#and she just. isn’t the same without it

[blkkizzat]

𝟔𝟗—𝐖𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐁𝐄 𝐌𝐘 𝐙𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐂~!

....𝐨𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐬𝐤 𝐣𝐣𝐤 𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝟔𝟗!

♋ pairings: (separate) 𝐭𝐨𝐣𝐢 𝐟𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐨 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ✧ 𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢 𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ✧ 𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐮!𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ✧ 𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ✧ 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐮 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐨 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ♋ cw: 69 position so lots of fellatio and cunnalingus obvi! ✧ pet names ✧ face fucking ✧ spanking ✧ biting ✧ dirty talk ✧ teasing ✧ pussy drunk ✧ squirting ✧ overstimulation✧ sex swing ✧ light mention of drugs ✧ light dubcon ✧ daddy kink ✧ variety of readers types: bimbo, shy, mischievous, etc. ♋ an: phfft—not me touching grass for once and missing posting this on the last day of cancer season! my bday was actually July 21st! i wanted to post then but i got too busy and i've been wanting to write this since last year! This is a gift fic for my cancer girlies but i hope you all enjoy all the same~! (sorry leo girlies, we extending cancer season by oa few days LOL!)

♋ Toji—makes you do it his way:

“Toji have you lost your goddamn mind! Put me down—now!”

Upside down, suspended mid-air, you are aghast at how your simple request to try out a new sex position—69—has gotten you into this position. 

Vertical—instead of horizontal, ass naked in the middle of the living room.

“Nuh-uh, ma. Ya said we gotta spice it up—try sumtin’ new…”

You squeak as Toji adjusts his grip on you. 

With a devilish smirk Toji loosens his grip, allowing you to slide down for a mere fraction of a second before jostling your body upwards again. His hold is considerably tighter this time as Toji’s arms encircle lower waist, pushing your pussy right inline his face as his cock slaps you upside the head.

“...well that wasn’t new to me. This? This is.”

Toji’s words tickle the folds of your cunt, already glistening with moisture and on full display for him. Any attempts to squirm free are futile. Toji’s muscular arms are like bulky steel bands—you aren’t going anywhere no matter how hard you fail against him.

Fuck! Did this have to be in the living room too!? Megumi should be home from school soon!

“W-Well, um, uh…what if Megumi comes back?!”

Initially ignoring your concerns, Toji audibly inhales. 

Your scent hits him like a drug, mouth watering as if the only thing that mattered was the feast between your thighs—not the fact that his own son could walk through the door at any moment.

“Heh, told ‘em not too. Even sent ‘em some money take his friends to some fuckin’ pussy earthworm movie—he ain’t gonna be ‘ere any time soon mama.”

Toji willingly sending money? 

Paying for multiple people at that?? 

Oh shit, this was serious.

You gulped, shuddering from his breath fanning into your core. 

You’re fucked. 

Yet your fate was easier than you expected to accept, with blood now rushing to both your head and your cunt—the effect is dizzying to say the least. Reminding you just how horny you were before Toji literally turned your world upside down. 

“P-Please Toji…daddy?”

The whine you let out is so pitiful, even you aren’t sure if you’re begging to be let down or pleading for Toji to stop playing with his food and finally devour you—but either way, you already know how he’s going to respond.

“That’s right mamas, listen ta that pretty lil’ cunt of y’ers. Heh, just look how she's winkin’ at me—slutty girl knows exactly what she wants.” 

Toji whistles low at the sight, then spits directly into your hole—like his filthy actions are determined to outmatch his even dirtier mouth. This time, the whimper you let out isn’t confused or conflicted—it’s raw with need.

Unable to hold back any longer, Toji parts your pussy lips with the flat of his probing tongue. 

When he reaches your center, your hole flutters as he traces the rim with his tongue. He dips in just enough to tease, offering soft kitten-like licks as if he’s savoring your creamy taste—and even without seeing his face, you can practically feel the smug smirk tugging at his lips.

“Ya can’t expect me t’do all the work now, eh? Let’s reciprocate a little, ma.”

You’d roll your eyes if gravity didn’t already have them at the top of your head, but fair was fair you suppose—even if it was completely unfair how he got you into this position in the first place.

You’re not exactly sure how you’re supposed to suck his dick when your face is more aligned with his balls. That doesn’t stop you though as you start at his swollen sack, kissing your way up the length of his cock as best you can, leaving a wet trail that has Toji’s abs trembling.

But your small victory is short-lived, not even getting the chance to gloat—he curses low into your cunt about needing to feel your whole mouth, then hoists you up a little higher without warning.

“Open that throat f’er Daddy, yeah?”

Jaw stretching wide, you can do little but submit in the moment. But it isn’t until the weight of him—thick, unrelenting—slams past your tonsils with dizzying force that you realize why Toji insisted on doing it this way.

Gravity is bullying his cock up your throat deeper than ever, forcing you to adapt fast. 

Your eyes fly open, and you quickly learn to breathe through your nose as he keeps pace, jamming his rough tongue deep inside your pussy with perfect synchronicity.

His girth is suffocating, your airway choked off just enough to blur the line between pleasure and panic. 

Add the ruthless precision of his tongue and the disorienting rush of being upside down, and black edges bloom at the corners of your vision. 

You’re overwhelmed—sensations crashing over you all at once. 

Gripping his thighs for dear life, your nails rake red trails down his skin, they’re the only anchor keeping you from slipping under completely as a small orgasm crashes through your body.

“Fuckin’ perfect.”

Toji purrs into your slit as your entire body trembles, your scorching, soaked throat muscles pulsing tighter around his cock—every wave of your climax rippling straight through him like an aftershock.

Shit’s insane—he’s gonna bust fast. 

Fuck.

Toji’s no minute man but there’s no way he can hold out like this—not with your filthy little throat choking him from above while your pussy sobs her creamy tears all over his face, sweet and slick—fucking addictive.

“C’mon mamas gimme a big one, paint my face with it.”

Even if you hear Toji, his voice crazed with lust—which you couldn’t btw—your mind too clouded and your ears ringing with the sound of your own gurgles, you didn’t need to. 

Your body’s already teetering on the brink—the pleasure white-hot, blinding, as your eyes rolled so far back they may as well be lost in your skull. You can’t do anything but hang limp, letting Toji use you like the shameless little onnahole you’ve clearly proven yourself to be. 

Overstimulated beyond anything you thought humanly possible, everything shatters the moment Toji—drunk on your pussy, feral in his haze—starts sucking and nipping at your clit.

If your throat weren’t already wrecked, you might’ve screamed. 

But your body does it for you—legs jerking, greedy hole milking all over Toji’s face, every muscle seizing as you fall apart in his hold.

This gives Toji—who’s been hanging on by a threadbare shred of willpower—the green light to finally release everything.

And he does.

Toji unloads a geyser of hot release down your throat with a groan that borders on depraved, only realizing mid-spurt just how much he’s giving you—and with you upside down, he has to yank you off before you really choke.

After what feels like an eternity, he finally rights you, turning you upright and lowering your boneless body onto the couch while you cough through the aftermath, too weak to even really assess the damage.

“There ya go, ma. See, I knew my slutty lil’ throat goat could handle it.”

Eyes snapping to meet his own they radiate death—but the moment you try to speak, your voice breaks into a raw, useless croak, your ruined vocal cords on fire.

“Er, yeah I’ll, uh, go make ya some tea mama.”

Giving Toji another exasperated expression as if to sass him with a ‘yeah, you fuckin’ go do that buddy’—you flop face first into the fluffy couch cushions beneath you. Too tired to try to fight him now that you’ve lost your voice.

Toji—buzzing, hard again, and fully ready for round two—knows better than to say it out loud. 

But the moment your throat recovers?

Yeah, you’re doing this shit again.

Maybe with a little weed next time… get ya to stop pretending like ya don’t love it.

♋ Nanami Kento—uses it as a teaching moment:

“C’mon Bunny, use your words, beautiful.”

You whine petulantly in response, nerves frayed while a flush of heat sweeps over you. 

Nanami’s plush bedding rucks beneath your form as you lay on your side, the both of you on opposite ends in the 69 position you had asked to try.

Well, barely. You were too shy to even say the words “sixty-nine.” 

You’d fumbled like an idiot. 

Nanami had to pry it out of you, his voice patient, yet amused, while you batted your lashes low, avoiding eye contact as you finally spat out the lewd syllables. 

This was your first time taking any kind of initiative in the bedroom.

Nanami is so in tune with your body that you’d never need to ask for anything outright, spoiled by the way he always just knew.

That’s exactly why this is so mortifying now.

Nanami, with age and infinite experience, introduced you to a world of pleasure that felt like stepping through a secret door only he had the key to—and always maddeningly composed, while doing so. 

He’s guided you through all your firsts. Your first kiss, touch, orgasm, all of it. 

Nanami was gentle when you needed it and ruthless when he knew you could take it. 

Now here you are, half-naked, aching with a need he is fully aware of—and he refuses to touch you.

“You’re the one who asked for this...” 

Nanami coos, voice deep and seductive. 

“...so show me how bad you want it. Tell me what this slutty lil’ pussy needs, Bunny.”

Nanami knew from the very first orgasm he beckoned out from between your sinful, velvety thighs how big a pleasure slut you are. You hid it well, under layers of shy inexperience and a demure countenance. Yet once Nanami had gotten you under him, you’d been so responsive, so easily guided into debauched euphoria as if your entire body served as a sex organ—exposing your hidden nature. 

A shy slut wouldn’t do though and as such Nanami blames himself for overindulging you—now it’s up to him to correct that behavior.

Angling your hips up towards him, your body is saying what your mouth refuses to. Your clit aching as you want nothing more than to feel his lips latch onto your overheated sex. 

Yet Nanami ignores it, waiting with quiet expectation.

Even when you tried to take the initiative—pressing your plush lips to his swollen tip, kissing it gently before flicking your tongue over the bead of pre gathered there—Nanami grunts softly in pleasure, effect but still holding firm.

With that low, deliberate voice of his, he reminds you again: your fluttering little pussy, winking up at him so sweetly, would get nothing—not a single touch—not unless you walked him through every step.

Explicitly.

As a last ditch effort you try reasoning with him, Nanami if anything is a reasonable man—insisting there was no way you’d be able to tell him what you wanted once his cock was in your mouth.

Alas, that just causes him to chuckle, low and amused, the hardy breaths from his laughter torturously tickling your exposed slit, quivering deliciously under his critical gaze.

Unfazed as he’s already prepared for this, Nanami simply instructs you to wet his cock a bit, stroking him instead. While 69’ing does call for reciprocal pleasure but that doesn't mean you both have to use your mouths. 

Nanami would use his mouth on you—but you’d have to talk him through every titillating step while he did.

Paling in realization, you slowly come to terms with your defeat, teeth sinking into your lower lip. 

You want to run and hide but he’s right there and your slick has been smearing the inside of your thighs for a while now. and flushed and laid out beside you like temptation incarnate.Not to mention your head was already spinning from the thick scent of his musk—sharp, heady, laced with the faint salt of pre leaking from his cock where it rests, hard and heavy, against his thigh.

If he won’t move without words, then you have no choice.

You gulp, gathering your lust fueled courage.

“I-I w-w-want…” 

You trail off, voice weak and shaky. Nanami just hums as he lowers himself closer, awaiting your command.

“Say it, Bunny.”

Your heart races.

“IWantYourTongue!!”

Your words bleed together as they spill out of you. 

Nanami grins deviously, you’d have to be more descriptive than that.

“What was that, my love? My Tongue? Exactly what do you need my tongue to do?”

Your cheeks blaze, arousal spiking to insufferable levels as it begins to dissolve your apprehensions away.

“F-Flick my clit.” 

The words aren’t above a whisper but they are clearly spoken instructions nonetheless.

Good girl.

And so Nanami gives you what you ask for. No more, no less. 

With one sharp flick of his tongue that makes your whole body spasm as you cry out, finally feeling a tiny bit of what you’ve been craving this entire time.

“Like that, dear?”

You nod profusely. 

Nanami pauses, arching a brow at your non-verbal command causing you to quickly find your words again.

“S-Sorry! Sorry! Y-Yes! Um…again please. K-Keep going, l-lick me m-more…”

Obliging you fully his tongue dancing over your swollen bud in agonizing circles. 

“AH! S-S’GUD!”

A moan slips out as your eyes roll back, but a flicker of guilt cuts through the haze when you catch sight of Nanami’s cock—hard, leaking, and utterly neglected. It had taken all your will power just to give him these salacious instructions. You’d nearly forgotten that he wasn’t just supposed to eat you out, you were to return the favor.

Lowering your plump lips closer, you part them as the drool that’s been pooling on your tongue flows out. 

Your syrupy saliva coats his sizable length as your hands begin pumping in earnest.

Nanami’s low, appreciative hiss sends a ripple of heat straight to your pussy as he coaxes you to say more.

“What else, babydoll?”

You swallow hard, the words snagging in your throat—but not from embarrassment. The sensations of Nanami’s dexterous tongue are already fogging up your brain, making it hard to think, let alone speak. 

“Uhh, um, now—Hah, now…press your tongue flat, yes...ah! Uh and, uh—suck. S-Suck on it.”

“On what, Bunny?”

You grit your teeth, your frustration causing you to become snappy. 

“My clit, Ken! My clit! God…s-suction it—Yes, yes! OH—right there!”

A surge of power coils through your belly, electric as it runs throughout your veins—fueled by the way Nanami so willingly obeys every filthy command between your thighs—so long as you’re naughty enough to ask for it.

Nanami lets you ride the wave, grinding against his lips as you direct his movements through broken gasps, pleasure overtaking your mind. 

Your inner slut creeps outward, fully exposing herself with every lascivious moan, growing even bolder.

“Now…” 

Panting, you’re barely keeping it together but you can’t stop now, you need him to make you cum.

“...tongue me down. S-slowly, from the top… yes, right through—b-between everything. Keep going lower.”

Nanami follows the path you outline like a dutiful worshipper, slow slurps gliding down your folds until his tongue rims your gaping entrance.

“I-Inside...” 

You swallow down more air, chest heaving. You knew one word would not be enough to move him and you scramble to find your words—pure desperation the cause of your stuttering now.

“...p-p-put your t-tongue inside me, K-Ken.”

Hearing you fall apart has Nanami growling low. His eager mouth, fucking into your seeping heat with obscene precision, each stroke making your thighs quiver. His hands clamp down on your ass, guiding your hips to grind helplessly against his mouth, like he’s determined to devour every last bit of you.

It’s all too much, and not enough at once—you still weren’t done, you still had to guide him to finish you.

All the while you’d continued to stroke him, but it’s weak, inconsistent, your wrist losing rhythm every time he licks just right inside you.

“AH, uh, mmm… y-you’re fingers next—shitshitshit..my clit.”

Nanami doesn’t waste time correcting you, doing what he knew you couldn’t fully ask him to make you cum—he’s so proud of you. So painfully hard from your newfound assertiveness that it’s the only thing keeping him from going rogue and really ruining you. 

“HAH…m’gonna cum, Ken—oh m’fuck—m’so close—!”

Your body spasms—legs trembling, back arching—the pressure building sharp and fast from his attentions on your bud.

“Then let go, my slutty little dove.” 

The pads of his thick fingers press into your bud, strumming and plucking at your flesh, matching the rhythm of his tongue inside you.

“Show me how good it feels to take control of your desires.”

Your orgasm tears through you like lightning—loud, raw, and messy—drenching Nanami’s chin as your legs seize and collapse around his head. The overstimulation skirts the edge of pain, only making the release hit harder.

Your fingers slip from his cock as you go slack against the bed. 

Nanami pulls away from your cunt with a final, slow slurp. 

His face is slick with your release, jaw taut, cock still throbbing and untouched between his legs.

You did it—and you enjoyed it. 

Proud of yourself, your head swims and you’re not sure how long you lie there, soaked and unmoving, body ringing from aftershocks. 

So you don't feel the shift in the air as Nanami prowls to hover over you.

You blink once and you’re already folded in half—legs slung over his shoulders.

The new position makes your pussy clench again, already fluttering in want of his cock.

And you get it alright.

“You’ve been such a good girl for me, my love.”

Yet Nanami's praises are gravely, tight with a fraying restraint that is unlike him and there is something unhinged—a feral twinkle in his eyes. 

Your breath quickens finally feeling the danger surrounding you, you unleashed a completely different side of him, one he’s been trying to spare you from all this time.

“Now—”

Nanami lowers his face, words rough against your ear as he thrusts forward—just an inch, not nearly enough to satisfy. 

However, the sensation of your walls expanding around him is more than enough to make you cry out, moaning as he bullies his fat cockhead through your tight ring of muscle.

—tell me exactly how my cock should tear through your pretty lil guts.”

♋ Otaku!Gojo—takes to the next level (series m.list). 

“Toru… how the hell is this even supposed to work?!”

Deadpan, you stare at Gojo as he straps himself into the elaborate contraption. 

This was your fault. Truly. 

You knew better than to enable Gojo’s ecchi coded ways. 

So you really should have just kept your mouth shut instead of suggesting 69’ing in the new designer lingerie set he bought you.

What were you even thinking!?

Of course, the moment the words leave your mouth, Gojo drops to his knees like you just proposed marriage—and immediately starts begging for another trip to his parents’ sex dungeon to do it.

You agreed, albeit reluctantly, assuming he just wanted to use the rotating bed with the ceiling mirrors. 

Honestly, as nervous as that place made you, having sex somewhere that didn’t have Digimon or anime adorned sheets and decor was always a nice treat. Plus you knew his parents didn’t skimp on any expenses when it came to their perversions (like parents, like son) and it felt way classier than fucking in Gojo’s hentai museum. 

However, you should have known it wouldn’t be that simple. Leave it to Gojo to take things ten steps further—with a goddamn sex swing.

“Yep, just climb in on top of me, Bunny bae!” 

Gojo had clearly lost all his damn marbles if he thought you were about to get into that depraved shit with him—you aren’t trying to break your ass over his kink fantasies! 

Seeing your wariness, Gojo quips that you have absolutely nothing to worry about—it’s safe enough to stabilize up to four people! 

Gawking at him, you didn’t even want to know how four people were supposed to get into the swing, let alone use it. 

Huffing you crossed your arms, turning your nose up at him. 

“Awe, don’t be like that Bun-Bun! It will be fun—Hey, uh, just imagine I’m Spider-Man and we’re getting freaky-deaky in my giant web!”

Gojo wiggles his eyebrows like that’s actually supposed to be a tempting offer, and you visibly recoil. Instinctively taking cautious steps back as your self-preservation finally kicks in.

“Wait, wait, ok! Ok—no Spider-Man...”

You close your eyes briefly in relief.

“—how about Tarzan?” 

“TORU!!!”

Your eyes go wide, and you’re about two hot seconds from turning on your heel and walking the hell out when Gojo calls after you again—this time, his voice is softer, sadder and painfully pathetic.

Then like clockwork comes the infamous pout—those big, stupidly gorgeous eyes locking onto yours, weaponized in a way no man that dorky should ever be capable of. 

And, of course, your weak willed heart gives that familiar little twist that makes you feel bad for the deranged lil pervert.

Somehow, you always find yourself caving to the will of your hopeless otaku boyfriend—who you inexplicably still love despite his many, many ick-inducing preferences.  

“Fiiiine Toru, I’mma do this for you—”

“Yayyyy!”

Ecstatically cheering, in his excitement Gojo nearly falls out of the swing he just proclaimed was “uber safe” in his excitement. He quickly steadies himself, the swing still swaying as you roll your eyes and step closer.

“But no roleplay, got it?” 

Nodding aggressively Gojo’s just happy to get you in the swing at all. 

He’s had a full on boner since you suggested 69’ing over an hour ago and doing it in the swing Gojo knows will be 100 times better!

“Yes, yes! No roleplay—ya know there’s really no need when you already look like my smokin’ hot n’ sexy hentai succubus in that lingerie, Bunny!”

You roll your eyes once more but the heat creeping up your cheeks betrays you. 

Dressed in ruby red lace plunge corset halter with matching red lace crotchless panties, you figure all you’re missing is a pair of horns and a tail, and you’d play the part a little too well.

Naturally, Gojo had picked it out and had it custom made just for you. 

So of course, it fits like a dream—hugging every curve, the color making your skin glow in all the right places. His eyes haven’t left you since you put it on, practically devouring you whole, and now you can feel the weight of Gojo’s lustful gaze like a second layer of fabric covering every inch of your skin.

“Hmph, just shut it…” 

Grumbling under your breath, you reluctantly follow his instructions and awkwardly shuffle around to his head so you’d be facing the right way, towards his feet.

You try to be as graceful as possible easing into the stirrups Gojo had so meticulously prepared so the swing didn’t shift more than necessary. Straddling his face, the swing's ropes gripped tightly in your hands, your slit hovering over his eager mouth. 

“And you’re sure this is safe…m’ not gonna have any leverage to move my legs in the harness—what if I smother you?”

Your complaints have zero effect. 

When you look down at him between your legs his perfect teeth are grinning wider than a cheshire cat.

“Baby, that’s the point!” 

Gojo eyes manically sparkle. Unlike you his crazed subconscious has zero concerns of self-preservation. 

“Who needs oxygen? Ya know my lungs were built to breathe my pervy princess’s coochie air!”

An all too familiar cringe creeps up your spine and you drop your hips down without warning—silencing him, and in the most effective way possible before he completely kills the mood.

While you couldn’t stand the deviant ass shit that came out of Gojo’s mouth 95% of the time, you more than appreciated just how well he used that vulgar mouth of his.

And now, with his entire face smothered beneath you, lips, nose, and vision completely engulfed by your pussy and peachy rear, Gojo couldn’t say another unhinged word even if he wanted to.

Not that he minded one tiny bit.

Groaning unabashfully into your suffocating heat, Gojo figured if this is how he went out—your cute lil’ cunt filling his mouth, nose almost reaching your crack and thighs locked securely around his ears—he’d take it. 

Happily. 

Gojo only hoped he’d built up enough karma that he could request looping this moment on repeat in the afterlife—it for real would be his heaven.

Pinned in place by your thighs, Gojo wastes no time getting to work—slurping and licking, murmuring intelligible unrepentant filth in your cunt while his tongue drags through your folds like he’s already mapped out every crevice and easily knows how  to draw every ounce of creamy release from your body. 

If your coochie air was his oxygen, your juices were definitely his water.

His hands grip your ass, spreading you wider, tilting your hips to get the perfect angle the way he’s mouthing at your clit with sloppy, open-mouthed hunger has your whole body twitching above him.

Meanwhile, his cock throbs hot against your tongue, as you take him into your mouth.

You suck him down slowly at first, hollowing your cheeks, feeling the way his thighs jerk beneath you every time your throat clenches and enjoying the power you have over him as he’s just as sensitive and easily overstimulated as you are.

Saliva drips down your chin, pooling at your collarbone, and his deep groan vibrates in your walls like a tuning fork—shit it feels so good. 

You’re grinding now, rolling your hips in sync with the rocking motions of the swing, chasing friction.

As both you and Gojo spiral deeper into your frenzy for more, the swing jerks wildly beneath you, rocking with every desperate thrust. It takes everything in you to keep yourself steady—sweat-slicked limbs straining against the restraints, threatening to slip free. 

It should be concerning, but the chaos only heightens your high, feeding the reckless momentum. 

Your whole body tingles with adrenaline racing through you, so the thought of telling him to slow down never even registers. 

Not like Gojo could even stop if he wanted to, not when his mouth stays latched to your cunt like a man in a trance. Each groan vibrates against your sopping heat, and your arousal smears messily across his face. 

His chin glossy with the evidence of your unraveling while he is already in pieces beneath you, rutting upward, thrusting his cock deeper into your throat with more force. You can’t even be mad. 

Gojo is using you like one of his precious anime fleshlights and fuck—you love it.

Your own throat becomes its own erogenous zone as your slutty nature once again proves more than compatible with all his kinks. Dizzy from the lack of air you can’t stop shaking as your orgasm rips out of you without warning. A messy convulsion that sends your fluids cascading down his chin as your thighs clamp tight around his face. 

You try to pull away, but your body locks as your muscles seize and release, everything clenching and pulsing in waves.

At the same time, Gojo moans into your cunt, spilling down your throat with a hot, forceful gush. 

You gag slightly, stunned by the sheer volume as he cums harder than he has any right to, the swing jerking violently from the force of his twitching hips.

In his overstimulated haze, he slips his hands free from the top restraints and reaches up—to do what, exactly, you’ll never know.

Because that’s when it happens.

BAM!

The sound is sharp, metallic—wrong.

Then a sudden snap, followed by a sickening lurch.

You both drop halfway before jerking to an off-kilter halt, the swing tilted at a nauseating angle. The both of you tangled up like two oversexed insects caught in a net.

Gojo grunts beneath you—or now, technically on top of you, since the entire rig has twisted mid-fall. 

One of your legs is tangled in what used to be his arm loop, the other pinned somewhere under his torso. One arm’s trapped behind your back, the other mashed awkwardly under your chest.

And Gojo? 

His head is near your hip, arms hanging freely now, while the rest of his body is a knot of long limbs and useless leverage crushing down on you.

“I think… we might’ve broken it.” 

Gojo mutters sheepishly, voice too casual for the situation.

You don’t even have the energy to yell. 

You're stuck, soaked in sweat and cum, crushed by a six-foot-tall menace who thinks this is a good time to crack jokes.

“GET ME OUTTA HERE, TORU!”

“I’m trying, Bunny! Just—hold on—I’ll fix it!”

You feel him shift, trying to maneuver with his arms, but every time he jerks the swing groans ominously, ropes stretching and straining under your combined weight.

“Oh! Baby, wait! My phone!”

He perks up, bright with hope. 

You hear him start swinging the rig again, attempting to gain momentum toward the side table but the whole motion is an awkward attempt you already know is doomed to fail. 

You feel his cock—rehardening—slap lightly against your forehead with each forward swing.

“Are you seriously getting turned on right now?!”

Your voice cracks halfway between disbelief and a sob.

“We are going to DIE in here, Toru!”

“No, no no! Don’t worry, my sweet ecchi angel!” 

Gojo chirps attempting to cheer you up.

“The maids should be here soon. They do rounds every two hours in case… y’know… something like this happens.”

“…In case? This has happened before?!”

You freeze in realization that you actually needed people to help you out of this situation. 

Suddenly, you’ve never been more thankful for the Gojo family’s legally soul-binding NDAs—or the fact that their domestic staff was paid enough to keep their mouths shut for life. God, if even one person (besides Suguru, who Gojo told everything to) found out the sheer number of times you’d been caught half-naked in compromising positions with the lil freak?

You’d have to change your name, or move countries—better yet? Fake your own death.

This though? This wins. 

This takes the fucking cake.

You shut your eyes, already tallying up all the shit you were going to have Gojo buy for you to make up for this debacle—including the psych eval to assess what mental condition you had that kept you tied to this hopeless dork. 

“Hey, Bunny baaaaabe…”

Gojo interrupts your train of thought and you take a mental pause to compose yourself. You decide getting more upset would do nothing to help your current situation. 

“...yeah, Toru?”

Gojo hums contentedly, nuzzling his face into your plump thighs like they’re his favorite pillow. His eyes are half-lidded, glazed with bliss as he stares between your legs at the mess he made—already plotting how to make it even filthier.

“I can’t reach my phone. But if you help me swing a little more, I think I can grab the anal beads on this other table here, ya know… if ya wanna try em’ out while we wait…”

It’s silent for a moment as you stare blankly up at the ceiling. 

Not hearing a no Gojo starts swinging again with renewed purpose. 

You quickly realize he’s putting in more effort to reach those beads than he ever did his phone.

Now you’re resolved though. 

Trashing the list in your mind, there's only one thing you needed after this—the one thing that would ensure you’d never be in a situation like this again.

“Gojo. Satoru. First thing tomorrow? You’re getting neutered!”

♋ Sukuna Ryomen—gets jealous, again (previous drabble):

“Kunaaaa, s’not f-fair!”

You sob, gulping in air as your swollen, spit-slick lips leave one of his cocks—just for a moment—before descending onto the other.

Sukuna hadn’t put up much of a fight when you suggested 69’ing—which frankly shocked you as he’s never known to be any kind of agreeable. 

Even then it was a logistical nightmare considering the sheer size of him in his true form. 

You make it work though, with him sitting up, his massive body contorting just enough to accommodate you. He lounges back against the headboard of his pitch-black bed while you’re draped over him, sloping at a downward angle, trying your best to keep up.

But the bastard’s cheating.

Because instead of using the actual mouth on his face—he’s using the one on his fucking hand again.

“Oh? Well, that’s your own fault. You never specified me using my actual mouth, whore.”

Urgh, everything to Sukuna was rules and fucking technicalities so there was no arguing with him, especially when he was right—and he’d change the rules if he wasn’t.

You know you have to choose your words carefully around Sukuna who would try to manipulate the situation in any way he could to taunt you.

Sure, his hand felt fucking phenomenal—but that wasn’t the point! 

You wanted to feel his actual mouth on your cunt for once! Sukuna had only used his stomach mouth to taste you before.   

Lost in your thoughts Sukuna senses you slacking and one of his hands slides from your waist to force your head down further, burying him in your mouth to the hilt. 

You choke, gagging around him, your muffled moans and feeble protests swallowed whole as he cocks slam into the depths of your throat—just as the tongue on his hand plunges deeper into your quivering cunt, lapping up every drop of creamy slick it coaxes out with relentless, writhing strokes.

“Besides woman, with the shit job you are doing right now you should have no fucking complaints.”

Sukuna, of course, thinks you’re being a fucking brat—especially with the way your cunt keeps fluttering around his tongue, giving away just how good he’s making you feel, hand or not.

You’re close—Sukuna can feel it, knows it. He’s always said he knows your body better than you do, so you might as well stop thinking and let him take the lead. Be his obedient little cumdump—you’d feel good no matter what he did.

All of that may be true, however, you have a little knowledge of your own. 

One you had hid well from him thus far—and that’s you also know Sukuna far more than you let on.

For example:

You know he hates doing anything unless he thinks it's his idea.

You know he can be a stubborn SOB who will never relent to petulant begging or pitiful whines—no, he’d reveal in that suffering.

But most importantly, you know just how prideful he is. 

So you’re not surprised in the least it would come to this as you remember with renewed clarity the last time Sukuna used his hand tongue on you when he knew you’d wanted his actual mouth—so you switch tactics. 

Appearing to give into his whims completely, melting into the pleasure, you hum around his cock and push your hips back. Your pelvis tilts just right, bouncing against the mouth on his hand so your clit slaps perfectly against the rough, battle-worn heel of his palm with every roll of your hips.

The effect is electrically blinding. 

Sukuna tenses beneath you, his muscles twitching as the vibrations of your gratuitous cries ripple down one of his thick, tatted cock, surrounding it in a heat that if he wasn’t a cursed object he would think could melt his dick clean off. 

The other, you work steadily with both hands—slick with spit and streaked with thick globs of pre spilling freely from the swollen, angry tip.

And when you moan around him again—this time humming, his cock encased in your buzzing throat—Sukuna stills. 

Just for a breath. 

Just long enough for you to think maybe you’ve done something wrong before his hips surge upward, spearing his cock into your throat with brutal force.

“Fuckin’ tease.”

The words come out more as an animalistic snarl and immediately the mouth on his hand clamps down on your cunt—tongue twisting and curling wickedly inside your pussy, swirling around your clit, suckling like it’s trying to drain you dry.

Catapulting to the very top of your peak, your back arches instinctively, body convulsing in a violent shudder as your walls spasm around the intruding tongue in your core. The very appendage that has now grown long enough to abuse your gooey g-spot—ending you completely as you tumble over your peak.

Sukuna lets out a growl that if you were in any kind of clear state of mind you would have identified as a gruff whimper, his head snapping back against the headboard—causing the entire room to quake. 

You barely register the hot, punishing flood that erupts down your throat, still lost in the throws of your own ecstasy. Sukuna keeps you there, hands locked on your hips and head, using your spasming body to squeeze every last drop from his cock as his release pulses through you.

By the time he lets you go, you barely have the strength to hold yourself up. 

Your mind is white noise, your vision swimming.

Huffing with dizzy puffs from the lack of oxygen, you’re messily coughing up a river of your drool and his seed. Flecks splatter haphazardly across your neck and chest. 

Recovering quickly, used to his rough play, you release an airy giggle.

“Ah—ha! Mmm, that was amazing! K-Kuna… you were right—”

A blissed out expression on your face as you turn your head back to face Sukuna.

“—your hand’s mouth is much better skilled—the best actually! Thank you my King!”

Your giggles are continuous, still delirious and high off the rush, turning back around to press your lips to the tip of the cock you’d just been jerking. It’s still twitching—thick and needy, still backed up and pulsing for release.

Swaying your hips side to side, inside you are smug in the way only a woman completely out of her mind can be, knowing full well Sukuna’s seething behind that stony expression, yet you are unfazed.

And just as you predicted—he’s livid.

Hearing your carefree little hums, Sukuna’s eyes glow red—his rage growing as seemingly are utterly oblivious to just how offensive your words truly were. 

Who the fuck do you think you are? Acting like his hand is better than his mouth?

He never said that. He never even implied it.

You must’ve fucking lost your mind, it woudn’t be the first time he’d think your salacious lil cunt had poisoned your mind.

Because the King of Curses using his mouth? 

That’s not a given—it’s a fucking privilege. 

One you were never meant to have. 

A lowly little concubine like you? Barely worthy of his cock, let alone his tongue.

And you even requested this 69 position in the first place? That was your first mistake, he’d only indulged you so he could fuck with you again.

You’re his toy—his whore. 

You exist to bend to his will—not the other way around.

Sukuna continues to watch you with contempt. His boiling, bubbling under the surface, more angered by your ignorance. Especially as you glance over your shoulder once more with a too-sweet idiotic smile and a sing-song—

“My King~~ May you use your other hand this time? I wanna compare them!” 

Oh yeah that did it, this is war now. 

And so Sukuna snaps. Utterly and violently, losing his shit.

With a guttural growl, Sukuna yanks you back—ripping you clean off his cock like it offended him. Two of his massive, veined hands wrench your folds apart right in front of his face, while the other two clamp down on your thighs in a bruising grip, pinning you wide open. 

Then his mouth— his actual mouth—attacks. Devouring your pussy, he hums low in his throat. Shaking his head side to side like he’s trying to rip into your flesh. The force of the reverberation sends your nerves into overdrive, and your vision goes glassy, colors smearing at the edges like oil paint as your reality shifts at its intensity.

Still too sensitive and still being affected by the aftershocks of your first orgasm—you’re useless now. Your face slumps against his chiseled abs as drool spills freely from your slack mouth, pooling beside you.

Sukuna’s so hellbent on proving a point, he doesn’t even notice you’ve stopped touching his cock—swollen, twitching, and downright furious from neglect, swaying with every rock of the bed like it’s protesting the lack of attention. But he’s too deep in his own ego-trip to care.

He’s played himself, yet again.

Sukuna only pauses long enough to spit into your tantalizing cunt—mean, messy, and laced with loathing—his lips, glossed in your juices, curling into that cruel, self-satisfied smirk. 

He’s far too wrapped up in the jealous high of his own tantrum to register the dazed, blissed-out smile stretched across your face as you arch back deeper into his mouth.

“You dare to mock me, silly woman? The King of Curses? I’ll show this poor filthy hole what a real mouth feels like, Slut.”

And really, that’s all you wanted all along.

♋ Geto Suguru—ends up punishing you:

“Suck me right, Bunny. Weren’t you the one who pouted until I agreed to this?”

Smack!

You let out a broken moan, the sharp sting of Suguru’s slap blooms across your bottom—sending a jolt straight to your core.

It was true you had asked—no practically begged until Suguru relented to trying 69ing. 

Yet in the moment you were failing miserably, far too overwhelmed by your own pleasure to properly service him.

“Shall I get someone else, hm? A more devout follower who can be more attentive perhaps?”

Suguru speaks the words right into your core before giving your soppy folds one last lick as if he would make good on his words.

“N-N-NO! I’ll d-do it! Puhleaseee, G-Geto-sam—AH!”

Suguru sighs. 

