#I still would’ve expected them to get really close

[maskedbyghost]

last part of toxic ex!Simon Riley x f!Reader

You weren’t even sure what you were supposed to feel anymore, and maybe that was the worst part of all of it, because at least when you were angry, you had direction, something to aim at, something to burn down, but now everything just felt kind of… flat.

You were tired in places you didn’t even know could get tired, your body was carrying weight that didn’t belong to you anymore, and your brain kept trying to replay every fight, every night you waited for him to show up and he didn’t, every time you thought maybe this time, only to realize he hadn’t even noticed that you were hoping.

You weren’t sad, because that part had already happened, that storm had already come and gone and ripped through every soft part of you, and now there was just this… this weird emptiness. This dull ache that sat in your chest.

And the worst part was that you still kind of missed him. Or not even him, really, just the idea of him. The idea of someone who used to know how to make you laugh without trying, someone who used to touch your back in passing like he couldn’t help it, someone who used to say your name like it tasted good in his mouth. You missed the version of him that only existed in your head now, the one you used to imagine was just hiding under all the bullshit if you could dig deep enough to find him.

But you weren’t stupid anymore. At least, not in the same way.

So when the first text came through, just a short, careful message that read: Morning. Hope you slept okay. Don't worry, I’m not expecting a reply. Just wanted you to know I’m thinking about you—you didn’t answer it.

You stared at your screen for a few seconds, heart doing that annoying lurch it always did when his name popped up, and then you locked your phone and tossed it on the bed.

You weren’t going to do this again. Not for a text that took five seconds to type.

And when he sent one again the next day? Same thing.

Made coffee and thought about how you always put way too much sugar in yours. Miss that.

Still no reply.

The third day?

Morning, love. I just opened a cupboard and found one of your hair ties. I held it like a grieving Victorian widow for three minutes. So that’s fun.

You almost smiled at that one. Almost.

But you still didn’t answer.

He didn’t double-text. Didn’t follow it up with a question mark or a “Did you get my message?” or anything that would’ve given you more reason to roll your eyes. He just sent one a day. Always in the morning, and a little nervous, like he was scared you might actually block him again, but was still doing it anyway.

Day after day, for a full week. You didn’t block him this time. But you didn’t answer either.

Because part of you wanted to see how long he’d keep doing it without getting what he wanted. How long he’d be willing to sit in the quiet. How long he’d go before breaking the pattern and asking for more.

And honestly? You didn’t even know what you wanted him to do. You just knew you weren’t going to make it easy.

Not this time.

It had been a long week, and you weren’t even really in the mood to go out, not at first, not when your friends were pulling outfits out of your closet and hyping you up while you just stood there pretending like you weren’t still kind of hollow inside, like your stomach didn’t still do that annoying twist every time you saw his name pop up in your notifications, even if it was just another one of his dumb, soft morning texts that you still hadn’t replied to.

But they didn’t let you stay home. They dragged you out, shoved a drink in your hand, and told you you were hot and you deserved to feel good again. And honestly? After the second drink, after the third song, after the lights started to feel warmer and your feet started to move on their own, you started to believe them a little.

You danced, you smiled, and you let your body move without thinking too hard. And when some guy stepped close and started dancing with you, you didn’t say no.

It wasn’t anything crazy. You weren’t grinding on him or making a scene. You were just letting yourself feel something that wasn’t grief or guilt or the hollow ache of remembering someone who used to know every inch of your skin and now felt like a stranger who texted you about breakfast.

And then you turned.

And you saw him.

Simon.

Sitting at the bar.

Alone.

He wasn’t drinking. There was a beer in front of him, but he wasn’t touching it. He wasn’t watching the game on the screen behind the bar or scrolling through his phone or pretending not to notice you. No, he was just sitting there with his forearms on the bar, that stupid hoodie pushed up to his elbows, and his eyes locked on you like you were the only thing in the goddamn room.

You froze for half a second, caught mid-step, one hand still raised like you were about to toss your hair back and laugh, and your heart just… stopped. Because there was something in his face that made your chest feel like someone had wrapped their hands around your ribs and squeezed.

And he didn’t look away.

Not when you turned back toward your friends. Not when the guy you’d been dancing with leaned in to say something. Not even when your friend grabbed your hand and spun you around, laughing. Simon just watched quietly.

Like he’d seen everything he didn’t want to see and couldn’t look away from it.

You didn’t go over, you didn’t acknowledge him, you just danced. Let yourself move more freely. Let yourself pretend that he wasn’t sitting twenty feet away, like he was reliving every mistake he ever made and feeling every single one of them hit all at once.

And when the night ended, when the music died down and your feet were sore and your throat ached from yelling over the speakers, you walked out into the cool air with your girls, arms linked, laughing and stumbling a little, too tired and tipsy to care.

And there he was again.

Leaning against his car, hands in his jacket pockets, hair slightly messy, that same unreadable look on his face, but softer now, just tired. He’d been waiting there for hours and would’ve waited longer if he thought it meant you’d speak to him.

“Need a ride home, ladies?” he asked, voice low but smooth, but he didn’t look smug, didn’t look flirty. He looked like someone who knew exactly where he stood and was offering anyway.

And your friends?

Oh, they swooned.

One of them leaned in and whispered, “Is that the Simon?” like he was a celebrity instead of your ex. Another one literally fanned herself with her hand and said, “He could drive me home any night.”

You rolled your eyes. But you didn’t say no.

He opened the passenger door for one of your girls, helped another into the backseat, didn’t comment when they giggled a little too loudly or gave you a look that said this is so not over. He didn’t push. Didn’t even try to talk to you, really. He just drove.

Like he wasn’t breaking apart slowly behind the wheel.

He dropped them off one by one, and every time one of them got out, she’d turn and give you a look—one of those do you want us to wait? do you want us to make an excuse? kinds of looks—but you just shook your head.

Until it was just the two of you.

The silence filled the car, awkward and pressing down on your chest until it was hard to breathe. You didn’t say anything. Neither did he. He just kept his eyes on the road, jaw tight, fingers flexing slightly on the wheel like he was trying not to say the wrong thing.

He pulled up to your building and parked, let the engine idle for a second too long.

Then he looked at you

“I wasn’t there to ruin your night,” he said finally, voice rough and low like it hurt to talk. “I didn’t even know you’d be there, swear to God. I just… I haven’t seen you laugh like that in months. I didn’t know if I should feel happy for you or fucking sick.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t come out like a confession or a slap.

So he sighed, ran a hand through his hair, and then added, even softer:

“You looked happy. That’s all I’ve wanted. Even if it’s not with me.”

You still didn’t speak. Your hand was already on the door handle.

But before you stepped out, he leaned slightly forward, not close enough to touch, just enough to say it:

“I’d rather watch you be happy from a distance than fuck up your peace again. But I’m not gonna stop hoping you let me try.”

Then he leaned back, hands back on the wheel. And you opened the door and stepped into the night, heart pounding, head spinning, trying to decide if it was anger or longing or both curling up in your chest.

You didn’t look back until you reached the door to your building.

And when you did?

He was still there.

There were moments when the world slowed down and no one was talking and nothing urgent needed doing, where you’d stop and realize you didn’t actually know how you felt anymore. Some mornings, you woke up feeling like maybe you could move on. Other mornings, you missed the shape of his arms around you so badly you had to physically sit on your hands to keep from texting him first.

And through it all, Simon kept texting.

Every single day.

Not demanding, not pushing, not trying to force a response. Just… there. Sometimes it was early in the morning, sometimes mid-afternoon, sometimes twice a day if he thought you’d had a bad one. And even though you never replied, not once, you read every single one.

Morning. Hope today doesn’t suck. I mean it. Go drink water or something.

Dropped my toast butter side down. Is that karma? Did I deserve this?

Just walked past a couple holding hands. I don’t wanna talk about it.

There was a dog outside the bakery this morning. I told him about you. He seemed supportive.

And you’d always read them.

Eyes rolling, lips twitching, heart doing that annoying little ache that you swore you were done feeling. But still, you didn’t reply.

Not until the bookshelf.

You got home late one night, tired and irritated and already half-ready to crawl into bed and ignore the world. Your bag dropped to the floor with a dull thud, and you kicked off your shoes, not even looking up as you walked toward your room, fully intending to faceplant and scroll TikTok until your eyes hurt.

But then you looked up.

And froze.

In the corner of your bedroom was a brand new bookshelf. Not a flimsy little piece from a discount store. No, this was beautiful, tall and dark-stained, filled with books so neatly arranged you thought you might be hallucinating for a second.

“What the fuck,” you muttered, stepping closer, blinking hard like the furniture might vanish if you stared at it too long.

And then you saw the note.

Taped to the shelf with one of those dumb gold star stickers.

A gift for you. I found your Goodreads account. (Your friend helped me. I bribed her with cupcakes. She’s disloyal.) These are all from your TBR list. Yes, all of them. No, I don’t want to talk about how long I was in that store.

Also, a real question... Did you mean to save the one where the guy kidnaps her and she calls it romance?? Are we not calling the police in these?? Also what is a ‘reverse harem’ and why is there a dragon on the cover?? I’m not kink-shaming, I swear. Just... blink twice if you need help, or like... a stable relationship?

You stood there for a full minute just staring at it, at the books, at the note, and at the fact that he had spent God knows how much time and money finding your unread books and building you a whole-ass bookshelf and then roasting your taste in spicy novels like that would somehow soften the blow.

And then?

Then you laughed.

Like, really laughed. Loud and unexpected, almost wheezing as you reached for your phone and opened his message thread for the first time in forever. Your fingers hovered for a second. Then typed:

I read the smut so I don’t text you ‘come ruin my life again’ at 2am. It’s called coping. Don’t judge me.

His reply came instantly:

Okay, well now I have 4 tabs open trying to figure out why that man in your book liked being stabbed. You scare me. I miss you. It’s confusing…

And that night, you fell asleep with a stupid smile on your face for the first time in forever.

Some days, it felt easier. You could get through a full twenty-four hours without thinking about him every time your phone buzzed, or without letting his name run laps through your mind just because you saw someone wearing his cologne at the store, or caught the tail end of a song he once hummed under his breath while cooking eggs at 2am in your kitchen.

Other days it was still a mess.

He still texted. Every morning without fail, like some broken record that somehow never made you roll your eyes hard enough to block him again. Sometimes you answered, short and sarcastic “wow you’re up early” or a “why are you telling me about your toast again.” Sometimes you didn’t. Sometimes you read his messages and stare at them for too long, and lock your phone before you can type something you’d regret.

Sometimes you laughed out loud when he sent you a picture of a dog in a sweater and said “he said he misses you, not me, just you.” Sometimes you wanted to scream when he followed it with a soft: “I miss you too though. Every version of you.”

You didn’t know what you were doing. Not really. Letting him text you, not shutting it down completely, letting him hang in the doorway of your life like he was waiting to be let back in if you just gave the word.

And today, it all felt like too much again.

So you left your apartment, pulled on a hoodie, headphones in, and wandered out until your feet took you to the park. You didn’t have a plan. You just needed to be somewhere else, somewhere quiet. You sat on a bench near the edge of the lake, watching ducks paddle around, watching couples walk hand in hand, the same aching scene you thought you were done getting crushed by.

But it still hit you.

The soft stuff always did.

A girl sat across the path with her head on her boyfriend’s shoulder while he played with her fingers. An older man helped his wife sit down carefully on a bench, then pulled a thermos from a bag and poured her something hot while she smiled at him like he was the only person in the world who mattered.

It made your chest tight again, that type of wanting that snuck up out of nowhere and sat on your ribs. Not for someone in particular—just for something that didn’t make you feel like you were bracing yourself all the time. Something that didn’t break and beg and promise, only to leave you rebuilding everything from scratch again.

And then you felt it. That weird shift in the air. The kind of awareness you’d only ever felt when he was near.

You turned your head. He wasn’t moving toward you, just standing there a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his jacket, looking at you like he didn’t know whether he was allowed to come closer or not.

You didn’t speak, didn’t wave, but you didn’t leave either.

So he walked over. Sat on the opposite end of the bench, he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to get, and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.

You didn’t say anything for a minute. Just sat there, watching the water.

And then he spoke.

“I’m not trying to win you back in some big dramatic way,” he said, glancing over at you now. “No grand gesture, or some stupid speech. Just… me. Every day showing up and being better. Whether you want to forgive me or not.”

Your throat felt tight, and you hated that.

You hated that your first thought was that he looked tired. Not messy tired, not in a falling-apart way, just like someone who hadn’t had a full breath of air since you told him to leave.

You looked back at the lake, arms crossed over your chest like that would keep anything else from slipping out.

“I don’t know what you expect me to say,” you said eventually. “I don’t have a big answer for you. I don’t even know if I trust you again, or if I should.”

“I don’t expect anything,” Simon said. “I mean, I hope. But I don’t expect. I just wanted to see you, even if we just sit here in silence and you never text me back again. This is enough for me.”

You both sat there quietly, for a long time of nothing but wind and leaves and distant laughter from a kid feeding the ducks with too much bread.

“I still think about it, you know,” you said suddenly, almost surprising yourself. “Everything. But I also think about the nights I cried myself to sleep, and how exhausted I was all the time from hoping you’d show up the way I needed you to.”

Simon flinched a little, like your words landed right where they were supposed to.

“I know,” he said. “I think about that too.”

You let your eyes close for a second, just to breathe through the ache.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you said, softer now. “I don’t know if I’m supposed to, or if I even want to.”

“I’ll wait,” he said.

You turned to look at him, finally, really looked at him, and he didn’t smile or try to touch you or do anything that would tilt the balance.

He just looked back.

And then you stood. Brushed off your jeans, adjusted your hoodie, and slung your bag over your shoulder.

Simon stood too, but didn’t reach for you.

“I’ll see you around,” you said, voice unreadable.

He nodded. “I hope so.”

You gave him one last look, something tired and unsure but not entirely closed off, then turned and started walking down the path.

He didn’t follow.

And maybe you’d text him tomorrow, or maybe you wouldn’t. Maybe this was a step forward, or maybe it was the start of goodbye.

But either way, for now, you didn’t feel like you were drowning.

And that was enough for now.

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

I left the ending open on purpose because honestly it’s up to you. Maybe she forgives him eventually. Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she texts him back that night, or maybe she blocks his number the second she gets home. Either way, I wanted it to feel like those unfinished things we all go through sometimes. So whatever ending you pick in your head? That’s the right one.

Thanks for reading. <3

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6 @tessakate @xocandyy @nightfwn @robinfeldt98 @xiisblogs @mad-die45 @readingthingy @actualpoppy @amongthe141 @whore4romance @thatghostlykid @syofrelief @avgdestitute @sheepdogchick3 @echo9821 @imalapdog @foxintheferns @trulovekay @preeyas-world @ruleroftides @rose37373 @succulambb @havoc973 @jajouska @fruitymoonbeams-blog @cece2608

[shizuturnspages]

can you do a Khanrian (did i spell that right?) child who doesn't actually care that they've been technically kidnapped? like as long as their interested/curious/entertained they will stay. they don't try escaping but they will wander around whether the yanderes like it/let them or not, though they always return at the end of the day. even if they get chained or bound whether magically or physically, they always manage to get out but there's no damage to the seal, the cuff is still locked, and knots still tied; they see it like a game in a way.

The Wanderer's Game

Synopsis: The last child of Khaenri’ah—untouched by fear—is not so much taken as they are collected. And they stay. Not from love, not from force… but from pure curiosity. You don’t run. You wander. You don’t rebel—you play. And no matter what chains are bound around you, you always return before nightfall, like a child who's simply had enough fun for the day. You can’t be held. But gods, do they keep trying. Pairings: [Separate] Yandere Dainsleif, Pierro, Kaeya, Albedo, Capitano x Khaenri’ahn Child

Dainsleif – The Keeper Who Watches

He finds you sitting calmly where he left you—inside the sealed chamber, warded with ancient sigils no mortal could dispel. You wave at him.

He stares. The ward is still intact.

“Did you…?” he begins.

You blink at him innocently. “What?”

“You left. You went out.”

“I came back.”

He pauses. “The seal—how did you…?”

“I don’t know.” You stretch, clearly bored. “I just… walked out.”

Dainsleif’s knuckles go white on his sword hilt. You don’t notice—or rather, you don’t care. You’re inspecting a book you took from his shelf without asking. “Can we visit the ruins tomorrow? I saw a star chart in the north wing.”

He sighs slowly, dragging a hand down his face. But he doesn’t say no. He never does.

You’re not disobedient. You’re uncontainable. And that terrifies him more than any rebellion ever could.

Pierro – The Strategist Without A Counterplay

“You’ve escaped again.”

Pierro doesn’t raise his voice. He never does. But you can hear the sharp twist of disbelief underneath the calm.

You’re sitting in his office now, flipping through classified documents like bedtime stories.

“I didn’t escape,” you say lightly. “I just… walked.”

“The guards reported magical restraint. Layered.”

You smile. “Yeah. It was fun.”

“Nothing was broken. Nothing.”

You look up at him, eyes glowing faintly with whatever ancient mystery still lingers in your blood. “I’m not trying to leave, Pierro.” You close the folder. “If I wanted to, I would’ve gone.”

He’s silent. Thinking. Calculating.

Then: “What would make you stay?”

You stretch like a cat, amused. “A better game. The library’s getting dull.”

Pierro stares at you like one stares at a prophecy wrapped in silk. He’s never met a hostage so willing. So frustrating. And yet, you’re exactly what he always wanted. Unpredictable. Eternal. And always, always watching.

Kaeya – The Brother Who Lies Through His Teeth

“Oh? You slipped your cuffs again?” Kaeya purrs, cornering you in the hallway with that all-too-smug smile. “You must really enjoy chasing my attention.”

You hum, resting your chin on your hands. “You weren’t paying attention, so I went for a walk.”

“In the middle of the night.”

“I found a crystal cave. The echoes were lovely.”

Kaeya twirls the broken key in his fingers. Except it’s not broken—it’s untouched. Your cuffs are still latched.

“You know,” he murmurs, stepping closer, “most people don’t like being locked up. Most people would run.”

You tilt your head. “But I’m not most people, am I?”

That stops him cold.

You grin. “Don’t look so surprised. I know exactly what I am. I’m just waiting to see how far you’ll go to keep me here.”

His breath hitches. He never expected to fall for someone who enjoyed the game more than he did.

Albedo – The Alchemist’s Puzzle

Albedo thinks he can study you. You let him try.

You sit obediently in the chair, let him run harmless tests, whisper glyphs into the air to track your aura.

But when he turns his back, you’re gone. Not violently. Not with flair. Just… not there anymore.

And when he finds you again—sitting atop a mountain, legs swinging off the ledge like it’s the edge of the world—he only sighs.

“You always return.”

You smile. “You’re the most interesting one.”

He looks at you, quiet. “Does that mean you’ll stay?”

“For now.”

It should unsettle him. But all it does is make him want to understand you more. He’s never had a specimen like this. One that obeys no rules. One that leaves but doesn’t leave.

He builds a new lab. With no locks. No doors. Because you’ll stay anyway. Until you’re not curious anymore.

Capitano – The Commander Who Can’t Command You

He tries everything. Physical restraint. Magical barriers. Even a soft hand. A rare tenderness.

And yet, every night, you leave. And every morning, you come back, smiling like a child who’s just come home from playing in the mud.

“Do you enjoy worrying me?” he asks once, towering over you.

You blink up at him. “You worry?”

“… Yes.”

You grin. “Then yes. I enjoy it.”

You’re not defiant. You don’t rebel. You just exist beyond control.

And it shatters the part of Capitano that thought he could protect you through containment.

Because love, to him, was always about walls. But you… You laugh at his walls. You walk through them. And every time you come back—unharmed, untouched—he realises:

You are not the caged. You are the keeper of the key.

[luna-the-cretar]

I love how intense Marius is all the time. Meanwhile Lethica is just. Unsurprised at everything that happens. Something spooky happens, everyone else is all jumpy and panicking, and she’s just like “oh look, a ghost. This is normal”. Or when the demon bag made of human flesh just fucking. Crawled up her leg. Girl did not freak out AT ALL, as if a weird creepy human flesh bag crawling up your leg is a normal occurrence for her. I love her sm already.

Also love the fact that Marius and Lethica just keep agreeing with each other. I think Marius even said at the beginning of episode 2 that he felt that Lethica was the only other person here with a brain, so now the two of them are constantly like “I agree with Lethica” “I agree with Marius”. They have barely known each other for, what, an hour? Two? Love it.

Also Jericho. Just Jericho. Love that, when Yorgrim said he didn’t have friends anymore, Jericho was immediately like “well that’s not true! We’re your friends now! :D” also when they found the doll, Jericho immediately wanted to warm her up when she said she was cold, and also shielded her eyes away from the bag when Lethica opened it. Gods I love him so much, he’s such a sweetheart, if anything bad happens to him I will cry.

[therealbeachfox]

Twenty years ago, February 15th, 2004, I got married for the first time.

It was twenty years earlier than I ever expected to.

To celebrate/comemorate the date, I'm sitting down to write out everything I remember as I remember it. No checking all the pictures I took or all the times I've written about this before. I'm not going to turn to my husband (of twenty years, how the f'ing hell) to remember a detail for me.

This is not a 100% accurate recounting of that first wild weekend in San Francisco. But it -is- a 100% accurate recounting of how I remember it today, twenty years after the fact.

Join me below, if you would.

2004 was an election year, and much like conservatives are whipping up anti-trans hysteria and anti-trans bills and propositions to drive out the vote today, in 2004 it was all anti-gay stuff. Specifically, preventing the evil scourge of same-sex marriage from destroying everything good and decent in the world.

Enter Gavin Newstrom. At the time, he was the newly elected mayor of San Francisco. Despite living next door to the city all my life, I hadn’t even heard of the man until Valentines Day 2004 when he announced that gay marriage was legal in San Francisco and started marrying people at city hall.

It was a political stunt. It was very obviously a political stunt. That shit was illegal, after all. But it was a very sweet political stunt. I still remember the front page photo of two ancient women hugging each other forehead to forehead and crying happy tears.

But it was only going to last for as long as it took for the California legal system to come in and make them knock it off.

The next day, we’re on the phone with an acquaintance, and she casually mentions that she’s surprised the two of us aren’t up at San Francisco getting married with everyone else.

“Everyone else?” Goes I, “I thought they would’ve shut that down already?”

“Oh no!” goes she, “The courts aren’t open until Tuesday. Presidents Day on Monday and all. They’re doing them all weekend long!”

We didn’t know because social media wasn’t a thing yet. I only knew as much about it as I’d read on CNN, and most of the blogs I was following were more focused on what bullshit President George W Bush was up to that day.

"Well shit", me and my man go, "do you wanna?" I mean, it’s a political stunt, it wont really mean anything, but we’re not going to get another chance like this for at least 20 years. Why not?

The next day, Sunday, we get up early. We drive north to the southern-most BART station. We load onto Bay Area Rapid Transit, and rattle back and forth all the way to the San Francisco City Hall stop.

We had slightly miscalculated.

Apparently, demand for marriages was far outstripping the staff they had on hand to process them. Who knew. Everyone who’d gotten turned away Saturday had been given tickets with times to show up Sunday to get their marriages done. My babe and I, we could either wait to see if there was a space that opened up, or come back the next day, Monday.

“Isn’t City Hall closed on Monday?” I asked. “It’s a holiday”

“Oh sure,” they reply, “but people are allowed to volunteer their time to come in and work on stuff anyways. And we have a lot of people who want to volunteer their time to have the marriage licensing offices open tomorrow.”

“Oh cool,” we go, “Backup.”

“Make sure you’re here if you do,” they say, “because the California Supreme Court is back in session Tuesday, and will be reviewing the motion that got filed to shut us down.”

And all this shit is super not-legal, so they’ll totally be shutting us down goes unsaid.

00000

We don’t get in Saturday. We wind up hanging out most of the day, though.

It’s… incredible. I can say, without hyperbole, that I have never experienced so much concentrated joy and happiness and celebration of others’ joy and happiness in all my life before or since. My face literally ached from grinning. Every other minute, a new couple was coming out of City Hall, waving their paperwork to the crowd and cheering and leaping and skipping. Two glorious Latina women in full Mariachi band outfits came out, one in the arms of another. A pair of Jewish boys with their families and Rabbi. One couple managed to get a Just Married convertible arranged complete with tin-cans tied to the bumper to drive off in. More than once I was giving some rice to throw at whoever was coming out next.

At some point in the mid-afternoon, there was a sudden wave of extra cheering from the several hundred of us gathered at the steps, even though no one was coming out. There was a group going up the steps to head inside, with some generic black-haired shiny guy at the front. My not-yet-husband nudged me, “That’s Newsom.” He said, because he knew I was hopeless about matching names and people.

Ooooooh, I go. That explains it. Then I joined in the cheers. He waved and ducked inside.

So dusk is starting to fall. It’s February, so it’s only six or so, but it’s getting dark.

“Should we just try getting in line for tomorrow -now-?” we ask.

“Yeah, I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible.” One of the volunteers tells us. “We’re not allowed to have people hang out overnight like this unless there are facilities for them and security. We’d need Porta-Poties for a thousand people and police patrols and the whole lot, and no one had time to get all that organized. Your best bet is to get home, sleep, and then catch the first BART train up at 5am and keep your fingers crossed.

Monday is the last day to do this, after all.

00000

So we go home. We crash out early. We wake up at 4:00. We drive an hour to hit the BART station. We get the first train up. We arrive at City Hall at 6:30AM.

The line stretches around the entirety of San Francisco City Hall. You could toss a can of Coke from the end of the line to the people who’re up to be first through the doors and not have to worry about cracking it open after.

“Uh.” We go. “What the fuck is -this-?”

So.

Remember why they weren’t going to be able to have people hang out overnight?

Turns out, enough SF cops were willing to volunteer unpaid time to do patrols to cover security. And some anonymous person delivered over a dozen Porta-Poties that’d gotten dropped off around 8 the night before.

It’s 6:30 am, there are almost a thousand people in front of us in line to get this literal once in a lifetime marriage, the last chance we expect to have for at least 15 more years (it was 2004, gay rights were getting shoved back on every front. It was not looking good. We were just happy we lived in California were we at least weren’t likely to loose job protections any time soon.).

Then it starts to rain.

We had not dressed for rain.

00000

Here is how the next six hours go.

We’re in line. Once the doors open at 7am, it will creep forward at a slow crawl. It’s around 7 when someone shows up with garbage bags for everyone. Cut holes for the head and arms and you’ve got a makeshift raincoat! So you’ve got hundreds of gays and lesbians decked out in the nicest shit they could get on short notice wearing trashbags over it.

Everyone is so happy.

Everyone is so nervous/scared/frantic that we wont be able to get through the doors before they close for the day.

People online start making delivery orders.

Coffee and bagels are ordered in bulk and delivered to City Hall for whoever needs it. We get pizza. We get roses. Random people come by who just want to give hugs to people in line because they’re just so happy for us. The tour busses make detours to go past the lines. Chinese tourists lean out with their cameras and shout GOOD LUCK while car horns honk.

A single sad man holding a Bible tries to talk people out of doing this, tells us all we’re sinning and to please don’t. He gives up after an hour. A nun replaces him with a small sign about how this is against God’s will. She leaves after it disintegrates in the rain.

The day before, when it was sunny, there had been a lot of protestors. Including a large Muslim group with their signs about how “Not even DOGS do such things!” Which… Yes they do.

A lot of snide words are said (by me) about how the fact that we’re willing to come out in the rain to do this while they’re not willing to come out in the rain to protest it proves who actually gives an actual shit about the topic.

Time passes. I measure it based on which side of City Hall we’re on. The doors face East. We start on Northside. Coffee and trashbags are delivered when we’re on the North Side. Pizza first starts showing up when we’re on Westside, which is also where I see Bible Man and Nun. Roses are delivered on Southside. And so forth.

00000

We have Line Neighbors.

Ahead of us are a gay couple a decade or two older than us. They’ve been together for eight years. The older one is a school teacher. He has his coat collar up and turns away from any news cameras that come near while we reposition ourselves between the lenses and him. He’s worried about the parents of one of his students seeing him on the news and getting him fired. The younger one will step away to get interviewed on his own later on. They drove down for the weekend once they heard what was going on. They’d started around the same time we did, coming from the Northeast, and are parked in a nearby garage.

The most perky energetic joyful woman I’ve ever met shows up right after we turned the corner to Southside to tackle the younger of the two into a hug. She’s their local friend who’d just gotten their message about what they’re doing and she will NOT be missing this. She is -so- happy for them. Her friends cry on her shoulders at her unconditional joy.

Behind us are a lesbian couple who’d been up in San Francisco to celebrate their 12th anniversary together. “We met here Valentines Day weekend! We live down in San Diego, now, but we like to come up for the weekend because it’s our first love city.”

“Then they announced -this-,” the other one says, “and we can’t leave until we get married. I called work Sunday and told them I calling in sick until Wednesday.”

“I told them why,” her partner says, “I don’t care if they want to give me trouble for it. This is worth it. Fuck them.”

My husband-to-be and I look at each other. We’ve been together for not even two years at this point. Less than two years. Is it right for us to be here? We’re potentially taking a spot from another couple that’d been together longer, who needed it more, who deserved it more.”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Says the 40-something gay couple in front of us.

“This is as much for you as it is for us!” says the lesbian couple who’ve been together for over a decade behind us.

“You kids are too cute together,” says the gay couple’s friend. “you -have- to. Someday -you’re- going to be the old gay couple that’s been together for years and years, and you deserve to have been married by then.”

We stay in line.

It’s while we’re on the Southside of City Hall, just about to turn the corner to Eastside at long last that we pick up our own companions. A white woman who reminds me an awful lot of my aunt with a four year old black boy riding on her shoulders. “Can we say we’re with you? His uncles are already inside and they’re not letting anyone in who isn’t with a couple right there.” “Of course!” we say.

The kid is so very confused about what all the big deal is, but there’s free pizza and the busses keep driving by and honking, so he’s having a great time.

We pass by a statue of Lincoln with ‘Marriage for All!’ and "Gay Rights are Human Rights!" flags tucked in the crooks of his arms and hanging off his hat.

It’s about noon, noon-thirty when we finally make it through the doors and out of the rain.

They’ve promised that anyone who’s inside when the doors shut will get married. We made it. We’re safe.

We still have a -long- way to go.

00000

They’re trying to fit as many people into City Hall as possible. Partially to get people out of the rain, mostly to get as many people indoors as possible. The line now stretches down into the basement and up side stairs and through hallways I’m not entirely sure the public should ever be given access to. We crawl along slowly but surely.

It’s after we’ve gone through the low-ceiling basement hallways past offices and storage and back up another set of staircases and are going through a back hallway of low-ranked functionary offices that someone comes along handing out the paperwork. “It’s an hour or so until you hit the office, but take the time to fill these out so you don’t have to do it there!”

We spend our time filling out the paperwork against walls, against backs, on stone floors, on books.

We enter one of the public areas, filled with displays and photos of City Hall Demonstrations of years past.

I take pictures of the big black and white photo of the Abraham Lincoln statue holding banners and signs against segregation and for civil rights.

The four year old boy we helped get inside runs past us around this time, chased by a blond haired girl about his own age, both perused by an exhausted looking teenager helplessly begging them to stop running.

Everyone is wet and exhausted and vibrating with anticipation and the building-wide aura of happiness that infuses everything.

The line goes into the marriage office. A dozen people are at the desk, shoulder to shoulder, far more than it was built to have working it at once.

