handshake” thing. But eventually, he nodded, accepting the gesture.

“Hm. You play soccer, right?”

“Yes, sir. Midfielder.”

That earned a hum of approval.

Behind them, you watched with a mixture of anxiety and secondhand embarrassment. 

But then—like magic—your mom stepped into the entryway and everything softened.

“Alexis, right?” she beamed. “You’re even cuter than the pictures.”

You wanted to crawl into the floor, but Ness just chuckled shyly and handed her the wrapped package he’d been holding behind his back.

“These are for you, ma’am,” he said. “She mentioned once that you liked dried lavender and lemon tea, and I found a blend I thought you’d like.”

Your mom blinked, touched the ribbon on the wrapping. “Oh, you’re good,” she said, clearly impressed.

She looked at you, eyes practically sparkling with approval.

You gave Ness a look that said “you’re unreal.” He winked.

Dinner smelled amazing. Roasted chicken, creamy mashed potatoes, fresh rolls—your mom had gone in.

And Ness, who could’ve easily sat back like any guest, instead rolled up his sleeves and insisted on helping.

He was the first to offer to carry drinks to the table, the first to get up for seconds—but only if anyone else wanted some too—and when dinner was over, he didn’t wait for anyone to ask.

“I’ll help with the dishes,” he said, standing and already collecting plates. “It’s the least I can do.”

“You don’t have to, Alexis,” your mom offered.

“I want to.”

And that was that. You got roped in too, of course—but you didn’t mind.

The two of you stood shoulder to shoulder in the warm glow of the kitchen. 

The faucet ran, soap bubbles floated in the air, and you hummed as you dried a plate he’d just rinsed.

“They really like you,” you said with a small, private smile.

“I like them too,” he answered genuinely, soft enough that it felt like a secret.

You nudged him with your shoulder. “Don’t say that too loud. My mom might want to keep you here forever.”

Neither of you noticed the soft click of a camera phone behind you. 

Your mom, smiling like she knew something you didn’t, snapped a quiet photo of the scene: you two in domestic harmony, shoulders touching, smiling like you’d already built a life together.

Then she silently walked away.

That night, you were in your childhood bedroom.

Small bed.

Too many posters still taped on the walls. 

You had every intention of falling asleep alone—at least, that’s what you told your mom when she jokingly warned you to keep the door locked.

But you missed him.

So you grabbed your phone.

You: come here

You: imy

You: lexxxx

He didn’t text back. He didn’t have to.

A minute later, your door creaked open slowly, quietly, like a teenager sneaking around after curfew.

You turned your head on the pillow and smiled sleepily. “Mhm,” you mumbled, scooting over as best you could. “There you are.”

Ness looked at you with the softest smile imaginable, shutting the door behind him. If he could melt, he would’ve. 

There you were: cheeks flushed from sleep, hair messy, eyes half-lidded and full of love.

“You’re too cute,” he whispered.

“Shut up and come cuddle me,” you grinned.

He slid into the tiny bed, trying not to bump his knee on the wall. 

You immediately rolled on top of him, half-limbs and full comfort, sighing as if his chest was the only place you’d ever sleep again.

“Night, Lex.”

“Night, my love.”

And just like that, you were out cold, curled up on him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The next morning, Ness was up early. He tiptoed out of your room like a seasoned pro and went straight to the kitchen. 

He moved quietly, preparing breakfast—nothing too fancy. Just pancakes, eggs, and bacon. 

He wanted it to smell like home.

Your mom came in not long after, clearly surprised—but not shocked—to see him standing at the stove, wearing one of your dad’s old aprons.

“Good morning,” she said warmly.

“Morning, ma’am,” he said with a grin, flipping a pancake.

She walked up beside him and smiled, holding something in her hand. “Thank you,” she said, almost quietly, “for being so good to my girl.”

He blinked. “She’s everything to me.”

Your mom chuckled softly and held up her phone. “I took this last night. I hope you don’t mind.”

It was the photo: you and him in the kitchen, side by side, the dish towel in your hand, the faint smile on both your faces.

He stared at it for a second too long. “Would you mind sending that to me?”

“Already did.”

By the time you wandered sleepily into the kitchen, you saw him leaning on the counter, phone in hand, smile on his lips.

“You good?” you asked, rubbing your eyes.

“Perfect,” he said, and slid the phone back into his pocket.

You didn’t know until later—but by the time you two left, that picture was already his lock screen.

જ⁀✦ ©airybcby ✩ masterlists

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[nastybuckybarnes]

Coal - Six

Pairing: Alpha!Simon 'Ghost' Riley X Omega!Reader

Summary: Your heat hits, but your Alpha isn't there to help you. Good thing there's another big bad wolf in these woods.

Warnings: Angst, Language, Injuries, A/b/o dynamics, scenting, fluff, cuck!simon? (idk, maybe clickbait), smut, attempted assault,

Word Count: 2.5K

A/n: heyyyyy okay heres part 6 i hope you enjoy MWAH

~*~

It wasn't anything they hadn't done dozens of times before.

Simple. To the point.

Get in, get out, get rid of all hostiles.

The scent of Omega had been used before in this way, almost like a biological warfare.

But never had they succumbed to it the way they did that day.

A single split second hesitation that allowed the little thing to get the jump on them.

Though she didn't do much physical damage, the limp fall of her body shook the men to their core.

One, more than most.

Because in that moment, she wasn't a hostile. Wasn't an enemy.

For a split second, she was a woman. An Omega.

For a quick but impactful moment, he could feel you in her.

And then Soap put a bullet in her.

The memory of everything that happened and the idea of all that could've gone wrong stirs unease deep within his primal mind. A feeling that, for once, he doesn't fight.

Instead, he lets it wash through his body, mirroring the water raining down on him.

Finally, once he's cleaned the day off, he follows his nose in an attempt at finding you. You who can calm him, soothe the ache he feels in his chest, in his bond.

Simon starts at your room, following the aging scent of you down the halls, his brows drawing together when he walks through the kitchen, and then his heart rate spikes when he pushes through the exit at the very back.

The edges of his vision cloud and all that consumes him is the thick viscous sound of blood pumping behind his ears.

The wind carries a fresher version of your scent to his nose and he snaps back to attention, grabbing his phone as he takes off running.

Soap answers on the first ring, brows immediately pulling together when he hears the wind on the other end.

And then he's sitting up stiff as a board, smacking his hand into Gaz's thigh to grab his attention.

"We're on our way."

~*~

Your training exercise evading your pack mates taught you a lot.

Far more than you're sure they'd want you to know.

Because now it's been three days and they still haven't found you.

You can feel Simon's anger through the bond, feel his worry, and something else that you refuse to name.

Instead, you focus on anything else. Everything else.

Creating shelter, masking your scent, protecting yourself from the elements and the animals alike.

