#anyways. just a little something something about them

[iamactuallysocute]

SAJA BOYS x HUNTR/X’S ASSISTANT!READER

PLOT: So here you are, the sweet little assistant to HUNTR/X. Not anything like Bobby, no. You’re the only human they let in on their secret of being hunters, and your job is to help them out the best you can. Fetching the weapons, patching up wounds, memorizing demon looking ppl, preferably without fighting because you’re ass at that. You’re smart, sweet, know what will the girls do next.

Which is exactly why the Saja Boys decided to kidnap your ass.

Oh, they still look like a wet dream, don’t get that twisted. But they deadass snatched you up because you know too much. You know how the girls work. You know where they’re going, what they’re planning, how to hurt them.

Except, you won’t talk. Not even when they tried. And oh, they tried. Little threats. Little games. Little moments that left bruises.

Now? You’re a guest in their fancy-fancy high-rise apartment in the human world that they have so they don’t have to go back and forth between worlds. More like their prisoner, but the fridge is stocked and you’re not chained anymore.

cw: implied female reader, kidnapping situation, a shit ton of cursing, Romance being a flirt, a boner, mentions of sex, Mystery being curious about your body, boys being boys and fucking with you

You stand at the sleek marble counter, a knife in your hand, slicing through a peach.

Behind you, Romance’s laugh fills the room, deep, as Mystery literally tackles him over the back of the couch. They hit the floor with a heavy thud, limbs tangled, and Mystery growls.

Romance? He’s grinning. Loving every second.

“Damn, if you wanted to get me on my back you could’ve just asked.” he purrs, voice smooth.

Mystery’s response is to sink his teeth—actually sink his teeth—into Romance’s shoulder.

“Fuck—ah, yes, harder!” Romance groans dramatically, shoving at Mystery’s face but clearly not trying to get him off.

You just keep cutting your peach, the juice sticky on your fingers.

Abby’s sprawled in an armchair, bouncing a stress ball off the wall hard enough you’re certain he’ll crack the plaster. He’s wearing a tank top that shows off his arms and his attention span is shot to shit. He’s been drumming his fingers, cracking his neck, muttering to himself about needing to do something.

Baby’s on the floor, cross-legged, looking at his phone what he grew to love so so so much since they figured it out. He actually looks like he has no idea what’s going on but doesn’t care anyway.

Jinu is in the kitchen, not far from you, sipping tea like none of this is happening. His hair’s still a little damp from a shower, and he looks… normal. Calm. Like he could be your neighbor, the guy who helps carry your groceries.

He notices you’re out of reach of the fruit bowl and slides it closer without a word.

“Thanks.” you mutter, not looking up.

Not forgetting that you fucking HATE his guts!!

“You’re welcome.”

And that’s the thing with Jinu. He’s nice. Too nice.

You slice another piece of peach. Try to pretend you don’t hear Romance moaning as Mystery bites him again.

Baby snorts quietly, still scrolling.

You just keep slicing fruit, silent, petty, waiting for the moment they let their guard down. Not happening.

Romance walks over eventually, leaning against the counter next to you. His scent hits you—fuck you in the ass it’s good. Why does it have to be good?

“Need help with that, angel?” he murmurs, voice like velvet, fingers brushing a piece of peach off your plate and popping it into his mouth.

You don’t look at him. “Fuck off.”

“Alrighty.”

He doesn’t move though.

Mystery, now perched on the arm of the couch, watches the two of you , you’d guess. You can’t see those fuckass eyes.

You remember the first meet.

God. The girls just finished, you gave them all the luxury they could ever need then went back to your apartment. Exhausted. Filthy. You got home, peeled off your clothes, stepped into that shower, and thought—finally. Finally, you could breathe.

Then, a bold whistle from behind you.

You turned your head, soap stinging your eyes, and there was….

Drumroll…

🥁🥁🥁

Romance.

Yes indeed, the fucker whistled.

You froze. Completely naked, completely vulnerable. He moved fast—too fast—hand over your mouth, body pressed up to the shower glass.

“Don’t scream. We’re just gonna have a little chat.”

You wanted to kick him. You really did. But he had you pinned, all casual, like this was just another Tuesday for him.

“Options.” he murmured, thumb stroking your cheek like he was trying to soothe you. “You tell me what I wanna know. Or—and I like this one better—I take you with me.”

You glared at him. You hated him.

(Since your girls did too and know he’s a demon but anyway)

But what could you do? Naked, trapped, outmatched. So you nodded. Let him hand you a towel. Let him grin when you dressed in whatever you could grab. Let him walk you out of your own damn apartment like he was your date for the night.

You snap back to now, slicing that peach a little too hard. The knife hits the cutting board with a sharp thunk.

Romance notices. Of course he notices. He always notices.

“Careful, baby. Gonna hurt yourself.” he teases, snagging another piece of fruit from your plate like he has every right.

You don’t answer. Just cut another slice, the peach juice sticky on your fingers.

Then there was the time you tried to run.

You’d waited until late. Until they were sprawled out, arguing over anything, distracted by their own bullshit. You’d crept to the door, so quiet. Almost made it.

Baby caught you. Not with strength. With a simple:

“Hm?”

And then Jinu was there. Calm. Closing the door gently. Taking your arm, leading you back.

“Don’t do that, okay?” he’d said, as if you’d just made a small mistake. Like it wasn’t a big fucking deal.

Romance had clapped you on the back when you were forced to sit back down. “A+ for effort, though.”

Slice. Slice. Another piece of peach.

Mystery’s watching you now. Not saying anything, just watching. His head tilted, into your direction.

You finish slicing the peach. Set the knife down.

Romance steals another piece, grinning at you over it.

Mystery growls under his breath at the whole thing.

Abby’s already forgotten about you, too busy flicking Baby’s ear to annoy him.

Jinu’s watching you quietly, you’d guess. Don’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him.

You remember that time you bit Romance.

God, the nerve of him. You were done—so done—with him always getting too close.

D-O-N-E.

That time, when he cornered you to get things out of you. “C’mon, angel, just tell me a little secret. Just one. I’ll owe you.” He’d said. “You’re so tense. I can help with that…”

And you just snapped. Lunged in and bit his arm as hard as you could.

And the fucker?

The fuck?

He winked at you.

Didn’t pull away. Didn’t cuss you out. Just grinned like you’d given him a gift. “Easy, girl.” he said, voice low, leaning in so close you could feel the heat of him. “Didn’t know you liked it rough.”

You wanted to scream. Instead, you glared and tried to yank free, and he let you—only because he felt like it. Not because you could have escaped him.

You organize the little peaches on your plate. They looked quite cute.

You tried to stand your ground once.

Told Abby to back off, to leave you alone. And what did he do?

He laughed. That easy, bright, warm laugh like you’d just told him a joke. Then he slung his arm around your shoulders and practically dragged you down the hall like you were his best bud.

“You’re funny as hell.” he said, ruffling your hair like you weren’t glaring daggers at him. “C’mon.”

Asshole.

“Where you think you’re going, superstar?” he’d teased last time, when you made it to the elevator and thought, for one sweet second, you were free.

You’d fought. Kicked. Swore.

And he’d just laughed, hoisting you up like you weighed nothing. Carried you back down the hall like you were some drunk friend at a party, not a prisoner.

“C’mon now. You know you’re not going anywhere. Let’s not make it weird.”

Baby shifts where he’s sitting, lazy as ever, glancing up from his phone just long enough to take a sassy look at you.

Then there was time they played good cop/bad cop on you.

Mystery had you cornered in the kitchen. Not even saying anything—just standing there, too close. You’d tried to sidestep him. He’d mirrored the move, blocking you without touching.

And then Romance walked in. All relaxed, all casual. Slid in between you and Mystery, arm around your waist like it was his right.

“Ease up.” he said to Mystery, but his hand tightened on your side. “She’s not gonna run. Are you, angel?”

You bite into a piece of peach now.

Or there’s the night you tried to lock yourself in a room.

Abby broke the door down. Just… busted it open like it was made of cardboard.

“Don’t do that, babe.” he said, happy af, picking you up like you weighed nothing and carrying you back to the main room. “You’re gonna make us feel bad, hiding like that.”

You’d pounded at his chest. Tried to fight.

And he’d just laughed again, so warm, so easy, like you were play-wrestling.

You put the cutting board back, close the cabinet a little too hard.

There are also mind games. Oh, the fucking mind games.

Like how Jinu always helps. Always so polite, so considerate. Slips a glass of water into your hand when you’re too angry to ask. Pulls out a chair for you. Puts a blanket over you when you fall asleep

(and yeah, you pretended to be asleep that time. sue you, you were cold).

And it gets in your head. Makes you second-guess your hate. Makes you wonder if maybe he’d let you go if you just asked nicely enough. Makes you forget, for a second, that he’s the one who seals the doors behind you.

Or how Baby never speaks to you unless it’s to cut you down.

That time you begged, just once, just quietly, just to Baby because the others were too busy fucking around, you asked him to help you slip out.

And he’d looked at you. Just looked. And smiled that tiny, mean smile of his.

“Cute that you think anyone here gives a fuck what you want.”

Yeah, when he doesn’t currently not give a fuck about what’s happening around him, this is what you’ll get of him. Allat pretty face is a waste, fr.

You wipe down the counter, scrubbing too hard, like you can erase their fingerprints from your space.

And Mystery.

Mystery, who’s so feral you almost thought you could use that. That maybe he was the weak link. That maybe his violence meant he didn’t care about the plan, that he’d let you go just to spite the others.

But no.

Like the time you tried to sneak a phone off the coffee table, thinking no one was looking.

Mystery had crossed the room in a blink, snatched it out of your hand, and grabbed your jaw so fast your ears rang.

His nails had pricked your skin. His breath had been hot, his growl low.

“Don’t.”

One word. That’s all. And then he let go like you were nothing. Like you didn’t even matter enough to punish.

You open the fridge, shove the plate in, close it again like the slam of the door can drown out the noise in your head.

You turn, walk closer to them in the living room so you look more genuine, sweet like sugar because you can’t help it. That’s just how you sound.

“Can I use the sauna?” you ask.

No one says anything for half a beat.

Jinu the asshole the FUCKING asshole hums. “In exchange for some information, you know. Tell us a thing or two.”

You groan. Actually groan. And before you can stop yourself, you do the tiniest, most frustrated little kick at the air. Just a flick of your foot, like you’re trying to shake off the annoyance. Just a little kick. Adorable, really. A stupid, tiny burst of frustration because this is so fucking unfair and they know it.

And that’s when Abby, quick, grabs your leg mid-kick.

“Gotcha.” he says, voice bright. And the worst part? He doesn’t even look at you. He’s already turned back to whatever dumb shit they’re talking about, your ankle resting in his grip.

And now you’re there, balancing on one foot, arms out a little to steady yourself.

“Abby—let go—!”

But he’s not paying you any mind. His fingers loose but firm around your ankle, like he could crush it if he felt like it, but he’s just holding it.

As if you’re some toy he forgot he was playing with. Fucking asshole.

Romance sees the opportunity immediately. He slides closer, slow, a finger tapping at your knee, then your thigh, all innocent and infuriating. “Look at you. One foot. So talented.”

You swat at him, trying to push him away, but that just makes him laugh.

Mystery, meanwhile, is staring at your leg. Head tilted, curious. Like he can’t decide if he wants to pounce on it or just… study it. It’s been a while since he’s seen a human girl this close. That’s obvious in the way his gaze lingers too long on the shape of your calf, the flex of your foot as you wobble.

Baby is absolutely checking out your ass.

Not even trying to hide it.

One glance over his phone, those eyes sliding down, a little smirk ghosting at the corner of his mouth before he looks back at his screen like he’s the innocent one here.

You hop a little, trying to tug your leg free, still balancing awkwardly. “Abby—seriously!”

But Abby just laughs, chatting with Jinu, your leg still in his grip.

Romance pokes at you again. This time at your side, grinning when you squirm. “Careful, sweetheart. You’ll fall and hurt yourself.”

You try to stomp your other foot, frustrated beyond words, but you’re already jumping on one leg, and that just makes all of them snicker.

“Abby!”

“Hmm?” His voice is unbothered, eyes still not on you. “Oh. Right. Forgot I was holding you.”

Liar.

“Nah, c’mon—tell us a secret.” Abby says.

You tug.

He doesn’t budge.

“Abby.” you hiss.

But it’s useless.

Romance pokes you in the side, fascinated by the way your curves move.

“Stop it—” you try to swat at him, but you’re too busy trying not to fall flat on your ass.

Romance laughs, brushing your hand aside easily. His fingers brush your free ankle lightly, just to mess with you, and you nearly lose your balance again.

“Seriously, let go.” you snap, hopping on your one foot, trying to twist free.

But Abby’s grip is firm, not tight enough to hurt, just impossible to break.

He still isn’t looking at you. Instead, he’s grinning at Romance. “Hey, look at this—” he lifts your foot slightly, turning it in his hand like he’s inspecting it “—her foot’s like half the size of yours.”

Romance, of course, is lining his foot up next to yours while you’re still caught there, balancing. His grin is all teeth. “Tiny.” he says, delighted.

You’re burning up with embarrassment now, face hot, heart pounding for all the wrong reasons. You’re jumping a little, trying to shake your foot loose, but all it does is make Romance poke at you more, fingers brushing your calf, your ankle, your side.

“Stop it!” you snap, swatting at him, but you can’t even aim right on one foot.

Baby doesn’t even hide it anymore. He leans back, arms crossed, eyes flicking between your legs, your ass, your face, enjoying every second of this humiliation.

“Alright, c’mon now.” Abby says, finally glancing at you. “Give us a little intel, and you can go steam yourself all you want.”

You’re about to lose your balance for real—arms flailing slightly, heel of your standing foot sliding on the polished floor—when finally, finally, Jinu’s voice cuts through the mess.

“You can use the sauna.” he says simply, with a small nod, like it should’ve been obvious all along.

“There you go, superstar.” Abby lets go, laughing under his breath as if this was all in good fun. You stumble, catch yourself on the couch, heart pounding, face flushed.

Romance grins, hands up like he’s innocent. “See? All you had to do was ask.”

Baby smirks, looking back down at his phone as if he wasn’t just ogling you.

Mystery sinks back onto the couch arm, still watching, but at least he isn’t about to lunge anymore.

You straighten, brushing your hands down your sides, trying to regain a scrap of dignity.

“Thanks.” you mutter, shooting a glare at the rest of them before turning on your heel and heading toward the sauna.

Romance leans back, hands up like he’s innocent. “Enjoy yourself, angel.”

Baby gives you one last look, and Mystery’s head follows you until you’re out of reach.

You huff, fixing your clothes, dignity in shambles as you stomp toward the sauna.

God, you hate them.

God, they’re fucking hilarious.

God, you hate that you almost laughed too.

Alright, so there you are. Finally. Finally in the sauna.

You thought maybe—maybe—you could steal this one small victory. After all the shit they put you through, the teasing, the games, the constant pushing and pulling, you’d gotten away.

The heat envelops you, thick, fogging up the glass as you sit there, knees tucked up, towel clutched tight to your chest.

Your heartbeat’s just starting to slow. Your breathing evens out. The sweat begins to bead at your temples, trickle down your neck, and for a blissful minute, you think:

peace.

And then.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

You freeze. Eyes snap to the glass door.

Abby and Romance.

Side by side, standing just outside the sauna with the most shit-eating grins you’ve ever seen.

And god help you,

they’re in nothing but towels.

Romance has his slung low on his hips, arms crossed behind his head. Like he knew what this would do to you. His eyes meet yours through the steam, and his grin somehow widens.

Abby’s hitched up carelessly at his waist, and he’s leaning against the glass with both hands, forehead pressed against it, breathing patterns making little clouds on the surface.

And because he’s Abby and he’s got no shame, he leans in further until his abs are smushed up against the glass too, leaving perfect imprints of his ridiculous physique.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Romance’s knuckle on the door this time, slow and rhythmic, like they’ve got all the time in the world.

These bastards have nothing but time. And you? You’re the best entertainment they’ve had in centuries. Three hundred years of whatever suffering Gwi-ma put them through, until you.

And you can tell. You can see it in their faces, the way they’re lit up like kids on Christmas morning. The way they’re making a game out of this. The way they’re not just keeping you prisoner, they’re enjoying every second of it, like you’re their favorite new toy.

“Baby girl.” Romance calls, voice muffled through the glass, drawing the words out like a slow melody. He knocks again, forehead resting against the glass, leaning down a little so his eyes are level with yours. “Come on. Don’t be like that.”

(Guys I don’t mean baby girl in a weird way I promiseeeee)

Abby starts whining. Full-on whining, dragging out the vowels like he’s the one being tortured here.

“Pleeeaaaseee. Let us in. Don’t hog all the steam. You know it’s rude.”

Your grip on your towel tightens. You shake your head, glaring, but that just seems to make them more determined.

Romance is flattening his palms against the glass, leaning his weight forward, so casual.

“C’mon, sweetheart.” he purrs. “It’s not safe to sauna alone. What if you pass out? What if you get too hot?” His voice drops lower, dripping with mock concern. “We’d hate for something bad to happen to you.”

You point at them through the foggy glass. “Stay out.”

They’re having the time of their lives.

Abby’s face is smushed against the door now, nose flattened, grinning so hard you can see the crinkle of his eyes even through the fog. He slides down slightly so his chest presses up too, leaving an actual print on the glass that you’re sure you’ll see in your nightmares.

“Come oooonnnn.” he drags out, hands sliding down the glass with exaggerated despair. “It’s lonely out here. It’s cold.”

“Yeah.” Romance chimes in, knocking his knuckles lightly again, rhythm playful. “So cold. We’re shivering.”

Neither of them looks the least bit cold. They look like gods, golden and gleaming in the low light, all muscle.

Abby presses his forehead right next to Romance’s, their faces squished together, two idiots united in their mission to annoy the living shit out of you. His abs are still plastered to the glass, leaving sweaty smudges in their shape.

Romance starts dragging out words like he’s dying of heartbreak. “Weeeee just waaaant to reeeelaaax.”

And then, before you can stop it, the door creaks open.

Romance’s hand is already on the handle. Abby’s pushing through behind him, grinning.

“You—” you start, clutching your towel tighter, scooting back like that’s going to help.

Romance plops down way too close, towel barely clinging on, stretching his long legs out. He leans back, hands braced behind him, turning his head to look at you with that maddening, lazy smile.

Abby flops down on your other side, sighing like he’s just found heaven, spreading out. He stretches his arms up, rolls his shoulders, all muscle.

“This is much better.” Abby says cheerfully.

“Yeah.” Romance agrees, eyes glinting with as he studies you, watching the way you clutch your towel like it’s the only thing saving your dignity. “See? Cozy.”

You glare at them both, heart hammering so loud you’re sure they can hear it over the hiss of the steam.

“You could’ve waited.” you mutter, trying to inch away without actually standing and risking… well, anything.

Romance leans in slightly, close enough that you can see the bead of sweat trailing down his temple, the curve of his smirk.

Then, these assholes giggle.

Giggle.

Big, strong, terrifying demons who could rip a man apart in seconds, sitting on either side of you, legs sprawled, water dripping down their ridiculously perfect bodies—and giggling like schoolgirls who just found a crush’s diary.

Romance leans forward, glancing at Abby, his grin wide and boyish and so fucking irritating. His hair’s still damp, little droplets sliding down the sharp line of his jaw, catching in the hollow of his throat before disappearing below that towel hanging far too low on his hips.

Abby snorts, eyes crinkling, that same big, bright grin that makes it impossible to stay mad at him for long—no matter how much you want to. He’s got one arm thrown over the back of the bench.

“I feel relaxed already.” Abby teases, voice low and warm.

And the giggling starts again. Little bursts of it, like they can’t believe their luck.

You press your back against the wall, eyes narrowed, clutching your towel so hard you might leave permanent wrinkles in the fabric. You feel the heat rising higher in your cheeks now, but it’s not from the sauna.

Because they’re close. So close you can feel the heat coming off them, not just the sauna’s heat but theirs. Like being caught between two furnaces.

Fuck them.

And they’re not just sitting there politely, minding their business. Oh no. Their gazes slide over you, undressing you with their eyes without a single ounce of shame.

Romance lets his gaze drop, lazily, from your flushed face to the slope of your shoulders, down the curve of your towel-clad body, he’s imagining exactly what’s under there. He doesn’t even try to hide it.

His mouth quirks up at the corner like he’s thoroughly enjoying the view.

Abby’s no better. His eyes trace you all the same. Like he’s taking mental snapshots, adding to whatever collection of moments he’s tucking away for the next time he’s bored at 3 a.m.

And it’s not subtle.

They’d hit that. No question. In a heartbeat.

Hell, Romance would have you against the sauna wall the second you blinked yes—if you blinked yes. The man has no shame. His lust, so open, so easy, it’s like breathing to him.

But that’s the thing about Romance—he knows the difference. Knows the difference between wanting to get you under him and wanting something real.

And somehow, that second thing? That’s creeping in now, too.

It’s not just the game anymore. Not just the fun of teasing you, seeing how red they can make you go, seeing how long they can keep you flustered before you snap.

It’s that you feel different.

You’re not like the other fleeting amusements they’ve found across centuries of boredom and bloodshed. You’re not just a pretty face they can toy with until it breaks.

You’re the most fun they’ve had in so long they’ve almost forgotten what fun is.

It’s growing. Quietly, steadily, in between all the teasing.

Romance, for all his shameless flirting, knows it too. His desire’s loud, sure, but this other feeling? This is different. It’s not about the chase, or the win, or the thrill of the moment. It’s about the way his heart kicks up when you roll your eyes at him, when you snap back, when you don’t fold.

And Abby? He’s the same. He laughs and plays and pokes, but somewhere in the cracks, something real’s settling in.

Something that isn’t just about keeping entertained.

You’re fun. You’re alive.

And in their endless stretch of centuries, that’s fun.

Because now, it’s not just about keeping you around for what you know.

Now, it’s about keeping you around because they want you around.

All those feelings for them, while just now, you had enough. Enough.

So you stand.

You push yourself up off the bench, clutching your towel, heart pounding, cheeks blazing, ready to make your exit.

But the second you straighten, the second you think you’ve reclaimed a scrap of dignity, Abby decides otherwise.

Big, warm hands catch your wrist and waist at once, and before you can so much as yelp, he drags you right back down into his lap.