A Sister of Perpetual Indulgence is directing people to city officials the moment they open up. She’s done up in her nun getup with all her makeup on and her beard is fluffed and be-glittered and on point. “Oh, I was here yesterday getting married myself, but today I’m acting as your guide. Number 4 sweeties, and -Congradulatiooooons!-“

The guy behind the counter has been there since six. It’s now 1:30. He’s still giddy with joy. He counts our money. He takes our paperwork, reviews it, stamps it, sends off the parts he needs to, and hands the rest back to us. “Alright, go to the Rotunda, they’ll direct you to someone who’ll do the ceremony. Then, if you want the certificate, they’ll direct you to -that- line.” “Can’t you just mail it to us?” “Normally, yeah, but the moment the courts shut us down, we’re not going to be allowed to.”

We take our paperwork and join the line to the Rotunda.

If you’ve seen James Bond: A View to a Kill, you’ve seen the San Francisco City Hall Rotunda. There are literally a dozen spots set up along the balconies that overlook the open area where marriage officials and witnesses are gathered and are just processing people through as fast as they can.

That’s for the people who didn’t bring their own wedding officials.

There’s a Catholic-adjacent couple there who seem to have brought their entire families -and- the priest on the main steps. They’re doing the whole damn thing. There’s at least one more Rabbi at work, I can’t remember what else. Just that there was a -lot-.

We get directed to the second story, northside. The San Francisco City Treasurer is one of our two witnesses. Our marriage officient is some other elected official I cannot remember for the life of me (and I'm only writing down what I can actively remember, so I can't turn to my husband next to me and ask, but he'll have remembered because that's what he does.)

I have a wilting lily flower tucked into my shirt pocket. My pants have water stains up to the knees. My hair is still wet from the rain, I am blubbering, and I can’t get the ring on my husband’s finger. The picture is a treat, I tell you.

There really isn’t a word for the mix of emotions I had at that time. Complete disbelief that this was reality and was happening. Relief that we’d made it. Awe at how many dozens of people had personally cheered for us along the way and the hundreds to thousands who’d cheered for us generally.

Then we're married.

Then we get in line to get our license.

It’s another hour. This time, the line goes through the higher stories. Then snakes around and goes past the doorway to the mayor’s office.

Mayor Newsom is not in today. And will be having trouble getting into his office on Tuesday because of the absolute barricade of letters and flowers and folded up notes and stuffed animals and City Hall maps with black marked “THANK YOU!”s that have been piled up against it.

We make it to the marriage records office.

I take a picture of my now husband standing in front of a case of the marriage records for 1902-1912. Numerous kids are curled up in corners sleeping. My own memory is spotty. I just know we got the papers, and then we’re done with lines. We get out, we head to the front entrance, and we walk out onto the City Hall steps.

It's almost 3PM.

00000

There are cheers, there’s rice thrown at us, there are hundreds of people celebrating us with unconditional love and joy and I had never before felt the goodness that exists in humanity to such an extent. It’s no longer raining, just a light sprinkle, but there are still no protestors. There’s barely even any news vans.

We make our way through the gauntlet, we get hands shaked, people with signs reading ”Congratulations!” jump up and down for us. We hit the sidewalks, and we begin to limp our way back to the BART station.

I’m at the BART station, we’re waiting for our train back south, and I’m sitting on the ground leaning against a pillar and in danger of falling asleep when a nondescript young man stops in front of me and shuffles his feet nervously. “Hey. I just- I saw you guys, down at City Hall, and I just… I’m so happy for you. I’m so proud of what you could do. I’m- I’m just really glad, glad you could get to do this.”

He shakes my hand, clasps it with both of his and shakes it. I thank him and he smiles and then hurries away as fast as he can without running.

Our train arrives and the trip south passes in a semilucid blur.

We get back to our car and climb in.

It’s 4:30 and we are starving.

There’s a Carls Jr near the station that we stop off at and have our first official meal as a married couple. We sit by the window and watch people walking past and pick out others who are returning from San Francisco. We're all easy to pick out, what with the combination of giddiness and water damage.

We get home about 6-7. We take the dog out for a good long walk after being left alone for two days in a row. We shower. We bundle ourselves up. We bury ourselves in blankets and curl up and just sort of sit adrift in the surrealness of what we’d just done.

We wake up the next day, Tuesday, to read that the California State Supreme Court has rejected the petition to shut down the San Francisco weddings because the paperwork had a misplaced comma that made the meaning of one phrase unclear.

The State Supreme Court would proceed to play similar bureaucratic tricks to drag the process out for nearly a full month before they have nothing left and finally shut down Mayor Newsom’s marriages.

My parents had been out of state at the time at a convention. They were flying into SFO about the same moment we were walking out of City Hall. I apologized to them later for not waiting and my mom all but shook me by the shoulders. “No! No one knew that they’d go on for so long! You did what you needed to do! I’ll just be there for the next one!”

00000

It was just a piece of paper. Legally, it didn’t even hold any weight thirty days later. My philosophy at the time was “marriage really isn’t that important, aside from the legal benefits. It’s just confirming what you already have.”

But maybe it’s just societal weight, or ingrained culture, or something, but it was different after. The way I described it at the time, and I’ve never really come up with a better metaphor is, “It’s like we were both holding onto each other in the middle of the ocean in the middle of a storm. We were keeping each other above water, we were each other’s support. But then we got this piece of paper. And it was like the ground rose up to meet our feet. We were still in an ocean, still in the middle of a storm, but there was a solid foundation beneath our feet. We still supported each other, but there was this other thing that was also keeping our heads above the water.

It was different. It was better. It made things more solid and real.

I am forever grateful for all the forces and all the people who came together to make it possible. It’s been twenty years and we’re still together and still married.

We did a domestic partnership a year later to get the legal paperwork. We’d done a private ceremony with proper rings (not just ones grabbed out of the husband’s collection hours before) before then. And in 2008, we did a legal marriage again.

Rushed. In a hurry. Because there was Proposition 13 to be voted on which would make them all illegal again if it passed.

It did, but we were already married at that point, and they couldn’t negate it that time.

Another few years after that, the Supreme Court finally threw up their hands and said "Fine! It's been legal in places and nothing's caught on fire or been devoured by locusts. It's legal everywhere. Shut up about it!"

And that was that.

00000

When I was in highschool, in the late 90s, I didn’t expect to see legal gay marriage until I was in my 50s. I just couldn’t see how the American public as it was would ever be okay with it.

I never expected to be getting married within five years. I never expected it to be legal nationwide before I’d barely started by 30s. I never thought I’d be in my 40s and it’d be such a non-issue that the conservative rabble rousers would’ve had to move onto other wedge issues altogether.

I never thought that I could introduce another man as my husband and absolutely no one involved would so much as blink.

I never thought I’d live in this world.

And it’s twenty years later today. I wonder how our line buddies are doing. Those babies who were running around the wide open rooms playing tag will have graduated college by now. The kids whose parents the one line-buddy was worried would see him are probably married too now. Some of them to others of the same gender.

I don’t have some greater message to make with all this. Other then, culture can shift suddenly in ways you can’t predict. For good or ill. Mainly this is just me remembering the craziest fucking 36 hours of my life twenty years after the fact and sharing them with all of you.

The future we’re resigned to doesn’t have to be the one we live in. Society can shift faster than you think. The unimaginable of twenty years ago is the baseline reality of today.

And always remember that the people who want to get married will show up by the thousands in rain that none of those who’re against it will brave.

[shinoko-oshi]

Simon likes what you likes

Tomorrow I promise to get some requests in my inbox done 🤞

Whenever Simon was asked what his favorite color was, or favorite movie, favorite song, favorite anything, really he always had the same answer.

“Don’t have one.”

Johnny would roll his eyes. Kyle would snort and call him a grump. Price wouldn’t bother asking. But Simon never thought too hard about it. He didn’t see the point. Liking things—really liking them—meant caring. And caring opened doors to places he preferred staying locked.

That was before you.

Before you, with your endless lists of favorites. Your hobbies, your collections, the way you lit up when talking about a movie you loved or a book you couldn’t put down. You could talk for hours. And you often did— sometimes with him half-listening, half-lost in the rhythm of your voice more than the actual words.

And somehow, over time, your favorites became his.

That one film you swore he had to watch? He rolled his eyes, grumbled through the first half— then watched it again when you weren’t home. It was the way you recited your favorite scenes by heart that eventually made it his favorite, too.

The book you kept on your nightstand? He picked it up one lazy afternoon, expecting to read a few pages just to pass the time. He finished it in a day.

Still, every time you asked him about his own favorites, he’d just shrug.

“I like what you like.”

You’d frown. Just a little. A soft downturn of your lips that made something in his chest ache.

So one day, he sat down and thought about it. Really thought.

What did he like? What was his thing?

Guns. Killing. Tracking a moving target from a hundred yards out and watching it drop.

Right. Cool.

So he took you to a shooting range. Taught you how to hold the weapon properly. How to breathe through the shot. How to steady your hands and trust your instincts. He might’ve gotten a little carried away with the details— describing things in a way that probably sounded more violent than romantic. But you liked it. You smiled through the recoil.

You liked doing what you thought he liked.

But the truth?

He would’ve rather been at one of your pottery classes. Covered in clay, watching you laugh when he ruined another mug. He’d rather be curled up on the couch, rewatching your favorite film for the third time. He’d rather do anything, everything, if it meant doing it with you.

Because Simon didn’t care about the things.

He cared about you.

He liked your smile. The way you dressed. The way you smelled— so much that he started using your body wash without even thinking about it.

“Why do ya smell like cupcakes, Lt?” Johnny had asked once, squinting at him, nose wrinkled.

Simon didn’t even blink.

“Your bloody nose probably doesn’t work properly after all the times you’ve been punched in the face.”

He never told him the real reason. Didn’t have to.

He’d already made up his mind.

It was never about the movie, the book, or the smell of your shampoo clinging to his skin. It was about you. About keeping a piece of you close, even in the smallest, stupidest ways. Simon didn’t need a list of favorites.

He had one. Just one. And it was you. Always you.

[reilemon]

𔘓 Let's Break Up, Sylus! 𔘓

⚠ MINORS DNI (18+ ONLY) ⚠

♡︎ Reason for the breakup? You got tired of chasing Sylus’ shadow.

♡︎ pairing: Sylus x fem!reader

♡︎ cw: brief mention of blood and wounds

♡︎ tags: angst, fluff, smut, dry humping, oral (female receiving), multiple orgasms

♡︎ word count: 6.5k

♡︎ a/n: idk, i don't like how i wrote the breakup fics, but i'd feel bad if i never posted them. so, if you don't like how i wrote this, especially the breakup part, then pls don't say anything.

♡︎ Thank you to my dearest friend and my beta reader ♡︎@its-de♡︎ for helping.

divider by @anitalenia

The faint hum of the car does nothing to soothe your nerves. If anything, it only serves as a reminder of today’s plans, the source of your anxiety. You sit in the driver’s seat, the plane tickets trembling slightly in your hands. You glance toward the house—the lights shining through the bedroom window suggests he woke up. You exhale slowly, staring at the tickets again.

This isn’t how you imagined your vacation. This was supposed to be your time to recharge, to take a step back from the chaos of work, but instead, you’re about to board a plane to a place you hadn’t even known existed. All because you couldn’t stay behind.

The irony isn’t lost on you. Hunters aren’t passive. The words you planned to say to him when he sees you holding up the tickets, rehearsed in your head with all the conviction you could muster. But now, sitting here in the quiet, you can’t help but wonder if bravery is just a mask for recklessness.

Would it really have been so terrible to let him go alone this time?

Your gaze drifts to the empty passenger seat.

Did he expect you to follow him?

You glance at your reflection in the rear-view mirror, the faint circles under your eyes a proof to the sleepless nights that have become all too familiar. Staying behind would’ve meant another string of those nights—lying awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he was alive, injured, or worse.

But this... this is no better.

The front door of the house creaks open, and you sit up straighter. Sylus steps out, his tall frame moving with its usual confidence, his silver hair catching the early light. He looks like he always does—calm, in control, untouchable. And you’re supposed to be the same.

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

The room is dimly lit, the single overhead bulb flickering faintly like it might give out at any moment. The walls are bare, the furniture is sparse and the air is heavy. The faint metallic tang of blood lingers, mixing with the sharp bite of antiseptic.

Sylus sits on one of the chairs, his long legs sprawled out in front of him, his shirt discarded and tossed over the backrest. Blood-stained rags lie on the table beside him. His torso is marred with fresh cuts and bruises, deep gashes standing out against the taut muscle of his abdomen. You kneel in front of him, wrapping clean bandages around his ribs. Your forearm is already bandaged—a sloppy, hurried job. He’d insisted you patch yourself up first, his tone leaving no room for argument.

The quiet between you is oppressive. The only sound is the rustle of bandages and the faint hum of the overhead light.

Sylus watches you carefully. Usually, by now, you’d be berating him for getting hurt, but he knows that you always mask your worry with irritation. Or you’d be recounting the mission in vivid detail, your energy buzzing with lingering adrenaline. But tonight, you’re silent, your gaze focused on the task at hand, not meeting his.

“You’re quiet tonight.” he says.

You don’t look at him, your fingers securing the bandage. “I’m tired,” you reply curtly, your voice flat.

It’s a half-truth, and you both know it. He stays still, letting you finish your work, though his gaze never wavers.

Your mind won’t stop racing. The mission plays over and over in your head, the close calls, the mistakes, the weight of Sylus’ injuries.

“There.” you say quietly, standing up and turning away to gather the discarded rags and put them into a plastic bag, your back to him as you fight to steady your breathing.

Behind you, Sylus shifts slightly in the chair, his eyes following you.

“You handled everything well.” he says, his tone soft, almost coaxing. “Better than well. You were incredible out there.”

You freeze mid-motion, your fingers still gripping the bag. You swallow hard, trying to stifle the frustration bubbling in your chest, but it’s too late. When you turn to face him, your expression betrays you.

Sylus raises an eyebrow, his head tilting slightly as he studies you. “What’s that look for?” he asks with the faintest hint of amusement in his voice.

You take a step closer, arms crossing over your chest. “Sylus, we barely made it out. I don’t think anything about this is ‘incredible’.”

His lips quirk in a wry smile. “A few scratches. I’ve had worse.”

That does it. “Wha - Do you even hear yourself? ‘A few scratches’?!”

His smirk falters, replaced by a flicker of confusion, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You didn’t even want me to know about this mission!” you continue, your voice rising. “I had to dig through your phone, beg my colleague for help, buy plane tickets, and then throw myself into danger just to keep up with you!”

Sylus’ jaw tightens, but his gaze stays fixed on you.

“And now you’re sitting here, acting like this is normal, like this is fine. Like it’s okay that we’re both bandaged up in the middle of nowhere!”

You don’t realize your hands are trembling until you feel the sting of your nails digging into your palms. Sylus stands, almost carefully stepping closer to you.

“I didn’t want you to get hurt.” he says, his voice low but firm.

“Too late for that,” you snap, your breath coming faster now. “Do you have any idea how exhausting this is? How much I—”

You cut yourself off, your throat too dry to continue. Your chest heaves, your heart pounding as you glare at him.

Sylus stays silent for a moment, his eyes searching yours. Then he speaks. “You didn’t have to come with me. You could’ve stayed behind.”

A bitter laugh escapes you. “Stayed behind? And what? Spent another week staring at the ceiling, wondering if you’re dead or alive?” You take in a shaky breath. “I didn’t come because I wanted to, Sylus. I came because the alternative was worse. It’s always worse.”

His expression falters for a split second, a flicker of something—surprise? Hurt?—crossing his face before it hardens again. “I knew you could handle it. I’ve always seen you as capable—more than capable.”

“And that’s part of the problem!” you fire back, your voice trembling now. “You always expect me to be right there, don’t you? Always catching up, always bending my life to fit yours. Do you know how exhausting that is?”

For the first time, Sylus doesn’t have a ready response. The argument stumbles into silence. The adrenaline of your frustration fades, leaving behind an aching exhaustion.

“I can’t keep doing this, Sylus,” you say quietly. “I can’t keep choosing you over everything else. Over my own sanity. Over my own life. I need to be on my own.”

His expression doesn’t change, but your eyes know his too well to be deceived – you know your words hurt him. He doesn’t argue, though. Instead, he steps toward you. You don’t pull away as he stops in front of you, his fingers brushing gently over your cheek. His touch is so tender that it takes everything in you not to lean into it.

“You’ll always have a place with me.” he murmurs.

His words pierce straight through you, and your chest tightens as you see the quiet acceptance in his gaze that makes it so much harder to walk away. Your throat constricts, but you manage a small nod. Stepping back, you feel the loss of his touch immediately, a hollow ache spreading through you as you turn to leave.

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

Returning to work feels refreshing. That’s what you tell yourself. You smile through the questions about your bandaged forearm - “Just a stupid accident.” you brush them off with a rehearsed laugh and no one presses.

You take every mission they throw your way. You linger in the office long after everyone has left their desks, filing reports and analyzing cases until your eyes burn. When you’re not at work, you’re training. You work your body until your muscles shake, until your lungs burn. Exhaustion becomes your companion, the only thing that lets you collapse into bed.

And when you give your muscles a breather, you throw yourself into social plans. Nights at the bar with friends blur together into a haze of laughter and drinks. You keep the conversation light, deflecting whenever someone asks about your love life.

But you can’t always stop your mind from wandering.

On your walks through the city, where you tell yourself you’re just stretching your legs, just enjoying the scenery, the truth peeks through. You’re looking for him. A glint of silver hair in the crowd, the flutter of dark feathers overhead—anything that might mean Sylus is nearby. But he never is.

The frustration comes in waves, sharp and bitter. Sometimes it’s anger at him—for the secrecy, for the danger he seemed so at ease with. Other times, it’s anger at yourself. For following him. For leaving him. For caring so damn much. And yet, no matter how busy you keep yourself, the memories slip through the cracks. The way he’d call you ‘kitten’ in that smooth tone. The glint in his eyes when he teased you. The softness in them in the quiet moments. How he made you feel like you were the only person who truly mattered to him.

As the days pass, the routine becomes second nature. You throw yourself into missions, into nights out, into silence. The wound on your arm heals, but others linger. And no matter how much you try to move forward, his shadow remains.

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

You lie in your bed, staring at the ceiling faintly illuminated by the light of the tablet beside you. It’s paused on some show you weren’t really watching. The air feels heavy tonight. You pull the blanket tighter around your shoulders, as if it could shield you from the thoughts creeping in, from the memories you’ve spent all day trying to push away.

Your focus is pulled towards your phone lying face down on the nightstand. You tell yourself to ignore it, to roll over and let sleep take you. But before you can stop yourself, you’re reaching for it.

The screen lights up, the harsh glow making you squint. Your tired eyes take a moment to adjust, before your finger taps the messaging app. You shouldn’t. You know you shouldn’t look for his name. But tonight, you can’t help it.

Tapping the thread, the messages he sent a week or two ago fill the screen.

“The flower finally bloomed.” [Attached: A photo of a vibrant red flower, its petals unfurling.]

You skim through the words you’d typed in response.

“It’s beautiful.”

Further down, there’s another message—a photo of the same flower, wilted and curling in on itself. “Guess I should’ve expected this.”

You never replied to that one.

You scroll up, searching for happier times. Your thumb slows as you reach an older picture—one of the two of you. Sylus has your cheeks squished in his big hand, your face pouting in mock annoyance. Your eyes linger on his face. You gaze at his soft, genuine smile – an expression only you had the privilege to see.

And then there’s the voice note.

Your finger hovers over the play button, your chest tightening as you debate whether to listen. You remember the moment clearly—Sylus had sent it during one of his missions. You press play - his voice is quieter than usual, but the smile in his tone is obvious:

“I’ll be back soon, kitten. Don’t get too comfortable without me.”

Your vision blurs as tears gather in your eyes, spilling over before you can stop them. Pulling the blankets tighter around yourself, you press your face into the pillow, letting the tears fall freely.

You lie there in the dim light, the sound of your own breathing filling the room as sleep creeps up on you. The tears dry slowly on your lashes, but the ache in your chest doesn’t fade.

Eventually, exhaustion wins.

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

Your breath fogs in the chilly air as you step outside a corner store, clutching a pack of noodles like a prize. You glance at the time on your phone and sigh. It’s late. Too late, actually, to be out in the cold hunting down instant noodles. But the craving wouldn’t leave you alone, not after the day you’ve had.

It had started early. You’d dragged yourself out of bed and decided to keep busy— run errands, go to the gym, deep clean the apartment. A pampering routine followed. Scrubbing the grime of the day away in a shower, leaving your skin soft and your mind momentarily calm. Wrapped in your fluffiest robe, smelling like heaven, you’d almost felt good.

Then the craving had started sometime after dinner. A silly little craving for a specific flavor of noodles you thought you had in your kitchen. You opened the cabinet and couldn’t find it, but you were determined, so you threw on a sweater and a pair of leggings and stepped out. The impulse led you further away from you building since your corner store didn’t have them.

Now, here you are.

You pass by the small park near your apartment, and your thoughts are more on getting home than on your surroundings.

But something catches your eye.

A figure with silver strands illuminated under the soft glow of a streetlamp. Your feet falter, your pulse quickening as your gaze zeroes in on him. Sylus.

He’s there, at the park, crouching with his arm extended toward a stray cat that eyes him warily. The sight is so achingly familiar —his careful, as-patient-as-possible approach, the way he stays still, letting the animal come to him. You don’t realize you’re staring, too focused on watching the scene unfold. The cat inches closer, sniffing cautiously at his outstretched hand. He murmurs something low, his voice too soft to hear from this distance. The sight is so disarming, so tender, that your chest tightens.

Slowly, you take a step forward, then another, careful not to startle the skittish animal. You approach from the side, your heart racing faster with each step. He must’ve sensed you before he sees you because his head tilts slightly, his attention shifting from the cat to you. His eyes meet yours, widening slightly in surprise. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The cat darts away, but you barely register it.

Sylus straightens to his full height.

“It’s been a while.” he says softly.

For a moment, you’re lost in his eyes – the tenderness his mesmerizing eyes hold when they’re on you.  You slightly shake your head as you catch yourself staring, your brain scrambling for a teasing remark, “I didn’t think you’d actually get the cat to—”

Your voice falters when you notice the cat again. It’s sitting a few feet away in the shadows, watching you and Sylus with wide eyes.

“Sorry,” you murmur. “I think I scared it off.”

Sylus chuckles. “Don’t worry. I just wanted to feed it anyway.”

True to his words, he reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a small can of tuna. He crouches again, flipping open the lid with ease. His eyes flick to your hands.

“Still on the hunt for those, I see.” he teases, nodding toward the noodles you’d been craving.

You chuckle, about to reply, when the faintest frown crosses his features. Your eyes dart to his hands, and you notice the thin red line on his finger, a bead of blood welling at the tip.

“You cut yourself.” you say with tone sharper than you intended.

“It’s fine.” he replies casually.

Sylus places the can on the ground before stepping back to let the timid cat approach. As expected, the cat approaches, its tiny nose twitching as it investigates the food. You’re about to smile at the sight, but your focus snaps back to him when you catch the bead of blood rolling down his finger. Before you even think about it, you step closer and reach for his hand.

“Let me see.” you say softly, taking his hand in yours.

His fingers are cool, the faint roughness of his skin familiar under your touch. You tilt his hand, inspecting the small cut. Sylus doesn’t say a word, but you feel the weight of his gaze on you, the way his red eyes soften as he watches you carefully inspect the cut.

You clear your throat, letting go of his hand. “It’s not bad.” you murmur. “But it should be cleaned. And you’ll need a band-aid.” You glance around, as if a store might magically stay open just for you, but the quiet streets and locked doors tell you otherwise. Before you can stop yourself, the words slip out:

“You should come to my apartment.”

The moment the invitation leaves your lips, you freeze, realizing what you’ve just said. A habit developed of all the times you’ve patched him up before. And it still hasn’t died, no matter how much distance you’ve tried to put between you.

For a second, neither of you says anything. The cat crunches happily on its meal, oblivious to the sudden tension in the air.

Sylus tilts his head, studying you, then shrugs lightly. “If you’re offering.”

You nod, more to yourself than to him, convincing yourself it’s no big deal. He’ll come up, you’ll clean the cut, and he’ll leave. That’s it.

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Even though you were in your apartment minutes ago, now it feels completely different with Sylus standing in your entryway. You catch how he glances around, his eyes taking in every detail. Then he notices a particular pair of slippers near the door, and you quietly nudge them toward him with your foot.

“These are yours.” you murmur.

Without a word, he slips off his shoes and slides into the slippers.

You motion for him to sit on the sofa while you retrieve the first aid kit from the bathroom. When you return, Sylus is already seated, relaxed as always, his eyes following your every move. Sitting beside him, you set the kit on the coffee table and take his hand in yours again. You focus intently on cleaning the small cut on his finger, trying to ignore the awkward silence. The alcohol wipe stings, and his hand twitches slightly, but he doesn’t pull away. You press the band-aid over the wound carefully, your fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary.

"There," you murmur softly. "All done."

But neither of you moves. His hand lingers in yours, and when you glance up, his gaze is already on you. Sylus shifts slightly, leaning forward just enough to brush his knee against yours. He lifts his free hand, his knuckles grazing your cheek.

His voice, low and soft, breaks the silence. "Can I hug you?"

Your chest tightens, the lump forming in your throat almost unbearable, but you nod, and it’s all the invitation he needs. Sylus shifts closer, his arms wrapping around you carefully, as though you might slip away if he moves too fast. The warmth of him envelops you as you rest your hands on his back, your cheek pressing against the soft fabric of his shirt, taking in his scent. You press your lips tightly, willing yourself to remain calm, but a single tear escapes, trailing down your cheek before soaking into his shirt.  Sylus holds you tighter, his hand moving slowly, soothing you. Neither of you speaks, the silence filled only with the faint sound of your breathing and the distant hum of the city outside.

When you finally pull back, his hands linger on your waist. His touch is light, uncertain whether you’ll allow him to keep holding you. His eyes trace the faint streak of wetness on your cheek, and with unbearable tenderness, his thumb brushes it away.

Your gaze flickers downward, just for a moment. A fleeting glance at his lips. But it’s long enough for him to notice.

With a quiet inhale, his thumb drifts, trailing from your cheek to your jaw, then lower—grazing your bottom lip. He hesitates there, his fingers barely pressing against your skin.

His eyes search yours before he asks, “Can I kiss you?”

Your breath hitches, your heart hammering in your chest. A quiet sound escapes you—a barely audible hum of approval, “Mhm.”

He exhales, relief flickering in his eyes. The corners of his lips twitch, just slightly, before he slowly, carefully, leans in.

His lips brush softly against yours, your breaths mingling. His hands slide up your back, pulling you closer. You feel the faint tremble in his fingers as they press into the fabric of your sweater. Without thinking, your hands reach for him—trailing over his shoulders, up the curve of his neck, until your fingers slip into the softness of his hair. A low, faint hum escapes his throat, vibrating against your lips.

When he pulls back, just enough to break the kiss, his forehead rests against yours. His breath fans across your face, warm and uneven.

“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.” he’s whispers, “I thought I could give you space, let you find peace without me, but—” His jaw tightens briefly, the muscles flexing as he searches for the words. “But every day felt wrong. I left a part of myself with you, and I don’t know how to be without it.”

His hands slide down to your waist, “I don’t know if I should ask you this, but - ” his gaze locks onto yours. “Can I stay a little longer?”

The lump in your throat doesn’t let up. You know why you left – how keeping up with his lifestyle has taken a toll on your mind and body. But you also know that the man, whose eyes are filled with adoration and reverence as he waits for your answer, is the sanctuary for your heart.

You nod, “I would like that.” You take in a shaky breath, your hands settling on his neck.

Sylus stills for a second, like he needs to make sure he heard you right. His grip on your waist tightens, and his breath hitches when you’re the one who closes the distance. He angles your face gently in his hands, his palms warm against your skin. His thumbs brush featherlight strokes along your cheekbones as he deepens the kiss. As though memorizing the shape of your lips, the taste of your mouth, the way you melt against him. Then his hands find your waist again, pulling you closer until the hard plane of his chest presses against yours. You feel the faint shudder in his breathing, the tension in his body, like he’s holding himself back despite the way his lips devour yours. You sink into the kiss, your nails lightly grazing the back of his neck, feeling the way his breath hitches at your touch. But the hunger builds—his kisses growing deeper, needier.

His hand slides down, finding your thigh, his palm searing through the thin fabric of your leggings, the touch making your breath stutter as liquid heat pools low in your belly.

Sylus exhales sharply. “Tell me if this is too much.” he murmurs against your lips. His thumb strokes your thigh in small, soothing circles, a contrast to the possessive grip of his other hand still anchored to your waist.

You shake your head, pulling him back in. “It’s not,” you whisper, though deep down, there’s a flicker of hesitation.

Of course, he notices. He always does. He leans back slightly, just enough to meet your eyes. “We don’t have to do anything tonight. Just this.”

Your fingers tremble slightly as they thread into his hair, tugging him back down. You kiss him again—with more urgency, as though trying to chase away your own uncertainty. And then you move without thinking, shifting onto your knees as you swing one leg over his lap, straddling him. Sylus groans softly as you settle onto him, his hands sliding to your hips, holding you there, and you can feel his cock pressing against your clothed core.

His breath is a ragged exhale against your skin, his lips trail down the line of your jaw, his teeth grazing just enough to leave a lingering tingle. His lips settle on the side of your neck, nipping and sucking the sensitive skin. You shudder, fingers tangling into the soft hair at the nape of his neck as warmth floods through you.

And then your hips move, feeling the hard press of him against the damp heat between your legs, the delicious friction making Sylus groan in response. His hands slide up, slipping beneath your sweater, palms skimming the heated skin of your back. Then his hips shift beneath you, pressing up to meet you in a deep grind. The motion sends a shock of pleasure straight to your core, your hands holding onto his shoulders as heat coils tighter inside you. His hands go back to your hips, guiding your movements, keeping you anchored to him as you find a rhythm together.

His lips unlatch from your neck, shifting his attention to you, watching every flicker of pleasure on your face. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Just like that.”

The way he’s looking at you, the way his body moves with yours—it’s too much, too good, and the coiling pressure in your core tightens too fast. Your nails dig into the fabric of his shirt, your thighs trembling against his hips. You try to slow down, to savor it, but the pleasure builds too quickly.

The orgasm hits out of nowhere. A soft, breathless cry tumbles from your lips and your body tightens, your hips stuttering against him as the pleasure rolls through you.

Sylus stills beneath you, his grip steadying you, his breathing uneven as he watches you come undone. His expression is both hunger and devotion. The corner of his lips tugs into a small smile.

The heat creeps up your cheeks as the mortification sets in. Your heart still racing, you bury your face against his shoulder. “I— I didn’t mean to—”

His hands are already sliding up, cradling your back. His voice is low, soothing. “Don’t,” he whispers, his lips brushing over your temple. “I’ve missed seeing you like this.”

His hands drift lower again, gripping your waist, pulling you closer. His mouth moves down, lips grazing your ear.

"Can you give me one more?"

Your cheeks flush at the question, the residual buzz of your climax still tingling through your limbs. You answer by shifting your hips, experimentally rolling them forward. The motion pulls a deep, guttural groan from his throat, and the sound alone makes your core tingle.

"That's my girl." Sylus rasps.

He starts a rhythm for you, his grip firm enough to steer you but loose enough for you to take control if you wish. The friction is delicious, his cock pressing against your soaked underwear through the fabric of his pants, creating just enough pressure to. The layers of clothing feel like a tease, amplifying every grind, every roll of your hips.

"You're so sensitive." he murmurs, his gaze never leaving your face.

His words make you shiver, spurring you on to move faster, your hips gaining a mind of their own. You can feel his breath on your neck as he leans forward, his lips brushing your ear.

"I want to hear you again." he whispers, teeth grazing the delicate shell of your ear.

Your body reacts instinctively, your pace faltering as you gasp, the coil of pleasure winding tighter with each roll of his hips. Sylus doesn’t let you lose the rhythm, his hands guiding your hips again.