You're not sure how far you are from the base, but if the sounds of the wolves at night are anything to go off of, you're pretty far.

A wave of fear suddenly washes over you, followed immediately by chills as sweat begins to bead on your body.

The sound of the fire crackling nearby does little to drown out your moan of dread as you drop your head back against the little cave wall.

You don't have long. A few hours, at most, until your heat hits full throttle.

So you spring into action.

Stoking the fire to keep it alive, you venture outside to gather more wood.

You took enough rations and water to -hopefully- last your heat, now all you need is enough wood and mud to mask your scent throughout the worst of it.

The worst of it hits faster than usual, and you find yourself stumbling back to the cave, trying to hold on to your bounty while also pressing a firm hand to your cramping abdomen.

You drop the wood as soon as you're back inside the safety of your cave, hunching over with your hands on your thighs and trying to take deep breaths.

Sweat beads down your back, sticking your shirt to your skin until you tear it off in a heat-induced rage.

Cool rock is suddenly pressed against your flushed skin and you groan softly, fingers digging into the ground as you seek out the sweet relief you know you won't find.

Because the one thing that can truly cure the desperate longing ache in your belly is the one you want to see least in the world.

But just because you don't want to see him, doesn't mean he isn't tearing the world apart in his search for you.

Unfortunately for him, he's not the first one to track you.

You hardly notice the new presence. You don't hear him approach, only really registering his presence a moment before his clammy rough hands find your soft, tingling skin.

A sound that's half whine half gasp leaves your lips, and you crane your head back to look at the man.

Fear ices your veins when you're met with a face you don't recognize.

"Didn't think it was true," the man murmurs, a heavy hand grabbing the back of your neck and forcing your face into the ground.

You try to fight, to flee, to escape with your dignity intact, but you're a slave to your instincgs.

As if there wasn't enough salt in the wound, this only proves your Alpha right. Omegas are useless. Weak. Fragile.

The rough hand holding your neck forces you to submit against your will, and not but a whimper leaves your lips.

Silent tears trek down your cheeks and for a brief but profound moment you find yourself wishing you'd never been cursed with your presentation.

A harsh knee forces its way between yours, shoving your thighs apart.

The scent of your heat is already heavy in the cave, but with nothing but your panties covering you, the spreading of your legs only further taints the air.

The brute on top of you is suddenly gone, and it takes you a few moments to realize why.

There, in the mouth of the cave beyond the flicker of the flames is a familiar skull face, murderous eyes focused on the man on the ground in front of him.

You watch through the fire as he towers over the stranger, head cocking to the side with an eery calmness.

And then he's sinking to his knees, strong hand squeezing the mans throat.

"Touch her again," he whispers, his eyes unblinking, unwavering.

"I-I'm sorry, Lieutenant," the man pleads hoarsely, voice lacking the confidence it held mere moments earlier.

"Touch her again!" He snarls, cracking the man's head against the ground.

Your inner Omega forces you to move, eyes on the two threats standing between you and safety.

"Do it," Simon says, "go on. Make your death worthwhile, at least."

The cave stinks of smoke, pheromones, and fear. You can't tear your eyes from the two men, even when a crunch rings out and the man stops struggling.

Simon's eyes meet yours, finally, for one breath, and then another, and then he's hauling the dying man out of the cave without a word.

You move quickly, grabbing only what you absolutely need and then running out of the cave in the opposite direction.

You stumble more than you sprint, but you don't care. Your Omega doesn't care.

All that matters is putting as much space between you and the Alpha as possible.

But if you think you're getting away that easy, you've got another thing coming.

It takes him no time at all to catch up to you. Your heat hinders you more than you're ready to admit.

But that's what gives you the upper hand.

It's your heat, your feral Omega, that forces him to stay several paces away when he catches you.

He holds his hands up in surrender, inching forward slowly.

With every step he takes, you take one back, growling warningly.

He doesn't want to hurt you. More than anything he just wants to take you back to base and lock you in his room where nothing and no one can ever hurt you.

But he knows you're not going anywhere without a fight.

"Omega," he tries, ducking down when you huck a rock at him.

"No," you snarl. Though it's your voice, it doesn't sound like you at all.

Because you, the you he's used to, are hidden somewhere behind the teeth and claws of your inner Omega.

She's at the reins, she's holdin the steering wheel.

And he has no idea how to talk to her.

"I won't hurt you."

"Get away."

"No."

"Get away!" Another rock.

"Stop!" Now his voice rivals yours, heavy authority weighing down the words.

"Why are you even out here? I thought I was a waste of fucking oxygen. Why waste your time coming after me?"

This makes him pause and then he's swallowing down his regret and forcing out whatever he can think of to break the tense silence.

"Wasn't talking about you." Is his pathetic lie.

You glare at him.

"Let me leave."

"No."

"Please."

"Never."

A sob bubbles out of your chest and you feel anger burn through your being.

How dare he witness your pain.

He does more than just witness it. He completely disregards it. Takes advantage of it and uses it to gain the upper hand.

He tosses you over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes, strong arms pinning your writhing body to his to stop you from escaping. With you hauled over his shoulder, he marches back to the cave to -hopefully- find some peace for the rest of the night.

The moment his grip loosens, you slip away and scramble as far back as you can, burrowing as deeply in the cave as possible while keeping your wild eyes on him.

You don't let him touch you.

Or maybe, your Omega doesn't let him touch you.

Either way, Simon Riley sits at the mouth of the cave, dark eyes tick tocking between you and the dangerous world outside like the pendulum of a grandfather clock.

You, you in the corner of the cave, writhing in heat induced agony while refusing the cure. You with one hand shoved between your legs and the other groping a heaving breast.

Your scent is heavy and thick, but with a protector now you don't feel the need to mask it. Nor can you really focus on somethings so trivial when it feels like someone's taking a chainsaw to your insides.

Your pain is tangeible, palpible. Simon can taste it on the air and it kills him that you wont fucking let him help you.

So instead, he called-

"Jesus, isn't that a sight."

Captain John Price shuffles his feet loudly just outside the cave, weary eyes trained on you as you snap your head up, growling in warning at the intruder.

"S'just me," he tries, holding his hands up in surrender.

You glance between him and Simon for a few long seconds before eventually dropping your head back and letting out another mewl of pain as your fingers continue working between your legs.

"How long she been like this?" He asks, shrugging off his jacket then kneeling to untie his boots.

"Hours at least. Maybe longer."

"Fuckin' hell."

The older Alpha takes a deep, rumbling breath, then huffs one out just as heavily.

He does this a few times, works hard to break through the barrier of your scent that's gushing from you almost as profusely as the slick between your thighs.

When the first hints of that musky, woodsy scent finally tickle your nose you whine, eyes flashing open.