“Ah-ah. Where you goin’, babe?” he says, voice all smooth, like you’re a kitten trying to escape bath time. His grin’s wide, eyes sparkling with that boyish light that makes you want to slap him and maybe kiss him just to wipe it off his face.

And there you are—your much smaller frame hauled back against him, towel still clutched to your chest, your legs draped awkwardly over his, skin burning where it meets his.

You squirm.

You kick and wiggle and slap at his arms, trying to peel yourself free, but it’s like fighting a brick wall that laughs at you.

“Let me go!” you snap, voice high with frustration, but you might as well be shouting at the wind.

Because Abby’s laughing now. Genuinely laughing, head tipped back a little, like this is the funniest shit he’s seen in decades.

Romance is no better. He’s doubled over, palm slapping the bench, laughing so hard he can barely breathe. That rich, boyish sound fills the sauna, echoing off the wood, making your cheeks burn hotter.

You kick again, trying to shove at Abby’s chest, trying to slide off his lap, but he’s holding you tight, like it’s nothing.

Abby leans in a little, his grin crooked now, voice low and warm, the kind of tone that makes you want to hide.

“You’re makin’ this real hard for me, sweetheart.” he says, and there’s no mistaking the double meaning.

Your heart lurches.

And, oh—you feel it. You definitely feel it.

Right there, under you.

A huge fucking boner.

And instead of stopping—instead of being sensible—you kick more. You squirm harder. Your face is on fire, but you’re determined to break free, determined to make him pay for putting you in this position, even if it’s making everything so much worse.

Abby groans low in his throat, but it’s laced with laughter, like he knows exactly what you’re doing and loves it. Loves that you’re trying. Loves that you’re flustered and mad and completely powerless.

Romance is laughing so hard he can’t sit upright, folding over himself, practically wheezing, tears streaming down his cheeks, pointing at you both like he can’t believe how lucky he is to witness this.

You give one more valiant wiggle, slap at Abby’s arm, and finally—finally—he lets go. Though maybe because he’s too worked up to keep playing

“Alright, alright.” he says, laughing, lifting his hands in surrender. “You win, babe. Go on.”

You shoot up like your life depends on it, clutching your towel so tight your fingers ache, hair sticking to your sweaty forehead, chest heaving. You glare down at both of them, cheeks blazing, trying to regain a shred of dignity.

Abby is the picture of innocence now. One leg up to hide his hard on, arms draped across the back of the bench, looking for all the world like he’s just a guy enjoying a sauna and not someone who just very nearly got dry-humped into oblivion by a squirming, furious human girl.

But of course, the second you’re upright, Romance leans forward, grinning wickedly, fingers grabbing for the edge of your towel.

“Just one little peek.” he says, and his hand shoots out, fingers hooking the edge of your towel.

You shriek, twisting away just in time, slapping his hands, stumbling toward the door. The towel stays on—thank god—but barely.

Romance collapses back onto the bench, grinning, breathless from laughing.

“Worth a shot.” he teases, voice low and sinful. “Next time, angel.”

You don’t look back. You can’t. You’re too busy marching toward the door, heart hammering, body burning, swearing to yourself you’ll never trust a sauna again.

And behind you, the sound of their laughter chases you all the way out.

You storm out of that sauna, towel clutched so tight it’s a wonder you haven’t shredded it by sheer force of will. Your heart’s hammering in your chest, skin blazing from more than just the steam, and you’re done. Done with Abby’s lap. Done with Romance’s bullshit. Done with them probably high fiving each other as you’re walking. Done with all of it.

You stomp barefoot across the marble floors, steam still rising from your skin, water droplets trailing behind you.

And then you hit the living room.

Jinu’s perched on the edge of the couch, looking every bit the composed, gentlemanly demon he always pretends to be—except for the fact that his eyes widen ever so slightly at the sight of you. His lips twitch at the corners, like he’s trying not to smile.

“You went in there with clothes on.” he says, voice mild. “I’m pretty sure of it.”

You don’t even slow down. You wave a hand at him, dismissive, furious, embarrassed beyond belief but way too stubborn to show it.

“Not now, Jinu.”

“Just pointing it out.” he says, and you can hear that gentle, teasing lilt in his voice now that somehow makes it worse. Like he’s the only one in this house capable of being nice to you, but he still can’t help poking at you when you’re like this.

You glance down just in time to see Mystery crouched slightly, head tilted, attention fixed on the hem of your towel.

His hand twitches, like he’s fighting the urge to just lift it and satisfy his curiosity.

“Mystery—”

You swat at him, fast, instinctive. Like shooing off a cat who’s about to knock over a glass.

He tries again.

“Mystery or whatever your fucking name is!”

Your voice pitches higher. You swat at him again, and this time he dodges.

Baby’s watching the whole thing from the arm of the couch, shoulders shaking as he laughs quietly.

You and Mystery keep up this ridiculous dance—him darting, trying to sneak a look, you batting him off.

Every time you think you’ve shaken him, he circles back around, silent, predatory.

“Mystery, stop it!” you hiss, stomping your foot, cheeks burning so hot you’re sure they must be glowing.

He actually listens. Pulls back just a bit, but not before giving you this tilt of his head—this weird, almost innocent curiosity, like he really, genuinely wants to know what’s up there. Not because he’s trying to be a creep. Just because he’s Mystery.

He leans back, hands up, like he was just wondering, like you can’t blame a guy for being curious.

You tug your towel tighter, shooting him a glare that promises violence if he tries it again.

Baby just tips his head back and laughs, soft and delighted.

You storm the rest of the way across the living room, muttering curses under your breath, knowing full well this won’t be the last time they pull this shit.

Because why would it be?

You’re the best fun they’ve had in centuries.

You slam the door to your room shut with more force than necessary, your heart still thundering in your chest.

The room’s quiet now. Blessedly quiet.

You take a deep breath, forcing your legs to move, crossing to the dresser where they’d dumped your things they got from there and there. You let the towel drop, pulling on fresh clothes.

But as you tug your shirt down and run a hand through your damp hair, the questions start creeping in.

Will you ever get out of here?

…Maybe.

You want to believe it. That there’s a crack in their plan, a way to slip past their too-quick hands. That somehow, the girls will come for you. That you’ll find your moment and take it. But looking at how they watch you, how they enjoy keeping you close? It’s hard to be sure.

Do the girls miss you?

Yes.

They have to. You’re not just some assistant with a clipboard and a coffee order. You’re the one who kept them safe, who watched their backs when they were too busy saving the world to watch their own. They have to notice you’re gone. Right?

Do the boys actually like you as a person?

Yes.

And that’s the most confusing part. Because it’s not just the teasing, the poking, they see you. Under all the sweet voice, the petty little kicks, the glares and the stubbornness, they see you. And somehow, they like what they see.

Is Romance always trying to get in your pants?

Yes.

But he also respects the game. And maybe, just maybe, he likes more than just what’s under your clothes.

Does Abby really think you’re cute when you fight him off?

Yes.

You see it in his smile, in the way his eyes soften when you kick and squirm and glare up at him.

Is Baby secretly rooting for you?

Absolutely so fucking yes.

He won’t say it. Won’t even crack more than that smirk. But you catch it, sometimes—in the tilt of his head, in the glint of his eye. He enjoys you. Enjoys watching you give them hell.

Is Mystery curious about you in ways he doesn’t understand?

Indeed.

It’s in every glance, every tilt of his head, every quiet lean-in. You’re new, he likes it.

Does Jinu really care?

Yeah.

The only one who treats you normally. The one who talks to you like you’re a person. The one who always seems to step in right before the others push you too far.

Are you actually safe here?

No.

Not really. Not from their games, their teasing, their endless curiosity about what makes you break. Not from the way they make your heart race, in anger or fear or something more dangerous you don’t want to name.

Are you in danger of falling for them, even a little?

…Maybe.

You flop onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, clothes rumpled and hair still damp, wondering how the hell you’re going to survive this. Wondering how you’re going to keep yourself from softening toward them when they look at you like that, when they laugh like that, when they treat you like this.

Will you ever stop hoping for a chance to escape?

No.

Not ever. Not even if they keep making you laugh when you shouldn’t. Not even if they’re the most fun you’ve ever had.

You’re getting out.

Somedays

But god—if they don’t make it hard to want to leave.

You lay there on that stupid, too-nice bed, staring up at the ceiling, the city lights leaking in through the blinds, casting stripes across your skin. And you think—fuck.

Because damn your empathy.

You should hate them. Every single one of them. For snatching you away from your life. For laughing at you when you fight back. For treating you like a kid. You should be plotting their downfall, hating the sound of their voices, the way they look at you, the way they keep you here.

But you don’t. Not really. Not deep down where it matters.

Because it hits you, lying there with your heart still racing and your body still warm from the sauna

They probably don’t know any better anymore.

It’s probably been hundreds of years since they had anything like this. Since they saw their mothers. Since they were boys, real boys, not demons, playing at being human on a stage with bright lights and screaming fans.

When was the last time they got tucked in at night, you wonder. When was the last time somebody made them soup when they were sick?

When was the last time they did human shit?

Jumped on a trampoline, if they ever had done that.

Had a snowball fight.

Built a fort and camped out in it.

Splashed each other in a pool until they were breathless with laughter, not because they were trying to drown each other but just because it was fun.

Ran barefoot through wet grass on a summer night, chasing bugs.

Sat on a rooftop with their best friend, eating about the future like it was some big, beautiful thing waiting for them.

The last time someone baked them a birthday cake and sang to them, even off-key?

God, when was the last time they had that?

You think about Romance, all charm and heat, with that constant flirt in his voice—when was the last time someone kissed him because they loved him, not because they were enchanted by his face?

You think about Abby, always teasing, strong enough to crush you but never does—when was the last time someone hugged him just because?

Baby, with not giving a fuck at anything—when was the last time someone gave him something with no strings attached?

Mystery. Ferocious, curious—when was the last time he felt safe enough to just exist?

Jinu. The only one who looks at you like you’re still a person, like maybe he remembers what it felt like to be one, too—when was the last time someone sat with him in silence, not because they wanted something but just because they liked him?

And you feel that damn softness bloom in your chest, that aching empathy that’s going to get you killed or worse.

Because you don’t blame them. Not really.

They’re lonely.

Lonely in a way you can’t even imagine, in a way that sinks into your bones and makes you hungry for anything real.

You’re not just a hostage, not really—not to them. You’re a spark of humanity in their endless dark, and they don’t want to let go.

And yeah, it’s selfish. It’s cruel, in its way. But can you really hate them for it?

Can you hate them for wanting to keep you close when the world left them behind centuries ago?

You sigh, dragging a hand down your face, trying to shove the thoughts away, trying to remind yourself—they kidnapped you. They’re using you. They’re playing with you because it entertains them.

But still.

You see the way they look at you when they think you’re not paying attention.

You see the way they light up when you kick back, when you glare, when you curse them out, when you fight—because maybe you’re the first thing in forever that’s real to them.

And goddamn it, you understand.

You don’t forgive. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But you understand.

Boys who laugh too hard when you fight them off because they don’t know how else to show they like you.

So yeah.

Fuck your empathy.

Because you see them. And you can’t unsee it.

[vampmira]

open up what you got in your mind to me. [pt.2 – saja boys.]

they've never met someone like you — a mortal who almost knew them .. better than they knew themselves. for the boys, it's annoyingly intriguing. for the girls, it's comforting.

paring(s): huntrix & saja boys x demon expert!gn!reader

warning(s:) EVERYTHING IN HERE IS A PART TWO TO THIS !! some movie changes, probably effected lore that makes no sense for the sake of the narrative, a little angst at the beginning

request | tags: @blueberrysquire @akariis4snowball @j0ykill

a/n: this is part 2 !! i had sooo many ideas for huntrix that i had to make another part for the saja boys so that it wasn't so long . this part isn't as good but i liked it so ☆☆☆

that night huntrix defeated gwima was a blur. all you remember was the zombie mob of fans, half of the fight, and the use of your aura vision to raise the saja boys above the honmoon before it glimmered in gold. jinu, who gave his newly found soul for rumi, was practically reincarnated through her sword – standing in front of her post-concert, arms open for her to fall into with tears from the both of them. everyone else? well, they felt lost.

the saja boys weren't sure what to do anymore. jinu was overjoyed, of course, but the boys knew nothing more beyond gwima and their mission. they didn't care much about music, nor their fans – which huntrix still couldn't wrap their minds around – and it's not like they had secret human hobbies. they never had time for that. until now.

post-gwima, they stayed in an apartment near the huntrix penthouse, trying to figure out their new lives. for the most part, they spent most of their time under your watch – to make sure they didn't go cause chaos – but also .. under your study.

you were weird to them

they weren't used to someone other than them.. knowing them

their capabilities, their knowledge, their origins.

actually jinu found your extensive understanding of what he is to be kind of comforting

he noticed how you never really drooled over them

you'd stare, sure, but in the same way an art critic would stare at a painted blue canvas with a smeared red dot in the middle

he felt like that red dot – unexplained but you somehow understood

when he told you about his past, it was a lot for him – talking about his cruel choice

but you.. didn't judge him.

in fact, you wrote it down in your notebook immediately, the one you never let the boys get too close to

he accepted you into his life when he entertained your interest in his history

unlike him, however, the other boys were uninterested

at first anyway

thank jinu for getting them to talk to you btw

it took a little bit of convincing – telling them that you wanted to give them something more than just gwima

even though they didn't want it ...

REGARDLESS they hang out around the penthouse

because they're no longer saja boys (uninterested and unsupported by any demon staff anymore)

they really had nothing to do but mildly annoy your personal space

including being the center of your attention when the girls are out

mira gave you one rule, "living room and bathroom. only." and you've succeeded so far. abby and romance were talking by the large scale windows, mystery was playing some game with baby (and obviously winning), and jinu sat in the middle of the couch, watching whatever movie rumi put on for him. you sat beside him, sketching in your one and only personal researcher book. your pencil drew out what you felt like was the final line in mystery's hair ... before you huffed, erasing it, and trying again.

that was... until the littlest demon startled you.

"mystery, they're drawing you." bored of his game, baby peered over your shoulder, only passively curious and really wanting to mess with you. heads turned at your exposure to the room, especially jinu, who looked over your other shoulder at the sketch you did of him earlier.

"you're.. sketching us?" the direct ask made you a bit nervous, especially being under so many eyes. (kind of. mystery was more just.. generally facing your direction.) "'weakness.. chest?' are you taking notes on us?" you stood up, nearly defensive, turning around to face the couch trio.

"if it weren't for your old friends, i wouldn't have to write it all down again." the boys went quiet, remembering the origin of your knowledge and powers. "i'm just.. tired of keeping it all inside. i need to get it out somewhere."

romance, true to his name, leaned over your shoulder, putting you both in a proximity much closer than you've ever had to experience before.

"then why don't we do something.. a little more fun .. to help you get it all out?"

normally sentences like that from him sound way more suggestive than he means them to be

but this time he came up with an actual solution to release your closed up, ready-to-pop-out-of-your-skin knowledge

they gave you a one way trip to infodump station ! an interview !

they wanted to learn more about you anyways

their fellow demons down below were the ones to wipe out your ancestors

not them

and they make sure you know it too

but they can't help but feel .. a little, tiny bit bad that you're now just a living library

a time capsule, holding onto so much information that you're about to burst 24/7

they had never met a researcher honestly

you intrigued them as much as they did for you

how much did you really know ?? did you know anything or is all this antsy behavior a ploy to make it look like you knew everything when you really knew nothing ??

their disguises were perfectly created to make every little fan fall for their attractiveness the second they looked at the boys

but you never drooled at them or had your eyes pop out of your head

you just always... stared. processing. tracing mindfully.

they didn't know what you were really abut. but they were about to find out. and really test your persona.

romance sat relaced in a chair as you circled him, pencil taking note of everything you noticed. how his markings were sharp, not rounded like rivers, how his skin was cooled, not burning hot. all things you already knew, but you found small comfort in knowing not much changed. you took a deep breath around his hair, nose scrunching up. he smiled, taking your cheek in his hand.

"new cologne." his voice was smooth, gentle. traditionally alluring. "just for you. do you like it?" he turned up his flirtatiousness, pulling you in closely, testing the waters of your focus.. before you turned away to start writing, completely uneffected.

"so many generations and you guys still smell like flames.." you mumbled to yourself.

"would you rather we smell like bubblegum?" baby tried to sass you, but you were too focused on the sharpness of his teeth to care. you stepped towards him, eyes widened.

"can demons still tear apart brick with the force of their canines?" you asked, rather close to his face. for a moment, he almost felt like the flustered one.

"yes..? no? i-i don't know." he crossed his arms, childishly. "i don't go around biting bricks." you jot it down still as you move towards abby. he's deeply relaxed, leaning back on the couch, comfortable shirt riding up to expose his famously toned abs. your eyes trail off of your notebook and they think.. they've got you.

"like what you see?" he teases. "you can touch them, you know." a bold move that brings you closer, nails tracing his skin. they're almost disappointed that abby is the one who stole your attention.. before they realize you're attention isn't stolen at all. you're drawing his markings with careful detail.

"where did yours come from? rumi's started forming on her arm when she was a kid, but they haven't reached her stomach yet. they grow with time, right? how old would that make you then..?" you dissolve into mutters they can barely decipher. "oh!! mystery!" he almost jumps behind the couch when you race over to him, making jinu laugh from the sidelines of their attempts to flirt with you. "i've never seen a demon sparkle! that's new.. is that just you? or is there a whole subspecies of sparkling demons? or is it your human disguise..?" your questions nearly overwhelm him, enough to make him forget how he's supposed to flirt with you, but romance pulls you away, whispering in your ear.

"it's not just him." he smiles, hand on your shoulder. "you're sparkling, too, sweetheart." if anyone could fluster anyone, it'd be him, even if it takes two rounds. his thumb runs against your chin. "you look so cute in this lighting, like a rose."

"speaking of which, what's the flora like down there? are there any? do they eat demons or are they like.. regular flowers? we knew more of demons than of gwima's realm. did they smell? i bet they might have.. would it be nostalgic or torturing?"

the boys share a look, and sigh. you went off into high speed muttering again.

you really were everything you said

uninterested in their flirts and more in knowledge

that almost made them like you more..

in the following times after the interview, they greeted you a bit more casually – sometimes cheerfully, asking if you had any new drawings or trivia you wanted to get off your chest

how did you . tame them !? does the whole hard to get thing actually work !?

it confused the girls wildly

but to see them adjusting to being here through someone who actually understood them instead of lying around, empty and lost, was a pick-me-up in the mornings

one morning, after being delivered a coffee, handsigned by the boys, you felt something click in your head, a sensation you had never felt before, and reached to put it in your notebook immediately

"demons, when properly befriended, like to be understood. they brought me coffee. do demons like coffee??"

[emriiis]

Sneak Peek: THE CALL

📣✨ 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 ✨📣

I honestly don’t even know where to begin—thank you, thank you, thank you. 🩷

We're almost at 300 followers now?! I’m genuinely overwhelmed. 🥹

I didn’t think anyone would notice this story. but you did and that means everything. Seeing the reblogs, the tags, the comments—it’s more than I ever expected. Thank you for reading!

So, as a little thank you gift… here’s a sneak peek of the next chapter. Just a taste. Just enough to make your heart race. 😈🔥

my inbox is open for requests, thoughts, ideas, or just screaming.

Saja Boys x Manager! Reader

Your apartment is too quiet.

Too still.

Ever since you walked out of that room—since you ran—you haven’t been able to stop feeling them.

Their eyes.

Their heat.

Their voices echoing in your skull like a siren's song.

God, what the hell is wrong with you?

You slap a hand over your face, heart hammering. But it doesn’t help. Because every time you close your eyes—

You see them.

Worse—you feel them.

A vibration against your leg makes you jolt. Your phone. You fumble for it, heart still pounding. 

Unknown number.

You answer anyway.

“…Hello?”

A pause.

“Good morning, Miss Y/N. I'm calling on behalf of the Saja Boys.”

​​You freeze.

The voice continues, polite. Controlled. But something about it makes your stomach twist.

“I’m reaching out to confirm that you’ve been accepted as their full-time manager. Congratulations!”

“I—I didn’t accept anything,” you blurt. “There’s been a mistake, I didn’t—”

“Yes, well, that’s the wonderful part. You don’t have to accept it. The contract’s already processed. We’ll send a car for you this evening—”

“I said no.” Your voice is sharper now, slicing through the sugar-sweet tone on the other end. “You can’t just assign me a job I didn’t—”.”

“Hey baby”

You freeze.

The voice has changed.

It’s not hers anymore.

“J-Jinu?” you breathe, scanning the room. There’s no one there—but it feels like there is. The air shifts around you, thick with pressure and heat, humming low and strange.

“How are you?” he asks, his voice like warm silk over ice. Calm. Gentle. But you hear the weight beneath it. The restraint.

“I—uh—I’m good.” You grip the edge of your cup too tightly. “How did you even—Never mind. Can I help you with something?”

His chuckle is soft, low, and it curls around your ribs like smoke. 

“I was hoping we could talk.”

“We’re talking right now.”

He hums again. Slower this time. Like he’s savoring the sound of your voice. 

“I meant in person.”

His voice warms around the words, coaxing instead of pressing. “No pressure. Just… a coffee. A quiet spot. Just you and me.”

Your throat tightens. You blink, and suddenly the room feels smaller. Warmer. Like the sound of his voice alone is wrapping around your ribs, holding you still.

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you whisper.

He’s quiet for a moment.

“That’s okay.” 

Still soft. Still warm. Not pushy. But beneath the words… something deeper. A thread of something that reaches for you without forcing.

“You don’t have to decide now.”

You shouldn’t even be considering it. Not after what happened. Not after the way you’d felt in that room.

He doesn’t say anything else.

He just waits.

And somehow that’s worse. Because it leaves you sitting there, breath caught, heart pounding, mind spiraling with the memory of golden eyes, warm hands, and heat.

You bite your lip.

You should say no. You should...“When would we meet?”

comments and reblogs would be appreciated!

[verstappenverse]

hi! can i request that the reader and max anticipate their first child? he was so worried when the reader had a morning sickness and when the reader was about to deliver the baby? he worried whether he could be a good father or not to their firstborn baby. and how he was so protective, care, and just soft with the reader? thank you! i love your fics anyway, you're doing great! i hope you have a very good day ahead!! xoxo.

What If I Get It Wrong?