"Let go for me." he urges, his voice a low rumble.

His words, combined with the perfect grind of his body against yours, tip you over the edge. A broken moan escapes your lips as the pleasure crashes through you once more. Your thighs tremble, your body arching as you cling to him, his name spilling from your lips. He groans as his grip tightens on your hips as he presses you down against him, drawing out every last pulse of your orgasm. His gaze locks onto yours, as he watches you come apart in his arms.

You slump forward, panting against him, your forehead brushing his shoulder as your arms wrap around his neck. His hands roam your back now, soothing as you catch your breath. You can feel the tension radiating from his body, the rigid line of his cock still pressing against you.

"Better?" he murmurs.

Your body feels like jelly, but you crave more. With a shaky exhale, you nod, nuzzling your face against his neck, the gesture earning a soft chuckle from him. You give yourself a moment to catch your breath before you sit up and move. Sylus doesn’t take his eyes off you as you stand from his lap, following your hands as they grip the hem of your sweater, lifting it over your head to reveal your bare skin. The soft glow from the living room lamp caresses every curve of your body, and his lips part slightly as he drinks in the sight of you. You hesitate briefly, heart pounding, before your fingers hook into the waistband of your leggings, sliding them down with your panties in one smooth motion, and now you stand completely bare before him.

Sylus leans forward, his breath warm as it fans over your skin. His gaze trails up your body, lingering for a moment, before settling on your face.

“You’re breathtaking.” he murmurs, his voice a low rasp.

You don’t have time to respond before his hands settle on your thighs. His lips brush against the curve of your hip, tender and sweet. He shifts forward, kissing the crease of your thigh, then above your pelvis, the attention making your knees weak. His hands slide up the backs of your thighs, gently urging you closer.

He turns around to push stray pillows off the sofa, before turning back to you, “Come here,” he says. “I want to taste you.”

Your breath hitches at the words, but you follow his lead. Sylus lies back on the sofa, his hands guiding your hips to straddle him, your knees settling on either side of his head. For a moment, you hover above him, your nerves fluttering. But you find reassurance when Sylus looks up at you with a gaze so utterly devoted as he places a kiss on your inner thigh.

“Don’t hold back,” he murmurs, his grip tightening slightly as he guides you down.

A soft gasp leaves your lips at the first stroke of his tongue against you wet folds. You grip the backrest with one hand, while the other one finds purchase in his hair and he pulls you closer, burying himself between your thighs. His tongue moves with expert precision, swirling and dipping, but then his nose presses against your clit, catching it just right, and a shiver bolts through you. The unexpected pressure makes your hips twitch, grinding against him instinctively. His tongue continues to lap at your entrance, tasting your juices, and the wet sounds of his mouth against you filling the room. You let yourself move, rolling your hips, the rhythm dragging your clit against the firm bridge of his nose while his tongue explores deeper, delving into you with an unrelenting hunger. Even lost in the haze of pleasure, you keep some of your weight off him, careful not to press down too hard.

“Sylus…” you whimper, the sound breathless, desperate.

He groans against you, the vibration coursing through your body and making you moan louder. His hands grip your thighs, keeping you steady but letting you control the movement, as though he relishes the way you’re using him to find your pleasure. Each grind sends sparks of ecstasy shooting through you, the friction of his nose against your clit and the way his tongue delves deeper, fucking you in shallow, filthy thrusts. He shifts slightly beneath you, the angle of his face changing just enough to hit a perfect spot, and your legs tremble as you chase another release, rolling your hips harder.

“Fuck - ” you gasp, your hands clutching the sofa like a lifeline.

Sylus hums again, his tongue and nose working in tandem to drive you higher, his hands kneading your thighs, encouraging you to let go completely. And you do.

You come with a shattered cry, hips jerking erratically as he drinks every pulse, every flutter, his grip tightening to keep you from pulling away from the overwhelming high. Your body slumps forward slightly, panting, thighs quivering as you try to gather yourself. But Sylus doesn’t give you time to recover. One moment, you’re perched above him, gasping in the aftershocks of your release, and the next, you’re on your back, the shift leaving you momentarily stunned.

You barely get the words out before his lips crash with yours. The moment your tongue brushes his, the taste of yourself coats your mouth. A shiver rolls through you, your thighs instinctively tightening around his waist. Sylus lets you kiss him like this, lets you taste what he’s done to you, but when your teeth graze his lower lip, teasing, claiming—his control finally breaks. Without breaking eye contact, he sits up just enough to swiftly take off his shirt before his lips are back on yours.

You hear the sound of his zipper, his hips shifting as he frees himself. His cock brushes against your drenched folds, the thick length sliding through your slickness, coating himself in your arousal. A shudder runs through both of you at the contact, the anticipation stretching unbearably between you.

Sylus exhales shakily, his forehead pressing against yours. “Can I finish inside?”

Without hesitation, you nod, your voice trembling as you whisper, “Yes... please.”

Sylus aligns himself, the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and he takes his time, pushing in slowly, watching your expression. The stretch is deliciously intense, every inch of him filling you, making your walls clench around him. A strangled groan escapes his throat as he bottoms out, his cock twitching inside you. His forearms cage you in, the heat of his body surrounding you as he rests his forehead against yours.

He starts to move, his thrusts slow and deep, dragging along every nerve inside you. But even with his languid pace, just the feel of your pussy already has him trembling. You feel him pulse, his hips stuttering as he groans your name, his body shuddering above you. Sylus buries himself as deep as he can, his cock throbbing as his release spills inside you. The warmth spreads, and you can feel every pulse of his cock as he collapses slightly against you, his breathing heavy, his lips brushing your neck.

But he doesn’t stop. Even as his hips jerk with the aftershocks of his first orgasm, he keeps moving, his cock still hard, still sensitive, as he rocks into you with slow thrusts.

“I can’t get enough of you.” he murmurs against your ear.

The sensation of his thick length moving inside you, now slick with his warm release, sends waves of delirious pleasure through you. Your hands cling to his shoulders, your nails pressing into his skin as his pace begins to pick up again. Your legs wrap tightly around his waist, pulling him deeper, and his name tumbles from your lips in breathless gasps. Sylus leans down, capturing your lips in a messy, desperate kiss, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as his hips snap against yours. The pressure builds rapidly inside you, your body arching into his as his cock hits every perfect spot, the wet sounds of your connection filling the room.

“I missed you.” you finally confess, your voice trembling as the words spill out between moans.

Sylus freezes for a heartbeat, his eyes searching yours, his thrusts faltering as your words hit him. “Say it again.” he demands softly, his lips brushing against yours as his hips begin to move faster.

“I missed you.” you repeat breathlessly.

His rhythm grows erratic, his breaths ragged as his second orgasm builds rapidly. His hips slam into yours, his cock throbbing inside you as he grips your hips tightly.

“Fuck - I’m gonna—” His words cut off with a strangled groan as he thrusts into you one last time, his release flooding you again. The sensation of him filling you, paired with the grind of his pelvis against your clit, pushes you over the edge, your walls clenching around him as your fourth orgasm tears through you.

Your breaths mingle as both of you come down from your highs. Sylus doesn’t move right away, his cock still buried inside you as you both lie tangled together on the sofa, your limbs wrapped around him tightly. His weight presses into you, grounding, comforting, his body a welcome warmth against yours.

His lips brush against your temple first, then your cheek, and finally your lips. There’s no urgency now, just a gentle savoring. His hand cups your face, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone as he pulls back slightly.

"I never want to lose you again," he murmurs, the sincerity in his tone making your chest ache. "I was a fool for not seeing how much you were struggling. I took your strength for granted and thought you didn’t need me to change."

You swallow hard, unshed tears stinging your eyes. Your arms tighten around him instinctively, your fingers threading through the damp strands of his hair. He meets your gaze, his eyes softer than you’ve ever seen them.

"I’m more than willing to compromise," he continues. "Whatever it takes. I don’t care if it means slowing down, changing plans, or letting you set the pace. Just... please. I need you."

A lump forms in your throat as his words sink in. The dam of emotions you’ve been holding back all night begins to crack, a single tear slipping down your cheek before you can stop it. Sylus notices immediately. His thumb brushes the tear away, his touch featherlight.

You take a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself, though there is a small tremble in your voice when you whisper. “I need you too."

Relief washes over his face, his lips curving into a small, genuine smile as he leans down to kiss you again, his hands cradling your face like you’re the most precious thing in his world. The kiss lingers, his lips moving against yours with tenderness that leaves no room for doubt. When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin as he whispers, "Thank you."

You smile softly, your heart swelling as you gaze up at him. For the first time in what feels like forever, the weight on your chest begins to lift, replaced by the tender hope cradling your heart.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨���₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

@totallytaurus4 @ladyparamount @solifloris @withering-dream @yumii-34 @sapphic-daze @feuilledelis @cheesemachine44 @codedove @curiositykilledthecatx3 @sarangdipity @grabby-smitten

[witchywithwhiskey]

happy birthday, congressman 💋

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x female reader

summary: the congressman has been busy all day on his birthday, so before you meet him at the gala you're attending as his date, you send him a playfully revealing photo—and it gets the exact reaction you were hoping for.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, sexting, nude photos, age gap (because bucky is 108 and reader's age is never referenced), light spanking, brief dry humping, clothes tearing, tit/nipple play, dirty talk, very light degradation, praise kink, congressman kink, pet names (baby), lipstick marking, possessiveness, teasing, flirting, kissing, some rough kissing, aftercare, cockwarming

word count: 4.1k

a/n: ok listen i know there's other stuff i need to be writing, but i always write a fic for bucky's birthday!! this year it really snuck up on me and i had nothing planned so i threw this idea/fic together today around a very long work day, so apologies if it's not up to my usual standard, but i hope y'all still enjoy it! ♡

Happy Birthday, congressman 💋 See you soon.

The flirty text was sent to Congressman James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes with a swoosh—but that wasn’t all you’d sent. You’d also attached a photo of yourself and, looking at it, you couldn’t help but smirk.

In the photo, you had your lips pursed as you blew a kiss at the camera, one eye closed in a coy wink. Although you knew the expression on your face, which was all dolled up for the gala that evening, would be enough to get Bucky’s attention, it wasn’t the whole focus of the photo.

No, that would be your tits.

Before snapping the photo, you’d pulled down the front of your gown and used your arm to push up your soft mounds, putting them on display for the camera—and, of course, whoever looked at the photo. Namely, Bucky.

But you paused to admire your camerawork. The angle made your tits look lush and supple, as much cleavage on display as was possible for you, and your nipples pebbled in such a way that they seemed to be begging for attention. 

It was by far one of your favorite nude photos you’d sent to Bucky and you eagerly awaited his response. Thankfully, you didn’t have to wait long.

Thank you, baby. You look beautiful. I can’t wait to see you.

Your smirk softened into a sweeter smile. It wasn’t the response you were expecting, not after you’d sent the congressman a photo of your tits while he was probably still in official government meetings, but it was appreciated nonetheless, especially since you hadn’t seen him all day.

Bucky had been gone from the apartment you shared by the time you’d woken up that morning, which you suspected was an attempt to avoid any fuss about his birthday. He wasn’t exactly overly fond of attention. 

But you’d wanted to wake him up by worshipping his cock, which you were pretty sure he would’ve enjoyed. However, the congressman had had other ideas. You probably should’ve known he’d make sure his day was fully packed so no one would have time to wish him a happy birthday—if anyone aside from you even knew. 

The nude photo as a teaser for meeting up with him at the gala that evening was your next best idea to surprise him with something you knew he’d like. Of course, you’d thought it would get a little bit more of a rise out of him, though you couldn’t stop your heart from warming at the praise in his text.

While staring at the text, and smiling at your phone like the silly lovesick idiot you were for Bucky Barnes, another message came in.

But let me make something clear: You’re in trouble for that photo. The Prime Minister of Japan almost saw your tits. That’s unacceptable, baby.

There it was. The response you’d been hoping for.

The warmth of desire suffused your belly and a grin spread across your face while you laughed happily. You were so delighted by Bucky’s response, you spun around in a circle, too giddy with excitement for what he might be planning to stop yourself from dancing a little in triumph.

Once you finally calmed yourself, you tapped out a response to Bucky’s message, beaming smugly to yourself when you imagined the way he’d growl indignantly at your text when he got it.

You worry too much, old man. 

Not even waiting for a response, you gathered your things quickly and shoved them in a clutch. Then you called a car and flounced out of the apartment, heading to see your congressman. 

“Who gave you the right to look this gorgeous at such a boring event?” 

A cool metal hand slipped around your hip, pulling your body back into something warm and firm. You relaxed immediately into the familiar hold, Bucky’s subtle cologne wrapping around you like your favorite blanket. 

Tipping your head back, you brushed a kiss to the underside of his jaw, taking care not to leave any lipstick behind. A tingle of delight danced through your body as you felt the rasp of his scruff against your lips, and you were so wound up, you nearly begged Bucky to take you right there. 

Thankfully, in the crowded room full of people, you were able to keep things light.

“I believe it’s you, congressman, who protects my right to look gorgeous at this very important event,” you murmured teasingly, turning in Bucky’s arms so you faced him. You leaned in at the same time he did, your lips meeting in a brief peck before you both pulled away.

There was a time and a place for public displays of affection, but at the gala honoring the anniversary of the Battle of New York, while you were the date to Congressman Bucky Barnes, wasn’t it. 

The grand marble hall had been filled with artifacts from the battle, and all of New York City’s wealthiest and most influential people had turned out to gawk while sipping very expensive champagne. You were acutely aware of all the subtle glances you and the congressman were getting as you took brief refuge beside a large piller.

Still, you couldn’t stop yourself from rubbing your hands down the lapels of Bucky’s suit jacket, pretending you were smoothing out any wrinkles from the black fabric, when you were really copping a feel. You never could get enough of touching him, your fingers digging greedily into the soft-padded muscles beneath his clothes. 

“Are you having a happy birthday, Buck?” you asked, your voice just above a whisper to make sure no one around you heard your question. You were certain he wanted to avoid a night of birthday wishes on top of all the smalltalk he’d have to endure.

Bucky’s arms had settled around your lower back and he tugged you in a little closer, trapping you against his chest with his vibranium forearm. Your eyes flared with surprise and your smile hitched up a notch. You could feel the beginning of a bulge in the front of Bucky’s suit, which made warmth bloom and unfurl in your lower belly.

“It’s getting better now that you’re here,” Bucky murmured, ducking down to brush a kiss to your cheek. The action also put his mouth close to your ear, giving him the opportunity to growl, “And the moment I get you alone, you’ll be paying the price for that picture you sent.”

Tossing your head back, you let out a light, tinkling laugh that certainly did not sound anything like a devious cackle. You knew the gala wasn’t the right place to be cackling at Bucky’s sinful promise, but that didn’t stop you from giving him as good as you got.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, old man,” you teased with a wink before pressing your own kiss to Bucky’s cheek. 

When you pulled back, you noticed you’d left a stain of lipstick in the shape of your mouth. A deep, instinctive part of you wanted to leave the mark on Bucky’s cheek. You wanted him to wear it as a reminder of who he belonged to. 

But you knew you couldn’t leave it. It wasn’t the time or the place.

Before you wiped it away, though, you pulled your phone from your clutch and turned again in Bucky’s arms, nestling your back against his chest as you lifted your phone and smiled.

Bucky’s eyes snagged on the mark on his cheek, the corners of his mouth curving into a smug, devastating smirk. His blue eyes were brimming with heat as you snapped a quick selfie of the two of you, his expression offering dark promises as you grinned unrepentantly with your mark on his cheek. 

Once your phone was stowed away, you used your thumb to wipe the lipstick from Bucky’s cheek. When that was done, you wrapped yourself around his vibranium arm, tucking your body into his side.

“Alright, congressman, let’s schmooze,” you said, squaring your shoulders and readying yourself for the dozens and dozens of smalltalk conversations you’d have to have with all of New York City’s finest. 

“Let’s get this over with,” Bucky agreed grimly, like he was preparing to charge into battle instead of into the crowd of elegantly dressed people milling about the large hall. 

Before you stepped into the crowd together, Bucky turned his head and brushed a kiss to your temple, murmuring, “The sooner we get this done, the sooner I get you alone and all to myself—and then I’ll truly get to enjoy my birthday.”

With those words swirling around in your head, Bucky led the way into the crowd, stopping after only a few strides to speak to Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, the director of the CIA. You forced yourself to push Bucky’s tantalizing promise from your mind as you fixed a smile on your face and greeted Valentina. 

The door to your apartment hadn’t even snapped shut before Bucky spun you around and pinned your back to the door, his big body crushing you against the firm wood as his mouth crashed down on yours.

His kiss was furious, all the pent up desire pouring out of him in the rough way his lips devoured yours, wringing breathy gasps and keening whines from the depths of your throat in mere minutes. 

The gala had lasted for ages, and Bucky hadn’t had a chance pull himself away from the constant smalltalk, let alone make good on his promises. In the car on the ride back to your apartment overlooking the skyline of New York City, both of you had been buzzing with need and desire, and you practically raced each other home. 

A moan tumbled from your lips as Bucky sank his teeth into your lower lip, your arms wrapping tightly around his neck to pull him even closer. Greedily, your fingers raked through his soft brown hair, lifting one of your thighs to hook around his hip and press your core against the thick bulge in his pants. 

Bucky’s warm hand grabbed your thigh, holding it up an squeezing you hard. There was a possessive hunger in the way his fingers dug into your soft flesh, and it made your own desire ratchet even higher. 

In the next moment, Bucky was bending down and grabbing the back of your other thigh. He lifted you up while your legs hooked around his waist, his mouth never breaking from yours as he continued his ravaging kiss. 

Your hands cupped his face, giving him just as good as you got, nipping at his lips and licking your tongue into his mouth, consuming him just as wholly as he was you.

“How much do you like this dress?”

Bucky’s question was a growl against the edge of your jaw, his lips breaking from yours to press hot, heated kisses down to your neck. The rasp of his stubble against your throat made you shiver and whine, tilting your head to the side to give him more access to suck at the pulse thundering beneath your skin.

“It’s not…my favorite…” you huffed in between gasping breaths, your hips rocking impatiently against Bucky’s stomach. He had a thin layer of softness padding the hard, super soldier muscles beneath, and it felt divine to grind against, giving you some of the friction your body was craving, even if it wasn’t nearly enough. 

Your answer had barely passed your lips before Bucky was pressing you harder to the door, freeing him up to grab handfuls of your dress and tear it open like it was nothing more than tissue paper. But he didn’t stop there, he ripped right through the bodice until the garment was hanging off your shoulders in tatters. 

A gasp wrenched from your lips as the cool air of the apartment brushed against your heated skin. You were half stunned by the shear strength of what he’d done, staring at him in awe, but Bucky must’ve misinterpreted your expression because he shot you an apologetic grimace.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he promised, sounding sincerely remorseful. 

You still hadn’t recovered from how hot it’d been for Bucky to literally tear your dress off your body, so you just nodded distractedly.  

He hummed in acknowledgement before he continued ravishing your body, burying his face in your tits and lavishing them with attention. You hadn’t been able to wear a bra with your dress so there was nothing stopping Bucky from kissing and nipping your soft mounds, and dragging the flat of his tongue over your sensitive nipples.

“Ah, yes, Bucky, please,” you cried softly, arching your spine and pushing your chest further into Bucky’s mouth. It took you a moment for his words to properly filter through the haze of lust in your mind, and when they did, you snorted. “I don’t care about the dress—make it up to me by getting inside me. Now.”

A growl rumbled up from Bucky’s chest. The sound was muffled by your tits, but no less menacing.

“You’re not in any position to be giving me orders, baby,” he warned, yanking you away from the door and storming deeper into the apartment. His gait was heavy, and even hearing his footfalls somehow turned you on more, imagining the determined way he was moving.

As he walked, the remnants of your dress fluttered to the floor, leaving you in nothing but your drenched panties and the high heels still strapped to your feet. Meanwhile, Bucky was wearing almost his full suit, having shed his jacket in the car ride home. 

The starched fabric of his shirt was rubbing deliciously against your nipples as you clung to his neck, and you writhed against him like a cat in heat. You needed more, needed him. Immediately. 

“Now that you’ve got me alone, what’re you gonna do with me, congressman?” you murmured huskily in Bucky’s ear as he stalked over to the couch in your living room. You pressed hot, needy kisses his jaw and neck, delighting in every lipstick print your mouth left on his skin.

Bucky paused beside the couch, taking a moment to make sure your legs were arranged in such a way that they wouldn’t be caught beneath him, then he sat down, sinking deep into the soft cushions. 

While you perched on his lap, his bulge nestled against the heated juncture of your thighs, Bucky sat back and spread his arms wide across the back of the couch. You pouted a little at the fact that he wasn’t touching you anymore, but before you could voice the complaint, he spoke.

“I’m going to watch your pretty tits bounce while you fuck yourself on my cock,” Bucky rumbled, a self-satisfied smirk curling the corner of his mouth when he saw you suck in an excited gasp of breath. “You’re gonna have to work for my cum, baby, so let’s see you hop to it.”

He gave your ass a sharp spank of encouragement, like one might do to an animal to get it to go, and he lifted a brow in an expectant look, nodding toward his lap.

You knew he was acting like an imperious jerk on purpose, and any other time it might’ve riled you up enough to be a brat. But you were too worked up to care.

With deft, eager fingers, you undid Bucky’s belt and fly, reaching inside his pants to pull out his cock. He was hard and thick, already leaking precum. It was a small tragedy that you couldn’t take your time to swirl your tongue around the tip and taste him first. 

But Bucky was already beginning to look impatient, so you made quick work of lifting yourself up onto your knees and lining up your pussy with the tip of his cock. You had to hook a finger around your panties to pull them aside, but then you had a better idea.

“A little help, Buck?” you asked, lifting your eyes to his and tugging on your panties so he’d know what you wanted.

A feral smile stole across Bucky’s face, and then his fingers were curling around the fabric at your hip. He tore through your panties even more easily than your dress, ripping them from your body and tossing the ruined material somewhere over his shoulder. 

It was just as hot as him tearing off your dress, but you reveled in it for only a moment before the sense of urgency returned. 

You pressed down on the tip of Bucky’s cock, moaning when it slipped inside your dripping hole. The stretch was familiar but no less delicious as you lowered yourself slowly down the shaft, savoring every inch that pushed inside your tight heat.

“Feel soooo good, congressman,” you slurred, your head hazy with pleasure. 

“Mm, you feel good too, baby,” Bucky murmured. His hips lifted slightly from the couch and he fucked up into you, burying himself another inch while you gasped in surprise. “Such a tight, hot cunt—perfect for keeping your congressman’s cock warm.”

At his words, your gaze caught Bucky’s and you found him grinning at you with a hungry glint in his eye. 

An excited thrill swooped through your belly and it was in that moment you knew you had a long night ahead of you. A long night with Bucky spent right where he was meant to be—inside you. You couldn’t have held back your eager grin if you’d tried.

“I’ll be happy to keep your cock warm, congressman,” you purred, leaning forward and brushing a kiss to the corner of Bucky’s mouth. “After you’ve filled me up with cum.”

Your cheeky comment earned you another good-natured spank on your ass. It didn’t hurt much, and you giggled as the slight sting made your pussy even wetter.

After that, it took only a few more moments for you to work yourself down on Bucky’s cock, taking him to the hilt. There, you paused and savored the feeling of being full, your hands wandering up from Bucky’s stomach to the collar of his white dress shirt. 

At some point in your furious making out, your fingers had undone the top buttons of his shirt and you could see just a hint of the undershirt beneath—and much more tantalizingly, the dark shadow of his chest hair. Your fingers played in the soft hair before you lifted your eyes to Bucky, a taunting smile flirting around the edges of your lips. 

“You sure you’re ready for this, old man?”

Bucky’s eyes darkened, his lips pulling back from his teeth in a snarl that had no business being as hot as it was. His vibranium hand slapped your ass, and though he kept a tight leash on his super solder strength so he didn’t hurt you, that one stung a little bit more than his earlier, more playful spanks. 

“Bounce that pretty ass on my cock, baby, or I’ll do much worse than make you work for my cum.” His voice was low, dangerous, the anger in it dripping down your spine like hot candle wax and setting your nerves on fire. 

Before you’d even decided to comply with Bucky’s command, your hips were lifting up from his lap, then slamming back down on his cock. The force of it nearly knocked the breath from your lungs, and Bucky grunted, affected just as much by the tight grip of your pussy. 

True to his word, Bucky didn’t help you fuck him. 

Sure, his hands spanked you every once in a while, when you slowed down too much or began rocking your hips on his cock, chasing your release before he was ready. He even made it more difficult for you, torturing your tits by groping your soft flesh in his strong hands and ducking forward to suck on your nipples. 

But you were determined to get him there. So it was all your hard work that got Bucky to the edge, your thighs quivering with the effort as you bounced up and down his cock. By that time, you were a whiny, sweaty mess, begging him pathetically to cum inside you. 

“Please, congressman, please fill me up, please cum inside me—I need it, I need your cum, Bucky, god, please,” you babbled helplessly. Your hips were rocking and bouncing and working on his cock with every muscle in your body, all of which felt like warmed butter after fucking him for so long. 

“Oh, you need it, huh?” Bucky cooed patronizingly, his hand slipping down from your hip so his thumb could find your clit. “Need my cum in this desperate cunt?”

When you nodded emphatically, Bucky chuckled meanly, his eyes going even darker as he held your gaze. 

“Then maybe next time you’ll think a little bit more about the consequences of your actions before you send me a picture of your tits while I’m at a summit with half the world’s leaders. Your tits are only for me to see, isn’t that right, baby?” 

“Yes, yes, only for you, Bucky, I won’t send you another nude photo while you’re at work, I promise,” you rambled quickly, a whining, pleading tone in your voice. 

Bucky’s gaze searched your face, and he must’ve been satisfied by what he saw because something in him snapped. He gave up all pretense of restraint as he fucked up into you from the couch, bracing your hips with his hands. 

Your folds were wet and messy, but the pad of his thumb was ruthless as he rubbed circles against your achy clit. Pleasure burst behind your eyes, and you cried out, your body barreling toward your release at breakneck speed.

“Cum, baby, cum all over my cock,” Bucky urged, his voice huskier and more demanding. 

Even if you’d wanted to hold back, you couldn’t. Bucky’s cock, his thumb on your clit, his voice in his ears—it was all too perfect, too depraved, too hot. 

The tension that had been coiling in your belly snapped and you threw your head back, screaming your release to the rooftops of New Your City as pleasure wracked your body.

Bucky’s metal arm banded around your lower back, pinning you to his lap while he buried his cock balls-deep in your cunt. His face fell to your tits, your soft curves muffling his furious grunts as he chased his release in your fluttering pussy. 

He followed you over the edge a moment later, groaning your name as he spilled himself deep inside you. 

The twitching of his cock and the warmth of his seed sent more aftershocks of bliss through your body and you trembled in Bucky’s arms, your fingers clinging desperately to the collar of his shirt. 

Entwined together on the couch in your apartment, you and Bucky caught your breath, enjoying the feeling of being wrapped up together, your chests heaving in tandem and the smell of sex permeating the air.

After a moment, he leaned back into the soft cushions behind him, pulling you gently to sprawl across his chest. You settled against him with a contented sigh. 

Bucky’s metal hand cupped the back of your neck, cradling your head and tucking it beneath his chin while the fingers of his other hand stroked idly up and down your spine. You murmured happily, snuggling deeper into Bucky’s warmth and appreciating the moment of being with him.

“So, did you have a happy birthday, congressman?” you asked teasingly. Your voice was softer than a whisper, but you had no doubt your super soldier could hear you perfectly. 

A rumbling came from the depths of Bucky’s chest, but it sounded pleased. “I did. Thank you, baby.” 

“You’re welcome, Buck,” you whispered back, turning your head and pressing a kiss to the hollow of his throat, right above where his heart beat in his chest. 

When you pulled back and saw a faint imprint of your lipstick, the last remnants that had still been clinging to your lips, you smiled. In fact, you were pleased with all the lipstick marks you’d left all over Bucky’s face and neck—that deep, instinctive part of you was very satisfied. 

Bucky chuckled, pulling you back down to lay on him again, and you knew he was just as primally satisfied by the promise he’d wrung from you just before he’d made you cum. 

Of course, there was always a loophole, and you were determined to find it. But that could wait for another time.

For the moment, you were just glad you’d been able to give your favorite person in the world, Congressman James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes, a happy birthday—because he made you happy every day of the year.

[itsaintmebabe]

don’t smile

୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ pairing: lando norris x singer!reader

summary: one of f1’s favorite couples, lando norris and y/n, breaks up unexpectedly leaving not only fans confused but you as well

notes: this might be really stupid but idc! lando won the monaco gp which was crazy!! <3

୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅ masterlist / social media au / fc: sabrina carpenter

liked by yourbff, alexandrasaintmleux and 1,964,729 others

yourusername ‘don’t smile’ is yours now <3

view all comments

user15 guys why hasn’t lando liked yet

user4 HES SO ALWAYS SO THISTY IN THE COMMENTS WHERE IS HE

user29 all the pics of lando are gone…

↳ user9 don’t say that my lany/n heart

user12 stop the lyrics

↳ user32 omg what???

↳ user12 “don't smile because it happened, baby, cry because it's over” and yall expect me to believe lando and her didn’t break up

yourbff girl if you don’t block him…

↳ yourusername don’t rush me katie i’m just not ready (pls get the reference)

↳ user63 BLOCK WHO

alexandrasaintmleux i feel like i missed a few chapters

↳ yourusername girl LET ME TELL YOU

↳ user56 NO SHARE WITH THE CLASS

↳ user90 literally begging on my knees for it not to be about lando

liked by user23, user64 and 724,029 others

y/nupdates y/n seen at airport heading to paris

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user12 so she’s not going to the miami gp

user34 she literally said last week she was gonna go with lando to miami what the hell happened

user9 i don’t think i’ve ever seen y/n cover her face that much

↳ user17 her eyes look kinda puffy too☹️

yourusername just added to their close friends story!

liked alexandrasaintmleux, yourbff and 2,492,708 others

yourusername i’m a busy woman

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user34 i fear this is the end of lany/n

user11 does this mean more new music???

user23 miss girl really said i’m not wasting any tears on no man i’m in paris

↳ yourusername you’d be surprised lol (comment has been deleted)

↳ user48 NO QUEEN NEVER CRY

user37 missed seeing y/n in the paddock ngl

↳ user52 no cause can you imagine her fit for race day tomorrow i know she would’ve eaten it up

alexandrasaintmleux leo and i miss you in the paddock :(

↳ yourusername play date for bambi and leo soon!! miss u more bae

↳ user62 Y/N GOT BAMBI IN THE DIVORCE

liked by yourusername, mclaren and 2,389,528 others

lando good work this weekend imola next

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user16 papaya on top!!!

user23 how he didn’t blind anyone with that helmet is beyond me

user34 y/n still liking is hurting my heart

↳ user73 literally the best f1 couple need them back

↳ user96 don’t disrespect alex and lily like that

user31 bring y/n back

mclaren no one beats a landoscar double podium

yourusername just added to their close friends story!

liked by user12, user85 and 882,905 others

y/nupdates y/n in imola with dog bambi a few days ahead of the imola grand prix

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user19 “y/n and lando are still together!!” i scream as they drag me into a white padded room

user23 i’m so confused

↳ yourbff you and me both girl

↳ user49 ARIANA WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE

user37 no cause y/n still follows lando and likes his posts but lando doesn’t follow y/n or like her posts it’s so weird

user40 bambi has no clue his parents are divorced

user95 honestly praying y/n and lando being broken up is some big april fools joke

↳ user6 babe it’s may

yourusername just added to their close friends story!

liked by yourusername, yourbff and 2,951,087 others

lando never taking her for granted again

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user81 THANK THE LORD

user28 literally stood up and clapped during my chem lecture

user16 y/n let me know if he’s bothering you queen

user19 lando almost lost a baddie

↳ yourbff no HE DID lose a baddie

↳ lando but i persevered

↳ yourusername on thin ice tho

user47 lando better worshiping the ground she walks on now

yourusername bambi’s parents no longer divorced!!!

