#and of course there are exceptions to that second paragraph | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sceletaflores · 19 days ago

Text

MAKES PAINTINGS WITH HIS TONGUE!

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─ ✮⋆˙PAIR: Clark Kent x fem!reader

─ ✮⋆˙WC: 5.2k

─ ✮⋆˙@polkadottprincess SAYS: on the clark kent agenda as well!!!! maybe a size kink?! or dare i say edging.

─ ✮⋆˙CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, reader is a journalist, established relationship, so much banter, clark kent is a FLIRT and a SLUT, a risqué interview, roleplaying…kind of, sub clark leaning, dirty talk, handjob, size kink YES, edging hehehe, superman’s super huge dick, hyperspermia, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

─ ✮⋆˙NAT’S NOTE: guys i genuinely don’t know how to describe the plot of this in a way that makes sense. okay so basically clark can’t get you a interview with superman, but he can get you the next best thing. himself. that’s it. i don’t think that makes sense but hear me out! it’s good i promise! i had so much fun writing my last clark fic that i needed to write another one. maybe i’ll write even more who knows… that’s code for i have three wips sitting pretty literally as we speak…anyway bye bye now hope y’all love it, mwah!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!

you and clark have a conversation about superman…

There are certainly worse places to work than the Daily Planet office.

Sure, it's a little chaotic and the coffee machine spits out something vaguely offensive most mornings. Sure, it's a little loud and you tend to get migraines when you're stuck in the thick of it too long.

There are positives too, and they're pretty good ones. You get a beautiful view of Metropolis from your desk. You get the thrill of real, gritty stories right under your fingers. And most days, the company isn't half bad.

That is, except when Clark Kent gets yet another exclusive with Superman.

The bullpen is buzzing with the usual chaos that comes with mid-Monday mornings.

Phones ringing. Keyboards clacking. The sporadic clicks from dozens of mouses. The sharp sounds of high heels and fancy loafers against the marble floors.

You’re elbow deep in a piece on the harmful carbon emissions caused by LexCorp, a chai latte from the cafe across the street slowly melting beside your keyboard as you type.

You're on your third paragraph—halfway through describing a particularly egregious cover up involving offshore dumping—when Jimmy’s voice slices through the room, too loud and chipper for a Monday.

“Front page again, man.” Jimmy excitedly slaps a new paper on Clark’s desk, leaning his hip against the edge. He shoves Clark’s shoulder lightly, grinning. “You have Superman on speed dial or what?”

You glance up from your screen, fingers pausing over the keys.

Clark—sweet, modest Clark—smiles sheepishly, adjusting his glasses with the back of his knuckle. They weren’t even slipping down his nose. “Thanks, Jimmy. I was just in the right place at the right time.”

Right place at the right time.

Bullshit.

That’s the third time he’s used that particular line in the last four months.

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they stay in your head, and lean back in your chair, attention shifting. “Man of Steel must have a type, huh?” You’re loud enough for Clark and Jimmy to hear you across the walkway. “He only ever talks to Clark.”

Clark catches your eye, the edges of his smile a little smugger than before when he tilts his head to the right just so. “Jealous, loud mouth?”

You scoff, eyes narrowing. “Of course I’m jealous. I’ve been trying to get an interview with Superman for weeks and he hands them out to you like candy. It’s blatant favoritism.”

Lois finally speaks up from her desk next to yours, not looking up from her screen. “And you’re Clark’s favorite. It balances out.”

“Whoa, hold on a second,” Jimmy cuts in before you can speak, holding his hands up in front of him. “I’m clearly Clark’s favorite. I thought everyone picked up on that?”

You suck your teeth, ignoring Jimmy. “If I was really Clark’s favorite he’d quit hogging Superman and put in an extremely gushing, ass-kissing word for me. Wouldn’t you, Clarkie?”

That earns a chuckle from Jimmy, and a slightly sharper one from Clark himself—but he still doesn’t rise to your bait. He just gives you that polite little Clark Kent smile, all warm and wholesome and harmless. The one that makes people underestimate him.

“I’ll find a way to work in the ass-kissing,” he nods, overly serious. You can see right through it. “Promise.”

You hum noncommittally, plucking a loose pencil off your desk. “Someone jot that down. I want it in writing.”

“Kiss my ass all you want while you’re at it, Clark.” Lois pipes up again, her bored tone underscored by the way her fingers fly over her keyboard. Click click click. “I’d throw myself off the top of the building if it got me an interview with Superman.”

“I’d kill for ten minutes with Superman,” you add, idly twirling the pencil in your hand as you sway side to side in your chair.

Jimmy snorts, shamelessly flipping through Clark’s notepad. “Who wouldn’t these days.”

Clark ignores him much like you did. He glances at you over the frame of his glasses, his mouth twitching with amusement. “Is that a professional request?”

“Very professional,” you say coolly, arching a brow. “Strictly for journalistic purposes.”

He nods solemnly. “Of course.”

“Extremely professional.” You repeat, tone dipping into something a little warmer.

Clark catches on, because of course he does. His eyes flash with something new that you can see even from where you’re sitting. He cuts his gaze to the way your thumb glides along the shiny edge of your pencil. Up and down. Up and down.

You watch his throat work around a thick swallow. The slouch he’s had all morning straightens out for a single breath, showing off just how broad those shoulders really are under that boxy suit.

The others don’t notice the sudden tension. Lois is too busy typing, fueled by the third sugar filled coffee cluttered around her, and Jimmy tends to be more oblivious when it’s this early.

“Well,” Clark says mildly, back to slouching in his chair. “I’ll be sure to let him know you’re interested. Next time I see him.”

You arch a brow, pretending not to notice the curl of heat that slides low in your stomach when he says it.

“Next time I see him.” Like they’re neighbors. Buddies.

Almost like they share a mirror.

You let yourself smile, the barest hint of one. Clark still beams right back at you like the slight raise of your lips is the best thing he’s seen all morning. “You do that, Clark. I’ll be sure to wear my shiniest pair of readers, to make him feel more comfortable.”

Clark doesn’t answer. He just shakes his head and turns back to his screen, but you can still see the dopey grin on his face clear as day.

You bite your lip, stifling your own matching smile, and get back to work.

Your apartment is dim, quiet. It’s lit in that soft, late evening kind of way—warm lamplight pooling in corners. The faint hum of the city bleeds in through your half open window, the bustle of people walking the streets mixing with the low rumble of traffic three stories down.

You’re sitting on your couch, legs folded under you as your laptop rests on your knees. The loose sleep shorts you changed into as soon as you got home are riding up your thighs, an old Smallville Crows sweatshirt you stole from Clark hangs off your left shoulder as you try to work.

Try being the word of the night so far.

LexCorp isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, unfortunately, and offshore dumping doesn’t expose itself. So, the same article you were working on at the office stares back at your tired eyes, and it’s slowly starting to feel like it’s mocking you.

The cursor blinks steadily on the too bright screen, daring you to try and finish the pathetic excuse of a paragraph you’ve been stuck on for nearly twenty minutes. You chew the inside of your cheek, your nails drumming over the touchpad so you don’t start ripping the keys off in frustration.

You’re just about to call it and toss your laptop aside when there’s a knock on your door.

You don’t get up, you hardly even blink at the three quiet raps against the wood. You already know who it is.

The sound of a key, your spare key, sliding into your lock is loud in the quiet enveloping you. The door creaks open and Clark’s voice follows as soon as it’s closed.

“You forgot lunch today,” he calls from the doorway, toeing his shoes off. “I didn’t want you forgetting dinner too.”

You hum as the soft sound of socked feet make their way closer, not looking up from your laptop. “Isn’t that sweet of you.”

A bag is dropped next to you on the couch, heavy and warm against your bare thigh. “Falafel from the spot you like,” he says from somewhere behind you, bright and almost giddy—like he’s been waiting to tell you all day. “And a cream soda for the best reporter in Metropolis.”

“You’re such a suck up, Kent.” You tsk softly, shaking your head. “Cream soda? That must’ve cost a pretty penny.”

Strong arms close around your shoulders, and Clark’s scent washes over you. The metallic tang of ozone, of fresh cut grass and sunny warmth. “Mhm, it was worth it.”

Clark kisses the top of your head, burying his nose in your hair and inhaling. He presses another kiss to your temple. Sharp teeth nip at the shell of your ear teasingly, the warmth of his breath sends goosebumps pebbling up your arms. “You were really giving it to me back at the office, you should do that more often.”

It's unmistakably husky, his tone. Husky and low and hushed next to your ear, letting you really hear the heat behind it.

Clark’s arms tighten around you, pressing himself into your back as much as he can with the couch still separating you both. Another kiss to the edge of your jaw. “You’re so sexy when you’re ticked off at me.”

You bite back a smile, tilting your head to give Clark more room to press kisses along your skin. “Me telling you off in front of Jimmy gets you hot?”

Clark chuckles against your skin, trailing wet kisses down your neck. “Jimmy doesn’t have anything on you. He’d look terrible in a pencil skirt.”

You huff, closing your laptop. “Don’t tell him that. You’ll break his heart.”

You finally turn your head, peering up at Clark hunched over you. He’s already looking back, eyes bright. You only get a glimpse of that perfect smile before his lips are on yours.

The kiss is anything but chaste. It’s the first kiss you’ve had since he left your apartment late last night.

Clark tastes like sugar and salt—like the honeyed fizz of cream soda and the briny note of wind that clings to his skin no matter what time of day it is. He kisses like he does everything else, devastatingly earnest and impossibly sweet. Like he’s trying to commit the shape of your mouth to his memory. Like he’s trying to leave your taste on his lips for days.

Clark kisses like he means it—every swipe of his tongue, every soft sound into your mouth, every gentle pull of your lower lip between his teeth.

His glasses bump your forehead with every move. He still has them on, even here with you where he doesn’t need them. You feel the press of them anyway, clunky and in the way, but it’s almost charming—so unmistakably Clark it makes your chest squeeze.

When his fingers curl into the worn down fabric of your sweatshirt, tugging gently as he deepens the kiss, you're the one who has to pull back for breath.

“You're not allowed to distract me,” you whisper, voice light, lips brushing his. “I’m supposed to be working.”

Clark just hums, eyes still slipped closed. “I missed you.” Another kiss. “Been thinking about this all day.” Another kiss. “About you.”

He kisses the smile right off your lips, his other hand sliding down your back slowly—mapping out the notches of your spine. He toys with the hem of your sweatshirt, sliding his touch under the cotton to find the curve of your waist. It’s not entirely innocent, the way his thumb slips under the waistband of your shorts.

Your lips are already swollen, you can almost feel the blood rushing to them. You pull back again, blinking like you’ve been spun in circles. “You saw me six hours ago, Kansas.”

Clark grins, cheeks flushed. “That’s six hours too long.”

You smile, your hand coming up to brush your fingers through his messy curls. “Well, I’m here now.” Your fingers trail lightly along the side of his face. Clark leans into your touch, kissing your palm before you’re squishing his cheeks together. “And you brought me falafel, so you can stay.”

“Don’t forget the cream soda,” he says, voice wobbly from the pressure of your hand smushing his lips together. “What do I get for that?”

You shake his head back and forth fondly, still smiling. “We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?”

You plant one last, exaggerated kiss on his pouty lips and drop your hand. Clark smiles, squeezing your hip once before he’s straightening up and making his way around the couch.

“I’m on the edge of my seat.” He sits next to you, plucking your feet off the couch long enough to settle into the cushions before draping them over his lap. “Let’s get some food in you first.”

You sigh, but you’re reaching for the bag anyway. You didn’t realize how hungry you were until amazing smelling street food was brought into your apartment. “Spoil sport.”

You sit together like that for who knows how long, sharing bites of falafel and sips of soda.

The conversation is easy, just like it always is. You talk about the mess at LexCorp, Clark listens intently. Humming and nodding in agreement as he rubs your feet. He brings up some dull city council ordinance he’s been pretending to care about all week just to get quotes for Perry.

You let him ramble, just enjoying the sound of his voice and the press of his thumb against your ankle as he absentmindedly rubs circles into the bone.

It's nice. Soft, domestic. The kind of evening you’d always imagined when things between you and Clark stopped hovering in the “is this flirting or am I insane?” phase and finally landed squarely in “he brings you dinner and has a toothbrush in your bathroom” territory.

It’s only when the lull sets in—comfortable and slow, your belly full and his fingers tracing the bare skin of your calf lazily—that you really let yourself look at him.

Clark is so handsome like this. Taking up space in your apartment like it’s second nature, squeezing into a space far too small for him just to be close to you, illuminated by the soft orange glow of your ancient thrift store lamp.

Handsome in that painfully earnest, infuriatingly humble, Midwestern farm boy way.

You feel a sort of possessive victory in it, getting to see Clark like this—in a way that very few people do. Here, with you, he can be himself. He doesn't need to constantly watch what he says, to reel it in in fear of compromising himself. He doesn’t need to put up a front.

He can just be Clark.

Not Superman. Not Clark Kent, bumbling reporter.

Just Clark. Your Clark.

It drives you absolutely crazy, it always has.

It makes you want to stretch him between your fingers like taffy, to crunch down on him between your teeth like hard candy. It makes you want to ruin him.

Then, somewhere between the food and the comfortable silence, Clark’s tone shifts.

“So,” he says, dragging the word out. “About what you said at the office this morning.”

You blink at him, raising your brow. “I said a lot of things at the office this morning. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“About wanting an interview. With Superman.” Clark’s eyes gleam behind his glasses. “You said you’d kill for ten minutes with him.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s mostly for show. “That was professional desperation.”

“Strictly journalistic?” he deadpans, echoing your words from earlier.

“Very serious. Pulitzer level serious, even.”

Clark grins, and you know then—he’s winding you up. Slowly. Deliberately. That warm Kansas boy charm tightening around your ribs like a silk ribbon.

“Well, bad news,” he says, forlorn. “Superman’s calendar is booked solid.”

“Oh, is that so?”

“Yup,” he says with a pop of his lips, still rubbing slow circles over your ankle. “Big world. Lots of people to save.”

You sigh dramatically. “Shame. I had such good questions lined up.”

Clark shrugs one shoulder, smile sly. “He’s hard to reach, you know that. But I figured…if I can’t get you Superman, I could get you the next best thing.”

Your brows knit together, confused. “And what’s that?”

He leans in a little, his voice dropping, playful but unmistakably suggestive. “Clark Kent.”

You tilt your head, slow and wary. “Clark Kent?”

“Clark Kent,” he nods, eyes gleaming. “Superman’s number one source. His—let’s say—closest personal contact.”

You snort, but you’re already caught up in it. Already invested in the game. “You’re full of shit.”

He sits back, sprawling onto the armrest with theatrical ease, like he owns the place—and really, at this point, he kind of does. “Try me.”

You blink, narrowing your eyes. “You’re serious?”

“I’ve never been more serious in my life,” he stresses, adjusting his glasses like some parody of a news anchor. “You can ask me anything about Superman. His habits, his routines, his, uh…” he trails off with a twitch of a smile, “...personal tastes.”

Your lips part, breath catching just slightly.

He lifts his eyebrows. “You still want that interview, don’t you?”

The moment hangs. Warm, fizzy, a little dangerous. Clark and you both know a little danger is never enough to scare you away.

“Alright,” you murmur, still suspicious as you sit up a little straighter, swiping your notepad off the coffee table. “Just remember, you asked for this.”

Clark nods slowly, putting a hand over his heart. “Do your worst.”

You narrow your eyes at him, searching for some kind of catch. Clark just looks back, smiling.

“Okay.” You shrug, flipping your notepad open. You grab the pencil tucked behind your ear, raising it in front of Clark’s lips like a microphone. “Please state your name for the record.”

Clark clears his throat, dipping his head to speak into the eraser. “Clark Joseph Kent.”

You nod, jotting it down. “First question.” You tap your pencil on the paper, dragging out the suspense. “The suit—how in the world does it stay up if it doesn’t have a belt?”

Clark snorts, but his expression remains composed, playing his part. “Kryptonian tech. The fabric conforms to his body. No wardrobe malfunctions.”

You raise a brow. “And what about underneath?”

A pause. Then, calm as can be: “Nothing underneath.”

Your pulse skips a beat. “Huh.”

He watches you, tilting his head. “Next question?”

You try to keep your tone light, playful. “Let’s do an easy one. What’s he like…off the record?”

Clark hums, rolling his head on his shoulders like he’s really thinking. “He’s quiet. Keeps to himself. Reads more than you’d expect.”

“Mhm. Nerd,” you tease.

“Bit of one, yeah,” he agrees.

You hum, writing. “Sounds familiar.”

Clark smiles but he doesn’t answer.

“Okay next…” You chew your pencil, thinking it over. “Is he single?”

Clark blinks behind his glasses, then laughs. “You’re seriously asking that?”

You nod, overly serious. “It’s a relevant question, Kent. The people want to know.”

Clark’s cheeks pink slightly, and his voice is quiet. “He’s…seeing someone. Secretly.”

“Oh?” You perk up, nudging his thigh with your foot. “Do tell. Is she beautiful?”

Clark’s voice softens, barely more than a murmur. “Yes.”

You pause. That one lands. Hits something low and warm deep inside you. “Anyone I know?”

“Oh, absolutely,” he says softly, like a confession. “She drives him insane.”

You squirm where you sit, phantom flames lapping at your skin. “Does she?”

“She does.” Clark hums, nodding his head. His eyes never leave yours.

You aren’t even writing in your notepad anymore, too caught up in a game that’s starting to feel less and less like a game with each passing second. “How.”

He leans in just a little, his voice going husky. “The way she talks. Her brain. Her mouth. Her smart little attitude.” His hand trails along the couch behind you. “The way she looks at him like she knows he’s not invincible.”

“Sounds like she’s really into him.” You will your voice not to shake, but it doesn’t work. You’re too wound up. The tension between you and Clark growing thicker and thicker.

“Oh, she is,” Clark murmurs. “Says things sometimes that make him feel like he’s gonna burn through his skin.”

You lean in, tongue coming out to swipe along your bottom lip. “Like what?”

“She tells him she wants to get fucked by Superman,” Clark says softly, cheeks more pink. “Tells him she thinks about it when she’s alone. Thinks about how big he is. How he’d feel. If he’d wreck her.”

Your thighs squeeze together involuntarily. “That’s what she says?”

He nods, eyes dark. You watch as his pupils grow, black stretching across blue like an oil slick over a lake.

“And what does Superman do?” you ask.

“Whatever she wants.” Clark breathes.

Your heart trips over itself three times over in your chest, breath caught in your throat. The fun of it—this game—it's suddenly edged with something even more molten than before, something dense and slow. You feel the buzz in your limbs, in the way Clark’s gaze sticks to your mouth now instead of your eyes.

You chew the inside of your cheek, wetness blooming between your legs to soak the thin cotton of your panties. “What turns him on?”

Clark blinks again, meeting your eyes. This time he’s a little less composed. “That’s not exactly a journalistic question.”

“I’m going for a different kind of profile,” you murmur. “Besides, I think we already blew through any journalistic professionalism.”

Clark lets out a breath. His voice is lower when he speaks next. “Well…he likes being in control. But he likes being teased, too. Likes when someone isn’t afraid of him. Likes being told what you want. What you fantasize about.”

You shift in your seat. “Do you think he’d like it if someone told him they touch themselves thinking about him?”

Clark’s jaw tenses.

You lean in, slow, until your lips are nearly brushing his ear. Your notepad and pencil are long forgotten, tossed somewhere beside you. “You think he’d like it if I told him I think about him bending me over my desk at work? Or flying me up to my roof and fucking me against the edge of the building?”

Clark turns his head to look at you. His pupils blown so wide all you see is black.

“I think he’d like that a lot,” he says, voice low and ragged. “I know he would.”

The moment breaks like glass.

You kiss him—hard. Hungry. Like you’re trying to tear him open and crawl inside.

And Clark lets you.

His hand flies up to cup your jaw, moaning into your mouth. The kiss is all tongue and filthy—hot and desperate and messy.

There’s nothing slow about it. Clark’s touch is firm, everywhere, his mouth wet and open against yours. He groans low in his throat when your hand slides down his chest, tracing the hard ridges of his stomach through his shirt.

Your hand drifts even lower, between his legs, where he’s hard as steel in his slacks.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans against your lips, hips twitching into your palm. “You—you’re playing dirty.”

You press firmer, mapping out the familiar length of his thick cock with greedy fingers. “You started it.”

“You’re not seriously—”

“—taking your exclusive,” you whisper, working open his fly. “Since you’re offering.”

Clark makes a strangled sound—half-laugh, half-moan—as you pull down his zipper, your fingers grazing over the impossible heat straining behind it.

“You—you don’t have to—” he gasps, even as his hips rise from the couch, silently begging you to continue.

“Clark.” You look up at him, hand already stroking slowly over the thick outline of his cock through the drenched fabric of his boxers. “Be quiet.”

His breath hitches. He nods, biting his bottom lip hard enough to leave a dent. But the way he’s trembling beneath your touch, the way his thighs tense—you know he won’t last long.

You slip your hand into his boxers, and that’s when you really feel him—bare skin to skin. Hot, thick, and heavy. Way too heavy. You nearly gasp as you pull him free, the head flushed a violent red, already leaking. The sheer size of him always takes you by surprise.

Big doesn’t even begin to cut it.

He’s not just long—he’s thick. The kind of thick that makes your hand look small in comparison. The kind that has no business fitting anywhere, and yet you ache to make him fit.

Clark groans when the cool air hits him, and louder when you wrap a hand around him, stroking up the length of his cock with a tight grip. You twist your wrist around the head, thumbing over the slit to spread the shiny mess of pre-come.

"You're so big,” you breathe, pumping him faster. “It’s not fair.”

He whines through gritted teeth, hips twitching, dark curls falling over his forehead. “Fuck, baby, please—go slow, I’m not—if you keep—”

“I barely touched you,” you murmur, transfixed by the way his cock twitches in your grip. It’s flushed dark, an angry red at the tip. You trace the thick vein along the underside with your thumb, feeling his pulse beat fast and hard just beneath the skin.

Clark whines, dropping his head on the back of the couch. His hands dig into the cushions, you can hear the seams straining under his grip.

“Oh, you’re gonna come like this? Already?” you tease, dragging your hand down slowly—so slowly—until you’re just barely grazing his balls. “From just my hand?”

“Mmph—fuck,” Clark whimpers, cheeks flushed, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“You’ll survive.” You kiss the edge of his jaw. “You’re Superman.”

He groans again at that, like it hurts to hear the word coming from your mouth, like it unlocks something primal in him. You stroke him again, firmer now, twisting your wrist on the upstroke. Clark shudders.

“You gonna come for me, hero?” you ask, licking your lips. “Gonna soak my hand with that big load you’ve been holding in all day?”

Clark groans, his hands flying to your thighs—gripping, grounding. “Gosh—don’t say it like that. I can’t—”

You slow down. Stop, almost.

And Clark makes the prettiest little noise. Desperate. Just this ruined, strangled sound deep in his throat that shoots straight through you like lightning.

“You can’t what?” you coo, barely pumping him. “Can’t hold it?”

Clark shakes his head fast, eyes blown, body twitching like he’s fighting every instinct in his arsenal not to thrust up into your fist like an animal.

“Please,” he whispers.

“Please what, Clark?”

“Please—fuck—please let me come.”

You pretend to consider it. Drag your thumb under the slit of his cock again and marvel at the mess he’s made. Pre-come is coating your palm, sticky and hot and so much. He’s leaking like he hasn’t touched himself in weeks. It makes the slide of your fist that much easier.

You know it’s a side effect of his biology—Kryptonian virility turned all the way up.

Clark fills your mouth, drenches your stomach, floods your pussy every time you’re together like it’s the first time he’s come in years. And he always gets so sensitive, so feral about it. Like he hates how much he needs it and loves how much he needs you.

“You’re so full, baby,” you murmur, dragging your hand slow along his cock again. “You need to come that bad?”

Clark nods without shame, hips twitching. “Need it so bad. Fuck, I’ve been thinking about you all day. Thinking about your voice. About your thighs. About your mouth—fuck, I’m gonna come, please—please let me—”

“Not yet,” you whisper.

Clark whines.

It’s so soft, so honest, it almost makes you pity him.

Almost.

You kiss his throat, biting lightly at where his pulse jackhammers. “You’re not gonna come until I say so, Clark. You’re gonna hold it. You’re gonna sit there and take it and be good for me.”

Clark’s hips buck at that—he tries to be still, tries to keep his eyes on you, but the pleasure is just too much. He nods like his life depends on it, gripping your thighs hard enough that you’re sure you’ll have bruises blooming tomorrow.

Clark will feel guilty about it. You won’t.

“Good boy,” you purr, picking up the pace again—stroking him with both hands now, twisting, squeezing, making sure every stroke is just rough enough to keep him teetering on the edge.

Clark’s entire body is trembling. His lips are swollen and slick, pink blooming up his throat. His glasses have fogged up, and his brows are knit like he’s in pain—like this is the most torturous kind of pleasure he’s ever felt.

You jerk him faster, watching the way his body tightens, how his cock swells heavy in your hands. His stomach contracts like it’s about to cramp, his moans dissolving into open mouthed gasps as he bucks up into your palm like he’s chasing it.

He’s so close.

“Baby—please,” Clark gasps, gripping your wrist now, his huge hand covering yours where you stroke him. “Please let me come, I—I’ll be good, I promise, I’ll do anything.”

“Oh, I know you will,” you whisper, biting your lip. “But not yet.”

“Please,” he begs, voice cracking. “I can’t—can’t hold it—”

You stop again.

Clark sobs.

A real, wrecked, broken sound from deep in his chest.

His hands squeeze your thighs and he curls in on himself slightly, eyes flying open in disbelief. “No,” he gasps, hips twitching uselessly. “No, no, please—”

You kiss the corner of his mouth, his cheekbone, his fluttering eyelids. “You’re doing so good for me, Clark. Just a little longer.”

He groans, miserable, but he still nods. So obedient. So eager to please—to give you what you want.

You don’t give him any warnings before your fists are speeding up, flying over his cock as fast as you can manage.

Clark cries out, his body jerking violently—like he doesn’t know whether to run from your touch or lean into it. “Christ, wait—ah! Wait, I can’t—”

You don’t let up—stroking him faster, tighter, rougher. The slick, obscene sounds of it echo in the quiet apartment. “You’re gonna come now,” you murmur, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “And then you’re gonna take me into the bedroom and fuck me so hard we get a noise complaint.”

Clark nods frantically—barely a word past his lips before it hits him.

His whole body locks, like steel cables yanking taut. His head falls back, mouth open in a silent cry, and his cock explodes in your hand—thick, hot spurts of come spilling over your fingers, the couch, his stomach, everything. He comes so much it makes you moan at the sight of it, the smell of it, the obscene volume flooding your fist.

When it finally stops, Clark collapses back into the cushions, limp and trembling. His cheeks are flaming. Eyes glazed. Shirt soaked in streaks of his own come. His cock’s still hard, twitching gently against his belly, still leaking.

“Well,” you say, more casual than you feel. Your pussy aches between your legs, begging for a turn. “That’s definitely going in the article.”

Clark doesn't answer. He just drags you into his lap and stands before you can even grab hold of his shoulders. He doesn’t super speed the two of you to the bedroom, but it’s close.

You laugh the whole way down the hall.

Later, after the sheets are damp and the room smells like sex, Clark kisses your shoulder and whispers, “So…when’s that article coming out?”

You smile sleepily, curling into him. His chest rises and falls under you with breath he doesn’t need, his hands draw shapes along your sweaty back.

A circle. A star. A heart. A figure eight. A heart. A heart.

“I think I’ll keep it off the record.”

MINI NAT’S NOTE: thank you again for sending in this ask! i have the superman brain rot baaad and this is NOT helping it’s def making it worse but that’s okay that’s what i want! i need people to enable me! i was writing this fic in my head before the ask came in and i was like YES DONE and i wrote it and now we’re here. i hope you like it @polkadottprincess!

thank you so much for reading, love you!

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timmydraker · 4 months ago

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When Tim is seven, they have a parent career day at his school. The point of the project is to showcase to other classmates, staff and the parents and families that visit what their parent or parents do for a living.

A lot of the students have businesmen for dads and stay at home mums, as typical for the high class, but not all of them do. Some are CEO’s, some own a unique company or business, or got their wealth from sports or entertainment.

For Tim, his parents have two very unique jobs even if they are technically from generational wealth, that being Drake Industries that creates medical supplies as well as funds vehicles like ambulances and fire trucks. Stuff that looks great on paper and gets them support even if the two care little for it and more for their second form of income.

Janet was more into the archeology that showed history in culture and progression of society, story telling and proof of civilisations, while Jack was far more fond of the animals that existed or still do and how they have changed.

So naturally, Tim excitedly chose to talk about their extensive work in the latter.

Janet had single handedly proved several historical theories true and false, her unrelenting determination to proving she was right and using her connections and charming nature to do so.

Jack had discovered a whole new dinosaur that he named after his wife, as well as being one of the loudest in discussion of such beings and their feathers.

Tim found he enjoyed his mother’s work most, as cool as dinosaurs were, because his mother had taught him about how ropes and cogs were once all the ‘technology’ anyone had.

So, Tim Drake set about showcasing his mums hard work and after being denied brining a rare pot she had found, he decided to make a copy of it out of clay in the schools art room. The teacher helped him with dry hands and a kind smile, excited on his behalf as he so clearly enjoyed the process and seeing how else clay crafts were used.

Tim stood proudly at his table, several paragraphs written out and printed out for people to read about his parents achievements and a diagram of the skeletal structure his father had discovered not long after Tim was born. Many people praised him, saying how well he did for such a young age, only to be even more awed when he explained he made the pot himself and it wasn’t the real deal, but a replica.

It depicted Aphrodite as she stood over roses, at the time white but some clearly darkening as the thrown cut her foot, while she made her way over to a figure that was known to be Adonis as he laid dying from a boar beside him. It looked very simpler to real Greek art, though of course a little wonky and with less dirt and ancient clay, but the pottery was exceptional by a child’s hand. Hell, even a teenager.

Tim was so very happy, waiting patiently for his parents to come and see what he had done, how he had shown everyone in his school how cool and clever they were and even made some of the olde kris look at him with jealousy, but…

They never came.

Not because they were hurt or sick or worse, dead, but because they were too tired from their trip they had gotten back from a week ago.

But Tim was a Drake, he wouldn’t show his growing anxiety and fear, instead he stood tall and spoke animatedly too anyone who would listen and avoided questions on where Janet and Jack were just like they had taught him to when pushed for sensitive information.

Tim took the pot home and Janet smiled at him, telling him it was ‘nice’.

She didn’t point out the errors or anything, said nothing bad and had no disgusted expression, she just… called it nice. And moved on.

Seven year old Tim smashed the pot against his bed room wall and cried his eyes out until he fell asleep.

When he woke up he came to a conclusion: he simply hadn’t done a good enough job and if he was more accurate, had less bumps and used more polish, he’d get a better reaction.

So that’s what he did.

The second pot got a confused brow furrow and he was asked why he was showing it again, after all they were busy people and they had already seen it?

Tim made a different one and got a similar answer to the first, though Jack did give him a pat on the head!

Tim decided to make a few, perfect his craft more, until he showed them more so he could truely wow them.

Yet a funny thing happened while he made his replica pots and bowls.

He started to have fun.

Soon it became known to the staff at his school that if you couldn’t find Timothy, he wasn’t flagging school, he was in the art room. Given he had such good grades and had plenty of friends, none of them had a problem with this as it wasn’t affecting him badly.

Tim made a mug for his art teacher that was shaped to look like a tree stump and asked for help to paint it from his friend Ives whose mother was an artist, who got tips from his mum and taught his friend how to shade and paint on canvas first.

As thanks, Tim made Ives a little clay mushroom charm that the other boy made into a bracelet.

Eventually Tim is having so much fun with his crafting he’s even having to buy creams and ointments so his hands don’t get so cracked and cry. He has a whole draw for his art clothes lest he get too many dirtied, as well as a shelf in the art room for his creations.

By the time he’s nine he hasn’t shown his parents many of his creations and while he enjoys the bits of praise he gets, the lacklustre response just bums his out, so he stops. They aren’t mad about it, nor are they really in favour of it, they just don’t seem to care all that much.

Tim knows better than to waste their time too much and just enjoys their company when he can.

When Tim becomes Robin he’s started commissions within his school and friend group, including a smoking tray for Kevin, a chess piece set for Wesley and a rose candle holder for Darla.

Ives gets the most bit that’s because he gives them to his mum as gifts.

He stops his craft while he trains, usually too tired to do so, but finds making simple vases and bowls is calming for his mind. Batman tells him he needs to have ways to detach from his night life so they don’t get too blurred, a mistake he himself made, and so Tim uses his clay craft to do that.

He makes Bruce a mug shaped like a bat for him to have in the cave and it’s the first thing that starts to break Bruce in regards to seeing Tim as more than just the new Robin.

Tim makes Alfred a kettle pot, a simple thing as it’s his first time doing so, and paints it with buttercups.

Barbara gets a big eye charm that has several little ones hanging off wires from its base. The window charm moves with her to the clock tower even years after.

He makes Dick an elephant with pink markings over it like the one he saw on the circus posters from The Flying Grayson’s. Dick still ain’t happy about there being someone in his brothers suit, not really, but he was never going to truely take that out on Tim and seeing the sweet gift left in his car makes him feel a little lighter.

It still hurts them all to see a young boy in their house that’s not Jason, but with Tim being so different they soon stop making the comparisons so much. There’s still damage down, words that will stick with Tim, but it’s not as bad.

Tim makes Cass whole collection of little things like a tiny duck and frog, as well as hats for them. He makes her a plate that’s just for her with a teddy bear curled around a heart, her initials on the back.

He makes Steph a stupidly intricately engraved brick all for the inside joke between them, but the way she cackled is well worth it.

His teammates get so many gifts he can’t count them all, though his favourite will be the mini versions of them he made and that they put as the centre piece of the towers dining table.

When Jason comes back he doesn’t make anything, not even when the misunderstandings have been cleared up. Jason openly refuses to change his violent ways even if he promises to be more friendly, but that’s not why. Tim is still so hurt at seeing his childhood hero so broken that he can’t bear to think of it, until he watches Bridgerton of all things and starts to think differently.

Tim comers how different Jason must feel and how lonely that must feel, so he makes him something special. It by all means looks like a book even it’s an all clay, though the bones and flowers over the binding give it away with their glistening. Jane Austin’s Sense and Sensibility was hard to paint, and that wasn’t never one of Tim’s strengths, so he doesn’t do the cover art and instead writes out the letters prettily and hopes it’s enough.

Jason never responds to the gift outwardly, but the way he ruffled Tim’s hair just to annoy the other tells him enough.

Duke gets three necklaces that piece together to make one big charm, blending together in a colourful spiral perfectly. One is for him, the other two for his catatonic parents. When he realises what Tim made them for her cries, hugging Tim so tightly he’s afraid he’ll pop.

Damian is the last to receive any gift, their rivalry far too strong, though it ironically Tim’s favourite.

The stump like cup has several little mushroom cups around its sides and set of dips fit for a paintbrush. Tim explains the centre is for water and the other parts made for water colour paints or even acrylic, though that will be harder to clean even with the setting spray.

Damian claims to not use it and only Alfred knows how he asks how to properly clean it without causing damage.

Tim never truely gets to show his parents his hobby, not even when his mum goes and he and his father get a little closer. It hurts him naturally, though when he spots an old high school friend at a coffee shop asking for a drink in her keep cup he made her, he decides that his city has given him what he needed. Gotham and its people, his friends and those who watched him grow up, they gave him the acknowledgment and encouragement he wanted from Jack and Janet.

It’s not perfect, his city isn’t, but neither was his first pot.

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cheriedivine · 2 months ago

Text

𝐀𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫 | Chapter 7

previous | chapter 7 | next

꩜ synopsis: you’re best friends. just best friends. except when she lingers a little too long at your door. except when she calls you her favorite, and it doesn’t feel like a joke. except when her fingers graze yours and neither of you pull away. except when you start to wonder if she’s wondering, too…

꩜ pairing: Ellie Williams x fem reader (No use of y/n)

꩜ content warnings: smoking, weed, smut (finally)

꩜ WC: 11.7k

꩜ Author’s note: THIS IS MY FIRST TIME WRITING SMUT AND IM SO TERRIFIED PLZ… also thank u guys for the sweet comments and messages i’m over the moon grateful, this series is so special to me and it’s not even close to be done okay… y’all will get tired of my ass. Anyway enjoy the chapter love u happy pride month<3

୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧

"Wait, but when did you actually catch feelings for me, though?" you asked for what had to be the millionth time.

Honestly, Ellie didn’t mind repeating herself. If anything, she kind of loved it. The way you always wanted to hear it again, like replaying your favorite song over and over again. Every time she recalled it, she seemed to remember something new. Like the way your eyes lingered just a second too long on hers when you talked, or how your pinkies always seemed to find each other when you sat side by side. Small things. Things she could never forget.

September had slipped by quickly, and in the blink of an eye, October had arrived, trading warm evenings for cooler nights and scattering orange and brown leaves across the sidewalks. It had been a month since your first kiss, (Not like you were counting or whatever). A month of sleepovers, shared sweaters, tangled limbs, nonstop texting, and sneaking into the diner’s back office during your breaks for rushed makeout sessions. Maria had almost banned you from going back there altogether. Ellie had just grinned and said, “Worth the risk.”

“I’ve told you like, a hundred times,” she said now, clearly enjoying the way you whined for her to say it again.

The two of you were tangled up on her couch, limbs lazily thrown over each other. Ellie was supposed to be sorting through prints for her gallery, her best photos from the week. Some from your recent hangouts: walks in the park under trees turned orange, city crosswalks filled with motion blur, candids of you laughing or distracted, the occasional stray cat she couldn’t help but snap. She’d taken the gallery prep seriously. Of course she had to. But lately, it was like you kept happening to her, distracting and consuming in all the best, worst ways.

You sat curled up on the couch, legs tucked under yourself, a book open in your lap, rereading the same paragraph over and over. You weren’t even paying attention to the text. How were you supposed to focus when she looked like that? Her sleeves pushed up, veins visible along her tattooed forearm as she leaned over her table, elbows braced, studying the scattered prints.

“Your death stare is making it very hard for me to analyze these pictures,” she muttered without looking up.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm. I can feel it burning a hole through my skull.”

“Can’t help it,” you said, smiling. “You’re too pretty.”

God, the way that made her chest flutter. She shook her head, hiding a tiny smile. Trying to play it cool, but she was already blushing hard. She gathered up the prints and slid them into a folder, then walked over and dropped her full body weight onto you with a dramatic sigh. Her favorite move. Full body crush, almost knocking the air out of your lungs. Face buried in your chest like she could inhale you and forget the gallery pressure altogether.

You didn’t mind. Not even a little. You stroked her hair slowly, gently, like she was fragile, like you knew how much she needed softness. You stayed like that for a while, Ellie breathing you in, inhaling your scent like the oxygen she needed to live, her eyes were closed as you ran your fingers through her hair.