"Alpha."

A shiver ripples down Simon's spine, and he needs to take slow, careful breaths to keep his composure.

"M'here, little one. Can I touch you?" Price asks quietly, always the gentleman.

You reach for him, a shuddering cry hiccuping out of your chest when his fingers brush against yours.

Simon's heart cracks in his chest a bit at the noise and he wishes he could drown in the waves of regret that poison him. They storm over him, hurricanes of envy and self-loathing that do everything but take him away.

So he sits, like the bad mutt he is, and watches as his Captain slides two thick fingers through your dripping folds while your hands flutter pathetically against his chest.

Simon can practically feel the ghost of you as he watches his Captain handle you.

Price does it with such ease, such tenderness, it almost makes the Ghost sick.

The older Alpha tugs off his shirt and rolls you onto your stomach, a happy growl rumbling in his chest when you immediately arch your back and present your pussy for him.

"There she is, good Omega. Had us worried sick," he murmurs, pants shoved down to his ankles as he makes his way behind you.

He blankets himself over you, thick hairy chest warming your sensitive back while his fingers slip into your sopping little hole.

The mewl that leaves your lips is finer than any music, and Price suddenly feels a decade younger.

He nudges his nose against the back of your neck and scents you deeply, huffs and puffs hot breaths of air onto the sensitive skin there and relishes in the way the rest of your body responds.

Your cunt clenches around three of his thick fingers, a shiver ripples down your spine, and finally, finally, your scent starts to settle and a soft sigh leaves your lips.

Price's scent is so homey, so warm and so safe that tears spring to your eyes and shuffle down your cheeks in silent little streams.

You whine in protest when he pulls his fingers out of you, but he's quick to shush you with a soft nip at your neck.

His heavy cock is there suddenly, warm and throbbing between your legs, and then he slides through your folds, rubbing your wet clit on each pass.

The sound that leaves your mouth has Simon's hands twitching.

"Easy, little one," Price rumbles in your ear, hot breath fanning down your neck and dusting over your mark.

Your breath hitches on a moan, and your hips jerk back just as he rolls his forward. Instead of sliding through your folds again and further tormenting you, he's swiftly half-sheathed inside of your fluttering walls.

A shuddering groan leaves the man behind you, and then he's pulling back only to slide right back in.

You gush around him as he works his way inside of you, mouth and eyes wide as you finally, finally get that relief you've been gnawing at for hours.

Drool pools under your chin and your eyes become glassy as he fucks every inch of his thick cock into your wet hole.

Your Alpha watches on in silent despair.

When Simon was in his rut, he fucked you like a dog, hot and hungry and desperate.

Price, on the other hand, ruts into you hard and heavy like a bear. Big grizzly body caging you against the floor of your den as he fucks his cubs into your waiting womb while your Alpha sits like a cuck at the mouth of the cave.

Eventually, after the darkness has started to fade and your belly is almost swollen with cum, you fall asleep in Price's arms.

"We need to bring her back."

Simon only snorts and shakes his head.

"She's satiated right now. We need to take advantage of it," Price presses, huffing more of his scent onto you to keep you lost in the fog of your bliss.

Silence falls over the cave for a long moment before Simon is up and moving, packing up what little belongings you have.

"Get her dressed."

[coffeethoughtsandanxiety]

here a Date Everything Fanfic idea of how the Dateables will handle on there own if Homeowner is away for a while like going on a week trip to see family or work trip and the Dateables thought they'll be alright with the homeowner gone for a bit......when Homeowner comes back they got tackle by dozen of Dateables begging never to leave them alone again

Ask and ye shall receive!

Time Away

GN reader x fic

It was only a week trip you told them, just for your cousins wedding you were a part of. They were all so ecstatic to see you finally leave the house after so long that they really overdid their excitement for you. Everyone was trying to get in as much time with you as they possibly could before you headed out. Kori took a little longer explaining every coffee she gave you, and Barry spent some extra time going over your makeup for the wedding.

They all thought they could live without you around for a while. But by the second day they had started going stir crazy, maybe they overdid it the last few days, but the sudden drop in time they spent with you was jarring. By the fifth day it felt like the energy had just left them all, and it was starting to show.

They all tried their best to really help each other out, Johnny and Jean Loo had been trying their best to give each other tips on singing and sing a couple duets, Chance gathered a few different objects to play a GnG one shot that, while fun, did not distract from the glaringly human shaped whole they all had in their hearts right now. Shockingly Stefan, Errol, and Luke hadn’t fought about anything food related since you’d left, not for lack of opinion, but they just couldn’t seem to muster up any will to yell.

Eddi and Volt had each other to help with the coping, but it was hard to cope when all the acts that were on stage were love songs dedicated to you. (Johnny was the worst offender bawling halfway through his set, no body stopped him as they were all choking up too)

Celia and Florence threw themselves into work to ignore the ache of missing your intrusions on their work days, but it was hard to do when half of their work involved objects crying about missing you.

This wasn’t the first time you had left them, before you got Skylar you had gone to events and company trips and they’d been fine. Before nothing had really changed in anyone’s schedule, but now a lot of their day involved talking to you, dateviator charge or not, your presence was imprinted on their every day life.

The seventh day everyone was so antsy about you coming back, Hoove made sure everything was spotless, did he clean about five times before noon because of nerves? Maybe, you weren’t there to stop him. Hector reset the temperature constantly to make sure it was just right, trying to take into account the changes in air and weather you’ve had probably been through in the airport and on the plane.

Jerry had remodeled his museum so many times that a few of the exhibits had gotten mixed together, it took him even longer to undo the conglomerate that they became than it did to reorganize.

Betty and Mateo had been adjusting the pillows and blankets to make the bed as perfect as they could for the past hour, it was never good enough in their eyes.

Then finally Doria sounded the alarm that you were at the door, and everyone got to their places, excited and happy to see you. You unlocked the door with a sigh, thanking Dorian and he preened a bit under your thanks. You were confused on why the dateviators were on your hallway table though, you thought you had put them away with Ben Hwa in case Valdivia got any ideas while you were gone. Still perplexed you sat your things down and put on the glasses, you didn’t have time to aim as the moment you put them on they started up right away. The minute the glasses charged up you were almost toppled over from the sheer amount of hugs you were getting.

A little disoriented you tried to listen to what everyone was saying, and failing miserably. Finally Skylar hugged you tight and spoke directly in your ear so you could hear her clearly. “Please never leave us alone that long again! We were going crazy!” You hug them all tighter and chuckle, what has your life become.

You really don’t have the heart to tell them you got invited out for another wedding in a couple months.