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Neighborly

mdni

Masterlist

Soap x reader x Ghost

Summary: You didn't know hate until Johnny MacTavish. (Or a really big build-up to cuddles and smut).

Warnings: Implied anxiety disorder/depressive disorder, self-isolation, language, incredibly shitty communication and social competence.

It was supposed to be a one-shot.

You didn’t know hate until Johnny MacTavish.

He bought the only house within half a mile, the one you expected to stay silent and empty ‘til death did you part. So, you had reason to dislike him from the start. But you were raised right, and you pushed down the snarling hermit in your soul to be a good, friendly neighbor.

The first meeting was fine, even if he was a boombox of a human being.

“Neighbor? Oh, aye! The hermit? Sorry. Heard about you when I toured the place last month.” His eye lands on the plate of cookies you’ve brought to welcome him. “Those all for me?”

You made small talk at the door, swapped names, and set the groundwork for a reliable, limited relationship as polite people who just happened to live in close proximity.

Then the first snow fell.

You spied him outside, shoveling the shared drive that led up the hill. He cleared it all, which was kind, if a little stupid. The weather system promised another two inches by midafternoon, so everything would be solid white again before sunset. Still, not your problem.

But. He was shirtless. Ripped as fuck and shirtless.

As the wind flung each shovelful of snow back in his face, the powdery flakes stuck and melted on steaming skin. Muscles flexed as he made a spectacle of himself, and your thoughts turned to strategy and available resources.

You wrapped your palms around your ugly, handmade mug and sighed, sipping hot chocolate and wishing you’d gotten a neighbor with at least two scoops of common sense.

When he didn’t appear with his shovel the next morning, you knew your foreboding prophecy had come to pass.

You brought out the stock pot, fished out packs of frozen produce harvested from your garden, and sacrificed your last bag of chicken breasts. The skeleton saved from an old rotisserie bird joined the ingredient army. Might as well go all-in. A man with that many muscles needed bone broth to recover.

Since you didn’t know if he was a picky eater, you minced the garlic and onions small, even when your eyes burned to the point you had to stop for a break. You let the aromatics brown, added celery, carrots, potatoes, and fistfuls of fresh herbs. The precious seasonings survived the winter under grow lights and protective sheeting on your dining room table.

You doubted your neighbor would appreciate this gift for everything it was, but whatever he did as an idiot neighbor would be leagues better than the presence of a rowdy ghost.

When the chicken was tender and the broth tasted like home, you poured it into individual portions and packed them in a canvas bag with a loaf of bread, a box of tea, a jar of local honey, and a thermometer. It wasn’t terribly heavy, but the cold froze your fingers through your gloves. Your hand was cramping by the time MacTavish answered the door, red-nosed, pale, and bleary-eyed.

He let you in, mumbling a scratchy-voiced welcome, and if you’d known what that conversation would incite, you would’ve let him waste away like the families you failed playing Oregon Trail.

“Eat one now and keep the rest in the fridge.” You stack the single-serve containers in the fridge as you speak, sure he won’t remember the minutiae of your instructions. The last you pop in his microwave. He’s staring at you with feverish eyes, confused and helpless like a sick dog left on the side of the road.

Everything comes out of the bag, lining his counter so he can see them – and hopefully remember he has them. The thermometer comes out last.

“If your fever is over 104 in the morning, call the doctor. I’ll drive you if you need me to.”

That glassy stare isn’t shifting. The man doesn’t even blink.

“Did you get all that?”

He clears his throat. The action and sound are both strangely slow in his exhausted state, and you’re determined not to feel bad for him.

“Aye.” Finally, he blinks. “Eat the soup. Watch for 104.”

Good enough.

“Okay.”

The microwave beeps, you pull out the soup, leaving him to fetch a spoon from wherever the hell he keeps them. You don’t wait for him to show you out. “Take care of yourself.”

He didn’t call for help, and you took your turn shoveling the drive with proper protection after the last wave of flurries passed.

The next time he saw you in passing – you were returning home and he was just leaving – he let you know your soup was delicious, that the bread was amazing, and the honey did wonders for his throat. He never returned your containers.

Ah, well. They were replaceable.

Then the next snow came, and the dumb bitch went shoveling shirtless again.

It wasn’t as much snow, and it didn’t take him half as long, but you steamed, glaring from the safety of your kitchen window. You refused to replace your meal prep supplies again. And local honey was expensive. The brat could freeze and die. Something about taking a horse to water and all that shit.

You drank your coffee black that morning, just to make a point to no one in particular.

The man didn’t know how to take care of himself, and he had no idea how to winter-proof his home.

His pipes froze. You brought buckets, old towels, bottled water, and the number of an excellent plumber. Then you explained why he should pay attention to the forecast and let faucets drip to keep the water moving. You told him to open the cabinets under sinks so heat could combat the chill along exterior walls.

His truck’s battery succumbed to the cold. You gave him a jump and escorted him to town to make sure he didn’t get himself stranded.

When he didn’t keep things stocked and tried to panic-shop before a big storm, discovering that small town shelves couldn’t meet demand, you shared staples from your pantry.

He didn’t have more than two cheap blankets in his living space, so when the holidays rolled around you gave him your latest assemblage of granny-squares. And a scarf.

He gave you burnt cookies – “Biscuits” – in return.

(And a half-empty bottle of whiskey.)

He never remembered to drag his trash down to the main road.

And gods help you if the power went out, because the man had no generator, very little in his pantry, and rarely more than a quarter tank of gas in his ride.

He was careless. Clueless. Nearly helpless.

What were you supposed to do? You couldn’t leave him to his fate. It was unneighborly and inhumane.

He made you angry. But you didn’t hate him until his friend moved in.

A few months into his residence, you went to Johnny’s door to ask if he needed anything from town before the next storm shadowed the forecast, and a stranger came to the door.

A hulking monster with a skull painted over his balaclava.

The doorway shrank around his broad shoulders, and he ducked when he stepped out. You weren’t sure if he entirely needed to, but you understood the urge – like an adult stepping out of a child’s playhouse. Scarred knuckles wrapped around the doorknob, and you knew his grip would swallow you whole by the way it engulfed the brass handle.

Animal instinct jarred you. Every hair from the base of your skull to the end of your spine stood on end as you tried to smell the air, listen to the wind, spot the predator’s intent before it was too late.

You didn’t have a problem with people balaclavas. You’d worn one the other day when you were shoveling the drive, but this looked less like protection and more like a threat.

Was he robbing your neighbor? Had a serial killer come to town? Oh, fuck.

You took a step back, reaching for your phone because you didn’t carry a weapon, especially not on a grocery run, and it was the closest thing you had to help.

“You the neighbor?”

He asked so casually, vaguely irritated, but relaxed. It wasn’t the voice of a man who’d just been caught committing a felony, and you took a second to look beyond the stranger’s mask (and size). There was a mug in his hand, and he wore a t-shirt with sweats. His socked feet lingered on the front step, just shy of the blue road salt and crisped ice. Not robbery gear. More like a… houseguest?

Your neighbor never had guests before.

It caught you so off guard your brain short circuited. He had always been a lone, helpless figure. Made sense he’d have friends, though. You couldn’t imagine he’d survive anywhere long without someone looking out for him.

You were still a little irritated that your neighbor had invited his own friend to his own house on his own property without informing you, but that was just the recluse inside snarling at a new face. Or half of one.

And – well – manners.

Holding out a mittened hand, you introduced yourself, adding, “I stopped to see if Johnny needed anyth-”

“No.” He shut you down so fast you reeled another step back. “Don’t need anything.”

He closed the door and that was that.

Sun glittered on the season’s collection of snow, a frozen fairyland that wouldn’t entirely melt until spring. Then there would be roads washed out, and mud, and you’d need to teach Johnny flash flood safety and…

It didn’t compute. Johnny was still home, so surely he’d pop out with an explanation.

You waited.

But he didn’t.

The absolute fuck?

Your spinning thoughts kept you trapped in your head for a solid minute, processing what had happened, what was implied, and what that meant for your neighborly relationship. Even when you managed to move, drive to town, and run your errands, the interaction prickled in your mind like a splinter.

You must’ve done something wrong.

Aged fluorescent lights strobed out of time with your cart’s shrieking wheels. You discovered your list wasn’t in your pocket. It waited at home, next to a pen to add Johnny’s requests. You’d already added things you doubted he’d think to ask for, and it would take time to pick apart your needs. The list wouldn’t have saved you, even if you’d remembered it.

Three bags of flour went into your cart. That was fine. They’d keep, and baking was a good way to combat cabin fever (it warmed the house as a bonus).

Two gallons of milk.

Wait.

No.

You put one back, self-conscious. A young mother with her baby stood just behind you, and an old woman was reviewing her coupons across the aisle. You refused to make eye contact, convinced you’d catch them watching. Did they see? Were they worried about your germs on the product you put back? Did they think you were too broke to buy what you needed? Maybe they thought you’d just broken up with your boyfriend or something.

You counted the squares in the linoleum as you marched away from the refrigerators’ humming. One less source of white noise. It didn’t help as much as you’d hoped. The real buzzing roared inside your skull.

Johnny was a pain in the ass, but at least he was friendly. He wasn’t considerate, but he always thanked you. His friend was a whole different beast. Unfriendly. With a spare set of teeth snarling at the world.

The stranger hadn’t even introduced himself. Was he staying long? Moving in? What was he to Johnny? That question alone would answer so many others.

Because you’d never seen him interact beyond basic business with the mechanic, you realized you had no idea of his sexual orientation. Was he gay? Bi? Pan?

His shirtless shoveling shenanigans annoyed you, yes, but you’d unconsciously granted him a little leeway, assuming it had to do with misguided masculine showmanship. The rooster strutting where the hen could see. The dumbass alpha male proving he was a good, strong provider who was also quite nice to look at.

Clearly you were wrong, and in retrospect, you couldn’t see him as anything but a narcistic dipshit in need of training wheels.

You’d thought, maybe, he even liked you. As a friend? A comrade against the cold? As something.

But you were just a stop-gap. Useful.

Convenient.

Until his real friend joined him.

You found your attention unraveling like a cheap sweater. No matter how hard to you dried to darn the holes, you couldn’t keep up with the loose thread undoing all your conscious measures. It was quickly becoming one of those days when you convinced yourself your therapist had lied about everything.

When you messed up, even in your head, everyone knew.

If they didn’t say otherwise, you were annoying everyone in the room. If they did say otherwise, they were just being polite.

You weren’t likeable, not loveable, and the minute you weren’t useful you should make yourself scarce. Otherwise, things would get awkward, and no one wanted that. You could be the adult. You could hack off a limb and smile about it.

It didn’t hurt, and even if it did, it shouldn’t, because you didn’t have a right to that feeling.

Alright. Fine.

You realized, just as you joined the line for the cashier, that you’d forgotten matches and sugar. They’d been on your list. But someone joined the line behind you, and unspoken social rules that probably didn’t exist shackled you in place. Too late. You’d look stupid. You’d bother someone. Oh well. You’d just have to make another trip. Soon. But not too soon. Now there were two sets of eyes watching you from the connecting drive, and you didn’t want to give them reason to gossip and laugh and assume…

Your pile of groceries looked too small on the conveyor belt. Roughly half what they’d been lately. Would the cashier notice? You were sure she did. The way she recited your total sounded disappointed. Was she counting on you buying more? Were you hurting the employees’ holiday bonus? Shit. Fuck.

The bags felt too heavy. Too light. You forgot your reusable sacks at home, and the plastic dug guilt and accusations into the crease of your palms. On top of everything else, you were killing the planet.

You drove home.

Along the river. Through the trees. Up the hills to your corrupted sanctuary.

At least you didn’t need to make a second trip to bring in all the shopping. Your haul landed on the counter, you threw the damned milk in the fridge, and you realized, as you opened the pantry, that you already had four bags of flour. Two all-purpose, two for bread. Because you’d planned to bake for two.

The flour hadn’t been on your list.

And there was no room for it.

Your lip wobbled, and you bit it ferociously, chewing it until the texture changed and bits of skin started peeling.

It wasn’t a problem. You liked being prepared. You’d dump it in one of the emergency storage totes you kept in the hall closet and be ready when something went wrong.

You did just that, popping open the plastic lid and layering the flour over dry lentils, black beans, and shelf-stable cartons of broth. You decided to add more baking supplies to the list. Even if the power went out you could use the wood-burning stove in the living room to make griddle cakes. Maybe even soda bread.

There. Yeah. That wasn’t so bad. A silver lining.

As you returned to the kitchen, brainstorming ways to atone for the plastic bags you’d used, the scent of coffee wafted down the hall. Which was strange. Because you hadn’t put the moka pot on. You rushed in, frowning.

The old drip machine you only used for company burbled in the corner, and the groceries sat precariously on the corner, shoved aside by the beast who’d wandered through your unlocked door.

A tall, mohawked figure groped, shoulder-deep, in your cabinets.

MacTavish.

The Scottish mumbling would’ve tipped you off even if you weren’t so familiar with his figure (and hair, and limited wardrobe).

Your angst tasted bitter as you swallowed it down. You needed space for the feelings popping like firecrackers in your chest.

Relief. Hope. Dread.

He was in your space without invitation, and with the morning you’d just had, you felt anything but comfortable. Either you’d jumped the gun, or he was bringing a delayed apology for his friend.

“Johnny? What are you doing here?”

He smiled over his shoulder as he pulled two cups down from the shelf. One with your college logo and your prized ugly mug.

“Hello, neighbor!” He cackled, laughing at his own joke. “Wanted to give you a heads up and have a chat. My friend’s come to stay with me.”

Friend? What flavor of friend?

“I know. We met this morning.”

“Aye. Real barrel o’ sunshine, isn’ he?”

“If you say so.”

You wanted to be nice. You wanted to be his friend, too. But you weren’t, and you’d worked so hard to be a good, reliable person he could depend on in a new town – you were drained.

“His name’s Ghost.”

Most people grew out of their edgelord status by their early twenties. Ghost –with his skull balaclava and gruff voice – seemed better fit for the emo table of a suburban high school cafeteria than the adult world.

Johnny kept prattling, making an introduction for someone who wasn’t even there. “Told him all about you! He was impressed. Smacked me over the head about the pipes and said we’d go into town for a generator before the next big snow.”

“Hard to predict the next big snow.”

“Aye. He said that, too.”

If Ghost could keep your insights out of his mouth, you would appreciate it. It felt like he was stealing something from you, and you found yourself shifting from foot to foot, arms crossed, waiting for something terrible to happen.

And it did.

Gesturing as he described his old buddy and new housemate, his elbows danced around your kitchen like battering rams. First, he struck a cabinet, which hurt him more than the wood. He laughed it off. Kept talking. You didn’t need to say a word. By that point, you probably couldn’t even if he left space to speak.

For the life of you, you couldn’t riddle out what his visit was for. It was exhausting. He never chattered so much when you brought food or showed him how to keep his home in one piece. Ghost must make him very happy. His joy made you anxious.

His arm wide, indicating the views he’d fallen for and not the practical considerations of living in the goddamn woods on a goddamn mountain, and you watched in slow motion as his forearm caught your ugly mug’s handle.

It spun, wobbling to the edge of the counter, and before you could move, it plummeted.

A bad day instantly became your worst in years.

It must’ve made a sound when it hit, but you didn’t hear it. Or didn’t remember it. You didn’t remember going to the floor after it, either.

Your mug was in pieces, and when you pulled them to safety, wrapped tight in your fist, the glazed edges cut deep. It was such an ugly little thing. Your ugly little thing. You’d made it in one of those sip-and-spin pottery classes with your pals before you stopped going to see people face-to-face.

The mug wasn’t a friend. It was all of your friends. It was the fun you, the one who went out and did things, and moved through life like a real, entire person.

It practically exploded when it hit the tile. Some pieces were bigger than others, but there were dozens of them. Glittering chips and flecks that you knew you’d be finding with your feet through the rest of the winter.

There was no fixing it. It hurt. You were bleeding. Red oozed up between your knuckles and snaked down your wrist.

“Oh, shite! Shite, shite, shite. Are you alright? Here, let me –”

You didn’t want him to touch it again. Didn’t want him to touch you and act like he gave a fuck. This was a big, ugly feeling bubbling up inside, and if he didn’t dislike you yet, he would when he saw all the tears and snot.

A pretty crier you were not.

And no one wanted to see that, or deal with it, or cope with someone else’s messy emotions.

“It’s fine. I’m okay.” You grit your teeth and smiled through them. “But I need to clean this up, and I still have groceries to put away. How about you get your friend settled and we can talk another time, okay?”

“Are you sure?” His attention was fixed on the blood. Bright red was such an alarming color. You could understand.

“Yeah. Just a little scratch. Promise. But I can’t play host and clean myself up.”

His neck went stiff, and his eyes flicked from your face to the floor. Several times. Like he was having an argument with himself. But in the end, he listened, nodded, and got back on his feet from where he’d knelt in front of you.

“If you insist. But we’re right over there if you need anything, aye?”

“I know.”

Finally, he left.

You got up and locked the door behind him. If you’d taken time to do that before you put away the groceries none of this would’ve happened. You would still have your mug and you wouldn’t be on the floor, crying and cradling the remains of something that mattered to you.

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

He kept coming over when he needed things. Usually after Ghost’s truck rumbled down the drive. Sometimes he wanted advice. Sometimes he needed help. Usually he took tools and supplies he should’ve bought for himself.

You put your curtains to good work. You couldn’t remember a time you drew them so often. If he knocked, you’d answer, but the curtains were a good deterrent. Not foolproof, but something that gave you a little more power over your privacy.

Long jaunts into town have become escapes from your own home. Better the eyes of strangers – fleetingly painful – than the paranoia of sitting under glass where your neighbors might read your habits and foibles by the way the lights turn on and off through the night, might judge your messy hair through the kitchen window as you wash the dishes. Might, might, might. There were terrible possibilities in all that potential.

They were always there. One ready to freeze you out, the other hanging on your apron strings like a teenager who just got his first place. The conflict rubbed over your nerves like a match on a boot heel. Too much, too fast, and you’d combust.

So you found a lot of reasons to go into town. You remembered how much you liked the library, the joy of a cinnamon roll someone else baked, and hot coffee that didn’t come with a side of flashbacks.

The forecast predicted heavy snow overnight, and you made a day of grocery shopping, collecting novels from the library, and avoiding your neighbor’s last-minute requests.

You barely noticed the teens rushing out of the parking lot as you left your final stop, canvas bag loaded with enough media to keep you entertained through the storm of the century. No windows were broken. No key marks scuffed the paint. If they committed any mischief, it was minor.

Gas theft didn’t cross your mind until your engine quietly gave out and your car rolled to a stop between Nowhere and Nothing.

Understanding dawned with grudging revulsion. Like looking at the toilet and realizing it wouldn’t flush.  

The little shits had siphoned your tank.

You smacked the steering wheel, cursing.

So much for the benefit of the doubt. You couldn’t escape. Everyone everywhere just wanted to use you.

But it was fine. Everything would be fine. You were always prepared in case someone fucked you over. Your wellbeing was your responsibility, after all.

Climbing out of the warm cabin, you headed to the back and pulled out the emergency gas can.

The red plastic was shockingly light. You didn’t realize until you’d already thrown your weight into the yank. Unbalanced, you tottered, and your heel skidded over ice.

The snow cushioned your fall, and you stared blankly into the white limned branches overhead as you tried to process the last five seconds. Things like this happened to idiots. They did not happen to you. Careful, cautious you with your backup plans and reserves.

You had simply made a mistake. Somewhere. Somehow. You’d find an explanation.

When you sat up, still in a state of shock, you examined the can, expecting signs of a mouse, or a crack, or…

An I.O.U. was taped to the back.

You knew the handwriting all too well.

That shitting little…

The snow arrived. Silence swallowed the mountain, and the gloaming snuffed the last of the sun’s warmth.

You sat alone on the side of the road, well aware that no one would come up this way for hours. Days maybe.

You had made a mistake.

You made your neighbor chicken soup.

Your nose burned, and you sniffed. Hot tears rolled down your face, burning as they went, and you wiped at them furiously. The wool of your mittens chafed your cheek. Your lip wobbled, and you hurled the empty can into the woods.

Fuck Johnny MacTavish.

Fuck Ghost.

Fuck your life.

[xhyjin]

next door neighbour dilfsukuna! who really didn’t think the date through, as he now has to figure out who will watch yuji during the weekend. if the scenario were different, he would’ve asked you, but since you’re the one he’s taking out, he can’t. he thinks he should cancel it and plan it out better but doesn’t want you to think he’s careless or impulsive, so he plans a romantic dinner at home. that way, he can still keep his word and watch yuji at the same time.

next door neighbour dilfsukuna! who thinks a romantic date at home is a dinner in his backyard, decorated with fairy lights, flowers that yuji picked from the garden as the centerpiece, and the most expensive wine sukuna could afford. to say he wasn’t nervous would be a lie. he spent a good 30 minutes purging his closet because he wasn’t sure if wearing a suit was too much or not. yuji sat on his bed, watching his uncle/dad show him potential outfit choices, facepalming and shaking his head at every single one until sukuna finally decided to wear the suit.

next door neighbour dilfsukuna! who hasn’t felt this nervous in his life at all. he sits on the couch with yuji as they watch spongebob, his heart pounding as he glances at the clock above the tv. biting his nails nervously, he starts to think you won’t show up. just as those thoughts begin to consume him, the doorbell rings. both his and yuji’s heads shoot up as they look at each other before he gets off the couch and makes his way to the door, silently praying that wearing a suit wasn’t too much. but when he opens the door and sees you standing there in a pink sundress, he swears he’s fallen in love at the mere sight of you. quickly clearing his throat, he greets you. “glad you could make it,” he says, trying his best to maintain his usual nonchalant and snarky attitude. but the way you’re smiling at him—it could melt an iceberg, let alone him.

next door neighbour dilfsukuna! who is about to say something else as he walks behind you while you make your way into the house when yuji runs up to you and hugs your lower legs. “ms. l/n!” he says excitedly. sukuna watches the scene in front of him with heart eyes, feeling a warmth he hasn’t felt in a long time. the way yuji loves you fills him with so much happiness, especially knowing how much you’ve been there for them during these hard times. yuji grabs your hand and tells you to close your eyes before eagerly dragging you to the backyard. you follow his lead, curious but not expecting much. when you open your eyes, you’re met with the sight of a beautiful backyard, dimly lit with fairy lights. you can’t help but gasp as you take it all in, your heart swelling with surprise and admiration.

“you did all of this?” you ask, turning to sukuna. he stands there with a smug but proud look on his face, clearly pleased with himself.

“sure did,” he says, making his way toward you and placing a hand on your lower back. “right this way,” he adds, his voice smooth as he guides you to the table set up in the middle of the backyard.

next door neighbour dilfsukuna! who takes a seat in front of you, watching as you admire his backyard. “wow, sukuna, i honestly didn’t expect all of this,” you admit, a small smile spreading across your face as you glance around. yuji runs back into the house, only to return moments later with a piece of paper in his hands.

“what? you didn’t think i was a romantic guy?” sukuna teases, his tone light. before you can respond, yuji interrupts, holding up the paper proudly.

“this is the menu!” he announces, placing it in front of you. the “menu” is just scribbles, but as yuji’s teacher, you can easily make out the words.

“wow, spaghetti with house-made sauce?!” you exclaim, pretending to be amazed, and yuji giggles, his face lighting up with pride.

sukuna leans in slightly, his expression half curious, half amused. “you can actually read that little brat’s writing?” he asks, clearly impressed.

rolling your eyes playfully, you respond, “yes, and don’t call him that.”

sukuna chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “whatever you say,” he replies, standing up moments later. “now, if you’ll excuse me, i have to help the head chef. he’s particularly short,” he jokes, smirking as he walks off. his comment earns a giggle from you, and you nod, settling back in your seat as sukuna follows yuji into the house to get the so called spaghetti with house-made sauce

next door neighbour dilfsukuna! who spends the rest of the night completely captivated by you. he notices everything-the way you pick up your fork, the way your lips part as you take a bite, the way you chew so delicately, and the way you cover your mouth with your hand when speaking or laughing. his gaze lingers on your eyes and lips, and he catches you shyly avoiding his stare, which only makes you more endearing to him. he's utterly mesmerized and determined to kiss you at least once before the night is over.

as midnight approaches, you help sukuna tuck yuji into bed, the little boy fighting sleep because he doesn't want to miss any more time with his favorite teacher.

"i'll see you on monday, yuji," you say softly to him. his sleepy eyes light up as his uncle carries him on his hip.

"you promise?" yuji asks, sticking his pinky out toward you.

you chuckle and intertwine your pinky with his. "yes, yuji, i promise," you say, following sukuna as he walks into the house with yuji in his arms. after tucking him in, you both quietly leave the room, making your way to the front door.

"i had a really good time, sukuna," you say shyly, absentmindedly twirling a strand of your hair between your fingers. sukuna smiles at the sight of you, looking so cute and beautiful.

"i had a good time too," he says, his voice dropping to a softer, more intimate tone as he steps closer. "y/n," he says your name softly, almost like a whisper.

you look up at him with doe eyes and nod.

"yes, sukuna?"

"may i kiss you?" he asks, his cheeks flushing a faint pink, matching the hue of his hair.

you involuntarily gasp but quickly catch your composure, nodding as your gaze drops to his lips. sukuna leans in, one hand gently resting on your waist while the other cradles your cheek.

"have i ever mentioned how beautiful you are?" he murmurs, his forehead pressing against yours. before you can answer, he closes the gap, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that is both soft and rough, filled with unspoken feelings. his hand on your cheek slides to your waist, pulling you closer as your arms wrap around his neck.

after what feels like an eternity, he pulls back slightly, his lips hovering mere inches from yours as you both catch your breath.

"i'd love to see you again," he says, his voice hopeful, his eyes searching yours.

"it's a date then," you reply with a smile, your heart racing as you look into his eyes.

should i just turn this into a fic? ><

[tanzaniiite]

NOT SO BAD • EDDIE & VOLT

requests: open

warnings: angst

word count: 1.5k

a/n: sooo i got their hate ending and after crashing out for 40 days and 40 nights (30 straight minutes) i decided to write an after ending. to give myself some closure if nothing else. i apologize if this isn’t the greatest, i haven’t written fanfic in yearsss.

*cross-posted on ao3

You flinch as the door to the Breaker Box is slammed in your face.

Your dateviators sit askew on your nose as you try to process what just happened. Eddie and Volt hate you? Everything was going swimmingly up until now, where did you go wrong? Could you fix it? As you go to speak with them again, the specs on your face make a power down sound.

Out of charge.

It’s only then do you realize how late it is. The sun has set and the stars have begun littering the sky. This was your last interaction for the day, talk about depressing. And even if it wasn’t you could only talk to an object once per day, per Skylar’s detailed instructions. It’s fine, you’ll just… give them some space, check back in a day or two. Surely everything would blow over by then.

In the meantime, you kept yourself busy. You met new datebales, continued conversations with the ones you already met. And yet, your mind kept drifting back to Eddie and Volt. Really, where did you go wrong? Maybe kissing Volt wasn’t the greatest idea. It seemed right at the time, considering the atmosphere and all that. Or maybe you didn’t get close enough to Eddie? You should’ve been more persistent, asked more questions, his dislikes be damned.

This loop of “could’ve, should’ve, would’ve” continued until you finally had the courage to approach the Breaker Box again. It’s been a couple of days, surely whatever “hatred” they had for you has dissolved or at the very least, dampened. You didn’t expect them to not be mad at all, but maybe they would be willing to hear out and you guys could repair your relationship. Become friends if not anything else. That hope quickly drained as Volt approached the entrance, a sour and borderline terrifying look on his face.

He was different now, blue and electrifying. It was a far cry from the charming and sweet Volt you’ve gotten to know. He didn’t say anything at first, just staring at you like you have done the most unforgivable thing in the world (and maybe you did, you still weren’t sure exactly what it is you did). That silence stretched until you tried to break it, in which Volt immediately cut you off.

“Volt, I–”

“Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough last time. You’re not welcome here.”

“Please, can’t we just talk this out?”

“No, we can’t. I was foolish to trust you the first time around. I won’t allow you to have the opportunity to hurt us again.”

It took everything in you to not sob right there and then but you’re sure the tears that shone in your eyes got the point across clearly. “I care about you and Eddie so much, I never meant to hurt either of you. I swear.” The tremble in your voice was as clear as day but you couldn’t really find it in yourself to care. Not when it felt like everything was on the line. And for a moment, that hope you had fluttered in your chest as Volt’s expression softened. He sighed deeply and leaned against the door, reminiscent of the dramatic flare he had when you first met him.

“I’m sorry live wire, I don’t think we can trust you again.”

Your breath caught in your throat as the tears that have taken up residence in your eyes, slipped down your cheeks silently. You could do nothing but stare as the door to the Breaker Box was closed in your face once more. Part of you preferred the slamming, the yelling, and the volatile way things had originally ended. This felt non-negotiable. Final. You weren’t sure how to feel about that.

So, you stood at the entrance for what felt like an eternity. Not sure what to do or where to go from here. You knew you couldn’t get every dateable to love you, hell, even like you but hatred? Not indifference or some weird limbo state? Just pure hatred? As you finally began to turn away, Reggie popped into your peripheral vision. God, you were not in the mood for him. You had met him before as you and another dateable didn’t exactly see eye to eye. The details aren’t important as you didn’t care for that dateable nearly as much as you care for Eddie and Volt. Still, it seemed you were stuck and had to hear Reggie’s spiel.

“It’s one thing to be rejected and another thing to lose trust completely, yeowch!”

“....”

“Still, I dig your style. Rejection really isn’t so bad when you think about it. Helps you pick out the duds that simply aren’t worth your time.”

That’s the thing though, Eddie and Volt weren’t duds, far from it actually. And even if they hated your guts right now, you couldn’t find it in yourself to speak ill of them. “They aren’t duds, Reggie.” You mutter, arms crossing over your chest. Reggie raised a curious brow, “Don’t tell me you still have feelings for them? Do you not realize they kicked you to the curb? That they want nothing to do with you?”. You sucked your teeth in frustration, you knew that. Volt had made that painfully clear both times you spoke with him. As if reading your mind Reggie continues, his hands finding your shoulders and his head dipping down so his mouth is right next to your ear. “I know you have this good person act going on but doesn’t that make you angry? Isn’t that hatred mutual?” He questions.

You were mainly sad and confused. And sure, maybe a little bitter too. You still didn’t know what you did that was so wrong to warrant them to hate you but you didn’t hate them. Still… as Reggie’s hands stayed firmly placed on your shoulders, you couldn’t help but get angry. It was as if that energy was radiating off of him and seeping into you. Or maybe, that anger was always there and Reggie gave it the space to roam free. Either way, you were starting to get pissed. The low chuckle that came from Reggie wasn’t lost on you as you swiftly took off your dateviators. Volt and Eddie wanted to hate you? Fine, you’ll give them a reason to hate you.