Both of you spent more time together. Even more than before. On the rare day you didn’t hang out because your schedules didn’t align, it felt like a tragedy. Like someone had sent her off to war. It was all so giddy, high school-level giddy. You felt like a teenager again…sneaking out of the group hangs early just to be alone with her. Play-fighting over who had to hang up first. So many dates, even if Ellie still stubbornly insisted on calling them hangouts like it made a difference. You’d been doing the romantic shit before you even kissed.

“C’monnn, just wanna make sure you weren’t secretly foolin’ me or something.” You pouted again, that same little face that made Ellie’s knees weak every time.

Ellie groaned and buried her face deeper into your chest, voice muffled. “I mean, what haven’t I told you?” Then she tilted her face to look up at you, cheeks slightly red from being squished against you.

“When we met I was basically obsessed with you. But I told myself, ‘Don’t be a creep, Ellie. This is why you only have one friend. Stop being delusional.’” She paused, a little smile tugging at her lips. “But with you, everything felt different. Like I didn’t have to hide. Still, I was too stubborn to admit I liked you like that. Lived in constant denial.”

You watched her talk. Taking in every expression, you could study her mouth and eyes for hours and never get bored. The way her brow furrowed when she talked about feelings. The way her voice softened at the edges when she looked at you like this. You’d heard this story before, at least a dozen times. And still, it made something warm unravel in your chest.

“So that explains the flirting with random girls?” you asked, raising an eyebrow in mock interrogation.

She groaned. “I had to cope in some way, plus seeing all those guys hit on you at the diner kinda ripped me apart, but didn’t say anything.”

“I told you,” you said, crossing your arms, “I laugh when I’m nervous. Doesn’t mean I liked it. Plus, I flirted with you all the time. You were just too hard-headed to notice.”

Ellie grabbed the nearest cushion and tossed it at your face.

Which of course triggered a full-blown pillow war.

You wrestled and squealed and laughed until Ellie gave up and surrendered. You were breathless, Ellie’s limbs sprawled on the couch, with you sitting between her legs, flushed and grinning.

And then she grabbed your face, gently leaning in, still catching her breath and kissed you like she’d been waiting all day to do it.

You think about it all the time. How everything but still nothing changed after the kiss, like it was always meant to go this way. There was no big moment or sudden change. Just small things that added up to everything.

Ellie started picking you up after your late shifts, waiting out front in her beat up truck with the heater cranked and a hoodie in the passenger seat for you to throw on. She always claimed you looked better in her clothes, especially that faded blue hoodie, the one she kept pretending she didn’t miss when you “accidentally” took it home.

Your hangouts had shifted into something else. There wasn’t that quiet, aching longing hanging in the air anymore, not in the same way. After that night at your apartment, Ellie promised she’d take you on a date. A real one.

Like the kind you’d gush about in those cheesy movies you love, and what better place to live out a cliché than the fair…where the air was thick with fried grease and too-loud pop music, and where she finally had a decent excuse to hold your hand on the roller coasters.

Neon lights blinked in seizure-inducing patterns while kids screamed on rickety rides in the distance. Ellie had dragged you from booth to booth, fully committed to her vendetta against rigged carnival games.

“I swear this is the one,” she said, squinting at the line of wobbling bottles.

“You said that about the ring toss. And basketball. And the darts.”

Her eyes locked on the duck shooting booth. Yellow plastic ducks glided across a narrow trough, jerking mechanically as bubbles popped around them.

“Oh,” she said, eyes glinting. “This is my game.”

You trailed behind her as she calmly gave the booth guy a crumpled five, taking her jacket off and handing it over to you.

She rolled up the sleeves of her flannel, revealing her forearms, tattoo on full display, veins trailing down to her hands like thunders on a stormy night and took her place at the mounted water gun like it was a sniper rifle.

You blinked. “Oh my god.”

She leaned in. Tongue poking out slightly. Face unreadably focused. Hands gripping the water gun with total control, like she’d done this before, maybe in a past life. The light caught the curve of her jaw just right, and your brain short-circuited.

You started to feel as if you had been lit up in fire, was it hot in here?

Ellie didn’t speak. She just adjusted her stance a little, lips pursed, and let the water stream rip. One by one, the ducks fell, each hit perfectly in the center like she had memorized the timing and rhythm.

By the time the buzzer rang, Ellie had cleared the whole line.

You stared at her, wide eyed. “What the fuck,” you breathed.

Ellie blew imaginary smoke from the tip of the gun. “Told you. My game.”

You gaped. “Are you secretly, like… ex-military?”

“Duck assassin,” she replied coolly, already pointing to a shelf of prizes.

She chose the smallest one, a crooked little stuffed bear with lopsided button eyes and shoved it into your arms in exchange of her jacket, like it wasn’t a big deal, even though she was clearly suppressing a smug smile.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Uh-huh.” She bumped her shoulder into yours. “You like the bear though.”

You did. Stupidly so.

You held it to your chest and muttered, “Yeah I do.”

She was grinning like stupid, tossing her jacket over your shoulders like a shield, as she grabbed your hand and dragged you to the next game.

You still sleep with that bear sometimes. Not that you’d ever tell her.

Another time, it was the planetarium. This one had been your idea, half-jokingly, you didn’t expect much when you pitched it, just a casual “we could go to the planetarium or whatever,” but when the words fell out of your lips Ellie’s eyes gleamed like a kid on christmas morning.

“No way,” she’d said, practically bouncing. “I thought you weren’t into that kind of stuff?”

“Wanna go or no?”

“Fuck yeah, I’m in.”

She’d shown up five minutes early, hair still damp from a rushed shower, hoodie zipped up to her chin, smelling faintly like mint and laundry detergent. Her eyes were wide, childlike, curious, like she wasn’t totally sure what she was about to walk into but her pulse rushed from the thrill.

Inside, the lights dimmed. The dome lit up. Stars bloomed across the ceiling like someone had torn open the sky. Ellie tilted her head all the way back, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. “Holy shit,” she whispered. “This is… fucking sick.”

You were already watching her more than the ceiling.

“Knew you’d like it,” you said, voice low.

She didn’t even respond. Just stared upward, entranced, like the stars were spelling out something only she could read.

Halfway through the show, during some slow narration about galaxies forming, you felt her hand brush against yours on the shared armrest. A light graze. Just the backs of your fingers, hesitant at first. Then she slid her pinky over yours, this time more purposeful. Like it was no big gesture, but you felt like the sun was imploding inside of you.

She didn’t say anything, didn’t look at you, just linked your fingers together, her thumb tracing small circles over yours, soft and delicate.

Her voice stayed low the whole time, whispering random facts on your ear, with the sweetest tone, like she couldn’t help herself.

“Neptune’s winds are faster than the speed of sound,” she muttered. “Like… hypersonic. That’s insane.”

“Mmhm,” you hummed, too distracted by the glint in her eye.

“And Jupiter’s Great Red Spot is a storm. Like a storm. It’s been raging for three hundred years and it’s big enough to fit Earth inside it, like—” she made a quiet whooshing sound, “—in one bite.”

Her hand squeezed yours a little. Like she got excited and forgot she was even holding you.

You nodded. “That’s… intense.”

She shot you a glance. “You’re not listening, are you?”

She could’ve told you the sun was made of hot dogs and you wouldn’t have noticed. You were too busy staring at her profile, glowing faintly blue under the artificial sky.

“Yeah, no sorry I got a bit lost, what did you say?”

Ellie smirked, a bit shy now. “Nothing.”

She leaned in slightly, placing a quick peck on the top of your head, breathing in your perfume, then turned away, but she saw the smile tug at your lips.

After the show, you walked out into the cool night air, fingers still brushing like they weren’t quite ready to let go.

“I’m not usually, like… a space person. But that was cool.” You said, as you walked out into the night.

Ellie bumped her shoulder into yours. “You’re a space person now. Deal with it.”

You gave her a look, maybe more earnest than you meant it to be. “Only because of you.”

She paused. Looking at you. Then shoved her hands in her hoodie pocket and looked away, clearly fighting a smile.

“Whatever,” she mumbled, ears a little pink. “You’re welcome.”

You both stood there for a second, silent.

But your favorite one was definitely the arcade date. You hadn’t planned it, it was just one of those random afternoons where Ellie showed up at the diner unannounced, leaning against the doorframe waiting for your shift to be over, with that smug little grin of hers.

“You busy?” she asked, truck keys twirling around her fingers.

You weren’t. Not even a little.

The drive was filled with chatter, windows rolled down, music loud, and Ellie’s hand tapping against the steering wheel, like she was playing the backup drums on whatever song was playing. You were both laughing, until you passed a neon sign that read ARCADE & PIZZA, you practically almost turned the wheel yourself.

“Wait Ellie turn around—pull over.”

Ellie flinched. “Okay okay— Jesus you scared me for a second.” You grinned, already unbuckling your seatbelt as Ellie pulled over the parking lot.

“I haven’t been to an arcade since I was like twelve I think” you said as you threw Ellie’s hoodie over your head.

“Wow. Nerd” she snorted, earning a small kick on her heel.

Inside, it smelled like childhood. Pizza and dusty carpets, it was oddly nostalgic. The place was loud, packed with kids and their parents, and a couple of teenagers. Neon lights were blindingly colorful, you felt like your twelve year old self again.

“Alright,” she said, cracking her knuckles dramatically. “Where the competition at?”

You rolled your eyes. “Maybe over there, at Jason’s 9th birthday party.” you joked, pointing at the table surrounded by little kids.

Ellie scoffed, “Pffft, easy wins, where is the real competition at?" she glanced over at you.

Oh, you knew where this was going.

“Just say you want to get your ass kicked by me, Williams, not that hard.”

Her grin widened. “You’re on now. Loser pays for the winner’s pizza.”

“Deal.” Both of you squeezed your hands, like you were making some sort of business deal, but this was way more serious.

You didn’t know Ellie had a competitive streak until she practically shoved a 10-year-old out of the way to get to the skee-ball machine.

“Ellie,” you hissed. “You can’t just—”

“He was taking forever,” she snapped, already rolling the ball with deadly focus. “I got shit to prove.”

She won three games in a row.

“Okay, what the fuck,” you growled, staring at the air hockey scoreboard like it had insulted your ancestors. “You’re cheating. There’s no way.”

“You’re just bad,” she teased, throwing the small ball in the air and catching it with her hand. “Maybe I should give you lessons. Private ones.”

“Wow. Cocky.”

“I mean, I did just wipe the floor with you.”

“Oh yeah?” you leaned forward, tempting her, but then you turned around, spotting the motorcycle racing game. Two bikes. One screen. Destiny.

You dragged her over the machine, both mounted the fake bikes revving them like you’d trained your whole lives. Ellie leaned forward, focused her hands gripping the throttle. Her tongue poked out, focused. You knew that look.

Meanwhile you adjusted yourself on the seat, inserting the quarters on the coin slot, your back was slightly arched, causing your shirt to ride up a little and making the small dimples on your lower back visible. Ellie almost fell from her bike at the sight of that. And you weren’t even aware.

“It’s over for you Williams, prepare to eat dust.” you teased.

“You fucking wish.”

The countdown started and the game launched. You took the lead, she trailed behind you, both leaning into turns like you were actually swerving through a neon-lit city. At one moment, your eyes drifted toward Ellie’s arms, her forearm tattoo flexing, adorned by her pulsing veins from gripping the bike handle. God it was unfair—you almost forgot you were in a competition with her.

“Hey, eyes on the road,” she joked, but she was secretly enjoying your staring.

In the end? You won. Throwing your arms up in celebration. “HA. SUCK IT.”

Ellie blinked at the scoreboard in disbelief, “No. Rematch. Right now. My screen lagged.”

“Boohoo excuses are for losers.” you laughed so hard you almost fell off your bike.

The next stop was the dance machine.

Ellie looked skeptical. “I don’t know, dude…”

You were already dragging her by the hoodie. “Nope. No backing out. It’s fate.”

She rolled her eyes but followed. “If I break my ankle, I’m blaming you.”

The game started. The song was fast, the tiles lit up like a rave, and the both of you? Horrible dancers. Absolutely terrible.

You couldn’t stop laughing. Ellie missed the first five steps, almost fell twice, and kept yelling “this is a fucking death trap!” like the machine was out to get her.

But then, something shifted.

Halfway through, she got weirdly into it. Jaw set. Eyes sharp. She started nailing every step, stomping on the lit tiles like she was born in a dancing tournament. She even grabbed your waist at one point, spinning you into position like it was a choreographed number.

“Are you sabotaging me?” you shrieked.

“This is war,” she said, dead serious.

She won that round. You demanded a rematch. She won again.

“Okay,” you panted, doubled over. “You win this one.”

“Jealous.”

“You literally looked like you were summoning demons with your feet.”

“And?”

You played other games after that. Basketball hoops. Whack-a-mole. She tried to win you a prize at the claw machine and got so mad she almost kicked it.

But then— you saw it. The air hockey table.

You gasped. “Oh no.”

Ellie followed your gaze. “Oh yes.”

You both slammed quarters into the machine. Ellie narrowed her eyes, “I’m going to annihilate you.” she said.

You smirked. “You literally just lost the motorcycle race.”

Ellie sighed like a martyr. “Fine. But I’m not holding back.”

“You’ve never held back in your life.”

You both slid your coins in. The machine lit up with that familiar vvvvvmmm of the puck loading up. Ellie rolled her shoulders, cracked her knuckles, and positioned herself like she was about to defuse a bomb. You grabbed your paddle like it was a mortal weapon.

The puck dropped.

The first point? Yours. Quick and clean.

“Fuck yeah!” you whooped, lifting your arms.

Ellie pointed dramatically. “Beginner’s luck.”

The next round? She scored while you were still dancing from your previous win.

“Rude!” you cried.

“Focus up,” she said, eyes glinting.

You both got so intense. The puck clacked across the table like a bullet. Your knuckles started aching from the collisions. Ellie was muttering things like “calculated trajectory” and “this is physics, baby,” which was ridiculous and also extremely hot.

The score climbed. 4 to 4. 5 to 5. 6 to 6.

Final point.

She squinted at you over the rim of the table. “Winner gets a kiss.”

You blinked. “You just made that up.”

“So?”

“…Fair.”

The puck shot out again, and for a moment, everything slowed. Ellie lunged. You twisted your paddle. The puck bounced off the wall—

—and slid right into her goal.

You blinked. Slowly. Then looked up.

Victory.

Ellie just stood there, stunned. Paddle slack in her hand.

“I think you’re choking,” you said softly. “Want some victory soda?”

She groaned, dragging both hands down her face. “I hate this stupid game. This game is rigged. It’s broken.”

“You’re a bad loser, you know that?” you grinned, crossing your arms.

“Can I at least get a consolation prize?” she pouted, and gave her a small kiss on her cheek.

Those memories blurred together now. Warm and fast, like a highlight reel you couldn’t help but replay in your head. The way Ellie had looked at you in the planetarium, her face glowing with stars. The way her tongue poked out when she focused, sleeves rolled up, eyes sharp, and tattoo flexing. The way her hand gripped your waist during that stupid dance game, both of you laughing too hard to breathe.

You hadn’t slept together yet…not all the way, but the tension had started blooming between you in glances and lingering touches and shared hoodies, every moment a little more fragile. All of it, layered like sediment, the slow, quiet shift between friendship and whatever this had become.

Now, Ellie was lying on top of you like a human blanket, gallery prints long forgotten, the curve of her nose pressed into your chest. She was supposedly taking a break,though it had turned into her full-body flopping onto you with all the drama of someone who hadn’t slept in three days. You threaded your fingers through her hair, scratching lightly at her scalp the way you knew she liked. She let out a hum, breath slow and even against your collarbone.

“You’re supposed to be working on your gallery,” you reminded her softly, lips brushing the crown of her head.

“M’working,” she mumbled. “Just horizontally.”

“Ellie.”

She groaned into your chest. “Just five more minutes.”

“You said that fifteen minutes ago.”

“Well now I mean it.”

You smiled despite yourself, thumb brushing over her temple. Her whole body was warm and heavy and tangled with yours, one of her legs slung over both of yours, her arm wrapped lazily around your waist. She wasn’t letting go anytime soon.

Ellie sighed dramatically, face still smushed into your chest. “Mmm. Don’t wanna do the gallery. Hate the gallery. Gallery sucks.”

You laughed. “You’re the one who’s been obsessing over it for weeks.”

“Yeah, but right now I’m busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Laying on top of the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Very important.”

You rolled your eyes, heart doing the embarrassing flutter it always did when she said shit like that. You ran your fingers through her hair again, feeling her melt further into you.

There was a pause. Soft. Heavy.

Then Ellie looked up, that specific gleam in her eye that always meant trouble.

“What if we ditched this gallery prep bullshit for a little while?” she said.

You raised a brow. “And do what, exactly?”

“I dunno. Go for a drive. Kidnap a raccoon. Smoke a joint on the beach. Something not involving fluorescent lights and burn out.”

You bit your lip. Thinking about it. The clock blinked past 10 pm. The apartment was quiet. The weight of October air clung outside the windows, thick and chilly.

You sat up slightly. “Wait. Beach?”

Ellie grinned. “Beach.”

You both got up immediately, snatching your jackets and hoodies, slipping into your shoes in a rush. You grabbed your bag as Ellie tossed a blanket at you and snatched her keys before the two of you hurried out of the studio.

The windows were cracked. Your hair whipped around your face in the night wind. Ellie drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting absentmindedly on your thigh, her thumb tracing light circles over the fabric of your jeans.

She looked free, wind in her hair, face lit up by the passing headlights, radio humming low.

You couldn’t stop smiling.

The beach was mostly deserted, just the soft hum of the tide and the faraway glow of streetlights behind you. You hopped out of the truck, the sand sticking on your shoes damp beneath your feet.

Ellie tossed you her hoodie, hitting you straight to your face.

“Hey!”

“You’ll thank me later,” she grinned.

You pulled it on without protest. It smelled like her cologne, warm and familiar. “Thanks.”

“Race you to the shore!” she shouted, already kicking off her boots.

“Wait!” you laughed, fumbling with your own shoes before taking off after her. Your bag bounced against your side with every step, slipping off your shoulder as you ran, breathless and giggling as the cold air filled your lungs.

At one point, Ellie turned suddenly and knocked you off balance, wrapping her arms around you as she spun you both around. You tumbled to the ground in a heap, landing right on top of her, both of you breathless, your cheeks flushed from the cold and the rush of it all.

You turned onto your side, propping yourself up on your elbow as you looked at her.

“It’s… really nice out here.”

“Yeah,” she murmured, brushing the sand from her jeans as she stood. Then she held out a hand. “Come on. Let’s take a walk.”

You slipped your fingers into hers without hesitation, like muscle memory. Like saying yes to her had always been easy.

The two of you wandered toward the water, the waves stretching out endlessly before you.

You wrapped your arms around yourself as you walked, a light breeze brushing over your skin, carrying the scent of salt and earth. Ellie’s jeans were cuffed above her ankles, feet bare, toes sinking into the wet sand beside yours.

She was quiet for a while, and you didn’t rush her. The silence was soft between you, not heavy.

Then, almost like she was thinking out loud, she said, “I think I’m burnt out.”

You glanced over, watching her eyes follow the moonlit waves. “From the gallery?”

She nodded. “Yeah. It’s like… the more I try to prepare, the more it feels like I’m running on empty. Like I’m squeezing everything out of myself and there’s nothing left to give.” She gave a small laugh, dry and tired. “Kinda pathetic.”

“It’s not pathetic,” you said gently. “You’ve been putting your whole heart into it. That’s a lot.”

Ellie didn’t answer right away. She just kept walking.

“Maybe,” you added after a beat, “you don’t need to squeeze anything out. Maybe you just need to breathe a little. Let yourself recharge.”

She looked at you then. Really looked at you. And something in her expression softened.

“Maybe some fresh air is exactly what you needed,” you said, nudging her shoulder lightly. “Who knows—maybe the ocean brings back your inspiration.”

But her inspiration was standing right in front of her, with wide eyes and a soft smile, that same smile that reassured her from her doubts and fears, that made her believe everything was gonna be alright.

Ellie snorted. “Yeah maybe.”

You kept walking a little farther until the sand grew softer and untouched, the sound of the waves a little gentler here. Ellie paused, scanning the area before she pulled the blanket out from where it had been tucked under her arm.

She laid it down carefully, smoothing it out before sinking onto it with a sigh. You sat beside her, legs crossed, watching as she leaned back on her hands and tilted her head toward the sky.

The stars were scattered and quiet tonight. The kind you could get lost staring at without realizing how much time had passed. A breeze passed over you both, cooler now, but comforting. Ellie’s arm brushed yours as she shifted slightly to get more comfortable.

The sound of the waves filled the silence between you, steady and calming. You both had your jeans cuffed, ankles cold and damp from the water. The blanket was barely big enough for two. Your knees were touching.

Ellie was rummaging through the pocket of her jacket with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Boom.”

She held up a perfectly rolled blunt between two fingers like she was revealing a magic trick.

You blinked, then burst out laughing. “You’re gonna get me fired, you know that?”

“Please,” she scoffed, pulling out a lighter, “you can just live with me and be my muse forever. I’ll make you coffee in the mornings. Feed you clementines while you read on the couch.”

She lit the blunt, taking a painfully slow drag, and passed it to you. The smoke curled around her lips and you wanted nothing else but to press yours against hers.

“Muse salary probably sucks.”

“It does,” she admitted. “But the benefits include me and… me, and cuddling 24/7.”

“Wow. How could I resist.”

You took a hit, coughing just a little on the exhale. The haze settled slowly over your limbs, warmth spreading through your chest and cheeks. Time slipped a little sideways.

The blunt moved back and forth between you in a rhythm as natural as breathing. The stars were pinpricks above the ocean, shimmering, scattered, infinite.

Ellie leaned back on her elbows, gaze fixed on the sky. “You ever think about how the light we’re seeing from some of those stars started traveling toward us before the human brain even existed?”

You tilted your head toward her, confused, blinking slowly. “What?”

“Like… we’re looking at the past. Some of those stars could already be dead. We’re just seeing the ghost of them.”

You stared at her, momentarily forgetting about the blunt burning between your fingers.

“You’re literally the nerdiest person I’ve ever met.”

“Thanks. I try.”

The blunt burned lower in Ellie’s fingers, smoke curling around her jawline, eyes soft and half-lidded as she looked at you.

“You’re staring again.” Her voice was low and teasing but not like before. This wasn’t about calling you out. This was about pulling you in.

You didn’t look away. You didn’t even try.

“You look really pretty right now.”

Her brows raised a little, almost surprised. But she didn’t deflect it, didn’t joke it away this time. Just blinked, slowly, lips parting.

She kept going, voice soft and raspy from smoke and salt air. “And Earth moves through space at like, 67,000 miles per hour. Which means no matter what we do, even if we’re just sitting here, we’re still flying through the void. Isn’t that kind of fucked up?”

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at her. With her messy hair, jeans cuffed like a little boy, freckled face lit up in moonlight and awe. She looked like she belonged up there, with all the stars and the galaxies, floating above you like in a dream. And she kept gesturing toward the sky, completely unaware of the way her words made your ribs tighten.

You blinked slowly, a breath catching behind your teeth.

God. I’m really falling in love with her. Was all you could think about.

Not in the loud, crashing way. Not like the movies. No. This felt quieter. More dangerous. Like something blooming in the dark. Like the soft ache of knowing, really knowing…that if you let yourself, you’d never stop wanting her. Not just her body, not just her kisses. But her.

The way she got really quiet when she was focused. The way she always turned down the volume on her phone before coming into your apartment. How she knew the difference between your tired silence and your mad silence. How she never let your coffee go cold. The way she let you rest your head on her lap without making a big deal about it. The way she touched you like she didn’t realize she was doing it.

Something that always came back. The way she looked at you like maybe, just maybe, she already knew.

You passed the blunt back to her with a shaky hand, trying not to exhale your whole damn soul.

“You okay?” she asked, catching your eyes for a second too long.

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek to ground yourself. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

She smiled at you, all teeth and freckles and affection. And you were doomed.

You wanted to kiss her and tell her how far fucking gone you were, that she has already ruined you and there is no turning back. Instead, you just smiled, barely.

“You ever just… forget how good this feels?” Ellie asked quietly, her voice rough with honesty. “Like the world gets so loud, and you forget how simple it can be to just stop for a second?”

You turned your head, so you could look at her. “Yeah. I think we forget to stop because we’re scared everything will fall apart if we do.”

Her eyes flicked to yours, gentle and tired. “Yeah...”

You smiled faintly, the sound of the tide folding over itself again in the background. “Guess that’s what fresh air’s good for.”

Ellie huffed a small laugh through her nose, and without thinking, she reached for your hand in the space between you. Her fingers grazed yours before curling around them, warm and sure.

Neither of you said anything after that. You didn’t need to.

She took another drag and leaned her head back to stare at the sky. “Fuck man, I should’ve brought my camera, the view is unbelieveable,”

You sighed dramatically, then reached into your bag. “Oh, Ellie…”

She glanced over, puzzled, until you pulled out her camera and held it up triumphantly.

“No fucking way,” she laughed, sitting up straighter, her entire face lighting up. “You’re the best. Are you kidding me?”

“You think I don’t know you by now?” you said, handing it over. “I saw it sitting by your keys and figured you'd regret leaving it behind.”

She shook her head in disbelief, already adjusting the lens. “God, you’re unreal.”

You blushed, trying to play it cool, but it was impossible with the way she was looking at you—like you were some rare artifact she'd just unearthed.

Then she brought the viewfinder to her eye. “Don’t move.”

You froze. “What?”

“Stay like that,” she said, voice softer now, focused. “You look—just stay.”

The shutter clicked once. Twice. She shifted slightly, capturing you from another angle, then tilted the camera up toward the sky, the stars, the waves behind you. The sound of the shutter was rhythmic and careful, like she was trying to memorize every second.

She lowered the camera slowly, then looked at you again, really looked. The way the moonlight enhanced your features and the air blew your hair in all the right directions, like slow motion, she couldn’t hold herself back, she didn’t have to anymore.

Ellie leaned in, cupping your face in both hands, her thumbs brushing just beneath your cheekbones. Her touch was warm and steady, like she was grounding herself through you.

Then she kissed you. Firm and certain.

It wasn’t soft, not this time. It was hungry. Her lips moved against yours with purpose, urgency threading through every second. You melted into her touch instantly, your hands finding her waist and pulling her closer until there was no space left between you.

Her hand came up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, her blunt abandoned somewhere in the sand beside you. And you kissed her back like you could bury the ache under your tongue and hope she didn’t feel the way you melted against her.

She tasted like weed, salt and chapstick and something inherently her. Your fingers tangled in the fabric of her jacket, clinging to her like she was the only thing tethering you to the earth.

When you shifted, she followed, leaning into you as the kiss deepened, her hand slipping to the back of your neck, thumb still grazing your skin like she couldn’t stop touching you.

You broke apart just long enough to breathe, foreheads pressed together, your lips brushing as you smiled against her mouth.

She looked at you through half-lidded eyes, flushed and dazed. “You’re so fucking pretty,” she murmured. “It’s not fair.”

And when you finally pulled back, she didn’t move far, her forehead bumped gently against yours, eyes still closed. Neither of you said anything for a moment. You just breathed together.

“We should probably…” she whispered, voice hoarse, like she wasn’t sure where that sentence was going.

“Go home?” you offered, a little breathless, a little terrified.

Her eyes opened, hazy and low-lidded.

“Yeah. Home.”

But her fingers didn’t leave your cheek right away. And when you finally stood, brushing sand off your jeans, folding the blanket with shaking hands and adjusting your bag, you felt Ellie’s hand on your wrist.

“Wait.”

You turned just in time for her to grab your waist and hoist you up with a laugh, throwing you over her shoulder like you weighed nothing.

“Ellie!” you shrieked, kicking your legs, your fists beating half-heartedly against her back. “You’re gonna make me fall on my ass!”

“Relax,” she snorted. “I’ve got you.”

Your voice was muffled by your own laughter, face buried in the fabric of her jacket.

She finally set you down by the car, both of you breathless with laughter, your heart was still thudding from more than just the chaos. Her hand lingered at the small of your back as you climbed in, and you sat there for a second, staring out at the ocean one last time, still high from the weed and the kiss.

The car ride home was awfully quiet. But not the kind that meant nothing was happening. It was the kind of quiet that pulsed. That built up like crashing waves.

Ellie’s hand had been resting on your thigh the whole way. Her thumb traced slow, lazy circles into your skin over the fabric of your jeans, and the warmth of her touch was burning through you.

You shifted in your seat. Crossed and uncrossed your legs, then stilled, because the pressure of her hand there firm, warm, claiming, was making your brain short circuit.

The music was low. Just a beat, pulsing through the speakers. Her fingers flexed slightly against your thigh every time the bass dropped. You didn’t even know what song was playing. Neither of you said anything. But your skin was on fire, your mouth dry, and the only thing you could focus on was how badly you wanted her. Right here. Right now. And it was obvious, painfully, dangerously obvious…that she felt it too.

All you could think about was her mouth. The way she’d kissed you back on the beach. The way she tasted. The way her hand had cradled your jaw like you were precious and hers and ruinable all at once.

Your breath caught in your throat when her fingers squeezed your thigh a little, just enough. But she didn’t say anything. Just kept driving. Eyes focused on the road. Her lips parted, jaw set tight. Like she was holding herself back from something.

When she parked, neither of you moved.

A beat passed.

Then two.

And then you opened the door, heart hammering.

Ellie was behind you in a second, grabbing the blanket, your bag, the abandoned water bottle in the cupholder. And still, somehow, her hand found the small of your back as she guided you inside.

By the time she pushed open her apartment door, something had already shifted.

Because the second it clicked shut behind you…She dropped everything. Your bag hit the floor. The blanket was halfway off your arm when her hands grabbed your waist and yanked you in like she’d been starving.

Your back hit the wall with a soft thud. Her lips found yours instantly. Messy, hot, urgent.

You gasped, one hand flying to her shoulder, the other tugging at her jacket like it offended you that she was still wearing it.

The weed still in your system made everything so much more intense. Her mouth, her scent, the drag of her hands over your waist. It was like every nerve in your body had been rewired just for her.

She kissed you like she was burning up, rushed, teeth knocking, too much tongue, but somehow that just made it better. Sloppier. Desperate.

You smiled against her mouth, and her hand immediately grabbed your jaw, angling your face the way she wanted.

Your fingers dug into her shoulders, dragging her closer. “Ellie—”

“Yeah?” Her voice was ragged. Her lips brushed your jaw. Your throat. Your collarbone.

“Your room—”

You didn’t finish the sentence. Because she kissed you again, like she already knew.

You both stumbled messily toward her room, laughter and breath tangled between kisses. Ellie’s fingers tightened around your hand, grounding herself in the feeling of your skin. Her head was spinning, not just from the weed but from the fact that this was real. You were here, touching her like you needed her.

She silently thanked herself for tidying up earlier, the faint scent of cedarwood and laundry detergent curling around the space like an invitation. There were no distractions. Just you, her, and the electric charge buzzing between every touch. You kicked off your shoes without thinking, and she was already guiding you back, hands firm at your waist as she gently eased you onto the bed. Her body followed, urgent, reverent, starved—lips crashing against yours like waves meeting the shore. You didn’t hesitate. You pulled her closer. She hovered for just a beat, eyes devouring the sight of you, flushed and waiting.

No lens could ever even come close to capturing the way her eyes saw you, the glistening on your face, with your pupils dilated and lips puffy, something holy worth waking up to, like a small prayer whispered before risking everything you got.

She didn’t waste any second, she was all over you, like smoke lingering in the air after you’d shared a cigarette. Intimate. Sharing the object that had been around your lips and hers, she always inhaled a little too hard, like maybe she could taste you through the nicotine filling her lungs.

But now she could have you. In this moment, she laid on top of you, and you were looking at her with those wide, doe eyes. And right now, nothing else in this room, or in this world, mattered. You were waiting for her just as much as she had waited for you.

Your fingers grazed her collarbone, tugging slightly at the fabric of her shirt, pulling her in, as if you’d die if you didn’t taste her in this second, like your life depended on it. She reciprocated, lips hungry—slow, memorizing the crevices of your mouth, giving you entrance to her own, tongues swirling around, slow dancing together.

Ellie cupped your face, her calloused fingertips rough against your tender skin, tickling your flushed cheeks. She trailed kisses from your lips to your jaw, her mouth hot and open tingling on every spot, you sat up slightly, and Ellie took it as her cue to lower her lips to your neck, warm breath hovering the flesh of your neck, as she left open mouth kisses, like she was trying to memorize the rhythm of your pulse with her lips.

Your hands were tangled on her auburn hair, fingers pulling softly with each kiss.

A small moan slipped past your lips, you tried to cover it by snuggling your face into Ellie’s neck, but she noticed.

And oh lord—she wanted to replay that little sound for the rest of her life.

Something shifted in her. Primal. She was starving for you. She needed to cover every inch of your skin with her mouth, trace a map across your body, taking note of every sweet spot that made you squirm under her.

God she was high on you, just by kissing. Pathetic.

You pulled back to look at her again, and the look she gave you?

Fuck. It was unraveling you.

Slowly, you pressed your lips to hers again, the kiss deepened. Messy, sloppy, perfect.

Hands roamed slow and lazy, tangled in fabric and hair, fingers trailing like they had nowhere else to be. Then, suddenly, the weight shifted. You felt an arm slide beneath your back, the other steadying you both. And before you could say something , Ellie pulled you up, lifted like you weighed nothing and settled you gently into her lap. Your thighs bracketed hers now, knees sinking into the bed, your lips still locked together.

Now both of you were chasing dominance with your tongues, breathy moans and low groans spilling between kisses. Ellie's hands rested on each side of your hips, gripping the soft flesh, digging her fingers into your skin.

Meanwhile you lowered your hands down to her stomach, slipping under her shirt. Her skin was warm and soft, so soft. You traced little circles with your fingertips as your hands traveled to her back.

Ellie broke the kiss for a second, catching her breath, and when her eyes met yours, she knew—

You needed her as much as she needed you.

She gave you a small nod— permission, and you took it as a welcome sign.

You lifted her shirt slowly, as if you were giving her the chance to say something, to stop you. But she didn’t. She raised her arms letting you tug it off completely and tossed it aside. Bare freckled skin now only framed by the black sports bra she wore, muscles tensing from the shyness she suddenly felt.

She followed immediately, helping you out of your shirt, leaving you in your bra. Ellie had been waiting for this moment since that night she’d accidentally caught a glimpse through your door. The image of your bare back, the strap of your bra. It had been burned into her memory ever since.

She was so caught up in that thought, she didn’t even realize when you shifted your weight completely and she was now the one lying beneath you, with your knees caging her hips.

Ellie’s breath caught in her throat, her hands instinctively settling on your clothed thighs. You could feel her heartbeat pounding beneath your palms, a steady drum that matched your own. She looked up at you like you were a miracle. Her pupils were blown, partly from you and from the weed, lips parted, and you could see the faintest tremble in her chest as she tried to keep her breathing even.

You dipped your head, brushing your lips over hers, soft and slow. A kiss like a secret. One she’d never tell anyone else but you. You pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes—her lashes fluttered, lips chasing yours, already missing the contact.

Her hands moved, skimming up your thighs, slipping under the hem of your bra strap. Her touch was reverent, like she didn’t quite believe this was real.

“You’re so…” she whispered, voice barely there, but the rest of the sentence vanished in your mouth as you kissed her again. Deeper this time, your tongue sliding past her lips, tasting her like she was something you needed to survive.

Your hips shifted, rocking forward just slightly, and the sound Ellie made.

Fuck.

A soft, breathless whimper was enough to make your head spin.

Her fingers dug into your waist, pulling you closer, anchoring you to her. You could feel her muscles tense beneath you, her body responding to every inch of you.

“Tell me this is real,” she breathed, voice cracking around the edges, raw and so full of need it made your chest ache.

“It’s real,” you whispered against her lips. “I’m here.”

You leaned down again, trailing kisses along her jaw, down her neck, your lips brushing the shell of her ear. Ellie let out a shaky exhale, her hands sliding up your back, fingertips tracing the curve of your spine.

You smiled, teeth grazing her collarbone. Ellie groaned softly, arching into you as your kisses grew messier, more urgent, like you were trying to mark her soul with your mouth. She let you take your time, let you explore her inch by inch like she was sacred territory.

When you sat up again, her hands followed your movement. One trailing along your ribs, the other cradling your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. The way she was looking at you then? Like you were starlight. Like she’d never let anyone else touch you the way she did.

You leaned into her touch and whispered, “You okay?”

Ellie nodded, eyes glassy, lips swollen, chest rising and falling like she’d just run a mile.

“Better than ever.” She looked completely undone, flushed cheeks, strands of hair sticking to her forehead, eyes drunk on the sight of you.

You leaned in slowly, like you were about to worship her. Your lips ghosted over hers, brushing once, twice, teasing. Cruel. And when you finally kissed her, it was all teeth and tongue, heat and hunger.

She groaned into your mouth, hands sliding up your sides and gripping your waist like she was trying to keep herself grounded to the moment. But she couldn’t, not while you were grinding down on her, slowly, hips rolling just enough to make her curse against your lips.

“Fuck—” she gasped, breaking the kiss as her head fell back into the pillow, exposing the long line of her neck.

You didn’t waste the opportunity.

You pressed your mouth to her throat, biting softly just below her jaw, then trailing your tongue over the spot like an apology. Her fingers slipped under the band of your bra, thumbs brushing over the underside of your breasts, breath coming out in shallow, desperate pants.

“You’re driving me fucking insane,” she muttered, voice rough and broken.

You pulled back to look at her, lips wet and a little swollen, eyes hazy.

“Yeah?” you whispered, breath brushing her cheek. “What are you gonna do about it?”

That lit something in her. She sat up just enough to crash your mouths together again, teeth clashing, tongue tangling with yours in a messy, frantic kiss. One of her hands slid down, gripping your ass, pulling your body harder against her lap, hips bucking up with zero shame.

You gasped into her mouth, nails dragging down her back, and Ellie cursed again. Low, and filthy.

“Can I?” she whispered into your mouth, hands moving to unclasp your bra, her voice trembling with restraint.

You let her—let her strip you bare, skin flushed and burning. She stared for a second, like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing, then she leaned forward and kissed the top of your breast, slowly, her mouth trailing lower. Her tongue flicked across your nipple and your head fell back with a moan, hips grinding down on instinct, desperate for friction.

Ellie groaned when she felt it, her hands grabbing your waist and helping you move, guiding you to rock against her in slow, aching circles.

“That’s it,” she whispered, her voice wrecked. “Just like that.”

Your hands tangled in her hair, tugging with each roll of your hips. Every kiss got sloppier, every sound louder, every breath more frantic. Ellie was everywhere—mouth on your chest, hands gripping your ass, hips thrusting up into you like she couldn’t fucking help it.

You felt drunk on her—on the heat, the pressure, the want of it all. And when she looked up at you again, eyes glassy, lips slick, it was over for you.

“I need you,” you said, barely audible, but it was enough.

Her hands stilled, holding you there. “You have me.”

Ellie was already breathless beneath you, her cheeks flushed, lips kissed swollen, chest rising and falling like she’d just run for miles, but it was nothing compared to what you were about to do to her.

You leaned in, brushing your lips against hers again, slower this time. A whisper of a kiss, soft and drawn out, like you were trying to memorize the way her mouth felt…like you had all the time in the world. And you did. This was yours. She was yours.