His threats are mostly hollow—he would stop if you didn’t focus, but none could compare to your slutty little mouth, that sloppy thing was in a league all of her own.

Which is exactly why this was so fucking frustrating.

You’d pleaded for this position with those wide, babydoll eyes and like a fool he caved.

He should’ve said no. He knew better.

Not that Suguru was ever opposed to eating you out, on the contrary, it was one of his favorite rituals. Bending you over his ornate cypress desk, your skirt shoved up, and him diving face first into your slippery cunt was a nirvana all on its own.

But now? This feels more like hell. 

What with you naked, stretched out above him, while his cock—freed from his robes—twitches with impatience, bobbing near your slack-jawed mouth. 

You’re trying. He can tell. 

But every time his tongue grazes your messy folds, your brain short-circuits like a broken shrine lamp.

Suguru knew this would happen. 

He knows just how sensitive his little slut is.

How your entire body jolts from the slightest flick of his tongue swirling around your clit. How one well-placed stroke of his fingers, pressing against the gooey spongy spot in your dripping core is enough to erase every coherent thought in your airy little head.

When Suguru is fully feasting on you like your pussy is a tabehodai buffet, tongue buried deep, lapping with reverence and precision. He’s honestly surprised you’re still breathing, given how useless your brain has become.

You barely had gotten your lips around him before your mouth agape, spittle drizzling down in lazy drips upon his angry red tip.

It’s enough to drive a man to madness.

That’s why he initially refused when you asked him to do this, knowing he would be blue balled by your slutty incompetence. 

Suguru is—at best—exasperated. His cock pulses, neglected and throbbing, hot puffs of your breath ghosting over the head while your whole body trembles from the overstimulation he’s graciously providing. Each soft cry, each weak twitch of your fingers, only fuels the annoyance simmering in his gut.

Still, Suguru doesn’t stop. He never could deprive himself of his favorite indulgence. His tongue sinks deeper into your fluttering heat, savoring the way your cunt clenches around nothing like it’s begging to be filled.

Then comes another slap—firm and biting against your ass. But instead of correcting you, it only makes you moan louder, body jolting with another blissed-out tremor that shoots straight through his tongue.

He sighs again.

This was all quite enough. 

If you were going to be a useless little doll, he might as well treat you like one.

Before you can process what’s happening, Suguru moves—faster than your panting breath. 

Sliding out from beneath you, he flips your boneless body onto your back across the desk, your head dangling off the edge. Blinking up at the ceiling in a confused daze you hear the low scrape of his chair rolling forward. Then—Suguru’s hands are gripping your thighs as his mouth finds your clit again—harder this time, more purposeful, tongue flattening and circling in a frenzy.

His fingers spear into your soaked heat without hesitation, dragging along that tender, swollen spot with expert cruelty.

OH FUH~!

Almost immediately you gush, squirt streaming down his fingers as you orgasm quickly follows, your body shaking.  You soiling his desk, his robes and you are sure of any papers or documents in the direct vicinity. Suguru doesn’t stop though, abusing your weak spot over and over until you forget what plane of existence you are even on—until you're screaming, cumming so hard it's almost painful.  

Only when your eyes are glassy and unfocused, tongue lolling lewdly from your lips, does Suguru finally relent—satisfied with the twitching, pleasure-drunk mess he’s reduced you to atop his desk.

Immobile, loose and complacent, your head still hangs over the edge, mouth open and inviting—good, exactly how he wanted you.

Now it’s his turn.

Rising smoothly from his plush chair, Suguru’s palm glides across your trembling body as he makes his way around the desk, savoring the heat still radiating off your skin.

You’re gasping, chest rising in uneven waves, when he reaches down—fingers wrapping around your neck with a gentle squeeze, thumbs rubbing lazy circles over your windpipe like he’s warming up his favorite instrument.

Suguru’s cock throbs at the sight—heavy and aching with denied release, balls drawn tight and desperate to flood your belly full with his salty fluids.

A soft, anticipatory groan escapes him as he tilts your head just right.

“Now be a good little fuckdoll, Bunny…” 

Suguru commands, lips curling into a thin, wide grin.

“…and say ah~”

©𝐛𝐥𝐤𝐤𝐢𝐳𝐳𝐚𝐭 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓. 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐠𝐟𝐱, 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞.

♋ an: im pretty proud of this cause i wrote this all in like 3 days. am i getting my groove back? 💕🤭

choso's is coming soon, but its a bigger story. lol return of bitchy reader tho (plug!choso girlies know the vibes cjhdsfjhdjf).

𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐤𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐚 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 & 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐱 𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐞𝐬!

[cressidagrey]

System Failure - Chapter 4: Brackley

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

Summary:

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

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

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

Warnings and Notes: George Russell Bashing. Ana has a meltdown. Questionable Engineering Science...also Questionable work ethic. Difficult Family relationships. Toto tries his best. Let me know if I missed something else, and I'll add it!

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

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 5 June 2025

She didn’t expect anyone to notice.

It was just a shirt.

A black Mercedes team polo — same logo, same structure, same sharp lines.

Only it wasn’t.

It was softer. Cotton. Hers.

The first time in years she’d walked into the engine lab without feeling like her skin was crawling under her collar.

She was reviewing tire temperature data on her tablet when she felt it: eyes.

Not staring. But… watching.

First from one of the junior mechanics, a man with his hair tied in a tight braid and sweat forming under the high-poly collar of his regulation kit.

 Then from Fatima — PR, usually glued to screens and two phones, now blinking owlishly at Ana’s sleeves.

Then from a second-year aero analyst who tugged at the hem of her stiff-fitted polo and kept looking away like it hurt to stare.

Ana tapped a graph.

Waited.

Finally, Fatima stepped closer, voice pitched low. “Sorry — can I ask something?”

Ana glanced over. “You just did.”

Fatima grinned nervously. “That shirt. Is it… different?”

Ana paused.

Then nodded once. “Cotton blend. Custom seams. No tags.”

Fatima exhaled like someone had just opened a window. “God, I knew it. You don’t look like you’re dying.”

One of the mechanics — Leo, Ana remembered — leaned in. “I get rashes from these sleeves every race week. Yours look… soft.”

Another person joined. Then a fourth.

“Do you think they’ll make it standard?” someone asked. “The… your version.”

Ana blinked.

She hadn’t thought of that.

She hadn’t thought about anyone else when the prototypes arrived. Just getting through a day without feeling like she was battling her own clothes.

But now she looked around and realized: they were all tugging at their cuffs.

Unbuttoning their collars. Picking at the embroidered tags inside their necklines like they were trying to scratch out a secret.

Maybe she hadn’t been the only one suffering. Just the only one who refused to normalize it.

“I don’t know,” Ana said slowly. “But I’ll ask.”

Fatima smiled, wide and unguarded. “You should. It’d be the first time teamwear didn’t feel like armor.”

Ana didn’t say anything to that.

But later — in her office, with the door half-closed and the polo still loose against her skin — she opened her email.

***

Email Subject: Cotton Blend Uniform Feedback

From: Dr. Anastasia Wolff <a.wolff@mercedesamgf1.com> To: Team Kit Procurement <procurement@mercedesamgf1.com> CC: Toto Wolff (CEO) Claire Hammond (HR), Marcus Reidl (Design Lead)

Dear All, 

Several members of staff have expressed interest in the cotton prototypes.

If we can accommodate wider distribution, please proceed.

Also — suggest reviewing future apparel through a sensory accessibility lens.

Regards, Dr. Anastasia Wolff Lead Systems and Hybrid Performance Engineer Mercedes-AMG PETRONAS Formula One Team

***

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 5 June 2025

Toto read Ana’s email twice.

Then a third time.

Then he slowly took off his glasses and set them down with an almost reverent sort of care, like the weight of the message had finally sunk in.

He hadn't expected this.

He thought the clothing issue was singular. Specific. Ana-specific.

He thought — wrongly — that this was about her and her alone.

But then he reread the line:

“Several members of staff have expressed interest in the cotton prototypes.” “Recommend trial sizes for track staff and junior team members.”

And another:

“Suggest reviewing future apparel through a sensory accessibility lens.”

He leaned back in his chair.

God.

How many people had just quietly endured because they thought complaining about a shirt made them sound soft? Weak? Replaceable?

How many of them were right to be afraid?

He looked over at his assistant, who was sorting emails across the room.

“Leonie?”

She looked up. “Yes?”

“Can we… get feedback from staff before we finalize the 2026 team kit?”

She paused. “You mean from the senior leads?”

“No,” he said, frowning. “I mean… everyone.”

She blinked.

Toto tapped the desk absently. “Anonymous if necessary. Ask what they actually want to wear. What bothers them. What doesn’t work. Give them options. Not just sizes — materials. Seam styles. Fastenings. Tag placements. Everything.”

Leonie opened her laptop again, rapidly typing. “I’ll draft a feedback form today.”

He nodded.

Then, softer: “I don’t want anyone on this team to feel like they have to earn the right to be comfortable.”

She glanced at him, surprised.

“Not after this,” he added, motioning toward Ana’s email.

And he meant it.

***

Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds 

Private Channel. ~30 members. 

lorelai.pa: GUYS THE FORM THE FORM JUST DROPPED THIS IS NOT A DRILL

sam.transmission: wait the anon team kit feedback form??

jules.elec: YES check your inbox “2026 Apparel Feedback – Optional & Anonymous” Toto’s name is on it. He wants our thoughts.

jess.hr: this feels like that scene in Les Mis where everyone’s like “do you hear the people sing” but about polyester

ellie.electronics: someone’s finally listening 😭 i’m going to cry over a cotton-blend hoodie

fatima.pr: entered “the polos give me existential rage and also chafe my neck like I’m being strangled by a team sponsor”

nicola.sim: I said: “I have a recurring dream about removing the inner tags with fire” follow-up question was “any preferred materials?” i said: yes. soft.

rachel.aero:I just want a version of the rain jacket that doesn’t make me sound like a pissed-off bag of Doritos when I move

Sima.calibration:I said we should bring back zip-off trousers for variable pit lane conditions

you’re all laughing now but you’ll thank me at Monza when it’s 37 degrees

Lucy.comms: I asked if we could have those polos with the half zips again but in bamboo this time don’t judge me

leo.mechanic: I said “please no more fitted sleeves that cut off circulation like a blood pressure cuff from hell”

liv.strategy: I literally typed “I want to wear my team kit without itching like a Victorian ghost girl with TB”

benjy.data: someone’s gonna read this and be like “we’ve made a terrible mistake”

kayleigh.powerunit: seriously though do we think this is because of Ana? 👀

zahra.aero: 100% she wore The Cotton Polo and now we have a form she is the revolution

jules.elec: she suffered so we could be free

leo.mechanic: I still think Toto saw her pick at her collar once and commissioned an entire line of custom-engineered knitwear

lorelai.m: give that man a dad medal wrapped in organic bamboo jersey

tom.sim: if we get a fleece-lined travel hoodie that doesn’t trap heat like a dying star i will get “w21 lives forever” tattooed across my knuckles

***

Twitter Thread: Max to Mercedes?? Let’s Talk About It

@/F1Whispers: 🚨 Hearing whispers that the Max-to-Mercedes conversation isn’t just paddock fantasy anymore.

Apparently someone from Verstappen’s camp had an informal sit-down with a senior Mercedes figure post-Spain.

We’ll be watching this one very closely. 👀

↳@/charlottechicane:  “Informal sit-down” = espresso and ruin. I am so ready.

↳@/pitlanecryptid:  no bc imagine Toto walking into that meeting like “so are you finally done pretending Red Bull isn’t imploding?”

↳@/DataLapDan: i know we’re all excited but if max actually goes to mercedes i’m gonna be insufferable like "my world domination au is CANON" levels of unbearable

↳@/verstappensburner:  this entire fanbase is going to emotionally combust if max shows up to silverstone even looking at the Mercedes hospitality

@/laurensleftshoe:  you’re telling me that in the same season Red Bull fumbled strategy, pissed off Verstappen, and Mercedes quietly fixed their engine?? oh this is SILLY silly season.

@/PaddockWhispers: Not saying anything definitive (yet), but there’s a vibe shift happening. Hearing from more than one source that Mercedes talks with Max Verstappen aren’t as dead-in-the-water as they used to be. 👀

@/javi_ontrack: you mean to tell me we’ve entered the “what if Max leaves Red Bull” timeline in THIS economy????

@/amberflagf1: Reminder: Max has a Red Bull contract until the end of 2028. Also reminder: contracts in F1 are written in pencil and everyone knows it.

@/formula_flirt: I cannot emotionally handle Max Verstappen in Mercedes silver. I would combust. Respectfully.

@/f1firestarter: Max Verstappen to Mercedes would be the biggest defection since Lewis left McLaren. This sport hasn’t known peace since 2007 anyway. Let chaos reign.

@/deaddownforce: Christian Horner if this actually happens: 👨‍🦲🪑😭📉📉📉📉📉

@/helmutvision: Toto’s going to sign Max out of pure spite and call it “a long-term strategic investment.”

@/emiliapits: just saying… Max Verstappen looks one engine failure away from handing in a transfer request #SpanishGP

@/tirewearupdates: We are entering that delicious stage of Silly Season where the rumors go from “lol imagine” to “wait is that actually happening” Max to Mercedes is no longer a meme it’s a threat

@/f1teaaccount: 👀 multiple paddock sources are now saying that Max has “not ruled out” a conversation with Mercedes about 2026 Red Bull’s collapse + Mercedes’ 2026 PU project = ✨spicy✨

@/wheresthegrip: red bull’s falling apart, toto’s wearing that tight smile like he knows something’s already signed, and max looks 4.6 seconds away from choosing violence every sunday we’re so back

@/karunactually: Look, it’s all smoke until there’s fire, but I’ll say this: Mercedes’ power unit development is the most locked-down I’ve seen it in years. And Max is asking very smart questions about 2026 aero.

@/engineerera: If Max goes to Mercedes and GP goes with him… I will simply combust. Red Bull who? I don’t know her.

***

Text Messages: Kimi Antonelli & Oliver Bearman

Kimi: OLIVER. Have you seen Twitter.

Oliver: Always a good start to the day Which bit this time?

Kimi: VERSTAPPEN TO MERCEDES??? People are saying it's real now Like meetings and talks and performance clause drama levels of real

Oliver:

Lmao yeah.

That’s just a rumour. Chill.

Kimi:NO YOU DON’T GET IT If it’s true I’m SCREWED I’m a rookie George has won races They’re not going to fire the guy with media training and four trophies They’ll fire me

Oliver: Okay. One: You haven’t even done half a season. Two: You literally out-qualified him in Miami. Three: You are Toto’s investment. They’re not firing you.

Kimi: I saw Toto smiling in the paddock after Spain Like a knowing smile Like a “I’ve just offered Max Verstappen a multi-year deal” kind of smile I’ve barely been here five minutes. I just stopped getting lost in the motorhome. Toto’s going to be like “you’ve had a nice gap year, off you go.” I’ll be back in F2 by Spa.

Oliver: Toto is not sending you back to F2.

Kimi: He’ll send me to Formula E. Or worse. Endurance.

Oliver: Please breathe.

Kimi: He’s going to call me into his office. And I’ll walk in and he’ll just gesture at a Mercedes shirt and be like “This is for Max. Pack your things.”

Oliver: Kimi.

Kimi: I JUST STARTED UNPACKING MY THINGS

Oliver: Kimi.

Kimi: Do you think Red Bull would take me? Do you think I could learn how to smile for their videos?

Oliver: You hate their social media team.

Kimi: Yes but I love not being unemployed.

Oliver: You're not getting fired. You're 18 and terrifyingly good. Max to Mercedes isn’t about you. It’s about Red Bull imploding.

***

Group Chat: “WHO IS MAX VERSTAPPEN DATING”

 (Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz, Daniel Ricciardo)

Lando: GUYS WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP

Oscar: It’s 6:14am. What is wrong with you.

Carlos: You better be dying

Lando: HAVE YOU SEEN TWITTER check your feeds right now go go go

Oscar: Oh. Wait. What.

Carlos: Oh qué coño “Verstappen to Mercedes 2026”? Are they serious???

Lando: HE’S JUMPING SHIP MAX. TO. MERCEDES. I KNEW SOMETHING WAS OFF

Daniel: ...what did I just wake up to

Lando: I KNEW HE WAS HIDING SOMETHING and now he’s packing his bags and heading straight into Toto’s loving arms??? THIS IS A GRID-LEVEL EVENT

Oscar: There’s no confirmation. Could just be speculation.

Carlos: You don’t switch teams because of one bad race. That’s not Max.

Lando: that’s what you think but I think… it’s the girlfriend 😐

Oscar: No.

Carlos: Lando.

Daniel: God.

Lando: what if she’s a Mercedes girl what if he’s been SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY THIS WHOLE TIME what if she's one of Toto's engineers or like. his race strategist or his cat sitter, I don’t know, everyone in that team is suspicious

Oscar: This is why no one tells you anything.

Daniel: I know for a fact she’s not Toto’s cat sitter. BECAUSE HE DOESN’T HAVE A CAT

Lando: SO YOU DO KNOW HER WE’VE CIRCLED BACK CONFESS

Carlos: Can we stay on topic

Lando: I am on topic Max is leaving red bull for love for romance for goddamn affection, carlos

Oscar: Or maybe for stability and a better engine

Lando: you’re no fun

Daniel: You really think Max Verstappen would switch teams because of a girlfriend?

Lando: Yes. Do we need to stage an intervention???

Carlos: You’re acting like he joined a cult.

Oscar: I’m muting again.

Daniel: Same.

Lando:

YOU’RE ALL BLIND

HE’S DEFECTING

AND HE’S TAKING HIS SECRET GIRLFRIEND WITH HIM

OPEN YOUR EYES SHEEPLE!

***

Group Chat: “TEAM 33”

 (Members: Max Verstappen, Jos Verstappen, Raymond Vermeulen)

Raymond: I just got three missed calls from Helmut. One from Christian. And one from someone in communications asking “how hypothetical this all is.”

Jos: 😂

Raymond: You think this is funny?

Jos: A little. They’ve spent the last year ignoring him. Now they remember his number?

Max: I got a text from Christian. Just said: “Are you free to talk later today?” Didn’t even put a smiley face.

Raymond: Yeah, they’re rattled. Now everyone’s watching every move you make.

Max: Good. Maybe now they’ll realize “next year” isn’t a plan. It’s a stall.

Jos: Told you this would get their attention. Should’ve done it back in Hungary.

Raymond: They’re already trying to spin it internally. Said you’re “frustrated but committed.” Which is rich, considering you’ve barely committed to a sandwich lately.

Max: I’m not saying anything to them until we decide what we want. Let them sweat.

Jos: They deserve to sweat. They built an empire around you and assumed you'd never walk away.

Raymond: You sure you’re ready for the chaos if this keeps escalating? Sponsors. Media. Internal leaks. They’re going to start dangling upgrades and favors like candy.

Max: Let them. I'm not interested in words. I'm interested in performance. And in options.

Jos: He means Anastasia Wolff.

Raymond: Oh for god’s sake

Max: I mean winning. And maybe a competent power unit.

Jos: Just admit it, you want a new car and the girl to match.

Max: I want a future that actually exists.

***

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 9 June 2025

Ana didn’t usually pay attention to gossip.

She didn’t have the time. Between engine simulations, thermal load mapping, and trying to outsmart the very laws of physics that governed engines, her brain had better things to do than scroll through rumor threads or listen to whatever the hell the factory gossip mill spat out between coffee breaks.

Gossip was for bored comms interns and second-tier Twitter accounts and the anonymous message boards she refused to acknowledge she read. Gossip was an inefficient use of processing power, and she had an engine to build.

Well—part of an engine.

 Ana was deep in the work. She liked that about engines: either it ran, or it didn’t. It didn’t hide behind charm or half-truths or the kind of smile that curled just at the corner like it knew what your heartbeat did at 2 a.m. when it whispered your name.

She was elbow-deep in the systems diagnostic interface when it happened.

“...bet Toto’s buzzing. I mean, Verstappen in Mercedes? That’s headline stuff.”

Ana didn’t look up immediately. The interns chatted all the time. She’d learned to tune them out like background static.

But then someone laughed.

 “That’s the thing, though. Apparently the talks are real this time. Like, post-Spain. Horner looks ready to combust. Heard Max’s team asked for a second round of briefings already.”

Her fingers froze. Not stopped—froze. A full system hang. The kind that required a hard reboot.

She stood up too fast, knocking over a container of diagnostic strips. “What are you talking about?”

Three junior engineers blinked at her like deer in carbon-fibre headlights.

“I—uh—sorry?” one offered. A kid. Probably twenty-three. Probably didn’t know the laws of thermodynamics, much less the laws of personal space.

Ana’s voice came out cold and precise. Like dry ice instead of fire. “You said Verstappen and Mercedes. What talks?”

He hesitated. “It’s just, um, what people are saying. Apparently he’s… not thrilled at Red Bull. And with the new regulations—”

“What talks?” she repeated, sharper now. “With who? When? On what basis?”

Silence. Someone coughed.

Another engineer—Liam—spoke up, clearly trying to calm the waters. “Ana, it’s probably nothing. Just paddock noise. Silly season stuff.”

“I don’t care if it’s silly season or the Book of Revelations,” she snapped. “You don’t bring that name into this building without—”

She cut herself off.

She had not meant to sound that emotional. She didn’t do emotional.

Emotional was messy. Emotional got you left in a cold Vienna apartment when you were eight years old and didn’t understand why Mama never came back. Emotional got you 10 years of therapy and a lifelong fear of letting anyone close enough to notice that your heart beat out of time when Max Verstappen so much as looked at you.

“Forget it,” she muttered, already crouching to pick up the diagnostic strips. “Get back to work.”

She tried to focus again. Truly, she did.

But all she could see was him.

Max, in a Mercedes fireproof. Max, in her garage. Max, here.

That wasn’t just gossip.

That was personal.

And she had to find out from watercooler gossip that he might be walking straight into her father's garage next year?

She dropped into her chair, jaw tight.

She was going to kill him.

***

Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds 

Private Channel. ~30 members. 

liam.engine: okay so… ana just full-on snapped because someone mentioned max verstappen in the breakroom

tom.sim: like snapped snapped?? or ana-normal snapped??

liam.engine: diagnostic strips were flung. her eye twitched. she pulled rank with a voice that could’ve cut titanium.

kayleigh.powerunit: i was THERE. i thought she was going to throttle poor benjy. he looked like a ghost.

tom.sim: to be fair benjy always looks like a ghost. poor child lives on vending machine coffee and hope.

ellie.electronics: wait wait back up. what about verstappen?

liam.engine: someone mentioned the rumors he’s been in talks with merc and she lost it. like. visibly rattled.

sam.transmission: are we… not supposed to know that? because we all know that.

jess.hr: you didn’t hear it from me but… there have been board-level discussions. like actual meetings.

kayleigh.powerunit: george is going to combust. first his championship dream, now his dream girl?? mans cannot catch a break.

ellie.electronics: okay first of all. ana does NOT know george exists in that way. he flirts, she blinks and changes the subject to engine temperature mapping.

tom.sim: yeah but he tries. like, tragically hard. someone should tell him.

liam.engine: we have. multiple times.

sam.transmission: i think he genuinely believes if she just softens a little she’ll like him.

jess.hr: spoiler alert: trying to “soften” Ana Wolff is a career-limiting move.

liam.engine: but imagine…george losing both the girl and his seat to the same man. brutal.

tom.sim: “he came, he saw, he took your garage and your girl” – max verstappen, probably

kayleigh.powerunit: no but seriously, if verstappen joins next year…ana is going to short-circuit.

liam.engine: she already has. i swear i saw her hand shaking when she went back to her desk.

ellie.electronics: …do we think they’ve got history?

tom.sim: mate. that wasn’t “history.” that was “I will end you for not telling me yourself.”

liam.engine: also. george absolutely walked past Toto’s office ten minutes ago and didn’t even look inside. he knows.

kayleigh.powerunit: press F for george russell. he’s not getting the girl. he’s not getting the seat.

sam.transmission: this team is going to be absolute chaos next season.

liam.engine: so…basically. max to mercedes: 90% confirmed george: 90% doomed ana: 100% about to kill someone

kayleigh.powerunit: can we get hazard pay?

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Ana: You unbelievable, reckless, arrogant bastard.

Max: Hi Poekie 🥰

Ana: Don’t you dare call me that. is it true?

Max: you’ll have to be more specific. i do many things. most of them well. 😏

Ana:Is it true you’re talking to mercedes?

Max: define “talking” Like… theoretically, if a man was tired of his car dying every other Sunday and wanted to drive something that didn’t sound like a blender full of nails and steers like a shopping trolley, would that be so shocking? Was wondering when that would land in Brackley. Impressive it took this long, honestly.

Ana: You think this is funny?

Max: I think it’s adorable that you're this worked up. Is that a little engine rage I sense? Or something else?

Ana: You’re unbelievable.

Max: You say that every time I make you come.

Ana: You’re smirking through text. I know you’re smirking. Wipe it off your face or I swear to God I will personally rig your MGU-K to explode.

Max: You threatening to blow me up is the highlight of my week. I wasn’t hiding it. Just… hadn’t mentioned it yet. It’s not official. I haven’t signed anything. But yeah. I’m thinking about it.

Ana: Why?

Max: Because Red Bull’s a shitshow. Because the car’s not where I want it. Because 2026 is a clean slate. Because Mercedes has the best shot at nailing the regs.

Max : I was waiting for the right moment to tell you. You know. When you weren’t actively building the engine I might end up driving.

Ana: You absolute—

Max: Careful. You call me enough names, I might think you miss me.

Ana: You were going to let me build that engine and not say a word?

Max:I think it’s poetic. You building the engine I win my next championship with.

Ana: You’re not funny.

Max: A little bit. Also… If I do come to Mercedes, I’d get to see you more. You sure you want to complain?

Ana: Max.

Max: Ana.

Ana: This isn’t funny.

Max: It’s not meant to be. It’s serious. I’m serious. This team. This future. And you.

Max: You can throw everything you want at me, but I’m not pretending this isn’t personal.

Max: You and I never weren’t personal.

Ana: Stop flirting with me.

Max: You texted me first. Angry. You’re always hottest when you’re mad.

Ana: unbelievable.

Max: you should see how good i look in silver might need you to help peel the fireproofs off after practice. for research. obviously.

Ana:I hate you.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: Are you seriously considering Mercedes or was that just a fever dream I saw on Twitter this morning?

Max: Depends. 

Victoria: MAX. Are you actually considering it??

Max: I’m thinking about it. New regs. New challenge. New team that isn’t Red Bull collapsing in on itself like a dying star.

Victoria: So that’s a yes.

Max: It’s a maybe. A serious maybe.

Victoria: And what does your situationship think about this?

Max: She’s not my situationship.

Victoria: Max.

Max: What?

Victoria: You’ve been sleeping with the same woman since 2016. You once skipped a Red Bull sponsor dinner because she had the flu. You got into an argument with Charles Leclerc because he flirted with her. You remember what day her mother left and make sure not to say anything soft around her that week.

That’s textbook situationship energy.

Max:No.

That’s Ana refusing to process any emotion stronger than mild caffeine withdrawal energy.

It’s different. She’s not my situationship. She’s the love of my life. She just doesn’t know how to be loved yet.

Victoria: Oof. That’s devastating. And also weirdly poetic. Have you told her that?

Max: She’d run.

Victoria: So you’re just gonna… casually defect to her team and hope the proximity therapy works?

Max: Basically, yeah.

Victoria: You’re unhinged.

Max: She’s worth it.

Victoria: Jesus.

Victoria: Fine. But I’m getting front row seats when she inevitably explodes at you in the Mercedes garage and you just stand there like a golden retriever in love.

Max: She already threatened to rig my MGU-K. Does that count?

Victoria: God. She so loves you.

Max: I know.

Victoria:I reserve the right to say I told you so if she makes you cry in an airport again though.

Max: That was one time and I was jetlagged

***

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 11 June 2025

The thing about working for 48 hours straight is that eventually, the code starts humming. Not metaphorically. Literally. The numbers pulse on the screen like they're breathing. The engine model almost sings.

It was beautiful. Or maybe that’s just the hallucination talking.

Ana hadn’t meant to do this. Not really.

But the rumours wouldn’t shut up.

Every thread. Every whisper in the office. Every poorly disguised hallway conversation that cuts off when she walks by. They all hum with the same goddamn thing:

Max Verstappen. Mercedes. 2026.

So Ana did what she’s always done best: work.

And then kept working.

And then kept working past the part where most people would’ve gone home, or taken a nap, or consumed anything other than coffee and three-day-old protein bars.

The Max-to-Mercedes rumors had detonated in her skull like a landmine, and the only solution was to outpace the noise. To code faster than she could think. To simulate until reality bent around the dyno and all that existed was pressure ratios and heat recovery systems. 

Ana had not slept in—well. She couldn’t quite remember. Forty-eight hours, give or take. Possibly more.

Sleep was inefficient. Feeling things was inefficient. If she could out-engineer her central nervous system, maybe she wouldn’t have to think about him walking into her garage wearing her team kit and asking her to act like they were nothing more than a very well-documented HR violation waiting to happen.

Nope. Absolutely not. Rejected.

It was fine.

Totally fine.

She stayed.

Skipped lunch. Skipped dinner. Drank whatever sludge passed for coffee in the staff kitchen. Ate two protein bars and a half-bag of Haribo from someone’s drawer.

By hour 36, her eyes twitched when she blinked. By hour 38, One of the CFD renderings had started to look like Max’s smile and she’d closed the window with so much force the monitor flickered. By hour 42, she had a conversation with the exhaust flow diagram.

Ignoring your feelings via work? Ten out of ten. No notes.

The door to the systems lab opened, and James—sweet, anxious James—peeked in with the caution of a man trying not to get yelled at.

“Hey, uh… Ana? You’ve been here a while.”

She didn’t look up. “I’m busy.”

“Yeah. No, I see that. It’s just… someone said you haven’t gone home since Monday?”

“I took a nap during the CFD cycle.”

“You mean the thirty-two-minute cooldown window?”

She adjusted her monitor. “Power naps are valid recovery strategies.”

James stepped back like she was radioactive. “Okay. Yeah. Coolcoolcool.”

***

There were a few things Lorelai had learned about Dr. Anastasia Wolff after working as her PA for years: 

She did not like phone calls.

She did not tolerate inefficiency.

She did not, under any circumstances, do emotional meltdowns.

Which was why Lorelai was… confused.

Because there was currently a meltdown happening. A very quiet, very clinical, very Ana-coded meltdown. But still—an undeniable one.

The first sign something was off: Ana had skipped her 2 p.m. apple.

Now, most people wouldn’t clock that. But Lorelai kept receipts. Not metaphorical ones—literal, detailed, colour-coded records of Ana Wolff’s habits. Not because she was creepy (debatable), but because being Ana’s assistant was like managing a billion-dollar Formula 1 car that had decided to develop sentience and reprogram itself with C++ and repressed trauma.

And now Ana had been in the systems lab for forty-eight hours. 

Which is why Lorelai—personal assistant, keeper of the calendar, shepherd of wayward engineers—was deeply, profoundly concerned.

Forty-eight hours.

Straight.

No shower breaks. No meal breaks. Just coffee, simulations, and whatever slowly crystallizing protein bar graveyard she’d built next to the dyno monitor.

And the thing was… no one knew why.

At first Lorelai thought maybe it was a tight deadline. A design review. A manufacturing delay. Ana loved a crisis, thrived on impossible timelines like a cryptid built from caffeine and elite academic trauma.

Something was wrong.

And it had started the exact same day the rumors about Max Verstappen coming to Mercedes had hit the media cycle like a wrecking ball dipped in silver paint.

Lorelai had seen the slack channel, of course. Heard the whispers. Everyone had.

Max Verstappen. Mercedes. 2026.

A little gossip grenade tossed casually into the Slack channels and now rolling around under everyone’s desks.

Still, she didn’t get it. Ana didn’t even like Max Verstappen. Or… well.

She never talked about Max Verstappen.

Which, knowing Ana, might’ve meant something entirely different.

Now, Lorelai wasn’t stupid. She’d worked at Brackley long enough to know that F1 was held together by caffeine, duct tape, and gossip. She’d been in procurement for four years before Ana had stolen her during a lunch break by asking, “Would you like to stop being bored and start being indispensable?” And frankly, that had been the sexiest job offer she'd ever received.

But she’d never—never—seen Ana like this.

Forty-eight hours in the lab. No sleep. No food except Haribo and the kind of protein bar that tasted like bark. No interactions with the outside world except for three short, sharp emails, all time-stamped between 3 and 4 a.m., and all featuring increasingly unhinged demands about airflow telemetry and torque mapping for 2026.

At first Lorelai thought it was just a normal hyperfixation spiral. Ana had those sometimes—one moment she’d be designing cooling systems in her head, the next she’d be elbow-deep in CAD software muttering about slipstream efficiency like it owed her money.

But this?

This was personal.

Which didn’t make any sense, because Ana didn’t do personal. She did spreadsheets. She did systems.

And yet here she was.

Working like her brain was on fire.

Refusing food.

Snapping at poor James from aero like he’d suggested they reintroduce porpoising for fun.

And most concerningly…

Whispering to  the exhaust flow diagram.

Lorelai watched her from the doorway, nursing her third espresso and wondering how many HR policies were currently being violated by pure sleep deprivation.

***

Slack Channel: #brackley-nerds 

Private Channel. ~30 members. 

james.aero: okay so question hypothetical if someone’s been working for maybe 48 hours straight and won’t make eye contact and is whispering to the exhaust flow diagram should we… like… do something?

liam.engine: oh no is it Ana please tell me it’s not Ana

james.aero: uh how long has Ana been in that lab?

zahra.aero: Since… Monday?

james.aero: It’s Wednesday evening.

ellie.electronics: Guys. She just asked the exhaust rendering if it wanted a break.

daniel.it: ok but like in a normal voice or a soft voice

ellie.electronics: a soft voice like it was a hamster

mira.simulations: Jesus.

felix.eng: Should we… call someone?

daniel.it: like who? HR? Her dad? Her exorcist?

ellie.electronics: I vote Toto. This feels above our pay grade

felix.eng: No offense but I’d rather arm-wrestle a live inverter

daniel.it: Wait what if it’s the Verstappen thing You know… the rumor. Max to Mercedes? 2026?

mira.simulations OH MY GOD

james.aero: Wait wait wait are we suggesting that Ana Wolff —Dr. “emotions are for the weak” Wolff— is spiraling because of… a driver transfer rumour?

ellie.electronics: what if they used to date

daniel.it what if they still do

mira.simulations she did flinch when someone said “Red Bull” in the hallway earlier

james.aero: i thought that was about the drink

mira.simulations: she called it “synthetic capitalist battery acid” and kept walking

felix.eng: idk guys she’s brilliant but she’s acting like someone just told her her pet died and the pet was responsible for aero performance

sara.branding: ok but why does she care so much about Verstappen joining? she’s literally never mentioned him

jess.hr: maybe she’s secretly in love with him like that weird Wattpad slow burn where the ice queen and the golden retriever fall in love after ten years of mutual pining

matt.merchandise: first of all: I’d read that second: why is that so specific

nicola.sim: does anyone know if they’ve ever even spoken????

james.aero: i once saw them pass in the paddock she nodded he blinked it was the most emotionally loaded 0.7 seconds of my life.

amelie.procurement: guys. if Max Verstappen signs with Mercedes Ana is going to have to see him every single week

james.aero: …should we start updating the fire protocols now

liam.eng-lead: does this mean we’re in an enemies-to-lovers arc or a “do not engage unless you want the hydraulics to burst” arc

kayleigh.powerunit: 

yes

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Max: so hypothetically if someone were to show up in Brackley wearing silver and looking criminally good in it would you throw a wrench or just ignore them

Max: also asking for a friend: is rigging an MGU-K to explode technically a war crime

Max: …ana?

Max: ok you’re mad. that’s fine. you’re cute when you’re mad. well. terrifying. but also cute.