It almost seemed weird, looking at the Breaker Box and seeing… a normal breaker box. You close the box firmly, a little rougher than you normally would but you didn’t care. They didn’t want to see you, so you didn’t want to see them. You surveyed the small closet wondering what else you could do to relieve that pressure that had started building in your chest. In all honesty, you wanted to scream, maybe cry some more, put the dateviators back on and curse both of them out. Instead, you dropped down and picked up Tony and Beau– er, your toolbox and spare boxes. You didn’t want any reason to come back here if you didn’t have too. You placed them in the closet in your makeshift home gym. It wasn’t much bigger than their previous residence, and they certainly had more roommates but hopefully they wouldn’t mind too much. You made sure to lock the door to the breaker box too. You’re not sure how that would translate to their world, if Dorian would simply just unlock it, but maybe it would slow the business of the Breaker Box.

You still had four more uses of your dateviators for the day but you really couldn’t find it in you to want to talk to anyone else. Your mood was dampened and you would hate to take it out on the other datebables. You would come back when you felt slightly better, when you could give them your full and undivided attention. Plus, it probably wasn’t the healistest to be talking to the inanimate objects of your home day in and day out. Considering how much emotional turmoil this one rejection put you in, maybe this was for the best. Maybe a break was needed. An hour tops.

That hour turned to hours.

Those hours into days.

The days into weeks.

And so on.

You haven’t put on the dateviators since your last interaction with Volt and by extension Reggie. That anger was still there, simmering in the back of your mind but all that you felt currently was sadness. As you went on with your day to day life, you’ve come to the conclusion that maybe there’s nothing you can do. Maybe whatever was going on with Eddie and Volt wasn’t meant to be. That you shouldn’t sit here, making yourself sick and miserable dwelling on it. And while this was your general takeaway, a part of you still held onto hope. Hope that with time; you, Eddie and Volt could make amends. And be friends. You’d never say it to the other dateables but they were your favorites, still are honestly. But it’s time to move on. You guess Reggie was right, in his own twisted way.

Rejection really isn’t so bad when you think about it.

tanzaniiite © 2025 — all rights reserved. do not repost, modify, or copy. do not plagiarize. thank you.

[alanisstonedd]

singledad!ony x teacher!reader

cw: fluff, single father, profanity, suggestive themes, black!reader, not proofread unfortunately

an: omggg omg. this was so fun yallll i love himmmmmm. i already have fic ideas for them, so so juicy. im so excited to share wit y'all!!! finally!!! enjoy, kisses!!! alsoooo, ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ is y/n just so yall aint confused

₊˚.༄ so y’alls little meet cute starts your second year of teaching. lowkey still fresh out of school, degree acquired, little life set up and ready to inspire the children! you’ve worked at this for so long and you’re buzzing to be able to say that you’re finally where you want to be in life. the kids, the environment, the hours, you just feel so fulfilled… for a single woman, working and living on her own – saturday night’s out with the girls only give you so much.

₊˚.༄ you especially look forward to meet the teacher, just before the first day of school – always excited to get a first look at your students that year and the parents you’ll need keep that right eye out for. howeverrrr, you didn’t expect to have such a good-looking surprise that year. meet the teacher goes off without a hitch ofc, but about an hour before you should start closing up your classroom for the evening, in walks ony… holding the tiny hand of his adorable, bright-eyed daughter amira. 

₊˚.༄ ony steps into the classroom and immediately clocks you – legs crossed at your desk, gloss sparkling, runway-grade teacher fit, and attention currently on some other parent - unfortunately for him. while you’re chatting, he takes a minute to stay stunned, amira running off to play with the few kids left in the classroom. he would’ve bet every penny to his name that love-at-first-sight didn’t exist, but he’d be a broke ass mf today if the feeling spreading through his body is any sign. he's watching your lips while you talk to that other woman like he already knows he wanna kiss them for the rest of his damn life. 

₊˚.༄ “you must be amira’s dad” your warm, bright greeting sounds like seduction to him, having to physically shake his damn head to clear it – you’d been expecting him and amira all day, grateful for the chance to meet them before school starts. ony, on the other hand, thinks he actually might be in a dream – he swears he can see you glowing like an angel, and the sweet, luscious scent invading his senses couldn’t possibly be anyone else in the room. he wants to take you out TONIGHT, but he figures he should probably respond first. “damn… uh–yeah. i mean, yeah. onyankopon. but.. you could just call me ony.” he so outta practice he don’t even know what to say, just grinning in your face really. you’re very professional, and take your place of work very seriously but you definitely notice his nerves – you think it's cute how surprised he is that you’re bad.

₊˚.༄ as soon as he and amira leave the classroom, he’s texting his group chat “yo. i jus met my wife”

₊˚.༄ amira lovesss you off rip. obsessed. right next to you during read aloud, always participating even if her answer is dead wrong, never afraid to ask for extra help, begging you to play with her and her little friends at recess. she’s practically attached at your hip. AND tink got a mouth on her lowkey. always ratting out her daddy like “miss ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧, my daddy says you too pretty to be teaching these bad ass kids” you literally laugh out loud and almost drop your whiteboard marker but it’s not funny “amira! what did i say about quoting your father? and! what i say about cussin?”. you tell him about it when he picks her up and he just looks away smirking like “mm… you mad she being honest?”

₊˚.༄ amira draws one of ony’s hoodies for a “favorite things” activity because “he wears it all the time. he thinks miss ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ likes when he wears it.”

₊˚.༄ at first you only see him at morning drop-offs through the open window of his truck, just a lil smile when he winks at you before you both get on with your lives. but best believe he's got a plan – he gon make sure you see him dammit, and you start seeing LOTS more of him. you head outside for morning drop-off? he parked first in line, leaning against the front side of the sparkling truck, waving you over with that sneaky ass smirk that's saying “c’mere. i know you wanna”. so you decide to chop it up with him – innocently OFC - while you wait for your signal to start letting kids in. y’all try to make small talk but ony gets bored of that with a quickness. this is all he gets to see of you - ofc he's making the most of it. yall talk about everything under the sun in that drop-off line – work, young parenthood, goals. but that deep, rough voice like a hot kiss on your neck… he could get your social security number out of you if he wanted to. he doesn’t though, he wants your favorite meal so he can learn it like the back of his hand. he wants your hobbies and what you do with your freetime so he can plan the PERFECT date for y’all. he wants your family plans, so he’ll know if he can turn you out like he's planned since meet the teacher.

₊˚.༄ that's really not enough for ony though. how else is he supposed to be blessed with your presence? everytime he even gets close to bringing up a date, you curve him on some professional shit. he decides it's time to amp up the pressure, because you’re clearly not understanding how serious he is. soon enough, he's first in line at pick-up too – waiting against his truck for baby girl to come running out yelling “daddyyyyy!!!”, with you trailing right behind her, smirking at his persistence.

₊˚.༄ then he's dropping her off and picking her up early so he gets to see you without all them other eyes, walking all the way into the building just for a few minutes of alone time with you. stays working you up just cuz he likes to see you sweat him a lil, looking you up and down, fingers brushing your side like he can’t stop himself from touching you. “when you gon let me take you out…” he mumbles softly like he’d spend all day in this classroom with these snotty ass kids if it meant he could be next to you. “when you gon quit showing up here like my landlord on the first, mr. ony?” you smile up at him like you want them juicy lips on yours right tf now, but your professionalism keeps him at arm's length - he’s a parent of a student! telling yourself you just need to be cautious until you know how serious he is.

₊˚.༄ he always got some excuse to come into the classroom midday and be sneaky while the kids aren’t watching - “she forgot her snack, i swear”, “i just wanted to say hey, you look real pretty today miss ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ ...”, “oh, i just forgot to give her a jacket this morning, it's too damn cold. you warm enough miss ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧?” he’d give you the hoodie off his back if you said yes. neverrr misses a parent teacher conference, always on time with some beverage for you and a whole damn folder of shit. obviously he's tryna impress but you have no clue what could possibly be in there??

₊˚.༄ what gets you the most? hes such a good dad and its sexy as hell. patience like a saint, makes her laugh nonstop, gentle giant but the protective dad instincts are always on ten. plus, amira’s hair is always laid - cute baubles and bows, slick back styles, braids, twist outs… he does it all!! and does it very very well. you see the adorable lunches he packs her, flower shaped fruit, heart shaped sandwiches, cute little notes that sometimes include a little message for her to pass along to you - she’ll jump at any excuse to skip up to your desk and yap. 

₊˚.༄ every time he shows up, you swear he got finer. soft hoodie, grey sweats, clean sneakers, and the most delicious cologne you’ve ever smelled in your life. your professional act crumbling more and more every time you see him, all he has to do is bend over to tie her little crisp ass dunks, and let that hoodie ride up a lil bit exposing them thick ass chocolate abs, that v-line? you have to remind yourself that you’re at work all damn day, getting flashbacks to that flash of skin like it's the victorian era.

₊˚.༄ he starts volunteering for school events and chaperoning… coming around all fine and big, just for the wasp moms to absolutely swarm him, all while he's undressing you from across the room - that lip bite was NOT for them! haha!

© 2025 alanisstonedd. all rights reserved — do not steal, plagiarize, or modify my content.

hope y'all liked this! comments, likes, reblogs and all the rest are much appreciated!!!

xoxo, lani 💋💋💋

tags: @lovey-3 @bxrbie1

[spearbxcheol]

Stray Kids as Tropes. — HYUNG line ver.

｡･:*˚:✧｡ ૮₍ ´• ˕ • ₎ა ｡✧:˚*:･｡

｡･:*˚:✧｡ ૮₍ ´• ˕ • ₎ა ｡✧:˚*:･｡

𖤐 Hyung line x Reader.

𖤐 Reactions, fluff, imagine, cliche, cute stuff actually.

𖤐 English is not my first language, so there might be small mistakes. This is a work of fiction and has no connection to real events or people. Just a fan sharing love with other fans ♡

• BANG CHAN – Summer Love.

You met Chan when you visited your cousin’s house in Australia for the holidays.

One afternoon, during a get-together at one of your cousin’s friend’s houses, you met Chan — who, although born in Australia, was also there just for the summer. He promised to take you to his favorite secret beach, and of course, you said yes.

“So, are you enjoying yourself so far?” he asked, just as you both came out of the water and sat down on the warm sand, side by side.

You nodded and smiled at him, still a little in disbelief that he had actually asked you out. Chan was always so kind and made sure you were having fun. And, of course, he was incredibly hot — the way his eyes disappeared when he smiled, the way his dimples showed...

“Yes... I’m already feeling nostalgic for something that’s still happening, you know?” you said with a soft sigh, still smiling. You were leaving next week. “But I don’t want to bring the mood down.”

“Yeah, I get what you mean,” he said, gently bumping your shoulder with his. The sun made him glow, and you looked at him, feeling your chest tighten just a little.

“But let’s just enjoy this moment” he added and your eyes met, he giggled and shifted a little closer to you. “Because I’m really enjoying being by your side.”

The day at the beach couldn’t have ended better. Chan picked you up in his arms and ran toward the sea while you screamed, laughing — anyone passing by would’ve thought you were already a couple.

You braced yourself for the water and closed your eyes, but the splash never came.

When you opened them, you saw Chan smiling down at you. “I’m not letting go of you,” he said with a wink.

• LEE KNOW – Strangers to Lovers.

Minho was the guy you would always see at your favorite ramen place. Sometimes, at night, after you had finished your chaotic office shift and just wanted something warm and delicious to eat, you would go there — the owner was such a nice lady and always gave you more than you asked for. And if you looked over your shoulder, you would see him in the corner with his phone in hand while eating.

But the day you officially met him was during lunch, when you decided to visit the ramen shop and found the owner crying — with him by her side, trying to comfort her. Without thinking twice, you walked over to understand what was going on.

“My Kiki is missing!” the lady exclaimed, showing you a picture of a black cat on her phone. “He doesn’t like going outside. I don’t know how it happened! He must be so scared.”

Minho stood beside her, quietly listening and nodding as she spoke. You gently patted her shoulder, already thinking of what to do to help.

“We’ll go find him. Right?” he said firmly, turning to you, clearly expecting your answer. Feeling a bit flustered under his gaze, you looked away and nodded at the lady.

“Yes, we’ll look for him. You don’t have to worry!” you said to her – then to him, who was already heading for the door. You quickly rushed outside to follow him.

You didn’t exchange many words. He simply told you his name was Minho and that he had cats. You shared your name too and said you didn’t have any, but you thought they were cute. It didn’t take long for you both to spot Kiki under a bench not far from the shop. With quick hands, you gently picked the cat up and placed him in your lap, softly petting him to calm him down.

"He seems to really like you.” Minho ran his hand over the cat’s head, which now clung to you tightly, and you just smile. “Shall we return him to his owner?”

You nodded, walking side by side with Minho back to the shop.

He couldn’t help glancing at you every now and then, finding it adorable how you whispered to Kiki, promising to take him home safely. And, of course, when you noticed his gaze on you — that small smile forming on the corner of his lips — your cheeks flushed instantly.

Maybe the ramen shop would become even more special to you now.

• CHANGBIN – Second Chances

You didn’t expect to see him standing right in front of you – his hair neatly styled, wearing a beautiful suit, laughing at a joke one of his friends had just told.

You remembered how he used to laugh at your jokes like that.

And the moment his eyes met yours, it felt like the whole world stopped. You could see the surprise on his face as he spotted you across the room. You forced yourself to look away, sipping your champagne and stepping out of his view, heading toward the bar.

What you didn’t see was Changbin excusing himself and calmly walking in your direction.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here.” His voice was soft, and your heart raced. The scent of his cologne reached your nose. You turned to face him, letting your eyes meet his — and he smiled gently. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

You rolled your eyes at his words, but smiled anyway, warmth spreading through your chest. “You look charming too, Changbin.”

His smile grew, and he looked away as he adjusted his tie. You did the same, both of you clearly feeling the tension — but Changbin didn’t seem to mind.

“Did you bring a date?” he asked casually.

You nearly choked on your drink, raising an eyebrow at him. You hadn’t expected that question — and certainly not so bluntly. But this was Changbin. He was never one to shy away or get embarrassed.

“No,” you answered simply. He nodded.

“Neither did I.” he met your gaze again, searching for something – any small movement or expression that might reveal you still cared, just like he did.

“But I didn’t ask you that.” You grinned, watching him dramatically clutch his chest like you’d wounded him. You were secretly glad he said it — because deep down, you wanted to know. And if he were with someone else tonight, you weren’t sure how you would’ve handled it.

“But you know what that means, right?” He pointed from himself to you.

“We’re both here, and we didn’t bring dates.”

He didn’t wait for your reply. Instead, he smiled — a little smug, a little hopeful — and continued:

“So we have to dance when they play a slow song. You know, for old times?”

“Just for old time’s sake?” you asked, setting your champagne glass on the bar and crossing your arms, Changbin simply shrugged with a cheeky grin.

And before the night was over, your arms found their way around his shoulders, and his hands rested on your waist — a feeling both familiar and uncertain.

“I missed holding you like this,” he murmured close to your ear.

You only managed to whisper back,

“I missed it too,” as the music continued to play in the background.

• HYUNJIN – Soulmate AU.

Hyunjin felt warm holding you in his arms — your cheek pressed against his chest, your mouth slightly open as you slept peacefully beside him. He had never felt so grateful in his life.

And the reason… was you.

You were the reason behind all his devotion and love, even before he met you – somehow, he had already known you.

The same eyes he had dreamed of, the same eyes he always painted in the early hours when sleep wouldn't come – they had always brought him comfort.

And the day he finally met you — the moment your eyes met — he knew.

You were the one from his paintings and dreams.

It felt like everything in his life had led to that moment. And he wasn’t going to let it go.

“Babe?” Your voice was soft, you had just woken up and noticed your boyfriend lost in thought.

He snapped out of it and looked down at you, smiling. Your eyes held so much love and light as you looked at him and it made him feel safe.

He had once heard that the eyes never lie, and now, he truly believed it.

He gently pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“Good morning, beautiful.” You smiled, snuggling even closer to him, and he let you. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes,” you whispered. “There’s no better place to sleep than in your arms.”

He giggled softly, his chest rising against yours.

“Let’s stay like this for a little while.”

And without saying a word, he closed his eyes with a smile on his face — just enjoying the moment and the warmth of your body.

[pbaz7]

FINDING PEACE IN YOU: PART 4

paige x azzi

warnings: sexual content

word count: 12k

A/N: I struggled bringing my plot to life on this one for some reason. It’s not terrible but it’s definitely not my best work😭 also it’s completely unedited because I was being harassed so be warned lol. Let me know what you think and happy game day!!!

—————————————————————————

Azzi wasn’t one to dwell too much on social media—she knew better, she barely even used it. But she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t been on it a little more recently; and that the posts after Paige’s first away game in Minnesota hadn’t gotten her gears turning.

As she scrolled through her timeline there were pictures and videos of the team walking into a club to celebrate their first win of the season. Paige looked amazing—her blonde hair wavy and slightly tousled, a confident smirk on her lips, her jewelry shining from the camera flashes, her outfit fitting her perfectly. It was the kind of pictures that would’ve had Azzi playfully rolling her eyes a few months ago, when she’d just met the blonde, knowing how easily Paige could get who she wanted. But now? Now, it just made her stomach tighten.

What really caught Azzi’s attention was how many women were lingering around in the pictures.

Some were just fans Others were players from the Lynx, people Paige probably knew. But of course there were the ones who stood a little too close in the group pictures. The ones whose eyes lingered when Paige wasn’t even looking in videos.

What the hell am I doing?

Azzi knew better than this. She definitely wasn’t insecure, and Paige had given her a reason to doubt her. Still, something unsettled her. Maybe she just missed her, or maybe it was the way the past had taught her to be wary even when things seemed great.

As Azzi scrolled through the posts, her expression remained unreadable. She wasn’t upset—not really. Paige hadn’t done anything wrong. Still, that didn’t stop the small, unfamiliar feeling creeping up her spine. Something she wasn’t used to dealing with.

Jealousy.

Muttering a few words under her breath, Azzi locked her phone, then immediately unlocked it again and scrolled to Paige’s contact. She wasn’t about to sit here playing detective when she could just call her.

The phone rang three times before Paige picked up, her voice coming through with a slight, telltale sign of tipsiness. The background quieter than Azzi expected.

“Wassup, gorgeous?”

Azzi felt the tension in her shoulders ease, just slightly. “What are you up to?”

“M’ just at the hotel bar with Arike, Lyss, DiJonai, and some random stragglers,” Paige said, her words lazy, like she was comfortably slouched in a chair somewhere.

“I thought you told me you were going to be at the after-party for most of the night?”

“Yeah,” Paige sighed. “Wasn’t feeling it for real.”

That had Azzi pausing. Paige wasn’t exactly the life of the party, but Azzi knew she wasn’t one to turn down a good time, especially after a win.

“Way too many people,” Paige added, almost like she could sense Azzi’s thoughts. “Too much going on.”

Azzi hummed in understanding, letting the last of her unnecessary overthinking fade away. Paige had already left the club. She’d opted for a quiet drink instead.

“What you doing, gorgeous?” Paige asked, her voice a little playful now.

“That’s the second time you’ve called me that in less than a minute.”

“‘Cause you are,” Paige said easily.

Azzi shook her head, unable to stop the small smile tugging at her lips. “Are you drunk?”

“Prolly,” Paige admitted with a quiet chuckle.

“You’re probably drunk?” Azzi repeated.

“Mhm,” Paige hummed. “But not like bad drunk. Just a little tipsy maybe.”

Azzi leaned back against her bed, relaxing now that she’d heard Paige’s voice. “So, you ditched the after-party to sit at a hotel bar with Arike and them and be kinda drunk?”

Paige laughed. “I ain’t ditch it for real. Just…left. Like I said…too many people. Too much going on.” She paused, then added, “’Sides, I’d rather be on the phone with you. Can’t do that at the club.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t stop the warmth that was spreading through her chest. “You’re smooth when you’re tipsy, you know that?”

“I’m smooth all the time, don’t play with me.”

“You gonna go up to your room soon?” Azzi asked.

Paige made a noise that sounded like she was stretching. “Yeah, probably. You tryna tell me to go to bed?”

Azzi smiled. “Maybe.”

Paige exhaled dramatically. “Damn. You don’t even wanna talk to me?”

Azzi bit her lip, shaking her head at Paige’s antics. “Go to bed, P.”

Paige huffed out a soft laugh. “Ight lemme just FaceTime you first.”

Azzi rolled her eyes but said, “Okay.”

Two seconds later, her phone lit up with an incoming call. She swiped to answer, and Paige’s face filled the screen, her expression already a lazy, lopsided grin. Her hair was slightly tousled, and the dim lighting of the hotel bar cast soft shadows across her features.

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “What are you already grinning about?”

Paige shrugged, still smiling. “Nun.”

Azzi wasn’t convinced. “Yeah, right.”

Paige finally focused in on Azzi’s demeanor, eyes narrowing just slightly before she tilted her head and sat up slightly. “Why you look stressed? You good?”

The question caught Azzi slightly off guard. Even through a screen, even slightly drunk, Paige still noticed everything. That alone made something in Azzi's chest loosen.

Azzi exhaled softly, her lips curving into a small smile. “I’m great now.”

Paige licked her lips, the intent in her gaze changing. “What, I made you feel good huh?”

Azzi wanted to roll her eyes, to deny it, but she didn’t just raised her eyebrows.

Paige sighed dramatically as she sant further into the booth she was sitting in, her voice a little softer now. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

Before she could say anything else, Paige glanced up at someone offscreen. A second later, Azzi heard a voice in the background. “Who you talking to?”

Paige’s grin was huge when she said, “My girl.”

Azzi froze.

Her girl?

They hadn’t made anything official, hadn’t even had that conversation yet. But Paige said it so casually, like it was already a fact, like there was no doubt in her mind that Azzi would be hers eventually. Azzi’s stomach did a ridiculous flip, her heart picking up speed, but before she could even process it, Rickea suddenly appeared on the screen, taking the phone out of Paige’s hands.

Rickea was definitely drunker than Paige, her expression exaggerated as she pointed a finger at Azzi. “You stole my wingwoman.”

Azzi blinked. “Hm?”

Rickea groaned, waving a hand in the air. “You got her pussy whipped. She wouldn’t even look at nobody else tonight, let alone talk to them so I could get with their friend. Awful night for me. Zero outta ten.”

Azzi let out a soft laugh, clearly amused. “I’m… sorry?” The words came out more like a question than an actual apology.

Rickea shook her head, then leaned in closer to the screen, lowering her voice to a supposed whisper that wasn’t even close to quiet. “Imma tell you a secret.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow, already bracing herself.

Rickea glanced around then whispered loudly, “Paige needs to get laid. That girl been tense for weeks.”

Azzi’s mouth fell open slightly, caught between shock and stifling a laugh. Paige, on the other hand, was immediately reaching for the phone with an exasperated, “Alright, bro.”

There was a brief shuffle before the screen shifted, and Paige was back. “Ignore her.”

Azzi tilted her head slightly, a teasing cadence in her tone. “So, you don’t need to, quote-unquote, ‘get laid’?”

Paige squinted at her through the screen, lips pressing together like she was trying to figure out how to respond. “I ain’t say allat,” she admitted, shifting in her seat. “I’m just saying I’m not tense or nothing, you know?”

Azzi hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Mhm.”

Paige narrowed her eyes. “Why you say that like you don’t believe me?”

“Cause I don’t.”

Paige let out a dramatic sigh, shaking her head. “Man, y’all love painting me as this sex deprived, miserable person.”

Azzi laughed at this. “I mean… Rickea said you’ve been tense for weeks. Weeks, P.”

Paige scoffed. “Rickea don’t know what she’s talking about.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “So you haven’t been tense? What you don’t want me?”

Paige huffed, shifting in her seat. “Nah like, obviously, I want—” She stopped, shook her head, and started again. “I mean, if you was here, then yeah, maybe—” She groaned, running a hand down her face. “Nah, what I’m trying to say is—”

Azzi bit her lip, amused. “Go ahead. Take your time.”

Paige shot her a glare through the screen. “You’re annoying.”

Azzi grinned. “And you’re deflecting.”

Paige exhaled. “Man, shut up.”

“I’m just saying, you sounded real confident telling people I’m your girl, but now all of a sudden you don’t have anything to say?”

Paige groaned again, running a hand through her hair. “Why you gotta bring that up?”

“Because I liked how it sounded,” Azzi admitted.

Paige paused, her expression shifting. “Yeah?”

Azzi nodded. “Yeah.”

Paige let out a breath, her lips curling into a slow smile before she said, “Bet.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, shaking her head as she changed the subject. “You need to rest and drink some water before your flight tomorrow.”

Paige frowned. “I’m tryna keep talkin’ to you, though.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “You can talk to me in your room.”

Paige squinted. “Why you keep tryna send me to bed?”

“I’m not,” Azzi said–she definitely was, she could tell Paige was tired and would crash within 10 minutes of being in her room. “You’re just in public, and I don’t wanna filter what I say.”

Paige stilled for a second, like she was processing what that meant, then Azzi watched her scramble up from her seat so fast it was almost impressive.

Azzi smirked. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Paige, already halfway out the bar, just said, “Hold that thought,” before the screen went a little dark.

Azzi heard the shuffle of movement, followed by Paige’s voice calling out to her teammates, “I’m goin’ to bed.”

In the background, Rickea and Dijonai immediately started booing. Paige just laughed, the sound a little muffled, and then Azzi saw her moving toward what looked like the elevators.

Azzi was about to say something when she heard a voice—someone stopping Paige. “Hey, can I get a picture real quick?” the person asked. “We were at the club with y’all earlier.”

Paige sighed quietly but stopped, clearly obliging. “Yeah, yeah, for sure.”

Azzi watched as Paige posed, the flash going off before Paige mumbled, “No problem.” With that, she finally stepped into the elevator, the doors shutting behind her.

The call cut in and out until Paige stepped off the elevator and into her room, shutting the door behind her. She looked down at her phone, her lips curling into a small smirk. “Wassup.”

Azzi smiled at her saying, “Hi again.”

Paige chuckled as she kicked off her shoes, her movements a little sluggish but still controlled. “How was work today?”

Azzi leaned back against her pillows, watching Paige through the screen. “It was good. Just scheduled appointments and check-ins, nothing too unexpected.”

Paige smiled at that. “That’s good. You eat?”

Azzi hummed, nodding. “Yeah.”

Paige propped up her phone, adjusting the angle before stretching her arms over her head with a small groan. “Good, what’d you have?”

Azzi smirked at the domesticity of it all. “You checking up on me now?”

Paige rolled her eyes. “Man, just answer the question.”

Azzi hummed. “I had some salmon, rice, and veggies earlier. Happy?”

Paige grinned. “Very. Proud of you for eating real food.”

Azzi scoffed. “What does that mean?”

“You be playin around sometimes, acting like coffee is a meal.”

Azzi shrugged. “Sometimes it’s all I need to get through the day.”

Paige gave her a pointed look. “If I said that, you’d give me a whole lecture about what my body needs for like twenty minutes.”

“That’s different.”

Paige scoffed. “It’s not.”

Azzi crossed her arms, leaning back against her pillows. “It is, though. You’re an athlete, you burn way more calories than me. Your body literally needs more fuel.”

“Doesn’t mean you can just run on caffeine and sheer will?”

Azzi smiled. “It’s been working so far.”

Paige gave her a pointed look. “Mmhm. Until one day, you just randomly fall out.”

Azzi rolled her eyes. “Alright, that's dramatic.”

Paige shrugged. “I’m just saying, don’t let me catch you slipping. Imma absolutely pull the ‘I told you so’ card.”

“Noted.”

Paige grinned, satisfied. “Good. Now, did you drink water too, or am I about to be disappointed?”

Azzi sighed dramatically. “Yes, Paige, I drank water.”

Paige grinned. “Damn, look at that—sexy, responsible woman over there. Drinkin water and shit.”

Azzi rolled her eyes. “Shut up.”

Paige just laughed, grabbing the hem of her shirt and pulling it over her head before walking out of frame.

Azzi immediately frowned. “Where’d you go?”

A few seconds later, Paige reappeared on the screen, now wearing a pair of shorts and a sports bra. She smirked as she sat down. “What, you tryna get a show?”

Azzi tilted her head slightly, eyes flickering over Paige’s toned frame before humming. “Maybe.”

Paige let out a low chuckle. “You gotta pay for allat.”

Azzi played into the joke, as she bit her lip. “What’s the going rate these days?”

Paige’s jaw dropped dramatically. “Wowww. That’s crazy.”

Azzi smiled. “I’m just trying to be an informed customer.”

Paige leaned closer to the camera. “Ahh, so you tryna make a purchase?”

Azzi tilted her head, pretending to think about it. “Depends on what’s all included in the package.”

Paige let out a low laugh, licking her lips. “Premium service. Real exclusive type service.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “How exclusive we talking?”

Paige’s grin grew, her tipsiness making her bolder. “Like… only available for one person, kinda exclusive.”

Azzi hummed, playing along. “And what if I want a trial run before committing?”

Paige sucked her teeth, shaking her head. “Nah, this ain’t no free sample situation. You either all in or not at all.”

Azzi’s voice is a little softer when she says, “I tried to remember? You stopped me.”

That brought a shift in Paige’s expression. Her smirk faltered, turning gentle as her eyes searched Azzi’s face. She nodded slowly.

“I did,” Paige said softly. “I was just tryna respect you gorgeous.”

Azzi’s features softened in return, her voice sincere. “And I appreciate that.”

Paige smiled at her, eyes growing heavier. “Tell me about your day?”

Azzi settled further into her bed, adjusting her phone as she watched Paige’s face relax. “You sure you’re not going to fall asleep on me?” she teased.

Paige let out a soft chuckle, already nestling into her pillow. “Nah, I wanna hear you talk.” Her voice was quieter now, more at ease. “Just tell me about your day.”

Azzi smiled at that, something warm settling in her chest. “Alright.” She thought for a moment before starting. “Well work was good—mostly just check-ins and scheduled appointments like I said, nothing too crazy. I had this one client who swore they were dying over a minor sprain, though.”

Paige let out a sleepy laugh. “Mmm. You saving lives out here, huh?”

Azzi smirked. “Always.”

Paige hummed in response, eyes slipping closed but her lips still curved in a small smile. Azzi kept talking, telling her about little moments from her day—her workout that morning, grabbing coffee, the book she’d started reading. Paige would mumble something here and there, making it clear she was still listening, even as her responses got slower.

Eventually, Azzi heard Paige’s breathing even out, her face peaceful on the screen. Azzi just watched her for a moment, the sight of Paige so relaxed making her chest tighten in a way she wasn’t ready to unpack.

Softly, she whispered, “Goodnight, Paige.”

Paige stirred just enough to murmur back, “Night, Az,” before fully drifting off.

Azzi smiled to herself, shaking her head fondly before ending the call, letting herself relax into bed as well.

…

The next time Paige and Azzi saw each other was the day Paige returned to Dallas. She had just picked up Lukas from her mothers house, the little boy practically bouncing in his seat in the back, a bright grin on his face as he was excited to see his mom after being apart for so long.

As they drove down the familiar Dallas streets, Lukas chatted about everything from starting school in the fall to the new toy he wanted that his uncle showed him.

Paige pulled up outside Azzi’s clinic, shifting the car into park as she glanced at Lukas through the rearview mirror. The little boy was peering out the window, his small brows furrowed in curiosity.

“Where are we?”

Paige unbuckled her seatbelt, stretching her arm over the passenger seat as she turned to look at him. “We’re picking up Azzi.”

At the mention of her name, Lukas immediately went quiet, mumbling out a quiet, “Oh.” His tiny fingers messed with the strings of his hoodie, and a faint pink dusted his cheeks.

Paige caught the reaction instantly, smirking as she tilted her head. “Oh?” she teased, dragging the word out.

Lukas shifted in his car seat, suddenly hyper focused on the straps across his chest. “Nothin’,” he mumbled, eyes darting away.

Paige chuckled. “You excited to see Azzi?”

There was a pause before Lukas gave a quick, almost shy nod. “She’s nice,” he admitted quietly.