From her lips, your mouth began its descent, trailing to the edge of her jaw, to the spot just beneath her ear that made her inhale sharply. You kissed down her neck, stopping at the hollow of her throat to leave a lingering, open-mouthed kiss there. Your tongue grazed the skin, slow and warm. She whimpered, her hand instinctively gripping the sheets.

Your kisses continued down, over the curve of her collarbone, across the center of her chest. You mouthed over the black fabric of her sports bra, feeling the way her breath hitched when your teeth grazed her nipple through the fabric.

“Fuck,” she whispered, squirming slightly beneath you. “You’re—teasing.”

You didn’t say anything. You just smiled against her skin and kept going.

You pressed soft kisses down her stomach. Pausing just above her belly button, letting your breath tickle her skin. Every inch you touched left her gasping, her muscles twitching under your mouth. You looked up at her then, eyes locking with hers. She was already gone. Lips parted, gaze completely fixated on you.

Still not breaking eye contact, you reached the waistband of her pants. Your fingers toyed with the button, and you watched her nod without saying a word.

You undid them slowly, dragging them down her legs, eyes never leaving hers. She lifted her hips to help you, the soft hiss that left her lips making your thighs clench. You peeled them off, tossing them aside, leaving her in nothing but her dark boxers. The sight in front of you left you in awe, legs trembling, laid out just for you was enough to make your core ache.

But you weren’t done yet.

You leaned in again, kissing along the sharp lines of her hips. One side, then the other. Slowly. Warmly. Her hands fisted the sheets, a sharp gasp escaping her lips when you mouthed at the sensitive skin right at the waistband, trailing down to place an open mouth kiss to the wet spot of her boxers. You looked up again—still holding her gaze, and hooked your fingers into the fabric.

“Okay?” you murmured.

She nodded quickly. “Yes. Fuck—please.”

Still keeping your eyes locked with hers, you reached for the waistband of her boxers and pulled them down, slow and careful, exposing her inch by inch. Ellie lifted her hips again, obedient and trembling, and you slid them down until she was bare in front of you.

You could’ve stopped just to stare. Her thighs were slightly parted, her breathing ragged, her tattoo curling along her forearm as she gripped the sheets. She looked like she could cry just from the anticipation.

You settled between her legs and let your fingers slide through her folds, wet, warm, already soaked. She gasped, hips jerking slightly.

“This all for me?” you asked, fingers teasing but not entering.

“Shut up,” she rasped, her voice thin, wrecked. “You know it is.”

You smirked, leaned in, and kissed her hip again, just to be cruel. Then, slowly, you pushed two fingers into her.

The way her mouth dropped open, the way her brows pinched like it physically hurt to feel this good, you never wanted to forget it. You curled your fingers just slightly, hitting the spot that made her whimper.

You kept your eyes on hers, and when her lips parted in another moan, you leaned in close, your voice a whisper. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

Ellie looked ruined with her hair spread across the pillow, hand covering her mouth now, trying to quiet the sounds that kept spilling out of her. But she couldn’t stop them. Not when you were fucking her this slow, this deep, your palm pressing against her clit with each thrust.

“Don’t hide,” you murmured. “I wanna hear you.”

You fucked her slow, deliberate, dragging your fingers in and out while your thumb circled her clit. Her hips moved with yours, chasing the friction, her thighs twitching with every movement.

“God—fuck, that’s it—don’t stop,” she breathed. Her voice was high, strained, like she was barely holding it together.

You sped up just slightly, enough to make her cry out. Her hands clutched your forearms now, nails digging leaving half crescent moons in your skin. She moaned again. Loud, desperate, and you knew she was close.

“Come on, Els,” you whispered. And somehow that made her walls clench harder against your fingers, pulsating with every thrust.You started speeding up, hitting just the right angle, her back arched and she choked on your name.

“I’m—fucking—fuck—” Her whole body tensed, then shattered. Back arching off the bed, head thrown back, a moan breaking open in her chest. You leaned in, kissing her as she came, swallowing her moans, keeping your rhythm until she was trembling beneath you. You only pulled out once her body stopped twitching. Then, with your eyes never leaving hers, you slipped your fingers into your mouth and licked them clean, savoring her orgasm

You grinned as you dragged your fingers out with that small “pop”.

Ellie choked on a gasp, eyes wide, pupils blown.

She didn’t waste a second.

After your little display and those fucking eyes locked on hers while you tasted her off your fingers…Ellie snapped. She rolled you onto your back like a rag doll, with a roughness that wasn’t aggressive, just desperate. Her mouth was on yours immediately, hands framing your jaw, tongue sliding in as if she couldn’t get deep enough.

“Mine,” she murmured, almost to herself, between kisses. “You’re fucking mine.”

Ellie hovered over you, flushed and breathing hard, her skin glistening, her eyes blown wide with lust and awe and something deeper—something that cracked you open just by looking at you like that. You were still panting from making her come apart on your fingers, but that didn’t stop her from slipping her hands under your thighs and flipping you onto your back, her mouth crashing against yours in a hungry, lingering kiss that tasted like heat and desperation.

“You think I’m gonna let you get away with that?” she rasped against your lips, her voice low and breathless. “No fucking way–”

Your breath caught. Your legs instinctively parted around her hips, your hands clutching at her arms, the muscles flexing beneath your fingers. Ellie leaned in, pressing kisses to your jaw, then your throat, open-mouthed and wet, letting her tongue drag along the curve of your neck.

You arched into her instinctively when her lips brushed your collarbone, then went lower. She kissed between your breasts, and you felt the cool air and her hot, roaming gaze, addicting.

“So pretty,” she murmured, her voice gone thick. “Fucking perfect.”

She wrapped her lips around one of your nipples, sucking slowly, letting her tongue flick over it before biting down just enough to make you gasp. Her hand came up to play with the other, thumb circling, pinching, teasing, until you were whining, thighs rubbing together beneath her.

And she wasn’t even close to done.

She switched sides, kissing the curve of your breast before giving the same treatment to the other nipple, slower this time, messier. Her teeth grazed your skin, and then she trailed lower…tongue dragging down your ribs, over your stomach, leaving tiny wet patches and hot breath in her wake.

But she didn’t rush. She took her time, leaving small hickeys on your chest, just above your heart, another on the soft swell beneath your breast, and one lower, just to the side of your belly button. She wanted to mark you, and she wanted you to feel it every time your shirt brushed against those spots later.

By the time she reached the waistband of your jeans, you were trembling.

She looked up at you from between your thighs, and fucking hell you could’ve just cummed at the sight of her beautiful green eyes looking at you like that, all desperate and needy, hands sliding to your hips.

“Still ok?” she smirked.

You could barely form words. Just a breathless, desperate nod.

She undid your jeans slowly, dragging the zipper down with purpose, fingers teasing at the waistband as she leaned in to kiss your lower belly, just above the fabric. You lifted your hips so she could tug them down, and she did—carefully, kissing every new inch of exposed skin. Your thighs, your inner knees, the dip just above your underwear. You were soaked already, and Ellie saw it, smelled it, her breath hitching.

“Fuck, look at you.”

She pressed a single kiss to the front of your panties, right over your clit. You whimpered, bucked into her mouth, and she just chuckled low, mouthing at the wet fabric. Her tongue dragged over it once, then again, leaving it wetter with her spit. Then she sucked at it, lightly, then harder right through the cloth, until you were gasping, your hips twitching beneath her grip.

“Tastes so fucking good, even through this.”

She hooked her fingers in the waistband and tugged them off in one smooth motion, tossing them aside without looking. Then she kissed your thigh again, and again, and again, until you were practically begging.

Then finally—finally, she spread you open with both hands and dove in.

Her tongue flattened against your pussy and dragged up in one slow, singular motion, like she wanted to study your body with her mouth. She moaned into you at the taste, low and guttural. Like it relieved something inside her. Her tongue flicked against your clit, soft and rhythmic, then she pulled back just long enough to spit on it, watching the mess drip and smear as she dove back in.

Your head fell back against the pillow.

“Ellie—fuck—”

She hummed again, arms wrapped around your thighs, holding you still, her face buried so deep you could feel her breath inside you. Her tongue teased your entrance, then pressed inside you, slow and firm, while the tip of her nose rubbed against your clit with every movement. Hitting just the right angle.

You gripped her hair hard, really hard. And she just groaned into your pussy like it made her wetter, grinding her own hips into the mattress while she fucked you stupid with her tongue and sucked your clit in between.

The tension coiled fast and hard in your stomach, your thighs beginning to tremble. Ellie felt it. And added two fingers without warning, curling them up just right, and doubled down with her tongue until you broke, cumming hard with a growly cry, hips jerking on her face, your hands pulling her impossibly closer.

But Ellie didn’t stop.

She didn’t even slow down.

She fucked you through it, licking up every drop, moaning into you like she’d drown there happily.

When she finally pulled back, her chin and lips were shining. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, breathing heavy, pupils dark and starving. Then she crawled up your body and kissed you, deep and messy, letting you taste yourself on her tongue.

“Didn’t get enough,” she panted against your lips. “Need you again.”

You felt her hips roll down into yours, and then again, more intentional, needy. You looked down.

She was already grinding against you, bare now, both of your slick combining. Your thighs instinctively spread wider, and Ellie settled between them, her cunt sliding against yours, hot and sticky and so fucking wet.

You gasped. “Oh my God—”

The friction was instant. The way your clits brushed together made you both cry out. She grabbed your thigh, threw it over her hip, angling you just right. Then she started to move, grinding slow and deep, her forehead pressed against yours, her breath stuttering every time your bodies slipped perfectly together.

“Feels so fucking good,” she groaned. “Shit—you’re perfect—”

You couldn’t even respond. You were too caught up in it. In the slippery, desperate rub of her cunt on yours, the raw eye contact, the sweat and tension and whimpers she couldn’t hold back.

Your hands clutched her back, your legs wrapped around her waist, and you met every grind with one of your own. You were soaked, overstimulated, and yet completely insatiable.

Ellie’s voice cracked as she picked up the pace, her hips stuttering, her sounds getting louder, higher.

“You gonna come again with me?” she begged, voice strained. “Please—fuck. I wanna feel you come on me.”

You nodded frantically. You could already feel it, your second orgasm, rolling in fast. Your muscles tensed, your thighs clenched around her, and then—

You both came.

Harder than before. Together.

Her body collapsed onto yours, her face buried in your neck, both of you shaking and soaked and breathless.

The room is quiet, save for the low hum of the fan in the corner and the echo of your breaths slowly syncing again. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and skin, heat still clinging to both of you, but you’re not in a rush to pull away.

Ellie’s lying on her back, arm stretched out, inviting, and you settle into her side without thinking, thigh slung over her hip, your chest rising and falling against hers. Her skin is still warm. Damp in places. You let your fingers wander on her skin, tracing the soft, faded scars scattered across her stomach.

She doesn’t flinch.

Instead, her hand finds your waist, and she’s holding onto you like she needs the reassurance that you’re real. That you’re still here.

Your fingertip drags in slow circles, skimming across her ribs, then trailing down again, stopping to gently trace the outline of a small mark near her navel. You wonder where she got it. If it hurt. If she ever thought to tell you.

Still, neither of you says anything. You shift slightly, arm draped across her middle now, and your other hand finds her forearm, the ink there familiar beneath your touch. You trace the edge of her tattoo, carefully, like you’re memorizing it with your skin.

Ellie’s breathing deepens. You feel it in the way her chest rises under your cheek, the way her thumb starts brushing gentle lines across the bare of your back.

And then, softly, almost like a thought slipping out by accident, she finally speaks.

“You are the most beautiful girl on this planet—” A pause. A breath. “No. This universe.”

You scoff, letting your lips curve into a smirk against her skin.

“Pffft—You say that to every girl you sleep with?” you mumble, teasing, but your voice comes out quieter than you meant. Too full of feeling.

Ellie huffs a laugh, but you feel the shift in her body. She’s still smiling, but there’s something quieter behind it, more serious. Something heavy in her chest that she doesn’t quite let out yet.

“No girl has gotten lucky enough.”

You lift your head, just slightly, eyes meeting hers.

She’s not grinning. Not smirking.

She’s looking at you like she wants to kiss you all over again, but not in a way that’s messy or frantic or lustful.

She’s just there. Staring. Open. Soft.

And you don’t say anything back.

You just curl into her again, one hand resting on her chest where her heart is beating like a marching band, the rhythm of her palpitations calms you down. And she lets you stay there. Quiet. Wrapped in each other like neither of you know how to ask for more. Even though it’s already written all over your skin.

Sunlight slips lazily through the slats in the blinds, casting pale golden stripes across the tangled sheets. Ellie stirs, arm reaching out instinctively to the other side of the bed, but it’s empty now. Still warm, just barely. She blinks groggily, eyes adjusting to the morning light, her limbs heavy with sleep and muscle ache.

There’s a second where panic flickers through her.

Did you leave? Was everything just a dream?

But then she smells you on her pillow. Faint traces of your shampoo, your skin, your sweat from the night before, and the corner of her mouth tugs upward, soft and slow.

She turns her head and sees it.

A little piece of paper on her desk, scrawled in your handwriting.

“Headed to work. U looked too cute to wake up. Pass by the diner if ur not busy ;)”

Ellie stares at it for a minute, then flips onto her back, one arm thrown over her eyes as a smile overtakes her entire face. It’s the kind of smile she couldn’t hide even if she tried.

Stupid. Giddy. Lightheaded.

You.

Her mind plays it all back in bits, your mouth, your hands, your body pressed to hers like it had always belonged there. The way you looked at her like you were afraid to blink and miss her. The way you touched her, so safe and sure, like you were tracing art into her skin.

And now you were just… gone.

Gone, but not far.

Her eyes flutter open again. The note’s still there. The sheets are still messy. Her chest still feels full in that unfamiliar, aching way. She sighs, long and dreamy, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

When she finally sat up, her hair was a mess, body sore in the best way. The note is still clutched between her fingers, and she reads it once more for no reason other than the way it makes her stomach flip.

She stretches, smiling like an idiot, already thinking about what she’ll say when she sees you again. Already wondering how she’s supposed to act around you now. Already imagining the way your face lights up when she walks into the diner.

Had she mentioned how irrevocably fucked she was? So completely, irreversibly, stupidly fucked for you.

How she felt like she dug a grave for herself, how this would either be the best thing ever or the worst heartbreak of her entire fucking life. And she didn’t wanna think about it, because she’s scared as shit.

She’s scared of herself more than anyone.

୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧─── ⋆୨୧⋆ ───୨୧

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sowerpatch · 2 months ago

Text

unfold [chapter two - yield]

Summary: Paige Bueckers didn’t expect to lose the WNBA championship. She also didn’t expect to find comfort in a bartender who spoke more with her in guarded silences than most people did with words.

Author's note: this is an AU where Azzi doesn't play basketball but works as a bartender.

*CHAPTER LIST HERE*

Chapter Summary: Paige doesn’t mean to keep showing up, but she does. Again. And Again. Azzi never asks for more than what’s given. In between study sessions, midnight rides, and the confusing things left unsaid, they begin to build something quiet and unspoken. Something that doesn’t fix what’s broken, but makes the breaking feel a little less lonely.

Word count: 5,082

Paige lay in bed, arms crossed behind her head, the ceiling fan clicking gently above her like a second hand no one had wound. Her bedroom was quiet, dim. Her phone rested beside her on the pillow, screen still glowing.

She hadn’t opened any of the other notifications, not the group chat, not the missed call from her agent, not the post-game feature someone tagged her in. None of it mattered right now.

All she could see was the name sitting in her contact list.

Azzi.

Her name.

Her beautiful name.

Just that. No last name. No bar title. Just a single name dropped into her phone like something that had always been there.

Paige hadn’t noticed it then. She hadn’t paid attention to the way Azzi had typed it. Plain, unembellished, and without hesitation. But now, lying here in the thick quiet, she recognized it. Azzi’s name was the first thing she had offered Paige freely.

And Paige hadn’t even asked.

Her fingers hovered above the screen. She didn’t want to overthink it. But she didn’t want to say the wrong thing either.

So she just typed what was true.

It’s funny... I just realized I never asked your name. I only knew it when I saw it on my phone.

She stared at the message for a moment. Then hit send.

She put the phone down on her chest like it weighed something, her breath shallow for no clear reason.

Ten minutes passed before the screen lit up again.

I think I liked it that way.

Paige didn’t smile. Not exactly. But her chest softened. Her grip on the moment loosened.

She replied:

I’ve been thinking about you more than I meant to. Is that weird?

This time the pause was longer. Long enough that she began to wonder if she’d gone too far, said too much.

Then, a new message notification came in.

No. Just early.

They didn’t keep texting in paragraphs or flurries. Just a slow, drifting rhythm over the course of the evening.

A song Paige sent without context.

A photo Azzi took of her notebook at a coffee shop.

A quiet admission that Paige hated mornings but was willing to make exceptions.

None of it was demanding. None of it tried to push their connection forward too fast.

But something moved anyway.

It wasn’t that Paige had nothing else going on. It was that nothing else felt like this. Like calm. Like balance. Like the version of herself she didn’t always know how to reach.

She found herself checking her phone more now.

By the time four days passed, Paige had memorized the pacing of Azzi’s replies.

Never instant. Never reactive. Always deliberate. The kind of quiet that didn’t feel like hesitation but choice. Azzi answered when she meant to, and only with what was necessary. No fluff. No overreach.

Paige liked that more than she admitted.

The texts weren’t frequent. Just well-timed.

A brief comment on the article Paige posted.

A screenshot of Azzi’s study playlist.

Paige once sent a blurry photo of the back alley behind her gym captioned “five-star post-practice ambiance.” and Azzi had replied with just “Tragic. But poetic.”

Even that felt like a thread.

Still, Paige kept circling on one thought she hadn’t spoken aloud. It was they’d only seen each other at night. In a curated club under dim lights and in her car surrounded with fast food wrappers and milkshake stains. And maybe that was part of why it felt safe—the half-shadow between them. The mutual unknowing.

But now? She wanted something more precise.

So Thursday evening, sitting in her apartment with her shoes still on and the windows cracked open to let in the early dusk, she finally typed what she’d been holding onto all day.

When’s your next day or night off?

She didn’t check her phone compulsively. Didn’t need to.

Azzi replied ten minutes later, like she always did.

Sunday. Why?

Paige sat with the question. Then answered simply:

Because I keep thinking about seeing you again. And I think I’d like to meet the daylight version of you. If that’s something you’d let me see.

The silence that followed wasn’t long. But it felt full. This time, Paige stared at the bubble appearing and disappearing on her screen. Then the reply came in.

Most people want less of me, not more. But I’ll text you a time and place. Bring your broody self. And curiosity.

That made Paige smile. A slow, deep feeling blooming behind her ribs. She closed her eyes for a few second, taking in the realness of Azzi’s reply. Then, she stared at the screen again, thumb hovering.

I’ll bring both.

The address came Sunday morning. No explanation. Just a pin on the map with two words underneath.

Meet me.

It wasn’t Vault 35. It wasn’t anywhere near downtown. Paige stared at the map long enough to commit the cross streets to memory, then tossed her phone on the counter and pulled on a hoodie.

Whatever Azzi had in mind, Paige was already in.

The coffee shop wasn’t one of the hyper-trendy, neon-signed storefronts Paige expected Azzi to frequent. No influencer tables. No curated latte art. Just soft earth tones, hanging plants by the windows, and the rich, unpretentious smell of actual roasted beans. It was tucked into the corner of a neighborhood she’d never wandered into before. The kind of place with locals reading real books and couples who didn’t need to speak to be content.

Azzi was already there.

She sat at a small two-seater by the window, sunlight striping across the sleeves of her crewneck. Her hair was down this time, a little messy at the ends like she’d let it air dry and hadn’t bothered to fix it. A textbook lay open in front of her, but she wasn’t reading. Just tracing a fingertip slowly along the spine, lost in thought.

Paige stepped inside and, for a second, didn’t announce herself.

She just watched.

She observed how Azzi settled into the space, calm and unbothered. Her blinks unhurried. Her breathing measured. As if she had nothing to prove to anyone in the room.

Then Azzi looked up.

And smiled. Soft, barely there, but real.

Paige made her way over, sliding into the seat across from her.

“I half expected a bar patio with mimosas and someone crying over brunch,” she murmured.

Azzi shook her head. “This place doesn’t serve opinions with their eggs. It’s safer.”

Their coffees arrived without needing to be ordered. Black for Azzi. Latte for Paige. Azzi must’ve remembered, or maybe guessed. Either way, it landed.

“So,” Paige said, curling a hand around her cup, “you going to tell me where exactly I’ve been summoned to?”

Azzi leaned back, gaze steady. “Corner of Vermont and 30th. You’re five blocks from USC’s main campus.”

Paige’s smile stalled slightly. “You’re a Trojan?”

“Four years running,” Azzi said, unapologetic.

Paige’s brow lifted. “And you waited five days to tell me this? I mean when you said you’re completing your bachelor’s degree, you never said it’s in USC.”

“You never asked,” Azzi said, deadpan.

“I just thought you were… I don’t know. Mysterious. Untraceable. Possibly immortal.”

Azzi shrugged. “Student loans say otherwise.”

Paige took a slow sip, then narrowed her eyes, playing along. “You know I went to UConn.”

“I do.”

“So you invited a Husky to Trojan territory.”

Azzi’s mouth twitched. “Should I have warned you to leave your jersey at home?”

“I feel deeply unsafe,” Paige said. “Truly violated.”

Azzi tilted her head. “Relax. We only bite during rivalry week or March Madness.”

“Cute,” Paige said, gaze steady. “But I’ve seen the way USC talks about itself. You’d think you invented basketball.”

Azzi’s smile grew by half a centimeter. “We didn’t. We just perfected it.”

That made Paige bark a laugh. “Oh, you did not just say that.”

“I’m just saying,” Azzi said, folding her arms, “if JuJu Watkins and college-you played one-on-one, it wouldn’t be a sweep.”

“I would cook her,” Paige said instantly, full chest, no hesitation.

Azzi blinked. “You say that with alarming confidence.”

“I say that with a jumper that doesn’t lie.”

“Mm,” Azzi mused, nodding like she was indulging a toddler. “Sure. Okay. But JuJu’s faster. Smoother. She’s got that L.A. calm. You? You’d go full Connecticut chaos in five seconds.”

“And still drop twenty on her before you finished that sentence,” Paige shot back, smirking.

Azzi tilted her head, resting her chin on one hand. “You’re fun when you’re defensive.”

“You’re fun when you’re wrong.”

They grinned at each other then. It was enough to admit that this, whatever it was, was starting to feel like something neither of them needed to define to enjoy.

Paige sat back in her chair, letting the warmth of the room settle into her shoulders.

“So,” she said. “What’s next?”

Azzi glanced out the window, then back at her. “A bookstore. Then a reading I have to sit through for a seminar. You’re welcome to join for both. Or neither.”

Paige considered that.

The offer wasn’t casual. It was an opening.

A glimpse into Azzi’s day.

A glimpse into Azzi's life.

“I’ll come,” she said simply. “I want to see what else is behind the bar.”

Azzi looked at her for a moment longer, her expression unreadable but not distant.

Then she stood.

“Come on then, Husky,” she said, gathering her books. “Let’s see if you turn into dust in Trojan sunlight.”

The bookstore was narrow, the kind of place with mismatched shelves and books stacked in precarious towers beside the register. The air smelled like cedar, coffee grounds, and dust. Azzi moved through it like she’d walked this path a hundred times before.

She didn’t tell Paige to follow. She just kept walking, pausing only to pull a small paperback from the philosophy shelf without looking at the title. Her fingers flipped through it absently, her mind clearly elsewhere.

“You memorize the layout or just psychic?” Paige asked, trailing a step behind.

“I used to shelve here,” Azzi said, eyes still on the book. “They paid in tips and coffee.”

“That sounds like a tragic sitcom.”

Azzi smiled, faint but genuine. “It was. I liked it anyway.”

They wandered without speaking for a while. Paige watched the way Azzi’s hand lingered on each book she touched. It reminded Paige of the way she handled a ball during warmup. Casual. Instinctual. Muscle memory.

When they stepped back out into the sun, Azzi gestured up the street. “I have an hour before a seminar. You’re still good?”

“Yup! Still not turning into dust,” Paige did a 360-degree turn for full dramatic effect, smirking. “Let’s go Trojan girl!”

Azzi looked down and suppressed a smile. She led them a few blocks farther until they reached a red-brick building with slanted windows and ivy growing crookedly along one side. Inside, the seminar room was mostly empty. Just a few scattered students with laptops open and blank expressions on their faces.

Paige followed Azzi to the back row and dropped into the chair beside her. She didn’t ask questions. She sat down, hands folded in her lap, eyes flicking around the room like she was back in study hall. Except the only thing she wanted to learn was seated next to her, uncapping a pen and sliding notes into place.

Ten minutes into the lecture, Paige was already zoning out.

Twenty minutes in, she was pretending not to check the time.

Thirty, and she’d started playing a quiet game in her head called How Many Things in This Room Can I Dunk On. So far: the professor’s tie, the fluorescent lights, and the student in front of her using Microsoft Word in 2025.

But every time she glanced sideways, Azzi was still. Sharp, focused, eyes narrowed with attention. She didn’t slouch. Didn’t fidget. She underlined phrases like they mattered.

Paige leaned in a little and whispered, “You’re actually into this?”

Azzi didn’t look up. “I’m writing about carceral policy for my thesis. So yes.”

“Carceral like—?”

“Prisons. Systems. How we punish and who benefits from it.”

“Fun.”

“Not fun,” Azzi murmured, underlining something else. “Necessary.”

Paige watched her for a second longer. The curve of her brow. The way she bit the inside of her cheek when she read something she didn’t like. She leaned back, folded her arms.

“I like how serious you get when no one’s watching.”

Azzi looked at her, finally, the edge of a smile flickering at the corner of her mouth. “You say that like you’re not bored out of your mind.”

“I am,” Paige said, unbothered. “But that’s not the point.”

Azzi turned slightly toward her. “Then what is?”

Paige didn’t hesitate. “That I wanted to be near you, even if I didn’t understand half of what was being said.”

That landed harder than she expected.

Azzi’s gaze lingered on Paige for a moment longer than necessary. Not with challenge, but with something quieter. Like she was trying to decode a question she hadn’t figured out how to ask yet.

“You didn’t have to stay,” Azzi said eventually, her voice quiet but not unsure.

“I know,” Paige replied, eyes steady.

There was no need for explanation. No rush to fill the pause.

Azzi closed her notebook slowly, slipping the pen between the pages, fingers brushing the corner like it anchored her to something. She didn’t speak right away. Just sat there, still, the corner of her lip caught gently between her teeth like she was weighing the cost of saying anything at all.

“I don’t usually let people see this part,” she said, finally.

Paige tilted her head slightly, not pushing. “This?”

Azzi nodded faintly, gesturing. A small movement toward the now-empty seminar room, the open textbook, the half-finished notes. “This and everything that’s quiet. Routine. Not shaped for anyone else.”

Paige let the silence stretch a little. She could feel Azzi watching her now, maybe not expecting anything in return, but still braced for it.

“I don’t know if it’s impressive,” Azzi added, voice softer now.

“I like that you’re not trying,” Paige whispered. “Most people can’t sit still without putting on some kind of act.”

Azzi's shoulders dropped and sighed softly. The kind of release that happens when someone realizes they’re not being judged.

“Sometimes I feel like I’ve split myself in half,” she said. “There’s who I am when I’m working. And then there’s... this. The student. The person no one really pays attention to. I think I got used to keeping them separate.”

“And now?” Paige asked, gentle.

Azzi looked at her—a glance that lingered, direct but not sharp. “Now I’m not sure if I want them to be.”

There was no dramatic shift in the air, no big moment of realization. Just something subtle. A rhythm changing. A thread tightening between them.

“I’m not always like this,” Azzi said after a moment, eyes flicking down to her notes, then back up. “I can be cold. Distant. Not on purpose. Just practiced.”

Paige’s voice was quiet but certain. “You’re not cold.”

Azzi gave the smallest shake of her head, almost amused. “You don’t know me well enough to say that.”

“Maybe,” Paige said. “But I’ve spent enough time around people who are. You’re not one of them.”

Azzi didn’t reply. Not right away. But the way she looked at Paige after that—really looked at her—felt like the beginning of something unguarded.

They stood in quiet when the lecture hall finally emptied around them, neither rushing to fill the next beat. Paige adjusted the strap of her hoodie, glancing over.

“I was serious when I said I’d stay,” she murmured.

“I know you were,” Azzi said.

They walked outside together, side by side, the daylight falling low across the pavement.

As they reached the edge of the lot, Azzi said, not quite looking at her, “I’m still figuring out what to share.”

Paige nodded. “That’s fine.”

“You don’t expect anything?”

“No,” she said simply. “I’m just here.”

And that, more than anything, was why Azzi let her stay.

It didn’t begin as a routine. Not intentionally. There was no calendar, no agreement, no line drawn in the air where one kind of closeness became another. It just settled. Quietly. Naturally. Like steam rising from a cup left too long on the table. Gradual. Unnoticed. But unmistakably there.

One morning bled into the next. A casual pass-through turned into a seat kept warm. Study hours stretched without ceremony, until their shared silence felt less like a pause and more like its own kind of conversation.

Paige started appearing around ten, hoodie pulled over her head, sunglasses she didn’t need. Always with a paper bag from somewhere a little too curated to be casual. The kind of pastries that flaked at the corners and cost more than she admitted. She never explained where she got them. She didn’t need to.

Azzi was always already mid-page, highlighter uncapped, with a curve of her concentration softened only when Paige set the bag down beside her.

“You didn’t have to,” Azzi would murmur without looking up.

Paige would slide into the seat across from her, stretching out like she belonged there. “I know,” she’d reply. “Did it anyway.”

Azzi never reached for the croissant first. But she always finished it.

No one ever said it was theirs—the bench, the mornings, the time. But they kept returning to it. As if it had been theirs from the beginning.

And then there were the nights.

It became another routine. Paige pulling up in front of Vault 35 just before closing. Hoodie zipped, window rolled halfway down, fingers drumming the steering wheel in rhythm with the lo-fi playlist she refused to admit she’d made just for these drives.

Azzi would slide into the passenger seat. Always a little tired, but always a little amused. “I could Uber, you know,” she’d say, seatbelt already buckled.

“And yet you don’t,” Paige would answer, offering her a bottle of water or a pack of gummy worms or whatever random snack she’d picked up on the way.

From there, it was always something low-effort. Tacos on a curb. Drive-thru milkshakes. One night it was a 24-hour Korean BBQ place that neither of them could finish and both agreed to forget.

It wasn’t about the food. It never was. It was the hour. The simplicity. The space.

Two weeks passed like that. Quietly. Completely.

And somewhere in the middle of it, Azzi changed.

Not dramatically. She didn’t suddenly burst into laughter or lay bare her inner life with poetic monologues. But she started smiling more—not the half-curved, cautious ones, but full ones, the kind that reached her eyes and stayed there. She teased Paige more often, gently, without edge. She lingered when they said goodbye. Asked Paige about things beyond the court.

And Paige? She noticed all of it.

One night, sitting on the hood of her car outside a late-night sandwich shop, Azzi leaned back on her palms, her legs stretched out in front of her, ankles crossed.

“You’re really still hanging around,” she said, eyes fixed on the empty sidewalk across the street.

Paige popped a fry into her mouth and shrugged. “What can I say? You’ve grown on me.”

Azzi turned to look at her. “Like mold?”

“Like something more charming. Ferns. Moss. Those aesthetic girl Tumblr plants.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but her smile was unguarded. “I still don’t get why you do this.”

“Do what?”

“Sit through lectures you don’t care about. Wait outside my job at 1 AM. Pretend my thesis drafts make sense.”

“I don’t pretend,” Paige said. “You’re smart as hell. Your work is dense. That’s not a critique.”

Azzi laughed under her breath. “You know what I mean.”

Paige didn’t answer right away. She looked at Azzi. The soft light from the storefront casting gold along her cheek, the way her hair was pulled into a loose braid over one shoulder, how she looked both tired and alive.

“I don’t know,” Paige said finally. “Maybe because I don’t have to be anything around you. And maybe because you don’t pretend not to see me.”

Azzi blinked, the moment heavier than either of them meant it to be.

“I do see you,” she said quietly.

Paige looked down at the sidewalk, then back up at her. “Yeah. That’s the thing.”

They didn’t say much after that. Just passed the rest of the fries back and forth until the bag was empty, then drove with the windows down and the radio low.

It had been a normal night.

Until it wasn’t.

Just another late shift at Vault. Paige had parked like always—second row, under the overhanging tree. Her hoodie pulled low, hands in the pockets of her joggers with her head down. The night air smelled like smoke and clove, and the low hum of bass from inside the club pulsed gently through the pavement. She leaned against her car, waiting.

She didn’t expect trouble. Not here. Not in Azzi’s space.

But then the door cracked open, and three guys stumbled out. Loud, already laughing too hard. The kind of drunk that comes with money and nothing to lose. One of them paused when he saw her. Did a double take. Then smiled like he’d spotted prey.

“No fucking way,” he said, swaggering closer. “That’s Bueckers, right? LA Sparks, golden girl.”

Paige straightened but didn’t move. “Not tonight, man.”

He kept walking. Too close. “Didn’t think I’d see a star player hiding outside a bar. Thought you’d be off somewhere, I don’t know… losing?”

Laughter broke behind him. Paige’s jaw tensed.

“I said, not tonight.”

But he was already circling, beer sloshing in his hand. “How’d it feel, huh? Choke in the last two minutes? What was it, a reach? A bad read? Or are you just a complete fraud?”

Paige’s fists balled in her pockets. Her breath tightened.

The door behind them opened again. And then Azzi’s voice, low but cutting. “Walk away.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even loud. But it stopped everything.

The guy turned to look at her. “Hey, relax. Just talking.”

Azzi stepped forward, eyes sharp beneath the wash of neon. “You’re not.”

He smirked, about to fire back but something in Azzi’s face made him think twice. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just stood between him and Paige like a wall of silence.

Eventually, he scoffed and muttered something under his breath. The trio stumbled off, their voices fading into the alley.

Azzi didn’t turn to Paige right away. She stayed where she was, spine tight, shoulders still.

“Come on,” she said finally. “You’re coming with me.”

Azzi’s apartment was hushed in the way intimate spaces often are. Dim corners, quiet breathing, the ambient hum of a city winding down beyond the windows. The walls were bare except for a single framed print above the bookshelf. A coat hung neatly on a wall hook. A stack of folded laundry sat on the arm of the couch, untouched. It was a space built for solitude, not spectacle. One where everything had been placed with care, and nothing begged to be seen.

Paige stepped inside slowly, her movements hesitant, like the apartment might shrink if she disturbed the air too much. Her hand brushed the edge of the counter as she passed, grounding herself. She didn’t sit. Didn’t speak. Just stood there with the faintest tension curling her shoulders inward like she was trying to contain herself.

Azzi said nothing. She walked ahead with quiet precision, her footsteps soft on the hardwood. She turned on the kitchen light without comment, then disappeared briefly before returning with a glass of water. She placed it gently on the corner of the coffee table, then stood nearby. Not close enough to press, not far enough to feel absent.

“You can sit,” she offered quietly.

But Paige didn’t move.

She stood in the middle of the room. Her hands hidden inside the pockets of her joggers, trying to find solace in the soft cotton. The silence drawing long and taut around her. Her voice, when it finally came, was barely above a breath.

“I wanted to hit him.”

Azzi didn’t react. No raised brows, no polite protest. Just stillness. Attention.

“I mean it,” Paige said. Her voice caught, rough-edged. “I wanted to hit him. Just once. Hard. I wanted him to feel it.”

She pulled her hands out and clenched her fists so hard. Veins visible with anger.

“I stood there and let him say everything everyone else probably thinks. That I’m the reason we lost. That I cracked when it mattered. That I’m not who they thought I was.”

Azzi remained quiet. She listened the way Paige had always wished people would. She didn’t interrupt. It felt wrong to interrupt.

“I’ve been waking up every night,” Paige continued. “Always the same. Two minutes left. That foul. The bench. The clock. My body feels like it’s still in the game, like it never ended, and I’m just stuck there. Inside the moment that broke everything.”

Her shoulders shook. Not violently, not dramatically, just enough to shift her breath out of rhythm. She hadn’t cried. Not once. Not since the final buzzer. Not even during post-game. But her eyes now looked raw, like the ache had moved inward and nested there.

Azzi took a step forward, unhurried.

“You don’t have to carry it all,” she said gently. “Not tonight.”

Paige finally looked at her. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, like she wasn’t quite in her body.

“I don’t know how to put it down,” she said. “Even when I want to. Even right now, standing here, I still feel like I have to hold it together.”

Azzi stepped closer. Not to pull her in. Just to be near enough for the weight to shift, even slightly.

“You don’t have to hold anything for me,” Azzi said softly. “But if you let me, I’ll hold it with you. Just tonight. Just enough to help you sleep.”

There was no pity in her voice. No pity in her face. It’s that quiet grounded presence that Paige had begun to trust without realizing.

She didn’t respond. Not with words.

She just exhaled. Long. Shaky. Like a release she hadn’t allowed herself.

And then she nodded.

Azzi’s room was dark except for the streetlight spilling softly through the blinds, tracing faint gold lines across the wall. Paige sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched, hoodie sleeves pulled halfway over her hands. She didn’t move, didn’t look back. Her eyes stayed on the floor, where her shoes sat side by side like they were waiting to leave again.

Azzi watched her from the doorway for a moment, then crossed the room and folded the comforter down. The motion was quiet. Unrushed.

“You can lie down,” she said gently.

Paige didn’t answer right away. Her jaw moved, like she was chewing over something she didn’t know how to say.

Finally, “I used to be really sure of myself.”

Azzi sat on the far corner of the bed, not too close. “And now?”

Paige let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh. Eyes shadowed and tired. “I thought if I trained hard enough, focused enough, I could shape myself into someone untouchable. Someone who delivered, no matter what.”

She turned toward the wall, shoulders curling slightly inward. “But then I fouled out. I watched the whole thing fall apart from the bench. And now I can’t stop wondering if that was the moment I proved everyone right. That maybe I’m not what they thought I was.”

Azzi remains quiet. But her stillness didn’t feel empty. It felt like space. A pause made of presence, not absence.

“I don’t think one game defines a whole person,” Azzi said after a moment. “But I think sometimes we believe it does because it’s easier than sitting in the gray.”

Paige decided to lay on her side, eyes open in the dark, her breath shallow against the pillow. The silence stretched. It pressed inward, dense with the things she’d never let herself say aloud.

“I used to think control was the same as safety,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “If I could control the game—the tempo, the floor, my stats, the way people saw me—then nothing could fall apart.”

Her fingers twitched slightly beneath the blanket, tightening, releasing, like her body was still running drills even in rest.

“But I lost that game,” she continued. “And it’s like… I haven’t been able to get my footing back since.”

Azzi hummed and positioned herself parallel to Paige’s lying form. Paige could feel her presence beside her, solid and unmoving. Like a shoreline you don’t have to swim toward. It’s just there, waiting for you to drift close.

Paige kept her eyes on the bedroom ceiling, her voice low, raw. “No one tells you how disorienting it is when the thing you’re best at becomes the thing that betrays you.”