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max was never afraid of anything, but fatherhood? That’s a different kind of terrifying. As the two of you prepare for your first child, Max is protective, terrified, and completely in awe, and you watch the man you love fall headfirst into fatherhood. (Requested)

4.1k words / Masterlist

You weren’t expecting it to feel like this, equal parts overwhelming and breathtaking. A surreal mix of the mundane and the extraordinary.

Two faint pink lines on a stick, the distant hum of the bathroom fan. The sound of your shaky breathing as you sit on the edge of the tub, blinking down at something that just shifted the axis of your entire world.

Your hands tremble when you press your palm to your stomach. It’s still flat. Still unchanged. And yet… you already feel different. Maybe not physically, but something inside you is new. Expanding. Blooming.

You had a plan.

Of course you did. You’d always imagined telling Max with a smile too wide to hide, maybe over a fancy private dinner at home with the test tucked inside a gift box or a Red Bull baby onesie folded on his plate. Maybe filming his reaction when he opened it. Something worthy of the moment. Something permanent.

You even started writing a card, got as far as, "You changed my life once. Now—."

But when the door opens that night and Max comes in, home late from some media obligations, hair a mess, cheeks flushed, and grumbling about TikTok's and something you can’t quite hear. You don’t even get a word in before he presses a kiss to your cheek. “Sorry I’m late. What’re we having for—”

“I’m pregnant.”

The words leap out of you before you even mean to say them. It’s not soft. It’s not poetic. It’s raw and breathless and a little panicked.

The silence is immediate. Thick. His mouth stays open mid-word. His eyes flick to your stomach, then back to your face.

“I—” you start, already flustered, “I was gonna tell you in some big, sweet way, I swear. With a whole surprise and maybe a stupid cake or balloons, I even wrote like half a card and now I’ve just blurted it out like a maniac and—”

“Pregnant,” he interrupts.

You nod. Your voice is a whisper. “Yeah.”

It takes another two seconds before a breathless laugh escapes him. He crosses the room in one long stride, pulling you into his arms. His hands cradle your face like you’re something breakable. “You’re serious?”

You nod, breath caught in your throat. “I took the test three times.”

He looks down at your stomach again. Then back at you. Then exhales a shaky breath that sounds like something breaking open in his chest.

“I’m going to be a dad?”

You bite your lip, eyes filling. “Yeah. You are.”

You nod again, and before you can say another word, he’s kissing you. Slow. Deep. His hand presses instinctively to your belly, protective already, and you feel his body tremble as his forehead rests against yours.

The nerves come quickly.

You’re crouched over the toilet, forehead pressed to the cool porcelain, on what feels like your fifth straight day of relentless nausea. Your stomach rolls again, and you groan, dry heaving into nothing.

Max hovers like a man teetering on the edge of a panic attack. He’s pacing the bathroom floor in bare feet, one hand gripping the back of his neck, the other holding your water bottle like it might fix something if he just offers it enough times.

“Should I call someone?” he says for the third time in five minutes. “A hospital? Maybe your mum, I think, maybe Dr. Hendriks? I’ll fly him in. We have the jet, it’s—”

“Max,” you croak, cutting him off mid-spiral. “I’m fine. Just... a bit gross.”

He drops to a crouch beside you so fast you almost flinch. His hand is instantly at your back, warm and steady, rubbing slow circles over your spine like he’s trying to manually ease the nausea out of you.

“You threw up twice, you’ve barley eaten anything since yesterday, and you can’t even stand up straight. This isn’t fine,” he mutters, eyes scanning your face like he’s looking for signs of something worse.

You want to reassure him, but all you can manage is another gag and a feeble wave of your hand.

He makes a frustrated sound under his breath, somewhere between a growl and a groan and presses a kiss to your temple. You feel him shift beside you, still kneeling, still rubbing your back.

You’re pretty sure he was supposed to be on a flight to the Red Bull factory two hours ago. His suitcase is still zipped up in the hallway. His laptop sits forgotten on the kitchen counter next to the tea he brewed for you earlier, the tea you couldn’t even look at, let alone sip.

He didn’t even finish drying his hair. It’s still damp, curling at the edges. There’s a red line pressed into his cheek from where he must’ve fallen asleep beside you on the bathroom floor the night before.

“Max,” you mumble, finally able to lift your head. You rest your cheek against his shoulder, exhausted, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack before the baby’s even here.”

He tries to laugh but it comes out hoarse and half-broken. “I just hate this. Watching you like this. I keep thinking, what if I’m missing something? What if I’m not doing enough?”

You tilt your head up slightly, catching the crease between his brows, the lines of guilt that don’t belong there.

“You made me three kinds of toast this morning,” you murmur. “And cut the crusts off, and you held my hair and Googled ginger remedies until your phone died.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but you press a hand to his chest right over the spot where his heart’s racing, fast and wild.

“You’re here,” you whisper. “That’s not useless. That’s everything.”

He exhales shakily, eyes locked on yours and for a second you swear they shine.

“I’m just so scared of getting it wrong,” he admits, barely audible. “This whole dad thing. Taking care of you. It’s the most important thing I’ve ever done, and I keep feeling like I’m already screwing it up.”

“You’re not,” you promise, curling your fingers into the fabric of his t-shirt. “You’re already the best dad, because you care so much, because you show up.”

The weeks pass in waves. Ultrasounds. Appointments. Cravings that come out of nowhere at 2 a.m. and leave you both laughing in the kitchen in your pajamas, sharing a jar of pickles and toast with peanut butter. There are stretches of calm, slow, quiet mornings when the Monaco sunlight creeps across the bedsheets and Max wraps an arm around your waist, murmuring something sleepy against your neck. And then there are flashes of chaos, bags packed, schedules rearranged, Max on a video call with his race engineers while still rubbing your swollen feet with one hand.

Somehow, amidst it all, you find a rhythm.

You learn to time what you can around Max’s races, his travel, his returns. You count the days until he’s back, until he’s lying beside you again, one hand stretched protectively over your belly like it’s instinct now.

The first time you hear the heartbeat Max looks like someone knocked the air out of him. His mouth parts. His eyes fill.

“She’s real,” he whispers, the words barely making it past his lips. “Our baby is real.”

You haven’t even found out the gender yet, but he says she instinctively, without hesitation, like his heart already knows something the rest of you don’t.

You tease him about it once, smiling as he folds baby clothes that aren’t even needed yet.

“It might be a boy you know?” you say, watching him hold up a tiny lemon-patterned onesie like it’s the crown jewels.

He looks up from the clothes, something quiet and unshakable in his gaze. “Maybe, but I don’t know, I just feel it, every time I picture the future, it’s you... and her.”

You stare at him, your breath catching somewhere in your throat.

“She’s loud,” he continues, grinning now, his accent curling around the softness of his voice. “Talks too much. Bosses me around. Already a little menace. Definitely your child.”

“Excuse me?”

He laughs, quick and boyish, and leans over to press a kiss to your cheek. “You’ll see. She’s gonna have your fire.”

You don’t say it, but the truth sinks deep into your chest, he already loves this baby with his whole being.

He talks to your belly when he thinks you’re asleep. You catch him doing it all the time, quiet, unguarded moments where his world has narrowed down to two things, you and the life you’re creating together.

When you both lie awake at night, hands intertwined under the duvet, whispering about baby names and nursery colors and what kind of parents you want to be, Max is always a little breathless. Like he still can’t believe it’s real. Like he’s terrified and amazed in equal measure.

“She’s going to change everything,” he murmurs once, voice low in the dark.

“She already has,” you whisper back.

He nods slowly, curling into you like he always does, like you’re the only home he’s ever needed.

Max becomes… soft.

In every possible way.

It’s not just the way he handles you now, like you’re something precious and breakable. It’s not just the way he walks slower beside you or watches your face when you stand up too quickly or how he quietly puts your sneakers on for you when your feet start to swell.

It’s in the little things.

He buys three different pregnancy pillows, a full-body one, a C-shaped one, and some strange ergonomic wedge because he isn’t sure which one will help you sleep better. One night you catch him actually reading a parenting blog in bed next to you, blue light from his phone casting shadows across the duvet. He scrolls silently, occasionally muttering things like:

“Did you know babies can hear our voices by week twenty?”

Or,

“Apparently we’re supposed to play music for her.”

Then there’s the night you find him in the nursery.

It’s late. You’d gotten up to grab water and noticed the light was on down the hall. You pad softly to the doorway, heart already warm with affection and there he is.

Max. Standing perfectly still. The crib is built, assembled a few days ago it sits against the far wall now, freshly made up with soft cream sheets and a stuffed lion tucked in the corner.

He’s just staring at it.

Half terror. Half wonder.

“Max?” you say gently, stepping into the room.

He startles a little but doesn’t turn around.

“Do you think I’ll be good at this?” he murmurs.

You cross the room without answering and slide your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek against the cotton of his t-shirt. He reaches for your hands, holds them tightly over his chest.

“You’re already good,” you whisper.

He lets out a long, shaky breath. The kind that sounds like it’s been sitting in his chest for months.

“It’s just…” he starts, and then pauses, struggling to find the words. “I didn’t exactly have the perfect example.”

You nod, letting the silence stretch. You don’t talk about his childhood much but he’s never needed to say much for you to understand. Jos was many things, passionate, driven, ambitious. But he was also sharp around the edges. Affection was earned, not given freely. Max learned young what it meant to perform under pressure. To please. To succeed, or suffer.

“I’m scared I’ll mess her up,” he says, voice quieter now. “That I’ll push too hard. Or expect too much. Or say something I can’t take back. What if she cries and I don’t know how to make it better? What if she needs something I don’t know how to give?”

You pull back just enough to tilt your head and meet his gaze.

“Max, you’re the most patient person I know.”

He snorts, but there’s not much humor in it. “That’s a word I don’t think has ever been used to describe me.”

“You’re patient with people you love,” you correct gently. “With me. You’ve been soft and kind and so careful this whole time, even when I’ve been sick or moody or irrational. You listen. That’s what she’ll see. That’s what she’ll learn.”

You hesitate, then add softly, “I’m scared too, you know.”

His brows draw together, surprised. Maybe he hadn’t realised, maybe you’ve hidden it well. “You are?”

You nod. “Every single day. I lie in bed and think about how much we don’t know yet. About how overwhelming it all feels sometimes. What if I’m not enough? What if she needs more than I can give?”

His arms tighten around you instinctively, like he’s trying to hold the fear out of your body.

“But then I see you,” you whisper. “And I remember… we don’t have to do any of it alone, and that makes all the difference.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

He just turns in your arms, eyes a little wet, and rests his forehead against yours.

“I don’t want to get it wrong,” he breathes. “Not with her. Not with you.”

“You won’t,” you whisper. “But if you ever feel like you are, we’ll figure it out. Together.”

He nods slowly. Swallows. “Promise me you’ll tell me if I ever forget, if I ever slip. If I start to become…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.

“I promise, but I already know I won’t need to.” you say, holding his face in your hands.

You kiss him then, soft and sure, and he kisses you back like your faith in him is something he never wants to let go of. And in the stillness of that nursery, with your belly pressed to his and the crib waiting quietly behind you, Max lets the fear settle… just a little.

Maybe it’s okay to be scared, as long as neither of you is scared alone.

The last month is the hardest.

Your back feels like it’s been replaced by concrete. Your feet have swollen so much you’ve officially retired every pair of shoes you own except one pair of very ugly slides. You cry at everything, a dog food commercial, a voicemail from your mum, Max just looking at you across the kitchen.

You’re tired in ways you didn’t know were possible. Your body feels like it’s working overtime to grow a person and also remind you of gravity’s cruelest tricks.

Max, meanwhile, has entered full protective mode. As if the impending arrival of your daughter has turned every single instinct inside him up to eleven.

He won’t let you lift anything.

Not a grocery bag. Not a chair. Not even your own overnight hospital bag.

You once reached for a water bottle and he appeared out of thin air swiping it out of your reach with a sharp, scandalized look.

“Max,” you deadpanned, “I’m pregnant, not paralyzed.”

“I’m aware,” he muttered, already unscrewing the cap and handing it to you like a peace offering.

“You think the baby’s going to fall out if I hold a Fiji bottle?”

“No,” he said seriously, “but why take the risk.”

You rolled your eyes then. You do it often now. But secretly?

You love it.

You love how protective he is. How he walks slightly behind you in crowds, like a buffer. How he started driving ten kilometers under the limit the second you entered your third trimester, even though he used to complain that Monaco traffic was basically just expensive cars parked in motion.

You love how he fusses, quietly but constantly. How he now triple-checks that your favorite snack is stocked before leaving the apartment, how he installed a nightlight in the hallway so you wouldn't trip during your nightly bathroom trips. How he downloaded six different white noise apps on his phone so you could try them out in bed. "For practice," he said, “in case she’s fussy.”

But what really gets you, what makes your chest ache with something warm and vast and impossible to describe is the way his face changes every time you talk about the baby.

A softening around his eyes. A slight tilt of his head. The more you speak about her name, about what she might look like, about whether she’ll like racing or painting or maybe dinosaurs, the more he leans in.

He’s never looked at you like this before. Not when he’s on the podium. Not even after winning his first championship. This? This is different.

This is awe. This is devotion. This is Max Verstappen world-class driver, famously unshakeable completely and utterly undone by the thought of his daughter.

He leans down and kisses your skin. “She’s going to wreck me isn’t she?”

“She already has.”

He looks up at you, eyes shining under the soft lamp light, and for once he doesn’t have a smart reply.

Then the day finally comes.

You wake at 3:13 a.m. with a pressure in your abdomen that steals your breath. It isn’t sharp, not at first. Just a heavy, aching pull deep in your core, like gravity has shifted suddenly inside you.

For a moment you think it’s another false alarm.

You shift under the covers, already rehearsing the mental checklist your doctor gave you: hydration, time the contractions, don’t panic. You ease out of bed, try walking to the bathroom, just like they said to do when you’re not sure it’s real yet, but then the pain tightens, sharp and low and unmistakable. It doesn’t come and go. It grips.

Just like that you know.

You shuffle back to the bed and place a trembling hand on Max’s chest.

“Max.”

He jolts upright as if someone’s fired a starter pistol. “What? What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is it time?”

His voice is gravelly with sleep, but his body is already moving.

You nod, barely able to get the words out through the rising wave of pain.

“Okay. Okay. Alright, okay,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, as he flings the covers off and springs into motion.

What follows is like watching a pit stop in human form.

Max moves with sharp, terrifying focus. He’s already helped you into the comfiest clothes he can find, sweatpants and one of his old t-shirts, before you even finish brushing your teeth. He pulls the hospital bag from the front closet, double-checks its contents, grabs your water bottle, chargers, snacks, the car keys.

But the entire time, his hands are shaking.

You notice it in the way he fumbles with the seatbelt when helping you into the car. In the way he presses the elevator button three times like it’ll come faster.

By the time he’s in the driver’s seat, knuckles white on the steering wheel, you’re gripping the side of the door, breathing through another contraction.

“Max,” you whisper, chest rising and falling in short bursts. “Breathe.”

“I am breathing, you need to breath.” he says quickly, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror even though the road is deserted.

“No, you’re hyperventilating.”

“I’m not, maybe a little,” he admits, cheeks flushed. He loosens his grip on the wheel, forces one deep inhale through his nose.

You reach across the console and take his hand, squeezing through the contraction.

“You’re going to be amazing,” you say through gritted teeth.

He glances at you, eyes shining under the dashboard light. “You’re the one doing the hard part.”

You laugh sort of. It’s half a wheeze, half a whimper. “Hard doesn’t even cover it.”

He presses a kiss to your knuckles at the next red light. “Just keep holding on. I’m right here.”

The labour is long.

Twenty hours of chaos and calm. Of excruciating pain and quiet moments in between, your hand curled tight in Max’s.

He never leaves your side.

“I love you,” he says every few minutes, even when you’re too far gone to reply. “You’re doing so good. You’re so strong.”

He hovers beside you, whispering soft encouragements, brushing sweat from your forehead with shaking fingers.

And then, after everything, comes silence.

The kind that feels holy.

The room stills. You collapse against the pillows, exhausted and trembling. And then it happens.

A sound. Fragile. Piercing.

A cry.

Your baby’s first breath shatters the stillness, high-pitched and perfect and real.

Max sags beside you like his legs can’t hold him anymore. He buries his face in your shoulder, and for the first time since you’ve known him, since the earliest days of cautious flirtation and long-distance calls, since the podiums and the plane rides and the quiet "I love you"s you feel him cry.

“She’s here,” he chokes out. His whole body shakes. “She’s really here.”

When the nurse places your daughter on your chest, something in you clicks into place. She’s tiny. Wrinkled. Red-faced and slippery and making the most outraged little sounds, but she’s perfect. She’s yours.

And Max… Max looks like he’s been struck by lightning. He can’t move at first. Just stands there, one hand braced on the edge of the bed, the other hovering like he’s afraid to touch her. His face is wet with tears. He looks shell-shocked.

“She’s…” he starts, but he can’t finish. His voice breaks again.

You reach for his hand and guide it gently to her. His fingertips brush her hand and her tiny fingers curl around his pinky, as if she already knows him.

“Hi, kleine meid,” he whispers. “I’m your dada.”

Just like that he’s gone.

Hopelessly, entirely, irreversibly in love.

Later, after the visitors come and go after your families cry over tiny fingers and kiss your cheeks with soft, trembling mouths, after nurses shuffle in and out with gentle voices and kind hands the hospital room falls quiet again.

Just the three of you now. The soft hum of machines. The muffled hallway beyond the door. The gentle rustle of a newborn’s breath in the bassinet beside the bed.

Max lies beside you on the narrow hospital bed, somehow fitting his long frame against yours like puzzle pieces. One arm is curled protectively around your back, anchoring you to his chest. The other hand rests on the side of the bassinet, fingers still.

You watch him as he stares at her. He hasn’t looked away in over twenty minutes.

Not since the nurse gently wheeled her over and whispered, “She’s all yours now.”

“She’s got your nose,” you murmur sleepily, the exhaustion pulling at you like a tide, but the kind you’d wade into again without question.

Max smiles, slow and full and a little dazed. His eyes are glassy, bloodshot from lack of sleep and tears he no longer bothers hiding.

“Poor thing,” he says softly.

You chuckle, too tired for more than a breathy laugh. “She’s lucky.”

He looks over to you, his gaze heavy with affection. He leans in and presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there like he’s silently thanking the universe for bringing you through it.

“No,” he murmurs against your skin. “I’m the lucky one.”

You curl into his chest a little deeper, feeling the solid beat of his heart beneath your cheek. His hoodie smells like hospital linen and baby powder and Max, warm, worn-in, familiar.

“You were worried,” you say quietly, almost to yourself.

He nods without hesitation. “Terrified.”

There’s no bravado in his voice now. No need to pretend.

He exhales, glancing back at your daughter. “I’ve been trying to imagine this moment for months. Her face. The sound she’d make. Whether I’d be good enough for her.” His fingers flex slightly against the edge of the bassinet, just brushing the corner. “And now she’s here. And I just keep thinking… how do I live up to her?”

“Still scared?” you whisper.

He hesitates. “Yeah.”

He glances down at the baby again. She’s sleeping now, her tiny fist curled near her cheek, lips parted in a soft, steady rhythm.

“But it’s different now,” he adds. “I think… how is she real? How did we make her? How is she breathing and blinking and making those tiny sounds like it’s the most normal thing in the world?” His voice catches. “How do I ever make sure she knows how much I love her?”

You reach for his hand and lace your fingers through his. He grips yours back immediately, tight, like he needs to feel your pulse to believe any of this is real.

“She already knows,” you whisper. “She’s felt it. She’s felt it every time you talked to her. Every time you rubbed my back or held my hair or teared up during an ultrasound.”

Max looks at you then, and you see it all, the vulnerability, the devotion, the pure, unfiltered wonder that hasn’t left him since the moment she arrived.

You smile through the tears clouding your lashes.

“We’re in this together,” you say.

He nods. “Always.”

Taglist: @shigarika @bunnisplayground @thecoolpotatohologram @ymrereads @alexxavicry @gigglepre @esw1012 @satorinnie @percysaidnever @osclerc @sainzluvrr @autumn242 @shadowreader07 @joyfulpandamiracle @inmynotes63 @athanasia-day @embonbon @waterdeeply @shadowsoundeffects13 @fastandcurious16 @odegaardlia @skzvibes-blog @iambored24601 @e10owmaks @painfromblues @brokenvines-wiltingflowers @leto-twins-3107 @rxx-eegh @treatallwithkindness @lewishamiltonismybf @mara1999 @armystay89 @ramonaflwsr @zazima @valevv30 @mischiefmxnxgedhp @yoonessa @wordskeeper @freyathehuntress @brumstappen @irenkaproszepana @butterkaput @lenamds @blueskies4everxo @teamnovalak

[kuidore]

More random ZoeYstery HCs ✧ KPOP demon hunters ✧ Zoey x Mystery

✧ They’re a little codependent but the sprinkles of toxicity are mutual so it cancels out

✧ Mystery never wants to go anywhere if Zoe isn’t going. He goes to social stuff because she goes and he wants to spend time with her.

✧ Zoey will still go to things on her own sometimes, leaving Mystery to hangout at home, but she spends a lot of time on her phone texting him and always leaves earlier than she would have if Mystery was with her

✧ This is entirely her choice, not once has he ever asked her to come home or complained about her going out. She just misses him extra hard sometimes and finds herself getting bored way faster when he isn’t around

✧ If it was up to either of them, they’d be together literally all of the time.

✧ They can’t actually do that, so he just follows her everywhere like a puppy on an invisible leash as much as he can

✧ He can see perfectly fine through his bangs (demon logic) but he still has a habit of running into things as if he couldn’t. Poles, signs, corners, fire hydrants. He’s surprisingly clumsy

✧ that’s because he doesn’t look where he’s going. he stares at Zoey instead

✧ totally worth it to him, especially the times when Zoey would start fawning over the possibility of him being hurt

✧ ‘a girlfriend wants a boyfriend who she can turn her brain off around’ except Mystery is the girlfriend

✧ He’s sorta an airhead, he’s ignorant to a lot of things that humans would think of as common knowledge

✧ Mystery thinks Zoey is the smartest person in the entire world and he says it a lot

✧ he eventually gets comfortable enough to ask her questions not just about herself, and she answers him with lots of details and excited hand gestures

✧ She’s happy he’s curious about humans in general and happier that he was asking her.