Max: is this you icing me out for flirting too much? because i can do more flirting like a lot more no one’s stopping me

Max: okay you’ve never taken this long to respond even when you pretended to “accidentally” leave your phone in a Faraday pouch because you were “busy” mapping thermal decay

Max: (yes i remember the exact phrase. no i don’t forgive you)

Max: ana please just text me that you’re alive i’m starting to imagine really dramatic things and you know my imagination is unhinged i saw you break a torque wrench once with your bare hands i believe you could disappear into a server rack and never come out

Max: i know you’re not answering because you’re working. but 36 hours without sleep isn’t working. that’s crashing.

Max: okay. seriously. this isn’t funny anymore. are you okay? did something happen?

Max: Nastya. please just let me know you’re okay. i don’t care if you’re mad. i don’t care if you’re busy. i care if you’re breathing.

***

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 11 June 2025

Toto Wolff was not a man easily rattled.

He had survived backmarkers, boardroom politics, and the 2016 championship. He had learned to speak calmly while millions watched his drivers threaten to kill each other in front of national cameras.

But nothing—nothing—quite sent ice through his bloodstream like hearing Lorelai say, in her deceptively calm tone:

"I think there’s… a concern. About your daughter. From a safety protocol perspective.”

He looked up from his laptop.

Lorelai stood in the doorway to his office. Immaculate as always. Her glasses perched at the edge of her nose. Her iPad hugged tightly to her chest like it was the only thing keeping her from losing her grip on reality.

“She hasn’t left the building since Monday. And she’s… uh… talking to herself. In at least three languages. Possibly four.”

Toto sighed. Pinched the bridge of his nose.

“I’ll handle it.”

He didn’t ask why no one had handled it sooner.

Because he knew the answer.

People didn’t tell Dr. Anastasia Wolff what to do. They let her work, in awe and slight terror, until she disappeared again like some kind of ghost of the dyno bay—brilliant, brutal, and untouchable.

He strode through the corridors with long, purposeful steps. 

Anastasia was exactly where he expected her to be: hunched over the control interface, surrounded by code, still wearing that black fleece with the fraying cuff. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her hair braided but unraveling, and she didn’t even glance up when the door opened.

Toto felt that ache in his chest again—the one he always got when she was like this. Too quiet. Too still. Too close to the edge of something brittle.

He still remembered the first time he saw her.

Vienna. 2005.

Anastasia Yelena Volkova had arrived on his doorstep like a misdelivered package—tight-lipped, red-eyed, nearly eight years old, wearing a coat two sizes too small and clutching a Soviet-era suitcase with her initials stitched inside in Cyrillic.

Her mother hadn’t come in. She hadn’t even looked back.

Just a stiff nod, a clipped explanation in Russian that amounted to your turn, and then she was gone.

Anastasia had only spoken Russian back then. Refused to answer in anything else. It had taken months for her to say “yes” instead of da. A year before she started using “Papa.” Two before she stopped flinching when someone raised their voice.

And even now, nearly two decades later, Toto still wasn’t sure she believed she belonged.

She’d grown into someone sharp and strange and brilliant. She didn’t cry. She didn’t ask for things. She lived in the folds of logic and simulation code and thermal maps, and most of the time he let her stay there. Let her be who she was without trying to shape her into something softer.

Because Toto was a smart man.

He knew his daughter was clever—anyone with two Cambridge degrees and a doctorate was clever. 

But Ana wasn’t just smart. She saw things. Solved problems that hadn’t been named yet. She treated the 2026 PU like a living thing, coaxing performance from it the way some people coaxed birds into their hands.

He didn’t always understand her—but he never underestimated her.

Now, nearly  twenty years later, that same girl was barricaded in a dyno bay surrounded by code and caffeine and emotional landmines he still didn’t know how to read.

He walked in and saw her hunched over a workstation, hair fraying from her braid, muttering in a furious whisper about battery drain cycles like the fate of the earth depended on it.

She didn’t even flinch when the door opened.

He used the only thing that still worked.

“Anastasia Yelena Wolff.”

She froze.

Like a gunshot. Like the echo of a childhood too sharp around the edges.

Slowly, she turned. Her face was pale, eyes glassy and over-bright, like someone walking the tightrope between clarity and collapse.

“Papa?” she asked. Quiet. Distant. Like maybe her brain hadn’t caught up yet.

“Anastasia,” he said more gently now. “You need to stop.”

“I’m fine,” she murmured. “I’m just—working through the module delay. If I can get the compression sync to balance before the next sim—”

“You’ve been awake for two days.”

“I’ve done worse.”

“That’s not comforting.”

She didn’t answer.

Toto stepped around the desk and crouched down beside her chair, like he had when she was small. He’d always been a tall man, but he’d never once tried to loom over her. It never would’ve worked. Even at fifteen, Ana had stared him down like she was the one writing his performance reviews.

“You need to sleep,” he said softly.

Anastasia looked away. “I can’t. Not yet.”

“Why?”

Her jaw flexed. Silence.

He didn’t push.

Instead, he stood and held out a hand.

To his surprise—she took it.

She didn’t argue.

Didn’t speak much on the drive, either. Just curled into the passenger seat, like her bones had finally remembered they were tired.

When they arrived at his house, she walked in automatic. Like the muscle memory never left. Same bedroom. Same old lamp.

Toto handed her a bottle of water and told her to brush her teeth.

She didn’t even roll her eyes.

When she curled up under the duvet, he pulled it gently over her shoulder and sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, unsure if she was asleep yet.

Then she whispered, “Thanks.”

He paused.

“Always.”

He sat there a few minutes longer, watching her breathe.

Still brilliant. Still so sharp it scared him sometimes.. Yet he still wondered if her mind was something even bigger than what she let people see. Something that frightened her, too.

She was lethal.

Not just degrees. Not just intellect.

A mind like a scalpel.

And a heart she kept padlocked, duct-taped, buried somewhere beneath layers of grit and code and engine schematics.

He stood.

Turned off the light.

Closed the door behind him.

And told himself—once again—that he was doing his best.

***

Text Messages: Toto Wolff & Susie Wolff

Toto Just brought Ana home. She was in the systems lab. Forty-eight hours. Maybe more. Lorelai says she didn’t leave since Monday.

Susie: Oh no. That’s a full bender. Did something trigger it?

Toto:I don’t know. No one seems to know what triggered it. She wouldn’t say. Just kept muttering about engine logic and simulation lag and something about thermal sync ratios. She looked… hollow. Not angry. Not manic. Just gone. Like she disappeared behind the code and forgot how to come back.

Susie Was it the 2026 revisions? The PU development?

Toto I asked. She just said she was working. You know how she gets. That thing where she locks in and forgets she’s a person.

Susie And you think it’s just work?

Toto No. I think it’s something. But she won't let me see what it is. She never has.

Susie: Poor girl.

Toto: Her brain doesn’t stop. Not like other people. She doesn’t feel things in real time — she just stores it somewhere deep and then short-circuits under the weight of it.

Susie: You’ve always said she runs like an engine.

Toto: Yes. High power. No governor. And when it overheats, she doesn’t shut down — she redlines. Quietly. Efficiently. Until she crashes.

Susie: You did the right thing bringing her home.

Toto: I hope so. I don’t always know how to help her. She’s brilliant. But it’s like she’s made of glass sometimes. The high-grade kind. Sharp edges. Carries voltage.

Susie: You help by being there. That’s always been the way. She came home with you, didn’t she?

Toto: Yes.

Susie: Then you’re doing fine.

Toto: She thanked me. Before she fell asleep.

Susie: Then she knows.

Toto: Knows what?

Susie: That you love her. Even if you don’t always know how to say it.

Toto: … I hope so.

Susie: She’s not broken, you know.

Toto: I know. She’s just wired differently. And sometimes… I think the whole damn world should rewire itself to match her, instead.

***

Toto Wolff’s House, Brackley, England - 12 June 2025

Ana woke to the uncomfortable sensation of… stillness.

Not quiet, exactly — her brain didn’t really do quiet — but a kind of post-storm silence. Her skin felt too tight. Her throat dry. Her tongue like the underside of a radiator cap. Muscles ached in places she didn’t even remember using.

It was bright. Too bright. Morning light spilling past gauzy curtains that weren’t hers, across a room she hadn’t slept in for years.

Her old room.

Her father’s house.

She groaned, curling onto her side, eyes scrunching against the sun like it was personally trying to shame her. Memories came back in flashes — the hum of the dyno bay, the way the monitor had started pulsing, the battery flowchart she’d argued with at hour 45. The moment she’d looked up and seen Toto there, like a conjured hallucination.

Except it hadn’t been.

He’d come. Scooped her up like she was still eight years old with a head full of Russian grammar and trauma. Sat her in the passenger seat. Put her to bed.

Now she was here.

And she felt awful.

Everything in her body was slow. Her brain was fogged with something like grief and guilt and tech fatigue. And under all of it — beneath the espresso crash and cognitive flatline — there was shame. Deep and bone-quiet.

He’d used her full name.

And she had gone with him.

God.

Ana sat up slowly, wincing as her body protested the motion. Her hoodie was twisted around her like a straitjacket. Her braid had mostly unraveled and clung to one side of her face. Her glasses were missing. Probably lost in the chaos. Her socks didn’t match.

Everything hurt.

She dragged herself to the kitchen by muscle memory, following the smell of espresso and something warm and toasty.

Toto was already there. Reading something on a tablet. A second coffee sat waiting beside a plate of toast — buttered, crusts cut off, just like she used to eat it when she was too tired to argue with food.

He didn’t look up when she entered.

“Good Morning,” Toto said, still reading.

“Is it?”

“You’re upright, so that’s progress.”

She sipped the espresso, wincing slightly. “My brain’s still buffering.”

“You were arguing with a bar graph last night.”

Ana gave him a tired glare. “It was slow.”

Toto set his tablet down and looked at her properly. His expression was unreadable in the way that always made her bristle.

“You look terrible,” Toto added.

“That’s not comforting,” she rasped.

“I don’t do comforting. I do espresso and early exits.”

Ana smiled. Brief. Real.

They lapsed into silence.

Eventually, she spoke. “I’m sorry.”

Toto didn’t say anything.

Then, softer: “You came to get me.”

Toto met her eyes. “You’re my daughter.”

After a moment, she said, very quietly, “Do I… scare you?”

He looked up.

Ana didn’t.

“I scare myself sometimes,” she murmured. “When I get like that. When I forget to stop. It’s like—if I pause for even a second, everything will catch up.”

Toto exhaled. “You don’t scare me.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Confuse me. Force me to Google terms I’m pretty sure you made up. Yes. But you don’t scare me.”

Ana looked away. “You didn’t even know I existed until my mother dumped me at your door.”

Toto’s voice softened. “I didn’t know you existed, no. But the moment I did, you were mine. There’s a difference.”

Ana looked away. “Sometimes I feel like you don’t know what to do with me.”

“Most of the time,” Toto said bluntly. “But that’s not the same as not wanting to try.”

She didn’t say anything.

“I don’t always know what to do with any of you,” Toto said. “You just require… a different operating manual.”

She glanced up. “German or Russian?”

He smirked. “It’s in Hieroglyphs. I’ve given up trying to read it.”

Ana huffed a laugh, tears stinging the corners of her eyes.

He slid a plate across the table. Toast. Buttered. Cut into quarters.

Ana stared at it.

“I’m not eight,” she muttered.

“You’re acting like it,” he replied, sipping his espresso.

She snorted. Picked up a piece. Ate it.

Then after a pause: “Thank you. For coming.”

Toto nodded.

“You’re not alone in this,” he added quietly. “Whatever this is.”

She didn’t answer.

But she finished the toast. Drank the rest of the coffee. Sat there just long enough for him to believe — maybe — that the worst had passed.

And maybe, just maybe, it had.

***

Text Messages: Susie Wolff & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Susie: Hey love. Just checking in — how are you feeling?

Ana: Hungover. Except without the alcohol that usually causes it.

Susie: So the 48-hour no-sleep, Haribo-and-coffee-fueled science bender finally caught up with you?

Ana: Might’ve run out of caffeine before I ran out of coping mechanisms. Or the other way around.

Susie: Ana. Darling. You do know you’re allowed to feel things, right? Even difficult things. Especially difficult things.

Ana: I didn’t want to think about my feelings. I wanted to out-engineer them. Put them in a box and simulate them into submission. It worked for 47 hours and 17 minutes.

Susie: And then the crash?

Ana: Then the crash. And the hallucinating of a CPU diagram that was smiling at me.

Susie: Oh Ana. That’s when you close the laptop, sweetheart.

Ana: I was hoping I could outpace it all. The noise. The feelings.

Susie: You're not a robot. No one’s asking you to be.

Ana: I have too many feelings, actually. They just… don’t like being perceived. Especially not by me.

Susie: You are so your father’s daughter it’s terrifying sometimes. You know I love you, right? Even when you’re a sleep-deprived raccoon in fleece.

Ana: Thanks, Susie.

Susie: Next time, text me before the Haribo hallucinations kick in, okay? I’ll bring tea and non-emotional distractions. Like British Bake Off reruns.

Ana: Deal.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr.Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Ana: I’m alive.

Max: you’re texting which means you didn’t die which is fantastic news for my blood pressure

Ana: Calm down.

Max: Calm down?? Ana, are you fucking kidding me right now?

Ana: I just woke up.

Max: You disappeared for three days, ghosted every message, probably rewrote half the powertrain manual, and now you want me to act normal?

Ana: Yes.

Max: absolutely not.  I thought something happened. I thought you collapsed at your desk or got electrocuted or walked straight into a jet fan because you were thinking about combustion ratios and forgot how walls work.

Ana: …only one of those is remotely plausible.

Max: Which one.

Ana: None of your business.

Max: You scared the shit out of me.

Ana: I didn’t mean to.

Max: Then what were you doing?

Ana: Not thinking about you. That was the plan. Didn’t work.

Max: You pulled a 48-hour lab lockdown to avoid your feelings for me?

Ana: I didn’t say that.

Max: You really need to work on your emotional repression outlets.

Ana: You’re the one making everything complicated.

Max: I texted you that I might change teams. You started hallucinating torque values and drinking Red Bull like it was IV fluid.

Ana: Max.

Max: Ana.

Ana: …my father had to tuck me in, you asshole.

Max: 😭😭😭😭

Max: god i wish i had a photo framed. on my wall. above my sim rig.

Ana: I’m blocking you. Papa took me home. Tucked me in. It was deeply humiliating. Do not make it worse.

Max: i’m going to make it so much worse you got papa’d. your dad tucked you in like a little burrito. this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

Ana: I hate you.

Max: it’s horrifying for you i understand

Ana: Do not send me memes. I’m still rebooting my brain.

Max: too late [attachment: “YOU WORKED 48 HOURS STRAIGHT? BABE YOU’RE A BIOHAZARD 💅” meme.jpeg]

Ana: I should’ve stayed asleep.

Max: i missed you. next time, disappear for less than 12 hours or i’m coming to Brackley and starting a dramatic scene in the simulator bay

Ana: That’s not a threat. That’s workplace misconduct.

Max: Try and stop me. You scared me. You don’t get to do that again.

Ana: I didn’t think you’d care that much.

Max: I do. ***

[goldenbrowns]

જ⁀➴ CLARK KENT HEADCANNONS

just boyfriend clark and his antics ◟✿ warnings: not really, pretty fluffy.

જ⁀➴ Clark’s music taste isn’t exactly broad. He mostly listens to what he grew up with—songs that remind him of home, of mornings in the Kent farmhouse with his mom humming along as she cooked. Don McLean is sacred. American Pie, Vincent—classics. He puts them on while making breakfast, like clockwork. And without fail, they wreck him. You’ll glance over and find him tearing up at the stove, blinking fast like that’ll help. You ask him once, “Why do these songs get you so emotional? You’re not even into Van Gogh.” (The song "Vincent" is basically an ode to Van Gogh, and "American Pie" is one to Buddy Holly)

He sniffles, flips a pancake, and says, “You’re heartless. Have you heard the lyrics? That’s poetry, thank you.”

“You cried during a commercial for arthritis cat food last week.”

“Because I have empathy,” he shoots back, mock-offended.

And yeah—he’s Superman, sure. But you’ve never met anyone softer than Clark Kent listening to a Don McLean song at 8 a.m. in his kitchen.

જ⁀➴ You hadn’t quite gotten used to it—being with Clark, knowing he truly, unshakably loved everything about you. Not just your laugh or your thoughts or the way you held his hand when you were nervous. But you, completely. You used to think Clark’s love for humanity ended with the soul—compassion, hope, bravery. But it’s more than that. He sees the human body as something sacred, something resilient. Even if his is nearly identical, he knows he’s not really one of you. Maybe that’s why he’s so in awe.

Your past—boys who picked apart what you wore, what you looked like, how you looked when you didn’t smile—left marks. And so did your own words, the ones you whispered to the mirror in quiet moments.

But Clark? He traces those same parts like they’re written in gold.

“You know,” he says one night, running a hand gently along your arm, “I don’t think people realize how incredible they are. Everything your body’s been through, and it’s still yours. Still strong. Still beautiful.”

You try to brush it off with a laugh, but he stops you, eyes soft.

“No, I mean it. You’re a miracle. Every inch.”

જ⁀➴ Clark may not get sick like humans do, but he knows how fragile the human body can be—and he reveres it. He reads medical journals like most people scroll social media. Every new study, every breakthrough—he’s on it. If researchers say something might cause long-term damage? It vanishes from your home without a word. One day it’s in the pantry, the next it’s gone. You’ve learned not to ask what happened to the non-stick pans.

He’s quick to scold too, in that soft but stern Clark Kent way.

“You drank that energy drink again, didn’t you?” he says, arms crossed.

You wince. “It was one time. I was exhausted.”

“Caffeine, synthetic taurine, seventeen grams of sugar, and no actual nutrition,” he lists off instantly. “You may as well drink battery acid.”

“Okay, Dad.”

“Oh, but I will call your mom if you keep this up.”

But underneath the scolding is love—a deep, anxious kind of love. Because he’s seen how delicate humans are. How easily hurt. And the idea of losing you to something preventable makes his heart ache in ways even he can’t explain.

“You only get one body,” he murmurs once, wrapping his arms around you. “I don’t get to fix that if anything were to happen to you."

And even though he says that—calm and grounded—he knows the truth. If anything ever happened to you, if you ever got sick and couldn’t be treated here, he’d tear through the galaxy without hesitation. He’d fly straight through the heart of Andromeda if it meant finding a planet, a cure, a fragment of something that could save you. Nothing on Earth or beyond would keep him from trying.

જ⁀➴ Clark was never exactly tech-savvy. He still types with one finger and once called the Wi-Fi “the internet signal.” But he does have an Instagram account—with exactly 15 followers (two of which are your parents) and follows mostly rescue shelters, NASA, and you.

And he lives for Reels.

You can hear them echoing through the apartment when you’re in the shower—dog videos, inspirational quotes in cursive fonts, and Flowers by Miley Cyrus for the fiftieth time in ten minutes, all blasting at full volume like your boyfriend’s a suburban mom on her iPad.

He sends you a steady stream of dog memes, tiny cat posts with a follow-up message saying “you,” and medical infographics with captions like “new study suggests drinking cold water too fast is bad for your esophagus,” followed by no context. Just the link and sometimes “pls read.”

But the best part? When you post a selfie.

He replies three, four, sometimes five times to the same Story. Once with “Sweet Jesus,” then again with “That's my girl!!” and “Good grief.” And maybe five minutes later: “Lord have mercy I need to sit down.”

જ⁀➴ Clark has terrible dad jokes. Like, the kind that make you roll your eyes so hard you’re afraid they’ll get stuck. But he tells them anyway, with that earnest smile that makes you laugh even when you’re trying not to.

He loves puns—the cheesier, the better. One minute you’re having a serious conversation, and the next he drops something like, “Why don’t scientists trust atoms? Because they make up everything.”

You groan. “Clark, please.”

But then he just grins wider, proud as can be. “I’m here all week.”

He saves them for moments when you need a little lift, or when you both are just lounging on the couch. You swear his joke book is infinite—and honestly, a little bit endearing.

જ⁀➴ Clark tries so hard to keep up with your slang, but it doesn’t always land. One afternoon, you’re scrolling through your phone, laughing at a TikTok, and he peers over your shoulder.

“That’s so… cunty?” he repeats carefully, raising an eyebrow like he’s testing the word for balance.

You blink, surprised. “Uh, yeah. Like, unapologetic, powerful, feminine. Kind of fierce energy.”

Clark nods slowly, considering. “So if someone does something bold and… that way, you’d say, ‘That’s so cunty’?”

You grin, amused. “Exactly.”

The next day, you catch him using it in the newsroom, totally deadpan: “Lois was being so cunty about the lead on that story.”

Lois gives him a look that could freeze a volcano. Clark just shrugs, smiling like he nailed it.

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re never getting rid of that one now.”

જ⁀➴ Clark doesn’t curse. Ever. You’ve known him through world-ending crises, explosive arguments at Daily Planet, and even a dropped pie on Thanksgiving—not once have you heard anything harsher than a “heck” leave his mouth. So naturally, when you stub your toe on the coffee table and let out a very colorful string of expletives, he gasps like you’ve just kicked a nun.

“Language,” he says, pausing mid-fold with a pair of your socks in hand, brows raised in gentle disapproval.

You shoot him a look through the pain. “Clark. I’m in agony. You want me to say ‘gosh darn’ and call it a day?”

“I’m just saying there are... alternatives,” he says, calmly, like this is a productive conversation and not a moral intervention. “You could say, like, ‘shoot’ or ‘fudge.’ Or ‘crumbs.’ People say ‘crumbs,’ right?”

You stare at him. “Clark, no one under the age of 97 says ‘crumbs.’”

He crosses the room and kisses your forehead like he’s trying to cleanse your aura. “You kiss me with that mouth?”

You grin. “You love this mouth.”

He stammers, caught. “W-Well. That’s not the point.”

જ⁀➴In your household, killing bugs is absolutely forbidden—not by you, but by Clark.

You learned this the hard way the first time you spotted a spider on the wall and casually asked, “Can you kill that?” He turned to you like you’d just asked him to burn down an orphanage. “Kill it?” he repeated, hand to his chest in genuine sympathy for the spider.

“It’s more scared of you than you are of it.” You rolled your eyes, but he wasn’t done. “What if it has a little spider family to go back to?” he added softly, already retrieving a cup and a piece of paper to gently relocate the poor thing.

Since then, it's become routine: you scream, he walks in calmly, says something like “Let’s not be dramatic,” and gently escorts the bug outside like it's a guest who overstayed its welcome. You’ve caught him more than once murmuring “Sorry, little guy” while setting them free. You gave up arguing about it—Clark Kent doesn’t kill anything that isn’t absolutely world-ending. Not even spiders.

[azzishands]

My brother's girlfriend - Chapter one

Paige x Azzi

WC: 7k

Warnings: suggestive content (18+)

Summary: Paige is a bartender living with her younger brother Josh since their parents passed away. When Josh one day brings home Azzi, his new girlfriend, Paige instantly feels uneasy and keeps her distance. Their clashing personalities ignite conflict, making the house feel more like a battleground than a home. But when Josh has to leave for a month-long trip to Europe, Azzi moves in with Paige unexpectedly. Forced to share the same space, the tension between them grows, bubbling under the surface with unspoken emotions and complicated feelings that neither of them fully understands or wants to accept.

A/N: Just want to start off this series by saying that this is a slightly (very) problematic storyline that def isn't for everyone. And of course, that the characters are all fiction that has nothing to do with real life. The younger brother, Josh, in this story is a completely made up character who has no resemblance to Paige's real life younger brother. This story has some very questionable decisions and does not showcase great morale, so please, if you're underage, don't read!

With that being said, enjoy this mess.

----

“You’re leaving already?” 

The dimly lit bar was already filled with people, and Alexine held the cocktail shaker in her hand, looking at Paige with a helpless look. 

“I promised Josh to meet his new girlfriend before he leaves for Europe,” Paige sighed apologetically and filled two glasses of draft beer from the tap and put them on the bar for the woman who had ordered it. 

“Isn’t this like the fourth girlfriend this year?” Alexine questioned and started to shake the container. 

“Yeah that sounds about right,” Paige said and hung up her waist apron. “And if she’s as dumb as the first ones, we’ll probably have number five next month.” 

Alexine laughed and poured up the drinks from the shaker. 

“Alright, bye now blondie,” the bartender bid farewell to her much needed colleague and continued serving up the drinks while Paige gave her a quick wave and disappeared to the back. 

Paige had been working at Velvet, the local bar in town, for at least four years now. It had started as a break from studying, but she loved it so much that she stayed there and had become an important piece for the bar. She was even offered to become the operations manager, but declined due to her big love for simply bartending. 

She knew that if her parents had been alive, they would’ve wanted her to finish her degree. When she had graduated High School, she went backpacking everywhere she could go, which her parents had frowned upon. So naturally when the car accident happened, and her parents lost their lives, Paige felt that the right thing to do was to go back to studying. But Paige had never been an academic, she had always been more practical. And that’s why she was 26 years old, and still without a higher degree. 

It wasn’t optimal to live with her younger brother, but after their parents death, he couldn’t possibly live alone in their house. So he moved in with Paige in her apartment. It wasn’t big, but it was just enough for the two of them. Two bedrooms right next to each other and a small living room connected with the kitchen. 

Paige parked her car outside the apartment complex and took a deep breath, already tired of what this evening had in store for her. It was only June, and she had already been forced to meet three of Josh’s girlfriends this year. Well, ex-girlfriends. 

One was so extremely stupid that Paige had to ask Josh if she even had graduated Middle school. The second one was so loud that Paige fled the apartment every time she was there, just to get some peace of mind. The third one only acknowledged Paige’s existence with a glare. So yeah, Paige had every reason to not be too thrilled about meeting number four. 

“Let’s just get this over with,” Paige muttered to herself and exited the car. 

“Paige!” her younger brother exclaimed the second she walked through the front door. He gave her a hug while Paige just pursed her lips.

The second he let go of her, she saw her. 

“Hi,” the stranger extended her hand to Paige and gave a timid smile. 

“Hey,” Paige said casually and shook it. But on the inside, something was stirring up. 

The girl was tall, almost as tall as herself, and she had brown curly hair, with big brown eyes and lips that looked way too soft. 

And instantly, Paige disliked her. 

“I’m Azzi, nice to meet you,” the girl said.

“Paige,” the blonde deadpanned and walked straight past her into her bedroom to change. 

She didn’t miss the flustered expression on Azzi’s face as she walked past her.

When she had changed out of her work clothes and slipped into her set of sweats, she returned back into the living room where Josh had her arm wrapped around Azzi’s waist, looking like he tried to calm her down. 

“So, we ordered pizza,” Josh blurted the moment he noticed Paige. 

“Great,” Paige said unenthusiastically and sat down at the table to eat. 

The pair joined her quietly and exchanged some looks. 

“What?” Paige asked. 

“Nothing,” Josh quickly replied. 

Paige scowled at her little brother, but didn’t really care enough to push. 

“Have you packed yet?” Paige asked with her mouth full of pizza. Josh was leaving the next day for five weeks in Europe thanks to his office who decided to send him there for some reason Paige didn’t care to remember. 

“Yes mom,” he rolled his eyes teasingly, and so did Paige, but for real. For any other sibling pair that had lost their parents, it might’ve been a sensitive joke. But Paige and Josh never really talked about their feelings about their parents death, so they wouldn’t know.

“Uh, I heard you work at a bar,” Azzi timidly looked at Paige. “Is it fun?”

Paige reacted before she could think, and slightly huffed at the question. 

“Fun?” she repeated, almost mockingly. Azzi looked like a deer in headlights. 

“I guess it is kinda fun,” Paige said slowly and smirked at Azzi who nervously looked everywhere else but on Paige now. 

Yeah, Paige was a bit of an asshole. But it was only because she had been through this three times already and had no faith in Josh’s ability to keep any girl around for longer than two months. So why put any effort at all into something unnecessary? Paige probably wouldn’t even have to remember this girl’s name. What was it now again, Alice? Amy? 

Besides, Josh was going to be gone for over a month, and Paige wouldn’t have to see Alice, or whatever, until he would be back. 

Josh kicked Paige’s shin under the table and glared at her. He mouthed a discreet ‘come on’, and Paige understood that he was referring to her lack of effort. 

“Azzi just graduated with a bachelor’s degree in business administration,” Josh told Paige and looked at Azzi proudly. 

“Congratulations,” Paige nodded to her.

“Thanks,” Azzi said, and Paige could see the pink in her cheeks slightly grow. 

“So you’re what, 22?” Paige raised her eyebrow and looked at Josh instead of Azzi. Josh was only 24, and Paige knew that it wasn’t an unacceptable age gap. But the thought of him being with someone who just graduated and probably didn’t even know what to do with life now felt somewhat pathetic. 

“Yeah, she’s 22,” Josh confirmed, leaving Azzi out of the conversation. She just sat there and looked between the two siblings, confused as to why they were talking about her, with her there, but without her. 

“Young,” Paige stated and took another bite without looking at the girl.

Azzi blinked.

“You’re just old,” Josh countered. 

The same atmosphere lasted the rest of the dinner, with the tension under Paige’s control. Azzi barely dared to speak, Josh didn’t want to make Azzi uncomfortable by making her, and Paige didn’t give a fuck about any of it. 

Paige thought Azzi seemed soft, passive, and overall flustered. The way she clearly was trying to make a good impression on her was annoying. And the way her shampoo smelt vanilla lavender and took over the entire room? Okay, it did smell nice, but it was annoying nonetheless. 

After a painfully awkward dinner, Josh and Azzi were finally saying good night to Paige and went into his bedroom. Paige could understand that they wanted to spend the last time together before he would leave, and she appreciated the fact that Azzi was the one who was gonna wake up early and drive Josh to the airport. 

What she did not appreciate was the sounds she was hearing from the room next door when she laid in her bed.

At first, she thought she misheard. Maybe someone said something. But no. 

The whimpers were soft, they were barely there, but once you heard it, it was unmistakable. 

Paige’s breath caught in her throat. 

Breathy moans were growing louder and louder, and Paige’s body squirmed unintentionally. The image of Azzi laying there, moaning from pleasure, flashed in her mind. Her curls probably all sprawled out under her head. Her big brown eyes hooded, dark and hazy. And her soft lips, slightly hanging open, letting out the most sensual sounds she had ever heard. Paige could only imagine what she was looking like on the other side of the wall. 

“Oh my God,” Paige suddenly groaned and smashed her pillow on her head. “What the fuck? I’m fucking sick.”

Paige slapped herself in the face. Not too hard, but hopefully so hard that the image of her brother’s girlfriend would be slapped out of her head. She took several deep breaths and told herself that this only happened because she hadn’t had sex in a while. And because Azzi just happened to sound very pretty, and that was just a total coincidence. That wasn’t Paige’s fault. And it didn’t make her like the girl any more.

Because Azzi was too quiet, too soft, too passive and was trying way too hard. And the fact that she made Paige all sexually frustrated with those moans just made Paige dislike her even more. Because who the hell did she think she was? To just come in here, in Paige’s apartment, and make those noises? 

Paige cursed Azzi to herself and put in her headphones, immediately putting on Slipknot and blasted the volume. 

Paige was thinking all kinds of nasty things about the girl while getting riled up with the music in her ears. 

She concluded her angry rant in her head with the fact that this must be the worst girlfriend Josh had brought home ever. 

And thank God she would be gone in the morning.

----

“What the fuck!” Paige jumped in surprise the moment she walked out of her bedroom and saw Azzi sitting on the couch in the living room. 

“Shit, you scared me,” she mumbled groggily, and rubbed her newly awoken eyes with the back of her hand. 

“Sorry,” Azzi said and looked a bit scared herself. 

“Did Josh reschedule his flight?” Paige asked and looked at Azzi confused. 

“No, he um- I dropped him off at the airport three hours ago. He’s in the gate right now, waiting to board,” Azzi explained. 

“Oh,” Paige blinked, and then blurted out: “And why are you here then?”

Azzi swallowed nervously and fidgeted with her fingers at the hem of the t-shirt that belonged to Josh. 

“Josh said I could live here while he was gone,” Azzi quietly said. 

“He what?” Paige asked. 

“He- um- he said I could live here while he was-.”

“-I heard.”

Paige just stared at Azzi with a big frown in her face, as if she was confused. But apparently, she wasn’t. Azzi slowly exhaled and waited for Paige to say something more. 

“Fuck,” Paige muttered and let go of Azzi’s eyes and went back into her bedroom, closing the door. 

Azzi could feel the tears pricking her eyes, but quickly blinked them away. She didn’t know why Josh’s sister disliked her so much, but it was clear as day that she wasn’t even going to try and get to know her.  

Josh had told her that Paige was just being overprotective over him, and that it wasn’t personal. But this definitely felt personal. 

“You promise she won’t mind me living here?” Azzi had asked the day before.

“I promise. She’s actually really nice, you’ll see. But we probably shouldn’t say anything until I’ve left.”

And so this was not the kind of person Azzi had expected to meet at all. This cold and rude ice queen. 

Paige and Josh looked nothing alike, Azzi thought to herself. Josh had brown hair with brown eyes and a rounder face with soft features. Paige was blonde with facial features that could cut glass. And blue eyes that pierced through one's soul. It was really unnerving the way she just stared at you without blinking for a full minute. And her tall lean body, that oozed with confidence and-

“-Josh isn’t picking up, so I guess he already boarded,” Paige exited her bedroom and sighed. 

Azzi looked at Paige with those big brown eyes apologetically, and Paige hated it. Hated the way her heartbeat picked up its pace. Hated the way her throat seemed to go dry, and her hands to slightly tremble. 

“I’m sorry,” the girl on the couch swallowed and kept her gaze on the blonde. 

“Don’t… Whatever,” Paige exhaled. On the outside, she seemed cool, calm and collected - annoyed. But on the inside, she was furious. Those fucking eyes were doing something to her, and Paige couldn’t stand feeling her composure being compromised without her consent.

“I could call around and see if anyone else has a couch I can crash on or-”

And even though she was burning inside, Paige found herself saying:

“-No.”

“Wha- uh- no?”

“You can stay,” Paige said and looked away from her. 

Azzi just blinked at her. 

“Really?”

Paige scoffed at the small question and rolled her eyes. She might not be too thrilled about her new living arrangement, but she wasn’t a horrible human being.

“Yes, really,” she deadpanned and returned to her bedroom, once again closing the door behind her. 

Azzi watched how she disappeared, once again with a flustered look on her face. 

Paige kept to herself inside her bedroom for the most of the day. Azzi hung out in the living room, wondering if Paige avoided her. She probably did. 

The only two times Azzi saw her after that was when she got out of her room to eat something in the middle of the day, and then to let somebody into the apartment in the evening. 

“Hey, come on,” Paige greeted the stranger, another woman, with a quick hug and then led her into her bedroom.

Azzi was sitting on the couch in the living room, witnessing the whole quick interaction. It was the most she had seen Paige smile ever. 

The other woman had quickly glanced at Azzi and looked at Paige confused. 

“Who is that?” she had quietly asked on their way to the bedroom.

“Don’t worry about it,” Paige had just said. 

Azzi had put on some reality show on the TV and tried to refocus herself into whatever was happening on the screen instead of thinking about Paige and that woman. She tried to shake off the whole day, trying to tell herself that Paige would eventually come around, and not be a complete jerk. 

One day she would smile at Azzi like that. Azzi was gonna make sure of it. 

She took a deep breath and shook the thought of the older sister out of her mind and tried really hard to get invested in the completely meaningless fight between two reality stars on the TV. And she kind of succeeded, because when the show finally ended, she felt the urge to watch another episode. To her bad luck, there were no more episodes, and she sighed and grumpily turned the TV off and scrolled on her phone instead. 

She usually worked during the days in a small cafe, but today she had the day off to drive Josh to the airport and say goodbye. Now that she was gonna live with Paige, she was definitely gonna try and get more shifts. No way could she spend any more free days than necessary around the cold blonde. 

Azzi shut off her phone and looked around in the apartment. There was really nothing else to do but to go to bed now. 

But right before she stood up, she heard a noise, and it stopped her right in her tracks. She slowly leaned back down on the couch with her eyes wide open. 