[calmcoldevening]

Is it possible for you to write about a fem Y/n with Thomas Hewitt, Bubba Sawyer, & Hannibal Lecter where Y/n is eating paltbröd that she made out of a bucket of blood she was supposed to get rid off. She dosen’t even explain to them when they question why the bread is in that color. She let's them figure it out, it dosen’t even taste like blood either. It's surprisingly sweet because of the honey she put in.

Paltbröd

Bubba Sawyer

• Bubba genuinely thinks that it's just some kind of new, cute bread that's been dyed with some kind of berry or vegetable. Or did you buy some new flour? He'll eat anything off your hands.

• He likes it. The unusual taste of some strange ingredient combined with the sweet honey makes Bubba swallow it all without a second thought. He admires your cooking skills.

• When you finally tell him what the bread is made of, he's surprised. Bubba genuinely thought that you had gotten rid of the blood, as Drayton said. But you got rid of it in such an unusual way, Bubba is delighted!

• He smiles like a child and hugs you, trying to tell you in this way that he really liked your bread, no matter if it was made from blood, flour, or meat. Plus, he's a cannibal, so he really doesn't care.

• For the next week, he follows you around like a cute puppy, asking you to make this delicious bread again. He'll get you as much blood as you need, just please!

Thomas Hewitt

• He just sits there looking at the bread. He tries it. He likes it. After all, Thomas has always eaten whatever is given to him. This is the first bread he has had in a long time. He is grateful.

• At the evening meal together, it is Hoyt who guesses what the bread is made of. He is impressed by your skill. "God has sent us an angel so that we will no longer go hungry!"

• Hoyt is pleased, Luda, although she is impressed by your resourcefulness, looks at the bread with suspicion. Blood? Really? Thomas dutifully eats another piece that you give him with that smile. He really likes it.

• Eventually, Hoyt tells Thomas to collect the blood more carefully, because they now have a craftswoman in the house who can make blood bread. Thomas is proud of your talent and pats you on the head.

• Over time, you started making a lot of this bread and gave some to Thomas. Now this big boy finally has a full stomach, and he's overjoyed.

Hannibal Lecter

• Hannibal gracefully cuts a piece and puts it in his mouth. His taste buds are sensitive enough to detect the unusual ingredient. Blood, how cute. Hannibal smiles slyly as he takes another bite.

• As a cannibal, he truly appreciates your dish. He admires your ingenuity and culinary skills, although he is slightly annoyed that you did not follow his instructions and remove the blood. However, it is a minor inconvenience.

• "Bravo, my dear. Amazing resourcefulness and ability to use all available ingredients... Perhaps next time you could try a different honey? And I will personally make sure to find a more... presentable donor."

• Hannibal is interested in the recipe and all the details of the proportions of each ingredient. As a brilliant chef, he plans to join your bloody art in the future.

• Next time, you will be cooking in a rather intimate setting. Soft music in the background, red wine in the glasses, and his chest against your back as he helps you gently mix all the ingredients.

--------

One day I'm gonna taste it...

Ps: Hoyt and Hannibal are your fans now, luv!!

[that-weird-thing-in-the-woods]

Guess is absolutely based off Karal after the Superman movie

Basic idea because Danny is the ghost king and halfa Denny's been alive for a long time He's immortal because of that cuz you're not the emotion of losing half of all his friends and family Danny goes out and parties a lot The only other person that's alive is still know him is Vlad Master because he's also a halfa and immortal

Vlad is working with the heroes and trying to make himself a better person So Danny sober's up and comes in lives a relative normal life with him in the human world

So when a large threat is happening that can threaten everybody Vlad summons the Ghost King The main leaders of Justice League are expecting a large got like being they're going to have to make a deal wet and give an offering to

Imagine their surprise when a teenager comes out with a bottle in their hands the glowing crown resting on the top of their head wearing what looks like a standard party outfit and absolutely drunk off their mind

Danny who is a party person in a constant drunk person but also takes really good care of being the ghost king Danny helps to Justice League and turned for like a pack of alcohol cuz no one will sell it to him because of being immortal it makes him look younger than he is

Vlad in the background trying to make sure Danny's is safe

I've been having this idea run through my mind ever since I saw that drunk Supergirl scene from the Superman movie

~{YESSSSS :)}~

•Death & Parties•

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

The Justice league didn’t know what they were looking at.

After a new villain had somehow created a portal to the phantom zone and pulled out what could best be described as a space kraken, the JL called all hands on deck which called all hero teams and JLD who had gotten a new hero as of late.

Plasmius who as soon as he saw what was happening said that he knew someone who could help but he need time and the strongest alcohol they could find, and see as they had no idea how to take care of the kraken without massive casualties they gathered way he needed while some heavy hitters and magic users did their best to hold off the kraken and villain.

They were expecting anything but this which was a teenager wearing a Greek chiton with gold bands on his wrist and his hair being held back by gold bands but what was most noticeable was the black metal crown that was on green fire and the modern black sunglasses he was wearing.

When he showed up Plasmius immediately started to ask him for help as him and the other heroes couldn’t deal with this but the teen looked bored so Plasmius grab the Alcohol and said to the teen that he would give it to the teen if he helped.

Which immediately got the teen’s attention and he agreed and as he was given the alcohol the bottle turned into a Goblet and he took a long drink from them turn his gaze or well what they assume his gaze as the sunglasses covered his eyes completely and the teen said.

“Yeah I’ll help the fucker ruined my vibe”

-•—••••••••••••••••—•-

•Little Facts•

•Danny was in the middle of a party when he was called, Danny was in the middle of dancing and that’s why he didn’t have his cup with him but when he gets summoned he always has a drink in hand.

•Dani is around she’s mostly exploring the ghost zone now that she visited all around earth so she’s mostly chilling with Danny who is her Big brother/Mom in this while she visits Vlad to bother him

•Vlad also used to use drinking to help when he was a fresh halfa but not as much as Danny and his had a lot worse side effects as Danny is the ghost king and he can’t really get drunk Drunk he can only really get tipsy at most and even that’s a stretch.

•Vlad and Danny, Dani are chill with each other now but Dani still spends most of her time with Danny just because he’s closer to her then Vlad

•Danny laughed at Vlad so much when he told Danny about him becoming a hero

•Did I use Dionysus as a reference for this? Yes :)

-•—••••••••••••••••—•-

•Appearances•

Danny

Also I’m just adding this because I fully thought about making this the made banner for this lol

•~•~~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

~{And that’s it! Hope I did this idea justice because I had a lot of fun with this and until next time gremlins byeeeee}~

[coffeealwayshelps]

slipping through my fingers

When Mel King was four years old, she realized for the first time that her mom was not like other moms.

The moms that picked up the other kids in her pre-k class were happy, always reaching out to sweep their little ones into their arms, dropping kisses all over their faces. They asked them about their days and what they had for lunch, cuddled them close, picked up their backpacks for them. They checked in with the teacher to see how their day went just to make sure they didn’t miss anything.