✧ In reality he’s still just curious about her and not all humans. No other ones, really. Maybe the rest of Huntrix, barely. he could handle her friends because they were extensions of Zoey.

✧ he was asking about topics he remembered her mention before in conversation.

✧ Zoey forgets what stories she’s told and what conversations she’s had with what people, so it doesn’t really click together that she just happens to know at least a little bit about pretty much about everything he asks

✧ he’s not doing it with manipulative intentions. Dude just genuinely could not care less about anything if he can’t play ‘seven degrees of Zoey Huntrix’ with it

✧ He compliments her multiple times a day, usually just blurting out something he was thinking as opposed to any sort of setup or cute delivery. In his eyes he’s just saying things that are true, but Zoey always giggles and thanks him anyways

✧ His deadpan tone and complete lack of awareness, in Zoey’s eyes, is a cute delivery

✧ Zoey is a crazy good baker. Mystery will hangout in the kitchen with her, sitting down and staying the hell out of her way as she zooms between cupboards

✧ Every so often she stops in front of him, a piece of chocolate or pastry or whatever else she was messing around with pinched between her fingers, and pops it in his mouth for a taste test

✧ He’s never any help when she’s trying to figure something out, but Zoey already knows that. She’s not expecting critique, she just gets all giddy seeing him smile and say it’s yummy when he tastes it

✧ where Jinu never lets Rumi see his demonic eyes, Mystery is exactly the opposite with Zoey

✧ When they’re at home, even after he’s started pinning up his bangs, he only ever has bright amber eyes with cat-like pupils

✧ Mystery has nothing but his demon form in his past, and as much as he didn’t care, sometimes he wondered what Zoey thought. If she ever remembered he was a demon when she was alone and recoiled at the thought of his ‘real’ form

✧ it’s the first question he’s afraid to ask her, so he doesn’t

✧ One day when she’s laying on top of him on their couch and his eyes are closed, she presses her lips to his eyelid, telling him not to open them as she did the same on the other side

✧ He opened them back up and just raises an eyebrow, and she shrugs back at him and tells him he has pretty eyes

✧ she gets a new thing for her ‘what makes Mystery blush?’ list

[gf2bellamy]

something that would be so cute is r who wears glasses kissing spencer (while hes also wearing his glasses) and their glasses kind of clack against eachother by accident and both spencer and r are giggling a little when that happens so they have to stop kissing for a second

😭😭

-🪲

clink — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: fluff a/n: haiii !!! love this idea <3 hope you like this <3

You let out a dramatic sigh as you dropped your full weight onto Spencer, sprawling across his body on the couch. He let out a surprised “oof,” his breath hitching as you landed on top of him, but his arm instinctively wrapped around you anyway.

“Hi,” you mumbled into the crook of his neck, lips brushing against his skin. “Missed you.”

Spencer’s chest rumbled with a soft laugh as he hugged you tighter, fingers resting gently against your spine. “You went to get the mail,” he said into your hair, amusement clear in his voice.

“So?” you huffed, lifting your head just enough to rest your chin on his chest. He blinked down at you, already slightly distracted by how pretty you looked with your glasses slipping down your nose.

“So,” he echoed, “it was two minutes.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Does that mean you didn’t miss me?”

Spencer gave a laugh, lips quirking into a fond smile. “Of course I missed you,” he said, brushing a gentle hand up and down your back, fingers dragging softly through the fabric of your shirt.

You beamed, content, your eyes glancing down at the book in his hand, which now dangled precariously over the edge of the couch. “You enjoying your book?” you asked, shifting just enough to sit up, now straddling his lap.

He moved with you easily, settling back into the cushions with one hand resting on your hip, the other lifting the book slightly to keep it from falling. “I think so,” he murmured. “I’m only on chapter three, but it’s promising. It’s about—”

You watched him speak as he adjusted his glasses with one hand and gently set the book aside with the other. You barely noticed time pass as you wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers slipping into the hair at the nape of his neck, toying with it gently while he spoke. His thumbs traced soft, absent-minded circles over your hips as he continued talking, occasionally glancing up to see if you were still listening. You were. You asked little questions now and then just to keep him talking, because you loved the sound of his voice when he was excited.

“Hm. I like your interpretation, though,” you murmured thoughtfully as Spencer explained a particular scene from his book. His eyes lit up a little at your words.

“Yeah?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. You nodded, your glasses slipping down the bridge of your nose. He reached up and gently pushed them back into place with two fingers.

“It completely makes sense,” you said, glancing over at the book now resting on the side of the couch next to you, its pages slightly creased from how he’d set it down. “I didn’t even think about it that way until you pointed it out.” Spencer gave you a small smile, his fingers still resting lightly against the curve of your jaw.

“What?” you asked, poking his cheek playfully with one finger, suspicious of the way he was looking at you.

“Nothing,” he said quietly, but the way his voice dipped slightly and the corners of his mouth twitched upward said otherwise.

He leaned in slowly, and your heart fluttered. Without hesitation, you leaned in too, meeting him halfway with a soft smile. But before your lips could touch, your glasses bumped together with a loud clink. You both froze. Wide-eyed and nose-to-nose, you stared at each other in stunned silence for a second. And then you both broke into laughter.

“Okay,” you said, still giggling. “Take off your glasses.”

Spencer gave you an exaggerated pout. “You take off yours.”

You blinked. “Why me?”

“Because,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “if I take off mine, I won’t be able to see you properly.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, amusement dancing in your eyes. “Spencer, you always close your eyes when we kiss. What does it matter?”

He opened his mouth to argue, then paused, visibly considering your point. “Still,” he said stubbornly, “you take off yours. What if I feel like opening my eyes this time?”

You groaned dramatically and laughed. “Oh my god, Spencer,” you muttered, shaking your head as you reached up and plucked the glasses off his face, then yours. You set them both carefully on the arm of the couch.Spencer gave you another half-hearted pout, but you silenced it by finally leaning in and pressing your lips to his.His hands moved instinctively to your face again, fingers curling around your jaw as he leaned into the kiss. He sighed happily into your mouth.

When you pulled back just slightly, his eyes fluttered open, still dazed. “Okay,” he whispered. “You’re right. I do always close my eyes.”

You giggled, brushing your nose against his. “Told you.”

[ridingreeves]

𝖶𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗇 𝖽𝗈➤𝟤

𝖯𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀－𝖤𝗅𝗂𝗃𝖺𝗁*𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾*𝖬𝗈𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗑 𝖡𝗅𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝖲𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒－𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝗎𝗉 𝗍𝗈 𝖲𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾’𝗌 𝖿𝖺𝗆𝗂𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗈𝗄𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖺𝖿𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝖺 𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾－𝗇𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍 𝗂𝗇𝗏𝗂𝗍𝖾 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗍𝗈 𝖽𝗋𝗈𝗉 𝗂𝗇 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖸𝗈𝗎’𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗌𝗈 𝗌𝗎𝗋𝖾 𝗂𝗍 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗐𝖺𝗌

𝖶𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌－𝖧𝖺𝗋𝗌𝗁 𝗅𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗎𝖺𝗀𝖾，𝖭－𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝗎𝗌𝖺𝗀𝖾，𝗍𝗈𝗑𝗂𝖼 𝖾𝗑 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾，𝗌𝗍𝖺𝖼𝗄 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾 𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖺𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗀𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝖾𝗍𝗍𝗒 𝖺𝗅𝗌𝗈 𝖻𝖿 𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋

A/N- im not good at part two's so i hope you enjoy it 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇 𝗂𝖿 𝗂𝗍'𝗌 𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗍 𝗂𝖿 𝗂𝗍 𝖽𝗈𝗇'𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗇𝗌𝖾 𝖻𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗆𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗆𝖺 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗂𝗋𝖾𝖽❤︎︎

Smoke’s name lit up your phone just after 11 p.m.

You were already turned away from the light, arm tucked under your pillow, trying to pretend the day didn’t shake you. But that name on your screen?

It flipped your whole body heat like a switch.

You groaned and answered anyway. “What, Elijah?”

Smoke chuckled, low and gravelly like he’d been waiting for you to cave. “Damn. Full government? You mad or tryna be professional?”

“I’m tryna go to sleep.”

“Yeah? Thought maybe you was waitin’ on him to get home. But that nigga probably still somewhere drinkin’ kombucha and talkin’ about tax brackets.”

You sighed, loud. “What do you want?”

“You doin’ somethin’ Saturday?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“I said—Saturday. You busy?”

You sat up a little. “Why?”

“Family cookout,” he said like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just turned your whole emotional equilibrium inside out hours earlier. “Stack throwin’ some ribs on the grill, aunties bringin’ plates, kids gon’ be in the yard actin’ up… you know the drill.”

Your voice flattened. “So? What’s that got to do with me?”

Smoke hesitated, just for a second. Then came the truth.

“Wanna see you there.”

You nearly laughed. “Why would I come to your family cookout?”

“Because you family,” he said, voice low and firm. “Still my son’s mama. Still got my last name. And ‘cause you already know my people been askin’ about you.”

“Oh, have they?” you said, sarcastically.

“Yup,” he said. “Aunt Dee talkin’ ‘bout how you used to bring them red velvet cupcakes, askin’ if you finally left that boy who look like he drive a Prius and listen to meditation playlists.”

You sighed. “Smoke…”

“Look, I’m not askin’ you to come over here and confess your love. I’m sayin’… I'm taking lil man. Come eat. Chill. Be around folks who know you.”

“And him?” you asked.

“Who?”

“You know who.”

Smoke scoffed. “Man, he not invited. Hell, if he pull up in them tight-ass pants talkin’ about chakras, Stack gon’ put him on the grill next to the sausages.”

Despite yourself, you snorted.

“C’mon,” Smoke said, quieter now. “You ain’t gotta stay long. Just come through. Our boy gon be running around with his cousins. Let your hair down.”

“I don’t know…”

“Let me make it easy,” he said, voice slick now, confident. “If you don’t pull up Saturday, Stack gon’ post that baby picture of you at our gender reveal. The one where you fell asleep holdin’ that blue onesie with cupcake on your face.”

“You wouldn’t dare—”

“I already sent it to his phone.”

“Smoke!”

He laughed. Like deep, belly-rolling, “I got her” laughed.

“That’s dirty.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But it’s family business, right?”

You were quiet for a long moment. The idea of seeing them all again—his people, your people once upon a time—was dangerous. You knew that. Knew it’d be stepping back into something you worked too hard to walk away from.

But also?

You missed them.

You missed you—the version of you who laughed too loud on plastic lawn chairs with a cup full of spiked sweet tea. The you who wore crop tops and hoop earrings without worrying about what her new man would think.

“…What time?”

Smoke didn’t say “I knew you’d come,” but you could hear it in the way he exhaled through a grin.

“Three. Bring some of that pasta salad they always beg you for.”

You sighed again, but softer this time. “You better not start with me when I get there.”

“I won’t,” he said, voice low. “I’ma just be happy to see you. And maybe… remind you what you walked away from.”

You shook your head. “You never stop, do you?”

“Not when it comes to you? Nah.”

You didn’t say goodbye. You just hung up and stared at the ceiling in the dark, heart pounding louder than it should’ve been.

SATURDAY

The music hit you before you even turned onto the street—classic Frankie Beverly & Maze, the anthem of every Black barbecue across the country. You rolled down the window a little and smiled despite yourself.

You hadn’t even parked before your son ran to your car.

“They got the bouncy house again.”

“Do they,” you said, trying to keep it cool.

He lit up like a firecracker anyway. “YESSS!”

You parked down the block. Far enough away to feel like you could slip out if things got weird. Close enough to be seen.

And oh, you were seen.

Stack spotted you first, posted by the grill with a white towel over his shoulder and a pair of tongs in one hand.

“Look what the wind blew in!” he yelled, grinning. “Look at her—comin’ through with the thighs out like she ain’t been missed!”

 “So where yo’ boyfriend at? He don’t do sun, or he just allergic to bein’ useful?”

You rolled your eyes. “He had to work.”

Stack laughed like that was the funniest lie he’d ever heard. “Of course he did. Probably somewhere tryna sell somebody an extended warranty.”

“Stack—”

You rolled your eyes, adjusting your sunglasses. “Don’t start.”

Stack came over to you, watching your boy run back with his cousins, then winked at you. “Your man let you out the house wearin’ that, huh? He brave.”

You didn’t answer. Just walked behind your boy toward the backyard where all the noise was coming from—kids hollering, grown folks talking over each other, people playing cards.

And then you saw him.

Smoke.

In a black tee, chain glinting in the sunlight, red Solo cup in one hand, leaning back in a lawn chair like he didn’t start half the drama in your life—and dare you to hold it against him.

He stood up when he saw you, smile slow, easy. Dangerous.

“Look who decided to bless the function,” he said, eyes sliding down your body.

“Relax,” you muttered. “I’m just here for my son.”

“Mmhm,” he said, stepping in close enough that only you could hear. “But you brought that sundress and them hoops like you knew I was gon’ be lookin’. That for me, mama?”

You pushed past him.

But the heat in your chest betrayed you.

⸻

The afternoon rolled on in that chaotic, beautiful way only family cookouts can. Kids in the sprinkler. Aunt Dee yelling at folks not to touch her potato salad. Stack on the grill talking ‘bout “I do this,” while burning the hot dogs anyway.

You sat on the folding chair under the tent, trying to stay cool and low-key, sipping sweet tea and avoiding all the side-eyes and slick comments from Smoke’s nosy-ass cousins.

You hadn’t been around in a while, but they remembered.

“Ohhh, she came back,” one of them whispered, not quiet enough.

“Lookin’ like she ain’t missed a beat,” another said, fanning herself.

Smoke was everywhere—tossing his son over his shoulder into the bounce house, cracking jokes with Stack, throwing shade with charm. But every time you glanced up, his eyes were already on you.

Like he never stopped watchin’.

Like he never would.

⸻

Later, when the sun was low…

You were sitting alone now, your son passed out under one of the tents with a plate next to him, cheeks sticky and hair wild.

You leaned back, trying to breathe. Trying to remember why you said you’d come.

Then, of course, Smoke appeared.

He sat down beside you, close but not touching. Just enough for the air between you to get thick.

“Appreciate you comin’,” he said.

You nodded.

He nudged your knee with his.

“You remember last summer’s cookout?” he asked. “Before everything fell apart?”

You looked at him. “Yeah. I remember.”

“You was dancin’ to that Fantasia song like you ain’t had no worries. I remember thinkin’, ‘Damn. That’s mine. Ain’t no way she ever leavin’.’”

Your chest ached. Because you remembered too. How good it had been before it wasn’t.

He turned toward you, full now. Honest. Dangerous in a new way.

“Everybody out here keep sayin’ we done,” he murmured. “But they don’t know how we built this. What we survived together. What we still feel. You think you can run from that, mama? But you always end up back here.”

“Back here don’t mean I’m stayin’.”

“Yeah?” he said. “Then why you still got that ring in your jewelry box?”

You looked at him, stunned.

He smirked. “Yeah. Ej told me. Said you wear it sometimes when you think nobody lookin’. Said you said it was ‘just a memory.’ But you don’t keep memories in velvet cases, do you?”

You stood fast, heart in your throat.

“I gotta go.”

Smoke stood too, but slower. Measured.

“You sure?” he asked. “’Cause you ain’t even tasted Stack’s ribs yet. Or had your second plate. Let me walk you to the car like I used to.”

You didn’t answer.

You just walked to your sleeping son, lifted him gently, kissed his sticky forehead.

Smoke followed behind you all the way to your car.

You laid your baby in the back seat, adjusted the belt, then turned around—and there he was. That same damn look on his face. Like he knew.

“Thanks for today,” you said, voice soft.

“You gon’ thank me better later?” he teased, but there was an ache in it. Something deeper.

You looked at him for a long second. Then whispered

“Smoke… don’t make me come back if you not gon’ keep me this time.”

His jaw clenched.

He stepped forward, hand brushing your wrist.

“I ain’t never stopped wantin’ to.”

You didn’t kiss him. Didn’t let him kiss you.

But the promise hung in the air.

And when you drove off that time, hands still trembling slightly on the wheel?

You weren’t scared like before.

You were curious.

Because you knew now—

That door?

Wasn’t as closed as you told yourself it was.

[dollyswishingwell]

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Faking it

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ angst lowkey (reader feels like she owes it to them), lots of fluff, smut (barely), lemme know if i missed anything

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ You fake an orgasm

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Rafayel had been extra clingy all day.

He’d followed you around the penthouse like a lovesick puppy, sticking his cold fingers under your sweater, nuzzling into your neck while you were trying to fold laundry, dragging you into bed even though you clearly weren’t in the mood for much more than a nap. But he’d been gone for three days at some idiotic meeting Thomas insisted on dragging him to, and when Raf missed you, he missed you. Not just your presence, not just your voice, he wanted your body, your soft little moans, your sweet eyes fluttering up at him like you were the only two people in the world.

You knew that.

You knew that so well that when he finally nestled between your thighs that night, whispering “Missed my pearlie so much” with lips dragging down your shoulder, you didn’t say no.

Even when you weren’t really in the mood.

Even when your head was foggy from sleep, and you kept accidentally zoning out halfway through.

Even when the ache in your back was stronger than the ache in your core.

So you faked it. Sweetly. Breathlessly. A little sigh, then a trembling moan, then a soft whimper of his name like it was the most natural thing in the world. You even arched your back for effect, letting your lashes flutter shut like it was all too much.

And Rafayel melted. He always did. With a soft, broken sound, he buried his face in your neck, shuddering as he came right after you, his arms tightening around you like you were his entire universe.

He stayed like that for a while, still, silent, face smushed against your skin. You thought he’d drifted off. He hadn’t.

“…You faked that, didn’t you,” he mumbled quietly, barely audible. Not angry. Just sad.

Your breath hitched.

“I-It’s not that I don’t like it,” you whispered quickly, panic bubbling in your chest. “I just—wasn’t really in the mood, but you missed me, and I thought—it’s not a big deal, Raf. I love you—”

His arms stayed wrapped around you. But he didn’t say anything at first.

“…You don’t ever have to do that,” he said, voice hushed and soft against your skin. “I’d rather just hold you.”

A pause. Then, quieter:

“You know you don’t have to earn your keep like that, right? You’re my baby, not a reward for coming home.”

Tears pricked your eyes. You nodded.

“…Can I still hold you anyway?” he asked a moment later, voice small.

You turned in his arms and nodded again. “Always.”

He kissed your cheek and pulled the blanket up to your chin, tucking you against him like a doll. Quiet, content, a little clingy still, but nothing more.

Just your soft Rafayel, who loved you even when you were tired.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

You weren’t sure when exactly you started zoning out.

Maybe it was around the time his hand slipped under your thigh and he murmured something about how perfect you were for him. Maybe it was when his rhythm became familiar enough that your brain wandered, first to the grocery list, then to what color nails you wanted for the hospital gala, then to God, I’m so sleepy.

You weren’t mad. You weren’t upset. Zayne wasn’t doing anything wrong.

You just… weren’t really in it tonight.

But he’d been so gentle with you all day. Brought you breakfast in bed, carried you into the bath, helped you detangle your hair after. He was soft, and warm, and still in his work scrubs when he pressed kisses to your collarbone and whispered, “Missed you today, sweetheart.”

It felt like the least you could do.

So you closed your eyes, let your arms wrap around him loosely, and when the moment felt right, you gave a soft, breathy gasp and arched up into him like your body just couldn’t help it. You sighed his name, let it crack a little like you were overwhelmed. Let your body go limp in that perfect post-orgasm way he loved.

And Zayne, always so careful, always so attuned to you, stilled.

You didn’t notice right away. Not until he pulled out of you a little too carefully, brushed the hair from your face with a quiet, unreadable look in his hazel-green eyes.

“…You didn’t finish.”

Your heart jumped. “W-What do you mean? I—”

He gave you that look. The one he gives when a patient tries to lie to him. Calm. Not angry. Just knowing.

“I know your body, sweetheart. I know your tells.” His thumb brushed over your flushed cheek. “And I know when you’re pretending.”

You flushed deeper, shame crawling up your throat. “I just… wasn’t really in the mood. But you were so sweet today. And I didn’t want to disappoint you, so I thought maybe if I just…”

Zayne exhaled softly through his nose.

“Oh, darling.”

He leaned down and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead. “You don’t ever have to do that. Not for me. Not for anything.”

You stared at him, blinking, feeling suddenly small. But his voice was warm. Steady. Not hurt. Just, loving.

“I didn’t marry you for sex. I married you because I love you.” His palm settled over your heart. “Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re not in the mood. Even if you never want to again.”

Your throat wobbled. “I just didn’t want to be a burden…”

Zayne kissed your nose. “Then let me remind you. You are never a burden. You’re my sweetheart.”

He tucked you into his arms, bare chests pressed together under the soft hospital-blue sheets. “Now get some rest. I’ll still be here in the morning.”

And he was. He always was.

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

You weren’t mad at him. You weren’t upset. You weren’t even uncomfortable.

You were just… not really feeling it.

Xavier had come home early from a reconnaissance mission, swept you up into his arms like a weightless thing, and carried you straight to the bedroom, eyes low-lidded and unreadable. He’d murmured something about how you looked too pretty in your little apron today, how the scent of you lingered in his mind when he was away. And you, soft and pliant and wanting to be good for him, let yourself be undressed, let yourself be kissed and adored and laid bare beneath him like a porcelain bunny.

But somewhere in the middle, your mind drifted.

You were thinking about whether you left the window garden open. About the broken necklace you meant to fix. About what to make him for breakfast tomorrow, because he liked the way you cut his toast into hearts, even if he pretended not to care.

And when Xavier’s fingers gripped your thighs tighter, when he leaned in closer with a low, breathy sigh of your name, you realized he was close.

So you let out a soft gasp. Arched into him, just a little. Moaned quietly. Gave the illusion of release, not over the top, just enough to melt him.

And he did melt.

But not in the way you expected.

His rhythm faltered. His breath caught. And instead of pressing closer, he… stopped.

You blinked up at him, confused. “…Xavi?”

He looked at you. Really looked at you.

Still inside you. Still quiet. But not lost in pleasure.

“…Starlight,” he whispered, voice low. “You didn’t finish.”

Your stomach dropped. “I—I did.”

A pause. Then his head tilted.

“You forgot to shiver. You always shiver.” His tone wasn’t judgmental. It wasn’t even sad. Just curious. “Did I hurt you? Was I too fast?”