“Paige!” a very obvious moan was heard. 

“Oh my God,” Azzi quietly exhaled to herself in disbelief at what she was hearing. 

The moans quickly turned into something louder, something more urgent. 

“Fuck, right there!” The woman was practically screaming by now, and Azzi fled the living room with her hands on her ears, running to her bedroom and hurriedly shut the door. But it didn’t take long for Azzi to realize that the volume inside her bedroom was just the same as outside. 

Azzi softly groaned at the fact that the rooms were adjacent, and therefore she had no choice but to hear her boyfriend’s sister have sex with a woman who apparently had no inhibitions. 

“Is she murdering her or something?” Azzi bitterly grumbled and placed her hands on her ears once more, having accepted her bad fate and decided to just wait it out. 

“Paige! I’m coming!” a loud screech was heard. 

“Yeah, the whole house is aware,” Azzi rolled her eyes, but didn’t miss the way her panties were starting to get damp. 

It’s ironic, she thought to herself, how the ice queen seemed to do just fine in intimate physical situations but could barely give Azzi a simple smile. Azzi had never heard anything like it before. Seriously, what could possibly make someone scream like that?

Azzi didn’t even want to know. 

The woman next door seemed to finally have quieted down, and Azzi released her hands from her head. 

She hadn’t even lived with Paige alone for 24 hours, and it already felt like a fever dream. Because what the fuck just happened?

Azzi felt the wetness between her legs, but stubbornly ignored it. She crawled down in Josh’s bed and inhaled the scent of him. She already missed him. The first thing she was gonna do the next morning was to call him and cry. 

----

Paige gave Sam a quick hug before saying goodbye at the door. 

Had she given her ex-girlfriend a booty call the night before? Yes. Was it because she was sexually frustrated by her brother’s girlfriend’s pretty moans? No. Definitely not. 

If anything, it had just reminded her that it had been a while since she last hooked up with someone. 

Paige went to the kitchen and brewed some coffee. She usually didn’t wake up this early, but Sam had to go and she wanted to say goodbye. 

She and Sam hadn’t been together for three years, but they still hooked up from time to time. They had smoothly transitioned from girlfriends to friends with benefits, which means they ended on pretty good terms. Paige appreciated having Sam as a friend, even if it wasn’t completely platonic. But things with Sam were always easy, and that was the part she liked. 

Paige sat down at the kitchen table with her coffee mug in her hand and read the news on her phone. Her hair was up in a messy bun, she wore an oversized t-shirt with some shorts, and had her glasses on for once. 

That was the first thing Azzi noticed as she walked out of her bedroom. The incredibly domestic look of Paige. Azzi almost felt like she was intruding on Paige's privacy when she entered the kitchen, which she did in a way. But the glasses on her face and the messy bun somehow made her seem less scary. 

“Good morning,” she greeted the older girl. 

“Morning,” Paige just said, not even looking up at Azzi. 

“Slept well?” Azzi tried, against her better judgement, to strike up a simple conversation with her new roommate. She poured herself some coffee in a mug and sat down in front of the blonde.

“Like a log,” Paige looked up at Azzi now and gave her a smirk. And Azzi knew exactly why Paige looked so smug. Images of what could’ve happened behind Paige’s bedroom door flashed Azzi’s mind, and she couldn’t help but blush in embarrassment. 

“Glad to hear,” she mumbled and looked away. 

Paige just kept on staring at her while her lips were curving into an even bigger smirk. She knew that Azzi had heard. After all, Sam had been screaming. She usually only slept with Sam in their apartment when she knew Josh was out of town, but ever since she had heard Azzi, she had felt a need for retaliation. To take back some of the control she felt she had lost. Or rather, the control she felt Azzi had taken from her. 

And seeing Azzi blush in front of her right now was evidence that her payback had done its thing. She felt satisfied, in every way she could be. 

“You?” she asked and raised her eyebrow. 

Azzi cleared her throat and brought back her brown eyes onto Paige’s blue ones. 

“Yeah, same.”

“I bet,” Paige stated and returned her attention to her phone. 

Despite feeling embarrassed and flushed, Azzi deemed the short conversation a success. Paige had answered every question, hadn’t been too rude and had given Azzi a smile. Well, not a real smile, but close enough. Intentions didn’t matter, Azzi was grateful for every crumb.

Feeling a little encouraged by this newfound success, she tried to strike up another conversation. 

“I think it’s afternoon in Amsterdam right now, you wanna call Josh with me?”

Paige just gave Azzi a quick glance with her eyes, and then silently shook her head.

“Uh- okay then,” Azzi swallowed and took another sip of her coffee. 

One more try.

“Was that your girlfriend that came by yesterday?” 

And instantly, Azzi regretted asking. Because the look on Paige’s face told her everything she needed to know, which was ‘stop fucking asking questions you moron’. 

“No. Ex.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Is that your favorite word or something?” Paige asked rhetorically and then rose from her chair and walked off to her bedroom, clearly not wanting to know the answer to it. 

Azzi felt her heart drop. 

She finished her coffee and walked to her bedroom and immediately called her boyfriend, wanting to break down and cry. 

“Hey babe,” he answered. 

“Your sister hates me,” Azzi exclaimed. 

“No she doesn’t.”

"Yes, she does. She really can’t stand me. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong,” Azzi felt upset. She wasn’t usually the type to care about others' opinion of her, but it was different with Josh’s sister. It was his only family member, and of course she wanted Paige to like her. 

“You haven’t done anything wrong baby, I swear. I’m gonna call Paige and tell her-”

“-No please don’t. It’ll just make things worse,” Azzi pleaded.

Josh sighed. “She just… She has high walls. But once you get through, she’ll be the most loyal and caring person ever. Promise.”

“You sure that’s not just a myth? Have you actually witnessed it yourself?” Azzi asked, and Josh laughed. 

“Give it some time. She’ll get used to you, and you’ll get used to her.”

“You have any tips on breaking down those high walls?” Azzi grumbled. 

“She loves a nice homemade dinner,” Josh said thoughtfully. 

“Okay, great, so I’ll just cook her dinner tonight and then she’ll love me?” Azzi asked, half sarcastically, half desperately. 

“Absolutely,” Josh chuckled. 

They moved on from the topic and Josh told her everything about his last 24 hours in Europe. He was still jet lagged, but he was sure that once he got into the rhythm, he would love it there. He promised to buy Azzi souvenirs in the form of candy, which made Azzi a little happier. 

“I have to go, but I promise it’ll get better with Paige,” Josh said comfortingly. 

“We’ll see,” Azzi replied, not wanting to think about that anymore now that she felt slightly better. 

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

 Homemade dinner huh? Azzi could do that. 

Until then, she had a shift at the cafe for a couple of hours. 

She was grateful for the chance to think about anything else but the blonde that had constantly haunted her mind for the last couple of days. Serving coffee to strangers for a couple hours was way better than to spend another hour with the ice queen. 

How did Paige even manage to have an ex-girlfriend in the first place, with that stupid attitude of hers? Azzi wondered that to herself as she poured another cup of coffee to a customer. She could understand the appeal appearance wise. Paige did look like a model, after all. And she was really pretty, even when she smirked like an evil person. And there was this magnetic allure to her, for some reason. But personality wise? Horrible. 

If Azzi was gonna survive the month, she would have to make some changes, and the first progress would show tonight with the homemade dinner. 

The moment she ended her shift, she drove to the nearest grocery store and bought everything she needed. 

When she got home, Paige was nowhere to be found. Her bedroom door was open, and Azzi carefully peaked in. No one there either. She took a couple of hesitant steps closer until she was at the doorway and just observed what she could see from there.

Black bedding, purple pillows on top with a little worn stuffed animal that looked like a husky and a small frame on the nightstand. Azzi took a deep breath, looked around just to make sure Paige wasn’t gonna pop up out of nowhere, and then stepped inside the room. 

The frame contained an old picture of the Bueckers family, and Azzi could feel her heart melt at the view of it. Josh, who looked like he must’ve been around seven-eight years old, was standing in the middle. A young Paige was right next to him, with a big smile. And then two adults behind them, wrapping their arms around their children happily. 

Azzi exhaled at the sight. Josh looked like his cute self. But Paige? She looked like another person. She looked so… pure, and cute, and happy. Her blonde hair was put up into a ponytail with a headband on her forehead and a big toothy grin that made her eyes squint. 

It wasn’t a surprise that Paige had a family photo next to her bed, but it melted Azzi’s heart nevertheless. She didn’t pin Paige as the sentimental soft type, and so to see that she probably looked at the picture of her family every morning and night made Azzi wonder if Paige actually was more sensitive than she let on. 

“Well duh, she’s not a heartless robot,” Azzi mumbled to herself and felt a pang of stupidity for even speculating about Paige being sensitive just because she has a picture of her family in her room. 

Not wanting to pry anymore, she exited the room and got into the kitchen to start cooking. She was gonna do broccoli stuffed chicken and some rice. She had done it once before and knew that it tasted amazing, even if it was a simple recipe. 

She put on some Tems on her speaker and found herself enjoying the cooking more than she thought she would. The music filling the silence made her feel light on her feet, and the anticipation of making Paige happy made her almost excited. Seeing a young happy version of the blonde had done something to Azzi. 

And on cue, the blonde woman came through the front door, making Azzi briefly nervous again. 

Paige took off her shoes and looked over at the kitchen, and then quietly just walked to her bedroom and closed the door. No hello, no acknowledgement of Azzi’s being. And that stung. 

When the food was all done, all that was left was knocking on Paige’s door, asking her to join. And that felt terrifying. 

But she had to.

Azzi knocked softly on the door three times, and the tall intimidating woman was suddenly standing right in front of her. Azzi knew that she was slightly shorter than her, but at this moment, it felt like Paige was towering over her. 

“Um… I made dinner for us,” Azzi blinked up at the woman and took a small step back.

Paige cleared her throat, and that was the first time Azzi had seen the blonde even remotely casual and not closed off. 

But Paige didn’t say anything, she just looked over at the table and then returned her eyes to Azzi. Azzi didn’t know why she was just standing there, why they were just looking at each other, so she awkwardly walked to the table and sat down, hoping that Paige would follow. 

And to her big relief, she did. 

Paige took the seat right in front of her where Azzi had set the table. 

They filled their plates in silence, and started to eat. But it didn’t take long before Azzi saw Paige hesitate on getting another bite of the food. 

“Is this broccoli?” Paige asked. 

“Uh, yeah?” Azzi swallowed. 

“Yeah that’s not working for me,” Paige put her fork down.

And for the first time, Azzi felt impatient with the blonde’s lack of effort. It was nothing but disrespectful, and Azzi decided right then and there that she didn’t want to continue being a victim of Paige’s rudeness anymore. 

“Pick out the broccoli then,” Azzi said with a tone she had never used with Paige before. The tone of someone who has had enough. 

“Why would I do that when I can just order something actually good?” Paige was quick to return the favour. 

Azzi huffed out of disbelief. Was this woman for real?

“Why don’t you like me?” Azzi blurted out. 

Paige snapped her eyes onto Azzi’s now. For the first time, it felt like Azzi wasn’t being soft, and it had taken Paige off guard. 

“I don’t even know you,” Paige said slowly, staring straight into Azzi’s soul. 

“Exactly, you don’t even know me, so why do you act like you hate me?” Azzi shot back. 

Paige’s eyes never wavered from Azzi’s, and Azzi felt like she was being observed, like she was being tested or something. Everything felt so humiliating and the whole situation made Azzi feel so small. 

The tension between them was palpable.

The older woman broke the eye contact at last and stood up from the table.

“Look,” she said. “The moment you stop trying so damn hard is the moment you even have a chance of making me tolerate you.” 

And then she disappeared into her bedroom, closing the door awfully quiet, as if she hadn’t just slammed a metaphoric door in Azzi’s face. 

All Azzi wanted to do was make her smile. All Paige seemed to want to do is make Azzi cry. 

Azzi sat out there in the kitchen alone, eating her homemade dinner together with her tears. 

Paige was pacing back and forth in her room. Her hands slightly trembling from the sudden confrontation by the younger one. 

She did feel bad. Just not enough to take it all back. 

She didn’t really know why she hated the girl so much. Because no matter how passive and soft Azzi was, that really wasn't enough reasons to treat her like this, and Paige knew that. 

But every time Azzi was around, Paige tensed up. It was as if her whole body was screaming danger, because she could feel her control loosen up every time, and she couldn’t afford that. Why? She didn’t know. She just knew that she couldn’t. 

To insult the girl and keep her at a safe distance felt like the right measures to maintain the illusion of control that Paige had. It felt safe because it required nothing from her. 

When Azzi had knocked on her door and stood there, looking up at Paige with her big brown eyes through her lashes, it had made Paige’s knees go weak. And that was exactly the type of thing that Paige hated. The physical impact Azzi had on her. 

Or this morning when Azzi walked out with just an oversized t-shirt and no pajama shorts, and Paige could see her strong thighs flexing with every step she took towards her. It made her own legs twitch under the table and she had prayed that Azzi didn’t notice it. 

That girl was trouble, and Paige wanted nothing to do with it. 

----

The next morning, Azzi was still fed up. She was not gonna take it anymore. 

Last night had been her last straw, and she had every intention of obliging Paige’s wish to stop trying so hard. In fact, she wasn’t gonna try at all from now on. 

Paige could go to hell for all she cared. 

She was done being nice. Paige was never gonna like her anyway, and there was a certain peace with the acceptance of that. Now Azzi could just be herself and relax. 

So when Paige entered the kitchen in the morning and sat down at the table to drink her coffee, Azzi didn’t say a word. She didn’t even look at her. 

Paige glanced at the brown eyed girl in front of her discreetly. She wore that t-shirt that belonged to Josh, and Paige had figured out by now that Azzi was using it as her pajamas. Her hair was up in a bun and she wore some reading glasses while she was scrolling on her phone, and to be completely honest, she looked kinda cute. But maybe it was just the silence that made her look cuter. 

Paige didn’t say anything either, and wasn’t planning to. It was clear as day that Azzi was giving her the cold shoulder after what had happened yesterday.

Azzi left the apartment during noon to go work at the cafe, so the two roommates didn’t need to spend much more time ignoring each other. Paige had work as well, and she was gonna close the bar tonight so she would probably not see Azzi for the rest of the day, which felt kind of disappointing and relieving at the same time. 

“How was meeting Josh’s girlfriend on Friday?” Alexine asked Paige as she crushed some ice. 

“Hell,” Paige said, while working on an espresso martini. “And that’s not all. She’s literally living with me now. Josh had apparently promised her that she could live with me until he’s back.”

“Wait, for real?” Alexine asked, surprised. 

“Yeah.”

“That’s kinda crazy,” the bartender said. 

“She’s just so… soft,” Paige complained. 

“So?” Alexine laughed. “What are you trying to say?”

“No but it’s like annoying,” Paige argued. “She always has this flustered look on her face that drives me crazy. She has like the biggest brownest eyes I’ve ever seen, and it’s really annoying when she just looks at you like a sad puppy, because who the hell does she think she is?”

Alexine just laughed and poured up some wine for a customer. 

“I really don’t get you,” the bartender said. “She’s annoying because she looks like a sad puppy? And because she’s soft?”

“Not only that, but yes,” Paige stated with a firm nod as if she didn’t understand how Alexine didn’t understand. “And yesterday she confronted me about not liking her, and I might’ve said some hurtful things, and now she’s giving me the cold shoulder.”

“What are you, twelve?” Alexine asked and side-eyed her. 

“It’s not my fault she’s so damn sensitive,” Paige defended herself. 

“You’re giving me a headache.”

“But what am I supposed to do, Alex? I don’t want this girl living with me,” Paige asked, frustrated.

“So then kick her out.”

“Josh would kill me.”

“So then put your annoyed feelings aside for one day and give her an honest chance? Being annoyed at her after three days just because she’s soft doesn’t really sound like you’ve tried at all,” Alexine said scoldingly. 

“You really don’t get it,” Paige just said, but knew that Alexine was right. 

“Because you’re not making sense,” Alexine shook her head. “Go bring these vodka shots to the table over there now, I’ve had enough of you.”

Paige just huffed but obeyed. 

Alexine was two years younger than her, but oftentimes it felt like she could be her older sister. Paige had immediately been drawn to her ever since the moment Alexine started working there, mostly because she was very straight forward and saw through Paige’s bullshit, but also because she was very attractive.

She had brown long hair with blue eyes, and was a lot shorter than Paige. Guys were hitting on her all the time, and Paige would swoop in and reject them for her, by her request. In the same way, Alexine worked as a wingwoman for Paige. They had each other’s back.

After hours of work, the last customer had finally left and Paige could close the bar. On weekdays they usually closed around 12 am, so when she got home she completely expected Azzi to be asleep.

That’s why she was surprised when she opened the door and found Azzi curled up on the couch, watching a movie. 

For the first time that day, Paige saw Azzi quickly moving her eyes on her, finally revealing that she did in fact notice the woman’s presence. 

Paige slowly walked towards the couch and looked at the TV screen. It was a horror movie. Alexine’s words echoed in her head: ‘give her an honest chance’. 

“You seriously watching this in the middle of the night alone?” She spoke, not even taking into consideration the cold shoulder Azzi was trying to give her. 

Azzi frowned at her like she was stupid. 

“Yeah, so?”

Paige would never admit it out loud, but she felt a sense of accomplishment of having Azzi try and be a bitch to her. She kinda liked it.

“Didn’t know I was living with a psychopath, that’s all,” Paige shrugged and sat down on the other side of the couch from the younger woman. 

Azzi shot her a dirty look. 

“Didn’t know I was living with a wuss,” Azzi scoffed, and Paige’s lips twitched involuntarily. 

Something was starting to burn deep inside her stomach. 

“I’m not a wuss,” she drawled and turned her head towards Azzi. 

“Prove it,” Azzi fired back and gestured with her hand to the TV. 

“I don’t have to prove anything to you,” Paige said, boring her eyes into Azzi’s. The room was filled with a sort of tension that contained hostility, light playfulness and something more that Paige couldn’t really put her finger on. 

“Okay. Wuss,” Azzi shrugged and returned her gaze to the screen. 

Paige knew it was childish, but Azzi really got under her skin with that.  

Her heartbeat started to pick up in irritation, and the sudden shift in Azzi’s demeanor made Paige’s stomach do flips. She felt angry, impatient, impressed, playful, annoyed and amused all at the same time. 

The urge of stomping to her bedroom and slamming the door kicked in, but she heard Alexine in her head again, already scolding her for her impulses. Clearly, Azzi triggered something in Paige that made her react this way. And Paige didn’t like it. Because now it felt unsafe again. 

“Fine, I’ll watch,” Paige muttered at last after having had an internal crisis about how to reply to that. 

Paige didn’t see, but Azzi’s lips turned into a small smile with that. 

During the movie, Azzi had to literally bite her lip from trying not to laugh at the older woman. Paige was scared, and it was the most entertaining thing Azzi had seen. 

“Fuck!” Paige cursed under her breath as her body twitched from a jumpscare. 

And the funniest thing was that Paige always tried to play it cool afterwards, as if her whole body hadn’t just jolted out of her seat. Azzi pretended not to see, pretended not to react, but inside she was dying. 

She didn’t even want to know what Paige would do if she would actually let herself laugh at her. She would probably kill her. 

“Sure you don’t want to just admit you’re a wuss so you can stop torturing yourself?” Azzi asked after the fourth time Paige had whispered out a profanity after a particularly scary part. 

“Shut up,” Paige exhaled and glared at her. 

And it felt like a lightbulb was lit up above Azzi’s head. Paige had really told her the truth the other day when she had said that her chances of being liked by her only existed if she stopped trying so hard. Because here Azzi was - teasing Paige, even having an attitude with her - and it felt easy and natural between them for the first time. 

Paige didn’t want nice. 

Azzi decided to test her theory further. 

“You know, Netflix has a Paw patrol movie if you’d feel more comfortable watching that instead,” she said with a serious tone and glanced at the blonde. 

Paige instantly rolled her eyes, but Azzi caught the subtle smirk on her face, and Azzi felt like she had struck gold. 

“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” Paige looked at Azzi. 

Azzi shrugged with a small smile. 

“You make it hard to be quiet,” Azzi blurted out without thinking, and her thoughts instantly went to the night she heard Paige’s ex-girlfriend scream from pleasure. 

Her eyes went wide with the realization and she felt her cheeks heat up immediately. She turned her face towards the screen and prayed that Paige didn’t catch it. But she had. She heard Paige let out a soft hum of amusement and she could practically feel the smirk Paige was giving her on her skin.

“Yeah I’ve heard that before,” Paige mumbled and kept her gaze on Azzi who ignored the comment. 

Azzi didn’t dare to say anything else for the rest of the movie. And for some reason, Paige stopped being scared after that slip of Azzi. 

Paige’s mind was somewhere else. She simply couldn’t focus on the movie after what Azzi had said, because she was too occupied trying to not look at the brunette’s red face. 

The movie ended, and Azzi turned off the TV. She welcomed the darkness and felt herself relax a little bit now that her red cheeks probably weren't visible anymore. She hurriedly walked off to her bedroom, saying a quick “g’night” to the blonde without waiting for a reply and closed the door. 

Paige was still sitting on the couch, looking at the door that just closed. Her lips curved into a small smile as she replayed the last hour in her head. 

Maybe Azzi was not as annoying as she had thought. 

Maybe Azzi was alright. 

[mcu-binge]

Pairing: Clark Kent x reader Word count: 3557

Summary: traveling for work turns interesting when you and Clark realize your cheap editor fucked up the hotel booking. But you find a way to make it work :)

Tags/warnings: smut, p in v, breeding kink (?), dom!clark, he's sweet and dorky.

A/N: Something a little different I saw the pics and my mind just kinda….went there. Also if anyone has a request for specific scenarios or prompts feel free to message me! I’m always down to write. It can be anything fluff or not ;)

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“Perry I don’t want to go by myself,” I argue with the already crabby editor in chief.

“It’s a couple drinks, get them chatting, find the senator's advisor and get me my quote.” He argues looking at the layout pages.

“You’re ignoring the rest of the work that’ll follow.” I remind him.

“I’m sorry, are you a mediocre reporter or the one I hired?” He shoots, finally looking up at me. I take a deep breath and let it out as a deep sigh throwing my head back.

“You want this done tomorrow night to print for the Sunday paper. Get me someone, literally anyone.” I say not backing down from this. He stares at me with eyes that could kill and I shoot him the same look. I’m not backing down from this.

“Clark!” He shouts. A couple seconds later Clark’s tall frame is tripping into the room.

“Yea?” He asks nervously.

“Pack a bag you’re going to DC for the weekend.”

“For……?” He drags. His eyes look around the room until he meets mine.

“Back up for a quote we need. Help with writing and editing for our front page story.” He explains.

“When are we leaving?”

“3 hours I’ll see you at the airport,” I say, patting his shoulder as I leave Perry’s office. If it had to be anyone I’m glad it was Clark he’s always willing to help.

I arrive at the airport with my carry-on slung around my shoulder and make my way to the gate when I see him waiting for coffee. His face lights up when our eyes meet and he gives me a dimpled smile.

“Hey,” I smile, walking over to him. “You had the right idea getting here early.” I laugh looking at the long line of people waiting to place their order.

“Yeah, I had a feeling,” he says, sliding me an iced coffee. The sweet gesture makes my heart leap.

“What would I do without you?” I sigh as I take a sip. We walk over to the gate.

We board early thanks to Clark’s insistence that “if we’re going to be shoved in a flying metal tube, we should at least not be the last ones to do it.” Some superstition perhaps. We find our seats, side by side, and he graciously lets me take the window without asking.

“You know this isn’t a vacation, right?” I ask as he buckles in and pulls a small notebook from his backpack.

“Yup,” he says. “Which is why I brought… two pens, a folder of background research, and” he lifts a highlighter like it’s a rare gem “a color-coding system.”

I blink at him. “You highlight sources?”

“Just the ones that matter. And I put sticky tabs next to any previous quotes from the senator’s staff.”

He opens the folder, and sure enough it’s covered in blue, yellow, and green sticky tabs like some kind of papery mosaic. I look at him, impressed despite myself.

“You’re such a nerd.” I scoff.

He grins. “You say that like it’s not the reason Perry sent me with you.”

I smirk. “He sent you with me because you’ll agree to everything I won’t.”

“That too,” Clark says, then shrugs. “Also, you hate small talk. I thrive in small talk.”

“Ugh, I really do.”

We settle in as the plane taxis. I pull out my laptop, and he leans toward me, shoulder just barely brushing mine.

“So, here’s what I’m thinking,” I say, pulling up our shared notes. “The senator’s aide usually breaks around the third glass of wine. I’ll get her talking about the local funding bill, and you listen in for anything she says off-the-record. Half of what she says accidentally ends up printable.”

“I can do that.” Clark nods, pulling out his phone to take notes. “And if you need something to make her think she’s not being recorded…”

“Send in the big charming Kansas boy?”

He grins. “With dimples and everything.”

I roll my eyes, hiding a smile. “She won’t stand a chance.”

We go quiet for a minute. I’m reviewing past statements when I feel his eyes on me. “What?” I ask, not looking up.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, “just…you get this look when you’re working. Like your brain’s five steps ahead of the conversation.”

I glance over. He’s smiling softly soft curls spilling over his forehead.

“It’s intimidating,” he adds.

“You’re a literal 6’4 wall and you’re intimidated by me zoning out with coffee and a news brief?”

He shrugs again, shy this time. “I mean, yeah.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I just laugh. “Well, keep flattering me and I might let you write the lede.”

Clark pretends to gasp. “Me? Writing the lede? Perry would faint.”

“Perry’s already half-feral. He’d just grumble and ask why there aren’t more em dashes.”

He chuckles, tapping at his screen again. I watch him for a second, his brow furrowed in concentration, bottom lip caught between his teeth, glasses slightly slipping down his nose. He really is… something.

“I’m glad it was you,” I hear myself say, and I mean it more than I expected.

His head turns slowly. “Yeah?”

I nod. Clark’s smile softens, and for a second he doesn’t say anything.

Then, voice low “Same. Honestly… I think everything’s better when it’s you.”

My chest tightens. Whether it’s the altitude or the way he’s looking at me I don’t know. But suddenly the plane feels a few degrees warmer.

I turn back to my screen.

“Don’t make me regret saying anything,” I warn lightly.

I get a lot of work done before we land. Clark insists on carrying my bag and honestly I don’t have the energy to argue. I just want to go to my room, take a bath and go to bed. We catch a cab to the hotel.

“One king bed, two nights,” the hotel clerk chirps, sliding over a single keycard.

Clark stares at the receptionist, then glances sideways at me. I should’ve known Perry was lying when he said ‘Don’t worry, the Planet’s covering everything.’

“One room?” I ask the receptionist, too stunned to even sound pissed. “That can’t be right.”

She checks again. “Yep. One room, one bed. For two nights.”

Beside me, Clark Kent exhales slowly, like he saw this coming. He doesn’t say anything, just rubs the back of his neck and gives me that “what are we gonna do” look.

“How could he mess this up? Should I call him?”

“No,” he says. “I’m not surprised. He once made me crash in his nephew’s dorm room to save on cab fare.”

I grab the key card with a sigh and head for the elevators

“I can take the floor,” he offers quietly as we enter the metal box.

I ignore that. “Let’s just get through tonight.”

The hotel room clicks shut behind us with a soft thud.

Clark’s already pulled off his shoes and is sorting through his suitcase with that usual quiet focus, as if he’s afraid to disturb the air itself. I set my carry-on by the dresser and unzip it, rummaging for my pajamas.

And then I remember.

I didn’t pack pants.

Nor sweats or shorts. Just a long T-shirt and underwear — the assumption being I’d have the room to myself. I sigh, holding the shirt in my hands like it might magically grow fabric. It doesn’t.

“Clark,” I sigh. He looks up at me in response “I didn’t bring any pants or shorts or any bottoms to sleep in.” I admit. His eyebrows raise slightly and I feel myself blush. “I usually sleep in a long shirt and call it a night I was just thinking I’d have my own room, but I can see how this could make you uncomforta—”

“You can sleep how you’re used to.” He interrupts with a laugh. “I don’t mind, in fact if it’ll help...” He says and pulls his pants down. “I’ll join in solidarity.” I freeze and my eyes go down to the sizable bulge in his boxers. No wonder he’s always tripping.

“Great.” Is all that comes out of my dry mouth before I head into the bathroom, change into the oversized tee, and glance at myself in the mirror. The shirt falls about mid-thigh. It’s fine. Totally fine. We’re coworkers. Professionals. Adults. We can do this.

When I step out, Clark’s at the foot of the bed, spreading out a blanket on the floor. He’s changed his dress shirt for a black t-shirt.

“You’re not seriously sleeping down there,” I say, eyebrows raised.

He looks up, flustered. “Well, yeah. I figured—one bed. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Clark, we're sleeping in the same room with no pants on, we've moved past uncomfortable.” I assure. “Plus the bed’s huge. And unless you’re a sleep-kicker or a midnight screamer, I think we’ll survive.”

His gaze flicks down to my bare legs just for a second. Then it jerks back up like it burned him. He swallows, the tips of his ears going pink.

“I—yyeah. Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.” He nods once, then gently folds the blanket back up and places it over the chair. I climb into bed first, flipping the sheets back and settling against the pillows. The mattress dips slightly when he gets in on the opposite side, as far from me as the physics of the bed will allow.

For a few long seconds, we both lie there staring at the ceiling.

“Sooooo,” I drag casually, turning on the TV. “You up for something dumb and distracting?”

“Always,” he says, relaxing just enough for his arm to graze mine under the covers.

We land on a cooking competition — one of those chaotic ones where the contestants scream and chop at the same time. I laugh at something stupid someone yells, and when I glance at Clark, I catch it. He’s not watching the show. He’s watching me. Or, more specifically… my legs.

The blanket slipped a little, and the way I’m curled on my side has the hem of my shirt pulled higher than it should be. His gaze is locked, warm, stunned. Like he forgot himself.

I smirk, feeling a sudden sense of bravery. “See something interesting?”

He flinches like I caught him stealing. “I—no. I mean—”

“Relax,” I say, nudging his arm with mine. “You’re not as sneaky as you think.”

Clark clears his throat, smiling sheepishly as he shifts onto his back. “I’m hard trying not to look.” I go still.

He doesn’t realize what he’s said right away. Not until the words echo back into the quiet between us.

“That came out wrong. I meant I’m trying hard not to look.” He hastily corrects.

“Awww,” I say quietly, “almost wish you would’ve meant it the first time.”

“You do?” He asks looking over at me. I nod innocently in response and scoot closer to him but keeping a modest distance. His eyes are dark behind his glasses, lashes low, chest rising just a little faster than before. The kind of look that makes my stomach tighten and my skin buzz like static under the sheets.

“Careful,” he says, voice soft. “If you say things like that, I might start thinking you want me to look.”

I tilt my head slightly. “Maybe I do.”

His throat bobs as he swallows. One hand’s flat against his stomach under the blanket. The other flexes slightly at his side, like he’s deciding whether or not to reach.

You’re—” he starts, then stops. Tries again. “You’re making it very hard to be the respectful guy right now.”

“I don’t need you to be a saint, Kent,” I murmur, inching closer until my leg brushes his. “Just honest.”

We’re so close now I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. My shirt has ridden up again this time I let it. His gaze flicks down, lingers, then lifts again with effort.

“I think about you more than I should,” he admits, voice hoarse. “And I can’t stop.”

I close the last few inches between us, my hand grazing his chest. He’s solid warm and trembling slightly under my touch.

“Then don’t stop.” I encourage. His lips meet mine before I can say anything else it’s hot, hungry, too much and not enough. He kisses me like he’s been waiting for permission. Like this moment’s been living in his head, and now that it’s real, he’s not wasting a second.

I moan against his mouth as his hand slips beneath my shirt, fingers grazing the bare skin of my waist.

He moves quickly and is now pressing me into the mattress, all heat and pressure, and for a second I forget how to breathe. This is not the Clark I’m used to. The one who nervously adjusts his glasses and stumbles through interviews.

This Clark kisses with purpose he moves with precision. Like he’s been thinking about this for a long, long time.

His hand slides under my shirt, dragging up my ribs, and the sound he makes when he feels I’m not wearing a bra makes me crave him.

“You were planning on driving me crazy huh,” he murmurs against my jaw. “You knew exactly what you were doing walking around in just this.”

He fists the hem of the shirt in one hand and yanks it up, slowly, until I sit up to let him pull it over my head. It hits the floor, forgotten.

I’m bare to him now. My chest rising and falling, nerves sparking, but his gaze is hungry, not hesitant. Not shy. He sits up and gets rid of his own shirt. The way his muscles move mesmerize me and also where the hell have these muscles been?

“I knew you were beautiful,” he says, voice low, “but this is unfair.” Before I can respond, he leans in, mouth closing around my nipple, tongue flicking, sucking just enough to pull a gasp from my lips. His hand grips my hip, holding me still as my legs shift beneath him.

“Clark—” I moan, not even sure what I’m asking for.

He pulls back to look at me. And smirks.

“Say my name again.” That tone it’s not a question.

“Clark,” I whisper, dazed.

He drags his mouth down my body, slow, open-mouthed kisses that leave heat in their wake. When he gets to my panties, he hooks his thumbs in the waistband and looks up at me.

“I’m going to take my time with you,” he says. “Okay?”

“Fuck yes.”

He pulls them down, eyes locked on mine the whole time. And then he spreads my thighs.No teasing now. He dips between them with deliberate focus, like he’s memorizing me with his mouth. Tongue deep, strong, controlled. It’s messy, it's wet and feels amazing. Perfect. Ruthless in the best way.

I feel his finger collecting my mess before he slips it inside of me. His tongue focuses on my clit circling it at the perfect pace. I gasp when he adds a second thick finger and I feel him curl them up slightly. My hips lift off the bed and his arm slings across my waist, pinning me down without effort.

“Don’t run from it,” he says, voice dark and quiet. “Take it.” His tongue speeds up and I feel a familiar feeling in the pit of my stomach. The orgasm rips through me too fast to brace for, and I cry out, hands tangled in his hair as he doesn’t let up. Not until I’m trembling and whimpering, pushing at his shoulders, but even then, he kisses back up my stomach like he owns every inch of me.

When his face meets mine again, his lips are slick, his eyes the darkest I’ve ever seen.

“Look at you,” he whispers, brushing hair from my face. “Already trembling and just from my tongue.”

I reach down between us, brushing over the hard length pressing against my thigh. He groans in response and stands to pull his boxers off. I moan at the size of it before he comes back, positioning himself between my legs. Our bare chests against each other.

“Condom?” He asks as he kisses me.

“I don’t have one,” I answer. “Wasn’t exactly planning on this,” I add between kisses. “Do you have one?” He hums against my lips before shaking his head.

“Do you want me to stop?” He asks and I feel the tip of him against my folds. I moan at the feeling and weigh my options. The head of him nudges against me, thick and impossibly hard.

“Don’t stop.” I say. He smiles and leans in to kiss me again. He reaches in hand down and runs his tip against me slowly collecting every bit of my slick.

“You’re going to feel me,” he says, brushing his lips over mine. “Every inch.”

I nod, biting my lip. But nothing prepares me.

He pushes in slowly—deliberately—and I feel it. All of him. Stretching me open, inch by inch, and I can’t hold back the moan that breaks out.

“Shhh,” he soothes. “I’ve got you.”

Once he’s fully in, he stills. Letting me adjust. He kisses my temple, my cheek, my jaw. But when I roll my hips, asking for more?

That softness disappears.

His fingers find my wrists and he pins them above my head to the bed, and he starts to move. Deep. Controlled. Punishingly slow strokes that make me forget my own name. His body is like a wall above me, his breath hot in my ear as he fucks me like he owns the air I breathe.

“You’ve got no idea,” he groans, “how long I’ve wanted to do this. To have you like this. Open. Mine.” Every word lights me up. I feel him in parts of me I’ve never felt before. I feel his palm press into my lower abdomen, heightening the intensity of it all. “And you feel even better than I imagined.”