Paige’s smirk softened into a smile. “Yeah, she is.”

She unlatched her door and turned back to him. “You gonna come inside with me or just sit there looking shy?”

Lukas hesitated, his little legs swinging. “I’ll go.”

After helping Lukas out of the car, Paige took his hand and led him up to Azzi’s clinic. When they got off the elevator the same receptionist from last time looked up, offering a polite smile. Paige returned it with a small nod.

Azzi was waiting for them just past the desk, standing with her hands in her pockets. Paige gave her a quick once over taking note of the white button up that was slightly undone and the heels Azzi had on.

Maybe it was the fact that they hadn’t seen each other in days, or maybe it was something else entirely, but the moment Azzi stepped toward Paige, the hug that followed felt different.

To anyone watching, it would seem like nothing more than a warm embrace—Azzi’s arms wrapping around Paige’s shoulders, Paige’s arms circling her waist. But to them, it felt like something else entirely.

Azzi melted into it just a little too much, the weight of her body pressing against Paige’s completely as she let out the smallest sigh against her hoodie. Paige felt the way Azzi’s fingers curled slightly against her back, how the warmth of her breath tickled her neck.

Paige, in turn, held on just a second longer than necessary, her lips brushing the curve of Azzi’s jaw as she whispered, “Wassup, beautiful?”

Azzi stiffened for half a second, just enough for Paige to notice, before she pulled back, keeping her expression neutral.

Their eyes met.

Lingering.

Reading each other.

Their eye contact lasted long enough that the receptionist cleared her throat softly, a subtle reminder that they weren’t alone.

Paige smirked as she shifted her weight, finally glancing away. Azzi, on the other hand, bit the inside of her cheek, schooling her expression before turning her attention down to Lukas, who had been watching the interaction with his wide, curious eyes.

Azzi crouched slightly, offering the boy a warm smile. “Hey, buddy,” she greeted, her voice softer now.

Lukas, still flustered from before, rocked on his heels before shyly mumbling, “Hi.”

Paige watched the exchange with amusement, her heart beating a little faster than it probably should have been.

Azzi stood up, her gaze flickering to the small bowl of candy on the receptionist’s desk. She grabbed a piece, then turned to Paige with a silent question in her eyes, lifting the candy slightly in Lukas’s direction.

Paige let out a quiet laugh, nodding. “Yeah, he can have it.”

Azzi grinned and crouched again, holding the candy out to Lukas. “This is for you.”

Lukas’s eyes widened slightly, his shyness momentarily replaced with excitement as he reached for it. “Thank you.”

Azzi chuckled. “You’re welcome.”

Paige watched the exchange shaking her head. “You tryna win him over with candy already?”

Azzi smirked, glancing at her. “Is it working?”

Paige looked down at Lukas, who was now inspecting the candy like it was a prized possession, his tiny fingers gripping it tightly. “Yeah… definitely.”

Azzi turned back toward the receptionist, giving her a small wave. “Goodnight, Kelly,” she said with a smile.

“Goodnight, Dr. Fudd. Paige,” Kelly replied, her tone slightly teasing as she subtly glanced between Azzi and Paige.

Azzi rolled her eyes but smiled before following Paige and Lukas toward the elevator. As the doors closed, the three of them stood in comfortable silence, Lukas still clutching his candy while sneaking glances at Azzi.

When they got outside, Paige immediately reached for Lukas’s hand, keeping him close as they walked to her car. Azzi attempted to open the passenger door but Paige stopped her and with her free hand, she pulled open the passenger door for Azzi.

Azzi arched her eyebrow but smirked as she slid into the seat. “A real gentle woman,” she teased.

Paige snorted. “You’re welcome.”

Once Azzi was settled Paige shut the door for her and turned her attention to Lukas, opening the back door and lifting him up into his car seat. She stepped back, watching as he carefully buckled himself in, his small hands fumbling with the straps.

“You got it?” Paige asked.

Lukas nodded, determined. “Mhm.”

Satisfied, Paige shut his door and made her way around to the driver’s side, sliding in behind the wheel.

For the most part, the car ride was quiet as they drove to Paige’s house. She wanted to give Azzi time to wind down, having heard how draining her days can be sometimes. Azzi didn’t seem exhausted, but she wasn’t rushing to fill the silence either. She simply gazed out the window, her body relaxed in the passenger seat.

In the backseat, Lukas had talked himself out for a bit. He stared out the window, occasionally kicking his feet as he took in the sights passing by. Every now and then, he’d say something random—commenting on a car, a dog he saw on the sidewalk, or just mumbling a thought that popped into his head.

Paige, of course, always responded, laughing at his little observations or answering his occasional questions. One hand was lazily gripping the wheel, the other resting on the gear stick, fingers drumming lightly against it.

Eventually Azzi glanced down, noticing the movement before subtly reaching over. She slid her hand over Paige’s, fingers curling around her wrist for a second before tugging it toward her lap. Paige let her, exhaling a quiet chuckle as Azzi interlaced their fingers, resting their joined hands on her thigh.

Neither of them said anything. Paige’s thumb brushed against Azzi’s skin absentmindedly, and Azzi just let herself enjoy the warmth of Paige’s touch. It was simple, but there was something grounding about it. Something comforting.

A few minutes later, Paige pulled into a spot near a small café, glancing in the rearview mirror. “You hungry, little man?”

Lukas perked up immediately, nodding. “Yes!”

Azzi chuckled, shaking her head. “Didn’t even hesitate.”

Paige smirked, already knowing the answer before she asked. “Figured I’d stop now so he’s not up too late.”

Paige ran inside and ordered some grilled chicken wraps for all of them, and a fruit cup for Lukas. As she pulled back onto the road, the smell of the food quickly filled the car, and Lukas hummed in satisfaction from the backseat.

“That smells so good,” he mumbled, his voice sleepy but happy.

Paige grinned, glancing over at Azzi. “See? Man’s got priorities.”

Azzi smiled, giving Paige’s hand a small squeeze. “Can’t argue with that.”

As Paige pulled into the garage, the car had barely come to a complete stop before Lukas was already unbuckling himself. The second the lock clicked, he swung the door open and bolted inside, his small feet pattering against the floor as he rushed to reunite with the toys he had been separated from while staying at his grandmother’s house.

Paige chuckled, watching him disappear into the house. “Big head didn’t even say bye,” she mumbled.

Azzi laughed as she stepped out of the car, stretching her arms above her head before following Paige inside.

As soon as Paige set the food down on the island, she turned to Azzi and pulled her in by her waist. Azzi barely had time to adjust before Paige’s lips were on her neck, pressing slow kisses against her skin.

Azzi exhaled softly, her arms winding around Paige’s shoulders as she tilted her head, offering more access. Paige hummed against her skin, trailing her lips lower, taking her time as if she was reacquainting herself with the feeling of having Azzi this close again.

Azzi sighed at the sensation, her fingers threading through the hairs at the nape of Paige’s neck, nails scratching lightly. “Missed me, huh?” she teased, though her voice came out softer than intended, reflecting just how much she was feeling it too.

Paige smirked against her skin, pressing one last open mouthed kiss beneath Azzi’s jaw before whispering, “Maybe a lil.”

Azzi pulled Paige toward her lips, her voice a soft whisper against the small space between them. “Liar,” she whispered before closing the distance, pressing their lips together.

Paige melted into it, her hands tightening around Azzi’s waist as she let herself sink into the warmth of Azzi’s mouth. It had only been a few days, but it felt like forever. She could feel Azzi smiling against her lips, could feel the way her fingers curled into her hair.

Just as the kiss was about to deepen, Paige heard the sound of small, hurried footsteps making their way toward the kitchen. Her instincts kicked in and with a quiet sigh, she tugged playfully on Azzi’s bottom lip before pulling back, smirking when she saw the way Azzi’s eyes fluttered open, a little dazed.

Azzi exhaled, blinking as if she was snapping herself out of it. “You’re evil,” she whispered.

Paige grinned, stepping away just in time for Lukas to come sprinting into the kitchen, completely oblivious to what he had just interrupted.

Paige glanced over at Lukas, who was bouncing on his feet, eager to eat dinner. “Go wash your hands so you can eat.”

Lukas nodded and dashed toward the sink, stepping onto his little stool that was positioned for him to reach the faucet. He hummed quietly to himself as he scrubbed his hands, focusing intently on the task at hand. Paige smiled at him before turning her attention back to the food, moving everything to the table,

As Lukas finished washing his hands, he hopped off the stool and walked over to the table, his eyes scanning the seats. “Ma, can I sit there?” he asked, pointing to the seat next to Azzi.

Paige laughed, raising her eyebrows at Lukas's sudden preference for the seat next to Azzi. "Go ahead," she said. She pushed his food over toward that spot, smiling as Lukas happily scooted into the chair beside Azzi and began to dig into his food.

Paige handed Azzi her food before sitting across from her, offering a small smile. Azzi’s lips quirked into a smile of her own as she murmured, “Thank you.”

The dinner started with easy conversation between Paige and Azzi, filled with them talking about the past few days and plans for the upcoming weekend. Lukas chimed in here and there, his voice cutting through the conversation with random, innocent comments or questions. It felt effortless—comfortable, even—until Lukas suddenly stopped, looking up at Paige with a serious expression on his face.

Paige was in the middle of talking to Azzi about her game on Sunday when Lukas suddenly cut in, his voice serious. "Ma, I got a question," he said, pausing with his kids-wrap halfway to his mouth.

Paige looked over at him, raising an eyebrow. "Wassup?"

Lukas set his wrap down. "Can I have a girlfriend yet?"

Paige’s mind raced, her face briefly going blank before she recovered. She was prepared for a lot of things, but not that—certainly not from her freshly four-year-old. She glanced at Azzi, who was struggling to suppress her laugh.

Paige cleared her throat, trying to keep her voice steady. "No, buddy," she said, simply.

Lukas looked a little bummed, his small brows furrowing. "When can I have a girlfriend?"

Paige nearly choked on her own laughter at the sheer seriousness in his voice, but she composed herself, trying to act like it wasn’t the most absurd thing she'd ever heard. "Dude, why are you asking? You're, like, four."

Lukas just shrugged, his cheeks turning a little pink as he looked down at his plate. Paige couldn't help but laugh, shaking her head. "16, maybe," she said, figuring that might be a reasonable answer for when he'd actually be ready for a girlfriend.

Lukas looked up at that, trying to do the math with his fingers, clearly confused. After a few moments, he looked back at Paige. "How many years is that?" he asked earnestly.

Paige took another bite of her food, smiling despite herself. "Twelve," she answered casually.

Lukas stared at her for a moment, his small brows furrowing in thought. Then, in his innocent, matter-of-fact way, he turned to Azzi and asked, “Excuse me. How old will you be in 12 years?”

Paige froze for a second, her wrap halfway to her mouth. She glanced at Azzi, whose eyes widened in surprise at the unexpected question.

Lukas stared up at Azzi, his blue eyes wide and serious, still waiting for an answer. Paige squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, trying to come up with a way to explain this to her four-year-old. She put her food down and let out a quiet sigh, then looked at Lukas. "Lukas, buddy..." she trailed off, clearly struggling to find the right words.

Lukas looked at her expectantly, waiting for a response from one of them. Paige gave up trying to come up with a more tactful response and just went with the straightforward answer. "You can't date Azzi, buddy."

Lukas blinked a few times, then scrunched up his face. "Why not?"

Paige sighed, glancing over at Azzi, who could see how much Paige was struggling. With a soft smile, Azzi finally spoke up. "I'm a little too old, Luke.”

Lukas looked between the two of them as he tried to make sense of it all. “Even in twelve years?”

Azzi let out a soft laugh, her eyes crinkling as she smiled at him. “Yes, even in twelve years.”

Lukas let out a thoughtful “Oh,” and nodded slowly, accepting the answer as fact. But he wasn’t done yet. He then looked at Paige. “Ma, do you like Azzi? She’s not too old for you right?”

Paige blinked, once again caught slightly off guard by the abrupt shift, “Yeah, I do,” she said with a soft smile.

Lukas tilted his head side to side. “Like… like like?”

Paige chuckled again, reaching for her glass of water. “Yes, Lukas. Like like like.”

Lukas hummed thoughtfully, his spoon full of fruit paused in midair as he mulled it over. Paige watched him for a beat, a small hint of nervousness in her smile. “Is that okay with you?”

He shrugged, already turning his attention back to his plate like the weight of the conversation hadn’t even touched him. “Yeah,” he said casually, scooping up another bite of fruit. “She’s pretty.”

Paige blinked, then burst into quiet laughter, glancing across the table at Azzi—who was doing a terrible job of hiding her smirk behind her water glass.

“Well,” Azzi said playfully, leaning an elbow on the table, “guess I’ve got son approval now, huh?”

Even though Azzi was addressing Paige, Lukas nodded through a mouthful of food. “Mhm. You can stay.”

After that, the rest of dinner was pretty uneventful—filled mostly with Lukas’s nonstop chatter, bouncing from one random topic to the next now that he had food in his stomach. Paige and Azzi let him lead the conversation, throwing in playful questions to keep him going.

But even as they talked, Paige couldn’t help but notice the way Azzi’s foot kept brushing against her leg under the table.

Once dinner was cleared and Lukas had finished the last of his water, Paige stood and stretched. “Alright, time for bath and pajamas,” she said, nodding for Lukas to follow her.

He grumbled in protest but still grabbed his toy car and trudged after her toward his room.

Azzi smiled at them before catching Paige’s eye. “I’ll hop in the shower while you do that,” she said softly.

“Sounds good.”

…

When Azzi finished her shower, she oiled and detangled her hair before pulling it into a messy bun on top of her head. She slipped into one of Paige’s old college shirts—the UConn logo stretched across the front with the number 5 on the back.

She padded downstairs, the sound of laughter greeting her before she even reached the bottom step. As she rounded the corner, she paused in the archway, smiling at the sight in front of her—Paige and Lukas were tangled up on the living room floor, both laughing like crazy.

Lukas was squirming beneath Paige’s hands, squealing through fits of laughter. “Ma! Stop, stop! That tickles! I gotta breathe!”

Paige grinned, completely unbothered by his protests as she continued to tickle him. “Nah that’s what you get for splashing me in the tub!”

Azzi leaned against the wall, her heart softening at the sight.

Lukas finally managed to roll on top of Paige—she let him, of course—and he immediately launched his counterattack, his tiny hands moving clumsily as he tried to tickle her sides.

“Ha I got you now!” he declared, his grin huge.

Paige exaggerated her reaction, squirming under him as she laughed. “Ahh! No, not the tickle monster!”

Through her playful flailing, she caught sight of Azzi standing there, leaning against the archway. Her smile softened the moment she saw her, eyes flicking to the UConn shirt hanging comfortably on Azzi’s frame. It was an old one—faded lettering and all—but it looked ridiculously good on her. Paige smirked, eyes trailing over Azzi for way too long before she scooped Lukas up with a grunt and stood.

“Alright, go play with your toys for a bit. I gotta go shower.”

Lukas nodded, already halfway to his favorite corner of the living room, which was packed with cars, a mini ball and hoop, and a table with art supplies all over it.

As soon as his back was turned, Paige crossed the room toward Azzi. Without saying anything, she grabbed her hand and tugged her around the corner and out of sight. Azzi let herself be pulled, curiosity dancing in her face—until her back met the wall gently and Paige stepped into her space, hands on both sides of her waist.

Paige mumbled, “You look good in my shirt.”

Azzi tilted her head, smirking now. “Do I?”

Paige nodded, eyes flicking down her body briefly before meeting Azzi’s again. “Yeah… too good, honestly.”

Azzi bit back a smile, her hands sliding up Paige’s arms. “Maybe you should let me borrow your clothes more often.”

Instead of responding Paige just leaned in, pulling her into a kiss that was deeper than usual, her lips lingering longer as she gently pressed Azzi against the wall again.

Azzi melted into it for a moment before murmuring against Paige’s lips, “Thought you were going to shower.”

Paige smirked, lips brushing over hers again. “Five more seconds won’t kill me.”

Azzi grinned. “You gonna be thinking about this the whole time you’re in there aren’t you?”

Paige’s thumb dragged lazily across her side. “Absolutely.” With that Paige smiled at Azzi and gave her one more quick kiss before she went upstairs to shower.

Azzi’s stomach was still warm from Paige’s kiss as she wandered into the living room, her fingers absentmindedly playing with the hem of the shirt. She sank into the couch, exhaling softly into the quiet. Lukas was still off in his corner, mumbling to himself as he attempted a spin move, and for a moment, Azzi let herself get lost in everything—how comfortable this all felt, how unexpected it was, how easy it had become to want this.

She was so wrapped up in her thoughts, she didn’t notice Lukas approaching until he was standing in front of her, holding out a picture book with his hands. “Can you read this to me please?”

Azzi smiled as she took the book from him. “Of course I can.”

He didn’t say anything as he climbed up beside her, settling close. Azzi waited for him to get comfortable, letting him wiggle around until he was satisfied with his spot. Then she opened the book across both their laps and began to read, her voice smooth as she brought the story to life.

Every so often, she’d pause to point something out—“What do you think that is?” or “Look at that face, silly, huh?”—and Lukas would grin, nod, or offer a quiet answer. His responses were soft, but they came quicker with each page, his comfort growing right alongside his curiosity.

By the fifth or sixth page, Lukas was fully leaned into her, his head gently resting against her chest. Azzi didn’t say anything about it. She just shifted the book slightly, adjusting to his weight as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

When Paige came back downstairs in her usual shorts and a sports bra, she froze just before she entered the room. Her eyes locked onto the couch—and for a second, she genuinely felt like she couldn’t move.

Lukas was curled into Azzi’s chest, his small body tucked against her like he belonged there. Azzi’s arm was wrapped loosely around him, the book still open in her hand as she read in a quiet voice. Lukas’s blue eyes fluttered, heavy with sleep, but still trying to hold on to her words.

Paige felt her throat tighten, breath catching as something sharp and soft cracked open in her chest. The sight hit her so hard she had to press her lips together to keep them from trembling. Her eyes stung, but she blinked quickly, swallowing the emotion down before it could rise too far.

She took a steady breath and stepped into view, her voice softer than usual as she asked, “What’s going on in here?”

Lukas didn’t even look up, just waved her off with a sleepy hand. “Sssh, ma… she’s reading to me.”

Azzi bit the inside of her cheek to hold back a laugh, while Paige chuckled under her breath. She crossed the room and sank onto the couch next to Azzi, her arm naturally stretching along the back behind her shoulders.

Azzi glanced sideways at Paige for a second, and they shared a look. Once again a blink longer than it needed to be.

Then Lukas shifted and looked up at Azzi expectantly. “You stopped.”

Azzi smiled, eyes still lingering on Paige before turning back to the book. “Right. Where were we?”

Lukas says easily, “The elephant.”

“Right the elephant, thank you.”

Azzi finished the story and Paige sat quietly beside her the whole time—fingers tracing absentminded patterns along the back of Azzi’s neck. It started out casual, innocent even, but as the pages turned and Lukas leaned heavier into Azzi’s side, Paige's touch grew more purposeful, more tender.

When she noticed that Lukas had fully fallen asleep, his little breaths even, Paige leaned in closer. She pressed an open-mouthed kiss just beneath Azzi’s jaw, then another along the curve of her neck, her voice barely a whisper as she murmured, “You’re really something, you know that?”

Azzi exhaled softly, her eyes fluttering closed for a second. Paige smiled against her skin and whispered again, lower this time, “You keep doing shit that makes me wanna give you whatever you ask for..”

Azzi turned her head just slightly, enough for their noses to brush. “You’re not making it easy to stay still right now.”

“Good,” Paige whispered, her lips grazing Azzi’s. “Wasn’t trying to.”

Paige pulled Azzi into a soft kiss, her hand slipping gently along Azzi’s jaw as their mouths moved together slowly. Their tongues met and lingered, tracing one another’s with a quiet kind of desperation. When Paige finally pulled back, her smile was laced with something fuller—adoration, maybe.

“You’re amazing,” she whispered against Azzi’s lips, still close enough to feel her breath.

Azzi blinked, eyes searching Paige’s for a moment before replying just as softly, “You’re amazing.”

Paige exhaled, a content sigh leaving her as she rested her forehead briefly against Azzi’s, not wanting to move. She finally pulled back, eyes flicking to Lukas. “Alright,” she murmured, “Imma take him to bed.”

Azzi nodded. “I’ll meet you in your room.”

Paige stood up and scooped Lukas into her arms, the little boy still sound asleep, head resting against her shoulder. She carried him upstairs, her steps quiet and practiced. Once she reached his room, she gently laid him down, tucking his blanket around him before turning on his night light by the bed, and the one in the bathroom connected to his room—just like always. She stood there for a moment, watching him, brushing a hand through his blonde hair before quietly stepping out and closing the door behind her.

Paige walked into her room and found Azzi sitting on the bed, eyes focused on her phone. The moment Azzi looked up and saw Paige, she set it aside without hesitation. After shutting and locking the door Paige moved toward the bed, standing between Azzi’s legs, looking down at her with a soft smile.

"Thank you for reading to him," Paige said, her voice sincere. "You didn't have to do that."

"You don't need to thank me for being a decent human," Assi teased.

Paige smiled at her, her heart softening. Before she could say anything else, Azzi reached for Paige's hand, tugging her gently onto the bed so she was hovering over her. Paige smirked down at her. “Wassup?”

Azzi’s gaze remained steady as she looked up at Paige, a hint of curiosity in her eyes. “Did you sleep with anyone while you were gone?”

Paige looked a little shocked at the question causing a slight pause before she answered. “Um..no…?”

“Why not?”

Paige shifted slightly, her eyes searching Azzi’s face to figure out where her mind was. Eventually Paige let out a small sigh saying, “Look I like you Azzi. A lot. And I realized that pretty early on. So I guess I just didn’t wanna disrespect you, your time, or the energy you’ve given me. It didn’t feel right.”

There was a quiet weight to her words, and Azzi felt a warmth stir inside her as she processed what Paige had said. The honesty between them always seemed to draw them closer.

Azzi answered back, “It sounds childish to say, but...I like you a lot too,” she admitted, a small but genuine smile forming on her lips. “And I’m probably going to regret saying this, but I can’t get you out of my head most days.”

Paige smirked, just as Azzi knew she would, but Azzi wasn’t done yet. “I just—I really can’t get hurt again, Paige,” she said, the vulnerability in her voice cutting through the small space between them.

Paige’s expression softened, her blue eyes warm as she gazed down at Azzi. “I wouldn’t hurt you, Azzi.”

Azzi’s eyes searched hers. “You don’t know that,” she replied quietly, her heart still a little heavy with the weight of past experiences.

Paige’s smile was gentle as she leaned in closer. “I do,” she said with quiet conviction. “Azzi, I have a son. This is about to be my 7th year in the league. I’m ready to slow down, have consistency in my life... in Lukas’ life.” Paige paused for a second before adding, “And I’m not about to lie to you, maybe four months ago I couldn’t say all this, but this past week away from you kinda showed me where I’m at mentally. So I'm telling you, you don’t need to worry about allat. I got you.”

Paige's words washed over Azzi, and for the first time in a while, she let herself feel hopeful that maybe, just maybe, this was something different. Something real. With a small smile Azzi connected their lips gently.

It deepened as Azzi pulled Paige closer, her hands wrapping around Paige's shoulders, urging her down, wanting to feel her weight on top of her. Paige hovered over her, their chests pressing together, the heat of their closeness growing as they kissed with a quiet urgency. It was slow, but every kiss seemed to carry the weight of the last few days they'd spent apart, the longing finally being given room to breathe.

For a few moments, they lost themselves in each other, their kisses messy yet perfect. Their lips moved against each other in a rhythm that somehow felt new and familiar at the same time. Occasionally, one of them would sigh softly, a breathless sound that only seemed to deepen the connection between them. Each touch, each shift of their bodies, felt like a reaffirmation of something they haven’t said yet.

Paige’s hands had drifted to Azzi’s neck, gently pulling her in closer, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath her fingertips. Every so often, one of them would pull back slightly, just enough to catch their breath, their foreheads resting together, eyes fluttering open to gaze at one another.

Paige’s breath hitched when she heard Azzi slightly moan into the kiss causing her to slowly move her lips to Azzi’s neck, pressing a soft kiss there before returning to her mouth. “I missed this,” Paige whispered between kisses.

Azzi smiled against Paige’s lips, her hands tracing the outline of Paige’s jaw before pulling her back in for another kiss. “Me too,” she murmured, her lips capturing Paige’s with a different intensity.

As the kiss grew heavier, Paige slowly broke from Azzi’s lips, her mouth trailing down the curve of her jaw, pressing wet open mouth kisses until she found that spot on her neck that she knew Azzi liked. She attached her lips there, sucking gently before soothing it with her tongue, her breath hot against Azzi’s skin.

Azzi let out a quiet, involuntary sound—half sigh, half moan—as her fingers curled into Paige’s shoulders. “That feels good,” she mumbled, her head falling back to give Paige more access.

Paige smiled against her neck, lips brushing over the spot she’d just kissed. “Yeah?” she whispered, her voice low, full of quiet satisfaction at Azzi’s comment. “Swear I been thinking about this—about you all week.”

She nipped gently again, her hands smoothing up and down Azzi’s side. “Missed you so much,” she murmured into the warm skin of her neck, letting the words linger as she started to suck gently on Azzi’s neck again..

Azzi’s breath hitched, and she whispered, “Paige…”

Paige immediately paused, pulling back as her eyes searched Azzi’s. “You okay?” she asked softly, already easing off her, assuming they needed to slow down.

But Azzi shook her head and reached for her, fingers curling around the back of Paige’s neck as she tugged her back down, closer. “No, don’t…I didn’t mean stop,” she said, her voice breathless. “I just—God, I just wanted to say your name. It felt good.”

Paige smirked, her lips brushing against Azzi’s jaw as she leaned in again. “Mmm ok,” she murmured before kissing down her neck again, slower this time. Her hands slipped beneath Azzi’s shirt fingertips dragging along her warm stomach, tracing the lines of her sides.

Azzi’s fingers tightened slightly around Paige’s shoulders as she whispered, “Take it off.”

Paige once again paused, pulling back just enough to see her face, her hands still resting on Azzi’s ribs. Her voice was gentle, steady. “You sure?” she asked, blue eyes locked on Azzi’s brown ones, no pressure in her tone—just a quiet promise to Azzi that they could wait if she needed.

“Yes,” Azzi said, barely above a whisper. “I want this.”

Paige nodded and slowly lifted herself off of Azzi, her hands gliding down her sides as she moved. Azzi shifted fully onto the bed, her back resting against the pillows. She peeled off the UConn shirt—the one that smelled like Paige, the one she secretly didn’t want to give back.

Paige's gaze swept over Azzi’s bare chest, quiet and steady. Her blue eyes had dilated so they appeared darker, but the look she gave Azzi was soft, almost reverent. Like she was seeing something sacred.

Climbing back over her, Paige leaned down and whispered, “You’re so beautiful, Azzi.”

Azzi smiled up at her, a little breathless already. “Thank you.”

Paige shook her head, her voice even softer now. “I’m for real… I’ve never seen anyone like you.”

Azzi didn’t say anything this time. She just smiled and pulled Paige into another kiss, her fingers threading into the back of her hair. The kiss was slower now, full of everything that had been simmering between them for months. Azzi pulled back slightly, her lips brushing against Paige’s as she murmured, “Did you lock the door?”

Paige smiled. “Course I did.”

Paige lifted herself slightly, her eyes never leaving Azzi’s as she reached for her sports bra and tugged it over her head, tossing it aside. Warm light from the bedside lamp caught the lines of her body, casting soft shadows across her toned muscles. Azzi’s breath hitched, her eyes flickering over Paige—seeing her for the first time.

Paige dipped back down, her lips brushing over Azzi’s jaw before trailing lower—pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses down her neck, across her collarbone, and then to the top of her chest. Her hands stayed on Azzi’s sides, thumbs moving in gentle, slow circles as she explored the new territory.

Azzi exhaled sharply, her fingers flexing against Paige’s back as her body arched into the touch. “Paige please…” she whispered, breathless and quiet, her voice catching on the edge of a moan.

Paige smiled softly against her skin, not saying anything—just letting her lips speak for her as she sucked along the curve of Azzi’s chest, her skin warm and flush against hers now. Every shift of Paige’s body, every lingering kiss, the way her tongue swirled around her chest, made Azzi whisper her name again and again, like she was afraid the moment would disappear if she didn’t hold onto the fact that it was Paige.

Paige’s mouth moved with purpose now, nipping and sucking gently at Azzi’s skin, leaving behind little pink-ish purple trails like a map of where she’d been. Her hands slid down Azzi’s sides, fingers curling and squeezing every so often—grounding them both in the moment. Each time she dipped lower, she let her tongue soothe where her teeth had marked.

Azzi’s breath caught again when Paige’s tongue traced her nipple, her back arching into the feeling.

“You sound so beautiful,” Paige whispered, her voice horse. She kissed the words into her just below her ribs, trailing them with her lips.

Azzi’s fingers found Paige’s hair, gently tugging as her eyes fluttered closed. Her heart was racing in her chest—not just from the way Paige was touching her—it was the way she was seeing her.

Paige looked up at her, her lips stilling for a moment as she whispered, “You okay?”

Azzi nodded, lips parted, her fingers tightening just slightly in Paige’s hair. Paige held her gaze for a moment longer, then slowly trailed down a little lower. Her mouth moved with care—pressing open-mouthed kisses, leaving behind soft marks that only Azzi would be able to see.

When Paige glanced back up, Azzi was already looking down at her—her brown eyes vulnerable, but filled with admiration. Paige paused, brushing her lips against her skin one more time before quietly asking, “Is this okay?”

Azzi nodded again, but Paige didn’t move. “I need you to say it’s okay for me baby.”

Azzi let out a quiet sigh, swallowing down the emotion that bubbled up. “Yes… yes, it’s okay,” she whispered, her fingers still in Paige’s hair. “It’s good. You’re good.”

Paige kissed her way slowly back up Azzi’s body, taking her time—savoring every inch, every sigh she pulled from her. When their lips met again, it was slow as Paige coaxed Azzi into relaxing, her hand sliding into the boxers she slipped on.

Her hand found Azzi’s clit, fingers brushing lightly as she began to trace slow circles against her wet center. The touch was soft, but the effect was immediate—Azzi’s breath catching, her body tensing slightly beneath Paige’s.

It had been a while so her senses felt heightened, her body already teetering between wanting more and struggling to keep up.

Paige felt it too—the way Azzi arched into her touch, the way her tongue pushed further into her mouth but her lips faltered at the edges. She pulled back slightly, just enough to rest her forehead against Azzi’s, her fingers still moving in gentle circles.

“Too much?” Paige whispered.

Azzi shook her head, her eyes half-lidded. “No,” she whispered. “It’s just…it’s been a long time.”

Paige nodded as she continued her movements. She watched Azzi closely—the way her chest rose and fell, the way her lips parted with each quiet breath. Paige leaned in and pressed a kiss to the edge of Azzi’s jaw, her voice warm.

“You look so beautiful right now,” she whispered. “So, so pretty.”

Azzi’s fingers curled in the sheets for a moment, her body shifting beneath Paige’s as she exhaled a shaky breath before saying, “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true,” Paige said with a faint smile, nipping lightly at Azzi’s neck before soothing it with her lips. “And you sound even prettier. You don’t even know what you’re doing to me right now.”

Azzi let out a soft laugh at that, but it faded into a soft moan when Paige’s fingers dipped down towards her entrance slightly before moving back up. “You’re making it really hard to think straight,” Azzi whispered.

Paige grinned against her skin. “Good. Lemme just make you feel good then.”

Azzi looked at her, eyes warm—she reached for Paige’s face, her fingers brushing her cheek. “I missed you while you were gone”.