Laura King did do some of these things, but she did them for Mel’s twin sister, Becca. She asked the teacher if Becca had a good day. She carried Becca’s backpack for her. She asked if Becca ate all of her lunch. She didn’t hug Becca or kiss her face or cuddle her, because Becca didn’t really like that. And because Becca didn’t like it, Laura didn’t bother to try it with Mel.

Laura King asked Mel about her day, and then would follow up with, “Becca had a good day too, right? You need to keep an eye out for your sister, honey. You need to take care of her. You know she needs help doing things.”

It was one of the very first things that Mel had ever understood. Becca was different, so she needed help. And since Becca was her best friend and her sister, Mel loved her and would do anything for her. Their mother didn’t need to ask Mel to keep an eye out for her sister. Mel was already doing that.

Mel was ten years old the first time she saw her mom cry because of a man.

Laura had divorced their dad, Henry King, when the twins were five years old. There hadn’t been any crying, then. Just a lot of yelling. Mel had known, even then, that her parents were not friends.

Henry still came to see his daughters once a month, every month. They always tried to do something that Becca would like, because she had been angry that she didn’t get to see her dad every day anymore. Mel had been angry, too, but sometimes when Becca got upset, it would get bad. Mel tried to avoid that, so she didn’t mind doing things that Becca liked.

Mel knew what dating was, but she was pretty sure that Laura hadn’t been on one since Henry had left. Until now, that is. Laura was going to dinner with a man she had met at the grocery store. Their next door neighbor had come over to watch Mel and Becca, and Laura had ordered her daughters a pizza (just cheese, because it was the only thing Becca liked), put on a black dress, patted Mel and Becca on the head, and had left.

Becca liked their neighbor just fine, but she also liked to spend time on her own. When they were finished eating the pizza, Becca had gone into their bedroom, armed with a coloring book and the pack of one hundred different coloring pencils she had gotten on their birthday in October. Becca loved art, and Laura had bought her every single art supply that she could get her hands on.

Mel had gotten a soft sweater. A few new books. Another coloring book, and a smaller pack of coloring pencils. A new backpack for school. Mel loved to read, so she was happy about the books. As their neighbor cleaned up the kitchen, Mel picked up one of those books–Anne of Green Gables–and sat on the couch with it. Wheel of Fortune was playing in the background. The contestant bought an ‘A’. Mel already knew that the puzzle said “new baby buggy.”

It had only been an hour since Laura had left, but she was suddenly banging through the front door. The door slammed against the wall and bounced off; Mel winced. Becca hated loud noises. Laura knew that, so she must have been really upset.

She didn’t even spare a glance at Mel. Laura was already crying, and she threw her purse aside as she stomped into the kitchen, screaming, “He didn’t even fucking show up!”

Mel closed her book. Tucked it under her arm and went down the hall, to her and Becca’s room. Saw Becca curled up on her bed, knees drawn up to her chest, hands tight over her ears. So Mel sat down next to her sister, put her hand on Becca’s shoulder and squeezed tight, just the way Becca liked when she got upset.

A little while later, Becca rolled over and looked up at Mel, her eyes wide and a little glassy and wet. They could still hear Laura screaming. Still, Becca asked, “Is Mom okay?”

Rubbing Becca’s shoulder, Mel said, “Yeah, Mom is okay.” The truth was, she didn’t know for sure. It didn’t sound like Laura was okay. But the words that she had understood from a very young age rang in her ears:

“You need to keep an eye out for your sister, honey. You need to take care of her.”

Mel was thirteen years old when she realized that she never remembered her mother calling her beautiful.

Laura must have called her beautiful when she was a baby, Mel was sure of it. Isn’t that what mothers said about their babies? “You’re so beautiful, you’re so precious.” Mel was positive that, at one time in her life, her mother had said that she was beautiful.

Now, the word ‘beautiful’ was reserved for Becca. Even Laura’s friends would tell Mel how beautiful Becca was. “Becca, you’re so beautiful.” 

“Becca, you’re so striking.” 

“Becca, I bet you could be a model, if you wanted to.”

Mel thought that her sister was beautiful, too. She was glad that their mother spent so much time telling Becca that, because she was and she deserved to hear it. Middle school was hard, and Becca was already in a special class for most of the day. The teacher didn’t specialize in autistic support, but at least Becca was receiving some specific instruction that was focused on her needs. Becca was special and beautiful and wonderful, and Mel wanted everyone to know it. She was happy that Laura made it a point to show Becca that while she was different, she still deserved all of the best things in the world.

For Mel, it was always, “You’re cute.” Or, “That dress is nice.” Or, “I like your hair today.” Vague, not specific enough to Mel at all, really. The pleasure of the compliment would burn brightly, for just a second. And then Mel would realize that it wasn’t really about her, no matter how hard she tried to look nice.

That still didn’t stop her from trying, though. Mel picked out soft colors to wear, leaving the brighter ones for Becca. They matched her personality more, anyway. She learned how to braid her own hair in multiple ways–a simple plait, a French braid, Dutch, waterfall, a braided crown. Mel would practice them on herself and then she’d braid Becca’s hair. Becca would always want to match braids with Mel, so Mel would do her hair the same way.

Then she’d watch as Laura would stroke her fingers over her sister’s braid and say, “Becca, you’re so beautiful.”

Mel was seventeen years old when she realized just how angry she was with her mother.

The older she got, the more she was put in charge of Becca. “Becca needs help with the bake sale for her class. You wouldn’t mind baking the cupcakes, would you, honey?”

“Becca needs a ride art club after school. You can drop her off, right, Mel?”

“I forgot to send in the menu selection for Becca’s lunch this week. Mel, can you drop this off with her teacher? Thank you, honey. You’re such a good help with your sister.”

Mel loved her sister. She was her best friend. She wanted to help her.

But Mel had things that she wanted to do, too.

Mel wanted her family to be at her cross country track meets. Only they couldn’t, because the one time they had tried to go, Becca had gotten overstimulated with all of the cheering and had had a meltdown. Sometimes, Henry was able to make it. They still only saw him once a month.

Mel loved science. She had won first place at the science fair that year. Laura had asked Mel why she hadn’t partnered with Becca to do it; Becca would have liked to have won first place, too! But Becca didn’t like science. Not like Mel did.

Mel was going to Michigan State. She was going to major in pre-med. She wanted to be a doctor. She’d gotten in on a partial scholarship. But all anyone could talk about was the adult day centers Laura was looking at for Becca. Becca wasn’t going to college.

“But maybe she could, honey, if she had you to help her–”

That was the only time that Mel had ever said no to her mother. Mel still wanted to throw up whenever she thought about it.