She swallowed hard and continued, “And when that happens, when the one thing you thought defined you suddenly slips away, it stops being just about the game. It becomes about identity. Like, who am I if I’m not the one who always comes through?”

The question hovered. She didn’t expect an answer.

She turned slowly in the dark, not fully facing Azzi, just enough to blur the line between distance and closeness.

“I don’t know how to be with people when I’m like this,” she admitted. “When I’m not composed. When I don’t have the right words.”

Azzi didn’t respond with empty comfort or advice. Instead, she shifted slightly, enough for their arms to touch under the blanket. Her fingers brushed against Paige’s. Not reaching, just quietly offering.

And Paige, without ceremony, let her hand fall into Azzi’s.

She let her weight sink into the mattress like it had finally stopped trying to hold itself up. Her breath steadied, only slightly, and the knots in her body began to loosen, one thread at a time.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t collapse.

She just let herself exist beside someone who didn’t need her to be fixed.

Eventually, exhaustion took place and her eyelids fluttered closed.

And she slept. Not because anything had been solved, but because she’d finally told the truth in a room where nothing demanded her strength.

#paige bueckers #paige buckets #paige x azzi #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #pazzi #pazzi fic #wnba #uconn wbb #paige bueckers fanfic #azzi fudd fanfiction #pazzi fics #azzi fudd #unfold series

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throttleheart · 9 days ago

Text

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Drift

Pairing: Isack Hadjar x fem!Reader

Genre: fluff, best friends to lovers, yearning, lots of it, isack gets flustered often

Word Count: ~6.5k

Summary: It's summer, so it makes sense that you and Isack share a Mediterranean villa on the Italian coast.

Masterlist

⸻

The bedroom window is wide open, but the air is still heavy.

You can hear the ocean just past the cliffs, the lull of it breaking gently against the rocks. It’s dark out now — soft, summer dark — and the warm breeze that blows in smells like salt and lemons and dust from the hills. You’re lying flat on your back, sprawled across white sheets that feel too warm against your skin, even though they’re barely covering you.

Your phone rests on your stomach, one finger lazily scrolling. You’re in your grey cotton underwear and that white lace bra — the soft, sheer one you packed last-minute, because you thought it looked cute and never expected it to be a problem. But now, with the AC dead and the air thick, it’s all you could bear to wear.

And you didn’t even think about it being see-through.

Not until the door creaks open.

“You’re just gonna hide in here all night?” Isack’s voice is casual, teasing. His footsteps pad across the hardwood, bare and familiar.

You glance up, not moving. “You mean hide in my room. The one you just walked into without knocking?”

He smirks, already crossing the space between the door and your bed. “You always act like you don’t love the attention.”

You roll your eyes and shift slightly under the sheet. It slips a bit lower over your hip. “You’re the one who keeps showing up. What, the couch too lonely tonight?”

He shrugs, and you finally take a proper look at him.

Isack’s shirtless — of course. His skin is still sun-warm and a little flushed, his curls messy, damp from the late shower he took after dinner. His shorts hang low on his hips, and the waistband is slightly rolled like he’s trying to survive the heat in whatever way he can.

Then he sees you.

Or sees too much of you.

You notice it — the way his breath catches just a little. His eyes flicker down your body, just a heartbeat too long, before he snaps them back up, suddenly very interested in the ceiling fan sputtering above.

He doesn’t say anything.

You blink at him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

��Mhm.”

“I’m just gonna…” He points vaguely to the space beside you on the bed.

You raise an eyebrow. “You want to lie here?”

Isack shrugs again, playing it cool. “You have the only room where the fan even makes noise. It’s comforting.”

You scoff, but nudge the sheet over to give him space. “Fine. But you’re not allowed to complain about the heat if you’re the one climbing into my bed.”

He climbs in without another word, lying flat beside you — not touching, not close enough for skin, just there. Like he’s done this a hundred times before. Like the bed isn’t creaking beneath his weight, like your heartbeat isn’t speeding up with every second he stays quiet.

You try to focus on your phone. You don’t mention the way your bra feels thinner than ever. You don’t mention that you’re basically naked except for sheer lace and fabric that couldn’t hide anything. You don’t mention how his shoulder is inches from yours and the fan keeps making that dull ticking sound.

He doesn’t mention any of it either.

Ten minutes pass like that — heavy silence, soft breathing, you scrolling through the same paragraph of your book three times because your brain can’t focus with him this close. You peek at him out of the corner of your eye. His eyes are half-lidded now. He’s blinking slower.

He’s not going to last.

And he doesn’t.

A few more minutes and he’s out cold.

You hear his breathing even out. His arm drops down to his side, brushing the sheet near your thigh. Then he shifts. Rolls onto his side. His chest bumps your arm lightly. He’s not touching you, not exactly, but he’s drifting closer in his sleep, like gravity’s doing the work for him.

His head dips forward until it rests against your shoulder.

You glance down. His face is barely an inch from your chest. His nose nudges your collarbone. You freeze.

Isack mumbles something — soft, unintelligible — and shifts again. This time, his cheek rests right over your heart.

For a second, you just lie there.

He’s warm.

His breath is slow.

And he looks so peaceful like this — not cocky, not sarcastic, not teasing. Just… Isack. Your best friend. The one who always knows when to push your buttons and when to pull back.

Carefully, you lift your free hand and slide it into his curls. The hair at the nape of his neck is still damp and soft from the shower. You let your fingers play there, light and slow. He doesn’t wake — he just sighs, and leans in a little more.

And then you do it.

You shift slightly and ease him closer, letting his head rest fully on your chest.

He fits there like he’s always meant to.

His leg brushes yours. One arm drapes across your stomach, heavy and warm. You’re barely covered, but he doesn’t react. Just sleeps. Trusts you. Sleeps like your heartbeat is the only thing keeping the world steady.

You tilt your phone away, screen dimming.

Your hand stays in his hair. You don’t dare move.

The fan ticks quietly above you, useless.

And you — for once — don’t mind the heat.

Because Isack is asleep on your chest in nothing but shorts, breathing like you’re home, and your sheer lace bra is the last thing either of you is thinking about now.

⸻

You don’t remember falling asleep.

One moment you were stroking Isack’s hair, eyes heavy-lidded and phone forgotten on the bed, and the next—

It’s morning.

The light is golden through the shutters, bleeding across the white sheets and spilling warm across the room. The breeze smells like sea salt and something floral from the garden. The air is still humid, still too warm, but it feels soft now. Gentle.

And Isack is still wrapped around you.

No, more wrapped around you than before.

Somewhere in the night he must’ve shifted again, because now he’s got one leg draped across your thighs, one arm slung across your waist, and—most dangerously—his face is fully buried between your breasts.

You blink at the ceiling, heartbeat thudding.

You can feel his breath, soft against your chest. The rise and fall of it. You’re still wearing the sheer white lace bra—thin, soft, not even close to hiding anything. And Isack… is asleep like it’s the most natural place in the world for his face to be.

You stay still for a moment, not breathing.

And then, slowly, like a switch being flipped—

He stirs.

You feel his body tense slightly. His nose twitches. He shifts his head just enough to nuzzle into you.

And then freeze.

Absolutely freeze.

A beat of silence.

Then:

“…fuck.”

It’s mumbled. Muffled. Straight into your chest.

You press your lips together, a laugh bubbling up before you can stop it.

His voice comes again, muffled and mortified. “Please tell me I’m dreaming.”

You grin. “If you are, it’s a really vivid one.”

He pulls back like he’s been electrocuted.

Scrambles upright, hair completely disheveled, blinking down at you with wide, panicked eyes—and suddenly very, very aware of exactly where he’s been sleeping.

You stay where you are, sheets pulled up just enough to keep things decent, but your bra is still there, still sheer, still very much not hiding anything. His gaze flickers down and then immediately away, color blooming across his face like a sunrise.

“Oh my god,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—fuck, I—”

“Isack.”

He’s still rambling. “I thought I was dreaming about, like, a pillow or—Jesus, why didn’t you wake me up?”

You laugh, fully now. “You looked comfortable!”

“I was on your boobs!”

“You’re very cozy,” you tease, trying to sound breezy even as your skin flushes beneath his gaze. “And very cute when you snore, by the way.”

“I don’t snore—”

“You do.”

“You let me fall asleep on you in that?” He gestures vaguely toward your chest, not daring to actually look. “Do you realize what you’re wearing?”

Now it’s your turn to go a little still.

You look down, just for a second. The lace is soft and white and very see-through in the morning sun. It clings gently to your skin, doing absolutely nothing to disguise what’s underneath.

“Oh,” you say quietly.

Isack looks like he wants to die.

“Fuck, I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to be weird,” he says quickly. “You know I wasn’t. I didn’t even notice last night, I swear, and I wasn’t, like, looking, I just—your heartbeat was—fuck.”

You blink up at him, startled. “My heartbeat?”

He immediately looks like he regrets speaking.

You sit up slowly, careful not to knock him off the bed. “Isack.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Were you listening to it?”

“I—” He shifts. “I guess. It was nice.”

That silences you.

Just for a second.

Then you smile, softer now. “It was nice having you there.”

He finally looks at you again, eyes searching yours like he’s trying to read between the lines. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

A long pause stretches between you.

The room is still warm. Still golden. Still thick with something you’re both too scared to name.

Isack bites his lip. “Can I… lie back down?”

You blink. “On me?”

“No!” he says too fast, ears turning red. “Just—next to you. I wasn’t ready to be awake yet.”

You bite back another smile and lift the sheet. “Then get in.”

He hesitates for half a second, then slips under the covers, close but careful now. Like he’s terrified of doing something wrong.

You roll onto your side, facing him. “You can come closer.”

He looks at you.

“You already slept on my boobs,” you add helpfully. “What’s closer than that?”

Isack groans and covers his face with his hand. “Please stop saying that.”

You laugh, reaching out to gently pull his hand away. “You’re cute when you panic.”

You hold Isack’s hand a little longer than you need to.

He doesn’t pull away.

He doesn’t meet your eye, not right away—but he lets your fingers thread with his. Lets the silence stretch, slow and full and humming, not with awkwardness but something else. Something almost electric.

Your sheets rustle as he settles closer under the covers.

Not touching, not quite. But his bare shoulder brushes your arm. You’re still in your bra—still barely covered by the thin white lace—and the only thing between you is one deep breath.

You roll onto your back again, phone on your stomach, and glance at him.

His hair’s a mess. One curl sticks up completely sideways. His cheeks are still faintly pink. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him like this—quiet. Careful.

It makes your heart ache.

“You know,” you murmur, “this is probably the first time in our entire friendship that you’ve gone ten minutes without insulting me.”

That gets a soft huff out of him. “I’m too emotionally compromised.”

“Over what?” you tease. “My boobs?”

He groans, pressing his face into your shoulder. “Stop.”

You’re giggling before you can stop yourself.

But your heart’s doing weird things in your chest—fluttering, skipping, aching a little with how close he is and how much you want to close the space between you. It’s Isack. Your Isack. The one who used to throw sand at you on the beach when you were eight. Who made you watch dumb horror movies and whispered jokes through half of them just to make you laugh.

And now he’s here, grown-up and warm and shirtless, under your sheets with a sun-kissed flush and hands that tremble just a little when they brush yours.

Your voice is quieter when you ask, “Did it freak you out?”

He turns his face, looking up at you. “What?”

You shrug, eyes on the ceiling. “Waking up like that. On me.”

There’s a pause.

Then: “No.”

You look over. “No?”

He licks his lips, throat bobbing. “It freaked me out that you might freak out. Not the actual… position.”

You blink. “Why not?”

He swallows hard. “Because I… liked it?”

It comes out a question. Like he’s testing it on his tongue, scared it’ll land wrong.

Your heart skips again.

And suddenly you feel it—the shift. The quiet, unmistakable slide from teasing into truth.

You sit up a little, propping your weight on one elbow. He does the same, mirroring you. The sheet slips a bit down your chest and he definitely notices but tries very hard not to.

Your voice is soft. “You did?”

He meets your eyes, finally. Really meets them. And he doesn’t look away.

“I like being close to you,” he says, no joke in it. “I always have. Even before I realized why.”

Your stomach swoops.

Before you can answer, his hand reaches—slow, almost hesitant—and rests just above your wrist. His thumb brushes your skin.

You can feel your heartbeat there now, too.

“You always say I’m annoying,” he says, voice low, “but you never actually push me away.”

“I don’t want to,” you admit, barely above a whisper.

A breath passes.

Then two.

And Isack leans in—just slightly, just enough that you know where it’s going. But he pauses, close enough that you can feel the shape of his breath.

He waits.

And waits.

And it takes every ounce of courage you have to lift your chin and meet him halfway.

The kiss is barely there—soft, tentative, like the beginning of something you’re both too scared to name. But it’s warm. And real. And it lingers, like sea salt on sun-warmed skin.

When he pulls back, his forehead leans against yours.

“I don’t want to pretend anymore,” he murmurs.

You nod, breath shaky. “Me either.”

The AC groans somewhere in the villa, still broken.

But the heat between you isn’t from the weather anymore.

Not really.

⸻

By the time you both pull yourselves out of bed, the sun has climbed high enough to bake the villa tiles warm beneath your bare feet.

You shuffle to the kitchen in your oversized pajama shorts and the same sheer bra—too lazy to find a shirt, too wrapped in the morning haze to care. Isack’s behind you in that loose pair of shorts, still shirtless, hair pushed back from his face with damp fingers from a rushed attempt to fix it.

The air smells like lemon and thyme from the open window. Somewhere down the hill, someone is playing guitar.

You open the fridge, peer inside, and frown. “Why do we only have, like, three eggs and… half a zucchini?”

“I was supposed to go grocery shopping yesterday,” Isack says from behind you. “But someone distracted me by dragging me to the beach.”

You turn slowly, eyebrows raised. “You’re blaming me?”

He leans against the counter, smirking. “You’re very persuasive.”

“You’re very lazy.”

He shrugs. “Also true.”

Your heart does a weird little thing in your chest—because his smirk is warm now. Familiar. But under it, there’s something new in the way he looks at you. Like the kiss from this morning still lingers in his mouth. Like he’s remembering the way his hands felt on your waist.

You bite your lip and look back at the fridge.

“Okay, chef,” you say, grabbing the eggs. “You’re on breakfast duty.”

He groans. “Can’t we just have gelato again?”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “You slept on my boobs. The least you can do is make eggs.”

He puts his head in his hands. “Please stop bringing that up.”

You grin.

⸻

The “cooking” is a disaster.

You’re sautéing zucchini in olive oil while Isack tries to scramble eggs and instead somehow burns them to the bottom of the pan.

“I’m not a breakfast guy!” he says defensively, waving a wooden spoon like a sword.

“Clearly,” you say, laughing.

You nudge his hip with yours as you pass behind him. He doesn’t move. Just lets your body press into his like it’s something he’s allowed now. Something he wants. You feel the way he inhales—just slightly, just enough to feel the side of your thigh against his. You hug him from behind, cheek on his back, breathing in, this summer, this week, this moment, and he just lets you, grabs one of your hands that is holding him and brings it to his face, to kiss it.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

But it’s there.

It’s so there.

By the time you manage to plate everything, the eggs are edible (barely), and you’re both grinning like idiots. You sit on the tiled terrace with two mismatched plates, sun warming your knees, hair damp from a quick rinse in the outdoor shower.

Isack props his feet on the rail. His plate rests on his lap. And his arm? It’s behind you. Not touching—not quite—but close enough that his fingers graze your shoulder every time he shifts.

You steal a piece of his toast. He pretends to be offended. He gets crumbs on his stomach trying to brush you off, and you laugh so hard your eyes water.

It’s stupid.

It’s perfect.

It’s everything you didn’t know you wanted until it happened.

⸻

Later, after dishes and sunscreen and the sun making you drowsy again, you lie on the shaded couch in the garden, your book open across your stomach.

Isack flops down beside you.

He doesn’t say anything. Just rests his head on your thigh like it’s natural. Like it’s normal now.

You don’t say anything either.

You just thread your fingers into his hair—slow, lazy movements, brushing over the curls at his nape, the skin just beneath his hairline. His eyes flutter closed.

It’s quiet. The kind of quiet that only happens when two people don’t need to fill it.

You’re reading again, eyes skimming the page.

But then you hear it—soft, half-mumbled.

“Hey,” he says, eyes still closed.

“Hmm?”

“I meant it,” he murmurs. “This morning. What I said.”

Your hand pauses in his hair.

He cracks one eye open. “About not pretending.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Me too.”

He smiles—barely. Just a little curve of his lips. But it’s enough to make your chest feel like it’s glowing.

Then he says it, so soft you almost miss it:

“Does that mean I get to kiss you again?”

You glance down at him.

“Are you asking permission?” you tease.

“I’m trying to be respectful,” he says, half-whining.

You grin, lean forward just a little—and tilt his chin up with two fingers.

“Good,” you say, brushing your lips against his. “Because you’re about to be very, very spoiled.”

He doesn’t reply.

He’s too busy kissing you like he’s been waiting for years.

⸻

“You packed the sunscreen, right?”

You glance at Isack as the two of you walk down the path toward the beach, bare feet kicking up sand.

He holds up the bottle with a mock flourish. “Do I look like an amateur?”

You shrug. “I don’t know. You once used body lotion as shampoo.”

“That was one time. And it smelled incredible, for the record.”

You snort. “Yeah, like fake coconuts and bad decisions.”

He side-eyes you but doesn’t argue, just lets out a quiet laugh and adjusts the towel slung over his shoulder.

The beach is basically empty—just a curve of pale sand and soft waves stretching into blue. The villa’s umbrella sets up easily, and you both drop down onto the towels without a word.

There’s something about being here, with him, like this, that makes everything slow down. No rush, no pretending. Just sun and sea and Isack’s shoulder brushing yours as he lies back beside you.

“Do you ever shut up?” he says eventually, eyes closed behind his sunglasses, but you already know the corner of them are crinkled from the way he is smiling.

“You’re the one who started talking,” you shoot back.

“Only because you always have some smartass comment locked and loaded.”

“Someone’s got to keep your ego in check.”

He exhales a small laugh and turns his head toward you, still half-asleep behind the shades. “You act like I’m some cocky guy who needs humbling.”

You raise a brow. “You literally referred to yourself as ‘the blueprint’ last week.”

“I was joking.”

“You weren’t. You were completely serious and drinking orange juice like it was champagne.”

Isack sighs dramatically. “I’m misunderstood.”

You roll onto your side and poke his arm. “You’re annoying.”

He lifts his sunglasses just enough to look at you. “You still like me, though.”

You go quiet for a second.

Then you smirk. “Debatable.”

He grins, satisfied, and drops the glasses back over his eyes.

The breeze kicks up a bit, warm and salty. Somewhere down the shore, a gull screams like it’s personally offended.

Neither of you says anything for a while.

You close your eyes and feel the heat of the sun settle into your skin. Next to you, Isack’s hand shifts in the sand. Not touching, not exactly—just close enough you notice.

“Did you bring water?” you ask, eyes still shut.

“Yeah. Cold, too.”

You smile. “I’m impressed.”

“I’m a man of many talents.”

“Still debatable.”

He groans.

But he doesn’t stop smiling.

⸻

You stay stretched out under the umbrella, head resting against your rolled-up towel. The heat sinks into your skin in that perfect way—just warm enough to lull you into a lazy haze, but not enough to make you miserable. And with the sea breeze drifting up the shore, it’s kind of perfect.

Isack stands up with a stretch, casting a shadow across your legs.

You peek up at him through your lashes. “Leaving me already?”

“I’m going for a swim.” He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back before giving you a look. “You coming?”

You tilt your head, eyes lazily trailing up his frame. His swim shorts hang low on his hips, and the sun makes his skin glow golden. He squints into the light, one hand on his hip, waiting.

You shake your head. “Nah. I’m too comfy. You go be a little sea creature.”

He scoffs. “Wow. Supportive.”

“You knew what this was.”

He laughs, backing away toward the water. “Just don’t cry when I come back and get sand all over your towel.”

You flip him off without looking.

He’s still laughing when he hits the water.

It’s quiet again once he’s gone, save for the soft crash of waves and the occasional sound of his splashing in the distance. You turn onto your stomach, resting your chin on your folded arms, and watch him.

Isack moves through the water like he was born for it—easy strokes, then letting himself float on his back, eyes closed like he’s part of the sea now. Like he belongs here.

You wonder if he knows how easy he is to watch. How relaxed he looks, out there in the blue, with no cameras, no racing, no pressure. Just him. Just this.

When he finally comes back in, he’s dripping wet and grinning, curls plastered to his forehead.

“You look like a wet dog,” you say.

He flops down onto his towel without replying, shaking his hair out just enough to spray you lightly.

“Isack!”

“You said I looked like a dog. I figured I’d commit to the bit.”

You wipe water from your arm with an exaggerated huff.

He rolls onto his side, propping his head up with one hand. “You were watching me.”

You raise a brow. “You wish.”

“I saw you.”

“I was checking for jellyfish.”

“Sure. Totally what that look on your face was about.”

You try to fight your smile, but it’s a losing battle. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He grins, eyes squinting against the sun. “Too late.”

He’s too close now—barely a few inches between your towels. And though you’re still covered by the umbrella’s shade, the air feels warmer suddenly. Still soft, still easy. But warmer.

You look at him, and he meets your gaze like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal. Like he doesn’t have a drop of self-consciousness left in him.

You nudge his towel with your foot. “You gonna dry off, or just soak through everything?”

“Why? You afraid I’ll get your hair wet?”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to share space with a damp human sponge.”

“Sounds like a personal problem.”

You laugh, and he lets his head fall back onto his towel, eyes closed again.

And for a while, you both just… exist there. In the sun. In the quiet. Together.

Until he speaks again, voice softer this time.

“…Thanks for coming with me.”

You glance over. His eyes are still shut, but the edge in his voice is gone. It’s just Isack. Tired. Warm. Real.

You answer just as quietly. “You kidding? You dragged me here.”

He smiles. “Still.”

You don’t say anything, just shift your hand in the sand so it’s a little closer to his. Not touching—just near.

He doesn’t move away.

⸻

The sun climbs higher, the breeze softens, and neither of you moves.

Isack’s hand stays where it is—just a breath away from yours in the sand, fingers almost brushing. You can feel the warmth of him without touching, can practically count the grains of sand clinging to the edge of his wrist.

You turn your head, cheek against the towel. “You’re not even trying to dry off.”

He hums without opening his eyes. “Why would I? It’s warm.”

“So now you’re just… baking like a lizard?”

“Exactly.”

You glance at him sideways. His lips twitch like he knows you’re staring.

“Not a flattering comparison, Hadjar,” you murmur, letting the silence stretch again.

A beat. Then, with a soft voice and a grin you can hear more than see:

“Least I’m a pretty lizard.”

You snort, your smile pressing into the terrycloth of the towel. “Debatable.”

He finally opens his eyes, tilting his head toward you lazily. “Tell that to the girl who’s been watching me swim for the last thirty minutes.”

You keep your gaze forward, unmoved. “Still just on jellyfish patrol.”

“Mm. Right.” He squints against the sunlight filtering through the umbrella, then lets out a soft sigh, like the heat and stillness are getting to him too.

After a moment, he moves again—sits up this time, brushing sand off his legs. You feel the shift of the air, the way his presence pulls slightly away, and you hate how your skin already misses the warmth of him.

But then—

“Come on,” he says, rising to his feet. “You’ve been under that umbrella all morning.”

You roll onto your back, hand shielding your eyes. “Maybe I’m smart.”

“Or maybe you’re scared to get your hair wet.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You already got my hair wet, you sea rat.”

He laughs and steps closer, reaching out a hand toward you. You squint up at it, suspicious.

He wiggles his fingers. “Truce. Come swim.”

You let the moment drag out. Watch the way water drips from his wrist, how the sun catches the freckles on his shoulder. Then, finally, you reach up and let him pull you to your feet.

Your fingers brush again—still casual. Still not lingering.

But you don’t miss the way his hold slows just slightly. Or the way he looks away a moment too late.

You grab your sunglasses from the towel and adjust the tie at your hip before following him down to the shoreline. The sand is hot on your feet, and you skip a few steps to avoid burning them, laughing as Isack jogs ahead.

The water is cool and perfect.

You both dive under the same wave, surfacing with hair slicked back and eyes squinting. He shakes his curls out dramatically, sending a spray of seawater at you for the second time today.

“You’re insufferable,” you say, blinking through the droplets.

He grins. “You love it.”

And you don’t reply—not really—because you’re not sure what would come out of your mouth if you tried.

So instead you swim out a little further, float on your back, let the sea hold you for a while. He stays nearby, always within reach, the silence between you thick but not heavy. Just… full.

When you both finally wade back to shore, sun-drunk and quiet, you collapse onto your towels again—closer this time. Shoulder to shoulder. Still not touching.

But now you can feel his breath when he turns his head. You can hear his swallow when you speak. And when your fingers curl into the sand between you, they graze his—not by accident this time.

And still.

He doesn’t move away.

You sit up on one arm, heart pounding, and close the distance between the two of you.

He’s already smiling, like he’d been waiting for this exact second. Your lips meet his, soft at first, testing. The kiss tastes of salt and sun, of all the words you’ve both been too scared to say.

Then his hand slides to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone so gently it makes your chest ache. You melt into him, kissing back harder now, and he meets you halfway—like he’s been holding himself back for far too long.

The world narrows to this: the sound of waves crashing just a few feet away, the warmth of his palm against your skin, the way his other hand sneaks to your waist to pull you closer. You let out a quiet, surprised laugh against his mouth when he nips playfully at your bottom lip, and he grins into the kiss, clearly pleased with himself.

It isn’t rushed—it’s slow, deliberate, the kind of kiss that feels like a beginning. Like something finally cracking open.

When you part, you’re both a little breathless, foreheads leaning together, eyes still closed.

He whispers, barely loud enough to hear over the surf, “Took you long enough.”

You laugh softly, brushing your nose against his. “Shut up.”

But you kiss him again anyway.

⸻

After a long takeout session you didn't even think was possible yesterday, you reach for the cooler you’d dragged out earlier, still tucked under the umbrella’s shade. Inside, the water bottles are slick with condensation, nestled beside a plastic container of chopped fruit. You hold up a peach slice and wave it temptingly in front of him.

“Bribing me with fruit now?” he says, grinning.

You pop the slice in your mouth without answering, juice slicking your fingers, sweet and sticky on your lips. His gaze flicks to your mouth for a second too long.

“Want one or not?” you tease, nudging his bare side with your foot.

He shifts toward you, reaching lazily for the container. “Hand it here.”

But instead of passing it, you grab another peach slice and hold it out between your fingers.

He raises a brow. “Seriously?”

“Come on,” you say, voice lilting with mock innocence. “Childhood best friends feed each other fruit all the time. It’s completely normal.”

Isack eyes you for a moment, then leans in slowly—mouth parting just slightly before he bites the peach from your hand.

You try not to react. Try not to show the way your breath catches just a little as his lips brush your fingers, as juice drips to your knuckles and his tongue darts out to catch it.

He sits back like it was nothing, chewing with that same casual grin. “Sweet,” he says, licking his thumb.

You try to swallow, but it catches in your throat. “The fruit or the moment?”

He glances at you. Shrugs. “Both.”

Your face heats, and not from the sun.

You busy yourself with another bottle of water, twisting the cap and taking a long sip. The cold hits your chest like a shock, but it steadies your head just enough to breathe again.

“Want some?” you offer him the bottle without looking directly at him.

He leans over, eyes on yours this time, and drinks from the same bottle. Doesn’t wipe the rim. Doesn’t need to.

You both settle back down, peach container between you now, your legs just barely touching. The heat makes it easier not to move—like you’ve both been melted into the moment, too sun-stupid and slow to fight how natural it feels.

After a while, Isack lifts his head, squinting at you under the umbrella.

“You always chew on your lip when you’re thinking,” he says softly.

You blink. “Do I?”

He nods. “You’ve been doing it since you were thirteen.”

There’s something in his voice—fond, and quiet, and a little too aware.

You meet his gaze and don’t look away this time.

“I’m thinking about what happens if I feed you another peach slice,” you say carefully.

He doesn’t laugh.

He just looks at you, then glances down at the fruit, then back up.

His voice is low. “Try it.”

The air thickens—not heavy, but warmer than before. Like something’s shifting between you, curling up from the sand and sea and years of pretending you don’t feel it.

You take another slice. Hold it out again.

He leans in slower this time. And when he takes it from your hand, his lips brush your fingers a second longer than necessary.

And still, neither of you moves away.

⸻

You both go quiet after that second peach slice. Just… looking at each other, like neither of you knows exactly what you just did.

Until Isack clears his throat, leans back with exaggerated drama, and says, “Well. That wasn’t weird at all.”

You snort. “Oh yeah, super normal. Just two besties sharing some sensual fruit. As one does.”

He grins, eyes lighting up as he reaches for another slice. “Should we start feeding each other grapes next? Maybe lie back and fan each other with palm leaves?”

You hum thoughtfully. “Only if I get to be Cleopatra.”

“I’m not calling you ‘Your Majesty’ on this trip. I have limits.”

“Too bad. You definitely give off royal servant energy.”

He gasps, clutching his chest. “Wounded.”

You toss a peach slice at him and it bounces off his collarbone. He stares at it, then at you.

“…That was an attack.”

“You deserved it.”

“Rude.”

“True.”

He throws a piece back—misses—and it lands in the sand.

“Wasting fruit and failing dramatically,” you murmur. “That’s gotta be a new low.”

“Okay, first of all, rude again.” He sits up a bit, brushing his sandy hands off on his towel. “Second of all, this was supposed to be a relaxing beach morning, not a peach-throwing war.”

“You started it.”

“I was eating.”

“You were flirting.”

He pauses, lips parted around whatever comeback he had queued up. You can see the shift—just for a second—in the line of his jaw. His gaze flicks to you again, quick and unreadable.

“…Was I?”

You feel heat bloom somewhere behind your ribs, slow and steady.

You smile—light, breezy, as if your heart isn’t suddenly thudding a little harder than it was a minute ago. “You tell me.”

Isack leans back again, crossing his arms behind his head like he’s stretching. “Guess we’ll never know.”

“Oh, how convenient.”

“I’m mysterious like that.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, laughing softly.

He tilts his head toward you without looking. “But you like me when I kiss you.”

The words come easy. Familiar.

Still, there’s something soft in his voice now. Something a little too real.

You reach for your water bottle again, stalling. “I guess I do.”

You hear his quiet hum—approving, or teasing, or maybe both. You don’t ask.

Instead, the two of you go quiet again, still smiling, still close. Your feet brush his under the towels and he doesn’t pull away. The sea stretches out in front of you, sparkling. The air smells like sun and salt and whatever this thing is between you that neither of you is quite naming yet.

Eventually, Isack shifts beside you and mutters, “I think I got sand in my shorts.”

You snort. “Romance is dead.”

He looks over, grinning. “Unless…”

“Don’t even think about it.”

He laughs again, head tipped back, and you do too—because god, it’s easy with him. It always has been.

Even if it’s starting to feel like something more.

⸻

The laughter dies down slowly, trailing off like waves against the shore.

You stay lying back on your towel, legs stretched out, your body warm and lazy from the sun and the lingering taste of fruit. Isack’s beside you, hair drying in messy curls, arm close enough that if you moved just slightly to the left, your elbows would touch.

For a while, there’s just the wind and the sea.

And him.

You glance over without turning your head. “You gonna swim again?”

He stretches his arms overhead, eyes still closed. “Nah. I like it here.”

You hum. “Because of the sun or the peaches?”

“Neither.”

He doesn’t elaborate.

You nudge his foot with yours. “Well now you have to say what you meant.”

He opens one eye, barely. “I meant you, obviously.”

Your heart skips—because he says it so easily. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s fact.

And maybe it is.

You sit up slowly, brushing sand off your thigh, trying to act unfazed. “Careful, Hadjar. That sounded dangerously like affection.”

“Guess the sun’s making me soft.”

“Or the peaches,” you murmur, half under your breath. “Or the makeout session”

He catches it anyway. Smirks. “Could be the peaches. That second slice really did something to me.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile won’t quit.

Then he props himself up on one elbow and looks at you for real, and it’s not playful anymore. It’s quiet. Like he’s letting himself say something without actually putting it into words.

“You look happy here,” he says.

You blink. “I am happy here.”

“With me?” he asks, and this time, his voice dips lower. Less teasing. More unsure.

You meet his eyes. And you think about how he’s been your best friend since you were kids. How he’s always made you laugh, how he always knew when to sit in silence and when to pull you out of it. How every memory lately seems to include him, even the ones you didn’t think were supposed to matter.

And now you’re here. On a beach. Sharing fruit and sun and glances that linger too long, and kissing him too often.

“With you,” you say, steady. “Yeah.”

He stares for a second longer. Then drops back onto his towel with a dreamy sigh.

“Well,” he says, hand behind his head again, “good thing I packed enough peaches for a week.”

You toss your towel at his face.

He catches it too late, laughing again, and the moment shifts back into something easy. Safe.

But not the same.

Definitely not the same.

Because even when you lie back again and close your eyes, you feel the warmth of his arm beside yours. You feel the echo of his words in your chest.

You look happy here.

With me?

And maybe he doesn’t say anything else. Maybe neither of you does.

But you both stay there long after the sun starts to dip—just a little too close, just a little too quiet—and the space between you isn’t just sand anymore.

It’s something else entirely.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Masterlist

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bucketgetter535 · 3 months ago

Text

No Margin for Error: Chapter Nine

WC: 5.9k

CW: None

Notes: Long time no seeeeee. Send thoughts to my anons plz it’s my fav part of the day… might even motivate me to get ch 10 out sooner

The hum of the plane engine had become background noise an hour ago, steady and hypnotic, like the rhythm of breath. Paige had her legs folded beneath her on the cream leather seat, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her knuckles, a half-empty bottle of water rolling gently near her ankle every time the jet shifted altitude. She didn’t bother to catch it. Just watched it drift like it had somewhere better to be.

The cabin was dim except for the soft blue glow of the windows and the yellow-white reading light Azzi had on across from her, illuminating the pages of whatever novel she was pretending to focus on. Her socked feet were propped up on the seat in front of her, posture lazy in the way only someone completely at home in this kind of space could manage.

Azzi’s jet was nice. Quiet. Private. Which made it all the more jarring when Paige’s phone buzzed in her lap with three back-to-back notifications. First from ESPN. Then The Race. Then a push alert from her own F1 app.

Her stomach dropped a little when she read the headline.

“BREAKING: Red Bull’s Top Driver to Retire at End of Season.”

She blinked, tapped into the article without thinking, skimming the lines about “tenure” and “graceful exit” and “opening the door for a new generation.” The typical send-off language. But that wasn’t what her brain stuck on.

It stuck on the last sentence of the third paragraph.

“…likely to spark immediate interest from top-tier drivers currently in contract negotiations.”

“Azzi,” Paige said, too casually.

Azzi didn’t look up from her book. “Hm?”

“You see the Red Bull thing?”

Azzi’s eyes flicked up now, sharp and curious. “What thing?”

Paige angled her phone screen toward her. “He’s retiring.”

That got Azzi’s attention. She leaned forward, taking the phone from Paige’s hand and squinting down at the headline like maybe she hadn’t read it right the first time. She exhaled low through her nose. “Damn.”

“Right?”

“Didn’t see that coming.”

“Neither did I.”

Paige took her phone back, but before she could lock it again, a new email appeared — top of the inbox, urgent flag marked red.

Subject: Meeting Inquiry: Red Bull Racing

Her mouth went dry.

She clicked into it.

Hi Paige,

Hope you’re well. We’d like to schedule a brief conversation this week, if possible, no pressure, of course, but we’re evaluating options and would love to hear your thoughts.

Best,

Helmut Marko.

Driver Development, Red Bull Racing

She stared at it a little longer than necessary. Not because she didn’t know what it meant, but because some part of her — the part that had started all of this at nineteen, when she didn’t know better — still couldn’t believe this was her life.

Azzi was watching her now. The quiet kind of watching. The “I know something just changed” kind.

Paige closed her phone slowly and didn’t look up. “I just got an email.”

“From who?”

“…Red Bull.”

Azzi sat still for a beat.

And then: “Do they want a meeting?”

Paige nodded.

There was a silence between them now, not awkward exactly, but heavy. The kind that made your ears ring just a little.

Azzi set her book down on the armrest. “Do you want to go to Red Bull?”

The question was simple. Too simple. It hit Paige harder than she expected.

She looked at her lap, hands twisting the hem of her hoodie, heart knocking a little too fast against her ribs. She wasn’t supposed to say it out loud. She hadn’t even decided anything yet. But some part of her deep down (the unguarded part, the one she only seemed to access around Azzi) wanted to let her in anyway.

“I don’t know,” Paige said.

She meant it.

Azzi waited.

“They’d probably offer more money,” Paige added after a second. “And they’re Red Bull. The car’s always fast. Always evolving. They’re ruthless about it.”

Azzi’s voice was quiet. “But?”

Paige hesitated. “I’m used to the Ferrari car. The handling. The engineers. Luka. You. I know how to win in this car.”

Azzi didn’t smile. She didn’t tease or joke or pretend it wasn’t a big deal. She just nodded once, like she’d already played out this entire conversation in her head and was waiting for Paige to catch up.

Paige exhaled. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“I’m glad you did.”

That surprised her.

Azzi leaned her head back against the seat, gaze shifting to the ceiling like she was talking more to herself now. “I’d rather know than guess.”

Paige didn’t answer. She didn’t trust her voice enough.

The plane continued east across the Atlantic, clouds scattered below them like pieces of some forgotten quilt. The air up here felt cleaner. Lighter. But no altitude in the world could stop Paige’s stomach from twisting into the shape of a question mark.

She stared out the window for a long time.

She was headed to New York first. Then Minnesota. Then probably Italy again, or Japan, or wherever the hell the next GP was. Her life, as always, was measured in terminals and tire compounds.

But somewhere between the breaking news and the unread email and Azzi’s eyes on her, Paige realized she was standing on the edge of something. Something big. Something she hadn’t planned for.

And maybe the part that scared her most was how badly she wanted to take Azzi with her, wherever she went.

–

The landing was smooth, quieter than Paige expected for a private jet touching down at JFK. She blinked against the sunlight as it streamed through the windows, golden and warm despite the haze of city smog. Azzi was already halfway through her phone the second the wheels hit the runway, thumb scrolling through emails like they’d never left Europe. Her focus, as always, moved faster than the plane.

The car waiting for them outside was black and sleek and forgettable in that New York way that screamed wealth through silence. Paige climbed in after Azzi and let her head fall back against the leather, eyes half-lidded as the skyline began to unfold in front of them. Azzi’s driver knew where to go without being told — straight to the penthouse.

Azzi’s place was exactly what Paige remembered and also somehow not at all. High ceilings. Cold marble. A wall of windows framing the city like a movie still. Everything smelled faintly like vanilla and something expensive Paige couldn’t name.

She dropped her bag by the couch and stretched her arms up toward the ceiling with a groan. “I’m starving.”

Azzi glanced up from where she was unlacing her shoes. “Me too. Let’s go eat.”

Paige blinked at her. “Right now?”

“Yes,” Azzi said. Then she paused, surveyed Paige’s wrinkled hoodie and sweatpants. “But, like, get real clothes on.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. “These are real clothes.”