“Clark,” I moan as I feel every inch of him. “You’re too big,” I say through gritted teeth as he continues to thrust into me.

“You’re taking me so good sweetheart,” he praises as he nips at the neck. My mouth hangs open when I feel him pull all the way out.

“Get on your hands and knees.” He orders and I turn around. He reaches above me grabbing a pillow and positions it under my belly. I arch my back and feel his strong hands grope my ass roughly. He pushes his cock inside me again in a swift thrust making me grip the bed sheets. His hands move to my hips holding me so tight I can feel the bruises already. He moves my hair to one side and I feel his breath behind my ear giving me goosebumps.

“You feel so fucking good,” he growls. “So tight around me. I could stay inside you forever.”

I gasp when I feel one of his hands reach around me and he begins to rub circles against my sensitive heat.

“Do you like it when I touch you here?” He asks quietly before kissing my neck. I nod my head but that must not be good for him because I feel him grip my hair from the back of my head close to the scalp so it doesn’t hurt. The pressure surprisingly brings more pleasure. His other hand stops and I let out a pathetic whine. “Answer my question.” He says

“Yes.” I reply.

“Yes what?” He asks his grip on my hair tightening.

“Yes I like when you touch me.” I say turning my head to look at him. He gives me a sloppy kiss, his tongue dominating mine. His hips begin to rock against mine again. His mouth swallows my moans.

“How much do you like it?” He asks between kisses.

“So much.” I say out of breath. His other hand moves to circle my nub again and my legs involuntarily come together.

“You’re close aren’t you,” he asks but I can’t form a thought. “I can feel it, you’re tightening up, so greedy.”

“Clark—” he pulls out again, moving the pillow and flipping me over. He pushes my thighs wide open and puts himself back in me.

“I wanna watch your pretty little mouth say my name.” He says as he looks down at me. His hips slap against mine with an obscene smack. I roll my eyes back when he tilts his hips slightly hitting me at just the right spot.

“Say my name when you come,” he demands. “Let me hear it.” And I do. Louder than I mean to. Again and again, until he loses it too, his rhythm stutters, his grip tightens, and he buries himself deep with a groan that sounds like he’s breaking. I feel his hot release in me and that alone makes me wanna cum again.

He collapses on top of me, careful but breathless. We’re both panting. Sweating. Shaking.

And then he lifts his head, kisses me sweetly, and smiles showing off his dimples.

“Glad I forgot pants?” I ask, feeling dazed.

He chuckles shyly, rolling onto his side, pulling me with him.

“Please forget them any time.” He says with a cheesy grin. I could get used to this.

[trriviall]

till death do us part

wk: 3.7k

authors note: sorry :(

warnings: chronic illness, vomiting, doctors, death

If you asked both Paige and Azzi what they thought about their life, they would say they lived it to the fullest.

Both girls won an NCAA Championship during Paige’s senior year, and Azzi went on to win another one. Both girls won ROTY during their respective years, silencing anyone that had any sliver of doubt. 

Paige was drafted to Dallas, and after her rookie contract was up, she managed to swing a trade to Golden State, playing alongside Azzi. That year, the Valkyries won their first franchise championship. They spent the next decade building a legacy there.

Their faces, along with their teammates from the first championship team, were painted on the wall of the training facility. Banners from all six wins over their careers hung from the rafters.

Azzi had spent her entire career, 15 years, playing in the purple jerseys. Paige spent 14 of her 18 seasons playing right next to Azzi.

During those years, they adopted a beautiful set of twins, raised them from birth. Their biological mother was just a teenager, not ready for the responsibilities that came with motherhood. She was alone, no family, and just wanted a good home for her babies. When she found Azzi and Paige, she knew they would take care of the twins.

And they did. 

Lola was older by nine minutes, though you wouldn’t know it. It took eleven years for Paige and Azzi to tame her wild, unruly blonde curls. She was a wild child, always outside either playing in dirt or running around a court. She was put in sports the minute she could walk, her energy needing to be directed into something positive. Ultimately, she found comfort in volleyball, something both her moms supported. When she got accepted to Penn State, Paige and Azzi let Lola fall into their arms.

Andrew was the younger twin, though he acted wiser beyond his years. He was very level headed and quiet as a child. Never fussing or winning. It was something that made Paige and Azzi worry at first, before they grew to realize that was Andrew’s nature. Andrew didn’t care much for sports, not liking to be sweaty and gross. But he was his family’s biggest supporter. Always front row or courtside at games, his cheers of support the loudest he’ll ever be.

Paige and Azzi had a lot of help. They each missed part of the season to care for the twins before they were born. After that, they had immense amounts of help. Both their parents would visit often, helping clean the house or give the new mothers a break. Their siblings took their Aunt and Uncle roles very seriously, always volunteering to take the twins for the day. 

Veteran teammates were there to help at first, until suddenly Paige and Azzi had been in the league so long they were the veterans.

They retired the same year, just in time to help the twins with college applications and be there for their senior year. Retirement was bittersweet, but it was something they both knew it was time for. 

Azzi was the first to mention it. She no longer had a good or bad knee, both a little worse for wear. Her legs were sore more than they weren’t, and when she thought about retiring, she was content. That isn’t to say she wasn’t upset. She cried. She cried when she realized the thought, then called her parents and cried some more. She didn’t tell Paige for a few days, making sure she was really sure.

When she told Paige, she cried some more. Her wife reassured her it was okay, it had to end at some point. But that same night, all Paige could think about was retiring. She didn’t want to go back to playing without Azzi by her side. Who could catch her dimes for clutch corner threes?

Paige thought about pushing through, but when a pickup game with the newest class of rookies left her sore for days, she decided it was time, too.

Paige did the same thing Azzi did. Cried. Called her parents, then cried some more. She told Azzi and cried again. But they went to bed happy.

They told Lola and Andrew next, something that was bittersweet. Their kids were happy yet sad for their parents. It couldn’t be something so easy to give up.

Their jerseys were retired, hung in the rafters next to their championship banners. They cried together, then cried with their children.

Now years later, the house is quiet. 

Lola and Andrew’s bedrooms sit untouched unless they come to visit. Andrew does often. He brings his wife and his newborn, Madison. Lola’s visits are far and few. She’s always busy, but she makes sure to call and send her love.

Azzi left to pick Andrew and his family up from the airport. Paige snuck out to the doctors. Recently, Paige has gotten sick. She assured Azzi she was fine, but her wife didn’t believe it. Azzi ushered her to the doctor.

When Azzi returns home with Andrew in tow, Paige greets them with a wide smile. Andrew notices how his mom’s movements are slower, like they’re causing her pain. He watches how her breathing is a little shallower, something that isn’t out of the ordinary for a regular person but is strange for an athlete.

After a wonderful dinner that Andrew’s wife, Estella, helped Azzi make, everyone turns in for the night. Madison is a quiet baby, much like Andrew was, and sleeps through the night already.

Paige can’t sleep, and she finds herself in the kitchen cradling a glass of water. At the sound of footsteps, Paige looks up. She expects Azzi, but sees Andrew instead. He doesn’t say anything, just watches as he gets a glass of water.

“You’re sick?” Andrew asks, whispering into the darkness. Paige doesn’t respond, not for a long time. If she does, it will be real. She can’t do that. Not to Azzi, Andrew or Lola, not even to herself. Regardless, she knows she can’t hide anything from Andrew. And he can keep secrets.

So Paige nods, tears welling in her eyes. “Yeah.”

The words are hoarsely whispered. Andrew doesn’t say anything, just pulls his mom into a tight hug. Despite Andrew being three inches taller, he notes how frail Paige feels. He can feel her ribs and her cheekbones digging into his skin. Paige has always been a little lanky, but never to this extent.

“Have you told Mom yet?” Paige just sniffed and shook her head against his shoulder. Andrew sighed, rubbing his hand up and down Paige’s back as she soaked his shirt with tears.

The next morning, Estella woke up early to feed Madison. Wondering where her husband went, she went looking around the house. She found Andrew sleeping sitting up on the couch, Paige’s head dropped on his shoulder and her body contorted in an uncomfortable looking position. Estella smiled, happy to see her husband still so close to his mom.

But then she frowned. She noticed the way Paige’s cheeks look like they had dried tears, how she looked a little more…frail than normal. But she kept quiet. She helped Azzi make breakfast, then handed Madison off to spend the day with her grandparents while she went out with Andrew.

They were at a cafe, enjoying walking around without a stroller or a baby strapped to one of their chests. Estella brought it up quietly, her tone laced with nothing but concern.

“Is your mom okay?” Estalla asked, practically whispering the words into her hot latte. “I saw you guys this morning. She looked…frail. I’ve always known her to be so lively, the change is concerning.”

Andrew thought back to how Paige hugged him extra tight last night, or how she didn’t joke with Estella as long. Paige loved Estella, saying she was the perfect balance to Andrew’s quietness. She was witty, sarcastic, and wicked smart, someone Paige got along well with. So Estella’s concerns were more than valid.

“She’s sick,” Andrew said at last, his body sagging at the admission. “Something to do with her Kidneys. I don’t know what exactly or how long, but I know it’s taking a toll on her.”

“Oh Andrew,” Estella said, her face softening. She had lost her own mother to Kidney failure when she was just 17. But the wound had long scabbed over. She had come to terms with the fact that her mom would never meet Madison or Andrew. But she couldn’t imagine Andrew’s pain. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Andrew said. “Everyone has to go at some point.”

“But she’s fairly young and very healthy.” Estella pointed out. “She’s not even 45.”

“I’m more worried about momma.” Azzi Fudd. Beautiful, caring, soft, Azzi Fudd. “This will wreck her. They’ve known each other since they were 14 and 15.”

At home, it was already wrecking Azzi. Paige hadn’t told her anything, which meant everything. As soon as Azzi step foot in the house, she knew it was something big.

But she didn’t press. She watched, observed, and kept notes on Paige. She noticed how frail she looked. Not in the “she’s always been skin and bones” type of way, but in the “she’s lost a lot of weight” type of way.

They were watching Madison, and Paige was on the floor with her while Azzi grabbed her bottle from the kitchen. She listened to Paige’s coos with a smile on her face, until she realized she no longer heard them. Instead, she heard violent coughing. Too loud and too heard to be Madison’s.

“Paige?” Azzi called out. When she got no response, Azzi left the bottle in the kitchen and ran to the living room. Paige was sitting on the floor, her back pressed against the couch. One hand was clutching her chest, the other covering her mouth. “Paige, are you okay?”

Azzi knelt next to her wife, setting a hand gently on her shoulder. After some time, Paige’s coughs died down. But when she pulled her hand away, it was spotted in blood.

Azzi didn’t scream. She didn’t gasp, she wasn’t shocked. She should have been, she thought she would be. But she wasn’t. Because deep down, she knew this was coming.

Paige looked up at her, tears welling in those beautiful blue eyes of hers. Azzi just pulled Paige into a bone crushing hug, holding on like if she let go Paige would disappear.

“Polycystic Kidney Disease,” The doctor said, her tone sorrowful. “That’s what’s causing your Kidney Failure.”

“What are our options?” Azzi asked. Paige was frozen, like time had stopped. Normally, it was the other way around. When Azzi had to finally get glasses or when she had to get her gall bladder removed, Paige was the one asking questions and being strong. Now it was time for Azzi to be strong while Paige fell apart.

“Not many,” The doctor said. “There’s always surgery, but with how many cysts Paige has it might do more harm than good.”

“So what? We just sit and wait for her to cough up enough blood that she drowns in it?” Azzi was mad. She was upset that Paige’s life was coming to an end, but she was more upset that she would be in pain. After ACL tears, concussions, broken fingers, and twisted ankles, Azzi wanted no more pain for her wife.

“I’m sorry Mrs. Fudd.”

“It’s Mrs. Bueckers-Fudd, thank you.” Azzi stood, dragging Paige with her. They would not be visiting this doctor again.

When they got home, Azzi ran Paige a bath. Something to sooth her. After that, Paige wanted to take a nap. Azzi had no problem with letting her blonde rest, she could tell she was exhausted. 

When she heard Paige’s familiar soft snores, Azzi grabbed her laptop and got to work. She called Estella, who was a doctor, and asked her about Nephrologists in the area and which ones she recommended. 

Two weeks later Paige and Azzi were back in another doctor’s office. This one felt less sterile. It was warmer, the lighting less harsh and more yellow than white.

“Bueckers-Fudd?” The nurse called. Paige stood, then grabbed Azzi’s hand to come with her.

The doctors room put Paige at ease. She wasn’t as antsy as before. 

The door opened and in walked a kind-looking older man. He had a shiny bald head and wire frame glasses, but his skin was barely wrinkled. When he smiled, it showed off the small gap in his front teeth. For some reason, it made Paige relax.

“Good morning Mrs. Bueckers-Fudd,” He said, tone soft.

“Goodmorning,” Both Azzi and Paige replied, making all three in the room let out a soft laugh.

Dr. Wyatt asked Paige simple questions. She answered some, Azzi answered a couple. Then he asked Azzi some questions, questions Paige wouldn’t be able to. Things like have you noticed diet changes? or is she more tired than normal? and even has she had visible significant weight loss? All things Paige would have answered differently than Paige.

“We have a few options from here,” Dr. Wyatt said. “I’m going to put you on a transplant list. But your chances of getting a kidney are low. Until then, there are two main options.”

“Tell it to me straight doc,” Paige said.

“There’s always surgery. We can remove one kidney, leave you with one. But that would make things shorter. There’s medication. But it will only lessen the pain and stop more cysts from forming.”

“But it doesn’t do anything about the already formed cysts.” Azzi said, reading between the lines.

“Exactly.”

“So there’s no cure?” Azzi said, her heart breaking into a million little pieces.

“I’m afraid not,” Dr. Wyatt said. “But I can assure you it’s not nearly as painful to watch or endure as other internal failures may be. My wife had the same thing, passed away eight years ago.”

“I’m so sorry,” Azzi whispered. 

“Don’t be. Life happens. We all have our time, hers just came early.”

Paige and Azzi left with lots of notes, and less questions than before. Diet improvements. Exercises. Therapist numbers. Anything they needed, Dr. Wyatt gave them.

Azzi teared up when Paige asked how long she had to live. Dr. Wyatt said he couldn’t say for sure. But he said to come in for weekly check ups. Sometime then he could give definite answers.

Paige almost preferred not knowing. She could live life to the fullest without worrying about a deadline.

Azzi hated it. She didn’t like not knowing. She felt like she would wake up one day next to Paige’s dead body. She wanted to know how much time Paige had left. 

At first, Paige thought there would be a rift between her and Azzi because of her illness. But she should have known better. If intrusive fans and media, ACL’s tears, and raising a set of twins didn’t set them apart, why would this?

With the medicine, Paige honestly felt okay. She was a little more tired, and more prone to getting sick, but she felt okay. She didn’t feel drastically weaker or incapable of daily activities. And honestly, that was enough for her.

One thing Paige noticed was how much her illness had aged her. She prided herself on always looking a couple years younger than she was. She didn’t look older by any means, she simply looked like she was in her early forties.

“I got you a gift,” Azzi said one morning, from the ruffled blankets of their bed. She had a lazy smile on her face, admiring Paige’s half naked body walking towards her from the bathroom. Somehow, Azzi knew Paige was in her own head and saved her from spiraling. “I think you’re really gonna like it.”

“Really?” Paige said, crawling under the covers to lay next to Azzi, her cold hands poking Azzi’s side.

“Oh yeah.”

That’s how Paige ended up at the Spa, Lola, Lauren, and both of her mom’s and Azzi’s mom with her. She hadn’t seen Lola or Lauren in a while, Lola too busy with volleyball and Lauren traveling the world.

“How was Asia?” Paige asked Lauren.

“Beautiful. You should come with me next time I go. You and Az, you guys would like it.” Paige’s smile went tight lipped, but she agreed nonetheless. No one knew of her declining health.

Amy, Mo, and Katie had their suspicions, of course. They had seen Paige grow up, knew her tells and everything.

At lunch, everyone made a big deal when Paige ordered a salad. Paige rolled her eyes and ate with a pout.

“I’ve never seen you eat anything green,” Lola said. “Momma could never get you to eat greens.”

“I managed to get her to eat kale once,” Katie said, her voice proud. 

“That doesn’t count,” Paige protested. “You and Az tricked me.”

The table was full of laughter and wide grins. Amy took note of Paige’s lack of a drink, especially because she didn’t drive here. Paige was never one to turn down a drink.

Despite the hidden concerns, everyone came back to the house where Azzi had a light dinner prepared.

“How was it?” Azzi asked, planting a kiss on Paige’s cheek.

“Amazing,” Paige whispered. “Just what I needed.”

“Hmm,” Azzi said. “It’s almost like…I know you!”

“After 20 years I would hope so.”

They all piled into the living room, watching Friends re-runs while they caught up. They talked about the guy Lauren ran into in India and Morocco. How Lauren broke up with her girlfriend and then her brother tried to slide into her DMs four days later.

Paige was content with it all. Surrounded by her favorite women in the world, who reminded her how string she truly was.

The happiness and bliss didn’t last long.

Four days later, Azzi woke to Paige dashing from the bed straight into their bathroom. Paige threw the blankets haphazardly off of her, the white sheets landing half on the floor.

“Paige?” Azzi croaked, her voice still raw from sleep. Azzi followed after her wife, the corners of her lips pulling into a sympathetic frown when she saw Paige heaving over the toilet. Paige hated throwing up.

Azzi knelt and held Paige’s hair back, patting her back as she emptied her stomach's contents into the toilet bowl.

“It’s okay,” Azzi said. “You’re going to be okay.”

Azzi helped Paige off the floor and back into bed, grabbing a glass of water and her medication. 

“Can you hold me?” Paige asked, her voice quiet.

“Of course.”

That’s how Andrew found his mothers later that day when he came to pick them up for Paige’s appointment. They were fast asleep, hands intertwined like they’d find each other in every life.

He let a silent tear fall before waking them up for Paige’s appointment. 

The car ride was silent, both Paige’s mind and body exhausted. It became harder for her to walk long distances without becoming out of breath. She had hot flashes more often, shedding layers of clothing in a panicked rush.

Azzi asked Dr. Wyatt how long Paige had left. But Paige had no interest in knowing, so she made Andrew help her to the ice cream parlor across the street.

“Two mint chocolate chip cones and one vanilla, please,” Paige said. “I’m surprised you take after me when it comes to ice cream.”

Andrew smiled, handing the worker a bill. “I’m not. We’re more alike than we seem.”

“Hm,” Paige hummed. “It seems so.”

Paige thought her wife finding out how long she had left to live would light a fire under her. Make her want to do more. Instead, Azzi was content to do things at Paige's pace. If Paige wanted to go on a weekend trip, they went. If she wanted to lay in bed all day, they cuddled the day away.

Azzi was very good at not giving anything away to Paige. The only hint she had that her time was coming was when Azzi invited their entire families over.

Drew showed up first, his arms wrapped around Paige in a bone crushing hug. Both of their parents showed up together, then Andrew followed by Lauren and Lola. Ryan came a little late, and Jon and Jose trailed behind him.

Azzi set the good China out, everyone squeezed onto the dining table for dinner. Despite the circumstances, conversation was lively. Dinner was followed by a very competitive Uno game, then a Phoenix V. Valkyries game as everyone calmed down and turned in for the night.

“Don’t let this dim your light,” Drew said. “You’re still the best sister ever. Doesn’t matter where you are.”

Paige blinked back tears while she hugged Drew, knowing it might be her last time.

Paige could feel it, when the day came. She didn’t say anything about it. She asked Azzi to take her by the Valkyries facility. She admired the mural, talked to staff, and gave a few words of wisdom to the rookies.

That afternoon, she hid away in the office and made phone calls. Check-ins with family. Just saying hi. Azzi made her favorite for lunch. Paige got the feeling Azzi knew, too. Lunch had no greens and Shirley Temples were served to drink.

“Let’s take a nap?” Paige asked. Azzi smiled while chewing her chicken.

“Yeah, P,” Azzi said, her voice soft but knowing. “Whatever you want.”

Paige and Azzi cleaned the kitchen together, light music filling the silence. Paige’s bones ached, but she pushed through.

She waited for Azzi to climb into bed first, sliding under the covers next to her. The windows were open to let in the light breeze, making the room feel lighter than the weights in their chest.

Azzi had tears in her eyes, but she willed them not to fall.

“I love you, Az,” Paige said, her hand squeezing Azzi’s. “So much. Don’t ever forget that, okay? You’re everything to me, all I need in life.”

“Never,” Azzi whispered. “I’ll never forget you.”

Paige smiled, her eyes dropping shut. She rested with a smile on her face. Azzi’s fingers stilled over her wrist, feeling Paige’s heart beat.

Only after a few minutes when she could feel it no longer, did Azzi let the tears fall. 

They were lucky that they found each other when they were 14 and 15. 

But they were damned that they were taken from each other so early.

[sparklestormandsoda]

How about an American reader x Baby. Reader doesn’t really care for idols or celebrities in general. Sure they enjoy music but they aren’t some starving fan screaming their head off over a human (or demon). For Baby it’s love at first sight but he keeps it to himself as the guys would just laugh and tease. It’s a whole new feeling to him and it catches him off guard. But he’s curious…

Baby is nonchalant thinking reader will fall into his arms with just a smile. Unfortunately reader isn’t all that receptive to his advances believing it’s just part of their idol act. “Sorry kid, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I might end up breaking ya.” Being very amused by his flirting patting him on the cheek. (Great reader thinks he’s younger) He acts the same on the outside but actively follows reader around trying to get their attention. To charm them. Obviously the other boys noticed and give him a hard time (good natured).

Meanwhile Baby is still following hoping for at least a date as reader thinks he’s just a young man, blinded with a simple crush. (How cute).

lolol

Baby wasn’t nervous.

Not when he debuted, not when he stood on stage in front of a stadium of fans, not even when Abby made him drink something neon green labeled “Pre-Show Juice” five minutes before lights-up.

But this?

This had him… off.

“Why are you following them around like a duckling with a crush?” Jinu asked without looking up from his phone, casually elbowing Baby in the side as they walked backstage. “You even blinking weird.”

“I’m not,” Baby muttered. “Just going this way.”

“That’s a broom closet.”

“Maybe I like cleaning.”

Mystery and Abby both snorted. Jinu raised an eyebrow. “Be careful. They might mistake you for a lost intern again.”

“They didn’t mistake me,” Baby said, jaw tight.

He hadn’t even been wearing his stage gear yet. No sparkly mesh, no chain necklaces — just track pants and a hoodie, standing next to catering when they walked by, looked him over, and asked if he could move so they could grab a sandwich tray.

No pause. No question. Just: “Excuse me, kid.”

Kid.

Like he was a teenager. Like he wasn’t on billboards across the city.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Reader, meanwhile, was just trying to do their job. She weren’t cold. Just disinterested. Idols were fun on stage, sure, but off stage? They were products. A hundred moving parts designed to sell fantasy. So when this Baby guy from the Saja Boys started fluttering around, eyebrows raised like he was about to offer a rose and a cheesy line, Reader barely gave him a second glance.

“Cute,” she said the third time he ‘ran into’ them near a service hallway. “You do this to all the crew, or am I just lucky?”

“I just go where the stars align,” he grinned.

Reader chuckled, then leaned in just enough to pat his cheek, light and dismissive. “Sorry, kid. You’re barking up the wrong tree."

Baby’s heart exploded. His soul left his body.

She thought he was younger. And fragile. And not serious.

He played it off. Smirked. Shrugged. But when Reader turned and walked away, he stood there, stunned, hand ghosting his cheek like he’d been blessed and cursed in the same moment.

From then on, it became a game.

Baby would “accidentally” show up where Reader was working — lighting tests, sound checks, backstage snack runs. Sometimes he’d just sit nearby, elbow on the armrest, head tilted, watching her with a smile like he was in love with the air they breathed.

Reader? Utterly unfazed.

“You don’t give up, do you?” she asked once, balancing a headset and tablet, sweaty from coordinating rehearsal chaos.

“I’m very committed to being misunderstood,” Baby replied.

“Clearly.”

Still, she let him follow. Let him talk. Even laughed a few times.

Not at him. With him.

And it made him worse.

The boys noticed.

Of course they noticed.

“You got it bad,” said Romance, tossing a water bottle at him in the green room. “You’ve got that… stupid face.”

“It’s not stupid,” Baby snapped.

“Bro, you literally smiled when you saw a power cord she stepped over.”

“I like confident people who understand OSHA regulations.”

“Someone help him,” Mystery said, shaking his head. “He’s down astronomically.”

Romance just looked amused. “You should try asking her out. Or just breathe near her and combust. Either works.”

But then something shifted.

It was after the show. Late. Reader was sitting on the back steps outside the venue, cooling off, hoodie pulled over her head, sipping from a can of soda. Baby found her by accident — this time really by accident.

She didn’t send him away.

He sat beside them, quiet for a while.

“Why do you keep doing this?” she asked eventually, tone unreadable. “The flirting. The following.”

Baby exhaled. “You want the idol answer or the real one?”

Reader blinked. “Let’s try real.”

He looked at her, something softer in his expression now — stripped of the charm, the performance, the teasing edge.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I just… saw you. And I couldn’t stop wanting to.”

A beat passed. Then another.

Reader took another sip of soda. “I’m not some dream girl, you know.”

“I know.”

“And I don’t date fans. Or… whatever this is.”

He nodded.

“But,” she added, flicking his arm lightly, “if you’re gonna keep hanging around like a stray, you might as well walk me home.”

Baby blinked.

“…Wait, for real?”

“Don’t ruin it,” Reader warned, already getting up.

He followed, stunned silent, heart pounding, not daring to smile too wide. But when he looked at her under the streetlights, he couldn’t help it.

Because maybe she still thought he was just a kid with a harmless crush.

But he knew better.

And he wasn’t going anywhere.

lmk if you wanted to be added to my kpdh taglist! private message me as comments get lost in notifications

ya girls broke and living off of monster energy so anything helps- Buy me a coffee <3

kpdh taglist: @spookyanxiety, @forgetfulsmols, @notheroverthinker, @rumiskimbap, @halle5s. @jellyofthefishes, @tundra1029, @zanystarfishpanda, @dinosaur-hehe, @amishreyac, @insomniyuuh, @driedmangoslices6, @sydforreal24

[abbotjack]

Yeah, Jack Abbot uses rope. No, I won’t elaborate.

Except… I will. A little.

Because everyone talks about the sutures. The field dressings. The trauma bay precision. Yeah, he can stitch a wound in the back of a moving vehicle. Tie off a bleeder in 18 seconds flat. But that’s not the whole story.

He also knows how to braid.

Learned it in basic, from a girl who used to practice on bootlaces. She said it reminded her of home... of sitting behind her little sister on a school morning, parting hair with careful fingers before sunrise drills.

“She taught me how to keep it clean,” Jack tells you once, hands working steady against your thigh. “How not to pull too tight. How to keep the tension without hurting anything.”

He says it like it’s nothing. But it isn’t. Because when Jack ties you up, it’s not performance. It’s control, yes... but the quiet kind. The intimate kind. It’s him on his knees with a length of soft rope and that look in his eyes like he already knows exactly what you need, and how long you’ll last before you’re begging.

The first loop goes around your wrists. Clean. Flat. He checks the pressure, eyes flicking to yours. “Too much?”

You shake your head, breath catching.

“Good,” he murmurs, already moving lower.

He ties with the same hands that’ve held ruptured arteries closed and caught collapsing lungs. Steady. Sure. The cotton slides against your skin like a secret. Each knot is placed with intention. But it’s the way he watches you as he does it that ruins you. The way his jaw flexes like he’s holding back, the way his voice stays low, controlled, even as his breath quickens. He binds your chest, not to restrict, but to hold you still enough for his hands to move freely. Trails the rope down your thighs, slow and deliberate, anchoring you to the present, to him.

“Look at me,” he says, just before he pushes inside.

You do. And you swear to God his eyes are darker than you have ever seen them. He fucks you slow, like it’s a field study. Like he’s cataloging every sound you make. Mouth hot and rough against your throat. He doesn’t need to talk much. You feel it in every shift of his hips, every low groan when you tighten around him, every whispered “God, that’s it. That’s my girl.”

And when you come shaking, crying, body wound up and wrung out in the soft bite of rope, Jack doesn’t rush to untie you. He holds you there. Stroking the red lines on your skin with something like awe. Eventually, he lifts you into his lap, unties each knot with care, then braids the rope with the same calm he had in the trauma bay last night. Muscle memory. Soft concentration. Hands steady, chest still bare, dog tags catching the light.

You watch him, dazed, marked up, still trembling.

“What’re you doing?” you ask.

He glances up, rope looped between his fingers. “Can’t leave it tangled.” A pause. “We’ll need it again soon.”

[blossomcola]

Oblivious reader getting used by popular girls Lara and Sophia, who want her so bad and take advantage of her naivety 😋

pairing. mean girls!solarz x sub!fem reader.

content warnings. clit play, cunnilingus, face sitting, scissoring, slapping.

being so stupid and innocent that you think that sophia and lara really contacted you because they need a tutor but you don’t know that the reality is totally different from what they made you believe :( maybe at that moment you didn’t suspect it or thought clearly because you were excited that such cute and popular girls were talking to you and showing interest in you, and it was a big mistake of yours because if you had used your brain at that moment you would have saved yourself from what was coming! both of them know that you wouldn’t refuse because you wouldn’t be able to say no, making everything more than easy for them and without even doing the slightest thing difficult for them to get what they want: to have you as their toy.

lying on your stomach, with sophia sitting in front of you with her legs spread and guiding you on how to eat her pussy out while lara is behind you rubbing the tip of her strap’s head, Making it harder for you to pay attention to sophia’s words because lara is doing everything on purpose because she’s amused by your cute and innocent reactions 🥺 the one who is not amused at all is sophia because it pisses her off how she is trying so hard to teach you and you just seem to “ignore” her as she says, choosing to give you a sharp and strong slap on the cheek every time he loses your attention because of lara :( that gives you more than enough motivation to get down to business and do a good job once you finally put your mouth where she needs it most, melting twice as much when sophia caresses your scalp and congratulates you for learning quickly while lara is busy fucking you from behind 😵‍💫 luckily lara isn’t that mean and continues to give you the attention you never knew you needed, making you moan against sophia’s pussy and helping her reach her orgasm much faster, ending up squirting on your face and making you swallow all her juices <3

they both want to reward you for your hard work and being a good learner, ending with sophia riding your face and lara grinding her pussy against yours at the same time, you being a complete mess under two hot, beautiful girls who gave you the amazing opportunity to be both of their personal toy! lara doesn’t care if you came pretty fast because she finds it adorable how your thighs shook the moment you squirted and soaked both of your thighs, cooing as she watched your hips squirm and saying “awww good job”, capturing sophia’s attention and getting her to slide a hand between your legs to start playing with your clit after your orgasm 🫠 they both find it funny and can’t help but laugh as they watch you sob against sophia’s pussy while trying to move your hips away from them due to overstimulation, a more than pathetic attempt because you are under their bodies and you will not get out until they are satisfied.

[alfredsmanor]

IMHO the last thing @bartinahoneypotsimpson said is the worst mistake of Obi-Wan Kenobi’s life. Padmé was getting through to Anakin. Anakin agreeing to stop using the Force and run away with her wasn’t a sure thing, he was still trying to justify himself to her, offering to betray Palpatine without forsaking the Dark Side, but he was also listening to her. He would have eventually understood that the choice was between her and the Dark Side, not just between her and Palpatine. And he would have chosen her. Then Obi-Wan came out of the ship and his appearance convinced Anakin that everything Padmé had just said was a lie. Obi-Wan then proceeded to let Anakin choke Padmé unconscious while arguing with Anakin, because he was arrogant enough to believe that he could get through to Anakin the same way that Padmé could!

That said, if Obi-Wan had attacked sooner and Padmé was conscious to witness the fight, that might have been worse for Obi-Wan not better. Seeing her husband mutilated and left for dead by Obi-Wan and saved by Palpatine wouldn’t have actually persuaded Padmé to buy into the Empire, but she probably would have decided that remaining outwardly loyal to the Emperor and trying to nurture the good that she still saw in Anakin was the lesser of two evils. While Anakin can go too far for her to accept, she’s willing to overlook much more of Anakin’s bad actions than she should. The Sith Lord’s Wife is a very plausible continuity to me, and an inspiration for the Andor/Vader comics AU I’m working on.

Of course, while Padmé is trying to nurture the good in Anakin, Palpatine is doing his best to corrupt Padmé. She’s never going to be loyal to Palpatine, but if her disloyalty is in the form of entirely personal anger, hatred and jealousy directed at him then it’s a useful form of disloyalty! She would push husband to become a more powerful Sith and eventually try to become the Master - in canon Palpatine was eventually bored and frustrated by Vader’s lack of ambition.

Of course, the ultimate goal isn’t to let Vader win, it’s to get either Luke or Leia to murder the rest of their family out of loyalty to him! Then he’s got an apprentice that’s suitable for possession. It’s a long term plan, but Sidious is very fond of long term plans.

obi-wan is such a good character when you don’t have a bitch in your ear telling you he’s the saddest specialest boy in the world who did nothing wrong and suffered more than jesus. and that is My take

[stewpidcheescatarinabluu]

Synopsis: You work the circus — painted smile, broken jokes, the same old balloon dogs for kids who’ll forget you by sunset. Life drags in loops until she shows up: a runaway sleeping behind the generator, sharp-tongued and impossible to ignore.

Word Count: 8,129

Giselle X Male Reader

“…There we go!” you grin, sweat sticking to your clown makeup as you twist the final knot.

“Here’s your dog balloon, kiddo”

“Wow! Thank youuuu, clown guy!” the little girl squeals, eyes wide with joy.

“You’re very welcome! Enjoy the rest of the circus,” you say with a rehearsed cheer, waving her off before your smile fades the second she’s gone.

You sigh, lips still painted into a happy arc. Behind the makeup, you feel like static — loud, drained, hollow.

“Hey, Y/N. You’re on break,” someone mutters, a staff member passing by without so much as eye contact.

“Alright,” you reply flatly.

You walk the back path of the amusement park, dodging busted popcorn bags and loose bolts on the wooden planks. You buy a sandwich, sit alone in the backstage corner — half-lit, half-forgotten — where the scent of either elephant or lion shit clings to the air like punishment.

No one sits with you. No one ever does.

You take one bite.

“Hey, Y/N,” your boss says, head poking through the rusted door. “Break’s over. Get back to work.”

“What? I just sat down,” you protest, sandwich still cradled in your hands, barely touched.

“It’s either work or get out of here.”

You stare at him for a second, tired. Not angry. Just… done.

“Alright,” you say, voice low. You shove the sandwich into your bag and toss it into your locker.

Then under your breath, not loud enough for anyone to hear:

“This life’s getting fucking repetitive. I should’ve studied. Left this country already.”

You’re out front again.

The sun is blistering, your makeup is smudging, and for some cosmic reason, every kid only wants a dog balloon.

Another one walks up. Big eyes. Popsicle stain on his chin.

“Hey kid, wanna balloon that never dies?” you say with fake enthusiasm.

He squints at you. “Isn’t a balloon already dead?”

You blink.

“…But if you believe it’s alive, it will be,” you say, desperation creeping into your smile like a crack in glass.

“Eh. Nah. Weirdo,” the kid shrugs and turns away.

Something in your brain snaps. Just a little.

“Listen here, kid,” you call out, pointing your squeaky-gloved finger like a curse. “One day, you’re gonna realize life isn’t just games and snacks. One day, you’ll crawl for scraps just to survive. And guess what? Balloons don’t help.”

The kid stares.

You diThen he starts crying.

“Hey! Have some class!” the parents bark, rushing over. “You can’t speak to children like that!”

You don’t even blink.

“Fuck it, Fuck you.”

Gasps ripple. The mother covers the child’s ears.

You let the balloon float into the sky and walk off — slow, deliberate, like a man set on fire but too tired to run.

Not even an hour passes before your boss approaches, sunglasses still on, clipboard under his arm.

“Office. Now.”

You don’t argue. You expected this.

You follow him through the faded hallway — past the peeling posters and the rusted lockers — until you’re inside the cluttered manager’s office. He motions for you to sit.