The day of high school graduation, Mel was allowed to walk up on stage alongside Becca. They had talked about it for a long time, because the stage was going to be loud and bright and it was a lot for anyone in general. But Becca had really wanted to walk across the stage in her cap and gown, even though it itched. And she wanted Mel by her side the whole time.

The principal hadn’t tried to shake Becca’s hand, just like Mel had told him. They both smiled for their pictures–taking just one, always together, accepted their diplomas, and walked off stage together. When the ceremony was over, Becca didn’t toss her cap in the air like the rest of their classmates. Instead, she tossed it at Mel, who laughed loudly and tossed her own back to her sister. Becca grinned at her and plunked Mel’s cap on her head, pulling at the blue and white tassel.

When Laura and Henry found them, Laura squeezed both of her daughter’s shoulders at the same time. Mel wanted a hug from her mom, but she didn’t bother to say so. She had stopped asking years ago, when Laura had assumed that she didn’t like hugs in the same way that Becca didn’t. Henry didn’t try to hug her, either. He went out of his way not to do things that might make Laura angry (“Henry, Becca is different! You have to understand that she just doesn’t like certain things!”).

Waving her digital camera around, Laura gestured for Mel and Becca to stand close for a picture. Mel stood shoulder to shoulder with her twin sister. No one else could get as close to Becca as she could.

Laura focused the camera. “I’m so proud of my girls.”

It was the first time in a long time that Mel remembered her mother complimenting her and Becca, together.

When Mel was nineteen, her mother got sick.

And she wasn’t going to get any better. Cancer. The prognosis wasn’t good.

Mel transferred to Ohio State so that she could go back and forth between the hospital and school. So that she could be at home at night, for Becca. Mel would study, textbooks spread out around her, while Becca completed puzzles and asked her questions about various anatomical diagrams. Answering Becca’s questions was a great way to study.

Twice a week, Mel would sit with Laura in her hospital room. Laura King seemed to deteriorate week by week. She lost so much weight. Mel could see the outline of every bone in her thin body. She couldn’t get out of bed anymore. It took effort to speak. Her hair was thin, there were dark, stark circles under her eyes. Her skin was so pale, it was practically translucent.

Laura, knowing that the end was coming, decided to take the opportunity to impart as much wisdom as possible to her oldest daughter.

“I never had to worry about you, Melissa. You were always my brave, independent girl.”

“You’re so smart. You always listened. You always helped. Never change that, okay?”

“You need to learn how to take care of yourself before you let a man into your life. You’re the only one you can count on.”

“But when you are ready to find someone, maybe consider some highlights? You know, so you can attract the boys.”

And, like always, since Mel was two years old: “You need to keep an eye out for your sister, honey. You need to take care of her. You know she needs help doing things.”

“Of course, Mom,” Mel said. She didn’t try to hold Laura’s hand. Mel had figured out a long time ago that Laura didn’t like stuff like that. “I’ll take care of Becca. I promise.”

When Mel was twenty, her mother died.

Mel didn’t cry.

Becca locked herself in her room for three days and refused to talk to anyone.

Henry showed up and stayed with them for a week. He promised that they wouldn’t have to worry about money. He’d take care of Becca’s center–whichever one they picked, wherever it was. He’d help with Mel’s tuition payments. With rent. With food.

Henry had a new wife, now. Two young sons. They were twins, too. Henry may not have been the father that Mel wanted, but he tried, in his own way. And Mel was glad that they wouldn’t have to worry about Becca as much. Mel was going to take care of Becca, just like she promised. She was going to finish her undergraduate degree, she was going to apply to med school at Ohio State, and then she was going to figure it out from there.

After the funeral, Mel stood at the foot of the freshly dug grave for her mother. Henry stood next to her, hands in his pockets. The sun was shining brightly above them. Becca was already headed back to her center–an aide had come with her to the funeral, and then Becca had asked to go home. Mel still had to go to the funeral reception, when all she really wanted to do was go spend time with Becca.

“I should have done more,” Henry said, quietly.

Mel didn’t look at him. “What do you mean?” she asked, voice flat.

Out of the corner of her eye, Mel could see Henry peering at her, trying to make eye contact. Mel still refused to look at him. Henry sighed.

“Your mom tried her best. She really did. But she relied on you too much when it came to Becca.”

Mel had figured that out. But she had also realized–and it had only become more apparent, the more she had to take care of Becca the sicker Laura got–that it had been incredibly difficult to raise a higher needs, neurodivergent child. Laura had wanted Becca to have the very best life she could, wanted to make the world as accessible as possible to her. Being a full-time caretaker for someone took a lot out of a person. Some people could handle it, even with the burnout. Some people neglected other parts of their life. At the end of it all, Mel couldn’t begrudge her mother the choices she made when it came to Becca, and she made the world as safe and open for her as possible, in the only way she knew how. Mel wanted the same thing for Becca.

“I love Becca,” Mel said, her voice clipped.

“I know that,” Henry was quick to say. “I love her too, of course I do–”

“And I’m happy to help.” Really, she was. Mel liked helping people. And since Becca was her very favorite person in the world, it wasn’t hard.

“I know you are, honey.” Mel flinched, hearing the same endearment that Laura used to use when she was asking for something. Henry didn’t notice. “But you’re your own person. You can’t put it all on yourself to take care of Becca all the time.”

Now Mel finally looked at her father, eyes unforgiving. “Well, someone needs to.”

When Mel was twenty-five, she realized that she was choosing men to date based purely on things her mother had said–or not said–to her.

Mel chose men that told her nice, sweet things.

“You’re so pretty.”

“You’re so smart.”

“Your hair is gorgeous.”

“Your glasses are cute as hell.”

Superficial compliments, sure, but they were more specific to Mel than anything she had heard in a long time. Her relationships weren’t bad, but they were all surface level. They fizzled out in a few months, unable to hold up against the demands of Mel’s responsibilities. Her classes, her clinical rotations. Taking care of Becca. The job she had on the side at the local library, shelving books.

When Mel had realized that she had ended up in bed with a guy because he had called her beautiful, but even after two months of dating, he couldn’t remember that she was allergic to shellfish, Mel had decided to put a pause on dating.

It was easier this way.

When Mel was twenty-nine, she cried when she saw a mother in the pit cradling twin daughters to her chest, reclined against a hospital bed. One of the twins had an ear infection and a fever that had spiked to 102. Her husband worked nights at a UPS shipping center. The mother took turns kissing the top of each baby’s head, whispering to both of them how much she loved them, how sweet they were, how they were going to be okay.

There was something tight in Mel’s chest. She couldn’t watch them. So she asked Samira to check in on them when she had a chance, and then she walked briskly off of the floor, headed out to the low wall around the corner of the ambulance bay that had become her spot.