Azzi smirked, already heading for her closet. “Not dinner-in-Manhattan clothes.”

Paige made a sound halfway between a sigh and a laugh but followed her toward the guest room anyway. Fifteen minutes later, they emerged from their rooms. Paige was in dark slacks and a crisp navy button-up. Her hair was tied back in a low bun, collar open just enough to pass as effortless.

Azzi grinned when she saw her. “Wow. You’re actually wearing something real tonight?”

Paige rolled her eyes. “You went full outfit. I’m just balancing it out.”

“Sure you are.”

The restaurant was a few blocks from the penthouse, upscale but quiet, one of those places you only knew if you knew. Inside, the lights were low and warm, the air perfumed citrus something. A waiter led them to a booth in the corner, just private enough to feel separate from the rest of the world.

The menus were handed out and barely touched. Azzi knew what she wanted before she sat down.

As the drinks arrived, sparkling water for Paige and some fruity mocktail for Azzi, the conversation shifted. It wasn’t about racing. Or sponsors. Or media days. It was light and slow, looping through stories they hadn’t had time to tell all season. Paige noticed it in the small things — the way Azzi tilted toward her slightly when she spoke, the way their knees brushed under the table, the way neither of them checked their phones unless they were mid-laugh or reaching for their drinks.

Halfway through the main course, Paige caught a flash of something near the window, the glint of a camera lens in the hands of a man sitting alone at a neighboring table.

She didn’t make a show of it. Just leaned in slightly and murmured, “Don’t look now, but camera guy, two tables down.”

Azzi didn’t flinch. Just reached for her fork and smiled like Paige had said something funny. “Got it.”

For a few minutes, they talked around it. Then the food arrived: steak for Paige, some complicated pasta dish for Azzi that smelled like heaven.

“This is so good,” Azzi said around a mouthful. “I’m never eating airport food again.”

“Liar,” Paige said.

“Okay, fine. But I’m dreaming of this next time we’re stuck in Belgium.”

They were laughing again by the time the waiter came back. “Any dessert for the table?” he asked, poised with his little notepad.

Azzi lit up instantly. “Yes. Absolutely.”

Paige gave her a look. “You’re still hungry?”

“I have a sweet tooth,” Azzi said, unapologetic.

“I’m good,” Paige said to the waiter, who nodded and turned to Azzi expectantly.

Azzi tilted her head, mock-betrayed. “Wow. So you’re calling me fat.”

“What?” Paige blinked. “No—”

“I just said I want dessert and you said I’m good, which is code for I don’t need dessert, which is code for some people do, which is code for—”

“Oh my god, Azzi.” Paige ran a hand down her face, laughing now. “You’re impossible.”

Azzi grinned, victorious. “I’ll have the chocolate thing. And she’ll have one too.”

The waiter nodded, utterly unfazed, and disappeared.

Paige gave her a look. “I said I didn’t want dessert.”

“You said it. But you didn’t mean it.”

Paige shook her head, but when the plate arrived, she picked up her spoon without another word. The chocolate was warm and rich and exactly what she hadn’t realized she wanted.

Azzi leaned her chin on her hand and watched her take the first bite.

“Told you.”

And Paige, in spite of everything, couldn’t stop smiling.

–

Back at Azzi’s apartment, the lights were low, and the sounds of the city were muffled through thick glass. Paige dropped her jacket by the couch again and toed off her shoes with a quiet sigh, already feeling the warm hush of late-night softness settle over the penthouse. Azzi disappeared into the kitchen, the refrigerator door opening and closing with the easy rhythm of someone at home. Paige didn’t follow right away. She just stood there for a second, absorbing it. The quiet. The casualness. The fact that she could walk in like this and not ask permission.

Azzi came back with two waters and handed one over wordlessly. Paige took it with a small smile, brushing her fingers against Azzi’s for a moment longer than necessary.

“Hey,” Azzi said, leaning against the counter. “When’s your flight to Minnesota?”

Paige twisted the cap off the bottle. “Whenever I want.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Right. Millionaire life.”

Paige shrugged, sipping her water. “Perks.”

Azzi held her gaze for a beat. “So… is that you saying you don’t have to leave tonight?”

Paige blinked, then smiled faintly. “Is that you asking me to stay the night?”

“Yes,” Azzi said, without missing a beat.

Paige’s smile curved wider. “Then okay.”

Azzi’s shoulders loosened, just a little. She nodded toward the hallway. “Fair warning though. My parents are coming over tomorrow.”

Paige stilled. Just a second. Barely noticeable. But something tightened behind her ribs.

“Oh. Nice,” she said, setting the bottle down.

Azzi didn’t catch it — or if she did, she let it slide. She was already halfway to the couch, flopping down with a sigh, her long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. “They want to see me before we head out to Azerbaijan. I figured we’d do brunch or something.”

“Cool,” Paige said, easing down beside her. “Sounds chill.”

It did not sound chill.

Azzi’s parents. Tomorrow morning. Paige let her head tip back on the cushion and stared at the ceiling. She shouldn’t care. They weren’t dating. They hadn’t talked about it like that. There was no label, no pressure, no anything. But still.

She felt it again — that quiet, rising panic in her chest. Not the kind she felt before a race. Not adrenaline. This was different. Deeper. Harder to explain.

The idea of meeting Azzi’s parents didn’t scare her because she thought they’d dislike her.

It scared her because somewhere in the back of her mind, Paige was starting to realize she wanted them to like her.

And that was… not a casual thought.

They’d been orbiting this not-quite-friends, not-quite-something-else thing for months now. Neither of them naming it. Both of them pretending that the in-between space was enough. And maybe it was — for Azzi. She was so effortlessly open, so fine with just being seen, being known. She didn’t flinch when her friends asked if she and Paige were something. She didn’t hesitate when she put her hand on Paige’s back in public, or wore her hoodie that no one knows is her hoodie because it’s just a Ferrari team sweatshirt.

And Paige wasn’t like that.

Not with anyone but her dad and Drew. They knew. But no one else. Not really. Not the media, not her extended family, not even most of her friends back in Minnesota. She hadn’t meant for it to be a secret. It just hadn’t come up, and then it kept not coming up, and then it got harder to bring up at all.

But now she was here, about to stay the night again, and tomorrow she’d sit across from Azzi’s parents and pretend this was nothing. Or maybe not pretend. Maybe just exist in the weird space between pretending and hoping.

Azzi turned to look at her, her eyes soft in the lamplight.

“You okay?”

Paige nodded, a little too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Azzi leaned her head gently against Paige’s shoulder. Paige didn’t move.

She just sat there, suddenly feeling the weight of something unspoken pressing into her ribs. Wanting to say something, anything, and knowing she wouldn’t. Not tonight.

So instead, she leaned her cheek against Azzi’s hair and closed her eyes.

And let herself stay.

–

Brunch was at a small corner spot that smelled like lavender and espresso and fresh bread. It was the kind of place Azzi didn’t even need to look up directions to, she just knew it by heart, like half of New York. Paige followed her through the glass doors, head slightly ducked, even though it didn’t matter anymore. They’d already been seen. Photographed. Edited into slow-motion montages over TikTok sounds. She could hide her face, but a lot of damage had been done a long time ago.

Inside, the place buzzed with quiet conversation and the sound of cutlery tapping plates. Paige spotted Azzi’s parents right away. Katie and Tim Fudd were at a corner table, both standing halfway as Azzi approached, arms open, smiles already on.

Paige braced herself.

She’d never said it out loud — not to Azzi, not even to her dad who she texted this morning — but some part of her had expected this to go poorly. Not dramatic, just… off. The stiff politeness of people trying not to say what they really thought. The overcorrection of guarded approval. The silent evaluation of her outfit or her championship standings or her carefully ambiguous Instagram captions.

Instead, Tim gave her a warm nod and said, “Nice to see you again, Paige,” like they’d had brunch last week instead of never. And Katie pulled her into a brief, not-overbearing hug before they all sat down.

And then it was just… easy.

Not fake-easy, not tension-smoothed easy. Just real.

They ordered quickly. Pancakes for Azzi, a veggie omelet for Katie, black coffee for Tim, and whatever sounded least like food for Paige, which turned out to be eggs and toast. Then the conversation started, and to Paige’s surprise, it didn’t revolve around racing. Not at first.

Katie asked about Minnesota, about Paige’s dad, about what it was like to grow up with “so much snow and so little coffee.” Tim wanted to know what books she’d been reading lately, and Paige fumbled, caught off-guard, before muttering something about having started some novel and then abandoning it halfway through a flight to Monaco. That got a laugh out of Tim. Not a mocking one, just understanding. Then somehow they were all talking about bad travel reads and books people lied about finishing.

It was bizarre. In a good way.

Then the talk drifted back to F1. Not in the press conference kind of way, but more curious. Tim asked if Ferrari felt different this year. Katie asked Azzi if the pink helmet had been a branding move or just because she liked it. Paige waited for the tension to return, for the questions to circle back to contracts or media coverage or what it was like to be twenty-two and under a microscope.

But it didn’t. They just… talked.

And Paige found herself liking them.

Katie had Azzi’s calm, watchful energy. The kind that made you feel seen even if she hadn’t said a word. And Tim was like a low-stakes ESPN commentator, the kind of person who probably had opinions on your golf swing but would keep them to himself unless you asked. They loved Azzi. That was obvious. But it wasn’t overbearing. It was a quiet kind of pride, the kind that didn’t need to be stated.

And Paige… Paige didn’t feel tested.

She felt included.

At one point, while Azzi was busy explaining tire degradation to a very amused Tim, Katie leaned slightly toward Paige and said, “You’re different in person. More relaxed.”

Paige blinked. “Uh. Good different?”

Katie smiled, sipping her tea. “Very.”

There was no follow-up. No pointed glances or motherly warnings. Just that.

Later, Paige excused herself to the bathroom, more out of needing a breath than anything else. She leaned on the marble sink, staring at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed and she looked tired, maybe. Or just unguarded.

Azzi had made it look easy. Paige wasn’t sure if that was a skill or just who she was. But somehow this had gone… well. Better than well.

When she came back out, Azzi had stolen a bite of everyone’s food and was grinning unapologetically while Katie fake-scolded her. Paige slid back into her seat and caught Azzi’s eye.

And Azzi — completely relaxed, pancake syrup on the side of her mouth — leaned in close enough that only Paige could hear.

“They like you,” she said softly, like it was just a neutral truth.

Paige picked up her toast and replied without thinking, “I think I like them too.”

And when she looked up again, Azzi was already smiling.

–

Paige hadn’t intended to go to Montana.

Not really. Not officially. The flight was booked late at night on a whim, sometime after Azzi had fallen asleep beside her in the apartment and Paige had watched the skyline for hours, wide awake and heavy with something she couldn’t name. The car met her at JFK just before sunrise, no public post, no press to catch it. She arrived under low clouds and quieter thoughts, and she didn’t text her mom until the wheels hit the tarmac.

Paige: u home?

Amy called two minutes later. Paige answered before the first ring ended.

She hadn’t seen her mom since the off-season. Since before testing. Before Ferrari. Before Azzi. Before everything got loud again like last time. Like F3. The driveway looked the same. It was cracked in the same corner it always had been, gravel spitting up under the tires of the rental SUV. The mountains hovered in the distance like they’d been waiting.

Amy opened the front door the moment Paige’s feet hit the porch. And Paige, despite being twenty-two years old and leading the F1 world championship, dropped her bags and just let herself be hugged.

It didn’t fix anything. But it helped.

They made tea and sat at the kitchen island like nothing had changed. Like Paige hadn’t just flown across the country on a Tuesday with nothing but a carry-on and a handful of feelings she didn’t understand.

“So,” Amy said eventually, one eyebrow raised, “you wanna tell me what’s going on, or should I guess?”

Paige gave her a lopsided smile. “You’d guess right.”

Amy took a sip from her mug. “Try me anyway.”

And Paige did.

It came out slower than she meant, with a lot of pauses and not a lot of eye contact. But Amy didn’t rush her, didn’t fill the silences. Paige talked about Ferrari. About Monza. About what it felt like to lose by less than a second to someone you might actually be in love with and not even know it. She talked about the Red Bull thing—how they wanted a meeting, how her name was suddenly in headlines again like she didn’t still have a season to finish.

And then she talked about Azzi.

Not like gossip. Not even like a crush. Just… truthfully.

“She’s the best driver I’ve ever raced,” Paige said quietly. “And also the best person I’ve ever been around. And that’s… complicated.”

Amy didn’t speak, just pressed her hand lightly against Paige’s back. Paige kept going.

“She’s so comfortable. With herself. With people. She doesn’t even think about it, and I… I’m still hiding everything from half the world. I’m hiding what I have with her, I guess.” A pause. “And that’s not her fault.”

Amy just nodded.

Then Paige mentioned the concussion. The one from July. The one she brushed off because the team cleared her after a week and she didn’t want to miss Silverstone. She told Amy about the headaches that still came sometimes, about the way light sometimes made her flinch in the garage, about how her balance felt slightly off on stairs when she was tired.

Amy’s silence was different then. Sharper.

“Paige Madison.”

“Yeah,” Paige muttered, sheepish.

“That was two months ago.”

“I know.”

“You don’t wait two months to say something like that.”

“I didn’t wait,” Paige argued half-heartedly. “I just… didn’t bring it up.”

Amy gave her a look, one Paige remembered from middle school when she forgot to ice her knees. Then she stood behind her and placed both hands gently on Paige’s neck.

Paige didn’t protest.

Amy’s thumbs worked over the knots at the base of her skull, exactly like she used to when Paige was twelve and spent too long karting after dark. There was something about it. About being home, about being touched with that kind of care that made something in her eyes sting. But she blinked it away.

“I didn’t want to sit alone at my house.” she said softly.

Amy didn’t stop massaging. “I know. That’s why you came here.”

“Yeah.”

“You staying long?”

Paige shrugged. “Just a couple days. Then I’m back to New York. Or Maranello. Or wherever.”

Amy pressed into her shoulder blade, then eased up. “You ever think about slowing down?”

“All the time.”

“And?”

“I don’t know how.”

Amy kissed the top of her head. “You don’t have to know. But maybe try.”

Paige let herself close her eyes. Just for a minute.

It didn’t solve anything. Not the Azzi situation. Not the Red Bull meeting. Not the press or the performance pressure or the concussion symptoms she should’ve told her team about weeks ago. But sitting there, with her mother’s hands on her shoulders and the smell of home in her hair, it felt like something was okay. Even if just for now.

–

Baku.

There was something about the city circuit in Azerbaijan that Paige liked more than she meant to. It wasn’t just the long straights or the tricky, blind corners. It was the way the city felt alive around her when she was strapped in. Like she was flying through a place still moving, still breathing, the world flashing by in colored lights and old stone.

The castle walls came up faster than she remembered. That tight left-right-left flick through the medieval section always made her nervous her first year in Formula One. Now, it just made her grin.

“Okay, that’s green in Sector Two,” Luka’s voice crackled in her ear, all calm efficiency. “Car’s responding well.”

“Feels good,” she replied, flicking her wrist lightly on exit. “Bit of understeer if I push into that uphill right, but otherwise nice.”

Another pause on the line. “Copy. Tyre temps?”

“Stable. Tell Fred I’m better at managing now.”

“You say that every weekend,” Luka deadpanned.

Paige smirked. “Yeah, but this time it’s true.”

Luka’s laugh was a little more real this time, brief in her ears. “We’ll see in twenty laps.”

Practice was going smooth. No heavy traffic, no weird bumps, and the Ferrari was humming through the corners like it wanted to run. They’d done a good job on the setup this week, she could tell already. Braking felt crisp. Rear traction was right there. No wobble.

Azzi was already on track ahead of her, a few laps into her first run of the evening. Paige glanced down the straight and caught a flash of her teammate’s car disappearing around the turn. Same red livery as hers, low under the lights, moving like it was skating on rails.

She didn’t mean to say anything. It just kind of came out.

“Where’s Azzi on the delta?”

And it was the way she said it.

The tone. The way her voice dipped around the name , softer, quieter, like she was asking about someone she knew from before all this. Luka didn’t answer right away, and Paige knew she’d just told on herself in the dumbest possible way.

“Oh,” Luka finally said, casual and unbothered in that dangerous way. “Now you care where Azzi’s running?”

Paige huffed, fake annoyed but not exactly denying anything. “I always care.”

“Mmhmm. She’s P4 right now. Two-tenths behind you.”

“Okay.” She clicked a paddle shift with unnecessary force. “Copy.”

“McLaren’s ahead of both of you. Gotta keep it tight.”

“Yeah, I saw. They’re on a tear.”

She adjusted her line on the next corner, just to shave off a tenth, maybe two. It worked. The Ferrari responded like it had something to prove, the kind of balance she hadn’t felt since Monza. Still, the McLarens looked quick — maybe too quick for comfort. Paige didn’t mind, not really. It made things interesting.

And besides, she was leading the world championship.

And Ferrari was running away with the constructors’.

She didn’t need to dominate every weekend. She just needed to finish higher than Azzi.

And that was becoming harder.

“She’s closing in,” Luka said a few laps later, a mild warning in his tone.

Paige didn’t answer. Just opened the throttle on exit and pushed.

–

Dr. Liao’s office was always cold, no matter what country they were racing in. Paige knew better than to complain when the doctor liked it that way. “Keeps the brain alert,” she always said, which didn’t make a ton of sense to Paige, but she wasn’t the one with two medical degrees and a license to ground drivers.

So she just sat still on the edge of the padded exam table, hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows, waiting for the light to turn green on the retinal scan.

“Still a little photophobic?” Dr. Liao asked gently, tapping something into her tablet without looking up.

“Less than I was,” Paige said. “More when I’m tired. Or if I forget my tinted visor.”

“You haven’t forgotten it, though.”

“No,” Paige smirked. “Scared of you.”

Dr. Liao smiled. “Good. I like that you’re scared of me.”

They moved through the rest of the checkup, reflexes, balance, peripheral tests. It was routine by now. Paige knew the drill and the doctor knew her, enough to know when something small was off. This time, there wasn’t. Paige passed clean.

“You rested well during the break?” Dr. Liao asked, her tone lighter now.

Paige shrugged, stretching her neck as the doctor wrote a final note. “Montana for a bit. With my mom.”

Dr. Liao raised a brow, but not unkindly. “That’s new.”

“Yeah, I know,” Paige said. “Just… wanted to see her.”

“How was it?”

“Nice. Cold. My mom gave me a lecture.”

“As she should,” Dr. Liao replied, smiling. “You’re good to go. Try not to hit anything hard.”

“Only curbs.”

“That’s a lie.”

Paige laughed.

–

The meeting room smelled faintly of engine grease and lemon cleaner. Azzi’s engineer, Mateo, always brought a bottle of something citrus-scented and sprayed the corners like a dad preparing for houseguests. Luka was already seated, coffee in hand, and Azzi had her legs kicked up on the chair next to hers, scrolling through data on her iPad.

Fred was running point on the strategy discussion. Calm, clipped French-English, all business. The McLarens had shown top-line speed in practice — more than expected — but both cars had struggled with degradation. Tire wear was going to matter, and the engineers knew it.

“It’s a long-game race,” Mateo said. “We don’t win this in the first fifteen laps.”

Luka nodded. “We can take them. They’ll push early, try to break you. Let them. Make them overheat.”

Paige watched Azzi glance at her then, just once, like they were both already thinking the same thing. They’d done this dance before. Managed races better than anyone else on the grid. The Ferrari wasn’t just fast now. It was smart. Smooth. Balanced.

Paige felt it in her ribs already. They could win this.

The meeting wrapped and most of the engineers filtered out. Some off to brief the mechanics, others to check real-time sims. Azzi lingered, eyes still scanning her tablet. Paige had her AirPods in, low but clear. A beat-heavy R&B track hummed gently in her ears.

Azzi looked up. “What do you listen to before meetings?”

Paige blinked, pulling out one bud. “Music.”

Azzi deadpanned. “No kidding.”

Paige smirked. “Mostly R&B. Sometimes gospel.”

Azzi gave her a look — a curious one, not mocking. “Gospel?”

“Yeah,” Paige shrugged. “When I’m stressed. Or if the flights are bad. Just… helps.”

Azzi nodded slowly, like she was adding it to some invisible file in her head.

“You in the gym a lot?” she asked after a beat.

Paige tilted her head, amused by the sudden pivot. “Between seasons, yeah. Like…five, six days a week. During the season? Less. I try to get a lift in when we’re not traveling but…”

“But you’re always traveling.”

“Exactly.”

Azzi nodded. “You can tell, though.”

Paige blinked. “Tell what?”

“That you lift,” Azzi said plainly. “Your arms.”

Paige looked at her, unsure if that was meant to be neutral or not, and Azzi didn’t elaborate. Just turned her attention back to her screen like she hadn’t just said something that made Paige hyper-aware of how close they were standing.

It hung there a second, unsaid, before Azzi stood and brushed her hoodie sleeves down.

“I’ll see you at briefing.”

“Yeah,” Paige said, still holding the AirPod in her hand. “See you.”

–

This might be the worst (or best) decision of Paige’s life.

It was late, but not late enough for the world to sleep. The streets below were still awake with the hum of Baku’s nightlife, headlights catching on wet cobblestones and music spilling from narrow windows. The hotel hallway was quieter, carpeted and still, muffled enough that Paige could hear the small knock of her own heartbeat in her ears as she lifted her hand and knocked gently on the door.

She didn’t wait long.

The door swung open and there was Azzi, barefoot in black sweatshorts and a threadbare Georgetown hoodie, curls pulled back and eyes soft like she’d been half expecting this.

“Hey, P,” she said, voice low.

Paige stepped inside without a word, just nodded, lips pressed tight together in a way she knew would betray her nerves. Azzi let the door fall shut behind them and leaned her back against it, folding her arms loosely across her chest.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The hotel room smelled faintly of vanilla lotion and whatever tea Azzi had brewed earlier. The scent was warm, lived-in, hers.

Paige didn’t sit down. She stood there like she had to say it on her feet.

“I don’t know what we are,” she said finally, quietly. “I think I want to. Know, I mean.”

Azzi tilted her head slightly, but she didn’t interrupt.

Paige swallowed. “I didn’t come here for anything casual. Not tonight. Not anymore.”

Azzi’s mouth twitched, not into a smile, but something close. “You don’t have to say it P. I know.”

“Well… I did,” Paige said. “Because I’ve been… holding back. From you. And I think you’ve known it. And I think you let me.”

Azzi nodded slowly. “I didn’t want you to have to tell anyone anything you weren’t ready to say out loud. Especially not about being gay.”

Paige looked down, thumb brushing the inside of her palm. “I told my mom… About us, I mean.”

Azzi’s eyebrows lifted, just slightly. “Yeah?”

“She might’ve… nudged me.”

Now Azzi did laugh, soft and warm and familiar. “I figured.”

There was a pause, the kind that only made sense when two people had lived in the same small tension for months. Azzi pushed off the door finally, walked closer — not fast, not slow — and stopped in front of Paige, close enough that Paige could smell her shampoo. Close enough that her fingers itched to touch her.

“You came to me,” Azzi said, searching her face. “I waited for that. I’m proud of you for that..”

“I know.”

“I want to be with you,” Azzi said simply. “Not for anyone else. Not for the media. Just for me and you.”

“I want that too,” Paige said, and her voice cracked just slightly on the last word. “Even if I’m still… you know..”

“I know that too.”

They stood there, barely apart, the city still humming outside but far, far away from this room.

“It’s better to be private anyway,” Azzi said. “Cleaner. Easier. And we don’t have to care what anyone else thinks. I just want… you.”

Paige let her breath go — shaky, but full. She took one step forward and Azzi didn’t move, just let her. Their foreheads touched, then Azzi’s hand slid to Paige’s wrist.

Then her gaze dipped.

“Alright,” Azzi said with a little smirk. “Now I wanna see those biceps without the sweatshirt in the way.”

Paige let out a laugh, shaky but real.

“You’ve been thinking about my arms?”

Azzi didn’t blink. “They haunt me.”

Paige grinned, finally, and reached down to peel off the hoodie. Her t-shirt underneath clung to her skin. Warm from nerves and night and maybe from how hard her heart was still pounding.

Azzi’s eyes lingered.

Paige flushed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m sincere,” Azzi said. “And sincere people deserve front row seats.”

“Is that so?”

Azzi’s fingers curled into the hem of Paige’s shirt. “You’re the one who came over at midnight babe.”

Paige exhaled. “Yeah. I did.”

And she didn’t regret it.

Not even for a second.

#azzi fudd #paige bueckers #paige bueckers x azzi fudd #pazzi #uconn wbb #uconnwbb #pazzi fics #dallas wings

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moonstonejj · 2 months ago

Text

A Romantasy Dream

Summary: Aemond stumbles upon his best friend quietly reading in a corner of the library and, being his usual teasing self, snatches the book from her. He starts reading it out loud—only to realize it’s a smutty romance, and the main character just happens to look a lot like him.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: Modern!AU, First person narration, Mature content, semi-public sex

Aemond’s fingers tightened around her waist, sparking a slow-burning fire that spread through her entire body. The hilltop belonged to them alone — except for his dragon, watching from afar— and now, they could finally surrender to the desires they had kept restrained for far too long.

His fingers traced down her back, swiftly untying the laces of her dress while pressing soft yet urgent kisses along the curve of the neck he so deeply craved. The prince regent could no longer summon the strength or the will to resist the formidable sensations his lover stirred within him.

Stripping away the lady’s garment became an urgent, all-consuming task, rewarded instantly by the sight of her bare skin. The mere glimpse of her exposed breast was sufficient to intensify the prince's arousal to its peak.

Cassella cast her eyes downward, a flush rising in her cheeks as she hesitantly tried to shield her upper body with her arms. Aemond, sensing her vulnerability, gently took hold of her wrists and pressed soft kisses to the backs of her hands–his touch both reassuring and ardent.

“You are the most beautiful sight I have ever beheld,” he murmured, his voice husky with reverence.

With quiet authority, the new regent drew her wrists behind her back, holding them in place with one hand while his other slid to the nape of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair as he tilted her head up to meet his gaze.

“I forbid you to hide yourself from me.”

Aemond captured Cassella’s lips in a kiss, unleashing his long-suppressed fury.

The book is suddenly snatched from my hands just as I’m turning the page, and fury flares in my chest. I shoot to my feet, heart pounding, already halfway through the scolding I’m about to unleash on whoever dared to ruin my one moment of quietude in this godsforsaken library.

I freeze for a second when I see Aemond staring at the cover, that infuriating half-smile playing on his face.

Not the Aemond, obviously, just my irritating best friend who lives to get under my skin and happens to share a name with the prince.

“Give it back, Aemond,” I say, stretching out my hand, waiting for the return.

“What do we have here?” Aemond says, flipping the book open to the exact page I was on.

He lifts it closer to his face, eyes narrowing with interest, and panic surges through me as I realize he is about to start reading.

I launch myself at him in a desperate attempt to snatch the book back, but he easily sidesteps me, holding it up just out of my reach.

Of course he does. Tall bastard.

“His lips claimed her with unwavering authority, leaving no room for resistance. His tongue swept into her mouth, commanding, possessive, dismantling every last trace of hesitation. With fluid, deliberate grace, the prince guided her down onto the grass as he trailed kisses along her neck.”

Aemond recites the paragraph like he’s performing Shakespeare, complete with exaggerated flourish and mock drama — except for the playful smirk curling his lips and the obnoxious tone he knows will piss me off.

“His hand slid from her wrists to cup her right breast, drawing a needy moan from the lady’s lips. She responded instinctively, fingers tangling in the muscles of his arm and threading through his long hair.”

My cheeks burn with every phrase he recites. This is so fucking embarassing, and he makes sure to make it worse with that infuriating smirk.

“Fucking stop, Aemond”

He completely ignores me and launches into the next paragraph. I’m certain he’s having the time of his life watching me squirm.

“Not even Cassella’s eagerness could have prepared her for the overwhelming rush of sensation that surged through her as the prince’s tongue traced slow, deliberate circles around her nipple. It was a touch both reverent and intoxicating — each flick igniting sparks beneath her skin and sending shivers coursing down her spine.

“Oh, Aemond… this feels so good.” “

“AEMOND?” he exclaims, baffled, lowering the book to his face. I seize the moment, snatching it back while he is distracted by the revelation.

I quickly pick up my backpack and shove the book inside, zipping it shut in one swift motion, relieved to finally put an end to this nonsense.

“THE PRINCE’S NAME IS AEMOND? He says with a laugh, his voice still obnoxiously loud.

“Stop fucking screaming. This is still a library, you dumbass.” I mutter slowly, still too mortified to meet his eyes.

“You’ve been reading porn about me?” He lowers his voice and asks between laughs.

“First of all, it’s not about you,” I snap. “ Did you know two people are allowed to have the same name? Wild concept, I know.” Sarcasm usually floods every conversation we have.

“Second, It’s not porn.”

“Oh, come on, sweetie, ” He drawls, that infuriating smirk never leaving his face.

You’re really going to pretend ‘Aemond’ is a super common name? Let’s be real — it’d be way more honest to admit you think about me when you’re reading your…porn.”

Now he smiles — fully, and I hate it. I hate it even more because he is kind of right.

In my defense, no, I don’t intentionally picture him when I imagine Prince Aemond. Sure, when I first started the book, the name overlap made it impossible not to — but I quickly realized that Prince Aemond is a charming, cunning gentleman who would be deeply offended to be compared to my insufferable best friend.

Don’t get me wrong — I love my Aemond. We’ve been best friends since elementary school. We grew up in the same neighborhood, always played together, and throughout the years, our bond evolved into something like a sibling relationship, with all the affection and all the annoyance that comes with it.

The real problem started when the spicy parts of the book kicked in. Like the Prince, Aemond also had long, smooth hair — and thanks to Cassella’s obsession with royal muscles, I couldn’t help but start thinking about his too. He’s not overtly muscular or anything, but he’s lean and well-defined… annoyingly similar to the Prince. He is tall, with dreamy light blue eyes and an elongated, pointy nose that looks just perfect to — And that was when I realized I’d been thinking too much about how attractive a find my best friend.

I know — falling in love with your best friend is a total cliché, and I’ve prohibited myself from falling into this trap. What Aemond and I have is too important to mess up just because I’m horny.

We’re both introverts who’ve never really pushed ourselves to build new, deep connections. New friends came and went, but we always had each other — and that’s the one constant that’s always mattered. I just can’t ruin this.

I just need to act playful and casual, just like I always have. I should have been doing that from the moment this idiot grabbed my book.

Okay. Deep breath. I’ll simply slightly steer the conversation in a different direction.

“At least I’m not the one whose phone has tabs open on page 26 of a cornhub search.”

YES. His grin falters. The playful glint in his eyes dims, replaced by something quieter, thoughtful. For a split second, he just stares at me, contemplative.

“That is oddly specific.”

I smirk. “Got you there, didn’t I?”

“How the fuck do you know that? Are you spying on my phone now?

There’s a flicker of real concern in his eyes, and the satisfaction I get from it nearly wipes away all my earlier humiliation.

“Calm down, man. I only know because you’re a nasty little freak who hands off your phone for internet browsing without cleaning up your filthy tabs.”

Derision is all over my tone. I finally get to return all the teasing he’s been throwing at me, and I’m not about to waste the chance.

Here’s what happened: we went to a college party in some district we didn’t even know. The night was great — until around 1 a.m., when Aemond got so drunk he started feeling nauseous. So, being the good friend that I am, I offered to go find a 24-hour pharmacy and buy him some medicine. But I’d left my phone at the apartment, so I needed his to look it up. That’s when I saw it.

“I knew you were peverted, but damn. Page twenty-six? What the hell were you even searching for to get you that deep? I say, grinning widely.

“That's none of your business.” His jaw tenses. Now he is the one getting annoyed. Good Job, me.

“Well, it becomes my business when you start mocking me for simply reading a fantasy book that happens to feature some sensual scenes.”

I said it coolly, a sly smile tugging my lips. I loved pushing his buttons.

“Right,” he snaps, his voice sharpening like a blade, “ because your porn is much better than mine.” His jaw clenches, and his light blue eyes flash with a mix of irritation, defiance, and something else, clearly struggling to keep his tone even.

“First of all, it’s not porn,” I say, crossing my arms in front of my chest, standing firm in my conviction. “ Second, you’re the one making this a contest.” I raise my eyebrows, letting the words hang just long enough to sting.

“I’m simply curious about what required such…intense browsing.” I lean in slightly, my body tilting just enough to catch his gaze head-on, a teasing glint in mine.

His hands close around my waist so suddenly that it steals my breath, and then I’m pinned against the wall. His right hand rises to my jaw, pressing it firmly, grounding me in place.

“You fucking know what you’re doing, don’t you?” Aemond’s voice is low, edged with something I can’t quite name as his gaze trails over my face.

I blink, startled. Wait — what? What the hell is going on?

Then I catch the way his eyes drop to my cleavage, still burning with that same intense focus — and I can’t believe he's actually doing this.

“Dude, what the fuck?” My voice comes out more confused than angry. I twist in his grip, trying to get free, but he only tightens it.

His eyes snap back to mine — and that’s when I see it. The heat. The want. My confusion curdles into fear.

No. No, no, no. This cannot be happening.

“I have to dig that deep because,” he breathes, eyes burning into mine, “I can’t come unless the girl looks like you.”

My stomach drops.

A strange, hollow ringing fills my ears, and I just stand there, like my brain short-circuited and forgot how to command the rest of me.

My hands, once braced against his chest to push him away, fall limply to my sides. My knees feel weirdly soft, like they’re not entirely sure they can hold me up.

I stare.

Not because I want to — because I can’t look away. Like I’m waiting to fall from my bed and wake up from this nightmare…or dream. I’m not entirely sure.

What I do know is that I can’t ruin this.

We can’t ruin what we have.

“Aemond…”

But it’s hard to think straight with that look in his eyes–dreamy, dazed, intense, like I’m the only thing he sees. And his lips…they’re parted, just barely, like they’re waiting for mine.

“Tell me you feel the same.” He pleads in a low and soft voice. His left hand begins a slow ascent from my waist, trailing up the side of my body.

I shiver.

Gods. His touch feels so good.

Even with the layer of fabric between us, I can still feel the intensity in his hand — gentle, deliberate, he seems to know how to arouse me.

And just like that, I’m thinking about all the little things I like about him again. His voice — smooth as silk, low and commanding, like it could wrap around me and hold me still.

And his hair—long and silky, brushing against my arm, weightless. I’ve always loved how it frames him, how it moves with elegance, like it has a personality of its own.

It’s maddening.

I lower my gaze to his chest. It’s easier to face the worn graphic of his heavy metal shirt. I reach for every scrap of strength inside me, steadying myself for what I need to say.

“You’re my best friend, Aemond. We can’t do this.”

I focus on his heavy breathing.

We stay locked in place for a few seconds. I silently pray to the gods that he’ll listen to reason, that he’ll let me go before this spins even further out of control.

Then Aemond lifts my chin, his thumb brushing the edge of my bottom lip.

“Look me in the eye,” he murmurs. “Tell me you don’t want me and I’ll let you go.”

He pauses, just for a second. Swallows.

“ We’ll forget what I said.”

I’m locked in his gaze. I try to speak, but the words won’t come — caught somewhere between my mind and my mouth, like my body is waging war against my own reason.

“Say it.”

He pulls me even closer, his body pressed to mine, his lips just a breath away. And right then, I know there’s no escape. This is a battle I’ve lost.

So I press my lips to his, and Aemond moves like he’s been holding himself back for years.

His mouth crashes into mine, urgent and searching, like he’s starving for something only I can give. The kiss is all heat and desperation, and my thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm. There’s no space left between us, no air, no room for doubt — only us.

His lips move over mine with a rhythm that leaves me breathless. Every brush, every tug on my nape, every tilt of his head ignites something deeper. My fingers tangle in the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him like he is the only solid thing in the world.

I slide my hand to the muscles of his arm and press my palm against it, letting out a soft, involuntary moan. Aemond pulls back just enough to meet my eyes — and smiles. Slow. Knowing. His gaze glows with something electric.

Then he kisses me again, he is bolder this time, hungrier. His hands slide down my back and settle on my ass, squeezing firmly through the denim. The sudden pressure draws a gasp from me, swallowed instantly by his mouth.

My body arches into him, reacting on instinct, lost in the heat of his touch and the way his lips claim mine. Every moment is fire.

Aemond sets a trail of wet kisses along my neck, each one sending a spark skittering down my spine. One of his hands slips beneath my blouse, brushing the skin on my waist directly. The touch is intimate and maddeningly gentle, like he’s memorizing the feel of me.

I squeeze his shoulders. I’m so lost in the moment — his breath on my skin, his hands exploring with a hunger that sets my nerves ablaze — that thinking becomes impossible. There’s no room for doubt. I’ve never been with anyone this eager, this instinctively in tune with me. It’s almost overwhelming, the way he touches me as if I might vanish if he lets go.

His hand finds my breast, cupping it over the thin fabric of my bra. The material does little to hide my arousal. Aemond lets out a low, needy moan when his fingertips graze the hardened peak of my nipple, as if the sensation hits him just as intensely as it does me.

That might have been the moment he lost control. Before I can process it, Aemond’s fingers are on my shirt, unbuttoning the top few with a feverish urgency. He pulls down my bra, exposing my breast fully to the cool air and him.

A rush of heat floods my cheeks. The slight shame crashes into me like cold water, jolting my senses back to life. Gods — we’re still in the library. Tucked behind a bookshelf, yes, but it’s still a public place. I can’t let this continue.

I don’t have time to act on my thoughts — Aemond’s already there, his mouth closing around my left nipple, his tongue swirling in slow, deliberate circles. The sensation rips a gasp from my throat, and a deep, involuntary shiver coils down to my very core.

His other hand slides up to cup my right breast, fingers splaying possessively. Fuck. Every nerve in me is lit — he’s unraveling me one stroke, one lick, one squeeze at a time.

I fist my hand in his hair, clinging to it in a desperate attempt to stifle the moan rising in my throat as he continues to lick, dragging, pausing to flick, then flattening in broad, heated passes.

This is all so wrong. Gods, help me.

A loud thud breaks through the library, followed by the clatter of several books hitting the floor a few aisles away.

I freeze.

So does Aemond.

The spell shatters.

I pull away, breathless, and fumble to recompose myself, clothes, thoughts, everything.

I turn back to him, eyes lowered. I can't help but notice the bulge straining against his pants while I lift my gaze. My body reacts, traitorous and wanting, but I take a step back, pulling away from the gravity of him.

I’m in control again.

He’s still catching his breath, his chest rising and falling in uneven waves. His lips are swollen, kissed raw and glistening, and his eyes — gods, his eyes — look brighter than I’ve ever seen them.

“This was a mistake. A complete mistake.” My voice is steady, but it costs me. “ For the love we have, for what we are to each other, we need to forget this ever happened.”

His face shifts. His eyes dim in confusion. Something in him breaks.

It nearly undoes me, but I know it’s better this way.

I don’t wait for his reply. I can’t risk looking at his lips for too long. Shouldering my backpack, I turn and head for the library’s main doors.

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

Author’s Note:

This is the first fanfiction I’ve written in years. I know I have so much to learn, but I decided to publish this as a way of telling myself — and anyone reading — that I want to try :).