“No, no! Nothing like that!” you rushed. “I just… wasn’t really in the mood. But I didn’t want to ruin the moment, and you seemed so…”

He blinked once. Twice. Then leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours, silver hair falling like soft silk around you.

“You don’t have to give yourself to me if you’re not ready, bunny. You’re not something I take.”

His voice was impossibly gentle.

“You’re something I love.”

Your eyes welled up, but he was already moving, already pulling you into his chest like the softest, most precious thing in the universe. He didn’t pull out, not yet, just wrapped his arms around you and rested there.

“Next time,” he whispered, eyes fluttering closed, “just tell me. I’ll hold you instead.”

And he did. For a long time. Until he fell asleep, buried against you, mumbling soft things in his sleep like mine and safe and stay close.

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

You weren’t quite sure why you did it. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was habit. Maybe it was because Sylus had been working so hard lately, burning down obstacles for you, carving out a future where you never had to lift a finger, not even to open a door.

He’d bought you a new mansion this week. Not just any mansion, a six-level estate with custom marble floors and a koi pond just because you once mentioned missing your childhood pet fish. He kissed the crown of your head and murmured, “My kitty deserves palaces.”

So when he took you in the grand bedroom, slow, possessive, murmuring how “good” you were for him, you felt like you had to give him something back. Even if your body was tired. Even if your heart wasn’t in it.

You moaned. You gasped his name. You clenched down just the right way, fluttering your lashes and whispering “S-Sy… I’m gonna—” and gave a little fake tremble.

And it worked. For a moment.

Sylus grunted softly, thrust once more, then stilled deep inside you with a low, satisfied exhale. He was always so still when he came, like a man who didn’t like losing control even when overwhelmed. He kissed your neck, slowly, one hand stroking your cheek.

But the moment he pulled back to look at you, his red eyes narrowed, just a little. Not in suspicion. Not in anger. Just… interest.

You looked away.

“Kitty,” he said coolly, “do you think I don’t know what you sound like when you actually come?”

Your stomach twisted. You gave a nervous little laugh, trying to brush it off, but his hand curled under your chin, gently guiding your gaze back to him.

“Was I too rough?” he asked. “Did I hurt you?”

“No! No, it’s not that,” you whispered, cheeks hot. “I just—wasn’t really in the mood, but I thought—I mean, you’ve been doing so much for me, and I didn’t want to seem ungrateful—”

A quiet laugh left his lips. Amused. A little dark.

“Oh, sweetie,” he murmured, brushing your hair back with elegant fingers. “You think you need to pay me back with your body? For being my wife?”

His tone was indulgent. Dangerous. Like he found the entire idea absurd.

“You already belong to me. That’s more than enough.”

You blinked at him, stunned. But Sylus just tucked you into his side, stroking your bare thigh with slow, lazy circles.

“You don’t fake things with me. I don’t need lies. I need you.” He glanced down at you, mouth curving. “If you’re tired, say so. If you want sleep, you get it. If you want me to just hold you and kiss your face until you’re purring, then you say the word.”

You mumbled something soft and small. He kissed your temple.

“And if I ever want something you don’t, I’ll deal with it. I’ve waited years for you. I can wait a night.”

He snapped his fingers toward the bedside table. Your favorite silk robe was in his hand a moment later. He helped you into it like you were made of glass, then pulled you onto his lap, tucking your head beneath his chin.

“Now,” he murmured, “let me pamper my little liar properly.”

You laughed softly into his chest. He didn’t mind. He just kissed the top of your head again.

“Next time,” he whispered against your ear, voice teasing and low, “I want the real thing. Understand, kitty?”

You nodded.

And you meant it.

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

You weren’t planning to fake it.

You really weren’t.

But Caleb had been gone for almost a week, off at some classified Farspace campaign, the kind that made your chest twist with worry until he messaged you with a blurry photo of his boots beside a meal tray, or a clipped miss you, pips. And the moment he walked through the penthouse doors tonight, still in uniform, still smelling like gunmetal and aftershave, he swept you up and whispered, “Mine. I missed my girl so bad, baby, need you.”

You wanted to be good for him. You always did.

So even though you were tired. Even though your head was somewhere else. Even though your body wasn’t really reacting the way you knew he wanted, you let your hands drift into his hair. Let your lips part with a soft gasp. Let your thighs tremble just enough to mimic release, moaning “C-Caleb… I’m—”

His eyes were on yours the whole time.

And you should’ve known.

Because Caleb doesn’t miss anything.

He stilled.

So gently. Just a shift of his hips. The faintest pause.

“…You didn’t come,” he murmured, voice calm. Soft. Like a statement, not a question.

You flinched. “I-I did—”

“Don’t lie to me, baby.”

You felt your heart sink. But his arms were still around you. Still holding you like you were the most precious thing in the world.

He slowly pulled out, setting you in his lap, his gloved hands cradling your waist like you were porcelain.

“Why?” he asked, eyes searching yours. “Why would you fake it?”

You swallowed. “You were so sweet today… you came all the way home for me. I thought—it’s the least I can do, right?”

His jaw tightened, just barely. But his voice stayed level.

“You never have to give me your body like it’s some kind of repayment, pips.”

He kissed your temple, hand cupping the back of your head.

“You already gave me everything when you stayed. When you let me take care of you. When you looked at me and said, ‘Okay, Caleb, I’ll be yours.’ That’s all I ever wanted.”

Tears stung at your lashes.

“I didn’t want to disappoint you…”

“You could never disappoint me.” His arms tightened. “Not my girl. Not my baby.”

You tucked yourself into his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of safety. Of him.

“I just wanted to be enough,” you whispered.

He pulled back and looked you straight in the eye, expression serious, like he was giving a mission briefing, but the mission was your heart.

“You are enough. Whether we do anything or nothing. Whether you fall apart in my arms or just fall asleep. You’re mine either way.”

You nodded, voice caught in your throat.

“…You wanna be held?” he asked, voice suddenly softer, thumb brushing your cheek. “Or you want me to help you finish for real? I’ll take care of you either way.”

You smiled, weakly. “Just hold me.”

His mouth curved.

“Done.”

And he did. Just like always. Holding you tight like his world wouldn’t exist without you in it.

[whatwooshkai]

If you’re still taking requests

Not a ship, but I want you to explore the aromantic side of Chase’s and Heatwave’s relationship because they can’t stand each other but can’t live without the other and that’s gold to me

"Hey, Chase, can I ask you a question?"

"Of course." Chase subspaces his datapad and turns to stare up at Dani, who's up on the catwalk.

Dani chews on the inside of her mouth, suddenly revising her plan on how to approach this. She shouldn't say it outright, right? Would he even understand?

She decides on subtle. "Are you and Heatwave..." she flops her wrist.

Chase's face scrunches up in confusion, the bridge of his nose crinkling as one of his optics squints. Huh. Blades makes almost the exact same expression when he's confused. "I don't understand. What are we?"

"Uh, you know." Dani gestures abstractly. "Are you two... dating?"

"Dating? I don't-" Chase's optics suddenly go wide, and his face scrunches up all over again, a fang poking out over his lip. He kind of looks... disgusted. "Ah. You're referring to courtship. Absolutely not."

"But you guys are so-" Dani gestures abstractly at Chase again. "I don't know. You're wearing his paint."

Chase's optics darken. "I'm aware." He thumbs at a red paint transfer on his side. "He does it to annoy me."

This, Dani has witnessed. She remembers the last time Chase had meticulously touched up his paint to pristine, just for Heatwave to dive tackle him across the yard not even an hour later. It's not necessarily a great look for a police car to look like it's been sideswept in a hit and run, but paint gets expensive...

"I can talk to him, if you want," Dani offers, suddenly empathetic. If someone repeatedly messed up her makeup, she'd be pretty pissed too.

"Please," Chase says, doorwings lowering then flicking back up.

"But if you're not dating, what are you two?" Dani presses, leaning over the catwalk.

"Well, we're-" Chase stops, turning around. "Oh, we never did go through with that."

"Through with what-?"

"HEATWAVE!" Chase calls, amplifying his voice so it echoes off the firehouse walls.

"WHAT?" is the resounding response.

"WE NEVER COMPLETED THE AMICA RITES!" Chase shouts back.

"OH. YEAH. WE SHOULD."

"OKAY."

"'Amica'? Like friends?" Dani leans even further over the catwalk, bracing her hips against the railing. "So you two are really just friends?"

"Amica," Chase corrects. He takes out his datapad again, successfully signalling the end of this conversation.

Robots. She'll never understand them.

...She's more likely to get a more interesting answer out of Blades, anyways.

[neonbonded]

Right Here, but Still Too Far

♡ ft. Caleb, Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Sylus x fem!reader ♡ cw: emotional distance, soft angst, quiet longing, domestic disconnect, subtle heartbreak, husband-core devastation ♡ a/n: You live together. You sleep in the same bed. You share meals,kiss each other goodnight. But sometimes? Love gets quiet. And all it takes is one soft, honest “I miss you” to shatter the space between.

Caleb

The kitchen smells like garlic and butter.

The sun’s already gone down, but the lights are still off—just the stove hood casting a soft yellow over the counter, catching on the steam from the pasta pot.

Caleb’s moving like a machine. Quiet. Efficient.

One hand stirs the sauce, the other balances the baby monitor against his shoulder. He hasn’t sat down in hours. The front of his shirt is wrinkled from being used as a napkin. His hair’s a little damp at the edges like he forgot to fully dry it after his three-minute shower.

You’re watching him from the table.

You’re not fighting. There’s no coldness. No tension.

But something’s… distant.

Like you’re living next to each other. Not with each other.

He hums to himself softly—some melody you can’t place. He opens a cabinet with his foot. He says, “You want cheese?” like it’s code for love, but he doesn’t look at you when he asks.

You smile anyway. “Sure.”

He grates it. Sprinkles it. Passes you a bowl.

Then goes right back to moving.

The baby monitor crackles.

A timer goes off.

He starts unloading the dishwasher.

And you just sit there, soup cooling in front of you.

You’re still staring at him when it happens—when the words fall out of your mouth before you can stop them.

Soft. Honest.

Like breathing.

“I miss you.”

He doesn’t turn around right away.

His brain doesn’t process it at first. He’s too busy checking the time on the oven clock, flipping dinner, wondering if the laundry’s dry.

Then the words echo back in his chest.

I miss you.

His hand stills on the spatula.

“You…” He turns. “You what?”

You shrug. A little too fast. “Nothing. I mean—you're here. I know. It’s stupid.”

“No, it’s not.” He sets the pan down—burner still on. Crosses the room in three strides.

“You miss me?” he asks again, slower now. Like he’s scared of the answer.

You nod. “You’re always doing stuff. For the baby. For me. You never sit down anymore.”

He swallows hard.

“I didn’t realize I stopped.”

You smile, just a little. “You didn’t. You just… drifted.”

He sinks to his knees in front of your chair, rests his cheek against your belly like he used to before the baby was born.

“I’ve been right here,” he whispers. “But I’ve been so focused on taking care of everything—I didn’t realize I left the part that mattered.”

Your fingers slide into his hair.

He lets them.

“I miss you too,” he says softly. “So much it hurts.”

You bend down, rest your forehead against his.

And for the first time in weeks?

He breathes.

Really breathes.

Xavier

You don’t even realize how quiet it’s gotten until the microwave beeps.

Xavier is still standing where he’s been for the last five minutes—staring blankly at the digital numbers. Not opening the door. Not speaking. Just… existing.

He’s like that lately.

He’s here, technically. He tucks you in at night. He leaves lights on when you fall asleep on the couch. He still makes tea for you in the morning—even if it’s lukewarm by the time you notice.

But it’s like you’re in the same room, and still a world apart.

You don’t blame him. Not really. He’s always been a little detached, a little distant, like his thoughts are off somewhere else.

But lately?

He doesn’t come back.

Not all the way.

You shift on the couch, blanket pulled up around your knees. “The tea’s cold,” you say, just to say something.

He nods without turning. “I’ll reheat it.”

Silence again.

The microwave keeps beeping.

You don’t mean to say it. You’re not even thinking about saying it.

But then—

“I miss you.”

It comes out soft. Small. A little raw around the edges.

And it lands.

Xavier blinks. Slowly.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just… stands there.

Then the microwave beeps again, louder this time.

He opens the door. Reaches for the mug. Stops halfway.

His hand is shaking.

“I didn’t know,” he says finally. Voice low. Controlled.

You shift on the couch, throat tight. “You’ve been quiet lately.”

“I thought I was being present.”

You shake your head. “You’ve been nearby. That’s not the same.”

He turns, tea still in hand.

When he sees your face—really sees it—something in his own shifts.

He walks to you. Kneels down in front of the couch.

And offers the mug like a peace offering.

You take it. He doesn’t move.

Then he says—soft, barely audible:

“I didn’t realize I was missing you too.”

And for the first time in days?

He lets himself stay.

Rafayel

It starts with him in the kitchen—shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, music playing in the background, something herby and over-complicated simmering on the stove.

He’s singing. Loudly. Off-key.

You watch him from the kitchen table, head resting on your hand, eyes half-lidded. You’ve been watching him for twenty minutes—gliding back and forth across the tile like a tragic chef-prince in exile.

He narrates everything he’s doing. Dramatically.

“The rosemary must be coaxed, not crushed!” “Where is the sea salt?” “Oh, my darling olive oil—don’t burn me now—!”

You should be laughing.

But your smile doesn’t reach your eyes.

Because this is the third night this week he’s filled the space with music and dancing and noise. Third night he’s performed affection like a monologue—but hasn’t touched you once.

It’s not cold. Not cruel. Just… hollow.

Like he’s afraid that if he slows down, he’ll feel something he doesn’t want to.

You look down at the pasta cooling in front of you. Your voice comes out softer than you expect.

“I miss you.”

He stops mid-stir.

Just stops.

Spoon still hovering in the air. Sauce bubbling behind him. Frank Sinatra cut off mid-note.

He turns around slowly. Frowns. “I’m right here.”

“I know.”

“You just watched me kiss a tomato with more passion than most romance leads.”

“I know.”

He stares at you. Blinks once.

And then you see it—the panic. The way his whole body falters. Like he’s realizing something very, very important too late.

“Oh no,” he breathes. “Oh no.”

“Raf—”

He crosses the room in three fast steps, kneels beside you like you’re about to fade.

“You miss me? I’ve been serenading you with pasta and praise! I told the eggplant it was regal! What have I done?”

You reach for his cheek. “You’ve been everywhere but here.”

He leans into your touch like it hurts.

“I thought I was making things brighter,” he murmurs. “Turns out I was just making them louder.”

You smile, a little sad. “I don’t need louder. I just need you.”

He lets out the softest breath. Presses a kiss to your palm.

Then: “I’m going to burn dinner, aren’t I?”

You glance at the stove. “Probably.”

He sighs dramatically. “Fine. Then let me hold you while it burns.”

And when he pulls you into his arms on the kitchen floor—flour on his sleeve, sauce on his collar, guilt in his throat—you finally feel him come back.

Zayne

It’s 9:07 p.m.

The kitchen is spotless. The baby monitor is on. The dinner plates are in the dishwasher, stacked in perfect symmetry. Zayne’s at the counter writing something down—something for tomorrow. Groceries, probably. He doesn’t say what.

You’re still sitting at the table, legs pulled up under you. Watching him. Quiet.

He’s been like this for weeks now.

Present. Helpful. Perfect, really. Except you can’t feel him anymore.

You speak without looking at him.

“I miss you.”

His pen stops moving.

The silence hits hard. Sharper than you expect.

“…What?” he says. Not defensive—just confused. Like the words didn’t compute.

You repeat it. “I miss you.”

He turns around slowly, brows drawn. “I… don’t understand. I’m here.”

You offer a soft smile. “I know. But you feel far away.”

He frowns—deep. Like the idea physically bothers him.

“I make dinner,” he says. “I do the morning routine. I check in. I—” He stops.

You don’t interrupt.

Zayne runs a hand down his face, dragging it over his mouth like he’s trying to hold in something sharp.

“I thought I was doing everything right.”

“You are,” you say. “You’re doing everything. You’re just not being with me.”

That lands harder than you meant it to.

He grips the counter edge. Shoulders tense. Not angry. Just overwhelmed.

Then, voice quieter:

“I didn’t know how to come back.”

You step up behind him. Wrap your arms around his waist. Feel the tension in his spine.

“You don’t have to fix everything to be enough,” you whisper. “You just have to let me hold you.”

He exhales, shaky. Eyes closed.

“…Okay.”

And for the first time in weeks—he lets go.

Sylus

He’s on the couch with his boots still on.

One arm stretched across the backrest, the other holding a glass of something dark, untouched. He hasn’t said much since dinner—just grunted in response to your “long day?” and slipped into his usual, quiet brooding comfort zone.

You’re curled up on the opposite end of the couch. Close enough to touch him if you reached. But you don’t.

Because lately, it feels like when you do, he flinches—emotionally, if not physically.

You glance at him now, the sharp angle of his jaw softened by the warm lamplight. He’s not tense. He’s not closed off.

He’s just… somewhere else.

You turn your head away before he can catch the way your face folds a little.

And you say it.

“I miss you.”

The words hang there. Casual and devastating.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Just blinks. Breathes in slow.

Then, softly:

“…I’m right here.”

You nod. “I know. But it still feels like I haven’t had you in a while.”

He sets his drink down.

Stares at the floor for a moment. Then runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to clear static out of his head.

“You think I’m pulling away.”

You stay quiet.

He glances over—just once—and when he sees your expression, something shifts in him. Less defensive. More wrecked.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, lower now. “I just… get stuck in my head sometimes. And I guess I thought being in the same room counted for something.”

“It does,” you say. “But it’s not the same as being close.”

He leans back, scrubs a hand down his face.

Then mumbles, half to himself:

“God. You’re gonna make me talk about feelings, aren’t you.”

You smile. Barely. “Not if you don’t want to.”

He looks at you again—longer this time. Like he’s really seeing you. And that’s what finally gets him to move.

He scoots closer. Wordless. Slow.

Then pulls you gently into his side, your head tucked against his shoulder. One hand over your thigh, grounding. Solid.

You feel him exhale.

“I do miss you too,” he says eventually. “I just didn’t realize it until you said it first.”

You nod.

You don’t need anything else right now.

Just this.

Just him.

[sowerpatch]

terms of play [chapter 6 - turnover]

Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Summary: Azzi Fudd built the Golden Valkyries on a dare, but drafting Paige Bueckers was all strategy. Fresh off an NCAA title, Paige is everything the team needs—and everything Azzi shouldn’t want.

Officially, it’s all business. Unofficially, it’s glances that linger too long and touches that mean too much.

Author's note: this is an AU where Azzi owns the Golden State Valkyries and drafts Paige. Azzi's family are all original characters. Also, Azzi is three years older than Paige.

*CHAPTER LIST HERE*

Chapter Summary: A chance encounter in a nightclub ignites tension between Paige and Azzi, forcing emotions to the surface neither of them are ready to face. One night. One confrontation. Everything shifts. Warning: Substance and druge use. Semi sexual content. And Jake. Author's note: If this is what you guys are waiting for, I hope it meets your expectation. Word count: 5,226

The Grand Night Club, San Francisco. May 2025.  

"Wait—shit," she muttered, eyes darting past her. 

Paige pulled back abruptly, breath still caught between her lips, hand rising to the girl's shoulder as she stepped away. 

The girl blinked in disbelief. “You’re kidding.” 

Paige barely looked at her. “You’re gorgeous, seriously, but I—just—sorry.” The apology hit the floor with all the sincerity of a half-finished beer. 

“Asshole,” the girl snapped behind her. 

Paige didn’t stop. She was already moving, shoving through the haze of music and bodies, eyes locked on a navy silhouette disappearing deeper into the crowd. 

Azzi. 

She was walking fast. Purposeful. 

Paige slipped past a group of laughing dancers and turned a corner. The lights dimmed further near the back of the club, pulse of the bass thudding low against the floor. Her breath caught again, but this time for a different reason. 

“Azzi,” she called out, more breath than sound. 

Paige pushed through the last knot of dancers and caught up just as Azzi slipped past a shadowed corner of the club. Heart racing, she reached out and grabbed her arm with a little force. 

The weight of consequence snapped back like a live wire.    Azzi's tone didn’t rise. It cut clean and cold, sharper than the grip on her arm. 

“If you still want that professional career,” Azzi said, eyes locked and merciless, “I’d let go. Right now.” 

Around them, music was loud and lights shifted here and there. But Paige’s world narrowed to that voice. Her hand dropped. Her mouth opened, then closed again. 

She hadn’t expected to see Azzi here.  

The last she'd heard from interns and some of the Valkyries staff, Azzi was still in London handling Fudd Holdings business.    And even if she’d flown back, this wasn’t the kind of place Paige ever imagined spotting her.  

The club pulsed with bodies and bass. Too chaotic, too public, too far from the world Azzi kept wrapped in silk and distance.    She also hadn’t expected Azzi to see her like that. Lips on someone else’s, mouth chasing heat, pressed against the wall of a dark bar like it meant nothing. It wasn’t supposed to matter. But something about it felt off, sour in her chest.    Paige took a breath, words catching behind her teeth. “I’m sorry.” 

“For what, exactly?” 

The question came sharp and clean, slicing through whatever explanation Paige had lined up. She blinked once, stunned by the coldness wrapped around the words. 

“I just thought…” Paige trailed off. “I just thought… what you saw—it didn’t mean anything.” 

Azzi let out a short, cold laugh. Her eyes remained fixed on her, unblinking. “Funny. It looked exactly like what I’ve always expected from you.” 

Paige’s brows pulled in, confusion flickering fast across her face. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Azzi didn’t hesitate. “It means I drafted an exceptional athlete. One of the best. But that’s all you’ll ever be to me. A name under contract. Someone I pay to win games.” 

The words landed with surgical precision. Paige stood there, visibly gutted. 

“Anyway, you’re a grown woman. What you do outside of team hours is your business.” Azzi’s expression didn’t soften. “So, I’m not sure what you’re apologizing for because this—whatever this is—was never anything at all.” 

Paige felt like she’d been slapped a million times. 

“One last thing.” 

Her gaze found Paige, sharp and deliberate. 

“If you touch me again without asking, I’ll have HR involved.” 

She didn’t wait for a reply. Just disappeared into the crowd, leaving Paige frozen in place, the weight of the warning hitting harder than she expected. 