Paige smiled and leaned into her touch, kissing her palm softly before whispering, “I missed you too. So much.”

With that, Paige dipped her head again, her lips starting to trail lower.

She continued to move slowly against Azzi’s clit, her fingers tracing delicate circles, as she felt the way Azzi’s body began to shift beneath her. Azzi’s breaths grew shorter, her soft noises turning into quiet whimpers that were harder to hold back.

Her hips shifted, chasing the warmth of Paige’s touch, and Paige felt it. Paige glanced up through her lashes, a small smile on her face. “That feel good, baby?”

Azzi nodded, her brows knit together as she exhaled shakily. “Yeah… yeah,” she whispered, almost breathless. “Fuck—Paige, I…” Her voice trailed off into another soft sound as Paige’s fingers dipped just a bit lower—not quite sliding in yet, but close.

Paige’s lips curled into a soft smile, brushing another kiss along Azzi’s stomach as she whispered, “You’re so responsive…I love how your body’s talkin to me.” She slid her fingers near her entrance again, grounding Azzi with her palm against her side.

Azzi’s fingers found Paige’s hair again, tugging gently as her back arched into her. “You’re driving me crazy,” she whispered.

“I haven’t even started,” Paige chuckled. “I been thinking about this—about you—every night.”

Azzi let out a breath that was almost a moan, her head tilting back against the pillow. “Please stop teasing me,” she whispered.

Paige smiled curling her fingers in the boxers Azzi had on, her eyes meeting hers in a silent question. Azzi answered by lifting her hips slightly, giving her the go-ahead. Paige peeled the fabric down Azzi’s legs, tossing it aside before her gaze dropped—and lingered.

All Paige could muster was a quiet, “Damn,” her eyes taking Azzi in completely—the way she was already dripping for her.

Azzi blushed under the attention, a small smirk tugging at her lips, but she didn’t look away. Paige pulled back just long enough to tug her shorts and boxers off, letting them fall beside Azzi’s so she wouldn’t be the only one bare.

Then she leaned down towards Azzi’s center, her eyes soft as they scanned Azzi’s face. “This okay?” she asked, her voice quieter now, more serious.

Azzi nodded without hesitation. “It’s more than okay,” she said, her voice reflecting her excitement slightly.

Paige nodded giving Azzi one last lingering look before she dipped her head down and pressed a soft open mouthed kiss to Azzi’s center. The warmth of her mouth made Azzi’s breath hitch and her stomach flutter. Her fingers tightened around the sheets.

Paige felt it—heard it—and looked up at her again, her expression gentle but searching. “You good?” she asked softly.

Azzi nodded again, this time slower, her hand brushing against Paige’s shoulder. “I’m good,” she whispered. “Amazing.”

Paige nodded gently, her hand’s brushing along Azzi’s thighs as she leaned back down, mouth returning to Azzi’s center. She kissed there slowly—once, then again—each movement tender and slow, letting Azzi melt into the rhythm.

Then Paige shifted her position slightly, hooking Azzi’s legs with her arms. She dragged her tongue up and down slowly a few times causing Azzi’s breath to hitch, her fingers tightening in Paige’s hair. It wasn’t desperate, she just needed to hold onto something to stop herself from making unnecessary noises.

Paige smiled into Azzi softly. “You’re doing so good,” she whispered. “Taste so good baby.”

Azzi let out a soft sound at that, her cheeks flushed, eyes fluttering open to look down at Paige. There was so much emotion in Azzi’s chest, it felt like it would spill over.

After hearing Azzi’s reaction, Paige started to lick at her with a little less reservation now, circling her tongue at any part of Azzi she could reach. “Been wanting to take care of you like this for a long time.”

Azzi’s hand slid into Paige’s hair again, pushing her closer. Whispering “Mmm–then don’t stop. Keep going just like that.”

Paige dipped back down, her lips and tongue moving in tandem, like she was committing every inch of Azzi to memory. Paige would’ve thought she was the one losing herself in it, completely undone, if it weren’t for the continuous sounds slipping off of Azzi’s lips.

Tiny gasps when Paige would dip her tongue into her entrance. Whispered sighs. Her name falling out in a broken moan, now and then, said so softly it made Paige’s heart ache in the best way.

The warmth in Paige’s stomach bloomed, rising into her chest and pressing against her ribs. She hadn’t expected to feel this full—like she could float away from how much she felt in this moment. She glanced up at Azzi, her wet lips still brushing softly against Azzi as she whispered, “You sound so beautiful, baby…”

Azzi’s eyes were hooded now—couldn’t open them further if she wanted to. “Oh fuck baby—feels so good,” Azzi whimpered, voice barely there. “You feel so good Paige…”

Paige’s lips curved into the softest smile. “You don’t even know what you doing to me right now,” she murmured. “Never wanted to take my time like this. Could stay in here forever.”

Paige kept moving, her tongue and lips still working in perfect rhythm, like she knew exactly what Azzi needed—like her mind had already memorized every little response, every sigh and plea that Azzi gave her. She stayed patient, even as Azzi’s body started to arch, her hips shifting restlessly, trying to push Paige closer.

Azzi’s fingers tightened in Paige’s hair, her breathing ragged as her body started to tremble beneath her. Paige looked up, her mouth still attached to Azzi as their eyes met.

For a moment, they just held the gaze—Paige’s blue eyes dark, full of awe, and Azzi’s low and hazy with everything she was feeling. Azzi’s lips parted, as if she was about to say something but a soft sound slipped out that wasn’t quite a word, but Paige understood it anyway.

Azzi’s voice cracked as she whimpered out, “I’m so close…”

Paige didn’t speak—she just gave a soft nod, never breaking eye contact as she dipped her tongue fully into Azzi’s entrance, letting out her own sigh at the contact.

Azzi’s breathing caught again, her lashes fluttering, but she didn’t look away. Even as her body moved desperately into Paige’s mouth, she kept her gaze on blue eyes, like Paige’s eyes alone was the only thing steadying her.

Paige moved her thumb gently across Azzi’s ribcage, a silent kind of comfort as she worked her tongue into her.

Even though barely a word had been said, everything about the way Azzi reacted for Paige, the way she breathed her name like it was sacred, told Paige more than words ever could.

Azzi’s lips parted on a shaky breath, her fingers gripping at the sheets now, trying to hold herself together. The feeling was overwhelming—Paige’s mouth, her hands, her presence. Her body was humming, too warm, too full, and instinctively, her head tilted back slightly, eyes fluttering shut to escape how much she felt.

But Paige’s hand slid gently up her side, squeezing gently.

Azzi opened her eyes to see Paige shaking her head no, barely a motion.

Don’t look away.

Azzi let out a soft, broken noise, her gaze locking back onto Paige’s. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her throat bobbing as she swallowed hard, her expression completely undone.

Paige never broke her rhythm, her own heart thundering at the way Azzi was starting to fall apart beneath her. But she didn’t rush—didn’t chase the end. She moved like she had all the time in the world, like every second mattered. Like Azzi deserved to be worshiped, not just fucked.

And Azzi—God, Azzi—she was unraveling. Her breath got stuck every few seconds, broken gasps and whimpers slipping out as Paige continued her path, eyes never leaving hers for long. Her hands had found their way to Paige’s now, interlacing them as she squeezed periodically.

Another lick. Another gentle stroke of her tongue. And still, Paige watched her without looking away.

Azzi’s eyes were glassy, lips parted, completely breathless until she was a trembling puddle beneath Paige, her body taut with feeling, unraveling as she cried out quietly. The pleas slipped from her as Paige helped her ride out her orgasm, the soft sounds of Azzi's lips echoing through the room and settling in Paige’s chest like a heartbeat.

Azzi’s hands gripped Paige’s shoulders now, her voice cracking with the way she whispered her name—over and over, like she didn’t know what else to cling to. And Paige, eyes still watching Azzi come undone, felt something bloom and break inside her all at once.

She’d never seen someone so beautiful. Never heard anything that made her feel like this.

Azzi was flushed and breathless, her eyes glassy and full of something that went beyond pleasure.

Paige kissed up Azzi’s body slowly, whispering quiet praises until she reached just beneath Azzi’s ear. “God, you’re so perfect.”

Azzi let out a small, broken sound in response, her hands sliding down to cup Paige’s face—pulling her into a kiss.

Their mouths moved in sync, like neither of them wanted to let go of the moment—like they were trying to memorize each other completely with just their lips. Azzi’s hands stayed on Paige’s face, thumbs softly stroking her cheeks and Paige melted into it, one hand pressed to Azzi’s side, the other tangled in her hair that was no longer pulled into the bun.

Between kisses, they whispered—barely-there words, soft sighs of names and praises that faded into the warmth between them. Nothing loud. Just the kind of quiet that held weight, the kind that wrapped around them.

As their foreheads touched, breaths mixing, chests still rising and falling in uneven rhythm, something settled in both of them.

This was different. This was home.

They didn’t say it out loud. Not wanting to put too much pressure on the other, but they both felt it. In the way Paige looked at Azzi—like she was the only thing that existed—and in the way Azzi held onto Paige—like she never wanted to let her go.

The two of them stayed like that for a few hours that night, wrapped in the quiet comfort of one another. As the night stretched on, they took their time to learn the rhythm of one another, the way their hearts beat when they were close, the little sounds and touches that made them both want more. The world outside seemed distant, like it didn’t matter anymore.

Every kiss, every whisper, every laugh when Paige said something that rolled off her tongue a little too easily felt like a tiny piece of something beautiful being woven into the fabric of their connection.

…

When Azzi woke up the next morning in Paige’s large bed to the sound of her alarm, the first thing she did was smile. Her brown eyes glowed with contentment, her gaze light as she was met the pillows beneath her. The sun streamed gently into Paige’s room, casting warm light across the space. She could slightly hear Paige and Lukas downstairs, though their voices were muffled, not able to travel far enough in the large house.

Azzi reached for her phone, checking her schedule for the day. After taking a moment to stretch, she pulled herself from the comfort of the bed, her body still warm from the night before.

She made her way to Paige’s closet, grabbing some clothes she had left here the last time she stayed over. When she walked into the bathroom she smiled to herself, thinking back to when she had playfully joked about how tangled her hair always was whenever she left Paige’s place. To her surprise, the next time she came over, Paige had bought her the exact hair products Azzi had in her own bathroom, a thoughtful gesture that had made Azzi laugh and tease Paige for a few days despite the blonde refusing to believe she was a “simp.” The memory brought a lightness to her chest, and she shook her head, feeling a warmth in her heart that she didn’t quite know how to put into words.

Azzi was looking at herself in the mirror when she heard what sounded like Lukas letting out a screech of laughter and she felt a strange sense of peace settle over her. It was a good morning. And, despite the busy day ahead, for once, Azzi didn’t mind. Everything felt a little lighter today.

Once Azzi had gotten ready for her day, she grabbed her heels from Paige’s closet and carried them downstairs with her. As she stepped into the living room, she expected to see Paige, but instead, she only saw Lukas. He was lying on the floor on his stomach, his head propped up with his hands as he stared at the TV screen. His blue eyes were wide, not blinking as he watched Bluey.

Azzi couldn't help but laugh softly, the concentration on his face was too much. She stood there for a moment, attempting to see if the little boy would finally blink, before quietly walking toward the kitchen.

She found Paige in there, humming softly to herself as she made coffee, the early morning light catching the edges of her blonde hair. Paige’s back was to her, so Azzi leaned against the doorframe for a moment just watching her.

There was something about these moments, something about the simplicity of it all, that made her feel at home.

“Good morning,” Azzi said softly.

Paige turned around, a smile instantly forming on her face. “Good morning,” she replied, the sun making her squint a little. Paige motioned with her head for Azzi to sit at the island.

Azzi smiled as she walked over and sat down. Paige was quick to follow, placing a plate in front of her with turkey bacon, avocado toast, and eggs.

Paige leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. “Eat.”

Azzi laughed, her fingers brushing against Paige’s as she took the coffee, the warmth of the drink and Paige’s attention filling her with a sense of contentment. Paige grabbed her own plate before sitting down next to Azzi.

Azzi couldn’t help but notice how similar their portions were. With a small grin, she picked up one of her pieces of avocado toast and a few strips of turkey bacon, transferring them onto Paige’s plate.

Paige raised an eyebrow at her. “You need to eat, Azzi,” her voice was teasing and gentle as she said it.

Azzi smiled as she crossed her arms on the counter. “I am eating, but you need to eat more,” she replied with a playful grin knowing how much it annoyed Paige.

Paige rolled her eyes but she still had a smile on her face as she picked up a piece of bacon and took a bite. “You’re annoying.”

Azzi just laughed, watching Paige for a moment before grabbing a bite of her own food. “I know.”

Once they were finished eating, Paige cleared their plates and set them in the sink. “You need me to take you to the office?”

Azzi grinned as she stood from the counter, moving toward Paige and pulling her into a kiss without answering the question. Their bodies pressed against the cool granite of the countertop as the kiss deepened for a brief moment before Azzi gently pulled away. “It’s okay, Ben’s outside,” she whispered.

Paige nodded. She reached for Azzi’s hand, helping her balance as she carefully stepped into her heels. Paige’s eyes lingered on Azzi, her heart fluttering a little as she took in the sight of her. “You look too good,” she mumbled, shaking her head in disbelief.

Azzi couldn’t do anything but laugh at this. “You say that every time you see me before work…anytime you see me period actually.”

Paige licked her lips and smirked at Azzi. “Cause what you tryna look good for if I’m not there?”

Azzi just rolled her eyes playfully, adding, “Whatever.”

The two of them made their way toward the front door. Paige opened it, revealing Azzi’s driver waiting in the grey natural stone driveway. Azzi was about to lean in for a kiss goodbye when suddenly, the sound of little feet pattering against the floor rushed toward them.

Lukas came running up, his small arms wrapping around Azzi’s waist in a quick hug. “Bye, Azzi!” he said with a big grin.

Azzi was surprised but grinned at him. She gently squeezed his face with one hand, causing him to make a face. “Bye, Lukas,” her voice filled with affection.

Lukas released her and bolted back toward the living room, calling out as he ran, “Back to Bluey!”

Azzi laughed as she watched him disappear back around the corner. When she turned her gaze to Paige, she caught the soft, awestruck look on her face. Azzi didn’t point it out. She just let Paige have the moment.

Instead, she stepped closer, wrapping her arms loosely around Paige’s shoulders, brushing their noses together as she leaned in. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I have to go gorgeous.”

Paige’s smile spread slowly, her hands slipping around Azzi’s waist. “I got practice in a lil bit, but I’ll text you after, okay?”

Azzi nodded, resting her forehead against Paige’s for just a second longer before they shared a quick kiss.

Then Azzi pulled away, walking toward the car with a small smile still on her face as Paige stood in the doorway, watching her go.

[lvrclerc]

EVERY SUMMER'S END

summary: loving a writer is a dangerous game, and carlos sainz is reminded of it when the dedication of your new book throws him back to every summer you ever shared, and the bitter end of them all. ✷ IVY'S POETRY DEPARTMENT EVENT: « although i may not be yours, i could never be another's. »

F1 MASTERLIST | CS55 MASTERLIST

pairing: carlos sainz x romance writer!reader wordcount: 7.2K content: summer romance, breakup, takes place from 2016 to 2021, implied smut, loosely inspired by beach read by emily henry, bittersweet, ambiguous relationship status, inacurrate timeline/events, open ending, not proofread. note: requested here! i wasn't kidding when i said i love writing summer romances. carlos sainz you are the epitome of a book mmc. i finished this out of spite and i hate it, which is why it took so long to get out, but thanks @sunsetcupid for sticking with me for the highs and lows of the writing process and reading through it. ‹𝟹

♫ us. - gracie abrams ft taylor swift

THE INTERVIEWER ASKS about what Carlos enjoys doing outside of motorsports, and the answer is rehearsed.

Carlos Sainz is a man of many hobbies. Racing, of course, dominates his life—he had been born in a legacy of burnt asphalt, it only made sense for him to bleed checkered. He’s a man who enjoys sports: padel with friends on week-ends when their hectic calendars allowed it, he could appreciate a boxing match here and there as a spectator, liked surfing when the weather was right and the waves were kind, and, later in life, he would take up golf. Outside of all movements, Carlos found comfort in good music, the kind with low, rumbling rhythm and gravelly guitar chords he would hum under his breath as a kid. He liked old movies too, the ones with seductive charm and grainy black-and-white frames that felt like diving into a memory.

Yet, amidst all the various things he enjoyed, Carlos Sainz had never been much of a reader.

It’s not that he didn’t like reading—he could get around it—but he just never had the time. As a child, karting consumed him too much to think about anything else. There were a few stray books, Percy Jackson maybe, when all of his classmates were raving about them. But he never learned to let himself get lost in pages. He never had the stillness for it—not with the life he grew up in. The erratic rhythm of racing didn’t leave space for leisurely afternoons, thin paper slipping between fingers, and other worlds unfolding in quiet.

Except once a year.

There was a place, tucked away like a whispered secret in the south of Spain, where time didn’t tick the same. There, the sun kissed his skin with soft acknowledgment. The air smelled faintly of vanilla and light florals. And there, he read.

But he doesn’t like to think about it. So when the interviewer asks about books, Carlos only shrugs and says he’s not much of a reader. 

Then he moves on.

—

LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA, ANDALUSIA, SPAIN. SUMMER BREAK OF 2016.

La Herradura is a small town, as per Carlos’ standards, tucked along Spain’s Costa Tropical. His orange-tiled home set in Madrid, with its silent halls, had started to feel like a weight pressed against his lungs since February of last year. A place too close to memories, but too far from the heart, or something like that—metaphors weren’t really his strong suit. Returning for his second Formula One summer break would’ve swallowed him whole, which is why he chose this town, where nobody would think to look.

Five thousand people at most, strolling in the narrow streets folded between whitewashed buildings, with a beach that always seemed to hum in the distance. Here, he thought, he might be able to breathe again.

And yet, it’s only his second day, and someone spilt coffee all over his shirt.

You hadn’t meant to. You were just reaching for a packet of sugar near the café counter, as your waiter had forgotten to bring any. In no way had you expected the man beside you to whip around, so when he did, it became a mess of startled movement, clumsy apologies, and dark espresso blooming across his white cotton shirt like the birth of a bruise over his heart. You both spoke at once, tripping over sentences. Your voice tangled in the air until, mid-flurry, his hand caught your wrist gently.

“You’re alright, I promise,” the stranger had laughed. It rumbled through his chest and for a second, even the waves lapping outside the beachside café seemed to roar in jealousy.

He was beautiful in the way people rarely are, terribly so, all in sharp edges and sunburnt youth, sculpted by speed itself, with cheekbones etched by the wind, and jaw clenched from habit. Then, as anyone might have thought he could come off as severe, there were his eyes: soft in their curves, chestnut brown, flickering with curiosity and warmth. It was the kind of moment that would’ve made you roll your eyes if you were ever to write it—too convenient. Still, your heart lifted when he smiled, washing over you like carbonation fizzing to the top of a soda bottle you would have turned upside down.

“I’m still really sorry,” you apologized. “I wasn’t paying attention and—”

“Neither was I,” he cuts you off, and the exasperated smile that escaped you made his smile grow. Carlos found it charming.

“Let me at least buy you another one,” you offered. “It’ll make me feel less like a disaster.”

By principle, he should’ve declined. He had more than enough money to buy his own coffee, and his parents hadn’t raised him to let a pretty woman cover the bill. But there was something in the teasing in your voice he couldn’t place, a color twinkling in your eyes he craved to name, a story he didn’t want to end yet. So he said yes.

He ends up back at your table, settling into a wildly uncomfortable straw chair on the terrace, and you talk, voices clashing pleasantly over the aroma of salt and espresso. Carlos comes to the realization you don’t seem to know of him—or his last name, or his face—outside of the little world you built out of spilled coffee when you ask, casually, what he does for a living. He panics. Says he works as a chauffeur, because he likes the way your hand rests naturally on his forearm, unbothered, and he’s not ready to see the awkward change his upbringing might lead to.

To steer the conversation away from the sudden heat blooming under his collar, he nods toward your open laptop and the notebook darkened by messy scrawling next to it. “And… you write?” he asks.

Your cheeks go warm, and Carlos—absurdly—wants to bottle the shade and carry it around with him. “I attempt to,” you mumble, hastily flipping the notebook closed. “Haven’t written anything good in a hot minute.”

A year, two months, and thirty-two days, if we’re being precise. Your debut novel had made quiet waves, gotten a litany of praise. Critics called it raw, authentic, the kind of story that lingers between ribs. One reviewer went as far as to say it felt like the words spilled right from your lips onto theirs. There was irony in it, because you didn’t feel like anything spilled anymore. You had been staring at your blank document and blinking cursor, crafting slowly wilting outlines for months now. All ideas withered the second you touched them.

People called you a romance writer now. But how were you supposed to write about love when your last relationship left you with scars so soft they rotted sweet, like overripe fruit? What good was a writer who couldn’t write?

“Writer’s block?” the beautiful stranger asks, bringing you back from your own mind.

You nod. “Exactly. My agent’s on my ass about getting something new on paper, and I just… can’t. I thought coming here might help. Change of scenery, all that.”

He leans in, half-grin across his lips, almost conspiratorial. His hair brushes your cheek right where the shadow kisses your cheek. There is some poetry to that, and it’s so precise and cinematic that you want to laugh, that you want to lean further in and grasp its intricacies. “What do you write?” he inquires, and his voice is similar to dusk: low and warm. “Maybe I could help.”

That makes you smile, and a chuckle tumbles out of you. “Romance,” you say. “Technically, it’s women’s fiction, but they always shelve it under romance.”

“So you make a living out of people… falling in love?” His eyebrows lift as he says it. You nod, though the motion is braced. You know what people think of the genre, especially men: the subtle scoff and the condescension disguised as charm. You’re already preparing to pull the plug on the conversation, right with the slow building fantasy of it all, before it goes sour. But instead, he says, “I thought it would be easy, writing about love.”

The laugh that bursts out of you is entirely involuntary. You throw your head back from it, startled by the naivety of it, and the sheer audacity that he might really mean it.

“Love is far from being easy, tesoro.”

Sunlight catches your hair as you say it, and Carlos is possessed by the sound of the waves crashing onto shore as he asks, boldly and oddly earnest, if you can visit the town together. “As inspiration for your book, and another payback for the coffee,” he justifies.

Truth be told, he disagreed with you. For Carlos, there was nothing as easy as love: he fell in love with karting before he could spell the word ambition, let the scent of gas and gravel tarnish and scorch his lungs black, until the motion of getting into his seat became automatic. He loved the cockpit, the spare parts, the silence behind the helmet. He loved his country, with its sun-warmed streets, the music folded into each inflection of the language. Tradition etched into gestures that he carries with him when he drives. He had loved multiple women until his heart gave out under the effort.

Carlos loved with a ferocity you could only hold in the wild, boundless beginnings of adulthood, when the world still seemed so wide and endless, beckoning you to seek for its borders, and fell with just as much force.

Love wasn’t something complicated, or a puzzle to figure out. Cars were, so were strategies. But love? Love came as naturally as breathing, so easy to give yourself in.

And when you say yes, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of your lips, just this side of daring, Carlos thinks he might be falling for you just as easily.

You walk through the streets slowly, without a plan or destination, just the rhythm of two people perfectly content to orbit one another. La Herradura doesn’t offer much unless you’ve planned ahead: no grand museum or crowded monuments, instead overflowing in small alleys, bougainvillea spilling down balconies, salt-sticky air curling around your wrists like ribbons.

Neither of you minds. Carlos is more than happy stopping by overpriced ice cream stalls, pointing out absurd flavor just to see you wrinkle your nose. He tells you the worst one-liners he’s ever heard, mostly from his mother’s soap operas she used to watch while folding laundry, and bask in the teenage feeling burgeoning in his chest at the mere idea of them making you laugh.

He pays for dinner without a second thought. It’s the tourist spot next to the café where you first met, and the food is nothing special, but your snarky comment as the waiter brings the wine makes him feel like he’s won something. The sun’s set by the time you finish, but the last of its glow still lingers on the skin of the sea, similar to yours, and Carlos is surprised by how easily the parallel draws in his mind. A bonfire crackles by the beach, a testimony of late June and the traditions he loves, flames and music and voices all blending into a single glowing memory.

Like all good romantics, you’re drawn to it like a moth. Carlos slips your shoes off your feet before you can protest and holds them in one hand, his other brushing lightly against your back to guide you toward the shore. You sink into the sand, slow and aimless.

“Tell me about your first book,” he says. And you tell him how the story came to you all at once, like it had been simmering into a carafe and poured out in the cold glass of a single summer, with no real plans or outline. You say you didn’t think anyone would care for it. Carlos disagrees, this time openly, saying he would’ve read it even if no one else had.

You laugh, because you believe him, and that is such a ridiculous notion to hold for someone you just met.

You stroll along the shore for what could be like hours or mere minutes—time often loses its shape when the moment is right. Somewhere between the fifth song from the beach guitar and the taste of the wine still on your tongue, Carlos brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The look you give him, like the sky is collapsing on itself, you’re sure you could have written about it this time around.

And maybe the sky really is collapsing. Maybe this night doesn’t exist in the real world at all, maybe it’s just a dream stitched together by the help of seafoam. Because when he says, “Come back with me,” as if he’s asking for a secret and not demanding, you don’t even think about it.

You go. Hand in hand, shoes forgotten, sand clinging to your ankles. The streets are in deep slumber, and his rental smells like sea and freshly washed cotton, and the moment the door closes behind you, it’s as if the world exhales and fades out of reality.

Carlos kisses you like he’s known you across lifetimes, like he’s loved you before and lost you, and this is his only chance to get it right. He touches you like he’s never going to see you again, because deep down he’s not sure he will. His hands are rough, his mouth devout. The pads of his fingers leave heat wherever they pass—marks not visible but undeniably there. You welcome them with parted lips, quiet sighs, nails digging crescents into his shoulder blades.

He doesn’t let you breathe for too long. Every exhale is an invitation he answers with his lips, his hips, his hands. It’s all consuming and fierce, because Carlos doesn’t know how to be anything else but hungry. Burning at the edges but still asking for more, dangerously close to spinning out but never losing control. He gives you everything because he doesn’t know how to love halfway. Because that’s Carlos: he only knows how to take, and take, and take, but only in exchange of all of himself.

You lie tangled in the sheets afterwards, skin kissed warm and hearts pounding in synchrony. A breeze floats through the open window, carrying with it the fresh air of a summer night. In the mellow silence, he studies you.

The flush of your cheeks could be called rose, but that’s too cliché. It’s something deeper, warmer—carnelian, maybe? He wasn’t the best with words. Or was it the color of joy? Or the exact hue of summer slipping beneath the ocean, the kind that never really leaves the sky? He commits it all to memory as sleep takes you both, you pressed to his chest no matter the heat.

And when he wakes up, you’re gone. In your place is a note, scribbled in your messy handwriting. “I have a plane to catch, didn’t want to wake you so early in the morning. Thank you for everything.” And beneath that, almost like an afterthought, a softer, neater line: “You’re nothing like I expected.”

He traces the paper with his hand for too long, heart thrumming somewhere in his throat. Yet, Carlos still gets up. He showers, and dresses, and for the first time in years, he walks into a bookstore. 

The woman at the register smiles when she sees the title he picked. “It’s a good one,” she says, and Carlos nods with pride as if the compliment was directed to him.

He reads it in pieces over the rest of the summer break, trying not to read it too fast in order to ration memories. To let your ghost linger a little while longer.

And somewhere in the sky, a few hours before your layover, you finally open your laptop. For the first time in forever, your fingers don’t stall on the keyboard. The words come gently, naturally, and you type them out with the same carefulness. 

They’re not about him, not yet, but Carlos lingers in every line, like the unmistakable smell of sun once it has set.

—

“You don’t read?” his new girlfriend asks, somewhere over the Mediterranean. 

The plane ride home to Monaco is a long one when you’re flying from Abu Dhabi, and Carlos had barely said a word since the takeoff. It’s December, and even at cruising altitude, Carlos can feel the temperature shift. He hates the cold—it bites instead of kisses. Give him heat, always. Give him sticky skin, the faint hum of the fan overhead and someone's breath mixing with his in the dark.

His mind travels to his personal Eden, where summer seemed to loop for years on end. The sound of cicadas, the coast so washed it looked half-dreamt. It’s only when his girlfriend calls his name again that he blinks, startled back to the present.

Right, reading. She’s referring to the interview. 

“I never have the time,” Carlos answers mechanically, punctuated with a tense chuckle.

She hums, unconvinced, and starts rummaging through her bag. “I could lend you one of mine, just to try. This one’s a beach read,” she says, oblivious to how his chest seems to tighten at her words. “My favorite author. I’ve read everything she’s written. Her stories are always kind of… sad, but really beautiful.”

Carlos wants to protest, say that he’s too tired and beach reads aren’t his thing. If he were to read, he’d want something heavier: a brick of historical nonfiction, or a complex murder mystery. He opens his mouth with an excuse at the ready, but the words die in his throat the second he sees the cover.

It’s a painted memory of soft edges and impressionist strokes, displaying a warm-toned terrace café with straw chairs, dappled in afternoon light. Carlos knows this place, not because of the building or how the awning folds over itself, but because of you.

You’re sitting at one of the tables. Well, it’s not exactly you, more someone like you. A woman rendered in delicate brushstrokes, a sundress flowing to her knees, holding a book just high enough to shadow her face. Still, her likeness is uncanny. And where the café’s name should be, in looping white script, is the title: Every Summer’s End. Beneath it, your name.

Carlos forgets how to breathe.

“You said you vacationed there, right?” his girlfriend inquires, unaware of the rupture. She flips the book around to show him the back. “La Herradura? That’s where it’s set. So funny, it made me think about you when I bought it.”

He takes the book when she offers it, thumb grazing the glossy spine. It’s heavy, like truth, and he forces a slow nod of acknowledgement.

Funny.

—

LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA, ANDALUSIA, SPAIN. SUMMER BREAK OF 2017.

Carlos doesn’t believe in fate. He never has, not in the grand scheme of things. He’s not enough of a romantic, in the historical sense, too much of his father’s son, to do so. What he believed in was repetition, in giving until there’s nothing left and your body breaks before your mind. Fate had never helped him score points, efforts did. And licking open wounds caused by those efforts like an injured dog in hope of miracle recovery is what led him to La Herradura for a second time.

He couldn’t admit out loud that it wasn’t the town he came back for. It was the feeling.

The café hasn’t changed much. The layout is different from last year, the chairs rearranged and the menus reprinted in a more minimalist aesthetic. The cushions are a new shade of sun-bleached coral, he notices, but the air still carries the same warm hum of sea salt and citrus.

Carlos doesn’t look when he turns after ordering. A sharp movement, and his cup tips forward in a graceless arc, splashing a deep brown bloom across your pale beach cover-up. “Joder— shit, I’m so sorry—” he stammers and grabs a napkin with the frantic energy of someone half-present in his own body.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this, tesoro.”

It’s not immediate. It crawls leisurely over his skin, laps at the snowglobe of his memories. Your mouth curves into a smirk he’s sure he’s shaken a few times in his mind. You laugh, his nickname on your tongue, and it clicks all at once. You were the feeling he missed.

You, on the contrary, don’t believe in coincidences. You believe in the invisible threads that tie together with quiet purpose. That everything, no matter how painful or messy, is part of some intricate, meaningful design in a bigger story. You’d be lying if you even thought that some hidden fragments of you hadn’t been hoping, all along, to see him again, wondering if the right set of conditions would pull him back where you left off.

No screams leave your lips, or curses at the temperature of the drink. You were never one for dramatics. You beam at him, damp fabric clinging to your swimsuit. “I think you owe me a clean shirt, this time around,” you say, and Carlos huffs out a disbelieving laugh.