P.S. I might write a sequel to this.

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen x f!reader #aemond targaryen x fem!reader #aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen smut #aemond x oc #aemond x fem!oc #aemond x female #aemond smut #modern!aemond #modern!aemond smut #modern!aemond targaryen #modern!aemond x reader #modern aemond

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always-just-red · 6 months ago

Note

Hello! Y'know that one line of Sylus talking about his muscles saying "They're not real. But they move." The way he casually admits to not being entirely human

Could I request something angsty where Sylus has an uncanny valley aura about him where you just FELL something's not right and Sylus is all :( cause he can't make the MC feel comfortable around him but it's not like he can fix it either

Just a quick little fic for this whilst I work on a longer fic! Realised like two paragraphs in that I had the opportunity to do the most evil thing ever, so I did!! 😇 I'm really proud of this one guys pls show it some love! And thanks for the prompt, anon! You are my co-conspirator in all this evilness, mwa ha ha DISCLAIMER: This work does not reflect the feelings of the author, who would die for Sylus! Wants to hold Sylus's face in her hands and tell him he is everything good and pure in this dark, cynical chess game we call life! 😎✨

Monster

Sylus x Reader 🩸

Summary: A Deepspace Hunter's instincts never lie...

Genre: angst oh my GOSH so much angst

Warnings/Additional tags: f!reader, AU I guess as this is a different spin on an existing scene, *passes you some tissues* here you might need these! 🥰

| Word count: 800 | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

You know monsters.

Earth-shattering. Sky-shearing. Teeth, reckless: always striving for something soft to sink into. To make a home in and to eviscerate. You’ve been grazed by it— kissed by that violence more times than you can count— and you are not soft anymore; there isn’t space for it. There are scars and then there’s armour, the kind you carry with you, the kind you couldn’t shed if you tried, and you haven’t tried, because why would you?

Horror isn’t loud and cataclysmic, it’s quiet. It’s those few seconds before your Hunter’s watch signals a fluctuation of Metaflux. A premonition, trained, or maybe just human instinct, raw and vulnerable: something is wrong, here. That prickle on your skin— the tip of that claw, raked, snaked down your spine. You feel it whenever a Wanderer lurks in the shadows, or beneath a stretch of water that’s unfathomably deep and far, far too still.

Sometimes, you feel it when you look at Sylus.

I know monsters.

Before you, a fragment of a mural tells a very old story, and beside you, a red-eyed man is thinking of flowers. It’s late, and the museum is quiet. You look at the fragment’s centre, where a female warrior is plunging a blade through a dragon’s heart. “Look,” you say, nodding at the figure with a half-smile. “My predecessor.”

Sylus hums thoughtfully. “What makes you say that?”

“Because that looks like a standard Tuesday to me. Some things never change, huh?”

But other things do. With a chuckle, Sylus draws closer to you. The rumble of his laughter is warm and familiar, and his hand is near yours as he bends to examine the mural. He wants you to take it, to thread your fingers through his like you do when you resonate, when you need his power and he needs yours, except neither of you need it now. Why, then?

You know. Of course you know.

The man is all softness, voice and gaze like an afternoon sun in late summer that lulls you to sleep with thick, golden light. Always trying to evoke a dream. It’s weakness, it’s the dragon on the mural with a split heart, bleeding, and you’ll never understand why Sylus wears his on his sleeve.

It’ll be the death of him, one day. It’s set in stone. Right here.

When Sylus touches you— when the tip of his finger catches yours and makes an honest, desperate request— you don’t pull away. Something inside tugs at you, warns you, tells you a monster without a sword in its chest is one that can bite. What colour of blood would your hands prefer? His? Your own?

Your veins are cold and something is wrong, but no, you don’t pull away, because Sylus knows monsters too. Some declare themselves with twisted horns, razorlike wings and a long, barbed tail. Others declare themselves with something as subtle as a touch, withdrawn.

When Sylus steps away from you, that gash of dread closes up inside you. Heals like his wounds: no mess, no scar, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

He’s had a long time to look at the mural, and he smiles wistfully at the woman at its centre. “Some things never change,” he echoes, and it sounds as though there’s blood in his lungs, his throat, and that he has to swallow it down to say anything at all. It must sting.

“All in a day’s work for a Deepspace Hunter,” you joke flatly. You’re not even sure Sylus hears it.

Both of you stare at your fragment of history: an execution, a liberation. A matter of perspective. “Maybe…” Sylus begins, but then thinks better of it.

“Maybe what?”

He’s seeing something you don’t.

“Maybe what, Sylus?”

He spares you a glance. “The pose,” he says, indicating the warrior. “It’s ambiguous. Perhaps she isn’t slaying the beast, she could be—”

“Saving it?”

You’re considering a new perspective. Tapping a finger against your cheek as you lock eyes with your history— that elusive dream— ever oblivious to what’s behind you:

There’s a look of sheer, infinite longing— a gaze that’s been empty of you for too long, so sick of starvation, and determined to have its fill in the few, fleeting moments it can. It’s ravenous: dangerous, sharp, and irrevocably yours, if you would only turn around.

There are teeth and claws, but they’re all of them tame, and that makes them soft, doesn’t it? You could trust them on your skin. Turn around.

You do, and you are not the girl from the mural who tucked wildflowers into his hair and who sung him a song he still hears in his sleep. Sylus’s heart aches.

You are the girl from the mural who’s slaying a dragon, because it’s the oldest story, the only story.

Your eyes harden.

“Who would pull out a sword to save a monster?”

#🖋rach is actually writing #sylus x reader #sylus #love and deepspace #lads sylus #lnds sylus #l&ds sylus #qin che #sylus x mc #sylus x you #lads x reader #lads #lnds #l&ds

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taringill · 8 months ago

Text

MY FAVOURITE GIRLS!💕 I'VE FINALLY DONE IT!😭

МОИ ЛЮБИМЫЕ ДЕВОЧКИ!💕 Я НАКОНЕЦ-ТО ДОДЕЛАЛА!😭

I know that I have made almost no changes to the Rouge, but this is my opinion. I don't mind if the creators make changes👍 Although, come on, cinematic beasts literally copy their gaming counterparts with minimal changes, or no changes at all. So what are you going to do to me?😁

Я знаю, что в Руж я почти не внесла изменений, но это мой взгляд. Я не против, если создатели внесут изменения👍 Хотя, камон, киношные звери буквально копируют свои игровые аналоги с минимальными изменения, либо без изменений вообще. Так чтоооо, что вы мне сделаете?😁

Guys, I want to express my opinion. You don't have to read it if you're not interested. I, like many, am waiting for the appearance of Amy and Rouge, I really wait and want to! But I was struck by the craziness of some fans. Who knows, he understands what I mean. Knuckles is confused with Amy (in one shot from the first trailer for Sonic movie 3) because of the lighting, which makes Knuckles' hairstyle lighter and screams about it on every corner. They think that Amy was cut out of some of the footage of the first trailer because... Sometimes they look empty, as if there is room for another character... What the fuck? I don't understand, should the whole screen be packed with characters in every corner? Even an ordinary dent on the asphalt is confused with a shadow (I'm not about the Shadow the hedgehog)!🤦‍♀️ Fuck... There are simply zero arguments. It sounds much more realistic that, for example, the same Amy may appear in the scene after the credits. But these are just rumors. Before the release of the second trailer, I realized that some fans had gone crazy... And after the release of the second trailer, I was convinced that I was right, so you don't have to argue with me. It's useless. In addition, before the release of the second trailer, there were leaks of toys for the third film and NOT A SINGLE HINT OF AMY OR ANYONE ELSE. There were only Sonic, Knuckles, Tails, Eggman and Shadow. Guys, if there was anyone else in the movie, this character would be in the toy set. Recently, new toys were leaked and there is also no one new except Shadow, because no one else appeared in the film.

Okay, I also thought that Amy and Rouge would appear, because the third film is an adaptation of the game SA2: Rouge, who worked for G.U.N. and Amy, who dissuaded Shadow from killing humanity. And I remember the girl I was arguing with, using it as an argument. To which I will answer that, guys, these films are A NEW, ALTERNATIVE UNIVERSE, therefore A MODIFIED CANON. And that's okay, it's a NEW UNIVERSE. Do you want to see the same thing? Well, if you're an ardent and old fan, then of course you want to see the same thing. But I'm not. Let's be honest, almost anyone can dissuade Shadow: Sonic or Tom, for example. And Amy will get her new role in fourth film. What's wrong? As for me, everything is fine. This is a new universe! It was clear from the first film)))

Oh, and do you remember the girl I mentioned in the second paragraph? Attention! She told me that the creators would be sexist if they didn't add Amy or Rouge fully to the third film🤡 I'm afraid of people like that...💀 What kind of moronic fashion is it to call everyone (especially men) sexists for no reason? Just to be offended🤦‍♀️ This abomination is infuriating🤮 I wish this disease would go away as soon as possible... If you don't agree with me, then just accept it. Poor creators, my God... They're already trying to please the fans, but they're still bad... Guys, the creators have THEIR OWN plans for THEIR MODIFIED canon. Let's think logically, if there are few new characters in the film, then MORE attention will be paid to them, therefore MORE disclosure and therefore the character is MORE INTERESTING, and not just a stupid fanservice...

Phew, I've spoken out... There may be touchy people here, but I don't care. You can't change my mind, so just accept it. I know it's gone, but I still wanted to speak out. I have the right.

Ребят, хочу высказать своё мнение. Можете не читать, если вам не интересно. Я, как и многие, жду появления Эми и Руж, очень жду и хочу! Но меня поразила шиза некоторых фанатов. Кто знает, тот понимает, о чём я. То Наклза путают с Эми (в одном кадре из первого трейлера Соника в кино 3) из-за освещения, которое делает причёску Наклза светлее и кричат об этом на каждом углу. То считают, что Эми вырезали из некоторых кадров первого трейлера, потому что... Видетили они выглядят пустыми, как будто там есть место для ещё одного персонажа... Что блять? Я не пойму, весь экран должен быть забит персонажами в каждом углу? Даже обычную вмятину на асфальте путают с тенью!🤦‍♀️ Пиздец... Аргументов просто ноль. Гораздо реалистичнее звучит, что, например, та же Эми может появиться в сцене после титров. Но это только слухи. Я до выхода второго трейлера понимала, что некоторые фанаты сошли с ума... И после выхода второго трейлера я убедилась в своей правоте, так что можете не спорить со мной. Это бесполезно. К тому же до выхода второго трейлера были сливы игрушек по третьему фильму и НЕ ЕДИНОГО НАМЁКА НА ЭМИ ИЛИ КОГО-ТО ДРУГОГО. Там были только Соник, Наклз, Тейлз, Эггман и Шедоу. Ребят, если бы в фильме был бы ещё кто-то, то этот персонаж был бы в наборе игрушек. Недавно слили новые игрушки и там тоже нет никого нового кроме Шедоу, потому что в фильме никто кроме него не появился.

Окей, я тоже думала, что появятся Эми и Руж, потому что третий фильм адаптация игры SA 2: Руж, которая работала на ГАН и Эми, которая отговорила Шедоу убивать человечество. И я помню девку, с которой я спорила, приводила это как аргумент. На что я отвечу, что, ребят, эти фильмы ЭТО НОВАЯ, АЛЬТЕРНАТИВНАЯ ВСЕЛЕННАЯ, следовательно ИЗМЕНЁННЫЙ КАНОН. И это нормально, это же НОВАЯ ВСЕЛЕННАЯ. Вы хотите видеть одно и то же? Ну, если вы ярый и старый фанат, то, конечно, вы хотите видеть одно и то же. А я нет. Будем честны, Шедоу может отговорить почти кто угодно: Соник или Том, например. А Эми получит свою, новую роль в 4-части. Что вас не устраивает? Как по мне, всё нормально. Это новая вселенная! По первому фильму это было понятно)))

А, и помните девку, которую я упоминала во втором абзаце? Внимание! Она мне сказала, что создатели будут сексистами, если они не добавят Эми или Руж полноценно в третий фильм🤡 Я боюсь таких людей...💀 Что за дебильная мода называть всех (особенно парней) сексистами без повода? Лишь бы обидеться🤦‍♀️ Бесит эта мерзость🤮 Поскорее бы эта болезнь прошла... Если не согласны со мной, то просто смиритесь. Бедные создатели, Господи... Они и так стараются угодить фанатам, но они всё равно плохие... Ребят, у создателей СВОИ планы на СВОЙ ИЗМЕНЁННЫЙ канон. Давайте рассуждать логически, если в фильме новых персонажей будет немного, то им будет уделено БОЛЬШЕ внимания, следовательно, БОЛЬШЕ раскрытия и следовательно, персонаж ИНТЕРЕСНЕЕ, а не просто тупой фансервис...

Фух, высказалась... Тут могут быть обиженки, но мне всё равно. Меня не переубедить, поэтому смиритесь просто. Я знаю, что это прошло, но я всё равно хотела высказаться. Имею право.

#art #my art #my thoughts #fanart #sonic the hedgehog #sth #amy rose #amy #sth amy #rouge the bat #rouge #sth rouge #not official #sonic movie #sonic movie 3 #sonic the hedgehog 3

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luminousbeings-crudematter · 1 year ago

Text

folie à deux

or: the toxic ex boyfriend Ghost AU

PAIRING: Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader

WARNINGS: || 18+ only MDNI || Toxic masculinity || Possessive & obsessive behaviour || Slut shaming || Groping || Gaslighting || Implied & referenced cheating || Mildly dubious consent

w/c: 5.7k (Read on AO3)

a/n: this was supposed to be like 5 paragraphs, so PLEASE if y'all hate it i dont want to know

It starts with a knock on your front door when you’re only half expecting to see Simon Riley.

He even knocks with a sense of entitlement, and it enrages you. Three hard raps, and that’s it. He won’t knock again. If you don’t open the door, he’ll kick it down to get to you—those were rules you’d learnt the hard way.

You mentally reinforce your motivation when you fling the door open: You’re scared he’ll break your door down, again, and this time, when they try to evict you, Simon won’t be around to terrify them into letting you stay.

How on earth you’d ever found the prick attractive is beyond you in that minute. Except, no sooner does the thought enter your mind do you dismiss it. Of course you had—and still—found him attractive. That had never been the problem.

He wore his military career on his face, much easier to see than the chest candy he bragged about but no less attractive to you–scars and burns, healing and the not-quite healed bruises plain to see on his face, a cacophony of yellows and purples. A nose that had spent more time broken than not, its slight curve most likely a combination of never having been set by a professional nor the opportunity to heal without being broken again. A thin scar dissected his lip, went all the way up the side of his face to his brow, almost like someone had taken a knife to him, carved him up like a piece of meat. You’d never asked, and it’s not like he’d ever volunteered the information.

It just sat there along with the three thousand other things he’d deposited in the chasm that stretched between the two of you.

“You…Jesus,” he breathes, and slams the door shut behind him, making you wince. “Where are you off to, then?”

“N’ wearin’ that?” He prompts again when you don’t answer, motions to your body with his chin.

You roll your eyes when he pulls you into him and plants a hard kiss on your mouth, ignoring your squirming. “Fuckin’ about to spill out, little dove.”

“Spill? Simon, I’m sewn into this dress.” You pluck at his shirt that has deliciously little give where it sits on his hard chest, leaving your palm there as a little treat for yourself. “You would know. You capable of wearing shirts your own size, or does the SAS make it mandatory to have your tits straining against them?”

When he doesn’t respond, you push away from him, and step back, crossing your arms against your chest, definitely not pushing your tits up slightly, and he mirrors your movement. He’s leaning against the wall by the front door now, blocking your exit, and you can only roll your eyes at the foreseeable display of machismo.

“Your stuff’s in the front room. Grab it and go, I have to finish getting dressed. I have plans.”

“With a pimp?”

Back when you were blissfully ignorant of Simon’s penchant for keeping you destabilised at all times, unconditionally wanting the last word, his crass words would have made you sputter and struggle to respond. Oh but you know him so much better now.

Now, the blatant transparency in his delivery just makes you laugh.

You interrupt his next words with a wave of your hand and turn to retreat to your room. “Get your shit and leave, baby.”

You hear his harsh exhale at the dismissal, and once upon a time, the repercussions of dismissing Simon in the middle of a conversation would have excited you. You used to do it to get a rise out of him, instigate him into chasing you around, fucking you silly when he caught you. Now, you just do it because you can.

“No need to be a bitch. I’ll be on my way in a second, just wanted to check on you, little dove.”

Your laugh is breathy, and you have to pull your mascara wand away from your eyes so you don’t end up stabbing yourself with it. “‘No need to be a bitch’ says the man currently being a bitch about me not telling him my plans.” Your laugh is mocking when you turn back to the mirror. “You ever tire of this routine, Simon? Because it’s tiring to me.”

Your words only make Simon’s eyes soften, and he looks at you almost indulgently, patronisingly, as though you were a child throwing a tantrum to get an adult’s attention. “Could never tire of you, little dove.”

“Stop calling me that,” you snap, but he only snorts in response.

It’s all a game to him, you know that. He makes it very clear how much amusement he derives from watching you fumble and fall, how much he gets off on the stress he gives you.

And yet, you’re drawn to him, every single time. Every single time, you play mental gymnastics to find a reason to write off his bad behaviour because, well, it’s Simon. He’s…like no one else you’ve ever known.

Your choices have always been limited between a cruel, mercurial god and inane, paltry men.

Except today. Today you hold your response back, try not to rise to the obvious challenge.

“Come on then, I’ll drive ya.”

“Are you insane?” you screech. “You’re not driving me to my date, you’re not driving me anywhere, what the fuck is wrong with you, Simon?”

A glimpse of his Adonis belt as he stretches his arms above his shoulders and cranes his neck from side to side briefly grabs your attention.

“Don’t be difficult, little dove,” he gently scolds you, and your eyes snap back to his—yours wide with incredulity, his calm and collected in that beautiful, honey brown. “What were y’gonna do, take the Tube with y’tits out like that? If the prick ain’t pickin’ you up, I’ll take ya to him.” He jerks his chin in your vanity’s direction and plops himself on your bed to watch. “Come on, love, finish yer preenin’ then.”

“Preening,” you mutter under your breath as you turn back to the mirror. “Fuckin’ weirdo.”

It’s only when you’re dabbing perfume behind your ears do you catch his eye just as he brings a cigarette up to his mouth, and you squeal. “Simon! The fuck are yo—don’t smoke in my bedroom!”

“Our bedroom—”

“What?!”

“—’n ya didn’t care before. Y’wanna share, ‘s that it, little dove?”

“Oh my god.” You turn around slowly, your hands against your lips, joined together as though in prayer. “Simon.”

“Yeah, baby.”

“You don’t live here anymore. This isn’t your flat, it’s mine. This isn’t your bedroom, it’s mine.”

Simon just continues to smoke as though he hadn’t heard you, dark eyes taking the slow, leisurely route back to meet yours. “Y’look good, baby.” His voice is hoarse, the words slow and deliberate and raspy, and…you can’t deny it. The pull he’s always exerted on you, the undeniably ruinous sirens call—you burn hotter and brighter than accretion, you’re a helpless sailor caught up in his thrall

“Simon”

“Did’ya always look so good?” The way he looks at you as though in a trance…you know he’s not listening, seeming to just be thinking out loud. When he stands up, you take an automatic step back, then cringe when the vanity hits the back of your legs. Nowhere to go to escape his looming presence. “No…not like this. Somethin’s changed.” He puts his hands on your shoulders and turns you around so you’re both facing the mirror.

The back of your neck feels particularly warm as he pushes his entire front to your back, and you can feel him there, hard and insistent against your lower back. When eyes meet in the mirror, he looks at you like you’re a puzzle for him to solve. “Nothing’s changed,” you whisper. “You’re still a dick.”

“Hmm,” he mutters, then lifts your face up with one hand around your neck, and brings his cigarette around to your lips with the other.

Your instinctive inhale makes him shift against you slightly, and your eye twitches from how good he feels pressed up against you like this. How he smells to you—that familiar mix of aniseed and icy menthol, fingers eking that potent hit of nicotine straight into you from where his fingers dig into your skin. “Definitely somethin’ different.” He pulls one strap of your dress down, and you exhale as he places one warm, lingering kiss on your exposed shoulder. “‘S good. Whatever’s different is good, little dove.”

“We can’t—,” you whisper, and his eyes glint at you with interest and arrogance through the mirror. “We can’t do this.”

“You’re so pretty all dressed up like this. Always were so pretty. So soft, and—” he inhales deeply at the spot just under your ear “—always smell so fuckin’ good.”

“You can’t,” you moan in response, but press yourself closer to him, anyway.

“But I can,” he responds gruffly. “‘Nythin’ I like, little dove. And I know y’like it too.”

“Fuck, just—” He interrupts you by giving you another hit, and this time you turn around in his arms to exhale in his face. He doesn’t even flinch. “What are you playing at, Simon? What do you want from me this time?”

Simon continues to look at your mouth as you speak, and almost as if on auto-pilot, slips his thumb into your mouth. You want to bite him for his audacity, you almost kick him in the shin, almost almost almost… But what you really end up doing is accepting it, licking the pad of his thumb and letting him push it into your mouth.

Your initials on the space between the base of his thumb and index finger catch your eye—it’s a new tattoo, and you know this entire game is a ruse to draw your attention to it—but you don’t react. You may be stupid horny for him, but you’re not stupid.

“Always such a good girl for me,” he praises, and it brightens you up on the inside, sparks hot and bright under your spine. “Tell me, love…still me you think about when you touch your pussy?”

Your harsh exhale and slightly narrowed eyes are the only indication you give of having heard him at all. In response, his thumb moves slightly deeper, sitting heavy on your tongue, and you let him.

Your stubborn silence makes him chuckle, and he stubs out his cigarette on the ashtray you (still) keep on your vanity, pushing your dress up over your ass so he can grab your cheeks possessively. The movement is so quick, so fluid that your protest turns to ash on your tongue when he finds bare skin and squeezes hard.

“Forgot somethin, did ya?”

“No.”

“No?” His hands grip you tighter and pull you harshly into him. The angle makes you grind into his cock, and you know that he’s not even half as unaffected as he pretends. “Gonna put out on the first date, then, like a slut? Don’t remember you givin’ me any the first time I—”

“It’s not my first date with him.”

Simon pulls back to look into your eyes, and you’re graced by the first genuine smile on his face all evening—the most brilliant of Rayleigh scatterings put to shame. “It is your first date, love.”

The blunt, matter-of-factness in his words gives you pause, your mind still coming to terms with what he’s just said, your heart starting to race at the barely concealed confidence about your whereabouts. “How do you—what are you saying to me right now?”

“Truth, little dove. Like I promised.”

The casual, off hand remark to one of the most devastating conversations in your life gives you whiplash and you have to physically shake your head to get rid of the feeling of something crawling up the back of your neck. You put your hands firmly on his chest and push him away, and he steps back easily.

“Are you…Simon. Are you having me followed?”

“Don’t need to. I know you, little dove.” He takes another step back from you and cocks his head at your dazed expression. “Put some knickers on. The white ones, y’know ‘em.” When you don’t move, he motions towards your underwear drawer with an expectant expression—as though you’re frozen because you’ve forgotten where they are rather than because you’ve just learnt that your ex boyfriend’s stalking you.

When he crosses his arms, you’re jolted to action. In a daze, you pick up the first pair your hands grab and pull them on. He thrusts your purse at you, and leads you out your front door with his hand clasped tight around yours.

You wish you could say that your ex boyfriend driving you to a date with another man is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to you, but that’s not realistic for a life lived around Simon Riley.

***

The drive is silent, but one big hand remains on your inner thigh. His fingers are so long that they almost touch the seat on either side of your leg. It feels invasive but it’s also familiar, so you don’t say anything. Classic— he never had to try hard to get what he wanted from you.

When he asks you for a smoke, you light one up for him and stick it into the corner of his waiting mouth, and he kisses your fingertips as they retreat. You still don’t say anything. Instead, your eyes stay determinedly on your initials tattooed on his skin, his warm hand almost a brand on your thigh, and you think about your life with him in the .

The implication that things were normal in the before is wildly misleading, and a genuine disservice to the shit he’d put you through.

Once upon a time, you’d been delusional about your place in Simon’s world; now it just leaves a bad taste in your mouth. He threw special forces and taskforce and lads need me in your face every opportunity he’d gotten, and worse. Simon Riley was not a man who did or could be convinced to do something he didn’t want to—and you’d hardly ever asked for any explanations from him but still, the excuses were on the tip of his tongue, ready to be flung at you at Mach speed.

You’d bargained with yourself for weeks—oscillating between wanting to proactively end the relationship yourself or allowing its inevitable heat death. He was one of a kind. No one had ever made you feel like he had. No one had fucked you like he had.

No one had fucked you over like he had either, but on good days, you show yourself some grace and let that thought slide.

***

You find yourself falling into old bad habits easily—you wait inside the car until he’s on your side, opening your door for you and practically lifting you out of his car.

The warmth of his hands seeps through the material of your dress, through the skin on your hips, superheating the bones underneath. He squeezes the flesh there appreciatively, and though his expression remains hidden to you, you can safely guess the smirking just by the creased skin by his eyes.

“I never want to see you again.”

The words make Simon pause. He considers you for a second, the smirk never dropping. “Go’n, give us a kiss, then, if this is the last time.”

“I would never,” you insist, finger poking at his hard chest, and he retreats from you, puts his hands up in mock-surrender. “You’re a manipulative bastard, Simon,” you hiss at him. “And I’m going on this date.” With your piece said, you walk away from him.

“Never stopped ya, little dove,” he calls out, a hint of an aggravating laugh in his words.

You flip him off without even turning around. “Drop dead, Simon.”

To your great disappointment, your words don’t inspire the heavens to smite him where he stands immediately, and when you quickly shoot one last look back at him over your shoulder, he stands against his car, arms crossed, looking for all the world like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Asshole.

It wasn’t even that Simon was a bad boyfriend to you—though he was certainly the fucking worst—it was the fact that a) he was a bad person and b) you’d become a bad person by osmosis.

Case in point: you wanted to leave your date mid-meal, battling the intrusive thought of just putting your drink down and walking out the front door, but you couldn’t even say why. Your date had kindly acquiesced when you’d insisted on the worst table on the floor. The one overlooking the car park. The window overlooking the only car parked there—the massive black one, with illegally tinted windows and a suspiciously missing owner.

At least the bar was nice. Great ambience, dim lighting and pretty interiors, it should have been the perfect first date. Your date himself was fine too—nice enough with a sweet smile he flashed at you, politely having taken to talking at you when you’d made it clear with your apathy that talking with you wasn’t going to happen.

After just two drinks, you start to have flashbacks—even an hour spent in Simon’s company clearly manifesting as literal madness—which was disconcerting by itself, but the uncharacteristic subject matter has you really worried. Every time you blink, you see Simon’s face…or his cock…and when your date asks if you’d like to share dessert, you answer, “Simon…” before hearing yourself, and feeling the heat of shame dance on your cheeks. Your date just looks confused.

A quick glance outside the window shows the empty car park and…nothing else. No car.

Had he fuckin’ left?

The thought incenses you, and the irrational nature of the anger makes you feel even more shame. Why should you care? When had he ever done what you’d expected of him? And when had he ever been there for you when you’d needed it.

Fuck it, you think.

Maybe you were finally free of Simon and his toxic, shameless, unbreakable hold on your life. Maybe it was time to move on.

You allow yourself a satisfied smile when, in what feels like divine approval of your plan, your date offers to take you home.

***

There are cracks in your ceiling that you’d never noticed before.

You resist the urge to wince, then try to moan but give up when it gets stuck in your throat, and your date misinterprets your sigh of boredom and discomfort as one of pleasure, choosing to go down on you with more enthusiasm than before. Things could not be worse for you—the man between your legs is clearly in need of a compass and a map and trying so hard that you feel guilty about the whole thing—but you’re determined to tolerate it. So that the point is made.

When your date finally leaves, your shaky smile and poorly concealed look of relief convinces neither of you of a second date. You suppose you should be grateful that he left without a fuss, but you’re just relieved that he’s gone. You’re contemplating—holding your head in your hands while your elbows rest on the kitchen counter—when you hear him.

“This is pathetic, even for you.” You turn around, and yep. It’s him alright. Sitting at your dinner table, your flimsy chair all but invisible behind his massive frame. “Breaking in, Simon? Seriously?”

“Y’gave me a key, little dove.”

“Yeah. When we were dating. A key that you’d returned?”

When there is neither a response, nor any change to his posture, you turn around and start to pour yourself a glass of water. Then change your mind and grab two whiskey tumblers and your decanter. “Pathetic,” you repeat. “How long were you planning this?”

His sudden breath on the back of your neck makes you exhale harshly, and he steadies your trembling hands by placing his on yours. Together, you pour two glasses of whiskey, but his hands don’t leave yours even when you’re done.

“How was the date?”

“You tell me, Simon.”

“Wasn’t invited, was I?”

“It didn’t stop you.”

He places a small kiss behind your ear in response. “No.” His hands knead at your breasts and your head falls back to his shoulder with a sigh, and he grinds into you. “Feel that? What even your fake little noises do to me?”

“You were listening?” The thought is…unbearably hot, and you stubbornly refuse to examine it any further in your mind.

“You belong with me, little dove, you know this. You’ve always belonged to me. All of you. Every single inch. Where would I go?”

You reach behind you to touch him, and he’s thick and warm to the touch, even through the layers of fabric, and it’s familiar, it’s all so familiar to you.. “This is fucked up. You were here listening when another man fucked me?”

In a quick succession of lithe, almost impossibly quick movements, he’s picked you up and placed you on your kitchen counter, one glass of whiskey shattering on the floor. “Made your point, baby?”

Your robe is off your shoulders and pooling around your waist in a second, and Simon doesn’t even bother hiding his smirk when he pulls off your panties and pockets them. You don’t bother protesting. It even feels like trouble when he runs a single finger over the seams of your cunt—you’re damningly wet and if you had enough withal to curse your body out for it, you would.

“You've got such a pretty pussy, little dove,” Ghost says as he fingers you, his voice half-muffled because he's pressing a possessive kiss to your forehead. “And so wet baby, you’re dripping on my fingers. All of it fo' me? Or was it that twat, hm?”

You're seething inside, raging that your plan backfired like this. “It was him,” you say, before you can help yourself. “You heard him fuck me, yeah?”

“Fuck you?” Simon’s chuckle is dark and ruinous. “He didn’t fuck you, baby. He just stretched you out for me. Good man. Saves me the work, innit.”

Before you can react, before you can breathe, he picks you up and throws you over his shoulder, picks up his glass of whiskey in his other hand, and brings you to your bedroom. Fuck, your sheets are still rumpled, dress and bra strewn on the floor, sandals sitting like a death trap of heel and straps by the foot of your bed. The room even smells of sex and the cologne your date had worn—it’s disorienting. You almost feel bad. Almost.

But…Simon’s presence is all over your bedroom too. The smell of his aftershave lingered in the air, noticeable if you closed your eyes and breathed in deep. Other signs too—the faint bitterness of his cigarette from earlier that evening, it’s corpse in the ashtray on your vanity. When he sets his drink down on your nightstand, he sets it on the coaster you keep there—they’re strewn on almost every surface on your flat. Mementoes from Simon from different countries he’d go to on deployment.

“Told you he fucked me,” you say, cheekily—trying to dissuade your mind from leading you towards sentiment—and get a smack on you ass for your trouble.

“‘Course, little dove,” Simon drawls in response. “‘N you enjoyed it too, yeah? Tryin’ t’make me jealous. Took him to the same place we used to go, huh?” Another smack on your backside, this one hard enough to make you gasp. “Think I’d forgotten, baby? Fucked you in that car park, didn’t I?”

“Were you jealous?”

“Why should I be?” He sets you down gently on the bed so you’re sitting upright, then takes a sip of his whiskey. “Y’want this.”

“I didn’t think you were giving me much of a choice.”

“I’m not.” He takes another sip, and when he leans forward to kiss you, the whiskey floods into your mouth, rich and smoky and bitter. He continues to kiss you and you have to swallow around his tongue, which makes him kiss you harder. He’s a bully in every aspect of his life, and kissing you is no different. His fingers clamp around your cheeks and you have no choice but to kiss him back. Even in this he dominates you, trying to win even where there is no fight to be fought.

When he pulls away, your heart throbs at how he looks through the lights of the street outside pouring in through your window. You’ve seen his face before, you’re one of the trusted few that can say they know what Simon Riley looks like, but it’s been a while since you’ve seen him like this. The harsh lights from outside almost soften where they kiss the harsh angles of his face, where the sharp line of his clenched jaw disappears behind his ears, accentuating his thick neck.

He’s beautiful and cruel and bad for you and every adjective you can think of under the sun.

“Y’want this,” he repeats.

“I want this.”

And then Simon moves so suddenly. There’s no preparing for it, no accounting for speed that has no build up—one second you’re sitting upright looking up at him the next you’re on your back and he’s hovering over you, fingers making quick work of his zipper before, in one push, he’s buried in you. Your breath feels like it’s literally been punched out of your chest. He’s so deep in you, you can feel him in your throat—he allows you one deep breath before he’s got a large hand wrapped around your throat. The one with your tattoo on it.

The thought of it incites something foreign deep in your belly, low and simmering hot—you can’t believe he’s tattooed your name on his hand after telling you that he didn’t think you were what he’d wanted.

You can’t imagine your expression right now, but he tightens his fingers around your throat and it drags your attention back to him. He’s gritting his teeth, his jaw clamped tightly shut while he grinds his pelvis into yours, each thrust driving you further and further away from him and towards the centre of the bed. You don’t even understand the movement of his hips—you’re displaced and jostled from the sheer power of his thrusts—but the motion itself feels like it’s more of an up and down motion, dragging against your walls, punching into your G spot. When your head falls back on a low moan, he jerks your body to alertness just by your throat, and you clench at the feat of strength even when he’s buried in you as far as he can go.

Simon groans in response, the noise sounding like it tears through his throat on its way out, but you’re helpless to do anything at all, just trying to breathe through the foreign sensations inside you right now, clamp tighter and tighter around him, threatening to break. You’ve given up trying to look up at him anymore, the pleasure making you squeeze your eyes shut, one hand intertwined with his by your head, the other clawing at his forearm.

“Shit, baby, hold on, fuck, jus’ let me—” He moves to adjust you, grabbing one thigh to spread you open, push himself deeper inside you, when he freezes.

“Wha—Simon, what—”

“The fuck is this?” His voice is pitched lower than usual, dark and dangerous. You follow his line of sight and he’s transfixed, eyes unblinking, looking at a spot on your inner thigh. You know what he’s seeing, and in the midst of everything that’s happened, everything that’s about to happen, you wonder if you’re seeing the evidence of the existence of a just God.

“You weren’t…you weren’t meant to see it. It’s from ages ago…” He reaches out a slightly trembling hand towards it, stops inches away from it—and oh this is better than anything you could’ve imagined—before he brushes two reverent fingers over the little skull you have tattooed there. “Simon?”

When Simon looks back at you, he seems more determined, somehow. Like the final part of a puzzle has clicked into place, somehow, and a decision has been made.

This time when he moves, it’s deeper, more powerful but equally as deliberate. The hand around your throat moves to your face, brushing sweaty strands away from it, and framing the entire side of your face where it rests. “Got my mark on you, yeah? Want t’keep me, is that it?”

“I want…want to keep you,” you nearly whine at him, and his hips kick up, hammer into you, in and out, in and out— “Want to keep you Simon. Want to be yours.”

He bends over you, his grip on your thigh unyielding, long fingers digging into the tattoo on your skin. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, I—” He uses your neck to muffle his own sounds for a second and then leans to kiss you. But it’s more than that. You feel Simon’s surrender in that kiss—the acceptance of the inevitable, your months of torturous longing for your torturer finding release—and when you come, you bite down hard on his lip.

It feels like your body is hot enough to melt the world into soft, sepia tones around you, and you don’t even understand what he’s doing to your body right now as he fucks you through your orgasm. He readjusts your hips as you come, and the slightest brush of the coarse hair at the base of his cock against your clit makes you vibrate from the shock of what feels like your second orgasm bleeding into your first.

And when he comes, he slams his hips into you like he’s trying to crawl inside of you. His groan is long and tortured, and for a man who’s usually silent when he fucks, the sound is delicious. You never want him to stop. “Fuckin’ shit,” he murmurs, and traps you as he collapses on top of you.

In the aftermath, there is quiet.

Simon lifts his head, once, to try to feel his way to the glass of whiskey on your nightstand, all while kissing you deeply. Turns out, fucked out of his mind Simon is clumsy as hell, and so you grab it for him, draining it yourself before offering him the empty glass.

“Fuckin’ whore,” he mutters, unimpressed, before burying his face in your neck.

“Says the man who slept with the entire British army in a matter of six months.” You kiss his sweaty hair and his grip on your hips tightens. “Bunch of slags.”

“Don’t call my sergeant a slag.”

“Your serg—” you gasp, feeling your restart its pounding in its cage. “Not Johnny! You slept with MacTavish? He fuckin—he fuckin’ offered to meet me for coffee so many times when we were broken up! I thought he was being nice!”

“Was bein’ nice, innit. Lookin’ out for his CO’s girl.”

Your head falls back to the bed as you stare up at the ceiling again. “This is messed up.” His casual tone feels like a barb, reopens old wounds and threatens to ignite a fresh wave of hostility inside you. But before you can stew in your bitterness any longer, he kisses the side of your neck and moves off of you.

“Can’t keep doing this, little dove.” He says, gathering your clothes from where they’re strewn all over your room.

You get up on your elbows and cock your head, feigning innocent confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Gonna have twats all over town stretchin’ you out fo’ me before I fuck you?”

“Why? You offering to put the graft in yourself?”

“Maybe,” he mumbles, and when he stands up to face you, he’s got a cig hanging off the corner of his mouth. “Y’got a light around here somewhere, can’t find mine.”

You roll your eyes, reaching over to the nightstand to grab one and throwing it at him. He catches it deftly, and lights up his cigarette. “What’s next for you then, Simon Riley? Off to the pub to find the next victim for the evening? Send me a recording of when you fuck her in the disgusting toilet?”

“Victim? Shit baby, give me ten, we’ll go again,” he says, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

“You’re staying?”

He leans forward, smushes your face with his large hand. “You got me inked on you.” You squirm away from him and he lets you go.

“It’s just a skull, Simon. Not my initials on your hand.” When his eyes narrow, you gasp theatrically and your hand flies up to your chest. “Or was I not meant to see that?” You lean up to pluck the cigarette from his fingers and take a long drag. “Obnoxious, by the way.”

He leans forward and kisses you, hard. You inadvertently end up blowing smoke in his mouth, but he doesn’t move, kissing you until you melt. “Love you, little dove. You're a massive bitch, though.”

“Pot meet kettle,” you whisper against his mouth.