“Look, Y/N…” he sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I can’t keep defending you.”

You stay quiet. Your clown makeup’s half gone. Sweat and shame do the rest.

“Badmouthing a kid? Swearing in front of the crowd? You’re not just some random worker — you’re part of the face of this park. I want to keep you, I really do, but you’re ruining the image.”

Still, you say nothing.

He leans forward, voice softening, like he’s doing you a favor.

“My brother’s got a packing company in Valenzuela. Maybe you could—”

A staff member interrupts, knocking halfway through the door.

“Uh—sir? There’s… a girl. Sleeping next to the generator behind Tent Three.”

Your boss groans. Looks at you.

“You wanna keep your job, right?”

You nod. Silently. Clown makeup smudged, uniform wrinkled.

“Then go handle it. Please.”

You don’t say much. Just:

“Alright.”

And you leave the office — unaware that behind the generator, your whole world is about to shift.

The sun’s already starting to bleed out of the sky when you get there — past the edge of Tent Three, behind the stacked crates and electrical cables, where the grass turns to gravel and the only sound is the low hum of the generator.

And there she is.

Curled up on the ground. Hoodie pulled over her head. Face hidden. A duffel bag under her arm like a makeshift pillow. She doesn’t flinch when you approach. Doesn’t even pretend she isn’t trespassing.

You clear your throat.

“Ma’am. You can’t stay here.”

No response. Just a long pause — then a low voice muffled by her sleeve:

“Do I look like I care?”

Not exactly what you expected.

“This is private property. If security finds you, they’ll call someone.”

She lifts her head slowly — and that’s the first time you see her face. Dirt-smudged cheek. Faint bruising under one eye. She’s young. But not helpless.

“Then why didn’t you call them?”

Her eyes narrow, like she’s testing you. Measuring.

“I’m not security. I’m a clown.”

She huffs, a half-scoff, half-laugh.

“Figures.”

You gesture to the generator.

“It’s not safe back here. You could get electrocuted. Or crushed if a crate tips.”

“So leave me alone before one of those things happens. Win-win.”

Her tone — bitter but exhausted — sounds familiar.

“What’s your name?”

She looks away.

“Giselle.”

It sounds made up. But you don’t push.

“Alright, Giselle. You can’t sleep here. You’ll get kicked out. Hard.”

”…So what now? You gonna throw me out yourself, clown boy?”

You glance over your shoulder. No one’s watching.

“Come with me.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve got ten minutes before someone comes looking. And you look like you haven’t eaten in longer than that.”

She studies you for a second — like she doesn’t know if you’re a threat or a joke.

Then finally, she stands. Slinging the bag over her shoulder.

“Ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes.”

And you both walk off — not knowing that ten minutes is going to stretch into something far more complicated

You lead her to the far edge of the crew lot — behind the costume trailer, where no one looks unless they’re sneaking a cigarette or hiding from their shift. The wind smells like burnt oil, sawdust, and melted sugar.

She drops onto an overturned crate like she’s sat here before in some past life.

You sit across from her, back against the trailer wall. You reach into your coat pocket, pull out a bent cigarette, and light it with a practiced flick. The smoke curls around your clown makeup, half-smudged from the heat.

She watches you for a second.

You pull out your half-eaten sandwich — still wrapped in greasy paper, squashed and a little warm — and hand it to her without looking.

She hesitates.

“You sure?”

“Wasn’t gonna finish it anyway.”

She takes it. Peels back the wrapper like it might bite her. Then she eats — slow at first, then like she hasn’t in days.

You take a drag. The smoke sits in your lungs like a secret you’ve forgotten how to share.

“You always eat alone back here?”

“Better than with people I hate.”

She nods. Wipes her mouth with her sleeve.

“Same.”

For a while, there’s only the sound of the generator humming. The faint clatter of metal. Distant laughter from a ride still spinning even though nobody’s really enjoying it anymore.

“You’re not gonna ask why I’m here?”

You ash your cigarette onto the gravel beside your boot.

“You’re here. That’s enough for now.”

She glances at you again — brief, unreadable — then goes back to eating.

You take one last drag, flick the cigarette away, and let your head rest back against the metal trailer wall.

The sky is fading to purple now, and the circus lights are starting to buzz back on. But back here, in the shadows, it feels like you’ve both slipped out of time.

And for the first time today, no one’s pretending to smile

She finishes the last bite in silence. Wipes her hands on her jeans. Doesn’t thank you — not directly. Just stands up, pulling her hoodie over her head again.

You don’t stop her. You don’t ask where she’s going.

She slings the duffel bag over her shoulder.

“I’ll be out of your hair. Thanks for the food..”

You nod once. Like that’s all there is.

She walks off without looking back. Disappears behind the rows of trailers, swallowed up by the low light and laughter and the plastic shimmer of the midway.

You stay for a minute longer. Then push yourself up. Brush dust off your pants. And head back inside.

The office light’s still on.

Your boss doesn’t even look up from his clipboard.

“Handled?”

“Yeah.”

“She gone?”

“I got rid of her. Do I have my job back?”

He scribbles something, nods absently.

“Don’t make me regret it, Y/N.”

You don’t answer. Just walk out.

But all the way back to your locker, you keep thinking about how she didn’t look back.

And how that shouldn’t bother you.

But it does

You walk home in silence.

The city buzzes in the distance — neon signs flickering above convenience stores, taxi’s sputtering past, dogs barking at ghosts. The lights of the circus fade behind you, replaced by the pale yellow of broken street lamps.

You didn’t even notice someone on the street as you walked up — a child tugging at his father’s sleeve, pointing.

“Why’s the clown sad, Dad?”

The father didn’t answer. Just kept walking.

But the question sticks to you like humidity.

And you sit there, in silence, thinking:

You don’t know how to answer it either.

You reach your apartment — fourth floor, no elevator. Paint peeling from the walls like it’s trying to escape too.

Taped to your door is a note in permanent marker, your landlord’s familiar handwriting:

“RENT’S DUE. LAST CHANCE.”

You crumple it in your hand without reading it twice.

Inside, it’s worse. Dim, cramped, hot. No aircon. The fan ticks like a dying clock.

You check the fridge: a half-drunk bottle of water. One apple.

That’s it.

You don’t bother changing. Don’t wash up. You’re still in your costume. Clown makeup smudged, drying around your jaw, flaking in the corners of your eyes. You sit down at the edge of your mattress on the floor, staring at the wall.

You sit there, unmoving. The silence in the apartment isn’t peaceful — it’s loud, like it’s trying to fill in for the life that used to be here.

The fan ticks.

The fridge hums.

Nothing else breathes.

You take the apple from the counter. It’s soft. Almost bruised. You don’t eat it. Just roll it between your hands, staring at it like it might give you a reason to still be doing this.

And then — for no real reason — it comes back.

A memory.

Your family’s old kitchen. Warm lights. The smell of garlic and fried egg.

Your mother laughing at her own jokes, trying to teach your dad how to dance between the sink and stove.

Your little sister stealing the last piece of longganisa when no one’s looking.

You, sitting at the table — full, happy, whole.

“Y/N, do your clown impression!”

You puff your cheeks, fall dramatically onto the floor.

They laugh. Your mom claps.

You’re not wearing makeup then. But you’re smiling.

You blink.

The apple’s still in your hand.

The room is dark again.

No laughter. No food. Just peeling walls and silence.

You set the apple back on the table and lie down without a blanket. Still in costume. Still in makeup.

Somewhere outside, fireworks go off — cheap ones from the night carnival.

You don’t look.

You just close your eyes, wondering if maybe you were happiest back when you were pretending for fun — not survival.

The next morning, you wake up sore.

You don’t remember falling asleep. Don’t remember dreaming, either.

Just the fan spinning above you like a lazy planet, and the dried streaks of makeup still stuck to your face.

You wash up, barely. Throw your costume back on. Ride the jeep back to the edge of the lot where the tents rise like tired monsters. You clock in without a word. No one greets you. You don’t expect them to.

By noon, you’re back at the front of the crowd — red nose on, oversized shoes squeaking against the wooden platform, hands twisting balloon dogs for children who all ask for the same damn thing.

“Wow! How did you make that disappear, mister clown?”

“Magic,” you say, palming the coin that’s obviously hidden under your sleeve.

The kid squints.

“I saw that.”

“Then you’re very smart,” you reply with your painted-on grin. “Now go tell your parents before they forget you exist.”

You spin another balloon, hand it off, and wave goodbye like you care. You don’t.

Same tricks. Same forced laughter. Same sun stabbing you in the eyes.

By the time your break rolls around, you’re back in your usual spot — the dusty patch behind the costume trailer, half in shadow, half in boredom. You light a cigarette, the smoke curling into the dry air like a ghost you forgot to bury.

You unwrap a sandwich that tastes like regret. Again.

Somewhere nearby, two crew members are arguing loud enough for the whole lot to hear.

“You think I didn’t know? You were sleeping with him while we were still together!”

“We were on a break!”

“That was yesterday!”

You watch them out of the corner of your eye, completely uninterested.

You take a bite. Chew slowly. Flick your ash to the ground.

“Couldn’t be me,” you mutter.

And then you see her.

Just barely — from across the lot.

Sitting under the bleachers, hood up again. Same duffel bag beside her.

Like she never left.

She’s there.

You spot her under the bleachers, hoodie pulled low, head down, like she’s trying not to be noticed — or maybe just doesn’t care if she is. Same duffel bag. Same chipped nail polish on her fingers.

Like she never left.

You stare for half a second.

Then look away.

You’ve got enough shit on your plate. You’re behind on rent. You’ve got clown shoes that don’t even fit right. You’ve got three more hours of balloon dogs and fake magic and a boss that treats you like a cracked prop.

You finish your cigarette. Toss the butt into the gravel. Wipe the grease off your fingers and push yourself up.

Back to work.

The tent groans in the heat. Kids scream in delight over rigged games and melting snow cones. Someone nearly trips over a loose extension cord and blames you for it. A mom yells because her kid didn’t get a blue balloon. You apologize with a voice you don’t recognize anymore.

It’s late afternoon when you see her again.

You’re dragging a box of balloons back toward storage when a flash of motion catches your eye near the food tent. Quick hands. Hoodie. Duffel bag.

Giselle.

She moves like she’s done it before — snatching a half-eaten corndog, a wrapped sandwich off the edge of a table, stuffing them into her bag before anyone notices. Almost.

“HEY!” one of the vendors yells. “She stole from the cart! Someone stop her!”

Your boss turns to you, snapping his fingers.

“Y/N. Go. Now.”

You drop the box. Start walking. Not fast. Not loud.

You find her behind the ticket booth, crouched down, unwrapping a sandwich like she has all the time in the world.

She doesn’t look scared when she sees you. Just annoyed.

You stop a few feet away. Hands in your pockets.

“You know,” you say, voice flat, “you can ask me if you want food. But oh well.”

She shrugs. Takes a bite.

“Didn’t feel like asking.”

“Didn’t feel like chasing.”

She glances at you, chewing. You turn around and walk off before anyone else sees you together.

Back at the food tent, your boss looks at you expectantly.

“Well?”

You shrug.

“Didn’t catch her.”

He groans, mutters something about useless staff, and waves you off.

You go back to stacking balloons.

And from the corner of your eye, far across the lot, you see Giselle again — sitting on the curb, eating your boss’s sandwich like she owns the place.

You smirk once. Just barely.

Then go back to work.

The day starts wrong.

It’s in the heat. The way the sky presses down like a lid. The way the sun isn’t just hot — it’s angry. You’re sweating through your clown suit before the gates even open. Makeup already smudging near your eyes. The zipper on your left boot’s broken again. You tape it shut with a piece of duct tape someone left in the locker room.

By noon, you’re running on half a bottle of water and a hangover of exhaustion. The balloon lines don’t end — kids screaming for the same damn dog. One grabs your nose and nearly rips it off. You don’t react. You just hand him his balloon and mumble, “Enjoy the show.”

Then it happens.

Screaming — high, sharp, real.

You turn just as a crew member sprints across the lot, red-faced and wild-eyed.

“Where’s the lion!?”

Another staffer yells, “He’s gone! Cage’s empty!”

You blink. Balloon half-twisted in your hands.

You look past the crowd toward the animal pens.

Chaos.

The lion’s trainer is yelling into his walkie, voice cracking. A supervisor’s waving his arms like that’s going to make a 400-pound animal reappear. There’s shouting in at least three different languages. One of the acrobats climbs on top of a shipping crate just to get a better look.

Someone screams again. You watch a woman lift her toddler off the ground and run.

“EVERYONE STAY CALM!” your boss says into the PA, voice stretched thin. “It’s under control. Just a small mistake. Show will resume shortly.”

Small mistake.

Right.

You’re told to keep performing.

Like nothing happened.

So you go back to the front tent, balloon in hand, fake smile in place. Parents keep one eye on their kids, the other on the exits. The air is too still. Too sharp. Even the music sounds scared.

You bend a balloon into a limp-looking poodle.

A child looks up at you, nervous.

“Is the lion gonna eat me?”

You crouch down. “Only if you skip brushing your teeth. Lions hate bad breath.”

The mom doesn’t laugh.

You stand again. Keep twisting shapes. Keep juggling. Keep pretending.

Then you hear it.

Yelling — again. Different this time.

You glance left and see two women — one in heels, one in flip-flops — arguing in front of the snack booth. Loud. Vicious.

“You were eyeing my husband, you cheap bitch!”

“Your husband gave me his number, you psycho!”

Kids start crying. Popcorn flies. A soda can is thrown and hits the ground near your feet, fizzing violently. One of the vendors tries to separate them and gets shoved. A crowd forms. You hear your name being called through a walkie, but you don’t answer.

A security guard finally steps in, grabs one of the women by the elbow. She screams bloody murder. Someone shouts, “LET HER GO!” Another swing. A slap. And then it’s full chaos.

You back away. Slowly. Balloon poodle dangling in your hand like it just saw a murder.

The fight fizzles out only after three more staff arrive. One woman leaves with a bloody nose and no cotton candy. The other leaves screaming, dragging her kid by the arm. A clown — one of the newer ones, the smiley guy — tries to make a joke to lighten the mood.

No one laughs.

You stumble backstage during your break, hands trembling slightly.

You’re thinking about the lion. About the fight. About how this place is slowly turning into a warzone wrapped in neon lights. You don’t even want food — you just want to sit.

You open your locker.

And stop.

Empty.

Not just “oh someone borrowed my charger” empty — but gutted.

Your last clean shirt? Gone.

The leftover sandwich from yesterday? Gone.

But worst of all — the photo.

That worn, soft-edged picture you tucked behind the metal panel, hidden behind a note that used to smell like home. Your sister with her dorky smile. Your mom with her apron still on. You, maybe thirteen, trying to do a goofy face before dinner.

Gone.

You check again.

Check under the bench. Behind the door. On the floor.

Nothing.

Your hands start shaking. Not out of panic — but something deeper. Heavier.

You slam the locker shut.

Hard.

It echoes off the walls. A few crew members look up. One of them opens his mouth like he might ask what’s wrong.

He doesn’t.

No one does.

You walk outside. The sky’s a pale yellow-gray now. Storm clouds forming at the edge of the horizon. Still too hot to feel like real rain.

You light a cigarette. Lean against the metal side of the trailer, exhaling slow. Trying not to break down. Not in public. Not in makeup.

You keep thinking about the photo.

How you never made a copy.

How your sister used to say, “Keep that with you so you don’t forget who you are.”

And now?

You’re sitting in your usual spot behind the costume trailer. Your second cigarette burns low between your fingers. The clown makeup is half melted from sweat and time. You’ve stopped caring about cleaning it off. You don’t even bother hiding how wrecked you look anymore.

Your back aches. Your stomach growls. You haven’t eaten since yesterday.

You’re so far gone in your own head that you don’t hear her approach.

You only notice when a shadow drops near your foot — and a hand slides something across the ground toward you.

A photograph.

Your photograph.

You stare at it for a second. You don’t move.

Then Giselle crouches in front of you, like it’s nothing. Like she’s done this before.

She takes a bite of something — a candy bar, maybe — and looks at the picture while chewing.

“You have a cute sister.”

Your eyes flick up to her.

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t pretend to be friendly. She just says it.

You grab the photo back. Not fast. Not grateful. Just… instinct.

You slide it into your chest pocket. No words.

She watches you. You don’t look at her directly.

“I also stole your sandwich.”

You shrug.

“Figures.”

“Tasted like cardboard.”

“Then we’re even.”

She leans back against the trailer wall beside you. She’s close enough to hear your breath, far enough that she could vanish again at any moment.

There’s a silence between you now — not uncomfortable. Not hostile. Just… there. Like two people watching the same fire burn from different windows.

You take a drag of your cigarette. She finishes the candy bar and wipes her hand on her jeans.

“You gonna tell your boss I broke in?”

You flick ash to the gravel.

“No point. He’d just ask why I had a sandwich in there instead of clocking out on time.”

She huffs a little, like it might’ve been a laugh.

Another pause.

“You look like shit, by the way.”

You exhale. “Takes one to know one.”

She picks at the thread on her sleeve.

You sit in silence again. No eye contact. No trust. But no distance now, either.

You didn’t ask for her to return the photo.

She didn’t ask for forgiveness.

And maybe that’s the closest either of you gets to something real.

It’s after hours.

Most of the crew’s gone home, or passed out behind trailers. The rides are off, tents zipped. Even the generator sounds quieter — like the whole circus is holding its breath.

You’re walking past the animal tents, cigarette lit, mind on nothing, when you see her.

Giselle.

Sitting cross-legged on the edge of a crate, hunched slightly, flicking something small through the bars of the lion’s cage.

Bread.

Old scraps. Like she found them in the trash behind the churro cart.

She tosses another piece in, slow and casual, like she’s feeding a pet that isn’t there.

You stop a few feet away. Say nothing.

She doesn’t look at you. Just asks:

“Where’s the lion?”

You take a drag. Exhale through your nose.

“Oh. Thing is…”

“They did catch it.”

“But I guess even a ton of tranquilizer’s overkill.”

She stops mid-throw.

The air is dead still. No wind. Just the metallic stink of cages and dirt.

She glances at you — only briefly — then looks back into the empty space behind the bars.

You keep talking, tone flat.

“I think it was sick anyway. They didn’t say it, but I heard one of the trainers arguing. Something about infection. Weight loss.”

Another drag.

“After they got it back, they put it down. Said it was too dangerous. Too unpredictable.”

Giselle leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. Tosses the last bit of bread in — soft and quiet.

It lands without sound.

“All that strength. Still ended up in a hole.”

You nod.

“That’s life, huh?”

She doesn’t respond.

You both stare into the cage. Empty. Rusting. The straw bedding already trampled and cold. The chain they used to use still lying in the corner, snapped at the middle.

“I used to hate that lion,” you say.

“I’d walk past and it’d lunge at the bars. Just for fun. Scared the hell out of me the first week.”

Giselle tilts her head slightly.

“And now?”

You look at the cage like you might see yourself in it.

“Now I miss it.”

Silence again. Heavier now. Not grief. Not nostalgia.

Something worse.

Recognition.

You flick your cigarette into the dirt. Watch the ember die.

“Don’t suppose you’ll cry for it.”

“Not the crying type,” she mutters.

Then:

“But maybe it was just tired.”

You both sit there a while longer.

Not speaking.

Not moving.

Feeding ghosts.

The lion cage is behind you now.

The sky’s turning purple-blue, streaked with smog and stars you can’t name. The circus is sleeping — or pretending to. Only the humming generator and a distant squeaky wheel from the ferris ride still moving in the wind.

You’re sitting on a metal crate near the back fence, smoking the last of your cigarettes, legs stretched out in front of you.

She’s there again.

No hoodie this time. Just a T-shirt faded from too many washes and jeans with a hole in one knee. She’s sitting on the grass, arms wrapped around her legs like she doesn’t trust the ground.

Neither of you speaks for a while.

Then she says it — softly, like she’s asking the air.

“Why do you stay?”

You blow smoke out slowly.

Let the silence roll out before answering.

“Because I’m scared I’ll leave and find out this was the best it ever gets.”

She hums like that answer doesn’t surprise her.

“That’s honest,” she says.

“Sad. But honest.”

She leans back, hands pressing into the grass behind her. Looks up at the sky like she’s expecting it to fall.

“Do you know where I’m from?”

You glance at her.

“You gonna tell me?”

“You gonna care?”

You take another drag.

“I might.”

She smiles — but it’s faint. Not coy. Not dramatic. Just… tired.

“Tokyo. But not the rich part. The part that looks like someone forgot to bulldoze it. My mom’s half-Filipino, moved there to marry a man who wasn’t worth her name. I grew up in a shoebox apartment with roaches and broken heaters. Left at seventeen.”

She shrugs.

“Didn’t want to become my mom. Didn’t know what else to become either.”

You nod. Quiet.

“She ever try to stop you?”

Giselle laughs. Bitter. Dry.

“She cried. But not for me. For the neighbors. ‘What will they think?’”

You grunt. “Sounds about right.”

She turns to look at you. This time, really look.

“What about you?”

You exhale through your nose.

Flick ash to the dirt.

“There’s no big story. I just… stopped trying one day. Didn’t leave. Didn’t stay. Just ended up here. The circus was hiring. I was broke. Now I wear clown shoes for minimum wage and get yelled at for not smiling enough.”

She tilts her head.

“And your family?”

You pause.

Then:

“Split. Quietly. One day I woke up and the apartment was just me and my mom. Then it was just me. Then it was just the noise.”

The silence stretches again.

She hugs her knees. Picks at the grass. You light another cigarette, but don’t offer her one. You don’t think she smokes.

Then she says:

“You know what scares me?”

You glance sideways.

She’s not looking at you. Just the fence. Just the dark.

“Not dying,” she says.

“Getting forgotten. Like I didn’t even dent the place I left.”

You don’t say anything.

You don’t have to.

You know that fear.

You live with it every day.

The generator hums louder for a moment. The wind rustles some loose tarp. In the far distance, a firework goes off — leftover from someone else’s celebration.

Neither of you flinch.

You just sit there in the dark, two people no one’s looking for, sharing silence like it’s the only thing you still own.

You don’t expect her to still be there in the morning.

Most runaways run again. But when you round the corner of the back lot, past the rows of trash bins and the half-lit ticket booth…

There she is.

Sitting on a tilted bench, one leg tucked under her, unwrapping something from a crumpled brown paper bag like she’s done this a hundred times.

“You’re late.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Didn’t know I was expected.”

She tosses something at you — low and underhanded.

A lukewarm bun wrapped in foil.

You catch it one-handed.

“What’s this?”

“Char siu bao. Vendor left his cart unattended. I took it as a sign from the universe.”

You peel the foil back. It smells better than anything you’ve had in a week.

“What’d the universe leave you?”

She bites into her bun, speaking with her mouth full.

“Pineapple bread. A little squished. Still good.”

You sit down beside her. Not close. Not far. Just there. The same way people sit next to each other on long bus rides — knowing the world doesn’t end in fireworks, just shared silence.

You eat. She eats.

A comfortable nothing stretches between you.

Then:

“You’ve got something on your face.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

“No, the other side.”

You wipe again.

She sighs, reaches over, and smudges your cheek with her thumb.

A slow, brief touch. Warm fingers. Dry skin.

You don’t flinch.

She doesn’t make a big deal of it.

She leans back.

“You ever wipe off that clown paint properly, or just let the tears do it?”

“I let the rain decide.”

She snorts. You swear it’s almost a laugh.

Later, as you walk side by side toward the big tent — her hoodie pulled low, your costume half-zipped — she speaks again.

“So… what’s today’s gig?”

“Balloon dogs. Face paint. Probably get screamed at by a mom who thinks glitter’s the devil.”

“Fun.”

“What about you? What’s your job today?”

She shrugs.

“Thinking about reorganizing the inside of my duffel bag. Maybe stealing a soda.”

You nod like that’s a serious task.

“Don’t overwork yourself.”

She bumps your elbow with hers.

Just once.

No words.

You both keep walking.

The crowd’s already forming when you tug the zipper of your clown suit up to your neck and smear the last streak of white across your cheek. You’ve been running this same set for months — balloon tricks, sleight of hand, fake flowers from your sleeve. It’s muscle memory now. Even your fake laugh is worn smooth from overuse.

You pull the curtain back slightly to peek at the audience.

Kids buzzing. Parents annoyed. Heat. Noise. Another routine day.

You don’t notice her at first.

But she’s there.

Giselle. Half-tucked behind a pillar of prop crates. Hoodie down. Arms folded. Hair messy. She’s not hiding — not really — just not supposed to be there.

And yet… she stays.

You don’t let your eyes linger.

You step out onto the stage.

Cue the music. Cue the fake cheer.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls! Ever seen a dog made of air?”

You twist a balloon into something sort of dog-shaped. A kid laughs. One throws popcorn. You catch it mid-air and stuff it in your pocket.

You move through the set.

The card trick. The flower sleeve bit. The clumsy juggling you mess up on purpose because kids love when you look stupid.

The crowd laughs more than usual.

You don’t realize until halfway through that you’re smiling for real.

Out of the corner of your eye, behind the curtain edge — Giselle watching. Chin resting on her knee. Not mocking. Not bored.

Watching.

And for once, you don’t feel like a joke in paint.

You feel like someone.

After the show, you slip behind the curtain, peeling your gloves off, sweat sticking to your back.

She’s gone.

You think maybe you imagined her — until you find a half-eaten peach on one of the prop boxes.

Wrapped in a napkin with a note scrawled on it in blue ink:

“Not bad, clownboy.”

“Still wouldn’t pay for it tho.”

You smile.

You don’t even try to hide it.

It’s late again.

The tent’s quiet now, just the muffled thrum of a generator and some bored laughter from across the lot. You’re sitting on a crate, clown paint smeared and half-wiped, working your way through a can of expired pineapple juice you found in the vending machine trash bin.

Then she shows up again.

No announcement. Just presence. Like smoke.

She walks over, dragging her duffel bag behind her, drops it unceremoniously at your feet.

Then she stands up straight — clears her throat like she’s about to make a grand announcement — and holds up a bent balloon she clearly fished from the ground.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she says, voice flat but dramatic, “watch closely as I pull… absolutely nothing… out of my empty sleeve.”

She wiggles her arm with forced grace.

Nothing comes out.

You blink.

“What the hell was that.”

She smirks. “Art.”

Then she bows — badly. Almost falls. Straightens up again.

“Wait. Hold on—this part’s important.”

She reaches into her hoodie pocket and pulls out a crumpled napkin.

Unfolds it dramatically.

Inside? A half-melted lollipop and a broken pencil.

She holds them out like treasure.

“Taa-daa.”

You can’t help it.

You laugh.

Not a scoff. Not a snort. A real, short laugh that sounds strange coming out of your own mouth.

She grins like she’s won something.

“See? I could totally be a clown. I’ve got tragic energy and poor life decisions. I’m halfway there.”

“You’re missing the permanent damage.”

“Give me time.”

You shake your head. “That was the worst magic act I’ve ever seen.”

“Yeah, but it worked.”

“How?”

She raises an eyebrow.

“You laughed, didn’t you?”

You go quiet for a second. Look at her. Really look.

No one’s made you laugh like that in… you don’t know how long.

“Yeah,” you say, soft.

“I guess I did.”

The rain hits fast.

You’re mid-shift, dragging tired feet across the gravel near the back trailers, when the sky just gives up. No warning drizzle. No slow build. Just a full, open-throated downpour that drenches everything in seconds.

You run for cover — one of the old canvas tents, unused now, storage for busted props and costumes nobody fixes anymore. You duck inside, breathing hard, water dripping off your sleeves.

She’s already there.

Giselle.

Soaked. Hoodie clinging to her shoulders. Hair stuck to her forehead. Breathing quiet, but sharp.

You stare at her. She stares back. For once, neither of you says anything stupid.

Then she nods toward your face.

“Your makeup’s melting.”

You glance down — white paint dripping in milky streaks across your jaw and neck, smearing into the collar of your suit.

“Good,” you mutter.

“Saves me the trouble.”

You sit. She stays standing, pacing a little. Hands stuffed in her pockets.

The rain roars against the tent roof. Thunder somewhere distant.

The silence between you builds. Not comfortable, not unbearable — just charged.

Then she says it.

“You’re not fine.”

You don’t answer.

She says it again.

Softer. Sharper.

“You’re not fine, Y/N.”

You grit your teeth.

“Neither are you.”

She steps closer. Water pools around her boots.

“So? You gonna keep pretending, or what?”

You stand up.

You don’t even know why. Maybe the sound of her voice. Maybe the fact that you’ve had no one talk to you like this in years. Maybe it’s the way the rain feels like it’s pressing the whole tent down on your back.

You’re standing inches from her now.

Clown paint running down your face. Rain dripping from your chin.

She looks up at you.

Eyes hard. Tired. A little afraid, but not of you — of herself, maybe.

And you—

You kiss her.

It’s not gentle.

It’s not sweet.

It’s a collision.

Teeth and breath and soaked cotton. It’s angry. It’s reckless. It’s everything you’ve both been holding in finally slamming into something that won’t look away.

She kisses you back just as hard.

Grabbing your jacket. Pushing you against the crate behind you. Mouth hot and sharp and alive.

You pull her closer. She doesn’t resist. Her fingers dig into your shirt. Yours tangle in the wet fabric of her hoodie.

And for a few messy, breathless seconds — there’s no circus. No clown. No runaway. No boss. No lion.

Just you.

And her.

And a thousand things neither of you knows how to say.

You break first. Breathing hard. Foreheads nearly touching.

She laughs — not because it’s funny, but because it’s so damn much.

“What the hell was that?”

You shake your head.

“I don’t know.”

You both stand there. Dripping. Shaking. Alive.

The rain keeps falling.

And for once, you don’t want to run.

The sun’s out like nothing happened.

Tents are dry. Kids are screaming again. Someone’s playing a broken calliope tune near the front gates.

But you?

You’re somewhere between blank and wrecked.

You sit at the usual bench during break — same spot, same half-warm sandwich, same view of cracked pavement.

And across from you, sitting like nothing happened, is Giselle.

Hood up. Legs crossed. Picking the sesame seeds off a stolen bun.

She hasn’t said a word.

Neither have you.

You both know.

You both feel it.

The memory of last night hangs between you like fog that hasn’t burned off yet. The kiss, the heat, the breathlessness — the way she held your shirt like she didn’t want to let go.

You clear your throat.

She doesn’t look up.

You try to speak.

“About—”

“Don’t.” Her voice is quiet.

Not cruel. Just… scared.

You stop.

Go back to chewing your sandwich.

She pulls her legs up on the bench, arms around her knees.

“I didn’t mean for it to be weird.”

You nod.

“It’s not weird.”

Even though it is.

“We don’t have to talk about it.”

“We won’t.”

And that’s that.

Nothing fixed. Nothing broken — just filed away.

But the world doesn’t leave things buried.

It’s around 4PM when it happens.

You’re restocking the balloon cart when you hear your name shouted from the main tent.

“Y/N. OFFICE. NOW.”

Your stomach drops.

You don’t even ask why. You just walk.

The second you step into the back trailer, the door slams behind you. Your boss is already pacing, red in the face, holding a clipboard that doesn’t even matter.

He throws it on the table.

“A runaway?”

His voice is low. Dangerous.

“You’ve been helping a runaway?”

You freeze.

Say nothing.

He steps closer.

“You think I wouldn’t find out? That she could just hang around backstage every day and I wouldn’t notice?”

Still, you stay silent.

“You know what that is, Y/N?”

“It’s a liability. It’s trespassing. It’s a fucking lawsuit if she gets hurt.”

You open your mouth — only barely.

“She’s not hurting anyone.”

He laughs. Bitter.

“She’s not on payroll. She’s not on insurance. She doesn’t belong here.”

And then, a beat later:

“You don’t, either.”

That hits harder.

Silence.

Then:

“So this is how it’s gonna be,” he says.

“You get her out of here. Gone. Or you both are.”

You walk out of the trailer.

The circus sounds loud again.

You spot her in the distance — sitting on the steps near the lion cage, peeling an orange. Looking peaceful. Like she hasn’t just been made your impossible choice.

You light a cigarette with shaking hands.

And for the first time since you met her…

You don’t know what to do.

You find her by the lion cage again.

But this time, she’s standing.

Backpack already on. Hoodie zipped. Eyes sharp — too sharp.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she says before you even speak.

You freeze.

“You heard him.”

She nods. Doesn’t flinch.

“Every word.”

Her voice is calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that hides shaking hands.

You feel heat rise in your chest. Not anger. Not yet. Just panic disguised as frustration.

“So what, you’re just gonna leave?”

She shrugs.

“Not like I was supposed to be here anyway.”

You step closer.

“That’s it?”

“After all this — after the food, the bun, the lion, the fucking kiss—you’re just walking off like none of it mattered?”

That hits her.

She looks away, jaw tightening.

“What did you expect me to do?” she snaps.

“Stay? Watch you lose your job over me?”

“Maybe I would’ve if you’d asked.”

She blinks.

“So I’m supposed to let you throw your whole life away just because we had one bad kiss in the rain?”

That stings.

“Bad?” you echo, voice cracking.

She doesn’t answer. Just folds her arms and looks like she regrets saying it.

You take a step back, hands in your hair.

“You think this is easy for me?”

“You think I’ve got something worth protecting? This job? This costume? I sleep in a roach box and eat half a sandwich a day, Giselle!”

She flinches — not from volume, but from truth.

“Then why stay?” she fires back.

“Why do you stay in a place that kills you every goddamn day?”

And there it is.

The heat breaks in your chest.

“Because the only thing that’s felt real in months—

—is you.”

Silence.

Her arms drop.

Your breathing is loud now. Both of you look at each other like strangers wearing familiar skin.

Then she says:

“I didn’t mean the kiss was bad.”

You swallow hard.

“I know.”

She steps forward — just a little. Barely enough to close the space.

“I just didn’t think it was allowed to feel like that.”

“Neither did I.”

She steps forward.

Grabs your shirt.

And kisses you like she’s trying to find her own heartbeat in your mouth

It’s still dark when you leave.

No fanfare. No final bow. Just you — duffel bag half-zipped, still wearing your faded clown shoes because screw it, let them remember who you were.

You walk past the animal tents, the rusting rides, the balloon cart where you used to kill time twisting air into fake joy.

You don’t look back.

But before you go — you stop by the trailer.

The boss’s office. That cheap little room where they yelled, where they threatened, where they said she was the problem.

You slip the envelope under the door, but not before taping a used balloon animal to the front. A sad-looking dog. One leg deflated.

Inside is the letter.

Handwritten. No edits. Just rage.

“To the boss,

Hope you’re happy, dumbass.

You got what you wanted. The freak’s gone. No more liability. No more runaway hiding in your tents. No more clown screwing up your illusion of a family-friendly fun-land.

But let’s not pretend you ever gave a shit.

You pretend this place is magic? It’s rotting. Just like your morals.

By the way, tell the gymnast I said hi. Or maybe tell your wife first. Up to you. I’m sure she’d love to know how many “late night rehearsals” you’ve been supervising.

Keep smiling for the cameras.

— Y/N”

You step outside.

No parade. No applause. Just the sun rising over rust-colored tents and your shadow getting longer behind you.

You don’t know where you’re going.

You just know you’re not coming back.

And somewhere — maybe across town, maybe still asleep in her stolen hoodie — Giselle will wake up and realize you’re gone.

The night swallows you.

The circus lights are long behind you now. Your boots crunch against gravel, and the bag slung over your shoulder feels heavier with every step — not from weight, but from everything you’ve left behind.

Clown shoes inside. Crumpled uniform. An old photo. Sandwich wrappers.

Your face paint’s still on — smeared by tears and rain and time. You didn’t bother to wipe it off. Maybe you wanted the city to see what the world did to you. Or maybe you didn’t want to forget just yet.

You turn down a side street.

Dim alley lights. The distant echo of a train.

And then you hear it — soft laughter. And coughing. And hunger.

You follow the sound.

A patch of concrete tucked behind a dumpster, half-covered by cardboard and tattered blankets. Five or six kids, maybe younger than ten. Some barefoot. One holding a plastic bottle of rainwater like it’s champagne.