He insists on buying you another coffee, and puts the sugar in it before you can think about telling him to. This time, you sit on the opposite side of the terrace, shaded by a new umbrella but caught in the same orbit.

The rest of the day folds over itself like a well-read book, the ones with the crack in the spine and the wavy pages from hair dripping of pool water. You walk again: down the coast, over the pebbled sidewalk, past shuttered shops and sleepy balconies. When you pass by the same tourist restaurant where you had dinner last year, you both decide to dine somewhere else.

Later, when the sun sinks and the bonfire sparks to life again, a feeling of continuation sneaks upon you both. You walk barefoot in the sand, again, letting your fingers thread through his, again. Unlike last time, Carlos asks about your new book with a carefulness similar to the one of a child. You admit that it’s finished, that people loved it, but you don’t tell him he inspired you. Not yet.

When you get back to his place, again, Carlos kisses you the exact same way, the brush of his mouth against yours too familiar for something that happened just once because he still remembers every second of it. He touches you like he’s still memorizing you, like you’re something he’s still trying to make sense of.

You fall asleep with your limbs tangled in linen and this time, when he wakes up, you don’t disappear. You’re still here when he wakes up, curled into his side with sunlight slipping through your hair. There were no planes to catch this time, you had made sure of it. However, Carlos is a man of habit, a creature of rhythm and ritual. So he gets up. Dresses.

The bookstore is only a short walk from his place. It’s barely open when he arrives, and yet, he finds it immediately: on the middle shelf, front-facing, your name bold and bright against the soft watercolors of the cover.

By the time he returns, the apartment smells of quiet mornings and coffee. You’re sitting on a stool at his kitchen island, legs folded up, his white cotton shirt swallowing your body. The seagulls heard through the windows are alive and singing but your hair is still mussed with sleep and bleary-eyed. Still, Carlos had the sensation to have walked upon something sacred.

Until you froze as your gaze dropped. “Wait,” you say, voice hoarse, “You— You bought it?”

Carlos turns the book around, displaying the familiar name stamped across the bottom with boyish pride. “First thing in the morning,” he grins.

You groan, tucking your face in your hands, even as your cheeks grow blotchy and warm with color. He’d spent half the night thinking of words to name it: he liked carnelian, but coral was as gorgeous. Cardinal stuck. Cardinal, bright, bleeding. It reveled on his tongue like you did.

It looked like the morning sun was in love with you.

Carlos smiles again, slower this time, fondness finger painting his features like a Monet’s. “I really liked your first book. I thought I’d check out the new one after yesterday.”

“You read my debut?” you gaped.

He hums. “Last summer, after you left.”

You just stare at him with wide eyes in wonder, adoration sprinkled like stars in the sky of your pupils. Your heart is louder than your thoughts, skipping similar to a stone over water. You feel seen. In that quiet, piercing way only readers could ever make you feel. And of all people, for it to be him.

Your voice falters as you admit, finally out loud, “Okay, well. In this one, I mean—just a little—some parts might’ve been…” You gesture vaguely, tugging at the hem of the shirt you borrowed. “Inspired by what happened last year.”

Carlos’ smile softens into a molten thing. If your emotions transpired through your eyes, his overcame you in the soft curve of his mouth, seemingly waiting for each one of your words to trigger something in him. He crosses the space to you in the beating of a heart and, as if it was an everyday thing, presses a kiss to your forehead. “I’m honored to be your muse, preciosa.”

You laugh, and it bubbles out of your chest bright and alive. Carlos could compare it to the shaking of a cold soda bottle on a hot day, but he’d be afraid of sounding somewhat ridiculous. You wrap your arms around him without thinking, face tucked in his shoulder. He still smells like the beach, like intimacy.

“Well,” you murmur, “you’ll probably end up inspiring another one this summer.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumb brushing under your skin. “Then I’ll help you through the process again,” Carlos assures, his voice laced with poetry. “I’ll give you a thousand stories worth writing about.”

And it’s such a you and him thing to say that you feel your chest bloom open.

Outside, the world is just beginning to stir. The sunlight is thickening, birds singing as if to beckon the beginnings of July closer and closer. Inside, in this little kitchen scented with espresso and sunscreen, you know in your bones that won’t be the last time you wake up here.

This isn’t fate. This isn’t coincidence. It’s what’s left of the sand after it trickled down the hourglass, somehow, the two of you begin again.

—

The book was shelved under Romance.

Carlos hesitated in front of the section. His gaze trailed over the display of cartoon covers and pastel spines until his eyes settled on it.

Turquoise and dark sienna, a palette so at odds with its neighbors that it looked like it was meant to misfit. The title curled across the spine in delicate letters tangling into one another with the intimacy of intertwined lovers. Carlos felt like he intruded on something that he had no right to look at. Maybe that was the case.

He handed back the copy his girlfriend had so kindly lended him. Her copy, with loopy, highlighter-bright annotations and neatly color-coded tabs with tiny hearts next to her favorite quotes. It didn’t feel like you at all. Not when you were all in cracked spines and sand-stuck pages, yellowed out by the sun. Your notes, when your mind raced slow enough to make them, were scrawled hastily in the corners of receipts and napkins tucked before the backcover, legible only in candlelight, sometimes not even to yourself.

When they landed in Monaco, Carlos didn’t go home. He went to the airport bookstore, the scent of sterile bleach and teary goodbyes clinging to the air. He needed a clean slate: something that didn’t belong to her, but not something that belonged to you either. Just something that let him read the book like it was a book, and not a wound he’s been carrying around like a splinter.

As he takes the novel in his hands, the rough pads of his fingers shake around the paperback. A book could never be a person, Carlos reminds himself. Still, disappointment swelled in his chest like rising tide when the cover didn’t give under his touch the way your skin used to. It held firm, cold.

He glanced around instinctively. The bookstore was mostly empty, and he waited for the clerk to turn her back on him before tucking one, two, three, four under his arm. He was absurdly careful. As if they could bruise, he mocks himself.

With the carefulness of a lover, Carlos placed them at the very front of the shelf titled Women’s Fiction.

—

LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA, ANDALUSIA, SPAIN. SUMMER BREAK OF 2018-19

You found each other again, summers after summers, until it became another beloved tradition, a ritual engraved in the gravelly skin of La Herradura, like initials in driftwood, softened by sun and salt but never erased.

Every late June, you’d return to your meeting place: the beachfront café that had once been the backdrop to spilled coffee and first laughter. Same time, same order— there was comfort in that, in repetition, the predictability of you and him.

As the sun dipped low below the sea, you’d slip back into his hunchback rental, skin warm with the fingerprints of daylight and your limbs heavy with knowing exactly where the night was going. You wore his shirt like silk and let him read you like scripture under the low hum of the fan.

Mornings belonged to books and windows cracked open. Carlos always woke before you, force of habit, and he’d pad down to the tiny bookstore with sand still crusted to his ankles and pick up the novel you’d published the summer before. Always one summer behind, and always eager to catch up in the only place he actually could.

He had learned to notice the parallels, to draw the metaphors by himself, no matter how clumsy. A sunset that had once dripped like marmalade over your bare shoulders found itself in Chapter Twelve. The stray kitten that had curled up in his lap one morning during breakfast became a symbol of grief in your prose. He watched your stories unfold and realized he was there: tucked between allegories and half-truths, tucked in the margins.

The days melted into each other with the same syrupy pace as the tide. For someone whose life was clipped in interviews and lap times, Carlos learned what it was like to breathe again, to fill his lungs until they stretched open without ache. His fingers, used to clenching around the wheel or curling into fists from tension, learned to soften. To touch with intention, not urgency.

He slept through the night, and he let silence settle without needing to break it.

In your shared Eden, nothing touched you. Not the headlines, not the passing of time. Even the reality that loomed past the end of those three weeks seemed to be kept at bay. There was only the breeze, the sea, and the soft, looping miracle of finding each other again.

—

LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA, ANDALUSIA, SPAIN. SUMMER BREAK OF 2020.

Someone had to bite the apple first, and this time the sinner had brown hair.

This time, Carlos landed in La Herradura with red flashing in his mind, tensing the deepest parts of his bone, flashing behind his eyes when he tried to sleep. The familiar rumble of the engine still echoed inside of him as he crossed the beachfront café, the one where it always begins. This time, his body didn’t relax.

The switch hadn’t been sudden, not really. The idea of Ferrari had haunted him long before the contract had been signed. The discussions, the promises, and the restructuring of his future in motorsports; it had consumed him in the months separating one summer from the next, had bent his life in directions he’d sworn to never take for granted.

When he found you again, sitting below the striped awning with your sunglasses pushed up into your hair, your drink sweating under the Andalusian sun, he smiled. Yet, it didn’t fully reach his eyes.

You noticed it. Of course, you did.

Carlos remembers what you said, in a faraway place in which cradled the beginnings of the two of you. You said that love is far from being easy, and back then he’d disagreed without a second thought. There was nothing as easy as love. He was twenty-two then: all heart and bleeding devotion, untouched by the weight of what it meant to choose. But today he was twenty-six: it felt older, he had traded cotton shirts for linen button-ups, and learned to appreciate the taste of stronger alcohol.

And no matter how soft the sand, the hourglass kept running.

This time, Carlos planned things. Planned. The word itself was foreign to your time together. He made reservations at upscale local restaurants with white linens and dizzyingly long wine lists. He drove winding cliffs to bring you to coastal vineyards, places with photo ops and curated beauty. He booked you both scuba diving lessons with a man who introduced himself as Diego and called you lovebirds. He filled the time until it overflowed, as if silence was a sin he couldn’t afford anymore.

This wasn’t how La Herradura worked. You never planned here. You lived here.

Now, he drove too fast, kissed you like the end was always lurking around the corner. The only time he’d breathe and settle down was at night, when he held your body flush against him. His hands tugged you impossibly closer, like he was made of marble and trying to carve you out of him.

Still, you didn’t ask. The problem didn’t reside here, in your sacred, familiar garden. It lived in whatever came before and after, so you didn’t think you had a right to. You didn’t belong there.

Next year, things would have to change. Carlos would have to change. His body, his name, his entire presence all had to be shaped into one thing, focused and sharp. The Carlos you had couldn’t split himself between two places, love and legacy.

Hard-working. Focused. Determined. That’s what Carlos is, down to his core. He’d never been a romantic.

And yet, you curled into him that night, limbs loose from wine and heat, hair spilling over his bare chest like ribbons. The fan circled overhead. Outside, the waves licked the sand in soft intervals, time dissolving once again in white noise. Carlos stared at the ceiling, his hand draped low on your spine, fingers memorizing.

He keeps telling himself that it was always meant to be temporary. Time stopping for anyone or anything was a silly notion enfolded in the delusions of early adulthood. You were a substance he had to get out of his system, and those summer breaks spent in this secluded paradise had him indulging more than he felt the need to.

You were always meant to be temporary, he tries to convince himself as he holds your sleeping figure close to his chest. 

For the very first time, and in a desperate attempt to grasp the last seconds you could ever share, he whispers in your ear for the very first time, “I love you, preciosa.”

He would hold on to his name on the back of the vermilion suit, on his ivory number somewhere on the bar of his cerise car. It wasn’t the cardinal flush of your cheeks, but it was as close as he was going to get in a long time— if not forever.

Carlos would hold onto that too. Until he could draw another parallel, find another adjective.

Love is far from being easy, he finally agrees.

—

Nostalgia is a traitorous substance, an opiate of the heart: indulge in it too much and you become addicted. Carlos had learned, early one, to stray away from it. There was no room for looking back when you lived life ten seconds at a time. However, melancholy— melancholy he never quite managed to unlearn. And nostalgia, no matter how hard he tried to keep it at bay, always found a way back in.

Both brewed now, unbearably sweet, in the pages of Every Summer’s End.

Carlos sat crooked on his bed, spine aching and sheet twisted at his hips. The only sound was the rustle of paper and the quiet shift of his breath whenever a sentence carved too deeply.

When his girlfriend told him it was set in La Herradura, Carlos’ heart had dropped straight to the floor. He was scared of what he’d find between the lines. Terrified of you, not in flesh and skin but in ink and metaphors. More precisely, Carlos was afraid of finding out if you had grown to hate the memory of him, if you had walked the same streets, swam under the same starry sky, but the landscape curled into you like spoiled wine, if you had spat on his name while he held yours tenderly behind his teeth. It was a selfish fear, but real nonetheless.

Then he started reading. That’s when he realized the truth: the book wasn’t about him, like it had been so many times before.

This time, the novel was about you.

The lines blend together until they form black-and-white frames in Carlos’ mind. Adriana—your heroine—had lost the love of her life. The how was ambiguous— sometimes, you hint at the cruel but tender hands of death. Sometimes, you allude to another woman, on another coast, somewhere colder. Carlos read and reread each implication like scripture, combed through context like scripture.

But the novel was never about the man. No matter what you may imply, it all comes down to the same thing: the mourning of what was. Grief, in its purest shade, and the rebuilding that came.

He recognized every place Adriana visited, and Carlos felt it like bruising under his skin to the point of nausea. The worst wasn’t even the familiarity, but knowing you had been there too: walked those same steps without him, cried without him, healed without him. And survived.

Because that’s what the story was really about: surviving through the healing process. Life isn’t restricted to loss. It might shape and change what you are, but it doesn’t erase you. It doesn’t vanish, but simply loosens its grips. The places you once loved don’t reject you; they remember you and help you puzzle yourself back together. In the library near your rental, in the San Juan bonfire on the beach. You are still there, somewhere, no matter what happened.

Eventually, you learn to love again.

Adriana meets someone at a beachfront café. A stranger, simple and warm. He doesn’t spill his coffee on her. He tells her he’s a local, works in a bar not far from here. He’s different from her past lover, and that’s good, because he reminds her that love isn’t always followed by silence.

The tear that hung on Carlos’ eyelashes finally fell down. Gravity had decided to be merciful, just this once.

—

LA HERRADURA, PROVINCE OF GRANADA, ANDALUSIA, SPAIN. SUMMER BREAK OF 2021.

Carlos wouldn’t know what happened at that time or place. He wasn’t there.

However, you would. But you didn’t like to recall it, so you wrote about it instead.

Then, you moved on.

—

By the time Carlos had turned the last page, the sun had started its gentle ascent, spilling gold through the half-closed curtains of his bedroom. The warmth of the light filled the emptiness that came after savoring a book, heavy with everything that had been lived on the page.

The sleepless night had passed in an ever present ache. He deciphered your every allegory, holding your tone close to his chest. He had read you in every line with your rhythm, the sentences that curved like the lines of your body. Your prose was yielding, bruised. It felt like another night beside you, your hands toying with his hair, whispering sweet nothings in his ear. When the final word passed under his gaze, it felt like he was leaving you all over again.

But now he was done reading, and you were almost gone.

Almost. Because there it was, not in capitalized letters or bolded words, but on the final page, similar to the unearthing of a secret.

Although I may not be yours this time around, I could never be another’s.

He could recall a conversation you once had on the balcony of his rental. “I hate dedications at the beginning of books,” you’d muttered with a sigh. Carlos was sunbathing next to you, opening an eye to look at your figure hunched over your keyboard. “It doesn’t make sense to me. The person you dedicate it to doesn’t know what you’re giving them yet.” He’d hummed with a laugh, and you had continued. “Maybe it’s ridiculous, but I would much prefer it to be at the end, so that they understand the meaning of all of it.”

“Would you ever dedicate it to me?” Carlos had asked teasingly.

You’d arched a brow at him, rolling your eyes to the sky with nothing but tenderness. “If I did, I wouldn’t say your name, tesoro. Much too obvious.”

He hadn't thought much of it at the time, only amused when he looked for the dedications in your books and found them right before the backcover.

Except that now, the last of your presence hung on the last page and the two lines that made it, and Carlos knew in the deepest, most egoistic parts of himself, that it was meant for him to understand. That was probably the cruelest part: the story had ended, so had the numerous summers, and he wasn’t sure either of you were still the people who loved and burned under the Andalusian sun. Time passed, it was something Carlos had made peace with.

Yet, the dedication said maybe.

The most rational part of him told him to let it go. He should protect what little healing you and him may have found, to not dig up something that already fed the soil. But the thing about Carlos Sainz is that he had never been at letting go of the things that made him feel alive. Because you had a part of him in you, just like every car he had ever stepped foot in possessed a part of his soul, just like every race track could beat to the rhythm of his heart. Because Carlos Sainz doesn’t know how to give halfway.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing until he’s done, but a ticket to La Herradura for the end of the next month of June is blinking at him on his phone screen.

He had no plans, no speeches, and didn't mean to prepare any. The only desire inhabiting him was the one to be there, in that place, basking in the possibility of it.

Maybe Carlos won’t see you, maybe he will. If he does, you’d talk. He’d offer you your usual coffee, if you still took it that way, and he’d tell the entire truth. He’d see where it leads, if he’d take back that part of him you held or he’d let it stay with you.

Some summers, just like love stories, never end. 

They just get rewritten, again and again and again.

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

[sluttywonwoo]

bad influence(s): jeonghan | the bartender

pairing: bartender!fwb!jeonghan x f reader

summary: he's the only reason you ever come to this place

warnings: swearing, alcohol, toxic-ish relationship dynamic, sprinkle of jealousy, lil bit of angst oops?, smut (18+ ; mdni)

smut warnings: semi-public sex, drunk sex, oral (f receiving), orgasm denial, spitting in mouth, choking, unprotected sex, creampie

word count: 3k

“Bunny, wasn’t expecting to see you here tonight.”

You make a face. “I thought I told you not to call me that.”

“I didn’t think you were serious,” Jeonghan murmurs. “You seemed to like it when I was making you cu-”

If the club wasn’t so crowded you’d grab him by the collar and slam his head on the bar. But since that isn’t an option you settle for threatening to leave. 

“Wait, you just got here! You haven’t even let me make you a drink yet.” 

“Who says I’m here for a drink?”

He smirks. “Oh, I know what you’re here for.” 

“Not here for that either.”

He scoffs in disbelief. “Why, then? Don’t tell me it’s to break things off because the last time you tried to do that you ended up in my bed with your ankles on my shoulders. Besides, if you really wanted to end it you could’ve just texted me.” 

“What is there to end?” you mutter. 

“You wound me.”

“Want me to kiss it better?”

He rests his elbows on the countertop and leans across it, lowering his voice. “You know I do, but I’m closing tonight and last call isn’t for another forty minutes.”

You groan. “What am I doing here then?”

“If you had given me a heads-up I would’ve told you to come by later! Or tried to give my shift to someone else.”

You sigh and turn your back to him, surveying the rest of the crowd gathered on the dance floor. 

“Forty minutes isn’t even that long,” he whispers, “and you came all this way. I’ll take care of you as soon as I’m done. Can’t you be patient?”

“I’m not leaving,” you assure him. “I’m looking for a distraction.”

“A distraction?” You assume, based on the sound of dread that he makes, that he follows your gaze to the bachelor party doing shots at the other end of the bar. “What, you’re going to make me watch you grind on some other guy?”

“No one says you have to watch.”

“I’ll have a bouncer kick him out.”

“I haven’t even picked one yet.”

“I’ll get them all kicked out. Ruin their fucking night, I don’t care.”

You spin around to face him again. “It’s not like I’m going to fuck any of them!”

Jeonghan’s jaw tightens.  

“Unless you take too long….”

“Would it kill you to stay put for half an hour?”

“And be forced to listen to you flirt with the other customers?” 

The smirk returns. Confidence, or arrogance rather, weaves its way back through his posture now that he knows the real reason you’re looking elsewhere. “It’s only for tips. You’re the only one who gets a tip back.”

“Pure poetry,” you deadpan. 

“Just, let me make you a drink,” he pleads, still apprehensively eyeing the same group of men. “I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“Fine,” you huff. 

“Great, what do you want?”

“Mmmm, I’ll do a lemon drop.”

“Do you want it as a shot or a cocktail?”

You take a moment to consider it. “Can I have the shot version in a cocktail glass? But for the price of the shot version.”

“Like I charge you for any of these anyway,” he scoffs. “Giant lemon drop shot coming up.”

You take a seat on one of the bar stools, finally settling in as he starts to prepare your drink. The bar is naturally sectioned off by support beams that run from the ceiling to the floor which gives each bartender their own section to tend to during a regular shift. But you know that since Jeonghan’s the one closing, his coworkers will be clocking out soon, leaving him in charge of the whole bar by himself. 

Luckily, the night has started to wind down by the time his colleagues leave. There are still plenty of people to serve but it isn’t anywhere near as crazy as it is at peak rush. 

He closes everyone’s tabs before circling back to you, bidding his coworkers good night as they clock out. 

“I’m glad you liked your drink,” he hums, collecting the empty glass from in front of you to wash and add back to the rack that hangs above the bar. 

He goes through the motions of his closing routine while the rest of the employees in the other sections of the club do the same. He purposely drags it out, taking his time so that you’re the last two left in the place. 

“Yoon, you good, man?” one of the bouncers calls as he makes for the door. 

“Yeah, I’m almost done. I’ll lock up, don’t worry.”

“Sounds good. I’ll see you tomorrow!”

“See ya,” Jeonghan echos back, giving his friend a mock salute as he leaves. 

You’re a little surprised no one said anything about you staying behind but you assume they’ve seen you here so many times they know you’re waiting for Jeonghan, who they’re all a little too intimidated by to question. 

“Finally alone,” he sighs, leaning closer to you. “Come here, bunny.”

You let the nickname slide now that no one’s around to hear it. “Where, behind the bar?” 

“Mm, better yet, why don’t you hop up on the bar. Just crawl over to me.” 

You check your surroundings even though the place is empty and hoist yourself up onto the counter. It isn’t wide enough to necessarily crawl over so you just swing your legs over the other side, parting your knees so that Jeonghan can slot himself between them. 

He does exactly that, placing his hands on either of your thighs. 

“Thank you for being patient,” he murmurs, tilting his head upwards for a kiss. 

“I knew you’d make it worth my time,” you hum back, pressing your lips briefly to his. 

Apparently too brief for Jeonghan because he chases your lips when you pull away, pouting when you don’t give in. 

“Ah, is now when I start making it up to you?” he asks softly.

“Mhm.”

He keeps his hands on your thighs, using them to brace himself as he kneels before you. 

“What, here?” you hiss, suddenly rethinking the whole thing. “On the bar?”

“It’s clean,” he assures you. “You just saw me wipe it down.”

“It won’t be after this.”

“It’s a nightclub, babe. Sterility isn’t typically people’s number one concern here. Regardless, I’m obviously going to re-sanitize it when I’m done with you.”

“When you’re done with me?” you challenge. 

“Yeah. When I’m done with you. Got a problem with that?”

“Who says you’re the one that gets to decide that?”

“I do. Because you usually tap out after two rounds.”

“I-” 

“Are you going to let me eat you out or am I going to spend all night on my knees arguing with you?”

You shrug. “Both are hot.”

He sighs. “Lift up your skirt.”

You do as you’re told and wiggle out of your panties too. He reaches out for them and you’re confused but hand them over anyway, only for him to slip them into his pocket. Perv.

You’re used to Jeonghan taking his time with you, teasing you, making you wait for it. But you figure he knows he’s tortured you enough already tonight because he goes right for it. 

“Wait-” you say, yanking him by the hair when his mouth is only inches from your pussy to get his attention. 

“What, what’s wrong?”

You point at the ceiling. “The security cameras. Won’t they...” you trail off.

“We’re in a blind spot,” he mutters, grimacing at the grip you have on his hair. 

“Oh.”

“If you’re worried about it, I can get one of my bouncer friends to erase the tapes from tonight.”

“No, it should be okay, right?”

He nods. “They can’t see anything behind his beam.”

You relax a little, letting him spread your legs again. “Filing that away for when I come back to rob this place.”

Jeonghan gasps. “You would exploit the information I told you in confidence for monetary gain? Has this been your plan the whole time?”

“It’s called a ‘long con’ for a reason, baby.”

“You know what else is long?”

“Alright, enough talking.”

You use the hold you still have on his hair to guide him back in between your legs before he can get to the punchline. He doesn’t resist, obediently following your direction until he’s close enough to lick you. Before he does, though, he rests his cheek against the inside of your thigh and inhales deeply through his nose like he’s trying to breathe you in. You’d likely be mortified in any other circumstance but right now you’re too horny and too tipsy to care. 

“God, you’re wet,” he mumbles. “Alcohol really does go straight to your pussy, doesn’t it?”

You whine, embarrassed. You don’t have a snarky remark this time. 

“I guess we’re lucky I’m a bartender,” he adds.

Then, without wasting any more time, he finally puts his mouth to you. You knew it was coming but your breath still hitches when you feel his warm tongue against you. He finds your clit almost instantly, which shouldn’t annoy you but somehow does. You’ve slept with him too many times, allowed him to get too familiar with your body. You’re already in deeper than you probably should be. 

The irritation ebbs as the pleasure becomes impossible to ignore. Jeonghan leverages every advantage he has against you to get you to the edge. 

You try to hold out but he’s too goddamn good. And to make things even worse, he stops to ask, “Want my fingers or my tongue inside?”

You’re more than a little too gone to answer so he chooses for you, opting for two fingers while he continues to lave his tongue over your clit. 

“Taste so good, baby,” he moans. “Gonna cum?”

“Y-yes!”

“I don’t think so.” He pulls away at the last minute, leaving you jaw-dropped and panting. 

“What the fuck?!”

He shrugs, getting back to his feet as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“What happened to making it up to me?” you demand. 

“That’s for not texting me back.”

You narrow your eyes at him and cross your arms over your chest. There’s no way you look even the least bit intimidating with your bare pussy out and your legs dangling off the counter but you’re too pissed to think about optics right now. 

“You think you can ignore my messages, decline my calls, and then just show up unannounced whenever you decide you want to get laid? And show up to my job of all places?”

Well, when he puts it that way...

 “I mean, you can,” he admits, half-laughing. “But I’m going to be a little mean about it. Don’t make that face at me, I’m still going to make you cum. It’s just going to be on my cock.” 

“Then what are you waiting for?”

He brushes off your question. “Do me a favor, reach over there and grab that bottle of vodka for me.” You make a different, more concerned face at him. “What? I just wanted to do a shot together.”

“Last time you said something like that my whole torso was sticky with tequila for the rest of the night.”

“Can you blame a guy for wanting to do a body shot from between your tits?”

“Yeah, I can.”

He clicks his tongue. “Just hand me the bottle.”

Against your better judgement, you grab the Tito’s and pass it to him, watching in mild surprise as he pours it directly into his mouth. He gestures for you to lean closer so you do, letting him gently wrap a hand around your throat so that he can hold you steady when he spits the vodka into your mouth. 

You choke a little as you swallow, making it burn even more on the way down. 

Your throat feels raw, your lips swollen, neither of which is helped by Jeonghan kissing you after taking a shot of his own. He pulls your bottom lip between his teeth, further exacerbating the sting of the vodka. 

The heat spreads from your lips outward, engulfing you whole.

“Lay on your back,” Jeonghan whispers into your mouth.

He releases you so that you can, hopping up onto the bar with you a moment later. You’re not sure when he took his pants off but everything’s starting to get pretty hazy at this point.

“Are you still ok with no condom?” Jeonghan asks, unzipping the side of your skirt so that he can pull it off. 

“Yeah, I haven’t been with anyone else since...”

“Me either.”

He encourages you to wrap your legs around his waist as he positions himself on top of you and teases you with the head of his cock. 

“Hannie,” you whine and arch your back to try and force him deeper inside you. He pulls back, though, intent on being the one in control.  

“What is it, baby?”

“Need more.”

“Need more of what?”

“Of you.”

He gives you another inch or so, grinning at the way you squirm in frustration underneath him. “Like that?”

“You know that isn’t what I meant!”

“No?” He draws back. 

“Jeonghan!” 

He laughs. “What happened to Hannie? I like Hannie better.”

“I’ll call you Hannie again if you fuck me.”

“Deal,” he agrees, going as far as to offer you his hand to shake on it before finally bottoming out. 

“It can never be easy with you,” you mutter under your breath. 

“I could say the same for you,” he shoots back. 

He lays there on top of you for a few moments, kissing your neck while allowing you to adjust to the size of him. You’re honestly surprised he’s as hard as he is. You know that eating pussy turns him on but you usually help warm him up too. The building anticipation must have been enough for him tonight. The throbbing of his cock inside you confirms that. 

“Can I move now?” he asks.

“Yes. Please. Please, Hannie...”

“Fuck.”

He looks so pretty on top of you. His hair is still all mussed from when you were tugging it and now his bangs are falling in his eyes, curling up at the ends from perspiration. His face is screwed up in pleasure, mouth slightly open as he pants and groans about how good you feel around him.

You wish the lighting wasn’t so dim in here so that you could see him better, take him in better. It’s a sight you’ve seen dozens of times but one that never gets old. You wish it would. 

It usually takes more than just penetration to get you to the edge but you’re still so sensitive from almost cumming on his tongue that you’re on the edge again before you’ve even really gotten started. 

“Je-Hannie, I’m close.”

“Already? Hold it a little longer for me, baby.”

“I can’t!”

You cum with a cry of his name, locking your ankles behind his back to hold him as close to you as you can while the waves of ecstasy roll over you. He tries his best to fuck you through it despite his now-limited range of motion, settling for winding a hand between your bodies so that he can play with your clit to get you to cum even harder.  

When you come down and your body finally relaxes again, Jeonghan takes it as a sign to keep going-- albeit gentler this time.

“You okay? It’s not too much, right?”

“Yeah, you can keep going,” you sigh, your arms and legs feel like jelly now but you still try to hold on to him. “Want you to cum too.”

“Aw, my bunny’s so sweet,” he hums.

“Don’t call me thaaat!”

“Shut up, you like it. I felt you tighten around me when I said it.”

“It was a clench of annoyance.” 

“Whatever you say...”

“Are you close yet?” you grumble.

“Why? Am I boring you?”

You fake a yawn. His jaw tenses. 

“You know what, I’m going to hold off as long as possible just to- fuck.”

You feel his hips stutter as you pulse around his cock on purpose this time, trying to coax him off the edge. He puts up a good fight but is only able to resist for so long.

“Shit, I’m gonna- where do you want me to-”

You lock your ankles again, effectively answering his unfinished question. A familiar sensation of warmth, not unlike that of the alcohol earlier, fills you as his cock twitches and spurts cum inside of you. It’s almost enough to make you cum again but you feel a lot more sober than you did thirty seconds ago and reality is catching up to you fast. 

Still, you stroke Jeonghan’s back as he catches his breath like he always does for you. He seems to appreciate it and kisses you on the cheek when he gathers enough strength to push himself off of you and hop down.

“I demand a rematch,” is the first thing he says. “But not here. I think we’ve made enough of a mess on this bar.”

“I can’t believe we did that,” you add as you slip back into your skirt. 

He buttons his jeans and then hands you your panties from his pocket. “I’m glad we did.”

“Me too.”

“The only problem is that now whenever I’m working this will be all I’m able to think about the whole shift.” 

“That’s a bad thing?” you ask.

“I mean, I’d rather not be hard for hours at a time.”

You laugh. “Well, if you ever need help with that you have my number.”

“But will you actually answer?”

“I- I will, I promise.” You cross your heart for good measure. 

You can’t tell if he believes you or not. He changes the subject before you’re able to read him. 

“Alight, I’ll clean up here and then get you home to clean you up. You’ll stay the night, right?”

You nod. “Yeah, I probably shouldn’t drive after drinking. Thanks.”Jeonghan looks like he wants to say something, maybe ask if that really is the only reason you’re agreeing to stay over, but he doesn’t. It’s the only reason either of you needs.

i swear i picked a lemon drop before the ateez comeback dropped smh- but lmk what you think! i always appreciate feedback!!