Mel didn’t take out her phone or put her headphones in. She sat on that low wall, gripping the edge of the brick as she closed her eyes. She breathed deeply, rocking back and forth a little bit. She hadn’t felt this affected by thoughts of her mother in years. Things were going well. Becca was thriving in Pittsburgh–she stayed at the center four nights a week, was leading art classes, sold pottery at a farmer’s market weekly. Mel had friends that she actually got to hang out with and was excelling as PG-Y3 at PTMC. She and Becca had found their place in Pittsburgh and had built a home.

So Mel had no idea why she felt like she was breaking into little pieces. It was just a mom with twin daughters. She had seen plenty of mothers with babies come through the doors of the ED. She had treated them. None of them had affected her like this.

“Mel.”

Mel supposed that she wasn’t that surprised that it was Frank Langdon that had come to find her. It had been five months since he had come back to work. He’d had two stays in rehab. He’d been sober for eleven months. He was divorced. He was a little quieter, steady. He had become Mel’s friend.

They had fallen into the same rhythm they had discovered on that very first day together, last September. Even though he had to repeat his last year as a resident, he still mentored Mel. She liked working with him. He took the time to listen to her. Mel felt seen by Frank. It wasn’t something she was used to.

Frank sat next to her, pinky finger brushing against hers from where it was resting on the wall. He waited for her, giving her time to collect her thoughts. He was always doing that.

“I’m sorry,” Mel finally said. “I don’t know… I don’t know why I had to leave.”

“Mel,” Frank said again. His hand shifted until it was covering hers on the wall. “You’re crying.”

“Oh.” She touched her cheeks. They were wet, which was surprising. Mel hadn’t cried about her mom in over ten years. She wiped her tears away with the back of her free hand flipped her other one over, so that her fingers could tangle with Frank’s. Frank wasn’t afraid to touch her, to reach for her. Mel really liked that. “Sorry. It’s just… moms. It’s hard, sometimes.”

Frank was watching her carefully. “It can be, yeah.” His mom was great. Mel had met her at Thanksgiving. She was loud and a little messy and clearly loved all of her children a lot.

“It was nice. Watching that mom with her twins. She loves them a lot,” Mel explained. She looked at where their fingers slotted together, and then managed to look Frank in the eye.

His blue eyes were bright, in that way he had when he figured something out. “It is nice,” he agreed.

When Mel was thirty, she told Frank about her mother.

They were laying in bed together, wrapped in one another’s arms. Mel was wearing one of Frank’s old Penn t-shirts. Frank’s hair was messy and standing up in a million different directions. He traced his fingers up and down her back as she talked, humming softly to Mel when she got too choked up and needed to pause to collect herself.

“Baby,” Frank said when she was finished. “You’re amazing.” He shook his head a little, like he couldn’t quite believe that they were in bed together, tangled up with each other. “Every single day, there’s a new piece of you that absolutely floors me.”

Mel let Frank’s sweet words spread through her. When they had gotten together, Becca had just moved into the center full time. She liked living on her own, and honestly, Mel was so proud of her. She had come so far, and Mel had known that Laura would have been just as proud. So when Frank had found Mel a sobbing, blubbering mess in Becca’s empty bedroom at her place, he had taken her into his arms and murmured something about how Becca was going to be alright, and that it was okay for Mel to feel sad and proud at the same time. Mel had known that she was in love with Frank for a while, but that was the day that she finally decided to do something about it.

“It can’t just be on one person to be a caretaker,” Mel said with a shaky breath. She slid her hand over Frank’s chest, resting her palm over his heart. The steady beat soothed her. She loved feeling the softer parts of her body pressed and molding to the harder lines of his. “It’s not sustainable. People need help.”

Combing his fingers through the long strands of Mel’s honey blonde hair, Frank was quiet for a long moment. “You’re right,” he eventually said. “But you also can’t put all of that responsibility on a child. You’re Becca’s sister, first. Your role as her caretaker might have come later, but you should have just been able to be her sister. It’s okay if you’re sad about missing out on that, and about anything else you might have missed as a kid. Becca knows that you love her.”

It was true. Before Becca had moved out, she and Mel had spent a long night talking about their childhoods. Mel had always thought that she had sheltered Becca from what was going on, but it turned out that Becca had known all along. 

“I liked having you with me,” Becca said. “I felt better knowing that you were there for me, no matter what. But I didn’t need to be babied, like Mom thought. And I’m really glad that you’re happy now, Mel.”

And Mel believed Frank now, because he knew her so well. He had taken the time to understand her, listen to her, know her. Frank knew when she needed a break, and when she needed to keep going to drown the rest of the noise. He knew how to touch her, how to be with her in every way that mattered. He knew the little bits and pieces of her that combined to make Mel King.

“You get this little furrow in between your brows when you’re thinking hard about something. It drives me insane.”

“I could map out constellations with all of your freckles, sweetheart. You’re so damn beautiful, it makes my heart hurt.”

“When you laid into that shitty attending from ortho, I don’t think I’ve ever been so turned on in my life. I swear, Mel, you’re the smartest person in the ED. Robby should just retire now so you can run this place.”

“The way you say my name, baby. You only sound like that for me.”

“You can be mad about it and you can love your mom at the same time,” Frank whispered against Mel’s temple. “It’s okay to feel both things.”

Mel felt some of the tightness she had been carrying around in her heart since she was twenty years old fall away. Closing her eyes, she rubbed her nose against Frank’s chest. She told him that she loved him. He whispered that he loved her back.

When Mel was thirty-three, she wondered what kind of mother she was going to be.

The positive pregnancy test came back only last week. They were telling Tanner and Ava next week. They still had some time and a few OBGYN appointments before they told everyone else. Yet here Mel was, standing in her and Frank’s bedroom, hands spread over her still flat belly.

Frank’s arms snaked around Mel’s waist, and he pulled her back against his chest. Mel hummed happily as his warm, strong body enveloped hers.

“What are you thinking about?” Frank murmured.

“What kind of mom I’m going to be,” Mel said honestly. She could never hide anything from him.

“What did Becca say?” Frank said. When he didn’t try too hard, he almost always ended up saying the exact right thing to her. It made Mel smile.

“That she already knew what it was like to be taken care of by me, so she knew that I would be an amazing mom.” Once Mel and Frank had gotten the positive result, Becca had been the first call that Mel had made. When Mel had whispered that she was feeling a little scared, Becca had told her that she had every confidence that Mel was going to be a great mom. Mel had cried at her sister’s kind words, and then Becca had cried because Mel had cried. They had both agreed that they had been happy–if somewhat cathartic–tears.

“I happen to agree with Becca,” Frank said. He kissed Mel’s cheek, then trailed his lips down until he could kiss her properly. Mel smiled against his lips.

“I guess we’re lucky that this baby is going to have such a great aunt, huh?”