They’re sitting in a circle, playing with broken bottle caps like they’re coins. The smallest one’s wearing a plastic bag as a cape.

You freeze.

They see you.

Clown makeup. Wild hair. A bag slung over your shoulder like a hobo magician.

They stare.

No screams. No fear. Just tired, cautious curiosity.

One of them stands — maybe the oldest — and says:

“Are you a real clown?”

You should say no. You should walk away.

But instead…

You set your bag down. Pull out one of the last good balloons you’ve got.

Twist. Twist. Fold. Squeak.

“You like giraffes?” you say.

The little girl in the back gasps.

You hand it to her with a flourish. She smiles so wide her missing teeth show.

Then you do another.

And another.

No music. No lights.

Just the soft snap of balloon rubber and the sound of real laughter.

You pretend to pull a coin from one kid’s ear. Let another tug endless ribbons from your sleeve. You trip on your own feet and let yourself fall, just hard enough to make them burst out laughing.

For a moment, you are the circus.

But not the broken one that chewed you up.

This is a better stage.

And this time… you mean every joke.

Later, as the kids huddle back under their shared blanket, you sit on the curb. Makeup streaked. Fingers sore. Breath fogging in the air.

One of the boys turns to you and says:

“You don’t smile like other clowns.”

You nod.

“That’s ‘cause I’m not like other clowns.”

He frowns.

“Why’s the clown sad?”

You look up at the sky.

Think of Giselle.

Think of everything you lost. Everything you gave. Everything you still have left.

“Because sometimes…” you say quietly,

“…the world laughs too hard, and forgets who it’s laughing at.”

The kids don’t get it.

They don’t have to.

They’ll remember the clown who showed up when no one else did.

A long road. City lights blur into soft halos. You walked alone, bag over your shoulder, clown makeup streaked like warpaint. No one claps. No one watches.

Just steps.

And silence.

And a future that hasn’t arrived yet.

“Some people… they enter your life like accidents. Broken glass on a sidewalk you weren’t supposed to be walking. Sharp. Sudden. Messy. And somehow, unforgettable.”

“Giselle was that.”

“The girl sleeping behind the generator. The thief with crumbs on her hoodie. The echo in my chest I thought I buried years ago.”

“She didn’t ask for my help. She didn’t want to be saved. She just wanted to be seen. And I saw her.”

“In a world where I was nothing but a painted smile… she looked at me like I was still someone worth knowing.”

You kept walking. Past a flickering streetlamp. Past a neon motel sign. Past a child holding a balloon shaped like a dog.

“I never got to say goodbye. But if you’re hearing this — know I didn’t leave because I stopped caring.”

“I left because I couldn’t lose you and myself at the same time.”

“But one day… when I’ve figured out how to stand tall without the paint… I’ll find you again.”

“I promise.”

“In whatever tent. Whatever city. Whatever version of you is still left after the world tries to beat it out of you…”

“I’ll be there.”

“And maybe that time, we won’t have to run.

“We’ll laugh, not the fake ones we put up, but the real ones we can’t

[izzih22]

I’m just gonna say it. Dallas doesn’t need Lauren Betts.

That’s no shade to Lauren. She’s insanely talented, no question. But when you really break it down and think abt it, she’s not the right fit for the Wings system. She’s a half court big who doesn’t consistently run the floor with pace, and Dallas plays a transition heavy style.

And let’s talk floor spacing. I’m pretty sure Betts has attempted zero threes in her college career. So if you pair her with McCowan or Yueru, or whoever else. You’re putting 2 paint-bound bigs on the floor (not saying they don’t shoot threes) which would completely clog the lane for Paige and Arike or whoever else to attack.

Also McCowan, Yueru, Geiselsöder are all interior first, size dependent, drop coverage bigs. Betts is just another version of that. She doesn’t bring a new look. We KNOW this shit doesn’t work. There’s no switchability, no stretch threat, no pace push. It’s like trying to fix a flat tire by adding more of the same air. Dallas doesn’t need another low-post option they need dynamic perimeter help.

Now, Azzi Fudd? That’s a completely different story. We all saw what happened when DiJonai was out… Dallas lost a ton of perimeter defense and spacing. Put azzi in there and suddenly you’ve got a two-way threat who can stretch the floor, lock down on defense, and bring elite shot-making. Pair her with DiJonai, and that’s a defensive duo that would give teams nightmares.

And let’s not forget yall. Azzi and Paige already have years of chemistry. This isn’t a “will it work?” situation. It will work, immediately. They move in sync, read each other perfectly, and that kind of cohesion is rare. I mean yall already know… they’re the coldest duo fr.

But anyway… Paige is a pass first player who draws doubles. Azzi moves without the ball better than most players. That’s an off-ball sniper with elite footwork who knows exactly where to be when the defense collapses. That’s plug and play offense from day fucking one.

So yeah, Betts is great. But for another team. Dallas should be doing whatever they can to get Azzi.

ALSO I’m not one of the people who just want them on the same team cause they’re dating. I just know this shit WILL work. Also I love talking basketball so give me your thoughts and opinions.

[ashthesalamipiece]

Your writing is phenomenal— as always!!! Love your work, but remember to take time for yourself and rest!!♥️♥️

If it’s no bother, could u write using the prompt: Katsuki and The "Reader" are secretly expecting a kid but haven’t told anyone; So when Mina hosts a girls night, one filled with snacks and wine, they get curious as to why The "Reader" is not drinking— Then she tells them she’s pregnant.

The same goes with the boys night (which Bakugou is unwillingly dragged into by Kirishima and Denki). When Bakugo refuses to take shots with them/ drink, they get curious— leading to the reveal on his end. (Bakugou is merely refusing to drink since The "Reader" is his only drinking buddy, but, now that she’s pregnant, he stubbornly refuses to drink with anyone else.)

Ahhhh thank youuuu♡♡♡

Enjoy so much love♡

“Secrets & Shots”

Characters: Katsuki Bakugou x Reader | Featuring: Mina, Uraraka, Jirou, Kirishima, Denki, Sero

---

It had been nearly two months since you found out, and only one since you and Katsuki had shared it between yourselves—no one else knew. You both agreed to wait a little longer, maybe until the second trimester, maybe until you were ready.

That plan… did not account for Mina Ashido’s impromptu “Girls’ Wine & Snack Night.”

---

Girls' Night

You were curled up on the corner of Mina’s plush pink sectional, a cozy blanket tucked around your lap as you nursed a sparkling water in a wine glass. You thought you were being subtle. Everyone was too focused on the gossip and cheesy rom-com playing in the background to notice, right?

Wrong.

“Mmm—this wine is so good,” Mina practically purred, topping off Uraraka’s glass. “Y/N, you want more?”

You shook your head quickly, trying to make it look casual. “I’m good! I’ve got my sparkling peach water.”

Mina blinked. “Wait—what?”

Jirou arched a brow. “You turned down the cabernet?”

Uraraka leaned over. “You love cabernet.”

“I—uh—yeah, I just haven’t really been feeling wine lately,” you said too quickly.

There was a beat of silence before the three girls collectively narrowed their eyes in suspicion.

“Wait… are you—”

“I knew it,” Jirou whispered, cutting Mina off, who was already squealing.

“Oh my god, you’re pregnant!” Mina gasped, practically leaping across the couch. “ARE YOU?!”

You froze, cheeks burning, then slowly nodded, biting your lip.

The room exploded into chaos. Uraraka covered her mouth in shock, eyes glistening. Jirou grinned, shaking her head in disbelief, and Mina looked like she might actually cry from excitement.

“You’re gonna be a MOM?!” Mina squealed. “WHY didn’t you TELL us?!”

“I—I just found out a few weeks ago,” you laughed, hands defensively raised. “Katsuki and I wanted to keep it quiet a little longer.”

“Girl, hell no! This is HUGE news!”

“I haven’t even told my mom yet!” you half-laughed, half-panicked.

“Oh, we are absolutely planning a baby shower,” Jirou said immediately.

“Does Bakugou know?” Uraraka asked.

You gave a dry laugh. “He was the first person I told.”

---

Boys' Night

Across town, things were much less cute.

“C’mon, man, just one shot!”

“No.”

Katsuki glared at the line of tequila shots Denki had oh-so-kindly arranged in front of them.

Kirishima patted his shoulder, grinning. “We finally dragged you out for a night. It’d be rude not to.”

“It’d be stupid to drink when my only decent drinking buddy’s not around,” Bakugou snapped, pushing the shot away. “I’m not doing this crap without her.”

Sero blinked. “Wait. You’re turning down tequila because… your girlfriend isn’t drinking?”

“Dude. You’re whipped,” Denki said, though it was with a grin.

Kirishima narrowed his eyes. “Hold up. Since when does she not drink?”

Bakugou looked like he’d rather chew glass than answer. He crossed his arms and stared at the wall. Silence stretched a bit too long.

“Bro…?” Kirishima pressed.

He groaned and finally muttered, “She’s pregnant, alright?”

Everyone went silent.

Denki’s jaw dropped. “WHAT.”

Kirishima looked like a proud uncle who just found out he’d been promoted. “Bakugou—for real?!”

Sero blinked. “That’s why she wasn’t at drinks last week?”

“She’s not drinking,” Bakugou muttered, looking vaguely murderous that it was out now. “So I’m not drinking either.”

Denki blinked. “That’s… actually kind of sweet.”

Bakugou threw him a deadly glare. “Say that again and I’ll knock your teeth in.”

Kirishima grinned, slapping him on the back. “Congrats, man. Seriously.”

Bakugou just grunted, but there was a faint, unmistakable upward twitch in his scowl.

---

Later that night, when you both made it home—each ambushed, each exposed—you curled up on the couch together and exchanged exhausted looks.

“Girls figured it out,” you murmured, resting your head on his shoulder.

“Dunno what gave it away,” he muttered. “Maybe it was the giant ‘NO WINE’ sign you were holding.”

You laughed softly, and he cracked a smile. Just a small one. But a real one.

“They know too,” he added after a beat.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Denki almost cried.”

You snorted.

His hand drifted to rest on your belly. “We probably should’ve told them sooner.”

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “But this way was kinda fun too.”

He grunted in agreement, leaning back as your fingers threaded with his.

“And for the record,” he added gruffly, “I still ain’t drinkin’. Not without you.”

Your heart softened in your chest. “Good. ‘Cause I’ll need someone to split mocktails with for the next seven months.”

[earlgreylatte]

2V1

Two against one. Underrated edition!

Peter Parker and Johnny Storm

When he was younger, he never really thought about how ‘popular’ he seemed to be with girls, after getting bit, that is. Johnny’s given him some flack for it before but he never realized how unfathomable his luck was until he had New York’s most eligible bachelor and the girl with a smile that’s disarmed even Namor on his bed, barely dressed and giggly. You and Johnny kiss, holding back a laugh, until you pull away breathless, falling back onto his sheets, a dazed but happy look on your face.

Snap!

And that’s definitely going to be something he’ll need to properly secure.

He watches Johnny nuzzle your bare thigh, warm hands rubbing up and down your calves before he presses his lips against your warmth, and a sweet gasp from you has his pants growing uncomfortably tight.

Your legs tighten around Johnny’s head as you buck against him.

Yes, Peter’s very aware that many would kill to be in his shoes right now. Hell, he’d be tempted to kill anyone in this position that wasn’t him.

Johnny pulls away, face glistening with your fluids before shooting him a fond but exasperated look, “Are you going to stand there like a voyeur or actually join us, webhead?”

“What, need some help?” He retorts, already rising.

“Peter, I think you just like to suffer,” you shakily laugh as he sets down his camera, shucking off his pants and underwear at once.

“Kinda have to like a little pain in this line of work,” he huffs, gently pushing Johnny back an inch before moving you into his arms, reclining against the bed post.

He presses his face against your neck, inhaling, as his thumb rubs circles into your skin.

“See? Isn’t it nice to actually join us?” Johnny teases before kissing him, mouth hot and tasting of you.

“I dunno…think I might need a little more convincing…”

Johnny’s heated stare and your muffled laugh tells him he’s going to be more than lucky.

John Stewart and Shayera Hol

Honestly he should have expected this, you and Shay were always at each other’s throats and always the first to ride for the other, more than willing to fight against hell if it meant the other woman was okay, while throwing in a targeted jab or two.

So watching the two of you clash weapons, nearly destroying the training room, again, he sighs and drags you both into his designated room on the Watchtower, already resigned to having his space trashed as you and Shayera enter a new battle of teeth, as your mouths collide viciously, your hand burying itself into orange locks.

“Don’t try to bite off each other’s tongue now,” he remarks, pressing a hand against his face before stilling at the sudden silence.

“Hah, you’re acting awfully high and mighty when you’re the one that probably enjoys this most,” Shayera comments, a viscous but beautiful smirk on her flushed face.

“Honestly, aren’t you have too much fun playing the enforcer?” You approach him, placing a hand against his chest, nails digging into his uniform.

“Maybe it’s time for you get out of your comfort zone, show some fire…or, don’t tell me you’re afraid, John?”

“The man without fear? Wouldn’t be a really good Lantern, would he?”

Hearing you two laugh, suddenly in sync, as Shayera’s breath hits the back of his neck as your hand travels lower, he knows that nothing has you two on the same wavelength other than a common enemy.

Feeling Shayera bite at his neck, as you sink onto your knees, hand palming his growing hardness, John, once again, resigns himself.

“Don’t think you’re going to need the ring on for this battle, Lantern…”

Is it really resignation if it’s done so happily, though?

Matt Murdock and Elektra Natchios

“She’s a sweet one, isn’t she? I can see why you tried to keep her hidden for so long, honestly I’m tempted in taking her for myself…” Elektra muses, hand pressing against your abdomen as she thrusts into you, red strap on disappearing inside you.

“Don’t,” Matt growls, voice gravelly despite the breathless lit, “even think about it.”

“He’s a possessive devil, isn’t he?” Elektra asks, black curls brushing against your cheek as she presses a kiss against your neck.

“And apparently for good reason,” he retorts, ripping off his mask, as his gloved hand plants itself on your bent leg, looming above you.

She huffs out a laugh, pulling out of you and you resist whining, but judging by the quirk of Matt’s lips, he’s aware of your intent.

“No need to pout, Matthew, not when you have an opportunity to—“ she’s cut off when Matt nudges her out of the way, quickly taking her place and hiking your legs over his shoulders before shoving his face in between your legs, licking up your slit with a groan.

“Like a man starved…” Elektra comments, amusement more than clear on her face, hand stroking your cheek, as she tilts her head.

“I wonder if your appetite is any similar…”

Marshall Ward and Nathan Burnett

Nathan loved Marshall, asshole he may be. That was an undeniable fact. Imagining a life without the man was impossible at this point; Marshall was too deeply entrenched into his very being, especially after gaining the power of the Radiant.

But a small, ugly part of him believed he would always be doing better than Marshall since that always seemed to be the case for their dynamic, but that was before he racked up enough debt that he had to move back home. Marshall, against all expectations, was doing good. He was doing his best as Radiant Black, and everyday Nathan could see him growing. And apparently he wasn’t the only one bearing witness to this change, seeing that his best friend now has a girlfriend. A girlfriend with a nice laugh and lighthearted demeanour that always seemed to make Marshall brighten up. You two are good together, you make his friend happy, and, really, he likes you. With your lame jokes that never fail to make Marshall scoff, and your inquisitive nature that invites him to talk about his writing.

But maybe, when it’s too late to head back home and he crashes at Marshall’s place for the night only to hear some salacious noises from his position in the living room, things become unnecessarily complicated.

He knew Marshall had some tough luck with girls (which he could relate to), but how pent up has he been to still be going at it!? And why were you okay with doing it on a mattress without a bed frame?

In a moment of sleep deprived insanity (or that’s what he tries to convince himself of), he rips open the door of Marshall’s room to be met with aforementioned man making eye contact with him and coming into the palm of your hand.

A moment of mortified silence passes before your face is lit up with an easy smile as you rise from the mattress Marshall is splayed on.

“Don’t just stand there, get over here, Nate,” you beckon him over, white stained hand in the air.

He’s vaguely aware of the ridiculousness of the situation as he approaches you, Marshall’s pants and overt gawking briefly registering in his mind as stumbles onto his knees like a man possessed, as you look down at him warmly, a twinkle in your eyes.

“Come on, have a taste,” you croon as Marshall lets out a choked noise from behind you, “Let’s see if all the pineapple he’s been eating actually made a difference.”

He should leave, shut the door, and try to go back to sleep and forget this ever happened. No way is he going to—

His fingers circle your wrists before he licks up your palm, and he hears your laugh before you grab his arm and toss him onto the mattress, narrowly missing landing on Marshall who jolts in shock, finally speechless for once.

And judging from your grin, he’d be following suit.

This implies the other 2v1 isn’t overrated, but it has Boostle and Viclena😭

Does Nathan want you or Marshall, I wonder…

Masterlist

[azzifudd10]

David.

"Am I ever gon' love again? Am I ever gon' love again? Am I ever gon' love again? (Ooh) Am I ever gon' love again?"

It’s raining. Of course it’s raining.

Azzi stands on the curb, her arms crossed, the sleeves of her hoodie clinging wet and heavy to her wrists. A thin strand of hair sticks to her cheek and she doesn’t bother moving it.

Across the street, the neon of the diner window glows weak and pink against the storm. Inside, Paige sits in the corner booth — same booth they used to share after practice, legs tangled beneath the table, fries scattered between them.

But tonight, Paige isn’t alone.

Azzi watches her laugh. Watches her tip her head back and smile at the girl next to her — the one with the sharp eyeliner and easy confidence that Azzi never could muster.

She’s gorgeous. She’s better.

Azzi feels her chest crack a little.

She thinks about calling out — thinks about crossing the street and marching right through the diner door and saying something, anything. But she stays planted.

Like she always does.

Because Azzi’s always been the quiet one. The safe one. The one who loved Paige so quietly that nobody — not even Paige — really noticed.

It started when they were nineteen.

Paige had stormed into her life like a summer thunderclap. Loud. Bright. Reckless.

And Azzi? She’d followed her anywhere.

Sneaking out after curfew just to sit on the roof and count stars. Holding her breath while Paige told stories about how they were going to leave this town — move to some city with skyscrapers and nights that didn’t end.

Azzi believed her.

She still believes her, sometimes, when she’s half-asleep and dreaming.

But then Paige had started pulling away. Little things, at first. Answering texts slower. Sitting next to someone else on the bus. Kissing Azzi in the dark but not holding her hand in the daylight.

Azzi hadn’t said anything. She never did.

Because every time Paige looked at her — really looked at her — it felt like being seen for the first time. And Azzi was too scared to lose that.

The diner door jingles.

Paige steps outside with the other girl’s arm slung around her shoulders. Her laugh is soft now, private, the kind she used to save just for Azzi.

Azzi feels her stomach flip, her breath catch. For half a second, Paige’s eyes find hers.

And she freezes.

Paige hesitates — just the smallest beat — then drops her gaze, pulling the other girl closer as they disappear down the street.

Azzi stays where she is. Drenched. Heart hammering.

Later, when she finally starts walking home, her phone buzzes.

It’s Paige.

hey. u ok?

Azzi stares at the screen until the rain smudges the words.

She types. Deletes. Types again.

And then she shoves the phone into her pocket without answering.

When she finally reaches her apartment, her hoodie is soaked through and her shoes squelch against the floor.

She sits down on the edge of her bed and pulls her knees to her chest.

In the quiet, she whispers — to no one at all — "I loved you first."

But the words feel empty now. Like everything else between them.

And outside, the rain keeps falling.

The rain won’t quit. Her hair sticks to the back of her neck as she fumbles with her keys outside the apartment, hands shaking like she’s cold, though she knows it isn’t the weather.

It’s Azzi. It’s always Azzi.

When Paige saw her standing there across the street — god, just standing there, drenched, eyes wide like a deer — she thought she might actually stop breathing.

Because she knew.

She knew Azzi still looked at her like she’d hung the moon. And Paige? She still looked back.

She still wanted to cross that street and grab her by the face and say I’m sorry.

But she didn’t.

She never does.

She kicks the door shut behind her, drops her bag on the floor, and presses her forehead to the cool wall. Her phone buzzes again.

It’s still that text she sent a few blocks back.

hey. u ok?

No reply. Of course there’s no reply.

Paige swallows hard and sinks down to sit on the floor, knees pulled up, staring at the little gray screen like maybe if she waits long enough, Azzi will forgive her.

She wishes she could explain.

That night months ago — the one where everything cracked — Azzi had been curled up next to her on the couch, wearing Paige’s hoodie and half-asleep.

And Paige had looked down at her and thought: This is it. This is too much.

Too soft. Too fragile. Too real.

She didn’t know how to hold that kind of love and not drop it. So she started pulling away.

Because that’s what Paige does best — ruin things before they can ruin her.

The other girl — the one from the diner — she doesn’t even remember her name anymore.

She just remembers the way Azzi’s eyes cut through her when she saw them together. Like she’d been gutted clean.

And even now, Paige can still feel it.

That look. That silence.

She picks up her phone again. Thumb hovers over Azzi’s name.

Types.

please. talk to me.

Deletes it.

Types something else.

i miss you.

Deletes it.

Finally she just throws the phone onto the couch and buries her face in her hands.

Sometime after midnight, she drags herself to the window. The rain’s slowed to a drizzle, the streetlights glinting against wet pavement.

She half-expects to see Azzi standing down there again — like some ghost that refuses to leave her alone.

But there’s nothing.

Just quiet. Just empty.

And Paige leans her forehead to the glass and whispers — "You loved me first. And I ruined it."

She doesn’t sleep that night.

Doesn’t call. Doesn’t text.

Just sits in the dark and lets the weight of it all settle in her chest.The rain picks up again just before dawn. And Paige closes her eyes, hoping it’ll drown out the sound of Azzi’s name in her head.

[thecuriousbeauty]

Different Frequencies- Part IV (Harry Styles!au x autistic!reader)

Series Synopsis- College heartthrob and football captain Harry Styles needs extra credit to survive the year. His only shot? Mentoring Y/N, a brilliant autistic student who couldn’t care less about his charm. What starts as an obligation soon sparks something neither of them expected.

A/N:- Finally, Different Frequencies come to an end! I didn't expect this to become one of my favorite series I've ever written when I started this. So many of you have reached out to me, and it makes me so happy to know that my story is being appreciated. Please keep reblogging, liking, and commenting to let me know if you like this! Here it is, the long, but gripping part 4!

Warnings: Mentions abuse, violence, knife involved, slight panic attack. Sweet, cavity giving fluff.

Word count: 10K

____________________________________

Zayn was the first to speak when they found the smeared red markings trailing toward the abandoned science building and the message from Harry’s phone. His voice was low, firm, and sharp with fear.

“We have to go in, what if he’s hurt Leah already?”, Zayn asks.

“Let’s go in, there’s two of us, one of him, we can take him down.”, Harry tells him. “y/n, you stay out here and call the cops.”

But y/n shook her head, her voice soft but unshakable. “If I stay behind, he’ll know something’s wrong. He’s paranoid, and he’s already watching for cracks. If we break the pattern, he’ll see it.”

Harry stepped in, worry clear in his features. “Cherry, this isn’t about proving anything. It’s not worth you getting hurt.”

“I’m not doing this to prove anything,” she replied. “Leah is in there. He’s already hurt her. I won’t let him think she’s alone.” Her hands trembled slightly, but her jaw was set.

“He doesn’t know Zayn’s with us, he should be the one calling the cops.”

Zayn stared at her for a long beat, then exhaled hard and turned to Harry. “I don’t like this idea.”, Harry says.

“Neither do I. But you keep her safe. No matter what.”

“I will,” Harry said without hesitation. Zayn nodded, and gave y/n hand a squeeze before pulling out his phone and running to see where he got the best range.

They slipped into the building, y/n close behind Harry, the heavy quiet inside wrapping around them like a vice. Every step echoed. The place smelled of rust and damp walls, and the red markings became more erratic the deeper they went. Then they found him.

Darren stood in front of a grimy whiteboard covered in frenzied red scribbles. A chaotic mess of names, slashes, and incomplete phrases. Leah sat behind him on the floor, tied at the wrists, eyes glazed and cheeks streaked with dried tears. Her lip was split.

“Well, well,” Darren said when he saw them. His voice had that same mocking edge he used in the locker room, only now it was cracked with something more volatile. “The golden boy and his weird little project.”

“Let her go,” Harry said, stepping forward, his voice even but laced with fury. “It’s over.”

Darren laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. “You don’t get to say when it’s over. You think you can just walk in and take everything from me?” He stepped forward, face contorted with rage. “You always had everything, Styles. The charm, the team, the girls. You don’t even try. You just smile and everyone follows. They worship you.”

“You’re jealous,” Harry said simply.

y/n took the chance to move while Darren was locked in his tirade. She crouched low, inching toward Leah. Her hands shook as she reached out and began untying the restraints, her fingers fumbling against the stiff plastic. Leah barely reacted, she was frozen in place, trapped in shock. 

“Damn right I am!” Darren snapped. “I worked harder than you ever did. I played through injuries, I did what I had to. But no one ever looked at me the way they look at you. Even now , she looks at you like you're some sort of savior.” His gaze slid to y/n, and Harry instinctively moved in front of her. “You don’t deserve any of it. Not the team. Not her. Not the life you get to live like it’s owed to you.”

Harry didn’t flinch. “I don’t care what you think I deserve. But you’re not walking out of here with her.”

y/n leaned closer to Leah, whispering softly that it was okay, that she was there. That she wasn’t alone.

Then Darren’s eyes caught the movement. His expression twisted with fury. “You little bitch, don’t touch her! She’s mine!”

Darren’s hand caught y/n’s hair, yanking her back. Harry growled and moved in, but before he could get close, Darren pulled out a knife from his back pocket.

“You move, and this shiny silver is going to slit your girlfriend’s throat. That’s a good idea, isn’t it? Finally she won’t be able to nose her way into someone else’s life!”

y/n’s body went stiff, a cold flood of panic washing through her chest. The harshness of his grip, the way her head jerked back, the sudden loss of control,  it was like her brain short-circuited.

Too loud. Too much. Too close.

Her breathing stuttered. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her voice had vanished, buried under the sirens in her head, under the thick fog of panic. Her limbs wouldn’t move the way she needed them to. Her hands stayed suspended in the air, useless. Her skin crawled under his touch, her thoughts spun like they were trying to outrun something inside her own body.

She was frozen, but her eyes screamed.

Wide, glassy, full of terror. They locked onto Harry’s the moment Darren grabbed her, and it was like a silent explosion between them. Her lips trembled, her chest heaved, but not a single word escaped. She couldn’t ask for help. Couldn’t beg. Couldn’t move.

But Harry didn’t need her to say it.

The moment he saw her face, the raw panic, the complete shutdown, something in him snapped. But if he moved, the knife pressing onto her skin would break skin and draw blood. Darren had completely lost it, so Harry could not risk it.

“Leave her the fuck alone Darren! Let her go, you asshole! You don’t understand!”, Harry yelled, mind working and looking around to see what he could do. He could only hope Zayn had better luck with the police.

Then his eyes landed on Leah. y/n had untied her before Darren noticed. She could knock the knife out of his hand, he wouldn’t expect that. Leah looked at him, eyes still glassy and Harry’s expression begged for her to do something. He couldn’t talk to her though, Darren would notice if he did.

“You really like her, don’t you, Styles? You are always in my way, and your dumb new side kick also did just that, so tell me why-”

Leah finally got Harry’s message. She grabbed her shoe that was nearby and threw it with a cry, it hit Darren’s eye. Harry didn’t waste time, he tackled Darren back hard against the ground, away from y/n, the knife slipping out of his hand. They hit the floor with a dull, heavy thud, Darren cursing and thrashing beneath him. Harry didn’t let up. He pinned him with sheer rage, jaw clenched, breathing hard.

“Don’t you dare lay your filthy hands on my girl, you fucking loser. Did you really think your stupid plan was going to work?” Harry pressed his head further onto the ground. “You don’t get to hurt her.” he growled. “Not Leah. Not y/n. Not anyone.”

That’s when the sirens split the air outside.

Police stormed the building within seconds. Zayn was already there, pointing without hesitation. “That’s him,” he told them, voice cold. Darren barely resisted as they pulled him off the floor, yelling incoherently about how it wasn’t his fault, how he didn’t mean it, how they ruined his life.

But they didn’t only go for Darren.

Two officers also restrained Harry as part of protocol, pushing him back with rough hands and demanding answers. Harry didn’t fight it, though. 

“y/n! y/n, are you okay?”, he yelled, eyes on her the whole time.

Zayn rushed to her side. She was curled in on herself, her hands clenched tight, her breathing uneven and shallow.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, pulling her close. “You’re safe now. Just breathe with me. In and out, y/n. You did it. You’re okay.”

Slowly, the world came back into focus. Her muscles began to unclench. She leaned into Zayn, letting him ground her with quiet strength.

Across the room, Leah sat shaking in the corner, her arms wrapped around herself, crying silently. 

“You’re okay, it’s over, you saved her life, y/n.”, Zayn whispered, and she pulls back sniffling to look at him. She opened her mouth to talk, but only a sniffle comes out.

“I know. He’s horrible, and now he’s going to suffer the consequences. You’re so brave, I’m so proud of you. You didn’t let another girl go through what your mom did.”, Zayn spoke softly, his caramel eyes gentle as he held his best friend, more like his sister, someone whom he has always looked out for.

y/n took another minute, letting his presence calm her, let her body know that it’s okay now. Then she looked at Leah. “G-Gonna check on her.”, she tells Zayn.Zayn nodded and she slipped out of his hold and crawled over to her. She didn’t ask if she was okay, she didn’t say anything at all. She just sat down beside her and wrapped her arms around the trembling girl.

“I couldn’t do anything,” Leah whispered, her voice broken. “He said he’d make it worse if I left. He said he’d make sure I never saw anyone again.”

y/n didn’t reply. She just held her tighter as Leah sobbed, knowing better than most what it meant to live with fear so long it becomes a language. 

One of the lady officers came to Leah with a gentle smile and a blanket. y/n gets up and sees Harry coming towards her, green eyes full of concern washing all over her. 

“Are you hurt, y/n?”, he asks, and she shakes her head. Not physically, but everything that happened reminded her of her father. She was slowly coming out of the state of panic, trying to focus on the positive things, but Harry noticed she was still slightly trembling.

“Come on, let’s get out of here.”, Harry gently took her hand, steering her outside to get some fresh air. She let out a breath once they were outside, trying to focus on the cool breeze hitting her skin, the sound the birds made and of the leaves rustling. Harry stops walking and turns to her, other hand coming up to cup her cheek.

“Cherry? You okay?”, he whispers. 

“I..I think so..Harry?”, she asks, her finger coming up to touch his cheek where a light purple bruise was forming, Darren would have landed a punch.

“Oh this? This is nothing. That little shit couldn’t hurt me.”, Harry gives her a signature smirk.

She looks at him for a second, before reaching for him, and putting her arms around him awkwardly. Harry was surprised at first, yes, he wanted to scoop her into his arms as soon as he was free from the police questioning but he didn’t want to make her more overwhelmed.

He smiled when she pressed against him, slowly and didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around her too, bringing her in closer. She leaned against him, she was letting him in. His nose buried into her hair, closing his eyes as one of his hands cupped the back of her head, where Darren had pulled her by her hair minutes ago.

y/n also had her eyes closed, now something else to focus on as she tried to calm down. His heartbeat.

It thudded against her ear, strong and fast and real. She closed her eyes and let herself feel it. The steady rhythm anchored her, his rhythm. He smelled like sweat and earth and fear, but also something else. Safety. Something she didn’t know she needed until it wrapped around her like this.

She didn’t move for a long time. Neither did he.

Then softly, her voice barely above a whisper, she said, “Your heart’s beating really fast.”

He gave a breathy laugh, the kind you let out when you’re finally allowed to feel something. “Yeah? That’s what you do to me, Cherry.”

“Mine’s fast too.”, she tells him, and he hums, pressing a small kiss to her temple. “I like this. Holding you.”

She smiled softly, lifting her head to look at him. “Hey there.”, he smiles at the eye contact, one hand cupping her chin before she can move away. 

“Hey.”, she whispers. “You’re a really good guy, Harry.”

“I wouldn’t have done all this if it wasn’t for you, y/n. I really wouldn’t have cared. I think being with you makes me a better person.”, he answers, eyes locked onto hers. 

“Back there..you um, you called me your girl.”, she remembers. Usually she never gave anyone eye contact for so long, but Harry’s eyes were captivating, she didn’t want to look away. 

“God I was so angry, I wanted to beat the crap out of him. Sorry, uh, was that okay? Me calling you my girl?”

She nods, brushing her thumb over his bruise. “I liked it.”

“Good. Cause I really like you.”, he says, eyes moving to her rosy pink lips. “I can’t get you out of my mind since the day I met you. You’re just so..special, you know? I don’t think you realize that.”

She blushed, wondering if her heart had ever beat so fast. “Harry?”

“Yeah?”, he smiles, every fibre in his body wanting to kiss her. But no, he would wait. They had a very overwhelming day, and she was already in his arms, trusting him, letting him hold her. That was a huge step today, and that was enough. He was ready to take it slow, at her pace.

“I really like you too.”, she admits, and then giggles softly when he grins, and goes back to hiding her face against his chest.

“Aw, don’t go all shy on me!”, he laughs, dropping another kiss to her hair. “Thank you for trusting me. I know this is not easy for you. I’ll never let you down, y/n.”

“Good, cause Zayn will..torture and kill you.”, she says, and they laugh. 

“That’s true, he’s scary when he’s mad. Oh, there he comes.”

“Leah’s parents came to pick her up, we’re free to go!”, Zayn runs towards them. “Oi lovebirds, you scared me there!”

“I told you there was nothing to be scared about when I was there.”, Harry gloats, still smiling as they pull away.

“Sure, I saw Darren about to punch your nose in if I hadn’t walked in with the police at that moment.”, Zayn scoffs and y/n rolls her eyes, taking both their arms and walking towards the car. 

“You both were awesome, okay?”

“But you were the best!”, Zayn grins.

“I can agree with him on that. The very best!”, Harry adds. “Hey maybe we should make this a thing. Harry and his cute sidekicks save the day!”

“What? No! That’s a horrible name!”, y/n giggles, while Zayn makes a face. “Ugh. You ever get tired of being so cocky?”

Yes, they were all shaken up, never been through anything like that. But they did it together, and they will get through it together. At the end of the day, they did save a girl’s life.

_______________________________________________

y/n clutched her bag strap tighter, pressing it against her chest as she walked down the hallway. Nothing looked different. The bulletin board still had the same faded flyer for the student film club. A girl walked past, talking into her phone about lunch. Her sneakers squeaked.

But something was different. She felt it the moment she stepped into the building.

People were… looking at her. Not in the usual way, the kind of way that said, There goes the weird girl who never talks. No. These glances were longer. Not mocking. Curious, almost. She caught snippets.

“That’s her, right? The one who helped-”

“I heard she stood up to him like, actually fought him-”

“Yeah, and Harry Styles was there too. Wild.”

y/n didn’t like attention. She wanted to fold into herself like a paper crane. In her psych class, the one she used to sit in the back of alone, someone hesitated near her row. A guy, Ryan, she thought, hovered with his notebook and coffee.

“Hey,” he said, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot. “Is anyone sitting here?”

y/n blinked. It was the seat next to hers. The seat. The one Harry only recently started to fill in.

She glanced at it, then at Ryan. Her mouth opened, then closed again. Talking was hard sometimes. It felt like having to untangle a knot of thoughts with gloves on.

“There’s someone coming,” she said finally, gently. “Sorry.”

“Oh, no worries.” He smiled like he meant it, like he didn’t think she was weird for saying no. 

y/n exhaled through her nose. She tapped her pen against her notebook, grounding herself.

A few minutes later, she heard Harry’s laugh.

And then he was there, sliding into the seat beside her like nothing had changed, except everything had. He smelled like cedar and vanilla again, like safety. His curls were a little windblown.

“Hey, Cherry,” he said, voice low just for her.