Azzi climbed the staircase with her heels muffled by the plush carpet, posture steady and eyes cold.

At the top landing, a man in a black suit stepped forward from the shadows near a closed door. He gave a short nod of recognition. 

“He’s inside?” Azzi asked, voice low but crisp. 

The man didn’t speak. He only nodded again and pushed the door open for her with a slight bow before escorting her in. 

She nodded back and followed with precision and authority. 

The bass from the club below dulled to a hum. Laughter echoed across the lavish suite, and Trey Fudd reclined on an oversized couch, arms stretched, head thrown back mid-laugh.  

His friends flanked him, drinks in hand, their eyes glazed. A tray sat on the table, glossy and too clean, with a thin line of powder untouched beside a gleaming credit card. 

Her eyes found Trey’s with a burn that could level buildings. 

His laughter died in his throat the second Azzi stepped closer.  

Her presence swallowed the room. The air felt heavier, colder.  

She glanced once at the table — at the powder, the mess, the recklessness — then back at him with surgical disgust. 

“Azzi,” he said quickly, as if her name alone might soften the blow. “How did you even—how’d you know I was here?” 

"Congratulations," she said, voice dripping with venom. "Barely a month out of rehab and you’re already back to snorting lines in public like it’s a family tradition." 

Trey straightened, color draining from his face.  

“I warned you,” she said, voice low and deadly. “One more slip, and I walk away. Completely. You overdose, you get arrested, you vanish off the grid again? I won’t lift a finger. I won’t bury you. I won’t save you.” 

Trey stood frozen. His hands trembled slightly. 

“You think I enjoy being the one who has to scrub your name from headlines? Who has to smile and lie while the company hemorrhages trust because the CEO’s son is a walking cautionary tale?” Her tone never rose, but it sliced deep. “You disgrace our name one more time, and I swear on what’s left of this family’s dignity, I’ll treat you like any other liability. And I’m very good at cutting those out.” 

Trey swallowed hard, eyes wide. 

But just Azzi turned to leave, the door burst open, and Paige rushed in, breath caught in her throat, hair a mess like she’d run from the end of the block.    “Azzi.” 

Her name rang out, sharp and urgent. 

The room shifted in an instant.  

Trey shot to his feet, eyes narrowing. “Who the fuck is this?” 

Before Paige could answer, two suited men reacted on instinct, closing the distance and seizing her arms. 

Her gaze swept the room, sharp with confusion, until it landed on Azzi. The sudden weight of where she was settled fast across her chest. 

“Let her go,” Azzi snapped, voice like flint.     Azzi was seething beneath her polished exterior. Rage pulsed beneath her skin, sharp and volatile, but so was the weight of exhaustion.    “Paige, what are you doing here?” she snapped, not hiding the edge. 

Before Paige could speak, Azzi motioned sharply to one of the suited men. 

“Tony. Please escort Miss Bueckers to my car. Now.” Her tone left no room for argument. “Make sure no one sees her coming out from this room.”    The suited man, tall and broad-shouldered, clasped Paige’s arm and pulled her out with deliberate force. She glanced back once, eyes searching for answers, but Azzi had already turned away. 

When the door closed, Azzi faced the room with an icy calm that barely covered the heat surging beneath her skin. Trey stood stiff, his face pale. His friends sat frozen. 

“That didn’t happen,” Azzi said, her voice like steel. “She was not here.”  

She took a step forward. “And if anyone says otherwise, I will make sure you lose everything you think you’re entitled to. Try me.” 

- 

Azzi’s condo, San Francisco. May 2025. 

The black car rolled to a stop in the lower levels of the tower’s parking structure, headlights casting a faint glow across polished concrete.  

Tony got out and opened the rear door without much of a glance of his passengers. 

Azzi stepped out first. Her stride held purpose, movements clipped and controlled, like she had already filed the last twenty minutes under damage control.  

She didn't look back. She didn’t wait. 

Paige followed. 

Her limbs were sore from the game, her chest still unsettled from everything that had unraveled since. Azzi hadn’t spoken a word in the car. She hadn’t asked if Paige wanted to go home. She hadn’t even acknowledged her while they both sat in the back seat.  

Paige trailed a few steps behind, unsure if she was meant to keep going. She had no idea where they were headed, and Azzi hadn’t offered. 

They stepped into the private elevator without speaking. Azzi swiped her keycard, the motion fluid, practiced.  

The panel lit up and the doors slid closed behind them, sealing off the world below. Paige shifted her weight, eyes flicking toward the polished steel walls, then to Azzi’s reflection—composed, unreadable. 

The ride stretched in heavy stillness. No music played. No questions passed between them. 

When the elevator reached the top floor, a soft ding broke through the quiet tension. The doors opened to the penthouse.  

Paige followed. 

The moment she stepped inside, Azzi’s voice cracked through the air like a whip even before the door hadn’t even shut behind them. 

“What the hell were you thinking?!” 

Paige stopped on her tracks. 

“Did you even consider what would happen if someone saw you in that room?” Azzi’s voice rose, sharp and biting. “If anyone had the tiniest idea you were even near that scene—” 

Paige stood still, heart hammering. Her thoughts spun, colliding with the sound of Azzi’s fury. She didn’t move, didn’t speak. 

Azzi’s words cut deeper. “There were drugs there, Paige. Drugs that could ruin everything.” 

“I didn’t know!” Paige burst out, her voice frayed. “I didn’t even notice.” 

“That doesn’t matter. Perception is everything.” Azzi’s voice was raw but sharp. “If a single photo, a whisper, even a fucking tweet gets out that you were in the same room as my brother with coke all over the table, you’re done. You understand that?” 

Paige stared at her, chest rising too fast. Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t find anything to say that didn’t sound like begging. Azzi wasn’t just angry. She was scared. And so was Paige. 

She slumped onto the couch, her hands covering her face, the weight of everything finally breaking through. Her shoulders shook once, then again, and when she finally looked up, there were tears on her cheeks she didn’t bother to hide. 

Paige dropped to her knees in front of her. She didn’t hesitate this time. 

“Hey!” she said, voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry, ma.” 

Azzi let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-heartbreak. “You really picked a moment to start using nicknames.” 

Paige tried to smile, but it faltered. “I didn’t want the night to end with you mad at me. That’s why I followed you upstairs. I didn’t want that to be the last thing between us.” 

Azzi’s eyes were searching Paige’s face like she was trying to decide if she could afford to believe her. The air around them felt too fragile to break, like one more word might shatter whatever thread still held. 

“I don’t even know what this is,” Paige said, her voice thinner than before, like the words scraped coming out. “But I’ve never fought this hard to matter to someone who won’t even look at me the same way twice.” 

Her fingers curled into her palms. 

“I joke around because I don’t know what else to do. I flirt because it’s safer than saying I care. But I do. I care more than I’ve ever let myself, and I don’t know if I’m making a complete fool of myself or if you’re just never going to meet me halfway.” 

She let the words hang in the air between them, her throat burning. 

“I followed you up there because I couldn’t stand the idea of tonight ending with you walking away. Mad. Hurt. Done. I messed up, I know that. But it didn’t mean anything. That girl didn’t mean anything. You—” 

Paige faltered. Her eyes dropped to the floor, voice barely audible now. 

“You mean more than I want to admit. And I don’t even know if I’m allowed to feel that way.”    Azzi’s voice came quiet, softer than Paige had ever heard from her. Barely held together. 

“You kissed her.” 

The words were fragile, not a question, just a quiet fact. Azzi blinked once, then added, “You literally made out with her in the corner.” 

Paige felt the shame hit square in her chest. “I know. That’s not—God, I know there’s no excuse.” 

She exhaled hard, rubbing the heel of her hand against her brow like she could scrub the mistake away.  

“It was stupid. I was stupid. I get reckless when I feel like I’m losing something I never really had. But that’s the thing. I keep trying to tell myself you’re just my boss, and we’re just two people who orbit in the same space. But it never feels that simple with you.”    Then there was a shift on Azzi’s eyes. It was darker than midnight outside.    “How did you expect your night to end with that girl?”  

Azzi grabbed Paige by the wrist and pulled her up to stand. The motion wasn’t violent, but it was forceful, laced with frustration, and with something deeper she hadn’t named yet.    “Huh, Paige?” She pushed with force. “Were you going to take her home?”  

Azzi’s voice rose, and with another push, Paige stumbled back a step. “Was that the plan?” 

Paige blinked, completely thrown. “Azzi, I don’t—what are you doing?” 

But Azzi looked like she didn’t even hear her. Like something had cracked, and all that restraint she wore so easily had started to splinter.  

Paige couldn’t make sense of it. She had seen Azzi composed in front of press rooms full of sharks. She had never seen her like this. Not this emotional. Not this affected.    “Were you going to fuck her?”     Paige flinched. 

“Were you going to fuck her good?” Azzi was seething. Her breath ragged.  

“I don’t know!”    “Stop lying to me.” Azzi pushed her back hard against the wall. “Was this what you were thinking when she had her mouth on your neck? When you dug your fingers into her hips like you couldn’t wait to fuck her right there?”    She stared at Azzi for a long moment. “Maybe I would’ve. I don’t know.”    Azzi’s stare didn’t waver.  

“She touched you like she had something to prove. And you let her.” Her voice dipped lower, bitter with restrained fury. “It’s almost insulting how easy you make it look. I could’ve done it better. I would’ve.”  

A beat passed. 

She took a single step forward, voice dropping. “You think that was good? The way she kissed you? The way she pressed into you like she had something to prove? I could make you feel like your whole body was mine to command.” 

Paige's breath caught somewhere in her throat, her back still against the wall. Azzi hadn’t even touched her, not really, and yet the room felt heavier, denser with every word. 

Her voice came out lower than she expected. “Azzi, what are you doing?” 

It was meant to come out sharp, teasing maybe. But it faltered under the weight of Azzi’s stare, under the bite in her voice, the promise in it.    Azzi’s voice dropped, eyes steady. “You want a girl who listens? Learns fast?” She leaned in, lips barely parted. “I can be your good girl, if that’s what you want.” 

Paige’s chest rose unevenly. Her pulse hadn’t calmed since Azzi backed her against the wall. She was still trying to gather herself, still trying to decide if this was a warning or something else entirely. 

“Last time I touched you…” Her voice broke through the charged air, low and hoarse. “You told me to ask for consent.” 

Azzi's expression didn’t soften. She only looked at Paige like she was daring her to try again. 

Paige swallowed hard. The tension curled down her spine. 

“So, I’m asking,” she murmured, heat tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Can I...” A pause, quieter. “Can I touch you?”    Azzi’s eyes flicked down to Paige’s lips. It looked soft and inviting.  

The silence between them stretched, full of sharp edges and everything unsaid.    For a long second, she didn’t move.  

Then, without warning, as if something inside her cracked open, she surged forward and kissed Paige. 

It wasn’t gentle. It was a collision of need and fury, messy and breathless. Teeth scraped. Fingers clawed at fabric.  

Paige stumbled a half step back into the wall, catching herself only because Azzi held her there. Every ounce of restraint shattered the moment their mouths met.  

“Touch me,” Azzi whispered, low and deliberate. “Touch me like you touched her.” 

The words made Paige go still for just a beat.  

Then she surged forward, pulling Azzi back into her like she’d been waiting to be told. 

Her hands roamed as her body answered without hesitation. Her mind losing ground to heat. Every inch between them burned with intent.  

The kiss deepened. Less war now, more hunger, more claim. 

Her fingers followed the curve of Azzi’s jaw, her thumb grazing the tender spot just beneath her ear.  

She leaned back slightly, their lips separating with a soft, lingering sound.  

“You’re so beautiful,” she whispered, her voice thick with longing.  

Azzi’s eyes drifted shut, her breath catching as Paige’s hand slid to her neck, fingers threading through the curls that framed her face.    Paige’s heart thundered as Azzi grabbed her by her shirt and pulled her toward the couch with deliberate force, their bodies colliding before Paige dropped back onto the cushions.  

The look in Azzi’s eyes was searing—hungry, impatient—and it lit Paige up from the inside. 

Azzi stepped back just enough to let the tension bloom between them. Her eyes dark, locking onto Paige like she was already imagining every way she was going to ruin her. 

Her fingers moved to the top button of her blouse.  

Paige watched, chest rising and falling fast, as Azzi worked each one open with deliberate slowness.  

One.  

Two.  

Three. 

The fabric parted inch by inch, revealing the glint of damp skin beneath, the curve of her collarbone, the faintest flush climbing down from her throat.  

Paige swallowed hard.  

The blouse slipped off her shoulders, caught for a second at her elbows before Azzi let it fall to the floor in a soft heap. 

Time stretched.  

Paige could feel the heat crawling up the back of her neck, pooling between her legs, spreading low in her belly like wildfire.  

Her eyes drifted over Azzi’s bare skin, down the taut lines of her abdomen, the way her bra clung tight to her chest, damp with sweat from anticipation alone.  

It was too much and not enough all at once. Every inch of her ached to touch, to taste, to lose herself in the woman standing before her like a slow-burning flame. 

Azzi stepped between her legs, the air between them thick, buzzing, ready to snap.  

Paige reached out instinctively, fingers brushing the side of Azzi’s thigh. She felt the slight tremble beneath her skin and knew Azzi was just as wrecked by the tension as she was. 

Azzi leaned in, close enough that Paige could feel her breath across her lips, but she didn’t kiss her yet. She hovered.  

Teased.  

Let the moment stretch until Paige was straining for more, her whole body alive with wanting. 

She climbed into Paige’s lap like she was staking a claim, her body flush against hers in one smooth, heated motion. Her grip on Paige’s shoulders was firm, fingers curling hard enough to make a point.  

The grinding started.  

There was nothing soft in the way she moved. Every shift of her hips, every inch of contact was laced with something deeper.  

Jealousy.  

Possession.  

A fury that simmered just beneath her skin.    “You let her touch you,” Azzi said, her voice low and sharp, almost a growl. “You let her kiss you like she had the right.” 

Her hands slid up into Paige’s hair, not tender, but demanding, forcing Paige to look at her. Her breath shook between her teeth, and her eyes were wild with something she hadn’t bothered to hide. 

“Did you like it?” she asked, her words clipped, dangerous. “Did it feel good when she put her hands on you?” 

She leaned in closer, her mouth barely brushing Paige’s, her grip tightening in her hair. The weight of her body pressed Paige down into the couch, every inch of her coiled and burning. 

"No," Paige whispered, her voice barely audible. 

“No?” she echoed, bitter and breathless, her hips grinding down harder against Paige’s lap. “That’s all you’ve got?” 

Her body pressed flush, heat radiating off her skin as she rolled her hips again, slow but punishing. Her breath hitched, but her gaze never left Paige’s, like she needed to watch every reaction, every falter in her control. 

“Because I saw the way she looked at you,” Azzi hissed, jaw tight. “Like she thought she had a chance.”    Her hand slid from Paige’s hair to the back of her neck, pulling her forward until their foreheads touched, rough and intimate. Her voice dropped, sharp and shaking. 

“Tell me she didn’t make you feel like this,” she growled, hips dragging against Paige’s again, rougher this time.  

She caught Paige’s bottom lip between her teeth, tugged—just enough to sting, just enough to punish. 

“Because if she did,” Azzi whispered darkly, “I’ll fuck you right here until you forget she even existed.” 

Paige felt it in the rhythm of Azzi’s body, the way she moved with sharp, almost punishing intent. Every roll of her hips came with a weight that wasn’t just desire.  

Azzi's fingers clutched her like she was holding her in place, like she couldn’t stand the idea of letting go.  

The heat in Azzi's eyes wasn’t the same kind she had seen before. It was darker. Fierce. 

Her breath caught as the realization hit her. 

Azzi Fudd was jealous. 

A slow smile spread across Paige’s lips, sharp and cocky, her fingers tightening at Azzi’s waist. 

“That’s what this is,” she said, voice low and taunting. “You’re jealous.” 

Azzi scoffed, fingers still tangled in Paige’s hair, her body grinding down with steady, punishing rhythm. 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, voice tight and low, heat laced through every word. “This isn’t jealousy.” 

She leaned in closer, her lips brushing the corner of Paige’s mouth as her hips rolled again, deeper this time. 

“This is control,” she whispered, breath hot against Paige’s skin. “I control you.” 

“Fuck.”  

Paige’s smile curled wider, lazy and smug. Her hands gliding down to grip Azzi’s ass, holding her there with just enough pressure to make her feel it. 

“You keep talking like you're in charge,” Paige groaned, her voice soaked in heat, “but you’re the one grinding like you can’t help yourself.” 

She leaned in, lips brushing Azzi’s throat without kissing, letting her breath drag slow and warm against her skin. 

“Tell me, baby,” she whispered, her tone low and taunting, “how do you want me to touch you?” 

Her fingers flexed against Azzi’s bare waist, teasing, not moving higher, not moving lower. 

“Fast and dirty like you’re pissed? Or slow enough to make you beg?”    “Fuck you.”    “Oh no, babe,” Paige licked Azzi’s throat up to her ear and whispered. “I’ll be fucking you.”    Azzi released a sound caught between a moan and a whimper, and Paige swore it was the most beautiful thing she had ever heard. 

Paige’s fingers moved with intent, unfastening the button on Azzi’s pants with a practiced ease. Her touch dipped lower, pressing just enough to make Azzi’s breath catch, her hips twitching forward.  

Azzi leaned in, her lips brushing against Paige’s, hands fisting in the fabric of her shirt like she needed something to hold on to. 

Paige’s fingers slipped just beneath the waistband, slow and teasing. The heat between them impossible to ignore. 

Then the phone rang. 

A vibration buzzed loud against the cushion beside them.  

Paige pressed her lips to Azzi’s throat, her tongue dragging slowly down to her collarbones. 

Every touch was deliberate, a wordless dare for Azzi to forget the phone completely. 

It rang again. Longer this time. 

Azzi’s body stilled. 

Her eyes dropped to the screen, and her heart thudded once—hard. 

Jake. 

The name glowed bright against the screen. 

Paige saw the name too. 

The tension in her spine pulled tight like a snapped wire, and she suddenly felt the weight of everything. The sweat on her skin, Paige’s hands inside her waistband, her thighs straddling someone who wasn’t supposed to be touching her like this. 

“Shit,” she whispered, voice raw. 

She exhaled shakily, then shifted, climbing off Paige’s lap with a kind of quiet urgency. Her back was already straightening.  

The phone kept ringing, insistent, a sound that sliced through the heat of the room.    Azzi answered the phone softly, but breathless. “Hey.” 

“Hey babe! I’ve been trying to reach you. Are you okay?” Jake’s voice came through, full of concern. 

“I was just in the shower,” Azzi replied quietly. The lie rolled in naturally. 

“You’re still flying to LA tomorrow, right?” he asked after a pause. 

Azzi glanced at Paige, who sat hunched forward, eyes fixed on the floor. Her jaw was tight, lips parted like a word had caught in her throat. One hand gripped the edge of the cushion, the other limp in her lap. The heat in her face had faded, replaced by something hollow and quiet.  

“Babe?” Jake’s voice was steady, waiting for a response. “You still there?” 

“Yes,” Azzi said, swallowing hard. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Great! My parents can’t wait to meet you. Looking forward to it.” Jake said with relief. 

“Uh, yeah. I have to go now. I’ll message you when I land.”  

She set the phone down without turning toward Paige.    Something had changed, a tension neither of them wanted to admit, but both knew couldn’t be left unspoken.    Paige stood, chest heaving, heart pounding so loud it drowned out everything else. The second Azzi ended the call, the weight of it hit like a brick. 

"You picked up," Paige said, voice tight. "You actually picked up his call." 

Azzi didn’t turn around. 

Paige stepped forward, her hands shaking. "After everything. After what you just said to me. You touched me like I was yours. You looked at me like I was the only thing in the world. And then you answered his call." 

Azzi’s shoulders rose slightly with her breath. "It was just a call." 

Paige let out a sharp laugh, one that cracked on the way out. "Are you serious? That’s what you’re calling it?" 

She moved closer, her voice rising. "You don’t get to be jealous. You don’t get to fuck with my head. You don’t get to put your hands all over me and then act like that call doesn’t mean something." 

Azzi turned around. Voice calm, almost cold. “That wasn’t supposed to happen. We weren’t supposed to happen.”    “You’re afraid of wanting me.” Paige’s voice had dropped now, but it cracked on the edges. 

“I’m not afraid of anything,”  

Azzi held her posture with precision, but the pressure inside her was relentless.  

Paige’s words sank deep, scraping against everything she worked to keep buried. Her chest felt tight. Her pulse throbbed at her neck, a quiet tremor she couldn’t stop.  

She kept her hands still even though they itched to react, to reach for something, to push Paige away or pull her closer.    She hated how right Paige sounded. 

Paige stepped closer, her eyes never leaving Azzi’s face.  

“I see you,” she said, voice steady. “Even when you think I’m not looking.”    Azzi’s breath hitched. She stayed rooted in place. Her breath shallow, her expression carved from stone. 

“You walk into a room like nothing touches you, like you’ve already decided how the story ends before anyone else can even read the first line.” Paige lifted her hand and touched Azzi’s cheek, the gesture soft, like she was holding something fragile. 

“But I see past all of that. I see the way your eyes flick to me when you think I’m not watching. I see how your hands tighten whenever my name comes up. I see you.” 

A flicker passed through Azzi’s eyes, too quick to name. Her jaw tightened, but she kept her stance rigid, as if any shift would crack through the restraint she fought to maintain. The heat behind her ribs rose, slow and aching, but she refused to let it reach her face. 

“I can’t do this, Paige.” 

The words landed like a final chord between them, cold and deliberate. 

Paige’s expression cracked. She didn’t speak, but something shifted in her shoulders, in the way her arms crossed tight against her chest as if bracing for impact. 

“I shouldn’t have let it happen,” Azzi continued. “Any of it. I shouldn’t have touched you. I shouldn’t have crossed that line.” 

Her tone didn’t falter, but there was weight behind every word, the kind that didn’t come from doubt, but from resolve. 

“I let things get out of hand tonight. And almost,” she paused, her eyes flicking briefly to Paige’s mouth before she caught herself, “almost let it go further. But I can’t. You’re just starting your career. You deserve to do it clean without this distraction and mess tied to your name.” 

Paige’s brows drew in, pain evident in her expression, but Azzi pushed on. 