Frank nodded his head in agreement and then spun Mel in his arms, so that they were facing one another. He slipped one broad palm between them so he could cup her belly. “This baby is pretty lucky that they’re going to have such an amazing mom, too.”

[organic-bloodbath]

Just read your carry her fanfic and loves it! Can we get one with dae ho where reader is pregnant with his baby they have been together for a while and he carried her across the bridge because she’s like 9 month pregnant!

Just me and her now

Dae-ho x Reader

Summary: During the jump rope game, Dae-ho needs to carry his newborn child over the bridge – without you.

Warnings: Angst. Just a lot of angst, no comfort.

A/N: So this doesn't exactly follow the request but i couldn't figure out how carrying her pregnant would be possible and i needed angst 🥲

☆☆☆

Dae-ho was sitting on a bench, a baby in his arms. His baby. The next game was supposed to be simple: cross the bridge while jumping over a rope. Simple, as long as you would be able to keep your balance and not fall. The drop was insanely high, killing you instantly once you'd hit the floor.

The players were starting to step on the bridge, one by one, one after another, but Dae-ho wasn't able to even stand up from the bench. He was scared, way too scared to be able to handle this on his own.

He needed you, right now. He wanted you back. Please, come back to me, Dae-ho thought, even though he knew you'd never be with him again.

☆☆☆

MINGLE

The first two rounds of mingle went well enough but as you were in the small room with four other players, you felt your pants turn wet.

"Um, Dae-ho..." you mumbled, fearing for the worst.

His eyes widened when he realized what was happening.

"Wait, now?" he asked, horrified. No, no, no. This couldn't be happening right now, in the middle of a game.

Unfortunately, you nodded your head and right after felt your stomach cramping.

"Mhm," you mumbled and grabbed Dae-ho's shoulder to keep your legs from betraying you and making you fall.

Even though you were now literally in damn labor, starting to give birth, of course they didn't let you to stay out of the rest of the game. You weren't able to run to the room on your own anymore, needing Dae-ho and Gi-hun to drag you with them to the safety.

☆☆☆

HIDE & SEEK

"Y/N," Dae-ho gasped, eyes wide as he looked at your stomach, the large red stain on your blue vest.

"Dae-ho," you mumbled. "I don't feel so good."

Your legs betrayed you but Dae-ho managed to catch you before you'd hit the floor.

"Don't you dare to die on me now, Y/N," Dae-ho said, a threatening tone in his voice. "Don't you dare to leave me alone."

"Dae-ho..." you mumbled, feeling weaker and weaker as the seconds passed.

Player 412, eliminated.

☆☆☆

You were supposed to be here to take care of your baby. Dae-ho didn't know what the hell he was supposed to do, you were supposed to be here and help him. Guide him how to be a good dad, or dad at all. Did he even hold the baby in the right way?

Dae-ho pulled his hoodie off, trying to wrap it around the baby and figure out how to wrap it around himself too to keep a firm hold on her while he'd cross the bridge. His biggest fear was to accidentally drop her – he could never live with himself if he killed your baby for a little mistake.

"Here, let me help you," Jun-hee offered, sitting down next to him. She had noticed Dae-ho struggle with the baby and his hoodie, stepping in. "May i?"

Dae-ho only nodded, desperate for someone to help him.

"Are you doing alright?" Jun-hee asked, resting her hand on his shoulder. Of course she knew he was anything but alright, but she wasn't sure what else to say. She wanted to be there for him but he had been pushing everyone away whenever they'd try to get any words out of him.

"No, i'm not," he admitted, feeling tears rise into his eyes for the millionth time. "I'm not alright."

Every time even only your name echoed inside Dae-ho's head, he could have burst out crying. He couldn't get your face out of his head, blood on your cheek and skin turning pale until you took your last breath.

You were supposed to raise your child together, not leave Dae-ho as a single father. Sure, the chance of dying in these games was high, hundreds of players already dead, but he had never imagined that he would actually hold your dead body in his arms. Hold your corpse the way he was now holding your baby.

Now, Dae-ho had to do everything he could to protect your baby, to make sure she got back home safely. That he'd get home with her and be able to tell her all about her mother. How amazing you were, so kind and caring. If Dae-ho were to die as well, she'd never learn who her parents were.

Jun-hee wrapped her arm around Dae-ho's shoulder, giving it a short squeeze to let him know that she was there for him, whatever he needed. Jun-hee had become fond of you as well, you were the closest person Jun-hee had gotten to know during these games so it hurt her as well to see you die – though she knew Dae-ho was in much, much worse pain.

Dae-ho looked at his child and wondered how much she'd turn to look like you as she'd grow up. How clearly he'd see your face on hers. Fuck, he wasn't able to do this. He couldn't do this.

Dae-ho could feel how people were staring at him, piercing holes into his back. He was starting to become so uncomfortable that he wanted to just turn around and yell at all of them what they were staring at. Yell at them to mind their own damn business.

Dae-ho stepped up on the bridge, holding the baby tightly against himself. Gi-hun had passed the game easily with Jun-hee's baby – it had to be simple and over sooner than he thought.

He looked over to the other side, towards the platform where Gi-hun and a few other players were standing, right at the end of the bridge. He imagined you standing there, you waiting for him. Smile and urge him to come there already.

"You can do it, i believe in you," your voice whispered to him in his mind.

I can do it, Dae-ho quietly mumbled to himself. So quietly that he wasn't sure if he had even said those words out loud or not.

When Dae-ho had successfully reached the other side, having passed the game, he almost didn't believe it was real. His heart was beating so fast it was probably going to scare the baby soon; he was surprised how calm she had stayed during the game too.

"I'll get us home," Dae-ho whispered, looking down at his daughter.

☆☆☆

At nights Dae-ho used to sleep in the same bed with you, hold you in his arms and have your head resting on his chest. He could smell your hair just a few inches from his nose. He could trace patterns on your bare elbow with his finger. He could kiss you goodnight.

Now, all Dae-ho had was your green jacket which wasn't even truly yours, but it had your smell attached to the fabric. He held it close to his chest, trying to imagine you to be there wearing it but it was now without an owner. Dae-ho held the jacket close to his face, imagining you to be there when he'd wake up, even though you were never going to be here anymore, you wouldn't materialize next to him out of thin air.

He didn't want the money anymore – he wanted to have you back.

The baby started crying next to him, waking Dae-ho up from his thoughts. He quickly sat up and carefully took the baby in his arms, trying to soothe her back to sleep.

"Shh, it's okay, it's okay," Dae-ho whispered and gently caressed her cheek. "We'll be okay, right?"

When the baby calmed down and looked Dae-ho into his eyes, he was now the one to burst out crying.

I'll be okay, right?

☆☆☆

A/N: It's short but it's something.