You know what they say about history repeating itself. You’ve been through this cycle before, you and Simon. And you know what he promised you when he fucked you—he may have asked you if you’d wanted to keep him, but you hear what Simon doesn’t say. And what he doesn’t say is that you don’t have a choice in any of this. Simon operates like a bully, thinks like a bully because he is one. Like with most other things, Simon brute forces your relationship, moulds and bends and twists to his liking, does not care if anything breaks. You have no doubt that in two or three weeks’ time he’ll be across the world from you, bouncing someone else on his cock but it hardly matters. You’ll get your lick back. It’s what he’s taught you, afterall.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #ghost mw2 #simon riley smut #ghost x reader #cod mw2 #lumi writes #toxic exbf! Ghost #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader

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physalian · 1 month ago

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How to Make Your Writing Less Stiff 10 | "Feel" and Sensory Verbs

Been a while since one of these!

Part 9

Part 8

Part 1

Speaking again on crutch words, specifically he/she/they hears, sees, feels, smells, tastes… it’s so situational and so specific that anyone giving writing advice on absolutes has no business doing so.

They become crutch words when they’re there as a vector for the narrator to describe to the audience some sensory detail. They’re not crutch words when it’s the narrator using them for themselves, which is hard to explain.

Examples:

She sees the clouds rolling in

He hears a racket outside

They taste cinnamon and nutmeg

Stating that the narrator does these things is redundant. They are the narrator, by the fact that they are narrating, they are experiencing these things.

Clouds are rolling in

A racket starts up outside

[the drink] is cinnamon and nutmeg

You lose nothing except redundancy by removing the narrator from the equation.

Alternatively, these words can be necessary, especially for emphasis when it’s a negative.

He doesn’t hear the storm rolling in

She doesn’t see the man with the gun

They can’t smell the smoke

You could swap these out for something more colorful, like “He’s deaf to the storm rolling in” or “She’s blind to the man with the gun” but that’s personal preference and once again, dependent on the scene. There isn’t really a word to describe an inability to smell beyond nose-blindness and that’s not a good alternative, anything else would be esoteric.

And of course leaving in phrasing like:

He won’t hear any of this nonsense

She doesn’t see why that’s a problem

They don’t feel like moving

The difference here is that these are active verbs (and also not literal, physical uses of any of them). A character choosing to (or not to) do something, vs passively stating the information for the sake of the audience in the first trio of examples.

He feels angry

He feels like punching a wall

Both use “feel,” but the first is passive, and telling, the second one is showing. You can still swap out “feel” for something like these examples

He’s going to punch a wall

He contemplates punching a wall

He just might punch a wall

But you don’t have to, especially if you’re writing a very colloquial book or something for younger audiences where getting overly fluffy for the sake of avoiding the easiest and most effective word is being complicated for complication’s sake.

Also if you have a paragraph that reads something like this, deliberately emphasizing the word “feel”:

How does he feel? Livid, red hot, boiling where he stands. He feels like kicking something, like making a mess, like punching a wall.

How does he feel? Livid, red hot, boiling where he stands. He debates kicking something, making a mess, punching a wall.

Neither is superior to the other, the first comes across as more sarcastic and petty, taking the presumed question of “how do you feel” as an insult, vs the second one where he probably doesn’t have an issue with the asker.

Deliberate repetition of a word or phrase for emphasis is a lit device! Called anaphora.

How your narrator speaks can be indicative of their age, headspace, education, upbringing, and sense of self. These two sentences aren’t enough to inform a character but you might have a situation where one feels more appropriate for your narrator than the other.

#writeblr #writing #writing a book #writing resources #writing advice #writing tips #writing tools

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orcinus-veterinarius · 2 months ago

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How old really was granny? Google keeps showing me peta shit saying she was over 100

She was more likely between 65-80 years old, based of fatty acid analysis of a biopsy sample. Still impressively old, and significantly longer than many other female orcas.

The “105-years-old” factoid came from the outdated assumption that Granny’s close companion, J1 “Ruffles,” was her adult son. They were first photographed together in the 1970s, when both were adults. However, DNA later revealed the two were not mother and son.

No orca has ever been documented to live 100 years. It is certainly possible—we simply haven’t been studying them long enough to follow an individual from birth to death over the course of a century. However, there have been enough individuals tracked until their deaths in their 40s-60s to know that, if it is possible for them to reach 100, it’s exceedingly rare. L25 “Ocean Sun” is presumed (though not proven) to be in her late 90s, and she is over 40 years older than the second oldest living Southern Resident. These ancient individuals are exceptional. And that means they’re outliers, and should not be included in statistical analysis.

But 105 years sounds a lot cooler than 80 (or 65), so that’s why it’s still brought up a lot. Google AI summary, which is as far as most people read unfortunately, also lists her age as 105, even if the very first paragraph of her Wikipedia article explains the 65-80 year estimate is the more accurate one.

#this is way longer than I intended #granny was a queen #and she was still an impressively old lady #this is just one of many many MANY examples of why ‘research’ shouldn’t consist of the first google result #orcas #killer whales #southern resident killer whales #j2 granny #cetaceans #marine mammals #wildlife #answered asks #nerdyeldritchhorror #language

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i-hate-accidents · 1 year ago

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i hate accidents: the ball

femme!reader x benedict bridgerton, femme!reader & the bridgerton family, femme!reader & penelope featherington

summary: the adventures of a working class femme who befriends a fellow writer, a boisterous family, and a bewitching second eldest son

sections: I. the beginning / II. the between / III. the ball

y/n: bipoc, she/her, afab, nonbinary femme, queer, working class, of immigrant parents

content warnings: classism, mentions of financial survival, microaggressive sexism, microaggressive gender assumption, intersectional low self-image of y/n, positive/supportive families, nondescript mention of gagging (not related to self-image) in [III.iii], sexually charged 18+ interactions in middle to end of [III.iv]—minors dni, please stop at the end of the paragraph that begins "you repeat his words with sped up mockery"; you may resume at "you jut out your hip"

word count: 15.7k (of 38.8k)

story context: everything in s1 and s2 of the tv series is canon for this story except for the s2 epilogue with the bridgertons. this story takes place leading up to and into the 1815 season.

additional notes: this story is incomplete. scenes that are not written are described in chevrons <> with third person pov or are delineated by isolated ellipses. additionally, the author has only watched s2! she has not watched any of s1 aside from clips, and they have not read the books aside from quotes used in edits. they have not yet watched queen charlotte. the author kinda knows the gist of an offer from a gentleman; they are familiar with sophie beckett (and are excited to meet her/them in the tv series!).

author’s note: this is the first time the author has written fanfic in 13-15 years. :) it is her hope that they have made some progress since her pre/teens. additionally, this fanfic has been written, on and off, over the course of two years. the author sincerely hopes you find some sort of joy in it, especially the readers who maybe hope to see themself a little more specifically in the world we so love.

tagged: @omgsuperstarg @stvrdustalexx @bedobeeeee @crazymar15 @kahhorri @mayalopes @benedictbridgertonss @athensflower @02wrldz @queerlavalier @merlslrem @pillsbury-doughgirl @lamourdure3ans and all who have read either/both sections one and two—thank you. <3

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.i ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

“you look like a princess, y/n!” hyacinth squeals in delight.

“i regret not being of age yet to attend balls,” gregory sighs. “i would have been honored to ask you for your first dance.”

you beam at the youngest bridgertons with all the fondness in your heart. judith, an elderly maid of number five, had attempted to dispel hyacinth and gregory from the room as your hair was done, but you had asked her to please allow them to stay. the two kept you at ease throughout the foreign process, and their sweet sincerity kept you grounded amidst the anxiety that still floods your veins.

“you are both too kind. and fear not; tomorrow morning we will have a ball all of our own,” you lean in for a whisper, them following suit to listen. “and perhaps we will need the talents, and bravery, of a young sorceress and a young knight to save the guests from the intrusion of an unruly wyvern.”

“you promise?!” hyacinth and gregory yell at the same time. you hold out your pinky finger, just as you used to do with your siblings, and the two young ones wrap their pinkies around yours.

“i promise.”

“you are all done, miss y/l/n,” says alice, placing the last pin into your hair. she steps back and curtsies. her formality towards you renders you uneasy; she treats you as above her but you are of the same world. you school your facial features from showing your unease; you do not want to upset her or have her wrongly think that she has done something wrong.

“no need to call me ‘miss.’ i am simply y/n!” you grin at alice. “a friend.”

she smiles, albeit a bit sheepishly.

“of course, y/n. are you ready to see yourself?”

you shudder in a breath. you had asked not to be prepared in front of a mirror. to have seen your transformation so readily reflected at you at every point of this process—

you exhale frantically. the maids and genevieve had graciously accommodated your wishes, both going so far as rearranging this room and her fitting room to avoid any lines of your sight with a potential reflection; you were, and are, utterly grateful.

but i am unable to delay the inevitable any longer.

standing up and squaring your shoulders, you give alice a feeble nod. she bows her head in response, a small, encouraging smile on her lips, and leads you to the mirror as hyacinth and gregory turn in their seats to watch you cross the room.

it is just a dress. it is just a tiara, and just some jewelry, and just some gloves, and just some shoes, and just a bit of makeup. it is just you. it is still you. be the courageous person you are, y/n.

or—

just before you see even a miniscule bit of your reflection in that accursed mirror, you shut your eyes tight.

—be a coward.

you continue step by agonizing step, approximating where the mirror is, and shudder in another breath.

perhaps i am being too dramatic. perhaps i can faint and feign illness. perhaps i shall run away by way of the nearest window. perhaps i—

“the mirror is to your left, y/n; whenever you are ready,” coaxes alice.

you exhale once more.

or perhaps, i should open my eyes.

and so you do.

oh.

“oh,” you say aloud.

the person you see in the gilded full-length mirror is, somehow, a complete stranger and entirely you.

the one time you’ve worn makeup before was for your elder sister’s wedding: a bit of your mother’s rouge on your cheeks and lips to have some color to your otherwise dull face. now, your cheekbones glow with a blush much more complimentary to your complexion than a mere red as your lips shine with a gossamer of a similar shade. entirely new to you are the glimmering minerals on your eyelids that magically bring attention to your eyes and make them shine like starlight.

your eyebrows have been plucked (much to your initial pain but your current appreciation), maintaining their shape and fullness but now without strays.

soft tendrils of curls frame your face, and your hair—normally worn down when not working—has been pulled back into a loose coiffure and styled with sprigs and small blooms, the crown of your head graced with a silver tiara.

“this,” violet smiled fondly when she first set the tiara on top of your head, “is the tiara i wore to my first ball after my presentation. i had insisted on keeping it, thinking i could pass it on to my daughter when her first ball had come. but daphne was resolute on having her own tiara, and eloise was resolute on not wearing any,” violet laughed, her eyes shining when they connected with yours, “i see now, though, perhaps it was always meant to be yours.”

“violet, i— i cannot wear this. it is too— it’s too—”

sumptuous? opulent? regal?

no.

well, yes, the tiara is all those things. but those were not what had concerned you then. it’s too—

“beautiful,” you admitted quietly.

something as beautiful as that surely does not belong on the head of someone like you.

“well,” violet smiled, “then you are merely proving my point, my dear. it perfectly suits you.”

you hold out your hands, flare out your fingers, and stretch out your arms, examining the dark forest green of your long satin gloves, mesmerized that a muted color with such depth and richness could be achieved through dyes.

moving your hand, you touch one of the small rosewhite pearls adorning your earlobes and, with your other hand, touch the inky oblong pearl that shimmers violet, indigo, and green as it hangs from the thin, black velvet choker around your neck.

“my dear,” mama appeared in your doorway one evening as you wrote at your table, “do you require jewelry for your occasion?”

“oh. i suppose i do? i hadn’t given it much thought.” jewelry had been the last thing on your mind of things that terrified you of the impending ball.

“well, if you have not been offered anything by the bridgerton family yet, i thought— i thought perhaps you might like these.”

she approached you, a small wooden box in her hand, and placed it on your table. taking the box into your hands, you looked at it and then up at mama. she smiled at you but something of her countenance seemed strained. nervous. you offered her a smile in an attempt to assuage whatever concerns preoccupied her mind and, turning back to the box, unclasped it open.

“these are the earrings and necklace i wore when i married your papa. they were gifts from your grandmama that were gifts from her mama. i had tried giving them to your sister when she was to be married, but she thought… they are plain, nothing like what those fashionable people wear, i am certain; but if you have nothing else, i—”

you shot up from your seat, throwing your arms around your mama, feeling how she reeled from the ferocity of your sudden embrace, as you clutched onto the box of her wedding jewelry.

“they are beautiful, mama,” you said quietly but emphatically as the vehemence of your emotions tried to trap your words in your throat. “they are the most beautiful things i have ever seen, and i am so— i am so honored to be bestowed with the blessing of wearing them, and of wearing them proudly. thank you.”

you heard how mama sniffed her nose, and how she tried to hide it, as she gently rubbed your back, as she always had in your moments of vulnerability.

“i love you, my child.”

“i love you, mama.”

you then touch your exposed shoulders. the neckline of your dress, nowhere near your neck, follows the curved peaks of your breasts to meet and form a small v-shape in the crevice of your bosom.

“where is the chemise?” was the first thing you had said when you first tried on the gown at the modiste.

genevieve grinned.

“there is none.”

your jaw dropped.

“then what of a stay? what sort of stay would be worn with this?”

turning slightly, and noting your rather bare upper arms in the process, you angle your exposed back towards the mirror. another v-shape, its furthest point down a third of your bare spine.

“my dear, both you and i know that you already know the answer to your inquiry.”

“oh, my good g—”

never, in your life, has the expanse of your upper body been so naked and on display than in this ball gown.

“i do not mean to doubt your artistry, genevieve; truly!, the dress is magnificent, but—” you turned to kathani, who had exclaimed and clapped with immense delight upon seeing you in the gown, “is this—— permissible?”

the viscountess had arched an eyebrow at you then.

“y/n y/l/n, concerned with the rules of society? and of high society, at that?”

“no— no!” you yelled all too loudly as genevieve chortled and placed pins for final alterations into the dress. “i just, i just do not want to embarrass you and your family, is all.”

you had not meant for your voice to come out so quiet and small. the older women’s faces softened immediately.

“you could never embarrass us, y/n,” kathani stated with such tenderness. then she smiled. “you look beautiful.”

the off-white base layer of the dress feels luxurious against your skin, the fabric hugging your upper body, puffing out at the sleeves, and, from the underbust, flowing and falling into a cone silhouette for the skirt—but what truly awes you is the artistry of the outermost layer. a cream translucent silk, the piña seda (you recall genevieve proudly naming it as) of the outermost layer glistens while you sway and turn your body, light shifting and transforming the ever beauty of the dress, the swish of the skirt moving like how waves are described in the passages of your books and in the reminiscing of your parents’ memories. lined at the underbust begins the intricate thicket of embroidered foliage, painstakingly threaded with innumerable shades of greens and blues, a shimmering teal threaded throughout to gleam in tandem with the sheen of the fabric. the embroidery of foliage then grows and thickens as it cascades down the middle of the dress and comes to an encircling end a few inches above and around the floor-length hem. in the negative space of the piña seda are spread out, small ivory embroideries of floral motifs.

it is a dress deserving of someone most beloved in titania’s garden court.

“indeed,” genevieve affirmed, a smile on her lips akin to kathani’s. “those in attendance will not be prepared. you will look the most beautiful of all.”

and perhaps…

perhaps you should be unnerved by how different your dress will be from the others’ of the ton. perhaps you should be unnerved by how easily you will stand out from the crowds. perhaps you should be unnerved by the attention, the whispers, the stares you will inevitably receive with your dress, with your appearance, with your presence, with your very existence. but, instead—

“i do look like a princess,” you say finally. quietly.

you do look beautiful.

like you could belong amidst the ton.

like you could belong with the bridgertons.

like you could belong with him.

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.ii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

“are you anxious, y/n?”

you turn to gregory at your side and see the swell of worry in his eyes.

“what gives you that impression?”

“you are shaking terribly,” hyacinth comments from your other side, replacing her usual pluck and wit with a worry akin to her brother’s.

the two had volunteered to escort you from the dressing room that you had been prepared in to the grand staircase of number five. with their arms hooked around yours, gregory on your left and hyacinth on your right, the youngest bridgertons have been walking you down the corridor. your heart aches with anguish: you know you have failed when the children are the ones to care for the adult.

“i am sorry to have concerned you both. yes, i— i am anxious.”

“it is reasonable to be anxious. but there are a great many cakes at these balls, or so i’ve heard, so you can eat one, and then another, to help ease your nerves!”

“how is that of any help, gregory.”

“it is plenty of help!”

“to eat and eat when she is already uneasy? the last time you were uneasy, you nearly—”

“do not recount that in front of y/n!”

“why not!”

“it is not— it is not proper!” gregory’s voice jumps in pitch, causing a swift blush to form on the apples of his cheeks. hyacinth snorts.

“why does your voice do that?”

“i do not know! kate said it is natural for bo— for young men to experience such a thing!”

“aren’t young men meant to be tall?”

“i am an inch taller than you now!”

“you are not!”

“i am too!”

you laugh. the youngest bridgertons halt their dispute and look at you.

“i must say, your usual squabbling is keeping me much at ease,” and you offer a sympathetic smile to gregory. “i am sorry that it seems to be at your expense, however.”

his eyes shine.

“you need not worry about me! i am glad to see you smile.”

“i as well,” hyacinth adds. you turn to her and see how her eyes shine too.

“i am most grateful to you both for being at my side on such a night.”

“we are most grateful for you, y/n.”

“that is something, and probably the singular thing, hyacinth and i can agree upon.”

you plant soft kisses on the tops of their heads, just as mama and papa and your elder sister had done when you were their ages. gregory and hyacinth nestle their heads into your upper arms and only part from you when the three of you reach the top of the first set of steps.

“are you ready?”

though you wish to say ‘no,’ you brace yourself with a deep inhale and nod.

your heart quickens with each step as time around you slows. your mouth has gone dry, and your body feels entirely numb, sensation only returning to you when you feel hyacinth and gregory unhook their arms from yours. turning your head, you see them stepping backwards, away from you, leaving you at the center of the landing to the rest of the grand staircase. you face forward once more, and ahead, below, you see the gentlemen and ladies of bridgerton house, waiting for you, looking at you.

you swallow.

for the very first time, in your dress, by yourself, you take a step forward.

breathe, y/n. shoulders back; tilt your chin up, but not too much; just as kathani had taught you. and just, breathe.

but it is hard to breathe with all eyes on you. with—

i must control myself. i must not seek him out. i must not seek out his face. i must not seek out those o—

you step on the hem of your dress and feel yourself start to fall forward. thankfully, god, for whatever reason, has blessed you with enough dexterity in this very moment, and you manage to catch yourself from tumbling down the steps as you hear gasps from above and below you. you mumble an apology (you don’t know why; it is not nearly loud enough for anyone to hear) and offer everyone a smile. upon seeing their relaxed shoulders and reassured expressions, you continue to descend the staircase.

stupid benedict. distracting me in remembering how to walk, and how to breathe, and how to—

oh.

i am doing it again.

shit.

goddamnit, stupid benedict!

somehow, you reach the landing of number five’s entrance hall without any additional accidents and, approaching the bridgertons, immediately look to the viscountess. as if knowing you seek her approval, kathani nods her head; a beam illuminates her countenance. you feel yourself ease, your shoulders relaxing (that you promptly square again; you are, after all, pretending to be a lady for the night), your heart racing less, if only minutely, and manage a smile. you feel someone take hold of your gloved hand and, turning to face the source, see violet gazing at you.

“beautiful.”

it is all she says, but with such tenderness in her voice, it makes your heart swell.

“the importance of appearance,” rasps eloise, causing you to turn to her, “and the lengths gone to achieve so-called perfection of such, especially for those of feminine disposition, is an entirely antiquated, offensive concept that must be eradicated from our, and all, societies—— but you do, look, beautiful, y/n.”

you grin.

“we’ll eradicate it together; and with help along the way, i am certain.”

when she responds in kind, you turn to the gentlemen, and, to your mortification, colin and anthony bow at you. the high society etiquette directed towards you from your friends overwhelms you with an embarrassment that you cannot even begin to fathom; they haven’t performed such formalities towards you since your first meeting all those months ago. but, in spite of your horror, the sincerity of their intentions, as well as their countenances, touches you deeply.

“madame delacroix and the maids have outdone themselves,” remarks anthony. “as mother and eloise have said, you look beautiful, y/n.”

“indeed,” colin beams. when he turns to benedict, however, his smile transforms into an expression befitting of a fairytale creature; one with mischievous intentions. “what say you, brother?”

you follow his line of sight and connect with ocean eyes. the flood of self-consciousness and the tempo of your heartbeats magnify hundredfold under his gaze, the butterflies within you fluttering the most violently they ever have, and you feel as though your entire body has been set ablaze.

anthony, with what looks like a smirk, nudges his brother with his elbow. as if suddenly aware of where he is, benedict hastily bows at you and, returning his ocean eyes to yours, says,

“you look— well.”

you hear eloise snort. turning your head towards her, you see she has completely sucked in her lips. to her left, kathani smiles massively. to kathani’s left, violet remains ever poised but with wide, sparkling eyes. you still feel self-conscious but are infinitely amused by whatever is happening to the bridgertons and, with a playful smile on your lips, return your gaze to benedict.

“thank you, mr. bridgerton. i had felt uneasy with an unnerved stomach earlier, but i am glad to know that my health appears to be in proper order.”

and you deeply curtsy at him.

from above you hear the sweet giggles of the youngest bridgertons. ahead, in your periphery, you see how anthony closes his eyes as he sucks in air through his nostrils and how colin, with an unabashed laugh, clasps his hand onto benedict’s shoulder.

“well!” anthony booms, attempting to control his smile on what ought to be an authoritative expression. “i believe we have a ball to commence. shall you lead the way, viscountess?”

and with an expression both equal in authority and warmth, kathani declares,

“i shall.”

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.iii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

you had grown ease of mind knowing that you would not be asked to dance. not only were you a stranger to everyone in the ton aside from the bridgertons and penelope, you were also not handsome like the debutantes flitting about the room, swishing prettily in their gowns, strategically but delicately fluttering their eyes at a gentleman with which they wished to dance. with anonymity and a plain face, you enjoyed the haven of people observing, snickering at the artifice and smiling at the sincerity. kathani chatting with her guests. anthony standing by her side. penelope dancing with colin. eloise hiding behind a plant. violet beaming at her family. (you tried to convince yourself that you had not noticed the absence of a particular person.) your nerves have finally begun to calm, finding content in your station at the margins of the dance floor.

when colin bridgerton approaches you, hand outstretched in your direction, with a twinkle in his eyes.

“miss y/l/n, may you do me the honor?”

“i’m sorry, what?”

he laughs.

“will you dance with me?”

you gape at him.

“you’re mad.”

“my mind is perfectly intact.”

“this is unwise.”

“this is the best decision i have made this night.”

“i shall surely step on your toes.”

“i have worn my sturdiest shoes for the occasion.”

the corners of your mouth tug down into a moue at the third bridgerton’s stubborn charm. his grin merely widens as your eyes narrow to slits at him. penelope approaches from behind the beguiling imp and smiles warmly at you.

“it will be fun,” she encourages. “i promise.”

penelope! no!

“et tu, brute?” you bemoan.

she shrugs.

“what is a ball without dancing?” penelope offers. sweet innocence colors her voice, but the delighted glint in her eyes reveals her true duplicitous nature. she knew exactly how to play the game of this conversation, no doubt a devious plot concocted between her and her beau.

you sigh.

“fine,” you huff, slapping your hand into colin’s palm. “i would be honored, mr. bridgerton.”

the diabolical duo laughs at the sarcasm that drips from your words as colin leads you to the lineup on the dance floor.

–

“how is the dance treating you, miss y/l/n?”

“i hate you.”

colin guffaws. (you see in your periphery how heads shift towards him and how eyes narrow at you. the partner you had just left looks at you with particular scrutiny.)

“if your hatred towards me is the cost of you enjoying the ball, then it is a burden i shall carry, and happily so.”

“has anyone ever told you how infuriating you bridgertons are?”

“no, but we very well know that we are,” he grins, “and we take immense pride in it.”

you groan, throwing your head back. (you hear murmurs around you. not ladylike.)

“are you truly not having fun?” the gentleness in his voice makes you look back at him. his expression is soft. sad. guilty. “we can leave the lineup, if that is what you would like.”

you consider his words and his offer.

“i am having fun,” you reply truthfully. his eyes light up at that and your heart warms at the sight. “it is just— being in a circumstance so wholly unfamiliar— it’s overwhelming, is all, i think. but…” you feel a smile form on your lips, “knowing that you all—as infuriating as you bridgertons are—are here with me, by my side, wanting me to enjoy myself, wanting me to be happy, it makes all the overwhelming feeling worthwhile. i am happy. you all make me happy.”

colin doesn’t say anything. he just stares at you as the two of you dance still. you are about to inquire—

“i am grateful to call you my friend, y/n. becoming your friend has been one of the greatest blessings to have been bestowed upon me and my family.”

you suck in a breath.

as is becoming yours has been one of mine.

but another thought also lives in your mind. so, on the exhale of your breath, you smirk.

“only second to falling in love with penelope, yes?”

he laughs, an uncharacteristic shy smile forming on his lips as he looks at his feet and then back at you, eyes shining incandescently.

“i hope you do not take offense to being second.”

“being second to penelope is truly, sincerely, still a victory in of itself. you are very blessed, indeed, to be her premier.”

you did not think colin’s eyes could shine brighter than they had mere moments prior, but you suppose— no, you are certain that this is the effect that the love of penelope featherington has on the third eldest bridgerton: the light in colin’s eyes is absolute radiance.

“‘very blessed’ is to put it very lightly.”

with unabashed grins, you and colin continue to dance. you have to walk most of the steps, often keeping good on your promise and stepping on his toes, but your partner is deterred neither by your incompetence nor by his injuries. the two of you laugh (drawing leers from the other guests, you notice but brush off) and end your dance with exaggerated flourishes of a curtsy and a bow to one another.

“you underestimate your dancing skills, miss y/l/n,” colin remarks with a beam.

“see if you feel the same after tending to your bruises, mr. bridgerton,” you beam back.

“colin bridgerton!”

you both whip your gazes to the call of colin’s name and see a man fastly, eagerly approaching.

“hastings!”

hastings? why does that sound familiar?

colin and the absurdly handsome man embrace, smiles broad and sincere.

“i was uncertain you would be joining us on this occasion.”

“we would have seen to arriving early, as we had intended, but augie is proving to be quite unpredictable with his tantrums as of late.”

“he must take after his uncles,” colin smirks with odd pride. that makes the other man chuckle.

“unfortunately, it seems to be so.”

he then shifts his gaze onto you. his expression is curious and— sweet? kindly. you feel yourself become rather self-conscious as you notice, in your periphery, colin assuming a posture of gentlemanliness.

“my apologies for my dreadful manners. simon, this is miss y/n y/l/n. y/n, this is simon basset.”

simon bows most graciously at you.

“good evening, miss y/l/n. it is a true pleasure to finally meet you. i am simon basset, daphne’s husband.”

daphne?

as in daphne bridgerton?

you recall the day you and benedict toured the art gallery: a portrait, a fairly recent one, it seemed, of a beautiful young woman and a beautiful young man—the duchess and the duke of hastings, the plaque read.

your jaw drops.

“you are the duke!” you remember the etiquette kathani taught you. “your grace!” and you sloppily curtsy.

simon laughs.

“that is hardly necessary. please, if you feel comfortable in doing so, call me simon.”

“yes— of course!, your— simon,” you compose yourself. “and you may call me y/n; i would prefer it, actually.”

simon grins.

“then, y/n, may i have the honor of having your next dance?”

your jaw drops again, your composure completely falling away. you look at simon, who is utterly amused by your reaction, and then to colin, who is utterly delighted by the turn of events, and back to simon.

“that is a mistake.”

that earns guffaws from both of the men. (you feel stares falling upon them and, once again, scowls falling upon you.)

“i am more than willing to make that discovery for myself, if you will allow it.”

you throw back your head (ignoring the additional glares shot your way) and, with a sigh, whip it back to look at simon with a fatigued, but earnest, smile.

“i shall allow it.”

colin bows his head at you, his grin having never left his countenance since the end of your dance together, and steps to the side as you place your hand into simon’s outstretched one and are led to the next lineup by the duke.

–

“has the duchess accompanied you to the ball this evening?”

“while it is poor courtesy to speak on behalf of my wife when she can speak for herself, i can say, with confidence, that she would much rather you call her daphne.”

“kathani had taught me your society’s etiquette in preparation for the ball, in the event it would be necessary,” you roll your eyes. “while i find it all utterly ridiculous, and entirely unnecessary for me in particular, i want to honor the knowledge that my teacher has bestowed upon me as a way to honor her.”

simon grins.

“you are a dedicated student. indeed, she is in attendance. the last i had seen her, she was tending to benedict.”

your heart sinks.

oh no.

“tending to benedict? is he unwell? did something happen? is he all right?”

you hear how your voice rises in pitch and grows louder and more frantic with each word. (you try not to care for the stares that you feel on you. they are not of importance right now——or ever.)

is that why i have not seen him all night? because he is in poor condition? shall i leave the ball? shall i see where he is being tended to? shall i—

“y/n?”

oh. yes. you were having a conversation with simon.

“sorry, what did you say?”

“i had said that i did not mean to worry you,” simon says sincerely, but there is something in his smile. not suspicious, neither mocking nor teasing. it is as if he is withholding the full expression of his emotion. “i simply mean that she is speaking with him and— encouraging him, is all.”

you feel the entirety of your body, mind, heart, and soul ease; but now, you are perplexed.

“encouraging him? whatever for?”

“i had not stayed with them long enough to hear the details of their conversation; i had sought you out rather immediately.”

“me!”

the dance had timed perfectly that upon receiving such information, you are forced to turn to another partner (who is unnerved to have you as a temporary companion). when you reunite with simon, his chuckling has mostly subsided.

“indeed. the viscount had encouraged me to ask you for a dance. the viscountess then stated that you required the practice.”

“i—— am utterly lacking in words in how to respond to that.”

“if it is of any comfort to you, it was something i had already intended on doing.”

“that is, rather strange?”

he grins.

“i can see how that is so from your perspective, yes. but from mine,” and it surprises you how suddenly simon’s countenance softens, “i had to find out for myself how wonderful this y/n y/l/n is to have so easily won the affections of all the bridgertons at number five. daff and i, as well as francesca, were becoming quite jealous that we did not have the good fortune to spend time with you as the rest of the family has had.”

“the family has… spoken of me?”

“in these past months of knowing you, you have become their most beloved topic of conversation. hyacinth and gregory idolize how resplendent of a storyteller you are. eloise adores being challenged by your intellect. colin aspires to your ferocity of quick wit. kate cherishes every discussion you share together. anthony reveres your unwavering resolve. violet becomes overcome with delight at every recounting of a memory in which you are involved. and benedict…”

you swallow.

“yes?”

you hear how feeble and quiet your voice has become.

“never stops speaking of you; so much so that it would be impossible to abridge what he loves in you.”

you shut your eyes closed at the words “he loves” and attempt to control the tears that threaten to flow at the word “you.”

the love he has for you is not the love you have for him.

“i— i did not know that they held me in such high regard,” you whisper.

you flutter your eyes open, grateful that no tears have fallen, and are greeted by the gentlest of smiles from simon. it assuages your soul.

“the highest of regards. they care very deeply for you.”

“and i care very deeply for them,” you declare softly. you then feel yourself break out into a smile. “i cannot say the same for you, yet, but i can see it forthcoming.”

simon throws his head back with a loud laugh, your smile transforming into a large grin (as you ignore the scowls that fall upon you). simon whips his head back to you, and he too wears a large grin.

“i am honored that you see the potential within me.”

with a final spin, you and simon release the other’s hand, ending the dance in a curtsy and a bow, both of your grins non-faltering.

“thank you for bestowing me the honor of dancing with you.”

you snort. (you hear scoffs and other suppressed noises of disapproval.)

“i fail to see how much of an honor it is to have someone incessantly knock into you, but if such is your feeling,” you curtsy with much theatricality and, upon your rise, let out a sigh of relief. “now, i shall retire to the margins once more.”

simon, once again, looks as if he is withholding the full expression of his emotions, but in it you detect— delight? you narrow your eyes.

“what?”

“you are not meant for the margins, y/n; please forgive me,” and with that, simon bows, his smile still non-faltering, and turns to leave you in the middle of the dance floor.

you are about to call out his name, curious and agitated by his vagueness—

“y/n?”

you turn around to the familiar voice and are greeted by a smiling anthony.

“oh no. are you going to ask me for the honor of having my next dance?”

the viscount looks as if he is about to howl with laughter and attempts to mask it, poorly, with his absurdly elated smile.

“is the idea of dancing with me truly so appalling?”

“the idea of dancing more is what i find so appalling.”

“i shan’t force you to do anything you do not want to do.”

“but how will your pride take it?”

this time anthony fully howls (earning looks of confusion at the host and their looks, predictably, turning to glares when they trace the impropriety back to you).

“i am always working on humbling myself,” he says, his expression softening. “i assure you that i, as well as my pride, can manage your rejection if it means that you are happy. you need not worry about my well-being.”

these damned bridgertons, and their damned charm, and their damned sincerity.

despite your internal accusations, you smile. you offer your hand (hearing a gasp or a few around you), and beaming, anthony takes it.

–

“you look like a princess, y/n!”

the saccharine words of hyacinth echo in your mind. with the transmutative magics of your fairy godmothers in mama, violet, kathani, genevieve, judith, alice, and the maids of bridgerton house, the impossible was made possible: you look like a princess. but it is not until this very moment, after descending a regal staircase, after entering this enchanting ball, after dancing with two dashing gentlemen and now a third, that you feel like a princess. you recall how you and your siblings played imagination; how you often asked to be the princess; how you did it so often that mama sewed you a dress from scraps of fabric and papa crafted you a crown out of discarded branches and your elder sister announced you as princess y/n whenever you played and your younger sibling waltzed with you around the first floor of your home. it makes you elated with childlike wonder how fortunate you are to be here and how lovely it is to be here, how strange and wonderful it is that imagination has become real life; as if it is all a wish for which you did not know you had wished, a wish that you did not know you had wanted to come true until it came true.

but—

“is there something on your mind, y/n?” you hear anthony ask, sometime after returning to him as your partner. “you seem pensive.”

“ah, yes. despite my gripes with you, and your brother, and your brother-in-law insisting on dancing with me—”

“i gave you an option not to do so!”

“i am not finished speaking!”

he huffs out air through his nostrils, waiting with what seems to be a morsel of patience for you to continue.

“despite my gripes with you, your brother, and your brother-in-law insisting on dancing with me—” anthony gives you a tired look that of an older sibling; you grin, “i am enjoying myself. i just wish, i just wish my family could be here with me, to enjoy it too.”

anthony’s expression softens immediately, and it makes your heart tighten. you know with what gravity, duty, and love he looks after the entirety of his family; you have witnessed it at every given second since becoming his friend. if someone were to be with you as you navigate this pain, you are glad that it is anthony.

“we shall invite them to the next ball we host,” he declares. your jaw drops. “it was a lack of foresight on my part for not doing so for this occasion, and i shan’t make that error again.”

you try to do rough estimations of what costs that would entail for the bridgertons— dresses and coats and shoes and four to six sets of two abstained days of work at least.

“anthony, i cannot possibly ask you to—”

“you did not ask,” he grins. “i offered. and i do so wholeheartedly. it shall not be a trouble for us, just strategic planning as kathani and i work the books. and before you protest—” you frown, both disappointed and flattered that anthony could sense your retaliation, “it is something i—as well as the rest of the family, i am certain—wish to do. if you won’t consider it for yourself and your family, then perhaps consider it as a gift to us selfish bridgertons.”

that makes you laugh loudly as you feel tears form in your eyes (whispers of you be damned). expression turning gentle once more, anthony continues,

“it would be an honor to finally meet your family. if they are even an inkling like you, then they must be truly wonderful, indeed.”

with a small sniffle of your nose and all the gratitude in your heart, you smile.

“they are. they are truly wonderful. i love them so much.”

anthony smiles in return with a nod of his head.

“then it is settled.”

“you are a good brother, anthony.”

you have wondered often if that is something anthony knows. while the bridgertons’ love for one another is apparent in all that they do and say and breathe, you haven’t heard them say very complimentary things to one another, particularly to the eldest. it is typical of families to tease and to jest, you know that intimately, but you also know how important, then, it is to tell your family what you truly think of them, how you truly feel of them. they ought to know just how much they are loved.

though his overall demeanor is composed and dignified, the softness in anthony’s eyes reveals his true emotion.

“and you are a good sibling, y/n.”

< their dance eventually comes to an end. someone approaches them. >

“good evening, brother,” benedict turns his ocean eyes to you. “good evening, y/n.”

“good evening, benedict.”

you vaguely hear something in your periphery. you turn to it and see a brilliant grin lighting up the viscount’s countenance.

“huh?”

“i had said that the viscountess is calling me over to her. i must pardon myself.”

“oh. yes. farewell, anthony.”

his grin broadens, dimples forming in his cheeks, and he bows. you see how, as he brings himself upright, his eyes shift towards his brother, the delight in his grin never leaving but something in his eyes… softening? before you can fully process it, he has turned and now walks towards kathani.

you turn back to benedict.

“i—— good evening, y/n.”

“good evening, benedict. though, we have already greeted each other this night, just moments ago.”

“ah, yes— that—— that would be correct. and— is… correct.”

he is anxious. your heart aches at the sight, and you want to reach out and touch him, comfort him, ease whatever his concerns are—but you refrain.

benedict clears his throat.

“are you— are you enjoying yourself?”

while heavy by benedict’s current state, your heart cannot help but glow brighter at his question.

“yes, tremendously so. the dancing has been plenty fun, despite how horrendous i am at it.”

that makes benedict laugh, and relief floods your body, mind, soul, and heart. it is good to hear him laugh. to see him smile.

“i do not think you are as horrendous as you think you are. your form has been quite good.”

you cock your head, feeling the scrunch of your eyebrows and the smirk on your lips.

“you have been observing me?”

his jaw drops, his body stiffening again. suddenly shy, he looks at his shoes and, with a cough, looks back up at you, and you attempt to hold in your gasp.

how.

how is that, after all this time, he makes these butterflies within me flutter still.

“i— i do not have a clever diversion for that. yes; yes, i have. i suppose i have been building the— the courage within myself.”

“‘the courage’? the courage for what?”

he swallows.

“to ask you to dance with me.”

oh.

“oh.”

he looks… he looks scared. exposed. vulnerable.

you feel them within yourself, too.

he offers his hand.

“may i dance with you, y/n?”

you place your hand in his.

“yes. yes, you may, benedict.”

i am terrified of nothing else and would love nothing more than to dance with you.

benedict leads you to the floor, his ocean eyes never leaving yours, your eyes never leaving his.

the quartet starts up, and you detect how it is music for a waltz. of all the dances you were taught, even you can admit that you were best at learning the waltz.

…

you curtsy as he bows. benedict places his hand on your waist, and you try not to elicit your gasp from feeling his touch.

< their dance commences. they are silent. a lot of staring and shit.

< notably, y/n is not cognizant of the ton’s perception of her while she dances with benedict as she had been with her previous partners. it seems her sole focus in this moment is dancing with benedict, being with benedict. her heart, mind, body, and soul is with him.