“I know I slipped. More than once. And it keeps happening, because around you I forget how to stay where I’m supposed to be, but it needs to end here.”    Paige stood still for a long moment, her jaw clenched, her eyes locked on Azzi like she was trying to memorize every angle of her face. Her voice came quieter, but there was no hesitation behind it. 

“What happened felt real,” she said. “At least to me.” 

Azzi didn’t respond, but the silence between them thickened, stretched to its breaking point. 

Paige stepped closer.  

“When you stop being a coward to your own feelings,” Her voice lowered to a whisper, barely brushing the air., “you’ll know where to find me.”    Then she turned and walked out with every ounce of hurt carried in the quiet strength of her exit. 

The door clicked shut behind her. 

Azzi remained frozen, her arms stiff at her sides, her breathing shallow. The silence in the room echoed around her now, louder than anything Paige had said.  

She stayed standing for a moment longer, her eyes on the door as if willing it to open again, but it never did. 

The strength she had wrapped so tightly around herself finally gave out. 

Her shoulders dropped. Her hands trembled. And then her knees buckled beneath her, and she sank to the floor. 

The first sob caught in her throat, sharp and sudden. She pressed her hand over her mouth, as if she could contain it, but the emotion came in waves, rough and merciless. Her face crumpled, her body folding in on itself. 

For the first time that night, Azzi let herself feel all of it. And it wrecked her. 

[jo-com]

pls alex albon fic next🙏🤞parang awa mo na teh

──★ ｡🫧⋆｡˚ The Backup Plan

Alex Albon x Fem!Reader

୨ৎ Summary: You’ve had a long-standing pact with Alex: If you’re both still single by 30, you’ll marry each other...You’re engaged to someone else now… until Alex drunkenly posts the pact on Twitter. It blows up—and fans vote that you should dump your fiancé.

୨ৎ Genre: Slight angst?, a little smau and a happy ending or nah? read to find out ;)

୨ৎ Note: Send request y'all, also hope you like this! has some grammatical error and stuffs

ARCHIVES ⭑.ᐟ

They were sitting on the roof of his apartment, legs dangling over the edge, two beers between them and an entire city below. It was 2:08 AM, the kind of hour that made everything feel quieter, closer, truer.

You were both twenty-one. Young enough to believe in forever, dumb enough to talk about it like it was something you could schedule.

“I’m never gonna find someone,” Alex said, head tilted back to look at the stars. “They either want the driver or the version of me they think lives on yachts.”

You snorted. “Yeah, god forbid someone loves you for your sparkling sarcasm and sleep deprivation.”

He smiled, soft and sideways. The kind he only gave you. “You’re not exactly thriving in the romance department either.”

You leaned back on your elbows, the breeze catching your hair. “I’m holding out for a golden retriever in a human man’s body. Loyal, dumb, likes snacks.”

“That’s literally me,” he said, deadpan.

You turned to him, smirking. “You’re not dumb.”

He blinked. “That’s what you took from that?”

You were quiet for a moment, the laughter settling into something gentler.

And then you said it—half a joke, half a wish:

“Okay, if we’re both still single at thirty, we get married.”

Alex didn’t laugh. He didn’t even hesitate. He looked at you with that warm, steady certainty that always threw you off.

“Deal,” he said, holding out his pinky.

You looped yours with his.

“We’ll probably forget we even said this.”

But deep down, you knew you wouldn’t.

Neither of you ever did.

...

Years slipped through your fingers like sand—quiet, unnoticed, until they weren’t. Now, at twenty-eight, you and Alex were two almost-strangers orbiting around what used to be everything. Birthdays, wins, late-night calls—once sacred little rituals—were now reduced to muted texts and empty-hearted “miss you’s.”

The milestones still came. But they came alone.

The big 3-0 was creeping up now—no longer a distant joke or a silly pact sealed on a rooftop, but a deadline that loomed like a memory you hadn’t made peace with. It sat in the corners of your thoughts, like dust you kept forgetting to clean.

Only this time, something was different.

You were engaged.

To someone steady. Kind. Good. To someone who wasn’t him.

And for the first time since that night on the roof, the deal—the pinky promise you once held like a lifeline—felt like something you had quietly buried in the past. Not because you forgot.

But because remembering it hurt.

...

The proposal had been perfect.

A quiet dinner. Your favorite restaurant. Warm lights, soft music, a ring that sparkled in just the right way. He’d gotten down on one knee and asked, and you’d said yes with a smile that felt real.

It was real. But it wasn’t whole.

Because the first person you wanted to tell—the one person who would’ve rolled his eyes and said “finally, someone’s dumb enough to marry you”—wasn’t there. Not in your inbox. Not in your messages. Not even in your life the way he used to be.

You sent him a picture of the ring anyway.

No caption. Just that. He didn’t reply.

And maybe that should’ve been enough for you to let it go. To finally move forward with both feet planted where they should be.

...

username NOT ALEX ALBON SOFT LAUNCHING HIS HEARTBREAK AT 3AM 😭😭😭

username whoever that girl is… break up with your fiancé. it’s for the grid. for the sport. for the legacy 🏁💍🚩

username no bc if alex tweeted this about ME i would be at his door in a wedding dress IMMEDIATELY 👰‍♀️💅

username the way this man just said “i’m emotionally unavailable but loyal” in one tweet 🥲

username imagine being engaged and the ENTIRE F1 fandom is telling you to go back to alex albon. i would simply fold.

username this tweet has more chemistry than most paddock couples. i fear this ship is sailing with or without her 😭🚢

username alex albon said “what if i caused emotional damage AND chaos in 140 characters” and honestly? he succeeded ✨

username “they forget” — YOU KNOW SHE DIDN’T FORGET BRO 😭 this is pain. i’m feeling it in my chest.

...

Two months later—on a regular Tuesday, when the sky was gray and your phone was face-down—he tweeted it.

Your eyes widened instantly as you red between his tweet— Your breath caught without permission.

And that feeling—the one you'd spent months, maybe years, trying to bury—rose fast and vicious in your chest. That familiar tightness. That ache between your ribs. The one that only ever belonged to him.

Confusion hit first. Then came the anger.

What was he thinking? why now? why publicly?

And then came the other realization.

Why do i care so much?

Because everything was different now. You had a ring on your finger. A man who loved you. A wedding date marked in ink.

You were getting married.

Just not to the boy who once pinky-promised you forever at 2:08 a.m.

And that’s the problem.

...

You didn’t hear him come in.

You were still sitting on the couch, phone limp in your hand, the tweet burned into your retinas like some kind of confession you hadn’t meant to write—but somehow belonged to you anyway.

“Y/N?”

Your head snapped up. He was standing in the doorway, coat still on, holding a takeout bag and a look that made your stomach twist.

You swallowed. “Hey. You’re back early.”

He didn’t answer at first. Just walked in slowly, set the food on the counter, and stared at you in that quiet way he always did when he was thinking too hard and trying too hard not to show it.

“You’re trending,” he said.

Just like that.

You opened your mouth, but there was nothing ready to come out. Not an excuse. Not an explanation. Nothing that could make this better.

He sat across from you. No anger. No raised voice. Just… restraint.

“That tweet,” he said softly. “The one about the marriage pact.”

You couldn’t meet his eyes. “It’s nothing.”

He let out a breath. It wasn’t a laugh. It wasn’t a scoff. It was disappointment, paper-thin and sharp.

“Do you love him?”

Your heart stuttered.

“No,” you said too quickly. “I mean—not like that. Not now. I don’t—”

“But you did.”

Silence.

He nodded, slow and defeated, like the answer had already been written in every pause, every time you’d flinched at Alex’s name, every time you smiled too softly at an old memory.

“I know I’m not him,” he added, barely above a whisper.

And the worst part was—you didn’t even know if that was meant to comfort you or remind you.

“I’m trying, Y/N,” he said. “I’ve been trying. But I feel like I’m holding a place someone else still owns.”

The room felt small. The air too still.

“I chose you,” you whispered. “I said yes.”

“But have you let him go?”

And that was the question, wasn’t it?

[bbyg4rl]

୨୧ ─ jj gets protective over you . . .

cw: REQUESTED / protective!jj x reader, teasing/bullying, hurt/comfort themes, jj's a petty bitch !!!

It was supposed to be chill. Just old friends, some drinks, a little reunion. But five minutes in, you're already regretting it. “You still do that thing with your fork?” one of them says, tipsy and grinning. “God, I remember that. You were such a freak about your food.”

Another chimes in, “Remember when she cried that one time? That was iconic.” They're laughing like it's funny. Like it’s love. Like it isn’t still scraping something raw in your chest. You smile. Shrug. Sip your drink and sink further into the booth. Your phone's in your lap. You don’t even think about it—just type one thing:

can you come get me?

they’re being weird

You don’t expect him to answer. But ten minutes later, you get a text back:

on my way. five mins out.

And exactly that—five minutes later—the bell above the bar door chimes, and JJ walks in. Messy blonde hair, denim jacket, eyes scanning until they lock on you. You can breathe again.

He walks over like he’s just swinging by. Like this is normal. Presses a kiss to the top of your head, drops an arm casually across your shoulders.

One of the girls raises a brow. “Uh… hey?”

JJ smiles. “Hey. Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt. Just stopping by—she left her charger at mine.” You glance up at him. There’s no charger. But he winks like, go with it.

“Oh,” one of them says, voice sticky. “You’re JJ, right?”

“That’s me.”

A pause. Then one girl leans forward. “We were just reminiscing. She used to be so shy, you know? Like, full-on crybaby. Adorable.” JJ smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah? Well. Guess she grew out of that.”

“She did,” someone else laughs. “Mostly.”

He hums. “What about yours? Your growth get stuck in the mail or something?” It’s calm. Quiet. But the shift is instant.

Your friends go a little still, drinks halfway to their mouths. JJ’s voice isn’t raised—but it’s final. A line drawn with a smile. “Anyway,” he says, “I’m double parked. You ready, babe?”

You nod, sliding out of the booth. He keeps his hand low on your back as you walk, warm and steady. Doesn’t say anything else.

JJ’s already guiding you toward the exit, hand warm on your back, when he hears it. A whisper—sharp and snide, not meant to reach—but it does. “God, she always needs someone to fight her battles.”

JJ doesn’t even flinch. Just a slight smile curling at the corner of his mouth. He spots the waiter stepping out of the kitchen, balancing a tray of waters. Times it perfectly. Sticks his boot out just enough. The waiter stumbles—just barely—but enough for the tray to tip. A cascade of water sloshes directly onto the table behind you. Gasps. Shrieks. One girl jumps back, soaked.

JJ doesn’t even look. Just tugs the door open for you like a gentleman and nods to the waiter, deadpan, “Oops.”

You’re already trying not to laugh as he walks you out.

Outside, you exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for an hour. JJ leans you against the passenger door, cups your jaw gently. “You okay?” He presses a kiss to your temple, “Didn’t like how they talked to you.”

You nod. “They were just… drunk. I think.”

He shrugs. “Still.” There’s a pause. Then, quieter, “You don’t ever have to sit through shit like that. Not for old times. Not for anyone.”

You nod again. Swallow. “Thanks for coming.”

“I’d do it a hundred times.” Then he grins, tilts his head. “I made it in ten minutes flat. That’s gotta be some kind of record.”

You laugh. “Did you break the speed limit?”

“Oh, definitely. I was flying.”

You press your face into his chest. “You’re insane.”

He kisses your hair. “Yeah? What else is new?”

♡ requested by @lorleaivv for ꒰ ⑅ ๑  𝟖𝟖𝟖 : : BALANCE ꒱

check out my — masterlist / 2k celebration ૮꒰•༝ •。꒱ა

[aetherograph]

I grew up in Southern California. Normal weather includes fire, ash raining from the sky, earthquakes. I've lived in Tornado Alley, Hurricane Country, and Blizzard Country. I've seen dry lightning and had Zeus gutter his bowling ball right over my fucking roof, thunder crack so loud everything JUMPED.

Most Americans live somewhere there are BIBLICAL natural disasters as regular weather. And this is before climate change, this is just what it's like here. We have EXTREME weather here. People have also lived here for millions of years, most of them without the technology we enjoy today that increases safety and the ability to survive more injury and disaster than ever before.

Let me tell you something else. It's a number.

369

That's how many California Condors are flying free in the skies of my home region as of last year's count. Do you want to know how many there were when I was born, nearly forty years ago?

0

We did that. Scientists and politicians and regular people all did that together. In 1979 the scientists said they had to try and capture and breed the 27 remaining condors in captivity. People said it was impossible. people said what was the use, they'd be extinct in a few years anyway. But enough people said, "I want my grandchildren to see them. Let them try. What do you need, scientists?"

"But that's too expensive" said the haters.

"We're going to try anyway," said local politicians, said regular joes, and got what they could. And the scientists tried. They made puppets of adult condors to make sure the babies didn't get raised tame. They tried. And tried. And tried.

And now there are 369 of them flying free in their natural home again. There are over 500 if you count the ones in captivity--the breeding program is still going!

So remember that number. 369. Tell their story to yourself like a rosary against losing hope. And look at this picture of where my mom grew up (Los Angeles):

My mom was 13 in the picture on the left. She tells me stories about how back then, the air was sometimes so poisonous that they kept the children indoors for days on end. She had to have recess inside. In 2005, she was 50, and her children had never lived a day having to know what it was to be told, "the air is too dangerous to breathe, stay inside today". People did that. People cleaned up the air.

here's a post where lots more people chime in with conservation success stories. @reasonsforhope is a blog worth going through and watching so you know what good things are happening because people are standing up for our little blue spaceship in the big sky.

It's going to be okay.

We can fix it.

We ARE fixing it.

Ok, loves, so we've all got the message that joking about suicide is bad for your mental health. Now we need to get on "joking that the planet/all of humanity has no future" is bad for societal health/encouraging resistance to bad shit."

[sweet-s0rr0w]

for @drarrymicrofic prompt wound - red string of fate silliness, 700 words.

***

The first time Harry felt his string was in the dusty aftermath of the Battle. Most of him hurt, and the rest felt numb, and so it was a few days before he registered the tugging, or discovered the length of scarlet thread wound around his little finger. A soulmate, he thought, with no small degree of bitterness. Something new to worry about.

There was no time for worrying that summer, though. That summer was already spoken for: first Scotland for the rebuild, then back home for the trials, and by the time the wind turned autumn-sharp, Harry’s string had disappeared.

It came back at Christmas.

“It’s nothing,” Harry insisted, as Ginny scrambled off the bed, pale-faced. “Whoever she is, she’s probably in Australia or something. Who cares?”

Ginny did, as it turned out.

She wasn’t the only one, either. Most people pretended it didn’t matter at first, but amid the dying gasps of each failed relationship, there it was again: something sour, something rotten. “I’m not your soulmate, anyway,” they’d mutter, as though they’d been tricked. As though Harry had tricked them.

He began to hide it: wearing gloves over the holidays, tucking his hand beneath long sleeves for those same two weeks every June. He’d feel the pull starting and make his excuses, Apparating home or disappearing upstairs. Alone, though, strangely, he found he didn’t mind it. He rarely saw the red of the string, which disappeared off into nothing; usually the only sign was a bloodless indent, just below the nail bed. He’d run his finger over and over the notch and picture a formless someone doing the same at the other end.

But who? And where?

“I mean, it’s got to be worth checking out, right?” he said to Ron, tugging on his rucksack outside the Portkey station. “Maybe it’s why I have such shit luck in love.”

But she – or he, as Harry increasingly suspected – wasn’t in Australia, after all. No matter; surely, with this, there was no rush. His instincts took him to the great gardens of Japan, the white sands of Bali, the bazaars of Jaipur. Then, frustrated, he continued west: northern Africa, southern Europe, where he paused in Rome for a brief, unsatisfying affair, then up through Germany; still, there was no sign of the thread.

“You’ve got to come back,” Hermione told him, voice staticky over the international Floo. Harry was in Dinard by then, heart-sick, belly heavy with beer and Breton crêpes. France had been the closest yet, he was sure of it. That first night, in Bordeaux, he’d been pulled abruptly from a dream, could have sworn he’d felt –

“It’s his tenth birthday,” Hermione reminded him. “He’ll be so disappointed if you miss it.”

“Yeah, mate,” Ron chimed in, from somewhere in the background. “It’s been months. Face it, you have shit luck in love because you only date arrogant pricks.”

He was still bitter about Ginny, Harry reckoned.

Reluctantly, Harry Apparated in to the party, though it had been so long that he mistimed his jump, and ended up in Andy’s kitchen. He staggered forward, dropping both his suitcase and Teddy’s badly-wrapped present on the tiles.

“Excuse me,” came an affronted voice from somewhere near the fridge.

“Sorry, I–”

Then the man straightened, adjusted his collar and – oh god, it was Malfoy. And oh god, Harry was staring. It was just – he hadn’t expected this, hadn’t expected Malfoy at all, and certainly hadn’t expected him to look like this. Malfoy was broader now, tanned, freckled, and he was wearing a linen shirt, open halfway down his chest. He looked like every one of the arrogant pricks Harry had dated. Harry’s mouth watered, and his heart pounded, and his little finger throbbed. Distracted, he flexed it, then when that didn't work he shook his whole hand in annoyance.

Malfoy inhaled sharply as the motion caught his eye. He stilled, almost dazed, then extended his own hand towards Harry.

Harry knew, of course, before he looked down.

“It doesn’t mean–” Malfoy began, cautious, at the same time as Harry said “we don’t have to–”

They both paused, laughing. Looped between the two of them, their red string shook.

Time slowed down. Around them, everything grew bright. Harry stepped forward, wound the thread loosely around his hand, and reeled Malfoy in.

“Hi,” he said.

[demie90s]

Come Here

Natasha Cloud x Fem!Reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: Y’all just chillin’. At least you thought that.

Word Count: ~ 5.1k

Genre: Flirty slow-burn, teasing, discovery

Warnings: SMUT. Dom!Tasha. Sub!Reader. Sensual tension, queer questioning, Tasha bein’ too smooth.

(Written with Liberty Players. My bad. I linked Phoenix)

Second year in the league and you were vibin’. Cool with everybody, chill about everything. You weren’t the loudest on the Liberty, but you were the one people gravitated toward—laid-back, funny, a lil unpredictable. You didn’t talk much about your business, and you liked it that way. Let ‘em guess.

The internet? Always trying to figure you out.

“Are you gay?”

“You like girls?”

“Are you and so-and-so a thing?”

You never gave a straight answer. A shrug, a smile, maybe a slick lil “I like…vibes” and that was that. ’Cause why would you explain yourself to people who don’t even know your middle name?

Still—there was always something about Tasha.

Natasha Cloud was your vet, technically. A real one. Confident, grown, fine in that “I know exactly who I am” kind of way. People loved her. So did you. But not in a loud way. Just… in the way you always ended up standing next to her. Sitting beside her. Touching her without thinking.

You didn’t even notice half the time.

So y’all win a game. Good energy all around. It’s late, y’all in the hotel lobby area, a lil tipsy off post-game wine and adrenaline. She’s live on Instagram, talking to fans, still got her jersey half on like she didn’t just drop 15 points and coach a rookie through a panic attack.

You wander into the frame and slump against her side, head against her shoulder, hand casually resting on her thigh.

She smirks, glancing at you sideways. “Oh, so we cuddlin’ on live now?”

You blink like you just woke up. “Girl what?”

Chat blowing up instantly:

“WAIT HOLD ON”

“they always this close??”

“are they together?”

“Oh she is touchyyyy 😭😭”

“THE THIGH GRAB?? HELLO??”

You wave them off. “Y’all be reading too much.”

Someone asks again: “y/n you like girls?? 👀👀👀”

You shrug like always. Cool. Smooth. “I like… vibes.”

Tasha turns toward me slow, like she’s just now remembering I’m here, like she hasn’t been fully aware of my presence this entire time. Her voice drops, quiet enough that it cuts through the background noise like a secret not meant for the live.

“So if I kissed you right now,” she says, real calm, like we not in front of thousands of people, “would it be a vibe?”

She doesn’t even look at me at first. She says it with her chin tilted forward, her elbows still resting on her knees like she’s locked into the screen, like she’s talking at the chat—but then she glances back. Real slow. Over her shoulder. Straight at me.

I feel that look in my chest.

I’m leaned back, deep in the chair, my head pressed to the top cushion like I could melt into it. Legs stretched out, arm flopped behind her, fingers brushing the back of her jersey. My body’s loose but my heart skips anyway.

I’m not sleepy—just drained, heavy from the game, the come-down after the win. The kind of tired where your body still humming but your mind’s already floating.

I shift slightly, eyes narrowing just a little. “You wouldn’t. But it comes out softer than I meant it. Less challenge, more dare.

She smirks at that, all slow and smug, her eyes dropping to my mouth like it’s a question she already answered. Then back up. “I think I would,” she says, sitting back a bit like she’s settling into the moment. “Just to find out.”

Her hand shifts at the same time—subtle, but I feel it. Sliding a little lower on my thigh. Not wild, not disrespectful, but intentional. Like she wants me to feel it, like she knows I felt it and she’s waiting for me to say something.

But I don’t. And neither does the live.

The chat has slowed down, like everyone’s collectively holding their breath. Tasha’s eyes are still locked on me. Mine flicker to the phone screen, to the little hearts floating up, to the comments flooding back in all caps, but I can’t read a single one. My focus is stitched to her—her mouth, her hands, her energy.

“You bold,” I murmur, trying to keep my voice casual, but my throat’s tight.

She leans a little closer. Not closing the space completely—just enough to feel the heat. “You scared?”

I scoff under my breath, even though yeah, maybe I am. Just a little. Because it is a vibe. That’s the problem.

“Nah,” I say. “What…why you being messy.”

She grins. “Only a little.”

The way she says it..it’s not just flirting anymore. It’s a promise.

She laughs low, like she got away with something, and turns back to the live like the moment didn’t just shift gravity.

I try to play it cool. My head still against the back of the chair, arm lazily hanging behind her, chest tight but my face chill. Like that didn’t just happen. Like she ain’t just test me with that look, that tone, that touch.

But she don’t let up.

Her hand slides up and down my thigh now—real slow, like she’s tracing a pattern. Absent-minded, but not really. She knows exactly what she’s doing. Then her other hand. Drifts behind her like she reaching for something—nah, she grabs my knee and starts squeezing it like I’m a damn stress ball.

I pop her hand without even thinking. “Girl, gone somewhere.”