Her heart did that soft, unfamiliar flutter again. She ducked her head but couldn’t stop the tiniest smile from tugging at her lips.

He leaned in slightly, not touching, just close, like he was anchoring her to the moment. Then his friend, Nate, the one who usually walked past her like she was invisible, tossed himself into the seat on Harry’s other side.

Nate gave her a small nod. “Hey, y/n.”

She blinked again. “Hi.”

He looked back down at his laptop like it was no big deal. But it was.

Harry glanced at her, subtle but knowing. His hand brushed against hers under the table, a soft touch that didn’t overwhelm.

She remembered the hug from yesterday. The way she had let herself melt into it. The way he’d held her like she wasn’t too much. Like she was enough.

And now here they were. In the same room, same routine but everything felt just a little more possible. As the professor went on, y/n was concentrating on the class and she didn’t realize Harry was staring at her the whole time until when the professor told them to make note of a point, and he was just smiling at her.

“Harry!”, she whispers, tapping his arm.

“Mmm?” Harry rests his chin on his hand, looking at her with a dreamy look in his eyes.

“Make note, this is important.”, she says, nudging his ipad towards him.

“Yes ma’am. Sorry, got distracted there.”, he says, leaning to read what she wrote so he can copy the same. “Mr. Bennet is so boring, your face is way more interesting.”

y/n’s jaw drops open, she doesn’t know how to react to such open flirting. “Uh..sorry? Getting distracted in class is not good.”

Harry chuckles, looking up. “Don’t be sorry, Cherry, it’s a compliment. You’re just so pretty! And don’t worry about me, I will end up just fine if I don’t listen to Mr. Bennet here.”

She blushes and lets out a little huff. “Right. Captain Styles, got everything sorted. I should listen to class, though.”

“Okay. I will not distract you.”, he nods, seriously, and gives her a wink when she meets his eyes. 

“Harry!”

His eyes widen as he holds his laugh in, making a mouth zipped motion with his hand before folding his arms and looking forward at the boring, Mr. Bennet. y/n can’t help but giggle quietly before focusing back on the class.

After the class, the room emptied slowly, voices blurring into one another, chairs scraping against tile. y/n zipped her bag with quiet precision, letting the noise pass over her. She didn’t stand up until most people had already gone. Harry waited, telling Nate to go ahead. Harry had no rush in his movements, just patient, like he understood her tempo now.

When she turned to him, he gave her that soft, searching look. “You feeling better, today?” he asked. She slowly nodded. “I talked to my mom..and thought about Leah a lot. Knife part was scary..”

Harry nods, just listening. 

“But I felt safe afterwards. So..I guess I’m okay.” She hesitated, then added, “Leah didn’t come in today. I hope she’s okay.”

“She will be,” Harry said softly. “She needs time, like anyone would. But she’ll be alright. She’s got people now.”

y/n held onto that. People. It was still a strange concept for her, to not be completely alone with her thoughts, to have people stay.

“Hey, you know I’m here if you want to talk about it, right? Anything.”, Harry reminded her as they stood. y/n smiled, giving Harry’s fingers a squeeze. “Thanks, Harry.”

“Always.”, he grins, and leans in to brush a sneaky little kiss to her cheek, making her flushed. “Is that okay?”, he checks, and she just nods in reply, making him chuckle. 

Harry’s phone buzzed. He checked it, sighed.

“Coach,” he muttered. “I’ll have to explain the whole Darren situation again. I hope he doesn’t kick me out of the team.”

“Why would he do that?”, y/n asks.

“Cause..I did hit him, got in the mess. Not what an ideal captain is supposed to get into.”, Harry tells her as they walk out. “But I don’t care, I did something good, for the first time in my life. He has to see that.”

“He will.”, y/n says. “He’s..stupid if he doesn’t. And everyone loves you, the team wouldn’t want to lose you.”

He grinned. “I hope. Hey, um. After practice… Do you wanna hang out?”

She tilted her head. “Zayn…?”

“Uh, we can call him if you want, but I was thinking just us, yeah.” he said, shrugging one shoulder. “Not a tutoring session. Not homework. Just us. Talking. Maybe a walk. Maybe food. Whatever you want.”

y/n blinked, trying to process that. Her brain still wanted to file it under “scheduled activity,” but it didn’t fit anywhere neat. But she wanted to do it. If she was alone, she would probably start thinking about Leah and all the other possibilities of things that could have gone wrong yesterday. Her heart was already beating out of her chest, like it was trying to say yes for her.

“Yeah, okay.”, she nods, smiling softly.

He smiled so wide, she felt it in her chest. “Cool. I’ll text you?”

She nodded. Then he was gone, long legs and hoodie disappearing down the hallway with the rest of the football team.

y/n lingered in the library, where the world was quieter and the air smelled like paper and time. Zayn slid into the seat across from her without asking, because he didn’t have to. He was one of the only people who got it.

He gave her a look over his book. “He asked you out and you said yes, didn’t you?”

Her mouth twitched at the corners. “How do you know?”

“You’ve got your ‘I’m-processing-a-new-social-dynamic’ face on.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s just hanging out.”

“Sure it is,” he said, smirking, and opened his book again.

“Zayn, it’s a bit creepy how you know me so well.”, she voices out her thoughts and he laughs. 

“That’s what happens when you’re forever best friends with someone, okay? Not creepy. I’m proud of it.”, he says, then narrows his eyes. “You better tell me everything.”

“Zayn! We’re just hanging out. And yes, I will, you know I will.”, she sighs, and mischievously brings a hand up to ruffle his hair. He hates it when people mess up his hair.

Zayn squealed, slapping her hand away as she giggles. “Stop that, not my hair!”

________________________________________________

y/n stepped hesitantly into Harry’s living room, her fingers tugging at the sleeves of her hoodie as she took in the space. It was quieter than she expected, just the hum of some soft music playing in the background and the subtle smell of bergamot drifting from a candle. It was calm, but unfamiliar, and her eyes flicked toward Harry as he closed the door gently behind them.

“You sure you're good with being here?” Harry asked, a playful smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “If it feels weird or too much, we can teleport to Mars or something. I’ve got connections.”

y/n blinked. “Do I need a helmet or will you provide one?”

That made Harry burst out laughing. “Oh, you are funny today. I like this side of you.”

“I’m always the same.”, she said seriously, then added, “I just… calibrate slower sometimes.”

Harry stepped a little closer, his voice softening. “Well, I like all your speeds. Even the buffering parts.”

She tilted her head slightly at him, processing the compliment. “That’s a weird way to say it. But… thank you.”

He grinned and gestured toward the couch. “C’mon. Sit. I ordered your favorite food. That place you like, the one that doesn’t use weird sauces or textures.”

Her eyes lit up. “You remembered?”

“Of course I did,” he said proudly, flopping onto the couch beside her. “What kind of guy would I be if I forgot the very specific, clearly-stated preferences of the girl I like?”

Oh this boy was going to make her blush more than she thought was humanly possible.

They talked for a while, well Harry talked, y/n and listened. He told her everything he had gotten to know about Darren. The food arrived not long after, and they ate on the floor with the containers spread out like a picnic. At one point, y/n tried to flirt back, haltingly, but with a sincere effort.

“You have… an appealing face,” she said, chewing her noodles thoughtfully.

Harry blinked. “I think that’s the nicest insult I’ve ever gotten.”

“I meant it as a compliment.”

“Oh, I know,” he said with a grin. “Your version of flirting is dangerously charming.”

y/n narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m making fun with you,” he corrected, nudging her playfully. “Totally different vibe.”

Later, as they sat on the couch again, her legs tucked under her, him sprawled comfortably close, Harry leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head. She stiffened for half a second, then slowly relaxed into it.

By the time he drove her home, the sky was painted in soft purples and oranges. He pulled up in front of her house, turning to her with that same warm smile that made her nervous in a good way.

“Well,” he said, “this was… the best not-a-date I’ve ever had.”

“Almost,” she replied seriously. “You got bumped down for calling me a raccoon.”

Harry laughed, eyes crinkling. “Fair enough. I thought about taking you somewhere,” he admitted with a sheepish shrug. “Something nice. Fancy. Like… food with too many forks and awkward waiters.”

Her brow furrowed. “That sounds like my personal nightmare.”

“Exactly,” Harry said with a grin. “So I figured you’d be more comfortable here. At my place. With food you like and no forks trying to confuse you.”

She nodded slowly, absorbing it all. “That was, considerate.”

“I try.”

“You succeed,” she said, and then added quickly, “At least today. I’m still monitoring your long-term data.”

Harry laughed again, and this time it was soft and full of affection. “Guess I better keep showing up like this, then.”

Before he could say anything else, y/n leaned in suddenly and kissed his cheek, quick, soft, and just barely there. When she pulled back, Harry was frozen in place, blinking like someone had rebooted his brain.

“Whoa,” he said, hand instinctively going to his cheek. “You’ve never done that before.”

“I know,” she replied, biting the inside of her cheek, clearly proud of herself. “I save it for boys I really like.”

Harry stared at her for a moment, stunned, and then just laughed, heart full.

___________________________________________

The cafeteria buzzed with the usual lunchtime chaos, clattering trays, overlapping conversations, the faint hum of a vending machine on the fritz. y/n sat alone at the corner table by the window, her food mostly untouched as she scrolled idly through her phone. The sounds around her were a little much, but she had her headphones resting loosely around her neck, just in case.

She looked up when she noticed movement in her peripheral vision. Leah stood a few feet away, clutching her tray like it might fall out of her hands. She looked smaller than she used to, like the world had been too heavy on her lately.

“Hey,” Leah said quietly, almost like she wasn’t sure she had the right to speak.

y/n blinked, then gave her a small, warm nod. “Hey.”

Leah hesitated for a second longer, eyes darting around the room like she was waiting for someone to stop her. “Is it okay if I sit with you?”

“Of course,” y/n said without hesitation, motioning to the empty seat across from her. “Sit. You don’t even have to make small talk. It’s a safe table.”

Leah let out a shaky breath, half a laugh, half relief, and sat down slowly. She didn’t touch her food either.

“I don’t know where else to go,” she said after a moment. “Everyone’s looking at me like I’m broken or something. Like I’m a freak.”

y/n looked at her, really looked, and then nodded slowly. “Yeah. I know those stares.”

Leah blinked, surprised.

“I’ve been getting them my whole life,” y/n said matter-of-factly. “People don’t know what to do with what they don’t understand. So they stare. Or whisper. Or pretend like silence is kindness when it’s actually just, avoidance.”

Leah didn’t say anything right away. 

“Ignore them,” y/n added gently. “What’s important is that you survived. You made it out. That’s not weakness, Leah. That’s strength.”

Leah’s eyes glossed over, and she blinked fast, clearly trying not to cry. “It doesn’t feel like strength.”

“I know,” y/n said. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not. It’s okay if healing is messy. Just don’t do it alone, yeah?”

There was a long pause, then Leah gave a tiny nod. “Thanks. For letting me sit here.”

“You can sit here anytime,” y/n said, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Even if you bring the weird-smelling tuna sandwich. I’ll allow it.”

That earned a quiet, watery laugh from Leah.

“Whoa, this is the quietest lunch table I’ve ever seen.”

Zayn slid into the seat next to y/n without asking, tray in hand, sunglasses still on indoors like the dramatic menace he was. He popped a fry into his mouth and gave them both a cheeky grin.

“Hey, Leah,” he said, tone softer now. “Didn’t expect to see you out here yet. It’s good to see you.”

Leah looked surprised but nodded. “Yeah. Just… needed to try.”

y/n gave Zayn a subtle look, and he picked up on it instantly. He toned down the sarcasm, leaning forward on his elbows a bit.

“Glad you’re here,” he said genuinely. “No pressure to talk, though. You’re safe with us.”

Leah stared at her tray for a long moment before she spoke. “I just wanted to say… thanks. Both of you. For what you did.”

Zayn looked confused for a second. “You don’t have to-”

“No, I do,” she cut in, her voice quiet but steady. “I was… I was mean to you, y/n when you tried to help me sooner. I didn’t deserve your help.”

The table went still for a beat. 

“I remember what it feels like to be trapped. And scared. And not sure anyone will believe you.”, y/n spoke.

Zayn’s gaze softened as he looked at both of them, protective and proud all at once. “You were in a horrible situation, Leah. That doesn’t make you a bad person.”

Leah wiped at her eyes, clearly overwhelmed, but managed a shaky smile. “I, I really didn’t expect Harry to be there. To help. I mean, we barely ever talked. He’s Harry Styles.”

Zayn smirked instantly, a gleam in his eyes. “Yeah, well, maybe it mattered to someone he likes.”

y/n paused mid-bite and slowly turned her head to give Zayn the most unimpressed stare in her entire emotional range.

He just grinned wider. Leah looked between them, clearly trying to keep up, then her eyes widened slightly. “Wait. You two are a thing now?”

y/n blinked. “We are not a ‘thing.’ He tutors me, we hang out-”

Zayn raised a brow. “At his house. Where he kissed your hair and ordered your favorite food and probably looked at you like a puppy being handed a star.”

y/n turned pink. “Zayn.”

“I'm just providing context,” he said innocently, stealing one of her fries.

Leah laughed softly, the sound almost surprising herself. “That makes sense, honestly. He looked like he was going to kill someone when he thought you were hurt.”

She looked down at her tray, cheeks still warm, and mumbled, “I’m glad he was there. For you too, Leah.”

Leah nodded, her smile smaller now, but real. “Yeah. Me too. All of you, you didn’t have to help me. But you did. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that.”

y/n finally looked at Zayn, then Leah. “You don’t owe us anything, okay? That’s not how this works. But you’re not alone anymore. So, sit with us. Talk with us. Or don’t. Just be.”

Zayn leaned in and added with a wink, “But fair warning, if you sit with us, you’re contractually obligated to witness their slow-burn love story. It’s very dramatic.”

y/n kicked him lightly under the table.

Leah laughed again, shaking her head. “Honestly? I think I’d like that.”

Around them, the cafeteria buzzed on as if nothing had changed, but at that table, something had. A little more trust, a little less fear. And for the first time in a long time, Leah didn’t feel entirely alone.

_______________________________________________

y/n was already talking the moment she burst into the study room, her voice pitched higher than usual, her hands flapping anxiously by her sides as she dropped her bag with a loud thunk.

“I can’t do it, Harry, I literally can’t, he said I have to stand in front of everyone. With a slide show. And talk. Like out loud. With my voice. Do you understand what that means? That’s public humiliation in PowerPoint form!”

Harry looked up from the textbook he was skimming while waiting for y/n to join him with their communication tutoring classes, yes, they still had a few left. “Uh, hi to you too, Cherry.”

y/n started pacing. “Sorry. Hi. No, not sorry. I should be panicking. He just said it like it was nothing. Like, ‘Oh, y/n, you'll go week after next. Five-minute presentation.’ Five minutes? In front of people? I had a breakdown the last time I had to read my name aloud in class.”

Harry calmly closed the book and stood up, moving in her path. “Okay, okay. Slow down. You’re buffering.”

She paused mid-rant, frowning. “I what?”

He smiled gently. “Buffering. Like your brain’s going too fast for your mouth and now we’re glitching a little.”

She huffed, flopping into the nearest chair like gravity had just given up on her. “I am glitching. I’m going to crash. Blue screen of death.”

Harry pulled his chair beside her, not across. “Okay. So. Five-minute presentation. What’s the topic?”

“That’s not the problem,” she said immediately. “I don’t mind making the presentation. I like organizing things. Bullet points are safe. Transitions are safe. Fonts are very safe. It’s the talking part.”

Harry nodded slowly. “Got it. So the content’s not the scary bit. Just the performance.”

“It’s not a performance,” she said miserably. “It’s a psychological horror experience.”

He reached over and gently tapped her wrist. “Then good thing you’ve got someone who’s done, like, twenty of these. And someone who already thinks you’re kind of a badass.”

She gave him a skeptical look. “I cried in a seminar because someone looked at me for too long.”

“You’re still a badass,” he said easily. “Crying doesn’t cancel that out.”

She frowned. “You’re not going to say it’s not a big deal?”

“Nope. It is a big deal. I just also think you can do it. And I’m going to help you.”

She blinked at him, unsure how to process that level of certainty. “Our next session isn’t until next week, though. The presentation’s due a couple days after that. It’s not enough time.”

“Okay, then we don’t wait for next week,” Harry said, shrugging like it was obvious. “I’ll help you every day. Doesn’t have to be full sessions. We’ll start with just the content. Get your slides done. Then, I’ll sit across from you, and you’ll practice with me first. And we’ll go slow. At your speed.”

y/n stared at him for a long second. “That’s a lot of time.”

“I’ve got time,” he said easily. “I used to hate these tutoring hours, remember?”

She nodded. “You used to be on your phone, avoid talking to me.”

Harry laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guilty. You were just this extra credit thing I had to check off so I didn’t fail. Look how far we’ve come.”

y/n raised an eyebrow. “You did call me ‘robot girl’ once.”

“And I apologized! Many times! But now..” He looked at her, something soft and unguarded flickering in his eyes. “Now I kinda want to spend every minute of the day with that quiet girl.”

She looked down at her hands, fidgeting slightly, the corner of her mouth twitching. “You really mean that?”

Harry reached over and gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Completely.”

y/n went quiet for a long moment, her thoughts slowing down just enough to settle. Then she whispered, “Okay. We can try. One slide at a time.”

He smiled. “That’s my girl.”

____________________________________________

The late afternoon sunlight poured through the living room window, casting warm lines across the floor where Harry sat cross-legged with a pile of notecards in his lap. y/n was perched on the couch, laptop in front of her, her focus narrowed to the slide she was adjusting for the fourth time.

“Okay,” she said, tapping the trackpad decisively. “Font is readable. Bullets are aligned. Slide three has been emotionally stabilized.”

Harry looked up, grinning. “You talk about your slides like they’re moody teenagers.”

“They are. Slide three had attitude.”

He snorted and set down the notecards. “All right, slide-wrangler. Want to try your intro out loud?”

y/n immediately froze. “Like… with my mouth?”

Harry gave her a knowing look. “Yes, with your mouth. But only to me. No scary classrooms. No staring students. Just me.”

She exhaled through her nose and nodded slowly. “Okay. Just you.”

“Promise I’ll look at you with my supportive face.”

She cleared her throat, sat up straighter, and began. Her voice was soft, measured, but clear. Harry didn’t interrupt, didn’t correct. He just watched her, eyes steady, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth the whole time.

When she finished her intro, she exhaled sharply and looked at him, cheeks a little pink. “That was awful, wasn’t it?”

Harry shook his head. “That was amazing.”

She squinted at him. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’m not,” he said, shifting up onto the couch beside her. “You were clear. You paced yourself. You didn’t read like a robot, which, no offense, you used to.”

“Offense taken,” she said flatly, but her lips twitched.

Harry nudged her knee with his. “You’ve seriously come so far. I’m proud of you.”

Her cheeks went even redder. She looked down at her lap, fidgeting with the corner of a blanket. “I only got this far because of you.”

“Maybe,” he said softly, “but you’re the one doing the hard part.”

She looked at him then, really looked and Harry saw that flicker of emotion again. That vulnerable, open quiet that she never gave anyone else. Without thinking too much, he reached over and gently brushed her hair back from her face. Then, before she could get self-conscious, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

“Okay, now let’s do the first slide, shall we?”, he says, clapping his hands together like what he did didn’t fluster her at all.

They were three slides deep into their third run-through when y/n hit a wall.

She was halfway through a sentence, something about case studies when her brain abruptly went blank. The next word, which she knew she knew, was gone. Her mind scrambled, fingers twitching on the notecard, and a low, anxious noise escaped her throat.

Harry looked up from the couch where he was sitting cross-legged, instantly alert. “Hey. It’s okay. Just take a sec.”

“I knew it,” she muttered, voice tight. “I had it thirty seconds ago. Why did it disappear? It’s in my brain somewhere, I just can’t-”

“y/n.”

She kept pacing, rubbing her hands against the sides of her thighs. “This always happens. I get one thing wrong, and then it spirals, and then I can’t think, and I panic-”

Harry stood, crossed the room in two steps, and gently caught her hand. “Hey. Look at me.”

She froze, her breath shallow, eyes locking with his.

“Breathe,” he said, voice soft but grounding. “You don’t need to chase the word right now. It’ll come back. But you need a break.”

She blinked hard, frustration bubbling under her skin. “But I was doing fine-”

“You are doing fine,” he cut in gently. “And fine people are allowed to forget things sometimes.”

Then, without asking, he pulled her into a hug. It was warm and firm and sure, like he knew she needed it before she did. His arms wrapped fully around her, chin resting lightly atop her head, one hand rubbing soothing circles into her back. Her cheek pressed into his chest, and all the static in her brain started to soften.

She wasn’t overwhelmed by the contact at all. And more than that, it was something she was starting to want.

The realization struck gently, but undeniably: she craved this. Him. Not just his voice, not just his guidance, him. His closeness, his steadiness, the way he made space for her without asking her to shrink.

She stayed in the hug longer than she meant to. When she finally pulled back, it was slow, reluctant.

Harry gave her a soft smile. “Better?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“Want to stop for the day?”

“No,” she said quietly. “But maybe.. just five more minutes of this?”

Harry’s smile deepened, and without a word, he opened his arms again.

_____________________________________________________

Harry jogged across the pitch, his shirt clinging to his back with sweat, chest heaving just enough to remind him he wasn’t sixteen anymore. Football training had gone longer than expected, but he didn’t mind. Not today.

Because y/n was sitting on the hill, cross-legged in the grass, laptop open and notecards tucked around her like a protective shield. She was facing the field but wasn’t watching the game. She was reading aloud, quietly and carefully, her voice low and steady as she rehearsed her speech for what had to be the seventh time.

Harry smiled. She didn’t know he was watching her now, but he always was. Even in moments like this, when she was just mouthing words to herself and occasionally frowning at her screen, she had his full attention.

“She’s out here too?” Nate nudged him with a grin as they walked off the field together. “Mate, your fan club’s growing.”

The usual bunch of girls who come there just to see Harry practice, giggles when he looks at them and Harry rolls his eyes, looking back at the only girl that mattered to him. “She’s not here for me, man. She’s practicing.”

“She’s here for you,” Nate said knowingly. “You ever think about how different you are now?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”

“You complained to me for hours about those tutoring sessions. You hated anything that required sitting still. And now you’re showing up to class early, volunteering to speak, and reading actual books. Like with pages.”

Harry laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. I don’t know. I think… she just makes me want to be better. Not because she tells me to. But because she is.” He glanced at y/n again, heart tugging a little. “She's so steady. So real. Being around her makes me feel like... like I don’t have to pretend anymore.”

Nate gave him a knowing pat on the shoulder. “You’re a goner.”

“Totally,” Harry said without hesitation.

Without another word, he jogged across the grass straight toward her. y/n looked up just as he reached her, her expression warm, until she caught sight of him in his post-training state.

“Nope,” she said immediately, holding both hands up like stop signs. “Absolutely not.”

Harry froze mid-hug, brows lifting in mock betrayal. “What?”

“You’re dripping, Harry.” She squinted at his forehead. “You’re leaking. Like a busted faucet.”

“I came to hug you, Cherry.,” he said dramatically. “And this is the thanks I get?”

“Sorry, but if you hug me like that, I will shove you down the hill and not apologize.”

Harry gave her his best kicked-puppy face, but she didn’t budge. “Fine,” he sighed, pretending to sulk. “No hug. Cruel, but fair.”

She smirked, then surprised him by leaning forward and brushing a quick kiss to his cheek. “Compromise.”

Harry’s entire expression softened instantly, the fake pout vanishing. “That works.”

He sat down beside her, still sweaty and grass-streaked, but careful not to invade her space. She passed him a notecard wordlessly, and he took it with a smile.

“So,” she said, back to business. “From the top?”

He grinned at her, eyes full of something tender and unspoken. “From the top.”

And just like that, she started again, voice low and steady, his favorite sound in the world.

_____________________________________

The kitchen smelled like cardamom and caramelizing onions, and the air was thick with the kind of warmth that only came from a family kitchen. y/n was peeling potatoes at the counter, focused and determined, while Zayn stood beside her attempting to chop tomatoes in vaguely uniform pieces.

Her mom moved around behind them like a pro, humming under her breath and occasionally swooping in to correct Zayn’s technique without even looking. He took it in stride. Barely.

“I swear, I am good with a knife,” Zayn grumbled, staring at the uneven pile of tomato slices like they had personally betrayed him.

“Then why does this look like a fruit crime scene?” y/n asked, not looking up.

“That’s art, thank you.”

She smiled, her hands still working steadily, but her voice came quieter the next time she spoke. “Hey, Zayn?”

“Yeah?”

“What does… falling in love feel like?”

He blinked and set down the knife. “That’s a big question.”

“I know,” she said softly. “I thought you’d know-”

“Yeah, no, that’s okay.”, he says, he’s used to her asking many questions and he’s more than happy to answer.

He leaned his hip against the counter, looking thoughtful. “It’s… weird, at first. It sneaks up on you. You start noticing the little things about someone. How they say certain words, or how they look when they’re focused, or how they laugh when they’re trying not to laugh. And then one day, it just hits you. That you’d rather be with them, doing nothing, than be anywhere else doing something incredible.”

y/n was quiet, her hands paused over the potatoes.

“It’s terrifying, too,” he added. “Because it makes you vulnerable. But it’s also… peaceful. Like, when you’re with them, the noise quiets down. The world stops scratching at your brain. And even when everything’s a mess, they’re still the one place that feels safe.”

She swallowed. “That sounds… nice.”

He smiled at her gently. “It is. So…” he said, slowly turning toward her with the gleam of a tease building in his eyes. “Why the sudden question, hmm? Has someone finally realized she’s got googly cartoon heart-eyes for a certain curly-haired football captain?”

y/n rolled her eyes, but her ears were red. “It’s just a question.”

Zayn gasped dramatically and wiped an invisible tear. “Oh my God. My baby best friend is in love. My heart. I’m emotional. Hold me.”

She snorted, pushing him lightly with her elbow. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the best, actually. You know why? Because I called it first. Look at him now, turning down parties to hang out with you and build PowerPoint slides.”

“I never asked him to-”

“And yet he offered. Unprovoked!” Zayn grinned, triumphant. “Love, darling. That’s love.”

She shook her head, cheeks pink, but she didn’t argue. Not really. Because maybe she was starting to feel it too, that weird, slow warmth in her chest. The way her brain calmed when Harry was around. The way she missed him when he wasn’t.

y/n reached for the bowl of chopped tomatoes and gave Zayn a look. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re in denial.”

She smirked. “Love is patient, right?”

Zayn grinned. “Love is patient, love is kind… love also gets teased relentlessly by me until it kisses that floppy-haired boy.”

“Okay out,” her mom interrupted from behind, waving a spoon. “You two are banned. Go be dramatic somewhere else.”

Zayn cackled all the way out of the kitchen.

____________________________________________

The world felt hushed.

They were sitting beneath a tall tree on campus. y/n was curled beside Harry with her sketchbook on her knees, pencil moving gently across the page in calm, focused strokes. Harry sat next to her, one knee bent, leaning back on his palms, watching her like she was the most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.

She hadn’t said much for the past ten minutes, but Harry didn’t mind. He never did. Being near her, even in silence, always made him feel like the world was softer, simpler. Safe.

Her brows furrowed slightly as she added shading to a corner of the page, completely lost in her own head. Harry smiled to himself. That little wrinkle between her eyes? He loved that wrinkle. It meant her brain was somewhere magical.

Suddenly, she paused mid-sketch, her eyes catching something on the ground. She tilted her head.

“Why do ants bump into each other like that?” she asked aloud, more to herself than to him. “They just run straight into one another and then keep going. Like they’re… trading tiny ant data before carrying on.”

Harry leaned forward, grinning. “Trading ant data?”

“Yeah,” she said, matter-of-factly, still watching them. “Like one’s like ‘Hey, crumbs that way,’ and the other’s like ‘Cool, thanks.’ And then they just continue on their weird little quests.”

Harry laughed. “I love your brain.”

She blinked, looking up at him. “You… what?”

He reached over, thumb gently brushing against her cheek, and he lets his fingers rest there. His eyes didn’t leave hers.

“I love you,” he said quietly. “I know that might sound sudden, and you don’t have to say anything back. Seriously. No pressure. I just… I want you to know. That I love the way you see the world. I love how you think and talk and ramble and create, Cherry. I love you.”

y/n stared at him, eyes wide, and for a second her lips parted like she might respond, but no words came. She wasn’t panicking, just… processing.

Harry’s hand dropped from her cheek, but he didn’t move away. “It’s okay,” he said gently, with a crooked smile. “You don’t have to say it yet. I meant what I said. No pressure.”

She nodded slowly, her fingers tightening slightly around her pencil. Then, wordlessly, she turned her sketchbook toward him.

It was a drawing of him. Not a perfect portrait, something softer. More interpretive. His curls, the slope of his nose, the slight dimple in his cheek when he smiled. But the part that made Harry’s breath catch was the way she’d drawn his eyes, looking at someone with such quiet adoration.

It wasn’t a self-portrait.

It was a perspective.

“How long have you been drawing this?” he asked, voice low.

She gave a small shrug. “Since before the ants.”

Harry looked down at the page again, his chest tightening in the best possible way. Then, without thinking, he leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.

He didn’t need her to say anything back. Because this, this sketch, this moment, her trusting him enough to hand it over, meant more than any three words ever could.

________________________________________

y/n shifts in place near the front of the room, fingers trembling slightly against the cue cards she clutches, though she knows she won’t use them.

She doesn’t need to, not really. She knows every word. It’s the speaking part that threatens to undo her.

“You’ve got this,” Leah says softly beside her, a hand light on her shoulder. The warmth is real, and so is the confidence in her voice. “You're gonna crush it, I promise.”

y/n gives a small nod. Her chest is tight. Her heartbeat loud. Her hands cold.

A knock taps gently at the open doorframe, not the teacher, not a student. Just Harry.

He gives her that crooked, boyish grin she’s come to know so well. “Hey Cherry.” he says, already opening his arms.

Without hesitation, she steps into him. She doesn't even notice the whispering classmates behind them. She notices the smell of his hoodie, the way he presses a steady hand to her back.

“You don’t need luck,” Harry murmurs near her ear. “But I’ll say it anyway. Good luck.”

She nods against his chest. He leans back just enough to look at her, his eyes soft.

“Just breathe, okay? Like we practiced.”

Her fingers graze his. “You’re not even in this class.”

“Nope,” he says with a wink. “Got something way more important to attend.”

She lets herself smile,a real one, before turning toward the front.

Harry gives her a thumbs-up and slips out of view, disappearing toward the side hallway windows.

The room settles.

The teacher gestures for her to begin. y/n steps forward, heart jackhammering.

It’s only five minutes. Five eternal, blinking minutes.

Her voice wobbles at first, but her hands are steady. Her eyes stay on the wall at the back, just like Harry told her to do if it got overwhelming. And slowly, sentence by sentence, she finds her rhythm.

Her words are careful. Clear. Brave.

People are listening.

She doesn't stutter. She doesn't flee.

She breathes.

And at the very end, as she lifts her head, scanning over the sea of faces, her eyes land on the window.

Harry is there, pressed against the glass, trying to be subtle and failing entirely. His phone is raised. He’s filming her.

He’s smiling, like she’s the most brilliant thing in the universe.

And when their eyes meet, he winks.

y/n’s breath catches, but this time not from fear.

When class is dismissed, she doesn’t wait. She gathers her things in a rush, bolts past the desks and students and professor, and rounds the hallway corner.

He’s waiting, just outside the door.

And the second she sees him, those green eyes, the way his arms already start to open, she crashes into him like a wave, like gravity finally gave her permission.

“Cherry! You did it,” he breathes, holding her like he always knew she would.

“I did,” she says, voice thick with disbelief. 

Harry pulls back just enough to search her face. “I filmed the whole thing. For Zayn. And your mom.” His thumb traces a careful line along her cheek. “They’re gonna lose it when they see how amazing you were.”

“I couldn’t do it without you.”, she says, and he shakes his head, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “I just helped a tiny bit, this is all you.”

She’s close to him now. Closer than ever before.

She notices the soft curve of his mouth. The way he glances at hers for just a second, then back to her eyes, waiting, always waiting for her.

She lifts a hand to his jaw, her thumb feather-light along the stubble there.

And then, quietly: “Harry?”

“Yeah, love?”

“Can you kiss me?”

He freezes for only a heartbeat. Then his smile breaks into something deeper, something reverent.

“Been dying to hear you say that.”

And he kisses her.

Soft at first, like a whisper, a question. Then more sure, as his hands frame her face, as she leans into him like she’s finally found the safest place in the world.

When they break apart, neither of them speaks right away.

Harry leans his forehead against hers.

“Is that worth skipping class for?” she murmurs.

He laughs, low and stunned. “I’d skip the universe for that.”

Harry holds y/n’s hand as they walk side by side, a quiet sort of giddiness buzzing between them. His fingers brush hers every few seconds like he’s reminding himself it’s real.

They end up at the little ice cream place off campus, the same one he once teased her for ordering vanilla at. Now he just lets her choose for both of them.

“You were really incredible up there, you know,” he says as they sit on a bench outside, cones in hand.

y/n licks hers carefully before shrugging. “I messed up a little,” she admits quietly, tapping her finger against the edge of the cone. “I forgot the second point in the beginning. And I looked at the clock too many times. And I think I said ‘um’ a lot.”

Harry leans in, brushing a soft kiss to her temple.

“You’re the only person who noticed any of that,” he says. “You looked confident. Calm. Like you belonged up there. Everyone was listening to you. That’s what they’ll remember.”

She hums, thoughtful, before licking her ice cream again.

There’s a pause.

Then: “I used to think kissing was kind of gross,” she says suddenly, glancing up at him.

Harry almost chokes on his bite of chocolate.

She blushes. “Like… in movies, it always looked messy. Loud. Confusing.”

He tries not to laugh but fails. “Loud?”

She gives a little smile, then nods. “But I like it. With you. It feels, soft. Not confusing at all.”

His heart flips. He leans in, kisses the corner of her mouth, slow and gentle.

“Not loud, huh?”

She shakes her head. “Not even a little.”

Another beat, her voice lower this time. “I love you too, Harry.”

Harry’s eyes snap to hers.

The smile that spreads across his face is something she’ll remember forever, unguarded, wide, impossibly full of her.

“Yeah?” he asks, like he needs to hear it twice.

“Yeah.”

He kisses her again. And the two of them sit on that bench, trading licks of melting ice cream and kisses between shy smiles, the weight of everything behind them finally shifting into something light.

__________________________________________

The door creaks open.

Harry strolls in, no longer cocky, just comfortable, changed in that quiet, golden way love and growth can change someone.

Professor Langley looks up from her desk, arching a brow. “Mr. Styles,” she says. “Not in trouble this time, I hope.”

Harry grins. “Not unless being early is against the rules.”

She chuckles, setting her papers aside. “I wanted to thank you. I got some really good feedback about your tutoring sessions. From a professor, and I checked in with y/n too.”

Harry’s cheeks flush at her mention.

“You not only showed up, Harry,” Langley continues, “you were a good tutor. Which I’ll admit, I didn’t expect.”

“Neither did I,” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck.

“I’ve got a couple other students who could use the help. If you’re interested. Doesn’t have to be for extra credit anymore. You’re already going to pass the year.”

There’s a beat. Then Harry shakes his head with a crooked smile.

“Nah, I’m good. I’ve got my favorite tutee already.”

Langley tilts her head. “y/n?”

He nods, eyes soft. “Yeah. Just her.”

Langley smiles knowingly and returns to her notes. “Well… keep it up, Styles.”

He gives a little salute. “I plan to.”

And as he walks out of the office, no longer the lost, loud college hotshot, but something steadier, kinder, he checks his phone.

A new message from Cherry: “Ice cream again after class? You pick the flavor this time.” A heart emoji at the end.

Harry smiles. Taps back. “Only if I get a kiss too.”

He tucks his phone away, whistling as he walks down the hallway, off to class, or maybe off to meet the girl who changed everything.

________________________

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