< y/n’s mind goes Rampant when benedict places his hand on her exposed shoulder. >

do not close your eyes, you reprimand yourself. if you close your eyes, you will indulge. you will indulge in this sensation. in this touch. in his touch. in benedict’s bare hand on the expanse of your exposed skin. in imagination. in fantasies. in thoughts. in other thoughts on other parts of your body that you so, so very much want him to—

“i had not spoken properly.”

you try not to shudder a gasp upon hearing his voice.

“pardon?” you say, a bit breathless. the dance calling for it, benedict twirls you, and you are now face to face again.

“earlier; when i had commented on your appearance, i had said you looked well.”

you snort, recalling the peculiar word choice, and that earns a smile from benedict.

“what i had meant to say is—“ he swallows, “you look beautiful, y/n.”

“i think,” you respond perhaps too swiftly, “that is testimony to genevieve’s skill and not to my appearance.”

“i think genevieve only enhances what is already there.”

you want to change, you don’t want to change— you do want to change the topic. you cannot handle whatever— whatever benedict is insinuating. the indecipherable, intense, attentive gaze of his ocean eyes on you. it is so much; it is too much.

“she spoke of you.”

shit. why did i say that?

his face immediately falls, ocean eyes transforming with it.

shit.

“genevieve spoke of me? with you? why?”

“kathani had accompanied me to the modiste, and i had shared with genevieve how i became acquainted with penelope and the bridgertons,” you half-truth. “talking about the family, and then you, was a natural consequence.”

“what did she say? about me?”

you try not to wince at the urgency in his voice.

“she shared how you and she had— an intimate and passionate acquaintance,” you divulge, using the words your friend had to describe the artists’ relationship. perhaps you imagine the sensation, but you feel benedict wince as you dance. “and that it was brief and no more.”

“she said that? ‘brief and no more’?”

“indeed.”

he sighs. you detect relief in the exhale, but perhaps you had, once again, imagined it. you always had an active imagination; trying to bend what you perceive to what you wish was real.

“i see,” is all benedict says.

“do you care for her?” you inquire. it is truly masochistic, what you are doing. but you cannot help yourself. it is something you often do when benedict is near. when you and he are so close.

there is a small silence.

“i did. at least, i think i did,” he shares. “i was hurt when our— acquaintance came to an end, but i was not heartbroken. i had known nothing of heartbreak, not until—”

and he suddenly stops speaking, sucking in his lips.

“until?”

“nothing. nevermind. forget i had said anything,” he says all too quickly. you laugh, and he scrunches his face in adorable disapproval at you.

“well, that only makes me the more curious, benedict! the mystery of it, and your very clear blush, indicate it must have been quite the event.”

“i am not blushing!”

“you cannot lie about something i can literally see.”

“you are infuriating.”

“and what do you think you are?”

benedict just pouts at you, though you see the twinkle in his ocean eyes. you want the twinkle to be of affection, but you will settle for amusement. for friendship. you take pride in how you can elicit this reaction out of him. you take joy in how he can elicit this reaction out of you. you love him, and you are grateful that is something you can say and know and feel. even if he does not love you as you love him.

“the first time i felt heartbreak,” he begins, finally giving in. you perk up in anticipation. “was when— was when you had walked out of the house after i had crumpled the paper to the floor.”

you nearly stop in your tracks, halting your waltz with benedict entirely, until you find a way to recover and continue the steps with him. he is looking intently at you, waiting for your response. you inhale a breath and on the exhale say,

“oh.”

it is a pathetic response, but it is the only one you can muster at this moment. breath has entirely left your lungs, your heart palpitates at a maddening rate, the lightning of benedict’s touch and proximity magnifying at every passing second.

“i had hurt you, this person whom i—” he swallows, “whom i care for, deeply and completely. i was, and am, ashamed of my deed and the arrogant thoughts and beliefs that led me to do it.”

“i have long forgiven you for that, benedict.”

“it is something of which i am not deserving.”

“you cannot tell me what to think or do,” you challenge, arching an eyebrow at him to add levity to the conversation. benedict smiles, despite himself, and it makes your body flood with relief and joy.

“i would never dare.”

“as you shouldn’t,” you grin, then inhaling and exhaling through your nostrils. “you need not flagellate yourself for what you did. that accomplishes nothing, and guilt is entirely useless in the structures that be,” you say resolutely. more softly, you continue. “my forgiveness is something i gave you willingly because it is what i truly wanted. because i knew, and know, how you wish to do better. i see that in everything you do; in your art, in your character. it is something i admire in you.”

benedict simply stares at you, his ocean eyes impossible to decipher again. his gaze is overwhelming, but you refuse to break it.

“i was about to say how undeserving i am of your compassion,” he says, “but then swiftly realized you would have just admonished me.”

you laugh.

“you were correct in thinking so, yes.”

he looks at you still, his expression still impossible to decipher, but there is something soft about it.

“thank you, y/n.”

the butterflies within you flutter once more.

“and if you ever wish to discard your paper again,” you diverge from your feelings, “simply hand it to me. i am always in need of more.”

he laughs fully, the corners of his eyes crinkling with delight, and you feel the flutterings violently rage within. perhaps diversion was not the wisest choice (or perhaps it was, if it meant that you were the one to make benedict laugh like that).

“i have gotten quite good at maximizing the amount of negative space on a sheet, but nothing would delight me more than to support your writing.”

“i am most grateful for your patronage, mr. bridgerton.”

benedict makes something of a gagging noise, and you snort loudly.

“you are making it strange with the master-servant relation, y/n.”

“ah, so you are learning,” you comment with a sagacious nod of approval. it is now benedict’s turn to snort.

“what can i say?” he grins. “i have the greatest of teachers.”

“they have done quite well; please give them my regards.”

“i shall.”

and with the music coming to an end, you turn to face one another, wide and wild smiles on your faces. you curtsy as benedict bows.

“may i fetch you a drink?” he inquires after you are both upright again.

“is alcohol served at these occasions?”

benedict laughs.

“champagne it is.”

he gives you one more bow, lingering a moment more with one more smile, before taking off to retrieve your drink.

you try to bite back your smile, but it’s entirely useless. you twirl in your spot, feeling the swish of your dress in the spin, for you cannot help yourself. you cannot help how much joy radiates off of you in this moment, how giddy you are. it feels like a fairytale. you look in the direction benedict took off and feel your smile widen.

it is dangerous what you are doing— indulging in this. but you do not care.

this is undoubtedly the most wondrous night of your life.

“so you’re the pauper that the bridgertons have invited to their ball.”

you freeze.

“how else would you have been asked to dance by the host—the viscount and a bridgerton, nonetheless; his two brothers; and the elusive duke of hastings? it is an endearing sight, really.”

her posse snickers.

“the bridgertons have always been so kind and thoughtful in that way, extending their hands to the less fortunate. why they chose you, however, remains a mystery. if it were a pretty face that appealed to them, i perhaps could have understood, but you are simple at best.”

“you are cressida cowper,” you state.

penelope and eloise had warned you about a cruel creature amongst the ton, and the young woman before you matches all of the criteria they had described: icy platinum hair, draconian eyes, and a haughty disposition that ought to be reserved for the royals.

cressida daintily gasps and smiles at you with what seems to be all the mockery she can muster.

“i see that my reputation precedes me! though, only those of my standing can refer to me as such. cannot have my name tainted by the mouths of the lowly.”

you feel the gazes of other guests on you. you hear muffled sneers.

this is entertainment for them.

you should say something, stand up for yourself— against cressida, against her posse, against the ton— but you don’t. you can’t. your mouth has gone dry, your mind has gone silent, your body has gone numb. you have never, ever felt more powerless.

“your dress— did the bridgertons pay for it? of course they did. pity, though, for their wealth to go to waste on such an offensive thing. allow me to assist you—”

and she pours her drink onto you.

you try not to gasp at the chill of the liquid making contact with your skin. looking down, you see a reddish purple stain seep into the cream fabric of your ball gown as it continues to travel downwards.

you hear cressida giggle. you look up.

“better,” she simpers. “beautiful at last.”

her posse sneers with delight. the guests who had tried to suppress their laughs do nothing to hide their mirth now.

this is entertainment for them. my humiliation— it is entertainment for them.

you step into cressida’s space, eliciting a stunned gasp from her as the others follow suit, and shove your face as closely to hers as possible.

“if we were not in your domain, i would rip out your delicate hair and strike my hand across your pretty little face. but i am a lady—not in blood nor in title, but in character. and with your words and your deeds, you have shown just how utterly undeserving you are of such a title with your complete void of morals, compassion, and integrity. i do not care what you think of me, cressida, or what drinks you pour on me because i can rest easy in my sleep and waking hours knowing with perfect certainty that i am nothing like you. i bid you good night.”

and maintaining the ferocity of your glare on her horrified eyes, you muster up the most mocking, deep curtsy you can, turn, hitch up your skirt, and run away. you cannot care for the booming silence from that creature and her posse, for the murmurs and glowers of the ton thrown your way. you cannot take time to process what words a flutters-inducing voice snarls at cressida.

no.

you must simply run away, quickly and efficiently, because you refuse to give into these monsters’ satisfaction of seeing your tears.

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.iv ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

the cool air of the night whips your face as you run as far and as deep as you can into the gardens. you curse your damned shoes, for they are slippery and nothing like your sturdy boots, and they make you realize even further how much you have fucked up in allowing yourself to get this far. in allowing yourself to go to the ball, in allowing yourself to dance, in allowing yourself to fall in—

feeling your shoe catch on something, you fall forward and throw your hands out in front of you, your gloved palms digging into the bark of a tree trunk as you attempt to steady yourself. you attempt to control the staggered rhythm of your breath, the sobs that choke out of your throat, the palpitations that threaten to collapse your heart.

why did i allow myself to get this far?

“y/n—”

you snap your gaze over to the call of your name as your stomach knots, somehow, even now, with flutterings upon hearing his voice.

“benedict, no— just— no,” you manage to croak out, stepping away from where he approaches. you hold up your hand, as if it is a magical force that will push him away. it does not. “just go, please, just go.”

“i refuse to leave you, y/n, you are hurt—”

you cackle, sniffling the snot that tries to escape your nostrils. you push your remaining hand off the tree and turn towards him.

“hurt? what gave you that impression? is it the tears? they are just water, benedict, they will dry.”

“this is not the time to jest!”

“then what do you want of me!”

“to allow me to help you!”

“why! why do you care! why do you care for some, some low status person like me!”

“that is not how i see you!”

“THAT IS WHAT I AM.”

he freezes. you feel yourself clenching your hands into fists, your nails digging into your palms through the satin of the gloves that were bought for you.

“you are the son of a viscountess, a brother to a viscount. i wonder every day if my family will have enough food to eat at our one meal. we—” you gesture between the two of you, “—are not of the same world. and maybe, maybe it should have stayed that way. to, to have stayed in our own worlds. we should have stayed in our own worlds!”

“and is that what you want?” he shoots back.

“what?” you snark.

“is that what you want? for us to stay in our own worlds?”

you fall silent, words suddenly failing you, breath suddenly leaving you. he huffs out a breath and continues.

“if that is what you want, i shall stay away from you. i shall never bother you. i shall never hurt you as i have. we shall—” benedict swallows, “we shall forget each other. if that is what you want, y/n, i shall give it to you.”

you do not respond to him. you stare into him as he stares into you.

“is that what you want?”

you shake your head as you feel fresh tears rush to your eyes.

“then what do you want?” he softly asks.

you flutter your eyes closed and breathe in. on your exhale, you open your eyes to the tear-blurry sight of benedict still looking at you with such tenderness in his ocean eyes.

“i want you,” you whisper.

you barely have time to process anything else when benedict surges forward and wraps his arms around you in a crushing embrace. tears fall even harder than before as you cry into his chest and wrap your arms around him.

benedict pulls back from the embrace to look at you, to cup your cheek, to wipe away the tears that fall so quickly from your eyes.

“i want you, y/n. i want to be yours. i want to be in your world, i want our worlds to be one. i want to go wherever you go. i want to make you laugh and to make you smile every day and every night; i want to do everything with you. i want to be with you, to share this life with you. from the moment i met you, from the moment you intended to shake my hand, i have wanted nothing more than to share all the time i have on this earth with you. i do not care for balls, i do not care for the ton, i care— i care for you, y/n. these are not the circumstances in which i wanted to confess this, with you crying and us yelling at one another, but i must be true with you. i—”

“benedict?”

“yes?”

“may i kiss you?”

benedict’s jaw drops and you laugh at his shock, sniffling your nose as you beam at him. he quickly recovers, breaking out into the smile that has always made you flutter with butterflies, the smile that you always secretly hoped, dreamed, wished was reserved for you. and you begin to think that, after all this time, perhaps it is.

“good god, please, yes—”

he barely completes his ‘yes’ when you jump forward to crash your lips into his. benedict practically trips backwards with the force of your eager leap, the two of you laughing into your kiss at the messiness of it all, as he holds you both steady.

this is your first kiss. you are so glad that it is benedict.

and somewhere within you blooms the hope that he is your last first kiss.

you have no idea what you’re doing, or what you should be doing, but you are far too much enjoying having benedict’s lips on yours, your hands on his cheeks, his hands on your waist, and your bodies pressing more and more into each other to give the slightest care. and the smile you feel against yours makes you think that benedict doesn’t mind—at all.

you pull apart to breathe, but your lips do not move far from one another.

“i love you.”

“i love you, too.”

“and i am sorry.”

“for loving me?”

you feel benedict jump back as he holds you, his face absolutely crestfallen, panic flooding his eyes, and he’s about to open his mouth to speak when you giggle and peck his parted lips with yours.

“i’m teasing you, my love.”

benedict’s eyes soften but quickly glint with mischief. you’re curious about the expression when you feel him tickling the sides of your waist.

“okay, okay!” you gasp with laughter as he tickles on. “i— i yield, i yield!”

benedict grins victoriously, his tickles fading into him softly rubbing circles on your waist.

“i am sorry for saying that is not how i see you, when you spoke of your social standing. i had not meant it that way, but i understand now how it was understood, and i should not have said it as i did. i know that i have lived a life of unfathomable ease with the wealth and circumstances into which i was born. the privileges i hold are not things i had reflected on, really, until— until i met you.”

you soften at his earnestness, by the way he humbles himself before you. but you cannot help the giddy mischief that bubbles from within.

“did you only reflect on your privileges as to win a femme’s favor?”

benedict’s jaw drops again, but you see how his ocean eyes shine with like-minded playfulness.

“do you truly think so lowly of me?”

you grin.

“perhaps.”

you feel benedict teasingly threaten his hands into tickling position onto your waist, and laughing, you shoo them away. he grins and softens his gaze once more.

“what i wanted to say to you earlier is— i wish you did not speak of yourself so harshly. as if you are unworthy of care from me because of your status. i care for you, i love you, y/n, as you are. as you were, as you will be. with all your circumstances, all your experiences, all your deeds, all your words, all your thoughts, all your feelings. for your heart, for your mind, for your soul. i love you because you are you, and i wish for you to see that, for you to see you as i see you. as so many of us see you.”

“i— i do not know what to say.”

“you do not have to say anything; just to, if i may ask of you, seed my words into your heart and mind and soul and know them to be true, wholly and completely,” a playful smile forms on his lips. “though, i must say, i am rather pleased with myself for rendering a writer with ferocious conviction speechless.”

you roll your eyes, but your voice is soft.

“you have had that effect on me for quite some time, benedict.”

benedict swallows and gently rubs circles onto your waist again.

“i love you, benedict.”

“i love you, too.”

< y/n and benedict, hand-in-hand, start to walk towards the house; they are taking their time. >

“are you certain you want to return the ball?” benedict inquires. “we can stay here in the gardens and wait until the last of the guests have gone.”

you hum.

“i would like to dance.”

“ah, was there a gentleman or a lady who caught your eye, miss y/l/n?”

“oh, loads. i hope it won’t make you terribly jealous, mr. bridgerton.”

“it will, but i shall simply stare at them maliciously if their hands are to roam.”

“yes, my form is reserved for your hands and your hands alone.”

you exchange grins.

“indeed.”

benedict nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, and you laugh. he lifts his head and plants a soft kiss on your temple.

“are you certain? i do not mean to doubt you or your wishes to dance. we can dance out here, under the bright light of the moon. i want you to feel content and safe.”

“i do feel content and safe. with you. with the family. within myself. i shan’t let the ton or cressida ruin my first ball. though, the idea of dancing in the moonlight is quite enticing. perhaps another night?”

“you have my word,” and bringing your hand to his lips, he kisses your knuckles. a serene silence falls between you two until benedict makes some sort of a noise in his throat, as if to clear his voice.

“i, uh, must say,” benedict begins, “your confrontation with cressida was, uh, quite— alluring.”

you stop, letting go of his hand, and stare at him.

“alluring?”

a delicious blush colors your love’s face.

“indeed.”

a newfound bravery blooms in you.

you step into his space, not breaking eye contact with his blown out pupils, the ocean of his eyes mere outlines. you sneak your lips towards his ear and hear a soft whimper emit from his lips.

“is that something of interest to you, mr. bridgerton?” you murmur, your bottom lip barely grazing his earlobe. you feel him shiver and inhale. “when you see someone be put in their place?”

he exhales frantically.

“it is something of interest to me when— when you do it,” he admits, as if out of breath. you smile, pressing your bottom lip softly into his earlobe. he does nothing to hold back his moan as you do everything in your power to hold in yours.

“that is good to know,” and quickly rip away from him.

in your step back, you take in benedict’s state—flustered, expectant, ruttish—and wink at him. you turn and walk away at your leisure, putting on a performance of superiority as you hide your own arousal.

it is only a few moments later that you hear benedict follow you.

“you,” he says, voice still fraught with desire but full with love, “will be the death of me.”

you look back at him and grin.

“and what would you like me to put on your epitaph?”

“benedict bridgerton, he who, in life and in death, loves the best soul to have ever existed.”

you cannot help your giddy self and close the distance between the two of you once more, grabbing his face and pressing your smile into his. benedict happily obliges as he places his hands at the low of your waist and pulls you closer into him.

< they get into it!

< y/n takes off her gloves so that she can touch benedict; she is about to throw them on the ground. >

“wait—”

and he takes your gloves.

“hm?”

“your gloves. they were costly to make,” benedict states as he stuffs them into the inside pockets of his jacket. “i don’t want to be flippant in letting them be discarded to the ground.”

you gape at him.

“you concern yourself with the cost of my gloves?”

“why, yes, of course, it is something i—”

you clutch onto the lapels of benedict’s jacket and push him backward into a nearby hedge, his mouth now agape and his pupils dark with a desire you very much want to satisfy.

“i find your consideration quite alluring.”

in the midst of his apparent arousal, benedict giggles, and that makes you grin.

“what is it?”

“a hedge, y/n? of all things to anchor me against?”

you roll your eyes.

“it was this, benedict, or the bark of a tree.”

“ah, so i should be grateful then.”

you repeat his words with sped up mockery, making him laugh and the corners of his eyes crinkle in the adorable way that is so very distinctly benedict, and you capture your love’s lips again to shut him up, smiling and laughing into the kiss.

…

“what do you want?”

“you. whatever you want, benedict, i want it. please.”

“are you certain?” he breathes into your ear.

“god, yes, benedict, please, yes.”

“then—”

benedict positions his head downward, burying his face into the crevice of your bosom, and before you can even begin to tease him for his absurdity, you feel the wetness of his tongue flat against the curvature of your right breast. your gasp of surprise quickly transforms into an ungodly guttural wail, feeling yourself dig your fingernails into benedict’s back, arching into him to steady yourself, as he painstakingly drags the flat of his tongue from your right breast against the expanse of your exposed chest to the length of your right shoulder. dazed and euphoric, you feel how benedict sneaks towards your ear, hovers it, panting ragged breaths,

“i’ve wanted to do that since you descended the stairs in that dress. and—”

taking your left hand, benedict pushes your middle finger and forefinger fully into his mouth. he methodically works his tongue against them as he guides your hand to pull and push in him, his blown out pupils never once leaving your intoxicated stare. you feel the desperate urge to throw your head back at the incandescent eroticism that throbs from your fingertips to the rest of your body, but may god smite you if you willingly tear your eyes away from the divine sight of benedict’s almost oceanless eyes gaping into you as his gorgeous mouth sucks on your fingers. just before you feel as though you are to fully blank out and ascend into the heavens, benedict rips your hand out of his mouth, the action creating an obscenely delicious ‘pop’ sound, and, wrapping his hand around your wrist, pulls you back into him, your face finding respite just below his shoulder.

“i’ve wanted to do that since first drawing your hand.”

you laugh-cry into his jacket.

“shit, benedict.”

your love laughs and nudges his head into yours and rests it there as he softly rubs circles on your back with his thumb.

“please—” good god, breathe, “please remind me to ask you more frequently what you want.”

“did you enjoy it?”

“no, benedict, i quite plainly hated it.”

“i’d be glad to accept your critiques.”

“i know you would,” you smile into his jacket and, lifting your head, are greeted by your favorite sight: benedict, with his soft smile and his gentle ocean eyes.

“i have never felt like that before,” you admit in a whisper.

“nor have i,” he whispers back. that shocks you, and you must have made your reaction visible because benedict emits a laugh through his nose, soft smile and gentle ocean eyes unfaltering.

“but you have been with others before; you’ve had similar experiences, yes?”

you had assumed that your exhilaration must have been, apart from it being benedict, rooted in your lack of experience in such things.

benedict brushes a loose strand of your hair away from your eyes and tucks it behind your ear, his hand moving down to cup your cheek, his thumb gently rubbing it.

“yes, but those were different.”

you cock your head in response. he smiles, as if it is apparent.

“because they are not you.”

the sweetness of benedict’s ocean eyes are quickly replaced with shock then delight and then you don’t know what because he closes them as you crash your lips into his. whatever you had just felt before, you want it again. you want benedict. all of him. and you want all of him to feel what you just had.

you lick his teeth, and granting your wish, benedict opens his mouth more, groaning, bringing his hands to the curvatures of your ass, pushing your bodies even closer together though no space left exists between the two of you. you move your hand to the back of his head and, gripping a tuft of his hair, pull it roughly just as you capture his tongue with your mouth and suck hard. the sounds that benedict produce in reaction are entirely inhuman, but you vaguely deduce he is trying to say your name, and you’ve never attended a concert but, my god, nothing will ever sound as harmonious as the symphony that is your name gutturally trapped in benedict’s throat.

continuing with the work you’ve done to undo benedict thus far, you take your other hand and start to rake it against his body, starting at the base of his throat, taking time and leisure to explore, lowering and pressing into his chest, wondering wildly what beauty exists behind his damned shirt, lowering and feeling the firmness of his stomach and trying not to completely undo yourself with the sinful, transcendent thoughts of putting your tongue there, lowering and lowering and touching something curious and unfamiliar and hard and—

when he pushes you off of him.

“benedict, i— i am so sorry,” you panic, “please, what did i—”

“no, no,” he swallows, “you did— you have nothing to apologize for, my love, you were— uh— you were doing quite——” he clears his throat, “you were doing quite well; very well, actually…”

you continue to frown, still concerned.

“then why are you so tottery?”

“because— because if we were to continue, i do not think— i know i would not last for— um, for very much longer.”

you jut out your hip, putting the knuckles of your fist on it, and furrow your eyebrows at him.

“benedict bridgerton, i still do not understand what you are trying to convey. speak plainly.”

“we should stop.”

your jaw drops, as does your hand from your hip.

“why?” you practically whine. you should be embarrassed by your desperation, but to be entirely frank, you couldn't care less. benedict huffs out a laugh, still breathless, and, stepping towards you, lays a tender kiss on your forehead.

“as much as i would love for us to continue, i think being in the family gardens with a ball being held a few meters away is hardly an ideal location for the more— involved aspects of such activities. the aspects i’d like to explain to you,” he takes another step into your space, lowering his voice to an unfamiliar but enrapturing gravel, “the aspects i’d like to show you.”

you swallow your whimper.

“i—— i would very much like that,” you manage. and then you grin, “though, exploring such aspects in the family gardens sounds like it would be quite the adventure. a calculated risk, if you will.”

the alluring tone of benedict’s voice is completely replaced with a giggle, and your grin broadens as you press even closer into him and nudge your nose against his. benedict rests his forehead against yours and flutters his eyes closed.

“what did i do to have you love me back?”

you flutter your eyes closed.

“you were you. you are you.”

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.v ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

< ahead, y/n sees kathani. she makes the connection that kathani must have accompanied benedict as a chaperone so that y/n wouldn’t be “disgraced” by having a man by himself chase after her.

< as the two approach the viscountess, kathani recognizes how disheveled y/n and benedict look and promptly fixes them to look more presentable. she takes some hedge leaves out of benedict’s hair. >

“i see that you are well, y/n?” inquires kathani.

“never better, actually.”

she laughs, a smile falling on her lips.

“i am sincerely glad to hear that.”

< they walk closer to bridgerton house. >

“you are fortunate that it was not anthony who volunteered to chaperone. he would have not reacted well to his loved one being dishonored, as he would say, particularly on family grounds.”

“oh dear,” you say, nervous and suddenly self-conscious. you do not want to be the target of the eldest bridgerton’s wrath. “what have i done to dishonor—“

kathani laughs.

“i wasn’t referring to you, chellam. i was referring to him,” and she juts her chin out at benedict.

“me!”

“anthony will be furious when he finds out that you have been— private,” she says, gesturing to his newly tidied appearance, “with y/n in the gardens. not very gentlemanly of you.”

“he won’t find out!” benedict pauses. “he won’t find out— right, kate?”

kathani just makes a face of feigned deep thought and you chortle.

“kate!”

“i do not keep secrets from my husband, benedict.”

“but what if it’s for love?” he implores. he says it facetiously, but you feel with what conviction he exudes his true feeling.

kathani’s expression softens as she looks between you and benedict. you offer a small nod and a smile, confirming her thoughts. she beams at you but then narrows her eyes at benedict. there is no heat to her gaze; she is, however, having the most sublime time making her brother-in-law squirm.

“i do not keep secrets from my husband, benedict,” kathani repeats. benedict groans, throwing his head back like a disgruntled child, and you belly laugh at him.

“i hope you are ready for gregory to be your second,” she continues.

you almost double over as benedict snaps his head forward to look at his sister-in-law.

“gregory!”

“indeed. it is a shame as well— anthony’s accustomed second being the one he has to duel,” she sighs dramatically. “oh well. colin will make a fine replacement.”

“this family is ridiculous,” you declare, grinning like mad. “gregory seems a tad young, though. what about eloise? i am sure she would be a more than suitable second for benedict.”

“oh, i have no doubt,” grins back kathani, “but i would not dare involve a woman in the idiocy of men and their ludicrous concepts of honor.”

you and kathani laugh loudly, delighted by how much you are enjoying yourselves, untroubled by benedict’s moping.

“it has been wonderful being in love with you, benedict,” you state simply. “it’s a pity that it has to come to an end so soon."

kathani snorts. benedict stops in his tracks and gapes at you.

“you think i would lose the duel!”

“anthony is more stubborn; he would let it fuel his will to live.”

“i think you underestimate how much i love you and how that fuels my will to live.”

you smile. in your periphery, kathani smiles. despite his current displeasure with you, your love smiles.

“i suppose i do.”

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.vi ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

< upon returning to the ball, y/n, benedict, and kathani see how anthony and violet are ensuring that the cowpers are leaving. before the family leaves, y/n approaches cressida. >

“i do hope to see you at another one of these events. if you find a way, of course, not to have yourself kicked out.”

and you curtsy. you turn to your love, his mouth in a wide smile and ocean eyes sparkling, and offer him a wink. you hear the quartet start up.

“i believe it is time for another round of dancing. care to be my partner?”

“i would love nothing more.”

< they dance. it is sweet, silly, romantic, and delightful. both y/n and benedict touch each other beyond what is considered proper, like hands laying too low on the waist or eliminating the space between their bodies, but they truly do not care. their unabashed joy is abundantly evident to everyone in the ballroom, but they are only focused on one another. they are in their own world. they giggle, they grin; it is the happiness they both deserve.

< they dance the next set.

< after her and benedict’s third dance together, y/n makes eye contact with violet, who is at the margins of the dancefloor, eyes wide with joy. >

“as much as i love dancing with you, my love,” you beam, “i think i am in need of a new partner.”

< y/n approaches violet and with a bow asks her for the honor of being her next dance. though delighted, violet remarks how she is too old, and y/n says that the youngsters can learn a thing or two from her wisdom and skill. >

“we would need permission from the host,” offers violet.

“from anthony! you birthed him! you granted him permission to exist!”

that makes violet laugh.

< violet agrees, and they walk hand in hand to the dance floor. in this dance, y/n and violet are partnered, benedict partnered with penelope, kathani partnered with anthony. >

…

“you’ve told each other."

“has anyone remarked how keenly insightful you are, violet bridgerton?"

“no,” the dowager replies with twinkling eyes, “but it is something of which i am well aware, and take great pride in. i am happy for you both.”

“i am so glad to have your approval.”

“oh tosh! as if a mother’s approval or disapproval can get in the way of real, true love.”

“perhaps so, but it is affirming to have the blessing from someone you so dearly love in a matter such as this.”

“you make it easy to love you, my dear.”

< the dance calls for a switch in partners. y/n becomes partnered with penelope, and violet becomes partnered with benedict. >

“thank you, pen.”

“whatever for?”

“for bumping into me at the markets.”

penelope laughs.

“accidents are quite good, are they not?”

“i despise them, actually,” you declare with a grin.

< penelope reveals that benedict shared with her why he was not seen for the first three dances of the night. >

your jaw drops, and penelope merely titters in response.

“is that why i didn’t see him! because he was lurking in the crowds to prevent men from approaching me?”

“it has been my discovery that the bridgerton brothers do not handle their jealousies well.”

“do you think gregory shall be the same?”

“oh, i am entirely certain. he shall likely be the worst of all.”

the two of you snort as you are sent back to your partners, penelope with benedict and you with violet.

“and what has you and penelope in such giggles?”

“making barbs at your sons.”

violet laughs.

“they make it awfully easy to do so, do they not?”

< the dance comes to an end. violet plants a soft kiss on y/n’s head.

< turning, y/n connects eyes with benedict who wears an incandescently happy expression. >

how could you not see it before? how in love he is with you.

< tired but elated, y/n takes a break from dancing. she reunites with the rest of the bridgertons at the ball. y/n finally meets daphne, who remarks that she has heard so much about y/n. eloise shares how the family wished to check in on y/n when she had returned to the ball to see that she was well; in a rare smile rather than a smirk, eloise shares that, upon seeing her dance and dance again with benedict, that she looked quite well indeed. at some point in the conversation with the bridgertons, y/n inquires when she can meet francesca.

< time passes, and joy is had amongst the bridgertons, penelope, simon, and y/n. y/n cannot believe her happiness.

< the last dance is called. benedict approaches y/n. >

“may i have the honor of being your final dance of the night?"

“you aren’t tired of me yet?”

“i shall never tire of you, y/n.”

upon taking your hand, benedict twirls you once then twice as he leads you towards the dance floor. giggling and grinning, you decide to do the same to him, causing him to giggle and grin right along with you.

< they dance a fourth time. >

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.vii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

< the guests have made their leave from the bridgerton ball. colin, eloise, and violet have gone to their respective bedchambers.

< anthony, benedict, kathani, and y/n walk up the steps of the grand staircase. anthony has his hand clamped on benedict’s forearm and pulls him up the steps with particular determination and quiet fury. >

“i know where i sleep, brother! i have slept there since we were children!”

“i am well aware of that, benedict, and i am also well aware of how you— roam when enticed.”

benedict looks at anthony, to you (you just shrug as you look on at the exchange with excitement), and back to anthony.

“do you people really think so little of me!”

“i do not think little of you, brother, i just know you.”

benedict’s shock deepens incredulously, though you see the smile underscoring it all.

“i am a man of honor! i am a gentleman!”

“yes, as am i, as is colin, as was father; all bridgerton men are, and all bridgerton men are idiots around the persons for whom they have affections. now, go into your bedchamber,” anthony finishes as he shoves his younger brother into the room.

“you are a nightmare!” you hear your love shout from within.

“and you are to stay here for the remainder of the night!” he shouts back, leaning forward to grab the knob to benedict’s bedchamber and pulling the door shut with a loud thud. he turns to kathani, composure returning to his senses.

“my dearest, may you call samuel and lawrence, please? i shall have samuel stationed here and lawrence stationed outside benedict’s window. they will be paid double their wage for these extemporary responsibilities.”

you laugh with your whole stomach and feel tears sting your eyes. you have no concern in hiding your howls until you remember hyacinth and gregory are asleep and promptly clamp your hand over your mouth. your hand succeeds in muffling your laughter, but marginally.

kathani rolls her eyes at her husband and deeply sighs.

“i shall,” she replies, smiling at her love’s antics.

pleased with her answer, anthony right about turns at benedict’s door, places his hands behind his back, and stands up tall, taking his temporary duty as guard with the utmost gravity. something then eases in his posture, and he turns to you.

“i hope you have enjoyed your night, y/n.”

your heart swells.

“it was wondrous, anthony. thank you.”

he beams, brilliant delight in his eyes.

“i wish you good rest.”

and with a bow of his head, anthony turns away from you and assumes his station once more, gravity and perfect posture and all.

the viscountess turns to you, her smile having softened, and says, “let me escort you back to your bedchamber. i shall help you prepare for bed.”

–

“despite his many flaws,” kathani says with all amusement and fondness in her voice as she removes the pins from your hair, “anthony is, indeed, a man of honor and honesty.”

“i never had my doubts, but—” you snort, “that has certainly proved it.”

“it is because he thinks so highly of you,” she shares, looking at you in the mirror. you turn around in your seat and connect with her eyes, eyes that are filled with so much warmth. “he cares deeply for you, y/n. anthony is only that overbearing and overly protective when it comes to his family, and he sees you as our family. we all do.”

you suck in air through your nostrils, feeling the swell of your heart. how did you get so fortunate as to be so loved by this family?

though, you detect something in kathani. her words are sincere, of that you are not doubtful, but they do not seem complete. it is as if she wants to say more, if the blossoming twinkle in her eyes is indicative of anything. but kathani does not elaborate.

instead, she picks up the brush on the vanity and gently brushes your hair. it reminds you of when your elder sister used to brush your hair before bedtime. you close your eyes, humming.

“i see you all as my family, too.”

𝄆 ⚘ ✸ III.viii ✸ ⚘ 𝄇

< the next morning, late morning. the dining room. >

“you are infernal,” benedict deadpans to anthony, staring at his brother and taking his seat next to you.

“you are incorrigible; i was correct,” anthony responds, his eyes not leaving his paper.

“correct about what, brother?” hyacinth asks.

despite their current rivalry, benedict and anthony both freeze. kate speaks on their behalf.

“your eldest had deemed it necessary to have lawrence stationed outside below benedict’s bedchamber window in the early morn and was proved correct in doing so; your second eldest had attempted to escape by way of that route.”

“stationed outside his window? why would that be necessary?” gregory inquires. he turns to benedict. “and why were you trying to leave through your window?”

in his periphery, benedict sees you whipping your head. you seem to have suddenly found some interest in the painting on the wall faced away from the current scene. he notices how you hide your smile behind your fist and how you attempt to suppress the convulsions of your laughter. kate, on the other hand, unapologetically laughs.

“i am certain you will learn in due time, gregory. it is something of a tradition, it seems.”

“will i get to participate in this tradition?” hyacinth enthuses.

“NO!” benedict and anthony shout in tandem. they look at each other, and the elder gives a ‘see!’ face to the younger. benedict just rolls his eyes.

his eyes eventually land back on you: you have now totally hidden your face in your hands with elbows perched on the table for support, any attempts at hiding your laughter now entirely gone. your entire body vibrates as you somehow squeak and guffaw into the palms of your hands.

“ugh, why do adults always speak in such vague statements!” hyacinth grumbles as she slumps in her chair and crosses her arms. she then suddenly shoots back up and looks at you. “y/n, you only speak in riddles when we play! may we play now?”

“yes! may we play now?” gregory pipes up.

“please!” the two youngest plead in tandem. benedict looks to you, and wiping away your hands to reveal your face red from laughter, you say,

“i would be— i would be delighted to do so,” you take sharp breaths in between attempts at controlling your laughter. “perhaps—” you full on snort, and it makes benedict break out into a grin, “—perhaps, after the young sorceress and— and the young knight slay the wyvern, they— they will save the— the—” you laugh hard again, “the princess, captive and forlorn in her tower.”

gregory and hyacinth shout their joy and take off from the table.

“you haven’t been excu!— oh, nevermind,” anthony grumbles in an uncanny, childlike resemblance to his youngest sibling.

benedict watches as you use your forefingers to swipe at the corners of your e/c eyes, fits of laughter still bubbling out of your mouth.

i love her, and she loves me, he thinks in awe. it has been on repeat in his mind since you confessed to one another in the gardens just the night prior. she is mine, and i am hers.

“your lordship,” you giggle still as you look at anthony, and benedict snickers, “may i be excused to play make-believe with your youngest siblings?”

anthony rolls his eyes with much theatricality, but his smile at you is sincere.

“you are not my sibling,” he states, but benedict catches how his elder brother quickly glances at him with eyes that say ‘yet,’ “you need not my permission, but yes, you may.”

you bow your head in dramatic gratitude, causing kate to titter and anthony to look to the ceiling, and you lift yourself up from your seat.

before you follow after his siblings, benedict reaches out and gently takes your hand. you look at him, and he feels how his stomach flutters when his blue eyes makes contact with your e/c. just as it did the first time, just as it did every time after.

benedict feels you softly rub three circles on his hand. he softly rubs four circles on yours.

“good day, princess,” you say with a wink at your love, slowly slipping your hand away from his and then turning to walk out of the dining room. benedict stares at you as you leave.

i love her, and she loves me. she is mine, and i am hers.

“when do you intend on proposing, brother?” anthony smirks as he puts his teacup to his lips.

benedict smiles, looking off at where your laughter is heard.

“later this afternoon.”

anthony chokes on his tea, and kate, patting her coughing husband’s back, arches an eyebrow at her brother-in-law, amusement dancing in her eyes.

“without a ring?”

benedict turns to look at the couple and grins.

“who said i don’t have a ring?”

“you are joking,” anthony says matter-of-factly. “we all are excited at the prospects of y/n officially joining this family, but you just confessed your love for one another not even twelve hours ago. we are still breaking fast! there were guards at your door and your window! how could you have already procured a ring?”

benedict smiles, digging into his pocket.

“i do not jest, brother.”

and, with pride, he holds up a thin band made of twisted paper.

“now, if you will excuse me,” benedict announces, lifting himself out of his seat, giving a kiss to the top of kate’s head, and ruffling anthony’s hair. “i must be going.”

“and where are you off?” anthony demands as he straightens out his hair.

“do you think i am going to propose to y/n without asking her family’s permission first? would not be very gentlemanly of me if i did.”

“how do you know where she lives!”

“that is what you were asking penelope last night,” kate answers. anthony looks at his wife, incredulous and in awe. benedict grins.

“exactly so, sister. i’ve always known you held all the intelligence between you two. i would have seen to it sooner, but—”

an image of e/c eyes and ink-stained hands flashes in his mind, the flutterings in his stomach intensifying. butterflies— that is what he will paint next, he decides.

after he finishes his portrait of you.

“—i was held captive in my tower.”

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