She laughs again, unbothered. “Don’t act like you ain’t leanin’ all over me ten minutes ago.”

“I was tired,” I say, smirking. “That ain’t mean open season.”

Tasha shifts again, more into my space now, leaning back so her shoulder presses into my chest, like she tryna recline on me this time. Her hand comes up, fingers lightly dancing over the hem of my shorts.

I catch her wrist real easy. Not hard—just enough to let her know I peeped. “Touchy ass.”

She grins, eyes still on the comments flying up the screen. “They eatin’ this up.”

“Oh, I know they are,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “They delusional.”

She turns her head just enough to look up at me. “Are they?”

I blink. My grip loosens on her wrist, but I don’t move my hand. “Stop playin’.”

“I’m not.” She shrugs, eyes soft now but still teasing. “You don’t be stopping me either.”

I suck my teeth, trying not to smile. “You so annoying.”

She just hums, real pleased with herself, and lets her hand rest right back on my thigh like she never left. I pop it again. She laughs again.

I pull my phone out, pretending to scroll like I’m not still feeling her hand on my leg. Notifications lighting up like fireworks. Texts, DMs, screenshots already in my mentions. I see the live getting clipped in real time.

“She be actin’ brand new but LOOK at her,” one comment says.

“She lowkey folded,” another.

“Natasha Cloud bout to snatch her,” someone added with crying emojis.

I shake my head, smirking at the screen. “Y’all wild.”

Tasha glances at my phone over her shoulder, then back at the live. “They tryna be messy.”

“They always messy, you like they leader” I mumble, still scrolling. “I’m used to it.”

She watches me for a second. Real quiet. Real still. Then she picks up her phone and ends the live. Just like that. Click. Gone. Whole vibe shifts.

I look up, confused. “Damn, you ain’t even say bye—”

She sets her phone down and turns her whole body toward me, eyes locked. Serious now. No more smirking. No more teasing.

“So you gon’ let me show you or what?” she says. Calm. Direct.

I freeze for a second, blinkin’ like she just short-circuited my whole system. “Huh?”

She nods toward my phone. “You on there actin’ like you unfazed. Like this ain’t nothin’. But you feelin’ it, huh?” She leans in, slow but confident. “You want me to stop touchin’ you, you would’ve made me. You don’t want me to stop. You just don’t know what to do with it yet.”

I open my mouth—close it. Suddenly real aware of how warm my skin feels. How close she is.

“Tasha,” I say, voice quieter than I want it to be. “Don’t do that.”

She tilts her head. “Why not?”

“‘Cause I don’t know what you tryna prove.”

She smiles, soft but dangerous. “I ain’t tryna prove nothin’, baby. I just wanna show you.”

She slides my phone out my hand like it belongs to her now, sets it on the table next to hers. Her fingers brush mine, slow. Her other hand slides up my thigh again, same spot as earlier—but this time I don’t pop her.

I just look at her. And she knows.

“Say the word,” she murmurs, leaning close enough for her lips to graze my cheek. “Or I’ll go.”

But I don’t say go. I don’t say shit.

The team’s still kinda around, kinda not—scattered between the hotel lobby, the pool, kitchen, whatever. But it don’t matter. ‘Cause Tasha and I in our own little world. Always have been.

She’s been looking at me. Not glancing. Looking. Like dinner. Like seconds. Like dessert she ain’t supposed to have but gon’ eat anyway.

Ain’t even subtle. And I know that look.

“Stop starin’ at me like I’m the menu,” I mutter, still scrolling but smiling.

“I’m try’na see what the special is,” she fires back without missing a beat.

I nearly choke. “Aht aht—relax, mama. You tryna risk it all in front of the Gatorade cooler.”

She leans back, arms stretched out across the top of her chair like she owns the room. Her eyes dragging over me with that lazy, cocky smirk. “You the one sittin’ there all fine and glowy talkin’ about you tired.”

“I am tired.”

She leans in, voice low like a damn secret. “Let me wake you up then.” I blink. Now hold on.

This grown ass woman really talkin’ to me like that. Meanwhile, I’m still new to this. Technically still got my rookie softness even if I’m in year two. I talk like I’m chill. I act like I’m unbothered. But deep down…I’m very much botherable.

So I glance around. Ain’t nobody paying attention—except Kennedy, who clocked the whole exchange from across the room and shot me that little “mmhm, finally” smile like she been waiting on this episode to drop.

I lean toward Tasha just a little, trying to whisper but definitely cheesin’. “You tryna show me or somethin’? Like you… serious?”

She doesn’t even blink. “Girl, I’ve been waitin’ on the green light since preseason.”

Now I’m lookin’ at her like she crazy. “Oh so you was plottin’ this whole time?”

“Hell yeah.” She adjusts her seat, gets a lil closer. Her hand casually finds its way back to my thigh like we ain’t still half in public. “I knew you was a quick learner. But I also know one thing about you—you like a woman in control.”

I pause. My whole body heatin’ up and we not even touchin’ like that. She say that line like she’s narrating the beginning of a documentary called How I Took Her Soul on a Tuesday.

I let out a breath, cheeks hot. “Mm You ain’t never lied.”

I mean it too. I do like somebody grown. Somebody who knows what they doing. I ain’t tryna lead—baby, give me a lil direction and watch me follow it like a damn GPS.

Tasha tilts her head, studying me like she reading instructions. “So what’s up? You ready or you still tryna play cool?”

I look at her. I mean really look. My leg’s bouncing. My palms sweaty. And I’m grinning like I just got handed a backstage pass to heaven.

“You got it,” I say, and I barely get the words out before—BOOM.

She stands up and picks me up. Not even dramatic about it. Just scoops me up like I’m groceries. Like she do this all the time. Arms under my thighs, grip firm, face serious.

I gasp loud as hell. “OH—okay!”

She laughs once, deep and low in her chest. “You said I got it, right?”

“Yeah but damn!” I wrap my arms around her neck real quick, holding on. “You strong as hell, girl—this what you be doin’ in the off-season?” It be the small ones.

“Nah,” she says, walking us smooth out the room like the credits just started rolling. “This what I do when I know it’s finally go time.”

As she carries me past the team, I catch eyes doing synchronized double takes. Somebody claps once. I think I hear, “bout time!” in the distance.

But I’m in a daze. Still laughing. Still hanging on to her. My voice drops into her ear like a confession.

“You really bout to turn me out, huh?”

She smirks, kissing the side of my jaw. “Girl. You ain’t even gon’ recognize yourself tomorrow.”

I just laugh again, already breathless. “Then lead the way, Coach.”

Game time.

She don’t say a word when we step in her room—just locks the door, kicks off her slides, and walks over to her little Bluetooth speaker like this a ritual. Like she been planning this night since training camp. Like she got a playlist titled “rookie initiation” or some shit.

I’m still by the door, jacket halfway off, watching her like she suspicious.

“What you doin’?” I ask.

“Setting the mood,” she says over her shoulder, all calm like this a wine commercial. “You gone thank me in a minute.”

Before I can even roll my eyes, I hear it. The first few chords. That slow, warm, sensual-ass hum.

Sexual. Healing.

I drop my head back and groan instantly. “TASHA. Are we deadass right now?!”

She turns around with the dumbest grin on her face, like she just hit play on the Super Bowl. “Hell yeah. I’m takin’ my time, shit—I just got you.”

I cover my mouth trying not to laugh. “You are so unserious.”

“And you,” she steps closer, pulling my jacket off smooth, “are about to be very much in serious trouble.”

I snort, still grinning as she tosses my jacket on the chair and starts working on the drawstrings of my sweats like it’s nothing. Like we not in the middle of a slow jam from the ‘80s. Like this ain’t my first time and she not up here playing the damn original soundtrack to soul snatching.

“You really got Marvin Gaye on,” I mutter, even as I let her pull my shirt over my head. “You not even shy about this?”

She presses a kiss to my collarbone. “Why would I be shy? You know how long I been wantin’ this?”

I don’t even get the chance to answer before she kisses me for real—slow, deep, steady like she tryna write the rhythm of the song on my lips. And baby… I’m gigglin’. Straight up gigglin’ into her mouth, breath hitchin’ between laughs like I can’t believe she actually has me cheesin’ this hard while actively getting undressed.

“I hate you,” I say into her smile.

“You love me,” she whispers back, hands slipping under my waistband like she tryna test the waters with just her fingertips. “That’s why you still here.”

She’s right. I’m still here. Shirt gone. Pants unbuttoned. Knees weak and chest rising like I just ran sprints at practice.

But she’s not rushing.

She takes her time, guiding me back toward the bed, still dancing a little with the song, still doing too much. Grinning the whole time, like she got the cheat code and I’m just now realizing I’m the damn controller.

She moves behind me, wraps her arms around my waist, mouth pressed to my neck as she hums along to the chorus like it ain’t currently ruining my life.

“Feel that?” she whispers, her lips brushing right below my ear.

I shiver. “Tasha…”

“I got you,” she says. “You know I got you, right?”

I nod, small, barely audible. “Yeah.”

Then she starts. Slow kisses down my spine. Hands trailing like she memorizing a language, not even rushing to get between my legs. Just holding me, touching me, showing up in every little place I never realized needed her.

I laugh again—light, breathless. She pauses.

“What now?”

“Ion know,” I say, blushing. “You just… really doin’ it. Like… this what I thought it would feel like.”

She smiles into my skin, low and sure. “That’s ‘cause you was right.”

Her mouth is soft on mine, but her hands are already working—slow, steady, intentional. She got my pants off without me even realizing, like her touch was meant to be there. And she keeps whispering little things between kisses, stuff that ain’t even nasty but still make my knees weak.

“Just relax, baby,” she murmurs. “Let me get you right.”

We’re still standing for a second, caught in this warm, slow motion. My shirt’s gone, pants and panties a memory, and she’s just… holding me. Arms around my waist, mouth against my jaw. Gentle. But that heat is real.

“Come sit with me,” she says soft, leading me to the bed.

I follow, floaty. She sits first, legs spread, and guides me right between them. Her back hits the headboard, and I end up sitting in front of her, back against her chest, thighs open—body bare, nerves everywhere.

“You comfy?” she asks, voice like silk, arms sliding around my waist.

I nod slow, already leaning into her. “Mhm.”

Her hands are warm on my thighs, smoothing over skin like she tryna calm the butterflies. Her lips trail slow kisses down my shoulder, her breath brushing my ear.

“You breathing a little fast,” she says, teasing.

I let out a breathy laugh. “I feel everything.”

She smiles against my neck. “Good. That’s how I want it.”

Her hands start to drift lower, fingertips tracing between my legs with the lightest touch, and my whole body jerks. She pulls me closer, one hand pressing to my stomach to ground me, the other moving slow and careful—testing.

“Shh, I got you,” she whispers. “Let me hear you.”

And baby, I do not disappoint. A soft moan slips out of me, mixed with this lil giggle I can’t even help—like a laugh that got lost in pleasure.

Tasha hums, clearly pleased. “You always laugh when it feel good, huh?”

I nod, still squirming, voice shaky. “I—I can’t help it.”

She kisses the side of my neck, fingers stroking gently. “I like it. That’s how I know I’m doin’ it right.”

I whine, hands gripping the sheets now. My head’s tilted back against her shoulder, eyes closed, body trembling. And all she doing is touching me. Real slow. Real intimate. Just the pads of her fingers gliding through heat and slick, not even applying pressure yet—but it’s already got me clenching my thighs, chasing more.

She notices.

“Open up for me,” she whispers, nudging my thighs apart with her own.

I do it without thinking, already gone. And now she’s got the perfect view. Me, laid bare in her lap, body twitching, breath catching with every stroke.

“You so sensitive,” she says, voice deeper now. “That feel good?”

“Yeah,” I breathe, eyes fluttering. “Real good.”

“Mhm.” Her other hand comes up to cup my breast, thumb brushing slow over my nipple while the first keeps teasing. Still not rushing. Still just… working me.

I let out another soft whimper, a breathy “fuck,” followed by that same little moan-giggle she loves so much.

“There it go again,” she murmurs, smiling. “You sound so pretty when you laugh like that.”

I cover my face, overwhelmed. “Tasha—”

“Nah, don’t hide now,” she says, voice close to my ear, lips brushing it between words. “I want you to feel everything, baby. You trust me, right?”

I nod, shaky. “Yes.”

Her fingers slide in deeper now, slow and smooth, and I cry out. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just this sweet, broken sound like I never knew it could feel like this. And I didn’t. Not till her.

She starts to move her fingers, curling just enough to make me squirm, to make my hips roll back into her. Her voice stays right there with me—in it with me.

“Good girl,” she whispers. “That’s it. Just like that.”

She’s everywhere. Her breath, her hands, her calm. I’m melting in her lap, thighs shaking already and we just getting started.

My laugh turns into a moan again, and I swear I can feel her grin.

“You gon’ laugh all the way through this?”

I moan again, breathless. “Maybe.”

She kisses my temple, fingers moving slow but deeper now. “That’s fine. I’m’a make you cry too.”

The way she says it. Not as a threat. As a promise.

Through it all—she never stops talking.

“Yeah… there she go. That’s it. Give it all to me.”

I do. I’m trying not to, but I do. My body jumps under her, legs trembling, throat tight with a moan so ragged it sound like confession. I come so hard my hands fly to the sheets, one leg kicking a little like I’m short circuiting, and all I can say is her name. Over and over.

“Tasha—Tasha, please—”She don’t stop.

Just grips my thigh tighter when I try to close up, keeps rubbing slow deliberate circles that make my hips twitch. Her voice never changes. Still calm. Still steady. Like this all part of the plan.

“Nah, baby. Don’t run now. That was just one,” she whispers, lips brushing my jaw as I shake under her. “We just gettin’ started.”

I try to scoot up the bed—reflex, survival—but she pulls me right back down with one arm. The other hand? Back between my legs. Real slow. Real messy. Just rubbing it in.

“You actin’ like I didn’t just break you in. Let me finish it.”

I let out the softest laugh, breathless, overwhelmed. “Tasha—girl, I can’t even think.”

“You ain’t supposed to think. You supposed to feel me.”

I squirm, giggling and moaning at the same time, legs trying to clamp together again. And she snatches them right back open, throwing her leg over mine to pin me in place. She don’t look mad, just determined. Like this is her sport. Like I’m her court.

“You try to close these thighs again, I’m tellin’ you right now—I’m not lettin’ you sleep tonight.”

The way she says it she Deadass. Like she means that. Like she’s already cleared her schedule for the rest of the week.

I cover my face, teeth sinking into my bottom lip to keep quiet, but that just make her grin. She dips her head down, kisses my thigh, my stomach, then my mouth—messy and slow—and her fingers Still playing with me like she tryna see how many shades of undone I can get.

“You know what I like?” she whispers, voice hot against my mouth. “You got that sweet lil laugh. That cute ass smile. But you nasty too, huh?”

I blink at her, face flushed, lips parted.

“You a freak, huh baby? Giggling and coming like you ain’t been waiting on this.”

All I can do is nod. ‘Cause she’s right. I have been. And now she got me melting. Sweaty. Legs open. Voice gone. Hips jerkin’ every time her thumb hits that same spot—

She leans in, grips my chin between her fingers, tilts my head just enough to look into my eyes. Her mouth barely touches mine as she talks. “Say it.”

I can’t even hear myself, but the words fall out. “I’m a freak…”

She kisses me hard, deep. Groaning low into my mouth. Then she pulls back, her voice dropping into that possessive whisper again.

“I know. You mine now.”

Her hand moves lower, two fingers sliding in slick and smooth like my body been waiting for her. My back arches, a loud cry escaping before I can stop it.

“Aww, look at you,” she coos. “You tryna be quiet but your body tellin’ on you.”

I swear I can’t take it. My thighs trembling, hands searching for something to hold—her wrist, her shoulder, the sheets, my sanity. But she don’t give me a break. Just grips my throat gentle and firm, pressing me back down with control that make me whimper.

“You like when I talk to you like that, huh?”

“Yes,” I moan.

“You like being touched like you mine?”

“Yes.”

“You tryna tap out?”

I pause—honestly, I might need to. But then she smirks and kisses my shoulder, whispering right in my ear: “Don’t.”

That’s what does it. Again. Wetter. Louder. Deeper than the first.

I come apart in her hands, crying out, thighs shaking like I’m being reborn. She watches me—watches—like this a game tape she gon’ replay later. Her fingers still curling in slow, dragging out every last tremble until I’m damn near gasping.

Then she kisses my mouth, slow and greedy, still whispering, “That’s it. That’s it, baby. Look how good you doin’ for me. You takin’ it so well.”

I’m dizzy. Clingy. Floating.

“You okay?” she asks, voice warm again.

“Uh huh,” I breathe. “I just feel like a—”

“A hoochie mama?” she finishes, laughing.

I laugh too, face still buried in her. “Yes.”

She grins, rubbing my back, smug as hell. “Good. That’s exactly what I wanted.”

And then real low, right in my ear. “Now turn over. You ain’t done yet.”

I blink up at her, barely functioning, body limp and overheated, still wrapped around her like I’m tryna become a part of her skin. She strokes my back, kisses my jaw, soft little things that should feel like an ending—except she already told me:

I’m not done yet.

“Turn over,” she says again, quiet but real firm, real smooth. Like it’s a courtesy, not a request.

I lift my head slow, eyes wide. “Girl…”

She grins, all teeth. “You still talkin’?”

I blink again, dead serious. “I’m sensitive.”

She kisses my lips once, slow and full. “I know. That’s what’s gon’ make it real good.”

Like a damn fool, I turn over. Because my body don’t listen to me no more. My brain is all “survival,” but my hips? My hips are up, ass arched, thighs still trembling like I didn’t just get rocked into another dimension.

Tasha settles behind me, real calm. One hand running down my back, tracing the dip of my spine. The other Pressed flat to my lower back, holding me steady.

“You so wet,” she mutters, low like she talkin’ to herself. “I ain’t even touched you again yet.”

She spreads me open just a little, and I gasp, arms shaking under me. “Oh my God—”

“Mmhmm.” Her voice is smug now, but it’s focused. “That’s all me, huh?”

“Y-yeah,” I stammer, barely able to get the word out.

She leans forward, body draped over mine, her chest warm against my back. Her hand slides under, fingers brushing my mouth.

“Open,” she says, still soft.

I do. And when she slips her fingers in my mouth—just the same ones that were inside me—I damn near lose it. She don’t even move them, just lets them sit on my tongue like a reminder.

“You taste that?” she asks. I nod, moaning around her fingers.

“That’s mine. And I’m not done takin’ it.”

She slides them back out, kissing the side of my face, then sits back on her knees. Her hands grip my hips, pulling me back just slightly until I whimper. My thighs are shaking again and she ain’t even done anything yet.

“You ever been touched like this before?” she asks. I shake my head, biting the pillow.

She hums like she expected that. “Good.”

Then her fingers slide back in—slow and deep. From behind. It’s worse like this. I can’t see her. Can’t read her face. All I can do is feel. She moves her thumb to circle my clit, slow, firm pressure that got my whole body jerking with every pass.

I start whining again. That soft, breathy sound I’ve been trying to hide.

“Ohhh, that’s the one,” she laughs, leaning over me again, whispering in my ear. “That little whimper you do? That’s the sound I’m keepin’ for later.”

I moan into the pillow, legs twitching as she picks up the pace. Not rough. Just enough. Just enough to make me stay open, just enough to keep me there.

“Tasha,” I gasp. “Tasha I’m—fuck—”

“Don’t run,” she whispers, hand gripping the back of my neck now. “Don’t move. You gon’ give it to me again.”

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.”

Her hand slides to my chin, pulls my head up and turns it slightly so she can kiss me—backward, messy, tongues meeting between moans.

“You a good girl, right?” she whispers into my mouth.

“Yes…”

“Then be good and take it.”

I’m still trying to breathe, face buried in the pillow, body loose and slick with sweat, thighs twitching. And she’s behind me, watching it all like art.

Tasha runs her hand down the back of my thigh, trailing light touches like she ain’t just had me shaking. I glance back at her, still panting, trying to laugh through it.

She smirks, head tilting. “You lucky I ain’t bring it. Oh I would’ve worked you ass.”

I blink. “…Wait.”

She leans down, all slow, and kisses the curve of my ass, hand sliding up to grab a handful, spreading me gently.

“Baby,” she murmurs, mouth warm and close, “if I had it, you wouldn’t be walkin’. But don’t worry it only ya first time…plus I got something better.”

Then she lowers her head. Oh my God.

The first lick got my soul trying to evacuate. My hands fly to the sheets, back arching off the mattress instantly.

“Tasha—girl—what the f—”

She flattens her tongue and drags it slow, moaning against me like she been starvin’. Her arms hook under my thighs and pull me deeper into her mouth—close, close like she tryna eat through me.

She’s overly freaked’ out too—low groans, breath catching, hands gripping like she losing her mind. It’s not even cute. It’s crazy. Like she waited too long and now she feasting.

Her mouth is sloppy, tongue moving in circles, then flicking just right, and all I can do is whimper. Real soft. Real messy.

I try to scoot up the bed again—natural reflex, survival instincts, Jesus take the wheel—but she yanks me right back down.

“Stop.”

That’s all she says. Just stop. And she keeps going. And I start losing it.

I’m moaning into the pillow now, whining, hips lifting, legs shaking again even though I know I ain’t got another one in me.

“You gon’ come again,” she murmurs between licks, voice low and hungry. “Let it out, baby. Make that pretty sound for me.”

I whimper, one hand clawing the sheets, the other trying to reach back and stop her, but she just laughs against me.

“Don’t you pull away from me.”

“Tasha please—”

“Open up,” she says, voice sharp, hand gripping under my thigh to hold it open. “Don’t be shy now.”

My body folds. I’m grinding into her mouth now like I ain’t got no shame left. I feel her everywhere. She moves her tongue in slow circles, sucks gently, then moans again like I taste better the more I shake.

That’s what really get me. She’s eating me like she love it. Like she missed it. Like she don’t care how loud I am, how soaked she gets, how many times I try to run—she’s not letting up until I cry again.

I do.

Whole body goes limp. That ugly moan escapes, one I ain’t never made before. My thighs clamp around her head but she don’t care—just groans into me louder, dragging the orgasm out like she tryna ruin me on purpose.

When it’s over she don’t say nothing. She just comes up slow, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, kisses my cheek, and whispers

“Next time, im using the strap.”

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